Book of Lost Threads

22
Blackpool and Opportunity

MEG TURNER WAS NOT SURE what to pack. She would need something smart for the TV interview and had already spent some of her expected payment on a stylish new suit. She was a shrewd woman, and had negotiated herself a rather good package, which included accommodation, return airfares to Melbourne for two, plus a sum that would cover a nice little holiday on the Great Barrier Reef. All she had to do was take part in an interview regarding her missing cousin. She’d seen the photograph on the local news along with an appeal for anyone in the Blackpool area who might know its origins to come forward. The woman she’d contacted passed her details on to the producer of Across the Nation, who signed her up immediately, expressing the hope that the interview would be sufficiently emotional. So the viewers can understand the depths of your loss, the producer explained. Meg also agreed to cooperate with the police investigation.
Folding her T-shirts and pants, she wondered how much she should tell. She’d never really missed Jilly. They were four years apart in age so they were never friends. She was quite a nice little kid, as Meg recalled. A bit shy, but biddable. To be honest, she could barely remember what her cousin looked like. She did remember the kafuffle when Patty ran away. Her own mother, Ellen, had pursed her lips and said, I expected as much of that sister of mine, but the grandparents never ceased to mourn the loss of their granddaughter. When he failed to get his daughter back, Jilly’s father went crazy and took to the drink. He somehow managed to work during the day, but according to the whispered conversations Meg overheard, he would return home each evening to drink alone. Sometimes he would come to her house, crying. Meg had hated that. Adults weren’t supposed to cry.
‘I feel sorry for him,’ Meg’s mother would say, ‘but he should pull himself together. Even if they do find her, they’ll say he’s not a fit parent if he keeps carrying on like that.’
Meg paused as she held up her new swimmers and posed in front of the mirror. Very nice. Just the thing for a tropical holiday. It was all amazingly lucky. Still, her cousin owed her something. Her grandparents did nothing but talk about Jilly till the day they died: where she might be, what she might be doing, what she would look like at this age or that. By contrast, they treated Meg and her brother with an abstracted sort of kindness, and as children they always felt that they were poor substitutes for the missing Jilly. Meg felt some satisfaction in the knowledge that her cousin had been working the streets. What would Grandpa and Grandma have thought of that?
Pressing hard on the lid of her case, she closed the zip and picked up the photo. It belonged in the hand luggage, she’d decided. She couldn’t afford to lose the evidence.
Poor old Uncle Andy, she thought suddenly, looking at the fresh young face smiling at his daughter. It broke his heart. Maybe it’s just as well he’s not here to find out what happened to her. Despite the fact that there was no firm evidence as yet, Meg was sure that this Amber-Lee really was her cousin Jilly. Ellen agreed. She wasn’t in the least surprised that Patty’s daughter came to a sorry end.
Ellen saw them off at Heathrow and reminded Meg that the family honour was in her hands. ‘Aunty Patty may have been a tart,’ she reminded her, ‘but you don’t have to broadcast that to the world.’
As it turned out, Meg did rather well. She managed to paint a picture of a family bereft when a headstrong (but not wicked) young woman took her daughter and ran away with her lover.
‘We all missed them so much,’ she told a nodding Lisa Morgan. ‘Jilly’s father died of a broken heart, and my grandparents never really got over it.’ She looked into the camera as she’d been instructed. ‘And now that we know, it’s too late.’ A discreetly applied tissue added to the effect.
The studio scene faded out to a shot of Meg placing flowers on the corner where her cousin died. She looked quite forlorn, standing there with her head bowed.
‘Cut,’ said the producer. ‘Good value for money, I think.’ She turned to her assistant. ‘We can get some more out of this one. How about this for an idea? Let’s try to arrange a meeting between the cousin and the bloke who killed her. That ought to keep the punters happy.’
Unaware of this plan, and having fulfilled her obligation with the interview, Meg was ready to cooperate with Senior Sergeant Patterson. She showed him her copy of the photograph and formally identified her cousin and family.
Graham Patterson was cautious. ‘Our problem is that we only have Brenda’s word that Amber-Lee said it was a photo of her family. She was paid by the TV station, you know. It makes her testimony a bit suspect.’ Meg had the grace to blush but the policeman went on, oblivious. ‘We’d like to do a DNA test. Do you have a problem with that?’
‘Apparently the more distantly you’re related, the less accurate they can be,’ Meg told her mother later on the phone to England. ‘They’d like you to do one too, if that’s okay. Something to do with mitro-something-or-other DNA. The copper tried to explain—it’s something to do with the mother’s line— but I don’t really understand. Doesn’t matter. Anyway, they’ll get the local police to take your sample and compare by computer.’
