Thornwood House (29 page)

For what seemed like a full minute she didn’t speak, just stared through the flywire at Bronwyn as if looking at a ghost. When she spoke, her voice was high and soft, husky.

‘Glenda? Dear God, my Glenda . . . is it you?’

‘Mrs Jarman?’ I said quickly. ‘Luella, forgive us for dropping in unannounced. I’m Audrey Kepler, and this is my daughter, Bronwyn. She’s Tony’s daughter – ’

The woman looked at me, but only for a second. Her eyes turned back to Bronwyn, large with disbelief. Bronwyn beamed back, her eyes aglow.

‘Gran? We’ve brought you flowers. I hope you like them.’

A puff of breath escaped the woman’s lips.

‘Bronwyn?’ She wagged her head from side to side, as if unable to grasp what she was seeing.

Bronwyn held out the flowers. ‘For you, Gran.’

The flywire door squealed open, and Luella Jarman blinked in the dappled light. As she gazed at Bronwyn her eyes welled. Twin tears spilled over the rims, splashing down her plump cheeks, painting lines in the powdery make up.

‘My dear girl,’ she whispered huskily. ‘My dear, dear girl.’

Then she grasped Bronwyn’s hand and drew her close, careless of the flowers as she enfolded Bronwyn in her vast fleshy arms.

We followed Luella into a dim hallway, deliciously cool after the heat outside. Through wide arched doorways I glimpsed a formal sitting room. The walls were high and white, punctuated by black-framed pictures. Heavy drapes muted the light filtering through tall windows. Polished floorboards gleamed like spilled ink, and there were bulky lounge chairs and cabinets displaying figurine collections and silver trophies. Bookshelves groaned under the weight of countless books.

I caught a whiff of Pine O Cleen from further along the hall, but that was soon eclipsed by other aromas: rose perfume
wafting from the bunch of rumpled flowers Bronwyn carried, a faint musty animal smell. A dog, maybe. Furniture polish. Hairspray. Freshly baked cake.

We emerged into a sunny buttercup-yellow kitchen with double doors that opened onto a wide verandah. The benchtops were the same dark wood as the floor, brightened by a colourful retro cannister set. A groovy sixties sunray clock ticked on the wall above a breakfast nook; below it sat a pine table and four chairs.

Glenda’s diary was still fresh in my mind, and I couldn’t help picturing her and Tony breakfasting at that table. They would have measured their mornings and afternoons by that clock, eaten and laughed and bickered under this roof, perhaps eaten cereal from those gaily coloured canisters. They’d been a long time gone from this house, yet I imagined I could feel their lingering presence, as though the air had never quite managed to fold itself around their absence. It was a sad feeling, an emptiness within an emptiness, a dislocated sense of being where I had no right to be, knowing what I had no business knowing.

‘Such a surprise,’ Luella was saying, apparently mesmerised by Bronwyn. ‘Such a wonderful, wonderful surprise. I can’t believe I have a granddaughter, a beautiful little granddaughter . . . I must be the luckiest woman in the world.’

Pleasure shone from Bronwyn’s eyes as she watched Luella bustle about the kitchen.

‘I brought photos to show you, Gran. Most are of me and Dad, but there are some of Mum, too.’

‘Truly? I can’t wait to see them.’ Luella still seemed dazed, but she managed a shy smile for Bronwyn. ‘If your mother has time, I might even be persuaded to bring out my own snaps – your father as a little boy . . . and our dear Glenda. You resemble her, you know.’

Bronwyn nodded. ‘I’ve seen her photo. We could be sisters, couldn’t we?’

A brittle intake of breath, then almost inaudibly, ‘You could indeed.’

While the kettle boiled, Luella selected three floral teacups from a glass-fronted cabinet and stacked them on a tray. Her chubby fingers worked swiftly, gathering the implements of morning tea: sugar spoons, delicate plates painted with cornflowers, crisp linen napkins, a jug of fresh milk, lovely old silver cake forks. She removed a jam sponge from the fridge, then filled the teapot with scalding water. The only thing out of place was the quavering in her hands. Nerves, I surmised, and who could blame her? Twenty years without company, shut up in her house with little outside contact; I was amazed that her one display of strain was a slight tremor.

