Forbidden Fruit (6 page)

‘Nell. What a surprise. It’s nice to hear from you.’

I grimaced at my reflection in the glass sliding door. ‘You don’t sound like it is.’

‘I’m just surprised, that’s all. I thought we were going to stick to emails. Wasn’t that what you decided was best?’

‘We
both
decided,’ I corrected him.

‘No, you decided. I just agreed because I’m that sort of bloke. Eminently agreeable.’

‘You are that,’ I replied, because it was the truth. ‘How is it going up there?’

There was a slight hesitation. ‘Good, good.’

‘Two weeks to go.’

‘Is that all? Christ, hasn’t that gone quick!’

‘You sound disappointed.’ I flicked my hat, sending it into a spin across the bench.

‘No. Look, Nell, I’d rather do this face to face. And also I’m running late at the moment. How about we talk when I get back?’

‘What about?’ I asked quickly, my stomach tightening.

‘You know. This. Us.’

‘Fine. Whatever.’ I sounded like Quinn.

‘Okay then?’ His voice was gentle, which made it worse. ‘Shall we postpone this?’

I took a deep breath. ‘Yes, good idea. We’ll talk it out then. But before you go, what can you tell me about Eric Male?’

‘Eric Male?’ A frown echoed through his words. ‘Christ, Nell, what have you done now?’

‘Nothing! Only, well, I found some remains in the backyard yesterday.’

His breathing wrapped itself around our connection, slow and steady. ‘Some remains.’

‘Yes,’ I continued rapidly. ‘Apparently she was buried forty-three years ago. A blonde woman, mid to late twenties, black boots, yellow handbag. So now I have police all over the place and that Eric Male is in charge and he’s a tool.’

‘Let me get this straight. Yesterday you just happened to stumble across the remains of a well-dressed woman in your yard. And now it’s a crime scene.’

‘That’s what I said. But that detective is being a total arse about it all.’

‘Christ. You’re unbelievable.’

‘Thank you. But I don’t know why you’re making this all about me.
I
didn’t put her there. All I did was try to plant an apple tree.’

‘Yes, but other people manage to plant trees without … ’ He trailed off, sighed loudly. ‘Let me make a few phone calls. In the meantime, for Christ’s sake leave it alone. Let Eric do his job. He might come across as a bit of an arse but he’s not a bad guy, and he knows what he’s doing. No doubt they’ll be out of your hair soon.’

‘Is that a police expression? Do you learn that in your training?’

‘What? Look Nell, I really do need to go. But I’ll get back to you, okay? Cheers.’

‘Yep, cheers.’ But I was speaking to the dial tone. I put the phone down slowly, feeling inexplicably like bursting into tears, which was not a usual occurrence at all. Gusto pressed his head against my knee. It had been an odd, awkward phone call, which had resolved very little. Not about my relationship, or the events unfolding in my backyard. If anything, regarding the latter, he had simply reiterated the same lack of faith as Eric Male. Which only proved how little he knew me – not because I had delusions of investigative brilliance, but because if I had more time and space on my hands, I might well have seen it as a challenge.
Local woman solves murder mystery. Community delighted. Police furious. Woman smug.

As things stood, however, with a father now under suspicion, plus impending grandmotherhood, and questionable adoption plans, and visits from potential in-laws, and a house that qualified as a disaster zone, I already felt like I was in one of those rooms with the walls slowly closing in. The last thing I needed was more walls, or depth, or whatever it was that crushed one to death in those scenarios. Instead, I was going to do the sensible thing and stay away. The police would be gone soon and then they could investigate to their hearts’ content; out of sight, out of mind. Then maybe things could get back to normal.

It was another forty-eight hours before the police finally vacated my property. Their actual presence had been reduced, and the Channel 7 van disappeared in search of more compelling news, but the yard itself remained out of bounds. Nor did I have any further communication with Detective Sergeant Eric Male, although I did hear, from Petra, that he paid a lengthy visit to our mother for background information on the shop. But that was to be expected.

Tuesday I spent in my study working steadily. I had a conversation with my editor about whether recent events merited a column, or if they would affect my ‘vibe’. ‘After all, you do seem to do this type of thing a lot, Nell. It might be overkill.’ With the eventual decision being to wait and see, I was able to complete a draft column for the following week, a relatively inoffensive one about moving house, and then answer thirty-seven emails. This was a new record so I wrote it on the wall by my desk.

