Thornwood House (36 page)

Hobe Miller beamed from the other side of the screen door. He was freshly shaved, his hair combed, and there was new electrical tape covering the lens of his glasses. While his shirt was still ragged, it was laundered and absurdly wrinkle-free, as though he’d spent the morning grappling with an iron. He was carrying a battered cardboard box.

‘Young Bronwyn in?’ he asked without preamble. ‘I’ve got something to show her.’

Bronwyn elbowed me in the ribs and peered over my shoulder. ‘Who is it?’

Hobe’s face lit up. His eye glittered like a blue diamond. ‘Hello there, young miss. Ever seen a boobook chick up close?’

The elbow dug into my ribs again, and this time Bronwyn managed to squeeze past. Shoving open the flywire door, she burst onto the verandah and stood looking up at Hobe, hands on her hips as she studied his clean but shabby attire, his taped-over lens, his wide grin, and the wispy skeins of hair that had escaped the smear of Brylcreem he’d applied and were now wafting greasily about his ears.

To my astonishment, she tipped her head to one side and offered her own hesitant smile. ‘What’s a boobook?’

Hobe made a sound – midway between a chuckle and a sigh of pleasure – and set the box on the decking. Like a magician unveiling a trick, he unfolded a cardboard flap for Bronwyn to peer in. Looking up at us from the centre of a loosely coiled towel was a disgruntled little powder-puff of a bird with huge gold eyes and brown and buff feathers.

‘Cute little fella, isn’t he?’ Hobe said. ‘He fell out of your fig tree a few days ago. I’ve been keeping an eye on him, got young Danny Weingarten to check him out for breakages. The little guy got a good report, so I thought it was about time I put him back in his nest. You interested in giving me a hand?’

Bronwyn tore her attention from the baby owl and twisted around to look up at me. ‘Can I, Mum?’

I dug my hands deeper into the pockets of my robe. I hadn’t yet made up my mind about Hobe. Outwardly he seemed kind, perhaps even someone I might have liked having around occasionally . . . but there was the question of his searching the tree hollow, and then his denial of having known the Jarmans when it was all too clear that he had.

Three sapphire-blue eyes were watching me – Hobe’s wide with hopeful expectation, and my daughter’s with a mix of curiosity and impatience.

Later, I would remember that exact moment. The sun blazed, but the air was still damp and delicate, touched by the sweet scent of blossoms and fresh-mown grass. A whip-bird was calling from the shadows of the garden, and a colony of bees hummed in the daisies. I was acutely alert, as though I’d consumed too much caffeine. Even so, I missed the one thing that should have been most obvious –

The moment passed. Hobe was still watching me. Bronwyn was already inching her way towards the stairs.

‘Come on,’ I told Hobe on a sigh, gesturing at the box, ‘no point keeping a boobook from its nest.’

Was it relief I glimpsed on his face as he bent to retrieve the box, or had it been a trick of shadows cast by the leafy tapestry over our heads? Whatever it was, there was no mistaking the change in Hobe’s attitude. He was suddenly chirpy; he stood taller and his face took on the aspect of a much younger man.

As I followed him along the verandah, I had a vision of him twenty years ago, face-to-face with Cleve Jarman. I could see him clearly – not the middle-aged man Glenda had known, but rather the older Hobe familiar to me now – pitiful in his shabby flannelette shirt and grubby workpants, the walking encyclopaedia who rescued fallen birds, the natural history expert who’d been pals with the local indigenous people. In my mind’s eye he was kneeling in his front yard, hunched in shock and pain, blood spilling through his fingers as he clutched his face . . .

Pity pricked in my chest, a potent blend when combined with my current misgivings. I reminded myself of another Hobe – his arm sunk to the elbow in the old beech tree, seeking something that was no longer hidden there.

