by Wendy James
Jodie gazes at her. ‘It’s unreal, isn’t it? You. Us. Meeting again.’
‘It was unreal seeing you first in that weird situation the other night. I’d been invited by my neighbour – d’you know Jenna Robards? She’s something at the uni, women’s studies, maybe? – but I really had no idea what was going on.’
‘True story.’
‘No, really I had no idea. I thought it was just a run of the mill book club – not a bunch of mad femmos, looking for a cause.’ She shrugs apologetically. ‘If I’d known …’
‘Oh, don’t apologise. I’m quite a celebrity these days. The weird thing is that none of my old friends wants to know me, while all these people I’ve never had anything to do with are suddenly eager to hear my tale.’
‘You know, I’ve barely followed your story. It’s not really my thing, I was only vaguely interested because it was local, you know how it is. But it had never occurred to me that it was you. I mean, I looked at the pictures, I suppose, and it’s not that you’ve changed all that much. Well, not close up, not really.’ She grins, raises an eyebrow, adds with a laugh: ‘True story. Anyway, I’ve been meaning to find out about you since I got up here – find out if you were still around, or where you’d gone. I knew someone would know. I just hadn’t got around to it, and it seemed a bit presumptuous too, I guess. I didn’t know if you’d even remember me.’
‘And I do. Definitely.’ They grin at one another again, the lame joke somehow endlessly amusing. ‘It’s wonderful – it’s just amazingly wonderful to see you! I can’t quite believe it.’ She’s strangely unembarrassed by her own gushiness. ‘And how did you get here? Obviously you know all about me, or as much as everybody around here knows – but what have you been doing? What’s happened in your life?’ Even as she asks, the strangeness of the question is clear – it’s too big, impossible to answer, and it’s too intimate, too – not the way Jodie usually addresses other women, even friends. But Bridie doesn’t seem perturbed. She gives a short, hard laugh.
‘Well, to answer your first question – and all of them, really – I got here in a very roundabout way. Although that’d be putting it more kindly than the reality. It’s been the usual thing. To start with I had a totally fucked-up adolescence – too many drugs, too many bad boys – but what would you expect, with a childhood like mine?’
‘Did you … this probably seems really stupid, but did you end up doing gymnastics? You were so talented, so determined – I always thought I’d see your name in the Olympic team or something.’
‘Gymnastics? Oh my God – was that my fantasy then? Oh, how funny. I haven’t thought about it for years! Nah. I probably nagged at Mum for a while to go to lessons or whatever, same as I nagged to learn the piano, take up horse-riding. But there was no point. We were never anywhere long enough to do anything, really. Except get into trouble. When I finally took off on my own I was always at the fringes of the arty crowd – the same crowd my mother hung in, I suppose. You know, would-be writers, artists, musicians, actors. I dabbled in everything a bit, but never really had any focus. It was more the scene that I was into than the art – drugs, booze, unrequited love. You know the score.’
It’s not a score that Jodie’s ever been familiar with, but she nods, smiles. ‘But now? You’re an artist now?’
‘Yeah.’ Bridie’s long fingers plait and unplait the fringe of a cushion. ‘Trying to be, anyway. I’m just trying to grow up, really. I had a baby, a daughter – Iris – when I was in my late twenties. Having her made me rethink everything. I wanted a straighter sort of life. Settled, you know. Not quite what you have – I didn’t want a station wagon, although a rich husband might have come in handy.’ Her warm smile takes the sting out of her words. ‘I was on my own, didn’t tell the father. Anyway, I got into art school in Melbourne, Mum gave me a reasonable allowance – she’d gone pretty straight herself, married a doctor eventually. My God, our little sister – she was born just after we met – even went to a bloody private school! Anyway, I went and set up a little place, rented a studio, worked hard. Had a few fantastic successful happy years.’
‘And then?’ Jodie asks the question gently, though she can intuit what’s coming, understands suddenly the look of weariness in her friend’s face.
‘And then Iris died.’
