Thornwood House (12 page)

But as I snuggled in the luxury of Samuel’s nearness, the merits of such a lesson became clear to me. Samuel’s shirt was fragrant with the fresh sweat that clung to his skin, and the
scent of his hair pomade obscured the oily reek of the weapon. Being close to him made me feel all tingly and loose-limbed. I peeked at him, admiring his slanted eyes, his high broad cheekbones, his full mouth, intoxicating at close range. I found myself swaying closer, pressing my bottom into him, remembering the sweet softness of his lips –

‘Pay attention,’ he said gruffly.

I pouted.

That made him sigh, and he shook his head, his brows knotted. ‘You do realise who we’re at war against, don’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then you know that anyone the government considers a security risk to the country will be interned. It happened in the last war, and my guess is that it will happen again in this one. If your father is put in prison because of his nationality, then you’ll be alone. You must know how to protect yourself. So pay attention now. See if you can plant a bullet in the trunk of that old tree over there.’

The weapon bucked in my hands, its deafening whip-crack report making my ears ring. I lowered it, shaking.

I missed, of course. On purpose, because then Samuel must instruct me again how to press back the hammer, take aim, hold my breath and ever so gently squeeze the trigger. I decided to be a hopeless shot, to give Samuel no choice other than to persevere with me. On the third try a spray of bark exploded off the side of the old tree. Samuel whooped. A rush of pleasure went through me, pleasure that I’d made him happy. Then, as I studied the damage I’d inflicted upon the innocent eucalypt, a very different feeling came over me. Pain, so intense it stole my breath. The weapon I held in my hands was a deadly thing, designed and built with the solitary purpose of taking life.

In war, a man’s life.

A man just like Samuel.

Audrey, January 2006

F
our days after the blackberry incident, I peeled off the last of my bandaids and surveyed the wreckage. My skin was still crisscrossed by scabby scratches, and I was bruised and sore . . . but I’d learned my lesson. No more getting spooked by crazy dreams.

I showered and dressed and went out to the kitchen. Since my discovery of Aylish’s letter on Thursday, my nights had been restless. It probably didn’t help that I’d been spending every night curled in Samuel’s bed. It seemed somehow perverse of me to find solace in the private spaces of a man who’d been accused of murder. And yet, no matter how I tried, I couldn’t stay away.

Loading up the breakfast tray, I went in search of Bronwyn. School started today, and I had a sneaking suspicion that I was more nervous about it than she was. I’d put off telling her about Samuel, reluctant to overburden her before the big day . . . and of course now I was worried I’d left it too late.

Going down the stairs, I followed the path deeper into the garden. The air was warm, the bricks beneath my feet were cool and damp. Last night’s storm had left behind a dazzling blue sky dotted with frothy curdled-milk clouds, and there were thousands of dewy spiderwebs speckling the lawn.

It was early, not even seven o’clock. In Melbourne we’d have still been under the covers, hiding from the lingering chill, then running late for the school bus. But dawn came fast at this time of year in Queensland, and the mornings were too gorgeous to waste.

I found Bronwyn sitting on her bench beneath the jacaranda tree, which she’d claimed as her secret bower. She was hunched over a battered biscuit tin, her fingers dug under the lid, her face hidden by the pale curtain of her hair.

Setting down the tray, I adjusted the mug of steaming Milo. ‘So, ready for your first day at school?’

‘Yep.’

‘Have you got your bag packed?’

‘Yep.’

‘Honey, I have to talk to you about something.’

She didn’t look up. ‘Sure.’

‘It’s about your dad’s grandfather – the old man who used to own this house? He . . . well, people are saying that many years ago he did something bad.’

That got her. She peered up at me, wide-eyed. ‘What?’

‘They think he killed someone.’

Her eyes bugged. ‘Wow. Was he a bushranger? We did bushrangers at school, how cool if I was related to one!’

‘He wasn’t a bushranger.’

Her face fell. ‘Oh.’

‘They think he killed your great-grandma. I don’t believe it, of course . . . and it was such a long time ago, way back before your dad was even born – ’

‘Ancient history, you mean?’

