by Anna Romer
‘Mr Dane?’ he called. ‘Mr Hanley Dane?’
A grunt from inside. A moment later, a scarred hand wrenched aside the burlap and a leathery face peered out. He wore a filthy woollen hat on his head, its grey and red stripes forming a curious symphony with his mottled skin and red whiskey nose.
‘Who’s askin’?’
Edwin cleared his throat. Hastily he gave his name, and was about to explain his visit . . . Your daughter is alive and well, she’s been living with my family on the coast and she’s keen to find you—
But the words died on his tongue. Hanley Dane had clearly once been a large man, but his big frame was now emaciated. His cheeks were hollow, his face ashen. He reeked of drink. His living quarters were not simply humble, but squalid. Edwin had tried to overlook his abandonment of Orah and her mother back in Glasgow, but seeing him now brought home the truth with a jolt. Had he really thought he could give her up so easily?
‘If you’re from Immigration,’ Hanley said hastily, ‘then my papers are all in order, never you fear. I suppose you’ll want to have a squiz, though, won’t you? Of course, you will. Hang on then, they’re about here somewhere.’
‘Oh that won’t be—’ Edwin wanted only to escape, to flee this horrible place and never look back. He had come with noble intentions, but now saw that he’d been a fool.
Hanley narrowed his gaze, and then grumbled again. ‘Come on in while I look for it. It’s too damned hot to be lurking out in the sun.’
Edwin had to stoop to enter. It was dark inside, the tiny cabin windowless, lit only by strands of sunlight that made their way through the wonky corrugated iron roof. The floor was trampled earth, and the smell of perspiration and tobacco smoke hung heavily in the air.
Hanley poured water into a tin mug and placed it on the table in front of Edwin. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, more to himself. ‘A man’s not prepared for company.’
He retreated to a corner and pulled an old cigar tin from a hole in the floor. For a while he rummaged, then produced a grubby fold of paper. Carefully smoothing out the creases, he placed it on the table for Edwin to inspect.
‘Just as I said, all in order.’
Edwin gave the papers a fleeting glance. ‘Having any luck finding employment, are you?’
Hanley shrugged. His scarred hands hung limply at his sides. For the longest time he looked at Edwin, his gaze brimming with desolation. ‘There’s always hope,’ he said at last, chasing his words with a soft snort.
Edwin felt a jolt of recognition at the sound. He had heard Orah inhale that way when disbelief or amusement took her. He looked more closely at the shabby man hovering uncertainly in the shadows, and shuddered. How he hated to see his precious girl’s features reflected in that grey, leathery face. The tilt of the chin, the proud arc of the brow. The wisps of gold that threaded the man’s beard, and the eyes – the blue of a summer sky, identical in hue to those of his daughter.
His daughter.
Edwin backed towards the makeshift door. ‘I can see your papers are in order. I’m sorry to have troubled you. I’ll see myself out.’
At the doorway, he paused and looked back over his shoulder into the room. Hanley Dane had his back to him, bent over his cigar tin, shuffling the contents to make room for his dog-eared papers. Edwin felt a rush of pity for the man.
He took out the knotted bank notes Clarice had given him and placed them on the table’s edge. Two pounds, as if that came anywhere near compensating for the lie he had just spun. The lie that would, from that day forth, burden him so heavily that every waking breath would be a struggle.
Emerging from the hut, he gulped a mouthful of cold air and hurried away, his heart crashing against his ribs as he fought the urge to run.
29
Bitterwood, June 1993
With most of the clutter gone, the bones of the old guesthouse were beginning to emerge. The high ceilings and wide floorboards gave the space an air of serenity. Light flooded in and the shadows retreated; the old place now felt almost welcoming. On Friday morning, I found myself standing beneath the art deco light fitting in Edwin’s room, breathing the atmosphere, gazing around with fresh eyes. Since I’d pulled down the derelict old curtains, the views – ocean to the south, glimpses of winding road to the east and west, and tree-covered hills to the north – were breathtaking. I had little flashes of how my own belongings would look here: my huge cast-iron bed in place of Edwin’s sagging single, my vintage Tiffany lamp on the bedside table, my framed paintings hiding the hairline cracks in the walls. Not going to happen, I reminded myself. This place once featured in your nightmares, remember?