The results were inconclusive. The DNA was not such a close match that identity was beyond reasonable doubt, but a relationship was considered to be ‘likely’. The existence of the matching photo strengthened the conclusion that the victim was Jilly Baker, but there was still no guarantee that Brenda was telling the truth regarding its origins.
‘On balance, I’d say that the victim was your cousin,’ Graham Patterson told Meg. ‘But the evidence isn’t absolutely conclusive. She had no siblings and her father is dead. If her mother planned on coming forward, she would have by now, you’d think. The case has had max publicity. This is probably as far as we can go.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Meg asked.
‘Just that the records will still show her as unidentified. The new evidence will be put on her file and referenced as a “probable” ID.’
‘Oh well, there’s nothing more we can do then,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Best be off. We only have another two days to see Melbourne.’
Meg’s off-hand response to this news didn’t surprise him. He’d sensed her lack of empathy in the earlier interviews.
Returning to her hotel, Meg was met by her husband who told her that the TV people had been trying to contact her again. They wanted her to meet the man who’d killed her cousin.
‘How much did they offer this time?’ With this, she even shocked herself. She hadn’t been fully aware of the depths of her venality.
In Opportunity, Finn and his friends had watched Meg’s interview. While the others discussed the possible ramifications, Finn slipped out of the house and walked down to the old Halfway Creek footbridge. He often spent his Silence sitting by the bridge or leaning against its railings. Tonight he sat on the smooth rock just under the bridge. In better times, this seat would be under water, but the stream had shrunk away from its banks, exposing not only rocks but also rubbish from downstream, which had been stranded at the two-mile bend. There was a muddy, slightly rotten smell, but Finn didn’t notice. He was only aware of his heart pounding in his chest, and a faint, sweaty nausea. He had to think this one through. So now he knew her name: Jilly Baker. Of all the possible names, he hadn’t thought of Jilly, but it sounded right, now that he knew it. The next question was: what was he to do with the knowledge?
Finn had always thought that knowing the dead girl’s real name would be enough. It would establish her as an individual, with a family, and a history beyond those few terrible months on the streets. But now that her cousin was here in Melbourne, he needed to speak with her, to say how sorry he was, to seek forgiveness. He feared this as much as he wanted it. Why should she forgive him? He’d killed the woman’s cousin, caused so much heartache . . . Logic told him that the family may never have found Jilly anyway; that her mother had severed all ties; that she was hardly in a position to return home. He wanted to focus on that, but a small worm ate through the logic and whispered that while ever life persisted, there was always hope of reprieve. And he had taken that possibility away from Jilly Baker. He saw its application to her quite clearly, but it never occurred to him to apply it to his own case. He still felt beyond redemption.
He’d have to meet the cousin, he decided. He’d get Moss to ring Graham Patterson to see if it could be arranged.
Unaware that Across the Nation had pre-empted his decision, Finn returned to Mrs Pargetter’s and told them he wanted to meet with Jilly’s cousin Meg.
The others looked doubtful. ‘Are you sure, Finn?’ his daughter asked.
Finn would brook no argument. ‘Absolutely.’
Senior Sergeant Patterson wasn’t so sure. He’d detected a hardness and cupidity in Meg and wondered how this would affect the fragile Finn. There was also the trouble caused last time he’d helped out. After Moss’s call, he doodled on his pad for a few moments before shrugging and picking up the phone. He liked closure, and this case still had loose ends.
‘Senior Sergeant Patterson,’ he told Meg’s husband. ‘Can I speak with Mrs Turner, please?’
‘I’m sorry, Senior Sergeant, she’s out. Left a couple of hours ago with the TV people. They’re taking her to see the man who killed her cousin. Do you want to leave a—? Hello? Hello? Are you there?’
Graham Patterson tried to ring Moss but the line was busy. He shook his head. Things would just have to take their course.
The TV crew took Finn by surprise. They arrived at his front door without fanfare, and with an increasingly reluctant Meg in tow. Finn was working on his statistics when the loud knock shattered his concentration. He had always found the lovely precision of maths a haven in the midst of turmoil, and resented any interruption.
‘Coming,’ he grumbled. He wasn’t expecting anyone.
He opened the door to see a plump, well-dressed woman, flanked by a younger woman and two young men, one of whom was wielding a fuzzy grey phallus.
‘Michael Clancy,’ announced the younger woman. ‘This is Meg Turner, cousin of the woman you killed.’
Meg and Finn stared at one another. ‘I’ve been wanting to meet you,’ Meg said uncertainly. ‘My cousin . . .’ She trailed off and started again. ‘Jilly, my cousin . . .’
Finn continued to stare as the microphone was thrust into his face.
‘This woman has come all the way from the UK to seek news of her cousin. What do you have to say to her, Mr Clancy?’ The reporter was experienced enough to see that Meg might not provide all the drama required.
