BECKER

by Gordon Reid

  ‘Yes, he seemed to think I belonged to him. I mean, once we’d gone together.’

  ‘And that’s where I came in?’

  ‘Yes, we got chatting at the checkout that day, and you asked me to have coffee with you—and, quite spontaneously, I said I would. I thought I’d be safe enough, if he didn’t find out.’ She was now huddled against him, her arms together against his chest, hands before her lips, as if praying. ‘And I’m glad I did,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you for telling me.’

  They lay there, both thinking and not thinking. Listening to the traffic passing by, especially the big interstate transports. Gradually aware the moon, which had been full on her face, had finally passed out of sight and was going wherever the moon went, when it went down. Until he decided he had to tell his story. It being only fair to her now.

  Which he did, leaving out his own involvement in the scams and deals and benefits and bashings in the name of the law at King’s Cross. He said he’d decided to go to the top and report what Whitford was doing, but until one night as he was taking out the garbage bin, and was shot.

  He’d been kept in hospital for weeks, at the end of which he’d been dismissed without a pension, only his contributions over the years with interest. Which had gone to his pretty but pretty mendacious wife, as soon as she had an excuse for divorcing him, getting most of his payout as well as fortnightly support. Quitting Sydney in disgust, going to Canberra, ending up doing night rounds for a security company called Stanton.

  Then, one lunchtime, picking up a handbag in a litter bin, inside of which was a letter addressed to Evelyn Crowley, who lived in a posh suburb. Who turned out to be a posh but very private sort of woman, who’d asked him if he did private jobs.

  ‘What did she want you to do, Harry?’

  ‘Locate the daughter she’d had seventeen years ago, which I did. She, Mrs Crowley, was quite pleased and asked me to find out who was blackmailing her—’

  ‘Oh, my goodness! What did you do?’

  ‘Well, I did that too, or I thought I did, but it was not what I’d thought it was.’

  ‘Oh, dear, she wasn’t one of those dreadful women you read about, was she?’

  ‘What kind is that?’

  ‘A femme fatale.’

  ‘I guess she was, but not all bad as it turned out.’

  He told her the rest of the story, how he’d tried to get Evelyn out of Canberra, but had failed. She being shot dead in the bed beside him, he being fast asleep at the time.

  ‘Oh, Harry, how awful for you.’

  ‘It was worse for her.’

  ‘Of course, of course. What happened next?’

  ‘I hung around in Canberra after I heard Evelyn had left me half her money.’

  ‘For just one night with her?’

  ‘There was more to it than that. I’d known her for six weeks.’

  ‘Yes, of course. You ended back up in Wagga?’

  ‘On a farm with a nice, kind…’

  His voice trailed off. He’d thought the story through many times, wondering who the hell Evelyn really was? A bit of a mystery woman, a mystery woven by herself, trapped in a marriage she could have got out of if she’d really wanted. But she’d remained for the lifestyle, the clothes, the expensive look, the desirable look. In effect, trapped in a trap of her own making. And not really a nice person about it.

  ‘What an amazing thing,’ she said. ‘I’m very proud of you, dear Harry.’

  They lay together, the moonlight fading, the night passing, their thoughts fluttering like moths, her running a finger along the line of his jaw. ‘You know, Harry, if I’d read all that in a book, I wouldn’t believe it, would you?’

  He did not answer, dozing off again.

  ‘Harry, just one more thing.’

  ‘Robbie, what is it now?’

  She held it back with the most pregnant of pauses. Until she could hold it no longer.

  ‘It’s a girl,’ she said.

  Chapter 26

  After some discussion, they decided to call her Roberta. He’d wanted to call her Robyn, but Robyn herself was not in favour of that, despite it being an honour. She appreciated the gesture. Now, she was sure, her husband truly loved her. She need not have to worry about that woman in Canberra, Evelyn. It did not matter how much he remembered or felt for her, a woman who’d had everything, including the most expensive clothes and a flash car, which she had left to Becker, or at least he had somehow acquired it. And a lot of money, it would seem.

