Beyond the Orchard

by Anna Romer

  The house was warm, a gas heater burning quietly in the lounge room. Nina’s cats swarmed me at once, four sleek bodies coiling around my legs; the Siamese leaped onto a chair as I passed and extended its ear for a scratch.

  The place had hardly changed since I’d last been here. Aside from Coby’s obvious presence – a guitar propped in one corner, several posters for the Natural History Museum, and a stack of textbooks on the coffee table – the house was purely Nina. Huge colourful paintings covered the walls, a dramatic backdrop to the black lacquered furniture and cabinets full of collectibles.

  Coby burst from the kitchen. For a moment, we stood facing each other like a pair of chess pieces. He was wearing one of Nina’s vintage aprons over a bulky mohair jumper and jeans. He seemed taller, more at ease with himself than I remembered. With his broad cheekbones flushed from the heater and his cropped dark hair, he was strikingly gorgeous. But the old Coby, my childhood friend, was still in there, and I could see the familiar hesitation in his eyes.

  I handed him the wine I’d brought. We had parted on shaky terms, and hadn’t spoken in so long. Was it enough just to shake hands, or should I attempt a quick peck on the cheek?

  Neither, as it turned out. Smiling widely, Coby came at me, gathered me into a bear hug and swung me around, making me laugh, making me drop my guard and let the tears – that until now I’d been trying to hold in – pop from my eyes and splash down my cheeks. For so long I had visualised our first meeting: chilly, reproachful, perhaps even involving harsh words. But Coby’s warmth threw me off kilter and I realised that I’d blown the situation entirely out of proportion.

  I heard a strangled sound behind me and glanced around.

  Nina was wiping her eyes. ‘Ignore me,’ she said, half-laughing through her tears. ‘I’m hormonal. I’m allowed to be an emotional mess. So is Lucy, she’s just broken up with her boyfriend. What’s your excuse, Coby?’

  Coby released me and swiped at his eyes. ‘Damn it Nina, I haven’t seen her for five years.’ He turned to me. ‘I’m sorry about Adam. Is it something you can patch up?’

  ‘I gave back the ring.’

  He winced. ‘I guess that’s pretty final.’

  Nina muscled between us, linking her arm through mine. ‘Distraction is what you need tonight, Bub. We’re going to eat, drink and be merry . . . At least,’ she added, ‘you and Coby are going to drink and be merry. I’m just going to eat.’

  We went through to the kitchen. Coby busied himself at the stove. One large copper pot was almost bubbling over with deep red pumpkin and tofu curry; another was brimful of fluffy white basmati, steaming gently beneath a tea towel. I shut my eyes and breathed in the delicious aromas, which made my stomach rumble.

  ‘You can’t fool me, Bub.’ Nina’s words tickled my ear, and as she slid her arms around my waist, I braced myself for what she’d say next. That day in her shop, she had pressed me about unfinished business. You know who I’m talking about, she’d said. Someone you used to love. Nina had a special talent for sniffing out the truth. She claimed she’d learned it from her mother, who had worked for a notorious divorce lawyer. But Nina’s gift was unequivocally her own; she loved people, and her heart was a bottomless well of compassion. Truth and lies, she often said, were easy to see if you only looked close enough.

  The way she was looking at me now.

  ‘There’s more going on than you’re saying, Bub. Isn’t there?’

  I nodded.

  She patted my arm. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t interrogate you tonight. But if you get the urge to spill all, then I’m your girl, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  Linking her arm in mine again, she ushered me through a set of glass doors and out onto the back verandah.

  A vintage club lounge and chairs were arranged around a burning brazier. While Coby served big plates of curry and rice, Nina uncorked the wine and updated me on five years of gossip. Who among our old friends was getting married, falling pregnant, filing for divorce. I marvelled at how easily we picked up where we’d left off. The years I’d been away no longer seemed a breach between us, but rather another layer embroidered into the larger fabric of our friendship.

  Between delicious mouthfuls, I told them about my life in London, the endless thrill of art galleries and dinners, the dazzling distraction of a city that seemed never to sleep. They wanted to know all about Adam: how I’d met him, what he was like. I expected sorrow to swamp me – after all, I was still raw after our breakup – but talking about him seemed to help. When I related the story of the charity dinner and Adam’s £50, Nina smiled and took my hand.

