by Anna Romer
I tried all the keys on Edwin’s house ring. In desperation, I even clawed my fingers around the edge of the door and tried to force it. I rang Dad’s number, to see if he knew anything about it, but no one answered. Then I returned to the office and sat on Edwin’s desk chair with the cat in my lap, swivelling from side to side, staring at the safe, scheming about how I was going to open it—
A distant knocking interrupted my musings.
I waited, ears alert. The knocking came again. Releasing Basil onto the desk, I ran along the hallway past the stairs, through the big echoey sitting room. Unlocking the deadlock, I swung open the front door.
A woman stood there. A tiny woman with a halo of curly grey hair, and large black-rimmed glasses. I knew her instantly.
‘Mrs Tibbett?’
‘Hello, Lucy. And please, call me Nala. My daughter Len said you wanted to see me?’
The rush of emotion took me off guard, and when she smiled – her face lighting up, her eyes filling with the warmth of recognition – I quite forgot myself. Letting out a little cry, I pulled her into a hug.
30
Bitterwood, 1931
Clarice took the man’s shabby coat and hung it behind the door. Then she ushered him along the hallway to the kitchen. Orah trailed behind them, her legs wooden, and her heart beating unsteadily. While Clarice made sandwiches and a pot of tea, Orah kept stealing glances at the man.
It was a mistake, of course.
He wasn’t her father. Wasn’t Pa.
Clarice set the table, but seemed reluctant to take her leave. She rested her hands on her swollen belly, hovering near the doorway. ‘I’ll let you two to get reacquainted, then. And Mr Dane,’ she added, smiling tight-lipped at the man, ‘please make yourself at home.’
She had spoken kindly, but the gleam in her eyes said she was not at all pleased. She kept looking at Orah, trying to catch her attention. Orah fixed her gaze grimly on the teapot and waited for Clarice to go.
But Clarice would not be ignored. She grasped Orah’s arm and tugged her back into the hall. ‘I’ll prepare one of the guest rooms,’ she said quietly. ‘If he needs a place to stay, tell him he’s welcome here as long as he wants. As long as you want,’ she added. Then she hurried away and went upstairs.
Orah stood in front of the kitchen door. For so long, she had yearned for this moment. At least, she had until nearly two years ago. Learning of Pa’s death had crushed her. Now that he was here, her heart was empty. Pa was a stranger. Whatever would she find to say to him? Her fingers trembled as she reached for the door handle. Her palms were dry and her head clear, but her senses raced out of kilter. She had already weathered so much heartbreak, and felt ill prepared to endure any more.
The man stood facing the window, a shadow against the dying afternoon sunlight outside. He turned when he heard Orah’s shoes on the floorboards. His face was pasty grey, his eyes the colour of slate. Even his clothes were grey. The only colour was the red blotching his cheekbones. He gazed back at her with the startled apprehension of a rabbit caught by spotlight.
Orah stared back. This was not her father. How could it be? Her father had travelled to Melbourne to make his fortune. Pa would most certainly be wealthy now, standing tall, square-shouldered and proud, the way she remembered him. No, she decided. This was not him. Her real Pa would be in his grand house, sitting with his feet up reading the paper, puffing on his pipe. Not here, shuffling in the kitchen, wringing his hands and peering at her through the helpless eyes of a hobo.
‘Will you have some tea?’ Orah gestured to the teapot and cups, the plates of sandwiches and oatmeal biscuits laid on the table.
‘Thank you.’ The man made no move. ‘That’s very kind.’
In the stillness of the kitchen, his voice sounded different to the harsh croak he had offered on the doorstep. The tone, the polite way he spoke his gratitude, the genteel tilt of his head—
No, Orah told herself again. It’s not him. The jovial bear-like father she had created from her store of memories and the man before her now were two different people. Her Pa would not be standing so meekly, wringing his hat. Her father would stride towards her and take her in his arms, and she would smell the inky tartness of his black waistcoat, the one she had clung to so tearfully that long ago day of his departure. He would push back his thick fair hair with his fingers, and the air around him would be rich with the sweet smell of his pomade. His full beard would rest on his chest, threaded with pure copper like a Viking’s. His eyes would be bright with merriment.
Orah searched his face, gathering her courage to utter the words. I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. You’re not my pa. There is no resemblance, no sense of recognition. I don’t believe we have ever met before—
The man’s hand lifted, his fingers hovered as though tracing her image into the air. A smile dawned, and his features reassembled into a face that was ever so vaguely familiar. For one quavering moment, the ghost of her father peered out.
His mouth trembled. ‘Is it true? Are you my little Orah?’
Orah couldn’t breathe. The ache of tightness around her lungs constricted her. She took a step back. Nodded.
Tears began to spill freely from the man’s eyes, leaving tracks in the grime.
