Lochlann and Scottie packed the luggage into the back of the mail truck.
“By the way, if you’re looking for a hotel in Sydney,” said old Dr Merton, settled in since the previous day, “I can highly recommend one. My dear late wife looked on it as a home away from home and I can swear by it. The Waratah. Run by two friendly Pommie women.”
“Thank you,” said Lochlann, “but I don’t think we’ll be needing one. We expect to be allowed to embark early.”
“In these uncertain times you can’t be sure of anything and you might be in for a long delay. I kept a magazine article with all the details. Now, what did I do with it?” He foraged in his black bag. “The younger one used to be a real stunner – part of the attraction of the place – and was still a good sort last time I saw her though my dear late wife told me I needed new glasses. I think she was a bit jealous, not that she had any cause.” He produced a folded piece of paper and handed it to Lochlann. “No harm in hanging on to it just in case. Don’t want to see you stranded. The Waratah will take the pain out of the disruption if your ship fails to turn up.”
“Thanks, but I hope we won’t need to avail of it.” Lochlann slipped the page into the breast pocket of his jacket. “I’ll read it on the train.”
The few townspeople driving by at this early hour swivelled their heads when they saw evidence of departure. Lochlann had told only a few at the last minute that he was leaving to forestall any plans for an official send-off. The risk of Charlotte’s parading Mary Anne around to be admired, especially by the Hogans who would make the effort to attend, made Lochlann feel sick at the thought.
Wombat, on his way to the butter factory, pulled over when he saw the little group, his face showing as much surprise as it was capable of registering. He joined them and held out his arms for Mary Anne. Lochlann, remembering Charlotte’s fear of him, made as if to intercept, but Charlotte gave the man a full smile and, handing over the baby, said, “You brought me luck, Wombat.” She pulled back the shawl so he could get a good look at the baby.
Lochlann wondered what she was talking about.
Wombat examined the baby, looked from it to Charlotte and Lochlann, and then back again.
“Twin,” he mouthed.
Lochlann was the only one who knew what he was trying to say.
“Heard you were out at Hogan’s place yesterday, giving Dan a hand,” Mrs Parker said in the clear tones reserved for the handicapped. Despite her fondness for him she didn’t like looking at his mouth, so missed his observation. “You’d be an expert on babies after that,” she smiled around the little circle.
“Twin,” Wombat repeated soundlessly.
“Wind,” Lochlann said, taking Mary Anne gently from Wombat and patting her on her back while he held her over his shoulder.
“I thought he said ‘twin’,” said Charlotte.
“No, it was ‘wind’. I talk to him a lot and I’m an expert at knowing what he says, aren’t I, Wombat?” Before the man could answer Lochlann guided him to his vehicle, jabbering at speed, thanking him for all the work he’d done in the garden and telling him he’d never tasted such vegetables, shaking his hand and saying he would never forget him, good man himself, all the while feeling as if he was about to vomit and have a brain haemorrhage and suffer a heart attack, all at the same time.
Charlotte appeared at his shoulder. She took Wombat’s hand and kissed him on his scarred cheek. “Thank you for everything,” she said. “I’m frightfully glad I didn’t miss seeing you before I left to thank you for the good fortune you brought me in the end.”
Wombat shuffled his feet and hung his head to hide his pleasure before swinging into the driver’s seat.
What was all that about? Lochlann wondered, with no intention of asking. “Sound man,” he said, his voice husky, returning to the group, hoping that none of them had noticed how fearful he was when he’d rushed the poor man off in such a rude fashion. They hadn’t, and they presumed the catch in his voice was due to the sadness of leaving.
Charlotte waved to Wombat until he was out of sight and said to Mrs Parker, “You were right. He is a Good Samaritan.”
Mrs Parker said her final farewells, and Scottie arranged a day’s fishing with Dr Merton.
“Sorry to be going, Doc?” Scottie asked as they took their seats and waved to Mrs Parker and the old doctor.
“Very.” He put his head down, willed the truck to move off before anyone else came along, and kept his head lowered until the truck was well clear of town.
He hoped Nell Hogan wouldn’t come into town for at least a year so that Mrs Parker’s memory of Mary Anne would have faded sufficiently for her not to make a connection between the two little girls born on the same day and looking so much alike. And he hoped Wombat would begin to doubt what he’d seen, and that the townspeople would continue to treat him with indulgence, believing that his brain as well as his face had been damaged in the fire and, if he did regain his voice, they would take no notice of his belief that Charlotte Carmody’s baby and Nell Hogan’s baby were twins.
“Can’t believe that you’ve only been here for just over two years – seems longer,” said Scottie.
Like ten years, Lochlann thought, with so much happening.
“Remember the first operation you did on the day you arrived?”
“The appendix. I remember it well – felt half dead and didn’t know where anything was. I was lucky to have Matron Grainger assisting me.”
“You said he must be destined for great things. Billy Ericsson. Well, he wasn’t. Heard last night he was killed in action. What a bloody waste. You needn’t have bothered.”
“I hope that wasn’t the case.”
Beside him Mary Anne was asleep in Charlotte’s arms and Charlotte was in her usual pose of smiling down at her.
“Wombat definitely tried to say 'twin', Lorcan. Seems to have confused me with Nell Hogan,” Charlotte said. “I don’t think I look anything like her, do you?”
“Not a bit. Would you like me to take Mary Anne to give you a rest?” asked Lochlann, desperate to change the subject.
“Perhaps later. I don’t want to disturb her sleep just now.”
“Speaking on behalf of the town, seeing you wouldn’t have a send-off,” Scottie said with uncharacteristic seriousness, “you’ll be missed.”
“Thank you,” said Lochlann. “It’s a special place. I loved being here and I’m sorry to be leaving.”
If only they knew, he thought. If they were told that of all the hypocrites in the world I must be the worst, would they believe it? No, not without proof, for when they’d look at me they would see their own goodness reflected back at themselves.
And of all the people in the world who are in a position of trust, I must be the one who has proven to be the most treacherous.
What mitigation for acting out of pity, with no premeditation, tightening my shackles in the process?
None. None.
What solace from any divine or human source?
None. Not an iota.
If there is a God, and I hope there isn’t, there will be no forgiveness for me as I’m still in possession of my neighbour’s treasure and have no intention of returning it. No recompense, no absolution. That’s the rule.
Snuggled against Lochlann’s shoulder, Charlotte fantasised that one day she and Lochlann, with their four children, would be celebrating their Silver Anniversary in Tyringham Park, for that’s where she pictured herself living after Harcourt inherited and was speaking to her again. And she would ask Lochlann, with just the right touch of lightness in her tone, if he remembered their first anniversary and if it had crossed his mind then to push her into the abyss seeing she was such an albatross around his neck at the time. She could imagine him looking back at her as if she’d just lost her mind, or laughing, and saying ‘Where did that idea come from?’ and then he would take time to search his memory before he would say, ‘Why would I be thinking of such a thing? I was studying the geological make-up of the planet and marvelling at the origins of the universe, not contemplating an insignificant thing like murder.’ And she would be able to smile back, as their relationship by then would be easy, and say, ‘I know that’s what you were thinking. I was the one with the black thoughts. Imagine if that had happened, little Mary Anne would never have been born and that doesn’t bear thinking of. How could I have known then how happily things would turn out in the end?’