Peter Corris: The Other Side of Sorrow

That was the old Cyn. On the attack. Somehow, though, it seemed sad and I didn’t rise to the bait as I would have in the old days. I finished the wine. It tasted sour.

‘What d’you want me to do?’

‘I want you to keep a watch on me for a few days. What do you call it? A surveillance. And when she appears I want to meet her. I want to talk to her. I want to find out about her. Help her if she needs it, be happy if she doesn’t. I want to meet our child, Cliff. Before I die.’

I said I’d do it. Cyn gave me the photo of Eve saying that ‘our daughter’ so much resembled her that I could use the photo in my enquiries. She described the woman in as much detail as she could. Short, dark hair, casual clothes, quick movements. Cyn had seen her three or four times, always in the vicinity of her unit in Crows Nest – at a bus stop, through a shop window, standing on the other side of the road. She thought she’d seen her in a van parked opposite her building but she couldn’t be sure.

‘What kind of van?’

‘Blue and other colours.’

‘C’mon, Cyn.’

‘I don’t know about vans. It wasn’t new. I’m tired, Cliff. I have to go home.’

‘I’d drive you except that I didn’t bring my car into town.’

‘It’s all right, I’ll get a cab. Anyway, we shouldn’t be seen together. You have to be as good as she is at keeping your distance.’ She dabbed at some perspiration that was breaking out on her upper lip and looked intently at me.

‘What?’ I said.

‘I was just wondering whether she’d see a resemblance between herself and you. You and Eve’re pretty much alike as I recall.’

‘Come off it, Cyn. I’ve been knocked about too much to resemble anyone but myself. Besides, she won’t see me until I want her to.’

‘I suppose that’s right. You must be good at what you do by now. How is Eve, anyway?’

‘Fine. She just got made redundant from the CES. Golden handshake – more time for golf.’

Cyn’s eyes were glazing over the way many people’s do at the mention of golf. But in her case it was exhaustion.

‘Good; she said. ‘I liked her. I hope…’

‘What?’

‘I hope our daughter is as nice as your sister. That’d be fine. I know this is hard for you. We didn’t part friends, did we? More like enemies. I hated you and I think you hated me. I nursed that hate for a long time but it’s well and truly gone now. I’m too tired and sick to hate. It takes everything just to stay alive. This is unfinished business for me and I’ve sort of… forgiven us both for what we did to each other. I need you to find her.’

‘I have to be honest with you, Cyn. I’ll give it my very best. I’m impressed by what you say you want to do if she shows. But I’m still sceptical. I can’t help it.’

Cyn sighed. ‘That’s all right. You’re sceptical about everything except that Tommy Burns beat Jack Johnson in 1901.’

She had it the wrong way around and the year was 1908, but it was a brave try. ‘That’s right,’ I said.

‘I’ll walk down to the shops every morning and every afternoon for the rest of this week. At ten o’clock and two o’clock, say. You keep watch. As for what you do when she appears, I’ll leave it up to you. For all your macho bullshit, Cliff, you’re not stupid. I trust you to do it right. You’ve got something invested here, even if you don’t want to think so.’

Born and raised in Maroubra and spending most of my adult life in Glebe, to me the north side of the harbour has always seemed like foreign territory. The light is different and the people likewise. They seem more suburban and less secure than those on the other side. I’m not sure it was such a good idea to build the bridge.

I cleared the decks in my office and mounted the surveillance in Crows Nest as Cyn had directed. I tracked her by foot on her slow progress from her unit down the street to the shopping centre. When we were together Cyn had boundless energy. She could work without sleep for forty-eight hours and play pretty hard, too. She was a good, all-round sportswoman and I had trouble keeping up with her in a beach sprint or a swimming pool. It broke my heart to see her now. Bundled in a heavy coat that concealed her gauntness, she still walked erect. But it was with an effort and every movement and gesture had slowed right down.

In the afternoons particularly, I wondered if she was going to be able to make it; to keep up the charade of window-shopping, browsing and buying odd items. She did it by an effort of will and her performance was faultless. She gave not the slightest indication that she was aware of my presence. I flatter myself I was hard to spot, but she knew and no-one would be able to tell. On the Wednesday night, with no sign of the young woman, I phoned.

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Not a cracker.’

‘Be patient. It might take a while.’

‘How are you feeling? It looks like an effort for you.’

‘I’m all right. I can hold out for a while longer.’

The next day a tall, gangly youth with shoulder-length hair parked a battered Honda Civic outside Cyn’s building and went in. I watched with no particular interest – until he emerged with Cyn and helped her into the car. Her son, I assumed. He drove her to the shops and carried her bags to the car. They stopped and had coffee on the way back. He seemed attentive and considerate. They laughed a good deal and Cyn appeared to draw strength from him. He took her home, stayed a while, then sat in his car with his head on the steering wheel for quite a few minutes before he drove off. Although I was interested in the interaction between mother and son and moved by his obvious love for her, I still kept a sharp lookout for the girl. Nothing.

One day to go on the agreed arrangement. I was troubled by the thought that I couldn’t continue this deal indefinitely. A couple of messages on the answering machine and a couple of faxes demanded attention and promised money. It was early in July, and the accounts kept over from the old financial year were coming in. More troubling were the conflicting thoughts I was having about the whole matter. I wondered what Cyn’s two legitimate children would think about the possible existence of a half-sibling. And what the legal implications might be. Along with that, having seen the bond between Cyn and her son, I felt a pang about having nothing remotely like that in my own life. The corollary of that was obvious, if disturbing – did I have a daughter? Did I want or need one?

Friday morning. I was late getting to the gym and had to rush my workout. I wasn’t quite a gymaholic but getting close, and I was annoyed by having to cut back. Still testy, I slotted into my parking spot, checked my watch and waited for Cyn to come out. The sky was overcast and there was a cold wind and the threat of rain. Maybe Cyn would give it a miss and I could go back and do a few more reps on the pec deck. I should have known better. She came out right on time, wrapped in her heavy coat and carrying an umbrella. She looked frail, as if the wind could blow her over. It made me angry to think what this person was putting her through, if indeed there was a person. I was beginning to work back to my original theory about a fantasy induced by drugs or despair. I crawled along, keeping her in sight, until it was time to park and continue on foot.

Cyn went into a newsagency and bought a magazine and a scratchie. She used a nail file on the ticket and I saw the pleased, almost childlike, expression on her face when she saw the result. I stared, fascinated; it was an action so unlike anything I would have expected from Cyn that it took all my attention. As a result, I almost missed the girl. It was just a glimpse as she moved quickly away but it was enough to register two things – her contempt at what she’d seen and the uncanny resemblance to my sister as she once was. She was about the same height and build and moved with the same long, fluid stride. That stride was taking her rapidly away from me into the thick Friday crowd as I skirted people waiting in a bus queue and swore as a van shot out of a lane in front of me.