What Lies Buried Read online

PART THREE

  EXILE

  A Boarding House in South Yarra

  18th July 1958

  Banabrook

  13th July 1958

  My dearest Caroline,

  This is my third attempt to write. I love you so much and I am desperate to explain myself, but cannot find the words.

  I have searched for you only to satisfy myself you are all right. Now I know where you are, I will not interfere with your life, but I live in hope you will come home, or at least keep in touch. If you are in need of anything, now or ever, just ask. There will be no conditions to any support I provide.

  After you left, I came home to find Rachel very upset. She is convinced everything is her fault, but I know it is mine. She is not to blame for my falling in love with her. In fact, she warned me about the consequences.

  I want you to know how hard I tried to resist my feelings for her. I was simply not strong enough. Perhaps you already understand these things or will in time. I tried to tell myself your mother suspected nothing, but I realise now my feelings for Rachel must have been obvious.

  Your going so unexpectedly took me by surprise. In the early days, after your mother left, I had planned to talk to you about certain events in our past. I thought you were too young at first and, over the years, I suppose I developed a false sense that you had accepted things as they were and it might be a mistake for me to dig over old ground. These decisions are never clear-cut. Now, I realise I should have at least tried to talk to you.

  As you grew up, Rachel did her best to give you guidance in women’s things, but I know you missed your mother very much.

  We had our arguments, you and I, but we always ended up friends again. It is obvious that I failed to discern your true feelings.

  I am sure something special must have happened to make you leave. Rachel says you mentioned seeing your Cousin Stephen. The Johnsons never came to terms with my marriage to your mother. I would expect them to feel I betrayed her by bringing Rachel into the house and falling in love with her.

  Once before, you and I overcame differences that threatened our relationship. I pray we may again find the love we drew on to reconcile with each other.

  Take care, my darling daughter.

  Your loving father.

  Caroline put the letter down. It was a stunning surprise. His assumption about her motivation for leaving was wrong. She’d never suspected infidelity. She’d imagined his liaison with Rachel had developed later. It was a shock to learn it had happened while her mother was still there. How awful that must have been. And how could he think it was mere infidelity Stephen had told her about? Could he imagine she hadn’t learnt the real reason her mother left him?

  This extraordinary confession served only to provide new reasons to despise him. How dare he betray his family in so many ways. Whatever he thought of the Johnsons he could never justify cheating them.

  And his final paragraph: “Once before, you and I overcame differences”. The police had wiped the record clean. Why hadn’t he? Even now, the recollection was accompanied by cringing embarrassment. She’d only wanted to prove she could charm the guard dog. The other kids were spooked by a passing car, and ran off while she was still in the yard. She’d been grounded for a month and missed a school social. In retaliation she took the caps off her father’s paint tubes. Rachel caught her and there was an angry exchange. She’d called Rachel names. Something she’d heard in the schoolyard. “Greasy Yid!” She could still see the shock on her stepmother’s face. At Christmas, she spent all her savings to buy Rachel a brooch and Walter an expensive paintbrush. It was an unspoken apology.

  With renewed anger, she screwed up the letter and hurled it at the wastebasket. It was time to go down to dinner. She checked herself in the mirror and gave her hair a quick brush. At the door she paused, then returned and retrieved the crumpled letter. The day might come when she would want to produce it. She flattened the page as best she could, put it a drawer, and went down to make small talk with Mrs Weston and the other occupants of the boarding house. It was Friday. There would be chatter about plans for the weekend. Jennifer would know what was on at the local cinemas and some of them might decide to go. Caroline usually didn’t if she was working on Saturday morning. Tonight it might be a good way to try and forget. How dare he track her down. How dare he, of all people, make her relive her adolescent misdeeds.

  Blake Tape Seventeen

  Recorded Friday 25th August 1990

  A Trip to Melbourne - Thursday 18th December 1958

  When the investigator located her in Melbourne, I didn’t know what to do. After he’d observed her for a few days, he said he didn’t think she was in any danger. I decided it might be better to leave her to herself. But I also felt a need to apologise for anything I’d done, and to assure her she still had a home here. So I wrote her a letter. Hardest thing I’d ever done. Took me days. Each morning I’d read what I’d written the night before. Then I’d tear it up and start again. That would have been about the middle of 1958.

  Getting on for Christmas, there’d been no reply and I had this sudden impulse to go to Melbourne. I knew Rachel thought it was a mistake but she didn’t say so. When I got there, I began to have second thoughts. I’d booked into the Hotel Australia in Collins Street. It was the week before Christmas and the city was pretty crowded. Next thing I knew I was standing on the pavement outside Georges.

  Walter paused. Max decided to leave the machine running.

  I thought, with crowds of shoppers to lose myself in, I might be able to catch a glimpse of her. The investigator had said she worked in the Women’s Fashions Department.

  Another pause.

