8
MOLLY
It was late when Dickhead Dave pulled up at a caravan in a reserve on the outskirts of Coffs Harbour to the sound of rolling surf and smell of salt air.
Dave bashed on the door and when no one answered he yanked it open. Molly followed him into the van and could just see two human-like forms in the bed.
‘Joe?’ There was no movement. Dave kicked the foot hanging out from the bed covers. ‘Hey Joe?’ he boomed. ‘Got yer missus ’ere.’
Molly scrambled past Dave.
‘What the hell...?’ Joe sat up and peered at her.
‘Joe, oh Joe, thank god –’
A naked woman sat up in the bed beside Joe. Molly closed her eyes. She opened them and the two figures were still there and still naked.
It was warm and stuffy and Molly felt bile rise from her belly.
‘What the fuck are you doin’ here?’ demanded Joe.
Molly tried to push down the tsunami of feelings rushing at her.
‘Who do you think you are, ya fat bitch?’ said the woman. ‘No wonder Joe prefers me.’
Sweat blurred Molly’s vision. She swayed, caught between running towards Joe and running away. The air she was uncontrollably gulping in was rancid. Dave tried to pull her back as she lunged towards the bed. She broke free and fell on top of the woman, kicking and screaming.
‘Molly, what the hell are ya doin’?’ Joe yelled. He pushed her, his hands on her neck and shoulder. She tried to hold him, but he pushed her away. She fell back and felt his fists on her face. Her stomach lurched when he kicked her.
‘Fa fuck’s sake, stop,’ she heard the woman yell and everything went blank.
*
When Molly woke, she felt bandages where her head hurt. Something terrible had happened, if only she could remember. She tried to roll over and got caught in the hospital gown. A spasm from her broken rib rocked her. The sounds were familiar. A trolley rattled along a corridor. Someone coughed. The curtain around her bed opened.
‘Awake at last,’ a nurse said. ‘We’ll get you something to eat and drink.’
The nurse, Daphne, helped Molly sit up in the bed and fluffed her cushions.
‘Do you know where you are?’ she asked.
‘In a hospital?’
‘That’s right. You’re at Coffs Harbour Base Hospital. How are you feeling?’
Molly looked at her blankly.
‘What’s your name?’
Molly thought. Nothing came to her. She concentrated. Name, name?
‘Do you remember your surname?’ said Daphne.
Molly was confused. Sir name?
‘Do you remember what happened to you?’
Molly tried to think.
‘Never mind. Do you know what day it is?’
Molly looked around the room. There was a TV hanging on the wall, a metal cabinet, a chair. There was no clock. She tried to remember the last time she knew what day it was, but nothing came. She shrugged.
A woman pushing a trolley arrived and gave Molly a tray with juice, tea and toast.
‘I had to order for you this time. But there’s a form you can fill out for your lunch and dinner,’ said Daphne.
It must be morning, thought Molly. But what day?
She gobbled up the soggy toast and gulped down the milky sweet tea. Delicious.
A doctor visited her during the morning, asking questions she couldn’t answer. How had she come here? Who was the prime minister? Where did she live? There seemed to be a vacant wall between her brain and her mouth. Was she married? Molly twisted the gold band on her finger. She felt sick when she tried to remember her husband’s name.
The lady in the next bed lent Molly a magazine. She read about the stars of Hollywood, their partners or ex-partners, their children and their bumps. She enjoyed the page of fashion mistakes, even though they looked better than she did with her flapping white gown and greasy hair.
That afternoon, Daphne and a different doctor asked more questions. This time Molly knew what day it was, where she was and even who the prime minister was – it was that Top Hat Turnbull – that’s if he hadn’t been stabbed in the back by one of his own while she was sleeping. She’d seen him on her neighbour’s TV talking about some financial crisis. But she couldn’t remember her own name or her address.
‘We think your amnesia is due to concussion from whatever caused the wound to your head,’ he said. ‘This could be compounded by emotional shock, which is possible but less likely. We expect you to regain your memory in a short time.’
