‘She’s ruining her life,’ my mother said, all prim in her peach dress.
I flushed. Both my adoptive parents were uncommonly emphatic and making little effort to disguise their disapproval. Something unfamiliar and strong welled up in me. Mr and Mrs Forster of Kew were not pleased to see the baby of the family relocate to an area beneath them. My mother seemed especially distraught, having raised her other children to have promising careers—my eldest brother, Greg, was a solicitor living in Prahran, Simon a botanist residing in Hobart’s historic Battery Point, and Grace the wife of a geologist, happily housed in the Flinders Ranges east of Adelaide. After all that success, Mrs Forster was not prepared for this failure, not after lavishing her attention on me, an adopted baby of an unwed teenage mother. As if she had known the child would have bad blood the result of her wayward genes, through the force of her will Mrs Forster had raised me to be mild mannered. Now the look of disappointment in her eyes seemed to suggest my mother was fast realising no amount of nurturing could eradicate the tendencies I had been born with, an attitude which seemed to me by turns ludicrous, hurtful and outright insulting.
‘Why didn’t you mention it before, Miriam?’
Because I knew you would react like this. I didn’t say it. ‘Belgrave has a terrible
reputation.’
‘It does?’
My mother paused and took a short breath. ‘Why would you want to live there?’
They knew why. I had a job there, in a shop.
I cast my eye about the room, high-ceilinged and furnished comfortably with deep sofas, upholstered in cream damask, facing each other across an Afghan rug. Mr and Mrs Forster had taken up the matching armchairs, positioned side-by-side and facing the window. An oak escritoire was centred along the far wall behind them, flanked by two balloon-backed chairs. A portrait of the paternal grandfather hung above the escritoire, his gaze wooden and stern. On the wall to the left was an upright piano of polished rose wood, catching the late sun shafting through the windows behind me. I was feeling uncharacteristically defiant.
‘It’s close to work.’
‘You must find a different job,’ my father said.
‘How in heaven’s name will you meet a nice young man in Belgrave?’
I had no interest in meeting any nice young men. I was about to leave the room to pack when my mother blurted, ‘Anything can happen to you out there. It’s too wild. I can’t bear to lose you, not after, after…’
‘After what?’ I asked, as politely as I could manage.
My father stepped in with an explanation of my cousin, little Nicole, and how she was the missing girl reported in the papers.
The woman behind the roadhouse counter wasn’t her. Couldn’t be. Nicole was found a year later, what remained of her. It was rumoured she’d been procured by some group with paedophilic habits, but nothing was proven.
Powerful feelings of protectiveness came rushing in, as though they’d been locked out of my being for far too long and suddenly wanted centre stage. I didn’t know where to put my gaze. I wanted to reach out my hand, hurry her out from behind that counter, bundle her into my arms, my car, and take her away to safety. It was a ludicrous impulse, but it was strong. Yet, for all I knew she was safe, right there where she was.
‘I’m here to speak with Con,’ I said.
She nodded but didn’t move.
Moments later, he lumbered in from the forecourt with a customer. Petrol fumes drifted in behind them.
Con took the dollars the man proffered, then hesitated as the till draw sprang open, a look of concentration appearing in his face as he calculated the change. It was an expression that made him seem peculiarly vacant.
I was left not knowing how any woman could relax in that town full of freaks.
‘How’s my car?’ I asked Con once the customer had gone, trying not to make a study of the cleft in his chin.
‘Won’t start, will it?’
‘I figured that much.’
‘Battery’s good, but.’
‘It should be. I only bought it last month.’
‘So, it isn’t the battery.’
‘Can’t be,’ I replied, wondering how long the inane exchange would go on.
The girl stood around, wiping down surfaces.
‘It’s the electrics,’ he said with authority. ‘The electrics.’
‘Alternator’s dead, I reckon.’
‘And that is?’
‘The machine what keeps your car running.’
‘Is it serious?’
‘Nah.’ He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and glanced behind him at the pie warmer.
‘That’s a relief,’ I said, following his gaze and counting the pies.
There were ten.
‘Got to order the part, but.’
‘How long will that take?’
‘It’s gotta come up from the city. I’ve rung through to Tony’s car parts but he’s outta stock till Monday.’
‘Can’t you order it from someone else?’
‘I always use Tony.’
He stood there, implacable.
‘Monday, you say.’ By then I was gripping the counter.
‘Monday’s when he’ll post it up.’ He reflected, making another slow, inner calculation. Any moment, I expected him to use his fingers. ‘Should be here next Thursday.’
‘That’s almost a week!’
‘Not my problem,’ he said, and walked off back outside.
‘Can I get you anything?’ the girl said.
I didn’t answer.
Instead, I stormed out of the café and round to the garage, where Con was fiddling about. ‘My car keys, please.’
He reached into the depths of a pocket. When he handed them to me, they were warm to the touch. I tried not to think about what they had been.
I retrieved a holdall, a small suitcase, and a couple of other bags from the boot, and made to cross the forecourt on my way back to the hotel.
‘Cheaper to stay here,’ he called after me.
I kept walking.
Aksara