The Daughter's Promise (ARC)

by Sarah Clutton

  Sylvia was shocked into silence. Regret wormed through her. How could she have been so stupid? So blind?

  ‘Poor, poor Dan,’ she crooned. ‘Can’t possibly leave his wife in case he has to give up his mansion and his hundred-thousand-dollar car in the property settlement. And how dare you talk about my sister like that?’ Idiot.

  ‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’

  ‘I’ve risked my family for the sake of a mercenary arsehole without an ounce of compassion. Hmm, now let me see, what could possibly be the matter?’ Sylvia took a breath. ‘I mean it this time, Dan. Don’t ever ring me again.’

  ‘You can’t get rid of me just because you feel like it, Sylvia. You forget what I know about you.’

  Sylvia felt the menace leak down the line. She pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it mutely for a second.

  ‘You’re unbelievable,’ she said quietly. ‘What I did back then was terrible, but if it came out, it would bring you down too.’ She ended the call, then in one swift movement got out of the car and slammed the door. She stood, unseeing, in the lush old garden. Fool, she told herself. Silly, weak fool! She felt dumb with surprise, but it should never have surprised her. She shook her head, as if trying to flick off the grimy remnants of the conversation.

  She’d seen him like this before. Heard that same threat in his voice. It had kept her awake back then, tossing and turning for nights on end, until she knew she had to leave him. Leopards don’t change their spots, Sylvia. You know that. Why on earth had she trusted him this time?

  The wind picked up in the trees ahead of her, a swirling, rushing canopy of movement. She closed her eyes, remembered her decades-old anger at Annabelle after she had stood in the kitchen that night trying to deny she’d been kissing Dan in the car. Then the rage that had burned and built after she had sent Annabelle to her room. The rage at Dan.

  It had been after four a.m. when she had finally thrown off the covers, pulled on a coat over her pyjamas and driven the ten minutes to Dan’s house at Sisters Cove through the wet black night. As she drove, she listened to the angry voices in her head: the words she would say to him, the excuses he would give, and her answers, ready in return. She pulled up on the deserted road outside his house, surprised that the lights in his living room were blazing.

  She walked across the lawn and peered through the window. Dan was dishevelled. He was pacing, ending each small lap of the room at the dining table, which was covered in papers. He sat, then stood, running both hands through his hair in a rough, angry movement. The room was small, so Sylvia – cloaked in the blackness of the starless night – could see him perfectly. Mostly his back was to her, but when he turned and approached the window, her heart skipped. His shirt was mud-flecked and his face and neck had blood smudged down one side. She pulled back, shocked.

  After a moment, she stepped towards the front door, knocked quietly, then opened it. She stood in the entry to the living room, and when he saw her, Dan let out a guttural moan.

  ‘Dan?’

  ‘Syl, I’m sorry.’

  ‘You should be. She’s my sister!’

  He looked at her wild-eyed, uncomprehending. Then he shook his head. ‘What? No. Andrew. He’s…’ He looked away, holding up both bloody hands, staring at them. ‘Fuck. I can’t believe it came to this.’

  Sylvia’s anger morphed into fear. ‘Dan, what’s happened? What have you done?’

  She shook her head now to banish the awful, ancient image. Ageing memories, ageing people. Why had she agreed to take a job in this place of decrepitude? She turned and strode past the rows of old lavender bushes, past the woman and the man in the wheelchair, and hurried into the Annarbee Lodge reception to sign in. The foyer was painted a beige tone and the waiting-room chairs were an ugly shade of maroon, contrasting with the bleak grey-brown of the carpet. It was all terribly depressing.

  The nurse at the front looked up at her briefly, then back down at her computer. Sylvia signed the book and hurried on. Her class would begin in ten minutes, and she didn’t have time to think about Dan and his threats. The oldies liked to come in and get their chairs set up early and chat before it started. Most of this age group were too frail for working on mats.

  ‘Sylvia, how are you today?’

  Sylvia was unlocking the storeroom that held the plastic chairs. Delia was standing in her pale-pink velour tracksuit, hands on hips, bending stiffly to each side.

