She glared at them, then paced up and down the railing, as if she didn’t trust herself to speak. Mr Hancock’s vomit stained her trousers, and the pins had come out of her hair. It fell around her face in an untidy, grey cloud. Nana suddenly looked very old.
‘I can’t believe you two. If I hadn’t had some anti-venom in the fridge … ’ She turned to Harry. ‘I suppose this was your idea?’
Harry stiffened. ‘That’s right, blame me.’
She turned to Tom. ‘Will I have more luck with you, then? Was this your doing?’
Harry shot him a warning glance.
‘The truth now. No lying to protect Harry.’
Tom thought quickly. How often had loyalty made him take the fall for his brother? But not this time. ‘It wasn’t me.’
Harry rounded on him. ‘You knew though.’
‘Yeah, about a minute before you put the snake in the desk.’
‘Why didn’t you warn Mr Hancock, Tom?’
‘I did. I just waited too long, that’s all, and by then it was too late.’
‘Well, at least you tried. Off you go, while I decide what to do with your brother.’
Tom stayed put, not wanting to miss the fireworks.
‘It’s not fair.’ Harry’s voice rose a few notches. ‘Tom wanted Mr Hancock gone as much as I did. You always play favourites, Nana.’
‘That’s not true …’
‘It damn well is. I hate it here. I wish Papa was alive. He wasn’t like you, Nana. Papa couldn’t be bothered with Tom. He said Tom was a good for nothing, and I reckon he was right.’
‘Apologise to your brother this instant.’
Harry glared at her, a defiant tilt to his chin. He bounded from the verandah, three steps at a time, and ran off towards the stables.
Nana sighed and scrubbed a hand across her eyes. ‘Oh, Tom, your brother didn’t mean it.’
He shrugged. There was a time, mere weeks ago, when Harry’s outburst would have cut deep. But Tom no longer cared about his father’s opinion – of him, or anything else. He’d overheard Nana talking with Grandma Bertha on the phone, and what he’d learned changed everything. He’d found his father out. Nana put a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to hug her. She felt slight in his arms, like the wind might blow her away.
‘I’m sorry about Mr Hancock,’ he said. ‘Will he be all right?’
She managed a faint smile. ‘I believe we treated him in time.’
He brushed a fly from her green silk blouse. It reminded him of one his mother used to wear. ‘Would you like a pot of tea?’
‘Thank you, Tom.’ She patted his hand. ‘Then see if you can find your brother for me. Tell him I love him. Tell him to come home.’
He took his grandmother her tea, and went to the library to rescue the snake from the desk. Using a homemade catching stick, Tom coaxed it from the drawer and expertly dropped it into an old chaff bag. He released it in the bush behind the stables.
Buster, Harry’s bay gelding, wasn’t in the yards. Tom saddled his own horse and set off into the mountains, homing in on his twin with the sixth sense they’d always shared. Hoofprints in the damp earth confirmed his hunch. Harry was headed for the cliffs above Binburra falls.
Chapter 5
Isabelle held her teacup with both hands, but couldn’t keep it steady. Time to admit defeat. Teaching the twins at Binburra had never been her preference. She’d tried to convince the Abbott clan they’d be better off at the local school, where they could mix with other children. Reminding Bertha that she herself had suggested it in the beginning.
‘Oh, my dear, you must be mistaken,’ Bertha had said. ‘As the boys’ guardian, I couldn’t possibly allow it. No Abbott child has ever had a public education. You must teach them yourself, Isabelle. I have complete faith in you.’
Complete faith. This from a woman who’d kept Isabelle from her grandsons for years. The hypocrisy was breathtaking.
She’d enlisted a string of tutors, but none had lasted long. The twins were intelligent, gifted students, and this year had gained their intermediate equivalency certificates with high marks. However they did love to play pranks on their unsuspecting teachers. As they grew older, the scale of their mischief escalated alarmingly. Last month, Mr Hancock had spent a freezing night lost in the bush after the boys gave him the slip. This incident with the snake, though, was by far the most dangerous. It might take a fair sum of money to buy Mr Hancock’s silence.
