The Quilt (51 page)

“Do you want to talk?”

Paul has undone his seat belt and put his arm around me.

“Sir
, the seat belt sign is on.”

A hostile stewardess glares at him.  I smile
, she is one of the few woman that is immune to this man.   He mutters and fastens his belt.

“No
, not about New York but I would like to talk about Paul Clarke.  You didn’t finish your story.”

It has only been a week since we left Marinella.  In that week I feel as though everything has changed.  Even the weather has changed.  An unseasonal early cold snap is lashing the co
untry.   The wind outside whips at the vines, stripping leaves and foliage away from the branches and lifting them away in its icy fingers. 

We are drained.  Paul switches on the television a
nd pours us a small glass of his favourite reserve.  I watch his face and know he has slipped away to place in the King Country, to a farm called Twin Pines.   They are recommending stock be moved to high ground, away from waterways and rivers, they are recommending shelter and avoiding vehicular transport.  I know he is hoping the new owner will take responsibility for the stock that carries years of selected breeding in their veins.  I know he is thinking about the old man next door that lost his life in a cold, flooded river.  I know that the hours of talking have made him relive everything that he has left behind.

I open the bedroom door and allow the wind to bite at my face.  The mainland is only an outline obscured by a band of rain.  It is marching like an army across the angry surface of the grey and olive
green harbour.  As I watch, the land disappears.  Soon the rain will be here; it will wash the summers dust off the trees and bring new life to the parched soil.  I sniff but I can no longer detect frangipani and jasmine.  Now my world smells of tangy salt, damp earth and freshly cut grass.  Everything has changed.

I shower and try to wash away the hours of travel, the stress of airports and finality of death.  When the tears come they come in waves that rack my body and then melt away with the lavender scented foam pooling at my feet.  Still damp I lie on the bed and listen to the cleansing rain that drums on the windows and runs over the cobbles. 
I realize the thing that has changed the most is me.

I have always believed
my strength can be measured in my ability to be happy while alone.  I have always been taught my success can be measured in the letters I am able to put after my name, in my academic achievements and the respect I earn from my colleagues and clients.  I know that all of these things are important, but I have learnt that success in any form is nothing if not shared. 

I
now realize that my worth can also be measured in my ability to allow someone to truly share my life, my imperfections and my insecurities.  The lessons I have learnt over the last few weeks are not a new concept.  I know that this is what Sandy fought to teach me, but as her student I failed.

Only with loss
have I seen that nothing in life is permanent, that happiness is deeper than what I choose to see on the surface, and that what I see on the surface may be nothing more than an illusion. I know that only through loss I have been able to see the value in the people around me and learnt to appreciate the things I have so far achieved.

I can’t sleep.  The faint sound of the piano carries over the staccato rain pelting down on the roof.  I strain to identify the music.  It is not classical but I am not able to hear clearly enough to recognise it.

I walk to the end of the hallway and watch Paul play. 
He is singing with a voice that has the smoothness and richness of quality chocolate.  Stairway to Heaven is one of my favourite songs and I stand mesmerised in the doorway.

In front of me
is a complicated, talented and private man.  I think of him as the stranger that came to me when I needed him most.  I think of him as the passionate lover that came to me, frightened at the prospect of losing me.  I think of him as my friend.  A friend that has walked beside me down a road littered by my pain. 

I wonder what I have come to represent
to this man.  Am I now a stranger, too weighed down by my circumstances and my two sad scruffy suitcases?  Am I a lover or have I now become little more than his friend.  Does he see me as an injured kitten looking for a safe harbour until this storm has passed?

“Am I keeping you awake?”

I jump and wonder how he knows that I am standing here.

“That is one of my favourite songs
.”

He smiles as th
ough he already knows this.

“Then you have very good taste in music
, Miss Kyle.”

His eyes
meet mine in the reflection of the glass but give nothing away.    I know this man will not ask me for any answers.  He will not help me to choose my path.  I know this man will stand aside and without questioning he will let me leave, if leaving is what I need to do.