  ‘I’m well, thanks, Delia. How about you?’ She half listened as the older woman began moaning about the corns on her feet, and her arthritic hands.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a trickle of people enter the room, one being Constance Broadhurst, dressed as usual in smart black pants and a beautiful, expensive-looking blue shirt that flowed down to her hips. She wore large pearl studs in her crinkly ear lobes and peach-coloured lipstick. Dan’s aunt had once been an attractive woman. Her face still held a certain strength, a pleasing symmetry despite the sagging and the lines. Constance rarely spoke, and never gave any indication that she knew who Sylvia was. But then, they had only met a few times, forty years earlier, so it wasn’t surprising. In any event, Annabelle had told Sylvia that Constance’s memory wasn’t perfect these days.

  Sylvia took the class through a series of gentle moves, ignoring the chatter from some of the more vocal women at the front. She knew this was as much about social time as exercise, but sometimes their need to comment on the moves got on her nerves.

  ‘Now, raise your right leg to the front, drawing up your belly button at the same time to support your back with your core muscles,’ she said. She watched them follow her lead, some only bringing their feet an inch or two off the floor. ‘Now flex your toes, backwards and forwards.’

  ‘Oh, I hate this one,’ said Penny Pancini. ‘My legs cramp.’

  Sylvia smiled. ‘Just do what you feel your body can handle, Penny, and stop if it cramps.’

  ‘My body’s pretty good. It’s just this silly pose that gets me.’ The woman sniffed and lifted her foot higher.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Penny, just button it.’ Mavis Riley, a no-nonsense octogenarian with cropped white hair and a stern face, was glaring at Penny’s back. Sylvia stifled an urge to laugh.

  ‘Now, put your feet on the floor and we’re going to twist around to the left side, putting one arm towards the back of the chair if you can. Inhale, bringing the breath down through your body. A nice deep breath. Now release.’ Sylvia demonstrated. ‘This is wonderful for your spine and your shoulder blades,’ she said.

  At the right side of the room, she noticed that Constance was still sitting facing the front on her chair. She looked pale.

  ‘Now move back to centre and take three deep breaths, down into your body.’ Sylvia got up and moved across the room to Constance.

  ‘Are you all right there, Constance?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Yes thank you.’ Constance gave her a steady stare.

  ‘Right, well just take your time. Don’t overdo it.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  At the end of the class, Sylvia encouraged everyone, as always, to practise their stretches through the week. The ladies trickled out of the room. Constance was slow, still sitting on her chair when most of the others had left. Sylvia had just reached down and pressed the home button on her phone to check the time when she became aware that Dan’s aunt was standing beside her, small and frail, the last person left. A newly scanned photograph of Lillian and Sylvia taken decades ago in front of The Old Chapel was lighting up her phone screen, and Constance was staring at it. They both looked at the photograph until the phone went to sleep and turned black.

  ‘I knew your friend, even then,’ said Constance.

  ‘Yes. I know. My sister is Annabelle. She lives at Merrivale – she’s married to your nephew.’

  Constance didn’t seem to register the comment, and Sylvia regretted saying it. Regretted having brought Annabelle’s marriage into public discussion, as if
she had a right.

  Constance looked off into the distance. ‘He always said he didn’t mean it, you know. And I suppose I thought it didn’t matter, that I could endure, as long as it was just me.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  Constance was staring, blankly. ‘But on the night he disappeared, the Lord revealed the truth. There were others. He sent the rain for a reason that night. So much rain.’

  Sylvia went cold. ‘Do you mean Andrew?’ The thought of Constance’s dead husband made her stomach turn. Sisters Cove and the surrounding towns and villages had been awash with speculation for days after he disappeared.

  ‘For two days I prayed for deliverance. For two days the Lord kept me waiting to know my fate.’

  Sylvia remembered all too well. It had certainly rained on the night he went missing, and she could hardly forget the fear that had overtaken her when she heard that his bruised and battered body had been found washed up by the tide around the headland two days later.