‘That’s why owls can fly silently,’ Hobe was explaining to Bronwyn. ‘Their wing feathers are very soft, almost furry because of the hairy little strands along the edges. Being silent gives them an advantage over their prey.’ He placed the box with its precious cargo on the ground and retrieved a ladder from his ute.

Bronwyn stood nearby, hands on hips, as she gazed up at the fork between two boughs where Hobe had pointed out the nest hollow.

‘What do they eat?’

Propping the ladder against the trunk, Hobe unfastened one of the callipers and lengthened the ladder’s reach until the upper rungs rested on the tree’s central fork.

‘Well, the southern boobook owl – or mopoke, as they’re sometimes called because of their distinctive call – fancy all manner of things to eat. Small mammals, like mice. Tiny birds, frogs and lizards, wee bats. And the usual bird-delicacies such as beetles and moths.’

Hobe made another trip to the ute and came back with a deep wicker picnic basket. The basket’s interior was a hotchpotch of leaves and soft bark, feathery dross and twigs: a makeshift nest. He placed the basket on the ground beside the cardboard box.

‘Are you ready?’ he asked Bronwyn.

Bronwyn nodded and slid on the leather gloves Hobe had provided for her, then dropped to her knees beside the box. She opened up the top of the box and peered worriedly down at the little bird. ‘He’s huddling right in the corner, Mr Miller . . . he looks scared. Are you sure it’s all right for me to touch him? Won’t his mother reject him if he gets human scent on him?’

‘Well, now.’ Hobe tested the ladder’s stability against the fig tree’s fork, edged it nearer the trunk, then sidled over to join Bronwyn. Kneeling in the dirt beside her, he gave her an appraising smile. ‘Birds are good mothers, she won’t abandon him. She’s probably been wondering where he got to. No doubt the old girl’s hiding somewhere up in the leaf canopy watching us, keen as mustard to get her little fella back into the nest and give him a decent feed. Get ready now,’ he added, giving Bronwyn a wink.

Bronwyn hesitated, but with an encouraging nod from Hobe, reached into the box. Her gloved fingers closed gently around the bird. She gasped. Her face was blotched pink, her eyes alight with awe.

‘It tickles!’ she said, glancing at Hobe. ‘So soft, I can feel his little bones! What do I do now?’

Hobe held out the picnic basket with its improvised nest of leaves. ‘Careful now, just lower him in. He’ll scrabble around a bit at first, but then he’ll settle.’

Despite her uncertainty, Bronwyn delivered the bird to the basket without mishap. Just as Hobe had said, the tiny owlet burrowed around for a moment, letting out a mournful chirr-chirr before tunnelling into the dross and settling to silence. Hobe beckoned me over, and the three of us peered down at the little owl.

Its fluffy feathers were buff-white with brown markings, its face described by a dark brown disc. Its golden eyes peered up at us, fierce for a creature so small.

‘Good luck, little fella,’ Bronwyn said, and we watched as Hobe climbed one-handed up the ladder, his free hand clutching the basket.

When he was close enough to the hollow fork, he propped the makeshift nest between his body and the trunk and extracted the tiny owl. I caught a glimpse of downy buff-white feathers as Hobe settled the bird into the hollow. He fussed a moment, transferring handfuls of leaves and twigs from the basket into the hollow, and then he was returning, his weathered old boots clunking down the rungs as he made his descent. When he reached the ground and found Bronwyn’s eager face peering up at him, he beamed.

‘Just as I thought . . . there were crow feathers in the nest. Rotten scavengers must have knocked our little friend out while his parents were off hunting. Anyhow, he’s in good hands now. I saw his mother watching from a leafy bough. Once we depart, she’ll fly down and give him a feed.’

Hobe peered up through the leaves, and Bronwyn followed suit.

Again I found myself studying the old handyman. I’d been right, he had made an effort today. Shaved, combed his hair, put on clean trousers, made a rudimentary attempt to shine his shoes. He was no male model, but it was the most presentable I’d ever seen him. Perhaps it was wash day, or he was on his
way to town, but I couldn’t help suspecting he’d made a special effort in anticipation of seeing Bronwyn.