  It hadn’t occurred to me that a man with a pork pie hat and elastic-sided boots would look out of place poking around Women’s Fashions, so I stopped in the luggage department. After a minute or two, I saw her. She was there Max. Can you imagine how I felt? She was there. Animated, smiling, dealing with a customer.

  A longer pause had Max reaching for the button, but he hadn’t touched it before Walter continued.

  I think the lady in the luggage department must have imagined I was some sort of pervert—standing behind a display of expensive cases staring into Women’s Fashions. I wanted to say to her: that’s my daughter, my little girl.

  Max hit the stop button. ‘Enough for today. Let’s have some tea.’ He was heading for the kitchen when Walter spoke again.

  ‘Sorry Max.’

  ‘You mustn’t ever be sorry for being human. Nor for loving your daughter.’

  ‘Of course not. Just embarrassed.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  Walter beckoned him back to the side of the bed. ‘It’s possible she’d simply decided she wasn’t going to compete with a baby sister. But the birth might have driven home that Judith’s mother was not her mother. Whatever the reason I’d gained one daughter and lost the other.’

  ‘I wish you’d let us call her.’

  ‘There’s been thirty years for her to make a move. Telling her I’m dying would be putting unfair pressure on her. I betrayed her mother. I asked Emily to help me care for Rachel and betrayed her with the woman she’d taken in. Caroline has a right to judge me harshly.’

  ‘Well it’s your decision.’

  ‘No tea for me Max. I’ll have a sleep.’

  ‘I tried but there’s no way he’ll approve our getting in touch with her.’ Max poured a cup of tea, and sat down at the kitchen table, which was strewn with photocopied extracts from Hansard.

  Judith settled into a chair opposite. ‘Do you think we should call Caroline anyway? If she knew he was ill...’

  ‘He’s not prepared to put emotional pressure on her. Besides, I think if he allowed himself hope, it would increase his distress—he’d be on edge every time the telephone rang, or when we took in the mail.’

  ‘He’s still convinced she left because he betrayed her mother and married mine.’

  ‘No; the timing is all wrong. An
d, it doesn’t sit well with Caroline’s public pronouncements. Even allowing for her to have a blind spot about her own family, I can’t believe she could be so two faced.’

  ‘Why? What else have you come across?’

  ‘Her speech in a debate on family-law reform. It relates to those news clippings you found. It’s no wonder she upset church leaders. There’s a passage where she gets almost evangelical about the need for families to... where is it?... here... “tolerate human fallibility to the extent of forgiving adulterous behaviour to defuse situations that might otherwise become violent.” She calls for women to set the example by... “finding ways to negotiate divorce separations acknowledging marital breakdown without creating explosive enmities.” ’

  Judith picked up a scrapbook. ‘There’s another report—about her taking part in a radio documentary.’ She searched for the place. ‘Yes, a documentary about couples who maintained relationships with divorced partners to help others in the family cope with the consequences of the marriage breakdown.’

  ‘This is not a woman you’d expect to completely reject her father because of adulterous behaviour. If you put all these reports together there’s real passion for a cause.’

  ‘For a couple of causes. Both controversial.’

  ‘Something else?’

  Judith tapped another extract with her finger. ‘Teenagers are allowed to make mistakes. For most, their own remorse is punishment enough.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘She always contributes to debates on juvenile justice. When I saw the bit about teenagers being allowed to make mistakes, I realised it wasn’t the first time I’d come across it in her speeches.’

  ‘If we ever get to meet this half-sister of yours, we won’t be short of questions.’

  Lilydale Station

  Wednesday 25th February 1959

  Caroline’s memories of the return of the troops in 1945 had transported her to Arajinna Railway Station many times. On her twenty-first birthday, which fell on a Wednesday in 1959, she went to the Dandenongs, where she occasionally taught show jumping at a riding school in return for an afternoon on the trails. Uneasy at the thought of fielding questions about how she would celebrate her majority, she’d taken a week’s leave. There were times she felt like a fugitive, hiding her background from her colleagues. Fortunately, she’d been able to keep her birth date a secret at the boarding house. It was recorded somewhere in the files, but residents came and went and birthdays were rarely celebrated.

