Lola's Secret (25 page)

She heard one of them come back inside, into the shop itself. She heard the sound of the wire hangers being pushed along the racks. Heard the cash register being opened. The familiar ping of its bell set her shaking again. He was less than two meters away from her.
Go, go, just go, please, just go
 …

“Jesus, mate. Get out of there. Someone will see you.”

“It’s Christmas Day. No one’s around. I need some new clothes. Give us a minute.”

“It’s secondhand crap. Get out of there.”

Lola was now shaking so violently her teeth were chattering. How could they not hear her? She couldn’t control it. Not just her hands, her whole body was trembling. She was so scared. Scared they’d find her. Scared what they’d do if they found her. She started to pray, to God, to Mary, to baby Jesus, to all the saints, to her parents, to her ex-husband, to everyone she could remember.
Help me, help me, help me. Go, please go. Go. Take everything you want. Just go.
She heard the back door slam. Heard something else screech shut in the backyard. The gate. It was strong, made of steel. They must have forced it open and forced it shut again. A moment later, their car started. It had a noisy exhaust.

It was ten minutes before she could move. Another five minutes before her hands stopped trembling enough to open the small, flimsy lock that had kept the changing room door shut. If they had tried it, if they had pushed it even slightly, it would have opened. The thought of being found so easily, the thought of them pushing back the door and seeing her there, in the corner, set off more shaking. She had to hold on to the door, the racks, take support from wherever she could to make her way across the shop to the back room where there was a chair. She nearly fell twice. Her legs could barely hold her up. She had to get out of there. She had to ring someone, anyone.

She couldn’t. They’d taken her bag and taken her phone. There wasn’t a landline in the shop.

She’d have to go out on the street, flag someone down.

She couldn’t open the front door. She’d double-locked it. The keys were in her bag.

She tried to bang on the door, get someone’s attention that way. She was still shaking so much that she barely made a noise.

She tried to tear at the signs covering the front window, the signs saying “Thank You” over and over again. She’d helped tape them up herself. She couldn’t seem to tear any of them off. Her hands were useless.

Outside, the street was quiet. No cars, no people. It was Christmas Day. Everyone was at home.

She’d have to use the back door. She went out into the tiny yard. It had to be forty degrees or more out there, the temperature heightened by the white paint on the walls. The door to the shop slammed behind her as she went out. She tried the gate. It wouldn’t budge. Whatever they’d done when they kicked it open and kicked it shut would need more than her strength to fix.

Stay calm, Lola. Stay calm. Go back inside and think. Stop shaking and think.

She pulled at the back door. Pulled again. It was stuck. No, it couldn’t be. Again, and again. The handle was so small, and her hands were now sweating so much she couldn’t get a grip on it. She took off her hat, the ridiculous Santa hat she was still wearing, and tried using that. It just slipped off the handle. She kicked the door with her sandaled foot. She did nothing but hurt her toe.

She was stuck in the yard. In the sun.

“Help!” she called. “Please, someone. Help me!”

Who would hear her? The shops on either side were shut for two days.

“Help! Please! Can anyone hear me?”

How could they? There was no one nearby to hear.

“Please! Someone! Anyone! Help me!”

The only sound was the cicadas,
tick-tick-ticking
in the heat.

T
HE NOISE IN THE LIVING ROOM
had reached ear-splitting levels. There was a game of chasey going on, the four children weaving their way at high speed between the dining table, the sofa, out the back door into the garden, and then onto the deck, coming perilously close to knocking over the card table laden with drinks each time. In the kitchen, a group of women were laughing over a bottle of prosecco while they mixed salads. At floor level, two toddlers were taking turns picking up blocks of Lego and throwing them at each other. Outside in the barbecue area, three men were in charge of cooking the plates of marinated fish and chicken.

