Lyrebird Hill Read online

  ‘Oh Jindera, if only I—’

  The thud of a horse’s hoofs made us all look around. The group of girls who had followed us up from the river called out and pointed. My brother Owen was approaching in a cloud of dust.

  ‘Brenna?’ he called shakily.

  I was unwilling to cut short my goodbye, but something in my brother’s tone made me regard him more closely. His eyes were huge in his pale face, dark and frightened, and his lips were chalk-white.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I said.

  He dipped sideways off the saddle, then seemed to change his mind about dismounting, and stayed astride.

  ‘Come quick, Brenna. Aunt Ida’s been taken ill.’

  Jindera clutched my arms. ‘Hurry, Bunna. You go now.’

  Hastily I kissed her cheek, and clasped Mee Mee briefly and tightly in my arms. Then somehow I was stumbling away from them, my boots thudding on the dusty earth, my vision blurred, my promise ringing hollowly in my head.

  I will come back.

  Owen hauled me up into the saddle behind him. Harold was already skittering along the track ahead of us, and Owen urged the mare to follow.

  I twisted in the saddle to look back. Jindera and Mee Mee now stood in the midst of a small group of women who had gathered when they heard the horse. Jindera was shading her eyes as she stared after us. She was taller than the others, her yellow dress defining her like a column of sunlight; at her side, Mee Mee huddled like a shadow. I stared hard at them through the dust kicked up by the horse’s hoofs, trying to memorise their faces, praying that this would not be the last time I saw them, yet unable to shake the feeling that it was.

  ‘Brenna?’

  My brother’s voice was tight with fear, and it gave me cause to worry. ‘What is it, Owen? How sick is she?’

  A tremor rippled through his wiry body. ‘It’s bad. Heart attack, Fa Fa thinks. He’s ridden for the doctor and Millie’s at the bedside. Oh, Brenna,’ Owen’s voice cracked as he struggled out his next words, ‘Fa Fa said she might die.’

  Aunt Ida’s bedroom was dark. The curtains were drawn and the air smelled of camphor and smelling salts, and of the bitter herbal tonic my aunt habitually drank.

  In the days since her attack, she had been losing strength. Now, she only had the energy to occasionally raise her head and sip the broth Millie made for her.

  A cotton nightgown was draped over a chair back, and there was a cup of cold, untouched tea on her bedside. Next to the cup was a glass of lemon water, and next to that a photo of my mother, who had once been Aunt Ida’s dearest friend.

  ‘Aunt?’

  Removing the tea cup, I placed the bowl of broth on the nightstand. Aunt Ida lay motionless on her side, her head sunk deep into the feather pillow. Her face was hidden under a spray of frizzy hair.

  ‘Aunt Ida? Are you awake?’

  A pasty face peered around at me. ‘Florence?’

  ‘No, Aunt. It’s Brenna. I’ve brought you some broth. You haven’t eaten since yesterday. Why don’t you try some?’

  She grasped the coverlet with shaky fingers and drew it to her chin. ‘You might distract me,’ she said, her voice frail. ‘Perhaps a chapter or two from the good book?’

  Settling myself in the chair at her bedside, I took up the Bible that sat within easy reach of her pillow. Opening to the red silk tassel she used as a bookmark, I began to read from the Psalms.

  Aunt Ida rolled onto her back and shut her eyes. Her face was grey, her cheeks deflated and creased with lines. While I read, her lips moved as though reciting the words along with me. But when I paused to turn the page, she continued whispering.

  ‘I must tell. I won’t go to the grave with a lie in my heart.’

  I leaned closer. ‘Aunt, what is it? What’s troubling you?’

  ‘Michael is such a stubborn man,’ she rasped. ‘He could put an end to this ridiculous game, but he refuses to.’

  ‘Aunt, have you forgotten? I’m to marry Mr Whitby. Father’s debts will be paid as a wedding gift.’

  Aunt Ida coughed weakly. ‘The fool would rather lose his only daughter than surrender a few acres of his precious Lyrebird Hill.’

  ‘No, Aunt, you’re mistaken. It was my idea to—’

  ‘You must forgive him, Brenna. Listen now. What I’m about to tell you might shed light on his actions.’ She reached for the water glass, which I held to her lips. Dabbing the corners of her mouth with her hanky, she beckoned me nearer. ‘Your mother and I were friends,’ she began, then nodded. ‘Jindera, too.’

