Under the Midnight Sky Page 25

  Always, Tom.

  PS: I’ve enclosed an article that might be of interest.

  I set the note aside and looked at the document.

  A slip of paper clipped to the top bore the logo of the New South Wales Government State Archives and Records, and a neatly printed note. Tom, colour copies of the documents, as requested. I took off the slip and scanned the first photocopied page, still not understanding why Tom would send it to me. ‘Gundara Police Station record of occurrences Feb–Nov 1953.’ Settling back into the cushions, I tilted the page to the light.

  • • •

  Tuesday, 2nd June 1953

  At 10 am I left the station and patrolled Main Street. Was approached by the publican of the Royal Hotel, who had concerns about a vagrant loitering outside his doors last night after closing time. I assured him the night patrolman would follow up that evening. I returned to the station at about 10.30 am. The rest of the day was quiet with no further incidents until about 5 pm. Harry Horton, a woodcutter aged 41 of Downey Street, entered the station with a distressed young girl who looked to be about fifteen. She was filthy, hands and knees cut and ingrained with dirt. Mr Horton seemed agitated and sweaty, casting nervous looks at the girl.

  He stated as follows: ‘I was driving back from the reserve after cutting wood with my son Roy, who’s ten. My permit’s in order if you care to see it. Anyhow, halfway back to town I pass this young lass wandering along the reserve road. I pull over to ask if she needs help, but can’t get a word of sense from her. With all them bruises, here’s me thinking she’s hurt. So I coax her into the truck. Consider getting her to hospital but she seems well enough, aside from the bruises. Reckoned you lot had better see her first. She’s clearly a runaway.’

  After signing the above statement, Harry Horton departed the station. I telephoned the hospital, who sent over a nurse, one Sadie Emerson, aged 29, to check the girl. At first the girl resisted being touched, and grew upset when Nurse Emerson tried to remove the satchel the girl wore across her chest. Finally, after a brief inspection, Nurse Emerson stated as follows: ‘Poor little thing has nasty grazes on her hands and knees. She has black bruising around her throat, which seems to have affected her ability to speak. She is otherwise in a healthy condition, although a little thin and obviously traumatised.’

  After some time the nurse was able to elicit the girl’s name as Lilly Bird, aged fourteen. She stated that she lived with her mother and sister in Sydney.

  Lilly Bird stated as follows: ‘Mum works in the hospital. She’ll be worried about me. I want to go home.’ When questioned as to how she came to be in Gundara, she did not reply. When asked what she was doing out at the reserve road and what had caused the bruising on her throat, she would not say. Nurse Emerson offered to put her up for the night. Before I shut the station, I made arrangements for the child to be transferred to Central Sydney police first thing in the morning.

  Wednesday, 3rd June 1953

  When I arrived on duty at 8 am, Nurse Emerson was waiting outside the station in an agitated state. She reported that the young runaway, Lilly Bird, had fled in the night, taking a small amount of cash. Enquiries at the railway confirmed that a young girl of Lilly Bird’s description had bought a one-way ticket to Central Railway Station in Sydney.

  • • •

  For a long time I sat there, wilting into my sofa cushions, staring at the bundle of photocopied pages in my hands. Had Lilly given the wrong name intentionally, perhaps hoping to give Frankie and Ennis time to get further away? Or was there another reason she didn’t want anyone to know her real name?

  Lil hadn’t mentioned the black bruises on her throat. She had fought with Frankie, but otherwise her departure from Ravensong had been uneventful. At least, that was what she’d claimed. Had the row with her sister been more physical than she’d let on? Had Frankie tried to hurt her, strangle her even? Or were Lilly’s injuries – the scratches, the black bruising on her neck – merely the result of clambering through unfamiliar bushland? And why had she been clambering through bushland in the first place? Lil had been adamant: Frankie and Ennis dropped her off in Gundara. So how had she ended up at the reserve?

  Going back through the pages, I found the line about Harry Horton seeming agitated and sweaty, casting nervous looks at the girl. Nervous? Had the duty officer misinterpreted the body language? Harry might have been distressed over Lilly’s condition. But then wouldn’t he have lingered, made sure she was all right, instead of leaving the station in haste?

