Jessica smiled and thanked him most sincerely for coming and then suggested they go for a walk in the grounds. In greeting Richard Runche she realised how much confidence she’d gained from her friendship with Sally Goldberg.
‘Walk?’ The barrister seemed surprised at the idea, but then added quickly, ‘Can’t say I do much walking these days. Damned good idea, though.’ She handed him his hat. ‘Ah, where did that come from?’ he asked, again surprised, then in a slightly more earnest voice inquired, ‘I don’t suppose there’s a pub nearby, give the walk a solid purpose, eh?’
‘I’m not allowed to leave the grounds, sir,’ Jessica apologised.
‘No, no, quite,’ Richard Runche agreed. ‘Pity though, you look as though a small tincture of Bombay gin might do you the world of good, young lady.’ He sniffed and looked about him, taking in the drab green walls and polished wooden floor. ‘Miserable sort of place, eh?’
Once outside, her guest placed his hat back on his head and, blinking uncertainly in the sharp light, took Jessica’s arm. ‘Now, you must tell me everything, young lady.’ He stopped suddenly and pointed to the trees. ‘Good God, those are not English oaks, are they? Yes, by Jove, they are — how very remarkable!’
Jessica led him to the nearest park bench situated under a large shady oak tree and they settled down to talk. For the hour that followed Richard Runche questioned Jessica closely, as he wanted to know every possible detail. Jessica agreed that she would tell him everything but the name of the father of her child.
‘You do realise, Jessica — I may call you Jessica, may I?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well then, Jessica, you do realise that your refusal to say who the father is puts serious doubts on your claim. You say you gave birth to a child but you will not name the father. Does that not seem to substantiate the story your mother has given the authorities, to support the notion of an imagined child?’
‘Please sir, Mr Runche, I swore I’d never tell nobody and I never will.’ Richard Runche was about to remember the stubborn streak in Jessica.
He then made her tell him about the circumstances of the birth, urging her to leave nothing out. As she talked she could sense the barrister found it difficult to imagine that she’d given birth to her child sitting in the creek up to her waist in water. ‘Good gracious, are you sure?’ was all he’d said at the conclusion of her story about the birth of her son, Joey.
‘You can ask Mary, Mary Simpson — she saw me straight after, when she come from the Lutheran Church Christmas party for her kids,’ Jessica
protested. ‘Mary Simpson? She witnessed the birth?’
‘She come just after and took care of me.’
‘Can I speak to this Mary Simpson? How do I contact her?’ the barrister asked.
‘She’s Aboriginal, from the Wiradjuri tribe. You could find her easy enough, they’re the local blacks.’ ‘Aboriginal? ‘
‘Yes, she’s my friend, she knows I had the baby. She’ll tell you straight off, swear it on a stack of Bibles.’
Richard Runche sat back and brought his hands together, bringing the tips of his fingers to his lips, making a small whistling sound. ‘My dear Jessica, the word of an Aboriginal woman against two white women — against your mother and sister — would be unlikely to succeed in court. So far, we have no case.’
‘But it’s true, I swear it’s true!’ Jessica cried. ‘You must see that, you must believe me, Mr Runche, sir!’
The barrister sighed. ‘Let me review what you’ve just told me, Jessica. Let me show you how a judge might see it.’ He cleared his throat and began to enunciate, ticking the various points off on the fingers of his left hand.
‘You say you were pregnant to a man you won’t name.
The doctor who pronounced you pregnant is deceased and appears to have kept no records. The woman who can verify that you had a child while sitting waist-deep in water is an Aborigine of no fixed address. A tribal woman, whose testimony may not even be acceptable in a court of law and whose word is unlikely to be taken against that of your mother and sister. Your father, whom you say took you to the doctor who pronounced you pregnant and who saw your child on Christmas Day, is dead.’ He changed hands, ticking off the remaining points on the fingers of his right hand. ‘The congregation of St Stephen’s church is, I imagine, prepared to swear to your sister’s pregnancy, backed up by the vicar, the Reverend Mathews, a man of God. Furthermore, you were witnessed to have protested after the announcement by the vicar of the birth of what was, as the congregation had every right to assume, the expected and slightly premature outcome of your sister’s pregnancy. You claimed the newborn child belonged to you and proceeded, in front of a hundred or more witnesses, to physically attack your mother on the sad occasion of your father’s funeral.’ He paused, again pressing the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. ‘And, not to put too fine a point on it, my dear, you reside at present in a lunatic asylum.’ Richard Runche looked sternly at Jessica. ‘Do I make myself clear?’
Jessica began to sob softly. ‘Please, Mr Runche, I’m not mad. They stole my child! They took Joey away from me!’ Richard Runche KC sighed. ‘No, Jessica, I don’t think you are mad.’ He sighed again, more quietly. ‘Though God knows, looking at the evidence, you don’t appear to have a leg to stand on.’ He reached out and put his hand on Jessica’s shoulder. ‘But we may have one thing going for us. The paper your mother signed making the farm over to you and your child is signed by this Mary Simpson — and your mother, of course — and that may establish the veracity of the black woman’s testimony. Where might this document be, do you have it with you?’
‘No, it was left with my things, in my room, when I went to the funeral.’
‘Ah, I see,’ he sighed. ‘Well, I don’t suppose it’s still there.’
‘Not bloody likely,’ Jessica sniffed.
Runche frowned. ‘So there it is, my dear. Even the document in your mother’s handwriting signing your father’s property over to you can’t be found.’ He spread his hands and shrugged, saying nothing. ‘Mary signed it, she’ll say so.’
The lawyer ignored this remark, having already dismissed the black woman’s testimony. ‘Think, my dear, there must be something — a little thing, perhaps ever so small, one thing we can use that will at least cast doubt on your mother and sister’s version of the truth.’
Jessica looked up at the barrister, shaking her head. ‘They took my baby and now I can’t prove otherwise,’ she choked.
Runche was beginning to wonder what he’d let himself in for. His head throbbed from a hangover that no less than half a dozen glasses of claret could hope to fix. It was way past pub time, his mouth was dry and he could feel the shakes coming on. ‘Think, my dear. In my experience there is always something, something we might use.’