I wait until seven before calling Julianne. A male voice answers. At first I think I’ve dialed the wrong number but then I recognize Jock’s voice.
“I was just thinking about you,” he says in a booming voice. Charlie is in the background, saying, “Is that Dad? Can I talk to him? Please let me.”
Jock covers the receiver, but I can still hear him. He tells her to fetch Julianne. Charlie complains, but obeys.
Meanwhile, Jock is full of chummy bonhomie. I interrupt him. “What are you doing there, Jock? Is everything OK?”
“Your plumbing still sucks.”
What does he know about my fucking plumbing? He matches my coldness with his own. I can picture his face changing. “Someone tried to break in. Julianne got a bit spooked. She didn’t want to be in the house on her own. I offered to stay.”
“Who? When?”
“It was probably just some addict. He came through the front door. The plumbers had left it open. D.J. found him in the study and chased him down the street. Lost him near the canal.”
“Was anything taken?”
“No.”
I hear footsteps on the stairs. Jock puts his hand over the phone.
“Can I talk to Julianne? I know she’s there.”
“She says no.”
I feel a flush of anger. Jock tries to banter again. “She wants to know why you called her mother at three in the morning.”
A vague memory surfaces: dialing the number; her mother’s icy rebuke. She hung up on me.
“Just let me talk to Julianne.”
“No can do, old boy. She’s not feeling very well.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. She’s feeling a bit off-color.”
“Is anything wrong?”
“No. She’s in good order. I’ve given her a full physical.” He’s trying to wind me up. It’s working.
“Give her the fucking phone…”
“I don’t think you’re in any position to give me orders, Joe. You’re only making things worse.”
I want to sink my fist into his hundred-sit-ups-a-day stomach. Then I hear a telltale click. Someone has picked up the phone in my office. Jock doesn’t realize.
I try to sound conciliatory and tell him that I’ll call later. He puts the phone down, but I wait, listening.
“Dad, is that you?” Charlie asks nervously.
“How are you, sweetheart?”
“Good. When are you coming home?”
“I don’t know. I have to sort out a few things with Mummy.”
“Did you guys have a fight?”
“How did you know?”
“When Mum’s angry at you I should never let her brush my hair.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s OK. Was it your fault?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you just say you’re sorry? That’s what you tell me to do when I have a fight with Taylor Jones.”
“I don’t think that’s going to be enough this time.”
I can hear her thinking about this. I can even picture her biting her bottom lip in concentration.
“Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Well… um… I want to ask you something. It’s about… well…” She keeps starting and stopping. I tell her to think of the whole question in her head and then ask me.
Finally it comes blurting out. “There was this picture in the newspaper… someone with a coat over his head. Some of the kids were talking… at school. Lachlan O’Brien said it was you. I called him a liar. Then last night I took one of the newspapers from the trash. Mum had thrown them out. I sneaked them upstairs to my room…”
“Did you read the story?”
“Yes.”
My stomach lurches. How do I explain the concept of wrongful arrest and mistaken identity to an eight-year-old? Charlie has been taught to trust the police. Justice and fairness are important— even in the playground.
“It was a mistake, Charlie. The police made a mistake.”
“Then why is Mum angry at you?”
“Because I made another mistake. A different one. It has nothing to do with the police or with you.”
She falls silent. I can almost hear her thinking.
“What’s wrong with Mummy?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I heard her tell Uncle Jock she was late.”
“Late for what?”
“She didn’t say. She just said she was late.”
I ask her to repeat the statement word for word. She doesn’t understand why. My mouth is dry. It isn’t just the hangover. In the background I can hear Julianne calling Charlie’s name.
“I have to go,” whispers Charlie. “Come home soon.”
She hangs up quickly. I don’t have a chance to say goodbye. My first instinct is to call straight back. I want to keep calling until Julianne talks to me. Does “late” mean what I think it means? I feel sick to the stomach: hopeless in the head.
I could be home in three hours if I caught a train. I could stand on the doorstep until she agrees to talk to me. Maybe that’s what she wants— for me to come running back to fight for her.
We’ve waited six years. Julianne never stopped believing. I was the one who gave up hope.
10
A bell tinkles above my head as I enter the shop. The aromas of scented oils, perfumed candles and herbal poultices curl into my nostrils. Narrow shelves made of dark wood stretch from the floor to the ceiling. These are crammed with incense, soap, oils and bell jars full of everything from pumice stones to seaweed.
A large woman emerges from behind a partition. She wears a brightly colored caftan that starts at her throat and billows outward over huge breasts. Strings of beads sprout from her skull and clack as she walks.
“Come, come, don’t be shy,” she says, waving me toward her. This is Louise Elwood. I recognize her voice from the phone. Some people look like their voices. She is one of them— deep, low and loud. Bangles clink on her arms as she shakes my hand. At the center of her forehead is a pasted red dot.
“Oh my, oh my, oh my,” she says, holding her hand beneath my chin. “You are just in time. Look at those eyes. Dull. Dry. You haven’t been sleeping well, have you? Toxins in the blood. Too much red meat. Maybe a wheat allergy. What happened to your ear?”
“An overzealous hairdresser.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“We spoke on the phone,” I explain. “I’m Professor O’Loughlin.”
“Typical! Look at the state of you! Doctors and academics make the worst patients. They never take their own advice.”
She pirouettes with remarkable agility and bustles deeper into the shop. At the same time she keeps talking. There are no obvious signs of a man in her life. Photographs of children on the noticeboard are probably nieces and nephews. She is self-conscious about her size, but makes it part of her personality. She has a Burmese (cat hair), a drawer full of chocolates (tinsel on the floor) and a taste for romance writers (The Silent Lady by Catherine Cookson).
Behind the partition is a small back room with just enough space for a table, three chairs and a bench containing a small sink. An electric kettle and a radio are plugged into the lone socket. The center of the table has a women’s magazine open at the crossword.
“Herbal tea?”
“Do you have coffee?”
“No.”
“Tea will be fine.”
She rattles off a list of a dozen different blends. By the time she’s finished I’ve forgotten the first few.
“Chamomile.”
“Excellent choice. Good for relieving stress and tension.” She pauses. “You’re not a believer are you?”
“I have never been able to work out why herbal tea smells so wonderful, but tastes so bland.”