Harry’s guarded expression slipped and his eyes brimmed with tears. He knuckled them away as Tom wrapped an arm around his shoulder.
Isabelle wanted to hug them both, but sensed it was too soon. ‘I’m delighted you children are here. I’ll try my very best to make you happy.’
Harry frowned. ‘Looks like the middle of nowhere to me.’ A mere mumble, but Isabelle had sharp ears.
‘What about you, Tom? What do you think of Binburra?’
Tom ventured a look around, at the gracious homestead perched halfway up the hill. At the looming mountains and encroaching forest. A flock of green rosellas landed in the branches above him, and chittered a greeting. His face split into a grin. ‘I think it’s bonzer, Miss. Just bonzer.’
* * *
Tom pulled the covers up to his chin as Isabelle leaned over and made the blanket snug. Nobody had ever tucked him into bed except his mother. That sweet memory threatened to overwhelm him. This new grandmother didn’t smell of perfume though, like Mama did. She smelt of freshly baked bread, and cut grass and wood-smoke.
‘Shall I read you a story?’
Silence.
‘Have you had enough supper?’
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘Not Miss, Tom. Nana.’ She smoothed the paisley eiderdown. ‘Is there anything you do want?’
‘Yes, Miss.’ He hesitated a moment. ‘Could Harry sleep in here with me?’
‘If he wants to.’
‘Rex and Shadow as well? They don’t look like dogs, do they? They look like bears.’
She smiled in that kind way his mother had. ‘Let me see what I can do.’
* * *
Tom opened the curtains and gazed out across the ranges, bathed in bright moonshine. ‘It’s not so bad here.’
Harry patted Rex who was lying, watchful, by his bed, and joined Tom at the window. He put his lucky gold nugget on the window-sill – the one Papa had given him, the one he always kept in his pocket. It shone in the faint light. Tom ran a finger over its gleaming surface, and his brother snatched it away.
If only Tom had something from their old life too. Something more than clothes and shoes. His teddy perhaps, though Grandma Bertha said he was too big for that nonsense. Or a lock of Mama’s hair. Tom closed his eyes and her face appeared, so vivid and real he felt he could almost touch it. When he tried, she vanished like a half-remembered dream.
Harry took a penknife from his pocket and carved a word into the sill. Papa. ‘Do you miss him terribly? I miss Papa so much, I think I’ll die.’
Tom looked at his toes, feeling ashamed. The truth was, he missed his mother most. Her sweet smile and quiet voice. The touch of her hand. She and Tom had shared a special bond. Papa, on the other hand, had always liked Harry best. It made sense. Harry was good at everything that Papa cared about; algebra and geometry and building things. He was fascinated by how they crushed ore at the mine, and how they cut logs at the mill. He loved to spend time at the shipyard.
By contrast, Tom felt like a disappointment. He’d rather read a book than take an engine apart. He excelled at English, yet failed arithmetic. He liked chasing dragonflies by the pond and watching baby magpies learn to fly in the garden. Why can’t you be more like your brother? was his father’s constant mantra.
Harry kissed his lucky nugget. ‘When I grow up, I’m going to track down the man who murdered Mama and Papa. I’m going to kill him.’
Tom put his arm around his brother. Poor Harry. Papa had been his whole world. It was easier for Tom; he hadn’t loved Papa so completely. There was one good thing, at least. He couldn’t let his father down any more.
Chapter 3
Isabelle walked the phone away from the desk as far as the cord would allow. She peered around the corner of the library to make sure the boys weren’t in earshot. ‘No, of course I don’t mind. I love having them, but what about school? They’ve been here for weeks now.’
Bertha’s voice sounded thin and tinny on the other end of the line. ‘Things haven’t worked out with Scotch College.’
Oh. Isabelle could imagine what things hadn’t worked out. The bank manager had been in touch with her about the boys’ trust accounts. Robert had apparently cleaned them out along with the rest, cobbling together what money he could to pay failed funds and margin calls. An elaborate but doomed juggling act.
‘The twins won’t be returning for their final term?’