  I tucked the document back into the torn envelope and flopped back on the sofa. Someone was lying. Lil, or old Harry Horton.

  Perhaps they both had something to hide.

  29

  Joe’s Saturday morning check-up seemed to take forever. Doc Worland took her sweet time, sliding the cold disc of her stethoscope over his bony chest, getting him to cough and wheeze until tears sprang into his eyes. The doctor frowned as she entered notes on her computer, then sat back in her squeaky leather chair. I’m sorry, Joe. It’s not looking good.

  She’d prescribed an increase in medication and explained how, as the end got nearer, he would need more intensive care. You realise what this means, don’t you, Joe? You and Lil will have to move into town, closer to the hospital.

  Joe nodded and smiled, reassuring her that he and Lil would start making arrangements. Then he took the script and folded it into his pocket, promising to come back in a week for another check.

  ‘You’re late,’ Lil said as he trundled into the kitchen.

  He placed his hessian shopping bag on the table. ‘Just in at the clinic, love.’

  ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Top of the pops.’

  ‘Doc Worland’s happy with your progress, then?’ Her eyes were wide with hope, her smile trembling at the corners.

  Joe almost crumbled. He went over and kissed her on the cheek. ‘All good, pet. Now, look here. I bought a loaf of that sourdough you love, and’—he held aloft a tiny bottle of capers—‘a special treat for tonight’s pasta.’

  Lil snatched the bottle from his fingers. ‘Joe, how many times do I have to tell you? You’re sodium reduced, remember?’

  Joe swallowed. Salt be blowed, he wanted to tell her, and fatty foods and sugary treats, too. No amount of healthy eating was going to help him. Not now. Let’s live a little, he wanted to say. Feast on the things we love. Cakes and ice cream, butter-fried mushrooms and bacon on toast. Scones with clotted cream and jam, camembert toasties. Because of Joe’s condition, Lil had been dieting too – aside from the caramel slice she still made for drama group, and lately the jam tarts for Abby. Now that it no longer mattered, it seemed wrong that they deny themselves.

  Lil frowned and touched his arm. ‘Love, what is it?’

  Joe didn’t know what else to do, so he started coughing.

  ‘All right there, Joe?’

  ‘Something stuck in my neck.’

  ‘Need a pat?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ll be right, Lil.’

  She smiled at him, and there in her eyes was a glimmer of something he hadn’t seen in the longest time. The old warmth, the spark he’d thought lost.

  Tears sprang to his eyes and he had to look away, made a show of thumping his chest. But there was nothing stuck down there, at least nothing tangible. Just a feeling. A prickly feeling that told him something wasn’t right. And it was stuck in him; the more he tried to shrug it away, the deeper it burrowed, sharp as a rose thorn, stabbing into the pulpy core of his heart. The heart that was running out of time.

  • • •

  By mid-morning Lil was ready to leave for drama group. As she was collecting her caramel slice from the fridge, the phone rang. She hurried to the lounge room and picked it up. To her surprise it was Doc Worland.

  ‘Sorry to bother you on a Saturday, Lil. Is Joe around?’

  ‘You just missed him. He’s gone fishing.’

  ‘Would you remind him to increase his dose? He see
med a little flustered when I saw him earlier, and I worried that he might forget. Will you tell him?’

  ‘Increase his dose? Why?’

  There was a lengthy pause. Doc Worland cleared her throat. ‘He didn’t tell you?’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Lil. His condition has worsened.’

  Lil’s fingers went to her throat. ‘No, pet, you’ve mixed things up. Joe said you gave him the all-clear.’

  Another pause. ‘Lil, I’m sorry. He might have been intending to break it to you in his own time. But it’s time you don’t have, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Joe’s not a well man. We spoke about the two of you moving back to town so he could have around-the-clock care when he starts to go downhill.’

  Lil swallowed. She didn’t want to hear any more, but it was too late. The doctor’s words inflamed her mind like an infection, their poison spreading through every pore, every cell of her body. The worst had happened. Or had begun to happen. She blinked to clear her eyes. Her Joe. Her dearest friend was leaving her and there was nothing she could do to stop him.

