Still seething, Simone pulled into the library car park. Leaving the engine running, she raced across to the entrance. The doors were closed. There was no sign.
She sat in the car and switched off the engine. Clear your head, girl. This is no time to throw a wobbly. You need to think things through. Reaching into the glove box, she pulled out a notepad and a biro. What are the facts and what are the questions? She began to write:
Fact 1: Baxter Moncur married Alice Bailey in 1919.
Fact 2: They had three children - Peggy, Alex and Ken.
Fact 3: They separated around 1924 when Ken was a baby.
Fact 4: Alice took the children to Melbourne.
Fact 5: Alice changed her surname (and the children’s surnames) to Basset.
Fact 6: Alice lives in England with Peggy and Claude de Baal.
Fact 7: Peggy and Claude have two children – Vickie and Graeme.
Fact 8: Baxter has had no contact with Alice or his children for nearly fifty years.
Fact 9: Alice does not want to have any contact with Baxter.
Fact 10: Peggy is uncertain but Vickie wants to see Baxter.
Fact 11: Baxter wants to see Alice and his children (and grandchildren).
Question 1: Where are Alex and Ken Basset (born Moncur)?
Question 2: Are Ross and Jeff Basset (and their father) in any way related to Baxter?
Question 3: What is the Christian name of Ross’s father?
Question 4: What do I do next?
Simone read over her notes and shook her head. She held the pad in her lap and stared out the window. How did I get myself into this? Here, the facts were clear and simple. Her research project led her to Baxter. Her previous work ushered in her involvement with Jeff. Through Jeff, she’d met Ross, who had become more of a friend than a client. Was it possible they were all related? Even in Perth – provincial Perth with its public school inbreeding and where everyone knew everyone else – this seemed an unlikely coincidence. Yet, as she drew squiggles on her notepad, she was not so sure. What could she do now? Call Ross, for starters.
An elderly woman occupied the public phone box on the corner. Simone waited while she fumbled with her coins. Upon catching sight of her, the woman’s movements grew agitated. Simone stepped back and pretended a sudden interest in the weeds growing along the verge. After an eternity, the woman emerged. ‘Sorry dearie,’ she said, as she shuffled off towards the traffic lights. Simone wondered if she should help her cross the highway but the pedestrian light came on and away she went.
The phone rang and rang. She looked again at her watch. Five thirty-five. Where were they? No one answered. She replaced the receiver and stormed back to the car. Is it really my business, she thought? On the way to Fremantle this question stayed with her. Is it really my business? True, she made promises to Baxter and had gone halfway around the world to find Alice. But that brought repercussions. Alice had shut and bolted the gate. The mere mention of Baxter immobilised her under a self-imposed cloud. Peggy felt confused and fearful, torn between loyalty to her mother, and a long-buried impulse to find out about her father. Only Vickie welcomed Simone’s intrusion but she had a number of axes to grind with her immediate family. It was debatable whether Vickie could bring much influence to bear on her mother, let alone her grandmother.
Jim’s revelations had altered the landscape. The children’s surnames were changed, albeit by forgery. Alice had gone to great lengths to expunge her association with Baxter, a wastrel and a criminal in her eyes. Ironically, to achieve her ends, she induced Jim Townsend to commit a crime of his own. How would Alice rationalise that, Simone wondered? But this was not central to her present dilemma. She needed to know whether Ross’s father was Alexander Basset – the Alexander Basset who had been christened Alexander Moncur. But Ross and June were not answering their phone. She vaguely remembered they were spending Christmas Eve with June’s family. She had no idea where they lived, not even their surname.
At Napoleon Street, she pulled into a spare bay. It suddenly occurred to her she had shopping to do. The notepad lay on the seat. She began another list, jotting down the names of her siblings, their spouses and her nephews and nieces. The department stores were closed, and she wondered what might be open. Her gifts usually had novelty value, invariably greeted with expressions bordering more on bemusement than appreciation. This Christmas would be no exception.
22
When they arrived, the front door was locked. June rang the bell.
