Rachael's Gift (22 page)

‘I’m going this way,’ he said, pointing in the opposite direction.

‘Oh, okay.’

Lucien stood tall. He was all angles with his long limbs. Something had mellowed in him since I last knew him. He seemed less driven, more at ease.

‘Rachael doesn’t stop raving about you,’ I said.

‘She’s quite exceptional.’

You don’t know the half of it, I thought. Rachael was still giving me the cold shoulder after our argument at La Roche Guilbeault.

‘And you? You seem . . .’ he paused, the line deepening between his eyes, ‘like there is something on your mind?’

An engine whirred and a man perched on top of a small green machine motored by. He guided a plastic tube – an enlarged vacuum cleaner – over a pile of dog poo and sucked it up off the pavement.

‘I’ve had a few surprises,’ I said. ‘Unwelcome ones.’

‘Including running into me?’

‘Not you.’ I smiled, feeling the heat rise. Our eyes met, speaking for us. I remembered there were whole afternoons like that, just staring. ‘Oh, anyway, it’s nothing.’

‘I’ll make sure you see me first next time.’ He winked and squeezed my arm, then walked away.

I waited until he was out of sight before looking around for the nearest metro.

The lift dinged to a halt on the twenty-sixth floor. The doors opened to reveal slick interior-designed offices with Bagshot & White’s company logo inscribed on every wall. Harvey White was waiting in reception for me. He shook my hand, his cuff riding up to expose a big black diver’s watch, and ushered me through to his office, calling to the girl at the front desk to organise coffee. He offered me a Danish-style leather chair and seated himself in a plush leather office chair behind his desk. On the wall was a vintage poster of a single guy on a longboard cruising down the beautiful shaft of a glassy three-footer, chased by a spool of whitewash and nothing else except miles of big blue merging into the sky. It was a gorgeous shot. Old Harvey White, eh.

‘Thanks for coming in. I wanted to update you informally and in person.’

‘No problem.’

‘We’ve finished the investigation and we’ve found the complaint to be unsustained. Mr Everett will be reinstated.’

I let the news sink in. There was a light tap on the door, and the girl from the front desk walked in with two coffees on a tray and placed them in front of us.

‘You’ll get all of this in a formal letter, of course. Do you want to ask me anything?’

I squeezed the bridge of my nose. ‘Is this because Rachael didn’t come forward – do the formal interview?’

‘Of course it would have contributed.’ He gave me time to turn it all over and then, seeing the worry on my face, said, ‘I understand. It’s hardest for the victims and their families. But it’s not always clear-cut. We looked at everything. His teaching is a little unorthodox, but that doesn’t warrant more than a slap on the wrist – a first-time warning.’ Harvey White cleared his throat. ‘To be fair, I’m not sure an interview with Rachael would have helped matters. I’m afraid her character references aren’t too reliable. Rebecca Tomlinson’s painting has not yet been recovered and we can’t overlook the fact that it was Mr Everett who reported Rachael shortly before she accused him. Look, I’m sorry, I understand this must sound unfair to you, but we’ve been through it a number of times and we’ve really found no further corroborative evidence.’

I felt disappointed, deflated, confused. Hadn’t I been doubting her myself? Hadn’t Sheehan warned us of this outcome? Even if Everett had been making advances, they couldn’t do anything about it because they had no evidence and Rachael had a reputation as a liar. I wasn’t sure if I felt outraged or relieved. Maybe Camille had been right – let the whole thing die down, forget about it. I wondered about this guy. I wanted to see him for myself – was he really a creep? A sleazebag operator, preying on troubled young girls? Wasn’t that what they did? I suddenly felt bad for ever doubting her. I had to laugh at the irony of it all – now that the case was dropped, I supported my kid. They needed more proof, that was all. There must be something on him – another witness; someone else must know something.

I thanked Harvey, we said goodbye and I left their offices. I thought of Cam and Rach gallivanting around Paris and me dealing with all this and my anger spiked. Outside in the street, I took out my phone and texted Camille:
Investigation closed: Everett found not guilty. Reinstated.

Not long after I’d returned home a package arrived by courier containing a report outlining the investigation and offering continued support for Rachael. There was a general letter from Sheehan informing the school community of the outcome of the situation and a separate letter to me and Cam inviting us to come in for another meeting once Rachael returned to Sydney.