The remainder of the afternoon was spent helping Quinn choose an outfit for a friend’s birthday dinner that evening, to be held at the Pancake Parlour in Bendigo. Although ‘help’ was probably a loose translation of what occurred. Much of our conversation consisted of Quinn giving me a list of reasons why my opinion was invalid, and then berating me for not giving her feedback. ‘You’re not even looking! Thanks for nothing! You always helped the others!’ The latter comment being entirely untrue.

By the time she was collected by Lyn Russo, whose son Griffin was also invited, there was discarded clothing draped over the banisters, birthday wrapping paper scattered over the couch, and the remains of a microwave noodle dish abandoned on the bench. But at least the teenage angst, that multi-hued, frenzied vortex that seemed to surround Quinn nowadays whenever she was under pressure, had departed along with its owner, leaving an oasis of peace, despite the disaster zone.

I thought of my own birthday, coming up in just under two weeks. Normally I would have already started planning something, whether it was lunch at the pub or a barbecue or even a series of events where I spread myself thinly so that nobody missed out. Like Vegemite on toast. But this year, it was impossible to think so far ahead. Impossible to imagine that by that time, at least one baby would have been born and the other imminent. It was going to be a time of great joy and great adjustment and, perhaps, great despair. My birthday paled into insignificance.

I spent the first part of Tuesday evening unpacking. As something of a reward, the second part was spent out in the garage working on my latest doll’s house, with Gusto curled in the corner napping. I had three of these now: a Tudor-style, cantilevered cottage; a Victorian mansion with leadlight windows; and the new project, a Swiss chalet with a sloping roof and flowering window boxes. The aim was to eventually have five, one for each of my daughters, but as I had yet to complete even one, I expected the task to be accomplished in about ten years. Maybe twelve.

*

Scarlet drove up from Melbourne on Wednesday, bringing a carload of small, mostly breakable items. Quinn and I helped her unpack into Matt’s unit, which was a standard two-bedroom, one living room abode that sat among a number of identical peers about a ten-minute walk from my house. It was furnished simply, which Scarlet clearly saw as a challenge. Afterwards we had lunch at my house and Lucy popped in. I took a photo of the two of them on the decking. Both with blooming, gravid bellies; blonde head resting against brunette, laughing into the sunshine. I printed the photo off in black and white and then slipped it into a spare frame, but left it in my study. To me it was beautiful, but things weren’t as simple as that.

Another media conference featured on the news that evening, but this time the press contingent had crowded into the small police station in central Majic. As usual, Eric Male took centre stage, behind a trestle table that held a pair of long, black boots and a mottled grey handbag, its original yellow only evident within the folds. The only new detail was the confirmation that the unidentified woman had died under suspicious circumstances. Given that it was difficult to bury oneself while dying a natural death, or after committing suicide, this was not exactly breaking news.

The main point of the conference seemed to be a renewed call for anyone who might recognise the limited description, or had a family member go missing around April 1970. I imagined the woman wearing those boots along with a sixties-style mini featuring black and yellow swirls, her blonde hair teased into a beehive but for single strands that curved down either side of her face. She would have had blue eye shadow and long, mascaraed lashes, and perhaps coral lipstick to complement her pale complexion. And off she had set, jauntily turning the corner into Sheridan Lane towards the only-just-closed butcher shop, her yellow handbag containing a newly-purchased magazine … only to vanish, with nobody to notice her absence, muster a search party, mourn her loss.

I got up from the couch and walked over to the sliding door, and that was when I realised that the backyard was finally deserted. The blue canvas had vanished, the side fence had been replaced, and all that remained of the occupation was a large indentation of freshly-turned earth and a few ribbons of crime-scene tape fluttering in the breeze. I slid open the door and Gusto shot out to hurtle around the yard, occasionally pausing to sniff warily. I followed more sedately. A pathway now snaked from the gravesite to the fence, the earth packed by footprints. A few cigarette butts studded the grass nearby.

On the spur of the moment, I decided to plant Charlotte. It seemed fitting to provide some shade for the burial site, even if the remains were now gone. This was where she had rested for so many years. It was a hot, tiring task, but eventually I stood back to admire my handiwork. Charlotte stood at a slight angle, inclined towards the grave, but I liked her that way. I propped the shovel against the fence and then stood back, hands clasped loosely, and closed my eyes. Silence swirled, a tide of nothingness, paying respect.