  She’d been worried her father might send a gift or try to get in touch. This brought back memories of previous birthdays. Riding one of the bush tracks also evoked a forgotten image—her tenth birthday party, which took place in a grove in the forest and had a Robin Hood theme. Rachel had made a piñata filled with sweets. None of the children had ever seen one. Now, sitting on the platform at Lilydale, looking down the track, which curved out of sight into an avenue of trees, she was revisited by other images: people waving, shouting, and crying, as a steam engine puffed into view around a similar bend at Arajinna. She’d been seven years old. From early in the day, there’d been a sense of excitement. On the way to the station, Aunty Olive held Caroline on her knee even though there was a spare seat. Caroline didn’t mind because she could see better out of the window, and Aunty Olive kept giving her “squeezees”. At the station, a woman gave her a paper flag to wave, but she kept getting lost among the legs of the adults. Every now and then somebody lifted her up to see what was happening. That’s how she saw the train come into view and soldiers leaning out of the windows. As the soldiers tumbled out of the carriage, Aunty Olive started grabbing them and hugging them. She cried a lot, and some of them did too. Other people were yelling and waving and hugging and crying. There was a soldier with wooden crutches. She’d never seen crutches before. One of his legs was much shorter than the other, and his trouser-leg was pinned up with a safety pin. People were moving aside to let him pass; but Caroline was immobile, curious, staring at the crutches and the short leg. The soldier stopped in front of her. “My goodness. This can’t be Caroline. Not Caroline Blake.” She looked up, squinting into the sun, but she didn’t know him. Then somebody lifted her out of the way. There were women in uniforms. She thought the red cross on the sleeve of one of them was pretty. Eventually, to get out of the crowd, she went and sat on a bench behind some women who were serving tea and scones from card tables at the entrance to the waiting room. They gave her a scone to eat, with lots of jam, and she got quite sticky. After a while, Rachel arrived and said, “So there you are, I lost you.” She wet a handkerchief at a tap and sat down to wipe the jam off Caroline’s face and hands. Rachel wanted to throw away the paper flag because it was sticky too, but Caroline insisted on keeping it. After that, they just sat together out of the crowd. On the way home, her father had been angry with her, and made her cry. Later, she stuck the handle of the paper flag through a hole in the bottom of a shoebox, and put it on the front verandah. The flags on some of the shops in the town had given her the idea.

  The modern electric train pulling into Lilydale Station broke Caroline’s reverie. She picked up her gear and returned to 1959.

  Women’s Fashions Department

  Georges Department Store - Melbourne

  27th January 1960

  ‘Super wants to see you.’

  What can I have done? Caroline thought. ‘Now?’ she asked.

  ‘I’d reckon.’

  Caroline checked herself in one of the mirrors. The black dress worn by Georges staff suited her.

  ‘You look beautiful dearie, now buzz off, it’s nearly opening time.’

  ‘You’ll manage.’ The first hour of business in Women’s Fashions was invariably slow. Theirs was an up-market clientele, not known for making it to the city before morning tea.

  ‘You wanted to see me, Mrs Kingston?’

  Caroline stood in the doorway for the critical appraisal of her appearance. Apparently satisfied, Mrs Kingston motioned for her to sit down. Suddenly the stern face beamed.

  ‘Good work, Blake, good work. You’re excellent with the customers. You’re actually in demand with Mrs Cranston. There’s a feather in your cap. My word, my very word. That’s a lady who is not easily pleased. Well done. How do you feel about a change?’

  ‘Well, I’m happy with my job, Mrs Kingston. But if you think–’

  ‘Of course you want a change. Ambitious?’

  ‘Well I...’

  ‘Of course you are. And should be. You’ll go a lot further than I have.’

  ‘Oh I don’t–’

  ‘Of course you will. You have flair. Me. I can organise things. But I’m a follower, and that’s the way I like it. Given a competent briefing I can sell anything they put on the floor, but I’d be hopeless as a buyer. You have flair. It’s been noticed. The chief buyer has a vacancy for a trainee. Job’s yours. Small raise, big opportunity. I’ll release you as soon as I can get a replacement. Pleased?’

  ‘I’m thrilled.’

  ‘Of course you are? But keep it to yourself for now. I want to speak to the other girls first. Sarah’s been here longer than you have, but I’ve got something in mind to keep her happy in the service.’

  ‘Whatever you say.’

  ‘They’ll be all over you, as soon as you hit the floor, wanting to know why I called you in. We need the proverbial herring, and I have the very thing. Those skirts on the second rack. Advance samples. New style. Double pleats. Fuller skirt. Tell the girls I want everyone to try one on and get familiar with the cut. Helps when you start to sell them. That’s all.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Kingston. Thank you very much.’ Caroline took the skirts and made for the door.

  ‘I’ll miss you Blake. There’s something about country girls. No false airs and graces. Something for parents to be proud of. I’m sure yours are.’

  It was beyond her expectations to get a promotion so soon, and to work with the chief buyer! Wow!

  In her lunch breaks she’d
been exploring Melbourne’s streets and arcades. A big department store was a good place to learn the fashion business, but it was a couple of speciality boutiques that had kindled thoughts for the future. Having started her study of dressmaking by correspondence while she was still at Banabrook, she’d now enrolled in an evening course to get some direct teaching. Already she had a feeling for the way patterns emerged, not merely how to follow them but how the designers converted their concepts into shapes for cutting out and sewing together.

  She no longer missed equestrian competition, which had once been the focus of her life. She had new aspirations, and an opportunity she would not let slip.