In a comfortable armchair at the end of the open-plan kitchen and living room, an elderly man sat back, eyes closed, oblivious to the noise and the chaos around him. He had his iPod plugged in, with the soothing tones of Bach beautifully blocking out the squeals, the shouts, the running feet, and the slamming of the back door as the twenty members of his family went in and out, sending in a blast of Christmas Day heat each time.

Fifteen minutes earlier, his daughter had asked if he’d like anything: a glass of wine, a beer, some sparkling water?

“Water would be lovely, thank you,
cara
.”

She’d gone over to the kitchen to get it, gotten caught up in a conversation with her sister and two sisters-in-law, and forgotten about him, he realized now. No wonder. She’d been flat-out busy all day. All week, in fact. It was no easy feat to cook Christmas lunch not just for her own family, and for him, but her husband’s extended family as well. She’d been making lists and muttering to herself for days now. He’d get the water himself. He’d been waited on hand and foot enough as it was.

“You all spoil me,” he’d said to her earlier when she settled him in his favorite chair and made sure he had the latest edition of
Il Globo
to read.

“You’re our dad. It’s our job to spoil you.”

Before going over to the fridge he took a moment to take in the whole scene around him. To think he was responsible in some way for all of these people being gathered here today, all from different countries and backgrounds, here in Australia. The idea of it overwhelmed him sometimes. They’d done a count one day, his daughters and his sons-in-law, and they’d got to nine,
nine
countries represented in some way in just his one family. Italy, of course, through him and his ancestry. His wife too, God rest her soul. But after that, the Lombardis had turned international. His oldest daughter, Italian-born and raised, had gone traveling after college and while in France, met a young man studying winemaking. An Australian, of Hungarian and Spanish descent. His other daughter had stayed closer to home, but married a Swedish man working nearby, whose father was from Stockholm but whose mother was German. It had continued into the next generation too. His oldest granddaughter, half-Italian half-Australian in ancestry, now completely Australian in accent, was dating a Vietnamese man she’d met at college. His grandson was engaged to a young New Zealander. And somehow, all of them, every branch of his large family tree, had ended up living here in Melbourne, within twenty kilometers of each other. The Italian side coming through, his daughter always said. We stick together. Family is everything.

He’d never have thought, all those years ago when he returned to Italy, that he would be back here. It was like he’d been given four lives, he often thought. His first twenty-four years in Italy. Ten years in Australia. Italy again for nearly forty years. And now back in Australia again.

His daughter Rosie, now in her early fifties, had moved here with her Australian winemaker husband soon after they were married. Her two children had been born here. She’d begged him to come and join her family after her mother died. “Please, Papa, while you’re still young enough. If you wait any longer, you’ll be too old to enjoy it when you get here. You used to love Australia, didn’t you? You’ll love it again.”

He had loved it. It had been filled with good memories for him. Sad times too. But precious ones. Work he had done. Places he had seen. People he had met. A woman he had loved.

He’d spent a lot of time in recent months thinking back over those days in Melbourne. His daughter had taken him on a day trip down through Brighton and so many memories had returned as they had coffee at one of the beachside cafés. He’d almost spoken to Rosie about that time, but he’d stopped himself. He knew from experience that his daughters didn’t like to think of him as having had any romantic life at all before he had met their mother.

He wondered whether all this memory revisiting was part of growing old or a subtle hint that the end was nigh? He hoped not. He was only eighty-three. He ate well, exercised as much as possible, worked outdoors in the garden when he could. Sudden cardiac arrests or road accidents aside, he might have another decade ahead of him.

If he didn’t die of thirst now, that was. He glanced over. His daughter was still laughing, standing at the bench with a glass in one hand, a salad fork in the other. He reached beside him for the stick he needed to use more and more, and made his way over to the fridge.

She spotted him. “Papa! You’re banned from the kitchen. Back to your chair!”

“Banned from the kitchen, not from the fridge. A glass of water isn’t out of the question, surely?”

“Oh, God. I forgot. I’m sorry. Here, let me get it.”

