Lyrebird Hill (16 page)

When I woke, the storm had passed. Throwing off the rug, I struggled my feet into my soggy runners and got out of the car. For the longest time I stood on the wet road, drinking in the sweet, damp air, thinking about the dream.

I’d been racing through the bush at night, my arms and face scratched by tea-tree branches, my heart thudding wildly. A dark presence bounded after me, a hulking creature that ran stealthily, not wanting me to know it was there.

It was an old, recurring nightmare; I’d had it for as long as I could remember. I knew its cause: childish anxieties that had taken root after my father’s death, occasionally returning to haunt me. Right on cue, the scar on my shoulder began to pang – a painful, twitchy itch down deep near the bone that no amount of rubbing could ease.

Ignoring it, I repacked my overnight bag; it was heavy, but I’d rather get blisters than do without toiletries and clean clothes. I’d have to leave my car here until I could arrange for a wrecker to pick it up; I had no delusions about getting it repaired, the faithful old girl was clearly un-revivable.

As I set out along the road, I surveyed the landscape.

Mist rose up from the muddy ground, and raindrops glinted on the trees as the sun began to emerge. The road was littered with fallen leaves, and puddles of water reflected the clouds.

I had no phone reception, no food, and the prospect of several hours’ walk ahead of me – not exactly my idea of a good time. And yet I was surprisingly calm. It was seven o’clock, Saturday morning; in a couple of hours, Earle would be opening the shop, stacking books on the specials table, tidying up the antique postcard display. Rob would be in the gym, pumping iron to get the endorphins firing before a busy morning of consultations, and then an afternoon of chapter rewrites. My mind raced ahead, wondering what he had scheduled for tonight. A cosy nightcap in the spa with his new love; the slow removal of her slinky dress that reeked of ‘Poison’; the seductive running of his hands over her gym-toned body to unclasp the tiny black lace bra and reveal pert, perfect breasts—

My heart shrank into a knot, and I gritted my teeth on a sob. What had I done wrong? Neglected to adore him enough? Forgotten to hang off his every word, or laugh at his feeble jokes? Disappointed him in bed? Rob had seemed to enjoy our intimacy, but how could I ever know for sure? I’d heard of women faking passion. Were men guilty of the same deception?

Maybe, I thought ruefully.

They were certainly capable of
other
lies.

Stopping, I placed my bag on a patch of gravel and scrubbed my hands over my face. I wouldn’t cry, I decided. That would mean admitting the depth of my hurt. Rob was an arse; I had wasted three years of my life, and I wasn’t going to waste a
second more by dissolving into sobs whenever I thought of him. In fact, now might be a good time to swear off love for good; that way, I’d never have to risk feeling this shitty ever again.

I dabbed my eyes, blew my nose, and then picked up my bag. Mud squelched under my feet as I walked, and after a while the cool moist air lifted my spirits. A flock of cockatoos startled from a nearby red gum, shrieking away into the sky. I tracked their path, watching them soar across the washed-out blue, winging towards the distant line of hills.

That’s when I saw the ridge.

It had come back into view, a knucklebone-shaped hillock against the horizon. The sight of it made me shiver. Somewhere out there, in the shadow of its flinty spine, was Lyrebird Hill.

Breathing deeply, I savoured the cold, sweet taste of rain-washed air. The mist was breaking up. Hazy clouds banked around the distant ridge then ebbed away, obscuring it one moment and parting to reveal it clearly the next. The ridge seemed to inhale, like an ancient creature unhurriedly stirring from a long sleep.

Locking my sights on its bony outline, I picked up my pace and hurried along the road towards it.

Brenna, April 1898

M
y wedding day was overcast. Drab clouds veiled the autumn sun, and the atmosphere was muggy and oppressive. My head was dull, full of my conversation with Fa Fa in his study last night; my eyes were red, and I felt somehow unravelled, my legs unsteady, my heart beating out of kilter.

I wore a fitted jacket of fine grey wool over my best walking skirt, my good kid boots, and a layer of nervous perspiration. The small bouquet Millie had helped me pick that morning wilted long before I set foot inside the Armidale Town Hall, but I kept raising it to my nose, clinging to the fragile wisp of scent that linked me to my home.

The dank foyer was cool; its heavy walls had trapped the smells of the street – horse dung and pipe smoke, and the human odours of the other people who congregated here to do official business. The ceremony was simple: a celebrant recited the vows from his book, Carsten and I muttered our promises, and when the pronouncement was made he kissed me hastily, on the cheek. Fa Fa and a man unknown to me signed the witness statements, while Owen looked on in silence. No glad tears were shed, nobody hugged me. I felt lost without Aunt Ida and Millie,
but Carsten had pointed out that in light of my aunt’s recent funeral, a small wedding party was more respectful, and so Millie had stayed at home.

When it was over, the four of us boarded the train to Newcastle. I sat by the window next to Carsten, who ignored me and instead engaged my father in a debate about the precarious position of local banks in a floundering economy.

Owen sat opposite, the freckles stark on his ruddy skin. As the train rattled out of Armidale and southwards towards the coast, he took a handkerchief-wrapped bundle from his pocket and passed it to me.

‘Open it later,’ he whispered. ‘When you start to get homesick.’

A whiff of honey drifted from the bundle, and I guessed it contained a sprig of stringybark blossom. My lips trembled. Reaching for my brother’s hand, I gave it a quick squeeze and nodded my thanks. I didn’t dare tell the boy that I was already homesick, and that the blossoms he’d collected for me with love would only serve to make me more so.

