Читать книгу Australian Secrets - Fiona McCallum - Страница 11

Nicola stood tall and proud outside television headquarters, her two solid, twenty-centimetre fountain-pen-nib inspired statuettes tucked under her arm. Shoving the frosted glass foyer door open, she strode across the polished stone floor towards the lifts.

‘Congratulations, Ms Harvey,’ Barry the doorman-cum-security-guard-cum-general-dogsbody said. ‘I knew you’d do it.’

Nicola turned and walked over to where he sat behind a long timber veneered reception desk. She grinned. ‘Thanks Barry.’

‘Thought his lordship would have at least given you the day off,’ Barry continued, tossing his head up to indicate above them.

‘He did. I’m just not cut out for sitting about.’ Nicola shrugged. The lobby phone rang and Barry waved a dismissive arm as he picked up the receiver. Nicola repositioned the slipping awards and started making her way back to the lifts.

As she ascended, Nicola felt kittens doing tumble turns in her stomach. What should she say? How should she act? Would everyone be pleased for her or be catty and jealous? The men would probably be cool and gracious, but women were always a different story.

In her acceptance speech she’d been very careful to emphasise that she was accepting the award on behalf of everyone involved with Life and Times. She was sure she’d named everyone who’d played a part.

The lift doors opened, and she stepped out onto the sixth floor.

As she strode down the narrow corridor in front of the wall of chest-high office partitions, heads bobbed up from desks, bums swivelled chairs around and there was a chorus of ‘here she is,’ and ‘congratulations!’

Within seconds the office had formed a crowd around Nicola and someone shouted, ‘Round of applause for our star reporter.’

Wild clapping and cheering followed and Nicola felt the kittens in her stomach claw their way up to the back of her throat.

‘Um, thanks guys, but you all deserve one of these,’ she said. After carefully unloading her lunch, handbag and satchel onto her desk, she thrust the gleaming sculptures towards the nearest two people.

Paul Cox, the copy boy and most junior of staff, received the Gold, his pimply adolescent face reddening right up to the ears. His hands were hesitant when he reached out to stroke the object that every serious journalist aspired to.

‘Go on, have a decent look,’ she encouraged, pushing the object firmly into his chest. Paul stared down at it, mouth open in awe, then back at Nicola like it was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for him.

Nicola’s chest pinged in sympathy. She too had started at the bottom. Under Paul’s lack of confidence she could see some of her own tenacity.

She smiled warmly at the lad, then turned slightly at hearing an uneven thudding tread coming down the hall to her right.

Bill Truman’s stout legs struggled under a belly that had grown considerably in the two years since he’d joined executive ranks and swapped pounding the pavements for lunch meetings.

‘Heard all the commotion and knew you’d be at the centre of it. Didn’t I tell you to take the day off?’ he added, waggling a scolding finger.

‘Too quiet at home.’

‘Well in that case, the station had better fork out for a bit of a celebratory lunch. Nothing flash; pizzas in the boardroom at noon.

‘All I ask is that I get a couple of hours work out of you lot before then. In return you can all have the afternoon off.’

There were whoops and squeals of delight.

‘So now if everyone can return to work it would be much appreciated – we can celebrate later.’

Nicola smiled. Bill was one of the best bosses she’d ever had – tough but fair. He’d cracked his fair share of whips but could still appreciate the need for the occasional slack attack.

Nicola watched the crowd slowly dissipate. Within seconds the office had returned to its loud, lively pace; masses of people made phone calls, tapped hard on keyboards, raced between cubicles, and hurried to and from the lifts weighed down with clipboards, tripods, sound booms and backpacks full of cabling and camera gear.

She turned her attention to her own desk. An array of pens, pencils and textas were jammed into an old coffee jar. Four beige plastic in-trays were stacked up to the left of her computer screen, the top one almost overflowing. To the right sat her only personal items; three matching silver photo frames.

One contained a posed, formal picture of her and Scott taken at his brother’s wedding the year before.

The second was a shot of Paul and Ruth paused from work in their treasured garden, leaning on rake and shovel. Nicola had taken it for fun, only months before the disaster that claimed them – her entire family.

The third contained a faded polaroid of a bundled newborn baby with only a shock of blonde hair and wrinkled sleeping face visible. Nicola picked it up and stared at the photo given to her the day she learned that her whole life had been a lie.

That’s how she’d felt when they told her she’d been adopted. She remembered how her five-year-old world had melted like the chocolate chips in the biscuits they tried to placate her with.

They’d joined her where she was drawing on the lounge room floor of the house that had been her childhood home; the home of Paul and Ruth Harvey until the day they left to go on holidays but never came back.

They’d sat in a circle and all held hands. Nicola had got excited, thinking they were going to play a new game. And with Daddy who rarely sat on the floor with her; Mummy always said he was too busy for games. They held hands, the three of them.

They’d started telling her a story. Nicola remembered how, frowning, she’d stared at them. It was a very strange story, not a fairy story like in her books. It was a real story – about her, they said.

What were they saying? That she wasn’t theirs; that she hadn’t come out of her mummy’s tummy like the baby of the lady next door. No, she’d come out of another lady’s tummy.

‘Did someone drop me off then, like Father Christmas?’

They’d given a chuckle. She’d been pleased to make them laugh; maybe it meant everything was okay. But they were being so serious. They looked at each other and then told her she was a gift, even more special than those Father Christmas brought, because they’d gone and chosen her.

‘At a shop?’ she’d asked. ‘Well no, not a shop.’

