by Anna Romer
‘I’m going to talk to him,’ she told the back of Ron’s head. ‘I’m worried about him. I’ll go up this afternoon and see if he’s all right. He’s too old to be so isolated, rattling around those big empty rooms by himself. All that solitude, it’s not healthy for a man his age.’
Ron glanced back. ‘Do whatever you like, Karen. Just as long as you don’t involve me.’ Then he was hurrying away, his sandals slapping the footpath, his hands dug deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched as though beneath the weight of the world.
20
Bitterwood, June 1993
We breakfasted beneath a vine-covered pergola in the garden, at a wrought iron table once part of an outdoor dining area. Most of the leaves had fallen off the vine, and beyond the bare sinewy branches, the sky was a clear lapis lazuli blue.
I had lain awake again the night before, tucked in my van, gazing up at Morgan’s window. At midnight, his light had finally gone out. I wondered what he’d been reading, and what thoughts had kept him from sleep. I wondered if he might have glanced occasionally at his own window, and thought of me snuggling warm in my van somewhere below. It wasn’t until later, into the early hours, that I had startled from my musings. What was I doing, lying awake sifting over every conversation I’d had with Morgan since my return? I wore a diamond on my finger that symbolised the promise I had made to another man. Guilt, then. Electrifying guilt that kept me awake for another few hours until finally I fell into a restless sleep.
I finished my coffee and stood up.
‘I have a surprise.’
Morgan narrowed his eyes.
‘It’s not really a surprise,’ I hurried on, ‘just something . . . of interest. Being a history buff, I thought you’d like to see it.’
He cast me a sideways look. ‘Not another bomb shelter?’
I smiled, and then found myself laughing. A giddy joy took hold and I almost skipped along the grass. Perhaps it was the fragile winter sun melting my defences, or maybe my night of tossing and turning, of sleeplessness and half-remembered dreams. Not my usual dark dreams, but rather soft sunny glimpses of hearts on ribbons, of churchyards and charred photos, forgotten letters, and lost things returning to their rightful owners. At some time during the night, I had flashed on what felt like a dream, but was actually a memory. Me at age ten, sitting in the orchard, trying to solve the puzzle written on a tree.
The same tree we now approached, a huge old bare-limbed cherry with a wrought iron bench beneath it. I tugged Morgan over and made him sit, then settled beside him.
His gaze lingered on my face. ‘This is your surprise? A garden seat?’
‘No . . . the tree behind us.’ In a moment of daring, I took his hand and guided his fingers across the scarred trunk where, a lifetime ago, someone had used a sharp instrument to carve into the bark.
‘When I was a kid,’ I explained, ‘I used to sit here all the time. It’s out of view of the house, like a secret grotto. This scarring on the trunk was what I loved most about it. I used to trace my fingers over the squiggles and lines, puzzling over whether they had once been words, or if they were just marks made by an insect.’
Morgan peered closer. ‘Like on a scribbly gum tree.’
‘Exactly, but last night I had a revelation. It’s a name.’
Morgan’s fingers were warm in mine as I guided them over the scars cut into the bumpy bark. ‘It says Clarice. Don’t you see? Edwin tried to burn away all evidence of her, but she carved her name on this tree and it’s still here. Amazing, isn’t it?’
The sun was making me tipsy. I felt like a teenager again, high on life. I shifted my position on the bench, swinging around so my knees rested ever so lightly against Morgan’s leg. Sitting there in my grandfather’s timeless garden, I sensed the rest of the world dissolve behind a veil of fog. While the sun shone in the orchard, darkness descended over the rest of the globe. Melbourne seemed an eternity away, and London – with its busy streets and historic alleyways, and the mod apartment I shared with Adam – seemed to exist in another lifetime.
I was still holding Morgan’s hand. His fingers curled around mine, gently, without pressure. He watched me, perhaps a little warily, perhaps waiting for me to let him go. Hastily, I did.
Morgan rested his elbow on the wrought iron seatback. ‘You need glasses.’
My glow winked out. ‘Why?’
