drew attention to that fragile neck.
I sat and undid my blazer. ‘You’re thinner,’ I said.
‘I’m older.’
‘Most people get fatter. I have.’
‘You’re all right. Better than I expected. That nose’s seen some wear and tear though.’
I grunted. ‘What about a drink?’
‘Same old Cliff. What time d’you start these days?’
‘I gave up spritzers with breakfast a while ago.’ I held out my hands to show my nicotine stain-free fingers. ‘And the fags.’
She laughed and as the skin tightened over her face I thought, Christ, she really is thin. Too bloody thin.
‘Me, too,’ she said. ‘Yes, let’s have a drink. They serve wine by the glass here. By the big glass.’
A teenage waitress in a white blouse, long skirt and the heavy shoes they like to wear, arrived and we ordered glasses of white wine and open sandwiches. We’d both been heavy smokers when we were together and now we exchanged stories about how we’d managed to quit. When the food and drink came I attacked mine as a way of not asking her why we were here. I wanted her to explain herself. Still fencing, as in the old days. She made a brave show of drinking her wine and eating but I could tell it was a battle. But she was the old Cyn still, not going on the back foot. She asked me about my business and if I’d kept the house. I said business was okay and I had.
‘It must be worth a bit,’ she said, playing with an olive and a cube of cheese.
Eat it, I thought. Put some meat on your bones.
‘I like it too much to sell it,’ I said. ‘I like the memories – good and bad.’
She nodded and pushed the olive and the bit of cheese around. I felt that I was losing the fencing match so I said, ‘I was sorry to hear about your dad. I had a lot of time for him.’
‘I know. I don’t suppose you heard about my husband?’
That stopped me. I took a drink and realised my glass was almost empty while hers had barely been touched. What the hell, I thought. I reached over and tipped half of it into my mine. ‘No,’ I said. ‘What?’
She lifted an eyebrow when I pinched her wine and again the movement emphasised her lack of flesh. ‘Colin died about six months after my father. Heart attack. He worked too hard, didn’t sleep, didn’t exercise
‘I’m sorry. Really. You were together for a long time. Kids and all. That’s tough.’
She put her fork down, lifted what was left of her wine and wet her lips before putting the glass down and pushing it over to me. ‘I’m dying, Cliff,’ she said.
Her eyes were fixed on mine as she spoke and her voice was firm. I knew she was speaking the truth.
‘Cyn. No.’
‘Yes. Breast cancer. I’ve had ‘em both off. Radiation, chemotherapy.’ She reached up and touched her hair. ‘This is a wig. Fooled you, eh?’
I suddenly choked-up. ‘Cyn…’
She reached over and touched my hand. Her touch was as cold as if she was already dead. I’d seen it before – the dying comforting the living – and I’ll never understand it. I shook my head. ‘Fuck it,’ I said. ‘This isn’t right. Not you.’
She smiled. ‘Yeah, fuck it. But it’s true. I’ve only got a few months, if that. Probably less. I was in seeing the Macquarie Street man today. No hope.’
‘There’s clinics. Mexico. Germany…’
‘I’ve been to all the clinics I can take. I’ve got a good doctor. He’ll see me off when it gets too bad.’ She laughed. ‘That’s all right. It’s too bloody soon but it’ll be easy, whereas the rest of you never know how it’ll come, do you?’
I gulped some wine. ‘That’s right. Jesus, Cyn, I…’
‘Bear up, Cliff. We’ve got a bit to get through here. It could be worse. Both the kids… my kids, are old enough to cope. My mother’s still around to help. You remember her. She’s a toughie.’
‘Sure.’
‘I used to pick up the odd scrap about you from Dad, but not since he died. I was curious about you but I couldn’t show it too much. Colin was jealous of you.’
‘Of me?’
‘Yes. He was one of those indoorsmen who secretly yearned to be an outdoorsman. When we fought, as we often did, he’d say things like, “I suppose your private eye never made a mistake.”’
‘Hah.’
‘Right. You made plenty. But I kept a couple of books you gave me and that bullet thing. You remember.’
I remembered. I’d brought back the brass casing of an artillery shell from Malaya. Polished up, it made a nice vase.
Cyn made another attempt to eat but gave up. ‘Colin hated that. I’m a bit of a bitch as you know. I used it against him. Don’t get me wrong, the marriage was fine, but married people play games. You know.’
I knocked back some more white. If this went on I was going to need a bottle. ‘Colin needn’t have worried. After the time in court I never laid eyes on you again. Anyway, indoorsmen make more money than outdoorsmen.’
‘That’s the sort of half-smart thing you used to say. It made me mad.’
‘I know.’
She leaned forward across the table and I could feel the intensity in her. ‘Tell me, Cliff, are you… in a relationship at present? I assume there’ve been a few over the years, but…’
I desperately needed something to do with my hands and if there had been cigarettes available I would have taken one. I put both hands on the wine glass and swilled what was left of its contents. ‘Look, Cyn,’ I said. ‘You’ve told me about the cancer and it’s just about the worst thing I can remember hearing. But where’s this going?’
She leaned back and drew a deep breath. The effort of doing it seemed to cause her pain and she aged ten years as she fought for composure. ‘Cliff,’ she said softly. ‘I was pregnant when we split up. I dithered until it was too late to have an abortion. The child was born. A girl. You’re her father.’
2
My first reaction was disbelief. This had to be some kind of fantasy, a product of the treatment she was having or a mental aberration associated with the disease or the prospect of death. It couldn’t be true. Cyn read me right immediately.
‘You don’t believe me.’
‘I’m sorry, no.’
‘It’s true, Cliff. You remember how it was. I hated you. I wanted nothing more to do with you, ever. It’d all gone so terribly wrong. Everything we’d planned had turned to shit.’
I nodded.
‘I had the baby in Bathurst at a Catholic hospital. I used my own name and I didn’t tell anyone about it. Not even my parents. Look.’
She opened her handbag, took out a sheet of paper and thrust it at me. It was an admission record from St Margaret’s Hospital for Women dated about seven months after our final breakup. Cynthia Louise Weimann had been admitted ‘close to confinement’ and discharged eight days later.
I was still resistant, almost hostile. ‘It proves you were pregnant, I guess. It doesn’t prove there was a child.’
‘I know this isn’t easy for you, but it’s true.’ She handed over another document. This was a notification, dated three months back, that Mrs Cynthia Samuels had put her name on the register of women who had given a child up for adoption. The sex of the child was given as female, the place of birth was Bathurst and the adoption date was four days after the date of the hospital admission. I’d done some work in this area once or twice. The purpose of the register was to allow adopted children to locate their natural parents if they wished. They had the
