The Lost Girls Page 4

  But if it’s all real, and I have travelled back in time and I’m going to save Claire, what then, I wonder? Will I go back to my own time to find her grown up with a life, a career, maybe children? I imagine her and Julian living near each other, their families intermingled. Maybe Richard and I will have moved somewhere close to all of them, or maybe we will have bought that house on the Central Coast that we used to daydream about, a place where they can all come for weekends and holidays. Children playing on the beach.

  I imagine the act, the moment when I do whatever it is I need to do to change Claire’s fate. In that instant all my grief will dissolve, and my life in the twenty years after 1997 will reassemble into something different, something I can’t predict.

  I wonder how I will know it’s done. Changing the past must surely change my memories of the past. Would some part of my mind remember the alternative too? I try to imagine what it would be like to remember that I once remembered something different.

  If I can’t rely on memory, I should try to find some way to tell myself that my mission is fulfilled and I can go home.

  Home. I could go back to a life full of Claire, grown up now; to the sparkling future and the promise we saw in her. I could go home to find a plug has been pulled and all the grief that has blighted our lives for the past fifteen years has swirled away.

  I need to know what I’ve achieved. So. When I – she – Stella set up this little room, she – I – had just read Doris Lessing’s The Golden Notebook and found it deeply inspiring. From a beautiful little stationery shop in the city I bought a stack of slim notebooks, the ones from Florence with thick soft pages and marbled designs on the covers. They should be in the drawer of the old wooden desk under the window.

  Rummaging in the drawer I find the five pristine notebooks in subtly different colours. I take the blue one and a pen from the earthenware mug on the table and get back into bed.

  Right now I remember clearly everything that happened from this point in our lives – let’s say the middle of 1997 – until the day I got onto the bus in 2017 to come home and found myself back here. I start to write.

  Winter, 1997. I was overworked and doing long hours with the North and Dunworth job, the environmental report for Roads and Traffic and the ever-changing Railways contract . . .

  I cross out “Railways contract” and substitute “Sydney Water”. It’s going to be important to remember correctly, because it might be the little details that change.

  . . . Julian seemed to be cruising along but we found out later he was slacking at school. At the end of Term 3 his year advisor called us in for a talking-to. When he started Year 12 the next year he had improved but we still weren’t happy about his relationship with Natalie. Richard was in one of his good periods, cheerful most of the time, delighted to be in charge of the Year2K preparations. He thought there would be ongoing problems and he would have continuous work as one of the experts. Wonder what would have happened if he’d known it was going to be a non-event? Claire was in Year 6, not concerned about high school, still very close with Marika though some tensions were creeping in. If they had stayed friends things might have been different. We didn’t expect her to get into a selective school and we had decided against Riverside Girls because Natalie was there and we thought she might be a bad influence.

  I stop writing and glance over my work. Details notwithstanding, this is too long-winded. It will take days, if not weeks, to write down everything that happened in twenty years. Maybe I should just cover the last few months of 1997 with even more detail so I can easily see if anything changes. Or should I write about the things that happened later, the things I would like to change? I need to think carefully about this.

  I’m in the kitchen making myself a plunger coffee, wishing they had bought the espresso machine now rather than ten years later, when Stella comes into the room.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to give you a fright,” she says.

  I want to tell her she looks beautiful. She’s wearing the expensive black suit, the one I agonised over for two years and finally managed to buy in a sale, with a pale blue silk top underneath. There are faint lines around her eyes but her skin is still clear and glowing. How did I go through all those years worrying that my looks didn’t come up to some imagined standard? Such a waste.

  “I thought you’d gone to work.”

  “I’ve got a couple of meetings in the city this morning, starting at ten, so I’m just going to go from here.”

  “So you’re pretty busy?” I ask hopefully.

  “Flat out.” She grimaces. “It’s one of those times I wish I was two people.”

  If ever there was an opening, this is it.

  “I was wondering if I could help you,” I say.

