by Wendy James
‘So is this it?’ Wes pulls up out the front. ‘Are you sure he lives here? At the servo?’
The front half of a big rigger is parked across the road. It’s rusted, looks as if it hasn’t driven anywhere in a while, and isn’t going anywhere soon.
‘I’m sure this is right. He used to drive trucks, I think. Mum said she’d heard that he was living here with his girlfriend. That was a few years ago, but …’ She bites on a fingernail, looking over at the deserted petrol station doubtfully.
They climb out of the car and Wes heads across to the building, rattles on the door. Hannah stays put, watching. He swipes at the glass and peers in through the grimy window.
‘Nah, there’s no one there – looks like it hasn’t been open for a while. There’s just a pile of crates and tyres.’
He walks across to the high colorbond fence adjacent to the building, looks over the top. ‘Hey, there’s an old caravan back here. It’s kinda derelict, but maybe someone’s there. Look.’
She walks to the fence reluctantly, stands on tiptoes to see over. There’s an old aluminium caravan, dinged up and rusting in parts, standing in the middle of a paddock, waist deep in weeds and thistles and surrounded by a sea of bottles, cans, fast-food containers, refuse of every imaginable kind.
‘Yuck. Gross. Like a castle with a tip for a moat.’ She gives a slightly hysterical laugh.
‘Yeah, but what do you think, Han? Do you think he lives there?’
What Hannah thinks is that they should get back in the car, that she should head home, run as far and as fast from this godforsaken place as she can.
‘Yeah, I dunno. I guess it could be.’ She shrugs, runs her hands through her hair. ‘Let’s find out.’
They find a gate – rusted closed, they have to climb over – and walk slowly across the damp grass. Hannah can feel her heart thumping painfully; she moves closer to Wes and takes his hand, holds tight.
They pause when they reach the caravan’s door – hesitate before climbing the metal steps. The entry is not inviting. A torn screen door hangs, its hinges broken, and the main door is open. A light flickers in the dim interior, she can hear the sound of a television faintly; it takes her a moment to process what she’s hearing, moans and pants, a rhythmic grunting – it sounds like porn. Hannah looks up at Wes, tugs on his hand desperately.
‘Oh, God,’ she hisses, ‘what the fuck are we doing here? I can’t. I don’t. Let’s —’
But it’s too late. The caravan’s occupant has already heard them. There’s a growl from inside, ‘Who’s that?’, a thick, congested wheeze. The television goes silent, there’s a loud creak, shuffling footsteps, the caravan seems to dip in the middle, and then he’s there at the doorway glaring down at them. ‘Yeah? If you’re after money yez can piss off.’ He’s a big man, bald, angry, dressed in shorts and a singlet, his powerful shoulders hunched slightly as if to avoid hitting his head in the diminutive van.
‘Um …’ Hannah, panicked, looks at Wes, who is carefully avoiding eye contact. ‘Um. Sorry to disturb you, but I’m looking for —’ she falters, ‘Are you Bob Evans?’
The man says nothing for a moment. He looms above her, huge, bearlike, his expression unreadable.
‘What if I am? What’s it to you?’
‘I’m … um.’ Her voice fails her again. ‘I think you’re my grandfather.’
The man stares down at her for a long moment, then gives a short laugh. ‘Well, you’re little Jode’s daughter, eh? You could have knocked me down.’
He bustles about, making them coffee, surprisingly efficient despite his bulk, in the tiny kitchen space. Inside, the caravan is almost bare, scrupulously clean. There’s none of the mess that’s on the outside, nothing extraneous. All the surfaces are clean, if worn. There’s no evidence of dirty clothes, no unwashed plates in the sink. Just a bed, covered in a bright pink quilt and matching pillows, a television, a DVD player, a towering stack of DVDs (all wildlife documentaries and not a hint of flesh amongst them, Hannah notes, quickly reinterpreting the sounds she’d heard), a small gas stove and a tiny fridge. She and Wes have squeezed into the wall side of the eating nook at the man’s behest: ‘It’s a bit tight, but I sure as hell won’t fit – and there’s nowhere else. Unless you want to sit on the bed.’