‘I’m afraid not, unless … unless you’re prepared to pay their fees yourself? I imagine the Colonel left you generously provided for.’
Bertha was right. Isabelle could afford to cover the costs, but it was the last thing she wanted to do. A disgrace, how sons of privilege were packed off to mainland boarding schools at such tender ages. Torn from the people they loved. Delivered into the hands of strangers. Her own son had been abandoned in such a way. He’d grown mistrustful and closed off because of it.
Silence stretched down the line. ‘Perhaps you could teach them yourself for the remainder of this year, then,’ said Bertha, a hint of irritation in her voice. ‘We’re only talking one term, and I’m well aware of the fine reputation you held as Principal of Campbell College.’
‘That was thirty years ago.’
She could hear Bertha breathing, planning her words. ‘My dear Isabelle, if you won’t pay their fees, and home-schooling isn’t possible, I believe Hills End has a public school …’
What? Things were worse than she thought. In the entire history of the family, no Abbott child had ever attended a public school.
‘Leave it with me,’ said Isabelle. ‘Would you like to talk to the boys?’
‘Next time, perhaps. Ernest and I are on our way out.’
Bertha ended the call and Isabelle sat down to think. Until now she’d had no clue how long the boys might be with her. She’d been frightened some nameless chauffeur might whisk them away any day. She hadn’t dared to hope it might be a more permanent arrangement.
These past two months, having the twins, had been one of the happiest times of her life. Since being widowed, Isabelle had retreated into herself, becoming more and more reclusive - losing interest in the bush restoration work that she and Luke had once been so passionate about. Fourteen years ago, together with a dedicated band of conservationists, they fought for Tasmania’s first national parks at Mount Field and the Freycinet Peninsula. Cradle Mountain-Lake St Clair soon followed. Heady days of bitter struggles, hard disappointments and some spectacular successes. She’d been a fearless warrior for Tasmania’s forests back then, like her father before her.
Then came Luke’s terrible illness. The proud, vibrant man she adored, wasting away in a fog of pain. He faced his death with the same courage and fortitude with which he lived his life. If it was possible, Isabelle loved him even more because of it. And as she nursed him through those final months, as a choking cancer stole the breath from his lungs, her vital force faded along with his.
By the time he died, she was a hollow shell. For months she spoke to no one. Her passion for conservation - her very passion for life itself - had died with Luke. She withdrew from her position with the Royal Society. Latest copies of the British Natural History magazine lay unread in the library along with Field Naturalist newsletters and scientific journals. When subscriptions ran out, she failed to renew. What was the point? At sixty she didn’t have the energy to fight and, without Luke, her work seemed empty.
Since the boys’ arrival, that was changing. She’d read the letter from their governess with its dire assessment of the devilish pair. Rude, irreverent, defiant. This was true. Old George, the yard man, had threatened more than once to tan their hides. Unpredictable and quarrelsome. Mrs Mills, the housekeeper, was forever shouting at them. Harry was prone to tantrums and black days of grief. Robbie’s death seemed to have hit him particularly hard.
So yes, the twins were incorrigible, but they were also clever and funny and charming. Filled with the kind of youthful exuberance that she’d forgotte
n existed. Brimming with curiosity and ideas and original thoughts. Tom and Harry, with their wonder at the world, were bringing her steadily back to life.
Of course it wasn’t a one-way street. Between nannies and boarding school and summer camps, the boys had been starved of love. A child’s heart needed feeding as well as his stomach. Their persistent, troublesome behaviour was a cry for attention and a rebellion against a lonely and highly regimented life.
Yet here, in the shadow of Binburra’s wild ranges, the boys were free to simply be. Riding and rabbiting. Hiking and camping with the dogs in the forest. Fashioning weapons: swords and shields from bush timber. Bows and arrows from saplings. Acting out elaborate battles that could last from daybreak until dusk. They swam and fished. They built boats and yabby ponds. They grew their hair long, played tricks on Old George and turned nut-brown in the sun.
Isabelle herself had enjoyed such a childhood and understood how there hardly seemed enough hours in the day. She demanded little from them, other than they be home for dinner. She endured their tempers, forgave them when they needed it, listened patiently when they talked. Adored them beyond measure.
