Promise (40 page)

Anna shook her head but Charlie thrust the phone at her. ‘She wants to talk to you.’

Anna swallowed. ‘Hello? Gabby?’

‘Is that Anna?’

Anna had forgotten how raspy her voice was. ‘Yes. It’s me.’

‘I’m still her mother, you know. You can’t change that.’ She spoke in a monotone. She was out of it.

‘I know. You will always be her mother.’

Charlie stood by the fridge, her eyes fixed on Anna.

‘Gabby, I’m sorry that I took her from you like that.’

There was silence. Then Gabby whispered, ‘You have no idea.’

Prue shifted in her armchair. Anna wanted to hang up but she could hear Gabby breathing down the phone. It was true, of course. She had no idea of what Gabby’s life was, or the circumstances that lead Gabby to betray her daughter as she did.

‘Anna?’

‘I’m here.’

‘She’s still mine. She’ll always be mine.’

‘I know.’

Gabby hung up.

•

The social worker was younger than Anna expected. She looked about twenty-five. Anna ushered her in and gestured to the blue couch, then sat opposite her, in the new Ikea chair that Charlie had chosen from the catalogue. The fabric had big green leaves all over it.

Anna smiled at the young woman and poured her a glass of water from the jug.

She took a drink of water; she seemed nervous. ‘As you know, Mrs Seybold has parental responsibility for her granddaughter now. However, the department has an ongoing interest in Charlie’s welfare, and that’s why we’re doing this assessment today, given that you and Mrs Seybold would like you to have contact with Charlie.’

‘Yes, I understand.’

‘How often would you imagine having contact with Charlie? And what form would that contact take?’

Anna knew that they’d already spoken to Prue and Charlie, and that Lindy had given them a copy of the report the psychologist wrote about Anna. ‘Well, I’d like to see her a few times a week. Maybe four. I’d help out by taking Charlie to and from school because, as you know, Prue is not terribly mobile. And I’d . . . maybe take Charlie to the park or to the pool in the afternoons. And she could stay overnight sometimes.’

The woman nodded and took more notes. Her dark hair was slipping out of its bun. Anna wondered if she had children of her own.

‘Are you renting this place?’ She looked around the living room.

Anna’s furniture fitted surprisingly well, given how small the place was. She hated the white tiled floors though, and had spent too much on a couple of woollen rugs.

‘Yes, I’m renting.’

‘How long is the lease?’

‘A year.’

The social worker scribbled more notes. Anna was completely at the mercy of this woman with her clipboard.

‘And are you working?’

‘Yes. I do freelance design work. I’m designing a book for someone at the moment.’

‘And are you in a relationship?’

‘No.’

That was strictly true. Although Dave had phoned her two nights before and they spoke for an hour. He’d offered to make the ten-hour drive up the coast with her pot plants.

‘Charlie and her grandmother have both told us of your importance in their lives, and Mrs Seybold says you’ve been a real support to her.’ She regarded Anna for a moment. ‘How would you describe your relationship with Charlie?’

‘Oh . . . very good.’
I love her
.

‘And what’s your motivation for leaving Sydney and moving up here?’ The woman didn’t seem so nervous now. She gazed at Anna steadily.

‘To do whatever I can to make sure that little girl is safe and happy.’

The woman nodded. ‘Can I see Charlie’s room, please?’

Anna stood. ‘And if you assess me as not suitable, what then? Can you prevent me from seeing her?’

‘Well, in theory.’ The woman smiled. ‘But I can’t see why we’d do that.’

Anna’s heart lifted as she led the woman down the short hall to Charlie’s bedroom. They stood side by side in the doorway and looked at the single bed with its light blue mermaid bedspread. On the floor beside the bed was a lambskin and a pink plastic castle with six purple turrets.

A
nna woke to the warm and not unpleasant sensation of the dog licking her hand. Charlie stood by Anna’s bed, grinning. ‘You don’t have to wash your hands now!’

Anna pulled her hand under the covers and smiled. ‘I’m not so keen on doggy hand-washing, actually.’

Charlie had put on a pink tutu over her pyjamas, and tied a green sparkly ribbon to the dog’s collar. She held the end of the ribbon in one hand and her fairy wand in the other.

‘Well, good morning,’ said Anna. ‘What time is it?’ She reached for her phone.

