Forbidden Fruit (8 page)

My theory of the Scandinavian sex slave, complete with Stockholm syndrome, instantly exploded, the residue murky. ‘Then what happened to her? The first wife?’

‘Who the fuck cares?’ asked Paul, clearly not expecting an answer. I was shocked by the change in his demeanour, from lightly lascivious joviality to a targeted bitterness within the blink of an eye. Or the naming of a name.

Margie was watching him with concern. She turned to me and inclined her head towards the kitchen. ‘Nell and I are just going to fetch some biscuits, love, to go with our tea. Back in a jiffy.’

I followed her out into a small, old-fashioned kitchen, and she began talking immediately. ‘You’ll have to forgive him for that, love. It’s her name, see, it upsets him too much. Understandable, after what happened.’

‘What
did
happen?’

‘Well, she ran off and left him, of course. With the kiddies.’

‘I am
so
sorry.’ But even as my mouth moved, my brain was racing ahead. ‘I didn’t know any of this. Could you possibly explain it to me, so that I understand?’

‘Okay, but just between ourselves,’ she said, nodding, her earrings jiggling. ‘She really hurt him, see. Always acted like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth and then did something like that. Part of the move up here to Ballarat was to make her happy, because she hated that poky little flat. She was here barely a month, Paul only a fortnight, working all hours with my brother setting up, and she shoots through.’

I tried to do the maths, tripping over the calculations.

‘Abandoning young Paul and Jenny as well. I’d always thought she was fond of them. Not smothery like some, but genuinely fond. What sort of woman abandons her kids?’

I shook my head, not wanting to interrupt the flow.

‘I did my best to make it up but it was the
way
she did it. So sudden. She left a note, you know. All this tripe about having to be true to herself and the one she loved.’ She turned her head and for a moment I thought she was going to make the same spitting gesture as her husband. Then I realised she was just checking the doorway. ‘Stupid woman.’

‘So … she had a lover?’

‘Looks that way. I always thought it might have been a man from Majic. Who knows? Anyway, that was the last anyone heard. We tried to find her the following year, when we wanted to get married, but she must’ve changed her name. So we had to file for this special thing that declares all avenues have been tried to contact the other person. Cost more too.’ Margie frowned, as if this last part had been especially galling. ‘And that was that. I thought she might get in touch when Paul and Jen were older but she never did. She just vanished off the face of the earth.’

‘Where’s my biscuits?’ called Paul Patrick from the lounge room. He sounded petulant. ‘Starving out here!’

‘Coming, love! Just a tick!’

My mouth felt dry. ‘Ah, I don’t suppose you remember the date that she actually left?’

‘Of course I do.’ Margie opened a Rosella biscuit canister and began placing shortbreads on a plate. She talked quickly. ‘We took the kiddies to see the parade. A big group of us. Dallas stayed back, said she had a headache. When we came home for lunch she was gone, along with a suitcase of stuff and the VW. Never got that back either. Anzac Day 1970, it was. I always thought it was ironic, what with the Anzac Day motto being “lest we forget”, because in this case we all just
wanted
to forget, especially Paul. Who wants to remember something like that, really? Best to bury it. Out of sight, out of mind.’

And just like that, I’d found her.

It was a lot to take in, but fortunately I had the long drive home in which to do so. The sister had turned out to be the second wife, and the husband, I was fairly sure, had turned out to be innocent. Nobody could fake that sour resentment. I also suspected that he had been hurt, deeply, by the departure of his first wife. I put Margie to one side, however, because there was a possible scenario that had her getting rid of her competition. It didn’t follow that she would then be so free with the information just offered, but the possibility couldn’t really be dismissed either.

The most likely course of events had Dallas in the middle of an affair so torrid that she had thrown away her marriage and children, returning to Majic on 25 April with the intention of starting a new life with this man. I wanted to believe that she had planned on seeing her children again once she was settled, but that circumstances prevented her. Those circumstances being, of course, that by the end of the day she had been buried in my father’s backyard.

But who was this lover? I would have liked to read the note she left, but couldn’t think of a way to justify such a request. Anyway I doubted that the note included a name, otherwise the odds were that the garrulous Margie would have shared this information also. Which left me back with the group of swingers. The chances were strong that the lover was also a member, because an alternative had Dallas swinging left, right and centre – and also carrying on a separate affair at the same time. Even with admirable organisational skills, that seemed a little too busy for a woman who was also taking care of two young children. Definitely would have called for vitamins.