‘Dad was a famous painter,’ Bronwyn chatted on, ‘really clever – he won all these awards and travelled overseas, had lots of exhibitions to show off his work . . . Oh, but you probably already know that, don’t you, Gran?’

Luella chuckled. It was a pretty laugh, throaty and warbling. ‘Why yes,’ she told Bronwyn with a hint of the conspirator, ‘in fact I followed my son’s career in the newspapers. He did well for himself, didn’t he?’

‘Everyone loved his pictures,’ Bronwyn agreed, ‘they bought heaps of his work and he became very rich. He painted landscapes; his early ones were small, the size of postcards . . . but Mum says as he got more confidence his paintings became bigger and bigger. Abstracts, he called them, but if you looked hard you could still see the trees and rivers, that sort of thing. Do you have any of Dad’s paintings?’

She stopped talking long enough to peer around at the walls, which made Luella laugh again.

‘Oh yes, darling. I’ve got some lovely watercolours of flowers and birds, even a view of this house from the top of the hill. They’re in the lounge room, and there’s a couple in the hall. Why don’t you wander through and have a look? Then come out to the verandah and we’ll cut the cake.’

Bronwyn scampered off.

‘Can I help you with that?’ I offered, as Luella hoisted the tray.

‘No thanks, dear, it’s lighter than it looks. Although you might bring the silverware? And grab that packet of Iced Vo-Vos, there’s a love.’

In the twenty minutes I’d spent in Luella’s company, I had been pleasantly surprised. I’d been expecting her to be mousey and drab, fearful of her own shadow, perhaps even somewhat deranged . . . but Luella Jarman was none of those things. She spoke in a formal manner, yet her voice radiated warmth. She was a large woman but she moved gracefully, as though each gesture, each step she took, had been rehearsed.

There was another reason her friendly nature boded well. If she was this easy to get along with on our first meeting, then she might be open to discussing her parents after all. Perhaps not today . . . but sometime soon.

Collecting the forks and biscuits, I followed her through the double doors – which, I noticed, were fitted with deadlocks – out to a wide shady verandah.

‘It’s a perfect morning, isn’t it?’ Luella piped, unloading her tray onto a large cedar table. ‘So clear and tranquil, except for those kookaburras cackling fifty to the dozen. You’d think they’d just heard the joke of the century.’

‘And look at that view,’ I agreed, ‘it’s breathtaking.’

Beyond the yard stretched a vista of grey-blue bushland, dotted with Bangalow palms that swayed in the warm air. Purple volcanic hills languished on the horizon.

The yard itself hadn’t changed much since the photo of Tony under the bunya pine. There was the wonky paling fence, the shaggy lawn overrun with daisies, the clothesline where Glenda and Luella had been taken by surprise. Everywhere were red and yellow nasturtiums – cascading under fruit trees, pushing up through garden seats, or spilling from a variety of planters
including an old clawfoot bathtub. Framing the view was the magnificent bunya, stretching its arms as if to embrace the four corners of the sky. The soil around its base was carpeted with brown needles and clumpy pinecones; tucked behind the tree at the end of a meandering path was a tall glass-panelled hothouse –

A sharp bark made me whirl around.

At my heels stood a stocky bull terrier, its lips drawn to reveal rows of yellow teeth. I took a startled step backwards and the dog growled. It was white with a tan mark on its head like a handprint. Its eyes were dull with age and its coat mangy, but it seemed alert . . . and I didn’t like the look of those teeth.

‘Don’t mind Gruffy,’ Luella said, stooping to dance her fingers along the top of the dog’s head. ‘He’s not used to having visitors . . . Now, take a seat, love, and make yourself at home. Do you like sugar in your tea?’

She busied herself slicing cake, arranging generous segments on plates, fiddling with dessert forks. Just as the silence was about to reach saturation point, Bronwyn burst onto the verandah. Plonking herself at the table, she took a hungry bite of cake and watched Luella pour her a glass of lemonade. When the cake was demolished and her glass emptied, she dragged her carryall onto her lap and took out the presents she’d brought for her grandmother.

Luella exclaimed over the chocolates and card, which she positioned next to her teacup, shaking her head all the while in amazed disbelief. She dabbed at her eyes with a large hanky, but the brightness of her smile said her tears were of the joyful variety.