  “Well . . .” She’s embarrassed, and I know what she’s thinking. Bag lady.

  “I know I’m not a young thing, and of course I’m a woman,” I say, grinning. “But I’ve done your sort of work before, and my grammar and spelling are really good.”

  “Have you . . . Well, you left school pretty young, didn’t you?”

  “School was a waste of time for me anyway, for all I learned there. But I did a few courses once I’d got sorted out,” I tell her. “Besides, Anne drummed grammar into me at an early age.”

  She smiles. That was her experience too, of course. Mum’s own schooling was cut short, but she was bright, and she was determined that Frank, then Linda would have the opportunities she had missed. Frank, a serious boy who was a boring man by the time I got to know him, paid her back by applying himself well and becoming the first person in our family to go to university. He did the circuit of country towns as a geography teacher and ended up with a bureaucratic job in the Education Department.

  I – Stella – started out as a teacher too, with the unusual combination of Maths and English and a promise from the department that I would be placed in a prestigious selective girls’ school to teach out my three-year bond. When, instead, I received a posting to a remote country high school, I asked Uncle Frank to intercede for me. All I got was a stiff lecture about nepotism. Hearing the news, Mum said, “I’m glad he used that word in such a wonderfully appropriate context.”

  She was pretty good, for an autodidact.

  “Well, I’ll bring some work home from the office later today and see how you go with it,” says Stella now.

  “That would be great,” I say. “The truth is, I’m a bit short of cash, so if I can be of real use to you and earn a bit it would certainly help.”

  “Oh, you should have said!” She’s reaching for her handbag, which is hanging on the back of a chair.

  “No, no,” I say. “I’m okay for the moment, and I’d rather pay my own way.” She’ll respect that.

  “That reminds me,” she says. “Mum’s pretty keen to see you.”

  “Mum? Your mum, Anne?” For some reason I haven’t thought about this.

  “Yes, Anne. You don’t mind that I told her, do you? That you’re back?”

  “No, no. Of course not.” Mum. How old is she now? Richard said that first night that she’s still active, involved in a lot of things.

  Stella is still talking. “The thing is, I’d love to take you there, but I really am busy at the moment. I’ll have to do some work this weekend, and there’s the kids . . .”

  “That’s okay, I can go on the train.”

  Could I go to see Anne? I can lie to Stella, myself: in fact, it’s remarkably easy. But lying to my mother feels different. Besides, she knew Linda.

  “I think she’s got a lot on today,” says Stella. “Friday’s her busy day; but maybe you could go tomorrow?”

  “Sure. Tomorrow.”

  She leaves for her meetings and I wander around the house, a little dazed. After Mum died I was surprised at how much I missed her. In her last year or so, when her world narrowed as her strength and her mind started to wane, my life was a constant quest to find little things that would interest her, that we could talk a
bout in my more and more frequent visits. After she was gone, those little things kept cropping up and falling on fallow ground, with no-one to tell them to.

  She died on New Year’s Day 2001, just before the whole world changed. She has less than four years left to live, and now I have a chance to see her again.

  I spend the day alternately reading and walking around the neighbourhood, delighting in the things that have since vanished: that huge gum tree in the next street that will come down in a ferocious storm in 2015, smashing several front fences and Bob Riley’s four-wheel drive; the rainbow-striped hippie house a couple of streets away, much loathed by the arbiters of good taste, which will eventually get a bland renovation in black and grey; the funny old charity shop next door to the hamburger joint, both to be replaced by smart cafés. I go into the Black Cat café, long gone by the time Richard and I moved to the apartment, and without thinking order a flat white. The bald man behind the counter – I should remember his name, but it has slipped away – hesitates for a fraction of a second, then brings me a weak black coffee with a dash of milk in it. I thank him wryly and hand over two dollars, reflecting that I had better ask for a latte next time.

