Ripples on a Pond (35 page)

‘Until you're settled in.'

‘Give me a timeframe I can work with. A week? A month? A year? I've signed a twelve-month lease in Doncaster. We've got a fourth bedroom.'

‘That's a dangerous invitation to toss out to an itinerant,' he said.

‘I need you,' she said.

G
OODBYE

M
orrie's plane touched down in Melbourne on a wintry June morning. Cathy and Gerry had offered their spare room for the ten days he would be in Australia, but he was in no mood to deal with multiple little boys. He'd left the details of his accommodation to Roland Atkinson, his accountant and trusted adviser.

He knew from Gerry and Cathy that Cara's mother had died, that she was now living with her father and son at Doncaster; that she'd retired from teaching to foster the baby of a prisoner. He knew, too, that his MG was still on the road, but that was all he knew.

Leticia was gone. She'd tossed in the towel the day they'd buried Bernard. Morrie was back in Australia to make a few decisions and to see the land he'd inherited before he made those decisions. Roland had offered to travel with him.

At twelve forty, behind the wheel of a hire car, Morrie wended his way out of the airport to the freeway, intent on a shower, a shave, a change of clothing and a better frame of mind before his lunch appointment with Roland. Or that had been his plan until he saw a sign directing him to Brunswick Road. Why battle his way into the city then back out to Brunswick when he was a bare ten minutes away from his accountant's house?

Roland Atkinson had been Vern Hooper's accountant for a time, then Margaret's. Well beyond retirement age, he'd given up his city office, but continued to look after the interests of a few long-term clients, working from his home – a long narrow house built wall to wall with its neighbours. Inside, he'd built himself into a corner with the contents of his office: filing cabinets, shelves, bookshelves, and piles of paper covering the surface of a too-large desk. There was space in his kitchen for a table he'd set for two, complete with wine glasses. Roland enjoyed a good red wine.

He knew to the last cent the balance in the Hooper estate's account, the current value of the shares; could offer an approximate valuation of the Woody Creek property and of Morrie's rental properties. The farm manager had made a profit last year. Lorna and her Kew house were constant drains on the estate. Along with free rent, the payment of rates and utilities, she received a quarterly cheque. At their every meeting, Roland raised the subject of Lorna, a major thorn in his side.

‘The Kew house is one of your better properties,' he said, topping up the two glasses.

‘The terms of my grandfather's will state that she is to be given a home for life. You might look into the legalities of paying her out.'

‘She has a housekeeper,' Roland said. ‘I have not been able to ascertain any details of the financial arrangements between them, but they are both of pension age. My suggestion would be to purchase a unit in your aunt's name, and offer her a cash settlement. She may not be pleased with the altered arrangements but would have no legal recourse.'

‘I hear from her solicitor regularly,' Morrie said.

‘I receive my share of correspondence,' Roland said.

The last time Morrie had flown over, he'd attempted to speak to Lorna. Her Miss Duckworth, a civil little woman, had offered him tea. Her civility hadn't rubbed off on Lorna, who had withdrawn the offer. He'd keep his distance this trip.

Before leaving Brunswick, Morrie phoned Cara's Doncaster number. He hadn't seen her since that day in Sydney.

A male replied.

Morrie identified himself and asked to speak to Cara.

‘She's not in. If you're calling in connection with your MG–'

‘I'm calling in connection with my son,' Morrie said, unreasonably angered by that male voice. ‘I'll be in Melbourne for ten days and want to see him while I'm here.'

‘I'll tell her you called.'

The voice wasn't elderly. Cathy had spoken to Cara's father who she'd described as antique, but had made no mention of a new man in Cara's life.

Morrie left the name of his city hotel, then placed the phone down. He emptied his wine glass, shook Roland's hand and walked out to the car. He carried the photograph of his son beside his own bill of sale, in a plastic envelope he'd picked up somewhere. It always travelled with him, in the breast pocket of his jacket. He removed it now to study the curly-headed boy, barely more than a baby when that shot had been taken. He'd be a four year old now. Cathy had seen him a few months ago. Taller than Timothy, she'd said. She hadn't yet seen the fostered baby.

