Lyrebird Hill Page 6

  ‘Whitby has promised me he will care for you,’ my father said at last. ‘Do you think you could grow to love him, Brenna girl?’

  ‘He is twice my age.’

  ‘He’s a fine-looking man. At least, according to Ida he is.’

  ‘Looks are not everything.’

  ‘He is devoted to his sister. When her fiancé died, he paid for the young man’s funeral, and then moved Adele into his house, the better to provide for her.’

  ‘Will he be devoted to me?’

  ‘Of course, my sparrow.’

  I couldn’t withhold a snort. ‘Fa Fa, we shook hands. I wasn’t expecting fireworks, not exactly – but am I foolish to assume that when a woman accepts a man’s proposal of marriage, she is entitled to a kiss?’

  Fa Fa lifted his brows and gave a weary sigh. ‘Carsten has many admirable qualities. Unfortunately, social grace is not one of them.’

  ‘But shaking hands?’

  My father’s face softened. ‘You don’t have to marry him, Brenna. It’s not too late to write to him and admit a change of heart.’

  A breeze lifted the curtains. The peppery scent of wildflowers mingled with the smell of tobacco. Drifts of native flowers had naturalised around the house. Nodding chocolate orchids, bluebells and golden hibbertia. My father loved them, and I’d crammed an armful into a Fowlers jar on the table especially to cheer him.

  ‘There’s been no change of heart, Fa Fa. I made a promise, and I intend to keep it. Anyway, what is love, when the fate of our home is at stake?’

  Fa Fa tapped his pipe and relit it, then drew on the stem until the embers burned bright in the gloom.

  ‘That’s easy enough to say now. But how will you feel after the passing of a year? Of a decade? Time will dim your enthusiasm. Married life will limit your freedom, and tax your inner resources. You will have new obligations, and new restrictions. After a while, my sparrow, you may well come to regret your sacrifice.’

  I sensed my father was speaking from experience, and for the first time wondered about his marriage to Mama. I had always thought them content; was it possible that Fa Fa had been secretly unhappy?

  ‘I don’t believe I’m making a sacrifice,’ I told him. ‘I’m simply doing what needs to be done.’

  I could see by my father’s frown that he wasn’t convinced. His features looked pinched, his eyes dark with worry, and I realised he was more troubled than he was letting on. Beneath our discussion of marriage, lurked a deeper fear – a fear that I understood perfectly.

  I went to the window, gazing past my reflection to the darkness outside. I could scarcely believe that a week ago I’d been unable to think of anything but my botanical pictures. I had rushed through my chores, bolted my food, and stayed up late drawing by candlelight. Whenever I could, I escaped to visit Jindera, consulting with her over my newest collection of specimens. Flowers, seed pods, frills of lichen; finch eggs, the blue-green feathers shed by a kingfisher, a wallaby skull.

  Nothing had seemed more important.

  Until now.

  ‘Do you remember that squatter?’ I asked Fa Fa, turning to face him. ‘The one who paid his Aboriginal workers with loaves of damper, which turned out to be laced with arsenic?’

  My father winced and looked away. ‘I remember.’

  ‘And do you recall that Aboriginal boy who was clubbed and left to die by the roadside?’

  Silence.

  My fingers trembled, but I couldn’t stop. ‘A few days ago, Aunt Ida told me about another killing, west of here.’

  Pain rumpled my father’s face.

  I hated torturing him this way, but a fever of purpose had taken hold of me. He must understand; he must know that despite my reluctance to leave home, staying and watching it be sold off and ultimately destroyed would be far worse.

  ‘Whole clans are starving because their hunting grounds are grazed flat. They’re forbidden to carry spears, so they can’t hunt. They live in a state of worry and uncertainty.’ I took a shaky breath. ‘Could you bear to see those things happen here at Lyrebird Hill? Could you tolerate Jindera’s band being treated that way?’

  ‘No, my dove. You know I couldn’t.’

  ‘Then, as long as the people who belong here live and breathe, I will have no regrets.’

  Tears glazed my father’s eyes. I sensed that he carried in his memory far worse reports than the ones I’d just described. With the creaky slowness of an old man, he reached into his pocket. Out came an object of dark wood, which he fumbled and dropped on the floor.