He continues to play.  His lips curve in a smile and I wonder what I have done that he finds amusing.
He looks away and plays on.  I stare at my reflection.  I look at my damp hair and brooding swollen eyes, I look at my face untouched by makeup and I look at the night gown that hangs shapeless from my shoulders like a sack.    I smile at my reflection.  I am not good at this.

“You look beautiful
,” he says gently and returns his eyes to my reflection. “You need to rest.”

I shake my head. 

“Don’t over think things, Joanne.  Give yourself time.”

I don’t need time
, that is the only thing I can be sure of.  I am not standing on a cliff edge wondering whether to jump or take the safe familiar road. 

I walk towards Paul
and place my hand over his.  He stills.  Now only the comforting crackle of the fire and the torrential rain cascading down the roof breaks the silence.  The flames lick at the hearth and cast a glow across his handsome face.  I meet his eyes in the reflection and then he looks down, focusing on the keyboard.

H
e gives nothing away.  He never does.  I take my hand and place my fingers on each of his shoulders. I run them down the hard surface of his back and trace the toned contours.  I run them over the collar of his white cotton shirt and through the soft covering of hairs on his chest.

“
Cut it out Joanne, it is too soon.  You have to give yourself the time to work through your loss.  After that we need to talk.”

I narrow my e
yes and kiss the top of his head.  I inhale the scent of sandalwood and salt.

“I will give myself the
time to grieve and we have talked.  We have talked from New Zealand to America and back.”

“
We have talked about the past not about the present or the future.  You have accepted a position in Tauranga or have you forgotten about that?”

I pout at his reflection in the glass and h
e runs his hand through his hair.  I know the gesture well.  He is confused and frustrated.

“Joanne
, I don’t want to keep saying goodbye. I can’t invest anything more if it means I will have to worry about you walking away again.” 

I smile patiently
and return my hands to his shoulders.  They are knotted and I begin to work the muscles with my fingers.

He groans.

“I turned down the position in Tauranga before we left for New York and I have no intention of leaving Marinella unless that is what you want me to do.”

The room is dimly lit by the flames in the fire.  They flick and crackle sending an orange glow over his chiselled face.  He is smiling and his eyes hold both promise and amusement.  I gently trace the scars of his past and then knot my fingers tightly around his.  I don’t feel shy, I don’t feel self-conscious, I don’t feel regret, and I don’t feel doubt.   I lead this man, my man towards the deep soft mass of the sheepskin rug that lies in front of the raging fire.

“The end”

“Epilogue”

You ask what has become of The Quilt.  Jean smiles and looks at the small neat squares piled on the table.  A few years ago I remember a silly old woman sitting in an old chair worn in by the shape of her body thinking that her job was complete. Thinking that the two hundred lovingly selected squares depicting this pioneering family, their land, the colourful characters, their struggles and elations had been completed.  But is the story of any family ever fully told? 

I watch Joanne resting her hand on the slight swell of her a
bdomen.  No, our story is not complete and therefore neither is the quilt.

It has always been my
wish; it has always been my husband’s need that he is given the chance to bury the gentle woman that brought him into this world.  I will tell you about Anne Clarke, and how in death she eventually did find a way to allow the man we both love closure.

“
Speaking from the Grave”

The old man looked dismally at the deflated spare tyre.

“I’m sorry love
, the spare is flat as well.”

“You di
dn’t check it before we left?”

“
Didn’t check it again,” his wife added.

Her h
usband laughed.  Since his retirement he had noticed his once sharp mind and methodical attention to detail had slowly become muddled.  It was the reality of his advanced years. 

The elderly lady
wandered along the isolated highway edge waiting patiently for the repair man to rescue them.

“This farm is called Twin Pines.  Twin stumps would be more appropriate
.”

Her husband
chuckled and read the new bold sign near the properties entrance. 

Twin Pines
Station,  Caroline and Blake Shaw

He frowned and tried to dredge up a distant memory.  No, it wasn’t there, another failure of his deteriorating mind.  The old man had an enquiring nature and a natural curiosity.  It was those very traits that had made him an expert in the field of Forensic Anthropology.  But that was many years ago.