  The town had talked about nothing else for weeks. Could he have jumped? Why was he out on such a terribly rainy night? And so late! Why near the cliffs? Was he in some kind of trouble? But the thoughts tumbling through Sylvia’s mind had been far different.

  ‘He wouldn’t have been able to see in all that rain,’ said Constance. ‘It would have been slippery, too. And he loved that dog. More than he loved me, I think.’

  ‘I’m sure he loved you,’ said Sylvia, although she wondered why she said it. She’d hardly known him. Hadn’t liked him much either. Behind the handsome face and the simmering charm, there had been something slick about Andrew Broadhurst.

  ‘You should read the Bible, my girl.’ Constance’s eyes had become steely. ‘Ezekiel Chapter 18, verse 20.’

  Sylvia had the urge to put her hand to Constance’s cheek. To comfort the poor, confused woman.

  ‘I’m not religious,’ she said.

  ‘“The son shall not suffer for the sins of the father, nor the father for the sins of the son. Each shall bring wickedness only on themselves.” That’s what it says.’ Constance held Sylvia’s eyes steadily, and eventually Sylvia looked down, embarrassed.

  ‘You must be good to them. They suffer,’ said Constance.

  ‘Who?’ asked Sylvia.

  Constance turned without answering and began to walk slowly to the corner of the room. She picked up a walking stick that was leaning against the wall and half turned so her face was in profile. ‘I know who you are, Sylvia.’

  Constance stood eerily still, ghost-like, and Sylvia’s mouth went dry.

  ‘You shouldn’t have done what you did. It was wrong,’ rasped Constance.

  Sylvia felt a creeping dread crawl over her skin. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said, but guilt butted up against her conscience.

  ‘You were young. You will still be welcomed by the Lord, if you only ask.’

  Then Constance moved her stick forward and began her slow walk through the automatic glass doors and down the hallway.

  Sylvia snapped the lock shut on the cupboard and reminded herself to breathe.

  Sixteen

  Willa

  There was a familiar electronic whelp sound as the FaceTime link brought up Hamish’s face on Willa’s laptop. She felt longing, sadness and pleasure all mixed together.

  ‘Hello, sweetie.’

  ‘Yo, Mamma. ’Sup?’

  ‘What on earth are you saying? Please don’t tell me you’ve turned into a rapper.’

  Hamish put his head to one side, bent his wrist and flicked his fingers in a strange motion. ‘It all bomb diggity here, lady.’ He did a remarkably good American accent.

  Willa must have looked shocked, because Hamish burst out laughing. ‘Chill, Mum. I’m just playing with you. What’s going on down under? Do I need to come over there and get you?’

  ‘No. Don’t be silly. I miss you, though.’

  ‘We miss you too. Dad’s cooking is killing me. I think he was sick of steak and chips, so we’ve had two nights of bacon omelette. Don’t think I can do three in a row.’

  ‘It’s only been two weeks, Hame. I’ll be back soon. Tell him to pick up a lasagne from the Ville.’ Willa felt a niggle of guilt. They needed her there. And the need for them to be together for the anniversary of Esme’s death was pricking at her like a thorn in her shoe. It was next week. It would be weighing on Hugo and Hamish too.

  She asked about Hamish’s rowing and what was happening at school and what the weather was like. Hugo had already left for work. Hamish turned away from his laptop to put his bowl in the sink, then began stacking his books. He needed to get going, so Willa ended the call.

  She looked around at the mountain of cardboard on all sides of her, and sighed. For the whole morning and part of the afternoon, she had successfully avoided the boxes. After chatting to Indigo in the coffee shop this morning, she had decided to drive to the small coastal town of Stanley an hour away and walk up an intriguing rectangular mountain called the Nut. It was like a mini version of Uluru. There was a chairlift down from the summit that gave her a wonderful view over the ocean and the heritage cottages that dotted the waterfront of the charming fishing village. Later, she had strolled into a delightful craft shop, where she had purchased a knitted beanie for Hugo, then she had found a pretty café and sipped tea while watching the tourists wandering past.

