The Mistake

by Wendy James

  35

  When her parents give them the news – in a freaky reprisal of that other dire announcement – the formal gathering of the four of them in the lounge room, the two children seated together on the lounge, though both slightly more subdued – Hannah is amazed at the intensity of her relief. It’s not just emotional release, but also physical, as if some crushing weight has been lifted from her, as if she can finally move, breathe, think, without constraint.

  ‘Oh.’ She wants to say something significant, something meaningful, but doesn’t know what, doesn’t know where she should begin. ‘It’s wonderful news. But what does it mean, exactly?’

  ‘It means we don’t have to go to old Aunt Cranky in Melbourne!’ Now Tom is bouncing again, but this time Hannah doesn’t mind, this time Hannah would like to join in.

  ‘Well, I don’t know.’ Angus is laughing. ‘Actually, I think we should let her have you for a few weeks, straighten you out. What do you reckon, Jodie?’

  ‘Oh, but Dad, she won’t let me bring my —’ Tom realises he’s being teased, grins and resumes his bouncing.

  Angus turns to Hannah, his face serious now. ‘It means that the inquest will be suspended. We’ll have to turn up, but once we present this new evidence, that’ll be the end of it. And it means that everything your mother has said is true. It also means that a lot of people owe your mother an apology.’ He gives Hannah a meaningful look and stands up.

  ‘Come on, Tom. Let’s go and get some champagne. And lemonade for you. We could get some pizza, too. I think this news deserves a party.’

  Since her return, though she has been contrite, compliant, has created no further stirs, Hannah has avoided any unnecessary contact with her parents, staying away as much as possible, keeping to her room when she’s at home. Her father made one tentative attempt to raise the subject of his infidelity during their weekly driving lesson, but Hannah made it clear, through a series of wince-inducing gear changes and some unnecessarily violent braking, that this wasn’t a good time for such a conversation. She knows that eventually she will have to deal with what she has seen, what it says about her father, what it adds to her picture of Manon – but right now she is trying hard to pretend that none of it ever happened. The hardest thing is not being able to discuss it with Assia, to keep her knowledge from seeping out – it’s almost impossible not to let the disgust and contempt colour any conversations that include the guilty parties.

  Now, left alone with her mother, Hannah is suddenly shy. She wants it to be gone – this distance between the two of them, before it becomes permanent, before it’s too late. She wants her mother’s forgiveness, but more than that she just wants her mother – her real mother – back.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Hannah?’ Her mother’s smile is tentative, a little sad, but unexpectedly familiar and welcoming. Hannah moves without thinking, kneels, laying her face on her mother’s lap.

  ‘Oh, Mum.’ She’s crying, a year’s worth – a lifetime – of tears. ‘I’m so sorry. It’s been so awful. I’m sorry I’ve been such a cow. I didn’t mean to. I don’t even know why. I’m so sorry. I just want everything to be the way it was. Before …’

  ‘You don’t have to apologise, Hannie.’ Her mother strokes her hair gently. ‘We all wish we could go back. Change things. You haven’t done anything, darling. It’s all my fault. Everything.’

  ‘It’s not, though. None of it’s your fault. I’m just a crap daughter.’

  ‘Oh, Hannah. You’re not a crap daughter. You’re a beautiful, wonderful daughter. A mother couldn’t ask for a better daughter.’ Her mother gives her shoulder a little shake. ‘Now, come on. Go and wash your face. Then let’s get the table ready for this party.’

  Hannah swallows a sob, looks up at her mother.

  ‘It’s really going to be all right, darling.’ Her mother’s smile is genuine, her old smile, is filled with love and humour.

  Hannah sighs, wipes her eyes on the back of her hand, returns the smile. It’s going to be okay.

  AAP NEWS

  ‘Garrow inquest suspended’

  The state coroner, Mr Conrad Westerby, yesterday suspended a coronial inquest into the disappearance of Elsa Mary Evans.

  Police confirmed yesterday that three other women have come forward, claiming that they had also been involved in illegal adoptions arranged by the late Sheila O’Malley, former matron of the maternity wing at Belfield Hospital.

