The Last Anniversary (2 page)

‘You’re not going to look like a fool.
I’m
going to look like a bitch,’ she had said, while she guiltily patted his hand and looked warily at that (really rather gorgeous, unfortunately) ring that had come so close to being hers and wondered if it would be in very poor taste to ask if she could try it on, just to see how it would have looked.

‘Everyone loves you, Sophie,’ Thomas had said bitterly. ‘No matter what you do.’

She’d been flattered to hear that everybody loved her and then horrified at her own narcissism while poor Thomas was having his heart broken.

Actually, people had been upset with her, especially those involved in planning the secret proposal, as if she’d rejected them too. Thomas’s sister Veronika, who was the reason Sophie had met Thomas in the first place, didn’t speak to her for eleven months. (This was actually something of a relief, as Veronika could be hard work, and Sophie had found it difficult to show sufficient gratitude when Veronika magnanimously decided to forgive her.)

It seemed that Sophie had been both greedy and wasteful. Greedy for wanting something more than a perfectly nice, intelligent, good-looking man when she was in her mid-thirties and lived in Sydney, gay capital of the world. Wasteful of a perfectly lovely, expensive, carefully planned marriage proposal.

Of course, she’d got her comeuppance.

Thomas had been ‘snapped up’, just like his mother had cheerfully told Sophie he would be. ‘Don’t worry, Sophie. Some other nice girl will snap him up!’ He got a refund for the Fiji holiday from a sympathetic travel agent–actually an excessively sympathetic travel agent called Deborah, who sensibly accepted his proposal just a few months later (remarkably similar in execution, except the location was Vanuatu and the string band was a string quartet).

Sophie, on the other hand, has been mortifyingly single ever since.

Over the last three years she has been on three first dates, two second dates and no third dates. She’s had a drunken one-night stand after a charity ball, a drunken kiss after a fancy-dress fortieth, and a very weird sober kiss with a fat man in the hallway at a christening. (Who never called! The humiliation!) She has now been celibate for two years and sex has begun to seem as unlikely a possibility as when it was first explained to her in a disturbingly graphic drawing by Ann-Marie Morton when they were in second grade.

In spite of conscientiously accepting every social invitation, going to parties where she knows no one except the host, joining clubs and taking part in sporty, unpleasant activities likely to appeal to available men, she hasn’t even come close to beginning a new relationship. It is laughable to think she’d been worried about being unfaithful to Thomas–just who did she think she’d be unfaithful with?

Last month, terrifyingly, she turned thirty-nine. It seems to make no difference that she still feels exactly the same person as when she was twenty-five, the birthdays just keep right on coming. She is actually going to turn forty–such a dry, grown-up-sounding age–and she’s still going to be Sophie.

Lately, her biological clock, which has never given her much trouble before, has begun to tick with an increasingly feverish ‘Umm, excuse me, don’t you think you’d better hurry up, hurry up, hurry up?’ She has caught herself staring at babies in strollers with the same resentful, lustful look that mid-life-crisis men give teenage girls. When she heard the news about Thomas having a baby, she said, ‘Oh that’s lovely’, and then hours later, in the bath, she burst into tears and said out loud, ‘You
idiot
.’

But by the next day her natural optimistic state had reasserted itself. She has a great career and a fabulous social life. She is hardly a lonely old spinster with a cat. She is out nearly every night of the week and she doesn’t even like cats. Everything will be fine. He is just around the corner. He will turn up when she least expects him.

In fact, perhaps Thomas wants to see her tonight so he can set her up with a tall, dark, handsome friend? Ha. Funny. At least if she never finds anyone she’ll always be able to laugh at her own hilarious wit while she eats baked beans on toast.

She wonders if Thomas will be smug. Surely even a man as sweet-natured as him would have to feel a bit pleased at the way things have turned out. Well, let him be smug, thinks Sophie as she goes back to typing her lively memo to the Morale Committee. (
A fun idea from Fran!
) You tore his heart to shreds. Be generous. Let him be smug.

Scribbly Gum Island, 1932

W
hen they said they were sending out a reporter, Connie had imagined someone much older: an intimidating type with jaded seen-it-all-before eyes and those awful dirty yellow-tipped fingers, who would say ‘good bickies, love’ and act impatient and patronising if she took too long answering his questions. She had decided her answers would be brisk, with no unnecessary detail, and that she would probably not offer him a second biscuit.

But there was nothing jaded about Jimmy Thrum. Even his name sounded energetic. He could only have been a couple of years older than her, twenty-one at the most, skinny and long-limbed, with little-boy freckles on his nose and unusual-coloured eyes that grinned and glittered at her from beneath the shade of his battered brown hat.

Yes, Jimmy Thrum
thrummed
with life.

