Thornwood House (60 page)

‘Hey kiddo, why the frown?’

The bench creaked as Corey settled beside me. She unburdened herself of an enormous bunch of gerberas, laying them next to my own bouquet of pink and white native daisies. She gave me a peck on the cheek and gently squeezed the fingers of my good hand.

‘You’re late,’ I replied, ridiculously pleased to see her. Then handed her a bit of paper.

‘What’s this?’ she cried. ‘You’ve caught Danny’s note-writing bug?’ She held it up to her eyes, pretending to squint at my tiny scrawl as she read aloud. ‘Corey and Eliza, BBQ at Thornwood, Saturday arvo, tofu snags provided.’

She nudged me with her elbow. ‘Oh Audrey, I’m glad you’ve decided to stay. Danny and Jade are just so . . .’ She sighed, rolling her eyes dreamily.

I laughed, then cursed as I hugged my ribs, and that set Corey off and then we were both giggling. A moment later she was serious again. ‘So what’s this present you said you had for me?’

Sliding two flat parcels from my tote, I placed them in her hands.

Corey unwrapped the first to find a book,
The Magic Pudding
, by Norman Lindsay. She gave me a curious look. ‘I loved this as a kid, how did you know?’

‘Open the other one.’

Inside the second parcel was another book, smaller, buckled and water-damaged. The stained cover, with its fluffy white kitten and blush roses, looked weatherworn in the sunlight.

Her smile faltered. ‘What’s this?’

‘A diary,’ I told her. ‘I found it – or rather, Bronwyn found it – at Thornwood.’

She looked from me to the little journal and back at me, plainly mystified. Then her fingers were cracking open the cover, her eyes eagerly scanning the neat lines of cursive that inked the inner pages.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Oh, Audrey.’

For a long time we sat silently. The raucous chatter of the dollarbirds echoed overhead. Gum leaves rustled in the balmy breeze, invading the air with their spicy green scent. Corey pored over the pages, not reading – that would come later – but touching the lines of water-blurred ink, shaking her head disbelievingly. Tears rained from her eyes, but the tremulous smile never left her lips.

At last she sighed and closed the diary, hugged it to her chest. ‘Thank you, Audrey. You can’t know what this means to me.’

‘I think I can,’ I confessed. ‘Some parts will be difficult for you to read . . . but I think Glenda would have wanted you to have it.’

Corey’s tear-streaked face was luminous. She mopped her eyes on her wrist and gave me a lopsided hug.

A shout from the graveyard had us both looking over.

Luella had brought along her grandfather’s ancient Box Brownie and was calling for us to join them. Corey waved, but we continued to sit for the moment, happy to watch. Luella was bustling about trying to coordinate Jade and Bronwyn into some semblance of order so that she could take their photo. The girls were doing their wet hen routine – only this time they were being pursued by a swarm of exuberant kelpie puppies that seemed to want to be everywhere at once.

‘Look at them,’ Corey said with a laugh. ‘Trust Hobe to find a way of offloading his excess puppies. None of us will get any rest from this day forward, mark my words. I hope Luella knows what she’s getting herself into.’

I looked across the cemetery at Bronwyn’s grandmother. She’d agreed to meet with Hobe later that afternoon. Her face glowed, and despite the bruises still lingering around her eye she looked relaxed and beautiful. Hard to believe that only yesterday she’d read her mother’s stolen letters. Once, I’d have thought it right to keep them from her; right to protect her from the truth. But I remembered her face the night Bronwyn had been taken. Shock, at first; then the steely glint in her eyes as she’d pressed her father’s hunting knife into my fingers, the quiet words that had carried so much command.

Do whatever you have to, Audrey. Just bring her safely home
.

A delighted squeal drew my attention back to Bronwyn and Jade. They’d finally organised themselves into a tight huddle for the camera, only to scurry away again in shrieks as an oversized butterfly dive-bombed the armloads of roses they both held.

Corey stood up, still clutching the diary against her chest. ‘Come on,’ she said, helping me to my feet and collecting our bouquets. ‘No point letting them have all the fun.’

She was right, of course.

After all, it was a glorious day. The sky was a cobalt-blue dome, the sun was deliciously hot, and the morning brimmed with promise.

It was Sunday, and we’d all brought flowers for Aylish.

Later, in the hushed bubble of my sunny studio, I rang Carol. She’d been following the news reports on the TV and in the papers, and the police had notified her about the ongoing inquiry into Tony’s death. As the media was making such a meal of it all, I thought she deserved the simple truth.

I related my discovery of Glenda’s diary and how it had helped me unravel the truth about her murder. And how that, in turn, had led me to discover what had really happened to Tony.

When I finished, she was weeping quietly.

‘Thank you, Audrey,’ she said through her tears. ‘Tony was right about you.’

‘Oh?’

‘He used to say, and I quote, “Audrey’s a girl in a million.” Now I can see why.’

We hung up, and I sat in the stillness. The old house creaked. Outside, a pair of magpies warbled an intricate duet. For a while I trod water, engulfed by Carol’s sorrow, and by my own. Then my mind stopped whirling. A feeling of relief folded around me, warm and soothing as bathwater. I shut my eyes, and in the semi-darkness behind my lids I saw the beautiful young woman I’d seen on the other side of the gully. She was smiling now. The late afternoon sun gleamed in her hair and burnished her skin, illuminating her as she turned and slipped between the trees, quickly vanishing into the light.