‘You’re mistaken about the name. It can’t be Clarice. The first letter is an O. Next is R.’ He frowned at the scar. ‘Can’t make out what’s next, but that last is definitely an H.’
I slumped, frowning at the tree. The letters I’d been so sure of a moment ago were muddled again. Jumbled, turned back to a mess of swirls and wavering lines; insect scribbles, after all.
I huffed, unwilling to give in. ‘You’re the one who needs your eyes checked, Morgan.’
He sighed. ‘You only see what you want to see, Lucy. That’s always been your problem. You have a strong mind, and if you believe something to be a certain way, then that’s exactly how it appears to you.’
I pulled back, glaring at him. The fog lifted. The outside world began to intrude. The crash of waves at the foot of the headland was suddenly loud, joined by the drone of a distant car speeding along the Great Ocean Road. Ridiculously, I felt the prick of tears. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my eyesight.’
‘I’m not talking about your eyes.’
The knot between my shoulder blades tightened. I sensed, even before Morgan spoke, where this was going. Morgan lifted a brow and regarded me through narrowed eyes. I knew that look; growing up, I had seen it a thousand times. You’re not going to like hearing this, the look said, but it’s for your own good.
Morgan didn’t quite smile. ‘You’re about to blunder into the worst mistake of your life, but you can’t see it. You’ve created a fairytale life for yourself over there in London, even furnished it with a handsome prince who is . . . how did you describe him? Kind, intelligent and thoughtful. Oh, and a good sense of humour. But it’s not real.’
‘Jealous, are we?’
He leaned near, tugged gently on a milky lock of hair that had escaped my ponytail. ‘If it was real, if you were genuinely happy, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. The joy would be there in your eyes, Lucy. You’d be glowing, bubbling over with excitement at the prospect of spending the rest of your life with the man you love. You’d be talking nonstop about Adam, but you’ve hardly mentioned him. You’d never have left London without him. Instead, you’re hiding out here in Edwin’s dusty old guesthouse with me.’
I got to my feet, suddenly tired. The spark had vanished from the morning, everything seemed dull and jaded; the bare branches, the damp grass, the soft winter sunlight – all of it ruined. I hated what Morgan had said, hated that he could read me so well. Most of all, I hated that he might be right.
‘Hey.’ He was beside me, his hand gentle on my shoulder, turning me to face him. I tried to twist away again, but he stepped into my path. ‘All I’m saying is there’s no rush. Adam will understand.’
I thought of the last time I’d seen Adam. We were saying goodbye at Heathrow, both of us shuffling, not knowing what to say. Adam in his rumpled shirt, his mouth set firm, me in my red leather jacket, hair pulled back, steadfast in my resolve to leave. He had leaned close as if to kiss me, but had instead pulled me against him and whispered into my hair.
Come back to me, Lucy. I couldn’t bear to lose you.
I had clung to him then, crushing him against me. Adam, with his pure heart and utopian dreams, his hiccupping laugh and gentle touch, his tireless work to save the world; I loved him more at that moment, on the brink of goodbye, than I had in all our two years together. I kissed him tenderly on the mouth, and with tears choking off any words I might have mustered, left him standing alone at the gate and hurried away.
‘Come on,’ Morgan said, glancing at the sky. ‘It’s time to go.’
My thoughts of Adam dissolved. My sullen mood ebbed, re
placed by alarm. I clutched Morgan’s wrist as if to restrain him by force. ‘You’re leaving?’
‘We both are. It’s Friday.’
I stared at him, baffled. ‘Which means—?’
‘Which means that Stern Bay Historical Society is open for business.’
Stern Bay, June 1993
The old church hall had barely changed since 1930. Paint peeled from its weatherboard flanks, and grass had mostly swallowed the stepping-stone path to the front entryway, but the outlook – a paddock dotted with paperbark trees, with a small graveyard tucked into the back of the block – was still exactly as it appeared in the photo.
My gaze went to a sheltered nook beside the apse. There was the leadlight window, its coloured glass panes glowing crimson and green and amber in the sun. Sixty-four years ago on that spot, my grandmother Clarice Briar had stood beside Edwin, the sun in her eyes, her lips downturned as the camera captured her in a moment of anger.
