Thornwood House (9 page)

‘She’s lucky to have you,’ she said at last. ‘A girl needs her mum, there’s no better shoulder to cry on. I don’t know how I’d have gotten through adolescence without my mum, bless her.’

It was a kind thing to say, but it stirred a rush of guilt. I tried to smile, but my face felt stiff and masklike.

‘Things are a bit strained between us at the moment,’ I said over the engine. ‘Bronwyn rarely cries about her father – not in front of me, anyway. She hides in her room, as if grieving is something to be ashamed of. Some days I think she’s okay, then other times I worry.’

‘We all grieve in our own way,’ Corey said, with a sideways glance. ‘I don’t have kids of my own, not yet anyway, so I’m no authority – but give her time, Audrey . . . my guess is she’ll be fine.’

Far below, the Cessna’s shadow raced beneath us, a small dart-like ghost rippling over hills and valleys, jumping brown dams, and weaving across a patchwork of green and gold paddocks sewn together by post-and-wire fencing. It skipped across yellow dots of baled hay, teasing the cattle that browsed in their quiet fields.

Corey tapped the windscreen.

‘First property’s coming up on the right. We’re approaching from the south-west, that line of trees marks the northern boundary. In a moment, we’ll swing east, then hook back around and approach from the north-east boundary so the sun’s at our back. I can make a second pass if you want.’

I leaned on the passenger door, balancing the base of the camera against the outer window rim, cushioning it with the heel of my hand as I squinted into the viewfinder.

Rust-coloured soil showed beneath a worn carpet of golden grass, and the corrugated farmhouse roof tossed up shards of fractured sunlight.

Steadying the camera, I switched to manual focus and began shooting before the property had filled my lens. Distractedly, I thought: Corey’s a good pilot. These’ll be first-rate shots. We’re riding smooth despite the hard wind I can feel buffeting my face from below.

We progressed over the heart of the property, the Cessna’s groaning engine keeping pace with the metronome whirr of my camera. The farm’s gravel driveway looped back on itself and then shot eastwards, towards a stretch of tarmac that joined the highway. A heartbeat later, the property slid away and we were coasting over a darkly treed mountain ridge.

‘You need a second pass?’ Corey yelled above the din.

‘No, that was great.’

‘All right, we’ll go north-west now. The second property’s not far.’

Somehow Corey managed to keep the sun at my back, which made my job a breeze. It seemed no time passed before all four of Cossart’s farm holdings lay behind us.

As Corey manoeuvred the Cessna into a wide turn, I began snapping random shots. A ragged circle of peaked hills curved beneath us, green and lush, crosshatched by gullies and shadowy ravines. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen. From up here the world looked peaceful, and yet it was easy to imagine this colossal ring of extinct volcanic remnants as a one-time chaotic furnace of ash and lava.

‘Look down there,’ Corey called, pointing to my window.

As the plane swung westward, the pilot-side wing tilted straight up while mine dipped almost vertically beneath me. The
ground rose sharply and for one dizzying moment I imagined reaching out my hand to touch the treetops.

Then I realised what Corey was doing.

‘That’s Thornwood.’ I couldn’t keep the laugh out of my voice. ‘I recognise that hill at the back of the homestead, and that crescent-shaped rock-face. It’s all so leafy, so beautiful . . .’

I twisted off my lens cap and began shooting again, feeling a thrill as I reminded myself that the rolling landscape below belonged to me. My camera captured the forested hills and valley pastures, the rocky outcrops and steep-walled gullies. It caught the darker green of the garden, and the silver rooftop beneath which my daughter was enjoying her me-time unawares.

The icy gale roaring through the tiny window had frozen my face and fingers and the first threads of airsickness were climbing the base of my spine. My throat was raw from shouting, and my hearing was dulled by the engine’s constant hammering . . . yet I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this happy.

‘It’s a magnificent property,’ Corey shouted. ‘I’m glad it went to someone who values it. There’s nothing sadder than seeing a place like that fall apart from neglect.’

‘Do you know the property well?’

‘I grew up on one of the adjoining farms, but my parents sold up in the early nineties. See that green swathe of hills down there? That’s our old boundary.’