Finn blinked and swallowed before attempting to collect his thoughts. ‘I say to her—’ he stalled for time. ‘I say to her— would she like to come in and talk? Not you,’ he added as the crew pushed forward. Meg hesitated and stepped through the door, which Finn closed firmly behind her.
‘We’ll return you to the studio,’ said the reporter, ‘and wait here to see what develops.’ She turned to her colleagues. ‘Let’s hope something happens. What a godforsaken place to be stuck in. See if you can round up some coffee, Steve.’
Meanwhile, Finn was pouring tea with unsteady hands. He had wanted time to prepare before talking to this woman, but here she was, sitting in his kitchen, before he was anywhere near ready.
‘Milk? Sugar?’ His old diffidence swept over him and he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Meg nodded and looked down at her freshly manicured hands. How long should I stay here? she wondered, surreptitiously checking her watch.
‘So you’re from Blackpool?’ Finn finally said, feeling foolish.
‘Yes. Blackpool.’
‘I’ve never been to Blackpool.’
‘No.’
‘Been to Oxford, London and, you know, other places. But not Blackpool.’
‘No.’
‘Never made the time. Sorry now.’
‘Yes.’
‘Nice place, Blackpool?’
‘It’s alright.’
They sat a while longer in silence, while outside the TV crew grimaced over the instant coffee purchased from the fish ’n’ chip shop.
‘What was she like?’ Finn finally asked.
‘She?’
‘Jilly. Your cousin.’
‘A nice enough little kid. I was four years older. Not really a friend.’
‘What about her mother?’
Meg was tired of it all and decided to tell the truth. She wasn’t on TV now. ‘Look, her mother was hopeless, from what I hear. My mum always said she wouldn’t stick. They were sisters, but I don’t think they were that close.’
‘And her father? You said he was dead?’
‘Yes. He died of some liver disease. He took to the drink after they left.’
‘What was he like?’
‘A good bloke, really. Always nice to me and my brother. He wasn’t a violent drunk or anything like that. He just got sad. Looked a lot older than his age. He sort of collapsed in on himself, if you know what I mean.’
‘When did he die?’
‘A few years ago now. Let’s see, my youngest had just started school . . . Yes, about four years ago.’
‘And he never saw Jilly again.’
‘No. He never did.’
Finn absentmindedly topped up their teacups. When he spoke, his voice was low. ‘I wanted to find out who she was. I always have. I know what the coroner said, but I have to tell you, I was responsible for her death.’ He leaned forward to emphasise his argument. ‘Who knows? She might have got home to see her father, somehow. I cut her off from that possibility.’ He looked at her, his features hard with misery. ‘You must hate me, now that you know.’
Meg shook her head. ‘Why should I hate you? My cousin ran out in front of your car. She died. That’s it.’
‘I expected you to be angry. To be grieving.’
‘Look, I was eight when she left. She was really nothing to me. I just came out because the TV people offered to pay. That’s why I came in with you just now. They wanted me to abuse you and cry but I can’t. I’m not a bloody actress.’
Finn was shattered. He’d been about to say how sorry he was, how he wanted to make up for the harm he’d done. It would have been better if she had abused him. He would still say sorry, but he knew in his heart that she couldn’t offer the absolution he craved. It could only come from someone who cared for Jilly Baker. With her father dead, there was no-one alive who could restore Finn to a state of grace. He knew her name, but redemption was still beyond his grasp.
‘I’m sorry, anyway.’
‘Yeah. Well, it was a long time ago . . .’
Meg left the house and faced the camera. ‘I’m too emotional to speak for long,’ she said. ‘I just want to say that Jilly will always be in my heart. Now that I’ve seen where she died, and spoken to the driver, I’m content.’ (I’m getting better at this, she thought as she paused on the steps.) ‘And now,’ she dabbed her eyes, ‘if you don’t mind, I need some time to myself.’
Which she took at the Seahorse Hotel, Palm Beach, on the far north coast. The swimmers she’d brought from home made her look hippy so she bought new ones. The new ones looked much better.
When the film crew were finished and had adjourned to the pub, Sandy, encouraged by his aunt, called out at Finn’s back door.
‘Finn, it’s Sandy. Can I come in, mate?’ He pushed at the door, fully expecting it to be open as usual. The door stayed stubbornly shut. Of course! Sandy realised. He’d want to keep out the TV crew. He tried again. ‘It’s me, mate. The door’s locked.’
‘Go away.’
‘Just checking how you are. You are okay?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sure?’
‘Go away, Sandy.’
Sandy returned to his aunt’s house. ‘He won’t let me in, Aunt Lily. He sounded sort of down. I’m worried. Should we leave him alone?’ Disquieted, they looked at each other. They’d both experienced depression and knew the thoughts that arose in times of darkness.