He started the motor, his mind sifting voices as he attempted to identify the male on the line, the male who knew his son. Chris Marino, who had at one time owned a block of land in Doncaster?

Two plus two usually added up to four. Morrie glanced at his watch, considering a change of plan, a night at Ballarat with Cathy. She'd know who Cara was living with. Or would she?

Secretive
, Cathy said of her friend.

As was he. Maybe it was in the genes.

He was heading in the direction of Ballarat when he changed his plans again and made the turn towards the Calder Highway. He did a lot of mind-changing these days.

Letty's house, which had supplied the foundations for seventeen-year-old Morrie Langdon to stand on, was crumbling. Wood rot had eaten into the older section of Langdon Hall, its mortar was crumbling, its roof leaking. Like the house, Morrie had been suffering his own decay since Letty's funeral – or since his wedding day. Propping up Bernard had kept him standing, but his last prop had gone with Letty's death and he was in danger of toppling.

He'd inherited Langdon Hall and its debts by default, by double default. Old Henry Langdon, who Morrie had never met, had named Bernard's firstborn son heir to the property. Morrie, adopted by Bernard as a ten year old, was his only legal issue.

He knew the whole story now. Since Leticia's death, every document and receipt, every personal letter addressed to a Langdon in the last hundred years and more, had come into his possession. He'd read a letter penned by Lorna to her uncle back in '51.

My dear Uncle Henry,

I hope this letter finds you and Aunt Leticia in good health as it leaves me. I cannot say the same of my father. Being confident in the knowledge that the following will be seen by your eyes only, I now agree with statements made by you during my sojourn in Thames Ditton: that it would be in my better interests if I were to wed. Thus I make this appeal to you, my only male relative, to choose for me an Englishman of refinement and good breeding with a view to matrimony.

Taking into consideration my father's age and current health issues, this request should be met at your earliest convenience.

Your loving niece, Lorna Hooper

Morrie had read letters from Lorna's mother, packed off to the colonies to find the husband she'd refused to find in England. He'd read Vern Hooper's letter to his brother-in-law informing him of his sister's passing, and of the then unnamed female infant cut from her dead mother. He had a copy of Henry's last will and testament, signed while Bernard had been in transit to the colonies to wed serious-minded, responsible Lorna.

Poor old Henry, so confident that a union between Bernard and his only blood niece would produce an heir for Langdon Hall.

Bernard had not tied himself to serious, responsible Lorna, but to sweet-natured, dithering Margaret. Their son, born a bastard in Woody Creek, purchased as a six year old for two thousand pounds, was the new master of a crumbling old mansion, eighty acres of land and a crushing pile of debts.

The new master of Langdon Hall yawned and looked at his watch. Crossing too many time zones disrupted the sleep rhythms, and two glasses of wine with lunch hadn't helped.

Change your mind again, he advised. Turn around and check into the hotel, have a few more glasses of wine and sleep.

And wake at midnight, your bones ready to go?

Or drive until you drop?

The Calder Highway, a familiar road, led to Bendigo, a large inland city he'd called home between the ages of twelve and seventeen.

There was much he recalled of his early life that he had no recollection of learning. He'd once had a granny who had worn men's boots, ridden a black horse and milked pretty-faced goats. He remembered her white hens and baskets full of eggs, and that's all he knew about his granny. He had a thousand recollections of his grandfather. He'd lived with Vern from the age of six to eleven. He'd retained one image of his father: that of a tall skeleton man who had leant on wooden crutches – because he had a wooden leg. Knew a lot about Jim Hooper from Margaret. Knew he'd lost that leg in the war. He could remember only the words of war:
enemy lines
,
counterattacks
,
atom bombs. Hiroshima.

He had a million scattered memories of Jenny. One of the strongest was of her singing on a stage in a Snow White costume.

He yawned again. He'd driven this way on his wedding night; had driven through Bendigo then west until he'd sighted a signpost:
Willama 30 K
. It had turned him back. He hadn't known why he'd known Willama until he'd looked at a road map. Willama was the town where all of the doctors had lived. He'd learnt since that Willama was the place of his birth. It was written on his original birth certificate.