‘Mmmm . . . Well, I just want you to be prepared in case anyone at school says something. You know, kids can be cruel sometimes.’

She shrugged and bent back over her biscuit tin. ‘More likely I’ll be the envy of the place, Mum. Anyway,’ she added,
grappling her fingernails under the lid, ‘look what I found this morning.’

I blinked, reminding myself for the gazillionth time that Bronwyn’s generation was light years ahead of the rest of the planet. I threw my talk about Tony’s grandfather into the too-boring basket, and feigned interest in the tin.

‘Pretty, isn’t it, Mum? The picture on the lid is a little town in the snow, like those postcards Dad used to send us from overseas.’

The tin was rectangular, freckled with rust, dented in places but mostly intact. Painted on the lid was a winter landscape – snowflakes, mountains, a tiny alpine village.

‘Where’d you find it?’

‘Oh, there’s this big tree further up the hill? It’s got a hollowed-out trunk, so cool. It was covered in cicada shells – masses of them, they were everywhere, I got a whole bagful – anyway, as I was climbing down – ’

‘You climbed the tree?’ I asked disapprovingly.

‘I didn’t go too high,’ she assured me. ‘Anyway, the branches formed a kind of ladder, it was easy. On the way down I discovered a hole, which turned out to be a sort of chimney leading into the empty trunk below. Someone had dug a shelf on one side. Tucked into the shelf right at the back so no one’d find it, was an old canvas haversack full of stuff – clothes, makeup, a hairbrush . . . and this tin. The haversack and everything in it was rotten so I threw it away. But the tin looks okay, doesn’t it?’

‘It’s a bit ratty. What’ll you do with it?’

She gripped the tin between her knees, prising her nails under the lid. ‘If I can get it open I’ll put my cicada shells in it . . . Once it’s cleaned up it’ll be – oh!’ The box clattered from her hands and bounced onto the ground.

I picked it up and turned it over. Something inside gave a dull thump.

‘Wonder what’s in it?’ I said.

‘Money?’

‘Magic bean seeds?’

‘A treasure map?’ I smiled.

After half a bottle of sewing machine oil, the lid still wouldn’t budge. I tapped around the rim with a hammer, and when that didn’t work I knocked it against the cedar bench. In the end I gave up, but Bronwyn dug in her nails and gave it one final wrench. The lid sprang open with a squeal.

Eagerly, we peered in.

‘Pooh!’ Bronwyn said, disappointed. ‘Just a musty old wad of paper.’

In fact it was a book. Not just any book: a diary.

For one electric moment I hoped it was a link to Aylish . . . then reality kicked in. The cover was a recent design, maybe fifteen, twenty years old with a picture of a white kitten sitting near a bowl of roses. I tried to flip through it, but the pages were water-buckled and gummed into an unyielding block.

It might have been fun to read, but I could tell it’d take hours to peel apart the fragile old pages, and hours more to trawl through it. Hours that I couldn’t spare – at least, not until I’d driven my daughter to school.

‘Use the rest of the oil to clean up the tin,’ I told her. ‘But don’t take all morning . . . you still have to get ready.’

She grunted to let me know she’d heard, but didn’t bother replying; she was too engrossed in scrubbing the inside of her new treasure box, dousing the hinges in machine oil, digging the rag into its dirt-clogged corners.

My shadow hovered over the cedar bench. It felt good to be outside, breathing the flower-scented air. It made me happy to see Bronwyn so absorbed. Her skin was creamy and unfreckled, her hair the colour of paper-ash, nearly to her waist. I marvelled for a moment at how pretty she was . . . and how much prettier she would soon become.

She looked up, scowled. ‘What?’

‘You still need to get changed.’

‘I know.’

‘I’ve ironed your uniform, it’s hanging on the back of your door.’

‘You’ve told me ten times already.’

I walked a little way along the path, then looked back. ‘Don’t forget to eat your toast.’

Bronwyn narrowed her eyes at me, then, with a shake of her head and a sigh, turned her attention back to the biscuit tin. ‘Mum, stop worrying. It’s my first day at school, not yours.’

