“There was an altercation with her husband about two hours ago. Luckily she fled in one piece and with her children.”
“Kids?”
“Yes. Those three playing out in the front room are Mrs Littlejohn’s children. That’s the good part. The bad news is she has no money or access to bank accounts, no clothes or food or anywhere to stay.” Sue and Vivienne exchanged a glance. They’d both seen this situation too many times before.
Vivienne’s stomach curdled and bile rose in her throat. Memories caved in upon her and she fought to keep her mind present. A fire ignited within her, ready to explode. It was a fury that she didn’t want to control.
“Did you call the police?” she enquired.
Mrs Littlejohn shook her head.
Rising to her full height, the words gushed from Vivienne before she could stop them.
“Oh no, you must, now. It’s not too late. I can ring them . . .”
Fear bubbled out of the disconsolate woman. Terror crammed across her features, her body becoming alert.
“No!” she shouted and Vivienne jumped at the volume and ferocity of the words. Mrs Littlejohn moved to claw at her, pulling on her sleeves, making Vivienne shrink backwards.
“I told Sue that I’m safe. The kids are safe and there’s no need for police now.”
“Yes, but the police can not only arrest your husband,” Vivienne counted the items off on her fingers, “and haul him away but they can escort you back onto the premises to collect your belongings plus order him to leave the house and you can stay there.”
The dark-haired woman crunched over, crying harder now. Through jumbled words and snatched phrases, she said, “I can return where he knows to find me. Where he can gain entry before the police could even be called. We’d all be dead before anyone even noticed. No police.” She sobbed but her words were hard as steel.
Vivienne implored Sue with her expression, her hands cast adrift in frustration.
Sue shrugged—entirely inappropriately in Vivienne’s view. “I’ve explained all of that to Mrs Littlejohn. She understands her rights but her main concern right now is to find somewhere safe to stay with her children for the night and she says she’ll obtain legal advice tomorrow.”
Vivienne started again, “When you see the lawyer tomorrow, ask them about filling out an urgent protection order application and getting your stuff...”
Mrs Littlejohn did not look up. Sue placed her arm on Vivienne’s to silence her.
Okay, okay, she understood, she needed to back off. It all seemed so obvious to her about what needed to happen. But she’d lived through it and been to enough training sessions to be sympathetic with the cycle of violence and the psychology of victims.
But, sometimes the theory just didn’t matter.
She always did struggle with that side of things. With a history of being unable—too young—to help her mother, it had turned her into a ‘doer’ in these situations. She wanted to make up for lost ground and do something, anything. In black and white situations of undisputed violence, Vivienne found it impossible—no, more than that–morally wrong, to stand back.
But all in good time as Sue would no doubt remind her.
Still, Vivienne fought the urge to get her phone out to take photographs of the injury and gather evidence. The lawyer in her never did lay idle.
Best for Vivienne to stick to the facts and the giving of legal advice and not counselling. The trained staff of the Centre had advised her of this many times. She should advise on legal options only otherwise emotions clouded her judgment.
Regaining control of her feelings, Vivienne agreed to ring the shelters to find a vacancy for Mrs Littlejohn and the three children. Practical assistance she could manage.
An hour later Vivienne paid for a cab—the centre had exhausted its funds for the day—and waved the family off with a pile of spare blankets, toiletries and a few spare toys. She’d had to bite her tongue from giving the woman her mobile telephone number.
At the conclusion of the evening session, after two straightforward divorce applications and advising on a child maintenance issue, Vivienne assisted the coordinator lock the doors and turn out the lights.
These sessions depleted her like no day in the bank ever could; all that emotion and pent-up desire to help with little chance of release. These real life situations were not like contracts that could be amended and finalised with neat and tidy resolution; life was messy and didn’t she know it?
Vivienne entered her unit and Ginger immediately rubbed against her legs. The poor little pet would be hungry as it was after her dinnertime.