Molly felt safe and cared for in the hospital. She was fed regularly and she had a hot shower in the shared ensuite. The room was full of beautiful flowers. Not for her. She didn’t get any visitors other than the hospital staff. She chatted to the older patients, feeling they reminded her of someone she loved deeply, if only she could remember. One of them gave her a new nightie to wear, saying she didn’t need it as she was going home.
She wandered into the children’s ward, where she watched the children playing in their beds and felt like something had been wrenched out of her stomach. A little boy came up to her and held out his arms and she remembered feeling tiny fingers wrap around her own. And then it hit her.
‘My children, where are my children?’ she wailed. A nurse led her back to her bed.
Molly remembered her children and her first name. But something horrible hung between her and her full name.
Molly gasped when the policeman walked into the hospital room. She braced herself. He paused at the end of her bed and looked at her intently. Daphne stood next to him.
‘This is Constable Jones,’ said Daphne. ‘He brought you here.’
‘Molly, I have some news for you.’ He sat on the chair beside Molly’s bed. Daphne lingered at the end of the bed. ‘This lovely nurse told me you don’t remember your full name or what happened.’
Molly looked from Daphne to the copper and wondered if there was anything going on between them, like one of those romances in the magazine she’d been reading.
‘You didn’t have any ID on you when you were admitted and we’ve been searching our databases.’ Molly’s gut twisted. Why didn’t she have her cards? Had she been in trouble with the police? What had she done and why couldn’t she remember? ‘We think we’ve come up with a match. There’s a missing person’s alert for a young woman called Molly,’ he paused. ‘Could your name be Molly Sinclair? Mrs Molly Sinclair?’
Molly thought it sounded familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.
‘How about Molly Rogers?’
Rogers, that was it, thought Molly. I’m Molly Rogers, or at least I was.
‘I can see that rings a bell for you,’ said Constable Jones. ‘We have an alert for Mrs Molly Sinclair, formerly Molly Rogers, who has four children. Do you recognise these children?’
He held out a photograph of four children. Molly stared at it for a few minutes. There were Matthew and Daniel, the boys. And the twins, Emma and Grace. How could she have forgotten them?
‘You are married to Joe Sinclair. Do you remember him?’
Joe, Joe. Molly felt a black hole in her chest. There was something missing.
‘Is he all right?’
‘We suspect he was the person who tipped us off that you were lying on the side of the road,’ the constable paused. ‘When we searched the nearby reserve, there were signs someone had been living there and made a hasty getaway. Can you remember anything about that night?’
Nothing came to Molly. She felt her head.
‘Never mind, it’ll come back to you,’ soothed Daphne.
‘But there is someone else who we think was very important to you.’ The constable moved closer to Molly. ‘Do you remember Francis Rogers?’
Francis? Molly didn’t get a familiar feeling.
‘She’s your grandmother. Here’s a picture of her.’
‘My grandmother? Grandma,’ said Molly. She recalled an angry voice. What had she done to upset Gr
andma?
‘Our information is that you checked yourself out of the hospital in Liverpool, leaving your children with your grandmother.’ Constable Jones’s voice was brisk. ‘Is that correct?’
‘Did I do that?’ asked Molly, trying to think. Something at the back of her head knew he was right, but she didn’t want to believe she’d just up and leave her children.
‘Molly, I have some news for you.’ Constable Jones shifted and Daphne took Molly’s hand. ‘I have to inform you that your grandmother has passed.’
‘Passed where?’
‘No, Molly, she died.’ The policeman looked into Molly’s eyes. ‘She had a stroke, and your children have been put into care.’
Molly gasped. Her grandma? Her children? She felt like her head would split in two.
‘No, NO, NO, NO,’ she cried.
‘That’s enough for now,’ said Daphne. ‘We’ll talk with her again later.’ She gave Molly a sedative.
Molly twisted and turned in the narrow bed. Images of the caravan flashed through her mind. She remembered seeing Joe in bed with another woman. Molly recalled him kicking her and the woman yelling at him to stop. Then she was being carried by two men – it must have been Joe and Dave – and they left her under a tree.