When she met him at the railway station he bounded up the stairs three at a time to greet her like a big lovable labrador. He chivalrously insisted on taking the oars when they rowed out to the island, even though she doubted that he’d even stepped foot in a boat before. She stopped herself from confiscating the wildly flailing oars or complaining about the sudden splashes of icy-cold river water–he was having far too good a time, gulping deep breaths of air as if it was the first day of a holiday, tipping back his head so the winter sun was on his face. He made her want to giggle helplessly like a child. She had to turn her head and pretend to be fascinated by the flight of a pelican.

Now, Jimmy Thrum the reporter was sitting at the Doughty family’s kitchen table, gulping down his second cup of tea and munching into his third biscuit with a spray of crumbs, which he quickly tried to clean up by licking his finger and dabbing at them.

From the way he was listening to her, it seemed that he wasn’t just interested in her story, he was positively enthralled by it. I hope he’s not making fun of me, thought Connie with sudden suspicion. Shouldn’t a newspaper man be a little less excited?

If he was faking it, he was doing a very good job. A couple of times he’d even slapped his thigh.

She took the opportunity to covertly study him while he bent his head to scribble in his notepad. He had a knobbly neck. Unexpectedly hairy forearms. There were curls springing up one by one from his slicked-down hair. He was writing in a mixture of what Connie assumed were shorthand symbols and words. She could read ‘
Scribbly Gum Island
’ and her own name, carefully spelled out: ‘
Constance (Connie) Doughty. Age: 19
’.

‘This is a great story.’ He looked up at her. She still couldn’t work out the colour of his eyes.

‘That’s good,’ said Connie, and thought, Don’t make him think you’re flattered, for heaven’s sake.

It wasn’t surprising that she was feeling a bit, well, to be honest…
charmed.
It was just a refreshing change to have someone with a bit of verve in the house, what with Dad the way he was, and Rose the way she was becoming. They both had such dazed, doleful expressions on their faces all the time that Connie sometimes seriously considered grabbing them by the scruffs of their necks and banging their heads together. Of course, Dad had very good reasons. As Mum used to sigh, France clearly hadn’t been a walk in the park. Whereas Rose: well, she just needed to bloody well snap out of it. Especially now there was a new baby in the house. A poor, defenceless baby who hadn’t chosen to come into the world at this inconvenient time.

Jimmy finished writing in his notepad, shook his head in wonder and said, ‘So, you say the kettle was actually boiling?’

‘Yes, and the cake was still very warm. It could only have been out of the oven a few minutes.’

‘What sort of cake?’

‘A marble cake.’

‘That’s the one with all different coloured layers, right?’

He looked hungry as he said it. All the biscuits were gone and there was nothing else to give him. Connie wished she could feed him up with a big roast dinner like they used to have when Mum was alive. It would be so satisfying, almost
wickedly s
atisfying, to feed a hungry, appreciative man like that, to keep on dishing out steaming helpings until he pressed one hand to his stomach and protested, ‘No, no, I can’t eat another thing.’ One day, Connie would live in a house with a pantry full of food. It was not right. Skinny (handsome!) boys like Jimmy Thrum shouldn’t be hungry.

‘Different layers. That’s right.’

‘And the baby was just lying there, crying, I guess?’

‘No, no,’ said Connie, a bit irritated by that. ‘The baby was
smiling
. She woke up when we walked in and smiled at us.’

‘Poor little mite,’ said Jimmy Thrum sadly. ‘With her parents vanished from the face of the earth! Does she seem to miss her mum and dad?’

‘She’s too young to know any different,’ said Connie firmly. She wanted it clear that the baby was in good hands. She didn’t want any rich do-gooders reading this article and turning up to help themselves to the baby. ‘She’s thriving. We’ll take good care of her until her parents come back.’

‘
If
they come back,’ Jimmy pointed out. ‘It seems unlikely, don’t you think? Don’t you suspect foul play of some sort?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Connie. ‘It’s a real mystery.’

‘A mystery, eh? An unsolved mystery.’ Was he giving her a keen, shrewd look? Was he holding her eye-contact for just a bit too long? Was he seeing right through her?

His eyes were the warm brown colour of cinnamon. Connie thought highly of cinnamon. After she fed him a roast dinner she’d like to feed him apple crumble with fresh cream. Later on, for supper, (
before bed!)
she’d give him a couple of very thick slices of sugary cinnamon toast and a strong cup of tea.

Perhaps she was misinterpreting his shrewd look. Perhaps it was actually an interested look. The dress she was wearing had a nice neckline and she’d noticed when she combed her hair that morning that her fringe had fallen just right across her forehead. Actually, he seemed more interested in the neckline than the fringe.

‘You know what this is like?’ said Jimmy. ‘It’s exactly like the
Mary Celeste
. Have you heard of the
Mary Celeste
?’

What luck. She wouldn’t need to supply him with the comparison. It was exactly the extra edge the story needed.

‘I think so,’ she said, and pretended to sound a bit uncertain.

‘The ship, right?’