  ‘He sounds like a really cool guy, and it’s clear you love him.’

  I knew that look in her eyes. ‘But—?’

  ‘You don’t light up when you talk about him.’

  ‘No spark,’ Coby agreed.

  I thought of Mildred Burke and her secret to a long marriage. ‘Passion doesn’t last,’ I told them, but it suddenly sounded lame, even to my own ears.

  Nina leaned in. ‘But nothing lasts, Bub. Not forever. We’re all going to die one day . . . but in the meantime, if you’re lucky enough to find someone who lights you up, then you owe it to yourself – and to them – to cherish it while you can.’

  We sat in silence for a while. The brazier crackled and Coby added more wood. The noises of the city rose and fell beyond our verandah haven: trucks rattled along Dandenong Road, car horns blared in the distance. Stars twinkled above us; the faint smokiness of wood fires scented the night. Flying foxes chattered in the garden, and Miles Davis played on the stereo inside, weaving his hypnotic magic through the winter air. The magic caught me and, for just a moment, held me spellbound. Cherish it while you can, Nina had said, and I found myself doing exactly that. The warbling trumpet lifted me, tugged me back to the narrow cave overlooking the shipwreck beach. Through bird’s eyes, I looked down upon the scene unfolding below in the firelight: two lost people opening their hearts, finding each other in the smoky darkness. Had it been so very wrong?

  Our conversation drifted onto other things: Nina’s plans to source vintage baby clothes and new mum goodies for her shop, Coby’s upcoming promotion at the museum, how the arrival of their little munchkin would change the scheme of things. When Coby described his parents’ thrill over soon having a grandchild to fuss over, again I thought of Morgan. This time, the confusion and chaos of my feelings ebbed away, leaving just a warm glow. A grandfather, I muse. A cat rescuing, Harley riding, maritime history enthusiast of a grandfather – what more could a child want?

  ‘What are you smiling about?’ Nina wanted to know.

  ‘Nothing, it’s just . . . good to be home.’

  She looked at me, letting my words sink in. She blinked, and a tiny smile touched the edges of her perfect lips. ‘Does this mean—?’

  I sat back, circling my finger around the rim of my wineglass. ‘Well, I’m heading back to London as planned. But once everything is tied up there, I’ll be coming home. For good.’

  Nina squealed. I heard Coby mutter, ‘Oh, thank God.’ And then more quietly, almost to himself, ‘Dad’ll be over the moon.’

  Later, when the curry was gone and the last of the wine consumed, Nina and Coby farewelled me at their front gate. As I drove away, I looked back over my shoulder. Nina’s arm was raised in a wave, while Coby stood solidly beside her. Just before my van turned the corner, I saw him lean against her, perhaps to whisper something in her ear.

  Cherish it while you can.

  A pang of longing wound itself around my heart. I tried to imagine standing on some future porch with Adam, the two of us a picture of domestic contentment – but my brain betrayed me. Rather than slim, elegant Adam, I saw a different man: a man with windswept hair and a smile that lit a fire in my heart, but who seemed, at least for now, as distant to me as the stars.

  By the time I got back to Hennessy Avenue, it was after midnight. The house was in darkness, cold inside, the fire long since bu
rned out. When I stepped into the lounge room and saw the wineglasses left on the coffee table, I slumped.

  The distraction of curry night and the pleasure of reuniting with my friends ebbed away. The sting of my breakup with Adam rushed back. He would be in a hotel room somewhere, perhaps with a bottle of whiskey, wishing like crazy that he’d never paid anyone to sit next to me.

  Basil came running, greeting me with a short sharp yowl that I now understood to mean, I’m so happy you’re home but what the heck took you so long? I bundled him up in my arms and cuddled him, kissed the impossibly soft fur of his ears. After a while, the emptiness subsided and I released Basil gently onto the floor. Gathering up the wineglasses and bottle, I took them out to the kitchen and poured the dregs down the sink. Then I stood in the semi-dark, listening to the emptiness: the murmur of traffic in the distance, the sighs and creakings of the house, the guttural chatter of possums in the trees outside.

  This is what it feels like to be alone, I told myself. Get used to it.

