I was so excited.
I had always wanted to go to Australia, even before I had discovered that my father had been living there. Somehow, to me it still represented the new frontier of man’s occupation of the planet, although I am sure the Aboriginal people would have viewed things somewhat differently.
All the way from England on the airplane, I had read my guidebooks and, by the time we arrived in Sydney, I’d become a bit of an expert on all things Australian.
The very first sighting by a European of what is now Australia didn’t take place until 1606, by which time William Shakespeare was writing and performing his plays in London, and Christopher Columbus had known about the Americas for more than a hundred years. The very first settlers, together with the first convicts, didn’t arrive to set up a penal colony in Botany Bay for almost another two centuries and some twelve years after the United States had declared its independence from Britain.
By European standards, Australia is vast and still rather empty. The land area is nearly twice that of the whole of the European Union while the population is less than a twentieth. If spread out evenly, only seven Australians would live in each square mile of their country, whereas more than a thousand would occupy the same space in England.
But, according to my guidebooks, the Australians are not spread out evenly, with nine out of ten of them living in the major coastal cities. Meanwhile, much of the interior is barren, uninhabited desert, with such original names as the “Great Sandy Desert” and the “Little Sandy Desert.” However, there is also tropical rain forest covering a great swathe of the state of Queensland in the northeast.
In fact, I was astounded by the diversity of physical geography that exists within a single country. But I supposed I shouldn’t have been. Australia stretches from almost the equator in the north to halfway to Antarctica in the south, and is as far across from east to west as the distance from New York to Los Angeles.
How was I ever going to find my sisters in such a huge country?
Sophie and I had planned to spend the first few days in Sydney, getting over jet lag and doing the things all tourists do.
Courtesy of Tony Bateman, we stayed in a magnificent five-star hotel overlooking the busy harbor. I could have happily sat by the window in our room watching the yellow-and-green harbor ferries shuttling in and out of the wharves on Circular Quay, but Sophie was keen for us to walk everywhere and see everything.
First, we climbed the steps to the Opera House and marveled at the shell-like arches of its iconic roof. Then we trekked around the Botanical Gardens and rested on Mrs. Macquarie’s Chair, a seat carved out of the natural rock by the convicts in 1810. The seat has a panoramic view of Sydney Harbour, and, the story goes, Mrs. Macquarie, the governor’s wife, would sit there for hours on end longing to be aboard one of the ships leaving for England and home.
After three days of dawn-to-dusk tourism, including climbing to the very top of the Harbour Bridge, Sophie and I were exhausted, and our sore feet were grateful for the short breather as we flew the hour or so to Melbourne.
Before we’d left England, I had used the Internet to engage a private detective to help in the search for my sisters, and he was waiting for us at Melbourne Airport.
“Lachlan Harris?” I asked a young man holding up a TALBOT sign at the baggage claim.
“Sure am,” he said. “But call me Lachie.” He was short, about thirty, with a well-bronzed face and spiky fairish hair, with highlights.
“Ned Talbot,” I said, shaking his hand. “And this is my wife, Sophie.”
“G’day,” he said in typical Australian fashion. He shook her hand too. “Good to meet you both.”
“Any news?” I asked, eager to hear immediately. I had purposely not called him from Sydney, although, at times, I had been quite desperate to do so.
“Yes,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I have some good news for you. But let’s get out of the airport first. I’m taking you to see your father’s house.” And, with that, he picked up our suitcases and turned for the exit. We followed, but I was rather frustrated by his lack of explanation.
“All in good time,” he said when we were in his car leaving the airport.
“But what’s the news?” I asked him again.
“I’ve found the two daughters of Mr. Alan Grady,” he said.
“My sisters,” I said, all excited like a young child on Christmas morning.
“Yes,” he said. “As you say, your sisters.” He didn’t go on.
“And?” I asked eagerly. “When can I meet them?”
“There’s a slight problem,” he said.
“What problem?”
“They don’t believe you’re their brother.”
“What?” I cried. It wasn’t something that I had even considered. “Why not?”
“They say they have documentary evidence that shows their father, Alan Charles Grady, was born in Melbourne in March 1948. I’ve checked with the State of Victoria Record Office,” Lachie said. “Alan Charles Grady was indeed born in the Royal Melbourne Hospital on March 15, 1948. I’ve got a copy of his birth certificate.” He removed a folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it over.
Mr. John Smith, or whoever he was, had told me in my car near Stratford that my father’s “Alan Grady” birth certificate had been genuine, but I hadn’t really believed him.
“It must be a fake,” I said. “Or else my father must have stolen the identity of the real Alan Grady.”
“I’ve checked in the register of deaths,” Lachie said. “No one called Alan Charles Grady who had that birthday has been recorded as dying.”
“Perhaps he died somewhere else, not in Australia.” I said. “Maybe on the ship where my father worked.”
I looked at the birth certificate. Both of Alan Grady’s parents were named, together with their addresses and occupations.
“How about these parents shown on the certificate?” I asked.
“Both dead,” said Lachie. “I checked. It seems they both died in the swine flu epidemic that struck Melbourne in 1976. They were quite old by then, in their seventies. You know, they were elderly parents even when their son was born.”
“Did they have any other children?” I asked him.
“None that I could find.”
“So where does that leave me?” I asked, somewhat deflated.
“I didn’t say the Grady daughters wouldn’t meet you,” he said. “Simply that they don’t accept that you are their brother.”
“Oh,” I said. “That’s all right, then. I’ll just have to convince them.”
Lachie Harris drove Sophie and me to Macpherson Street, in Carlton North, and pulled up outside number 312.
It was the middle property of a terrace row of single-story houses, all with verandas and elaborate wrought-iron railings.
“Victorian,” Lachie said. “That’s Victorian by era rather than by the state we’re in.” He laughed at his little joke. “These types of properties are known as ‘Boom Homes,’ as they were built during the boom time of the nineteenth century. After the gold rush of the 1850s.”
“They’re very pretty,” Sophie said. “But they must be dark inside.”
The houses were long and thin from front to back, and, as terrace homes, they had no windows down the sides.
“Can we see?” I asked. “I’ve got the keys.” I showed him the ring and the three keys that had been in my father’s rucksack.
“Ah,” said Lachie apologetically, “I’m afraid we can’t.”
“Why?” I asked. “I am his son.”
“His daughters have taken out an injunction to prevent you entering the property.”
“They’ve done what!” I was astounded.
“Sorry,” said Lachie. “These types of property are worth quite a lot these days, and the Grady daughters tend to believe that you are only here because you are after their inheritance.”