‘You like that?’ he was growling, grunting, over and over, thrusting into her, slamming her back into the cabinet. ‘Hmm? You like that?’
Annabelle felt herself burning up, receding, melting into the driving clatter of the rain on the roof as the sound and the force and the smell of him drummed through her.
Then it was over. He pulled himself out of her. He must have moved away, because all she could hear now was her own breath, but she didn’t dare to open her eyes, just in case. After a long stretch of time, with only the rain and her ragged breathing for sound, she forced her eyes open. Andrew was across the room doing up his belt, facing the kitchen. He picked up his whisky glass and started refilling it.
It took a moment – because of the noise of the rain, or perhaps because her mind had blocked everything but him – before she noticed Lillian. She was standing in the vestibule, completely still.
She caught Annabelle’s eye, then her gaze dropped downwards, to Sylvia’s shoes and the torn outfit. Annabelle felt shame engulf her. Her skirt was up around her waist, and her underpants were at her knees. She bent and yanked them up and shoved the skirt back down. Her bra was showing, but when she tried to fix the top, she couldn’t cover herself properly because Andrew had ripped it at the neck and it was stretched where he’d pulled it down. She felt tears bubble in her eyes as she hunched her shoulders and spread her fingers to cover the place where the shirt should have been.
Andrew must have noticed Lillian, because he turned.
Lillian stepped into the room, closing the door slowly, carefully. ‘What have you done?’
There was a strange look on her face, and Andrew glanced across at Annabelle, a fleeting, blank glance, before he said, ‘Nothing. I just popped over to see you.’
‘But you knew I wasn’t here tonight.’
‘I forgot.’
‘It was obvious. My car wasn’t here.’ Lillian took a few steps towards Annabelle, and looked at the ripped top again, as if she hadn’t quite taken it in the first time. Tears were running down Annabelle’s face now, and she thought: stop crying, just stop it. Lillian is so angry at you. Sylvia will find out. She pushed the back of her hand across her cheeks, trying to stem the tears, to get them off her face so she could just talk properly. So she could ask to be driven home.
‘You hurt her,’ said Lillian. ‘She’s a kid, Andrew.’ She crossed the room to Annabelle and touched her arm gently.
Annabelle looked down to the floor and lifted her hand to her hair to smooth it. When she dropped her hand, thin strands of hair were caught in her fingers. She turned her palm upwards.
Lillian saw the hair too. She reached out and smoothed Annabelle’s hair, then wiped her thumb across her tears.
‘Don’t be dramatic,’ said Andrew. ‘I’m going home.’ He put the whisky glass down with a crack on the coffee table and walked across to the vestibule.
‘Did you force her to have sex with you?’ asked Lillian. There was breathy disbelief in her voice, and her hand had dropped to her stomach protectively. Up close, Annabelle noticed the swell of it, just a small bump in Lillian’s usually flat tummy that she had missed before now.
‘What?’ Andrew flicked his raincoat off the hook and began threading his arms into it.
‘Her top is ripped! You were doing up your pants, Andrew!’ Cold, driving anger burned in Lillian’s voice.
‘You never complained when I took them down for you. Jealous, are you, Lil?’ He laughed and opened the door and walked down the steps, and Lillian ran after him.
‘She’s fifteen, you callous bastard. Fifteen!’
Annabelle knew she should do something, but she wasn’t sure what, because her body had begun to shake so badly she couldn’t think. She understood from something in the way Lillian spoke to Andrew that they weren’t like normal neighbours, and that he wasn’t just her boss, and that maybe she’d upset the balance of something, but she couldn’t think what it all meant. She stumbled to the couch and sat down, and listened to the clatter on the roof and felt her teeth begin to chatter inside her clenched jaws. The pain began surging through her, in her arms, her back, her scalp, between her legs. Tears were streaming down her face as huge sobs came from nowhere and she shook with them, and over and over the same thought came into her mind. Now I’ve done it. Now, I’ve really gone and ruined everything.