  I took a hot shower, and retreated to bed with a mug of cocoa. Basil jumped up beside me, chirping contentedly as he pressed his paws into the blanket and curled against my leg.

  ‘Distraction is what we need right now,’ I told him.

  Retrieving Dad’s manuscript from the bedside table, I found my place. I had left Fineflower in the dungeon with the angry king, about to be separated from her baby son forever . . .

  I sat up, suddenly wide awake.

  My father’s face flashed before me. The way he’d been at the cafe, pale and anxious behind his beard, his eyes dark with emotion as he spoke of his rift with Edwin. A rift caused by the discovery that his birth mother had abandoned him as a tiny baby.

  I looked down at the sheaf of pages with fresh eyes. As the first threads of understanding began to lace together in my mind, I couldn’t help wondering if Dad had woven deeper truths into the fabric of his story. Perhaps the answers I wanted had been right here in my hands all along.

  The King’s face turned from purple to black, his frown dark as a thundercloud. ‘I will not abide a wife whose heart belongs to another.’

  Fineflower stood tall. ‘Release the soldier. He’s committed no crime.’

  ‘Too late,’ the King replied. ‘The vultures are picking over his carcass as we speak.’ He leaned near, his old eyes hard with hatred. ‘Without a doubt, my dear, your soldier love is already dead. Now you’ll spend the rest of your days in this dungeon. You shall join my other treacherous brides beneath the window, eyeless, bloodless and alone. Your only companions will be the worms, and when you die – from starvation or loneliness, or perhaps from a broken heart – they will feast upon your flesh until there’s nothing left but bones.’

  While the King spoke, Fineflower glanced about the cell. The spinning wheel creaked softly as a moth fluttered through its spokes. The other wives swayed back and forth in the darkness. Silky white threads littered the floor, and there at the edge of the lantern light, Fineflower noticed the gleam of a blade: her soldier’s blade.

  She looked back at the King. ‘What about my son?’

  The King regarded her coldly. ‘I will raise him without you. And when he’s old enough, I’ll tell him that his mother never loved him. That she left in the night like a thief. He will learn to hate you, and your name will be like ash on his tongue.’

  Fineflower pictured her little boy’s bright button eyes and snowy thistledown head. She thought of him growing up without her, taking his first steps, learning to read and write, going through life never knowing how much she loved him. Stricken, she covered her face with her hands and crumpled to the floor.

  ‘Let me see him once more,’ she begged the King. ‘If only to say goodbye.’

  ‘Impossible.’ The King narrowed his gaze. ‘Unless . . .’

  Fineflower looked at him hopefully. ‘Unless what?’

  ‘Unless you can guess my true name.’

  Fineflower was weary of the King’s cruel games. She was weary of the chilly dungeon, heartsick for the brilliance of the outside world. She longed to feel the sun on her face, to breathe the perfumed flowers of her garden, to dig her fingers into the soil and watch things grow. Most of all, she ached to hold her beautiful son once more in her arms, to kiss his downy head and hear him laugh. She would give anything, anything at all to see him again.

  She looked up at the King. Guessing his true name was no challenge, because she had known it right from the start.

  ‘Your name is Greed.’

  The King’s face turned crimson. In a whirl of fury, he drew his sword and rushed at her, raising the weapon aloft above his head to strike.

  Early the next morning I packed the van and drove over to Dad’s house. I was still thinking about his latest chapter when I pulled into his driveway. Anyone could see that Fineflower’s story contained echoes of my father’s story. The little boy abandoned by his mother, raised by an uncaring father, coming to believe that he was unloved. But did Dad really think that Edwin had forced Clarice away? Perhaps even harmed her out of jealousy, believing she still loved someone else? Or was this story simply Dad’s own private wish fulfilment, his way of dissecting a situation he was still trying to understand?

  Dad was in the kitchen, trying to work the toaster.

  ‘Damn contraption. The minute Wilma leaves, all the appliances go rogue.’

  I unplugged it at the wall and then used a fork to dislodge the croissant he had jammed into the slot. ‘You might want to try toasting these under the grill,’ I advised. ‘Or at least slicing them in half.’

  Dad ignored me and hobbled over to the table. Propping his crutches on the back of the chair, he struggled into his seat. I offered to help, but he waved me away.