One of her three antique lamps sat illuminated on a silky oak side table in her living area. Its floral stained glass design echoed warmth and muted lighting around the small space.
Goose bumps rose on her now bare arms because she’d removed her black sweater when she’d entered. The gold embossed curtains swayed in a gentle breeze from her open shutters. It cooled her skin.
Vivienne never felt unsafe in the renovated apartment. In the trendy suburb of Teneriffe, she lived in a converted wool store and despite its historic and old fashioned origins, the complex boasted modern security. Without a key or pass code, no one could enter the building, nor approach her apartment unless she buzzed them through. She had sourced the most secure apartment she could find.
After feeding Ginger, she flicked on the kettle and made an English Breakfast tea, her favourite blend. After the tea had brewed Vivienne looked longingly at her Queen Anne sofa and couldn’t wait to curl up on it. As she sat with her feet snuggled up under her, all the while holding her tea aloft so as not to spill it and burn herself, she grabbed the remote to turn on the television.
She surfed a few channels, trying to find a decent show to watch. When the theme music to This Country rang at top volume around the room and a photograph of Daniel flashed onto the screen, she couldn’t believe it.
Vivienne immediately dropped her legs and sat up taller. Gosh, how was her timing? Good or bad, she couldn’t decide yet, but changing the channel was out of the question.
For the next half hour she became engrossed in the world of Daniel Beckett. He and his farm were being televised across the nation. This was a world she’d glimpsed, been a part of, even if ephemeral. The grounds were familiar, the scenery, his house, the local township and its people and even the calf she’d delivered made a special appearance. When Ned featured in centre screen, she scanned for herself in the background and let out the breath she held when she was nowhere to be seen. Ned had talked flamboyantly into the camera and stared straight down the barrel of the lens whilst making passionate pleas on Daniel’s behalf about the good work they did. Her heart raced as he spoke. He was a loyal friend to Daniel.
Whilst the children were not interviewed, they featured running uninhibited across vast patches of green grass; scampering about as children should. Vivienne loved watching Sarina’s fair locks blowing behind her as she moved. Colton’s shadow followed.
Unable to take her eyes off the screen, her tea went cold, forgotten. She sat still long after the episode had concluded and the ads played too long and loud.
The show had done him proud, presented him in a good light and not as a crazy farmer who’d strayed in an unwarranted manner from the traditional dairy path. Barbara Walters had made him appear as the passionate trailblazer she’d gotten to know. Daniel would have to be happy with his portrayal at the very least, that is, if he watched it.
Vivienne finally relaxed and sat back into the depths of the lounge. She took a sip of the tepid tea and grimaced. Yep, tonight, she wouldn’t sleep well, either.
***
Stopping at her third antique store, Vivienne had to give in to her boredom. This had been her weekly jaunt forever—her Saturday ritual—but on this sunny, clear Brisbane day, none of the vintage pieces stood out as special, nor the relics that lined the high forgotten shelves. Most days she went home with a dozen or so purchases, but not today,
and the weight of that bore down upon her. She couldn’t shake the melancholy that plagued her. And, it hadn’t just been since the show last night. It had hung like a low cloud over her for days.
Her work had become mundane where it had always fulfilled her; the coffee tasted less creamy; her favourite almond croissant less flaky; the city too busy and hectic and the air pumped with fumes; her local area lifeless and dull where once all she experienced was vibrancy. Regardless of her lacklustre day, she didn’t want to return home to plough through the piles of folders that waited for her attention. In times of low mood, she’d often delve into her work—her happy place—and emerge brighter and clearer at the other side for having spent productive time achieving a worthwhile target. Even that lure, could not drive her today.
Determined to shake the ghosts away, she performed another of her common rituals and went for a run. At her fast pace, she cruised along the path combing the murky Brisbane River. The wind whipped her face, enlivening her senses. Pushing herself on the last kilometre, she drove on harder and quicker. When she’d reached her designated finish line, New Farm Park, she crouched over breathless, gasping for air to reach her lungs. God, it felt good. Her heart thumped, chest exploding and pain radiated through her limbs at the pressure. She longed to feel something and reveled in the soreness of her limbs as the ache grasped her thighs making them thick and her feet that had pounded the pavement tougher than before.