Morgan joined me on the grassy verge. ‘Look up.’
Native ravens, black and glossy in the winter sunshine, perhaps twenty of them, gathered behind the hall in the branches of a dead tree. They startled suddenly, and lifted into the blue sky, filling the air with disgruntled cries.
Chills flew over me. I rubbed my arms, thinking of the photograph in the envelope I carried. Those birds might be descendants of the ones that had flocked here the day Clarice had her picture taken.
I gazed at the ravens, pulling my coat tighter about me. ‘She hated him, didn’t she? Edwin, I mean. You can see it in her face in the photo. She’s unhappy about something, and I get the feeling it’s to do with Edwin.’
‘We can’t know that.’
The ravens circled overhead, their cries sounding so desolate that I shivered again. ‘Why else would she leave? Why else would she abandon her baby and run away? She couldn’t stand to be around him a moment longer.’
Morgan stared at me, his eyes hard. ‘Speaking from experience are you?’
I stepped back, defences prickling, the denial already on my lips. Then I noticed the rawness in Morgan’s eyes, the subtle tightening of his mouth. It hadn’t been a reproach, I realised. For the first time, I saw myself through Morgan’s eyes: a wilful girl who had kissed him and declared her love, and then fled when things hadn’t gone her way. In that moment, he was no longer my old love, Morgan, but rather a man whose family had just come undone at the seams, a man who was probably hurting and confused . . . and now putting himself back in the firing line with someone who could disappear again without warning.
I nudged him with my elbow, found my smile. ‘I’ll say goodbye next time, Morgan. That’s a promise. Now let’s see if anyone remembers Clarice.’
As we entered the cool open space of the hall, a big-boned woman in her sixties hurried over to greet us. She introduced herself as Brenda Pettigrew, and when I explained about the photos and my quest to discover more about my grandmother, she patted my arm.
‘I was sorry to hear of old Edwin’s passing. Dulcie had been one of my mother’s friends, a lovely woman, devoted to Edwin. I suppose they’re together now.’
I glanced at Morgan, and he lifted a brow. I knew better than to get my hopes up, but I slid the photos from my envelope and passed them to Brenda. She shuffled through them, stopping at the one taken outside the church.
‘I’ve never seen this before. The old hall looks so well loved. I’m afraid these days we haven’t much funding to attend to the paintwork. I can’t make out the date—’
‘1930,’ I told her. ‘Actually, it’s Edwin’s first wife we’re interested in. That’s her there.’
Brenda examined the image more closely. ‘I know someone who might remember her. Mildred Burke and her husband had a big farm that once adjoined Bitterwood. Of course, they subdivided the land and sold it all off, but Mildred still lives in the original farmhouse. She’s in her nineties, but her memory’s as sharp as a tack. If anyone knows about the Briar family, it’ll be her.’
She sketched a map and gave me directions to the Burkes’ old farm, then paused, tapping a finger against her lips. ‘I wonder . . .’ Going over to a display of books, she retrieved a slender volume. The cover was well thumbed, the pages dog-eared. On the front was a black and white photograph of a smiling man with Brenda’s large square face. Beneath it was inscribed The Story of Stern Bay, by LM Pettigrew.
‘My father’s memoir,’ she explained, pressing the book into my hands. ‘He was a grocer by trade, ran the corner store for years, so he knew everyone.’
Morgan had wandered over to a large painting. It showed a ship caught in the midst of a violent storm. ‘It reminds me of an early Turner,’ he told Brenda. ‘It looks valuable.’
Brenda laughed softly, rubbing her palms together. ‘I can’t wait to tell my husband you said that. My uncle painted it. We always said Ken had a great talent, but he never had the confidence to follow it up. I think he painted that one from a newspaper clipping. It’s an English ship, the Lady Mary. It was Ken’s obsession. I’ve another picture very similar at home.’
‘Obsession?’ Morgan wanted to know.
‘The Lady Mary foundered north of here along the coast, only about thirty clicks from Bitterwood. Sadly, there were no survivors. Back in 1929 they didn’t have the communications we enjoy these days. A big storm blew up, according to Ken, and when the ship failed to dock in Melbourne, they sent a search party. The only evidence they found was a beach littered with debris . . . and bodies,’ she added quietly.
