The Lost Valley

by Jennifer Scoullar

  ‘Why not?’ said Tom. ‘She’s got two legs, hasn’t she?’

  Indeed she has, thought Harry, catching a glimpse of a trim, tanned thigh as Kitty took her seat in the back. ‘She’d be used to chauffeur-driven limos, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘Maybe once,’ said Tom. ‘Right now, Kitty’s as broke as I am.’

  Harry filed that information away. ‘I’ll drive you,’ he said. ‘Emma would never forgive me otherwise.’

  * * *

  Kitty stared out the window as the pretty countryside slipped by. Budding orchards and green fields full of sheep. Graceful old manor houses. It could have been England. Kitty stifled a yawn. How tired she was of travelling and living out of suitcases. She frowned at her reflection in the window. Dark shadows under her eyes. Uneven complexion. Plane trips dried the skin and it was impossible to moisturise properly while travelling. The journey from London had been an ordeal; a week of connecting flights and stopovers. Tripoli, Cairo, Karachi, Calcutta, Singapore, Darwin, Sydney, Melbourne – she never knew if she was coming or going.

  And being out in public with Tom had been a constant humiliation. Kitty was used to turning heads wherever she went. She expected to. But now her husband received all the attention, drawing looks of pity and disgust instead of admiration. Children pointed, too young to understand or pretend. Mothers moved away and held their babies close. Solicitous old ladies patted her hand, and asked in hushed tones if his condition was hereditary. Louts laughed and shouted insults: monster face, monkey nose, bogey man, Frankenstein. Get back to the freak show. Go live in a zoo. Do your mother a favour and kill yourself.

  People at hotels and airport ticket counters assumed Tom was backward, and spoke to him in slow, exaggerated sentences. Or they ignored him altogether and wanted to deal directly with Kitty instead. Some shrank back and called their managers, thinking he was somehow dangerous.

  It wasn’t as bad when Tom was in uniform. Kitty insisted he wore it all the time but it wasn’t a complete defence. He was like a rock, seemingly impervious to all the world could throw at him, but she wasn’t so strong. The rudeness, rejection and endless stream of vitriol had worn her down. Things would be better when she could stop, breathe and get some sleep. Things would be better when she got to Binburra.

  The landscape was changing; picturesque paddocks turning to wooded hills. ‘Oh look, kangaroos.’ She pointed out the mob to Emma, who sat beside her in the back seat.

  ‘Lots of kangaroos at Binburra,’ said Emma. ‘Wombats and wallabies too. Devils, if you’re lucky.’

  ‘Devils? I don’t much like the sound of them.’

  Harry swung around to look at her. ‘Emma’s bound to find all sorts of strange creatures for you. The weirder the better.’ Then his eyes were back on the road.

  Kitty laughed. ‘I might stick to kangaroos.’ She liked Harry. He had a great sense of humour and looked very much like Tom before the plane crash. Not quite as handsome perhaps – his eyes a little closer together, his features not quite so symmetrical – but he came close.

  Emma, she wasn’t so sure about. Kitty was used to women envying her — that she could understand. But she didn’t sense jealousy from Emma, more a general air of disapproval. Not that it mattered. Kitty didn’t make a habit of cultivating friendships with women.

  She lay back in the soft leather seat of the silver Bentley, closed her eyes and let the humming motor lull her into a half-sleep. She’d had her misgivings about coming, but maybe this was just what she needed. A country retreat at a stately home. A peaceful place with time to relax. A place where Tom’s face could heal, with only the hired help to see. Servants wouldn’t stare, they wouldn’t dare. And while Tom’s health improved, she’d take stock and work out a way to rebuild her career.

  * * *

  Kitty yawned as Tom gently shook her awake. The weather had turned and rain streamed down the car window. ‘Why have we stopped?’

  ‘We’re here, Kit.’

  She looked around. There must be some mistake. A dark tangle of trees loomed through the mist. Where were the sweeping lawns? Where were the manicured gardens? Where was the house?

  ‘Sorry, there’s a bit of a walk.’ Tom opened the door and the rain angled in, soaking her silk dress and making her shiver. ‘The drive was washed away in a storm last week, apparently. If Harry drives any closer he’ll get bogged.’

  Kitty gingerly stepped from the car straight into a puddle. Harry appeared with a mohair blanket and slung it over her bare shoulders, then went to help Tom unload the bags.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Emma. ‘Your lovely shoes.’