The boys were very different. It was impossible to believe that two months ago she couldn’t tell them apart. Tom was easier to warm to than Harry. Harry was smart and sure with a razor-sharp wit, but he was also secretive and suspicious of her love. By contrast Tom had a kind of open, naive honesty that was most appealing. As was his interest in nature. It was Tom who drew her back to the library, exploring the natural history collection with an enthusiasm far beyond his years. He collected feathers and insects, tempted her into bush rambles, asked questions about devils and eagles and native tigers.
‘Tigers? They used to be at Binburra,’ said Isabelle, ‘but a wicked bounty scheme wiped them out. I doubt you’d find a single thylacine between here and Hobart.’
‘I’d like to go looking,’ said Tom. ‘I bet I’d find one, too, and if I did, guess what?’ He put a finger to his lips. ‘I’d never tell a soul.’
Isabelle smiled. Cut from the same cloth as his grandfather. The thought of losing him, of losing either of the boys, had filled her with dread. And now it seemed her fears were groundless. Thanks mainly, she supposed, to Tasmania’s gloomy financial outlook. Robert wasn’t the only victim of Wall Street. The papers were filled with stories of ruined financiers pitching themselves out of windows and off buildings and bridges. Shock waves from the crash reverberated internationally, crippling economies, threatening to plunge the entire world into chaos. Here in Tasmania unemployment was already at twenty-five percent and rising. As the depression took hold, it seemed nobody wanted to take on two extra mouths, especially an unruly pair of penniless orphans like Tom and Harry. Nobody except Isabelle.
Chapter 4
After six years of living at Binburra, Tom still couldn’t pick his favourite season. Was it lazy summer? Long, sun-drenched days. Building dams on the creek to a chorus of currawongs. Swimming and launching homemade boats. Was it vivid autumn, when the turning beeches clothed the range in rich tapestries of red and gold? Or perhaps icy winter? Skiing the upper slopes, snow spume flying. Knowing the profound silence of Binburra’s glittering mountains.
Sixteen year old Tom gazed out of the library window to the bottlebrush, alive with bees. No, spring was the most magical time of the year. Nesting eagles. Streams running high with snowmelt. A ten-thousand-year-old forest renewing itself, just waiting to be explored. He shifted, restless in his seat. The sparkling morning beckoned, yet he faced a day indoors. A day of history and arithmetic presided over by Mr Hancock, their deadly dull tutor. Yesterday he’d kept them in for hours to complete a week of unfinished homework. A crime, letting sunny days go to waste like that.
Last night, Harry said he’d come up with a plan to get rid of Mr Hancock, but he wouldn’t share it. There was a time when they’d shared everything. When they’d been best friends, running wild in the vast wilderness on their doorstep. A time when they would never have kept secrets from each other. That was changing. As they grew older, a strand of strangeness, of separateness, was coming between them.
Harry came in with a sack slung over his shoulder, and dumped it at his feet.
Tom poked it with his foot. Something squirmed inside. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
Harry’s face broke into a slow grin.
‘I thought we were just going to have a bit of fun,’ said Tom. ‘Fill his desk with wombat turds, or molasses or something. You always go too far.’
‘We need to chase this clown off, right?’
‘My oath,’ said Tom. ‘If he makes me enunciate my vowels one more time, I’ll strangle him myself.’
‘But he’s more stubborn than the others. It’ll take more than molasses.’
Harry picked up the bag and untied its neck. The thrashing creature slid into the open drawer of Mr Hancock’s desk, and landed among the rulers and fountain pens. It coiled its tail around a stapler, flattened its neck, cobra-like, and raised its head. Tom admired the reptile’s sleek olive scales and bright yellow bands. The most beautiful tiger snake he’d ever seen. With an explosive hiss the snake feigned a strike, and the boys sprang back. Then it poured itself into the recesses of the drawer and vanished from sight.
‘Quick,’ whispered Harry. ‘He’s coming.’
