Emma took a deep breath. ‘There’s a boy I like, Mum – Tom. He has a twin brother. They come from a very good family.’
Surely this news would get her attention. Mum always wanted to know if she’d met anybody nice. ‘Make sure he’s rich, sweetheart,’ she would say. ‘I loved your father, of course I did, but it was a hard life on the farm. Miles from anywhere, living off the land. I want more for my girl.’
Emma had roundly resented this advice. She’d loved their simple life back on the farm, as much as she hated moving to the filthy backstreets of Launceston. She missed the space and hills and fresh air. She missed the trees and animals and birds. She missed the wildflowers in spring, the taste of warm, frothy milk straight from the cow, and the vegetable garden that kept them amply supplied with fresh produce all year round. They could barely coax a single potato from Sparrow Lane’s exhausted soil.
A low groan came from the bed.
‘Mum?’ Emma leaned across and looked deeply into her eyes, desperate for some sign of the woman she knew and loved. Her mother’s eyes remained eerily unfocused, fixed on something nobody else could see. If she was in there, it was impossible to tell.
The dam finally burst and Emma crumpled into a blubbering mess. The worst thing, the thing that made her ashamed, was that her tears weren’t just for her mother. They were for herself as well.
Emma couldn’t breathe. She pulled the curtains aside and opened the grimy window. The chilly blast of air was like a blast of cold reality. There’d be no return to Hobart. No romance with Tom. No working at the zoo. No resuming the scholarship. Her chance of a higher education lay trampled in the wake of this tragedy. How could she leave her mother in this foul, stuffy room, dressed in soiled clothes and lying in her own filth? How could she abandon her to the tender mercies of drunken Mrs Shaw, and of 18-year-old Jack who meant well but was in way over his head? Tim wouldn’t be any help. Jack was right about their older brother. Timid Timmy, they used to call him – a boy who seemed to have been born frightened of the world. He’d grown into a man who ran from responsibility and closed his eyes to the hardships of life. Jack’s account of Tim’s visit rang true. Mum’s plight would have scared the hell out of him.
Emma wiped away the tears from her cheek. She may be the youngest – barely seventeen – but there was no getting away from it. She was also the best candidate to care for Mum.
A crush of painful memories tumbled in. The giddy excitement of opening the letter offering her the scholarship. Her first wide-eyed day in Hobart. Meeting the principal, Mrs Woolhouse.
‘So you want to be a doctor? You’re one of the brightest, most talented scholarship girls we’ve ever had here at Campbell College. There’s absolutely no reason why you shouldn’t achieve your goal. We have high hopes for you.’
What a shock it had been, being recognised for her brain by people other than her parents. And what a delight. She hadn’t dared to dream of such a thing, yet there she was, shaking the Principal’s hand, receiving the sort of accolades that she’d thought impossible for home-schooled farm girls. Her life in Hobart had been perfect. Her studies, her cosy room at Coomalong, the elegant library. Alison, and her work with the animals at the zoo. Arthur Reid had even promised her a paid, part-time job at the zoo when she finished school. A job that would have seen her through university until she finished her medical degree. Such bitter-sweet thoughts. She’d been going to find a cure for arthritis. It suddenly seemed a foolish and trivial ambition. Arthritis was the least of her mother’s problems.
Wind rattled the roof as the rain began in earnest. It came in sideways, spraying Emma’s face, but she was too numb to feel it. It was time to stop feeling sorry for herself. Time to pack her things away, light a fire, find Mum some clean clothes to wear.
‘I’m going out for some wood,’ she said. ‘Is there anything I can do for you first?’
Emma was almost glad Mum couldn’t answer. She knew what she’d say. Her mother’s voice sounded in her mind, clear as a bell. ‘Yes, you daft child. You know exactly what you can do for me. You can leave here and get your behind back to Hobart, quick smart.’
Chapter 12
In some ways it was as if Tom had never left Binburra, as if his time in Hobart had been a dream. He loved being back. Spring turned into summer, and the ranges had never looked more beautiful. Waratahs and leatherwood flowered in the valleys. Honeyeaters hovered among the crimson bottlebrush and two half-grown eaglets peered down from their eyrie, perched two hundred feet above him in a mountain ash. Higher up in the hills, dramatic grass-tree spears, patterned with multitudes of creamy flowers, reached for the sky,. Higher still, and the slopes were clothed with lemon-scented boronia and silver snow daisies.