  Kitty’s stiletto heels had sunk into the sucking mud. The rain strengthened and, as she tried to move, she tripped hard onto her knees. Argh. The gravel burned her palms and muck splashed her white dress. Her carefully coiffed curls fell apart and lay plastered against her face. Kitty felt like a drowned rat and was close to tears.

  Tom helped her to stand. ‘My ankle hurts,’ she said. He tried to pick her up, but skidded on the slippery clay and they both landed on their bottoms in the puddle.

  Emma started giggling and Tom joined in. Harry swept Kitty out of the mud, into his arms, and went marching up the hill. ‘Not much of a welcome to Binburra,’ he said. ‘Emma and Tom can be clowns sometimes.’

  A few minutes later the house emerged from the mist. A good first impression. An imposing two-storey timber homestead with large windows, wide verandahs and wrap around balconies. Harry carried her up the porch steps, set her down, and went back to help with the bags. On second glance Kitty revised her opinion of the house. Peeling paint, splintered floor boards and eaves thick with cobwebs.

  The front door flew open and a plump old woman emerged, wearing an apron over a shabby floral dress. ‘Oh my lord, you must be Kitty. I’m Mrs Mills,’ she said in a loud voice. ‘Come in, get warm. Hurry up before you catch your death.’

  Mrs Mills. The name rang a bell — the housekeeper, although she didn’t behave like any housekeeper Kitty had ever known. More like a bossy grandmother. She led Kitty through the entrance hall to a parlour where a welcoming fire blazed in the hearth. ‘Sit down there, girl.’

  Kitty did as she was told. The room, though grandly furnished, had seen better days. Worn out carpet, tattered wallpaper and stuffing spilling from the threadbare cushion of her antique armchair. The very essence of faded glory.

  Tom appeared in the doorway. Mrs Mills screamed. ‘Oh, my poor Tom. Whatever’s happened to your beautiful face?’

  He gave the woman a long hug and then warmed his hands before the fire. ‘It got burned, Mrs M. I wrote you a letter, remember?’

  Mrs Mills began to cry, the loudest weeping Kitty had ever heard. ‘I didn’t think it would be so bad,’ she managed between sobs. ‘I prayed for you, Tom. I really did, but it wasn’t enough.’ She touched his face. ‘Your nose. It’s huge.’ Mrs Mills traced his lips with an arthritic finger. ‘And your mouth’s all crooked, and your skin.’ She paused with a shudder. ‘Those doctors can’t leave you like this. It’s a crime.’

  ‘You should have seen me before the surgeries. I didn’t have a nose at all.’

  She began wailing again. Astonishingly Tom silenced her with another affectionate hug. ‘I’ve got a way to go, Mrs M. There’s still room for improvement.’

  ‘Oh lord, I do hope so, Tom.’ Mrs Mills sniffed back a tide of tears. ‘I’ll get to more praying while I make the tea.’

  Kitty looked on in disbelief. And here she was thinking the servants wouldn’t stare. What a rude old woman. She’d have to talk to Tom about letting her go.

  An ancient man shuffled in, seventy at least, with a stout build and ruddy face. He removed his battered hat to reveal a bald head so shiny he must have polished it. ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Kitty. I’m George, the odd jobs man.’

  He stepped forward to shake her hand. Kitty screwed up her nose. He smelled, and was that oil on his fingers?

  George turned to Tom and his weathered
face crinkled with pleasure. ‘Good to see you, son.’

  ‘You too, George.’

  They shook hands as George took in Tom’s gaunt figure and scarred face. ‘You’ve paid your dues, my word you have. Done Australia and the mother country proud. You RAF fellers showed Hitler a thing or two, eh?’

  ‘That we did, George.’

  ‘Looks like you could use a good feed though. Between your wife and Mrs Mills here, there’ll be no shortage of home cooked tucker to fatten you up.’ He gave Tom a dig in the ribs with his elbow and grinned. ‘Could be trouble in the kitchen, eh? Too many cooks.’

  Kitty fumed. How dare he suggest she might work in the kitchen. She was an actress, not a cook. It was insulting. In spite of Tom’s obvious affection for the old man, he needed to learn his place or leave. Kitty looked around. Were these two geriatrics the only servants?

  Harry and Emma arrived with the bags, and the brothers launched into a boring conversation with George about rainfall totals.

