AT 29 (112 page)

“What does a trunk have to do with your story?”

“My grandfather was a sea captain. On a whaler to be specific.” They came into the yard between the cottage and the barn. “We found a trunk with a treasure trove inside.” He pulled open one of the rickety barn doors. Jimmy opened the other door and sunlight flooded in, revealing a vintage red pickup truck. It was rusted everywhere from hood to fenders. The old tube tires were flat, the rubber sidewalls cracked and split. Dirt, grass and tree limbs filled the cab through broken windows. The bed was similarly filled with debris. Nigel stood in front of the vehicle, letting Jimmy take it in.

“Not much to look at. Next week, I'm having it taken for restoration. By the time I come back from America it will be like new. Not customized, either. I want it to look exactly the way it did when my father drove it.” Jimmy circled the vehicle, surveying the wreck. He came back to Whitehurst's side.

“How did you find it?”

“Illa. He watched my father hide it just before he died.”

“Your father? Then you know who he is?”

“Yes, A tragic story, his life. Now I understand why he left me at the orphanage. Look in the back.”

Jimmy went to the rear and peered into the bed. A trunk, as dirty as the truck, rested in a position beside the hump of a rusted wheel well. “Your grandfather's sea chest?”

“That's right, mate. I'm having it restored along with the truck. It won't take much, just a good cleaning. Like I said, made to last.” He went over to the cab and ran his fingers along the rusted driver's side door. He turned to stare at Jimmy who had his head down, examining the trunk. “My grandfather's name was Nathan.” He continued to stare until Jimmy looked up. “Does that mean anything to you?”

Jimmy registered the query. It made him uncomfortable. “Should it?”

Nigel's face relaxed. “Something Illa said. I just thought I would ask.” He came to the rear beside Jimmy, reached in and lifted out the trunk. He carried it outside and placed it carefully in the back of the Range Rover. Jimmy followed. “I wanted you to see it in the back of the pickup where it's been for over twenty-five years in the bush. Now that you have I'll take it back to Airey's Inlet.”

Jimmy's curiosity kicked in. “What was inside?”

“Women's things mostly, some linen table cloths, clothes and shoes. There were some small musical instruments. They were handmade from wood and bone, flutes of different sizes and shapes He was a whaler, like I said. His wife was named Melba, my grandmother. The woman's things belonged to her. She left them behind in this trunk when she went back to America.”

“An American? She didn't stay with your grandfather?”

“He disappeared at sea.”

“The Aborigine told you?”

“Illa had some things to say, but she left something else in the trunk, much more important. It's in a safe deposit box in Melbourne.” The stare returned. Jimmy became uncomfortable again.

“Tell me.”

Reina moved in from her perch against the fender. She came to Jimmy's side and hooked her arm in his. “I never had a chance to thank you for bringing us back together.” She gave Nigel a look. “He fancies himself a detective on the verge of solving a mystery. He thinks he knows something.”

“Knows what, exactly?”

“Illa will be here soon. You'll see what I mean.”

Nigel spoke up. “In an oil cloth, music and a long story handwritten for my father.”

Jimmy nodded, unable to hold Nigel's intense gaze. He turned to Reina. “I took a chance. I wasn't sure how you would react to a stranger approaching you at the door of the opera house.”

“I couldn't react.” She reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a piece of paper. “You gave this to me and walked away.” Jimmy recognized the slip of paper with Geelong Hospital written on it.

“Over there.” Nigel went around the truck to the foot of the porch steps and pointed to the ground around the foundation of the cottage. “My mother planted flowers in the spring. It's a vague memory, but I'm convinced that I remember. All the colors of the rainbow.” He bent down and took a handful of dirt, playing with it in his palm for a
moment. Then he spread his fingers, smiled and watched it sprinkle to the ground. “Let's go inside.”

Reina went ahead and clutched Nigel's hand. As they climbed the steps her smile disappeared. The front room was dingy with dust and dirt piled in the corners. A faded rug, stained and slightly off center, covered the middle of the wide board floor. The planks were dull like the exterior clapboards, but it was clear that beneath the years of neglect, a lacquered finish once shined. The walls were bare and yellowed with age. Cobwebs hung in the corners. A wooden chair that must have belonged with a table was positioned near the door that led to a tiny kitchen. Nigel came to Jimmy's side. Reina still clutched her husband's hand.