We had not had an Anzac Day march in Majic for many years, the commemoration now being limited to a dawn service at the cenotaph, followed by a wreath-laying ceremony and then breakfast at the community centre. But I was fairly sure that the march down Main Street had still been a regular feature in the seventies, which meant they would have passed right by the two shops that had not yet been sidelined. Even afterwards there would have been people milling around, greeting those they only caught up with once a year, perhaps sitting in the beer garden on the corner. Surely someone had seen Dallas Patrick or her car.

It was nearly four o’clock by the time I arrived back in Majic. I drove straight past my road and down the main street, turning up the laneway that led to Kata House. I parked at the rear and used the heavy door on that side of the building, which allowed me to turn straight up the stairs and avoid the community centre itself, situated towards the front. The historical society was on the top floor, with a beautiful view of the surrounding valley. There were two people in residence that afternoon: Loretta Emerson, the president, and Sally Roddom. They were sitting at a table that was spread with photos and newspaper clippings.

‘Hello, Nell,’ said Loretta, looking up. ‘What brings you to our neck of the woods?’

‘Information, as always.’ I pulled over a computer chair and sat down. ‘First, did we have an Anzac Day march in 1970? Second, what was the route, and third, what time?’

Loretta nodded, as if these were all reasonable questions. ‘I don’t even have to look up the answers. Our last march was in 1977 so the answer to your first question is yes. And they always started at the same time – eleven o’clock. Same as most. Ran for about thirty minutes. They started at the old brewery and went down the main street and past the old end, near your dad’s butchery, then wound back to the cenotaph near Kata House.’

‘Is this to do with the body?’ asked Sally curiously.

‘Yes and no. I’m also doing some research into my shops. Did either of you know the people who ran the pharmacy? The Patricks?’

Sally was frowning. ‘I don’t even remember there being a chemist there. But if we’re talking the seventies, then I was just a kid.’

‘Paul and Dallas,’ replied Loretta. She swapped two of the clippings on the table and nodded with satisfaction. ‘I remember them well. He was a bit of a looker.’

‘He was?’

‘So was she. Friendly people.’

I wondered if it was the decade or so between Loretta and Grace June Rae that made the difference. Perhaps you needed that added maturity to see through Paul Patrick’s charm. ‘Ah, this is more awkward. Did you ever hear rumours of a swingers group?’

That got her attention. ‘No. Really? With him?’

‘I’m not sure. Just following a few leads.’

‘The seventies were a happening time,’ said Sally. ‘Glad I missed it. Too exhausting.’

Loretta pushed another clipping into place. ‘I can’t imagine that there’d be anything like that around here. Not that they’d be advertising in the local paper, I suppose.’

‘No problem. Back to the Anzac march, how popular were they? How many people attended?’

‘Well, they did get smaller during the seventies when the World War I chaps starting dropping by the wayside. But here you go …’ Loretta used the table to rise and then went over to a broad bookshelf that held an array of black foolscap-sized archive boxes. She ran her finger along and tugged one out, flipping it open to check the contents. ‘These are a collection of Anzac Day photos and clippings from about the twenties onwards. We’re going to digitise all this.’ She waved at the bookshelf with her spare hand. ‘One day.’

Sally groaned. ‘The very thought makes me feel weary.’

‘Can I borrow them? I promise I’ll take good care.’

‘Afraid not. But you can use that desk over there to go through them.’

I rolled my computer chair over and took the box from Loretta. The two women went back to work on their project as I started sorting through the contents. Black-and-white photos showing straggly lines of bowler-hatted men, medals glinting on their pockets; clusters of children cheering on the footpath; a group of women behind what appeared to be a bake sale; a game of two-up with the coins caught in a blur of action.
Painstaking research reveals the history of one country town identical to every other.
I swivelled my chair and stretched. Over by the table, Loretta and Sally were standing back to admire their handiwork. ‘What are you two doing, anyway?’

‘Sorting all the stuff from the commemoration last year.’ Loretta swapped a couple of photos around. ‘Afterwards, it all got shoved into a box so it has to be filed. Then Sally here suggested putting together a couple of collages for the stairwell. Brilliant idea.’

‘It was nothing,’ said Sally.

Now I could see that there was a backing board underneath the jumble of images. Some of them I recognised from the displays last year. Suddenly, I knew where I had seen the image that had been niggling at me, the one with my father in the centre. ‘There was a photo on one of the display boards with my father surrounded by a group of youngish people. I don’t suppose you know where it might have gone?’

‘Sure,’ said Sally. ‘That was one of the ones donated by Rita Hurley. It’ll be over there, in the file marked
1970–1979: general
.’

