Ghosts of the Past

CHAPTER 1

9 CHAPTER 1

North Sydney, Australia, the present dayRaindrops began to spatter Nick Eatwell’s back as he cut his eighteenth lap of the open-air North Sydney Olympic swimming pool. The rain annoyed him because he had not brought an umbrella for the walk back to the office.

He remembered something from a couple of decades earlier, when he and Jill had not been married long, on a country road trip. They had watched a cattle dog on the back of a ute. The country was in drought at the time, had been for years, and there had been a freakish sunshower. Fat drops had smeared the dust on their windscreen and the dog, which might never have known rain, found itself pelted by some mysterious substance. He nipped at his back and his fur, trying to chase the drops away. Nick didn’t know what had hit him either when Jill had died of breast cancer, eight months ago.

He focused on remembering where he was up to in his laps and used the count to work out what time it was, used the boring repetitiveness and the physical effort of the exercise itself to try and hide the pain. There would be enough of his lunch hour left, still, to have a hot shower, get changed and make it back to 10the office before two. However, the rain was intensifying and he would get wet again on the walk back.

Nick finished his laps, showered and left the pool. Checking his watch, he decided to brave the downpour. He ran up the road opposite Milsons Point railway station, darting from one awning to the next. A stiff headwind that howled down the man-made canyon of flats and office blocks slowed his progress and drove the stinging drops of rain into his face. By the time he reached the office his shirt and chinos were soaked through. He got into the lift and the woman next to him shook her head. He looked like what he was: pitiful.

The lift doors opened on the Chapman Public Relations office. The millennials, who seemed to need days off because of stress and complained of being bullied when he dared to correct their apostrophes, all had their heads down. Keyboards clattered and soft, urgent conversations were murmured. Jessica, who was young enough to be his daughter, made a point of looking up at the clock. Even on good days coming to work was not something he especially looked forward to. He’d left journalism to make more money, to set him and Jill up for a better life by paying off the mortgage sooner, so they could travel more. Even before Jill died he’d found himself regretting the move; the work bored him and he’d realised happiness was rarely found in a bigger bank balance.

‘Oh, Nick,’ said Pippa Chapman, the owner of the company, as she came out of her window office and intercepted him on the way to his landlocked work station, ‘I was looking for you. Glad you didn’t drown out there. Got a minute?’

He was three minutes late. Nick was nearly always the first in the office, after Pippa, and often the last to leave. Pippa was still under thirty-five, had only ever worked in public relations and, to her credit, had built up a reasonable business with her consultancy. In private he called her the pocket rocket. He’d been her star contact once upon a time, when he’d been a comparatively old journalist on a newspaper that was struggling to stay afloat 11in the digital age. When there had been yet another round of redundancies she had picked him up. He owed her, but she never let him forget it.

Nick followed her into the office. The view of the harbour glittering on a sunny day could lift flagging spirits, but today the water reflected the Harbour Bridge’s dull grey and the dreary sky.

Pippa stayed standing, looking out at the unappealing view, rather than at him. ‘The tile company walked.’

Nick shrugged. ‘Typical small-client syndrome – asked the world, whinged all the time and paid peanuts. We’re better off without them.’

Pippa turned and her face told him he’d said the wrong thing. ‘That’s easy for you to say, Nick, you don’t have to pay the wages around here. The CEO said you offended him.’

Nick spread his hands. ‘I told him that I couldn’t sell a turd sandwich.’

‘He was launching a brand-new product.’

‘Yes.’ Nick nodded. ‘And he wanted us to get him on breakfast television.’

‘You didn’t even try, Nick.’

He took a breath. ‘I tried telling him that we needed to say something newsworthy, maybe run a scare campaign saying that metal roofs are dangerous in high winds or that tiles are better for the environment or some s**t like that.’

Pippa straightened and put her hands on her hips. ‘Your heart’s not in this any more, Nick.’

‘In roof tiles? You think?’

‘That was my first account when I went freelance, Nick. Tiles helped me build this business, gave you a job.’ Pippa drew a deep breath before continuing, ‘Nick, we all know what a terrible year this has been for you.’