  I picked it up. It was a chess piece, a fine dark queen. Much care had gone into its carving. Where had my father happened upon such a piece? Had he acquired the rest of the set? If so, I was already longing to play. I’d been practising obsessively, and fancied that my game had improved. It seemed absurd to be thinking of a game when the future of the farm was uncertain, but chess was a passion and I yearned to lose my troubles for an hour or so in a hearty challenge. Besides, some of my best ideas came to me while labouring a strategic point.

  I replaced the queen on the table.

  ‘She’s all I have left,’ Fa Fa said.

  I looked at him, not understanding.

  ‘When your mama and I were married,’ he explained, ‘we honeymooned in London. It was a strange time for us. We were both young and in love, only not—’ He hesitated, and gave me a cautious look, then hurried on. ‘Anyway, one day I secured a fine chess set in Camden. The white pieces were carved from boar’s bone, while the black were of ebony wood. Florence was a keen player, and I knew she would be pleased by my acquisition. But as I was making my way back to our apartments, I was robbed. The thieves took everything I owned – my purse and wedding ring, even my shoes. When I climbed to my feet and looked around, I saw this little player lying in the snow, overlooked.

  ‘I picked her up, and when I saw it was the black queen, I recognised it as an omen. For the longest time I stood there in the middle of that deserted London street in my socks and waistcoat, and all I could think of was how I yearned to be home. With each passing day, my yearning grew more insufferable. But whenever I picked up this little queen and held her in my hand, home seemed somehow nearer.’

  I searched my father’s face, wondering why a solitary chess piece had the power to ease his homesickness. The tiny ebony player made me think of my friends at the encampment. I imagined Fa Fa had made that connection too.

  Since Carsten’s proposal, I had created my own talisman against homesickness. Pressed between the pages of my Bible were twenty or more gum leaves, picked fresh from the trees in an effort to preserve their aroma. I had gathered flowers, too: native orchids, hibbertia, and papery ammobium daisies that rustled like silk. I could already feel the ache of separation blossoming in me, a cold, empty ache that I knew would grow deeper with distance. Even so, I refused to resent my sacrifice; how could I, when it meant saving the land and the people I loved?

  ‘I couldn’t bear to lose Lyrebird Hill,’ I told my father heatedly, then chose my next words with care. ‘Not an acre of it, not even a square inch.’

  Fa Fa looked at me for a long time, an odd light in his eyes. Then he averted his gaze back to the table, nudging the ebony queen with a finger that appeared to tremble.

  ‘No, my beauty,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘neither could I.’

  3

  The journey towards emotional freedom begins when you start thinking more about where you’re going, and less about where you’ve been.

  – ROB THISTLETON, EMOTIONAL RESCUE

  Ruby, April 2013

  The week following my return to the coast was hectic. Several large deliveries of books arrived at the shop, and I threw myself into unpacking and cataloguing and finding space for them in my already impossibly cluttered shelves.

  On Friday night, I went home early. Although my bookshop was in the busy metropolis of Coffs Harbour on the north coast of New South Wales, I lived twenty minutes south of there in the small seaside vill
age of Sawtell. My tiny cottage was perched on the hilltop overlooking the sandy curves of Murray’s Beach. On a windy day the salty breath of the ocean whispered through my rooms, teasing the curtains and enticing me out onto the patio to inhale the view.

  Kicking off my shoes, I unloaded my groceries in the kitchen, then went out to the garden and picked a handful of fresh greens. When Rob rang and asked me to dinner, I found myself making excuses. He had resumed his usual chirpiness after our tiff about the bra, but I found myself watching him more closely now, reading hidden meaning into his words, looking for a chink in the armour of his innocence. I’d even stalked him once or twice, getting myself all sweaty and worried, working myself into a mood – but he’d only been with clients, or at the bar with his mates, or picking up laundry from the woman who washed and ironed for him.

  There’s no one else, Ruby. When are you going to get that through your thick skull?

  I was trying to be happy with that. But since Mum’s opening and my chat with Mrs Hillard, things had changed.

