Searching for Sofia, page 5
Chapter 4
The following week, Jack rarely left the house. Margaret had returned to work, although she promised him that the following weekend, they would continue their search. In the meantime, she said that she would make some phone calls and hoped that perhaps he might remember something that could help their search.
On Wednesday, Marian surprised Jack by bringing a letter to him that had been delivered with the morning mail.
Jack turned it over, mystified, then carefully slit it open. The message typed on the single page was brief.
Dear Mr Tomlinson,
Could you please make an appointment with Mr Stevens at the Melbourne Branch of the Commonwealth Bank at your earliest convenience? There is a matter that he would like to discuss with you.
Yours faithfully,
J Simpson.
Branch Secretary
Jack was startled. Why on earth would the bank manager be contacting him?
Rather than speculate on the purpose of the request, Jack decided that he would visit the branch immediately and thankfully, was shown into the bank manager’s office, immediately.
‘Mr Tomlinson, thank you for coming in. How are you?’ The manager’s eyes searched his face.
Jack was slowly becoming used to this, the way people looked at him differently. His parents’ friends, the workmates who’d visited to see how he was going. It was as though their eyes pierced into him, searching beyond his skin, with its grey tinge and heavy lines, in an attempt to see into his mind; to try and fathom the thoughts that must accompany one whose life had been so beset with tragedy.
Did the manager know about the death of Scotty? Surely he couldn’t have heard that Sofia was missing?
‘Thank you for coming in today. I just wanted to have a chat. Something has been on my mind and I preferred to speak with you face-to-face. It may be nothing—I may well be barking up the wrong tree—but I knew that I couldn’t let it rest until I spoke with you.’
Jack was mystified.
‘You see, your wife, Sofia, you know that she came in last week. She withdrew a large sum of money. Not that that’s a worry. It’s hers to withdraw. It was how she looked that concerned me.’
What! Sofia was here? Last week?
‘How was she...? Where is she?’ Jack asked, tripping over his words, his mind racing.
‘I couldn’t say. So, you are telling me you have not seen Sofia? Not that it is any of my business, of course.’
Jack returned the man’s gaze and shook his head.
‘Okay...’ The manager looked thoughtful. ‘Let me tell you what happened. It would have been about Wednesday, and she arrived quite early in the day. She looked unwell, tired. No, more than that. Beyond tired—exhausted. Upset. My teller thought that perhaps she must have been ill. She asked to withdraw one hundred pounds, an enormous sum of money—which, again, is of no consequence. But it seemed unusual.’
Again, Jack nodded.
‘She just seemed so... distressed. I have not stopped thinking about her and I wanted to check with you, in case something is amiss.’
‘Did she tell you where she was living?’ Jack asked, ignoring the flicker of surprise across the bank manager’s face.
‘No, Jack. Where she was living did not come up, but I did ask her for a contact phone number. Would you like it?’
The manager passed a slip of paper to him with the digits 8-4-2-8 written on it. ‘All the best, Jack,’ he said as he shook Jack’s hand and patted his shoulder. ‘I am sure whatever the problem is will sort itself out. Life usually does.’
Stepping through the glass plate doors and onto the street, clutching the tiny slip of paper with four numbers, Jack did not know whether to laugh or cry. At last, he had a contact for Sofia!
* * *
Dazed, Jack walked to the post office and stood in line outside the row of phone booths, nervously jingling two ha’pennies in his hand. Every booth was taken, and it was hard to resist the urge to tap on their windows, ask them to hurry. Didn’t they realise he had an urgent call to make?
He re-read the number on the slip of paper for the umpteenth time. It meant nothing to him.
Finally, it was his turn. With fingers trembling, Jack juggled the handset, placed the coins in the slot and dialled.
‘Good morning, sir. How can I help you?’ The voice was curt and sounded loud, as if the woman speaking was very close.
‘Hello. Hello—I am looking for my wife. For Sofia. Can I speak with her?’ Jack tried to control the quaver in his voice.
