Sydney, March 1974
NICOLE WAS THRILLED BY THE TINY FIRST-FLOOR apartment in Balmain, and delighted that she and Val would be sharing a bed. She unpacked her storybooks and colored pencils and put them in the little cabinet on her side of the bed, arranged her dolls along the pillow, then helped Val to put the few pots, pans, and plates she had brought into the kitchen cupboards. When they had finished, they went for a walk down the road in the direction of the bay, which glinted blue between the houses. Three girls, slightly older than Nicole, were skipping on the other side of the road, one jumping while two turned the rope, chanting: “Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree, merry merry king of the woods is he . . .” They turned to watch Nicole passing and she gave a quick smile and a little hop, clearly hoping that one day soon she might be invited to join their game.
Val did not know the area and was charmed by the higgledy-piggledy houses with unique shapes created to fit the odd spaces between pubs and disused factories. The exteriors were decorated with a mismatched jumble of motifs—seashells, grapevines, Dutch tiles, art nouveau panels, stone urns—while the balconies had wrought-iron railings, most in a state of dilapidation. The whole area was set on a slope, with cross-streets linked by twisty flights of steps. Nicole ran up one flight only to jump back down again two steps at a time, and Val marveled at her energy. She herself was exhausted from the move, and kept looking over her shoulder, worried that Tony would somehow find them and drag them back to Croydon Park. At the same time, she felt exhilaration at being free to make her own decisions for the first time in her life. She and Nicole could eat, sleep, watch TV, go out, all to a routine that suited them, and that was a thrilling prospect.
They entered Mort Bay Park, a beautiful green space on the edge of the Balmain peninsula. It used to be a dry dock for shipbuilding, but now it was a tree-circled, concrete-edged waterfront with views all the way to the Harbor Bridge and the city, as well as around the harbor. Val pointed to a ferry chugging into the wharf.
“If we ever want to go to the center, we’ll catch the ferry,” she told Nicole. “It’s much quicker than driving.”
Nicole grabbed her hand and tugged on it. “Can’t we go now, Mommy? I want to go on the boat. Please!”
Money was tight, but it seemed a good way to celebrate their freedom, so Val led Nicole onto the ferry and handed over a dollar, frowning at the few coins she received in change. It was worth it, though, when they started to move out past Goat Island and right across to the north side of the harbor. Diamond lights sparkled on the surface of the water. A sailing boat flitted past and Nicole waved, squeaking with glee when the occupants waved back.
“Are there sharks?” she asked, gazing over the railing as if trying to spot one in the depths.
“Could be,” Val teased. “Don’t fall in.”
She stretched out her bare arms, feeling the sun bake her skin. She never dared to tan at home in case Tony accused her of slacking; she sensed it would be a while before she stopped thinking about what Tony would think or do. She would have to get used to this freedom slowly, like a prisoner released after serving a particularly long sentence.
* * *
On Monday morning, Val enrolled Nicole at the local primary school, just two streets away. Nicole was clearly daunted, but she gave a brave smile as she said goodbye before a teacher led her toward a classroom. Val caught a glimpse of thirty or so children sitting at low tables and willed her daughter to be happy there. She had seemed popular at her preschool, but it was always hard to be a newcomer.
Nerves tightened in her own stomach as she walked out of the school grounds and onto Darling Street, the main thoroughfare through Balmain. The priority now was to find work, preferably a job that could fit around school hours. She started by asking in all the shops on the nearest five blocks, then she stopped in some small businesses: a print shop, the swimming pool, a metalworks factory. Most said they didn’t have any vacancies. A few asked about her experience and references before telling her they didn’t have anything suitable.
At the metalworks, a sharp-faced man with a moustache regarded her wedding finger, where she still wore her ring. “Is your husband so poor he has to send his wife out to work?” he asked.
Val blushed and admitted, “My husband and I are recently separated.”
He looked at her with a mixture of pity and contempt. “Oh dear. Well, we can’t be employing your sort here,” he said.
It’s not my fault, she wanted to tell him. I never broke a single one of Tony’s bones. I didn’t make him a prisoner in his own home. She paused, then turned away at the look in his mean eyes. She’d be wasting her breath.
She didn’t want to work in a pub, because the shifts would start after Nicole finished school and she couldn’t afford to pay someone to mind her for the evening. But as business after business turned her down, she began to get desperate. She only had enough money in her savings to last a few weeks before they would be destitute. She couldn’t ask Peggy to lend her any cash because she and Ken weren’t exactly flush, and Tony would be incandescent with rage at her departure so he was hardly going to volunteer to pay alimony.
