Thornwood House

by Anna Romer

  Collecting the hose, he twisted the nozzle and directed a fine spray onto the onions. The mist showered rainbows over the bare soil, sending up the rich chocolatey odours of old manure and compost and dynamic lifter.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘What’s that, Glenny?’

  ‘Why did they blame Grandfather . . . you know, for what happened to my grandmother?’

  Dad stared at the rainbows for an age, as though mesmerised. Just when I’d given up on getting an answer, he said quietly, ‘Your grandfather had a bad time of it in the war. Got himself taken prisoner, you know all that. He was very sick afterwards, and I suppose folks thought he might be capable of hurting someone.’

  ‘But he wasn’t, was he?’

  A long pause. ‘No, Glenny. No, he wasn’t.’

  The sound of a car roared into the stillness. Dad turned off the water, coiling the hose over the tap. ‘There’s Mum,’ he said, ruffling my hair as he passed me on his way to the house. ‘I’d better put the kettle on.’

  Saturday, 4 October 1986

  Been working like mad on my writing project all week. What started as a ploy to impress Ross has ballooned into something much bigger. Mania. Obsession. I simply HAVE to tell my grandmother’s story. It’s as though she’s standing behind me saying: ‘Glenda, everyone else just wants to sweep me under the mat, forget me. As if they wish I’d never existed. You’re different. You understand. I want my voice heard, and you’re going to help me.’

  I did understand, too. My beautiful grandmother had been attacked and left to die at the gully, lying there all night in the damp leaves, her poor head aching and her blood seeping into the dirt. Someone had done that to her, and I just couldn’t find it in my heart to believe that it was Grandfather.

  Dad was always telling me to stand up for what I believed in. Trouble was, I’d never really believed in anything. Saving the whales was all very well, it was cruel how they speared them and cut them up to make perfume and stuff . . . but how was I supposed to get all fired up about whales when I’d never even seen one?

  My grandmother, on the other hand, was a blood relative. There were no photos of her – none surviving, anyhow – and to be honest, I’d never really thought about her all that much until now. But blood was blood. And my grandmother deserved her voice to be heard.

  So there I was, writing up a storm, trying to get the ending done before lunch. I’d decided that the person who killed my grandmother was a tramp, passing through Magpie Creek on his way north to the goldmines up at Ravenswood in search of work. I’d found a book in the school library about the post-war days. There’d been tons of men on the drift, travelling from town to town in search of work . . . I’d never know for sure, of course, but it fitted in well with my story.

  I was just getting to the bit where they meet, it was coming along okay, too – when I heard shouting. A man’s voice, it sounded like Dad. My heart somersaulted. Dad never shouts. At first I thought he must’ve amputated his foot or something with the hoe. I rushed out to see what the matter was, but stopped halfway along the hall. I could smell chops cooking, and fried potatoes.

  Dad was clearly in pain, but he wasn’t yelling for an ambulance. When the jumble of words started to make sense to me I slumped against the wall, sick to my heart.

  ‘You promised, Lu,’ Dad was saying. ‘A long time ago, you promised . . .’

  ‘Cleve, it’s not what you think.’

  ‘All these years, all these bloody years you – ’ Dad choked on the next words, which I couldn’t make out. I heard something rattle and crash to the floor, smash.

  I ran to the kitchen. Mum was sweeping up a broken glass with the dustpan. Dad stood with his hands braced on the table, slumped over as though he’d lost the strength to hold himself upright.

  Mum wrapped the bits of glass in newspaper and placed them in the bin.

  ‘Please, Cleve . . . calm down. We need to talk it over quietly. And,’ she added, with a glance at me, ‘in private.’

  Dad’s head jerked around. He saw me and his lips trembled. His face was blotched red, his scars stark white. Turning back to Mum, he lifted his arm and shook the scrap of paper crumpled in his fist.

  ‘How long?’

  Mum seemed to shrink. ‘Just the once.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Cleve, you’re overreacting, it was just – ’

  Dad actually growled. He shot upright and crossed the kitchen to stand over Mum, his body trembling.

  ‘Overreacting?’ he said, his face close to hers. ‘Oh, Lu . . . you have no bloody idea.’ Pushing past her, he went out the door and down the back steps.