He touched her cheek. “I can manage a glass of water for myself,
cara
.”

The fridge door was covered in bits of paper, postcards, work rosters, swimming pool opening hours, all secured by colorful magnets. As he opened the door to get the bottle of water, one of the magnets fell off, sending a flutter of paper toward him.

He started to reach down and was beaten to it by his daughters. He managed to retrieve two pieces of paper himself, without too much groaning, and made a show of pinning them back on the fridge, making a mock bow when the women congratulated him far too effusively. He was beginning to think his family regarded him as a useless old pet.

He did manage to get to the fridge magnet on the floor before them. Rosie collected them, insisting that traveling friends send her the most outlandish ones they could find. This one was from Munich, an oversized stein of beer, three sausages, and what was supposed to be sauerkraut but looked more like slugs in a bowl. Putting it back on the fridge, he noticed his own name on one of the slips of paper stuck there. Underneath, two other names, with phone numbers beside them. Lola. Luke.

Lola?

He turned to his daughter. “Rosie, is this your writing? Did you take this message?”

She looked over his shoulder and put her hand to her mouth. “Papa, sorry. I meant to tell you. I’ve lost the plot this week. I don’t know what I’ve done or what I need to do. Honestly, next year I’m taking early holidays. It’s impossible to work and prepare for Christmas at the same time.”

“I’m always like that at Christmas, whether I’m working or not,” her sister-in-law said, starting to laugh. “Remember last year? I completely forgot to defrost the turkey and we had to get the hairdryers out—”

“Rosie, the message?”

“Papa, sorry. I got a call last week. This lady’s grandson rang looking for you. Apparently you used to know her years ago? What was it, Lily or Lola?”

“Lola,” he said. “It was Lola. She rang here, do you mean? Lola rang me?”

“You remember her? Sorry. I said to the guy that I’d never heard you mention her.” She quickly filled him in on her conversation with Luke—that Lola was in a nursing home, hoping to get in touch with people from her past or something like that. She winked at her sister-in-law. “An old girlfriend, Papa?”

He didn’t answer, but kept looking down at the paper with the two phone numbers.

She reached past him and poured the glass of water. “It’s not too late to ring, is it? You can wish her Happy Christmas. Use the phone in the hall if you like. At least you’ll be able to hear in there.” She turned back to her sister-in-law and laughed. “God, I’d forgotten all about the hairdryers! Is that why we said we’d never do turkey again?”

I
N THE QUIET
of the hallway, Alex put on his glasses, picked up the phone, and slowly and carefully dialed Lola’s number.

O
N THE ROAD
between Clare and Sevenhill, Lola’s handbag was lying in a clump of dried grass, under the wire fence. Nothing had been taken from it but her wallet. The phone and camera were deemed too old, the rest of the contents dismissed as “old lady stuff.” The phone started to ring. Once. Twice. Three times. There was no one nearby to hear it or answer it.

I
N
C
LARE
, Luke and his mother had finished their Christmas dinner, done the washing-up, and were now in their air-conditioned living room about to watch a movie. They’d been sitting outside on the verandah, but it had gotten too hot, the gusting wind only adding to the discomfort. Later, once it cooled down a bit, Luke planned to go and visit friends across town. They not only had a great selection of PlayStation games but a swimming pool in their backyard.

He’d just pressed play on the remote control when his phone rang. “Sorry, Mum. Won’t be a sec.” He answered it. “Luke speaking.”

A hesitant voice spoke. “Hello. I hope you can help me. I’m trying to reach Lola Quinlan. My name is Alex Lombardi—”

“
Alex?
Hello, Alex! This is Luke. God, Lola will be so glad you’ve rung—”

“Is she all right? You told my daughter she’s in a nursing home?”

Luke gave a sheepish laugh. “Actually she’s not, no. Sorry. She’s absolutely fine. Fit as a fiddle still. Amazing, actually. She’s up at the motel today, but I can give you her mobile number if you want to try that first?”