  It did not matter if the farm did not make a profit. It was a hobby and an interest. Although, now that she was so well advanced, she did not like the thought of sending any of the cattle off to the saleyards. Even hoped none of them sold, so they would be brought back home, to chew contentedly. For the rest of their natural lives. Such beautiful animals, staring at you when you approached, wary at first, but then relaxing, prepared to trust you. Especially if you had a pat and a friendly word. But, she knew, the matter was out of her control. Whatever Harry decided, Harry would get. She saw to that. He’d had a bad time. He deserved to get his way. Have relaxed time. Nothing to worry about.

  Three days later, he was on the eastern verandah, polishing his best boots.

  ‘Harry,’ she said, ‘would you like a party?’

  ‘A party?’

  ‘It’s your birthday next month. You’ll be forty.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t want a party. I’m not very sociable. But we’ll have a party, when she arrives. We’ll celebrate that.’

  ‘I want to do something for you. All your friends—’

  ‘You won’t be fit enough. You have only five weeks to go.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll be fine. Mum will help me, so will Anika. She said she would.’

  ‘You’ve discussed it with her?’

  ‘Yes, she was quite excited. Wanted to do the catering.’

  He stood up, having finished polishing. She really wanted to do something for him. Women were like that. Birthdays seemed to be important. There was a time a year ago, when he did not care if he never had another birthday, things had looked so bad. Until he’d met Evelyn Crowley. But they were much better now, thanks to Evelyn and her money. Perhaps he was being selfish. Women loved parties. The bigger the better.

  ‘We’ll have it catered,’ he said.

  ‘Catered? You mean it?’

  ‘You make the arrangements.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, dear—I mean darling.’ She’d been calling him ‘darling’ since first light. And kissing him whenever she got the chance. She was big now. And had to lean in toward him or beg him to lean in toward him. Or come up beside him and put an arm about him and snuggle. She was a snuggly sort of woman.

  He drove into town a little apprehensively. This was the day. This was to be the end for his blasted first wife. No more money. He’d had to pay another thousand toward her bills two days ago. He would not pay one more dollar. The management would have to throw her out if they did not wish to be stuck with her. She was like a leech. Once she got her teeth into you, she would not let go. But, on the other hand, if she were thrown out of the motel, she’d simply move back to Nil Desperandum. The noise, the squabbling.

  And Robyn so far gone. She did not deserve another invasion.

  But when he reached the motel, full of fire and fury, he was astonished. Adeline had departed. So had the girls.

  ‘Gone?’ he said.

  ‘Gone,’ said the manager, her nose in the air. She had thick black hair and butterfly glasses. Much like Dame Edna Everidge’s spectacles, but without the sparkles.

  ‘Gone where?’

  ‘Back to Sydney, on the first flight this morning. First class, she said.’

  ‘First class?’

  ‘So she said.’

  ‘Who paid for that?’

  ‘The W
orld Boxing Commission, so she said. She’d had a letter, which I handed to her not long after five yesterday. She’d only then returned from the races.’

  ‘The races? Horse races? On a Wednesday?’

  ‘We do now and then have them mid-week.’

  ‘Did she say what was in the letter?’

  ‘Apparently, the Sports Doping Agency had been checking again samples taken from boxers at recent matches. Tests had now shown her previous husband’s opponent in the State titles bout early this year had been on steroids. As a result, he had been disqualified. Her previous husband was now the declared winner. The purse, some fifty-thousand dollars, would go to him.’

  ‘But her husband’s dead.’

  ‘I thought you were her new husband?’

  ‘No, no, her first husband. She divorced me years ago.’

  ‘Oh, she said you’d look after everything.’

  ‘Everything?’

  ‘Including the bill.’