“I wonder why this was cut down when it was little more than a
sapling. Whereas this one,” he indicated to the huge and clearly visible stump “was left to become what must have been a very impressive tree.”

The old lady shrugged.  Why would that interest him
?  Why would anyone even take the time to question it?

“
This is an immaculate property.  They need to get rid of that derelict old cottage over there.  It seems out of place and spoils the overall impression.”

“Maybe it h
as some historical significance?”

“If it had historical significan
ce they would not have left it to deteriorate like that.”

The
tiny old building had fallen off its piles.  The front door hung from one hinge and the wooden veranda had broken away and sat rotting on the browning grass.

An hour later the elderly couple sat in the tyre shop holding steaming cups of sweet tea.  The repairman approached.  It was a Friday afternoon and they still had a long journey ahead of them.  He wanted to see them on the road as quickly as possible.

“
Your tyre is repaired and you have a new spare.  Here’s the invoice and here is the cause of your trouble.”

The repairman held
up an aged grey piece of hard material.

“It
’s quite large, it looks like an old piece of bone.   Maybe you ran over a possum or rabbit?”

He handed the old man the
bleached and dirt covered shard.

The old
man’s eyes narrowed and he turned the weathered bone fragment over in his wizened hands.

His wife looked up sharply, she knew that expression.  Whatever their tyre had picked up near Twin P
ines Station did not belong to a possum or rabbit.

A loud, demanding knock at the door startled Joanne. It was late and the November chill of the evening was settling over the vineyard. She swung open the door and eyed two starchy uniformed detectives.

“We are looking for
Sean Clarke.  Is he available or could you tell us where we would be able to find him?”

Paul appeared at
Joanne’s side and put a protective arm around her shoulders.

“
I am Paul Clarke.  Sean is my father, can I help you?”

“We
really need to speak to your father, can you please tell us where he is?”

“
Is this about Anne Clarke?”

The detective nodded.

“I think I had better come with you.”

We sit at the table.  Sean is studying his hands, Jean is shifting nervously under the scrutiny of the two detectives and Paul is watching quietly through narrowed suspicious eyes.   Joanne places a pot of fresh tea in front of us and the detective clears his throat before speaking.  Of course, this situation is difficult for him as well.  He looks so young; he would not have even been born when Anne Clarke was declared dead.

“You are the son of Anne Clarke reported as a missing person
forty nine years ago?”

“Yes, she was pr
onounced dead seven years after that.”

“We have reo
pened the investigation.  New evidence has come to our attention.”

The detective was studying Sean’s
face intently.

“Have you found her remains?”

The young man shakes his head and his eyes soften with sympathy.

“I
have read on your mothers file at the time of her disappearance you suspected your father, Allan Clarke, may have been involved?”

“He is not my father
,” Sean corrected. 

The detective look
ed confused and started to shuffle through the folder in front of him.   His training had not prepared him for incorrect paternal details.

“That is
not relevant,” snapped Sean.  Jean looked at him sharply.  This is not the detectives fault.

“Yes
, I believe Allan Clarke was directly responsible for my mother’s disappearance.”

“Were there any
rifles on the farm when Anne Clarke went missing?”

“A .22 was kept in the farm truck at all times
.”

“Did Allan Clarke have access to a weapon that was
higher calibre than a .22?”

Sean stiffened
. 

“The bastard went hunting
.”

“I’m sorry
?”

“The higher calibre firearms were always kept locked away.  They were only taken out when Allan ‘planned’ a hunting trip
.   He kept the key on his body at all times.   It was the only safety precaution he took with anything.”

The
young detective cleared his throat.  Goosebumps climbed his arms.

“After
this unexpected evidence came to light we carried out a thorough road side search.” 

He let his words hang for a moment.   He needed to let the family absorb the information.

“We have located a bullet that has penetrated an old wooden strainer post.  It was on the main highway and about one and a half miles from the entrance gates of  Twin Pines Station.

T
he detective saw no reason to go into details about the bone fragments that were disturbed by recent road works.

Sean nodded.

“Can it be matched to a specific firearm?”

“That was my next question.  Do you have or do you know where any of the rifles owned by your
...”

