I was sick of complications, distractions. I’d worked out what people wanted in evidence. Like Sadie, the whispering public wanted a story. Whether it was true didn’t matter. ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I think it’s quite simple. We need to make sure our story is better than theirs.’

11

11

FAMA | Goddess of Fame and Slander

Fama was a gossip whose whispers could quickly ignite into scandal. She grew physically larger as rumour spread, and she never slept.

Time had frozen in my house. We couldn’t rebuild our lives while this suspicion hung over Caleb. We could only wait. Everywhere else in the Yarra Valley, people moved on. Tennis players and swimmers came to Brunton to have photos taken with scarred child victims. Even those who suffered the most devastating losses managed to pick up the pieces of their lives. Meanwhile, although it would take weeks for investigations to be completed, for their bodies to be released from the morgue, the memorial service for Penelope Gordon’s parents was finally arranged to take place in St Monica’s, next to the refuge where now only a few very unlucky families remained. The hall now functioned mostly as a relief centre, distributing donated groceries and increasingly complicated pieces of government paperwork.

In the morning, I dressed quietly, sure Caleb wouldn’t want to come. But when I walked into the sitting room, carrying my shoes to avoid disturbing him with loud footsteps on timber boards, he was waiting. He wore the dark suit I’d bought for him earlier, for job interviews. It didn’t really fit him anymore. The buttons couldn’t possibly close. I was shocked. He was growing up and this was a reminder of the natural order of things between parents and children. One day he’d organise a funeral for me.

‘Are you sure you want to come?’

‘Penelope wants me there.’ (His messages must be getting through. What did they talk about? He’d tell her more than me. How could I find out?)

He couldn’t be dissuaded. I helped straighten his tie so he’d let me get close.

‘This will be hard for her,’ I said, hoping he’d respond.

He grunted.

We drove through the valley over roads becoming familiar in their changing state. The ground was blushing green and new fronds were springing from the ashes of old ferns. Proving they weren’t dead inside, blackened trees produced green leaves. Houses and town buildings also grew, as if their roots were still present and their walls and ceilings had only needed water and time.

I parked my Commodore outside St Monica’s and walked beside Caleb through a crowd of mourners, their black clothes dimmed to grey by lingering ghosts of smoke. A hand brushed my sleeve. Harmony Beckwith. Leanne had brought her, although for once without the little ones. ‘Penelope was her babysitter,’ Leanne explained. Here, everyone knew everyone else. ‘She wanted to come.’