killed. You know — Kylie was twelve and starting to get into teenage things and Beth was really still only a little girl at ten.”
“You’ve got no doubt at all that Kylie’s dead?”
“No, none. Frank — that’s my husband — still thinks she ran away with someone, that she’s become one of those homeless kids roaming the Cross. We talk about that in the group, too. It’s amazing how many of the fathers refuse to admit their kids are dead.”
I was startled. “Why would he think that? Had she ever threatened to run away?”
“No, not really — just in arguments, you know. If we wouldn’t let her go to a party or something like that.” She sighed. “She was a bit precocious, Kylie. I used to think she’d be a real handful later on.”
I tried to remember the newspaper photos at the time. The same picture had been used in most of the reports — a little girl in school gingham with her hair scraped back into plaits. I asked Carol Johnson if she had any other photos of Kylie.
“Yes, lots,” she said. “I keep them in a drawer because Frank can’t bear to look at them.”
She got off the table and went to a grey filing cabinet under the window. She came back with a couple of bulging folders.
“These were mostly taken when she was about eleven or twelve she said, pushing papers around the desk to make room.
I stared. Kylie had been nothing like her little dark sparrow of a mother. She was large-boned and blonde, with already noticeable small breasts and a pouting, sensual face. In some of the pictures she’d taken deliberate cheesecake poses, clearly modelled on page three of the Mirror . There were also a few more natural shots of her playing with a dog, and one of her sitting on the railing of the football field with Beth Channing. In these she appeared more like a normal twelve-year-old. In the others she simply looked like what Clyde had called jail bait.
“She must have taken after her father,” I said lamely. I was starting to think that perhaps Frank Johnson had good reason for what he thought had become of his daughter.
“Yes,” she said, packing the photos away again. “In more ways than one.” She gave a tolerant smile.
I waited. I was interested in her background — I liked her and I hoped she would tell me a bit about her life. “You’re different?” I said.
“It was attraction of opposites, I suppose,” she said. “I’d been educated by the nuns. My parents were migrants from Poland — they both worked at rotten jobs all through our childhood so we could have a better life than theirs. We were taught that hard work got you somewhere.”
“Which nuns?” I asked with interest.
“Mercy,” she said and we both laughed. The Sisters of Mercy were one of my first examples of the meaning of the word oxymoron. It explained a lot about Carol Johnson — you had to be resilient to survive that.
“I’d nearly finished training as a nurse when I met Frank,” she said. “He was a shearer then. We had to get married, of course. Then he got a job at the mobile home factory in Liverpool — we lived with my parents for the first couple of years.” She laughed. “I’d never met such an easy-going, lazy, ‘she’ll be right’ sort of person. I found it very attractive.”
“And now he runs his own business?” I said.
“Yes. He’s changed since we lost Kylie. I can’t have any more children, you see,” she said simply. “So when Rex offered him the chance, he jumped at it.”
“Rex? Rex Channing?” Talk about ubiquitous, I thought.
“Yes. You’re working for him, didn’t you say?”
“Yes — but how is he involved with your husband’s business?”
“He can be a kind man, Rex,” she said and I gaped at her. “Oh, I know a lot of people think he’s hard, but he was terrific to us after Kylie disappeared. He organised private search parties after the police had given up, and when it was clear she’d never be found, it was his suggestion that we
“You’ve got no doubt at all that Kylie’s dead?”
“No, none. Frank — that’s my husband — still thinks she ran away with someone, that she’s become one of those homeless kids roaming the Cross. We talk about that in the group, too. It’s amazing how many of the fathers refuse to admit their kids are dead.”
I was startled. “Why would he think that? Had she ever threatened to run away?”
“No, not really — just in arguments, you know. If we wouldn’t let her go to a party or something like that.” She sighed. “She was a bit precocious, Kylie. I used to think she’d be a real handful later on.”
I tried to remember the newspaper photos at the time. The same picture had been used in most of the reports — a little girl in school gingham with her hair scraped back into plaits. I asked Carol Johnson if she had any other photos of Kylie.
“Yes, lots,” she said. “I keep them in a drawer because Frank can’t bear to look at them.”
She got off the table and went to a grey filing cabinet under the window. She came back with a couple of bulging folders.
“These were mostly taken when she was about eleven or twelve she said, pushing papers around the desk to make room.
I stared. Kylie had been nothing like her little dark sparrow of a mother. She was large-boned and blonde, with already noticeable small breasts and a pouting, sensual face. In some of the pictures she’d taken deliberate cheesecake poses, clearly modelled on page three of the Mirror . There were also a few more natural shots of her playing with a dog, and one of her sitting on the railing of the football field with Beth Channing. In these she appeared more like a normal twelve-year-old. In the others she simply looked like what Clyde had called jail bait.
“She must have taken after her father,” I said lamely. I was starting to think that perhaps Frank Johnson had good reason for what he thought had become of his daughter.
“Yes,” she said, packing the photos away again. “In more ways than one.” She gave a tolerant smile.
I waited. I was interested in her background — I liked her and I hoped she would tell me a bit about her life. “You’re different?” I said.
“It was attraction of opposites, I suppose,” she said. “I’d been educated by the nuns. My parents were migrants from Poland — they both worked at rotten jobs all through our childhood so we could have a better life than theirs. We were taught that hard work got you somewhere.”
“Which nuns?” I asked with interest.
“Mercy,” she said and we both laughed. The Sisters of Mercy were one of my first examples of the meaning of the word oxymoron. It explained a lot about Carol Johnson — you had to be resilient to survive that.
“I’d nearly finished training as a nurse when I met Frank,” she said. “He was a shearer then. We had to get married, of course. Then he got a job at the mobile home factory in Liverpool — we lived with my parents for the first couple of years.” She laughed. “I’d never met such an easy-going, lazy, ‘she’ll be right’ sort of person. I found it very attractive.”
“And now he runs his own business?” I said.
“Yes. He’s changed since we lost Kylie. I can’t have any more children, you see,” she said simply. “So when Rex offered him the chance, he jumped at it.”
“Rex? Rex Channing?” Talk about ubiquitous, I thought.
“Yes. You’re working for him, didn’t you say?”
“Yes — but how is he involved with your husband’s business?”
“He can be a kind man, Rex,” she said and I gaped at her. “Oh, I know a lot of people think he’s hard, but he was terrific to us after Kylie disappeared. He organised private search parties after the police had given up, and when it was clear she’d never be found, it was his suggestion that we
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