Robyn Hogan

Some news from Australia

Anne answered the telephone on the third ring. Del could picture her walking along the hallway in her neat Lane Cove home, perhaps wearing flat shoes but dressed in smart slacks and collared sports shirt. To Anne, denim jeans were an abomination; cheap, tarty clothing. That Sarah’s jeans cost well in the hundreds could not alter her opinion. And as for Del, well Del knew Anne thought of her as a perennial student who must grow up one day. The idea of wearing loose track suits and floppy shorts, as Del favoured, at home anyway, was anathema to Anne.

It was not a fancy home, no view, but nice suburban living. With a pretty garden, balanced between deciduous trees, flowering shrubs and beds of annuals. Also, a lock-up garage.

The house was uncluttered and well cared for; Anne did all the cleaning herself. Del dreaded her finding out that she, Del, used a home cleaning service for her Wollstonecraft apartment. Flowers in vases would be brightening tables; it seemed Anne ‘did’ the arrangements each morning as part of her housekeeping routine. Removed the drooping, changed the water, resettled the survivors until it was time for a totally new arrangement. Del had seen Anne rotate through several flower arranging fashions: tall arrangements, wall arrangements, foliage arrangements, ikebana, posies, one-colour schemes, multi-colour themes, even evergreens. Of course, Maggie had always been a stalwart in maintaining the flowers in the church, had designed her town garden to cater for the church’s needs but Anne, in the city, did not have that outlet. Still, her choice of Peace roses for Margaret’s casket was inspired; the idea demonstrated aesthetic and artistic tastes and a flair for organisation. Maybe Anne, in a different mould, could have been a dynamic force for good. Instead, over the years, she had become a force for the status quo, not just for herself but for those within her sphere of influence.

And Del, without the protection of Kevin, fell into a category of care as far as Anne was concerned. Del, who had no housekeeping routines and, if there were flowers, it was a bunch of wayside colour bought from a greengrocer’s bucket, was ripe for reform. That the same Delma was launching herself on a new, independent career did not wash with Anne at all.

‘Hello, Anne, it’s Delma.’

‘Where are you?’ big sister snapped.

‘I’m in Trani, a town on the Adriatic coast north of Bari.’ What was the purpose of this call? Del suddenly wondered. Anne sounded so unfriendly.

‘Is that Italy?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what do you mean by just up and leaving this country without telling me? Really, Fidelma, it is most irresponsible of you. I have been worried sick for you.’

Del took a deep breath, spoke cheerily. ‘I’m really none of your business.’

‘I like that!’

‘And while we are on business, you had no right to call Susan O’Hare. In fact, I don’t know how you managed to find her number.’

‘I didn’t telephone; I confronted her in person.’ As Del gasped loudly Anne continued. ‘I took it upon myself to call at publishers until I found her. Wasted quite a bit of time in Ryde before I went to North Sydney.’

‘And what is so urgent you have to absolutely, definitely find me?’ Del was genuinely puzzled. It was Susan who handled the facts of the Turner deaths, had called Barbara seeking her, Del. Sue had not mentioned anything awfully urgent.

‘I was told, on good authority, that that Jackson fellow was living with you.’ Del could feel Anne swelling up in the righteous way she had, her expression pinched as if something filthy assaulted her nostrils.

Del forced a laugh, not minding that it sounded false. ‘And what if he is?’

‘Then I must rescue you.’ How absurd! Del thought. ‘He is a wife basher.’

‘Oh.’ Del fell silent, shaking, feeling again the fear of Barry’s threat that last morning. Anne had been looking out for her as only an elder sister could.

Into the silence Anne snapped, ‘Is he with you now?’

Del rallied. ‘No,’ then rushed on, reassuring Anne. ‘It was only one evening, we went out together, dined at a little restaurant near the publishers.’ That would be enough to tell her. ‘Next day I left for Rome.’

Anne’s sigh was hearty. ‘That is a relief. Oh Del, I’ve been so worried about you.’

‘If what you say is true, I can understand your concern. How do you know that he is?’