The shrilling phone cut into my thoughts. I tried to ignore it, but my body was already moving towards the door. Downstairs in the sitting room, I picked up. The woman on the other end introduced herself so hurriedly that I missed her name – but not her organisation.
My pulse began to race. ‘Salvation Army, did you say?’
‘Yes, you rang a week or so ago about some correspondence your grandfather received? The man you should talk to is one of our former senior officers. Henry is his name. He still comes in to headquarters from time to time, a lovely old chap. Retired decades ago, but stayed on as a volunteer. He’s got an elephant’s memory – if anyone recalls your grandfather, it’ll be him. He’s out at Riverview Nursing Home, not far from here. I have the address, if you’d like it?’
Geelong, June 1993
As I travelled eastwards along the Great Ocean Road, the van rattling around the sharp turns, the wide blue-green expanses of the water yawning below me, my thoughts returned to the contents of the letter I had found half-burned behind the stove.
How was it for her, Edwin? At the end, her last breath – how was it? Did she slip peacefully into the next world? Did she, perhaps in a moment of forgiveness, speak my name?
I didn’t hold out much hope that the old ex-Salvo officer would even make the connection to the person who had written the letter, but I had to try.
It was mid-morning when I arrived at the nursing home. The clatter of plates and cutlery drifted from the tearoom as I passed, and the aroma of coffee followed me along the corridor. I found the office, and knocked lightly on the door. A voice beckoned me in. A stout grey-haired woman glanced around as I entered. She finished securing the door of a clunky old wall safe, and crossed the room to greet me. She introduced herself as Marge, and asked how she could help.
I explained that I had come to visit one of the residents.
Marge frowned, smoothing her fingers over her jawline. ‘We don’t have anyone here called Henry. What’s his surname?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know. The Salvation Army officer couldn’t tell me, but she seemed certain he was here.’
Marge’s frown melted away and her face opened up in a smile. ‘Salvation Army, why didn’t you say? It’s Hanley you’re after, not Henry . . . Hanley Dane. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to have a visitor. Follow me.’
We went along a carpeted hallway, brightly lit and decorated with framed posters. At the back of the building was another corridor of numbered doors. Marge knocked lightly on one door and opened it into a neat, self-contained bedsit.
On a chair by the window, tucked beneath a mountain of crocheted rugs, was an elderly man. He appeared to be sleeping, his head fallen forward, his pale bony hands clasped on top of the rug. His wispy white hair floated out from his scalp as though electrified, and his large freckled old face, composed in sleep, was a roadmap of folds and furrows.
‘Hanley,’ Marge called softly. ‘You’ve got a visitor.’
The old man emerged from his nap with a start. He squinted towards us and then reached onto the nearby bedside table to retrieve his glasses. Poking them onto his face, he scrutinised me with a steady blue gaze. His mouth downturned, his eyebrows knotted together.
‘Is it you?’ he queried, with a hint of a Scottish accent. ‘Have you come for me . . .?’
Marge ushered me into the r
oom. ‘Hanley, this is Lucy Briar. She’s travelled all the way from Stern Bay to visit you. How about I bring you some coffee, so you can properly wake up?’
Despite Marge’s reassurances, the old man’s expression did not change. He recoiled at the sound of my name, his fingers unlocking themselves from each other and burrowing into the crocheted holes of his blanket.
‘What’s she want?’ he asked crossly.
‘Just a chat.’ Marge smiled encouragement. ‘Perhaps you can show her your snails?’
The old man’s gaze darted across the room to a small aquarium sitting on a narrow table.
I couldn’t see any inhabitants, just aquatic plants and a stream of bubbles generated by a pump. Whatever was in there seemed to have a soothing effect on Hanley. His face relaxed, his fingers loosened their grip on the rug. Marge nudged my arm, nodding at a vacant chair. Then she bustled off along the corridor, leaving us alone.
Hanley looked at me. ‘Briar, you say?’
I nodded. ‘Lucy.’