‘Good morning. It’s definitely pikelet time,’ said Charlie, and led the dog out.

While Anna dropped spoonfuls of batter into the frying pan, Charlie stood by the kitchen table and carefully put on her school uniform, piece by piece. The navy-blue shorts were a size too big but Charlie didn’t seem to care. She paused midway through pulling on a white ankle sock.

‘So, if Tally’s nose is so good at smelling, can she tell if it was you or me who touched this chair?’ She tapped a finger on the back of one of the wooden kitchen chairs.

Anna slid the pikelets onto a plate. ‘I reckon she could. Dogs can tell exactly where someone has walked, even ages after the person’s gone. They run along with their nose to the ground.’

Charlie bent to peer into the dog’s eyes and whispered something. The dog – still a puppy really – lunged forward and licked her face. They’d got Tally at a pound on the Gold Coast where the woman had smilingly described her as a true mutt. Tally had a short-haired brindle coat and big, pointed ears that Charlie said reminded her of Ralph. Anna just hoped the dog wouldn’t grow too big.

Charlie found her other sock and balanced on one foot to pull it on. ‘Will Ralph remember how I smell when she sees me?’

‘Dogs remember everyone. She’ll know you, for sure.’

‘Do you know how I smell?’

‘I do.’

Charlie nodded with satisfaction.

•

They sat at a table in the back courtyard to eat breakfast. Anna got up, teacup in hand, and pulled a weed from the gravel. It was just six weeks since Anna had moved in and planted up the garden, and already it felt cooler and greener. Plants grew so quickly here.

Charlie patted a socked foot on Tally’s back and spoke through a mouthful of pikelet. ‘I don’t want that hummus stuff in my lunchbox again. Can I have pikelets instead?’

‘You can have a couple of pikelets for lunch. How about a salad sandwich?’

‘No carrot, though. It doesn’t go with cheese.’ Charlie slipped a pikelet to the dog.

‘Okay.’

‘I think I left my pencil case at Nanna’s.’

‘We’ll grab it on the way to school. Let me fix that piggytail. A bit’s come out. Hold still for a sec.’

Charlie’s hair was just long enough for two short pigtails that sprouted from the sides of her head. ‘Where’s your school hat?’

‘Nanna’s?’

They left the house, Charlie holding Tally’s leash. The dog strained forward, pulling Charlie along the footpath, around the corner and past the shops to Prue’s unit. Prue sat on her walker in the sun out the front of her unit and waved as they approached. Charlie let go of Tally’s leash and the dog rushed to Prue and jumped up on her walker.

‘Get down! Down, you silly pup!’ Prue swatted at the dog.

Anna pulled Tally back.

‘I left my pencil case and hat, Nanna.’ Charlie hopped on one foot along the hopscotch she’d chalked out the front of Prue’s.

‘Yeah, well, go and have a look for them, then.’ Prue pointed over her shoulder. Charlie wandered inside.

Anna squatted by Prue’s walker, holding the dog’s collar. ‘How are you going? How’d you sleep?’

‘Not bad.’ Prue patted Anna’s shoulder. ‘I got up early and made her a slice for the lunchbox,’ Prue said. ‘On the bench. Go and grab it, love.’

‘Thank you.’

On the kitchen bench, a slab of sticky-looking cornflake slice sat in a baking tray.

Prue called, ‘Cut a piece for her box today and take the rest home. I’ve already got some for her to have next week. Also, could she come to me on Tuesday rather than Monday night? I’ve got the doctor’s on Tuesday morning . . .’

Anna stuck her head out the door. Prue was holding the dog’s lead, and muttering at it to sit down.

‘Sure,’ said Anna. ‘Tuesday’s fine.’

‘Thanks, love.’

Anna put a piece of slice into the pink plastic lunchbox, with its huge CHARLIE SEYBOLD name sticker. Anna had bought the stickers online and somehow ordered them in an enormous size. Charlie loved having her name on everything, though. Anna found the stickers on Charlie’s bedsheets, around apples in the fruit bowl and on the dog’s collar.

Charlie appeared holding her pencil case. ‘Here it is!’ She put her broad-brimmed school hat onto her head and tightened the toggle under her chin.

‘What’s that?’ She touched a finger to the sticky slice.

‘A slice Nanna made for you. I’m taking the rest home.’