The telephone began ringing as I finished. It had rung out by the time I reached the door, then began again as I was washing my hands. I considered not answering, but in the end its insistence wore me down. Not that it would have made much difference as there was no escaping this piece of news. After forty-three years, my father was coming home.

If social media had been around when my father left in 1970, we might have been able to preserve our relationship and perhaps even build on it over the years. A family Facebook page, with a sharing of events and photos and short video clips, or weekly sessions on Skype like we had with Ruby, over in Thailand for the year, or even just emails, flying backwards and forwards and bridging the gulf. Instead, my sister and I had sat down each Sunday to pen short missives that said little.
Hello daddy, how are you. I am fine.
In return we received postcards every month or so, and birthday presents that usually arrived a few days after the actual date, and a Christmas parcel that always held a writing set each and a diary with a tiny silver key.

By the time I was ten, however, the postcards had petered off and at some point after that Yen stopped making us write our weekly letters. Perhaps even she realised it was like flogging a dead horse. A few years later, gradually, and largely unnoticed except in retrospect, the Christmas and birthday presents became cards alone. These remained our only contact over the years, conveying snippets of information like
Big storm hit the Cornish coast yesterday!
or
Tom just got his licence – we’re all very nervous!

This was the man who was due to touch down at Tullamarine airport at five-forty on Friday morning – an event for which my mother was even taking the day off work, a rare phenomenon. Both Petra and I had offered to accompany her but she refused, rather curtly. Instead, they would come to my house for breakfast, after which my father was going to ‘help the police with their inquiries’. I suspected this was behind Yen’s monopolisation of his first hours; she wanted to discuss things with him before he spoke to anyone else. I also suspected that they both knew exactly who the blonde woman was, and that somehow she was linked to the events of that last Anzac Day weekend. And I very much doubted that they were going to share any more than was necessary, least of all with Petra and me. In fact, if you looked at our familial history, we had been treated as the proverbial mushrooms, kept in the dark and fed sustenance of the faecal variety. Although I suppose at least that way we didn’t see what we were eating.

This analogy occurred to me on Thursday morning primarily because I was eating mushrooms at the time, on toasted rye, sitting on a dining-room chair that I had dragged out to the decking. I put the remains of my meal to one side and picked up my coffee, wrapping my hands around the mug as I stared out at Charlotte. Gusto sidled over and filched a mushroom from the plate, chewing briefly before spitting it onto the decking. He backed away, as if concerned it might follow.

My father was involved, he had to be, though hopefully not as the actual murderer. Otherwise surely he would have remained stubbornly on the other side of the world, preparing to fight extradition, rather than voluntarily winging his way across the seas.

I didn’t know how I felt about his return. Perhaps I was lucky that he had left while I was still so young, because it was his
absence
that had become my norm, gradually evolving into a casual complacency about our skeletal relationship. There was no father-sized gap that pulsed at the edges of my life, or daddy issues that propelled me towards older men with protective personalities. Not like Petra, who had had two long-term relationships with men who were much older. True, there was some residual resentment, just a little, gritty and a touch sour, but that was only natural.

The sliding door shot open, bouncing in its frame, and Quinn emerged. Her hair curved up to the right, like surf, where the remains of last night’s ponytail wobbled cartoon-like. She shaded her eyes to peer at me. ‘Why’re you out here?’

‘Just enjoying the sunshine.’

‘Blech.’ She gazed around the backyard. ‘They’ve gone.’

‘Excellent observation.’

‘Did they take her with them?’

‘No, they left her here for us to dispose of. It’s the law of finders keepers.’

She gave me a disparaging look and then picked up one of my rye crusts and nibbled it. ‘Do you know what you need out here? One of those egg chairs. You know, they hang from a hook.’ She gestured up to the extended eaves. ‘And then just swing.’

Something nibbled at the edge of my conscience. ‘Swing?’

‘Yeah. They’re made of, like, cane stuff. You know.’

I nodded, trying to anchor the thought. Swing. Swingers.

‘I’m gonna make toast.’

The sliding door banged shut behind me, and the recollection popped into being. Grace June Rae, rummaging around for the tissue box with the scribbled date. Telling us that the timing hadn’t come as a big surprise to her. Because it was ‘one of those swingers, I’m guessing’. I blinked. Surely she hadn’t meant what I thought she meant.