  I felt as if I’d fallen down a rabbit hole and emerged into a world that was, by all appearances, normal, but under that veneer of normalcy was a life I didn’t recognise. Esther’s slip about Jamie, and then her gentle backtracking to save my feelings, still haunted me. I understood why Mum had never told me the truth, and appreciated that she’d only been trying to protect me with her silence; but something niggled.

  Going out to my bedroom, I opened the wardrobe and took down a shoebox. Wiping off a layer of dust, I removed the lid and stared at the old photos inside.

  After Jamie died, Mum had boxed up all our childhood photos and put them away, unable to cope with the grief they inspired in her. Once, I had rescued a Polaroid of Jamie from Mum’s hoard and hidden it in my room, bringing it out to get me through those times when Jamie’s absence seemed too painful to bear.

  Where had it gone?

  Urgency gripped me. I shuffled through the snapshots, hoping I’d overlooked the Polaroid in my haste. But it wasn’t in the box. All of a sudden, I needed desperately to find it. If I could see my sister’s face, catch it in my mind and hold it there, I felt sure my restlessness would subside.

  From under my bed, I dragged out an old suitcase. Inside was an assortment of knick-knacks and odd flotsam that didn’t belong anywhere else – dog-eared certificates, cigar boxes stuffed with old stamps and coins – but there was no Polaroid. Next I went through my collection of vintage handbags; still no luck. As I was packing them away, I came across the dusty bouquet of wildflowers that Esther Hillard had given me the night of Mum’s opening.

  I picked it up, thinking about my promise to visit. I never would, of course. How could I? The idea of seeing the old farmhouse again filled me with unease. It was one thing to see an idealised version of my childhood home in Mum’s paintings; after all, they were only oil paint on canvas. But to actually venture into the landscape of my past was simply too daunting.

  They never did find the person responsible, did they?

  Absently, I lifted the bouquet to my nose and drank in its dusty, peppery, wildflower scent. And just like that, the vault slid open and the past rushed out to engulf me.

  Our farmhouse was cold this time of year, colder today because Mum had left all the doors and windows wide open. I was huddled at the kitchen table, working on a school project – knitting a woollen beanie with pompoms – but my fingers were turning blue, and I kept fumbling the needles, dropping the wool on the floor, picking it up, and then dropping it again.

  Mum came into the kitchen, a pair of scissors in her hand. She stared at me for a long time, then finally said, ‘Come over here.’

  Abandoning my wool scraps and half-finished pompoms, I got up and plodded over to her on frozen feet.

  She grabbed my shoulders and dragged me around to face the doorway with my back to her. I stared across the verandah into the yard. The walnut tree had shed its leaves, and withered black pods clung to the naked branches. I felt a cold sensation drag across the back of my neck, and flinched. Mum yanked me back into place. Snip. Something slithered past my shoulder and landed feather-soft on my foot. I couldn’t look down; Mum was gripping the top of my head, holding me steady. Snip. Another flutter on my arm. Snip-snip.

  Finally she pulled me around to face her. Her eyes were red, her cheeks puffy and her lips looked as if she’d nibbled away half the skin.

  ‘What happened on the rocks that day, Ruby?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why were your arms covered in bruises? They looked like finger marks. Were they, Ruby? Were they marks made by someone’s fingers?’

  I looked down. My toes were curling over the ends of my sandals. They were last year’s sandals, white with buckles across the ankle. My foot had grown an inch or so in that time, but I hadn’t thought to remind Mum it was time for new shoes.

  Mum shook me. ‘How can you not remember those bruises? You were black and blue for weeks. Did Jamie put them there? Did you have a fight? What did you do to her?’

  My eyes stung. Please, I prayed silently, please don’t let me cry. Not now. I tried to pull away, but Mum’s grip held firm.

  ‘Ruby, I told you girls to stay at home that day. Why didn’t you listen? You knew the rocks would be slippery after the rain. Why couldn’t you have done what you were told for once?’

  When I didn’t reply, and she let me go. Crossing the kitchen, she returned the scissors to the utility drawer and went outside.

  My head felt so light I thought it might topple off and roll away. Bruises. Finger marks. I couldn’t remember. My skin itched. My limbs shook. I stood there a long time, staring at nothing, my heart turning small, as hard and dry as a walnut.

