with grey creeping into my hair, an obviously broken nose and faint scar tissue over the eyebrows from my boxing days. I hadn’t shaved since early morning and the stubble wasn’t the careful designer kind, it was just stubble. But she’d seemed interested.
As I’d hoped she would, she came back to collect plates from the few other diners and got to me last.
‘How was it?’
‘Pretty good.’
‘The pub stays open till eleven. I’ll meet you in the lounge bar.’
‘Right. What do you drink, Kathy?’
She laughed. ‘Guess.’
‘Brandy and coke.’
‘Not bad. Brandy and dry.’
I had her drink ready, and a scotch and soda for me, when she arrived. She’d changed into low heels and wore a red blouse that suited her colouring.
‘Well, a detective, eh? Thanks for the drink, I need it after a shift, even though we’re not busy.’
We lifted our glasses. ‘So you save lives and serve food. Pretty useful.’
She laughed. ‘And do relief teaching.’
‘Also useful.’
‘And you find missing people.’
‘Sometimes. Having trouble with this one because it’s a couple of years old.’
Without going into too much detail, I told her a bit about the Hampshire case and its difficulties. She listened as she drank, not quickly, not slowly.
‘You’ll find a couple of Petersens on that arch from World War II and Korea,’ she said. ‘Great-uncles of mine and a cousin, I think.’
‘Do you know why your family name was changed? Or who did it?’
‘I knew you were going to ask that. Afraid I don’t. It was a few generations ago, as I said. Some sort of family scandal, I seem to remember, but I don’t have the details.’
‘Around the time of the First World War, was it? I’ll get us another drink while you think about it.’
When I got back with the drinks she shook her head. ‘Sorry, not a clue. But I could ask my granny. She’s still got her marbles and she might know.’
‘If it was a fair dinkum scandal she might not be willing to say.’
‘I’m her favourite. I can get around her. She’s in a nursing home in Bega, though. It’ll take me a few days to get to her.’
‘I’d be grateful.’ I slapped my pockets. ‘I haven’t got my cards on me.’
‘Where are they?’
‘At the motel. Feel like a walk?’
She swilled the rest of her drink. ‘Are you married?’
‘No.’
‘Girlfriend?’
‘Not just now.’
‘Gay?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think I’d like to go back there with you and see what happens.’
She went to the toilet and then we walked the kilometre or so to the motel. The night was mild and the walk was companionable. She wasn’t that much shorter than me and when I put my arm around her to steady her over some rough ground, she touched my hand and we locked fingers. We kissed as soon as we got inside and it went on from there-a bit hectic but experienced, not uncontrolled.
Her body was tanned and firm and she liked to be touched. I wasn’t exactly sex-starved but it had been a while and I was aroused and eager. She fished a condom from her blouse on the floor and rolled it on to me. We left the bedside lights burning and didn’t turn them off until much later.
7
I’d ordered the standard motel breakfast-sausages, bacon, eggs and tomato with soggy toast and thin coffee- for six thirty, and we shared it. Kathy said she had to be back near her phone by eight in case she was called on to teach.
‘You’ll be heading back to the smoke,’ she said.
‘That’s right.’
‘So, a one-night stand.’
She was clear-eyed and the absence of the little makeup she’d had on the night before didn’t make any difference. She’d put her hair in order with her fingers. A change of clothes and she’d be classroom-ready. I got a card from my wallet and put it in front of her.
‘Try to find some time to come up,’ I said. ‘How about Easter?’
‘Mmm, maybe.’
‘Or when I get this done I could come down for a bit, if you.. .’
‘Don’t get me wrong. I don’t feel guilty about a one-night stand. I don’t need consoling.’
‘I’m not consoling you. I’m trying to give myself something to look forward to.’
‘I suspect you’re bad news for women, Cliff. Not that you mean to be, just the way things work out with you.’
She was more right than wrong but I didn’t want that to be the whole story, not after the pleasure we’d shared. ‘We barely know a thing about each other, Kathy. Why don’t you ring me after you talk to your grandmother, whether you find out anything or not. We can talk. As you said, see what happens.’
She’d been wearing her bra and panties with her blouse unbuttoned. She came around the table and kissed me and she had that lovemaking smell that would have got me going again except that she was buttoning up and reaching for her pants.
‘It’s a deal,’ she said.
‘I’ll drive you.’
She shook her head. ‘It’s no distance. I’ll walk and try not to feel too encouraged. Talk to you soon, Cliff.’
She slid into her trousers, pulled on her shoes, scooped up her bag and pantyhose and left.
I went up the coast road to Bateman’s Bay and over the mountain to Canberra. The Falcon ticked a bit on the climb but it does that to show it needs mechanical attention from time to time. I was in a good mood after the time with Kathy and the prospect of more of the same, and the feeling that I was making some kind of progress with the case.
Like a lot of people, I felt ambivalent about Canberra. It was a good idea to put it where it is as a counterweight to Sydney and Melbourne. Because of the concentration of intelligent, well-educated people, it behaves progressively at the ballot box, unlike the rest of the country most of the time. But the neatness of the layout, the manicured gardens, the sense of being so planned made me wonder if it’d ever feel like a city. Good place to study, make a career, but to live? I wasn’t so sure of that.
As monuments to human folly go, the Canberra war memorial wasn’t so bad, tasteful even. The triumphalism is kept more or less in check, and it feels like a place for reflection rather than celebration, at least in spots. Passing the shell of the miniature Japanese submarine scooped out of Sydney Harbour, I spared a thought for those small young men who’d taken on what was virtually a suicide mission. I tossed some coins into the water in recognition of all the other poor bastards who’d gone through the meat grinder. The honour roll does the job it’s supposed to do without too much fuss.
As I traced the names, I imagined Justin Hampshire here more than two years ago. His Honda in the car park, the money from the sale of his sporting gear running low and his dreams in tatters. The Bangara memorial arch record was confirmed. There were no fallen Hampshires at Gallipoli or the Somme or anywhere else in the war to