  The women, whose names have been suppressed, are believed to have given birth between 1972 and 1995. One has since been reunited with her adopted child.

  Detective Sergeant Paul Rossi, who has been heading the investigation, said that the new evidence would need to be looked at carefully before any decisions were made to proceed with the matter.

  ‘The search is likely to continue for Elsa Mary, but it will probably be a matter for her family and not the police,’ he said.

  36

  Manon ends it, just as she does everything: lightly, ironically. Effortlessly.

  It is only a few hours after the suspension of the inquest, and he has sent Jodie back to their hotel, then returned with Manon to her Broadway office to collect some paperwork. The office is in a nineteenth-century import warehouse that has been restored and remodelled. The walls are solid and obviously soundproof, and Manon’s own chambers are situated well away from the receptionist or any of the other partners. Nonetheless she draws the curtains, locks the door, requests her calls be held, before they fuck. They move quickly from the desk, to the floor – complete their coupling upright, Manon shuddering against the cedar dado.

  Until now, Angus has always been somewhat appalled by his capacity to switch from one mode to another so instantly – from concerned husband, responsible citizen to reckless philanderer, unprincipled, abandoned, oblivious to everything but his own most base desires. It is so commonplace, so farcical, men like him the subject of countless bad movies, but the cliché is real, the contradictory desires genuine, if inexplicable. Wanting the thrill of sexual conquest; wanting his wife and his family, too. But this time it’s different – despite Manon’s frank avoidance of commitment, so similar to his own, Angus is not sure that he wants anything – anyone – other than Manon. He doesn’t know if he loves her, but he does know that for the first time everything else – Jodie, his family, his work, his life in Arding – has receded. Everything but this.

  When they have finished, Manon is immediately all business, briskly tossing Angus his shirt, his tie, his trousers, replacing her own discarded clothing efficiently, without offering any conversation. Dressed, she sits behind her desk, dons her glasses, shuffles through a pile of papers, only looking up when Angus has shrugged himself into his jacket, straightened his tie, and lowered himself into the comfortable leather chair facing her.

  She looks up, raises her eyebrows. ‘So. It’s all over.’

  ‘Yes. A job well done, Manon. Thank you. In fact, I can’t thank you enough. We should go out, have a drink, celebrate.’ He reaches out to take her hand, but she pulls it away, pushing her seat back a few inches.

  ‘A job well done. Yes. But I’m not sure you’ve any real cause to celebrate, Angus.’ Her voice is uncharacteristically solemn, and for once there’s no teasing half-smile.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ve got some heavy shit to sort out. You and Jodie.’

  ‘But that’s not —’

  ‘Not my problem? You’re right, it’s not. I’ve got plenty of my own.’

  ‘But I don’t understand, I thought —’ He doesn’t really know what he thought, what he thinks, only what he’s feeling – shock, a formless terror.

  ‘What? That we could keep all this going indefinitely? That we were playing for keeps? It was fun, Angus, but it’s like any good party: it’s always sensible to leave a little before you’re really ready to go.’ The irrepressible hint of laughter is back. She stands up, holds out her hand, and Angus has no choice but to get to his feet, take her s
lender fingers in his, shake.

  ‘Good luck to both of you.’ Manon pulls her hand free of his grip, which has become convulsive, desperate, gives an unmistakably dismissive grin. ‘I’ll send you the bill.’

  Somehow Angus manages to find a taxi. He gives directions to their hotel, then changes his mind, asks to be taken to a hotel in The Rocks, an old watering place from his student days. Once there, he orders whisky, a double, neat, finds himself a secluded table. But even before he takes a sip from his drink (and he’s not planning to stop here) it occurs to him that there’s no point in getting drunk: what he’s feeling now is a close enough approximation of that state anyway: his head is spinning, stomach churning, he can’t quite recall who he is, how he arrived here. And he has no idea what he’s going to do, or where he’s going to go, next.

  37

  A family dinner. The first they’ve had together – all four of them – for months, it seems.