We peered down at the rugged landscape where the Cessna’s shadow bumped over hills and dipped into verdant valleys.

‘I have fond memories of Thornwood,’ Corey yelled above the engine. ‘We used to play there as kids. It was wild and overgrown – infinitely more magical than the Weingarten organic fruit and vegetable farm. Bunyips in the creek, trolls under every hill, that sort of thing. We had a blast – feasting on limes, bananas, mangoes . . . cracking open macadamias, hiding in tree branches, skinny-dipping in the creek. Even after the old man died, no amount of warnings would keep us away.’

I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly over the noise. ‘Warnings?’

Corey reached back and slid her window shut, then indicated I do the same. I’d finished shooting, so it was a relief to stop the rush of freezing wind. The noise dimmed dramatically too. The Cessna’s roar was muted now, the cockpit a bubble of calm.

‘What do you mean, warnings?’ I prompted.

Corey gazed into the horizon of blue nothingness. ‘Our parents didn’t want us going there, I suppose because of how Tony’s grandfather died. Anyway, it only made the place more attractive. We pretended it was a haunted house, and made up stories about a secret room full of human skeletons. We used to dare each other to spend a night there, but none of us ever did.’ She cast me a sideways look. ‘Don’t worry, Audrey, the stories aren’t true.’

‘How did he die?’

She frowned. ‘Tony never told you?’

I shook my head.

She studied the controls. ‘Some bushwalkers wandered into Thornwood from the national park. They found him under a tree, stone cold dead. His body had been mauled by animals. Apparently he’d been stalking around up there one night and fallen, broken his hip. Poor old guy, they reckon he must’ve starved to death.’

‘How awful.’

‘Yeah, it was. But it gives you an idea of the vastness of the place. Thornwood’s a huge property – you could walk for days and never see a soul. There are quite a few properties like that around here, up in the hills – especially bordering the national park. It’s beautiful,’ she added wistfully, ‘but you need to watch your step.’

‘Didn’t anyone miss him?’

‘Old Samuel kept to himself. Never even saw much of his family, as far as I recall. I supposed he preferred his own company, seeing as he wasn’t all that popular.’

‘Why wasn’t he popular?’

Another puzzled glance. ‘Tony never told you that, either?’

‘He never spoke about his family. It upset him too much, so in the end I stopped asking.’

Corey looked uneasy. ‘Well . . . I don’t know if should break it to you or not . . . after all, you’ve just moved there and you seem to like the place. I don’t want to give you nightmares.’

I stared, waiting.

She sighed. ‘He was accused of murdering someone.’

‘Who?’

‘A young woman . . . Tony’s grandmother. Poor thing,’ she rushed on, ‘it was back in the forties, just after the end of the war. There was a trial. Samuel walked free, but the damage was done. Rumours went around that he was guilty, that the case was discharged because his father knew the judge. Afterwards, the whole town went into shock. Everyone was related to everyone else in those days – people knew each other, and if tragedy befell one family it had a ripple effect through the district. That’s the nature of tight-knit communities like Magpie Creek. People know each other’s business, and they have long memories.’ She looked at me. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve spooked you, haven’t I? You’re white as a sheet.’

I shook my head – not spooked. But her revelation had jogged my memory . . . A dream, too hazy to recall, but the gist of it came back. I’d been lying in the shadows in a bush clearing, unable to move, my limbs skewed beneath me, the shadow of something large and heavy crushing me beneath its dark weight –

‘Murder,’ I said, a little breathlessly. ‘It seems so – ’

Corey widened her eyes in agreement. ‘Dramatic. I know.’

‘When we moved in,’ I told her, ‘the old man’s belongings were still in the house. Not just the furniture, but clothes and shoes in the wardrobe, toothbrush and shaving gear in the bathroom cabinet. Old tins of biscuits in the pantry. Nothing had been boxed up or thrown away after he died – it was all just left as it was.’

Corey mimed a shiver. ‘Spooky. You must have been totally freaked.’