Magpie Creek Primary was situated on the hilly north side of town, a cluster of weatherboard buildings hidden behind a wall of shady pepper trees. On one side a bitumen playing court was enclosed by a high wire-link fence; on the other side was a grassy playground flanked by benches.

Bronwyn had settled easily into her new class. She hadn’t appeared nervous at all – smiling patiently while the teacher introduced her, slipping gracefully into her seat, barely looking at me as I’d paused in the classroom door to wave goodbye.

Leaving the school, I hurried along the dappled footpath in the direction of the main street. The sun warmed my face and arms as I walked, helping to ease the concern I always felt at leaving Bronwyn. Once on the main street I headed for the bakery. In my small universe there was only one known cure for separation anxiety: cake. After much deliberation, I settled for a slice of mud cake and a pecan tart, to which I added a jam lamington for Bronwyn as an after-school reward. Clutching my paper bags, I hurried back along the street in the direction of my Celica. Halfway there, someone called my name.

The first thing I saw was the hair – gold in the morning sunlight, tinged with bronze. Corey Weingarten came striding out of the schoolyard, her broad face flushed from the sun. We
beamed at each other, then fell into conversation like a pair of old friends.

‘I thought I might see you this morning, Audrey. Did Bronwyn settle in okay?’

‘She’s fine. What are you doing here?’

‘Dropping off my brother’s daughter, Jade – she’s been staying with me while her dad was up in Townsville. Danny got back this morning, but he had an early emergency callout. He’s our local vet, does everything from calving Brahmans to rescuing kittens. He travels a bit because of his job – seminars, that sort of thing – so me and Mum pitch in to look after Jade. She’s a great kid, but she mopes a bit when her father’s away. Ever since her mum died a few years back, she’s been a bit clingy.’

‘Poor thing, can’t say I blame her.’

‘She’s resilient. Kids seem so much more together these days.’

‘Bronwyn’s the same.’

Corey’s brown eyes appraised me. ‘How did you cope after Tony walked out? Did you share custody?’

‘When Tony got married we talked about it, but he was always so busy, preparing exhibitions or heading overseas. In the end it just seemed easier for Bronwyn to live with me.’

A currawong alighted on a branch overhead and began to warble; its gurgling song filled the air, full-throated and beautiful.

‘Did you have much help from family?’

I shook my head. ‘My father died when I was little, hit by a car. I don’t remember him. My mother couldn’t look after me, so I went to live with my Aunty Morag.’

‘Why couldn’t your mum look after you?’

A dull discomfort. My instinct was to lie. Invent a story that cast me in a more favourable light. But there was something about Corey that made me want to open up. She seemed genuinely interested, and her brown eyes were kind and intelligent . . . yet it was more than that. Crazy as it sounded, I felt
connected to her – as though we shared a long history rather than just a recent acquaintance.

I took a breath. ‘My mother was . . . well, she had a lot of problems. Drugs, that sort of thing. I guess she never got over my father’s death.’

‘Do you ever see her?’

‘No . . . I don’t even know if she’s alive. Aunt Morag was my family. I guess she filled the gap my parents left behind. Morag was an amazing woman, I was lucky to have her – but sometimes I wonder if her influence on me was too profound . . . that I’m not just like her, but that I’ve become her.’

‘In what way?’

I shrugged, feeling at ease despite my unexpected soul-baring. ‘After Tony left, it was always just me and Bronwyn. I had friends, but no one close. Like Aunt Morag, I suppose I’ve always kept to myself.’

‘Aunt Morag never married?’

‘Didn’t believe in it. She worked as an artist’s model, even when she was in her seventies. She used to say a husband would’ve cramped her style. Her most treasured possession, she once told me, was her independence. She shunned the idea of being tied down to a man.’

‘What about you?’

I shrugged. ‘After Tony walked out, I adopted the Aunt Morag approach. I saw a lot of sense in being self-reliant – at least, that’s what I kept telling myself. In truth, I never met anyone.’