An hour later Bronwyn and her grandmother were still poring through the last of the albums, examining Bronwyn’s school photos. Luella wanted to know everything: what Bronwyn had loved best about school, what she was good at, what subjects – if any – she struggled with. She even asked
the names of Bronwyn’s classmates, and Bronwyn was eager to recite them for her.

I stifled my hundredth yawn.

It took all my available willpower to resist the urge to dig in my tote and check my watch. No amount of inconspicuous twisting and craning in my seat had yielded a glimpse through the open doorway to the kitchen clock. I was starting to get jittery. There was shopping to be done, a barbecue to prepare. And I was hoping to find a few moments to steam open the rest of Glenda’s diary.

Meanwhile, time was ticking away.

My bladder came to the rescue and I excused myself. The bathroom was old but clean, tiled in white with fluffy towels and fresh cakes of Imperial Leather. The window overlooked the back garden, framing the huge pine tree and revealing a glimpse of distant mountains. Like the windows in the kitchen, this one was fitted with a security grille and deadbolts.

I washed up at the sink, grimacing at the pallid sleepy-eyed creature staring back at me from the mirror. I made a mental note to add a hot shower and mud-mask to the afternoon’s to-do list, then went back into the hallway.

This wing of the house had a more lived-in feel than the formal lounge and dining room near the entry. Four closed doors lined the hallway, their brass knobs glinting in the muted sunlight. I paused outside the first room, curious to know what lurked within. Surely a quick peek wouldn’t hurt?

Quiet sounds floated on the still air. The clink of Luella’s teacup, the sing-song murmur of her voice. Bronwyn’s chirping giggle. The roar of cicadas, and the scratch of Gruffy’s claws on the decking as he chased rabbits in his sleep.

I reached for the doorknob, peered in. It was a lovely room, all pale pinks and florals and white walls, though disappointing in its ordinariness. A double bed sat centre stage, overlaid with a mint-green chenille bedspread. It was a cosy, pretty room, but
unremarkable. Even more regrettable was the obvious lack of photographs. None of Tony or Glenda, nor any of Luella’s late husband Cleve. Not even a single snapshot of Luella, and none of Samuel.

The next room was sparer. A single bed was pushed against the far wall, its blue eiderdown freshly laundered, its pillow propped against the headboard. There was a flimsy desk crammed at the foot of the bed, topped by a solitary atlas. The only extraordinary thing about the room were the drawings tacked to every wall: butterflies, blossoms, frogs and caterpillars – tiny pencil sketches, a few of them washed with fading watercolour.

Tony’s room.

Despite the obvious care in its upkeep, a mood of sorrow and loneliness seeped from every corner. Feeling like the intruder I was, I retreated along the hall to the next room.

Like Tony’s, it was preserved exactly as it had been when Glenda lived here. Wallpapered with yellow roses, it was light and airy as a dream. The bed was freshly made, the pillows plumped. On the window seat sat a scattering of well-loved teddy bears and a knitted ragdoll. There were signs of the sixteen-year-old, too: a David Bowie poster tacked opposite the door, a make-up box, a pile of dog-eared
Dolly
magazines and a school jumper draped over the back of a vanity chair.

The next room looked like an office, though judging by the dust it hadn’t been cleaned for some time. There was no bed, just a desk and a large leather recliner with an antique lamp standing to attention beside it. Bookshelves groaned under the weight of hundreds of books – dusty old Penguin classics, cookbooks and gardening books, rows of well-thumbed paperbacks perched along the upper shelves like roosting pigeons.

The only evidence that this might have once been a bedroom was a wardrobe tucked like an afterthought behind the door. It looked to have once belonged to a child; painted blue, with a model ship perched on top.

The murmur of voices from the verandah reminded me that I’d been gone too long . . . but I couldn’t resist.

Crossing to the wardrobe, I opened the door.

The smell of mothballs puffed out. On one side was a hanging space, empty but for a scattering of dry moth bodies. The other side held shallow drawers, the kind for keeping underwear. The top drawer contained a jumble of paperwork: house deeds, rate notices, defunct utility bills. In the next drawer was a skipping rope, a cigar box of dried roses converted to dust, and a collection of pastille tins crammed with rusty hairpins and pearl buttons. In the bottom drawer I found a large photo album, its spilling pages held intact between the covers with black ribbon. Untying the ribbon, I opened the book and turned the flyleaf.