I jumped up and went inside, through the kitchen and into my study, where I googled swingers. The screen immediately filled with a dizzying variety of options. Swingers seeking partners, swingers’ sex personals, upcoming events for Melbourne swingers. I sat back for a moment, rather bemused, and then scrolled down until I found trusty Wikipedia. A few seconds later and I was learning that swinging was non-monogamous behaviour, in which singles or partners in committed relationships engaged in sexual activities as a social and/or recreational activity. Apparently it had all been part of the sexual revolution of the sixties.

Try as I might, I could not situate the sexual revolution within Majic. Grace June Rae? Old Betty Rawlings? James Sheridan, perhaps dressed in his mayoral robes? Maybe it was still happening.
Swinging seniors uncovered. Not a pretty picture.

‘Whatcha looking at?’ Quinn lounged in the doorway, toast in hand.

I hit delete and the definition of swingers vanished. ‘Ah, just researching those chairs you were talking about.’

‘Excellent! Griffin’s mum’s got one and they’re, like, fantastic!’

‘Well, I’ll see what I can do. What are you up to today, anyway?’

‘Nothin’ much.’ She focused on a point over my shoulder. ‘Can Griffin come round?’

‘No, because I won’t be here.’

Her gaze swivelled down to me. ‘So? It’s not like we need a chaperone!’

‘That’s exactly what you need.’ I raised my hand as her mouth opened. ‘And I’m not arguing with you. If you can persuade Luce to stay here, then he can come. Over.’

Quinn’s face settled into a glare. ‘Whatever. I’m not a
baby
, you know.’

‘That’s precisely the point.’ I watched her flounce from the room, thinking, not for the first time, that the word ‘flounce’ was made for teenage girls. I turned back to the computer and stared at the wallpaper, which showed a photo of my five girls as they were ten years ago. A four-year-old Quinn sat on Scarlet’s lap, with Ruby sitting beside her and Red and Lucy leaning in from behind. I wondered if my father had kept photos of Petra and I through the years, or whether we had been replaced by his four later offspring.

Swingers. Had this social and/or recreational activity been popular around here at one time? Like tennis, or bowls, or bridge? Perhaps the blonde woman had been involved in this world, but things had got out of hand. Which still didn’t explain how she ended up buried behind my father’s shop. Unless … my mind shied away, and then crept back. An image niggled, black and white, a group of young people with him laughing in the centre, but I couldn’t quite place it. One thing was for sure: I wasn’t going to get an explanation from Yen and, if she had anything to do with it, not from my father either. Even though that was exactly what I deserved, and after forty-three years, it was about time it was delivered.

*

Grace June Rae lived about a fifteen-minute drive from the town centre, on an odd-shaped block with a long, gravelled driveway. Originally a small farm, the surrounding land had been sold off some years ago for residential development, meaning that her California bungalow and cluster of old, well-established trees were now an anachronism among the network of two-storey brick and manicured lawns.

There was no answer to my initial knock so I opened the screen door and tried again, louder. This time I was rewarded by the sound of footsteps and soon afterwards the door opened. Grace beamed at me. ‘Well,
there
you are! Come in, come in!’

‘Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,’ I said as I crossed the threshold. Brown and cream swirly carpet merged busily with flocked wallpaper.

‘Nonsense. Visitors always welcome. Come through.’

I took off my hat and followed her down a long hallway into a large, square, country-style kitchen, where I realised that I was not the only visitor being welcomed at that particular time. Old Betty Rawlings was ensconced in an armchair in the corner, by the stove, while another woman with shoe-polish brown hair, about the same age as Grace, sat at the formica table in the centre.

‘Nell, this is Bernice Waters.’ Grace waved towards the other woman, whose flat-toned hair really did look rather bizarre next to her mid-seventies skin. ‘And of course you know Betty. Bernice and Betty have come over to help me get my story straight. I rang them after you spoke to me.’

Considering I had only spoken to Grace thirty minutes ago, their relaxed presence said a lot for their powers of locomotion when required. I nodded to each and pulled out a chair opposite Bernice. Grace was filling a kettle.

‘Coffee? Tea? Bonox?’

‘Coffee, thanks. White and one.’

‘Coming right up. In the meantime, ask away; we shall attempt to be fonts of wisdom. Look, Bern, Nell wears a hat.’ She pointed to this item, which now sat on the table, as if it added to my credentials.