She sat in a patch of grass facing the river with the elegance of a rhinoceros, her body not yet ready to co-operate. Observing the families sitting huddled together across the park, Vivienne watched children squealing with delight as bubbles faded into the sky, parents’ faces bright with glee, picnics with too much food and the echoed laughter and suddenly, it hit her square in the stomach, like a punch.
It was not fear or sickness or worry.
She was miserable.
Not a day passed that she didn’t dream of the fresh air of Rosebrooke, of the townspeople, the Rainforest Café, Bunyatree farm and its products and, of course, Daniel; everything about the town stayed etched in her mind.
As the sun captured her in the last of its rays, she imagined his rough hands over her face, running through her hair, and his lips kissing her with tenderness. She dreamed of his smell, his large, looming physical presence that forever created a safety net where she could fall, be who she was and learn new things. But, each time she let these images come alive, that last scene of Daniel festered in her mind and replaced all other happy pictures. Despite trying to remove it from her memory, she couldn’t shake that image of Estelle kissing Daniel and the apparent affection shared between them.
Impossible!
Was it?
Vivienne understood sadness. She knew it was natural and like grieving, it would pass and she knew, at a practical level, that over time, she would forget him and be able, to once again, embrace her life in Brisbane. It had only been a few days. Soon, Rosebrooke would become a fond memory, dragged out for nostalgic reasons.
Perhaps she needed to be busier? In her mind, she argued for extra nights at the Women’s Advisory Service and maybe even weekend shifts at the shelter; they were always crying out for extra assistance. A long-buried thought crossed her mind—an art history course or group about antiques?
A new hobby?
Spending more time with her sister and nieces and nephews had always been a priority but she could double her efforts. The world brimmed with possibilities and prospects of applying herself and her privileged life to others and mankind.
Vivienne refused to give into the emptiness and solitude. She jumped up, determined to find a coffee that matched those made with Bunyatree milk.
Chapter Seventeen
“You?”
“What do you want?” Daniel demanded. The hackles on his neck sat at attention.
He’d answered the door in the middle of the day; the knock having interrupted his lunch. His half-eaten ham and salad sandwich sat on the table, its edges curling, waiting for him whilst his stomach rumbled.
Before answering the question, the man standing on his stoop wiped away cow shit lining the base of his Italian-looking leather shoes. With no regard for where the manure ended up, Zac Gardiner pulled up his trouser legs, the signature pin stripes apparent, and scraped poo onto the cottage’s whitewashed steps.
When satisfied he’d removed the residue from his soles, he turned his beady eyes to Daniel.
“So, you are Daniel Devon Beckett then?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Perhaps I can come inside?”
“Why?”
“So, we can discuss what I’ve come to talk about.”
“We can talk about it here.”
“Okay, so this is how it will be, fine. That’s fine with me, Mr Beckett.”
Zac moved up onto the veranda and balanced his briefcase on the narrow railing. Flicking the catches and opening it, he rummaged through papers until extracting exactly the one he wanted.
“I’ve come to deliver this to you personally. I need to ensure you’ve received it and are cognisant with what it means.”
“With what means?”
Daniel’s bravado slipped. A sense of dread overcame him, causing his words to become pricklier and his insides clenching, his appetite gone. His lips drew into a tight, thin line.
Zac Gardiner beamed a florescent, toothy smile at him, enjoying each second of his discomfort.
This man had to have a small dick. Who else would enjoy delivering bad news with such candour? What a power trip for this insignificant guy, able to deliver judgement upon people and watch them squirm.
Determined to squash his enjoyment, Daniel refused to be ruffled.