  ‘Mum?’ I said. ‘What happened?’

  Mum shut her eyes, took a long while to open them. ‘Glenda, it might be best if you make yourself scarce for a while, love. Your father’s very upset.’

  I stared at her. ‘What’ve you done?’

  She just looked at me. She’d had us kids late in life; she’d been nearly thirty by the time she’d had me, but people always said she could pass for a woman half her age. Now, she appeared small and frail and old.

  Shouting came from the yard. I ran out and saw Tony sitting under the pine tree. He’d been daubing away at a little watercolour – it was a yellow finch perched on a spray of peach leaves, crazy how I remember that. Dad’s shadow fell on the page and Tony looked up.

  ‘Did you deliver this for your mother?’ Dad demanded, thrusting the piece of paper into Tony’s face.

  Tony kept his eyes on Dad. He didn’t speak, just nodded. I groaned inwardly. He was going to give Dad the silent treatment, he’d learnt that from Danny Weingarten. I wished he wouldn’t.

  ‘How long’s it been going on?’ Dad yelled.

  Tony shrugged.

  Dad was trembling. I started to worry he was having a turn, maybe a heart attack or stroke or something. Whatever it was, it had converted him into a Dad I didn’t recognise.

  He put his face close to Tony’s. ‘I ought to teach you a lesson you won’t forget in a hurry, my lad. You hear me, boy? How long?’

  I didn’t catch what Tony said.

  ‘Maybe a while, eh?’ Dad’s voice broke. ‘Maybe a bloody while! What’s that supposed to mean, you idiot? Weeks? Months? Flaming years?’

  When Tony didn’t answer, Dad grabbed him and dragged him across the yard to the shed. I followed, more scared than I’d ever been in my life.

  ‘Dad,’ I pleaded, hanging off his arm so he’d let go of Tony, ‘what’s going on? What’s Tony done?’

  Dad shook me off and pulled Tony into the shed with him. He unhooked his hunting knife from the tackle bag hanging near the door then, jamming the knife into his belt, he hauled Tony through the shed and into the front yard towards the Holden.

  The front flyscreen door slammed. Mum stood at the top of the stairs. ‘For God’s sake, Cleve! Let him go. Come inside and talk it through like an adult.’

  Dad ignored her. He gave Tony a shove. ‘Get in. And you stay here,’ he said, looking around at me, but I hopped into the car beside Tony. Dad didn’t even bother to remind us about seatbelts. He just jumped behind the wheel and gunned the motor, screeched into reverse and backed out onto the road. A moment later we were rocketing south in the direction of town.

  My last view of life as I knew it came when I looked back through the rear window. Mum was standing on the grass verge staring after us, clutching the sides of her head like a crazy person.

  The following pages were gummed together. I wanted to know more, wanted to carry on reading, but my eyes felt like cinders. I was seeing flickers of shadow at the edges of my vision; I needed to sleep.

  Tucking the diary against my chest, I went through the lounge room and down the hall. When I reached Bronwyn’s door I didn’t stop to listen like I usually did, just continued past to my own room. Flopping onto the bed, I lay unmoving.

  My brain sifted through what I’d read.

  Aylish had lived with Cleve’s parents
during the war, after her father was interned. She’d been happy there, and everyone had adored little Luella – or Lulu, as they’d called her then. All of which was juicy enough to ponder in depth – but after reading about Cleve’s emotional outburst, I was stymied. He’d obviously discovered the letter Tony had delivered, but why had it outraged him so?

  My head felt huge and swollen, invaded by dead people, crowded by memories that weren’t mine. I wanted to get up and steam open the rest of the diary, read what Cleve was planning. Teach Tony a lesson, he’d said. But a hunting knife . . . Holy crap, what sort of a lesson was he planning?

  My head spun.

  I needed sleep. Craved it. Depended on it. Without it, tomorrow would be a disaster. I’d be flustered and frazzled and end up making a ham sandwich out of the day.

  Trouble was, my curiosity was alight. Even now, at two-thirty in the morning, eyes agog with exhaustion – all I could think about was rushing back to the kitchen, re-boiling my pot of water, steaming open more pages. And finding out what Cleve planned to do with that hunting knife . . .