More tea lay in the rose-patterned saucer than in the cup. She gave up her balancing act and put the teacup down with trembling hands. No, it couldn’t go on like this. She didn’t have the energy any more. The twins were running wild here at Binburra. Sixteen-years-old and living in grand isolation, with no social life. No way to make their own friends, or lead their own lives.
The boys’ former camaraderie was turning into an unhealthy rivalry, and the chip Harry had always worn on his shoulder was growing fast. Sometimes the way he looked at Tom gave her a chill – all that veiled hostility. This angry, adolescent Harry wasn’t easy to love.
She shut her eyes, picturing the two lost little souls who’d arrived six years earlier. For Tom, Binburra had been a place of healing after tragedy. By contrast, Harry had never really recovered from the loss of his parents, especially his father.
Isabelle took her tea into the parlour. She opened the sideboard, where she kept her photograph albums, and flipped through the pages. An image of Harry on his eleventh birthday caught her eye, taken with her old box Brownie camera. The tip of his tongue showed from between his teeth as he glued together a model yacht. The picture of concentration. Such a clever boy, with a knack for building things, especially boats. What a shame Robbie had lost the family shipyard. Harry would have loved working there.
He tinkered endlessly with motors and helped Old George keep the farm machinery running. A whizz with electricity and engines, rigging up all sorts of mostly useful inventions. An automatic hay-lift for the loft. An electric chick incubator. Even a stream-driven dynamo to generate power. He possessed a boundless curiosity about how things worked, and once received a serious electric shock while investigating the wiring under the house.
And here was a photo of Tom at the same age – dressed in that silly home-made bird costume with canvas wings outstretched and hope shining in his eyes. She smiled at the memory. Five minutes later he’d taken a running jump off the haystack. A leap of faith. Biting the dust hadn’t dented his passion for flying.
Tom devoured books about aviation, collected toy planes and made mail-order Meccano and balsa wood kits, including twelve different World War I biplanes. It wasn’t enough for him to cram full every shelf. Tom wanted them to fly. In his bedroom he built an elaborate, overhead web of cotton and fuse wire, organising his planes into dramatic scenes of combat.
He knew everything there was to know about World War I flying aces like the Red Baron and Australia’s own Roderick Dallas and Robert A Little.
‘When I grow up I’ll be a pilot too,’ he’d say. ‘I’ll finally know how an eagle feels.’
Isabelle didn’t doubt him for a moment. Tom might be an optimist, a dreamer with his head and his heart in the clouds, but there was an indefinable sense of destiny about the boy.
She wished her father could have known him. Daniel Campbell had been one of Tasmania’s greatest naturalists and a pioneering member of the Royal Society, the oldest scientific organisation in Australia. He’d had a special love for birds, too, especially owls and eagles. How he would have loved Tom.
Isabelle took a deep breath. Decision time. The boys needed a circuit breaker and so did she. Time to broaden their horizons as her own dear mother had done for her. Time to take them to Hobart, so they could learn about the world beyond Binburra’s boundaries.
A plan formed in her mind. They could stay at Coomalong, Isabelle’s old family home next to Campbell College, where she’d once been Principal. Isabelle remained on the board. She’d donated her house to t
he school on condition that it be used not only for lessons, but as accommodation for scholarship girls. Harry and Tom would be able to attend classes and mix with people their own age. She would have a respite from the burden of their education.
It would be an adventure for them all.
Chapter 6
Tom and Flame, his eager chestnut mare, pounded up the waterfall track under the bluest of skies. He tried to look on the bright side. If all went well, Mr Hancock would recover and never come back. Nana and Harry would calm down. He’d escaped the hated school room into a perfect spring day and wouldn’t have to sit that stupid test.
He slowed Flame to a walk as they reached the falls and tackled the rocky climb to the clifftop. Flame’s hooves struck sparks from the flinty stones as she scrambled up the perilous path. Harry hadn’t nursed his horse in the same way. He’d taken the slope at a gallop. Dislodged rocks told the story of his frantic ascent.