“This is your final notice. You remain in default of your mortgage and have thirty days in which to vacate the premises and at which time it will be sold to recoup the monies owed to McGuires Metropolitan Bank.”
Daniel’s reserve could not hold out.
“What!” He had to grab hold of the railing to prevent his knees buckling.
“That can’t be right. I’ve paid, we’ve paid. The money, it should all be there. Are you sure?”
That smile again.
Daniel held his fists to avoid smacking this man in the face. His stomach churned and he became jittery, needing to move, hit, do, something.
“Yes, I’m very certain. See here.” He pushed a pathetic white sheet of paper with words on it that Daniel could not read through his haze.
“It says that you still owe this amount. It’s a lot, isn’t it? And unless you pay it by this date,” his slimy finger pointed to the corner on the right-hand side, “you no longer live here nor do you own this, this, what is it, a farm?”
Zac continued to hold the paper.
“Can I see that please?”
With fortuitous pleasure, Zac handed it over, all the time watching Daniel’s reaction.
Daniel read it and read it again but it still didn’t add up.
Where was the payment from Estelle? All that fundraising money sitting somewhere, safe and secure and to save his arse?
“There’s obviously been a mistake. There’s a large deposit due and it should have been paid already. So, you’ll see that once that payment is made, everything will be square.”
“I understand you’ve been given one previous chance, Mr Beckett. If you say you can rectify this disastrous situation.” The little weasel of a man said it like he had been inflicted with a disease. “I hope you can. But, nonetheless, you need to do so by this date.” For good measure Zac identified the relevant date just in case Daniel had missed it the first time.
“Are you cognisant with the facts? Do you need me to repeat anything?”
Speechless, Daniel’s rage uncurled in his toes and gained rapid fire speed up his body, desperate to be unleased on this bureaucrat.
“Yes, I believe I am cognisant with the relevant facts, but let me check. You say, that unless this grossly, outr
ageous amount is paid by this date,” Daniel moved his own fingers in an exaggerated motion over the due date blasted in bold, “McGuires Metropolitan Bank, or you personally, will take possession of my property and sell it and I, and my two small children will have nowhere to live and no income because this dairy farm is how I make my living. Does that sum it up?”
A fleeting, sheepish flicker traversed Zac’s eyes, but was gone before it could be discerned. Daniel saw it. Good. He hoped Mr Zac Gardiner thought about that when he fell asleep tonight.
But the bank man’s usually arrogant veneer returned quickly. “I think you’ve summed that up perfectly, Mr Beckett. Good day.” He clicked his briefcase shut, flung it off the railing and walked back through his yard.
Daniel stifled a belly laugh as Mr Gardiner stepped off his porch and landed in a cow pat. Perhaps the same one he’d discovered when he’d entered the farm.
He couldn’t control his laughter. His loud cackles could be heard as the bank man drove away in his lime green convertible Mercedes Benz.
***
As Vivienne entered the eleventh level of the bank building, she felt it: a buzz, a tingle, a frisson of excitement. She paused, attempting to ascertain the mood. The air vibrated, noises simmered in dark corners and people fidgeted nervously rather than sitting quietly at their desks and paying attention to their work.
She fiddled with the paper in her pocket. Since yesterday, she’d racked her brain for ways to purposefully focus her life. The result was a medium-sized list of items, randomly numbered, from one to twelve. She kept it close and hoped to get it out during the day to remind herself of what she wanted to achieve should she get steered off course.
Perhaps she’d had a sixth sense something was brewing?
As a result of the uncertain atmosphere in the office, she stroked the sharp corners of the page, not sure of what lay ahead of her. Nonetheless, not one to become involved in other’s business or at worst, office politics, she headed for her corner office, saw the sun streaming in, and started to relax. Its familiarity beckoned her.
With one foot in the doorway, her personal assistant shrieked from the comfort of her desk only metres away. “Vivienne, meeting in the boardroom in five minutes, Mr Whipplegate’s orders.” Not breaking her stride, she provided Irene the thumbs up.
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