She thought they’d looked a little angry. She didn’t want to make them angry; she wanted to make them laugh again.

‘Oh,’ she’d said, feeling totally confused. They’d told her how special she was, and how lucky they were to have her. They couldn’t have a little girl or boy of their own because there was something wrong inside Ruth. Nothing would change; they just wanted her to know the truth.

‘What if the mummy whose tummy I came out of wants me back?’ She didn’t want to go away from here. They were her parents; she didn’t want anyone else. Her bottom lip had started to wobble and then she burst into tears.

Ruth dragged her onto her lap and spent ages stroking her hair, saying that she was their little girl; she was staying right there with them.

But what about the other mummy and daddy; didn’t they want her? Why not? Everyone said she was so pretty, and she was a good girl, wasn’t she? She’d stared up at them and some more tears ran down her cheeks.

They’d shaken their heads and said that her other mummy had been sick and wasn’t able to take care of her.

‘But what if she gets better; will she want me then?’

‘No,’ they’d said, shaking their heads. The adoption papers proved it.

They showed her the papers, but to her five-year-old eyes they meant nothing.

‘Okay,’ she’d finally said with a shrug and taken a homemade chocolate chip biscuit from the plate on the floor nearby. She’d nibbled around the edges of the biscuit, separated out the chocolate chips and watched them melt in her hands, all the while pretending to forget the conversation.

After a while Paul and Ruth had unfolded their legs, got up, and gone off to do other things, leaving her there with her plate of chocolate biscuits. She put her half-eaten biscuit aside, went to her bedroom, threw herself on her bed and cried. She was careful to be quiet because she didn’t want to upset Mummy and Daddy; they’d been sad before and she didn’t like it when they were sad.

They said nothing had changed; that she was their little girl and would be theirs forever. But something was different. She didn’t really know what it was; it was just a weird feeling inside. Like when you felt a bit sick after eating too many chocolate chip biscuits, or maybe empty after you’d thrown up those too many chocolate chip biscuits.

The odd, slightly empty feeling never really went away, but she never discussed it with Paul and Ruth. They were wonderful, loving parents, who had always been supportive, caring and encouraging. The last thing she’d ever want to do was hurt them.

But as much as she’d told herself over the years that they were her real parents, there was always a question mark. Sometimes it was a deep pain; the rest of the time it just sat there as a feeling of being somehow incomplete, hollow.

To their credit, Paul and Ruth had always encouraged her to search for her biological roots if and when she felt the time was right.

But she’d always thought starting the search while they were alive would be disrespectful. What had also stopped her was knowing she wouldn’t be able to let go, would be totally consumed. It was the same wilful streak she’d channelled into a successful career in journalism. She could never stop at just knowing names of people and places.

The deaths of her parents had caused the itch of curiosity to become a strong ache of needing to know. The investigation had kept her distracted for over three years, and had given her a certain sense of closure. But three months after its completion, the questions that had been burning inside her could no longer be ignored.

Returning from her week off after the plane crash story had gone to air, Nicola had been mortified to find herself back covering the crappy stories of old; shock mobile phone bills, used cars that turned out to be lemons, pensioners struggling to make ends meet.

It wasn’t that they weren’t worthy of coverage, it’s just that she needed something she could really get her teeth into, do some serious research and groundwork on; something really gritty.

When Bill had tersely reminded her that these stories were the bread and butter of Life and Times –’It’s what the audience wants’ – Nicola had wondered if it was time for a career change.

Three months ago, she’d decided that she’d put off her own story long enough; she really had to start the search that might lead nowhere, might lead somewhere – somewhere she might or might not like.

One lunchtime she’d gone into the South Australian government adoptions website where she found a link: ‘Searching for birth relatives’. She’d quickly scanned the screen, pausing at a line that said to consider other parties involved.

What if her biological parents didn’t want to be found? What if she was setting herself and others up for heartbreak? Scott always said you should look ahead in life, not back. But life wasn’t that simple.

Anyway, she might not even get that far. She might not even have enough information.

Nicola had selected the form for an ‘Adopted Person’ from the list, pressed print, and raced to the printer to collect it before anyone else in the office did. Back at her desk, she hadn’t been able to quite believe how straightforward it was; ironic really that something so important could be put so simply. Just five questions were all it took.

She’d picked up the frame containing her birth photo, turned it over, and copied the details from those in blue biro on the back of the polaroid:

Baby Nicola Born 16^th April 1977 Port Lincoln Hospital

Nicola had paused at the two options underneath ‘What information are you seeking?’ and shaken her head. How would anyone be satisfied with just a birth certificate? She ticked the box for ‘All information relating to the adoption’, and then with her hand shaking even more, inserted her signature and the date.

She’d got out her cheque book, pausing with her pen hovered above the printed form to acknowledge the further irony of such a plain, uncomplicated number (fifty dollars) for something that was anything but.

She’d torn the cheque from its stub, placed it in the middle of the two A4 sheets of paper and folded them into three. She’d dragged an envelope from her desk drawer and slid the wad inside. Nicola had then returned her baby photo to its normal position and sat staring at the envelope.

She’d done it; taken the first step. But could she take the next one and actually send it?

Nicola picked up the silver frame containing the picture of Paul and Ruth. ‘You’d approve, wouldn’t you – say I’m doing the right thing?’ she whispered. She’d planted a kiss on the glass between their smiling faces and held it to her chest. Then she’d filled out the address on the envelope and posted it.

Three months on and she was still waiting for information to arrive.