  Shared Talents

  Wednesday 2nd May 1962

  ‘Does it run in your family?’

  Caroline looked up from her notebook, uncertain what the question meant. She’d recently started a new unit of the design course. Waiting for the session to begin, she’d opened her book and commenced sketching an idea for a summer frock.

  ‘You draw so easily. I wondered if it was a family trait.’

  ‘My father paints a bit. Actually he’s not bad.’

  ‘What you’ve done there is stunning. I usually have to drape fabrics over a dummy to give me something as a basis to start. You’ve managed to create the image straight out of your head, and with such an economy of strokes. What’s more, I can see at once how I’d go about making the dress. Sketch me a side view. When I’ve got the other girls started we can talk about how you might convert your image into a pattern.’

  That night Caroline lay awake, buoyed by the events of the evening. She’d been praised by a teacher whose own designs she admired. But something else had happened. She’d discussed the possibility of having a trait inherited from her father without experiencing an onset of painful memories. Both events were significant.

  Something in the Genes

  Friday 6th July 1962

  ‘The first thing to be clear about is it’s not considered potentially fatal.’ Diana Godfrey stabbed her index finger at a passage in a medical journal.

  ‘Does it have a name?’ Caroline asked.

  ‘Rhol’s Syndrome. I assume you don’t want the Latin!’

  Dr Godfrey consulted her case notes. ‘I’ve asked you before about your immediate family but not about aunts or female cousins. Do you have any?’

  ‘The only one I can think of was my Aunt May... well, she was a great-aunt... my grandfather’s sister.’

  ‘On your father’s side?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did she have any children?’

  ‘I don’t think so. She died when I was quite young. I don’t think she was married.’

  ‘You wouldn’t know anything about her medical history then.’

  ‘She was a bit of a legend in the family, but mainly because of her drinking I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’d like to say we know a lot about this condition, but we don’t. I found two papers on the subject, both written by gynaecologists in England. One of them speculates that, although the syndrome doesn’t affect men, its origin is probably genetic and might pass through the male line. Neither paper suggests a need to avoid pregnancy but they recommend close monitoring and early confinement. Both the births described in the papers had complications, but both the mothers and their babies survived in good health.’

  ‘I believe my own birth was difficult. I know my mother couldn’t have other children.’

  ‘There can be many reasons for difficult births. If this article is right, whatever problem your mother had producing you isn’t connected with what you’ve got now. The author had an interest in genealogy as well as gynaecology. He helped his patient trace her ancestry, and they unearthed some evidence to support his hypothesis.’

  ‘So my father might have been the carrier.’

  ‘It’s a complex field and this is speculation. But it’s all we’ve got to go on, which is why I’m telling you what little I’ve been able to find out.’

  ‘What about my half-sister. She must be at risk too.’

  ‘According to the notes I made at your last visit, her mother is Jewish.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well there’s no such thing as always or never in medicine, but the blood profile you’ve got would be sure to make the journals if it turned up in somebody with a Jewish or Asian mother. It’s the same with some other conditions. I like to think we’re all equal, but that doesn’t mean we’re all the same.’

  ‘So Judith should be in the clear.’

  ‘What you tell her is your business. My inclination would be not to worry her about something she’s unlikely to have, and which wouldn’t kill her anyway. If she did marry and get pregnant, and if she did have the condition, it would show up then and could be managed.’

  ‘Well I’ve no plans to marry just yet. It would be useful to know about Aunt May though, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Anything that helps us to understand these things can benefit you and others. One rare genetic illness has been traced back through every reported case in the world to a single remote village in Scandinavia. They haven’t found a cure yet, but the information is helping drive the research.’

  ‘My great-uncle Christopher might still be alive but...’ She stopped and thought, then shook her head. ‘I’ll have to think about it.’

  ‘Apart from this, you’re as robust as a girl your age should be. My advice is to take life as it comes. If that means marriage and children, don’t deny yourself the experience because of fears of the unknown. Just be aware of the possibilities, and consult your GP if you’re uneasy about anything. Gallaway’s a good man. I want you to have blood tests every month. He can organise those. I’ll be dropping him a line of course. If your iron count and thyroid indicators are stable, we can make the tests six monthly. But see Doctor Galloway if you notice any bodily changes, particularly if you feel unusually lethargic for any length of time.’

  Dusk was fast approaching, it had turned cold, and there was light drizzle as Caroline left the building. It was the sort of Melbourne weather a Sydneysider would say was typical. She pulled her coat around her and walked up Spring Street to Collins Street. It was unusual to find a woman specialist in this illustrious medical precinct, but she’d been lucky with her GP’s referral. Diana Godfrey gave her confidence. She’d intended to take a tram but had barely reached the safety zone when a cab turned the corner. On an impulse she hailed it; she slid into the back seat pulling her coat even tighter. A rare illness was not necessarily the end of the world. She would heed Dr Godfrey’s advice and take life as it came. And it might be interesting to make enquiries about Great-Uncle Christopher. After all, they did have something in common.

