‘Let me have a look at you.’
I put her case in the boot and turned and stood for her inspection, selfconsciously.
She nodded. ‘You’ve completely recovered, haven’t you? More energy than before the heart alarm? Taking better care of yourself?’
‘Right,’ I said.
‘I knew you’d come good.’ She laughed. ‘Listen to me, I’m talking Australian already.’
‘A couple of days and you won’t be able to tell the difference. It’s great to see you, Margaret. I’m just sorry it’s not under better circumstances.’
‘I’ve known in my heart of hearts for a while that he was gone. That he didn’t embezzle a million dollars and take off to South America, or have a fall and be in an amnesiac fog somewhere.’
No remote. I opened the passenger door with the key. She smiled at the old-fashioned operation but didn’t say anything. I got in and started the engine.
‘I had to tell Lucinda her grandfather had died. I didn’t give her any details.’
‘Sure. The media have the facts now and they’re covering it. Some of the facts, that is. I’ve got the papers at home and a record of one of the TV reports.’
‘Some of the facts?’
I was out in the traffic, coping with the aggression of the cabbies and the competitiveness of some of the other drivers. I swore as one cut in front of me. I felt her touch my arm.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Just drive. Plenty of time to talk.’
She was wearing shoes with a small heel. She eased them off and leaned back in her seat. She’d obviously freshened up before landing. I could smell some kind of perfume, very faintly. She ran her fingers through her hair, shook it out, and the action had an immediately erotic effect on me so that I had to grip the wheel and concentrate on my driving more than was needed.
‘I guess this isn’t the scenic route,’ she said as we travelled through streets crammed with transport warehouses.
‘There isn’t one. They made some improvements for the Olympics. But you’ve been back since then, you said.’
‘Once only. Dad collected us and took us straight up to a resort on the central coast. Bliss. And straight back. I scarcely saw Sydney.’
‘Lots of changes,’ I said. ‘Bridges, tunnels, toll roads, e-tags, half a million plus for a single-storey terrace in Newtown.’
‘Jesus. As students we rented them for next to nothing. What else?’
‘Starbucks, Gloria Jean’s, more Maccas.’
‘Tell me something good.’
‘Lots of Asians, Africans, Middle Easterners, mostly getting along, and a bad government looking as if it’s on the way out.’
‘Fingers crossed,’ she said. ‘There was a piece on that in the New York Times. I’ve been trying to catch up.’
It was dark when we got to Glebe and my house always looks a bit better in the dark-more gracious and imposing than it really is. We went in and I showed her the upstairs spare room with its three-quarter bed, wardrobe and table with the new computer and accessories.
‘Bathroom’s next door, and there’s one downstairs.’
‘Thanks. Nice room, nice house. Very you, Cliff.’
‘Meaning?’
She laughed. ‘Haven’t seen a three-quarter bed in a while.’
‘It’s to deter couples from staying too long. Get yourself set and we’ll have a drink. Gin? Scotch?’
‘Gin with plenty of tonic, or I’ll be on my ear.’
‘Something to eat?’
‘I ate on the plane. It reminded me of that joke about the plane crash, where the survivors ate the bodies of the dead and then the on-board meals.’
She was holding up very well, but I had to wonder how she’d feel when she saw the familiar sights in daylight, and went to her father’s place, saw his bike, the original of the drawing. I had the drinks ready when she came down. She still looked tired but less tense. I settled her into a chair and we touched glasses.
‘To Henry McKinley,’ she said. ‘And screw the bastards who killed him.’
We drank the toast.
‘I’m buggered,’ she said. ‘That’s a bloody long flight in economy. In the morning you can tell me more of those facts you’ve held back.’
I nodded. She finished the drink and then did what I do-ate the lemon slice. She got up and kissed me, not on the mouth but close.
‘Don’t be alarmed if I’m up at three am with advanced jet lag.’
‘There’s a radio in the room and the TV and CD player down here. Tea and coffee making in the kitchen. I’ll set them up for you. Just pretend you’re in the Hilton.’
‘I’d rather be here.’
She went up the stairs. A floorboard creaked on the landing. I remembered how it always creaked in just that way when Lily trod on it. There was a photo of Lily on a shelf not far from where we’d been sitting. If Margaret had seen it she hadn’t reacted. I looked at it now and felt the ache.
I hadn’t eaten since the morning and I suddenly felt the need for fuel. I microwaved some leftover curry and freshened my drink. I ate and then set out the tea and coffee for Margaret and made sure the mugs in the drying tray were clean and that the milk in the fridge hadn’t gone off. Sugar on the bench, bread in the basket near the toaster.
I sat in the living room that still carried a trace of Margaret’s presence in the air and tried to free-associate about the McKinley case. After a while I decided that I didn’t know enough about Henry McKinley. Was anyone that pure? That dedicated? That uncomplicated? Not in my experience. From what I knew so far, it sounded as if he had no life apart from work, cycling and a long-distance relationship with his daughter and grandchild. I didn’t believe it.
I needed to know more about the texture of his life in Sydney. Does a fit, healthy, well-heeled widower lead a celibate life? I didn’t think so. Someone must know something closer to the bone. Josephine Dart? Moving on from that, I needed to know more, a lot more, about what kind of work he was doing for the Tarelton mob. They’d closed the doors pretty tight, but there’s always an opening somewhere. A weak link. Ashley Guy?
I fished out my notebook and scribbled these things down. Sometimes this stuff, done late at night with drink on board, turns out to be froth and bubble in the morning. Sometimes not.
I took my late-night meds and went up to bed. No light showed under the spare room door. I’d finished the Barnes novel, tried another of his books without success, and started on Port Mungo by Patrick McGrath-about an artist who was a bit of an arsehole, like some I’ve known. I read about half before quitting and turning off the light.
Lines from Adam Lindsay Gordon buzzed in my head as I drifted off:
Life is mostly froth and bubble,
Two things stand like stone.
Kindness in another’s trouble,
Courage in your own.
Bit banal maybe, but his bust is in Westminster Abbey. Les Murray’d never make that.
11
If Margaret had a disturbed night I didn’t know about it. I woke up from a sound sleep to the smell of coffee. I found her in the kitchen in white silk pyjamas and a kimono-style dressing gown, pressing the plunger.
‘Morning, Cliff. That bed’s okay. I slept just fine. Coffee?’
‘You bet.’
‘Toast?’
‘No, thanks. Orange juice with my bloody pills and coffee and that’s it.’ ‘I’m ravenous.’ She put two slices of bread into the toaster and poured
the coffee. ‘I could do you scrambled eggs,’ I said. ‘I remember how from my cholesterol days.’ She laughed. ‘Maybe another time. Who’s the woman in the photo, if you don’t mind me asking?’
I didn’t. ‘Lily Truscott. We were together for nearly five years. She was murdered. That’s one of the reasons I took off for the US.’
She studied me for a moment, then nodded and dealt with her toast. We were sitting across from each other in the breakfast nook.