  ‘Lil, are you there? You’re welcome to come in for a chat anytime, you know. We can talk about your options.’

  ‘Options?’ Lil murmured.

  ‘There are some wonderful aged-care facilities these days, Lil. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.’

  Lil thanked the doctor for calling and hung up. Her scalp was tight. She could already feel the blood retreating from her face. Inside the back of her skull, a balloon of darkness began to expand and grow. It took shape, and despite Lil’s attempts to push it down, it continued to enlarge. Eclipsing her. Finding another form. A shadow.

  A shadow in the shape of a girl.

  She made herself a strong black coffee and drank the bitter brew standing at the sink. She swallowed a Xanax and hovered there, taking deep, calming breaths as she looked out the window and up into the pine trees where the sun glinted through in shards. Once the dark shapes in her mind had recoiled, she boxed up her slice, grabbed her car keys and headed for the door.

  • • •

  ‘Bad news?’ Lil asked as she dragged off her hat and sunglasses, trailing Diane into the shadows of the guide hall. The sun was shining and the sky clear blue, a dream of a day, but for Lil it was fast turning into a nightmare. ‘What do you mean, bad news?’

  Diane’s ginger brows squeezed into a frown. ‘I’m afraid it’s Claire. She was in a minor car accident, but don’t panic. She’s all right. Just a couple of broken ribs and a black eye.’

  ‘Broken ribs? Oh, poor Claire. Where is she now?’

  ‘At home, recovering. But Lil, you know what this means, don’t you?’

  ‘Hmm.’ Lil was already planning flowers and a cake, or perhaps a plate of that salted caramel slice Claire was partial to. Poor Claire, of all people. When was that sweet girl going to get a break?

  Lil followed Diane through to the hall and took her seat. The other women were congregated there and all faces turned to Lil, like baby birds waiting to see what titbits their mother had brought.

  ‘I’ll get a lovely card for Claire that everyone can sign. And maybe do a whip-round, just a couple of dollars from those who can spare it. We’ll get her something nice. Poor Claire, I guess this means . . .’

  She realised she’d been babbling, probably shock. Claire was a favourite, and to think of her injured and in pain was more than Lil could bear. And broken ribs meant that now she wouldn’t be able to—

  She looked at Diane. ‘Claire was our lead. Madame Valjean. We never thought to assign an understudy.’

  ‘We still have three months,’ Diane said. ‘Plenty of time to train someone else.’

  ‘But who?’ Lil looked around the room, hoping for a show of hands. None of the girls were strong singers. None came close to Claire’s natural talent. But with the right training and encouragement, Lil might be able to coach one of them into an adequate Madame Valjean. ‘Any takers?’

  Glances were exchanged. No hands went up, but the women began to murmur. Finally, at the back of the room, Jenny – who Lil still thought of as the new girl – raised her arm.

  Lil’s heart sank. Of all the girls, Jenny was the least confident. She was the shrinking violet of the group, the mousey one still trying to find her way after years of domestic abuse. Until now, Jenny hadn’t even had the courage to volunteer for the chorus.

  Lil tried to smile. ‘Yes, love?’

  ‘What about you, Lil? You could do it. Claire’s always saying you’ve got a beautiful voice.’

  Lil covered her surprise by pretending to be fascinated by her clipboard. ‘Oh no, Jenny dear. I don’t sing.’

  ‘Wish you would though, Lil,’ Fiona chimed in. ‘It’s true, you’ve got an awesome voice. When you taught me those vocal warm-ups last year, I got the tingles. You’d be brilliant as Madame Valjean.’

  A bead of sweat trickled down Lil’s spine. At least she thought it was sweat. It felt more like a cockroach. ‘I’ve no intention of taking the lead, Fiona.’

  Isa, a tall, young Aboriginal woman said, ‘Yeah, Lil. I’ve heard you humming, you’re pitch perfect. Couldn’t you at least do Fantine?’

  Lil made a choking sound. ‘Good Lord, a seventy-seven-year-old Fantine? I’d be laughed off stage.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t,’ Isa insisted. ‘Your voice would blow everyone away.’