‘Nice.’ Bernice gave it a brief glance. ‘Just don’t misquote us in your article. No offence but I know that happens. I wasn’t born yesterday.’

I opened my mouth to correct her, explain that the information wasn’t going to be used for an article, but then closed it again. Perhaps it was best to leave it that way.

‘Where’s your notepad?’ asked Betty, from her armchair.

I fished around in my handbag and came up with a pen and the printed out Google map directions that I had used to find Grace’s house. I flipped the page over and smoothed it out. My interviewees did not look impressed.

‘Well, fire away,’ said Grace, arranging earthenware mugs.

‘Okay. Ah, as I said on the phone, it’s more about a comment you made, Grace, when you were telling us about the media conference the other day. About not being terribly surprised, and that she was probably one of those swingers. Remember?’

‘Sure I do,’ said Grace comfortably. She slid a large mug of coffee in front of me, together with a plate with a slice of Madeira cake and two teddy-bear biscuits.

‘Sluts,’ said Bernice, in the same tone of voice she might have said ‘coffee-drinkers’, or ‘blue-eyed’. More descriptive than judgemental.

Grace rolled her eyes. ‘So do you have a word for the men, as well?’

‘Yes: lucky. And don’t start with all that sexist rubbish. It’s the way of the world.’

‘Not nowadays,’ said Betty from the corner. ‘You need to get yourself on Facebook, Bernice. Or Twitter.’

‘Ah, can I ask you about these people?’ I interjected. ‘When you say they were swingers, were they like a group of married couples that, I don’t know, met up every so often and swapped partners?’

‘I don’t know the details!’ Grace was laughing as she sat down. ‘I just know there were lots of rumours around at the time. Everyone knew.’

‘I think they threw their keys into a bowl,’ said Betty. ‘First come, first served.’

Grace was shaking her head. ‘No, that’s from a movie. What was it called?’ She clicked her fingers. ‘
The Ice Storm
! Good movie. The hobbit was in it.’

‘Don’t think I’d be picking his keys then,’ commented Betty. ‘Size matters.’

Bernice snorted. ‘Not so much. Overrated.’

I coughed politely. ‘I don’t suppose you’d know the names of anyone actually involved?’

‘The chemist,’ said Bernice immediately. ‘What d’you reckon, Grace? I always thought he’d be one of them. Charmer, but with a touch of the sleaze.’

‘I’m pretty sure he was. Someone told me. He was one of those that’d stand just that touch too close. Say something like, “Well, isn’t your husband a lucky man, Mrs Rae?”’ Grace put on a different voice for this last, an oily drawl that had her two friends chuckling.

I had been gripped by a surge of excitement ever since the word ‘chemist’ had been mentioned. ‘When you say chemist, d’you mean the one next to my father’s butcher’s shop?’

‘That’s it. Patrick’s Pharmacy. It was the only one in those days so we didn’t have much choice. Nice little wife, though. Never worked out what she saw in him.’

‘Dallas,’ said Betty suddenly. ‘That was her name. They had two little kids. All of them squished into that apartment over the shop.’

I thought of Lucy’s upper floor, now redesigned into two bedrooms, a bathroom and a tiny landing at the top of the stairs. As an entire residence, it would have been cramped. Not even enough room to swing a cat, as my mother had said, let alone anything else.

‘What was his name?’ asked Bernice, frowning. ‘Was it Peter?

Grace was already shaking her head. ‘Paul. Paul Patrick.’

The names confirmed Yen’s recollection. I scribbled them onto my paper. ‘Do you know what happened to them?’

‘Oh, when main street was redone they closed the shop and moved away. I think they got compensation. We didn’t have a chemist at all for a while, then Abbott’s opened. Fred Abbott, now there was a funny fellow.’

‘
The Grinch
,’ said Betty. She beamed.

‘No, he wasn’t!’ Grace looked offended. ‘He was a lovely chap!’

‘Not him, the
keys
. You know, in the bowl. Loretta Emerson and I went to see it at the theatre. There’s a scene where all the little critters throw their keys in a bowl. Shenanigans, I can tell you.’

Grace exchanged a telling glance with Bernice. ‘Thank you, Betty, fascinating.’

‘Didn’t they go over Ballarat way?’ asked Bernice. ‘I seem to recall they started up again there. Went into partnership with a cousin or something.’