“This is where I spent the first three years of my life. I lived here with my mother and father, until he took me to Melbourne. When Illa brought me here, I recognized something familiar right away.” He walked across the room to a table Jimmy noticed for the first time. Sets of drawings were spread out on top. Nigel picked up one of the large sheets. “I met a kid in rehab, fresh out of architecture school. I'm still debating what to do with the place, but these are his ideas for a house. I'm leaning toward building it out there where the cabins sit.”

“So, this is where you will live.”

“Yes, it feels like the right place for Reina and me.”

Jimmy looked around the room. “What will you do with this cottage and the barn? Will you restore them like the truck?”

“Shortly before he took me to Saint Malachy's, my father sold this farm to the family that built those cabins across the fields. When I tell you what happened in this room you might understand why it was allowed to go to rot.”

Reina spoke. “The police report describes the way his mother was found. She was on the floor beaten to death, on that rug.” She pointed. “Nigel was in there.” She nodded at a closed door leading to another room.

Nigel took over. “My father's name was Aaron. The police arrested him and he was held for three days before anyone believed his story. They took me from him. He threatened to kill anyone if I was harmed. The town doctor intervened and took care of me until he was released. My mother's grave is out there in the field a short distance from the ones I showed you earlier. We continued to live here for a few months after she was killed. Then he took me to Sister Marie.”

“What happened?”

“All I know is what the police report and newspapers said. I haven't gone to Adelaide yet. I'm not sure I will.” Jimmy waited for more, trying to piece together Nigel's disjointed information. “My mother's name was Melissa and she was thirty years younger than my father. She came from Adelaide and already had a husband named Rolf. That's why they never married. It seems Rolf was a basher. Illa said he's the one who killed her, although the police never arrested him. I pieced together the timeframe. Rolf was found strangled and thrown into an alley from three stories up. It happened a day after I was left at Saint Malachy's, six months after my mother was killed.”

“Did your father kill him?”

“The police won't speculate. Rolf was the prime suspect in my mother's murder. The case remains unsolved. They were still looking for him when he turned up dead in
that Adelaide alley.” Nigel's lips quivered. “After my father left me at the orphanage, he disappeared. No one ever saw him again, except Illa.”

“Nigel.” Reina ran her fingers over her husband's cheek. “You only have Illa's word. There's no proof. You mustn't dwell on something you can't confirm.”

He looked at her, then at Jimmy. “I sometimes feel my father's rage or maybe my own. I don't know. There are things I don't understand. Illa speaks of ‘The Whitehurst'. He says I am him.”

Reina put her arm around her husband's waist. “Start from the beginning.”

There was a tortured expression on Nigel's face. Jimmy didn't understand. Whitehurst was three years old when the tragedy occurred, too young to feel the terror or the sadness of his mother's loss. Yet, he struggled through the telling like one who dared not revisit that time.

“My father lost an arm at Gallipoli in World War I. He lost his memory, too. I know this from my grandmother's writings. A British nurse brought him back to this cottage after the war. They were married one year after his return. Melba's story was written because Aaron lost his memory. She wanted him to know about his heritage. It details everything about my father as a child and young man growing up here in Apollo Bay. She wanted his children to know what he couldn't tell them on his own.”

“Why is it important to you that I know?”

“My grandmother's story tells about her husband my grandfather, Nathan. She loved him very much. It's fascinating, especially what she wrote about his music.” There was a sound of wheels coming to a halt on the dirt. Nigel walked to the door and looked. “He's here.” He opened the door and went out, leaving Jimmy to stare in bewilderment at Reina. She smiled and walked to the door.

“Let them talk for a moment.” She stepped back to address Jimmy. He's still trying to make sense of it all.”

“What does this story have to do with me?”

“Nigel is convinced that it's the music. His grandfather wrote hundreds of songs.” She looked through the doorway at the two men talking outside. “Illa is waiting to tell you the same story he told my husband.”

“That doesn't help me understand.”

