Ill-Gotten Gains (18 page)

‘How on earth did you lot find all this in – what? Ten minutes?’

‘Once we had Matija’s name, everything else just fell into our laps. Her death certificate listed where she died and the cause, and also her issue. Then it was just a matter of looking for Alice Logan, but there was nothing. Well, not yet. Lew said we shouldn’t give up.’

‘On what?’ asked Yen, looming across the table.

‘Ah, just a distant relative of the Sheridans. We’re doing some research.’

‘Really?’ She looked at me searchingly and then transferred her gaze to Petra. ‘And in what way were you two involved in Will Akermann’s arrest?’

I gaped at her. ‘How did you know that?’

‘Actually, I didn’t. But I do now.’

‘Why are you wearing that?’ Petra pointed to Yen’s lilac windcheater, which had
One hundred and fifty years of
Majic
!
scrawled in silver italics across the chest.

‘It’s good for business.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Don’t change the subject.’ Yen focused on me. ‘I thought I spoke to you about getting involved in this sort of thing?’

‘Yen, I’m forty-seven years old. I can make my own decisions.’

‘Thank you for telling me your age, I’d forgotten. It’s not like I was there at the time.’ Her eyes slid briefly to Petra. ‘Now let me tell you both something: I have no intention of having a child predecease me. If anything happens to either of you because of your silly research or whatever it is, I shall be
extremely
put out. Understand?’

I nodded, deciding not to point out that if anything did happen to either of us, we probably wouldn’t care if she was put out. ‘Yen, Will’s been arrested. The danger’s over.’

‘Don’t be a fool,’ she replied shortly. ‘Anyway, is this research really so fascinating? I mean, the Sheridan family are mostly tedious. Nell, are you sure you’re not doing this because of your ex-husband?’

I took a deep breath. ‘First, you know his name. Second, we’re not divorced so he’s not technically my
ex
-husband. And third, no. No, I’m not.’

‘So then you admit you’re not sure. Interesting.’

‘Huh?’

‘By the way, I spoke to Ross Charles – he works at the real estate agency with the shops. He isn’t the actual agent but he said they’ve been on the books for a while and though the seller isn’t strapped for cash, he does want to offload them. He thinks they’ll be quite negotiable on price.’

‘Oh, excellent.’ I’d actually forgotten about the shops. The thought gave me a warm feeling, which was doubly pleasant given the outdoor heater wasn’t very effective.

‘Now I’d better be off. Some people have to work for a living.’

We watched her head back down the street towards Renaissance. She put on a burst of speed as a few shoppers stopped to peruse the outdoor display.

‘One more coffee,’ said Petra, rising. ‘Then I’ll take you home.’

I wrapped my coat a little more securely and leant back in my seat. A white van drove past with the Channel Seven News logo emblazoned on the side. It seemed the media were interested at last. The van turned left, towards Sheridan House. I could see Elsa Poxleitner among a group at the end of the arcade. Their heads turned as one to watch the van go past and then, like a flock of excited chickens, followed. I thought of poor Deb, who would be juggling all the final preparations plus the excitement over Will’s arrest, and now the media also. And I wondered whether she knew her sister was back in town.

I closed my eyes tiredly, but even the lids felt heavy. Will Akermann, murderer. I would never have looked in his direction but that didn’t really mean much. I did seem to be particularly lacking when it came to intuition. And the Discovery was now out in the open anyway, or soon would be, so it was all for nothing. It occurred to me that we had started this journey by searching for Kata, even if we hadn’t yet known her name, and then shifted to her daughter, Matija. Now, it was the turn of
her
daughter. Alice May Logan. I fervently hoped that there would be more shifts to come, and that she was not the end of the line. Because I wanted a whole reunion of Majic descendants, and I wanted them to flood the town and face up to the Sheridans. After one hundred and fifty years, it was about time that justice was served.