Settling onto the seat, I took a box of chocolates from my bag and handed it across to him. He frowned suspiciously, and then sat clutching the box while he scrutinised me.
I dredged up a smile. ‘When I came in just now, you thought you knew me.’
‘Someone else,’ he muttered. ‘She wore her hair long, too.’ He shook the box, wrinkling his nose. ‘I don’t like chocolate.’
‘You can always use them to bribe the nurses.’
He considered this, and then brightened. ‘Do you like snails? Freshwater gastropods, they’re marvellous creatures. It soothes the nerves to watch them.’ Depositing the chocolates on the bedside table, he dragged off his blankets, struggled to his feet and lurched across the room. When he reached the aquarium, he looked around and beckoned to me.
Together we peered through the glass into the water. The plants fluttered in the slipstream of bubbles. Hanley’s bony finger pointed to a round gold-coloured shell, and as we studied it, the creature emerged. It was twice the size of a common garden snail, its sinewy body creamy-pale, rippling along the gravel. A pair of long whitish tentacles emerged from its head and began to wave around in the current.
‘She’s my favourite,’ Hanley told me. ‘A marvel, isn’t she? A man has to have a bit of joy in life. Gloria, I call her.’
‘She’s certainly beautiful. She likes those bubbles.’
Hanley chuckled. ‘They’re addictive to watch, the old gastropods. Such peaceful creatures. Sometimes I spend hours with my nose pressed against the glass, observing them. They calm me.’ He sent me a sideways glance and then said, almost under his breath, ‘I once knew a man called Briar.’
‘You did?’ I waited for him to elaborate.
He looked back into the aquarium, but said nothing more. I heard a clatter along the hall outside. A moment later, Marge appeared in the doorway with a tray of coffee and biscuits. She smiled encouragingly as she laid the tray on a side table, then she went out.
Sweet coffee smells filled the room, but neither of us moved away from the aquarium. Hanley’s earlier reaction had made me wary. If I rushed into an inquisition, I would lose him. Yet his admission that he had once known someone called Briar intrigued me, gave me hope; convinced me that he may have the answers I wanted.
‘My grandfather was a Briar,’ I began. I let the name hang in the air, gauging Hanley’s reaction. He continued to watch his snails, pointing out another one as it emerged from its golden shell.
After a while, he cleared his throat. ‘Uncommon sort of a name, isn’t it? Briar. Makes a man think of thorns and unpleasant scratchy things.’
‘I feel sure you knew him.’
‘No,’ Hanley said quickly. Reaching to a shelf below the aquarium, he retrieved a glass jar of what appeared to be dark green herbs.
‘Spinach,’ he explained. ‘Gloria prefers the frozen variety. It’s nice and mushy, easy to eat. But this dry stuff lasts longer.’ He sprinkled some flakes on the water, and we watched them slowly sink. Screwing the lid back on the jar, he replaced it on the shelf.
I tried again. ‘My grandfather ran a guesthouse out along the Great Ocean Road past Stern Bay. A big old place called Bitterwood Park – you might have heard of it. There’s an orchard and huge garden, wonderful ocean views. The woman I spoke to at the Salvation Army in Geelong told me you might remember him.’
Hanley stayed silent. His mouth had taken a downward turn again, his freckled cheeks pulled taut. His blue gaze darted around the aquarium, corner to corner, as though he was trapped in there, searching for a way out.
‘Why would she tell you that?’
‘She thinks you’ve got an elephant’s memory.’
Hanley looked at me suddenly, his frown deepening. ‘I don’t know him, I already told you.’
‘But you said you knew someone called Briar?’
‘I was mistaken.’
Something warned me not to press him further, but I couldn’t help myself. ‘My grandfather died recently. I’ve been clearing out his house; Dad’s keen to put it on the market, get it sold. That’s why I’m here, really. I found a letter—’
Hanley began to blink rapidly. Then he jerked away from the aquarium. The snails we had been watching snatched back their tentacles and withdrew into their shells.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said hastily. ‘I didn’t mean . . .’
Hanley lurched back to his chair and retreated under his mound of woollen rugs, pulling them to his chest. With shaking hands, he took off his glasses, folded them into his pocket. Then he shut his eyes and squeezed them tight, like a frightened child.
