Wild Orchids: Chapter 18
by Denise Main and Ian Chisholm
Previous episodes
At last, the time had come. On pension days, George withdrew just enough on which to survive. This was crucial to his plan to repay every cent of the money he stole from his brother. He estimated that it would take him all of five years. That day he would withdraw his very first payment and deliver it himself. He momentarily paused outside the bank, hoping his appearance wouldn’t make the teller suspicious. After all, five thousand dollars was a large sum of money. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and with all the confidence he could gather, strode in and joined the queue.
‘Good morning, sir. How can I help?’ the smiling female teller chanted. George smiled. Here was someone else who had courteously addressed him as ‘sir’. In his best modulated voice, he responded,
‘Good morning to you miss and for this time of the year, it most certainly is, in every way. I wish to withdraw from my account the sum of five thousand dollars.’
‘Very well sir. If you will just swipe your card there, please,’ she prompted, pointing. ‘How do you want that?’ George couldn’t resist a moment of levity.
‘Could I have that in small change, please?’ he requested, then burst into a broad grin. Fortunately, the teller shared in his levity.
‘Seriously, could you make it in hundreds please?’
She deftly flicked out the required amount, placed into an envelope with a receipt and account balance.
‘George thanked her, took the envelope and checked the balance. He was confident the repayment plan could be achieved within the five years.
With a deep sigh of relief that things were at last going in the right direction, he strode onto the street and to the bus stop, for the bus to Merton Metro Station. There he boarded the train to Flinders Street Station and then to Clayton, his destination. It was the first time since he and Archie had fled in desperation that he had returned to the city. He was on a mission, not a social visit.
Flinders Street station was crowded. George jostled his way to the Pakenham line platform, Leaving the Clayton Station, grimly, he turned south into Clayton Road. Clutching the bulky envelope deep in his greatcoat pocket, he walked briskly along the familiar shopping strip. It sparked memories of a past life. He had to subdue disturbing feelings that stirred low in his gut, where just a short walk away, his life had changed forever. He still bore the shame of it, like a sack of regret. Consequently, he did not want to see Rohan face to face.
Rohan had always been punctual. His brother was as regular as a metronome beat; at lunchtime, he left the office at one o’clock sharp and headed to his favourite café.
While waiting for Rohan to emerge, George stood on the opposite side of the busy road and hid behind a parked car.
Right on the predicted time, his brother, slightly stooped and leaning on a walking stick, slowly stepped out onto the street.
‘God almighty,’ he muttered, ‘how he’s aged.’ His brother, once tall and straight backed, was now a thin, grey haired, shuffling old man, wearing a grey suit that had seen better days.
A wave of guilt washed over George. What a horrible thing I did to my own flesh and blood because of my selfish, desperate actions, George thought. Perhaps he’s still struggling financially, still paying the price for my unforgivable actions.
George watched as Rohan disappeared into the Food Zone Café. Now it was safe. Briskly he crossed the road, entered the foyer, climbed the stairs to the first level, and walked quietly to the glass door displaying in gold letters, Rohan Greenway and Partner, Insurance Brokers. He pushed the door open, took a deep breath as another flood of shame and guilt shuddered through his body.
The young receptionist, closely examining her bright red fingernails, phone to her ear, deep in animated conversation, looked up. George breathed a sigh of relief; he didn’t recognize her. He spoke quickly, not looking directly at her,
‘This is for Mr Greenway. Would you see that he gets it?’ Holding her hand over the mouthpiece, she asked,
‘Whom shall I say it’s from?’ Without answering, George turned and ghosted back down the passage. He had safely achieved his objective.
With stomach rumbling, he hurried to the once familiar lunch bar on the other side of the railway line, for a quick bite, mindful that he needed to be back in Fingal Sound before sundown He didn’t want to explain to Archie where he had been all day, nor why. That was his business and his to keep to himself.
Without a glance at his secretary, Rohan returned to his office and, with a deep sigh, sank wearily into his chair. He picked up the large plain white envelope on the desk, noting it was not addressed.
‘Isabelle, who left this envelope?’ he called to his receptionist, still with the phone to her ear.
‘He didn’t leave his name. Just said, “This is for Mr Greenway. Would you see that he gets it?” I was on the phone and when I looked up, he was gone.’
Rohan was both curious and suspicious. His business had suffered badly since the huge blow George had delivered four years earlier. It had been tough just to keep going after so many clients had cancelled their business. He was grateful that the loyal clients had stuck by him
He cautiously fingered the envelope, turned it over, examined it end to end, shook it and even sniffed it. Satisfied, he lifted the flap and, mouth agape, saw that it was packed with bank notes. As he removed them, a strip of note paper fell silently onto the desk. Picking up and adjusting his glasses, in a whispered voice, he read its scribbled message ‘Progress payment of debt. G.’ He counted the notes. Fifty crisp, new one hundred-dollar notes. He softly said the letter ‘G’ and then called for his receptionist.
‘Isabelle, could you describe the man who left this large envelope and no name?’
‘He was gone before I could ask his name. A bit spooky if you ask me Mr Greenway. But I did manage to get a quick look at him. He was tall, wore an old army greatcoat, had a thick grey beard and straggly long hair. He certainly looked down and out. Sorry, that’s all I could describe. But he spoke in a well-educated voice, quite a surprise given his appearance and the rather musty odour he left behind.’
‘Thanks, Isabelle. That’s a great help. I think I know who it could be.’ Rohan released another sigh, leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, deep in thought. Tears ran down his pale, lined cheeks.