‘Come on, Bron,’ I prompted, ‘we’d better get a move on, you don’t want to be late.’

Hobe’s gaze captured Bronwyn’s face, his eye sharp as a fragment of blue glass. He grinned. ‘Off to church, are we?’

Bronwyn smoothed the crumbs of bark and leaf-litter from her jeans.

‘I’m visiting my grandmother,’ she told him proudly. ‘My dad’s mother, she’s really nice. We met her yesterday, and had so much fun that she invited us back again today.’

While Bronwyn spoke, Hobe’s face had frozen, then melted into a look that at first I couldn’t read. Shadows flitted over him, disguising the true nature of his expression, but I’d have sworn that in the blue depths of his iris glowed something akin to hope.

Which made me wonder if he was still keen on Luella. Yes, I could see it in his sudden perkiness, in the warm flush that coloured his leathery cheeks. He must have loved her all this time . . . but what had happened between them in the years since Cleve’s disappearance? Why hadn’t they reunited? Had Luella shunned Hobe, perhaps sensing that he might somehow be accountable for her daughter’s fatal fall?

Hobe caught me studying him and had the grace to dip his head, reassemble his features, and attempt a watery smile. It failed dismally, more of a grimace really.

‘Luella’s well then, is she?’ he asked.

‘Very well,’ Bronwyn chirped. ‘Do you know her?’

‘Ah . . . I suppose you could say that we were once friends. Back in the old days,’ he added with a sheepish look at me. ‘She’s a kind lady, your grandma. One in a million. Give her my regards when you see her . . . will you do that, lass?’

‘Sure will.’

I slid my arm around Bronwyn’s shoulder and nudged her in the direction of the house.

‘Goodbye then, Hobe,’ I said. ‘Thanks for bringing the little owl home. Good of you to let us watch.’

Hobe hesitated, his hand raised, his finger extended as though to put forth a query, but he’d left his question too late. Without another word I steered Bronwyn out of the fig tree’s deep shade, across the grass and up the slope, into the safety of the verandah’s gloomy shadows.

‘Mum – ?’

Bronwyn might have been only eleven, but she was observant, sensitive to fluctuations in the unpredictable climate of adult moods. ‘What’s the matter? Did I say something wrong?’

‘It’s nearly time to go,’ I said, looking pointedly at my bare wrist. ‘You’re not visiting your grandmother dressed like that, are you?’

My ploy worked. She glanced down and regarded her jeans with no small amount of apprehension, making a half-hearted attempt to brush off the remaining crumbs of bark.

‘Of course not – you ironed my dress last night, remember? Besides, Grandy says it’s important to look your best at all times.’

I lifted an eyebrow. ‘Grandy?’

‘She prefers it to Gran or Grandma . . . She says it’s more friendly, and I agree.’ She gave a prim little smile, then spun on her heel and vanished inside, letting the screen door slam behind her.

Down in the yard, Hobe’s ute growled to life. The old vehicle made an unspeakable uproar as its assemblage of ancient parts coughed and gasped in unison. A jet of smoke burped from the tailpipe, then the car lurched forward and shot off with startling speed along the bumpy service road.

Between the three of us we managed to carry cheesecake and forks, a thermos of iced tea, cups and plates, a huge tartan rug and an armload of photo albums down Luella’s back stairs and
into the garden. We found a shady spot beneath the bunya pine, settled onto the soft carpet of pine needles, and Luella passed around serviettes.

The cake was divine, the tea refreshing, and the breeze smelled of roses and jasmine. Gruffy sprawled in a grassy patch of sunlight, his feet twitching in his sleep. Our peaceful morning tea had all the potential of becoming a memory that one day we’d all look back upon and smile . . . and yet, despite it being Sunday, despite the cloudless sky and warm perfumed breeze, my brain refused to relax.