  My ears pricked up. ‘My mother knew Jindera?’

  Aunt Ida’s watery eyes regarded me. ‘You are very like her, did you know that?’

  I looked at the photograph on the bedside table. My mother had been tall and stout, with a strikingly pretty face. Her hair was so fair it was almost white; she had worn it bunched loosely at her shoulders, letting it fall in soft waves. Fa Fa used to say her eyes were the colour of bluebells.

  I looked down at my hands. I had long fingers like Fa Fa, and skin the colour of tea. My hair was dark, my eyes umber. My father said I had the look of his grandmother about me, her dusky European blood skipping his veins to flow unchecked into mine. Yet it was clear I had inherited nothing from Mama.

  Aunt Ida gestured at the photo. ‘Do you remember how she and Michael met?’

  ‘At the conservation society in Armidale.’

  ‘I was treasurer,’ she explained. ‘And Florence’s father had been a patron of the society for many years. Florence and I struck up a friendship, and then at one of our fundraising events, I brought my brother along. It was a match made in heaven . . . or so I first thought. I did not know it at the time, but my brother’s affections already belonged to another.’

  I held my breath, certain I’d misheard. ‘Another?’

  Aunt Ida sighed, struggling to sit up. I propped a pillow behind her, and she smoothed trembling fingers over her frizzy hair.

  ‘When I was a girl,’ she told me, ‘your grandfather brought Michael and me here from Scotland after our mother died. He acquired this land, and named it after the beautiful birds that lived in the ferny gullies where the scrub was very thick. They were curious creatures, those lyrebirds, mimicking every noise they heard. Then Father started cutting down trees and burning back the scrub, and even imported a herd of robust sheep from his homeland to graze it. Soon, there were no more lyrebirds . . . but that didn’t stop him. The property made him very wealthy, and when he died he left it to Michael. And Michael continued our father’s work, only not as successfully.’

  The bedside chair was suddenly too small, too hard. I shifted, trying to get comfortable. ‘What did you mean before, when you said Fa Fa’s affections belonged to another?’

  Aunt Ida’s gaze drifted to my face. ‘I was once like you, dear Brenna. I ran wild, developed a passion for the bush. And like you, I had a fascination for the people who lived along the river gully at the bottom of our land. I used to creep out at night, drawn by the blaze of their fires to watch them dance. The songs entranced me, and I was compelled—’ Her voice broke off. I lifted a glass of lemon water to her lips. She drank only a dribble, than wiped her mouth and continued her story.

  ‘Compelled to join their celebration. I never did, of course, and yet I fancied to myself that the invitation was there. One day, two girls snuck up from behind and captured me. I was terrified they’d expose my spying to their elders, but they were more interested in examining my clothes and hair and especially my fair complexion. They were lighter than the others in the band, and I guessed there must have been some European blood in their lines; they seemed intrigued and pleased by my appearance, and I was equally fascinated by them. They were uncommonly beautiful, with luminous smiles, and minds that were quick and curious. We had no language in common, but slowly we began to learn. Soon, the three of us were steadfast friends.’

  I remembered the yellow dress Aunt Ida had washed and ironed with such care a year or so ago, and th
en bundled into a parcel. I recalled, too, the packets of matches, the damper and fruitcake and bags of walnuts that she sent along whenever Millie visited the camp.

  ‘Was one of those girls Jindera?’

  Aunt Ida nodded. ‘And the other was her sister, Yungara.’

  ‘Sister?’ I sat back heavily.

  Jindera had never mentioned having a sister; nor had Mee Mee hinted there had been another daughter. Yet I could not bring myself to question my aunt’s story. Yungara. My pulse began to race, and the echo of the name rushed through my blood. Yungara.

  My aunt smiled sadly. ‘The three of us were drawn together, as if by an invisible bond. In those days, Michael spent a lot of time away with our father, so I was stuck at home and bored to tears with housework – much like you, my dear. My friendships with those girls saved me.’

  My racing blood slowed, and warmth washed through me. ‘Jindera always asks after you. Now I know why.’

  ‘We were firm friends, Jindera and I.’