  ‘Where’s Adam?’ he wanted to know. ‘I thought he’d be here by now.’

  ‘He was.’ I buttered two croissants, spread one with jam and placed it on Dad’s plate. I smothered mine in honey and then stared down at the gooey mess. ‘But he’s gone back to London.’

  ‘Already?’

  ‘We broke up.’

  Dad’s eyebrows shot up. He stared at me a moment, as though hoping it was a joke. Then his shoulders slumped. ‘Kiddo, I’m sorry. What happened?’

  ‘There was no spark.’

  Dad searched my face. When he finally smiled, the gleam had returned to his eyes. ‘I thought you said sparks were overrated?’

  ‘I changed my mind.’

  His smile turned hopeful. Then suddenly he was beaming. ‘Does this mean you’re coming home?’

  ‘Maybe.’ I bit into my croissant, devouring it in a few sticky bites, and then reached for my teacup. Dad was still watching me, probably waiting for me to elaborate. I had already tossed and turned the night away replaying the breakup, so decided on a change of topic.

  ‘I’m heading back to Bitterwood today. There’s still quite a bit to do. Under all that clutter, it’s turning out to be a lovely old place.’

  Dad nodded, but he seemed distracted. ‘That reminds me. I finally twigged about the little Aboriginal girl.’

  It took me a moment to backtrack, but then I remembered our conversation at the cafe. ‘In the orchard photo, you thought you knew her?’

  ‘I finally realised who she reminds me of . . . Do you remember Mrs Tibbett? She worked for Edwin on and off over the years, mostly housekeeping.’

  I smiled, recalling the woman who had taken me under her motherly wing during my chidhood stay at Bitterwood. When I left there, I had done my best to forget Edwin and his gloomy old house, but I had forgotten kind Mrs Tibbett too. Suddenly I was eager to talk to her. Getting to my feet, I collected our dishes and took them to the sink.

  ‘How do I contact her?’

  Dad pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed his lips. ‘You know that old cottage we used to stay in, the one along the road from Bitterwood? Mrs Tibbett bought it a few years ago. She lives there with her daughter.’

  Gull Cottage, June 1993

&nbs
p; The last time I’d walked along this path, I had been ten years old. My mother was missing, and my father silent with worry. They had been hollow days, passing in a dream, a shadow on my memory of the place.

  As I pushed through the gate and approached the little cottage, those old shadows scattered. The gentle winter sunshine drew the sappy smell of pine from the towering tree, and as I breathed it in, a memory came: My mother had found some old jacks – ‘knucklebones’, she called them – and was teaching me how to play. ‘Toss them up and catch them on the back of your hand . . .’ My pudgy fingers fumbled, but she showed me how to splay them slightly to catch more jacks. We sat under that old pine for hours in its fragrant shade, playing and laughing, chatting happily, the sea at our backs. The sun shone brightly overhead, but Mum’s smile was always somehow more luminous.

  The cottage seemed smaller than I remembered, but was in good repair. The paintwork was fresh and the small garden brimmed with native shrubs. A classic Mini Minor was parked in the driveway, so I was hopeful – and a little trembly – as I strode up to the door. I knocked, shuffling from foot to foot as I waited.

  The door swung open, and a tall woman stepped onto the threshold. She looked to be in her mid-fifties, her olive skin offset by soft silver-grey hair that fell to her shoulders. She regarded me with eyes that were deepest brown, almost black.

  I introduced myself, and was about to launch into an explanation of why I was there, when the woman cried, ‘Heavens, Lucy!’ and pulled me into a hug.

  ‘Look at you,’ she said, holding me at arm’s length. ‘Edwin’s little granddaughter all grown up. Oh, I wish Mum was here.’ She beamed into my face. ‘You wouldn’t remember me, I met you a few times at Edwin’s when you were little. I’m Len Tibbett. My mother was Edwin’s housekeeper on and off over the years. Come on in.’ She stepped aside and threw open the door. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to dash off in twenty minutes, I’m rostered at the cultural centre this afternoon. Have you—’ She winced apologetically. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit of a babbler. With Mum away, I’ve no one to talk to. Can I offer you a pot of tea?’