‘About time too.’ It was not her father but her brother who came to the door.
‘Get off your high horse, Brian.’ June was in no mood to be chastised. ‘It’s just gone seven.’ She brushed past him. Ross followed, greeting his brother-in-law with a quick handshake and a g’day that sounded more cheerful than he actually felt.
The brick and tile bungalow dated back to the 1920s. Thirty years later, when the Prestons arrived, Bay Road was a well-known thoroughfare in Claremont. An avenue of enormous sugar gums lined the street on the south side of the intersection. A slew of solid residences were constructed on the north side, as well as a nursing home and a grocery store that doubled as an agency for the Commonwealth Bank. When June was despatched to the store on errands, her younger siblings often tagged along, imploring her to spend the change on packets of Fruit Tingles, and Icy Poles.
The Prestons did not have much to do with their neighbours. ‘Old money,’ said June. ‘My father was too nouveau riche for them.’ This surprised Ross. He had never dwelt on the subtleties of intra-suburban prejudice. But when he thought about it, there were some posh streets where he grew up. Streets with old mansions set back from the road. He couldn’t recall meeting any of the kids who lived in those streets let alone being invited into their houses. They must have been sent to private schools at an early age, he surmised.
If the Prestons were affected by the airs and graces of their neighbours, it didn’t show. Their kids received their primary education at ‘Prac’, the infants school on the corner and adjacent to the Teacher’s College. ‘Trainee teachers from the college were let loose on us,’ June complained. ‘It’s a wonder I ever learned to read and write.’ Ross knew she exaggerated. Her school reports were very good, except for behaviour. ‘June is an excellent student but tends to be boisterous in class,’ wrote the headmistress. June took issue, as you might expect. ‘How would she know, the old prune, she was always in her office?’
Ross was in no doubt his wife had been boisterous in class. ‘It’s a badge of honour,’ he told her. ‘Like being nabbed for smoking in the toilets.’
He liked the Preston house, with its spacious rooms and high ceilings. Patricia’s influence was obvious. An impressive range of artworks hung from various walls. Most were original. Despite his indifference towards paintings and his antipathy towards artists in general, Martin knew the value of investment. He uttered obligatory laments before writing the cheques, but allowed his wife her head in selecting works that appealed to her, and also in acquiring items of colonial furniture. Despite his ideological lack of interest in material objects, Ross found himself coveting some of the pieces in the Preston home, and he wondered idly if Patricia might one day take him on a tour of the antique shops.
The females of the family were preoccupied in the kitchen. Lucille, Brian’s American fiancée, fiddled with an arrangement of canapés, devilled eggs and other appetisers of dubious nutritional value. Kate, June’s sister, seemed to be counting plates, while her mother looked anxiously into the oven, trying to get a handle on the progress of the turkey.
‘Wanna beer, Ross?’ Brian emerged with a bottle and a large glass. He poured the beer without waiting for an answer. ‘Cheers, mate.’
Ross reciprocated. He could tolerate Brian – just. His brother-in-law had graduated as an architect. Through his father’s influence, he’d obtained a position with a top-shelf firm in West Perth. Brian would later develop extreme opinions on most subjects and a style of argume
nt that brooked no challengers. For the moment, however, he remained the product of excessive pocket money, a domineering father and an over-indulgent mother. After an introduction to alcohol at a family barbecue when he was thirteen, he soon developed a taste. He seemed happiest with a beer in his hand and a bunch of drinking mates with whom he could share the love. How he managed to snare Lucille, Ross thought, is a mystery to us all.
In compliance with a developing fashion, the original house had been extended at the back. The kitchen and adjacent dining area looked down on a huge family room that doubled as an entertainment area. Martin Preston was adjusting the arm on a turntable. He looked up as Ross descended the stairs.
‘Oh, it’s you, Ross. Merry Christmas.’
