Lost Girls (39 page)

But yet Anne,
despite knowing she had done all she could, was not able to put it
from her mind, it was always there, an unresolved grief.

The good thing
was it had not poisoned her relationship with David; that was
stronger than ever though they had mutually agree to push the
wedding back and defer marriage plans until next Christmas to allow
Anne to pursue all the leads that she could uncover unhindered.
Once they got married they planned no delay in beginning their own
family and free time would vanish. So she knew she needed to bring
this search to something approaching a conclusion before then.

So now it was
June the year after, fifteen months from when Susan had vanished
and a year since the fundraiser which had launched the public
campaign, not just for Susan but for all the many other people who
had vanished in Australia without a trace.

Others were
using funds to search for other missing people, she had
concentrated her search only on Susan, the other girls whose
passports were found and the girl, J, that Mark had spoken of in
his diary.

Last month the
TV channel had screened the documentary which accompanied her book,
and the response had been huge, more than a million dollars of
additional donations had come from that night to build on the funds
raised a year ago. It would fund building memorials and continued
following of leads for other missing people.

Next month
would be the memorial service in Darwin. They would place the six
plaques with the girls’ names at the end of East Point where the
harbour met the sea, a place which looked out to the west where the
sun set over an ocean called the Timor Sea. Anne’s mind associated
the setting sun with the passing to new life and eternal hope.

This day, as
all those thoughts of the search ran round and round in her mind,
she was sitting in the sunny living room of the flat she shared in
Glebe with David. It was actually his own place, but now that her
travels around the world had finished she had moved in with him and
he had set her up with a computer and all the other mod cons for
her writing.

It had a
glorious view out onto Sydney harbour, with ANZAC bridge dominating
the skyline and, in the early morning and evening she would watch
the dragon boat crews practice. Other times she would glimpse
larger ships further out, sometimes the luxury cruising boats with
their millionaire owners who moored them immediately across the bay
from where she sat.

She loved this
view, especially on winter sunny mornings when the sun streamed in
and she sat her in her track pants and slippers having a leisurely
breakfast after David had gone off to his office in Camperdown to
work. She thought of him and his tousled blond hair with affection
as she had last glimpsed him leaving this morning.

The phone rang
startling her out of her reverie. It was someone from the TV
channel, an admin person who had been dealing with all the
donations for the appeal. She could not recall this ladies face but
her name sounded familiar.

The phone voice
asked if it was Anne and, when Anne confirmed it was, the voice
said, “We have this slightly unusual letter addressed to our appeal
and with your name and then; ‘Private and Confidential’ written at
the top. I have not opened it, it seemed like I should check with
you first.

“Perhaps it is
another parent asking for you help, and they did not want to
disclose what has happened more widely, but are asking for you to
read their request privately before you do anything further. So I
wondered, should I send it on to you? Or alternatively, if you are
coming past our office in the next day or two, you could pick it
up.”

Anne felt
intrigued and curious. There had been lots of requests for help
early on, mainly after the first appeal. They had worked with the
police in deciding what to do with these, helping where they could.
But generally these came in to the well advertised help line and
address, not via the appeal which was used as a place of public
donations.

Anne felt she
needed to read the contents of this envelope first, just by
herself, to honour the sender’s wishes. As David’s flat was at the
bottom of Glebe looking out to Blackwattle Bay it was only a
fifteen minute walk to Pyrmont, the location of the TV channel
office, from where the call came.

Anne had not
been out today and it would be good to stretch her legs. So she
replied. “It is only a short walk from here to your office. So, if
it is OK, I will pop round in about half an hour to collect
it.”

“Sure,” the
person on the other end of the phone replied.

She had a quick
shower and changed out of her trackies into a smart suit, then
walked out in the crisp winter morning air. It was a glorious
Sydney day, the sun still low to the north east and shining in her
face, warming her as she walked. She loved this walk around the
bottom of the harbour, passing people of all shapes and ages, the
fit brigade, cyclists in fluoro gear on the way to a late work
start, people walking dogs, elderly people taking in the morning
sun and fresh air. She passed the coffee shop on the point and
resisted the temptation for coffee and cake; she could feel weight
creeping on with the last month of at home inactivity and good
eating and drinking. Perhaps she would indulge on the walk
home.

Soon she was at
the TV office reception. They all knew here from last month’s
program and greeted her like a long lost friend. The admin person
came out to the front desk and passed Anne the letter. Anne thanked
her then looked at it curiously.

It was a small
plain envelope with a single postage stamp postmarked ‘Adelaide” in
one corner. At the top was her name – then Private and Confidential
underlined, followed by the appeal address from the TV program. It
had all been meticulously transcribed in neat handwriting capitals.
There was no return address and no other distinguishing features on
the outside.

Anne thanked
them all and put the letter in her jacket pocket, wanting to
respect the sender’s wishes and open it in private. So she waved
her goodbyes and walked back into the street.

It was only a
few minutes’ walk back to the cafe where coffee and cake had
tempted. She decided to return there before opening and reading
this missive. She found an outside table in a sheltered nook and,
once her coffee and a lemon tart were served, she savoured a
lingering sip and bite before retrieving the envelope.

She did not
know why, but she sensed this was something of importance. She
opened in with a nail file from her bag, carefully lifting the flap
with a minimum of tearing. Inside was a single sheet of paper,
folded once. There was writing on the inside of the folded sheet.
She took the sheet, opened it and spread it on the table in front
of her. It was in the same neat writing. It read,

Dear Anne,

You do not
know me though you have told part of my story. I saw it on TV a few
days ago.