Mr Hancock had been their tutor for six months now – a record. He was an intense, bookish man, not many years older than them. This was his first teaching position and he seemed inordinately proud of the appointment. Being more determined than his predecessors, Mr Hancock was not easily put off. None of the boys’ usual tricks had worked. Not caps under the typewriter ribbon so it went off like a machine gun when he used it. Not glue in the ink wells or dead fish under the floor boards to stink out his room. They’d gone so far as abandoning him in the bush during a nature walk, but he’d found his way home.
Tom and his brother sat quietly, giving the tutor their full attention. Hancock’s eyes darted around. He was clearly suspicious of this good behaviour. A knot of tension formed in the room. He settled very slowly on his seat, as if an electric shock might accompany the move. Tom sat forward in his chair and the knot of tension drew tighter.
‘Good morning boys.’
‘Good morning sir,’ they chorused.
Hancock licked his lips and sat back in his chair. ‘We’re having an English test today.’ He rummaged around in his bag. ‘Now where did I put your papers?’
‘Maybe they’re in the desk?’ said Harry.
Hancock gave him a knowing look and tapped the desktop. ‘That would be rather unwise, wouldn’t it? There’s no lock on this drawer.’
Tom glanced at Harry in disbelief. Did Hancock really think they cared enough to steal his stupid test and then study for it?
‘Here we are.’ He distributed the papers and a sharpened pencil each. ‘You have one hour.’
Tom looked at the first few questions:
Give the rule for the use of the subjunctive mood.
Define integer, fraction, interest, discount, power, and root.
Write a sentence containing a noun used as an attribute, a verb in the perfect tense potential mood, and a proper adjective.
Argh! Was it possible to make his favourite subject any more boring? Nana’s lessons were altogether different; she made English come alive. Reading the great romantic poets like Coleridge and Wordsworth. The kind of poetry that made Tom want to walk by the sea, or soar like a bird or fall in love. Studying Shakespeare’s bloody tales of murder and revenge. Dickens and Kipling. Even practical Harry was enchanted by Mowgli’s Jungle Book adventures.
Tom finished reading. He’d rather set himself on fire than answer these ridiculous questions. Doodling on the test instead, he went back to thinking about the snake in the desk. Hancock was a pompous, dreary buffoon, but he didn’t deserve to be bitten by a tiger snake.
Tom put up his hand, ignoring his brother’s poisonous stare. ‘Mr Hanco
ck, there’s a snake in your desk.’
‘You won’t get out of this test by making up silly stories, Tom.’
Now Harry put up his hand. ‘Sir, the lead in my pencil’s broken. May I please have another?’ Hancock opened the drawer and reached inside.
‘Don’t,’ yelled Tom. ‘Stop!’
Too late. Hancock howled, clutched his right arm and scrambled backwards. His face turned ghostly white as the snake reared up before him, then vanished back into the desk.
Tom dashed forward. ‘Sir, you need to lie flat.’ He pulled the groaning tutor to the floor. ‘Stay still, sir. Harry, go get Nana.’
His brother didn’t move, wearing an expression of half-horror, half-fascination.
‘Harry, go!’
Harry finally ran from the room.
Beads of moisture appeared on Mr Hancock’s brow, turning to a slick sheen of sweat. ‘I can’t feel my arm.’ His breathing was laboured. ‘I’m going to die, aren’t I? I know I am.’
‘Nah, you’ll be right,’ soothed Tom. ‘There’s an antidote.’
He spoke with a confidence he did not feel. It was true there was a new cure, specifically designed for tiger snake bites, made from their own venom. Binburra was part of a snake-catching program that sent dozens of the reptiles to Hobart laboratories for milking. But where was the nearest dose of the finished product? At the doctor’s surgery perhaps, in Hills End? Miles away. Tom’s skin felt clammy. He wet his lips and tried to reassure the moaning man. This would be touch and go.
* * *
Tom stood beside Harry on the verandah as old George drove away with Mr Hancock, who was lying prone on the back seat. Nana waved the car goodbye, then climbed the timber steps with a flushed face and wild eyes. Tom couldn’t ever remember seeing his grandmother really angry before, not until today.
The Lost Valley Page 2