He sees her looking about, coughs self-consciously. ‘Yeah. It’s a bit of a dump, innit? It’s just temporary, but. They’re beginning work on the garage in a week or so, and this seemed to be the cheapest thing to do while we waited. One of me old lady’s nephews was living here a year or so back – left it in a bit of a state as you can see. So we’ve had to have a bit of a cleanout. You probably saw all the shit – pardon the French – out the front. But it’s not too bad now, inside, is it? It’ll do for a few months, anyway.’
‘So, you’re – married? I didn’t know.’ She asks the question shyly.
He puts the coffee down carefully, sits down in front of her, beaming widely. One of his front teeth is missing.
‘Why would you? Not like I’ve kept in contact. I’ve been married to Olga for almost five years, now. She keeps me on the straight and narrow, that‘s for sure. She’s a Pole,’ he adds, as if that explains it. ‘Haven’t seen Jodes since – well not since she was a kid, actually.’ He sounds embarrassed, if not regretful. ‘I was a bit of a deadshit, a hopeless father. And husband. They were well rid of me, really.’ This is admitted without any particular emotion, it seems to Hannah, as if it’s something he’s said, or at least thought, for years, until it can be stated baldly, without self-recrimination or judgement. ‘Water under the bridge, though, isn’t it?’ He gives a shrug. ‘And I’m sure you’ve heard as much as you want to hear about the bad old days, anyway.’
‘Well. Mum’s never really said anything much, to tell you the truth. About you, I mean.’ Wes gives her a funny look over the table, and it occurs to her that perhaps she could have been more diplomatic. But she knows it’s nothing less than the truth – recognises a similar straightness in her own reply, wonders whether her desire to say her piece, regardless of whether it’s right or wrong, and with no thought about pain inflicted, has been inherited from this man.
‘Nah.’ He runs his fingers over his chin; the dark bristle rasps. ‘No, I guess she wouldn’t. I didn’t really have much to say to her, either. I was young and stupid. And drunk, mostly. The boys are a dead loss – take after me I suppose, though it’s not like Jeannie’s any better. But your mum done well for herself, didn’t she? She survived. Got out. Obviously gotta few brains in her head. She married that Garrow fella, I heard. His mum was a bit of a goer. The old man was an old fucker – oh, sorry, love, it’s your granddad, isn’t it?’ It appears that he knows nothing about her mother’s current situation, and she has no desire to enlighten him.
‘She done good. But no thanks to me. And you – you look like you’re doing okay, too, love. A big healthy-looking girl. You don’t look much like your mum, though. Not how I remember her. She was always a scrawny piece.’
‘No, I don’t. Everyone says that.’
‘You do put me in mind of someone, though. Maybe Jean’s mum. Old Elsa. She wasn’t a bad sort when she was a girl – or so they reckon.’ There’s a long silence, as if there’s nothing more to say.
‘Well, I better be getting ready. Olga’ll be back shortly, and we’ve got to get into town to see a man about a dog.’ He stands up, collects their cups, looks at the clock. Hannah and Wes stand up. ‘I don’t like to hurry you, but – well, to tell the truth, Olga doesn’t know about any of youse. She knows I was married before, but I never told her about the kids.’ He dumps the cups beside the little sink, turns back. ‘Now, what did you say you’d called in for exactly, love?’ He’s still genial, but his interest is clearly waning, and it’s plain that he’s anxious to be rid of them.
‘Oh.’ She searches for a plausible answer, but there isn’t one. ‘I don’t know really. We were just passing by – heading up the coast – weren’t we?’ She g
rips Wes’s hand, and pulls him out of the cramped space over to the doorway.
Her grandfather turns a suddenly stern face to Wes. ‘And where do you hail from, young fella?’ He has addressed all his comments so far to Hannah, has barely looked at Wes since their initial introduction. ‘You an Arding boy?’
‘No. I’m from Lismore originally, but I’m at uni up there now.’
‘At the university are you? More of your lot doing that these days, aren’t they? But doesn’t change things, does it? You’re still what you are – an education can’t change that.’