  ‘You’ll want to change out of that soiled dress,’ said Emma. ‘I’ll help take your things up.’ Her air of faint disapproval remained.

  Kitty followed her upstairs to a large and elegant bedroom. Rich oriental rugs on the floor. Silvery wallpaper of a delicate floral medallion design. A four poster bed with arched canopy of tasselled tan-and-gold brocade. But as with the lounge, an atmosphere of neglect and abandonment permeated the room. Dust lay thick on the dressing table and drapes. Spider webs festooned the ceiling corners and a musty smell tickled her nose.

  ‘The bathroom is through there,’ said Emma.

  Kitty pulled the curtains and opened the window. The sun had broken through, but the view wasn’t what she’d expected. No stately gardens and rolling pastured hills. Instead a wild forest grew close to the house, as if it might any moment reclaim it. The sight made her scalp prickle.

  ‘When was the last time anyone slept in here?’

  ‘Twelve years ago, I expect.’ Emma thumped the largest suitcase on the bed. It raised a tiny cloud of dust, making Kitty sneeze. ‘That’s when Tom’s grandmother passed away.’

  Kitty felt a creeping horror. ‘You mean she died on that bed?’

  Emma gave the slightest shrug, watching her with cool, curious eyes.

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ said Kitty, ‘I’d like to change.’

  ‘Of course.’ Emma left without a word.

  Kitty took a big breath and tried to steady her nerves. She couldn’t sleep in this room. What if the ghost of Tom’s grandmother came out at night? She wouldn’t be surprised. In fact she wouldn’t be surprised if the whole damn house was haunted.

  She explored the bathroom. Tiny ants trailed along the window sill and fingers of mould spread up one wall. She found a bath sponge, turned on the tap and filled the basin. It took three goes before she managed to get a sinkful of water free of wrigglers. Kitty washed her legs and arms, dabbing at her painful grazed knees and palms. She brushed her hair, put on a smoky-blue pant suit that complemented her eyes, and went to find Mrs Mills.

  * * *

  ‘Mrs Buchanan’s room? Well, I’ll need to change the bedding first and give it a good dusting.’

  ‘So that’s not the bedroom you meant for Tom and me?’

  ‘Oh no, love. I set up the front room upstairs, fresh flowers and all. A wee bit smaller but with a prettier outlook. Lovely views over what’s left of the garden and on a clear day, all the way to Hills End. I think it’s less lonely when you can see the town, knowing other people aren’t too far away after all. But if you’d rather—’

  ‘No, the front room sounds lovely,’ said Kitty. ‘But if you could prepare Mrs Buchanan’s room for Tom, please. While he’s recovering we’re not supposed to … you know.’ This wasn’t true, but since the accident Kitty couldn’t face sleeping with her husband.

  Mrs Mill’s eyes widened and she gave Kitty a knowing wink. ‘Say no more, girl. I’ll see to it right away.’

  ‘One more thing,’ said Kitty. ‘Tom’s grandmother. Did she … did she die in her bedroom? Tom might feel uncomfortable there if she did.’

  Mrs Mills gave her an understanding smile. ‘Tom’s lucky to have such a thoughtful wife, but you needn’t worry. Mrs Buchanan couldn’t get up the stairs in the end. We set the library up as a sick room. Sounds strange, doesn’t it, but it’s what she wanted, to be near her books.’

  Thank goodness. It would be easy to steer clear of library ghosts. Kitty didn’t read.

  She went out to the verandah, cursing as she skirted broken boards and a patch of slippery moss. Wind moaned through the trees, making her shiver. She hated this place. She hated the isolation, and the gloomy forest, and the eerie house. Her husband had lied to her. Binburra was no relaxing country retreat, with servants and gardens and a pool with a waterfall. Binburra was a nightmare.

  Chapter 34

  ‘Los Angeles?’ Tom put down his forkful of scrambled eggs. ‘But we’ve only just arrived. I thought you wanted to come here?’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind.’ Kitty lowered her voice. ‘You tricked me. You said this was a mansion, but the house is falling down. ’

  ‘So it needs a bit of work—’

  ‘It needs more than a bit of work. The kitchen roof leaks. The bathrooms are mouldy and there are rats under the floor.’

  ‘Not rats. Bandicoots. They’re harmless.’

  ‘You said there were servants.’

  ‘What do you call Mrs Mills and Old George?’

