Steal My Sunshine (18 page)

In Sister's office, I have this feeling that no time has passed between the first time I was here and now. Even when I look at her desk, I see my old clothes, starched and folded. And something else – a bassinet.

‘Was any baby given up twice?' Sister says. ‘She was brought back this morning. Our God works in mysterious ways.'

She hands me my clothes. On the top is an envelope which reads ‘Documents for Ms Essie Carver'.

‘Where am I going?'

‘Your mother has sent for you. Everything is arranged. The ship leaves in one week.'

‘But . . .' I look at the basket and whisper, ‘I can't. I never thought . . .'

Sister's smile is chilling – no less sinister than her bite. ‘The Lord has chosen this lesson for you. Neither you nor I shall challenge it.'

While I change into my old clothes, the baby starts to cry – loud and insistent. I freeze and look at Sister.

‘Don't spoil her. Now, listen to me carefully . . .' And while I dress and try not to look at the basket, I'm given my one and only lesson:

Keep to a strict routine.

Sixteen hours of sleep.

Bathe her every day.

Regular sponging in hot weather.

No tea or candy or meat gravies.

Don't pick her up if she's well, even if she's crying.

Check safety pins.

Sister hands me some bottles of milk and a recipe for formula: one large can of condensed milk, twenty-three ounces of boiled water and three and a half tablespoons of karo syrup.

My skin feels the pinch of my old clothes. I have so many questions but I'll be damned if I'm going to ask Sister for help. She tells me Aunt Caro will be here shortly. I'm to stay with her until the time comes to take the train back to Sydney. At sixteen, my life is in reverse.

Sister hands me the bassinet. It's too late. I can't love her now. I can't do it. I can't.

 

On the tram coming back from the bay, even though I felt heavy with Essie's story, I had a burning desire to see my mum. I kept going over and over the last question I'd asked Essie: ‘Did you love Mum in the end?'

Essie's jaw had stiffened and she'd said: ‘I did what I could.'

When I walked into our house I didn't let myself think about what I was going to do in case I chickened out. I looked in every room, found Mum in the bathroom and put my arms around her from behind, resting the side of my face on her back.

‘What's all this?' she said.

I looked at our reflection. ‘I haven't been very supportive.'

‘Don't say that.'

‘It's true. I'm sorry.'

Mum patted my hand, but she wasn't looking at my reflection any more, she was fiddling with dental floss and a tiny movement in her shoulders made me feel like I should let go. I stepped back a bit. She was wearing mascara. She had on a long skirt, a loose white t-shirt and even a necklace of wooden beads – like the old Mum. She turned and smiled, and I was too scared to ask what was going on – where the dressing-gown and tear-streaked face had gone; whether they'd be back.

Margot came to collect the potter's wheel. I heard her ask for half the money for the kiln she'd bid for on eBay. She was frosty about it but Mum kept her voice friendly the whole time, handed over the cash and squeezed Margot's arm tenderly. ‘Thanks for everything, Margot.'

Margot left, still sulking. I think she'd enjoyed having someone to fuss over. She probably hoped that Mum was turning into a permanent hippy like her, but the pots Mum had made sat jumbled in a box by the front door. She'd cleaned the place from top to bottom. Everything looked back to normal but when I remembered that normal hadn't been that great – before the chaos hit – the clean surfaces felt like an empty promise. There was still so much mess.

Mum ordered pizza and the three of us, plus Scribble – still my number one fan – sat around watching a game show. We didn't talk much, and when we did it was weird and polite.

While Mum was out of the room, Sam elbowed me. ‘You all right?'

I answered with a shrug. I thought maybe he was freaked out by Mum not needing him any more. He was having trouble adjusting to her new fake grin and old efficient ways.

‘Is Dad coming home or something?' I said.

I'd had a text from Dad as I was coming home on the tram. Just
Miss you, love you, see you soon?
But I had no idea how to reply.

‘Doubt it,' said Sam. ‘She's probably just been sniffing some juju flower remedy Margot gave her. How did it work out with you and what's-his-face? All good?' He sounded kind, like someone had given him the right script for a change.

‘Nothing to tell,' I said.

‘So, you're not seeing him?'

‘The only guy in my life is your psycho cat.'

Sam picked Scribble up. ‘Yeah, what's his problem? He won't come near me and he's stopped trying to scratch your eyes out.'

Scribble walked off his lap and straight back to mine. We laughed and it was happy and painful like looking at an old photo. It made me wonder if we could be fixed after all. Maybe Sam and I could just write a new story, like the stories Evan had told me about the stars.

 

 

 

On the way to school on Monday I worried about what it would be like when I saw Chloe. It would feel different being with her now. There'd be another lie between us.