  Apartment of Christopher Blake

  Wednesday 12th September 1962

  ‘Good Lord. Could you really be young Caroline?’ The grey-whiskered, unkempt figure stood back to let her in.

  ‘It’s been a long time Uncle.’

  Despite his untidy appearance, he looked well scrubbed and smelt of Palmolive soap. He also had extraordinarily bright eyes. Caroline kissed him on the cheek. He closed the door and led the way down a short hall into an enormous living room, talking as he went.

  ‘I was so glad when you rang. I haven’t seen you since May’s funeral. How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-four, Uncle.’

  ‘You were just a kid then. Let’s see. You’d have been eleven.’

  His quick and accurate mental arithmetic might have surprised Caroline had she not seen the Sporting Globe open on the table and heard the frantic last stages of a broadcast race call. He turned the radio off and rolled his eyes like a guilty schoolboy.

  ‘Tea. Coffee. Bonox?’

  ‘If you were going to make something.’

  ‘We’ll talk in the kitchen.’

  ‘Don’t let me stop you listening to the races.’

  ‘It’s no matter. I don’t get many visitors these days and listening won’t make me lose my money any
slower. May and I owned a couple of thoroughbreds at one stage. Didn’t win much. Great fun. Genevieve never took a shine to racing.’ He broke off before continuing. ‘Been missing Gen a lot lately. Miss them both. May lived with us at the end. Needed looking after, poor dear. It was about May you wanted to ask me wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, fire away!’

  His directness surprised her. She hadn’t expected to get to the subject of her visit so soon. He was constantly in motion: filling the kettle, finding a biscuit jar and the sugar bowl, flashing glances at her.

  ‘I’ve been diagnosed with an illness, a woman’s illness, an extremely rare one.’

  ‘That’s no good.’

  ‘It won’t kill me.’

  ‘That is good.’

  ‘It’s to do with my reproductive system and it’s said to pass down the generations through the male line. Aunt May’s the only Blake I know of who might have had the same problem. I wondered if it might be the reason she never married or had children. That is right isn’t it.’

  ‘Yes.’ He paused, at first nodding slightly. ‘I’m afraid I won’t be of much help. May didn’t marry or have children, but it wasn’t because of any illness. Of course that doesn’t mean she didn’t have one. She never mentioned anything. It’s not the sort of thing sisters would tell brothers in our day, even though we were close.’

  Caroline tried not to show her disappointment. ‘Well it was a long shot. I thought it was worth asking.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry.’

  For a moment it was obvious neither of them could decide where to take the conversation next. Caroline broke the silence.

  ‘How’s Cousin Tony?’

  ‘He’s fine. Forty-seven this year. Hard to come to grips with having a son that old. Architect. Lives in Sydney. What about you? What do you do with yourself?’

  ‘I work at Georges and I’m studying dress design.’

  ‘Bit of a change from jodhpurs.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How’s independence working out?’

  Something about the way he asked the question suggested he knew more about her than she’d expected. She looked into the luminous old eyes.

  He said, ‘Oh, I know you caused a bit of a fuss by leaving home. It’s none of my business, and I’m not going to ask what it was all about. I had a visit from the private detective your dad hired to look for you. I suppose you knew about that.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know the work of Tennessee Williams?’

  ‘The Glass Menagerie, right?’

  ‘Good girl.’

  ‘I had a teacher at Harwood who was a great fan.’

  ‘That particular play is said to be autobiographical. Williams once said something about not having to go outside the family to find drama. I guess you and I could both identify with that.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sure we could.’

  ‘So you knew about me too. What did they tell you?’

  ‘Nothing much. I was lectured before we came to Aunt May’s funeral about not asking too many questions. How old did you say I was? Eleven?’

  ‘Yes. She died in forty-nine. And if you’re twenty-four now, you were born in thirty-eight, the year before the war.’

  ‘Eleven year olds don’t remember everything they’re told. But I know my father was keen to be there.’

  ‘You’d have to know about May to understand. Their last conversation involved a difference of opinion. I think he was sorry the opportunity for reconciliation had gone. Common story, unfortunately. Would you be interested to see her room? With just Genevieve and me here, we never needed to clear it out.’

  Even if she hadn’t been curious, Caroline could see he wanted to show her. ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘Drink your tea first. You do have time don’t you?’

  ‘It’s my day off.’

  ‘Why not join me for lunch. There’s a good café a few doors up. One of the advantages of inner-city life.’

  ‘I’d love to.’ Caroline was fast developing a liking for her twinkle-eyed relative.

  ‘My father, your great-grandfather Simeon, wasn’t a bad man. But I was a disappointment to him. My older brother Richard was good at everything. Somehow I didn’t shape up. I was a bit of a weak kid and when I was packed off to boarding school it was hell. Hated every minute. You went to Harwood you said.’

