Chapter 5
The lunch crowd at Denny’s was an eclectic mix of locals with dogs, workers with laptops and mums in activewear meeting for a quick bite before school pick-up.
Meg and Deb had started meeting there for a takeaway coffee during the lockdowns and it had been a favourite ever since, on days when they were both working from home.
She searched the tables for Deb and found her sitting in the far corner, typing quickly, brow furrowed. Meg’s heart sank slightly. She’d been hoping to beat her there. If she couldn’t meet a deadline, at least she could be on time for lunch.
‘Deb, I’m so sorry,’ she said when she arrived at the table. ‘I couldn’t find a bloody park. I ended up in a thirty-minute zone. Do you think I can claim a parking fine as a tax deduction?’
She was joking, but Deb shook her head. ‘I think you’d be pushing your luck.
’ She closed her laptop screen and took off her tortoiseshell glasses, knocking over the pepper grinder as she placed them on the table.
It clattered onto the floor, drawing the attention of diners at nearby tables.
‘Bloody hell,’ she said, shaking her head as she bent down to retrieve it.
Meg laughed, feeling a surge of affection for her friend and mentor.
If it wasn’t for Deb’s uncanny ability to spill things, they wouldn’t have met on a wet Monday morning eight years before, when Meg was hiding in the ladies’ loos in the foyer of the Park Street office on her first day as an intern at The Times.
Meg had arrived early that day, riddled with nervous excitement, so she was sitting in a stall, scrolling mindlessly, when someone entered the bathroom, swearing under her breath.
She’d opened the door of the stall to see Deborah Jenkins splashing water onto a large, brown stain on her cream, silk shirt.
Meg recognised her from the authoritative black-and-white photo that accompanied her articles.
She was already a high-profile investigative reporter by then, although at that moment, swearing and dabbing at the stain with a paper towel, she looked anything but authoritative.
‘Um … are you … okay?’ Meg had asked, glancing sideways as she washed her hands at the next basin.
Deb stopped dabbing and looked at the stain in the mirror.
It was even worse now. ‘Not really, unless you happen to have a spare shirt in your handbag.’ She threw the paper towel in the bin and put a hand to her forehead.
‘I’m doing a panel presentation at the Hilton in half an hour with Leigh Sales and Kate McClymont. ’
Meg thought for a moment. They looked about the same size. ‘Swap shirts with me.’
Deb eyed Meg’s navy blouse. She’d bought it the week before on a special outing to add some more conservative, corporate pieces to her wardrobe, which was mainly full of frayed denim and faded T-shirts.
‘Seriously?’
Meg nodded. ‘If this is okay?’
Deb was already unbuttoning her shirt. ‘You’re an absolute lifesaver.’
Meg unzipped hers at the back and slipped it off, wishing she’d worn a better bra.
‘What’s your name?’ Deb asked, as she tucked the blouse into her trousers.
‘Meg Hunter. It’s my first day. I’m just an intern.’
‘Hey,’ Deb said, looking up. ‘No justs. It’s not easy getting an internship here. That’s something to be proud of.’
‘Okay.’ Meg smiled. ‘I’m an intern,’ she said again, this time with more conviction.
Six months later, Deb had helped Meg get a permanent role as a staff reporter.
Now, Deb’s unruly hair fell over her face as she crossed her arms and leaned forward on the table, meeting Meg’s gaze. She exhaled loudly.
Meg raised a hand to get in first. ‘Before you say anything, I assume Pete told you I missed my deadline yesterday and I want to apologise. It was absolutely unacceptable for me to submit so late. You’ve gone out on a limb for me. I know that. It won’t happen again.’
‘Won’t it? Pete said this isn’t the first time.’
‘Honestly, Deb, I promise.’
Deb sighed. ‘When you got laid off, I told you I’d look after you—’
‘And you have, and I really appreciate it.’ It was true.
Like a protective big sister, Deb had promised to keep Meg busy, and she was true to her word.
Meg swallowed a lump in her throat. ‘It’s just …
I’m not sure how much more of the online stuff I can write.
I want to do more than just pay the bills. I—’
A waiter appeared by their table. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Smashed avo and feta on sourdough for me, thanks,’ Meg said.
Deb ordered a club sandwich.