When I'd left Evan on Saturday night I'd asked him not to talk about it, and he'd promised it would just be between us. He'd kissed me on the cheek and hugged me, and it had felt like a goodbye but not a sad one. Now it felt complicated again. They might have got talking the next day. He and I didn't have the bond that they had; that was half the problem. He could have told her everything or nothing or the tiniest detail but that would be enough. She'd hate it and I thought she'd be right to. What if I couldn't even look her in the eye?

I could hear my classroom from miles away – something was going on. When I walked in, Tess Edwards jumped off her desk and hurried towards me. ‘Did you see it, Hannah?' It had to be something big for her to talk to me.

‘See what?' I noticed Chloe wasn't there.

‘On the news. They arrested a man for murdering Sophie.'

Other girls were nodding, a few looked like they'd been crying, and then they started talking over each other again.

‘Did they find her body?' I stood on the edge of a smaller group – Rachel, Maria and Justine, the other cowboys in the musical.

‘The police don't think they will now,' said Maria. ‘This guy had a boat or something. They reckon he's chucked her in the bay.'

‘Oh my god.'

‘I know.'

Rachel shifted along on her desk so I could sit next to her. I didn't say much but I needed to be there with everyone. Tess's voice was the loudest, telling everyone how deeply she felt it because she'd sort of known Sophie. Justine nudged me and rolled her eyes.

‘I know,' I whispered. ‘But it's weird, isn't it, how we all feel like we knew her?'

‘It could have been one of us he took,' said Justine. ‘The guy just stole her off the face of the earth.'

‘Her poor mum,' said Maria.

Chloe walked in, scowling, and walked straight past me to the desk we shared. I smiled at the girls and went to sit with her.

‘Did you hear?' I said, just as Mrs Gulliver walked in.

‘I've had a million conversations about it in the bar, I don't really need another one.'

‘Sorry.'

‘So, what did you do yesterday?' she said, while Mrs Gulliver read out some notices.

My mouth went dry. ‘Not much.'

‘Oh really? Because we saw you.'

‘Where?'

‘Walking along Beaconsfield and down to the beach path.'

I knew my face was turning pink. ‘Who did?'

‘Me and Ev.'

‘Oh, right. I just went for a walk.'

‘Bull. You went to see Essie.'

‘So what? It's not against the law.'

‘Why are you always trying to shut me out?' she said. I didn't understand – I'd definitely never imagined Chloe feeling that way.

‘I'm not. It's just . . . she's my gran. I should be able to see her on my own, right?'

‘Sure, whatever. Did she tell you any more of her story?'

‘No.'

‘Not even the part about how that baby couldn't possibly be your mum?'

‘What? Don't be stupid.'

Chloe looked so sure of herself and so angry with me. Why was she trying to hurt me? ‘I know Maths isn't your strong point, Han, but what year do you think all of that happened?'

‘I haven't thought about it.'

‘Well, I did. I looked it up. That smog in London Essie was talking about happened in 1952, and she said she was already in Australia by then. I know you think your mum is older than everyone else's but she's not that bloody old.'

I didn't know if she was right about the date, but why hadn't Essie mentioned it? I was sure I'd referred to Mum as being the baby in the painting a few times and she'd never corrected me. And the last thing she'd told me was about leaving the convent
with
a baby. Suddenly I felt like I was nowhere near the end of Essie's story. Maybe I hadn't even come close to the real secret yet. Or Chloe could be wrong. I felt stupid for not doing any of the kind of research Chloe seemed to have been doing.

‘Hannah, if you don't want to hang out with me any more, you should just say.'

It was all happening at once; I wasn't ready for it. And I was being unfair to Chloe – hadn't I just tried to invade her family by falling for Evan?

‘Don't be stupid, Chlo. I'm sorry. Please, don't be angry.'

‘I'm not angry, silly.' She hugged me. ‘Let's go to Essie's this afternoon. Then we can sort it all out.'

 

I couldn't help it, I blurted it out almost the second Essie opened the door. She hardly blinked.

‘No, that baby wasn't your mother. Nice to see you again, Chloe.'

Chloe walked in, and while I was reeling with the news and how calmly Essie had come out with it, Chloe took a large bottle of gin from her schoolbag. ‘A little present,' she said.

‘You shouldn't have, darling.' Essie held onto the bottle with one hand and went down the hall, using the wall to lean against with the other. It seemed like she was getting slower and less mobile by the day. I couldn't remember the last time I'd brought her anything. Mum used to send us over with things, but I'd never thought of it on my own.

When we sat down I could tell I wasn't going to have to prompt Essie to continue the story. Chloe lit Essie's cigarette.

‘Your mother was born about ten years after her sister.'

‘Where is she then?'

