As the Crow Flies

“Does that mean it’s four votes each?” he inquired of Jessica.

“Yes, that’s correct, Mr. Selwyn,” said Jessica after she had run her thumb down the list of names a second time.

Everyone stared across at the managing director. He placed the pen he had been writing with on the blotting pad in front of him. “Then I can only do what I consider to be in the best long-term interests of the company. I cast my vote in favor of accepting Mrs. Trentham’s offer.”

Everyone round the table except Charlie started to talk.

Mr. Selwyn waited for some time before adding, “The motion has been carried, Mr. Chairman, by five votes to four. I will therefore instruct our merchant bankers and solicitors to carry out the necessary financial and legal arrangements to ensure that this transaction takes place smoothly and in accordance with company regulations.”

Charlie made no comment, just continued to stare in front of him.

“And if there is no other business, Chairman, perhaps you should declare the meeting closed.”

Charlie nodded but didn’t move when the other directors rose to leave the boardroom. Only Becky remained in her place, halfway down the long table. Within moments they were alone.

“I should have got my hands on those flats thirty years ago, you know.”

Becky made no comment.

“And we should never have gone public while that bloody woman was still alive.”

Charlie rose and walked slowly over to the window, but his wife still didn’t offer an opinion as he stared down at the empty bench on the far side of the road.

“And to think I told Simon that his presence wouldn’t be vital.”

Still Becky said nothing.

“Well, at least I now know what the bloody woman has in mind for her precious Nigel.”

Becky raised an eyebrow as Charlie turned to face her.

“She plans that he will succeed me as the next chairman of Trumper’s.”

CATHY

1947–1950

CHAPTER

39

The one question I was never able to answer as a child was, “When did you last see your father?”

Unlike the young cavalier, I simply didn’t know the answer. In fact I had no idea who my father was, or my mother for that matter. Most people don’t realize how many times a day, a month, a year one is asked such a question. And if your reply is always, “I simply don’t know, because they both died before I can remember,” you are greeted with looks of either surprise or suspicion—or, worse still, disbelief. In the end you learn how to throw up a smokescreen or simply avoid the issue by changing

the subject. There is no variation on the question of parentage for which I haven’t developed an escape route.

The only vague memory I have of my parents is of a man who shouted a lot of the time and of a woman who was so timid she rarely spoke. I also have a feeling she was called Anna. Other than that, both of them remain a blur.

How I envied those children who could immediately tell me about their parents, brothers, sisters, even second cousins or distant aunts. All I knew about myself was that I had been brought up in St. Hilda’s Orphanage, Park Hill, Melbourne. Principal: Miss Rachel Benson.

Many of the children from the orphanage did have relations and some received letters, even the occasional visit. The only such person I can ever recall was an elderly, rather severe-looking woman, who wore a long black dress and black lace gloves up to her elbows, and spoke with a strange accent. I have no idea what her relationship to me was, if any.

Miss Benson treated this particular lady with considerable respect and I remember even curtsied when she left; but I never learned her name and when I was old enough to ask who she was Miss Benson claimed she had no idea what I was talking about. Whenever I tried to question Miss Benson about my own upbringing, she would reply mysteriously, “It’s best you don’t know, child.” I can think of no sentence in the English language more likely to ensure that I try even harder to find out the truth about my background.

As the years went by I began to ask what I thought were subtler questions on the subject of my parentage—of the vice-principal, my house matron, kitchen staff, even the janitor—but I always came up against the same blank wall. On my fourteenth birthday I requested an interview with Miss Benson in order to ask her the question direct. Although she had long ago dispensed with “It’s best you don’t know, child,” she now replaced this sentiment with, “In truth, Cathy, I don’t know myself.” Although I didn’t question her further, I didn’t believe her, because some of the older members of the staff would from time to time give me strange looks, and on at least two occasions began to whisper behind my back once they thought I was out of earshot.

I had no photographs or mementos of my parents, or even any proof of their past existence, except for a small piece of jewelry which I convinced myself was silver. I remember that it was the man who shouted a lot who had given me the little cross and since then it had always hung from a piece of string around my neck. One night when I was undressing in the dormitory Miss Benson spotted my prize and demanded to know where the pendant had come from; I told her Betsy Compton had swapped it with me for a dozen marbles, a fib that seemed to satisfy her at the time. But from that day onwards I kept my treasure well hidden from anyone’s prying eyes.