Joe had dumped her like she was a piece of garbage. Molly rolled over, put the pillow over her head and sobbed. She didn’t want to believe it. There must have been a reason. Maybe he wanted to get help but was frightened of the cops. That was it. She pushed down the grief, anger and remorse that had risen inside her.
*
The first day waking up in Grandma’s old home, in Grandma’s old bedroom, Molly pinched herself to think she had her own house, one she didn’t deserve after what she’d done. She would never forgive herself for not being there when Grandma died. But there it was, in black and white in Grandma’s will: the jewellery and money she left to Molly’s mother, but the house was Molly’s.
Grandma had remade her will four years before, not long after Molly’s wedding and her mum went to Perth. Grandma hadn’t said anything about it and Molly wondered whether she did it to get back at Molly’s mum for the way she talked to Grandma and for pissing off. But the solicitor said her grandma had been adamant the house go to Molly to give her security now she was having a child.
The solicitor said that with probate it’d take several months for the will to be finalised. In the meantime, Molly could live in the house and costs would be taken out of the estate. It had been a blur at the time, and she’d had to call the solicitor back to make sure it wasn’t a dream.
Grandma’s funeral had also been a blur. The funeral home that Grandma had appointed waited until Molly was released from hospital. Lindy booked a discount airfare and took a day off work to pick Molly up from the airport and take her to the funeral.
‘Boy, you really do owe me big time,’ Lindy had said on the way to Rookwood Cemetery. ‘Once you have the house, which must be worth a bomb, you can pay me back with bells on.’
There were only a few old neighbours in the chapel. Molly’s mum sent the cheapest bunch of flowers she could buy through Interflora.
Molly lay in bed thinking and listening to the quiet house. It was too quiet. Molly missed her kids. The welfare had said it’d be a while until Molly could get them back. Somethin’ about a court order, gradual return. It’d been too much for Molly to take in at the time. Her head hurt when she thought about losing Joe, Grandma and her kids. Her ribs hurt every time she moved. She pulled the covers over her head and wished she could sink into a deep black hole. But she knew she couldn’t hide, that somehow, she had to pull herself together and get those bloody kids back.
9
CLAIRE
‘Hi, Anna, isn’t it? Nice to see you again.’ When Claire opened the door of Suitability, she recognised the reserved older woman from the orientation session.
Anna fiddled with a fuchsia scarf. She looked guilty, as if she’d been caught doing something wrong. Claire thought the scarf gave Anna’s grey outfit a lift.
‘I was just, just looking at this scarf and noticed it had a stain, so thought I’d take it home to clean it.’
‘How thoughtful of you,’ said Claire. Anna placed the scarf in her handbag. ‘You can put your handbag in the filing cabinet with mine. I don’t usually come on Fridays, but I wanted to help with your first styling session.’
Claire was pleased she hadn’t opened the additional bottle of wine the night before. She and Anthony had been tasting the wine they’d bought on a recent trip to the Hunter and she’d been tempted to open the dessert wine. It would have been so easy to have one or two glasses, and then her head would have been cottonwool – not a good idea on such a stifling day when she had so much to do. She turned on the noisy air-conditioner, which she vowed to replace as soon as she updated the one in her spare room.
The first client arrived, a young woman. Kelly introduced herself and said she was being interviewed the following week for an Indigenous traineeship at a bank. Anna hummed while she searched through the racks of clothing. Claire had noticed the elegant cut of Anna’s understated clothes and admired her dark hair with natural streaks of grey but hadn’t expected her to become so excited at finding the right jacket.
It reminded Claire of how enthusiastic she had been in the early days, searching among the racks for a blouse of the right cut or colour for a particular client. Sorting the donated clothes had been a treasure hunt. Fashion was one of the most toxic industries, Claire had read somewhere. Suitability ensured pre-worn garments would have at least one other life, and Claire had convinced an environmental group to help with their clothing drives.
