Shadow Over Edmund Street by Suzanne Frankham (read a book .TXT) 📕

She giggled. ‘He’s never come out, no partner I’ve ever met but I reckon he has to be. Probably why he was so stroppy when he was younger, trying to hide it. Secrets, all of us, we had secrets. It might be nothing now, but people were ashamed to be different then. No one was open. Those stupid people who say how much better it was in the old days. Crazy. So much pain, suffering, all over nothing. The guilt. Oh my God. The Church was a master at conjuring up guilt.’

‘Trudi’s family,’ Rose said firmly. ‘What happened to the rest of the family?’

‘Oh, disaster. Complete disaster. Not the brother, he’s alive. A fancy lawyer or … wait … even more, a judge or something. The girls loved him. He was like a god. Adonis. Tall, straight-backed, blond and smart. But the parents? Well, the father was crazy, killed by a bus, so the story goes. Most likely walked under it, my mother reckoned. Couldn’t cope. My grandfather was kinder. I remember him sitting me down one day, telling me about the battle of Monte Cassino. It was near the end of the war. In Italy. Trudi’s dad had been part of it, been injured there. A lot of New Zealanders killed or injured. Irony you see, us being Italian and him being injured in Italy. My grandfather insisted we owed a debt to the father. We always had to be kind to Trudi’s family.’

For a moment Juliana stopped talking and Rose tried to imagine the desperation that would drive a man to walk under the wheels of a bus, leaving a wife and two children behind.

She couldn’t.

‘Then after Trudi died,’ Juliana continued, ‘well, the poor mother. Shit, it was hard for all of us. It was horrible. But her mother fell apart. Trudi had been the apple of her eye. The mother died soon after Trudi. Flu, I think. Didn’t want to live, I’m sure. Only the brother left. I remember the older girls thought they might have a chance with him. He must have been about seventeen or so. But no dice. He sold up quick smart. No one ever saw him again. He was shrewd. He cleared out when he could.’

* Rose walked home, a long, slow walk to clear her head. Her house was silent, the cat fast asleep. She put on some music and waited for her children. She wanted them safe and at home. Juliana’s story of a family lost, had jolted her. One day you were a family of four, then three, then two and finally just one. Alone in the world. All those dreams and hopes dying abruptly and carelessly. She’d been part of a family of four, now it was just three. She wondered what she would do if she had the same misfortune as Trudi’s mother. Decided it would be impossible to cope. Got up and changed the music, put on Queen, her mother’s favourite. Even though her mother was in a retirement village, her brain on near-permanent vacation, she was still her mother; an anchor in the wind. Rose could listen to Bohemian Rhapsody and remember her mother dancing around the lounge with her duster and apron, singing in her flat raspy voice. She smiled at the memory and hoped now and again her mother surprised the staff in the retirement village by doing it all again.

Rose was dancing an hour later when Sam and Katie came home, eyes wide at the sight of their mother swirling around the living room with a glass of wine in her hand.

* The phone woke her at eight in the morning. Her head was throbbing, her mouth filled with the taste of sour lemons. It had been a long time since she’d had a hangover.

‘Hello,’ she croaked.

‘I didn’t wake you, did I?’ It was Juliana, her voice chirpy.

‘No. Well, it’s okay. I should be up.’

‘I thought I should talk to you before the shop opens. Busy morning for us, Saturday morning. Got to be on top of my game. Just wanted to say talking last night made me think how right you are. I can’t believe it took a newcomer to point out the bleeding obvious. Why on earth would Edwina want to buy that house? It had nothing but lousy memories for her and everyone associated with it.’

Rose, who was struggling to accept the cheery voice belonged to the same person she had left snoring on the couch the night before, could only shake her head. ‘Buried treasure?’ she suggested.

‘No buried treasure,’ came the quick response. ‘The family had nothing. Poor as church mice. I can’t think of anything, but then, who would know what went on in Edwina’s brain? I wanted to tell you I’m sure you’re right. Buying number eleven was downright odd. Creepy, in fact. And this is even more peculiar. She makes around a million bucks after selling her place. A million bucks! But does she pack up Mrs O’Brien and herself and take off on a cruise around the world? No. She sticks around. I asked her about it once. Forgotten what she said. Why did she want to stick around and not have a holiday? Buggered if I know.’

* Alex Cameron had been trying out his new life. Father first, detective second. He’d been given a second chance and he wasn’t going to blow it. So far, it hadn’t been bad at all. If he tried hard enough he could lose himself in his family. The three of them operated like flatmates in a share-house. The girls cooked pastas, and couscous dishes, which Alex pretended to enjoy. He barbequed meats, which they pecked at. Alex did the shopping, Clare the washing, while Gemma had a go at ironing. The only real change he made was to employ a cleaner once a week. He and Dog had got used to living alone, got used to having order around the apartment. The girls weren’t bad, but they were teenagers