‘Oh, no. No. God, Bridie, I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s okay. Well, no, it’s not okay. It won’t ever be okay.’ She pauses. ‘But it was years ago. I’m getting used to it, I suppose.’
‘What happened? To Iris.’
‘It was – well, I could give you the precise medical diagnosis – but let’s just say it was a very fast and fatal form of cancer. She was diagnosed when she was three and a half and didn’t make it to her fourth birthday. She’d have been ten now. So it was a while back.’
‘Oh, it’s … it’s …’ Jodie falters.
‘Yeah. It’s unimaginable, isn’t it? When it first happened I thought that I was living in some sort of nightmare, that eventually I’d have to wake up and everything would be the same. Now it’s the opposite,’ she says. ‘Sometimes I think I just dreamed up her whole little life – and that entire wonderful part of my life. Anyway. So I’ve come up here with my partner, Glenys.’ A split-second pause. ‘She’s an artist, a sculptor. Just like poor Mum always fancied herself. Funny, eh? We wanted to move away from the city. Glenys has two young kids, and it’s a better life. You know – we can grow vegies, bake, live simply. And I always had really good memories of Milton. I think it was the happiest time I ever had as a kid. And it turns out that it’s the perfect place for people like us. Houses are cheap and there’s a bit of a community, you’ve probably noticed. Somebody told me it’s got the highest concentration of gay couples outside the metro area in Australia. Who’d have thunk it, eh? Good old Milton.’
And then Bridget jumps up from her seat, in an unnervingly abrupt move that is somehow utterly familiar. She stalks around Jodie, her hands behind her back, paces back and forth, all the while looking at her consideringly, coolly. It’s a professional gaze – almost as if she’s measuring her.
Jodie isn’t sure whether she should be amused or alarmed, giggles nervously, squirms. ‘What on earth are you doing?’
‘I’m just thinking, honey. I’m having one of my amazingly brilliant ideas. I have them every now and then.’ She gives a deliberately mad chuckle.
‘What?’
‘I told you I paint?’
‘Yee … es.’
‘Well, I actually paint portraits. I’ve been entering the Archibald every year for yonks – I’ve been a finalist a couple of times. And I’ve been runner-up in the Portia Geach. Third place in the Moran. So, you know, I’m getting there.’
Jodie murmurs something appropriately congratulatory, then admits that apart from the Archibald, she hasn’t really got the foggiest idea what they are.
Bridie laughs. ‘Well you’re not alone there, sweet. Portrait prizes aren’t quite the Oscars. The thing is, I haven’t lined up anyone for next year’s Archibald.’
‘Lined anyone up?’
‘Well, it’s meant to be someone significant in the arts or sciences or politics. But that’s just “preferential” – you can usually make a case when someone’s famous. Or infamous. And there’s been plenty of stuff written about you. Anyway, I’d more or less decided not to bother for next year. But maybe there’s still time.’
Bridie’s still pacing around her, moving backwards and forwards. She opens a blind, closes it again. Peers at Jodie from this angle and that, regarding her through half-closed eyes.
‘So how about it? What do you think?’
Even coming from Bridie the request seems ludicrous. ‘You really want to paint me?’
‘Why not? You’d be better than my last local subject, anyhow. When we first got here I painted Alma McNeeman – you know that journo who lives out near Bundalong, she won all those environmental prizes? The painting was good – it was excellent, really �
� but that Alma’s a bit of a self-righteous cow.’ She pauses suddenly, her eyes wide. ‘God, I hope you don’t know her.’
‘Well, I do. Doesn’t everyone? But that’s okay. She’s not really what you’d call a friend. Her husband works with my husband. And she is a cow – I agree. A big fat cow.’
The two women laugh, as silly and conspiratorial as schoolgirls.