  What the hell.

  2 a.m. Sunday, 5 October 1986

  Oh God, I can’t bear to write it. But I have to. Ross says if I’m going to be a writer then I have to face things even if they’re painful. That’s what writers do. Confront fearful things, then write about them.

  Dad sped towards town, past the airfield and through the roundabout, then headed south along Briarfield Road. We passed the turnoff to Grandfather’s place and kept going. It took a while to realise where he was taking us, but then we saw the big gate and the steep drive that led up to the Miller property. I knew the place pretty well, because me and Tony used to come here years ago, when we were kids. Mum used to send us over on Sundays with jars of jam or pickle – that is, until Dad found out and put a stop to it. Lazy good for nothings, he called the Millers; I won’t have them teaching my kids how to fail at life.

  Even before we approached the house, Dad started honking the horn. The sound of it ripped through the afternoon, and Mr Miller and his brother appeared on the verandah.

  Dad parked the Holden and hurtled out, just as Mr Miller was coming down the stairs. They met halfway across the yard, and Dad gave Mr Miller a shove. Then he started yelling.

  ‘Stay away from my family! You hear me, Miller? Stay away or I swear I’ll kill you.’

  Me and Tony huddled in the car, cramped together, holding hands. Don’t look, Glenny. Don’t look. I think that’s what Tony was saying, but I can’t be sure. I knew he was right, I didn’t want to look – but my eyes refused to obey. They kept staring, staring right at Dad and Mr Miller.

  Dad was shouting, his words slurring together, not making sense. His arm shot out and he punched Mr Miller in the chest. Mr Miller staggered, but caught his balance. It took a second for him to act, but then he came at Dad like an angry bullock, fists first, throwing a good one right into Dad’s face, then one to the stomach.

  Dad bent double. He looked winded, hands on his knees, gasping. Mr Miller’s younger than Dad, a good ten years, maybe more. I could see Dad’s face was blotched and sweaty, his chest heaving for breath. He was having a heart attack, I was sure. Then he let out a bellow and threw himself at Mr Miller. I thought I saw sunlight flare off something in his hand.

  There was a horrible screech. Then I saw the blood.

  Mr Miller fell to his knees, his hands gripping his face, covering his eye, blood streaming between his fingers. He was making a horrible noise, a sort of screeching bellow, over and over as though he had lost his mind. He yelled something at Dad, but his words were muffled by his hands.

  Dad stood back, trembling all over. ‘Stay away, you scheming bastard,’ he said in a weird voice, staring down at Mr Miller. ‘Stay away – ’

  A rifle fired, the blast cracking off Dad’s words. Dirt flew up near Dad’s feet. Dad jerked around. He staggered a couple of steps towards the Millers’ house, and I saw that Mr Miller’s brother was standing on the verandah holding a rifle. Dad began to charge at the house, but Mr Miller’s brother raised the gun again and took aim.

  That’s when I screamed.

  The rifle went off again. Dad stumbled and dropped to his knees and for one terrifying moment I thought he’d been hit. But he got up and ran back to the car. As he got nearer I saw the blood speckling his shirt and face and arms. I was sick with fright. He wiped at himself and I realised he’d cut his hand. Climbing into the car, he sat staring through the windscreen, shaking so hard I thought he was going to pass out.

  Dad didn’t say a word on the ride home. When we turned onto William Road, I braved a look at him. He’d stopped trembling, but his face was blotched. He looked different. Empty, somehow. As if the dad I knew had gone and left this vacant shell of a man in his place.

  4 a.m. Sunday, 5 October 1986

  Can’t sleep, keep hearing the floorboards creak and doors rattling, keep worrying that Dad’s prowling around. I’ve never felt scared in my bed before, it’s not a feeling I like.

  Dad’s fight with Mr Miller keeps replaying in my mind against my will. The more I try to blot it out, the bigger and brighter it seems to get.

  God. It feels like my real Dad died and the man who drove us back from the Millers’ is someone else. A stranger. Someone bad. Someone straight out of a splatter movie or nightmare. Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m having a nightmare, maybe this whole mess is nothing but a stupid dream.