I rose and slid the relevant archive box from the shelf, then flipped the lid open and started sifting through the contents. The photo I was looking for was not far from the top. Bigger than a snapshot, but not as large as a portrait, it featured eight young adults, all dressed as if for the beach, crowded together to fit into the frame. My curly-haired father was in the centre, beaming, his arms bringing two of the women even closer. I flipped the photo over and read the inscription.
Paul, Rex & Clare, Dallas, Harry, Lilly, Jim, Rita (L–R).
I examined the faces. Sure enough there was Yen, impossibly young, in sunglasses and a broad sunhat, beside the unmistakably tall, spare figure of my Uncle Jim and his shorter, not-yet-plump wife.

‘Find what you’re looking for?’ asked Loretta.

‘Yes, thanks.’ I slid the photo inside my shirt and then replaced the archive box, my face burning. I would have made a lousy thief. Returning to my original task, I decided to streamline by just checking the dates on the back of the photos. Finally I found the cluster from 1970. I put the rest back and spread these before me.

It was a wide selection, of both the march and the cenotaph. The people were uniformly grim-faced, the men in flared trousers and broad ties, the women in fitted dresses and teased hair. Umbrellas sprouted above the gathering like mushrooms, cigarettes dangled from hands and mouths, medals glinted on chests. Black and white and dreary. It was like another world.

I had just decided that this was a waste of time when I spotted it: the only photo where the photographer had backed away for a wide-angle shot. This meant that the cenotaph was towards the side, and beyond that was the rear of the two shops, butcher and chemist. And only just visible, at the very edge of the frame, was the bonnet of a parked car. The distinctive beetle shape of a Volkswagen.

The woman was propped beneath the gnarly tree, a hand outstretched towards one of the gleaming red apples that dripped from the branches. Her blonde hair was perfect, teased up and away from her brow, and then flowing to a smooth flip just above her shoulders. She was pale and motionless, however, and I felt sure she was dead. My breath caught in my throat as I held a mirror to her mouth. Just as it clouded, her eyes popped open. They were so blue that I suspected she was wearing contacts.

‘Would you like an apple?’ she asked, plucking the one that hung near her hand.

I had an odd feeling this was forbidden. ‘Is that a good idea?’

She shrugged, her shoulders nudging the blonde flip, and dropped the apple into her bag.

‘Where’s your yellow one?’

‘At home.’ She smoothed her yellow-and-white bathing suit. ‘But you’re right; it would have gone much better with this outfit. Dammit.’

A bus pulled up to the kerb and disgorged a platoon of khaki-clad soldiers. The last one was my ex-husband, Darcy. Medals shone from his breast. He sauntered over, grinning.

‘They’re not yours,’ I said, unimpressed.

‘Yes, they are. Can you hold this?’ He passed me a baby wrapped in a bunny-rug. Her nose shone wetly. ‘There’s someone at the door,’ said Darcy. ‘Do you want me to get it?’

‘Certainly not. It’s my door and I’ll get it.’

‘Lucy’s annoyed with you. For leaving her with Quinn for the whole day and not letting her know when you’d get back. She says what’s the point of you having a mobile if you don’t use it? And Red is annoyed as well, she says you never respond to texts.’

I was just about to reply when the bus pulled away with a crunching of gears. I blinked, staring at the dappled-grey ceiling. It occurred to me that public transport often seemed to feature in my dreams, despite me rarely using it. I wondered what that meant. The knocking came again, meaning someone was actually at the door. I slid out of bed, feeling confused.

‘Mum!’ The knocking came again, even louder. ‘Mum! I need you!’

My confusion vanished in an instant. I ran to the landing, nearly colliding with Quinn, and then we both took the steps two at a time. I flung open the door and stared at Lucy. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

‘I’m in labour,’ she gasped. Her hands were clasped around her belly as if the weight threatened to topple her forward. Behind her, the night was staggered shades of pewter.

‘Yay!’ shouted Quinn. ‘I’m going to be an auntie!’

I dragged my eyes up from Lucy’s stomach. ‘How far apart are the pains?’

‘I don’t know.’ The words came out on a sob. ‘Five minutes or so.’

‘Okay, then it’s off to the hospital we go. Where’s your bag?’

‘What bag?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ I glanced down at my oversized T-shirt. ‘Give me a minute.’ I flew back upstairs and leapt over Gusto, who was only now reaching the top of the staircase. He stared at me sleepily. I pulled off my T-shirt as I dragged a pair of three-quarter leggings and rugby top from the cupboard. Then it was just a case of getting my runners on as I hopped down the stairs, grabbing my handbag from the top of a packing box. Quinn was already back at the front door, dressed in jeans and a belly-baring shirt. I took Lucy by the arm.

