Strange Sally Diamond

The Rotorua Daily Post did a fundraiser for me. The people of Rotorua were exceptionally generous. I allowed Jill Nicholas, the local reporter, to interview me. The social worker told me that while technically I was old enough to live on my own, she strongly recommended that I stay with friends for a while. I refused the offer, insisting that I had been living independently for years, that I cooked and shopped and earned my own money with my vegetables. She was surprised that I hadn’t been to school, and that I wasn’t registered with a local doctor. She arranged for a solicitor to telephone me in the hospital to discuss my dad’s estate. When I was well enough, I could visit him in his office, but in the meantime, the generous donations from Rotorua’s finest would keep me going. I could buy a replacement car, which was what I needed most urgently.

Ten days after the accident, I was discharged on two crutches with a recommendation to rest as much as possible. A district nurse would visit every day at 11 a.m. The social worker drove me back home from the hospital, stopping off to pick up groceries on the way.

She took a tour of the house, satisfied that there were no steps. Everything was conveniently laid out. She had no interest in investigating the barn, but she did take a walk around my vegetable plot. She asked me again if there was anybody I wanted to call. I asked for her help to install a phone and she registered surprise and dismay that we didn’t already have one. She said that she would look into it ‘as a matter of urgency’. She reluctantly left me on my own. The nurse would be there in the morning. The social worker patted me on the arm and told me I was a brave boy. I glowed under her touch.

I had missed Lindy, but I knew she had access to water. Her food might have run out but I was home now. She’d be okay. And she’d never have to face my dad again. He was the reason she wanted to leave. It was just going to be the two of us. She would be happy to stay with me.

As soon as the social worker was gone, I took the key off the latch on the back door and stumbled my way out to the barn, dangling the bag of groceries off one crutch.

43 Sally

I moved into the cottage the following week, the last week of September. All of the structural work was done. I had a working bathroom and kitchen, but no carpets or curtains. The walls were plastered but not painted. The patio area wasn’t finished, and the floor tiles in the hallway had yet to be laid. Most of the furniture hadn’t been delivered, but I hung sheets for curtains and took the old sofa and the kitchen table and chairs from the house. None of my friends had wanted them anyway. I bought some cheap rugs to scatter on the floor as a temporary fix.

Nadine introduced me to all the tradesmen and women who were coming to finish their various jobs. It was uncomfortable with people coming and going at all times of the day. I spent as much time as possible out and about.

I missed my piano dreadfully, but I couldn’t install it in the cottage while the builders were still working because of the dust, so for one whole week, I went to stay with Aunt Christine in Dublin and played hers every day.

She was shocked to hear all about Mark Butler/Norton. But she had a vague recollection of Mum telling her that Denise had a brother. ‘Jean was much more in touch with Denise’s family than Tom was. I recall her saying something about the brother being too old, that Denise wouldn’t have recognized him as the four-year-old she had last seen.’

Why had Dad thrown out Mum’s files? Aunt Christine sighed. ‘Your dad wasn’t perfect, Sally.’ I was beginning to understand this. I was always stubborn as a teenager, but Mum often forced me to do things I didn’t want to do. Now, after nearly two years of therapy, I could appreciate that Mum had been trying to integrate me, encouraging me to join clubs and go to school discos and parties. Dad overruled her and allowed me to do what I wanted, taking notes all the time. I recalled overhearing a row once and my mother shouting at my father, ‘She’s not your case study, she’s our daughter.’

In the meantime, Tina and I worked specifically on anger management. When I told her about the overwhelming rage I’d felt towards Caroline, she helped me to see that I was taking on anger that I had learned from my birth mother. Through her files, especially from those tapes, and possibly from repressed memories.