  ‘I call them too old for the job. It’s time they retired.’

  ‘Come on, Kitty, have a heart.’

  Kitty blinked back tears. ‘I thought there’d be friends and garden parties and croquet games and, I don’t know … riding to hounds. But that would be difficult wouldn’t it, because the only two horses in the stable are as ancient as the servants. So instead of doing all those marvellous things, I’m stranded here in the middle of nowhere, bored stupid.’

  ‘You’ve only been here a week.’

  ‘That’s long enough. I’ve packed our clothes. Tell George to get the car.’

  ‘Wait a minute. I don’t want to leave, and besides, we can’t afford to.’

  Kitty blinked at him, eyes wide. ‘Stop it, Tom. That’s not funny.’

  ‘How much does it cost to rent houses in Los Angeles? We can get by on my RAF pension here, but I imagine it wouldn’t go far in California.’

  Kitty’s mouth gaped open. ‘A pension? What about your inheritance?’ Tom looked blank. ‘When we met in London, you said you had an inheritance. Or have you forgotten that too?’

  Tom still had memory gaps. He couldn’t recall much of their marriage and it remained a bone of contention between them. Sometimes he felt like he was married to a stranger. But he remembered their first night. The sumptuous hotel room, when his face was whole, and the beautiful Kitty lay willing in his bed. ‘A boast,’ he said. ‘You told me to impress you.’

  ‘Impress me, yes. Not lie to me.’

  ‘I didn’t lie. Nana left me five thousand pounds. Most of it went on us living the high life in London that first year.’

  Kitty didn’t look angry anymore. She looked close to tears. ‘How much is left?’

  ‘Maybe four hundred pounds.’

  The colour drained from her face.

  ‘Don’t worry, Kit. Once my pension builds up we’ll move to Hobart and I’ll get a job as a pilot. But until then, unless you’ve got a fortune stashed away somewhere …’

  ‘We’re stuck here?’

  He shrugged. ‘If you want to put it like that.’

  ‘You could sell Binburra.’

  ‘Not in a million years. I promised my grandmother to protect this land.’

  ‘There’s nothing to protect. It’s just worthless forest.’

  He cringed at her words, glad that Emma wasn’t there to hear them. It wasn’t Kitty’s fault. She’d grown up in a big city. It was up to him to help her understand. ‘Give us a chance, Kit. Let me ta
ke you on a trip into the mountains. Show you the real Binburra.’ He stroked her arm and for once she didn’t flinch. ‘Come bushwalking with me for a few days, and I’ll arrange a weekend in Hobart when I get back. We can visit my brother, go to the movies. Key Largo is playing. Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall.’

  Kitty’s expression brightened. ‘I’ve met Lauren. She’s so serious. It wouldn’t hurt her to smile once in a while.’

  ‘So, do we have a deal?’

  ‘Okay.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘We have a deal.’

  * * *

  Tom spent the rest of the day preparing for their trip. Being back home had brought with it a joyful sense of liberation. The steely shield he’d built around himself was dissolving. The shield that guarded him from disabling grief when his fellow pilots didn’t come home. That warded off misery and despair during long, lonely nights in hospital. That helped him endure the pain of operation after operation. That defended him from endless taunts and jibes and pitying looks. But in protecting him, it had also shut him down, locking his heart away for safekeeping and diminishing him in the process.

  Here in these wild mountains, his spirit was on the rise. Breaking free like the streams high with snowmelt, and the bursting buds of wattle and waratah. Remembering who he was, what was fundamentally important, and letting the rest slip away. Mrs Mills’s prayers were working.

  Tom loved sleeping in his grandmother’s room. He felt her presence there so strongly, he half-expected to see her gazing out the window at her beloved ranges, or seated at the dressing table brushing her hair. In this peaceful place Tom found he could sleep again. His nightmares fled, and he awoke refreshed and restored. And for once his damaged face wasn’t the first thing he thought about in the morning. Scars didn’t matter here.

  Tom’s excitement built as he collected provisions and equipment for their trip. They would leave tomorrow at first light. He hoped to forge a connection with Kitty, one that was missing. Perhaps it was due to the gaps in his memory. He could remember their wedding night, but not why he’d married her. Sometimes it seemed like a complete mystery, as they had so little in common. But Kitty was his wife and he’d taken vows. He had a responsibility to bring them back together if he could.