‘His wife has eventually left him. It’s an open secret she has put up with his ways for years and years. Hazel Watts it was who told me; rang and told me she had heard he was living with you. She knew he was chasing after you but felt you would have more sense.’

‘And I have.’ Yes, the story had the ring of truth. Barry Jackson could be the archetypal wife basher. Charming, then violent, before crawling back, seeking forgiveness with charm again. That’s why women stayed with such men; they were good, kind, companionable husbands ninety percent of the time. Del felt humbled. It had not been a good experience entertaining Barry and Anne, watching out for her, cared enough to interfere. ‘Thank you, Anne.’

‘I fear I may have been rather demanding of your friend, Ms O’Hare.’

Del laughed softly; Susan had called Anne feral. ‘However,’ her tone was brusque again, ‘you should have told me you were leaving the country. You must have known when last we met. I am extremely hurt.’

Del could sense the cost of the call running up in Francesca’s little office down the stairs. ‘No. It was spur of the moment stuff.’

‘I find that hard to believe. Mummy intended to take you overseas when you graduated and there was a lot of organisation involved then.’

Did she? First Del had heard of it. ‘Maybe then but not today. Current passport, quality plastic card, an airline ticket and a bit of luggage is all it takes. Anne, one more thing: Susan said something about Davy and Sarah splitting up?’ Hang the cost of the call, she had to know the details.

‘Yes, Del, I’m afraid you’ve been remiss there too. Davy did not want Sarah to have Mummy’s pearls. It was the last straw, apparently, when she came home with them. He demanded she give them to you but she wouldn’t.’

Del drew a deep breath, letting Anne hear it. ‘That’s not quite true, Anne. Sarah asked me to take them back but, as you are well aware, I did not want them.’ A marriage does not founder on a string of old pearls. More like, the new state-of-the-art apartment with Davy’s old chair, albeit recovered, taking centre stage, was the final stumbling block. ‘Perhaps I should speak to Davy. Where is he?’

‘Back in the old town. By himself.’

‘Have you a phone number?’

‘I’m just getting it,’ Del could hear the pages of Anne’s directory flicking, ‘here it is,’ and she rattled off the digits. Del repeated them then, with determination, brought the conversation to an end. She must, no matter what, maintain a strict emotional distance from Anne; keep her life her own.

Del paced the room, gathering her thoughts before calling Davy. It could be a little early to call him anyway; she should wait until it would be dark in Australia. If Davy was back on the land he would keep working while ever there was light. The sea lay serene, stretching beyond the breakwater, pinpoints of light mapping passing vessels. The Ordinamenta Maris, the oldest medieval maritime code, was said to have been drawn up from Trani, though Amalfi would argue the toss. A couple of lovers strolled out of the shadows running along San Nicola Pellegrino, bringing a touch of envy to Del. Her marriage had been happy, fulfilled and, although they had always expected the age difference would leave her living alone for most of the twilight years, her solitary state had come far too soon. Her run-in with – or lucky escape from — Barry only intensified her sadness. She should not be here alone in Trani, Tirenum of the ancient maps, founded, legend said, by Tirreno, son of Diomedes. It was Diomedes and his flesh eating mares that featured in one of the labours of Hercules. A fascinating part of the world, this, with its wonderful stories; she should be sharing it. Maybe she would be soon enough — with her Italian family. She shuddered, shy of the thought and, turning back to the telephone, dialled the number Anne had given her for Davy.

He sounded so thrilled to hear from her and so full of his plans Del sensed a vibrancy she had not seen in him for years. He was purchasing a small acreage close to town with an irrigation licence and a reasonable cottage and had been pacing out the vineyard he would plant. As soon as the contract was settled he would prepare the soil, build the trellising, install a microdrip system and, with luck, plant his vines before the close of winter.

‘But do you know anything about growing grapes?’

‘Quite a bit. In theory anyway.’

‘And making wine?’

‘I’ve enrolled at the College for next year.’

‘You’ve been planning this for some time. Anne says you up and left because Sarah took Mummy’s pearls, but that’s not so, is it?’

‘Sarah grasped at everything.’ Del nodded, remembering her grasping Davy in the first place, all those years ago. ‘I could not tolerate her having the pearls. For what it’s worth I’ve taken them from her. You should have them.’