  I just wish I could wake up.

  13

  ‘Mum? Are you all right?’

  I blinked awake. Sunlight poured through the kitchen window, showering light on the wooden floor. Outside, the sky was eggshell blue. Birds were going wild in the mango tree, as though the dawn of another day was something to celebrate.

  Bronwyn stood nearby, peering down at me, a concerned frown crinkling her brow.

  ‘Here, drink this.’

  She slid a cup towards me. Coffee-scented steam rose up. I wanted to grab it and start gulping, drench my system with caffeine and haul myself to full consciousness, but I couldn’t yet trust my trembling hands.

  Bronwyn shuffled closer, her frown morphing into a worried scowl. ‘Are you sure you’re okay? You were talking in your sleep.’

  I scrubbed my hands over my face. I felt groggy, still anchored in a drowse as though the greater part of me couldn’t wait to sink back into oblivion. ‘What . . . what was I saying?’

  Bronwyn shrugged. ‘I think you were calling someone’s name.’

  A barb of half-remembered fear. ‘Whose name?’

  ‘I couldn’t make it out, but you seemed upset. You must have been dreaming.’

  When I closed my eyes to remember, the darkness behind my lids shifted and I glimpsed a bush track. I’d been running along it, calling out. The trees on either side were gilded by moonlight, their branches raking the sky, their sinewy trunks bowing and groaning in the wind. Somewhere ahead of me, a child was fleeing into the night, a little girl . . . startled by something in the trees –

  ‘You didn’t want to wake up,’ Bronwyn informed me, shuffling her feet and twining her fingers in knots. ‘I was shaking you for ages. You looked comatose, I thought there was something wrong. Mum, you scared me.’

  When I pulled her into a hug she stiffened and tried to wriggle away. After a moment, she gave in and stood meekly, no doubt waiting for my display of sentimental weakness to pass.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered. ‘I’m sorry I scared you.’

  She got free and stepped away, brushing at the creases on her dress, eying me with concern.

  ‘That’s okay, Mum. Feeling better?’

  ‘Sure.’ I pressed my lips to the rim of the cup and let the fragrant steam engulf me, breathing it deep until the last traces of dream residue were gone.

  ‘Is the coffee okay?’

  ‘Yeah, good.’

  ‘You haven’t tried it yet.’

  I took a sip. It was piping hot with extra sugar and a splash of milk
. ‘Perfect,’ I said, drumming up an appreciative smile.

  Bronwyn was studying the misshapen diary spread open on the table in front of me.

  ‘A good read?’ she asked, frowning.

  Odd how the brain works. In my dazed state I’d forgotten last night’s reading marathon. It crashed back with sudden clarity: Glenda’s story competition and her father’s revelations about Aylish – and then, most startling of all, his brutal attack on Hobe Miller.

  God, poor Hobe.

  Whatever he’d done to provoke Cleve Jarman’s attack, it seemed an extreme sort of punishment. And an extreme reaction from a man whose daughter had described him as ‘mild-mannered’. Then I remembered. Cleve in the kitchen shouting at Luella, brandishing a scrap of paper. And standing over Tony in the garden, yelling, ‘Did you deliver this for your mother?’ A letter. Was that why Cleve attacked Hobe, because of a letter? Were Hobe and Luella – ?

  Bronwyn tapped her foot. Pulling out of my uneasy thoughts, I looked at her. I could tell she was miffed about me reading the diary she’d found. But, after what I’d just learned, I said a silent thank you to the universe that she hadn’t shown more interest in it . . . at least, not until now.

  ‘Actually, it was quite boring,’ I told her. ‘Just a bunch of waffle.’

  ‘Whose was it?’

  I hesitated. If she knew it was Glenda’s diary, she’d guess that it must contain snippets about her father and would insist on reading it. I weighed up the consequences, and decided that – for now, anyway – a lie was the best policy.

  ‘No idea, some girl.’

  ‘Can I read it?’

  I gulped some coffee, tried to act indifferent. ‘Well, sure. When I’m done. It’s a real snore, though. A waste of time. Don’t know why I bothered.’