‘When I was out there I took photos, and then had her sit for a few hours over a couple of days. She was unbelievable – she never so much as offered me a cup of tea the entire time. It was as if I was some sort of indentured servant. And then when I showed her the portrait, God – she actually sneered, I swear. I was too afraid to ask if she wanted to buy it and I don’t have a clue what to do with it. I mean, it didn’t win anything, or even get an honourable mention, but I think it’s a pretty good portrait. It captured some interesting things about her – she’s pretty powerful, passionate. Large, in all sorts of ways – but honestly, who’d buy it? Glenys thought we could turn it into an archery target, or a dartboard, but I can’t quite bring myself to destroy it. So I’ve got it stored out in the garage,’ she says, grinning, ‘facing the wall. Only place for it.’ She takes a breath. ‘So what do you reckon, Jodie? Can I do it?’
‘Well, I don’t know. I’m —’
‘Oh, come on, Jodie.’
‘How long would it take? What would I have to do?’
‘Do? Nothing much, just sit there while I work. I’ll take a heap of photos, too – and I’ll work off those as well. I’d only need you for a couple of weeks, four max, I reckon.’
‘Can I think about it?’
‘What if I take the photos now and get started with some sketches?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’
‘Go on. Say yes. You won’t regret it.’
‘Oh. You’re a bloody pest. Okay, then. Yes.’
‘Fantastic. I can get some snaps now, and we can do the sittings later – in a month or so. Maybe things won’t be quite as fraught then.’
‘Maybe. Or maybe they’ll be extra fraught.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll make you sit. Even if I have to visit you in prison.’ Their laughter has a slightly hysterical edge – Jodie’s as much from the relief of having a companion, someone to laugh with, as from the dark humour of the comment itself.
‘Definitely?’
‘Definitely.’
27
Later, looking back, Hannah has absolutely no idea what possessed her, what made her think that it would be okay to bring Wes home after the party, to drag him up their garden path, both of them swaying and laughing, then through the front door – Oh, my God, the keyhole keeps moving, Wes, I swear. Bloody hell. You do it – then attempting to creep noiselessly down the darkened hall, past Tom’s bedroom and into her own lair, and with the barest of pushes, down, down, down onto the tangled surface of her bed. Well, maybe she does know what possessed her – vodka, lust – but even so, what was she thinking? The answer is: she wasn’t. She wasn’t listening either, not once they’d made it safely to her room, not once they had pulled off those items of clothing that needed removing, had embarked on that journey of mutual discovery that Hannah has newly recognised as being one of such great pleasure. She wasn’t listening, but there was no way of avoiding her mother’s horrified expression when she opened the door and switched on the light. Jodie retreated hastily and Hannah and Wes – immediately sober, separate, listening for the inevitable summons, the humiliating eviction – lay blinking at one another in the light.
‘Is it Wes, then? Is it because he’s black? Would it be less inappropriate if he was a nice white Newie boy?’ The argument has been raging for almost an hour, has gone back and forth without any resolution. There’s been plenty of time for Wes to make his escape without any more humiliating encounters, for Tom to wander up the hall and into the lounge room, give one brief look and hurry, terrified, back to bed. Far from being embarrassed, ashamed at being caught out, Hannah is giving a good impression of being the victim: it’s her right, her bedroom, Jodie should learn to knock; she’s legally of age and there’s nothing – nothing – that Jodie or Angus can do. Of course she would have had the nerve even if her father hadn’t been away: it’s not about nerve, anyway – it’s her right. Hannah has been so relentless in her own defence that her mother has barely been able to make her own position clear, other than to reiterate the inappropriateness of Hannah’s behaviour. This question of his being black is a new one, dragged up from some obscure place, and she can see it takes her mother by surprise.
‘Oh God, Hannah. I didn’t even see him. I really tried not to look. I didn’t even notice that he was black – the point is I don’t want you bringing boys – any boys – back to my home in the middle of the night.’
Hannah ignores what she’s just said, continues her diatribe. ‘So, basically you’re a snob and a racist. And you’ve so little reason – look at your family. Granny Evans. Your brothers. You may as well be black. You’re no better.’
Her mother shakes her head, sighs. ‘What is going on in that head of yours, Hannah? This isn’t about me. This is about you. It’s not that complicated, surely? You know the rules. If you must have sex, and I realise I can’t stop you – just do it somewhere else.’
