Thornwood House (2 page)

Since hearing about Tony’s death from a mutual friend, I’d been wondering the same thing. Wondering why Tony – ever the advocate for peace, love and goodwill to all – had chosen to end his life so viciously and leave a legacy of devastation to those of us who’d loved him.

To my surprise, Carol grasped my wrist. ‘Why would he do that, Audrey? How could he have been so selfish?’

The sudden fervour of her words shocked me. I groped for something reassuring to say – as much for myself as for Carol – but she rushed on, digging her fingers into my arm.

‘You were always so close to him – early on, anyway. Did he ever tell you anything – a childhood trauma, something that might have come back to haunt him? Had he ever been ill when you were together? He wasn’t taking anything, not that I know of . . . but he might have been trying to protect me. Unless there was another woman? Oh Audrey, no matter which way I look at it, I can’t make any sense of what he did.’

Her eyes were haunted, rimmed by delicate rabbit-pink, the skin around her mouth blanched white. I understood what she was saying – outwardly, Tony had appeared to be too level-headed to ever succumb to depression or self-pity. Yet I couldn’t
help remembering our years together – the happy days so often overshadowed by his recurring nightmares, his abrupt mood swings, his episodes of broody silence. His almost phobic horror of violence, blood. And his passionate hatred of firearms of any kind.

‘Tony never talked about his past,’ I said. ‘Whatever secrets he had, he kept them from me, too.’

Carol looked away. ‘You know, Audrey, if we’d met under different circumstances, you and I might have been friends.’

I dredged up a smile, knowing it was her grief talking. Carol Jarman and I were just too different to be anything other than strangers to one another. We moved in different circles, came from different worlds. She was poised, elegant, beautiful, and enjoyed the sort of lifestyle I’d only ever dreamed about. If it hadn’t been for Tony, our paths would never have crossed.

Carol slid her hand into her shoulder bag and withdrew a small parcel wrapped in fabric. ‘I found this in his belongings. I thought it was something you might like to have.’

I recognised the fabric at once – it was a scarf Tony had brought back from a trip to Italy, the first year he’d flown over for the Venice Biennale. Wrapped inside was a Murano glass paperweight with an electric-blue butterfly preserved at its centre.

‘Thank you.’ A buzz of warmth. I locked my fingers around the object’s cool hardness, flashing back to the days when Tony and I had been happy.

‘I might not see you again,’ Carol said, ‘so I should tell you now, rather than let you hear from the lawyer.’

I looked up from the paperweight, still aglow with bittersweet memories. ‘Tell me . . . ?’

‘Tony left instructions for the Albert Park house to be sold. I hate having to ask this of you, Audrey, but you’ll need to vacate within twenty-eight days. I won’t kick you out if you need longer . . . but I’d like to start renovating as soon as possible so I can put it on the market.’

I could only stare at her. ‘Twenty-eight days?’

‘Don’t worry. Tony wouldn’t have dreamt of leaving you homeless. You and Bronwyn will be well provided for,’ she added cryptically. She seemed about to say something more, but instead gave my arm a quick squeeze – gently, this time – then turned abruptly and hurried away.

I watched her glide down the hill. Her friends gathered around her; a couple of them shot me furtive glances. Then they bundled her off towards the line of waiting cars, where she ducked into a glittering Mercedes and was whisked away.

Twenty-eight days.

I clutched the paperweight tight. Tony had never actually lied to me about his past, but his stubborn refusal to talk about it had always been hurtful, as if he didn’t consider me worthy of his trust. Now, as I glared up the slope, I felt the burden of his silence shift around me, stirring up all my old doubts and insecurities. In that moment I wanted nothing more than to climb back up the hill and hurl the paperweight into the grave as a final, bitter farewell. But it was raining again. The ground was sodden and the slope looked slippery.

I shoved the parcel into my pocket. Alive, Tony had brought me nothing but trouble; now he was dead, I refused to allow him the same opportunity. With that promise firmly planted in my mind, I picked my way back down the hill to the Celica and my waiting daughter.

