Thornwood House (48 page)

At four on the dot that afternoon I pulled onto the grassy verge outside Luella’s house.

To my surprise Bronwyn was at the top of the stairs, waving to me. I started to wave back, wondering what she was up to, when I realised she wasn’t waving at all . . . she was beckoning.

My heart sank. I got out of the car and went along the path. Bronwyn met me at the foot of the steps and grabbed my arm.

‘Grandy’s got something amazing to show you,’ she announced, steering me up the stairs and into the cool shadows of Luella’s hallway. ‘A surprise. You’ll love it, Mum,’ she added, noticing my reluctance.

Luella greeted me in the kitchen, untying her apron and wilting my qualms with the magnetism of her smile. ‘I’ve brewed fresh tea, that Earl Grey you’re so fond of, love. And we’ve just pulled a batch of chocolate tarts from the oven.’

When I drew breath to politely decline, my lungs filled with air that was chocolatey-sweet, intoxicating. Something in me unravelled and I heard a little voice say, ‘That sounds lovely.’

Bronwyn led me through the kitchen and out onto the verandah, where a feast awaited – Luella’s delicate Noritake teacups sat in place beside a platter of fresh scones and hand-cut chocolate pastries that made me goggle in anticipation . . . but Bronwyn tugged me past the table, down the back steps and across the garden towards the bunya pine.

‘Close your eyes, Mum.’

Reluctantly, I obliged. Sunlight warmed my arms. Bright shards danced across my closed lids, turning the inside of my eyes blood-red. Blades of grass poked through my sandals, and I caught a whiff of jasmine, sweet in the sundrenched air.

We stopped. There was a grating sound, a latch sliding in its casing – then the smell of moist heat, of soil and fertiliser and clammy concrete.

‘Watch your step . . . Okay, now open your eyes.’

We were standing inside Luella’s glasshouse. It looked ancient, pieced together with salvaged leadlight windows. It was shaded by the giant bunya, but along the western side it was a suntrap – ribbons of yellow and crimson and emerald light poured through the muted glass panels, creating rainbows in the humid air.

Workbenches had been built along both sides of the greenhouse and down the centre, leaving narrow walkways between. Crowded along the benches were hundreds of shallow plant pots sitting on trays of water. In the pots, the most curious collection of plants I’d ever seen. Some I recognised as the pitcher plants and sundews of Tony’s early botanical studies. Others were strange carnival freaks, balloon-like heads suspended on slender stalks; massive tubes with purple veins and frilled lids, brackets of waxy florets.

‘Wonderful, isn’t it, Mum?’

‘Oh . . . yeah.’

Sounds filtered in from outside. Magpies and cicadas, the swish of wind in the bunya pine, the squeaky clothesline.
There was another sound, a muffled buzzing close by. I went over to the nearest bench and examined a shallow dish in which grew a flat rosette of leaves, each leaf tipped with glossy pink hairs.

‘A native sundew,’ Luella said. ‘Each of those hairs is coated in sticky sweet-smelling glue. Insects flock to it, but then get stuck there and can’t escape. The leaf curls up around the hapless fly or moth and digests it.’

She went along the workbench and pointed to another plant. Pairs of double-leaves nodded from thin stems; they looked like gaping mouths, deep crimson on the inside, fringed by teeth-like spines.

‘It’s a Venus flytrap,’ Luella informed us. ‘When an insect ventures between these leaf lobes, it bends the delicate trigger-hairs, then . . . snap! The trap fills with digestive fluid and begins to feast.’ She gestured to Bronwyn, ‘Untie your hair ribbon, pet – give it to me.’

Bronwyn obliged, then watched in fascination as her grandmother smoothed the ribbon between her plump fingers and threaded it into the Venus flytrap’s jaws. She gave it a jerky twist, and the spiny leaf lobes snapped shut. Bronwyn hooked her neck in surprise, and I had to stifle an inane snort. The ribbon hung limply from the closed lips of the flytrap, looking every bit like a long pale tongue.

Luella moved along, indicating another plant. This one floated in a small fish tank of water. A cluster of slender stems rose above the waterline, topped by yellow pea-like flowers. Submerged below was a hairy tangle of roots, studded with strange nodules that looked like white seedpods.

‘It’s bladderwort,’ Luella said, bending to peer through the side of the tank, beckoning Bronwyn. ‘Such a pretty flower, but don’t be deceived – it’s named for the bladders attached to the anchoring stems that grow beneath the water. Each bladder has a small opening sealed by a hinged door. Look closely, you
might be able to see a pair of long hairs – yes, that’s it, come closer . . . You see there?’

