8

SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA

The front desk is deserted. No Carol Turner. Pity. She’s funny, larger than life, predisposed to wearing large, bright flowers on her black clothes, always has lots of gossip to share.

I realise it’s about lunch time and I should have rung Dad to make sure he would be here. But since I have driven over I decide I should at least check if he’s in his office before I head off. His car was in his parking space. No harm in trying.

I walk down the long corridor, again stopping quickly to look at the poster of Patricia Tyndale - ‘We fought hard for our rights. It’s your responsibility to exercise them.’ Love it. She looks so defiant. So ‘Don’t mess with me.’ And she’s the only person other than Nan who stands up to Dad. I’ve seen it in meetings when Dad is in full swing, thundering, ‘And we are not having these people come down here and tell us

what to do.’ Patricia will sit quietly and then, when he takes a breath of air, say, ‘Have you finished, Tony? Yes? Good. You’ve had your say, now sit down and let the others have a go.’

Nan isn’t aggressive like that but she is deaf and will get Dad on the phone and be raging at him about something and he can’t get a word in edgeways because she can’t hear him. Classic.

I get closer to Dad’s office. The door is ajar and I can hear voices coming from within. I open the door slowly, too quietly for it to be heard. I see my father standing face to face with Rachel, the young Aboriginal lawyer, his hand up her shirt, resting on her breast. I can see where the fabric bulges from the shape of his fingers.

‘Bastard,’ I say and he turns to look at me. He is frozen with shock. He does not even move his hand.

‘You are such a bastard.’ And I give Rachel a withering glare for good measure.

I turn and march back down the hallway out into the fresh air.