Free The Washington Club by Peter Corris Page B

was obvious that they’d let the practice dwindle in recent years and my mother had virtually retired. At first I suspected that Dad had stopped charging his patients or something. It wouldn’t have surprised me. But it was more than that. He’d virtually had a nervous breakdown. I found some of the medical stuff. All hidden from me, of course. He was taking lots of pills to keep going, so was she. It was as if something had knocked the stuffing out of them. There were barbiturates and other things in Dad’s bloodstream when he died. I found that out later. The coroner more or less hushed that up. I thought it was a professional courtesy. The doctor who did the autopsy didn’t make much of it.’
    â€˜That happens,’ I said.
    â€˜I know. But my father wouldn’t have driven a car with his beloved wife beside him in a drugged state unless he was almost out of his mind over something. He just wouldn’t.’
    â€˜I can see how distressing all this must have been. But what’s the connection to Fleischman?’
    â€˜My father had kept a journal. It was this thick but tiny book and the writing was
minute.
The entries were in Yiddish and I’m areal Yiddish dunce. I picked up some along the way from my parents who spoke it sometimes and left notes for each other in it, but I can’t really read it. I just flicked through the notebook. I suppose I was thinking that I’d get someone to translate it for me some day. But as I did that I began to understand a few words and phrases about Julius. I dug out a dictionary and learned the words for “enemy” and “liar” and “demon” and that’s what my lovely, kind, humanity-loving Dad was calling Julius. I also knew the words for “afraid” and “daughter”. Dad wrote, “This demon will never have her, never.” Something like that.’
    Her hands holding the coffee mug started to shake. She’d lost colour in her face. Her mouth went almost white. I moved forward, took the mug from her and raised it to her lips, cradling the back of her head with my other hand. The tousled hair looked hard and brittle but was actually soft and almost fluffy. Another contradiction. I held the mug to her lips and tilted her head.
    â€˜I believe you,’ I said. ‘I want to hear it all. Drink a bit of this, you’ll feel better.’
    She sipped the spiked coffee and some colour came back into her lips and cheeks. When she spoke the words tumbled out.
    â€˜As I say, the journal was hard to follow but I matched it up with the financial and medical records and the change in my parents’ behaviour and health and everything dated from very soon after they met Julius. Verysoon! I was freaked. Really crazy. This was right when the baby-having stuff was going on. Julius could tell something was wrong. I got sick. I was vomiting all over the place. I was afraid of him and I told him I thought I was pregnant. He was kind again for a day or so. Then I got really sick. A doctor came and I was out of it for a few days. I’d put Dad’s journal in a filing cabinet I had in my study in the Vaucluse house. I’d locked it in. But when I recovered from this bout of whatever it was, the journal was gone. Julius told me that he’d put an accountant onto the job of sorting out my parents’ affairs.’
    I took her hands and we moved across to a two-seater couch. I fetched the drinks and we rearranged ourselves. She was leaning against me now, her head on my shoulder, rubbing against it slowly as if the movement comforted her. Despite all the distress she was documenting, or maybe partly because of it, I was becoming aroused again. I moved to keep the evidence from her. Her kimono opened and I could see her breasts, white, full and firm, nestling inside the black fabric. I stared at the ceiling rose.
    â€˜Go on, Claudia. I’m listening.’
    She sucked in a deep breath