‘Please,’ I urged. Instinct told me to walk away, leave the old man alone, and perhaps return another day, give him time to adjust to the idea of me . . . to the idea of my grandfather. But I couldn’t. I was so close, the answers were here; if only I could draw him back, make him see I meant him no harm. ‘Please, Hanley. It’s important to me.’
‘Go away,’ he whispered.
I took the letter from my pocket, unfolded it and shook out the creases, held it out to him. ‘You wrote this, didn’t you? You knew Edwin, and he did something to hurt you. I think he may have hurt my grandmother, too. And possibly my mother. Please, I only want to understand—’
Hanley’s nostrils flared as he shakily inhaled. ‘Get out!’ he bellowed. ‘Get out.’
Footsteps whispered along the hallway carpet. I refolded the letter, slipped it back in my pocket. Grabbed my bag.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I told the old man. ‘I truly am. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
I hurried out, passing Marge on the way, murmuring more apologies, hating the painful way my heart thumped against my ribs. Almost running back along the hall, I emerged outside into the yellow winter sunshine, breathing the cold air deep into my lungs.
My visit to the nursing home had left me with a sour taste. I had liked Hanley and felt sorry that the visit had ended badly, that I had pushed him too far. It was clear the old man had lost someone dear to him, and the pain of that loss was still fresh. He still blamed my grandfather for the wrong he had done him, and now, I suspected, that blame had passed to me.
I spent the remainder of the day sifting through more boxes of paperwork. I was beginning to give up hope of finding the explanation my grandfather had pledged me in his letter. As the afternoon progressed, I kept thinking about the burned album, and then about the kerosene smell in the icehouse. Edwin had clearly tried to cover his tracks. I couldn’t help wondering if that meant he had also destroyed the ‘something’ he’d promised me.
It was late afternoon. Sunlight began to retreat. Shadows crept in, dragging themselves under furniture, into corners, sliding across floors until all the house lay in darkness. At five o’clock, I made my way to the kitchen and stoked the fire. I fed Basil, and then placed a pot on the Warmray, lingering at the window while I waited for my soup to heat.
Adam would be back in London by now. Whenever I thought of him, my fingers clen
ched into fists, as if some primal part of me regretted letting him go. Regretted losing the permanence and stability he represented. I was doomed, it seemed. Doomed to spend my life alone. Because how could I build a future with someone – least of all a self-possessed man like Adam – when my own foundations were so shaky?
Night came down outside. Colour faded out of the garden, replaced by a thousand shades of black. Shadowy shapes flitted through the treetops, bats on the hunt for insect prey. I stood in the quiet, listening to the sea pounding the base of the cliffs. Windblown branches creaked outside the window, and the flue ticked softly as smoke rose from the belly of the Warmray and chased the updraft.
Basil curled himself around my feet, his long whiskers tickling my ankles. I bent and gathered him into my arms, cuddled him against me. He purred, his green eyes aglow in the dimness.
‘I’ve got one foot stuck in the past,’ I admitted, resting my face in the soft fur of his neck. ‘That’s why I can’t move on.’
Basil chirped, forming a question mark with his tail.
‘Nina called it unfinished business. But what if I’m like Clarice, what if it’s in my blood to bolt at the first sign of trouble?’
My soup was ready, so I took it off the stove. I noticed the fire had burned low, so I opened the Warmray door and fed in another stick of wood. As I was securing the heavy door, I flashed back to the nursing home. Marge, in her office, pushing shut the door of her clunky old-fashioned safe.
A safe. Lots of places had them: nursing homes, hotels.
Guesthouses.
Soup forgotten, I ran down to Edwin’s office. His walls were still cluttered with paintings – grim old faces scowling imperiously from the distant past. There was only one face that really spoke to me, so I went up to it. The solid frame looked heavy, but I managed to lift the painting down and prop it on the floor.
And then I turned to stare at the rectangular metal strongbox set into the wall.
It was the size of a small television set. The reinforced iron door had once been green, but age had darkened the paint almost to black. On the door was a heavy-duty brass plate set with a small keyhole.