  He was stunned. She had gone, really gone? He could not believe it, but the invoice stated quite clearly Ms Adeline Becker and family had departed the motel at 07.13 that morning. He paid the bill and went back to the Nissan, replacement windows for the BMW not yet having arrived. And sat, feeling there was something fishy about the whole matter. He was about to head for Railway Street, when his mobile went off.

  ‘Are you fresh his morning?’ a voice asked.

  ‘Chook?’

  ‘How are you, dear boy?’

  ‘Why are you speaking in a funny voice?’

  ‘I’ve been listening to the BBC.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In Sydney—’

  ‘Sydney?’

  ‘Supervising things.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘The arrest of your kleptomaniacal wife.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean?’

  ‘Caught at Sydney airport this morning with a bag of weed in her bag.’

  ‘Oh, hell, where is she now?’

  ‘Under police guard at the airport, being interviewed.’

  ‘What’ll happen to her?’

  ‘She could get two or three.’

  ‘Years?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘For a bag of weed?’

  ‘With her record, definitely.’

  ‘What record?’

  ‘Lifting stuff that isn’t hers. Petty theft, passing valueless cheques, soliciting in a public place.’

  ‘Oh, God, what about the kids?’

  ‘Right now they’re trying to bring down aircraft with lazars.’

  ‘Oh, hell, Chook. How do you know all this?’

  ‘I know Ray Henschke and Ray knows a few people.’

  ‘Did you arrange this?’

  ‘Don’t worry, she was going to take you for every dollar you have.’

  ‘What’s going to happen to her?’

  ‘She’ll come up in a bail court tomorrow, I imagine.’

  ‘Bail? Who’s gonna pay that?’

  ‘You can expect a call.’

  ‘Me? Never.’

  ‘Then she’ll be in custody for a maybe a year, awaiting trial.’

  ‘Oh, God. What about the kids?’

  ‘That’s your baby, baby. Must run. Ciao.’

  He listened to the phone purring for a while. It had a sweet, happy sound.

  When he called at the small house near the station, Bob Elliott was not at home.

  ‘I thought he’d still be reading the morning papers,’ he said.

  ‘He’s at the station,’ Muriel said. ‘He likes to look at trains.’

  Muriel Elliott was a tall and gentle woman, the daughter of an Anglican vicar many years ago, when a man, already hat in hand—she obviously being a lady—had walked through the lichgate and asked politely: ‘Is the vicar in, by any chance?’

  She had smiled, amused.

  ‘Quite often he is and quite often he is not, even when he is,’ she had said.

  This was soon after the war. Robert Elliott had been back only a month or so. Something to do with the Occupation in Japan and war criminals. Captain, Ninth Division, he was. She had been picking roses at the time, or snipping them. In one slim, to the point of being bony, hand was a pair of secateurs and in the other a single rose, a damask. It went with her complexion. It was quite warm, even pleasantly hot, and she wore a floppy straw hat with a ribbon. Which hung down indolently. And gloves, gardening gloves. And something shimmery over a satin slip. He could not actually see a slip, but the muslin dress was so thin there had to be a slip.

  ‘Oh?’ he’d said.

  ‘If he’s reading, he is not in.’

  ‘I see.’

  She’d smiled in the reserved and yet welcoming way that you’d expect of a vicar’s daughter. Doing it with her eyes rather than her pretty pink lips. Not red lips, mind you. She never wore lipstick.

  ‘If you’ll just wait a moment,’ she had said, ‘I’ll just look. What, name shall I say?’

  ‘Elliott,’ he’d said, ‘Robert Elliott.’

  ‘Of course, I’ll just see.’

  Miss Maplethorpe lightly tripped to an open door and called: ‘Hullo? Father? Are you there?’

  Distantly came back a voice: ‘Yes? Yes? I am here.’

  ‘Oh, good, there is a Mr Elliott.’

  The ecclesiastical gentleman appeared.

  ‘Ah, yes, Robert, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’ve just returned,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, of course, someone did say. Please do come in.’

  He was a tall, painfully thin and perfectly clean Englishman with an Oxford accent. ‘You have met my charming daughter, I see.’