‘Same to you, Martin. What are you treating us too?’ As he spoke, Ross already anticipated his father-in-law’s response. The prelude to their meal would certainly not involve Christmas carols. In spite of his hard-headed exterior, Martin showed a fondness for operatic music. The booming sounds of Il Rigoletto soon filled the room and beyond.
‘Great composer, that Verdi,’ said Martin, as he decreased the volume slightly.
‘He was a risk-taker, Dad.’ Kate leant over the counter. ‘Didn’t they try to censor the production before it got off the ground?’
‘I saw it in Paris.’ Lucille lined up alongside Kate. ‘Did you know it’s a story about seduction, Mr Preston?’
Martin frowned at them. ‘Who cares what it’s about? I happen to like the music.’
‘Dinner’s ready,’ called Patricia.
Now it gets interesting, thought Ross.
Martin sat at the head of the table. His garish Hawaiian shirt disclosed the hairs on his upper chest and his forearms bulged as he gripped the carving implements. Ross watched fascinated as he sliced into the monstrous turkey with a mixture of gung-ho confidence and fine precision. Symbolic, Ross was sure, of his behaviour among his colleagues.
A toast was drunk to absent friends and the eating began in earnest. For a time nothing much was said. Brian stayed with his beer but the others pretended to relish the faux champagne the host picked up at the Highway Hotel. Ross brought a good Hunter Valley Shiraz which remained unopened. He wondered whether he should take the initiative. The champagne tasted awful. In the end it was Lucille who broke the silence.
‘Have you tasted Californian wine, Mr Preston?’
‘Call me Martin. We’re not big on formality here in Australia.’
For the first time, Ross became aware of the seating arrangements. Lucille sat on Martin’s left; Kate on his right. Brian had been placed between his fiancée and his mother with Ross between Kate and June. All Patricia’s doing, he mused. A composite little family grouping, nicely balanced, and the head of the house in his rightful place. But did it augur for a peaceful evening or would the Christmas spirit be put to the test?
‘I’ve been to the States,’ continued Martin, his mouth full of turkey. ‘A client took me out to the Napa Valley. He considered himself a bit of an expert. But I wasn’t impressed.’
‘Why was that?’
Ross could not work out if Lucille’s interest was genuine or whether she was trying to get off to a good start with her future father-in-law. Brian met her a few months earlier on a blind date. Her parents were in Australia for an extended holiday. Lucille wangled an extension to her tourist visa and stayed with friends in Perth. The engagement came out of the blue. The Prestons thought Brian was far too young and were taken aback by the sudden adjustment in his focus, Alcohol was known to fuel many a romance but in Brian’s case it usually fuelled a slobbering mateship and nothing more. Nonetheless, his parents made a pact to come to terms with the couple’s decision. ‘At least she speaks English,’ griped Martin. ‘Even if she sounds like a Septic Tank.’ ‘She’s American,’ Patricia countered. ‘That’s how they speak.’ June listened to them both with an ill-concealed impatience. She had her doubts but they were not based on her father’s dismissive assessment. ‘I bet she’s pregnant,’ she confided to Ross.
He tucked into the meal as he watched the exchange between Martin and Lucille. Patricia need not have sweated. The turkey was excellent even if the rest of the dinner was too bland for his newly-refined tastes. Not that his host would have noticed, lost in his memories of a Californian vintage.
‘Too sour. Like some women. A tad too sour.’ Martin waved his fork at Lucille, a gesture more ill-mannered than aggressive. Ross saw her blanch slightly.
‘That’s a pity Mr Preston …Martin.’ She did not rise to the bait. ‘They have a good reputation.’
‘Who, the wines or the women?’ This came from June.
‘I can’t vouch for the women,’ replied Lucille, with a smile.
Brian looked at her and then at June. He seemed unsure where the conversation was heading.
Ross got up. ‘Would you like me to open the Shiraz?’
Nobody responded. It was often like that with the Prestons. Their discussions were intense, particularly between Martin and his daughters. Once the booze took hold, Brian was a forthright contributor while Patricia danced around the edges, trying not to take sides and usually annoying everyone. Newcomers like Ross – and now Lucille – were politely tolerated but normally remained outsiders within the family discourse.
