The Family Tree (26 page)

‘Yes. Especially in those days. Nowadays there'd be social workers on the case, but then? People just minded their own business.'

‘God.'

‘So you see that even though there's no denying she was a sly little thing as a child, and she grew into a rather unpleasant woman, well, there was probably good reason for it. And that's what's been preying on me. Just in case you want to mention her, in your book, you need the whole story. Not just the fact she wasn't well liked.'

‘I appreciate that,' said Kate, her mind still reeling. ‘Absolutely.'

‘Good.' Bev took a deep breath, clearly relieved. She gave Kate a quick, tight smile and then turned to go.

‘One more thing,' Kate stepped out onto the porch. ‘Just out of curiosity, what happened to them? Rose's parents, I mean.'

The older woman pursed her lips and gazed over Kate's shoulder into the past. ‘Hmm, not sure, but I think she died young. Certainly she wasn't around by the time Rose got married. But
he
still was. In fact, he was probably one of the reasons they moved. Rose and James Painter, I mean. But God
does
strike in mysterious ways.'

‘He does?'

‘He certainly does. The old bastard ended up getting exactly what he deserved.' Bev smiled with rather inordinate pleasure. ‘Got knocked down by a truck one night right outside the local hotel. Killed instantly.'

‘Oh.'

‘Actually now that I think of it, probably would have been more fitting if he'd lingered for a while, but there you go. Can't have everything.'

‘No, I suppose you can't,' said Kate slowly.

‘So if you mention Rose, be sure to mention some of this also.'

‘I will. And thank you very much for your trouble,' Kate smiled at Bev, who nodded briskly and pursed her lips again, as if congratulating herself that the task was now done.

Kate watched her walk slowly to her car and then went back to her laptop where, after a few moments, she added another question:
Who was Rose Kimber?
Then she sat, staring at the question and trying to imagine what life had been like for her mother. A father who was a violent drunk, and a mother who was what? Mentally disabled? The product of constant abuse? Or maybe both.

The question seemed to fill the screen.
Who was Rose Kimber?
In its shadow were all the other questions about Rose's life, and how dreadful a childhood it must have been. Especially after her own mother had passed away. No wonder she had been a sly child, it had probably been one of the few measures she could develop to protect herself. While bitterly comparing the horrors of her home life with those of other children around. And all those people, none of whom lifted a finger to help her. Why
wouldn't
she be horrid?

But one of the most compelling questions, for Kate, was how her parents got together. Had it been at a dance, as her father always
said, where perhaps the quiet, sensitive man saw through the young woman's prickly exterior? Or maybe a scenario like so many others, where fumbling, frantic lust had taken advantage – or been taken advantage
of
. Then again, like much of reality, perhaps it was neither one nor the other, but a mix of both.

Kate suddenly realised that, as depressingly awful as Rose's background was, it was also, in some strange way, a relief. Because suddenly her mother was comprehensible again. She had
not
sprung forth from a happy, secure, middle-class home as a horrid woman; rather she had crawled from a wreck of a childhood and then probably tried to secure herself a future in one of the only ways she would have known. This new mother might not be the princess of her father's stories, but she had regained her tragic essence – even enhanced it. And that was what Kate had always been used to.

The weather finally broke that afternoon, a brisk, cool breeze heralding a sheet of grey clouds that wrapped their way across the sky. An hour later they released their burden, sending down a drizzle of rain that rapidly became a torrent, beating against the windows with a ferocity that forced Kate to turn the television volume up. She was watching an American talk show, one of the types guaranteed to make even the most pessimistic person more cheerful about their own lives. Today's topic seemed to be:
How my father slept with my wife and then she had a baby who was both my step-child and my sibling
.

Kate watched the show until the credits began to roll, then she turned the volume down and immediately the sound of hammering rain filled the room. She could see nothing through the windows but a greyness pierced by slashes of silver whipping across the glass. It brought a sense of isolation and seclusion that was strangely cathartic. She closed her eyes and, with the absence of sight, the drumming of the rain seemed to fill her head, banishing even reason. She laid her head against one of the cushions and let it massage her head, the repetition becoming almost hypnotic.

The shrill ringing of the telephone jerked Kate roughly awake, and she sat up, feeling dislocated and sodden with sleep. The sound of the rain had eased and a newsreader now filled the television screen, his lips moving wordlessly. The telephone rang again so Kate forced herself to answer it.

‘Hello?' She turned her head from side to side, trying to erase the stiffness.

‘Hello! Who's this? Angie?'

‘No, it's Kate.'

‘Ah, hello, honey. You sound tired.'

‘Auntie Faye.' Kate made an effort to lift the flatness of her tone. ‘How are you?'

‘I'm well. Very well. Now, did you ring me? Or was it Angie?'

‘It was me. How did you know?'

‘Can't get anything past this old bird,' Auntie Faye chuckled proudly. ‘You see, the answering machine picked up a call, but no message, so I just pressed a few buttons and voilà! Mystery solved. Ah, the wonders of technology.'

Kate stifled a yawn. ‘I was just ringing to say thanks. For lunch the other day.'

‘My pleasure. Any time.'

‘Well, it's our turn next. You'll have to come down here.'

Auntie Faye laughed. ‘Then I'd better make it soon, hadn't I? That is, if Angie goes overseas. What wonderful news about Melissa, hey? I've already rung her to say congrats. Fancy me being a great-aunt! I'll tell you a secret though, I
thought
something like this'd be on the cards. Just had this little feeling. I told Angie that too.'

