Page 22 of Mad Mabel

“I’m told there was some blood on one of your shoes. Given the blood, it’s considered evidence,” he continues, dragging what looks like a plastic ziplock bag from his satchel.

“The blood was from a scratch on my leg, for pity’s sake!”

I look down at my shoes. It had only been a drop or two and it was now almost imperceptible against the navy canvas, at least with my eyesight.

“Still,” Baldy says. “We need to take it.”

“Will I get it back?” I ask.

“They’re a nice pair of shoes!” Daphne adds. “Homypeds are they, Else?”

“They’re my favorites. Got them in the Boxing Day sales at Harris Scarfe,” I say. “Wear them every day.”

Again, the police do not look apologetic. Clearly neither of them has suffered through the Boxing Day sales.

“Well,” I say, sitting on the chair, “you may as well take them both. Not a lot of use to me without the other.”

I reach toward my shoe, to remove it, but Hairy intercepts me. “Allow me,” he says, and then puts on gloves. Despite my insistence he take both, he only takes the right and drops it into the bag. The indignity of sitting there while he does it is nearly as bad as then leading them back down my hallway, wearing one shoe only.

“I did wonder,” Baldy says, the moment before I open the door, “what had become of you. I think most people expected you would have started a new life. I never would have thought you’d still be right here in Melbourne.”

With Nugget at my heels, my hand freezes, halfway to the door.

“I suppose you did change your name,” Hairy says. “Then again, you couldn’t just go around calling yourself Mad Mabel, could you?”

They chuckle. When I don’t join them, their smiles fade away. “For the record, I never went around calling myself that,” I say.

They blink, glance around. “Yes. Right. Fair enough. We better go then.” Suddenly they are in a hurry to leave. “Bye, Ms. Fitzpatrick. Bye, Daphne.”

Once again, they leave without the dog.

14

THEN

Lord Mayor’s Camp was a summer camp a couple of hours out of Melbourne, designated for disadvantaged children. The irony that my parents secured me a spot with a hefty donation appeared to be entirely lost on them.

The camp itself was a relic—faded bunting, peeling signage, and that unmistakable scent of sun-warmed lino and damp towels. My parents had a holiday home perched on a nearby cliff, close enough to smell the sausages the camp leaders barbecued at lunchtime. The idea that I might return there each night clearly hadn’t occurred to them—or if it had, it had been swiftly and unapologetically rejected.

“You’re fourteen years old,” Dad had said, on the way down. “I had a job by the time I was fourteen.” His words felt like a lecture from the pages of a men’s magazine, full of hard-nosed advice on building character.

“You’ll have more fun with other kids around,” my mother had said, in a kinder voice. Her voice was warmer, but there wasa certain idealism about her, as if she truly believed every child needed the same dose of cheerful camaraderie, regardless of what I might think.

As I stood on the precarious ledge of the flying fox, I wondered if my mother actually believed I’d have more fun here.

“Is this safe?” I called to the counsellor below. My voice wavered, though I tried to steady it. The harness—meant for a much smaller child—pinched in odd places and buckled loosely in others. The timber platform beneath my feet felt spongy, the kind of wood that wouldn’t survive a good thunderstorm.

“You’re the eighth person to take it in the last hour,” the counsellor called back, voice flat with boredom. “Was safe enough for them.”

His tone reminded me of a teacher just counting down the hours to retirement.

As I looked down, I found myself thinking of Anne Shirley. When Josie Pye dared her to walk the ridgepole of the Barrys’ kitchen roof, Anne hadn’t hesitated. She’d had doubts, of course, but she lifted her chin and did it anyway.

“Come on, Big Bird,” a kid called from the ground. “People are waiting!”

I tried to summon some of Anne’s courage, even as the wind tugged at my skirt, a cheerful pastel number my mother had insisted I wear, thinking it would make me “fit in with the other girls.”

And then I stepped off.