After extracting the cork, he filled his glass and put the bottle on the table.
‘What about me?’ His wife thrust her glass towards him.
‘Sorry. Anyone else?’
The others declined.
‘Perhaps a little later,’ said Patricia.
‘Have you decided on a date for the wedding, Brian?’ enquired Kate, risking the first contentious subject of the evening.
‘Nope. We don’t feel in a rush.’
‘Except it will be before the end of April,’ Lucille added.
‘Why then?’ asked June.
‘Because my visa expires on May 1st.’
Martin glanced at Patricia. Ross guessed they also had speculated on the rationale behind the nuptials.
‘Church or registry?’ said Kate. ‘And will your parents come out?’
Lucille shrugged. ‘Undecided on both counts. But I think Mum and Dad will probably come.’
‘If it wasn’t for the visa, would you just live together?’
‘Surely that’s their business, June,’ interrupted her father.
‘And so what? They’re adults. Lucille can always take the Fifth Amendment or whatever they do in the States when they don’t want to answer something.’
Martin glared at her but Lucille cut in. ‘We would live together, wouldn’t we Brian.’
‘What else? We’ve progressed a fair way beyond the Victorian era.’
‘I didn’t live with your mother before we got married.’ Martin was not going to let go easily.
Patricia blushed. But her husband was blind to the impact of his words. June wasted not a moment in walking through the open door.
‘Mum was pregnant. You didn’t have much time to waste, did you, Dad?’
‘Do you have to air the dirty linen?’
Patricia looked anguished. Ross knew she hated to be the subject of attention and now, with the evening still in its infancy, the roots of her marriage – a marriage he speculated was neither fulfilled nor fulfilling – were under discussion.
June was not inclined to desist. ‘Why do you call it dirty linen? Getting pregnant is nothing to be ashamed of.’
Martin got up from the table. ‘You haven’t a clue what it was like back then.’
‘Is that the best you can do, Dad? Put me back in my box because I wasn’t there.’
Her father popped the cork on another bottle of champagne and returned to his seat.
June did not let up. ‘What would you have said if I was pregnant before Ross and I got married?’
‘We would have supported you, of course,’ replied Patricia.
‘Yes, but would you have judged us as reckless or immoral despite th
e fact that’s what happened with you?’
That’s a bit harsh, Ross thought. But he realised June was embarking on a circuitous route to introduce her preferred topic. He swallowed and refilled his glass.
‘What are you going on about?’ barked Martin. ‘I’m more interested in how you two are going to manage your future. Ross is out of work and you’re almost in the same boat, if I hear correctly.’
June looked at him coldly. Ross wondered why she remained so hostile towards her father.
‘Right, let’s talk about the future.’ She drained her glass. ‘But before we go there, I want to fill you in about some past stuff and about what’s happening for us right now.’
He saw Martin look sharply at her. He’s nervous, thought Ross. I’ve never seen him like this.
June must have picked up on it. ‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Dad.’ Her tone was sharp, almost brutal. ‘I’m only talking about me and Ross.’
‘Ross and I,’ involuntarily corrected her mother.
‘Thank you, Mum. That’s not what my English teacher would have said. May I continue?’
‘Excuse me,’ said Lucille. ‘I need to use the bathroom.’
While she was away, Patricia and Kate cleared the plates from the table. Martin lit a cigarette. Brian explored the fridge and came back with another beer.
‘Will we serve dessert now or later?’ asked Patricia.
‘I’ve just started a beer,’ said Brian.
‘I’m easy,’ said Ross.
‘Don’t fuss,’ said Martin. ‘They can help themselves. It’s only ice cream.’
Patricia looked at her husband. Ross thought he saw a flash of fury. She could murder him. The idea didn’t seem too far-fetched.
‘It is not just ice cream.’ Patricia’s voice was controlled and quiet. ‘I spent all morning making a Pavlova, in case it hasn’t registered.’
Absence Makes Page 21