‘Did you?' Kate frowned to herself, but she wasn't sure why. Something jarred. ‘So you've spoken to her?'

‘Oh, yes. We had a lovely chat this morning.'

‘I see. Um, and I suppose you spoke about . . .'

‘What, honey?'

Kate chewed her lip, wondering how best to ask the older woman whether she had said anything about their little chat over lunch. Then
her eyes widened as she was suddenly struck by an anomaly that had framed the entire conversation. If Angie knew very little about her mother's story, then why hadn't Auntie Faye been more discreet in the first place?
I'll tell you a secret
. . .

‘I'm going to have to go in a sec,' prompted Auntie Faye. ‘I've got pottery. So . . . ?'

‘It was nothing,' said Kate weakly. ‘Just wanted to say thanks. That's all.'

‘Any time at all, honey. Have a lovely Easter.'

Kate hung up the phone slowly. She could have asked Auntie Faye directly but she wanted to get it straight in her mind first. Besides, that would only have served to emphasis the entire episode. And for all she knew, Auntie Faye suffered from periods of forgetfulness, or downright senility, and had put the whole thing out of her mind. In that case, to mention it now would only serve to remind her. And she may well feel that then she
had
to tell Angie.

But the initial anomaly remained, and Kate shook her head with amazement that it had never occurred to her before. Even while she was revealing particularly personal segments of the family history on Saturday, Auntie Faye had never
once
sounded like she was imparting anything confidential. She had spoken as if all was in the public arena already, and she was merely passing it on. Having a bit of a gossip. Kate thought back over the conversation, especially the last part where Auntie Faye had pointed cheerfully towards Sophie's house. And she realised, with a flash of sudden understanding, that
I'll tell you a secret
wasn't the prelude to a revelation at all. It was just an expression.
I'll tell you a secret
, this potato's actually made from powder.
I'll tell you a secret
, my sister lives just up the road.
I'll tell you a secret
, Angie already knows. Everything.

T
he week unfolded like a gift, day after day of a seclusion that was augmented by continuing inclement weather. Kate only went out once, to stock up on a few groceries, but apart from that she hunkered down and thrived within the isolation. She watched a lot of television, read a couple of books, and marked up a few manuscripts that weren't due for a while. It was like a little holiday, unencumbered and wonderfully
therapeutic. Better than a writers' retreat, because there was nobody here to judge her.

It occurred to her that this time last year, as her father's condition worsened, she would have done almost anything for free time like this. And in a way she had.

To her surprise, however, thoughts like this did not contain the sharply accusatory edges they once had. Certainly they made her feel saddened, but the actual pain seemed blunter, as if it had worn down with use. She steered clear of exploring what this meant, because the notion that she was becoming desensitised was depressing in itself.

Instead she concentrated on reimagining her mother and building a framework for Angie's. Accordingly, Kate also spent a lot of time on the Internet, trawling through the local library website and some archival pages, in search of any references to those on her list. Wharton, Painter, and now Kimber as well. In particular, she was looking for something that referred to Frank's departure to, or arrival back from, his time spent at Her Majesty's pleasure. Along the way, she was also hoping for some mention of the Kimber family, maybe even something relating to the death of either or both of Rose's parents. But all she found was a 1962 article about severe bushfires in the area that had caused over thirty fatalities, where a Mr F Painter was quoted as saying, ‘We thought we was all goners.'

So after hours of investigation, all she discovered was that her uncle hadn't been a particularly dab hand at grammar, which she knew already. She sent a few enquiries to genealogy websites asking about pointers to discover prison records and court documents but left it at that. It was then, late on Friday afternoon, that Kate went to check her emails quickly and found several Happy Easter ones from friends and a funny Easter chain letter from Shelley, with a bunny hopping across the bottom of the screen laying chocolate eggs as he went.

Kate smiled, and then slowly frowned. How soon
was
Easter? Even as she jumped off the couch and hurried towards the kitchen, and Angie's Remarkable Scenes of Australia calendar, her stomach was clenching with unease. Yet this did not negate the disbelief she felt as she stared
at the words
Good Friday
, which were clearly marked across the square containing today's date. Kate blinked, but nothing changed.

Certainly she had noticed the array of hot-cross buns and chocolate eggs and oversized rabbits through the stores, but since they began making their appearance shortly after the New Year, she had just become accustomed to their presence. And certainly she had registered the occasional mention of Easter in conversations but, if she had thought about it at all, she had just assumed Easter was approaching sometime in early April, not when it was still March. In her defence, it
was
the earliest Easter for a number of years.

But the really puzzling facet was that there had been no mention of Easter from her family. Especially as this was a time they traditionally spent together, with their annual obeisance to religion being a fish dinner on Good Friday and then, on Sunday, a barbecue and a genial exchange of chocolate eggs. Kate sat down at the dining room table; she felt so hurt that she physically ached. Besides, this was Emma's first Easter! Her
first
Easter!

It was also the first Easter since her father had died. And suddenly Kate thought she knew why nothing had been organised. They had been waiting for her, taking their cue from her actions. And as no actions had been forthcoming, maybe they'd thought she would prefer nothing to be done. But they were wrong. Kate ran upstairs to pack her bag for the weekend. Within twenty minutes she was reversing out onto the road, heading down to Lysterfield. She made two stops on the way, the first at a local supermarket to purchase an assortment of chocolate eggs, bunnies and bilbies, and a large box of chocolate-covered cashews for Sam; and the second to her father's house. Kate didn't stay there long. She strode through to the back, feeling rather embarrassed at what she intended but trying to mask it with brisk pragmatism.