Twenty-Four
Willa
Willa glanced around Annabelle’s garden as the man in front of her tried to decide which combination of four baby succulents he would choose for his twenty dollars. In one direction black and white cattle grazed under a blue sky, but in front of her, over the ocean, a bank of grey-black storm clouds hung ominously. Yesterday had been perfect. Warm, no wind, billowing white clouds that hung like Cupid’s pillows in the bright-blue sky. But today, the thirty per cent chance of a storm she’d seen on her weather app felt more like a promise.
It had been a frantic week, finalising details for the fete and getting the gardens in perfect condition. But Willa had relished the challenge and she was awakening each day feeling fresher than she had for ages.
The fete had become bigger than anything Annabelle, or the garden club members, had ever imagined. On Monday, the state tourist board had called and asked if they could bring a large delegation of Asian tourism operators through, because they had heard that the Merrivale garden was one of the best in Tasmania. They wanted lunch and formal photo opportunities. The newspaper had run the story – after Willa emailed them a press release – and numbers were predicted to surge. Hellie Beacher’s gourmet sausage sizzle stand wasn’t going to be enough. Annabelle had been bubbling with stress, but Willa had come alive. This was one of her favourite modes. Work mode. She was good at solutions. Good at seeing what needed to be done and finding creative ways to do it. She had missed this.
In Burnie, she had found a mobile wood-fired pizza van, which was now located near the garden entry, and then she’d found the Paella Pan Man who was currently stirring up huge vats of fragrant rice in an oversized pan in front of the open-sided marquee, where people could sit at crates-turned-tables and eat. Seating was provided by hay bales. Willa had spotted them in a local shearing shed on one of her walks and had sourced and washed blankets from the local charity shop to cover them. These were easy fixes, but Annabelle was overjoyed with the help, verging on hysterical. She admitted she hadn’t been sleeping, and Willa could see she was teetering right on the edge.
Since word of Dan’s affair had spread like a virulent virus throughout Sisters Cove, Annabelle’s friends from the garden club had been rallying around her in suffocating hordes. There was head-shaking and tut-tutting, and when Dan had dared to show his face in the garden earlier, Willa had noticed Abigail Beddingham, walking on the arm of her decrepit husband, actually turn her head away in disgust.
The man in front of Willa finally decided on eight succulents, and she put them into a little carry tray and took his fifty-dollar note, digging around in her Tupperware container for change.
‘Aren’t they gorgeous?’ she said, and the man smiled at her and agreed.
Across the garden, a teenage girl sat under the huge Irish strawberry tree strumming on her guitar and singing old tunes into a microphone. Next to her, six tents were lined up – some selling cuttings, others full-grown plants. There was a fresh lemonade stand and a craft stall that the women from the Sisters Cove craft group had put together, selling everything from hand-spun and woven scarves, felted soap covers and resin earrings, to tiny painted cards featuring scenes of the beach. Further down, near the orchard, bookings were being taken for guided tours of the garden every half-hour, and next to that, the local lily farm was selling closed-budded lilies for five dollars a bunch – a quarter of the price that Willa would pay in Oxford.
Groups of people meandered through, chatting happily. Mostly they were grey-haired and clad in floral blouses, sensible slacks and broad-brimmed hats, but there were plenty of families among them. Children
ran and squealed and toppled on the manicured lawns in front of her, and she listened to mothers warning them about staying out of the flower beds and away from the man selling fire pits, whose hand-forged iron contraptions were lit for effect.
A woman walking with an old lady waved at Willa from over by the row of tents. She was wearing a huge floppy hat and jeans. The pair moved slowly across the lawn, the old woman lifting and dropping her walking stick with care. As they drew closer, Willa realised the younger woman was Indigo.
‘Hi Willa.’ Indigo grinned.
‘Hello Indi. Can I interest you in a succulent or two?’ Willa smiled.
‘No thanks. I just wanted to introduce you to someone. Willa, this is Constance Broadhurst. This used to be her garden.’
‘Hello, Mrs Broadhurst.’
‘Constance, please.’ The old lady gave her the hint of a smile. She was perfectly groomed, her white hair in a wispy bun, pink lipstick, a pale-blue blazer complementing her neat black trousers. A string of pearls sat around her neck, and the whole effect reminded Willa of an elegant storybook grandmother.