  Jodie has made Tom’s favourite meal: a rich, cheesy lasagne that she knows will give Angus a bad case of heartburn, though this will not stop him insisting on seconds and even thirds. She has made dessert too – Hannah’s favourite, a spicy ginger pudding that had seemed an eccentric choice during childhood. The dinner could be an exact replica of that last dinner, more than a year ago now: Tom excitedly relating the outcome of various repulsive experiments he and Harry have been conducting, Angus teasing him gently, Hannah subdued, but relaxed, helpful – she had even volunteered to set the table, had made an effort to fold the napkins carefully, keep the cutlery straight. After the meal the four of them stay seated for another half hour, just talking. Jodie feels as if she has emerged from a tunnel, as if she is taking things in properly for the first time in a long, long while. As if she is catching up on her own life.

  When the children go their separate ways – Tom to watch television, Hannah out with Wes – Angus and Jodie clean up. They work together silently, Angus rinsing plates, passing them to Jodie to be stacked in the dishwasher. She is struck by the ease of their proximity, their efficiency, the years of companionship expressed in all the inconsequential touching – the bumping of hands, grazing of hips – though all their movements are neat and contained in the small space. She is keenly aware of the moment’s preciousness, and its transience.

  ‘Jodie.’ Angus clears his throat. ‘Jodes. We have to talk.’

  Jodie’s movements cease; there is a plate suspended between them, like some grotesque offering, tragic in its banality.

  ‘I think it’s time, don’t you?’ Sadly, gently. ‘We can’t keep on going … like this.’

  We have to talk. She has imagined a thousand different versions of this phrase – innocuous enough on the surface, but for Jodie, charged, full of portent – ever since she and Angus were first involved. She knows its significance, would have staved off this moment forever if she could. She has imagined, too, her own response to what’s coming next – has seen herself like the Wicked Witch of the West, submerged in the watery terror of the moment, shrinking, shrinking, shrinking into nothingness.

  She feels a fierce constriction in her throat, a sharp pang in her chest, the muscles in her legs begin to quake, the welling in her eyes becomes a trickle, she takes a deep breath … and finds herself still there. There is a rush of blood, of life, of feeling. Jodie hasn’t, as she feared, dissolved: her breathing is fast but steady, her heart continues to beat; she is still herself, upright, whole. Even her limbs appear to be functioning – her hand moves instinctively to grasp the proffered plate, to lift it from her husband’s hand and stack it neatly in the washer. A smile requires effort, wavering through desperately blinked-back tears, but her response is unfaltering, clear.

  ‘You’re right, Angus. We have to talk.’

  Part Three

  38

  The days she spends sitting for Bridie are Jodie’s one real solace. Sometimes it seems that it’s only when she’s sitting in the warm light of Bridie’s kitchen, her physical presence all that’s required, that she can breathe.

  She has been coming twice a week for the past month, which is far longer than Bridie’s original estimate, but she doesn’t mind. These days spent with Bridie are the best of her week – they have a lovely quiet rhythm about them, something so far removed from her own life, which is unimaginably transformed.

  Angus has taken what they’re politely calling a sabbatical, but is really a ‘trial separation’. He is working for a London firm, has signed a twelve-month contract, and though she is far busier than she had imagined she would be, the ease with which she has swung into life as a single mother has surprised Jodie herself. Though Helen’s assistance has been promised (in the gaps between her golfing engagements, her travelling schedule), Jodie doesn’t need much help. The job at the hospital is only three days a week, and with Hannah boarding for this final year of school and only coming home every few weekends, or for the occasional dinner, life is quite simple. She and Tom are less lonely than she’d imagined, doing their own thing during the day, and then reading together at night, or playing the odd game of euchre, Scrabble. She is missing Angus less than she imagined, too – he Skypes nearly every day and, as Tom has pointed out, they probably talk to him more now than they did when he was home. Even on the little screen, blurred, the conversation sometimes lagging and distorted, she can tell that Angus is less stressed. He is enjoying the work, he tells them, and has met up with a few old friends. He is looking forward to seeing Tom and Hannah in the holidays, has trips planned to Paris, Prague, Cambridge. (‘There’s so much we can see while you’re here. Pity to waste the opportunity. Though really,’ his face suddenly young, wistful, ‘all I really want to see is you.’)