Bronwyn looked baffled, but nodded.

‘When the hairs are triggered,’ Luella continued, ‘they lever open the bladder door, which creates a vacuum. The prey – in this case probably an aquatic invertebrate such as
Daphnia
– is sucked inside the hollow bladder and digested. Marvellous, isn’t it?’

‘Why do they do it?’ Bronwyn blurted.

‘Because they’re hungry, of course.’

‘But why do they eat insects? Why can’t they just get their food from the soil, like other plants?’

Looking pleased, Luella mopped her hanky over her face. ‘Why, these little beauties have adapted to grow in areas where the soil is thin or lacking in nutrients – particularly acidic bogs, or wastelands where nitrogen content in the soil is poor or non-existent.’ She tucked the hanky back in her bra. ‘Generally these plants lack an enzyme called nitrate reductase, which allows other plants to assimilate soil-borne nitrogen into food . . . that’s why carnivorous plants rely on nutrients they get from insects.’

Bronwyn looked solemnly at the bladderwort, but my interest had shifted.

Over by a sheltered section of wall was a large earthenware pot containing a cluster of giant tubular pitcher leaves that towered over everything else. The tall leaves were twisted, with a puffed-up hood and a pair of petals extended like fangs.

‘What about this, Luella?’

‘Ah yes, that splendid specimen is one of my favourites.’ She approached the plant, her face aglow with sweat and pleasure. ‘It’s a
Darlingtonia
, commonly referred to as the Cobra Lily – magnificent, isn’t it? It belongs to the family of pitfall traps, otherwise known as pitcher plants.’

Bronwyn elbowed in beside me. ‘What do
they
eat?’

‘Pretty much anything that’s foolish enough to crawl in – the usual flies and mosquitoes, wasps. Ants, slaters, silverfish. You see, like most pitcher plants, they have a brightly coloured visual lure at the lip of the trap – in this case, those fang-like protrusions – as well as the tempting sweet nectar that seeps from the hood. Look closer, my dear . . . do you see those little white splashes on the sides of the tubes? They’re transparent aeriolae, or false windows – they trick the insects into thinking there’s an escape hole. The insect struggles, but is further trapped by downward-pointing hairs, which direct them into the liquid below. The insect drowns, and eventually its corpse is dissolved . . . depending on the species of pitcher, the prey is broken down either by resident bacteria, or by enzymes secreted by the plant itself. The digested insect is converted into a solution of peptides, phosphates, amino acids, ammonium, nitrates, and urea – a veritable smorgasbord of essential nutrients!’

Stroking the largest lily trumpet, Luella gave an appreciative sigh. ‘There are even pitchers that harbour insect larvae in their reservoirs. These larvae feed on trapped prey, and then provide castings which the plant absorbs. Instant fertiliser! Have you ever heard of anything so ingenious?’ she added, almost to herself.

Bronwyn shook her head, obviously awestruck.

I felt somewhat awestruck myself. Luella seemed so proud of her plants, I wanted to say something complimentary – but while she’d been speaking, my imagination had run rampant. I’d imagined a beetle-sized version of myself climbing past the Cobra Lily’s crimson fangs and into its mouth cavity. I’d followed the delicious trail of nectar, been confused by the transparent windows glimmering with muted sunlight. My tiny self continued its doomed journey, guided downward by the silky hairs until I was slipping and sliding, unable to stop myself splashing into the deep pool of liquid and bobbing helplessly among fly carcasses and mosquito husks.

‘What happens – ’ I cleared my throat. ‘What happens if they don’t catch any insects? Do they starve?’

Luella gave me a curious look. ‘Goodness, no! They are, above all else, great adaptors. For instance, in winter when the insect population decreases, some pitcher plants produce special non-carnivorous leaves which assist in the absorption of soil nutrients . . . temporarily, anyway. That’s the beauty of these plants – they can adapt to virtually any environment, any circumstance, even lying dormant for years if they have to.’

Her face glowed with evident pleasure. A change had come over her. She appeared more youthful, more alive, her skin brightened by the intensity of her expression.

‘You know so much about them,’ Bronwyn marvelled.

Luella smiled. ‘I suppose I do, dear. I find them fascinating, there’s always something new to learn.’

I let my gaze roam. I’d just realised what was making the muffled buzzing noise I had noticed earlier. Sunlight had fallen on a nearby row of pitcher plants, illuminating the tall tubular leaves from behind and allowing me to see the tiny swarming shadows within. Flies, perhaps hundreds, trapped at the base of each pitcher plant reservoir, buzzing in a ghastly unmusical symphony – most of them droning like broken violins, while others were barely able to raise a frail hum.

