“I’m afraid you still are,” said Jackie. “Strictly speaking. But don’t get worked up about it; I promise we’ll have that sorted out by the morning. By the way, next time, Dan, you are allowed to join in.”
Daniel spent most of the next three days in bed being tutored by a second-year undergraduate from the University of Perth. By the second morning he had discovered just how beautiful a woman’s body could be. By the third evening Jackie let out a little moan that led him to believe that although he might not have graduated he was no longer a freshman.
He was sad when Jackie told him the time had come for her to return to Perth. She threw her rucksack over her shoulder for the last time, and after he had accompanied her to the station Daniel watched the train pull away from the platform as she began her journey back to Western Australia.
“If I ever get to Cambridge, Dan, I’ll look you up,” were the last words he remembered her saying.
“I do hope so,” he said, feeling there were several members of Trinity High Table who would have benefited from a few days of Jackie’s expert tuition.
On Thursday morning Daniel reported back to the Immigration Department as instructed, and after another hour’s wait in the inevitable queue, handed his receipt over to the assistant who was still slumped across the counter wearing the same shirt.
“Oh, yes, Guy Trentham, I remember. I discovered his particulars a few minutes after you’d left,” the clerk told him. “Pity you didn’t come back earlier.”
“Then I can only thank you.”
“Thank me, what for?” asked the assistant suspiciously.
Daniel took the little green card the assistant handed to him. “For three of the happiest days of my life.”
“What are you getting at, mate?” said the other man, but Daniel was already out of earshot.
He sat alone on the steps outside the tall colonial building and studied the official card. As he feared, it revealed very little:
Name: Guy Trentham (registered as immigrant)
18 November 1922
Occupation: Land agent
Address: 117 Manley Drive
Sydney
Daniel soon located Manley Drive on the city map which Jackie had left with him, and took a bus to the north side of Sydney where he was dropped off in a leafy suburb overlooking the harbor. The houses, although fairly large, looked a little run-down, leaving Daniel with the impression that the suburb might at some time in the past have been a fashionable area.
When he rang the bell of what could have been a former colonial guest house, the door was answered by a young man wearing shorts and a singlet. Daniel was coming to accept that this was the national dress.
“It’s a long shot, I know,” Daniel began, “but I’m trying to trace someone who may have lived in this house in 1922.”
“Bit before my time,” said the youth cheerily. “Better come in and talk to my Aunt Sylvia—she’ll be your best bet.”
Daniel followed the young man through the hall into a drawing room that looked as if it hadn’t been tidied for several days and out onto the verandah, which showed indications of having once been painted white. There seated in a rocking chair was a woman who might have been a shade under fifty but whose dyed hair and over-made-up face made it impossible for Daniel to be at all sure of her age. She continued to rock backwards and forwards, eyes closed, enjoying the morning sun.
“I’m sorry to bother you—”
“I’m not asleep,” said the woman, her eyes opening to take in the intruder. She stared suspiciously up at him. “Who are you? You look familiar.”
“My name is Daniel Trumper,” he told her. “I’m trying to trace someone who may have stayed here in 1922.”
She began to laugh. “Twenty-five years ago. You’re a bit of an optimist, I must say.”
“His name was Guy Trentham.”
She sat up with a start and stared straight at him. “You’re his son, aren’t you?” Daniel went ice cold. “I’ll never forget that smooth-tongued phony’s face if I live to be a hundred.”
The truth was no longer possible to deny, even to himself.
“So have you come back after all these years to clear up his debts?”