  Hours passed before I dared to look in the mirror. My hair was cropped like a boy’s. Short, prickly. Horrible. It showed off my freckly skin and round face to its worst advantage. Somehow my resemblance to Jamie had disappeared; in its place was a girl I didn’t recognise. An ugly girl I found myself hating.

  Outside, the trees were shedding their leaves. The sky was the colour of washed-out denim. The air had turned icy. Rosehips were out, and the bean pods hanging on the dry vines rattled in the wind like castanets.

  It was the last Sunday in June.

  I was thirteen.

  The flowers dropped from my fingers and scattered on the floor. Pressing my knuckles against my lips, I stared at myself in the mirror. I was hunched over, with possum eyes and cheeks darkened by the shadow of my hair.

  The memory had been so vivid that I could still smell the woodsmoke from our old farmhouse kitchen, still feel the icy floorboards under my feet. The scissors rasped, and my thick dark locks slithered over my shoulders as I tried not to cry.

  What happened on the rocks that day, Ruby?

  I searched my reflection, but there was no hint of the bright, beautiful sister I had idolised as a child. Just my own familiar face – brown eyes, sweeping brows, unruly dark hair. Jamie’s hair had been waist length, her eyes golden and her skin paler than mine; if there had ever been a likeness, there was no sign of that resemblance now, at least none that I could see.

  Mum, on the other hand, must still be aware of it. Hadn’t she commented, only last week, how much nicer my hair looked short?

  In translation: With long hair, you remind me of Jamie.

  Rob’s apartment in Coffs Harbour was on the top floor of an older style block on the hill. Inside, the renovations were extensive, and the suite now boasted a huge open plan area with windows overlooking the jetty and Muttonbird Island, and then beyond to the Pacific Ocean.

  I shifted uncomfortably on the sleek leather sofa. I had a champagne flute in one hand and a stick of cucumber in the other, and my bare feet were buried in the thick pile of a black flokati rug.

  I should have been in seventh heaven.

  Instead, I was glaring at the back of Rob’s head, quietly fuming.

  Two weeks had passed since my mother’s opening in Ar
midale. In that time we hadn’t returned to the subject of the lace bra. For Rob, it seemed to have passed into ancient history; meanwhile, I continued to brood.

  ‘How’s that?’ Rob asked, glancing over his shoulder. He’d hammered a nail into the wall and was attempting to straighten his new painting.

  I shrugged. ‘Maybe a bit to the left.’

  He adjusted the painting, then moved back to assess the effect. Obviously pleased, he shuffled onto the couch beside me and poured himself a drink. Mum’s exhibition had closed yesterday, and the painting Rob had bought – the antique Singer sewing machine – had arrived by courier at Rob’s therapy rooms this morning. He had waited until I turned up before hanging it, and then insisted we celebrate the occasion with bubbly.

  ‘You’re very quiet,’ he noted.

  ‘I’m just not entirely convinced that it suits the decor. I mean, look at all your other stuff.’ I waved my cucumber stick at the room. ‘There’s all this chrome and leather and smoked glass, it’s all so mid-century. Mum’s old Singer would be more at home in a place full of older-style furniture, and . . . you know, antiques and collectables, that sort of thing.’

  ‘You mean, like your place?’

  I slumped. Yes, of course I meant my place. And of course I couldn’t say so, because that would make me look selfish. But I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of resentment; Mum’s painting seemed too personal to be displayed just anywhere. To me, it was more than just a work of art hung on the wall to enhance the decor; it was a fragment of my forgotten past, an image that held meaning for me. It was too fragile to be exchanged for money like ordinary merchandise. Too precious. Too full of memories.

  My memories.

  Abandoning my empty flute on the coffee table, I crossed the room to the balcony doors and stepped outside.

  Rob caught up with me. ‘You’re not upset about the painting, are you, babe?’

  ‘Of course not. It’s just that . . .’ In truth, I was upset. I didn’t understand why he’d bought it and hung it on his feature wall, when he knew how conflicted I was about Mum. I gripped the railing and gazed unhappily at the street below. Light puddled beneath the street lamps, and two women in batik dresses laughed quietly as they hurried past. ‘I can’t stop thinking about seeing Mum, and then running into Esther Hillard. I know a fortnight’s gone by, but it all keeps replaying in my mind. It’s making me nuts.’