It was almost time to collect Nicole from school when Val spotted a sign in the window of an office block in the neighboring suburb of Rozelle saying they needed a cleaner. She went inside to inquire and was told there were four floors in which the cleaner had to empty the trash, clean the toilets, and vacuum the carpet; she would start at six in the evening when the staff left and work till she finished. The money was terrible, but they agreed she could bring Nicole with her, so long as she didn’t touch anything. It would have to do, to start with at least.
Val worked her first shift the following evening, and Nicole sat contentedly drawing pictures and poring over a book the school had lent her, pretending she could read the words.
“The girl sees the sea,” she said, “and wants to go for a swim, but she is afraid there might be sharks.”
The noise of the huge industrial vacuum cleaner drowned out her voice as Val heaved it slowly across the flint-colored carpet.
It was almost midnight and Nicole was fast asleep on a sofa when Val finally finished work. She was bone-weary, muscles aching in places she hadn’t known they existed, but still she had to lift her five-year-old daughter and carry her for a mile all the way back to their apartment. No matter; at least she was free of Tony.
Why didn’t Mom do this? she wondered. When she left her father, why hadn’t she taken Val with her? Val would never have dreamed of leaving without Nicole. It was unthinkable. Had her mother not loved her enough? Or had something happened to stop her?
* * *
Two weeks after she’d left, Val realized that Nicole hadn’t once asked after her daddy. She hadn’t wondered why they were living in a new apartment or when she would see him again, but seemed perfectly content with their altered living arrangements. She had already made friends at her new school and came home requesting her own skipping ropes to practice with.
“Charlie Chaplin went to France, to teach the ladies how to dance . . .” she chanted, a jump for each syllable, and Val laughed. She knew Nicole didn’t have a clue who Charlie Chaplin was.
Peggy came to visit and reported that Tony had been around their house a few times accusing her of aiding and abetting Val’s getaway and demanding to know where she was.
“Fortunately I’m a world-class liar”—she grinned—“and Ken can’t stand the bloke, so he’s backing me up.”
“Thanks, Pegs. I’m sorry he’s bothering you. I suppose I’ll have to call him soon. He has a right to know his daughter is safe.”
“He should bloody well pay you some money to look after her, cheap bastard,” Peggy said fiercely.
“We’re just settling in. I’ll deal with that when I have the strength for a battle.”
On Saturday afternoon, she took Nicole to a kids’ playground near their apartment. Straightaway Nicole called in greeting to a couple of girls who were hurtling down the slide, skirts flying up to reveal skinny tanned legs and white cotton knickers. Although the slide was higher than any Nicole had been on before, she rushed to join them with a shriek of excitement. Val resisted the urge to run and catch her at the bottom. She didn’t want to make her look babyish in front of her friends, but held her breath until Nicole slithered to a graceful halt and gave her a triumphant grin.
On the road outside the park there was a phone booth, and Val counted the coins in her purse then made a spur-of-the-moment decision to call Tony. After seventeen years of marriage, she owed him that. Keeping her eyes fixed on Nicole and her friends, she dialed the number, sick with nerves.
“It’s me,” she said when he answered. “I just wanted to let you know that your daughter and I are safe. I’m sorry I told you I was leaving in a note, but I was worried you would try to stop us.”
“Where are you?” he asked, and she couldn’t read his tone. Was it concern?
“We’re still in Sydney. I’ve got a flat. Look, I’m sorry, Tony, but we both know that neither of us was happy in our marriage. It was only after Dad died that I took a step back and realized that this is it—you only get one life.” She had rehearsed these words so often in her head that now she blurted them out, wanting them all to be said before he began to argue back. “We got married too young and I loved you at the time—I really did—but we married for the wrong reasons and it’s not been working for a while. I’ve been miserable and I’m sure you have too. Thing is, we’re both young enough to try again, and I hope we can find happiness next time. When we get divorced, that is . . .” Her voice trailed off at the long silence on the other end of the line.