But, he thought she was about to say, your wife dying doesn’t give you an excuse to be rude to clients. And she would be right, of course, he had no reason, no right to be picky about what accounts he worked on. Pippa managed corporate and government 12affairs for a couple of big corporations, but they were cutting their funding. She could not afford to overlook their smaller clients. But the man running the tile company did not like him and he was pushy and demanding. He was always asking why Pippa wasn’t at the client meetings. It was an unreasonable gripe, but Nick could see why he would want to have a smart, attractive woman telling him what he wanted to hear rather than a burned-out fifty-year-old setting him straight.

‘I’m sorry, Nick.’

‘I’m getting better, Pippa,’ he said, though he wasn’t sure he was.

‘I am sorry about Jill, Nick, really I am, but that’s not why I just apologised.’

For the briefest moment he didn’t understand. ‘Why, then? What have you done wrong?’

‘I …’

‘Pip, please.’ His heart started pounding. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll go back to tile man. I’ll grovel and get him back, buy us some time.’

She gave him a sad smile and shook her head, slowly. ‘Nick, I’m sorry. I lost the car account as well this morning. We’ve known for years that they were closing their factories in Australia and it happened. Even if I can get the tile account back I’ve got to downsize.’

He felt a tightening in his chest and for a moment wondered if it was the beginning of a heart attack. No such luck. She might have felt sorry for him then and reversed her decision.

‘Of all the gang,’ she went on, though he barely heard her, ‘you’ve got the most experience and you’ll find it easiest to get another job. If it’s any consolation, you’re not the only person I have to talk to this afternoon. I’m sorry, Nick, you’re too high-powered for me. I can’t afford you any more.’

Which was, he registered, the equivalent of a dumper saying to the dump-ee, ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’ It never made a difference.

‘When?’ he asked.

‘You can work out a couple of weeks’ notice if you like. I’ll pay you all that you’re due.’

13A few weeks at best, he thought, plus accrued holiday leave which he hadn’t taken. He nodded, turned, and started to walk out of Pippa’s office.

‘Nick … maybe there’ll be some freelance work, maybe I’ll pick up another client.’

He nodded but didn’t look back at her. He went to his desk, the eyes of the millennials burning into his back, and opened his laptop. He tried to concentrate on a half-finished media release for an advertising company client. Something about a new experiential marketing campaign, whatever the hell that meant.

Nick alternated between flashes of anger and self-pity. He wanted to stand up and go back to Pippa’s office and explain to her why she needed him, his contacts and his experience, but he could also see it from her point of view. His expertise and experience had proved invaluable to Pippa, for a while, but now he was an expensive mouth to feed from a shrinking pot. By his own admission he was no good at drumming up new business; Nick was a journalist, not a salesman, and not afraid who knew it.

Unable to concentrate and not willing to give any of his juvenile co-workers the satisfaction of seeing him walking out, he checked his emails.

There was one from someone he didn’t know, but the subject line was something a PR man could not ignore: Seeking Nicholas Eatwell – journalist needs help with a story. Nick opened it, noting the email address ended in ‘.co.za’.

Dear Mr Eatwell,

You don’t know me, but my name is Susan Vidler. I am a South African freelance journalist visiting Australia on holiday and business. I am researching a feature on an Australian who served in a unit called Steinaecker’s Horse in the Anglo-Boer War in 1902 and later in a rebellion against the German colony of South West Africa, now Namibia, in 1906. My research indicates that you may be the last surviving relative of this man, Sergeant Cyril John Blake. If you are the son of the late Denis 14and Ruth Eatwell, then you are the man I’m seeking. If so, I was wondering if you might have any documents or other information relating to Sergeant Blake that you would consider sharing with me.

Thanking you in advance,

Susan Vidler

Whoever this woman was she had done her research well because his parents Denis and Ruth had both passed away. The woman gave an Australian mobile number. He called it, grateful for a distraction from what had just happened, and the call went through to voicemail. He left a message saying he was the man she was looking for, and gave his number.

He ended the call and checked his watch. Three hours until he could go to the pub and get drunk. At least, he told himself, he now had a reason other than Jill.