  ‘Then why did you forbid me to see her?’

  Aunt Ida shook her head. ‘After what happened to her sister, it became clear to me that our two cultures were not yet ready to share the burden of friendship.’

  I stared, seeing not my aunt, but another woman, a stranger. I’d always believed Ida to be stuffy and intolerant of Jindera’s band. For years I had prided myself on disobeying her wishes, escaping to spend time with Jindera whenever I could. I was flabbergasted to realise that I hadn’t been rebelling, after all, but simply following in my aunt’s footsteps.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  A stillness entered the room. I heard finches twittering in the garden, and the distant murmur of the river. I waited for my aunt to speak, and when finally she did, her words were barely audible.

  ‘Yungara died in 1879.’

  A shadow slipped across my heart. ‘That was the year after I was born.’

  Aunt Ida coughed and dabbed her lips with her hanky. ‘Jindera and I never spoke again. I told myself it was safer that way. Now, in hindsight, I realise that guilt kept me away.’

  ‘Guilt?’

  ‘One day – I was about sixteen by then – I let Michael accompany me to the camp. He was nineteen, a budding naturalist and keen to expand his knowledge of the local area. He had assumed that I visited the camp to study the people and their ancient customs. If only he’d seen the three of us giggling and gasping and rolling about in the grass like two-year-olds, he would have changed his tune.’ She wiped the dampness from beneath her eyes.

  ‘Michael was keen to learn something of the people and their ways. But when Jindera and her sister ran out to greet me, I sensed that I’d been wrong to bring him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I was young, I suppose. Eager to impress my older brother.’ Thin fingers came up and rested beneath her eyes. She patted the skin there, as if puzzled to find wrinkled pockets instead of the fine plump cheeks of a girl. ‘I had never experienced the glow of love myself, but I was not completely naive to the sight of it in others. The moment your father saw Jindera’s shy, sweet sister, something in him changed. He seemed to puff out his chest and stand taller. From that moment on, he took no notice of what either Jindera or I said. Yungara was very quiet, she was shy – but proud, too.’ Aunt Ida smiled laughed fondly. ‘Well, you know Jindera, the way she watches you with her soft brown eyes, so patient – when all the while she’s thinking what a silly goose you are. Yungara was like that, too.’

  ‘What did she think of my father?’

  Aunt gave a soft sigh. ‘Yungara’s dark eyes never left Michael’s face. Not even for a moment. Besotted, they were, the two of them. I knew then that there would be trouble.’

  ‘Trouble?’

  My aunt blinked suddenly. Tears gleamed in her eyes. ‘Yungara,’ she said softly. ‘It feels good to speak her name again at last.’

  I too wanted to say the name. It sat on my tongue like honey with the promise of sweetness that would fill me if I said it aloud; but I hesitated. Who had she been, this woman whose name had the power to quicken my blood, whose memory caused my aunt’s tears to flow so freely? This woman who had once captured my father’s heart.

  My mouth was suddenly dry. Reaching for the lemon water, I drained the glass, and placed it back on the nightstand. Then I waited for my aunt to resume her story.

  And waited.

  Silence breathed around us.

  I touched a pale hand. ‘Aunt, are you awake?’

  Waxy eyelids fluttered. My aunt’s eyes opened. She had drifted somewhere. Not sleep . . . memory, perhaps. When she finally registered that I’d spoken, she blinked back at me, confused.

  ‘Florence?’

  I knew I should let her sleep. Her face was grey, her breathing shallow. But the name of Jindera’s sister had entered my bloodstream, beating through my veins like a moth.

  ‘You were saying there was trouble. Between my father and . . .’ Yungara.

  Aunt Ida nodded, and closed her eyes.

  Her hand lay on the coverlet, and I took her fingers in mine. They were deathly pale against the soft tan of my own hand, and I found myself wondering about her story.

  Aunt Ida often said that after my mother died, Fa Fa had suffered greatly. Mama had left us a week before her fortieth birthday; her fair hair showed no signs of grey, and her pale skin was as smooth and clear as a girl’s. She had been frail for years, but her death was a horrible shock, and it had broken my father’s heart.

  It seemed impossible that he had once loved anyone else.