He rode Flame into the wilderness, as before. Followed new paths into the forest. He explored crystal tarns, where platypus played, and plump spotted trout were so plentiful they almost caught themselves. He scaled craggy clifftops he’d never climbed before. There was always something fresh to discover in these mountains.
Yet in other ways, everything had changed. He missed Emma terribly, each minute of the day. He didn’t even have a photo. And he missed Harry. Where was he living? What was he doing? In some ways, his brother was more present in his absence. Tom viewed things in terms of how they related to Harry. He went fishing, and compared his catch to the number of fish Harry caught when they were last together at the lake. He went swimming and, in his mind’s eye, saw Harry launching his latest creation: that sleek clockwork speedboat – a masterpiece of engineering. He couldn’t pass the waterfall without a shudder.
In his loneliness, Tom daydreamed about Hobart. Here at Binburra, surrounded by a vast wilderness, the capital city and its bustling crowds seemed a world away. Remembering his time there made it seem more real. He thought about the aerodrome, where the magnificent planes he’d seen in books were transformed into shiny reality. He thought about the zoo, and of Karma endlessly pacing her prison. Whenever Tom rode into the mountains, he imagined her there with him, poised on a fallen log or bounding after the little pademelon wallabies in a grassy clearing. He couldn’t get those images out of his head.
He couldn’t get Emma out of his head either. The taste of her lips. Her serious face and funny clothes. Her love and compassion for the zoo animals. Her standing in her underwear with her mouth open. Unanswerable questions plagued him. How was she managing back in Launceston? He didn’t even have an address. How was her mother? Tom had no idea about strokes, or how disabling they were. Would Emma be able to resume her scholarship, realise her ambition and become a doctor? It frustrated him to think that he might never know.
Their return to Binburra coincided with his grandmother’s remarkable return to health. Colour came back to her cheeks, and her eyes shone with a restless energy Tom hadn’t seen before. Her nagging cough persisted, but she pushed through it. Her appetite was back.
‘Can’t remember when you last ate two eggs,’ said a beaming Mrs Mills as Nana lingered over her breakfast toast. She ate slowly, but seemed determined to devour every last crumb. She went for longer and longer walks in the bush with the dogs. She started riding again, appropriating Harry’s bay gelding Buster, as her own horse was quite old now. Tom always rode with her, fearful she might take a fall alone in the mountains. Her enthusiasm surprised him. He’d barely seen her on a horse since he arrived at Binburra.
‘What’s got into Nana?’ Tom asked Mrs Mills one morning, as Nana disappeared out the back door with the dogs.
‘Says she’s got a special tonic.’ Mrs Mills chuckled. ‘Whatever it is, I could sure use some.’
Tom stumbled across the identity of Nana’s special tonic a few days later – three dusty cases of Vin Tonique Mariani at the back of the cart shed. Tom examined one of the squat bottles with its French language label. He gave it a shake. The liquid inside looked like red wine. He found a colourful leaflet inside the crate labelled Popular French Tonic Wine. It showed a risqué image of a scant
ily clad young woman, pouring herself a glass while she danced. Beneath, in smaller letters, it read Fortifies and Refreshes Body & Brain. Restores Health and Vitality.
‘Leftover from my late husband’s illness,’ said Nana when he asked. ‘It brought him great comfort towards the end, and works marvellously well for me as a restorative.’
He couldn’t argue with that. The stuff was a miracle cure.
* * *
Nana didn’t get him a tutor. ‘You’re seventeen, Tom. Time to decide what you want to do with your life. Next year I’m sending you back to Hobart. You could finish school and aim for university, or take up an apprenticeship like your brother. But this time I won’t be coming with you.’
A shiver of excitement and anticipation ran through him. Nana was right. He needed to make his own way in the world, beyond Binburra’s remote boundaries. Reconnect with Emma and forge a life for himself, like Harry was doing. With Nana well again, he could leave without guilt.