For a moment it seemed like Essie hadn't heard me. ‘I named your mother after my old friend in England,' said Essie. ‘My friend never knew that; still doesn't. I had to break ties as much as possible but I couldn't let go completely. I had a husband by then. And a business. People respected me. I'd come a long way.'

‘But you've skipped loads, Essie. Where's the other baby?' Chloe said. ‘I thought you took it with you.'

‘The baby isn't an “it”,' I said.

‘Chill out.'

‘The short version is that I only had her for a few months,' said Essie. ‘She was taken.'

‘We could find her for you!' Chloe said. Her face lit up like she'd just suggested a party. ‘Oh, wait – sorry, do you mean she died?'

‘No, darling, she didn't die, but that's a gorgeous thought of yours to find Connie. You understand.'

But none of this was Chloe's story! This was my grandmother; the baby with the auburn hair had been my aunt and now the story was being passed down to me. Why couldn't Chloe just back off?

I had to ration my questions, trying to steer Chloe out of the way. ‘Does Mum know all this?'

‘Hannah, darling . . .' She was smiling but then her face hardened, and I panicked about where this might go. ‘Your mother didn't want to know. She had her own . . . issues with what I did.'

‘That doesn't sound very fair,' said Chloe.

‘Hey, leave off.' I could have slapped her. She must have known I didn't want her here by now.

‘I'm just saying.'

‘Girls! No fighting. I'll tell you what happened when I left Queensland with Connie.'

 

The baby is quiet in the car. Aunt Caro sits in front, fingering a lace-edged handkerchief. She sneaks nervous glances at the driver, a Mr Franklin who goes to the same church.

‘You look well, dear,' Aunt Caro says. I can't even begin to speak to her. If I start I won't be able to stop and I need all my wits about me. None of this is making sense. Mother would never call me back with the baby. I can't believe she'd call me back at all.

Mr Franklin carries my suitcase into Aunt Caro's place. He looks like he's been here before. They're cleanly polite to each other, but I can see it's an act for my benefit. After he's gone, I decide to use it to my advantage.

‘What sort of friend is Mr Franklin, Aunt?'

The effect on her face is like dripping red ink onto tissue and she blusters, ‘I told you, he's from my church.'

‘From church? Oh, but he knew where the guest bedroom was! How funny!'

‘Essie, I'm sure I don't know what you mean.'

‘No, Aunt. I think it's just that I'm very tired. Perhaps I should lie down for a while.'

‘I think that would be wise. It's the heat. You're not used to it.'

‘I've been in Australia for nearly a year.'

‘Gosh! Yes, so you have.'

I leave her with that thought. The bed is so comfortable I could cry but I'm too tired. As I drift off to sleep I hear the baby start up again.

When I wake it's early evening and my stomach feels so hollow it hurts. I hear voices and creep out of the bedroom to listen. Mr Franklin is back.

‘You should tell her, Caroline.'

‘I can't! I promised my sister. She's only agreed to Essie going back at all because Mr Gregory and his wife have begged for the child, and for once . . .'

I want to hear the rest but the blood is pumping in my ears so loudly I have to cling to the wall for support. James wants my baby – our baby. At least, that's what I think Aunt Caro is saying. The Watsons wanted her too but then they sent her back. And does anyone want me in all of this? I see it now: I'm the carrier, just about good enough to transport the goods, but when that job is done, what then?

Silently, I go into the bathroom, as much of a caged animal as I was this morning. I drink thirstily from the tap until my belly swells, slide down the wall to the cold tiled floor and quietly cry for what I swear to any god who is listening will be the last time. Because I know what I have to do now: I won't swap one prison for another. I won't go home for that. I'll beg and borrow and use every gift I have to keep my freedom.

I splash my face with water and look deep into my eyes. There's one nagging feeling I need to search out the answer to; one choice I have to make. It should be easier than this – just sixteen, living in a foreign land, nothing to give.

Then why, when I picture myself walking out of here, do I feel the weight of the baby in my arms?

By the side of a road, I feed her the final bottle and squint into the distance. It's early morning, the sun is low and my only hope of getting out of here is a passing truck or car. There's not much time. As soon as Aunt Caro realises I'm gone she'll be out looking. That's why I couldn't risk the train station. I'll have to make it wherever I'm going by road. I pray for a stranger to come by – someone who has never heard of the Sacred Heart or Aunt Caro and doesn't feel a burning need to save my soul.

I've got nothing on my side except hope and a willingness to do anything I have to in order to survive. I've only got one change of clothes but I'll worry about that another time – I had to use the space for supplies. Aunt Caro had condensed milk and I've filled her hot water bottle with clean water to mix it with. I've got bread, apples, cheese, tea, butter ration cards and a glass jar of something called Vegemite that smells like a punishment but will have to do.