A joke for your competition: a middle-aged woman has a near-death experience where God says to her, ‘Go back, my dear, it’s not your time for fifty more years.’ Thrilled, the woman decides that with so much life, she might as well have a makeover. She dyes her hair, has a facelift, boob lift, liposuction, collagen implants. Shortly afterwards she is crossing the road when she is hit – smack! – by a truck and killed. At the pearly gates she says, ‘But, God, you said I had fifty more years!’ ‘Sorry, my dear,’ replies God. ‘I didn’t recognise you.’

I slept for eleven hours, which was a record for the past twenty years. Unfortunately, given I crawled into bed at four-thirty in the afternoon, this meant I woke in the very early hours of the following morning bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Not a common state for me regardless. I lay in bed for a while thinking about Ruby, and whether proffering overseas aid might not be a learning experience for her; or whether those requiring such aid hadn’t already suffered enough. From there it was a smooth segue to Scarlet and Lucy, and how odd it felt to have your babies having babies. I could not imagine either of them with a child, but I suspected that was more my problem than theirs.

After twenty minutes or so I decided I had not been supportive enough and made a mental note to look at Ruby’s website, then ask the other two when their initial ultrasounds were due, whether they wanted company, what I could do. But the situation was complicated by Lucy. Any impulse to rush out and buy baby outfits or toys or any requisite paraphernalia was tempered by having to avoid insensitivity. And I myself was conflicted; on the one hand I admired her decision and recognised it was a sound one given the circumstances, but on the other I was beginning to realise that I really, really, wanted her to keep it.

Matija slipped like quicksilver into my head and I wondered how she must have felt, relinquishing her own child. From some research undertaken years ago, for an article on diseases that no longer packed their previous punch, I knew that typhoid was a dreadful illness that got steadily worse over about four weeks. Symptoms were obvious from the first. Even if Matija hadn’t remembered her own mother’s death, she would have known something was seriously wrong. Typhoid outbreaks were common, especially before Melbourne gained a sewage system later that century.

It must have been agony, not just the illness but the knowledge that soon her daughter would be utterly alone. No father, no family, no support. Postponing hospitalisation as long as possible would not have been an option, as it came with the risk of infecting others. Unless Matija knew someone willing to take the child, it was likely she either relinquished her to an orphanage herself or had the decision taken out of her hands. If I was her, I would then have simply curled into a corner. The agony of the separation, and knowing the bleak childhood in store for my baby, would have made me pray that death came fast.

The bed was uncomfortable now. I rose and had a slow shower, welcoming a brief respite from the collar. My right leg ached and I guessed I’d pulled a muscle when I’d managed to fall on top of it yesterday. I rubbed in some ointment and watched the flesh wobble, which didn’t help my mood. Finally I dressed and wandered down to my study to turn on the computer. From the flurry of emails that dropped into my inbox, it seemed I had been the only one sleeping.

I dropped into the computer chair. Matija, that bright-eyed little girl leaning on her mother’s knee, had become a prostitute. How long after Avery’s desertion had that seemed a viable solution? Was that why she had never returned to Majic, or had she been turned away? What about James Junior, with his heartfelt ‘the door is always open’, why hadn’t she tried knocking there? Or maybe the door had only been open while her purity was intact. It was all so dreadfully sad, even though the main players had been dead for many years. Not to mention infuriatingly unfair.

My sigh carried the weight of women through history. I went out to the kitchen and made coffee, then sat in the family room. With the lights on, the darkness of the windows framed my own reflection. I looked better a little blurred. I ran my fingers through my hair and watched as the window gave me a halo. Had Matija grown up to resemble her mother, with those batwing brows and pewter eyes? Had Alice? Or perhaps she never had the chance to grow up at all, instead vanishing into the fabric of a society where poverty devoured compassion. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, survival of the fittest.

