Review of Australian Fiction, Volume 13, Issue 2 by Graeme Simsion

Author:Graeme Simsion
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781922171764
Publisher: Review of Australian Fiction

III

Behind most bad decisions lies anger. My client had every reason to be angry with the institution that had abused him as a child, and with the courts that had declined to convict the perpetrator. Against my professional advice, he had pursued the matter as a civil claim for damages, where the burden of proof was less onerous, and I had negotiated a path around the statute of limitations.

I believed his story. Even the judge, I’m sure, had believed it. My primary school experiences of corporal punishment faded into something akin to first-world problems in the light of what had been visited upon Francis Spence. If, as Maddie Perfect would have it, anger had driven me to my chosen profession, then he had more than enough motivation to pursue his grievance to the end of his finances. And it gave me some personal satisfaction to take on a school that had failed to protect its students.

But now, in the face of substantial legal costs, I had talked some sense into Mr Spence. He would settle for a public apology and a sum for damages that would be more attractive to both parties than pursuing the matter in court. I was confident our offer would form the basis of a settlement and arranged to meet with the lawyers for the notoriously wealthy private school. The perpetrator, in the meantime, had died, and the school would doubtless deflect as much of the blame as possible onto him.

I had met a few times with Emily Burfoot, who represented the school, at a café located between our offices. But as I sat with my espresso, a short, overweight man in a very good suit walked up to my table, pulled back a chair and sat down.

‘Sorry, Emily’s on leave.’ He stuck his hand out and articulated his name as though it meant something.

‘Robert Smith.’ He shook my hand firmly and slowly and let the words sink in. They made no impression. He had to add, ‘We were at Te Paka Primary School for a year together. I don’t suppose you remember.’

‘Jesus. Smithy.’

He laughed, dryly. ‘No one’s called me that since 1963. And I’m not giving you permission to start again now. It’s Robert to you.’ He grinned. ‘Or Wobert.’

I had the sense of a memory beginning its long journey towards my consciousness, heralded by a vague sense of uneasiness. Since the dinner in Wellington, I had reached an accommodation with the indisputable evidence that Fat Susan could have played no role in the events of 1963. Maddie had said that she didn’t remember the boys; similarly I found I could recall just three or four of the girls, and those only because they had continued to intermediate school with me. Susan had stood out because of her weight and matching moniker. My mind had apparently attached an image of her to whichever unmemorable girl had actually done the deed. There was only one person likely to be able to recall her name now, and he was sitting opposite me.

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