Landscape whizzing by, his mind sifting the past, finding threads of memory and attempting to trace them, he drove through Bendigo on automatic pilot, unaware of where he was until he failed to give way to a car on his right and the redheaded driver blasted her horn and continued to blast it for two blocks. It could have been Georgie, grown old, grown plump. Same hair.

He remembered her hair. Remembered Margot's white hair, Jenny's tickly gold hair. He felt for the window winder and wound it low, hoping a shot of cold air might encourage his weary mind and eyes to concentrate on the road.

He liked driving. Liked Australia's near empty roads. He thought of the miles he'd done in his MG. He'd meant to speak to Roland about shipping the car, though he didn't need any more bills right now – and maybe he'd outgrown the MG. Wondered if Cara's new man drove it.

Sell it, he thought. It had to be worth something.

When he'd parked it that morning in Cara's bay, it had been for a purpose: his reason to keep in touch with her; his reason to come back. That had been his plan: to get Bernard settled in with Letty, then to return. Bernard hadn't settled. Letty had grown old.

That male voice had jolted something hard at his core; and the more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that he'd heard it before. He'd spoken to Chris Marino at Cathy's wedding. Knew he'd been in Cara's life and in her bed back in '69, and again before she'd flown to England. As far as he knew, as far as Cathy knew, there had been no other man in her life.

His mind far away, he almost missed the Willama signpost. He braked and pulled off to the side, allowing a loaded transport to go by. The sedan behind it turned right, towards Willama. The road clear, Morrie made a U-turn and followed the sedan, towards the town of his birth.

The last time he'd been in Australia, Lorna had delighted in relaying the tale of the trollop who had given him life. His father, a fool of a youth, had become entangled with the sister of his intended, then ran off to war to escape her. She'd relayed in detail how the little trollop had pursued his father to Sydney, where she had no doubt earned her money on her back.

He'd lived at Amberley with Jenny, had always remembered a pretty window, a wide staircase. The first time Cara had mentioned the name of her Sydney home, he'd known it. The first time she'd mentioned her placement at Armadale Primary School, he'd felt that same jar of memory, but back then he'd been in the denial business, killing any memory threatening to expose little Jimmy Morrison.

Leticia's death had exposed him.

He drove by farms, by country roads, by aged signposts:
Cotter's Road
;
Molliston Road.
Drove by a motel flashing a vacancy sign
.
He'd get a room there, but not yet. He'd flown often enough to know his body clock adjusted more quickly if he stayed away from beds until after sundown.

Drove by industrial land, then past block after block of new houses with the occasional big old house looking down on its brash little neighbours. Another motel. Two motels:
Vacancy
;
Vacancy
. A sign directed him to the town centre. He followed it to wide streets, cars parked on either side, and a hotel on each corner – not so grand as Bendigo's hotels, but substantial. He'd get a bed in one, drink a long dinner at the bar.

Late-afternoon traffic pushed him north towards a river. He followed the curving road to where it met a T-intersection. Had the choice of turning right towards a bridge, or left. Not yet ready to leave the town, he turned left and drove on through an older, more sparsely populated section, and was faced with another T-intersection. Left or right?

And he saw it. A sign shimmering in the late afternoon's weak sun.
Woody Creek 52 K.
And in his mind, little Jimmy chanted,
Woody Creek stinks, Woody Creek stinks.

Two cars behind him, no time to decide. He turned left, towards Woody Creek.

‘Brothers and sisters have I none, but that man's father is my father's son,' he whispered – an old schoolyard riddle he and his mates had argued long about.

He had a son. He had a father. He had sisters, and a mother who had sold him for two thousand pounds. Maybe it was time to go back and confront her.

Maybe he'd run out of petrol before he got there. The fuel gauge was brushing empty.

Leave it to fate.

The road fed its traffic out to farmland, to large naked paddocks waiting to produce the next crop, to miles of fences bordering the road. Few houses, old houses, surrounded by trees, and the new, with barely a tree. Followed the road to a bridge, a long bridge of modern steel and cement. On the far side, he saw a group of dark-skinned, barefoot kids playing football.