She can see Wes’s jaw tighten, a faint flush appear along his cheeks, but his expression doesn’t change, he makes no reply.
Her grandfather looks down at Hannah, friendly again.
‘Well it was good to meet you, er, Heather. Now, I’d better get ready – the old girl’ll be back soon.’
She turns to follow Wes, who has already begun a brisk tramp back through the sodden grass, when it occurs to her that there is something she wants to ask this man; that he should supply her with some information to justify her visit, ease her disappointment – at the very least make up for his appalling treatment of Wes, this rather ignominious farewell. It’s an outrageous question, but it only takes her a moment to pluck up courage and ask.
‘Was it something you did to her? Is that what’s wrong with her? Did you do something to Mum, when she was a kid – fuck her or something?’ The words come out as bald and ugly as their meaning.
‘What?’ The man looks stunned.
‘I mean, that’s the usual thing isn’t it? All those Catholic priests, those filthy teachers, doctors – it was like some sort of epidemic wasn’t it, back in the day? I’ll bet that’s what happened, that’s why she’s so screwed.’ She’s surprised by the harshness of her voice – and her own sudden conviction.
The old man’s throat starts working, his soft face crumples, he swipes at his eyes. ‘Oh, Jesus,’ he says – and she sees that he’s laughing at her, not crying, as she had initially assumed. ‘The things you kids come out with. You think that – Fuck me dead! Go on, on your bike, love. Your boong mate’s waiting.’ He gives her a gentle push through the open doorway. She can see Wes, hands on hips, leaning on the gate, looking impatient, darkly angry. ‘Look, whatever problems your mum’s got, they’ve got nothing to do with me, mate – I can guarantee you that. We’re all masters of our own destiny you know – that’s something you’ll work out. The mistakes we make – they’re all our own.’
‘So, was it worth it?’ Wes hasn’t looked at her since they got back in the car, he’s driving too fast, his face rigid, a mask. ‘Did it help you clarify things, meeting that redneck fuckwit?’
She puts her hand on his forearm, strokes gently. ‘Wes. I’m sorry. He is a fuckwit. But there are plenty of them around.’ She doesn’t say anything about her own disappointment. There’s no point – the visit has revealed none of the things that she was looking for, has provided no clear answers, not about her own future, and not about her mother’s past.
‘Can you slow down, Wes? Please. Maybe pull over?’ She points out a looming petrol stop. ‘I need to pee. Badly. And we need petrol.’
While he’s paying for the fuel, she goes to the bathroom, takes her phone. She turns it on for the first time that day. Now there are more than a hundred unanswered calls, messages, a long column of unread texts. She takes a deep breath, dials her home number, but can’t do it, cuts off before it rings.
She exits the bathroom and sees Wesley striding towards her, clutching a rolled-up newspaper. He grabs her arm, pushes her towards the car, his face grim.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Fuck you.’ The words are spat, savage. ‘You said you’d called them. Now, look at this, you stupid, stupid little bitch. Oh, fuck. Fuck it.’
Wes opens the passenger-side door and shoves her in, thrusting the newspaper into her hand. He slams the door, before stalking around to the driver’s side.
She looks down at the paper – the late-morning edition of the Coffs Coast Advocate – and there she is: her last school photo, blown up into monstrous proportions on the front page. Her mouth closed, lips tight, eyebrows raised, her supercilious expression disguising gleaming braces. Underneath, there’s a smaller shot of the entire family, Hannah standing slightly removed from what should have been a tight and happy circle.
Wesley climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the car. He pulls out onto the highway without speaking as she takes in the accompanying headline:
GARROW’S TEENAGE DAUGHTER MISSING
Police fear for second daughter of mother
at centre of missing baby case
A search is underway for 16-year-old Hannah Garrow, who has been missing since late yesterday afternoon. Hannah is the daughter of Jodie Garrow, currently under investigation over the disappearance of her infant daughter, Elsa Mary, who has not been seen since she left Belfield Hospital with her mother three days after her birth more than 24 years ago. The coronial inquest into the fate of Miss Garrow’s half-sister is due to begin in one week.