A second client arrived, puffing at the top of the stairs. Her face was hidden under a greasy mess of blonde hair. She was wearing a dull green top and black leggings.
Another woman reached the landing behind her. Claire recognised her as Sophie, who worked with Genevieve at the state welfare agency.
‘This is Molly,’ Sophie said, stepping beside the client. ‘She has to appear in court soon to see if she is able to start on a plan to reunite her with her four children.’
‘Hello, Molly,’ Claire said in her most welcoming voice. Molly hung her head and stood solid on her small feet in worn thongs, her chipped toenails painted in different colours.
Molly didn’t look much older than Lauren, Claire’s nineteen-year-old daughter, and seemed far too young to have children. Claire wondered what had happened to make the authorities take them but knew not to ask those sorts of questions.
‘She doesn’t have any appropriate clothes,’ explained Sophie. ‘I’ll leave Molly in your capable hands and be back in an hour.’
‘Let’s start with the basics,’ said Claire in her brightest voice. ‘What’s your favourite colour, Molly?’
Molly shuffled her feet and shrugged her shoulders.
‘Do you prefer to wear skirts or trousers?’
Molly looked at Claire as if she had asked the stupidest question she’d ever heard. She smelt of perspiration and musty clothes. Claire longed to put this young woman in a bath full of bubbles. To shampoo and condition her hair until it sparkled in the light. To wash away the dirt and to offer her a big comfy chair to rest in, not the rickety stool that stood in the corner of the entry area cum office.
Claire led Molly through the showroom to the fitting rooms. She cast her eyes over the racks of clothes as she went, trying to recall any item that would fit Molly.
‘You sit here. I’ll go and choose some things for you to try on. It might take us a little while, but we have plenty of time.’
Molly stared at Claire from under her straggly fringe. Her eyes were blue and as clear as the sea at Claire’s holiday house at Lake Conjola down the coast.
‘We’ll find something, trust me.’
Molly gave her an ‘in your dreams’ look and Claire felt a shiver of doubt. Who did she think she was, asking this young woman to trust her? What did she know about Molly�
��s life and struggles? Claire pushed the thoughts aside and reminded herself she knew about clothes and that was what Molly was here for.
Claire went through the racks, checking larger-sized skirts and trousers first. She found a skirt and top that might do.
Molly tried them on. The skirt fitted but was too long, making her look dowdy. The shirt was too large at the shoulders.
‘I’ll keep looking; we have tons of clothes,’ Claire tried to reassure Molly, who slumped in the chair.
Over the next hour, Claire ransacked the racks of clothes. The temperature was increasingly warm and she saw sweat forming on Molly’s face and under her arms. Claire gave Molly a refresher towel while she went to the storeroom and pulled everything out of the boxes that were waiting to be sorted.
Right at the bottom of a box was a crumpled dress. She held it up with little hope. It was black, with a centre panel of flowered material. Maybe, just maybe.
Meanwhile, Anna’s client Kelly was holding a small pile of clothes and preparing to leave.
‘I’m so grateful,’ she said to Anna. ‘Thank you.’
Anna wished her good luck with the interview and led her to the door.
Claire gave the crumpled dress a quick iron and took it to Molly, who was starting to put her own clothes back on.
‘Wait. Please. I have something else for you to try on. Please, just one more time. For me.’
Molly reluctantly took the dress and closed the curtain. Anna joined Claire as she waited. The minutes ticked by. Molly was silent.
‘How is the dress? Can I see it?’ Claire asked.
Molly mumbled something and opened the curtain. The dress fitted. The side panels made Molly look slimmer and the hem skimmed her knees, showing off her shapely legs.
‘You look lovely,’ said Anna. ‘The rounded neckline frames your pretty face. I know where there’s a pair of shoes that will go with your outfit.’
‘Oh, my goodness,’ said Sophie when she returned from the cafe down the street where she’d been making work calls. ‘Molly, you look wonderful.’
Molly looked at herself in the mirror and smiled. ‘I can’t believe it’s me.’
The Changing Room Page 8