  Jodie has discovered a different self at work, one she had forgotten ever existed. She is amazed to find that her professional self is still so calmly competent, had expected nerves, anxiety, to be full of uncertainty. But she has taken the work itself in her stride and it has quickly become routine. The thing she has dreaded most, the daily encounters with people who know her, know her story, this too has been less difficult than she had imagined. Jodie Garrow is yesterday’s news, after all.

  But the nights are hard. The vast bed is cold and uninviting, and though tired she avoids sleep – reading or watching television for as long as she can. The nightmares come more regularly now, and have increased their intensity, leaving her drained and edgy.

  She is not unhappy, not precisely. There is a hollowness, though, and a melancholy wondering whether all these years of striving, of working to make something real and strong and unified, have all been for nothing. Her family has been transformed beyond all recognition, but she has to acknowledge that it’s not all bad, that perhaps they’re all stronger for it – Angus, Hannah, Jodie herself, even Tom.

  The two days spent with Bridie are an escape into a parallel world. There’s the farmhouse itself – set picturesquely in a green valley, desperately in need of renovating, too rambling to heat properly – such a contrast to her own home. And so welcoming: the two exuberant labradors rushing her at the front door, the friendly disorder that a houseful of small children can create, the cup of tea poured from a pot, the comfortable kitchen chair in the square of sunshine where she sits while Bridie paints. There’s the smell of the paint or the linseed oil or whatever it is that she can smell, the soft jazz that Bridie has playing in the background, that doesn’t quite block out the soft swish of brush on canvas.

  Bridie works silently, for the most part, but occasionally they chat about this and that, conversations that touch lightly on many small, inconsequential matters.

  But today has been different. Bridie has been in a strange mood from the moment Jodie arrived. Her face unreadable, her voice low and flat, her movements slightly abrupt, jumpy. A fight with Glenys, Jodie assumes, after Bridie makes some catty remark about even female partners expecting too much – that they are basically no different to men in that regard. But perhaps it’s more than that – Bridie has become incre
asingly agitated over the portrait itself, muttering and sighing to herself, pausing mid-stroke, before starting up again frenetically. She scolds Jodie for moving, curtly ordering her to turn her face back, to stop smiling.

  Bridie keeps painting, her lips compressed, her motions becoming jerkier and jerkier. ‘Oh, fuck it!’ She throws the brush down viciously. ‘I just can’t get it. It’s impossible. It’s not there.’

  Jodie stands uncertainly. ‘I should go, then. Let you —’

  ‘Oh, no. Don’t go. I’m sorry!’ Bridie picks the brush up, grimaces. ‘No, it’s just that something’s not quite right with the portrait. There’s something I can’t get to – something I can’t see. Why don’t we just have morning tea? And if I calm down we can get something done after.’

  Bridie boils the kettle, cuts cake, brews the tea, pours two cups. The two women huddle around the fuel stove. Their conversation stays general, light, keeps clear of the morning’s irritations, and gradually Bridie relaxes, her voice slows down, her movements return to their usual fluid grace. Eventually there is nothing to say, and the two women sit silently, both enjoying the uncomplicated companionship.

  It’s Bridie who breaks into the silence, her face serious again. ‘Jodie. Can I ask you something? I’ve been wanting to, but it’s awkward – and it’s never been the right time. There’s so much stuff I feel like I know about you – don’t you think that sometimes what you know about someone as a child is all you’ll ever need to know in a way? But then there’s other stuff I don’t know. You might think it’s none of my business, and ordinarily it wouldn’t be, but this is important – you know, for the painting …’

  She leaves it hanging.

  ‘What do you want to ask?’ Jodie imagines that Bridie wants to know more about her marriage, her relationship with Hannah, her mother, perhaps.