In other parts of the country, September heralded the beginning of spring. Here in Melbourne it still felt like the tail-end of winter. Weeks of rain, chilly nights and mornings. Endless grey skies. There were days – like today – when it seemed as though this drab, gloomy purgatory would never end.

Albert Park, the sought-after heritage suburb where we lived, seemed even colder and drearier than everywhere else. Tony’s funeral had left us in a low mood. We were shivering as we pushed through the front gate and unlocked the house. It was dark inside. I stalked through, cranking up the heat and switching on the lights until the place glowed like a furnace. Bronwyn refused soup and toast, but hovered in the kitchen while I made her a mug of hot Milo. Then she fled to the haven of her room.

My own bedroom was icy. I buried the Venetian paperweight under a pile of clothes in a bottom drawer, then threw my damp suit into the washing basket. Dragging on soft jeans and an old T-shirt, I wandered out to the lounge room and stood gazing through the window.

Silvery raindrops cascaded across neighbouring rooftops, making haloes around the streetlamps. Lights shone like beacons from nearby houses, but out over the bay the water was lost beneath a shroud of premature darkness.

Drawing the curtains, I stood in the centre of the room, hugging my arms. Getting my head around Tony being gone. Wondering, for the millionth time, what had possessed him to load up a gun and end his life in such a violent way. Tony had been many things: a charming and wildly successful artist, a brilliant father to Bronwyn, a sufferer of nightmares . . . and in the end, a selfish two-timing bastard; but I’d never pegged him as a man who’d willingly devastate the people he cared about.

I wandered out to the dining room. He was gone, I reminded myself. No amount of speculation was going to bring him back. And there was no point feeling abandoned by a man who’d already deserted me years ago. Even so, I could feel my old resentments creeping back. Bronwyn and I were about to be torn from our home, a home that Tony had promised would be ours as long as we wanted. He’d bought it in the early days, after a string of sell-out overseas exhibitions. Later, I hadn’t bothered to argue when he’d suggested it remain in his name. I was just glad to
continue living in it rent-free. I’d been young, full of pride. Angry at Tony, and stubbornly opposed to feeling indebted to him.

But now I ached . . . ached for my daughter and the grief she would carry with her for life. Ached for Tony, whose suffering must have run deep; and for Carol, whose world had revolved around him. Ached for my own selfish longings that sometimes whispered in lonely unguarded moments that perhaps – by a miraculous twist of fate – he might one day come back to me. And I ached with the burden of questions he’d left behind. Why had he rushed out that night, then driven for days to some little backwater? What had finally pushed him over the edge?

Carol said she’d checked the paper, but had been too distraught to properly focus. I remembered that Tony had subscribed religiously to the
Courier-Mail
. He’d grown up outside Brisbane – one of the few morsels of background info I’d managed to prise from him – and had liked to stay abreast of Queensland news.

I booted my laptop and went online.

It took a while to sift through the search results for the
Courier-Mail
dated just before Tony’s death. Nothing leapt out. My neck started cramping from peering at the screen and I was about to log off, but as a last resort I punched in the name of the town where they’d found Tony’s body, ‘Magpie Creek’.

A single search result filled the screen.

DROUGHT SOLVES TWENTY-YEAR-OLD MYSTERY

BRISBANE, Fri. – For most people, Australia’s current drought – called the worst in a thousand years – has been the cause of deep concern. For the small community of Magpie Creek in south-east Queensland, it has brought an unexpected solution to a mystery that has baffled the town for twenty years.

On Wednesday last, a group of conservationists were taking water samples from the near-dry Lake Brigalow Dam, 24 kilometres from the town, when they discovered a vehicle
submerged in the mud. Fire and Rescue Services retrieved the car, only to discover inside it the remains of a human body.

Magpie Creek Police have linked the car to a local man who was reported missing by his family in November 1986. Positive identification of the remains will necessarily await the results of forensic examinations and post-mortem.