Miss Garrow, who lives with her parents in the town of Arding in Northern NSW, was last seen late yesterday afternoon, in the company of a man described as aged 20–25, of average height and build, dark-skinned, with fair dreadlocked hair. Police say grave fears are held for her safety.
Anyone who has any information, please contact Arding Police on (02) 6770 3434 or Crime Stoppers on 1800 333 000
‘Oh my God, Wes. This is so fucking insane.’ She thinks of her mother, at home, already overcome with anxiety, having to wait for news of Hannah, fearing not only for herself, but for her daughter. And perhaps – who knows – with the added pain and indignity of Angus’s betrayal. Her mother, who has done nothing but love her, who she knows would give her soul to save Hannah’s own. For the first time in years, it seems, Hannah feels remorse – painful, sharp – and shame. Oh God. What sort of a person is she, to bring this on her own mother? She thinks of that man, her grandfather, who has made good his escape, who denies any responsibility, every connection. She thinks of Jodie – of what she has made of herself, of who she has tried to be – of what she has tried to make of Hannah. Of what it means to be master of her own destiny; maker of her own mistakes.
She puts her hands over her face for a moment, as if trying to hold it all in, hold it back.
She picks up the phone again, dials the number.
Beside her, Wes says nothing, just drives. Takes her home.
34
Jodie is alone in the house. Her mother-in-law has braved the press contingent that has been parked on their front doorstep since Hannah’s disappearance – a flurry of flashlights greets every twitch of the curtain, it seems – to collect Tom and Hannah from school and take them to stay with her own sister in Melbourne. Jodie and Angus are to fly down to Sydney early in the evening and will spend the days before the inquest with Manon, going over Jodie’s statement yet again. Manon has assured her that she’s unlikely to be called for questioning the first day – that will be spent tracking the evidence of officials and bureaucrats, establishing that there was indeed a birth and then a disappearance. But over the subsequent days the questioning could be intense. Manon has warned her that the coroner’s surface amiability is deceptive and that a few hours of his relentless questioning can induce incoherence and confusion in even the most seasoned of court players – so it is essential that Jodie is well prepared, and every possible version of every possible question needs to be considered, every possible response formulated and rehearsed.
She has packed carefully, following Manon’s instructions regarding her wardrobe: businessy skirts and shirts in neutral colours, conservative heels. Nothing bright or flashy, nothing frilly, nothing revealing, nothing too obviously expensive, no conspicuous jewellery.
Now there is nothing to do but wait for the time to pass. It seems to her that this is what her life has come to over this past year – endless mom
ents that need to be endured, lived through, with little respite, and no prospect of salvation. She is not nervous, not quite, but moves, as she has done for most of this year, it seems to her, in a state of absolute numbness, of unfeeling. Even her face in the mirror is oddly blank – there are no bags under her eyes, no shadows, no signs of her distress or haunting. She has, as has been frequently pointed out, not a hair out of place. She wonders if this is how prisoners feel when they face a firing squad, or take their last steps towards the gallows.
But salvation comes in the guise of a phone call.
‘Jodie? It’s happened!’ Angus’s excitement is apparent even in his greeting.
‘What?’
‘It’s unbelievable. We’ve had three women contact us, just this morning. In response to the notice. Three! Manon was right! Three other women who say that Sheila O’Malley arranged their adoptions, illegally.’
‘So —’
‘They’ve agreed to make statements – and two have agreed to appear if it’s required. This changes everything. It’s amazing, Jodie. A bloody miracle.’
‘Jodie? Jodie?’ She can hear Angus’s voice, faint, mildly alarmed, but she says nothing, can’t think of anything to say.
A miracle. A bloody miracle.
It is everything Jodie has hoped for, everything she has wished for, prayed for, since it all began. It’s all over – and yet … Though there’s almost instantaneous relief – she won’t have to face the coroner, the court, won’t have to encounter the accusing eyes of the public as she recounts her tale, doesn’t have to consider the ramifications of the coroner’s finding – there’s not quite the sense of jubilation she had thought she would feel. Instead, it’s as if she is still waiting – though she doesn’t know what more can happen, what more there is to come.
It’s over. And her life can begin again. It will all return to normal. Surely.