‘Don’t make any hasty decisions,’ said Nana. ‘Think it through. However, in the meantime, remember I said there’s something special I want us to do together? Well, it’s time. I want us to go camping in the ranges. We’ll be away for a week or more.
‘Camping?’ He and Harry had never gone camping with Nana before. ‘You’re just full of surprises. Are you sure you’re well enough?’
‘Look at all I’ve been doing lately. Do I seem ill?’
Tom grinned. ‘You’ve been in training for this trip, haven’t you?’
‘Precisely so. We leave the day after tomorrow.’
* * *
They set off on horseback at first light. As they started up the waterfall track, Old George joined them on Nana’s old horse. Excited to be out of her paddock and included for once, the grey mare whinnied and pranced like a filly.
Tom cast Nana a puzzled look.
‘The way will soon grow too rough for horses,’ she explained. ‘We’ll need George to take them back to the homestead for us.’
Just as she said, in a few hours they had to leave their mounts behind. Tom waved goodbye to George as he disappeared back down the track with the horses. Nana had already marched off uphill. Just where was she taking him with such tireless determination?
Upwards, ever upwards, Nana and Tom forged into the rugged ranges. The going grew tougher as the forest grew thicker. Criss-crossed fallen trees blocked their path, like a giant had been playing an immense game of pick up sticks. The ancient, downed trunks formed homes for a dazzling array of mosses, ferns, and flowers.
‘Look,’ said Nana as they climbed across a creek beneath a canopy of sassafras and celery-topped pine. An orchid twined around a myrtle twig overhanging the water. Fragrant sprays of purple and white blossom dangled down, catching the muted sunlight.
‘A butterfly orchid,’ said Tom in a whisper. ‘I’ve never seen one.’ Despite his knowledge of these ranges, he had not passed this way before.
* * *
It was almost dark before Nana halted beside a rocky spring where two mountain gullies met. She didn’t speak. Although it was summer, the chill of a highland night was already seeping into Tom’s bones.
‘I’ll set up camp and light a fire.’ He pointed to a fallen tree. ‘Sit down and rest.’
Nana gave him a grateful smile and shrugged off her backpack. She pulled her jacket tight around her and sank down on the log. Looking limp, staring at nothing, taking slow, deep breaths – the very picture of exhaustion. Tom couldn’t believe the pace she’d set all day, and the strength she’d shown. What was pushing her?
Tom filled up the billy and canteens at the spring. Nana produced a bottle of Vin Mariani from her pack and, to Tom’s delight, a block of Cadbury’s chocolate. She eased herself off her log and rubbed her back. Then she filled her mug with a generous portion of tonic and took a great swig.
Tom cleared a flat spot and arranged a ring of stones for their campfire.
Nana handed him some squares of chocolate. ‘I’ll collect kindling.’
Tom opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it. Nana wouldn’t thank him for taking over. She was too proud. Instead he rushed to set up camp before she got back. Laying out swags. Chopping wood. Selecting a stout backlog which would burn all night.
When Nana returned with a supply of sticks, Tom got the fire going and put the billy on. He could see Nana looking around for something else to do. ‘Sit down and keep the fire going, Nana.’ He grabbed his rifle. ‘I’ll try my luck shooting bunnies. Better than bully beef.’
Half an hour later he returned with two rabbits, expertly skinned and gutted. Soon they were roasting on a spit resting between two forked sticks, beside a pot of boiling potatoes.
Tom relaxed by the fire, sipping sweet billy tea and turning the rabbits. Nana dozed off in the warm glow, with her back against a tree. He carefully covered her with a blanket, then sat down, waiting for the meal to cook. There was no hurry. Wild rabbits took time to turn tender.
It was ages since Tom had camped out like this. Everyday worries fled. He’d forgotten the peace of it, how wilderness stripped away cares and longings. A flock of green rosellas chattered in the branches above him as they settled down to roost. The sinking sun flamed one last time through a filigree of leaves, then dropped from the sky. Night fell quickly in the highlands, and the forest dissolved into mystery.