T
he world sleeps, the sky is at its darkest. My bedroom window is open and bare of curtains. Warm night air blows in, carrying the spicy perfume of gum leaves and roses. There are no neighbours for miles, no one to spy on us but possums and birds.

Soon, the sun will come and chase the night. Being woken by the diaphanous pre-dawn glow – that Aylish called the piccaninny light – is fast climbing to the top of my list of favourite things.

Most favourite of all is listening to the man beside me sleep.

I reach across the bed, and he’s there. Large and warm, solidly real. I’m becoming accustomed to drifting off to the rhythm of his breath, held protected in his arms or pressed snug against his warm back. And when sleep finally comes, I take care to tiptoe through my dreams.

Silently, so as not to wake the dead.

He spoke to me again last night. One word, uttered so quietly I almost missed it.

‘Love,’ he said, and then his fingers curled around mine, tugging me to him, his arms wrapping me firm. His voice was gruff, lazy, pleasantly husky. Rusty, he claims, from a lifetime of neglect. In my view, if he only ever has the inclination to say one word in his life, then he’s chosen the right one.

A
nna Romer grew up in a family of book-lovers and yarn-tellers, which inspired her lifelong love affair with stories. A graphic artist by trade, she also spent many years travelling the globe stockpiling story material from the Australian outback, then Asia, New Zealand, Europe and America.

Her first novel,
Thornwood House
, reflects her fascination with forgotten diaries and letters, dark family secrets, rambling old houses, and love in its many guises – as well as her passion for the uniquely beautiful Australian landscape. Her second novel,
Lyrebird Hill
, will be published in September 2014.

When she’s not writing (or falling in love with another book), Anna is an avid gardener, knitter, bushwalker and conservationist. She lives on a remote bush property in northern New South Wales.

W
riting a novel is never a solitary task, and I’d like to warmly thank the following people whose involvement made this one possible.

My agent, Selwa Anthony, for her valuable story input and writerly advice, as well as her steadfast belief in me over the years. Selwa, you are a treasured friend and role model – thank you with all my heart!

My publisher, Larissa Edwards, for her dedication and hard work, and the awesome crew at Simon and Schuster. My talented editors, whose insights helped me become a better writer: Selena Hanet-Hutchins, Drew Keys, Kate O’Donnell and Roberta Ivers.

Russell Taylor for being my rock, and for giving me his love, faith and support over many years. Sarah Clarke, Merrilyn Gray and Julian Davies for cheering me on. Dan Mitchell for giving me a home in the bush, and for his love and friendship and ongoing inspiration. Bet and Norm Mitchell for their kindness and hospitality, and for allowing me to pore over Norm’s wonderful war memoirs.

Ian Irvine for being a fount of writerly knowledge and good sense; Josephine Pennicott for taking me under her wing. Megan Inwood for allowing me to borrow her daughter’s name; Stuart Ruthven for insights about the Boonah region; and Hailey
and Luke for reminding me that stories (and life) are supposed to be fun!

My mum, Jeanette, for inspiring my love of books, and for her wisdom and continuing faith in me; my dad, Bernie, for a lifetime of memorable stories and yarns; my sister Katie for her countless facials (to repair the wrinkles she gives me by making me laugh!); and my sister Sarah who’s always been my staunchest fan – even when success seemed a remote and impossible dream.

My love and thanks to you all.

I would also like to acknowledge and thank the Ugarapul people of the Fassifern region of south-west Queensland, whose history inspired my references to Indigenous culture in
Thornwood House
.

Anna Romer

F
or me, a novel begins a long time before I sit down to write. I always start a project with a new notebook. Over many months – or years – I fill it with photos, newspaper clippings, articles, and random scribblings. I make lists and timelines, draw maps, create detailed dossiers for my characters and build histories around them. I currently have about fifteen of these notebooks on the boil, each containing the raw ideas of a future novel.

As the bones of a story begin to emerge, I pick over my favourite themes – forbidden love, obsession, scandal and family secrets, and the lies we tell to each other and to ourselves. I never consciously try to work my themes into the storyline, but they are always brewing away under the surface, helping me to stay focused.

I also choose a fairytale that resonates with me, and think of
ways I can weave it through the plot. In
Thornwood House
I played with the idea of Bluebeard, and his mysterious locked room which eventually tempted his wives to their deaths. The manifestation of this theme in the final story is very subtle, but it inspired the sense of curiosity and danger that I wanted to convey – both for the back bedroom of the house at Thornwood, and for the old settler’s hut near the gully.

When I finish brainstorming, my pile of notes is thicker than a telephone directory. I rarely look at these notes again.
The story seeds have been planted; now it’s time to let them germinate and grow in the dark garden of my subconscious.

Meanwhile, I dive into the research, which is another great way to peel open further layers of story.

My research involves a lot of travel to soak up scenery and get a feel for local people and families and their fascinating pasts. For
Thornwood House
, I needed to know what life was like in the Fassifern region of Queensland during the 1940s, and how a small rural community was impacted by the war. I studied old newspapers, maps and photographs, and explored the landmarks in my story, such as Boonah’s historic Lutheran graveyard, and a spooky old settler’s hut I discovered in a forgotten paddock.

I also read heaps of war correspondence, as well as wartime memoirs and diary entries. Mum gave me a bundle of airgraph letters that were sent to my grandmother during the Second World War. These letters documented a young pilot’s longing for home, and made the war experience all the more personal for me.