‘What a wonderful legacy you’ve left here, Constance,’ she said, then cringed, because that made it sound like the woman was already dead.
Constance nodded her head but didn’t say anything.
‘Annabelle is very grateful for the amazing specimens you’ve planted and for all your advice on the garden you’ve given over the years,’ Willa began again. This was true. Annabelle seemed very devoted to Constance. She visited her weekly.
Constance nodded again, but still didn’t speak.
‘Willa’s just inherited The Old Chapel from Lillian,’ Indigo told her. ‘She’s the mystery beneficiary. Annabelle must have told you about her.’
Constance was peering at Willa, looking her up and down, studying her as if she was a specimen in a museum.
‘Not such a mystery,’ she said eventually. She pursed her mouth, averting her eyes now, as if the sight of Willa offended her in some way, and turned to the succulents on the table. ‘Twenty dollars?’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Daylight robbery.’
‘How about we head over to the house for a cuppa, Connie?’ said Indigo.
‘All right. Goodbye then,’ said Constance. She gave Willa one last look, then turned with her walking stick and began to cross the lawn towards the house.
Indigo winked at Willa and said in a hushed voice, ‘I would have liked to see you wangle twenty bucks out of her. Never spends a penny even though she’s loaded. This place provides the least of her income.’
‘Oh really?’ said Willa. ‘I thought Merrivale belonged to Dan and Annabelle.’
‘Well it does, sort of. But Connie makes them pay rent. She has a life tenancy or something, then they get it when she goes.’
Willa raised her eyebrows.
‘Dan wouldn’t be the only one with an interest in Connie carking it,’ whispered Indigo. ‘There’d be plenty of distant relatives waiting in the wings for her loot.’ She waved to someone behind Willa, then added, ‘I like her. I hope she keeps them waiting for years.’
She winked and set off after Constance. She walked with the lightness of a dancer, and suddenly Willa felt a fierce protectiveness and pride. Pride in Indigo’s good, kind nature. She watched her settle Constance onto one of the white plastic chairs that Annabelle used for the weddings. Willa had helped to bring out all the little desks and side tables from the house, so that people could sit down and enjoy Devonshire teas that were being prepared in the kitchen by the garden club committee.
A low rumbling sound made Willa look up. The storm clouds were sweeping in from the ocean, blocking out the sunshine and sending dark shadows over the lawn. Across the garden, Annabelle was bustling towards her. She was dressed in a bright pink linen shirt, white culottes and purple leather ankle boots. As she came closer, Willa could see that underneath her pretty straw hat she was red in the face, and her make-up was smudged around her eyes.
‘Hello, my lovely! I don’t suppose you’d like to sell these raffle tickets for me, would you?’ She paused, holding up a book of tickets and a calico bag. ‘I’m just a bit worried this rain is going to come in, and I think I need to move a couple of the open stalls under cover.’
‘How about I find someone else to sell them and I help with moving the stalls?’ suggested Willa.
‘Good idea!’ said Annabelle. She trotted off, leaving Willa with the tickets.
She’s really wired, thought Willa.
‘Hello, Willa, ready for me to take over?’ Barney McIntosh, a charming white-bearded octogenarian who had been helping with fete preparations during the week, appeared as if by magic. He was rostered on to take over stallholder duties from Willa, and she grinned at him.
‘Thank you, Barney. Just in time.’ She held up the raffle tickets. ‘Don’t suppose you could sell these while you’re at it, could you?’
‘Not a problem, young lady.’ He took the tickets, and Willa headed across the garden after Annabelle.
She deviated inside the house to use one of the bathrooms, which were off limits to the public. After the intense week of stall preparations and carting furniture to set up the fete, she had become very familiar with the layout of Annabelle’s house. In the hall, she noticed that the door to Annabelle’s study was partially open. Angry voices were coming from inside.
‘It’s none of your business, Dan,’ she heard a voice say. Sylvia.
‘Yes it is. I’m her husband! She married me after it happened. She never bloody told me a thing.’