  Lying on my bed back at the house, I flip through a selection of books from the living-room shelves. I bitterly regret that I didn’t put the book I’ve been reading, the last of the Neapolitan Quartet, in my bag when I went out to catch the bus three days ago . . . three days ago in 2017. I hope this doesn’t mean I’ll never know how the story ends.

  After reading a couple of pages of Cold Mountain and realising that the film they made has soured it for me, I decide to go with The God of Small Things. I remember it as the best thing I read that year, and I don’t remember much of what’s in it apart from one devastating snippet. Something about two little girls. One loved. One loved a little less.

  With one ear pricked up, listening for sounds from the house, I hear Claire come in with her friend, Marika. They were so close from about Year 2 onwards, and I never understood why they fell out with each other, nor can I remember when it happened. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I wander into the kitchen.

  Claire is about average for her age in height, and skinny. Her fine bones never acquired much flesh. Marika is shorter and a little stocky, her skin olive and her hair dark-brown. They’re wearing different school uniforms, and I remember that Marika switched to a private school in Year 5.

  With Henrietta curling around their ankles, they are at the bench eating peanut butter sandwiches. When she sees me Marika nudges Claire.

  “Hi,” says Claire. “This is my friend Marika. Marika, this is my great-aunt.”

  “Great-aunt?” says Marika. “Wow!”

  “You can call me Linda,” I say. “What’s the goss?”

  They both fall into fits of giggles, which stop only when Marika takes a big bite of her sandwich.

  “We’re going to do some homework,” says Claire. “We’re both doing assignments on space travel.”

  “Sounds great,” I say. “Well, let me know if you want any help.”

  “It’s pretty easy, and we’ve got lots of books,” says Claire. They pick up their schoolbags and head for the stairs.

  Books, I think. That’s nice. No internet. Of course the internet exists, but it hasn’t taken over the world yet. As far as I can remember we were still using a dial-up modem, and Julian may have persuaded us by now to get a second phone line. He was as addicted to his bulletin boards as any Facebook or Snapchat user is addicted to their apps today.

  Within a couple of minutes music is trickling through Claire’s closed door, and I fancy I recognise the Spice Girls. I put the kettle on, make myself a cup of tea and sit at the kitchen table with it, smiling at the sound of thumps from above my head. There seems to be more dancing than homework going on.

  A round-faced girl with wavy hair dyed a deep red and scraped back in a ponytail comes in and stops abruptly at the sight of me.

  “Ouch,” says Julian, bumping into her. “Move, Natalie. It’s just my auntie.”

  “Hi, I’m Linda,” I say, holding out my hand.

  “Hi, I’m Natalie. Wow, are you staying here?” Her voice is breathy, her enthusiasm false, and I really can’t stand her.

  “Just for a few days. Are you at school with Julian? Your uniform looks different.”

  “I go to Riverside,” she says. “It’s all girls. Borrrrring.” She makes a little face at Julian.

  “Hey, maybe we can go and catch the movie after all,” he says. “Auntie Linda, are you going to be hanging out here for a while?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s just that . . . Mum likes me to be here with Claire until they get back from work, but, like, if you’re going to stick around . . .”

  “No probs,” I say. “You two can . . . um . . . cruise.”

  “Oh, cool,” he says. “I owe you. Can you tell Mum I’ll be home about eleven?”

  They go out and I hear her high-pitched laugh.

  Why is it so hard to be natural with these kids, I wonder? If I can’t relate to them as their mother then I’m just floundering. I suppose they see me as a cross between Auntie Mame and Mrs Doubtfire. It doesn’t really matter, but I’ve got to gain Claire and Julian’s confidence so I can give them some meaningful advice, and every time I see them both all I want to do is grab them and hug them.

  Stella and Richard come in together, their mood mellow. I remember we sometimes met for a drink after work on Friday nights and ordered takeaway food on the way home.

  “We’ve organised some pizza,” Stella tells me. “Richard and Julian will go up and get it in a minute.”

  “Um . . . Julian’s gone out. He’ll be back at eleven. Claire’s got a friend here.”

