The Other Side of Sorrow (2 page)

‘Hello, Cyn.'

I'd snuck up on her, gumshoeing it. But you couldn't faze Cyn. She slowly lowered the book and levelled her blue eyes at me.

‘Cliff,' she said, ‘Sit down.'

It was always like that. Just when I thought I'd got the drop on her in some way she'd fake me out. She was paler than I remembered and there was something frail-looking about her neck bones showing above the collar of the white silk blouse. She was wearing a blue linen jacket, almost certainly the top half of a suit. The shoes and bag would match in the same way the string of pearls and earrings matched. The pearls were a mistake though, they drew attention to that fragile neck.

I sat and undid my blazer. ‘You're thinner,' I said.

‘I'm older.'

‘Most people get fatter. I have.'

‘You're all right. Better than I expected. That nose's seen some wear and tear though.'

I grunted. ‘What about a drink?'

‘Same old Cliff. What time d'you start these days?'

‘I gave up spritzers with breakfast a while ago.' I held out my hands to show my nicotine stain-free fingers. ‘And the fags.'

She laughed and as the skin tightened over her face I thought,
Christ, she really is thin. Too bloody thin.

‘Me, too,' she said. ‘Yes, let's have a drink. They serve wine by the glass here. By the
big
glass.'

A teenage waitress in a white blouse, long skirt and the heavy shoes they like to wear, arrived and we ordered glasses of white wine and open sandwiches. We'd both been heavy smokers when we were together and now we exchanged stories about how we'd managed to quit. When the food and drink came I attacked mine as a way of not asking her why we were here. I wanted her to explain herself. Still fencing, as in the old days. She made a brave show of drinking her wine and eating but I could tell it was a battle. But she was the old Cyn still, not going on the back foot. She asked me about my business and if I'd kept the house. I said business was okay and I had.

‘It must be worth a bit,' she said, playing with an olive and a cube of cheese.

Eat it,
I thought.
Put some meat on your bones.

‘I like it too much to sell it,' I said. ‘I like the memories—good and bad.'

She nodded and pushed the olive and the bit of cheese around. I felt that I was losing the fencing match so I said, ‘I was sorry to hear about your dad. I had a lot of time for him.'

‘I know. I don't suppose you heard about my husband?'

That stopped me. I took a drink and realised my glass was almost empty while hers had barely been touched. What the hell, I thought. I reached over and tipped half of it into my mine. ‘No,' I said. ‘What?'

She lifted an eyebrow when I pinched her wine and again the movement emphasised her lack of flesh. ‘Colin died about six months after my father. Heart attack. He worked too hard, didn't sleep, didn't exercise …'

‘I'm sorry. Really. You were together for a long time. Kids and all. That's tough.'

She put her fork down, lifted what was left of her wine and wet her lips before putting the glass down and pushing it over to me. ‘I'm dying, Cliff,' she said.

Her eyes were fixed on mine as she spoke and her voice was firm. I knew she was speaking the truth.

‘Cyn. No.'

‘Yes. Breast cancer. I've had 'em both off. Radiation, chemotherapy.' She reached up and touched her hair. ‘This is a wig. Fooled you, eh?'

I suddenly choked-up. ‘Cyn …'

She reached over and touched my hand. Her touch was as cold as if she was already dead. I'd seen it before—the dying comforting the living—and I'll never understand it. I shook my head. ‘Fuck it,' I said. ‘This isn't right. Not you.'

She smiled. ‘Yeah, fuck it. But it's true. I've only got a few months, if that. Probably less. I was in seeing the Macquarie Street man today. No hope.'

‘There's clinics. Mexico. Germany …'

‘I've been to all the clinics I can take. I've got a good doctor. He'll see me off when it gets too bad.' She laughed. ‘That's all right. It's too bloody soon but it'll be easy, whereas the rest of you never know how it'll come, do you?'

I gulped some wine. ‘That's right. Jesus, Cyn, I …'

‘Bear up, Cliff. We've got a bit to get through here. It could be worse. Both the kids … my kids, are old enough to cope. My mother's still around to help. You remember her. She's a toughie.'

‘Sure.'