‘It’s just,’ Meg said, ‘I’m finding it hard to keep motivated when all I’m writing is “The babies who were swapped at birth” and “My twin and I are dating the same man”. It’s not that I’m not grateful, I am, I know I’m lucky to get—’
‘I thought you wanted work!’ Deb said, throwing up her hands.
‘I do—’
‘If you keep pitching clickbait, that’s what you’ll get.’ She leaned back in her chair. ‘Have you reached out to Harry?’ Harry was the editor of The Times. Deb had suggested Meg get in touch regarding editorial work.
‘I sent him an email, but I haven’t heard anything back.’
‘How long ago was that?’
Meg shrugged. ‘Two weeks? Three, maybe?’
‘Can I give you some advice?’
‘I guess.’
‘If you want a steady income as a freelancer, online’s your bread and butter.
That’s just the way it is. You’re a great journo, Meg, but the industry’s changed.
Twenty years ago, you’d never have been made redundant.
You’d have a career like mine. Investigative journalism, breaking some big stories, then into an editorial role if you wanted one. ’
‘So you’re saying I’m too late. Journalism’s stuffed.’
‘No, but it is different. Print journalism isn’t what it was. These days a big story has more chance of being a bloody podcast than a long form article in the Saturday paper.’
Meg sighed.
‘What I’m saying—’ Deb’s voice softened, ‘—is that if you want a real career in this game, you have to go after it. It won’t fall in your lap. If you want to work on a real story, you need to pitch a real story. A good one.’
Meg looked out the window at the crawling traffic on Enmore Road. Where were all those people going?
‘Well?’
She looked back at Deb. ‘Well, what?’
‘Pitch me something.’
‘Now?’
‘Yeah, now. You must have ideas. Obviously I don’t commission stories, but if you’ve got something good, I’ll have a word to Harry.’
‘Um, yeah, I do.’ Meg scrambled, trying to think.
She used to keep a list when she worked full time.
The ideas came thick and fast back then.
‘What about …’ Hartwell! Yes! ‘What about the controversy around the redevelopment of Hartwell Gaol?’ She watched Deb’s face for recognition. ‘Hartwell’s a town in—’
‘Yeah, my brother got married down there. Pretty town. What’s the deal with the jail?’
‘It’s the oldest prison in the state. It was used for convicts originally, then as a processing centre for immigrants after the Second World War. It sat empty for decades after that, but a few years ago it was sold to Ashworth Property.’
Deb scowled. ‘I hate those bastards.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘Years ago, The Times had to settle a suit the Ashworths brought against me and publish a retraction, even though everything I wrote in my story was true. What do they want the old jail for?’
‘They’re redeveloping it, putting in restaurants, an outdoor theatre and boutique apartments. The locals think there was an under-the-table deal done. Judging by the vitriol towards the family in the Save Hartwell Facebook group, things are heating up down there.’
Deb shrugged, unconvinced, as the waiter reappeared, plates in hand. ‘Why now?’
‘It’s meant to open early next year. I think some of the grievances of the locals might come to a head. What do you think?’
‘Sounds interesting. You could frame it as a David and Goliath story.’ She took a bite of her sandwich.
Meg watched her as she mulled over the idea and realised she was hoping Deb would dismiss the idea entirely. Her mother’s past was a carefully guarded secret. There must be a reason for that.
‘Why don’t you do some basic digging, see what you find?’ Deb said, eventually. ‘But it would have to be very strong for us to go after the Ashworths.’
Meg spent the afternoon at the library, finishing the threesome article and one other that she’d been putting off writing for a parenting website: I’m a mother of three and I regret having children. It was guaranteed to get guilt-riddled mums breaking their fingers to click.
It was late afternoon when she got home.
She stepped into the hall, surprised to hear the rat-tat-tat of bullets coming from the lounge room.
She stood for a moment watching Jay from behind, the Southern Cross tattoo visible on his bare back.
On the screen, enemy soldiers clad in SWAT gear and holding assault rifles attacked through thick smoke as Blackhawk helicopters swarmed overhead.
She dumped her bag on the floor and slumped into the armchair.
Jay gave no indication he knew she was there.
‘Aren’t you meant to be at work?’ she asked. He was a chef at a burger joint and worked nights.
‘Called in sick,’ he said, his eyes still on the screen.
She shook her head, thinking of the rent he owed her.
‘Damn it! You distracted me.’ He tossed the controller onto the table, reached for a Carlton stubbie and took a sip.