‘Sorry, sir. There is no one by that name here.’
‘What do you mean? Sofia gave this number to our bank manager. She is there!’ Jack heard a shrillness enter his voice that sounded like it was coming from someone else.
‘Sir, just hold the line, please.’ The line went quiet.
Within minutes, a second voice came to the phone. ‘Hello. Can I help you?’ Not Sofia’s. This was an older voice. Friendly, but firm.
‘I am trying to find my wife. I think she may be staying with you.’
‘Can you tell me her name, please?’
‘Sofia. Sofia Tomlinson. She is Spanish. She gave our bank manager your telephone number.’
‘And who are you?’
The question seemed meaningless. What business was it to this lady who he was?
‘Jack! I am Jack Tomlinson. Her husband. I need to see her!’
‘Jack, I am sorry. That won’t be possible. Sofia is no longer with us.’
‘But where is she? Are you saying that she was there?’
‘I am sorry, sir. That is all that I can say. I am sure that she will contact you when she is ready. Good day, sir.’
Before Jack could speak, the steady hum of a dial tone droned in his ear. No! In disbelief, Jack rattled on the handset, hoping to retrieve the connection.
‘No. No... no... no....’ With each word, he pounded the handset against the bench top, oblivious to its splintering case and the shocked expressions of the onlookers waiting in line to use the telephone.
* * *
‘Sir, please step out.’
It was a policeman, one of the many who walked, baton in hand, attempting to maintain peace on the city’s streets.
Trembling, Jack opened the door.
‘You realise that you have just damaged public property—so now, you need to come with me, and we will have a little chat. Are you going to walk with me sensibly, or do I need to use these here handcuffs?’
Jack stared at the metal loops in the man’s hand, at the blue uniform adorned with brass buttons and badges. He could barely comprehend what was happening.
‘Come on, man. Make up your mind. Here.’ Jack felt the vice-like grip of a hand on his shoulder, propelling him around before thrusting him along the street. There was nothing for him to do but walk, and he matched the steady stride of the policeman, whose blank face gave nothing away.
Minutes later, they arrived at the Bourke Street Police Station, and following a murmured conversation, Jack was sat before a sergeant, a man built like a bull: his head huge, his cheeks heavy with reddened jowls, his nose bulbous, the whole arrangement perched on shoulders that looked to be a yard wide and utterly devoid of a neck.
* * *
‘So, sir. We might begin with you telling me your name.’
‘Jack... Jack Tomlinson.’
‘You look like you are in a bit of a state, Jack. What’s going on?’
‘I’m looking for my wife. Sofia.’
‘So, she’s missing, is she? And how long has she been gone?’
‘I don’t know. Weeks. We’ve looked everywhere.’
‘Have you reported her absence to the police?’
‘No!’
‘No... why on earth not? Had you been arguing?’
‘No—not at all.’
‘Was there a bit of rough stuff?’
Jack just looked at him, blankly. Surely the sergeant was joking.
‘You know. A slap here and there. Sometimes it happens.’
‘No... no, certainly not. I love my wife. She loves me.’
‘Well, Jack. Wives don’t just vanish for no reason.’
‘We had an accident. There was a fire. Our son....’
Tears flowed as Jack again tried to make sense of events and put his thoughts into words.
‘I am sorry, son. Sometimes life deals a rotten hand. Just catch your breath for a minute. I will make us a cup of tea. White? Sugar?’
Jack was thankful for the sergeant’s tact in leaving him alone to collect himself. In minutes he was back, a cup of tea in each hand, the yellowed mugs tilting precariously as he placed them on the desk. The sergeant’s keen eyes upon him were now softened with concern.
‘How about you tell me all about it? Let’s start at the beginning’
For what seemed like the dozenth time, Jack relayed the events of the past weeks, finding that although the story had gotten longer as the details of his and Margaret’s search the previous week were added, it had become no easier. He finished by describing today’s visit to the bank manager and the frustrating consequences of the phone call that he’d made.