“The motel?”

“The Valley View, here in Clare.”

“I’m sorry, where are you both?”

“The Clare Valley. South Australia. Vines and hills and a lot of heat today. Happy Christmas, by the way.”

“Happy Christmas to you too. I rang her mobile but there was no answer, just voicemail. I rang it three times and still no answer.”

Luke frowned. “That’s not like her. Maybe she’s mislaid it. Alex, I know she really wants to talk to you. Can I try and track her down for you?” They agreed on a plan—Luke would call Lola at the motel and pass on Alex’s number to her again. “She’ll call you as soon as she can, I’m sure.”

“What on earth’s going on?” Patricia asked after he’d hung up. “Who was that? What are you and Lola up to now?”

“I can’t answer that, Mum, sorry,” Luke said. “It’s classified Lola information.” He rang Lola’s mobile himself first. It just rang out, eventually going to voicemail. He left a brief message. He rang the Valley View Motel number next. No answer there, either, just Jim’s recorded message that the motel was closed for renovations and wishing everyone a Merry Christmas.

“That’s weird,” Luke said. “I wonder where she is.”

“She could be fast asleep. Or out hill-walking. You know Lola. She said she wanted to be left alone today to do exactly what she wanted when she felt like it.”

“But she’d want to know he rang. I know she would.”

“Who
is
he?” Patricia asked again.

“I’m sorry, but I really can’t say. It’s Lola’s story, not mine. Mum, do you mind if I drive up to the motel, just to see if she’s okay and give her the message?”

“Of course not.” She stood up. “If you don’t mind if I come with you. I’ve never liked the idea of her being on her own on Christmas Day.”

On the way they tried to remember which room she was staying in at the moment. Either eleven or twelve, they thought. They knocked on both. No answer. They peered through the windows as best they could. Nothing. They knocked on all the other rooms too. No answer there, either. They looked in through the dining room window, the kitchen window, into Jim and Geraldine’s manager’s house windows. Nothing and no one.

“What if—?” Luke started to say what they were both thinking. What if something had happened to her? What if she was lying unconscious in her room? What if that was why she wasn’t answering their calls or door knocks?

“We can’t jump to conclusions. I spoke to her this morning. She was in fine form. Where else could she be?”

Luke rang Emily’s house. Patricia rang Margaret, Kay, and Joan. No, none of them had spoken to Lola since their happy Christmas calls that morning.

“She must be in her room. Having a nap or a bath,” Margaret said. “Where else could she be?”

“Could you ring the taxi company? Check if she got a lift anywhere?” Kay suggested. “Maybe she went to visit Anna.” They all knew that Lola made regular visits to Anna’s grave in the Sevenhill cemetery.

Luke rang the taxi company. No, they hadn’t collected Lola that day.

He and his mother were still at the motel, trying to work out how to break into Lola’s room when two other cars arrived. Margaret, Joan, and Kay were in one. Emily was in the other.

“You didn’t have to come,” Patricia said as they walked toward her. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

“Of course she is,” Margaret said, trying to look cheerful.

“I just wanted to wish her Happy Christmas again.”

It was Emily who noticed that Jim’s car was missing.

“He and Geraldine are on a driving holiday,” Kay said.

“But they’ve taken Geraldine’s car,” Emily said. “I waved to them both the day before yesterday. Can Lola still drive?”

“When it suits her,” Margaret said. “But where would she have gone?”

They decided to split up. Kay, Patricia, and Margaret would go to the Sevenhill cemetery to see if Lola was visiting Anna’s grave. Luke and Emily would try the charity shop. It was the only other place they could all think of. Margaret gave him her keys. “Ring us if she’s there.”

Luke drove in his old Corolla.

“She’ll be all right, won’t she?” Emily said.

“Of course. Mum’s probably right, we’re all overreacting.”

There was silence for a minute and then Emily spoke again. “Lola’s great, isn’t she?”