1966 – Sydney
‘Just nipping to the boys’ room,’ the Inspector said as they filed out into the large marbled hall after the verdict. Janet watched his back as he hurried away down the long corridor, listening to the echoing clack clack of his leather soled shoes on the marble floor, seeing for the first time the white skin at the back of his neck above his tan line. A new haircut. Must have had it done especially. It was cool in the building but she needed air. She spun out through the revolving doors too fast, catching her elbow and wincing, out into the damp heat, and stepped to the side, leaning back on the smooth grey stone of the building. She’d wait for him. She wished she’d brought something to drink.
‘Come on, Janet,’ her father said as he helped her mother down the steps past her. We need to get home. ‘Your mother needs to lie down.’
‘I’ll be along in a minute,’ she said. Neither Bernadette nor Eric replied. Edward came out of the building and caught up with their parents. The three of them walked side by side down the road towards the car, heads bowed as if in prayer.
Janet checked her watch. Checked again. What was taking him so long? Each time the doors revolved she readied a smile, slumping in disappointment when someone else emerged. Where was he? Why didn’t he come out to speak to her? Comfort her. Tell her well she’d handled herself. Put his cool hand on hers. Squeeze her fingers. Tell her it was all over. What a relief. The Coroner was sensible and had come to the right conclusion and they could all move on now and perhaps Janet would like a swim in one of Sydney’s more secluded bays, he could take the day off?
But he didn’t come out and Edward was shouting at her to hurry up, what was she hanging around for?
Barbara was there, though. Barbara had come out a minute or so after her parents, had caught them up in the street and appeared to be asking each of them in turn for a comment. Barbara, laying a hand on her father’s shaking arm. Barbara putting her arm around her mother, offering her a clean white hanky. Barbara looking at Edward, saying something that seemed to make him smile. Barbara scrawling notes on her small pad and motioning with her hand towards the photographer, who stood still in the shade of the neighbouring building, a black bag full of kit, waiting for his instructions.
Barbara had apparently run out of sympathy by the time she returned to Janet. She clipped up the steps, seemingly oblivious of the heat.
‘How do you feel,’ Janet, she said, her pen poised, ‘as the last person to see Philip alive. He was so young, only thirteen. It must prey on your mind.’
‘It was an accident,’ Janet said, ‘that’s what the Coroner said, ‘a terrible accident.’
‘You know what I think’, Barbara said, not waiting for a reply, ‘I think you know more than you said in there.’ Janet put her hands in her pockets and started down the steps with one final backwards glance. The journalist followed her.
‘Leave me alone, I said everything I knew.’ Janet quickened her step. Barbara did too.
‘You can run, darling, but you can’t hide from yourself. No one’s ever achieved that.’
Barbara slipped her notebook into her bag and looked at her watch. ‘Need to get going. Colin hates me waiting. See you around, Janet. This story isn’t going away.’
To be continued.
SANDERLINGS 