I stowed the precious contents in my bag, and turned my attention to the window. I had decided to make the best of my situation. Mama and Fa Fa had not been in love when they married, but over the years their affection had deepened. If I bore a son for Carsten, and practised kindness and understanding, then surely we would grow to love one another.

The only landscape I had ever known rushed past the window. The New England tablelands withstood scorching summers, and driving snow in winter; flood, drought, and brutal hailstorms that shredded crops and buckled rooftops and killed lambs. Most of the tree species that grew here were drab, their foliage grey-green, their trunks unremarkable – but they were tough, designed to survive extremes of climate.

Carsten leaned forward to emphasise a point to my father, and the window briefly caught his reflection. He was more
animated than I’d ever seen him, his eyes alight, his features somehow more striking, but gazing at his ghostly likeness on the glass brought me no joy.

Closing my eyes, I rested back in my seat. As the train rattled me along the track to my new life, I made another vow, a silent vow that was mine alone. I would be a tree – an angophora, an ironbark, a hardy wattle. Whatever storm blew my way, whatever hail or snow or scorching heatwave raged around me, I would stand my ground and find a way to endure.

The steamship
Mareeba
departed Newcastle at dusk, beneath a cloud of seagulls. Tugboats led us from Oyster Bank, then released us to the mercy of the open sea. I stood on the deck gripping the rail as I watched the pier, tasting the salty sea spray and holding my hat against the blustering wind. My gaze stayed fixed on the lonely figures of my father and Owen until they receded from view.

In my hand I held the treasure my father had slipped into my fingers moments before I boarded the steamer. He had leaned near and whispered into my ear, ‘Not a day goes by – not an hour, not even a minute – that I don’t think of her. Look after her for me, my sparrow.’

My fingers had tightened around the little queen, and I smiled my thanks to Fa Fa, overwhelmed by the preciousness of his gift.

Darkness fell quickly, devouring the tiny lights of the port. Soon all that remained of the world was an inky nothingness. My limbs were stiff and cold before I finally tore myself from the deck and went below.

Almost the moment I set foot in the cramped cabin I was to share with my husband, my stomach began to churn. And it did not stop churning for the next three days, the majority of which I spent with my head over a tin pan. Carsten removed
himself to an adjoining cabin, and I didn’t see him again until we docked at Port Melbourne.

From there our passage to Burnie on Tasmania’s north coast took twenty-eight hours. The sea became increasingly rough as we went through the Rip, a concourse of currents that, according to the steward who kindly brought it upon himself to deliver me a hot broth, was turbulent even in the mildest weather.

‘Never fear,’ he reassured me. ‘Only one other passenger has ever died of seasickness on this route, and oddly enough, they were in this very cabin!’

I curled on the bunk, the grey light from the porthole filling the room with watery shadows. Beneath the sound of waves rushing past the ship’s flanks, I could hear the drone of the steamer’s engine, a constant reminder of the distance growing between me and my home. All through the night I clutched the black queen my father had given me, and drew comfort from her.

When I drifted into a queasy half-sleep, I dreamt of the cave in which I had been hidden that long ago night with Jindera and my grandmother. Only, in my dream, there was no fear – we sat quietly around a small fire, roasting wood grubs over the flames. Beyond our shelter there were no screams, no violence or terror – just the soft call of owls and the murmur of the river Muluerindie as it rushed inland, always inland, far from the raging sea.

Several hours before dawn, we disembarked at Burnie. A man was waiting for us on the dock. He raised his hand in greeting as Carsten descended the gangway. The shadow of his battered black hat concealed his face, and his shoulders were hunched against the wind, which whipped the threadbare coat around his lean body. Something about his bearing attracted my instant curiosity.

Although the ocean no longer rolled beneath my feet, my head still swum giddily and my legs were rubber. The porter brought our luggage from the ship, and the man – whom my husband introduced as Lucien Fells, his manservant – shouldered my small trunk and picked up Carsten’s portmanteau. The man cast me a quick look but made no greeting, then hastened along the pier towards a black carriage that waited in the street beyond.

‘Don’t mind Lucien,’ Carsten said as we followed him along the jetty. ‘He’s not a great one for society, but he’s a good lad. Pay no mind to his manners . . . nor to his appearance.’

I wondered at that last remark and was about to query him further, but we had reached the carriage. It was open-topped like my father’s, but its woodwork was lacquered and gleamed wetly beneath the street lamp, and its trimmings were shining brass. Lucien secured our luggage at the rear of the dray and busied himself unhitching the horses.

Carsten helped me up the steps and gave me a rug to drape around my shoulders. I settled onto my seat, huddling into the blanket, breathing in the scent of wood polish and leather. Lucien sprang into the driver’s seat, and Carsten climbed in beside him. A moment later the vehicle jerked from the kerb and rattled along the road.

‘Try and get some sleep,’ Carsten called over his shoulder. ‘It’ll take us several hours to reach Brayer House. I’ll wake you when we get to Wynyard.’

As we travelled along the edge of the bay, the air grew wintry. I pulled the blanket tighter around me, but soon my fingers were numb and my feet had turned to ice. I wriggled my toes inside my boots and blew on my hands, snuggling deeper into the blanket. And yet despite my discomfort, I couldn’t wish the journey over.

On the landward side, tall trees overshadowed the road, their trunks concealed beneath vigorous undergrowth. On the ocean side, the bay was an inky dark bowl; I couldn’t see the water,
only hear it rushing in and out against the shore, breathing its salty exhalations into the night. Stars winked in the blackness, and every once in a while I saw a pinprick of light far out at sea, perhaps a fishing vessel or a distant steamer, striking out for Melbourne or crossing the strait on its way to England or Africa.