Tom was no longer curious about where they were going, or why they were going there. It was enough to be on the journey.
* * *
On the fourth day they reached a limestone canyon, framed by towering cliffs like jagged battlements. A natural fortress.
‘Welcome to Loongana Warraroong,’ whispered Nana. ‘Pass of the Tiger. No one alive knows about this place apart from me, and now, you.’
The birds fell silent as they went by, and the air hung heavy with stillness. The rock walls were honeycombed with caves, and a stream ran through the pass, here wide and shining, there dwindling to a chain of rocky pools. They followed its course until it fell in a silver ribbon down a bottomless cliff.
Tom climbed onto a rock shelf above the waterfall. From his vantage point he saw the pass was really a little hanging valley, suspended above an immense, natural amphitheatre.
‘A long-vanished ice river carved out this canyon,’ said Nana, ‘on its way down to the main glacier.’ She pointed to the scene below them: giant trees, virgin forests and green clearings stretching as far as the eye could see. ‘Your great-grandfather Daniel called this, a place hidden from everything but sky.’
Tom tried to imagine how it would have looked eons ago – a vast glittering ice world. He wished he could share this place with Emma. How she would love it.
‘Once upon a time, a track led down the escarpment to a lost valley where the first people hunted teeming game and walked for weeks without reaching its limit. Then an earthquake blocked the way, sealing off the valley.’
Tom offered his hand, and pulled Nana up to stand beside him on the ledge. High above them, an eagle wheeled across the blue face of the sky. They stood for the longest time, absorbing the majesty of the scene.
Nana turned to him with bright eyes. ‘What do you think?’
‘It’s magical,’ he said. ‘Like I’ve stepped back in time.’
* * *
They retraced their steps. Nana stopped beside a twisted Huon pine. Tom gazed up in amazement. He’d never seen one so tall. ‘It must be a thousand years old.’
Nana stroked its knotted bark. ‘Imagine the things this tree has seen.’ She took out the torches from his pack, and pointed to a nearby cave. ‘That one.’
Tom followed her inside and waited for his eyes to adjust. Nana seemed to be searching for something at her feet. She trained her torch on the ground and rubbed it with her boot. Something gleamed beneath the dirt. She knelt down, spat on a handkerchief and scrubbed at the rock floor. To his astonishment a square brass plate emerged from the dust.
After a moment or t
wo he could read the inscription. In loving memory of Luke Tyler and his loyal dog Bear. My heart is forever yours. Bluebell.
‘Who put it here?’ asked Tom. ‘Who’s Luke Tyler?’
Darkness and silence yawned between them. Tom lifted his torch, startled to see tears in her eyes. ‘Nana, what is it?’ He put a steadying hand on her arm.
She managed a smile, and raised her own torch high, training it on the walls. Eerie images appeared from the gloom; dozens of drawings, hand-prints and concentric circles. Nana pulled him further in. A manmade tunnel opened up at the rear of the cave, shored up with stout timbers. Tom investigated. After ten feet or so, the way was impassable, choked with rocks.
Nana pointed to the roof and Tom drew in a quick breath. The painted likeness of a thylacine gazed down on them.
‘Lord, it does my poor heart good to be in this place again,’ said Nana with a deep, joyful sigh. ‘We’ll camp here tonight. There’s much I need to tell you.’
* * *
Tom caught three plump trout for dinner, collected wood and warrigal greens, lit a fire and laid out their swags. He burned with curiosity. Who was Bluebell? Who built the tunnel and where did it lead? But Nana had retreated into herself.
‘Later,’ she said, when he pressed her. ‘We’ll talk later.’
When they’d eaten, Nana finally began. ‘I am Bluebell,’ she said. ‘I set that plaque in tribute to Luke Tyler, the great love of my life. Luke was your grandfather, Tom. The truth is that you and Harry are not Abbotts at all.’ Her voice grew fierce. ‘Not one drop of their damn blood flows in your veins.’
‘I don’t understand …’
‘We adored each other, Luke and I, although it was a forbidden love affair. I became pregnant with his child when I was just sixteen, younger than you are now. That child was Robert, your father.’
The Lost Valley Page 8