Sometime that night a photocopied flyer was shoved anonymously under the front door: it was an attack on Ashley Everett. Photos of Everett drunk at a party, Everett kissing a girl, Everett’s naked butt, followed by a series of nude women in artistic poses. Written at the bottom of the page in large black texta was:
With teachers like this, how safe are our children? What is Rutherford hiding? Do something now! safekids.com; @safekids; [email protected].

*

‘Fancy putting up all that stuff on Facebook,’ said a bucktoothed woman.

‘Who cares about Facebook? What about all those naked pictures of women – the guy is a deviant.’

‘Luckily, mine never had him.’

‘Thank God, Emma never took up photography.’

‘I blame the school – they’re the ones that hired him.’

‘I heard one of the students made the whole thing up.’

The hairs on my neck bristled. I was standing in the line at the local supermarket, pack of ready-made lasagne in one hand and a bottle of Solo in the other. Three women in front of me were gasbagging, their trolleys blocking the aisle. I didn’t know them but they were clearly Rutherford mothers. Thanks to the Parents for Safe Kids group, gossip was spreading quickly.

‘No! I don’t believe it. There’s a pervert teaching our kids and what’s the school done? Nothing,’ replied a woman with hair so yellow it made my eyes water.

‘But what if he isn’t one?’ This from the one with black hair who had her back to me.

‘Have you seen the way he looks at you? Like he’s taking your clothes off with his eyes,’ said Buckteeth.

My fingers squeezed the bottle of squash. I wanted to tell them to shut up. Fucking gossip-mongers.

‘Oh, Pamela! If he’s innocent, his life is ruined,’ said Black Hair.

‘I spoke to Sara Milton,’ said Buckteeth. ‘Her other daughter’s in that year, and she said she knew the girl. They think it’s Rachael Larkin.’

My mouth went dry. Christ.

The other women gasped. ‘That girl’s always getting into trouble,’ said Yellow Hair.

I fumbled and the bottle of squash fell to the floor, splitting open and fizzing everywhere. The women squealed and jumped out of the way. I bent down to pick it up and Black Hair turned. When she saw me, her hand flew up to her mouth. She gripped Buckteeth and whispered something in her ear and Buckteeth’s face turned beetroot.

A shop assistant hurried over with a bucket, mop and cloth. ‘Are you okay, sir? Would you like a cloth?’

All three women stared.

‘No. No, thanks.’

I reeled back in shock, dumping the lasagne in the magazine rack by the checkout, searching for an exit. I slipped through a checkout a few aisles down, and hurried out into the fresh air. Christ – they were talking about Rachael. They knew it was Rachael.

*

I sat hunched over the keyboard, scrolling down the Facebook page ‘Parents for Safe Kids’. Their latest status update read:
We are the eyes and ears of our community. Don’t be afraid to ask questions
. Underneath that were six hundred and seventy-three ‘likes’ and three hundred and five people ‘talking about this’. The pamphlet with the pictures of Ashley Everett was there and underneath that were a hundred and thirty-five comments and three hundred and forty-five likes. I started scrolling through the comments.

Marion O’Brian wrote:
I am shocked the school would allow this
.

Amy Fischer wrote:
It just goes to show we have to be more vigilant – what kind of people are teaching our children? This is where it all starts. How can we police this?

Alana Day wrote:
I’m appalled. All the school wants to do is cover up their mistakes. We must do something. We cannot let our children be abused and turn a blind eye.

I scrolled on.

Get rid of him
.

Sicko!

Pervert!

Sack him!

The principal should resign!

There were hundreds more comments like them and people had ‘liked’ the comments. It made me feel sick. These people didn’t even know the truth – we didn’t even know it ourselves – yet they felt it was okay to speak like this.

Although most of the commenters were hanging Everett out to dry, a few were on his side. Paul Hawkins wrote:
It is an offence to slander people. This man has not been charged with anything and you are denouncing him for what? For posting pictures of his own photography on Facebook. He is an artist – not a pervert. This angry mob mentality is the crime, not publicising artwork or out-of-hours social activity. Beware, internet trolls: you will be sued!

I clicked on the events link. One event had been posted:
Parent-In at Rutherford School, Thursday 5 November, 8 a.m.