  ‘Yes. And I didn’t like boarding much either.’

  ‘Your grandad Richard thrived. Some do; some don’t. He and I were definitely not like peas in a pod. Oh I loved him all right. He was straight out of Chums’ Annual. School Prefect, academically gifted, 1st Eleven, 1st Eighteen. A real Blake. May and I weren’t. I used to get caught smoking behind the toilet block and that sort of thing. Drove Dad mad. Richard was always being held up as the example. I didn’t blame him. It wasn’t his fault. In fact, to give him credit, he got me out of a number of scrapes. Until I got expelled.’

  ‘Expelled?’

  ‘Ask me what for?’

  ‘Do I want to know?’

  ‘I nicked a bottle of communion wine from the vestry of the School Chapel and got drunk.’

  Caroline laughed. He joined in.

  ‘Not a bad port, actually. No expense spared at Stoddart. Not by that chaplain anyway.’ Their eyes met; they both laughed anew. Recovering, Christopher added, ‘These days, I fear, I would have been suspended briefly, and quickly reinstated because of the value of the Blake family donations to the school building fund. Those were different times. My father wouldn’t have dreamed of protesting against my expulsion.’

  ‘And May was a disappointment to him as well?’

  ‘I think she was more of a mystery to him. Dad had strong ideas about how a son should behave, but I think he was uncertain how to deal with a girl. Her leaving home to start a career wouldn’t have been a big surprise, but I think he felt I was a bad influence— you know: urging her to be independent, seize the moment, that sort of thing. They kept in touch though and he obviously had a soft spot for her. She’d often admired an antique dressing table that had been at Banabrook since the days of her great grandmother, Maud. Dad gave it to her for her twenty-first birthday. There were no gifts for me. I think I was lucky not to be struck out of his will, otherwise I’d never have ended up with this.’ He swept his arm to encompass the spacious apartment. ‘May and I both worked and earned money, of course. But we also went to war, which tends to set the finances back a bit.’

  ‘What was your occupation?’

  ‘I went to Tech School and became a book-binder. I’d always loved the feel of good books. Now I just bet with the book-makers.’ He grinned.

  ‘And Aunt May?’ Caroline put her now empty cup on its saucer.

  ‘Before succumbing to the demon drink?’ He looked at her, apparently seeking confirmation that she knew. ‘She went to Harwood too. Later she studied nursing. I was twenty-five when the war started; she was twenty-four. Bad times.’

  Before Caroline could ask anything else, her uncle stood and beckoned her to follow. As they went along a hallway he said, ‘Bathroom there if you need it.’ He stopped at a closed door. ‘May’s room.’ He opened the door, and led the way in.

  The first thing Caroline noticed was the framed picture on the dressing table, a sepia-toned photograph of a young man in military uniform. Although clearly dating from the Great War, something about the pose reminded her of another photograph.

  ‘At Harwood. Miss Elsworthy had a picture of her brother. He was in the Air Force in the Second World War.’

  ‘It kills some. Others die inside. For every dead son there is a devastated mother, or father, or lover, or friend, or all of the above.’

  A pause. Caroline took out a handkerchief and wiped her nose. ‘Poor Aunt May.’ She put the handkerchief away. ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘The photograph... it got to me somehow.’

  ‘You hear of families keeping the room of a d
eparted loved one untouched, like a shrine. It’s not what we intended here. We didn’t need the space.’

  ‘So there was a reason for her drinking. Poor dear. All those awful stories about her.’

  ‘Oh they’re true enough. And you can’t excuse that sort of thing even if there is a reason. They called her racing’s greatest lush. She could be a bit of a menace. But she was never a mean drunk, so she was always being forgiven for some incident or other. A committee member of the racing club told her she was almost a permanent item on the agenda for disciplinary hearings but they had a rubber stamp that said “last chance”. He was joking, of course, but that’s what she called one of our horses.’

  Next to the framed picture was a carved wooden jewellery box and a set of hairbrushes with silver backs. Propped up to one side there was an electroplated salver engraved with words that Caroline read aloud, ‘May Blake Handicap 1947.’

  ‘Funny story. She donated the trophy and our horse won. A simple country race meeting, but May loved those. It was the last horse we owned and the last time we had a winner.’

  ‘Last Chance?’

  ‘No, he was long gone.’

  On the wall opposite the bed hung a watercolour painting of horses racing. Caroline moved across to examine it more closely.

  ‘Part of your heritage. An item from the Blake Collection. Called Sunbury Races.’

  She was still absorbed in the painting when he said, ‘I was thinking there’s something you might do for me.’

  ‘If I can I’d be happy to.’