‘Yes! It was sailing from New York to Italy about sixty years ago and they found it adrift. All ten people on board had vanished without a trace! No explanation. There are lots of theories, but nothing satisfactory.’

Not ten, eleven people on board, thought Connie. Ten adults. One little girl.

‘In this case, it’s a house instead of a ship.’

Well done for stating the bleeding obvious, thought Connie, but she forgave him for the bright, excited look in his cinnamon eyes.

He continued, ‘And of course, there is a survivor. The baby. But she can’t tell us anything, unfortunately.’

‘Unfortunately,’ agreed Connie.

‘The mystery of Alice and Jack Munro’s abandoned house. The Munro Baby Mystery. Our very own
Mary Celeste
.’

Connie smiled encouragingly at him. ‘Is this what you’d call a scoop?’ she asked innocently.

‘That’s exactly what I’d call it! The scoop of 1932!’ Jimmy looked delighted and bent back over his notepad to scribble some more.

‘Have you been a reporter for very long?’ asked Connie.

He seemed to sit up straighter and she realised she’d hurt his feelings. It made her feel tender towards him. ‘I’m a cadet,’ he said defensively, and smoothed his palm over the top of his head as if he’d just remembered how his hair was probably refusing to stay put.

So the newspaper hadn’t thought it was much of a story after all. Still, maybe Jimmy Thrum’s enthusiasm would be contagious.

‘What do the police have to say about this?’ asked Jimmy, in a more formal voice than he’d been using previously. ‘I assume you notified them when you found the baby?’

She spoke confidingly to mollify him. ‘Actually, they weren’t very interested in the beginning. They didn’t think it was all that mysterious. The Munros were behind on their rent. People are abandoning their houses all the time these days. Often they go in the middle of the night. They’re abandoning their babies too.’

‘But normally they leave the baby at a church or on somebody’s doorstep. They don’t just leave a baby sleeping in the house.’

‘Alice had asked Rose and me to go around for a cup of tea,’ said Connie. ‘I guess she knew the baby would be found.’

‘But the kettle boiling! And the cake waiting to be iced!’ Jimmy regained his former enthusiasm as he defended his scoop. ‘And you said there was an overturned chair and blood stains on the floor!’

‘The sergeant at Glass Bay Police Station said he’d be more interested if there was an actual body on the floor. I also think he would have been more interested if it was my father reporting it, not me, but Dad doesn’t really get off the island much. My father isn’t well. He was gassed twice in France. He’s a bit…as I said, he stays on the island most of the time.’

She had been going to say her father was a bit soft in the head, but then she realised that wasn’t relevant, or any of Jimmy Thrum’s business, for that matter. Although for some reason she wanted to tell Jimmy all about how her dad had been even stranger since Mum died, and how worried she was about Rose, who seemed to be going a bit barmy too.

She continued talking. ‘Anyway, the sergeant did come out eventually and poked around the house and scratched his head. He said they weren’t
necessarily
blood stains on the floor. You’ll have to see what you think, when we go over to the house. It sure looks like blood to me. He said he’d come out and have another look sometime next week if the Munros still haven’t turned up. He seems convinced they’ll be back to get their baby. I understand he’s pretty busy, and I think he thought I was just a silly young girl. And people think it’s such a bother to come out to the island. You’d think we lived on the moon, it’s so inconvenient.’

‘I don’t think you’re a silly young girl.’

‘Thank you.’

Their eyes met and they both looked away and shifted awkwardly in their chairs.

‘It’s worth the inconvenience,’ said Jimmy suddenly. ‘This island. It’s so beautiful. You’re so lucky to live here. I don’t know why people don’t come here for picnics.’

Picnics. Exactly, thought Connie. Picnics will be the start. Then Devonshire teas.

There was a sudden kitten-like cry from down the hallway and Jimmy looked up.

‘That’s the Munro baby?’ he asked, as if he was surprised by the coincidence of talking about the baby and it actually existing as well.

‘Yes,’ said Connie. ‘My sister will pick her up.’

But the baby kept crying and crying, and after Jimmy and Connie looked at each other for a while, Connie got up and found Rose sitting upright at their mother’s sewing machine, staring out the window, her face immobile and empty. She jumped when Connie said, ‘Can’t you hear the baby?’ and answered, ‘Oh, sorry, I was just doing some sewing.’

‘It might help if you had some fabric then,’ answered Connie, and thought, There is something quite wrong with that girl.

Connie scooped up the baby, who stopped crying and began making hopeful sucking movements with her mouth to indicate she was hungry. Babies were really no problem to look after, thought Connie, as she carried her back into the kitchen. Any fool could do it.

‘Jimmy, I’d like you to meet our little Enigma.’

But Jimmy didn’t even glance at the baby. Instead, he fixed his eyes carefully on Connie’s forehead and said, ‘I was just wondering. Well, I was wondering if you had a fellow?’

Not any more I don’t, thought Connie Doughty, and hid her smile as she buried her nose in the sweet folds of the baby’s neck.