I sat back and stared at the screen until my eyes blurred. Maybe I was clutching at straws, but I couldn’t help wondering. Had Tony known the missing man, been close to him? Had the man been a one-time friend, a relative? Someone whose death had mattered enough for Tony to walk out on his wife with barely a word and travel 1600 kilometres into a past he’d so obviously put behind him?

In 1986, Tony would have been fourteen. His father, then? Reported missing by his family; by Tony’s family. A family that Tony had – in the twelve years I’d known him – steadfastly refused to acknowledge. Shutting my eyes, I tried to restrain my rampaging thoughts. It was unlikely, probably just coincidence. Probably nothing more than connections made by a brain fuelled with exhaustion and grief.

Logging off, I went out to the kitchen and looked in the fridge. It was crammed with food, but my hand reached robotically for a Crown Lager. The beer was icy, deliciously wet on my grief-tightened throat. While I drank, I stared at the black square of window. In it I saw the woman the past five years had caused me to become: hollow-eyed and gaunt, with shadows beneath the pallid skin where there should have been a healthy flush. I would be thirty this year, but my face wore the grey resignation of someone much older.

I rubbed my palms over my cheeks, then smoothed my hair. It had escaped the neat ponytail I’d forced it into for the funeral, and reverted into a shaggy seventies-style bob. I recalled Carol’s restrained elegance, and grimaced at the small, boyish person
reflected in the window. The pinched little face stared sullenly back at me, silently accusing: You see why he left? You see why he wanted her and not you?

Turning from the window, I went along the hall to Bronwyn’s room and knocked lightly. There was no response, so I cracked open the door. Her lamp was on. She’d fallen asleep on top of the bedcovers – her fair hair fanned over the pillow, her face was blotchy from crying. She was wearing the pyjamas her father had given her a year ago, too tight now, and faded from overuse.

‘Bronny?’ I whispered, stroking her hair. ‘Let’s get you under the covers, sweetheart.’

Up until six months ago, she’d seen Tony every Sunday without fail. Just as the church bells began to chime across the waking city, Tony would pull his dazzling black Porsche into the driveway, honking the horn as Bronwyn ran down the path to greet him. Meanwhile, I lurked in the front room, my lips pinched tight, spying on them through the shutters. Six or seven hours later I’d hear the familiar honking, and Bronwyn would rush in brimming with news of what a fabulous time they’d had, cooing over the presents he’d bought her, eyes aglow and cheeks flushed pink with joy.

Then, six months ago, the visits ground to a halt.

Tony stopped showing up for their Sunday outings. He forgot to ring, sending expensive gifts in lieu of a visit. Without explanation, he disengaged himself from her life. I watched helplessly as the sorrow grew in her like a sickness, turning my bright little girl into a forlorn shadow-faced creature who moped around the house as though, rather than living in it, she was haunting it.

Bronwyn sighed and rolled over. Tucking the blanket around her, I laid a whisper of a kiss on her brow. She smelled of honey and chocolate, of fresh washed laundry and lemon shampoo. Safe, familiar smells. I was about to tiptoe out when I caught
sight of a photo propped against her night lamp. I hadn’t seen it for years, and it brought back the past with a pang of sadness.

Tony sat on a low concrete wall, the National Gallery’s water-curtain doors in the background. His eyes glinted behind his glasses and he was smiling his famous heart-stopping smile. He wasn’t traditionally handsome – his face was too bony, his nose too large, his teeth a fraction crooked – but he had a compelling quality, an intensity that was both guarded and beguiling.

I switched off the bedside lamp and took the photo out to the kitchen, leaning it against a jar of peanuts on the bench so I could study it in full light. It felt good to look at his face, to pretend he was still out there somewhere, moving through life, perhaps taking a moment to gaze up at the stars and think of me.

It almost worked.

Then I remembered the coffin. The boggy slope, the yawning grave beneath the elm. By now the cemetery would be dark, its poplars and cypresses sagging beneath the weight of rain, the sky raked by fingers of lightning.