  ‘May’s property and money got disbursed according to her will. Most of it went to fund scholarships in veterinary science and nursing. Tony got the furniture. The remainder came to me. Most of it was personal effects. There’s what’s in this room, and there’s some other stuff Tony put into storage when we shifted her from Sydney—papers mainly. I wondered if you might help me go through what’s here and, since you’re the only female descendant she knew, I’d like you to have anything of value. May wasn’t a great one for jewellery but there are a few pieces, and the backs of those hairbrushes are real silver.’

  He opened the jewellery box and handed it to her. May mightn’t have been a great one for jewellery, but what she did own was breathtaking. The top item was a single string of plump matched pearls. Caroline felt her hand tremble slightly as she lifted it gently. Underneath was a ruby brooch.

  ‘They’re beautiful. I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Yes Uncle, would do for a start.’

  ‘I’d be delighted to help you sort her things. As for having these. Oh, I couldn’t. Surely not.’

  ‘Somebody should have them. May would have liked you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Now let’s go and have some lunch. All this has given me an appetite. I’m afraid I’ve let myself drift a bit since Gen died. Needed a bit of a shake up. Like one of those little dome things with snow scenes. Bit of a shake needed now and then.’

  She returned the jewellery box to the dressing table and followed her Uncle back along the passage, still somewhat in a daze.

  Darkness at Noon

  A few weeks after her promotion in 1960, Caroline had a disquieting experience. It was a Thursday. She had started her rostered day off with a productive morning of dressmaking and finished a new summer frock. Delighted with the result, she strolled to the corner delicatessen. She chatted happily with the jovial Greek proprietor while he made her favourite sandwich, a creation he called “The American Dream”—Philadelphia cream cheese and Californian walnuts. Savouring the sweetly scented day, she took her lunch into the Botanic Gardens to a bench overlooking the lake. Life was treating her well. The American Dream was delicious. Her career was about to take an exciting change of direction.

  Quite without warning, she became edgy and unhappy. Unable to sit still, she rose and began walking. Almost without registering what she was doing, she threw the half-finished sandwich into a rubbish bin. The sound of her shoes on the bitumen path seemed to emphasise her apprehension, the rhythmic clack clack clack of the heels a source of irrational annoyance. She took off the offending footwear and stepped onto one of the lawns. The pleasant feel of grass under her feet improved her mood and the intensity of her anxiety abated, but she was uneasy for the remainder of the day, and slept poorly that night. The end of each week at Georges was invariably busy and never boring, but she found work on the Friday unusually tedious. When she left the store at lunchtime on Saturday, she went home and slept all afternoon. By dinner she felt better. A few of the others were going to the cinema and she decided to join them. By Sunday she felt normal again.

  Over the next couple of years she experienced intermittent episodes, always at times when the world seemed rosy. She’d not mentioned these events to her GP but, in 1964, another bout of edginess happened a few days before an appointment with Dr Diana Godfrey for a routine review of blood tests. At the end of the consultation she mentioned the periods of unexplained anxiety.

  ‘Any family history of similar events?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘You certainly keep my case-book close to the frontiers of medical knowledge.’ Dr Godfrey moved to a shelf, and rummaged through some magazines. ‘Fortunately, your symptoms are at the mild end of the scale. Churchill had a depressive state he called “the black dog”—but his symptoms went further than anxiety.’ She found the journal she was looking for and examined the index. ‘Here we go. Three papers delivered by psychiatrists at a seminar last year; all refer to unexplained states of mind characterised as depression. Unlike your other condition, there are enough reported cases for researchers to be making some progress, but they still don’t know a great deal. The suspicion is it’s been around forever, but not well recognised because people are reluctant to report it. There are a couple of medications available but most practitioners consider them a last resort. I’ll mention our discussion in my notes to Dr Galloway. Make sure you see him if the episodes get worse.’

  Fortunately, Caroline’s episodes didn’t get worse but her sensors had been primed and, as the years passed, her turning the pages of newspapers was frequently arrested by references to depression. There appeared to be an increasing number of reports. Two well-known entertainers and an eminent writer were mentioned as sufferers campaigning for more research. When she entered parliament she wondered if she should make some public announcement, but she didn’t want to seem self-serving or in search of sympathy. Nevertheless, an increasing fascination with unusual medical conditions was one of the reasons she put herself forward for a senate committee on health.

  Café Quirk

  Friday 3rd March 1978

  ‘It’s had a facelift,’ Caroline observed.

  ‘And the quirky name change,’ Tony said, directing her towards Christopher’s accustomed table in the corner by the window.

  Caroline stopped. ‘Oh! There’s a reserved sign.’

  ‘For us. I spoke to Mr Quirk this morning before I left.’

  They sat, and the proprietor bustled over with menus. ‘Senator. Mr Blake. Such a sadness. I am barely get to know him. Lovely old man.’

  ‘Do you still do the asparagus quiche?’ Caroline asked.

  ‘Put it back at his request. Favourite he tell me.’