When Tom reached the top he spotted Harry standing on a granite overhang above the falls, throwing stones into the foaming water. His bay gelding, tethered nearby, whinnied and held up a forefoot. Tom dismounted and examined its leg. The pastern and cannon bone felt hot and swollen.
‘You’ve lamed Buster.’
‘Go to hell,’ yelled Harry.
Tom rubbed the gelding between the ears and slipped off his bridle. ‘Go home, boy.’ He waved his hat and Buster trotted off, limping.
‘Hey,’ called Harry as his horse vanished into the forest. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
‘You can’t ride that horse.’ Tom joined his brother at the head of the falls and picked up a handful of stones. He lobbed one into the pool sixty feet below. ‘Nana sent me to fetch you back. I reckon she’s forgiven you.’
‘Forgiven me?’ Harry’s voice burned with anger. ‘What about me forgiving her?’
‘What for?’
‘For making everything my fault. For treating me like crap all these years. Take her birthday. I saved my pocket money for ages to buy her a brooch. I’ve hardly ever seen her wear it. But you? You give her a half-dead quoll you just find out in the bush, yet she loves that quoll more than anything. It has the run of her room, sleeps on her bed, and it didn’t cost you a penny.’
‘You should know that Nana’s not a great one for jewellery. And anyway, with her, it’s not about the money.’
‘Then what is it about?’ said Harry. ‘I fix things for her like the toaster and the iron. Keep that clapped out tractor running. I even invented an oil-heated drum in the shed to dry wet laundry when it’s raining. You? You just moon about in the bush looking at birds. Or build those stupid gliders that always crash.’ He flexed his fingers, eyes cold as flint. ‘For some reason she still thinks the sun shines out of your arse.’
Harry had conveniently forgotten about how much trouble he’d caused Nana. He’d forgotten about the war of attrition he’d waged against their teachers and how often Tom had unfairly shared the blame. He’d forgotten about his tempers and black moods. But otherwise he was right. Harry was far more useful than Tom around Binburra, at least in a practical sense.
Tom threw another stone, mulling over his brother’s words. He almost felt sorry for Harry, understanding all too well the pain of feeling second best in the eyes of someone you loved. It left a sharp icicle of damage in your heart.
‘Come on,’ said Tom. ‘I’ll double-bunk you home.’
‘I’m not going home.’ Harry’s eyes blazed with the power of a long-smouldering resentment, suddenly fanned into flames. ‘I’m sick of her playing favourites, and I’m sick of you.’
‘Fine, walk then.’
‘I meant what I said about Papa.’ Harry’s tone was taunting now, his legs planted wide. ‘I bet he wished you’d never been born. I bet Papa never even wanted you.’
‘Who cares what Father wanted?’
As Tom walked away, a blinding pain exploded at the back of his head. The rock bounced off and cartwheeled down the cliff. Harry bent down to pick up another. Tom tackled his brother, wrestled the rock from his hand, then sat on him. ‘You think Father was so perfect, don’t you?’ said Tom. ‘Some sort of saint? Well, I know different.’
‘What the hell do you mean?’ Harry’s voice came in short, angry pants.
Tom swore under his breath, and let his brother up. ‘Forget it. Forget I said anything.’
He turned to go, but in a flash Harry was upon him. ‘You can’t talk about Papa like that.’
Caught off guard, Tom lost his balance and fell hard on his back. The two of them rarely fought. Harry had long ago learned he was no match for his heavier, stronger brother, but something was different about him today. A new ferocity lay behind his pummelling fists. When Tom raised his hands to guard his face, Harry sent a blow to his stomach, hard enough to wind him.
Then Harry’s hands were around his neck, thumbs pressed against his throat.
Anger rose in Tom like a hot tide, threatening to engulf them both. He exploded like a spring released, hurling Harry back to the edge of the waterfall. Tom scrambled to his feet. ‘Want to know why I don’t care any more? Want to know the truth about Papa?’ He stood over his fallen brother, eyes wild. ‘There was no armed robber at our house. We’ve been lied to all along. Father shot Mama, and then he shot himself.’
‘Bullshit.’ Sunlight glinted off Harry’s tears.