‘You’ve got that phone number there?’
Jack gripped the slip of paper, now crumpled from where he’d been holding it in his fist. It was his only link to Sofia, and he was reluctant to let it go.
‘Come on. Let’s see what I can find out. I’ll give it back to you when we’ve finished.’ Lifting the handset on his desk, the sergeant reached to take the paper from Jack. He smoothed out its wrinkles before dialling the numbers before him.
Jack held his breath. He heard the ringing tone and the voice of a female answering the call.
‘Hello. This is Sergeant O’Neil from Bourke Street Station. Can you please tell me who I am speaking with?’ The barking tones of the sergeant foretold that he was someone used to getting the information he needed, without fuss. ‘Mary. Yes, well, good afternoon to you, Mary. Can you please tell me the name of the organisation with whom I am speaking?’
There was a pause, followed by murmuring from the other end of the line.
‘Mary, I know that you might not give that information out to anyone, but at this minute you are speaking to the police, and this is important. I don’t need to get a court order to get a few simple answers to a few simple questions, do I?
‘Okay... You do that.’
The sergeant rolled his eyes, and Jack suspected that Mary had passed the call on to her supervisor.
‘Hello, Mrs Blake—is that correct? I am Sergeant O’Neil, from Bourke Street Station. I am dealing with a missing person concern and I understand that you have had contact with the said missing person.
‘Okay. So, you are a women’s refuge. I guessed as much. And which one would that be?
‘Yes, I understand the importance of confidentiality. I know that you do a wonderful job caring for women in need. A very important job. Yes, it certainly is. However...’
‘Mrs Blake, I can assure you I am not acting on behalf on an abusive husband.
‘Sofia Tomlinson. Her husband is Jack Tomlinson. From the story he has just told me, I suspect that his wife could be ill.’
Jack watched the sergeant, trying to read his expressions as he spoke, raising his inky pen to jot down a note from time to time.
‘So, she just left, you say? And when would that have been? Five days ago... hmm... did she tell anyone where she was going?’
‘Spanish...? Okay.... Trauma? Yes, that would be right. The poor woman has suffered a great deal. Recently lost a young child. Well, if I need any more information, I will call you back on this number. And Mrs Blake...’ The sergeant’s voice adopted a commanding tone. ‘If you see Sofia Tomlinson again, I want you to phone Bourke Street Station pronto, and ask for Sergeant O’Neil. I need to know that she is safe and well. Do you understand? And you may like to encourage her to contact her husband. He is missing her terribly. The chap’s in a right mess. There is a lot more to this story than you might imagine.
‘Thank you and good day to you, too.’
Returning the handset, the sergeant looked at Jack, sympathy in his warm brown eyes.
‘Where is she?’ Jack asked.
‘Unfortunately, I still don’t have the answer to that question. It appears that Sofia stayed at one of the women’s refuges here in Melbourne. She was found in a bit of a state a couple of weeks ago and was picked up by a concerned citizen, who took her there.’
‘A woman’s refuge! Where?’
‘I don’t think that’s important at this minute, Jack. They like to keep that information to themselves, and by law, that is their right. Mind you, if I need to, I will have that answer in an hour. There are not too many refuges in Melbourne. But they are not breaking any laws, and they offer a much-needed service. Some women have dreadful lives. They need to escape their husbands. The sad thing is that most can’t, the poor things—so good on the ones that do! However, the refuges can’t have abusive husbands hollering on their doorstep, making threats and creating a ruckus at all hours of the day and night, can they now?’
‘I wouldn’t do that!
‘From where I’m sitting, I’ve learned that none of us really knows what we’d do when things fall apart. Look at you, for instance. Did you imagine that you would bash a telephone to pieces and be arrested for damaging public property when you got out of bed this morning?’
‘Am I being arrested?’
‘No, Jack. I think we can dispense with that particular concern at present. Seems like you have enough problems without adding any more. Mind you, if you go around vandalising the city again, I will be forced to lock you up, so you better think carefully about how you handle this.’