‘Shotgun!’ yelled Quinn.

I ignored her, concentrating instead on leading her sister to the car. Her breath came in short bursts and she walked as if the baby was already emerging. But I didn’t want to think about that. I opened the rear door and lowered her onto the back seat gently, giving her thigh a final push to ensure she was completely in before slamming the door.

Our headlights fanned out across the lane, and then dipped as we bumped across the kerb and turned towards the main road. I knew that Lucy was booked into the Bendigo hospital, having recently commenced weekly prenatal appointments. I had offered to attend these with her but respected her decision to go it alone. I suspected that she wanted to keep the entire process as impersonal as possible, to make the adoption easier.

‘Quinn, call your father, let him know what’s happening.’ I glanced into the rear-vision mirror, made eye contact with Lucy. ‘What about Jasper?’

‘I don’t have his number,’ said Quinn, head down.

Lucy shifted herself, her face twisting. ‘I already let him know, back when it started.’

‘Are you okay, honey?’

She groaned. ‘It hurts.’

‘I know,’ I replied, pressing my foot down slightly on the accelerator. Shadowy trees whipped past on either side, the road a broad grey ribbon ahead. I glanced at the clock. Five-thirty. The minutes, and miles, ticked past. I was going to be a grandmother.

Finally we reached the outskirts of Bendigo and shortly afterwards turned into Lucan Street. And there was the hospital, never a more welcome sight. I pulled into the emergency entrance.

‘We’re here,’ said Quinn into her mobile. She pressed end and slipped it into a pocket.

‘You take Luce in and I’ll park the car,’ I instructed, before turning to face Lucy. ‘I’ll be with you as soon as I can. Just keep breathing.’

An orderly came out with a wheelchair as I drove away. The car park was almost deserted, the few cars spread out as if worried about contagion. A ribbon of potpourri pink now lined the horizon, sending out a glow that looked like it belonged to a fantasy movie, heralding the advent of something portentous, something literally wonderful.
For unto us a child is born.

I arrived in the maternity waiting room short of breath, but relieved I had the foresight to wear runners. Quinn was sitting cross-legged in a tub-shaped chair, busily texting on her mobile. She looked up distractedly.

‘She’s just getting examined. They said to wait here.’

‘Did she say anything about who she wanted with her at the birth?’

‘Nah.’

With most pregnancies, all the details are discussed and decided as the months roll past. The baby’s growth is marvelled at, the possibility of a girl or a boy speculated on, the odds of it having your great-uncle’s bulbous nose. Advice is offered, whether the prospective parents want it or not; whether to induce, to breastfeed, to give birth in a bed, a swimming pool, the back corner of the yard. Although perhaps not mine. Meanwhile, the ultrasound video is shared, everyone peering at the smudgy grey jellybean that is already part of the family. And the shops are scoured, the nursery furnished, a new pram stands in the hallway just waiting to be filled.

But with this pregnancy, everything was different. The ultrasound was not shared, the nursery non-existent. The gradual growth of Lucy’s belly was referred to in those terms alone, never as a baby. And every time the script was abandoned, such as when I offered to attend the prenatal appointments, the door was immediately closed. Politely, but with a firmness that never wavered, setting the tone.

It had also affected Scarlet’s experience. She visited less frequently than usual and, when she did, she avoided her younger sister as if the comparisons made her feel guilty. Instead I had been taking monthly trips to Melbourne, staying overnight in Scarlet’s rented apartment. Accompanying her to appointments, shopping, helping to pack the mounds of baby paraphernalia that were to accompany her back to Majic. Weighted always by the knowledge that, as awkward as all this was, it was bound to get worse.

Darcy burst into the room, looking around as if he expected Lucy to be on a gurney in the corner, busily giving birth. He was dressed with uncharacteristic casualness, in board shorts and thongs. ‘Have I missed it?’

I shook my head. ‘They took her in for examination about twenty minutes ago.’

He let out a breath, then crossed the room to plant a kiss on his youngest daughter’s cheek. Make that second-youngest daughter. ‘Whatcha doing, Quizza?’

‘Texting … someone.’

‘Your boyfriend, hey?’

She gave him a look that would have quelled a lesser man. ‘As if.’

He laughed, pulling a spare chair across the floor to position it between Quinn and me. ‘Love what you’ve done with your hair. So unrestrained.’