Say ‘NO’ to covering up sexual abuse in our schools and ‘YES’ to the safety of our kids. Teacher reinstated – what a disgrace! Safe Kids First! Call for dismissal!

On the side of the page there were three columns: Going, Maybe and Invited. Four hundred and fifty-two were going, two hundred and one said maybe and one thousand two hundred and forty-eight were invited.

I shut down the computer, grabbed a twisty from the fridge and went outside, where the afternoon was slowly drawing its curtains. The cicadas were screaming. I took out my cigarette papers and rolled one. Mr Brown stretched out in the upward dog pose. I much preferred it when people insulted you to your face – there was nothing like a real punch in the nose or a stream of classic name-calling. The internet was a sneaky, cowardly place – and here’s the thing: what you said stayed forever. What had we started?

The shower was on. I opened the bathroom door and shouted through the gap, ‘Can I come in?’

‘What?’ Rachael yelled.

I slipped into the steam-filled room. ‘I’ve got some news.’

The water stopped running and an arm reached out, yanking the towel from the rail. Rachael stepped on to the bathmat and bent over, flicking her head forward and wrapping another towel around her head.

‘What? Can’t I get ready without you breathing down my neck?’

‘Your father sent me a message this morning.’

She stood in front of the sink and rubbed the steam from the mirror.

‘They’ve closed the investigation.’

She looked at me. ‘Really?’

I couldn’t work out if she was glad or annoyed.

‘Aren’t you relieved?’

She turned back to the mirror and started massaging moisturiser into her skin.

‘It’ll all be behind us.’

Rachael shrugged. ‘I guess. What did they do to him?’

‘Nothing. Everything is as it was – as if the whole thing never happened.’ I kissed her bare shoulder. ‘See? Didn’t I tell you it would all work out?’

She leant forward, picking at the gap between her front teeth. ‘I guess,’ she said again.

‘Your father took care of the whole thing.’

‘And the painting?’

‘I guess they’ve decided to forget about that too.’

*

Jacques had said his father wanted to meet the granddaughter of the famous Anton Delamotte and as I made my way back to the Galerie Frey-Duval I couldn’t help feeling a little self-satisfied, a little self-important, if only by familial connection, and a whole lot lighter since the teacher incident reached its natural dead end – what a relief. Through the intercom, Jacques directed me to the third floor. Bypassing the showroom, I went up several flights of stairs and there he was, with his bulging waistcoat and heavy breathing, waiting for me.

‘My father and I live ’ere,’ he said. He shut the apartment door behind us and showed me down a dark and musty hallway, not unlike his showroom, through to a marginally brighter living area that mirrored the dimensions of the shop floor below. The walls, of course, were adorned with artwork. A Matisse, an Utrillo, a Braque – just a few I instantly recognised. The entire room was filled with objets d’art and on first glimpse looked more like a jumble sale than the collection of fine antiques a closer inspection revealed they were. Damask curtains blocked out the already-dim afternoon light. A radio played classical music.

‘This is my father, Yves Frey-Duval. Father, this is Camille, Anton Delamotte’s
petite-fille
.’

Monsieur Frey-Duval rose from a wingback armchair, his knees creaking.

‘Please don’t get up.’ I hurried over, careful not to knock my own knee on the gold-rimmed coffee table. I held my hand out and he took it, half holding on for balance and half to greet me.

‘
Enchanté
.
Enchanté
. Such a pleasure,’ he said, his voice rough and old, still holding on to my hand.

‘Please sit down,’ Jacques fussed.

‘Camille, Camille.’ Yves’s green eyes were alert. ‘
La petite-fille d’Anton
.’

Here was a man who had once traded stolen Jewish art for the Nazis. I wondered if he had actually spent time in prison or if he’d managed to avoid it. Had he furtively squirrelled millions away from the sales? What about these paintings? I guessed he would have been investigated – they would have to be legitimate or copies. I wanted to be objective yet I couldn’t help judging someone who had profited out of the deaths of so many innocent people.

However, Yves was not at all as I had imagined him – a dithering old man – he was subtle and charming and must once have been tall, though he was now hunched; his silver hair would have once been jet black. He must have been nearly ninety; he focused on me as if I were an object, an artwork to appraise. I felt uncomfortable beneath such a direct gaze.