I found it
very hard to watch, most hard when my parents appealed to know
where I am.

I did not
deliberately set out to hurt them.

I ask you let
them know I am alive to ease their pain.

Perhaps one
day I will be able to bring myself to contact them directly.

In the
meantime I ask that you do not disclose this information to
others.

I do not want
the police or media searching for me though I do not think they
will find me.

There is one
other thing I want to say.

It is that the
Mark I knew was a good person. He was kind and never sought to hurt
me.

I wish I could
say more but cannot.

Thank you.

Cathy

Beside the name
Cathy was a funny little squiggle that did not mean anything to
Anne.

Anne felt like
a bomb had exploded in her hand. It could be a hoax but it did not
feel like it. She wondered if it was true, that when all the other
searching had failed the TV program had reached one soul who now
wanted to lay one ghost to rest.

She did not
know what to do. They had all promised to share any information
that came their way, that is between the group of close knit
friends and family that had led the search. But this girl had
expressly asked that the only communication be directly with her
own parents and, even then as now, she could not release to them
what she thought was the key, the story of the child. She supposed
she would talk to David and together they would decide what to
do.

She picked up
her mobile phone and dialled him. He answered on the first
ring.

She said,
“Could you come home for a bit. There is something really important
I must show you.

As she walked
to the front of the block of flats his car was turning into the
driveway. She sat into the passenger’s seat as he stopped alongside
her.

Wordlessly she
passed him the envelope.

He read it his
face furrowing. “Wow,” was all he said for a minute. Then he said,
“This is the best news in a year. Let’s go inside and ring her
parents together. I know it is the middle of the night over there
but, if it was me, I would want to know without losing a
minute.”

So they found
their number in Anne’s contact list. There was the inevitable delay
as the links connected through the different exchanges. Then they
could hear it ringing. It rang and rang. Finally a groggy Scottish
male voice came down the line.

David asked,
“Is that Mr Alastair Rodgers?”

There was an
affirmative grunt.

David
introduced himself and Anne, who they had both met Mr Rodgers
before several times.

“Oh, aye,” came
the reply; then, “What news?”

David handed
the phone to Anne. As she picked it up she heard a female voice, a
bit distant, come down the line. “Who is it Alastair?”

“Those people
from Australia, the ones looking for Cathy and who did that TV
program.”

“Oh my God,
Alastair, what are they saying?”

Before he could
reply Anne spoke down the line, “Mr and Mrs Rodgers, we think we
have got a letter from Cathy, it says it is from her.”

There was a
sense of stunned silence coming down the line, a sense of people
too overcome by emotion to find words. Anne could feel tears in her
eyes. She started to speak again and found her voice was choked
too.

She passed the
letter to David saying “Could you read it to them?”

David took the
letter and the phone and said to the continued silence. “Are you
there Mr and Mrs Rodgers? Could I read the letter out to you? It is
only a few lines long and we are not sure if it is real, but we
knew you would want to know straight away.

Two voices came
down the phone line, almost together; a female, “Please do,” and a
male, “Och Aye, Please Yes, for God’s sake.”

So David read
as slowly and clearly as he could. A couple times his voice had a
slight tremor. Then he said, “At the end, just near where she signs
her name Cathy, she had put a funny little squiggle, half like a
face but not quite.

They heard,
down the line, the female voice, “God be praised, it really is our
girl.” The male voice was silent but they could hear what sounded
like a man sobbing.

After a minute
it calmed and he came on the line again. He said, “With the
squiggle you describe we are almost sure it really is our girl. It
was a thing she and her sister had for communicating together when
they were little girls. It is like she put it there to tell us it
is really her. We are both a bit overwhelmed with emotion right now
but would it be possible to send us a copy as quickly as you can. I
have an email in my office so perhaps you could scan it and send it
through.

It was done in
a minute while they stayed on the phone. Another minute later the
voice came back again. “Yes we have the letter now. It is her
handwriting and her signature. That squiggle is something that
could have only come from her; so praise be to God, our prayers are
answered and we know our girl is still alive.”

There was not
much more to say. The Rodgers’ said they would ring back next day
once they had time to digest the news and decide what to do. They
were already booked to come to Australia for the memorial ceremony
in Darwin next month. Perhaps they could bring that forward and
come for a couple extra weeks to try and find their Cathy.

It was agreed
they would talk again the next morning Scottish time.

On a cool
breezy day in late June over fifty people gathered at the headland
called East Arm. It looked out over Darwin Harbour on one side and
on the other looked out across a vast flat ocean called the Timor
Sea to a distant land below the horizon called Indonesia.
Occasional sail boats moved slowly across the distant sea sky
horizon.

A rock, a big
square slab of natural sandstone, taller than any of the assembled,
had been erected, set amongst the natural earth coloured rocks of
the headland. It faced four ways with each flat side bearing a name
at the top.

There was
Elin’s side facing directly to the northern ocean and across the
world to a Nordic sea, a place where a warrior queen may choose to
sail in search of distant lands.

There was
Isabelle’s side which faced towards a distant Kimberly coast where
some fragments of a former life still lay hidden.

There was
Josie’s side which pointed south towards a distant desert grave
covered, a grave once covered in dead flowers which held the last
remains of an unknown girl.

And pointing
back across the city of Darwin was Amanda’s side, the city girl who
had come to the bush, the girl from the land far across to the east
of the Pacific Ocean, the girl who came to an unfamiliar land where
she did not belong and was now lost somewhere to the far east or
south east of this place. If Amanda’s spirit could choose Anne knew
she would have chosen it to reside in a city of buildings not an
empty desert.