‘I used to pick up the odd scrap about you from Dad, but not since he died. I was curious about you but I couldn't show it too much. Colin was jealous of you.'

‘Of me?'

‘Yes. He was one of those indoorsmen who secretly yearned to be an outdoorsman. When we fought, as we often did, he'd say things like, “I suppose your private eye never made a mistake.”'

‘Hah.'

‘Right. You made plenty. But I kept a couple of books you gave me and that bullet thing. You remember.'

I remembered. I'd brought back the brass casing of an artillery shell from Malaya. Polished up, it made a nice vase.

Cyn made another attempt to eat but gave up. ‘Colin hated that. I'm a bit of a bitch as you know. I used it against him. Don't get me wrong, the marriage was fine, but married people play games. You know.'

I knocked back some more white. If this went on I was going to need a bottle. ‘Colin needn't have worried. After the time in court I never laid eyes on you again. Anyway, indoorsmen make more money than outdoorsmen.'

‘That's the sort of half-smart thing you used to say. It made me mad.'

‘I know.'

She leaned forward across the table and I could feel the intensity in her. ‘Tell me, Cliff, are you … in a relationship at present? I assume there've been a few over the years, but …'

I desperately needed something to do with my hands and if there had been cigarettes available I would have taken one. I put both hands on the wine glass and swilled what was left of its contents. ‘Look, Cyn,' I said. ‘You've told me about the cancer and it's just about the worst thing I can remember hearing. But where's this going?'

She leaned back and drew a deep breath. The effort of doing it seemed to cause her pain and she aged ten years as she fought for composure. ‘Cliff,' she said softly. ‘I was pregnant when we split up. I dithered until it was too late to have an abortion. The child was born. A girl. You're her father.'

My first reaction was disbelief. This had to be some kind of fantasy, a product of the treatment she was having or a mental aberration associated with the disease or the prospect of death. It couldn't be true. Cyn read me right immediately.

‘You don't believe me.'

‘I'm sorry, no.'

‘It's true, Cliff. You remember how it was. I hated you. I wanted nothing more to do with you, ever. It'd all gone so terribly wrong. Everything we'd planned had turned to shit.'

I nodded.

‘I had the baby in Bathurst at a Catholic hospital. I used my own name and I didn't tell anyone about it. Not even my parents. Look.'

She opened her handbag, took out a sheet of paper and thrust it at me. It was an admission record from St Margaret's Hospital for Women dated about seven months after our final breakup. Cynthia Louise Weimann had been admitted ‘close to confinement' and discharged eight days later.

I was still resistant, almost hostile. ‘It proves you were pregnant, I guess. It doesn't prove there was a child.'

‘I know this isn't easy for you, but it's true.'

She handed over another document. This was a notification, dated three months back, that Mrs Cynthia Samuels had put her name on the register of women who had given a child up for adoption. The sex of the child was given as female, the place of birth was Bathurst and the adoption date was four days after the date of the hospital admission. I'd done some work in this area once or twice. The purpose of the register was to allow adopted children to locate their natural parents if they wished. They had the option. I folded the paper and handed it back. My hand was shaking, but I still didn't want to believe it.

‘Cyn. You must have been through hell …'

‘I've seen her, Cliff,' she said. ‘I've
seen
her!'

She wept quietly and I comforted her as best I could. I got another glass of wine and Cyn had mineral water. With an effort she composed herself and told me that she'd caught sight of a particular young woman several times in recent weeks. She was convinced that this woman was watching her. I was still sceptical.

‘You haven't spoken to her?'

‘No. I've never been able to get close enough. She sort of … slips away.'

‘What makes you think she's … who you think she is? It could be someone, I don't know, sympathetic but not sure whether to approach you. Or …'

She shook her head. ‘Cliff, she's the living image of your sister Eve twenty-four years ago. I'm telling you she could be her twin. I
know
she's our daughter.' She scrabbled in her bag and came up with a photograph. It showed Eve in jeans, boots and a sweater smiling into the camera. Short dark hair, thin, beaky nose, wide mouth, my sister was arresting rather than pretty. She was close to 180 centimetres tall and when she was young athletics and surf swimming kept her lean. She's heavier now which doesn't hurt her golf. She plays off eight at Moore Park.