We found Mildred Burke’s farmhouse a few miles west of Stern Bay, at the very end of a steep street that led up into the hills. Its weatherboards were buckled and peeling, the gutters dangling loose, but the surrounding steep acre of grass was trim as a bowling lawn. As we approached along the drive, I saw why: a herd of white goats ran towards the van, bellowing in apparent excitement.
A woman pushed through the screen door, and waved the goats away. She was short and stout, her pink face obscured behind large glasses that magnified her blue eyes. Her thick hair was pure white, restrained by a squadron of hairpins.
‘You’re the Briar girl, then?’ she asked, dusting her hands on her apron and peering up at me. ‘I’ve just got off the phone to Brenda from the historical society. She said you’d be popping in. Come through. Don’t mind the mess. I’m baking for the CWA fundraiser next week. I hope you like scones.’
She ushered us along a narrow hall and into a generous country-style kitchen. A huge wooden table sat central, cluttered with mixing bowls and wooden spoons, packets of sugar and raisins. A fine layer of white dust coated every surface. Flour, I realised, seeing the mound of bread dough proofing under plastic wrap. The oven blazed and warm aromas filled the air.
‘Baking keeps me sprightly,’ Mrs Burke said, clearing a corner of the table and dragging out chairs. A cloud of flour wafted around her, puffing from her cardigan as she collected a leaning tower of mixing bowls. ‘But like all of life’s pleasures, it comes with a price.’
Morgan came to her rescue. ‘Let me get those, Mrs Burke.’
Mrs Burke adjusted her glasses and peered up at him, beaming. ‘Thank you, dear boy. Just on the sink, if you don’t mind. And please call me Mildred.’
I brought out the envelope of photos and placed it on the table. While the kettle boiled, Mildred took a batch of scones from the oven and put them on a cooling tray. She made tea, and Morgan helped her set the table with cream and homemade jam.
‘Dig in,’ she said cheerfully, plating up the fragrant scones. ‘Don’t be shy.’
While we ate, she launched into the story of her family. I prepared myself for a polite interim of boredom before getting to the point of our visit, but was quickly intrigued.
Her husband had started life as a shearer, she said. As an eight-year-old, he’d entered the shearing shed, where his hard-headed father expected him to pull the weight of a grown man. Young Jensen lost the tips of two fingers before he was ten; the shears had been
sharp, carving through his young bones like butter.
I let out an involuntary murmur, but Mrs Burke seemed oblivious, caught up in the momentum of her story.
‘I met him at a dance after the war. Love at first sight, I suppose you’d call it these days. He wasn’t much to look at – a burly, red-faced lad with shaving cuts on his jaw, and ears too big for his head. But he was kind, and he brought me flowers and fresh eggs, a luxury in those days. He wooed me for an entire year before my father finally gave his blessing. Sixty-seven years we were married.’
Morgan gave a soft whistle and reached for another scone. ‘What’s your secret?’
Mildred smiled. ‘To a lasting marriage? Friendship, of course. Don’t let Hollywood fool you into believing it’s all about passion. Passion doesn’t last.’ She sighed. ‘Poor Jensen died more than a decade ago. He’d gone out hunting. Meat for us, bones for the dogs. He was climbing through a fence and the wire snared him. He must have been struggling to get free, and bumped the rifle. A shooting accident, the police called it. Bled to death, poor man.’
‘How awful,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I missed him terribly when he went. That’s why I bake, I suppose. It keeps my mind on other things.’ She shook her head as if to dislodge the memory. ‘Listen to me, rabbiting on. Memory is the curse of old age, you know. You can wander around for hours looking for your glasses, only to realise you’re wearing them. But the past is all there. Thirty, forty, sixty years ago, all clear in your mind as the day it happened.’ She sighed. ‘Brenda said you have some snaps you’d like me to look at?’
Sliding the prints from the envelope, I placed the church fete photo on top of the pile, and slid it across.
‘The woman is my grandmother, Clarice. Next to her is my grandfather—’