‘I’ve got an idea!’ said Charlie with a wide grin. ‘Let’s take it to Macky’s place. Will we be there in time for dinner?’

‘Yes, we should be. If we can get away straight after school.’

‘We’ll have time to go to the creek before dinner!’

‘No. In the morning we can go to the creek. Maybe after we visit Pat and Sabine and baby Oscar.’

‘Baby Oscar.’ Charlie smiled.

Anna called out the door, ‘Did you hear that, Prue, we’re taking your slice to Macky’s. For dessert.’

‘Good, love. That’s good.’

Charlie skipped past Anna, out of the unit and down the path, the brim of her hat flipping up and down. The dog raced after her, its leash trailing.

M
any thanks, as ever, to my lovely agents, Pippa Masson and Grace Heifetz. Much gratitude to all at Pan Macmillan, but special thanks to Alex Craig and Mathilda Imlah for their insightful feedback and guidance. Many thanks also to Claire Craig and Lara Wallace. Thanks to Foong Ling Kong for thoughtful copy editing, Kylie Mason for her proofread, and to Christa Moffitt for the cover.

For advice on matters medical, thanks to Brony Virtue RN, Dr Blake Eddington, Dr Ian Lennon and Michelle Daly. For advice on the law, thanks to Dr Kerri Mellifont, Magistrate David Heilpern, Dr Jacoba Brasch and Lindsay Wootten. For talking to me about policing, thanks to Shaunagh Cassidy, Warren Dick and NSW Police Public Affairs. Thanks to Rhonda Sherrington, Mim Weber, Lindy Ellis, Jen Bond, Marion Armstrong and Helena Bernard for sharing their knowledge of child protection and child development. Several other people helped me enormously with research but prefer not to be mentioned here. You know who you are. You have my deepest gratitude. Naturally, any errors are entirely mine.

For writerly feedback and support, thanks, as ever, to my long-time writing group and dear friends: Emma Ashmere, Jesse Blackadder, Hayley Katzen and Amanda Skelton. Many thanks to Kathryn Heyman, Marele Day and my brother Steve Armstrong for their astute feedback.

Many thanks to Catherine Bateson for kind permission to use - as epigraph - lines from her powerful poetry collection
The Vigilant Heart
. Thanks to my mum, Marion Armstrong, and to Suze Daily for the many hours spent minding Amelia while I wrote. Thanks to Amelia for sparking thoughts of motherhood.

Thanks to Philip Griffin who’s on a lifetime retainer as herpetological and avian consultant.

Deep gratitude to the Australia Council for the Arts for financial support, and to the Byron Bay Writers Festival for their support and celebration of writers in this region.

Finally, my most heartfelt thanks to my partner, Alan Close, for being a domestic god as well as a source of wise editorial advice and unfailing encouragement.

About Sarah Armstrong

Sarah Armstrong’s first novel
Salt Rain
was shortlisted for several awards, including the 2005 Miles Franklin Award, the Queensland Premier’s Literary Prize and the Dobbie Literary Award. She won a Walkley Award as a radio journalist at the Australian Broadcasting Corporation. In 2015 her second novel,
His Other House
, was published by Pan Macmillan Australia and in Germany. She lives in Mullumbimby, on the north coast of New South Wales, with her partner, the writer Alan Close, and their young daughter.

Also by Sarah Armstrong

Salt Rain
His Other House

His Other House

‘He was dismayed how readily he took to lying. He’d always thought of it as a decisive abandonment of the truth. Instead, he realised, it was simply a matter of one word slipping into the place of another.’

Dr Quinn Davidson and his wife Marianna have endured years of unsuccessful IVF and several miscarriages, and Quinn can't face another painful attempt to conceive. Marianna is desperate to be a mother and their marriage is feeling the strain. At a small-town practice a few hours from their home, Quinn meets Rachel, the daughter of one of his patients. Drawn to each other, it’s not long before they find themselves in a passionate affair and Quinn realises he must choose between the two women. Then Marianna announces a surprise natural conception, news that will change the course of all their lives.

Set in the lush Australian subtropics, this taut emotional drama poses questions about moral courage and accountability, and asks whether love means always telling the truth.

First published 2016 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd

1 Market Street, Sydney, New South Wales, Australia, 2000

Copyright © Sarah Armstrong 2016

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.