‘It's a copy,' Cyn said. ‘I had you and me cropped out of it. Don't know why I still had it. D'you remember where it was taken? A picnic we all went on in Centennial Park.'

‘No. You say this woman resembles Eve?'

‘I've only caught glimpses of her. But I'd say she's identical. Oh, shit!' Her hand flew up to her face and I saw how thin her wrist was, with the blue veins showing through. ‘Eve doesn't have a daughter, does she?'

‘No. Two sons.'

‘God. I realise I haven't thought this through enough. Do
you
have any children, Cliff? I mean, other children …'

I drank some wine. ‘You didn't think of that possibility either, did you? Why not?'

You couldn't keep Cyn on the defensive for long. She drank some of her mineral water and got a fair bit of energy into a snort. ‘You were always a selfish bastard, Cliff. There was only barely enough space in your life for a lover. What with the crims and cops and other low-lifes. There certainly wasn't enough for a wife. I doubt you'd ever have entertained the idea of having kids. Tell me I'm wrong.'

I had to admit she was right. The only really serious relationships I'd had since Cyn were with Helen Broadway and Glen Withers. Helen had a child and a troubled marriage and in the end she'd opted for the status quo. Glen was a career woman all the way. I'd felt comfortable with arrangements like those.

‘You're right,' I said. ‘Maybe you heard from your dad about Hilde Stoner. The tenant I had for a while. She married Frank Parker, who's—'

‘A policeman. Yes, I heard. So?'

‘I'm a sort of pagan godfather to their son. That's as close as I thought I'd ever get to parenthood.'

‘Ah, you're admitting the possibility that you've fathered a child. Christ, you're a hard sell, Cliff.'

‘In my business you have to be. Look, Cyn, what d'you think's going on here?'

‘That's typical of you. Analysis rather than engagement.'

‘That's me.'

‘All right. I think she applied for her birth certificate. Adoptees can do that since the act was changed in 1990. Did you read that book by Charmian Clift's illegitimate daughter?'

‘No. I read
My Brother Jack
though—her husband's best book. Sorry, Cyn. Go on.'

‘I think she applied for her original birth certificate and got my name from it.' She looked directly at me. ‘Don't worry. There was no name for the father. I didn't have to give it.'

I think it was at that moment that I started to believe all this might be true.

Cyn went on to say that she asked the appropriate authorities whether her child had applied for her birth certificate or made enquiries about her, but the rules didn't allow for that information to be given out.

‘That's right,' I said. ‘I've done a little bit in this line. The idea is to protect the adoptee—in case the parent's a drunk or a bludger. If you're right about this, Cyn, why wouldn't she make herself known to you? You're obviously affluent and respectable. You live in a big house and drive a flash car. You've got a tennis court, I'm told, and isn't there a boat or two?'

‘Stop it, Cliff. Don't be such a shit. If she—Jesus, I don't even know her name—if she got onto me in the last few months she'd have seen a woman wasting away. I spend most of my time going to doctors. I don't drive anymore; I don't have the strength. I sold the house and the boat after Colin died and put most of the money in trust for the kids. I live in a unit in Crows Nest. It's nice but nothing special. The thing is, if she's been keeping an eye on me in that time she's probably seen me faint twice in public and once …'

She shook her head, took a deep breath and forced the words out. ‘She might have seen me throw up in the gutter.'

The tears came again and I watched helplessly while she dabbed at her eyes. She seemed to have to gather every ounce of her strength to do just that much. I had the feeling that she was just about all through for the day at a bit past noon. It made me forget all the animosities and injuries of the past and want to do anything I could to help her. Or almost anything. Despite the anger and anguish I felt on her behalf, I was still focused on the main game—the possibility that we'd had a child.

Perhaps Cyn was right in thinking selfishness had kept me childless. I preferred to believe it was something else—a recognition that my failure to sustain relationships and my erratic, hazardous, financially chancy lifestyle made me a poor bet as a father. More than once I'd pulled back from involvement with women who seemed primed for motherhood, not wanting to disappoint them. But I'd also worn childlessness as a sort of badge, a flag of independence and self-sufficiency. All that was ingrained by now and I was reluctant to surrender it.