  I stood up, intending to go downstairs and fetch Millie. Instead, I found myself standing by the window in the dying light. A whirlpool of unfamiliar feelings churned in me. I felt cold, but my skin was hot. Time seemed to unravel around me. The fabric of my life began to fray, develop holes. Through those holes I caught glimpses of a past I had not, until now, considered.

  ‘Aunt?’

  The corner of her eye twitched, but she was beyond hearing. Kissing her damp brow, I stole across the room and went out, closing the door gently behind me. Tomorrow, when she woke, I would ask her to continue her story. Now, it was time for her to sleep.

  Aunt Ida did not wake again.

  We buried her a few days later at the Presbyterian cemetery in Armidale. My father stood by the grave while the minister read from the Psalms. Black half-moons darkened Fa Fa’s eyes and his flesh looked sunken, the bones retreating beneath.

  Afterwards, he withdrew from us, locking himself in his study, only taking meals when Millie hammered on his door and insisted he eat. As far as I knew, he didn’t sleep. I grew fearful that he would quickly sicken and die, just as Aunt Ida had. I began tiptoeing past his study at intervals during the night, listening at his door. I heard the shuffle of paper, the clink of glass, the gurgle of brandy being poured. Countless times a night I lifted my knuckles to rap on the door and go in, to ask him the questions that were burning a hole in my heart.

  Who was this woman you loved? Who was she to me?

  But the nights passed, and my courage failed; my questions went unanswered. My wedding day sped nearer, but still my father did not emerge from his study. Finally, on the eve of our departure for Armidale, I decided to confront him.

  It was nearing midnight. Silence had settled over the house. I knocked softly on the door of my father’s study. When there came no call to enter, I turned the knob and looked inside.

  Fa Fa was slumped at his desk, in dim lamplight, his head in his hands. A brandy bottle sat before him, and an empty glass.

  He looked so crushed beneath the weight of sorrow that my courage left me. I was about to quietly slip away, when he looked up and saw me, beckoned me in.

  ‘How are you faring?’ he asked.

  My eyes were red and sore, and my lips bitten; I knew the question was his way of acknowledging my grief, so I simply said, ‘I miss her.’

  Retrieving a second glass from the sideboard, Fa Fa dashed in a measure of br
andy and pushed it across the desk. I had never shared a drink with him, and I wondered if he had guessed the nature of my visit. Fa Fa swallowed his drink in a gulp, while I sipped mine. It burned my gullet, and the smell made my eyes water, but its invigorating effect was immediate. I took a breath.

  ‘Aunt Ida told me something before she died. She said you once knew Jindera’s sister . . . She said . . .’ I hesitated, expecting Fa Fa to startle at my words, to jump to his feet and splutter a string of denials. So, when he simply nodded in a resigned way, my courage grew. ‘She said you loved her.’

  My father smiled sadly. ‘Poor Ida. Years ago I made her promise to keep my secret close to her heart. I had hoped the passage of years would provide me the pluck to tell you myself, but of course time only buried the truth deeper.’

  The gravity of his words added weight to my suspicion. ‘My skin is darker than yours, Fa Fa. And Mama was fair. I have brown eyes, while yours are blue, as were Mama’s. You used to say that I resembled your Spanish grandmother, but I can’t help wondering why Aunt Ida would insist I hear your story . . . unless it had direct relevance to me.’

  Fa Fa’s mouth moved as if chewing over his thoughts. ‘Ida was right, my sparrow. I once loved a young Aboriginal woman.’ He circled his fingers around his brandy glass, but did not pick it up. ‘You are very like her, you know.’

  I sat immobile, listening to the clock mark out its minutes. Each tick was a shard of my old life, the life I had taken for granted, falling away, casting me adrift in a present that was no longer mine. After a while, I looked at my father; even he seemed a stranger to me in that moment, a stranger with a familiar face but whose heart and mind were suddenly mysterious. I gripped my elbows and bent forward over my lap.

  ‘There are things I need to know,’ I whispered.

  My father’s brow tightened, but he nodded for me to continue.

  I dragged the air into my throat, and in a strained voice said, ‘My mother was Yungara.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jindera is my aunt. And Mee Mee is . . .’ My words stuck fast in my throat as I remembered her brown eyes wet with tears, and the searching way she had looked at me, as if willing me to know her, willing me to understand.