  ‘I’ll have it, please.’ She smiled and handed back the menu. ‘And an espresso.’

  ‘Twice,’ Tony said.

  As the proprietor bustled off Tony lent forward and whispered, ‘I agree the quiche is good, but I think mine might win.’

  ‘You cook?’

  ‘Do I cook?’ He patted his ample abdomen. ‘This waistline is no accident. I simply adore cooking. I hope one day you’ll let me entertain you in Sydney.’

  ‘Well, I adore eating, so I’ll definitely look for an opportunity.’

  Caroline watched the pedestrians passing by. The street was much busier than it had been when Uncle Christopher first treated her to lunch all those years ago. Inner city l
iving was becoming increasingly popular. She turned back to her cousin.

  ‘I have a question.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The private funeral. The very private funeral.’

  ‘I was under instructions. He said he’d outlived anybody he really cared about except you and me. He was afraid that if we ran a funeral notice you might not come in case your father turned up. Not that they were on bad terms. I think it shows how fond he was of you. I’ll write a note to Walter this afternoon. I won’t mention your being here of course.’

  ‘You’ve been briefed.’

  ‘And I’m good at minding my own business.’

  ‘I wonder if my father would have come. He made quite a thing about being at Aunt May’s funeral.’

  ‘I think that was different. I suspect my dad knew the reason, but he never said. Like he never explained Aunt May’s failed love affair, but one sensed he knew.’

  ‘I wish I hadn’t been so busy these past few years. I’ve missed the Sunday lunches.’

  ‘He understood. He was touched when you turned up before Christmas. He spoke of little else when I telephoned that week. Said you’d insisted on time off from your committee hearings. I haven’t seen you since Aunt May’s funeral. You were an engaging child. I can’t believe you’re a senator. You’re far too nice. He was forever talking about you, you know. Like a daughter.’

  ‘It’s funny how these things happen. I’d never have got to know him if I hadn’t been trying to trace the origins of a medical condition. It was pure self-interest that brought me here to start with.’

  ‘Is there anything you’d like as a memento? Something from the apartment? I looked through his drawers but didn’t get any inspiration. It’s mainly men’s stuff—you know, cuff links, studs...’

  ‘I have Aunt May’s things. That’s enough. I never wear anything of hers without remembering his kindness in giving them to me.’

  ‘What about the photo? The mystery lover? I’m a dreadful bowerbird and I could never bring myself to throw out something like that. I still have her box of receipts and cheque stubs. It was as well you and Dad went through her other belongings or I’d have them salted away too. Would you believe I’ve accumulated so much junk I have to rent one of those lock-it-yourself storage areas in an old warehouse. I don’t mind the thought of everything going to the tip after I’m dead, but whenever I wonder about doing it now I can’t bring myself. I think: oh dear, what if I need to refer back to something, or what if there’s something somebody wants.’

  ‘I’d be happy to have the photo.’

  ‘Looking through Dad’s things made me realise I should probably make a decision about what happens when I go. I’m the last of my line, and will be I can assure you. Dealing with money and property isn’t difficult. The furniture and books can be sold. I’m sure the antique pieces will find somebody to love them. The racing trophies should be snapped up by some collector. But there must be communities crying out for old stuff to display. Even financial records tell a story. May’s Bank was ES&A—English, Scottish and Australasian, what a wonderful name. It doesn’t exist any more. The cheque butts are all in pounds, shillings and pence. There must be educational value in those things.’

  ‘Why not ring the State Library, or the archives.’

  ‘Most of us aren’t that important. No senators on our branch of the tree.’

  ‘They might give you some advice though.’

  ‘Good thought. Ah, here’s the celebrated asparagus quiche. Thank you Mr Quirk. Thank you so much.’

  True to his word, Tony sat down that afternoon and wrote to Walter.

  3rd March 1978

  Dear Walter

  I thought you would want to know my father passed away on Monday. At his express request, no funeral notice was published. He had also asked that only one close friend accompany me to see him put to rest. As you will recall, it was much the same when my mother died.

  He did ask me to write to you and say how much he valued your kindness to Grandma Alice, and your understanding during my aunt May’s last years. He was always a shy man, and reticent, but he did tell me, on several occasions, he thought you had something in common with him and with me—that each of us was a departure from the Blake mould, and each uniquely so.

  I do hope you are well and that Banabrook prospers. I really must visit you one of these days.

  My best regards,

  Tony

  Less than two weeks later, he received a reply.

  10th March 1978

  Dear Tony,

  Thank you for the note about your father. My condolences on your loss.

  I too had noted similarities between myself and your side of the family. I had heard Uncle Chris called a black sheep, and I sometimes thought of myself in those terms. I think all three of us owe much to Grandma Alice who had an extraordinary capacity to see the good in people. I still miss her very much.

  Do follow through with your idea of coming to visit. I know Rachel and Judith would love to meet you.

  Warm regards,

  Walter.