The glasshouse was suddenly too hot, the air too humid to breathe. I inched towards the door, feeling two sets of curious eyes alight on me. I resisted the urge to look back. Shoving through the door, I stepped into the yard and made a beeline for the cool shade of the bunya pine.

Breathing the fresher air, I tried to clear the greenhouse scent from my lungs but the earthy, vaguely mouldy odour of peatmoss and damp soil made me think of the settlers’ hut, of the closed confinement of the crowded little room, and the secrets it protected.

Again my imagination ran riot.

Now I was inside the musty tallboy, surrounded by chipped, grubby porcelain faces whose eyes fixed on me in the gloom. My one consolation, my letters, were gone. And nearby, very near in the dark hanging compartment, the greasy, blackened axe handle propped in the shadows . . .

‘Mum?’

I wrenched around, blinking to clear my eyes. Bronwyn stood at the threshold of Luella’s greenhouse, worry etched on her face.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Sure. But I could really use a cup of tea.’

Luella bustled us across the grass, back up the steps and onto the verandah, settling us into chairs around the old cedar table. Yet even after tea was poured, even as I praised Luella’s chocolate tarts, even as my daughter prattled excitedly about the wondrous garden of carnivores we’d just seen . . . my thoughts kept returning to the settlers’ hut.

Had the squatter discovered the photo of Aylish tucked in among the letters and taken a liking to it? Or had he known Aylish, had she meant something to him? All the people Aylish had mentioned in her letters – Samuel, her Poppa Jacob, Klaus and Ellen Jarman, and Cleve – they were all gone. Only one person was still alive, Luella; and either she’d lied about not leaving the flowers on her mother’s grave . . . or someone else had left them there.

And that someone else, I felt certain, was the man I’d seen at the settlers’ hut.

Aylish, March 1946

W
e hurried along in the darkness, me stumbling in my good shoes, Lulu skipping ahead. She was singing happily to herself, a half made-up version of a scripture song Poppa had taught her. Though it was late for her to be out – judging by the height of the moon, it must be nearly nine o’clock – she was chirpy as a bird, excited by our mysterious night-time expedition.

‘Don’t stray off the track,’ I called.

‘I won’t, Mumma.’

She was a pretty child, good-natured and gentle, but with an occasional shrill temper that rivalled my own. Like me, she had inherited my mother’s thick brown hair and my father’s tendency to freckle – but she wasn’t delicate-boned, the way we were. She had the skinny legs of my mother’s people, but her frame was tall and robust, her features broad, her eyes wide-spaced and green like those of her own father.

My pace picked up.

Samuel, you’ll see . . . All will be well between us again
.

Tall trees loomed around us, their shadows carving the moonlight. Black ironbarks, red gums swallowed by strangling vines; lillypilly and wild jasmine drenching the night in scent,
banksias shivering in the wind, and blackthorn boughs reaching their spines to snare us as we passed.

I cursed my shoes, wishing I was less vain, more prone to being sensible. I’d pulled my old patents out of the box they’d languished in most of the war. They were scuffed and thin-soled, so I’d buffed them to a molasses-shine, but now their glassy surface was dimmed by layers of dust. The heels wobbled over stones, threatening to overturn me with every step. To make matters worse I was running late. I’d got it into my head that if I kept him waiting a few moments then he’d be all the keener to see me, all the happier when I finally arrived. After all, we had already waited nearly five years – what were an additional five minutes?

Stupid, stupid.

Five minutes had somehow turned to twenty.

Slipping off my shoes, I started running barefoot, eager to close the gap between me and the small figure that trundled ahead. Eager to reach the gully where Samuel would be waiting. Lulu heard me and whipped around, startled. Then she grinned.

‘Mumma? Are we playing a game?’

‘Sort of,’ I told her. ‘Do you think you can keep up?’

She beamed and dashed ahead. I trotted behind, my feet bruised by the stones, my ankles wobbling nearly as much as they’d done in shoes. I’d grown up barefoot. At the mission, dirt tracks were all I’d known. When I was ten and my mum died and we came to live at Magpie Creek, Poppa insisted I start dressing properly. Frocks with petticoats, gloves. A hat, too. Always a hat. Not that I minded. It was the shoes I hated. No matter how hard I complained, Poppa persevered and by the time I was fifteen my barefoot days were long gone.