Hannah stares at her mother for a long moment. She can see her in triplicate, three figures shimmying across her field of vision. ‘How can you say that it’s just about me? Right now everything in my life is about you and what you want. If it was just about me, things would be very different.’
‘Oh, Hannah, that’s just —’
‘And don’t talk to me about rules. From where I’m standing it looks like you’ve broken some very big ones.’
‘Hannah,’ her mother hisses her name, as if barely in control, ‘I want you to go to bed. This is stupid. We’ll discuss it in the morning. When you’re sober. When you’re capable of talking sense.’
‘But actually, this is what I think. And I’ll still be thinking it in the morning. You know, what’s the saying? In vino … vino … something or other.’
‘Goodnight, Hannah.’ Her mother turns to go but Hannah grabs her sleeve, pulls her back. Subjects her to a long hard stare.
‘You know, Mum. You scare me. First you dump your family. Then you dump that baby. How could you do that?’
‘What do you mean?’ Her mother returns her stare, eyebrows raised, coolly inquiring.
‘How could you just sell it? If that’s what you actually did? And then not tell anyone? Not until you absolutely had to.’
‘You know the story.’
‘But it’s not the truth is it? Not the whole truth.’ Hannah feels sick. Her head is spinning, she wants to lie down. And she wants to stop this stream of bile that appears to be going directly from her heart to her mouth, bypassing her brain. She staggers slightly and her mother goes to steady her, takes her arm, but Hannah pulls away, makes herself stand upright. ‘Don’t touch me.’
‘Hannah —’
‘Don’t even talk to me. I really don’t know who you are any more. I used to know you – but maybe that wasn’t real, either. You’re not my mother. I don’t know where my mother is.’
AAP NEWS
‘Missing Elsa Mary to be subject of coronial inquest’
NSW’s Chief Coroner Conrad Westerby, QC, announced today that there is to be a coronial inquest into the matter of missing infant Elsa Mary Evans, who has not been seen since her mother’s discharge from Belfield Hospital twenty-four years ago. Despite extensive searches throughout Australia and internationally for both Elsa Mary and her alleged adoptive parents ‘Rosemary and Simon’, no evidence of Elsa Mary’s current whereabouts have come to light. What now has to be determined, Mr Westerby said, is the likelihood of Elsa Mary’s still being alive, and whether this is a matter for further police investigation and possible criminal prosecution.
The Coroner has asked anyone with any information that could assist police to come forward. �
��This is a case I would prefer not to investigate, but if no conclusive evidence of Elsa Mary’s current whereabouts is forthcoming I will have no choice but to investigate this as a suspect death,’ he said.
Hearings are scheduled to begin at the Glebe Coroner’s Court in August.
28
Angus is shocked by Jodie’s reaction to the news of the impending inquest. Up until this moment the face she has shown him has been one of almost eerie calm, forbearance, resignation. Now, suddenly, this morning, all her self-possession has disappeared, and she’s hysterical, beside herself. Despite the weeks of knowing that a coronial investigation was more or less inevitable, just a matter of time, it is as if it has only just dawned on her how far this thing could go, what could happen next.
He has come back from work to tell her after Pete rang him with the news, has found her standing at the sink, somehow already well aware, sobbing, washing the breakfast dishes with unnecessary violence. Angus has stationed himself beside her with the tea-towel, simultaneously trying to reassure her, while making a valiant attempt to save the dishes from a sorry end, wresting them from her before she crashes them savagely into the draining basket.
‘Just give them to me, Jodie,’ he hisses. ‘It’s all right. I can dry them. Will you just calm down? It’s only an inquest. You haven’t been charged. You won’t be charged.’
She slams a froth-covered cup into the basket, breaking off the handle, insists he ring Peter again, that he ring the police, ring the bloody coroner – tell them that it’s crazy, that it’s all gone too far.
‘Oh, come on,’ she half sobs, half laughs. ‘You’re Angus Garrow, aren’t you? Surely there’s someone you can talk to, surely you can get someone to fix things!’