‘It damn well isn’t. I heard Nana talking about it on the phone. Father killed himself and Mama because he was ashamed. He lost everything, even your precious shipyard. He lost the family fortune and couldn’t face people. That’s the kind of man he was – a coward who murdered our mother and abandoned us. That’s exactly how much he loved you.’
Time stood still. Then a jagged cry, barely human, escaped Harry. It pierced Tom’s heart, and all the rage leaked out of him. What had he done? He was stronger than Harry, and hadn’t loved Father so fiercely. He should have protected his brother from the awful truth. Yet in one mean, hate-filled moment he’d used it as a weapon against him. Fear for Harry gripped him. A fear he wouldn’t survive the pain of knowing. Tom squeezed his eyes shut, willing time to go backwards. Desperate to take back his cruel words.
A sudden, blinding pain tore through him as Harry’s knee crashed into his groin. Tom caught a glimpse of his brother’s eyes, black and murderous, before stumbling back and tripping on a tanglefoot beech that clung to the edge of the overhang. Tom snatched at it with both hands, feeling himself slipping, losing his footing. Suddenly he was dangling; treading air. All that kept him from sliding into the abyss was the shallow-rooted tree, its branches slick with spray from the falls.
‘Harry.’ His heart thumped madly. His legs scrambled for a foothold but found none. ‘Help!’
Hands reached down for him, grasping his wrists. ‘I’ve got you, Tom. Hang onto me. Let go of the tree.’
It went against every instinct. His fingers inched towards Harry’s arm, loath to forgo their hold on the branch. He steeled himself, gulped down a breath and transferred his grip. The sun in his eyes meant he couldn’t see Harry’s face. For a long moment he hung there, suspended in space, anchored to his brother for better or worse.
Harry opened his fingers and Tom slipped into the void.
Chapter 7
Tom seemed to be falling forever, as in a dream, merging with the rushing cascade. He bounced off boulders and snags on the way down, but felt nothing – not yet. If he could just spread his wings and soar up through the rainbow spray, like the spine-tailed swifts that nested on these cliffs. If he could be a bird …
Reprieve from pain ended when he smacked into the rocky pool at the base of the falls. The impact knocked the wind from his lungs, a small blessing. It stopped him gasping for breath beneath the water, when his mind was still spinning, when his body felt impossibly heavy.
Tom surfaced by instinct and struck out for the bank. His right arm didn’t work and each breath was torture. He hauled himself into the shallows left-handed, and with
agonising slowness, crawled onto the river sand. Blood oozed from his many cuts. He vomited, light-headed, struggling to think. Struggling to accept what his brother had done. How was Harry feeling? Sick at heart? Frightened? Maybe he felt nothing; maybe he was happy. Tom vomited again, growing more and more dizzy. Would Harry come for him? And if he did, would it be to help? With this last, frightening thought, Tom’s vision faded and darkness descended.
* * *
Tom woke in a world of hurt. A round moon sailed high in the sky. His breath came in shallow pants and the pain in his arm made him scream when he tried to move. Tom gritted his teeth, dragged himself to the dark water and drank. With the help of a low branch he pulled himself to his feet, stiff with an agony more than physical. The agony of knowing his brother had left him to die.
Tom’s injuries had stiffened. Each inch of him ached. Raw skin showed through his shredded clothes, crusted with dried blood. Each step was an agony, but his legs moved when ordered to and moonlight showed the way. He could do this. He had to do this. With a groan, Tom shuffled off down the waterfall track.
* * *
Hours later, a light appeared in the gloom ahead. At first he thought the flash was inside his lids, a prelude to fainting. But there were hoofbeats, and someone calling. A sudden fear came over him and he stumbled into the trees.
The hoofbeats drew nearer. ‘Harry! Tom!’ Old George’s voice.
‘Here,’ yelled Tom, drag-footing his way back onto the track. ‘I’m here.’
* * *
Tom opened his eyes. Morning sun streamed through the window. He was in his own bed, unsure of how he got there, unable to remember anything after Old George found him. He knew one thing though – he was grateful to be alive.
The Lost Valley Page 3