H
e trailed off and stared at the file on the table.

“
By Allan Clarke are currently located?   I notice you hold several firearms licences.”

“I’ll get them from the cabinet for you
.  I still have all the rifles owned by Allan Clarke at that time.”

“Are you happy
for forensics to hold on to them while we carry out our investigations?”

Sean smiled.

“They can hang on to them for as long as they like.”

“
We may require DNA samples if there is a chance of identification.  The evidence is compromised due to time and elements but forensics may find answers in what we have.”

“That would indicate you have found physical evidence
.”

Paul spoke carefully.  T
he young detective moved uncomfortably in his chair.

“We have found some
bone fragments.  At this stage we are not sure if we can extract DNA but they appear to be human.”

He turned away from Paul and spoke to Sean.

“One more thing, Mr Clarke.”

“Is it still your opinion that
Allan Clarke was involved or responsible for his wife’s disappearance?”

“Do I t
hink he was involved?  I know he was responsible.  I also know, have always known, it was never a disappearance, it was a murder.  If she had been alive she would have contacted me.”

The detectives got to their feet.

“Is there any chance this new evidence will lead to the discovery of her remains?”

“At the time of Anne Clarke’s disappearance it was suspected she was
buried somewhere on Twin Pines Station.  It is a huge area, but we are doing everything that we can to locate her.”

Sean nodded and unlocked the gun cabinet.  He handed five polished rifles to the detectives.

“March 2010”

Blake cursed into the wind.

Those pig dogs had
packed again and run howling into the dense bush. 

His gun would be
of no use to them if they baled up a boar.   They would be gored before he got close enough to help.

His bike reached the top of the
James ridge.   Blake seldom came up to this part of the farm, the crumpled bulldozer at the bottom of the ravine and the half-finished clearing bore witness to a dead man’s dreams and it left him cold. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

He turned off the bike and listened to the silence.  It was always silent in this place and the atmosphere always felt thick and heavy. 

He could hear movement, not barking
, just the frantic scrapping of paws on the soft water-soaked ground.  His dogs were indifferent to his frustration, focused on whatever they had found.  They were in front of the large rotting tree trunk; all that was visible were their tails and a spray of brown peat each time they dug.

“Get back
, you useless mutts.” 

Blake grabbed the scruff o
f the pack leader and peered into the shallow hole they had dug.   He frowned; a child’s ball had been partly exposed.  Who would allow a youngster to play in this isolated, dangerous place?  He reached forward and recoiled.  Blake Shaw had just discovered the shattered skull of Anne Clarke.

It would have been fitting to hold Anne’s funeral on a dismal day under gathering storm clouds.   But the large crowd gathered under a crystal clear King Country sky to pay their last respects.

The Saunders
are old and frail.  They walk slowly and their eyes are hazy.  They are here to say goodbye to their daughter and I am glad they will have that opportunity.

I
am a lawyer but had I been qualified in the field of psychiatry I may have understood the emotions that filled the faces of my family.  To them this funeral is a time for closure. 

Anne Clarke was laid to rest beside James.  The man she loved
but was denied in life, in death they will be together.   They are buried on the opposite side of the cemetery to Allan Clarke.  I wonder if anyone will ever ask why.  

“So you are the woman that captured the area’s most
eligible bachelor?”

Caroline
Shaw walked forward and embraced me.

“I am not from this area!
”

Paul smile
d at Caroline and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

“Paul
, the Clarke family will always be from the King Country.”

Blake
joined us and turned to Sean.

“The fire
department is looking for structures to ignite for training.  If you are going to be around for a day or so I thought we might organize a bonfire?”

“What do you think
, Paul?”

“I think t
hat bonfire is well overdue.”

We stood around the tiny, derelict wooden building.  The setting was idyllic with its small fresh water stream weaving a path through the lush overgrown lawn.  The Shearers Cottage itself sat defiantly on its broken foundations.  Cobwebs hung from the woodwork and ran in lines across the distorted glass windows.  The furnishings and curtains had faded with the unrelenting sun and the carpets lay dull and rancid with rodent infestation
.