‘Well maybe she didn’t feel right about telling anyone. Just stop feeling sorry for yourself, Dan. Have you ever thought how hard it would have been for Annabelle? Having a baby taken away from her when she was only a child herself?’
Willa felt her chest constrict. She was overcome by a strange distant feeling, as if she were a ghost.
The screen door to the veranda banged, and Willa looked down the hallway.
Annabelle appeared. She called back over her shoulder to someone. ‘Tell him to go round the back! It’s through the laundry. I don’t want to see him. He absolutely stinks!’ She looked around. ‘Willa! Excellent, just the girl.’
Willa felt herself clench inside. Annabelle had a baby and it was taken away. She turned so her body was blocking the view into the study. She really didn’t want Annabelle to see Dan and Sylvia talking. She could feel the storm swirling through her mind, seeping in through the walls.
‘I was just coming to help you,’ said Willa.
‘Great. I need to set up a new stand. We have the local honey vendor just arrived. I was hoping he wouldn’t come, but never mind. He has.’
‘All right.’
‘Dan encouraged him. It’s infuriating. He’s just so smelly.’
Willa looked at her, perplexed.
‘He’s simple,’ Annabelle said, as if this was a complete explanation.
‘Right.’
‘Good, well I think there’s another trestle in the back shed. Perhaps you could carry it. I just need to organise Tippy a towel for his shower. I’ve insisted he have one.’
‘Right,’ said Willa again. She couldn’t trust herself to say more. Her whole body felt floaty and strange.
Annabelle walked towards her, heading for the door behind her, into the study. Willa sensed that everything was about to slide out of control.
‘I just need to check the weather online,’ said Annabelle. ‘It’s doing my head in. The uncertainty.’
Willa was frozen.
Annabelle walked around her, then stopped. Dan and Sylvia were looking at her, like deer caught in the headlights.
Sylvia held up her hands, as if surrendering. ‘I’ve just come to say goodbye to you, Anna,’ she said. ‘I’m leaving. On tonight’s ferry.’
‘How thoughtful of you,’ said Annabelle, and her voice had a sharp, quivering edge to it.
‘Anna, really. I wasn’t here to see Dan. I told you it was over,’ said Sylvia
urgently.
Annabelle crossed the room and sat at her desk, fiddling with the mouse until her computer screen jumped into life.
‘Anna?’ said Sylvia.
Annabelle ignored her. She typed something and the weather radar came up on the screen. As she manoeuvred the map, a dark patch of rain cloud hovered across the coastline.
‘Who was the father, Belle?’ demanded Dan.
Willa noticed he was holding a glass of whisky in his hand, and a half-full bottle stood on the side table.
Across the room, Annabelle stiffened.
Willa was still outside in the hallway, so that neither Sylvia nor Dan could see her. She felt a strange sense of recognition settle through her. It should have been obvious. Weeks ago. Annabelle. Annabelle was her birth mother.
Suddenly, a gentle pitter-patter sound began over their heads. It became heavier by the second. Annabelle looked up, staring at the ceiling. ‘No!’ she exclaimed.
A shadow fell through the window and Willa looked out. The bank of clouds that had been far out in the ocean not long ago seemed to have blown directly overhead. The rain began to thrum on the tin roof, and Willa felt her heart breaking for Annabelle, who had so wanted the fete to go off without a hitch.
Dan seemed oblivious. ‘Annabelle, are you deaf? Who were you screwing? Who was Willa’s father?’ He tipped back his head and emptied his glass.
‘Dan!’ said Sylvia angrily.
‘It’s not a bloody trick question. She knows who he was. I deserve to know too.’
Annabelle turned around, avoiding Dan’s glare. She looked into the hall at Willa. ‘We need to help the Paella Pan Man. His food will be getting ruined.’ Then she turned back to Sylvia and Dan. In a strange slow motion, she raised both her hands in front of her, then balled her fists. She shuddered, and her face screwed up into a terrible pain-filled mask. ‘Willa is right there!’ she said, pointing. ‘How dare you speak like that in front of her? And just so we’re clear, Dan, it is none of your business!’
The Daughter's Promise (ARC) Page 23