I resisted the urge to smooth it down. ‘That’s me. Unrestrained.’

‘I heard about your body in the backyard. Must have been exciting.’

‘Yeah, peachy.’

‘Okay, you don’t want to talk about it. So … I haven’t seen you around.’

‘Oh,’ I said, with exaggerated sympathy. ‘Have you missed me?’

‘Actually, yes.’

This answer stumped me. I glanced over but he was staring at a large watercolour that hung on the opposite wall. I mellowed, a little. ‘How’s the baby?’

‘Oh my god.’ His face lit up and my mellowness vanished. ‘She is just
gorgeous
. And so clever! Not even two months old and she’s already rolling over! Both ways!’

‘Congratulations. That’s definitely a talent you should nurture.’

‘Hey, don’t be like that.’ He grabbed my hand and held it tight. ‘Be glad for me.’

‘Oh, I am. I’m just
bursting
with gladness.’

‘You two are, like, so weird,’ said Quinn. ‘And why’re you holding hands?’

I snatched my hand back and peered angrily at the doorway. ‘Where
is
everyone? Why aren’t we being told what’s going on?’

‘I’m sure she’s fine.’ Darcy stretched out his legs. They looked hairier than I remembered. ‘I’m rather glad to have this chance to talk. What are we going to do about this?’

I knew exactly what he meant. ‘I don’t know.’

‘She’s not going to be able to live with the decision. Maybe the others could, but not her.’

‘I’m still hoping she’ll have second thoughts.’ I changed the subject. ‘All set to meet Scarlet’s new family on Friday night?’

‘You mean Saturday night?’

‘No,
I
have them Saturday night. You have them Friday night.’

He shook his head. ‘No,
you
have them Friday night. I’m busy Saturday night. And by the way, Friday night is tonight.’

A tall, ginger-headed nurse appeared in the doorway. She was smiling. ‘Are you Lucy Forrest’s family?’

I jumped to my feet. ‘Yes!’

‘Nothing to worry about. False alarm. Just Braxton Hicks.’

‘Braxton who?’ asked Quinn, lowering her mobile for a moment.

‘They’re like pretend contractions,’ explained her father. ‘Christ!’

The nurse was still smiling. ‘Very common, especially in these last weeks. But you’ve some time to go, I’m afraid. So you get to take her home. She’ll be out shortly.’

I sank back into my chair as the nurse left, not sure whether to feel relieved or frustrated.

‘I vote we find a place to have coffee when she comes out,’ said Darcy. ‘She’ll need a warm drink and it’s so rare that we’re all together like this. Let’s take advantage of it.’

That seemed like the perfect opportunity to point out that the rarity of these occasions had been entirely his doing. Or to ask, sarcastically, whether Teresa and the wonder baby could spare him long enough. But I simply didn’t have the energy, so I just nodded instead.

*

I took the left turn towards Majic with some reluctance, mainly because I had just been told that Amy Stenhouse would be waiting at my house, together with her son Jasper. Apparently they had been three-quarters of the way to Bendigo when the news had come through that it was a false alarm and so somehow, without my input, the decision had been made that they would stop at my house for coffee.

Even apart from an aversion to the lady in question, coffee was the last thing I felt like. I had just consumed two skinny cappuccinos in Bendigo, along with a maple-syrup soaked pancake that had left a trail of sticky droplets across my chest. Rather surprisingly, it had been a very pleasant hour. Like taking a step back into the past. It would have been easy to forget the last twenty months had even happened; it was as if we were just an ordinary married couple, out with our two youngest daughters. (Sorry,
my
two youngest daughters.)

‘How are you feeling?’ I asked Lucy, meeting her eyes in the mirror.

‘Fine. Just a little embarrassed.’

‘Don’t be. It happens to the best of us.’

I turned into my lane, making a mental note to give Deb another call today to find out what was happening with the renaming. The sun was daffodil-yellow, hanging low in the sky, with a radiance that shimmered.

‘Mum, why’re there so many cars at our place?’ asked Quinn.

I had just noticed the same thing. There was a white sedan parked by Lucy’s kerb, which was most probably Amy Stenhouse’s, and behind this was my mother’s blue hatchback and Petra’s black one. I glanced at the dashboard clock and frowned. Seven-fifty. My family did have a habit of dropping in at odd times, but this was a little early even for them. I coasted into the driveway and turned off the engine, still frowning. And then realisation sucked the air from my chest. It was Friday morning, which meant it wasn’t just Amy Stenhouse and her son and my mother and sister. It was also my father. Here, in my house.