  She stumps crossly up the stairs and I hear a heated debate. Claire’s voice rises above the others. “Please, Mum. Pleeeaaaasssssse.”

  Stella comes back.

  “Claire and Marika are having pizza with us, then they might go to Marika’s for the night. I’ve just got to go and call her mum.”

  “I’ll help Richard get the pizza,” I say.

  “Don’t worry, I can manage on my own.” He disappears out the door and Stella is busy on the phone in the hall. I take myself into the living room and sit there feeling out of place as two delighted cats twine themselves together in my lap, purring loudly.

  We eat pizza on the couch with the television going, and Richard pours cold white wine for the adults. The two girls whisper and giggle through the news, then run back upstairs to get Claire’s pyjamas. A car beeps outside, there is a flurry of activity in the hall, then they are gone.

  “Peace and quiet at last,” says Stella, holding out her glass for more wine.

  “Bliss,” says Richard. He puts his big hand around Stella’s to steady it as he pours the wine and they smile into each other’s eyes. “Anything worth watching on TV tonight?”

  “I don’t know,” says Stella. “I’m going to have a lovely long bath.”

  Her fingers trail across Richard’s cheek as she departs, taking her wine. He gazes after her.

  I know these signs. I can read their unspoken conversation. Our best lovemaking wasn’t confined to bed with the lights out and everyone else tucked up. Whenever we got the chance we were spontaneous, playful – laughing and grappling on the couch, the stairs, the little patch of back lawn, the kitchen table and yes, the bath. But my presence is going to inhibit them.

  “I’d better make a move myself,” I say casually. “I thought I might take a bus to Glebe and catch a movie at the Valhalla.”

  “Oh!” Richard’s eyes dart to the living room door as though a ghostly after-image of Stella lingers there. “What’s on?”

  “Um . . . I’m not sure, but I overheard some people on the bus talking about it, and it sounded interesting.” I stand up. “I’ll just grab my coat and go.”

  “Right.” He’s already on his feet. “Enjoy.”

  I consider hiding out in my
room, but it’s risky. There’s nothing for it but to catch the bus as I said, and in any case they’ll ask about the movie, so I’d better know what it is. The trouble is I can’t actually buy a ticket, because I don’t know how much I’ll need for the train fare tomorrow and I have to conserve what little money I have.

  Wrapped in my trench coat at the bus stop I try to stop myself from imagining what they’re up to. Was this one of the times we started in the bath and finished on the living-room rug, in front of the fire, knowing we wouldn’t be disturbed? I remember the golden light, the flickering flames. Once, a spark shot out of the fire with a loud crack, singeing the rug a centimetre from my hip, and we laughed.

  I try to stop imagining that I’m watching them, and I wonder idly how the morality of that would work out. It can’t be wrong to watch yourself making love, like having a mirror on the ceiling; but it feels wrong and I recoil from the idea. Some people find the thought of being watched exciting, but for me sex doesn’t really work as a spectator sport, and I’m usually repelled at the heavy-breathing simulations that crop up so often on the screen. The delight Richard and I still find together is felt, not seen, somewhere in that invisible space enclosed by our bodies. Besides, I worked hard to lose the inhibitions that I brought from a staid country upbringing and the merest hint that someone was looking on – or even, I have to say, imagining us in the act – would put me off completely.

  It’s cold and drizzling in Glebe and people are arriving at the cinema, so at least I’ve got the timing right. Back in these days I didn’t get to the Valhalla much, with work and kids in the way, but I always loved it. It was an honest old suburban cinema, not an ornate picture palace like the few other survivors, and not really very comfortable, but it was steeped in atmosphere. The poor old place is already in its second life, if I remember correctly, and it’s not going to last much longer.

  I’m relieved to see that the film is Three Colours: Red, which I’ve seen enough times on SBS to be able to answer their questions. I’m a bit hazy about which of the three films it is, but I’ve see them all so it will be okay.