  Diane sighed, cutting off the sudden clamour of excited chatter. ‘You girls can beg Lil all you like, but I don’t like your chances. Goodness knows, I’ve badgered the woman enough over the years. I’ll give you this, though. If any one of you can convince Lil Corbin to sing in our musical, even just a walk-on part, I’ll take the entire troupe out for a celebratory dinner at Colletti’s at my own expense.’

  Lil made a scoffing noise. ‘For heaven’s sake, Diane.’

  Diane raised her brows. ‘Feeling tempted?’

  Lil rewarded her friend with an eye roll. One of these years Diane was going to get the message. Lil did not sing. She could not sing. At least not very tunefully. Not any more, since . . . well, a lifetime ago.

  ‘Isa, what about you?’ Lil waved a sheaf of papers, eager to move on. ‘Interested in seeing the libretto?’

  Isa nodded uncertainly, but headed over.

  Diane got to her feet. She looked at Lil. ‘Colletti’s do a lovely chicken parmigiana, have I mentioned that?’

  Lil began to pass the sheets of paper around. ‘Yes, Diane. Several times.’

  Diane huffed again, then wandered off to see about morning tea.

  Later, Lil stood at the sink in the tiny guide hall kitchen, hands plunged in sudsy water as she rinsed cups and plates. Doc Worland’s words echoed at the edges of her mind, making her heart race.

  She glanced through the serving hatch. The women sat around the long table in the hall, reading her amended libretto. Lil loved the sound of their chatter, punctuated by an excited raised voice or a burst of laughter. Two of Diane’s young nieces had been enlisted to play Cosette and Éponine as children, and were racing about squealing in a game of tag. Lil bit her lips together. One of the girls was fair-haired, the other dark, as Victor Hugo had described, and the sight of them together often brought her a twinge of regret.

  She and Joe didn’t have any kids; they’d not been able. When they were younger they’d had a stream of foster kids, and some they were still in touch with. But aside from Joe, Lil’s true family were the shelter women. The good eggs and bad, they all deserved kindness and love. All deserved a second chance. They’d given her their trust and devotion in return, and that was reward enough.

  It was bittersweet, the way they’d asked her to sing. Sweet because they were a good bunch and Lil enjoyed their enthusiasm. Bitter because – well, because of what might have been. As a child, she’d sung all the time, tapped her feet when singing wasn’t possible, and hummed ditties in all the gaps between. You’re magic, Fran
kie used to say. You’ve got something marvellous flowing through you. Her mother had boasted once that Lilly had melodies running in her veins rather than blood.

  Maybe once. But not any more.

  Sliding her fingers over her chest, Lil rubbed the fluttery tightness. Even the thought of standing on stage gave her the willies. Of course, a snatch of melody burst out now and again, almost of its own accord – usually when she was teaching the women their vocal warm-ups. But for Lil to stand in front of an actual audience? Sing an entire song? Decades ago she had tried singing an old favourite in the shower, expanding her lungs in that familiar way, opening her mouth wide and reaching for a note. But nothing came out. Not even a squeak. There was just the rush of hot water on her chilled skin. And the cold deadness as shadow fingers closed around her throat.

  Lil shook away the memory. She bustled around, gathering the damp tea towels and wiping crumbs off the counter. Once the kitchen was pristine again, she checked the clock. It was only ten thirty, but she’d pop in on Claire and then get the groceries, and she was eager to get home to Joe—

  A shriek came from the hall and Lil rushed over to the doorway. One of Diane’s nieces had tripped and fallen. The girl was clutching her knee and crying, her leg trickling blood. Lil hesitated. She had mopped her fair share of skinned knees in her time, but the sight of the girl’s twisted, tear-streaked face froze her on the spot.

  First Joe. Then Claire. Now, the blood.

  Collecting her hat and handbag, she took the Tupperware containers out of the fridge and bagged them up for Claire, then slipped out the back door. Diane would deal with the blood and tears; she was good with all that. Lil had other worries right now. Unlocking her car, she dumped her things in the boot and flopped into the driver’s seat.

  You could do it, Lil. You’ve got an awesome voice.

  Her fingers went to her throat and stroked the soft skin. Despite the passage of sixty-plus years, she could still feel the bruises. Still see the swollen black welts, the fingermarks mottling her windpipe.