‘This’ll sound mad . . . but I wasn’t freaked at all. In fact – and here’s the crazy part – despite all that, the old place felt lived-in and welcoming. There was a vibe there, you know? Sad, but kind of happy, too. I had this weird feeling I was coming home after a long time away.’

‘You mean like a past life thing?’

‘Not exactly . . . more like a really strong connection.’ I flapped my hand, realising how absurd I must sound. ‘Probably just the afterglow of inheriting such an amazing property. It’s like stepping back in time to a more tranquil, graceful world. It was as if the house was holding its breath, waiting to come alive again. In a strange way, waiting for me.’

Corey eyed me worriedly. ‘So you’re not going to dash off home and start packing your bags?’

‘No way,’ I said with a laugh. Secretly, though, my heart raced. I might not have the urge to rush off and pack any bags, but I felt an irresistible compulsion to . . . Well, to do
something
–

The radio crackled, a sudden intrusion. Corey twiddled a dial and listened as the controller’s insect-voice buzzed into the cockpit. She signed off, then made an adjustment to her instrument panel. When she eased the steering column to the fore, the Cessna dipped almost imperceptibly earthwards.

‘There’s a storm on the way,’ she informed me. ‘We’ll head back now, if you’re done?’

‘Sure am.’

Positioning my camera lens-down on my lap, I scrolled through the photos I’d taken, using my hands to shelter the viewing screen from the light bouncing off the Cessna’s wings. The shots were good: lots of glowing colour, crisp contrast, uniform lighting and clear depth of field.

‘How did you go?’ Corey asked.

‘Great. You fly smooth. It makes a difference.’

She chuckled. ‘Flattery will get you everywhere, kiddo. Most of the locals I take up complain that I fly too slow, the dorks. No sense of artistry.’

I found myself giggling along with her, and – as the Cessna rumbled back toward the airstrip – I acknowledged again that I was enjoying myself. Despite the revelation about Tony’s grandfather and the shadow it cast over Thornwood, I was buoyant.

My fingers slid into the pocket where I’d stashed the business card Corey had given me. I traced the edge of the card, wondering about the old handyman.

Hobe Miller: tree lopper, possum catcher, chook pen builder, walking encyclopaedia. He’d know all about Thornwood’s history, Corey had said. And maybe even something more about Tony’s grandfather – the details of his murder trial in the forties, perhaps . . . and how he’d come to be accused of killing Tony’s grandmother.

I made a superfast delivery to Cossart’s, dropping off my photocard and hastily filling out a job sheet. Then I tore back to Thornwood, my eyes on the dashboard clock. The morning’s adventure had transpired in under two hours.

I expected Bronwyn to be curled up on the couch just as I’d left her, maybe sound asleep in front of a movie. The TV was blaring but the lounge room was empty.

‘Bronny?’

I tried her bedroom, then went along the hall and checked the other rooms. They were empty too. She wasn’t in the kitchen, and when I paused on the back verandah to examine the yard, there was still no sign of her. My pulse tripped up a notch, my palms were sweaty. Calm down, I told myself, she won’t be far. Probably on her bench beneath the jacaranda, or in the vegie patch . . .

The back of the house faced west, with a view across a forested valley to purple ranges. The north side of the yard rose steeply,
ending at the foot of a small hill. The base of the hill was crowded with black-trunked ironbarks and thickets of tea-tree, while the peak was an open expanse of balding rocky outcrops. It was only noon but shadows had already engulfed the south face of the hill, while the northern slope was awash in light so stark it picked out every leaf and blade of dry brown grass. No other houses, no trace of civilisation; just hills and trees and endless sky.

On the distant horizon drifted a huge grey flotilla, evidence of the storm Corey had forewarned. The clouds were benign for now, approaching slowly, almost stealthily. The shadows in the garden seemed to sense the impending havoc, shifting between the trees.

Despite the muggy heat, I felt a shivery ripple on the backs of my arms. Had this picturesque place really been the scene of brutal murder? Had Thornwood once been home to a cold-blooded killer? I thought about the big airy rooms, the cosy armchairs, the gleaming furniture that fitted so well among my own. Suddenly the house no longer seemed the safe haven I’d imagined it to be.