  Elliott nodded.

  ‘It’s about my father,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. I did hear, only this morning. I am so sorry. My dear fellow, won’t you please come in?’ Elliott had followed, still holding his hat. The reverend gentleman had called back: ‘Muriel, dearest, is there any chance of tea?’

  ‘Of course, Father.’

  Like the swan in the evening, she moved through the door.

  Becker followed her in. Muriel was still tall and thin, almost skinny now in a tragically diminishing way. She had a stilted, school-mistressy sort of walk. Not quite lifting her feet. Nor her voice.

  ‘I wish he wouldn’t.’ She dared for a moment to add: ‘He’s been watching them since we came here,’ she said. ‘Trains don’t change much, do they? Over the years, I mean.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Could I get you tea or coffee, Harry?’

  ‘Oh, no, I had a good breakfast. I don’t drink a lot of coffee now. I never liked tea.’ It was always cool in the small timber house—not the coolness of a low temperature, but of good manners. ‘You know about the party?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, Robbie rang. She’s quite thrilled. A catered party too? That’s very thoughtful of you, Harry. She being in her condition. She won’t have to do anything, will she? Just sit there and be a lady, she said. She’s very lucky,’ Muriel added, ‘that she’s got you.’

  ‘I’m lucky too.’

  He began to edge to the door. ‘Was there something?’ he asked. She seemed to be in two minds, as if wanting to talk to him about something important, but not sure.

  ‘Oh—’ She was clenching her hands, now painfully thin. Muriel was in her late sixties, well brought up. Devoted to the church. And to seeing that guests were treated with the respect they deserved.

  ‘She said she’d told you, last night,’ she said.

  ‘About the baby? We’re going to call her Roberta.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it wonderful? Robert is so pleased. I think he was about to cry.’ She was having difficulty with her hands. Difficulty looking directly at him. She was goin
g to tell him something, he knew.

  ‘I’ll find him up there.’

  She stepped forward, as if to touch him, even clasp him. ‘Oh, Harry, Robyn has told you about her husband, Arnold? And what had happened?’

  ‘I already knew about the crash.’

  ‘And about the press clipping?’

  He was surprised. ‘That too.’

  ‘It was a dreadful shock for her.’

  ‘I can imagine. Any idea who sent it?’

  She faltered and fiddled. ‘I did.’

  ‘You, her mother?’

  ‘Yes, she had to know. I was in the library, filling in time, flipping through The Sun News-Pictorial, when I saw it. First, I saw ‘Wagga’, then it jumped out at me. The name, I mean. I was shocked. I had to tell her, but I could not. I would have been so embarrassed, not so much for myself as for her. The dear, sweet girl. Such an awful thing to know. But I could not tell her to her face, could I? You understand? I would not have been able to face her. So I made a copy. They have a machine. At the top of the page was the name of the paper and the date. So, I included that too. I took it home and folded it and put it in an envelope and addressed it to her, printing with my left hand. It looked awful, such an ugly scrawl. I felt ugly, doing such a thing. And awful posting it, but I could not tell her face to face. I could not. Such a terrible thing—’

  ‘Does she know now that you sent it?’

  ‘No, no, I have been trying to tell her for some time, months, a year, but cannot bring myself. I feel so ashamed.’

  He put a hand on her shoulder. It was a thin, bony shoulder, which flinched at this touch, but soon relaxed.

  ‘I think you should tell her. But after the baby.’

  ‘Do you think?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He found Bob Elliott at the station, sitting on a long, hard bench, saying: Wagga Wagga in white on blue. Bob was surprised to see him. He had the expression of a man quite contented with his life, but worried he might die soon and miss out on something, although he could not think what it was.

  ‘Hullo, Harry. Looking for me?’

  ‘Muriel said you would be here. I was wondering,’ he said as he sat, ‘whether you can tell me why my grumpy old bastard of a neighbour is so interested in us?’

  ‘Which neighbour is that?’