Page 160 of Atlas: The Story of Pa Salt

‘Of course, mate, just follow the main road out of town for about a mile. You can’t miss it, unless you decide to have a walkabout in the bush!’

I followed the man’s instructions. My trek up the road took me the best part of an hour in the punishing heat, and I was grateful to finally see what I was surprised to find was a relatively modest construction. The Broome house was a far cry from Alicia Hall. The house’s wooden frontage was old and worn, and the beams which held up the awning looked like they might snap at any moment. Next to the house was a small tin-roofed bungalow. Given the choice, I’m honestly not sure which I would have chosen to inhabit.

The place was silent, and I didn’t hold out much hope for the presence of any occupants. Nonetheless, I’d come this far, and went to knock on the door. As I climbed the creaking steps up to the porch, I noticed that the front door was ajar. I pushed it open ever so slightly.

‘Hello? Is anybody at home? Hello?’ The house remained silent. ‘Sarah? Are you in, Sarah? Francis?’ I took a step inside.

I made my way through the hallway and called up thestairs but received no response, so I resigned myself to returning to town. As I walked back to the front door, I glanced into the messy kitchen. The tap was dripping into the sink, so I went to tighten it. As I did so, I noticed a half-drunk cup of coffee on the kitchen table with a small amount of mould growing on top. This piqued my curiosity, and I opened the fridge. Sure enough, there was a pint of off milk, along with some stale bread and cheese.

Someone had been here recently. Judging by the state of the perishables, perhaps only a few days ago. With renewed hope, I made my way back into Broome and entered the first bar I came across to quiz the locals.

Luggers was dark and gloomy, but acted as a retreat from the soaring temperature outside. I took a seat on the decrepit bar stool and ordered an orange juice. Once I had built up enough courage, I asked the barman if he knew Sarah or Francis Abraham.

He momentarily stopped polishing glasses to think. ‘Those names don’t ring any bells, mate. Sorry.’

I sighed. ‘No problem. They own the old house just out of town. I thought they may have been here recently.’

A man at the other end of the bar, who was nursing a tall, frothy beer, spoke up. ‘What, you mean the old Mercer place?’

I turned to face him. ‘Yes, that’s exactly right.’

The man scratched his chin. ‘Hmm. Strange. There was someone at the house recently. But not the couple you’ve just described.’

I left my stool and moved closer to him. ‘May I ask who it was?’

He frowned. ‘A young girl. She was up the duff, actually.’

‘She was pregnant?’

‘That’s right, mate, looked like she was about to pop.’ He sniffed and took a swig of his beer. ‘My wife runs the grocerystore over the road. She dropped a few bits and pieces round for her a while back.’

‘That’s very helpful, thank you.’

The man shrugged and returned his attention to his drink. Who had been in Kitty’s old home? I would have been inclined to think it was a criminal, but everything looked to be in relative order. Plus, I didn’t know too many pregnant thieves who ordered groceries and made themselves coffee. Could it be...

I downed my orange juice and walked out of the bar, the bright sun stinging my eyes. I returned to the visitor information centre, and asked for directions to the nearest hospital. It was a very long shot, but I hoped that the individual I’d just missed at the house had stopped drinking her cup of coffee because she had gone into labour.

I must note, reader, that barrelling into Broome Hospital to ask about a stranger I had never met was one of the more bizarre things I have done in my life. Within fifteen minutes, I had reached a building that looked small and pedestrian. Nonetheless, when I stepped inside, I was pleased to learn that it was indistinguishable from any medical centre in Geneva.

I hurried over to the receptionist. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but I’m looking for a woman who’s recently had a baby. Or maybe even ishavinga baby as we speak.’

She chuckled. ‘You’ll need to be a bit more specific than that, mate! What name?’

I paused for a moment. ‘Elizabeth.’

‘Elizabeth who?’

‘Umm,’ I put my head in my hands. ‘Mercer. No,Abraham, I think. Wait, sorry, she got married, didn’t she? I apologise, I don’t know the surname.’

The woman looked at me like I was mad. ‘Are you family,sir? We don’t let just anyone in. Particularly people who aren’t even sure of the patient’s name...’

‘No, of course not, I perfectly understand. I won’t ask to come in. I just wondered if you might be able to tell me if anyone by the name of Elizabeth has given birth here recently.’

The receptionist looked reticent to provide me with any details. ‘I really shouldn’t be doing that.’

‘I appreciate that. I’m only asking because she’s the daughter of a friend of mine, and hasn’t been seen in quite a while. I’d just like to make sure she’s all right. Once I’ve done that, I’ll leave, I promise.’

She eyed me up and down. ‘Fair enough, mate. Take a seat, I’ll give maternity a ring.’