‘But I don’t want them, Davy. Sarah offered to give them back to me but I refused.’ So, in the end, they had quarrelled about the pearls.

‘Sarah wanted everything, Delma. She drained me dry. We were married before I realised she would; indeed, I was a bit of a slow learner where Sarah is, was concerned.’

The cheeriness had left his voice. Del felt she had fulfilled her sisterly duty, had spent enough on yet another international telephone call, but could not leave him moping. He was no doubt fragile, his happy moods easily undermined.

‘It began when Dad died.’ Del knew she was in for a story but was powerless to stop him; if she listened carefully she might just be able to shorten it. ‘Mum and I decided to sell out. I could see irrigation was the new way to go so wanted somewhere smaller and on the river. Buying and selling property is an art, Delma, and I was good at it. And Sarah thought so too. So, instead of setting myself up with another farm, I found myself working in real estate.’

‘Yes, well, we know how successful you became.’ Could she cut him off now?

‘Sarah encouraged me, egged me on until I was dealing in million dollar city houses.’

There was the touch of little boy wonder in his tone. It was surely his innate honesty that won him clients, kept him climbing an often treacherous ladder. And, yes, Sarah had revelled in the socialite status his work had gradually brought them. So it was no surprise that she had been peeved at Margaret’s funeral. She had, Del recalled, insisted on Davy giving the eulogy; insisted on him taking a prominent role, but, if Del had interpreted her attitude correctly, she had not wanted him to descend to small town status again. It must have been a wondrous argument when it happened.

‘Davy, it’s after three in the morning here, I think I’ll say goodnight.’

‘Oh, good Lord, yes, I had forgotten Anne had told me you were in Italy. Don’t know how I could have when she raved on so much about it. How’s it going?’

‘Fine. Just fine. Have to arrange another interview tomorrow, er today.’

‘Funny you should choose Italy for a holiday because I can remember our mother being friends with an Italian. Must have been a POW.’

Del froze. Davy was younger than Anne; she had not thought to ask him for his memory of that summer. ‘What do you recall?’ she asked cautiously.

‘A party.’ Davy paused, waited, rather like the delay in the satellite transmission the call was using. ‘Anne and I were there and it was hot and noisy and I went outside, curled up under a tree, and went to sleep.’

‘And…?’ Did she really want to hear this? The room had gone quite cold. She pulled in a breath, nodded her head, yes, she had to know.

‘Del, I don’t know how to tell you this,’ Davy spoke quickly now, ‘but I think I saw our mother in a very close embrace with this man. He was a nice man, he made her laugh a lot. And she was giggling and gasping under the next tree to mine. I mainly remember the terror of being found there.’ Silence stretched between them. ‘I don’t know whether I was discovered or not.’

‘I guess you’d remember if you had been.’ Del hoped he could not hear the tension in her words, hoped she sounded casual to his ears. ‘Been nice talking to you. Good luck.’ She barely let him say goodbye before the handset, slippery with her sweat, fell out of her grasp.

So, Davy, her brother, her half-brother she corrected herself, had been there at her conception. But, it was possible, he might be her one ally when, if, the news of her parentage broke, became public knowledge.

A small town could still take revenge on a sinful, deceitful daughter but it would be Maggie not Del that was judged. No, it was the Italian facet with which Del would have to bear the brunt, the opprobrium of her mother’s wrong-doing. She could see it panning out, the daughter of the woman who had entrapped, ensnared the favoured son, could be considered a curse. She would have to take things very carefully, keep any relationship on a strictly professional basis, until she could assess the reaction, the attitude, Sal Brenna and his family might take towards her.

Slipping out of her clothes, tossing the nightgown over her head, she decided it would be best all round to whet her curiosity but keep her counsel.

And if she could not, Davy, the brother she barely knew, could prove to be the strong friend she might need. The day would surely come when Anne would chisel the story out; her reaction on their mother’s behalf was unlikely to be pleasant. Davy could well have his fair share of the qualities she had loved in their — no, his — father.

He had sounded so thrilled to hear from her.