“Divorce?” he said, his voice as cold as steel. “Over my dead body. You get back to this house right now, you bloody bitch. You’re lucky I haven’t called the police to have you arrested for abducting my daughter. What makes you think you can get away with this? You’ve got another man, haven’t you? You’d never be brave enough to do this on your own—”
Val made a snap decision and hung up. The sound of his voice disappeared midsentence. If only she had been able to switch it off so effectively before. She pictured his rage. Knowing him, he’d hurl the telephone across the room. That made her smile, although her hands were shaking. It felt empowering to have that control.
Nicole waved from the top of the slide and let go, her long hair flowing in a shiny curtain behind her.
* * *
Just opposite the office block where Val worked there was a dark-green-painted building with the sign Henry Trotman & Son, Family Solicitors. Underneath, in smaller letters, it said Divorce, Child Custody, Property, Wills, then First Consultation Free. She stood in the doorway, staring at the smart reception area with its leather chairs and paintings on the wall. The receptionist caught her eye and smiled, and that helped make up her mind. She pushed open the door.
“I’d like to make an appointment for a consultation. The free one, that is. If I can.” She cursed herself for being so timid.
“Of course. Let me check the diary.”
The receptionist had been so warm, and had seemed so sympathetic, that Val had been expecting the same from the solicitor. Instead, when she arrived for her appointment with Mr. Trotman (the son), his manner was businesslike and formal. He didn’t look at her directly but focused his attention on the notes in front of him or the cup of coffee at his elbow, into which he laboriously stirred two sugar cubes.
“Your husband has a right to see his daughter. You must make arrangements for access immediately, or it could make a judge look unfavorably on you,” he said after hearing her story. Val’s spirits plummeted.
“But Tony is violent. He’s been violent toward me for years and he had started to hit our daughter. She’s only five.” Her voice rose, sounding squeaky and, to her ears, unconvincing.
Mr. Trotman picked up his pen. “Do you have proof of that? Were the police called? Does your family doctor have a record of your injuries?”
Val rubbed her left wrist. “He broke my wrist once, but he told the hospital it was an accident. I’ve never told the police or our doctor.”
“Any relatives who can back up your story? Your daughter’s teachers, perhaps?”
Val lowered her head, shook it slowly.
“We can’t sue for divorce on grounds of his violence without proof, but we could try to insist that your daughter’s access visits are supervised. Is there a family member or friend who would do that?” He narrowed his eyes and she could tell he was assessing her, judging how reliable she seemed.
“I could find someone,” she said.
“The problem is that in New South Wales it is well-nigh impossible to get divorced without what we call ‘proof of fault’ if the other party does not consent. And from what you say, your husband wants you back, so that could be a sticking point.” He put his pen down and Val panicked as she sensed him giving up on her.
“Will Tony have to pay maintenance for Nicole even if we’re not divorced? I’m struggling to manage.”
The solicitor stuck out his lower lip, considering. “Certainly we could try. Is your husband well off?”
“Yes, not bad. We have a three-bed house in Croydon Park.” She stopped, hating to use the word “we.” “My father died at the end of last year and his house sold for eighty thousand dollars, so surely I am entitled to my inheritance at least?”
At last Mr. Trotman seemed interested. “When did the sale go through?”
“Just last month,” Val told him. “I was the sole heir.” He made a note and Val guessed he could sniff a way of getting his fees paid.
“Do you have a copy of any of the documentation? In particular, I need what is called a grant of probate. Could you get your hands on it?”
Val knew that Tony kept all the papers to do with the estate in his desk at home. “I could try,” she said, biting her lip.
“Must have been a fancy house,” the solicitor continued. “Where did your father’s money come from? Did he have any other assets—investments, perhaps? It’s worth finding out.”
Val was stumped. Where had her father’s money come from? She had always assumed he must have inherited it, because she had never known him to work. She couldn’t remember him being interested in anything except the church, his daily Russian newspaper, drinking, and going for solitary walks.
“I guess he came from a wealthy family,” she offered. “But I’m not sure.”
The solicitor frowned, and she could imagine what he was thinking: organized crime, drug trafficking.
“He filled out tax returns,” she said quickly, hoping to dispel this notion.
“But he didn’t have any profession?”
Val sat back in the chair, mouth open. It had never occurred to her to ask where her father’s money came from. They didn’t have the kind of relationship in which she felt she could question him. He always snapped that it was none of her business if she asked anything about his past. It wasn’t as if he splashed cash around, but he clearly wasn’t short. He must have brought money from Russia with him, but how did he make it there? It was too late to ask now. Perhaps it was just something she would never know.