‘Sorry,’ she said.
He scratched his bare chest, dark hair bristling under his fingers. He was still wearing his boxer shorts.
‘Are you sick?’ Meg asked.
‘Nah, hungover. I ended up at the RSL club after my shift, playing the pokies.’
Meg remembered the stranger who had spent the night on her couch. ‘I met your mate Salty this morning.’
‘Yeah, he said you kicked him out.’
‘You can’t bring randoms back here, Jay. It’s not part of the deal. And you owe me rent, by the way. Five weeks.’
‘Yeah, no worries,’ he said, draining his beer. He took another one from the fridge and disappeared to his room.
Meg was pouring a glass of wine when Gav entered, carrying groceries.
‘Hey.’ He dumped the bags onto the bench. ‘What’s happening?’
Meg sighed heavily. ‘I met Deb for lunch.’
‘Nice.’
‘Not really. She’s pissed off with me because I keep missing deadlines. I told her I was sick of writing crap and she basically said it’s my fault because that’s what I keep pitching.’
‘Well, is it?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ She shrugged. ‘Anyway, I pitched her a story about suspected corruption in a town in the Southern Highlands. You know that Ashworth family?’
‘The hotel people?’
‘Yeah. Hotels and property development. The locals in Hartwell are unhappy about a deal done with them. Might be nothing, but Deb thinks it’s worth looking into it.’
Gav frowned. ‘Isn’t that good?’
She sat down on a barstool at the kitchen bench and took a sip of her wine.
Was it good? She wasn’t sure. There had been a strange feeling niggling at her ever since her conversation with Deb.
‘I stumbled across it because Mum mentioned Hartwell the other day. She thought I was someone else, asked me if I’d travelled down from Hartwell.
I didn’t even know where Hartwell was until I googled it later.
It must have something to do with her past, don’t you think?
’ Meg had told Gav all about her strange upbringing, alone with her secretive mother, moving every six months or so.
‘Dunno,’ he said, stacking microwave meals in the fridge. ‘Might mean nothing.’
‘Maybe.’
But Meg wasn’t so sure. She thought of the Indian neurologist with the musical lilt in her soft, accented voice.
‘Imagine that memories are organised on a tall bookshelf,’ she’d said, helping them understand the diagnosis.
‘As we make memories, we store them on the shelves, filling them up from the bottom, so the shelves at the top are filled with our most recent memories. Now imagine that someone starts to shake the bookshelf. The books on the top shelf, the newest ones, will tumble first. The memories at the bottom will barely move. Once the books at the top have fallen, the ones on the lower shelves will feel more recent.’
That night, after the appointment, Meg had scoured the internet for everything she could find on early-onset Alzheimer’s disease, searching for a glimmer of hope.
Something she could hold on to, like a life raft.
But the prognosis got worse with every click of her mouse.
The bullet-pointed lists of early symptoms resonated with dreadful familiarity, her thoughts skidding back through all the little things which had gone mostly unnoticed over the past six months or more.
She’d slammed her laptop shut halfway through the list of late-stage symptoms.
Jenny’s memory books were tumbling off the top shelves now.
Meg pictured a pile of them on the floor.
Soon the book of Meg would be on the pile too.
It was already teetering. Some days it was as though it had already fallen, along with the ones about Jenny’s tabby cat, the apartment she’d bought six years ago and her neighbour Lynne, who had managed to befriend Jenny, despite her rebuffs.
Already her mum had no memory of any of them.
Maybe one day soon, Meg would need to wear a post-it note on her forehead: Daughter.
Was it possible that Hartwell meant nothing? Could it really be random? She ran her hands through her short hair.
‘Why do you think Mum won’t talk about her past?’ she asked Gav.
‘She must have run from something.’
Meg nodded and took another sip. What though?
She reached for her phone and searched for Hartwell on Google Maps—104 kilometres.
That was all. She could be there in one hour and twenty-two minutes.
Was it possible that her mother’s past, the past she’d concealed for almost thirty years, could be so close?
She closed the app and rested her head on her hands. Her mother had been resolute in her refusal to discuss her past. There had to be a good reason for that, surely. Best to let sleeping dogs lie. That was the expression Jenny used, whenever Meg asked a question she didn’t want to answer.
She picked her phone up again and messaged Deb.
Been googling. Looks like Hartwell’s a dead end.