  But now the sightseeing was over and she was back in The Old Chapel, surrounded by Lillian’s boxes. So far all she had discovered were some old books and art paraphernalia. Annabelle had told her that plenty had already gone to charity. When Lillian knew the end was inevitable and she still had some energy, she had begun decluttering, and Sylvia had been tasked with taking carloads of junk to the charity shop. According to Sylvia, Lillian had insisted on packing and taping up some of the remaining boxes herself.

  In the rear corner of the little mezzanine level, Willa started untaping another box. When she removed the lid and saw old photograph albums, she felt an uneasy anticipation. She picked them up, one by one. They were marked with the years that the photographs within had been taken, and each one covered a period of around five years.

  She started with the most recent ones and worked her way backwards, seeing Lillian as a sixty-year-old, then regressing through time until she was young and fresh-faced. She had a nice look about her. Warm and welcoming. As an older woman, her face was very lined and sun-worn, but as Willa went back through the albums, she could see that Lillian had been attractive in a wholesome sort of way. She had lovely tanned skin, and though short, she was athletic-looking. She had generous lips and large brown eyes and curly black hair that she had cut very short as she aged and it had gone grey.

  If Lillian was her birth mother, Willa must have taken after her father. Willa was much taller, and had a different, leaner body shape and facial features.

  Going back through the decades, looking at photographs of Lillian with people Willa didn’t know, she imagined her to be a lively, interesting sort of person. She stopped at a photograph of her skiing, standing in a line of four friends on what looked like little more than a snow-covered hill with patches of brown gorse showing through. The group wore knitted beanies over long hair, and two of them were only in jumpers and jeans, which seemed an odd choice for skiing. Lillian was the smallest, and she was smiling straight at the camera.

  The notation at the bottom of the page said: 1979 – Cradle Mountain with the Bellinger boys and Pip Radley. Willa would have been two years old then, and here was her birth mother, off skiing with a gang of friends, carefree. Child-free. She would have been twenty-two, and Willa would have been a toddler living in Sydney with her doting parents. She wondered if one of the Bellinger boys was her father. She peered closely at their faces – young men with sideburns and shoulder-length hair, smiling and squinting into the sun. She felt nothing, and thought that was probably a good thing. Unless she found her original birth certificate, and it actually listed a named person as her father, she knew she
would never know. Did it matter? She wasn’t sure.

  Willa picked up the next album and began flicking through it. This one included photographs from the year of her birth, and she felt the tension increase in her shoulders. There were barbecues by the river, old cars parked under trees, bikini-clad girls on sunloungers woven from thick bands of contrasting plastic, young men and women in flared jeans and roll-necked jumpers. There were photos taken at the beach, with the Sisters Cove playground and café already there, a familiar, anchoring sight. A group of bare-chested young men outside the surf club in high-waisted tight shorts, with gangly bodies and ridiculous moustaches.

  She turned page after page, seeing Lillian’s life unfold before her, faded images of a time gone by. There were none of Lillian looking particularly pregnant, although she was wearing loose-fitting clothes and baggy jumpers in some of the shots. It was possible that she might have been. And with a first pregnancy, some people didn’t really show much until right at the end.

  There were very few photos taken at the end of the year, apart from a group shot labelled simply: Christmas Day 1977. It had been taken in the garden at Merrivale, the house painted freshly white then, and the garden looking lush and full of summer flowers. A swing hung from the elm tree in the foreground. There were half a dozen people sitting around on chairs in T-shirts and sundresses, enjoying the warmth of the day. A formally laid table ran along the front of them on the grass, obscuring much of the detail. Willa couldn’t identify a single person.

  When she turned the final page, a large envelope slipped from the back of the album. The paper was yellowing with age. Nothing was written on it. She prised it open. The sticky residue on the flap was brittle and dry and gave way with the gentlest force. She tipped the envelope up and a photograph slipped out. When she picked it up, Willa heard her own sharp intake of breath. Reflexively her thumb and finger parted and the photograph dropped to the floor. She hesitated, then reached down and picked it up again by the corner, staring at it in disbelief. It was her parents. Much younger, but undeniably them.