I sipped my coffee, trying to concentrate on anything other than Matija and her child. God knew I had enough on my plate. But each time I forcibly moved her to one side, thinking instead about my own offspring, particularly the expectant two and the one who was planning to flit overseas and offer aid, or Darcy, or my father’s shop, Matija slithered back into focus. Touting for custom along Little Bourke Street, staring at the blood on her handkerchief, sitting on the side of a makeshift bed and gazing helplessly at her daughter, trying to weigh up her limited options.

What a pity she never did the horizontal limbo with young James. If she had, she might have been able to shift paternity. There were no DNA tests back then. At least she would have died knowing the child was secure, even if the elder James was still around. It might not have been moral, but then nothing in this story was. I played with the thought while I made toast and then, midway between the buttering and the eating, it took hold. Once it did, it started to actually make sense.

Because who was to say that she hadn’t? After all, they were engaged for some time, plus both young and living in the same house. And there did seem to be some level of community disapproval of Matija. According to Betty Rawlings’ grandmother, it was ‘like mother, like daughter’, while the original Svetlana used words like ‘the girl’ rather than ‘young lady’, while clearly sympathetic to the Sheridans.
Feelings run high for the family who have long been thought badly used
. The key word being ‘long’, suggesting that Matija’s approval rating had been shaky even prior to flight. If this censure had anything to do with a general
generosity
, then there was every chance she had also been generous with the strapping young lad who was on hand. So to speak.

I took my toast over to the couch, my depression having been blunted by a bubbling excitement. Matija was property-less, motherless and essentially fatherless; her only currency would have been sex appeal and the discovery must have seemed like power. After a bleak childhood, who could really blame her? Perhaps she was searching for romance, or security, or family – and perhaps, like vulnerable girls everywhere, she was naive enough to think she could trade. All that was needed then was for her to have done so during the few months between Avery Logan leaving Majic and her running away to join him. Perhaps a comparative effort, or a farewell gesture, or maybe they just got wedged in a doorway and one thing led to another. Happens to the best of us.

Regardless, she herself had not been willing or able to return to Majic. Not before or after her illness. Perhaps it was pride. But pride would count for nothing when measured against the life of a treasured child. If I had been her, in that situation, I would have done anything. Including rewriting history to manipulate the future. The first thing I would have done is write a deathbed confession to James explaining that I had had
his
child, and I would have moved the birth date a few months to fit the tale. Then I would have told him where she was and that my last wish was for him to raise her.
The door is open. All will be well.

I finished my coffee and toast, thinking furiously. I couldn’t risk Alice being collected directly from those boarding her, because they probably knew her real name, not to mention her father. And what if James didn’t answer the letter or, even more plausible, his father intercepted it? His dislike of me would only be worse since I jilted his son. But there was an alternative with a built-in backup. If I passed Alice to the orphanage, registering her father as James Sheridan II along with his contact details, it would mean that even if he failed to arrive, the authorities would contact him at some stage. Handing her over was a prospect I dreaded but, God willing, it wouldn’t be for long. A small price to pay. All I needed was to obliterate Alice May Logan, the girl with the deadbeat father and prostitute mother, along with her birth certificate, and create a girl with a future. Alice May Sheridan.

I slumped back in the couch, drained but elated. It fitted; all I required was proof. Young Alice hadn’t disappeared at all, she had simply been reborn. Gusto padded into the room and looked at me with sleepy surprise. He stretched his front legs forward and thrust his butt into the air, opening his mouth in a huge, tongue-curling yawn. I jumped up, reinvigorated by anticipation. ‘Alice May
Sheridan
, Gusto. That’s who we’re looking for.’

I hurried from the room with the dog following. Back at the computer I began a search for orphanages around Matija’s area. The major one of the time was the Melbourne Orphan Asylum, founded in 1853. I spent the next hour and a half trying to find online records, being bumped from one archival site to another. Finally I pushed my chair back, frustrated. It was nearly eight o’clock. I drummed my fingers on the desk and then reached for the phone.