“Illa will take you places and tell you things…”

“Jim, come out. He's waiting.”

The Aborigine stared with impatience, as if he'd been made to wait longer than necessary. He did not move nor smile as Jimmy came down the steps behind Reina. He looked Jimmy up and down and then abruptly turned, opened the door of his old Ute and climbed behind the wheel.

“What now?” Jimmy asked, looking from Reina to Nigel.

“Go with him, mate,” Nigel answered. “When he's finished he'll drop you at the surf shop. Sleep there tonight.” Jimmy hesitated as Whitehurst wheeled and hurried to his Range Rover. He opened the door, reached under the seat and brought out a thick stack of papers, bound and tied with green ribbon. He came back and handed the volume to Jimmy. “This is a photocopy of the story my grandmother wrote and my grandfather's music. Don't open it until Illa finishes what he has to say.”

The grizzled black said nothing for thirty minutes as he steered his Ute along the Great Ocean Road in the direction of the Otway Ranges. Jimmy glanced at his driver, wondering. The Aborigine wore a wrinkled red checked woolen shirt with the sleeves rolled above his elbows. His shorts were equally worn and faded from use. He had simple brown sandals on his feet that clicked each time he pressed on the clutch to shift gears. As the range came into view Jimmy spoke.

“Where are you taking me?”

Illa stared straight ahead as if the question needed no answer, but after a few seconds, he lifted his hand and pointed at the mountains. “There.”

“Why?”

“It is the resting place of the first Whitehurst.”

Illa's statement seemed final, but the Aborigine's ambiguous answer, uttered as if Jimmy should understand, merely ignited frustration. “How long will this take?”

Illa frowned and turned his head to look at his questioner. “He didn't tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

Illa turned his eyes back to the road. “He is the Whitehurst and you are also.”

“No,” Jimmy said, with a shake of his head. “I have nothing to do with your story. Frankly, I'd like this to be finished as quickly as possible.” The Aborigine gripped the steering wheel tighter and leaned forward, squinting through the windshield as he pressed the accelerator. The speeding Ute came perilously close to the bumper of the vehicle ahead. “Slow down!” Jimmy shouted.

“You want this to be finished,” Illa said, with irritation. “I have waited all my life. Now, I must hurry for you.” He pressed the pedal harder, pulling out to pass. Jimmy cringed as a truck bore down on them from the opposite direction. A horn sounded loud and long, but Illa propelled the Ute straight toward certain death.

“We won't make it!” Jimmy yelled, as the horn blared again, but just as he shut his eyes, the Ute shot ahead then swerved in front of the slower car a hair before the honking truck roared by.

As the Ute returned to normal speed Illa settled against the seatback and reached inside his shirt pocket for a cigarette. “Ha!” He said, making sure Jimmy understood who was in charge. Then he felt along the seat and found a pack of matches. A moment later smoke swirled in the air, buffeted by the breeze from the opened windows.

After thirty minutes they pulled into a car park identified by a large sign, Otway National Park. Illa exited as soon as he shut off the motor. Jimmy hesitated, but climbed out after Illa smacked the hood, signaling him to move. Several neatly marked trails led the way up, but Illa ignored them as he trudged to the far end of the lot and climbed over a low fence. Jimmy watched him slip the sandals from his feet, drop them at the foot of the fence and continue barefooted. Jimmy lifted his legs over one at a time, peering ahead as Illa disappeared into the prickly bushes. To him there was no opening, no path like the carefully maintained hiking trails his guide disregarded. Then, as he followed, he began to see that there was a way through, not beaten down earth like the trails, but soft grass in a narrow line that afforded a way upward through the dense growth.

Despite his excellent physical condition, Jimmy found himself falling behind the agile black. Within minutes, Illa was out of sight. Jimmy thought of stopping, unable to
summon the interest to continue, but Illa's reaction to his impatience in the car made him think again. He elected to get on with it, even if the day was spinning into an unwanted adventure. In ten minutes the narrow trail began to expand until it opened into a small, tree lined meadow. The shaded place was peaceful and inviting. Illa sat cross-legged in the grass. He gestured for Jimmy to sit facing him.