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Peter Corris: The Other Side of Sorrow

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Peter Corris The Other Side of Sorrow

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‘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 option. I folded the paper and handed it back. My hand was shaking, but I still didn’t want to believe it.

‘Cyn. You must have been through hell…’

‘I’ve seen her, Cliff,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen her!’

She wept quietly and I comforted her as best I could. I got another glass of wine and Cyn had mineral water. With an effort she composed herself and told me that she’d caught sight of a particular young woman several times in recent weeks. She was convinced that this woman was watching her. I was still sceptical.

‘You haven’t spoken to her?’

‘No. I’ve never been able to get close enough. She sort of… slips away.’

‘What makes you think she’s… who you think she is? It could be someone, I don’t know, sympathetic but not sure whether to approach you. Or…’

She shook her head. ‘Cliff, she’s the living image of your sister Eve twenty-four years ago. I’m telling you she could be her twin. I know she’s our daughter.’ She scrabbled in her bag and came up with a photograph. It showed Eve in jeans, boots and a sweater smiling into the camera. Short dark hair, thin, beaky nose, wide mouth, my sister was arresting rather than pretty. She was close to 180 centimetres tall and when she was young athletics and surf swimming kept her lean. She’s heavier now which doesn’t hurt her golf. She plays off eight at Moore Park.

‘It’s a copy,’ Cyn said. ‘I had you and me cropped out of it. Don’t know why I still had it. D’you remember where it was taken? A picnic we all went on in Centennial Park.’

‘No. You say this woman resembles Eve?’

‘I’ve only caught glimpses of her. But I’d say she’s identical. Oh, shit!’ Her hand flew up to her face and I saw how thin her wrist was, with the blue veins showing through. ‘Eve doesn’t have a daughter, does she?’

‘No. Two sons.’

‘God. I realise I haven’t thought this through enough. Do you have any children, Cliff? I mean, other children…’

I drank some wine. ‘You didn’t think of that possibility either, did you? Why not?’

You couldn’t keep Cyn on the defensive for long. She drank some of her mineral water and got a fair bit of energy into a snort. ‘You were always a selfish bastard, Cliff. There was only barely enough space in your life for a lover. What with the crims and cops and other low-lifes. There certainly wasn’t enough for a wife. I doubt you’d ever have entertained the idea of having kids. Tell me I’m wrong.’

I had to admit she was right. The only really serious relationships I’d had since Cyn were with Helen Broadway and Glen Withers. Helen had a child and a troubled marriage and in the end she’d opted for the status quo. Glen was a career woman all the way. I’d felt comfortable with arrangements like those.

‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘Maybe you heard from your dad about Hilde Stoner. The tenant I had for a while. She married Frank Parker, who’s -‘

‘A policeman. Yes, I heard. So?’

‘I’m a sort of pagan godfather to their son, Peter. That’s as close as I thought I’d ever get to parenthood.’

‘Ah, you’re admitting the possibility that you’ve fathered a child. Christ, you’re a hard sell, Cliff.’

‘In my business you have to be. Look, Cyn, what d’you think’s going on here?’

‘That’s typical of you. Analysis rather than engagement.’

‘That’s me.’

‘All right. I think she applied for her birth certificate. Adoptees can do that since the act was changed in 1990. Did you read that book by Charmian Clift’s illegitimate daughter?’

‘No. I read My Brother Jack though – her husband’s best book. Sorry, Cyn. Go on.’

‘I think she applied for her original birth certificate and got my name from it.’ She looked directly at me. ‘Don’t worry. There was no name for the father. I didn’t have to give it.’

I think it was at that moment that I started to believe all this might be true.

Cyn went on to say that she asked the appropriate authorities whether her child had applied for her birth certificate or made enquiries about her, but the rules didn’t allow for that information to be given out.

‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘I’ve done a little bit in this line. The idea is to protect the adoptee – in case the parent’s a drunk or a bludger. If you’re right about this, Cyn, why wouldn’t she make herself known to you? You’re obviously affluent and respectable. You live in a big house and drive a flash car. You’ve got a tennis court, I’m told, and isn’t there a boat or two?’

‘Stop it, Cliff. Don’t be such a shit. If she – Jesus, I don’t even know her name – if she got onto me in the last few months she’d have seen a woman wasting away. I spend most of my time going to doctors. I don’t drive any more; I don’t have the strength. I sold the house and the boat after Colin died and put most of the money in trust for the kids. I live in a unit in Crows Nest. It’s nice but nothing special. The thing is, if she’s been keeping an eye on me in that time she’s probably seen me faint twice in public and once…’

She shook her head, took a deep breath and forced the words out. ‘She might have seen me throw up in the gutter.’

The tears came again and I watched helplessly while she dabbed at her eyes. She seemed to have to gather every ounce of her strength to do just that much. I had the feeling that she was just about all through for the day at a bit past noon. It made me forget all the animosities and injuries of the past and want to do anything I could to help her. Or almost anything. Despite the anger and anguish I felt on her behalf, I was still focused on the main game – the possibility that we’d had a child.

Perhaps Cyn was right in thinking selfishness had kept me childless. I preferred to believe it was something else – a recognition that my failure to sustain relationships and my erratic, hazardous, financially chancy lifestyle made me a poor bet as a father. More than once I’d pulled back from involvement with women who seemed primed for motherhood, not wanting to disappoint them. But I’d also worn childlessness as a sort of badge, a flag of independence and self-sufficiency. All that was ingrained by now and I was reluctant to surrender it.

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