‘I’ll go back,’ said Sandy in response to Mrs Pargetter’s unspoken command, and he headed up the path again, to the front door this time, feeling for the key hidden under the loose verandah board. This decisive action surprised him. The incident with Aunt Lily, his mother’s journals and the Great Galah protest had served to slough off the fears that had encased him, and from this unpromising chrysalis there emerged a man that even he was beginning to respect.
‘I’m coming in, Finn,’ he announced as he turned the key in the lock. ‘We need to talk.’
Finn was slumped in the armchair by the fire. He didn’t move or speak as Sandy came in, switched on the light and sat down in the chair opposite.
‘Talk to me, Finn,’ said Sandy, looking at him steadily. ‘Talk to me. I’m your mate.’
Finn stared at the wall and drew hard on his cigarette. All he’d ever asked was to be left alone, and now it seemed he’d acquired the obligations of a friendship he’d never sought from a man whose ambition it was to build a giant galah. He didn’t want to talk; he wasn’t even sure he could articulate his pain. He continued to stare resentfully at a point somewhere above Sandy’s head.
With new-found wisdom, the usually garrulous Sandy sat challenging Finn’s silence with his own. Finn was more practised, but with enormous self-control his visitor remained determinedly mute, waiting him out.
‘She didn’t care about her cousin, you know,’ Finn said finally. ‘It was all about the money. Even the police won’t absolutely confirm her identity.’
‘Are you convinced she was Jilly Baker?’
‘Of course. That’s obvious to any idiot.’
‘So what’s the problem? Isn’t that what you wanted?’
Finn shook his head in irritation. ‘Yes, of course I did. But I also wanted her to have a caring family. People to mourn her.’
‘That’s not going to happen, Finn.’ Sandy’s voice was firm. ‘You’ll just have to accept that and get on with your life.’
Finn fought to contain his anger. He stood up and looked down at the seated man. ‘You’re presuming on our friendship, Sandy. I want you to get out of my house. Now.’
‘I’ll go. But before I do, think about this. You have a daughter who cares for you and an old lady who relies on you.’ Sandy stood up and indicated his own broad chest. ‘You have someone who’s willing to risk losing his only friend to tell him the truth.’ He took a deep breath. ‘It’s time to move on, Finn. I know what it’s like to be stuck in the past. You have what you say you’ve always wanted. Be grateful. All the rest is just self-indulgence.’ With some dignity, Sandy turned and opened the door. ‘I’ll see myself out.’ Heading down the path, he heard the decisive click of the lock behind him.
‘I don’t think he’s in any immediate danger, Aunt Lily,’ Sandy reported. ‘We’ll keep an eye on him. I’ll give Moss a call.’
Finn, meanwhile, had returned to his chair, shocked at Sandy’s outburst. Self-indulgent. That was so undeserved. Was it self-indulgent to care about the fate of another human being? Was it self-indulgent to accept blame where blame was due? Sandy may have had his own epiphany, but he, Finn, would always be bound by the past. No-one could say he hadn’t tried to lay Jilly Baker to rest.
He stopped himself there as an unpleasant truth presented itself. He had tried to do so for the first few weeks after the accident but then he’d just given up. It was Moss who’d tried to uncover the truth. Even the TV people had tried, whatever their motives were. He, Finn, had given up. Through this fog of self-loathing, the memory of an old man’s voice echoed in his head. Boniface had never given up on him.
Look into your heart, Finn. That’s all the help I can offer.
It’s not easy, Father Boniface. I’m not sure I know how.
Your Silence. How do you spend your Silence?
I fear I may have squandered my Silence, Father.
Squandered?
I used the time to relive my guilt.
Wiser to seek beyond your guilt. Listen to your heart.
The old priest’s voice faded, and Finn stirred the fire. Sandy’s words had shaken him, and he needed time to work things through. Ashamed of his outburst, he picked up the phone.
‘You’ve given me a few things to think about, mate,’ he told the relieved Sandy. ‘I’m going to go bush for a couple of days. No, I need to be alone, but I’ll be okay. Tell Moss and Mrs Pargetter I’ll see them when I get back. I’ll get a few things together in the morning and hike along to the Two Speck— you know, the usual camping spot—near old Jim’s.’
‘Okay, Finn.’ Sandy kept his voice neutral. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, mate.’ He hung up the phone and turned to Mrs Pargetter. ‘Finn’s going bush for a couple of days. Do him good. As a matter of fact, I need a couple of days away myself. I’ll ask Nessie Ferguson to look in on you until Moss comes up for the weekend.’
The old lady clicked her teeth in annoyance. ‘I’ve managed alone for most of my eighty-three years, Sandy. I don’t need a babysitter now. Anyway,’ she added, ‘what’s wrong with asking Helen? Nessie Ferguson is a nosey parker.’
‘Helen’s going to be busy,’ he said, and disappeared out the door before she could protest any further.