Jack nodded dubiously. Looking at the sergeant, who had discovered more about Sofia in five minutes than he had in days of searching, it was as though he was looking at the world through a grey mist; and very little of it made sense.
‘So, what did she say?’ he asked.
The sergeant referred to the notes before him. ‘Apparently Sofia was found sitting on the stairs of the Melbourne Town Hall in the wee hours of the morning a couple of weeks ago. A Friday night, or I should say Saturday morning, it was.’
He leaned back in his chair to check the calendar hanging on the wall beside his desk. ‘Possibly the fourteenth of May. Apparently, she was huddled on the stairs—frozen, and muttering in Spanish... Is Sofia Spanish?’
Jack nodded, not wishing to interrupt the story.
‘Whoever found her took her to the refuge, which is a good thing. She would have been safe there. They look after each other, that’s for sure. Much safer than if she were wandering the city streets. Anything could have happened to her... doesn’t bear thinking about. The thing is, the whole time Sofia was at the refuge, she barely spoke. Some women do not speak of their problems for weeks; others, it all comes out in the first five minutes. But when Sofia arrived, she didn’t even answer the most basic of questions, and then when she did start speaking, they couldn’t understand her for she was speaking in a foreign tongue. They were sure that something terrible had happened, but couldn’t make sense of it. And for all of their support, the women who run the refuges don’t pry. They just offer warmth and safety. They understand that the women who come to them need rest—not just physically, but mentally, too. Women who escape their husbands have usually been through a lot. That’s not to say it’s always the husband’s fault, mind you. Marriage can be complicated.’
‘So, what happened?’
‘They felt that she was getting better. She started to help around the place, talk a little. She began speaking some English words. They say it’s a good sign when the women show some interest in life. You know, get out of bed, get dressed. Sofia even went out a couple of times. To the bank, I’m guessing, from what you’ve just told me. And then last week, she just vanished, and they haven’t seen her since. She left a ten-pound note on her bed—they were stunned. Didn’t think she had any money at all, and they found that! She didn’t say where she was going... didn’t even say that she was going at all, for that matter, but they seemed to think she might have been planning to return to Spain. They found a couple of flyers in the bin. You know the sort of thing—shipping timetables, etc.’
Jack felt the colour drain from his face. Surely not!
‘Mate, are you alright? I know this is all a shock, and after all you’ve been through, it must be terrible. I’m thinking... how about you file Sofia as a missing person? Then I can make a few things happen behind the scenes.’
‘I don’t know... She doesn’t seem to want to see me.’
‘Look. You’ve both been to hell and back in these last couple of months. Neither of you is thinking straight. You’ve disconnected from each other. Sometimes tragedies will have that effect on a marriage. But for now, we just want to know where Sofia is and to be sure she is safe. You’d like to know that, wouldn’t you?’
Jack nodded. Of course he wanted to know that Sofia was safe. His dear wife, lost somewhere out on the streets of Melbourne—staying at a refuge! Heavens, how had their lives come to this?
Jack stopped the thought there. He knew how it had come to this. Visions of flames licking up the walls of the cabin, the smell of smoke and the flash of incredulous, dark, accusing eyes seared his conscience.
Woodenly, Jack answered the sergeant’s questions, watching the movement of the older man’s hands wielding his nib as he scratched the details of Jack’s sentences onto an official looking form. Jack was reminded of a similar experience, when he’d answered the probing questions of police officers following Scotty’s death, and it took all his self-control to respond. Just like then, the information that Jack had to offer was scant. It seemed unbelievable that the narrative of the disintegration of his life with Sofia could be reduced to a few paragraphs on a Missing Person’s Report
‘Okay, Jack. That will do me for now. How about I run you home? You don’t look in any state to be riding the trains today.’
‘I’ll be alright,’ Jack said.
‘No, Jack. It’s on my way home. I insist. Come along, or I might decide to arrest you after all.’