He dashed a hand across his eyes. ‘When I saw you last, you were a wee girl. Now you’re all grown. A real little lady.’ He licked his lips and glanced hopefully over Orah’s shoulder at the door. ‘Your mother, did she . . . is she here too?’
Orah stared. He didn’t know. Of course he didn’t, how could he? He hadn’t received their letters. He hadn’t known they had bought two berths on the Lady Mary. He didn’t know about the storm or the rocks, or that Mam had . . . that she was—
She gestured for him to sit, and found herself dragging out a chair from the opposite side of the table, slumping into it.
‘I thought you were dead.’
The man – that was how she thought of him, because to name him Pa was simply too great a leap for her mind – took the chair she offered.
‘How long have you been here?’ he asked hesitantly. ‘I mean to say, when did you leave Scotland?’
‘Two years ago.’
‘And you are lodging here, you and your mother? It’s a very fine place indeed.’ He glanced around the room and a pained expression came upon him. He seemed to shrink into himself, as if the kitchen with its warm smells and abundance of food and cosy homeliness was more than he could bear. ‘You must be doing well for yourselves. I’m glad for it, truly glad.’
Orah reached for the pot. She couldn’t remember if she’d already asked, so she asked again. ‘Tea?’
The man looked at the pot with wide eyes, as if he’d never seen one before. ‘Water will be most welcome, thank you kindly.’
Orah recoiled at his formality, his horrible downtrodden humility. She filled a glass with water for him, and then returned to her seat. Eight years had passed since he left her and Mam. In that time, she had imagined every scenario possible. He had died. Been imprisoned. Struck down by sickness. Then, two years ago, the news of his death. Through all her fears and imaginings, one question had continued to torment her.
‘Why did you stop writing to us?’
His smile fell away. He swiped at the tears on his cheeks, leaving smudges of grime.
‘I meant to. I wanted to bring you and your mam out here in style. But the riches didn’t flow as freely as they did in the stories I’d heard back in Glasgow. Within a month of my arrival here, I was deep in debt. Failure dogged me. I could barely scrape together enough to eat, let alone two fares to bring my wife and daughter across the sea.’
‘You should have written. At least put our minds at ease by letting us know you were alive.’ She bit her lips before she could blurt what was really on her mind. If only you had considered us. We would have waited for you in Glasgow. We would never have bought the tickets on the Lady Mary, never have travelled across the sea, never have encountered the storm.
And Mam would still be—
Unshed tears swelled into a hard lump in the back of her throat. She would not cry. The damage was done.
‘Mam might have been angry with you,’ she said quietly, ‘but she loved you. She would have forgiven you in the end.’
Hanley got to his feet and shuffled over to the window.
‘Shame is a terrible thing,’ he murmured, his gaze lost in the brightness outside. ‘It cripples a fellow, makes him want to run and hide. I left Scotland a proud man, full to the brim with ambition. But within months, that man was gone. Along with the entirety of your mother’s money.’
‘You might have let us know.’
Hanley gazed around the dim kitchen. After a while, he coughed. The rattle in his chest sounded loud and brutal.
‘I understand that I have no right to ask,’ he said when the fit ended. ‘Not after the way I left you both. Yet I must ask. How is your dear mam? Not a day goes past that I don’t think of her. Did she . . . remarry?’
Orah said nothing. The lump had re-formed in her throat. She wanted to tell him everything, wanted to open her heart and let the pain pour out of her. She looked at the man opposite, and knew that he was barely strong enough to hold his own sorrow at bay. For a moment, she could not breathe. Finally, she shook her head.
‘She did not remarry.’
Hanley seemed to brighten. ‘My dear Posie,’ he murmured. ‘True as ever, just as I knew she would be. I’d give anything on earth just to see her beautiful face one more time.’
Orah noticed the gaps of missing teeth, the shrunken gums. She noticed the pale unhealthy colour of her father’s skin. His eyes were red-rimmed, his lashes crusty with conjunctivitis. He began to cough again, and this time the rattle made him buckle over and press his fist against his chest.
Orah found her voice. ‘You’re unwell.’
He shook his head. ‘The cool weather is nearly gone. I’ll be right as rain come summer. Tell me, where is your dear mother?’
Orah shifted on the chair. ‘We were worried when we didn’t hear from you. We saved the money, and bought passage on the Lady Mary. We came to find you.’
Hanley brightened. He returned to the table and sat forward on his chair. ‘So, it’s as I hoped. Posie is here with you. My Lord, who would have thought it. I’ve struck gold at last.’
‘There was a storm.’ Orah hated the way her voice shook, but she forced herself to go on. ‘The ship foundered and sunk. We made it into a lifeboat, but the sea was too rough. We hit some rocks. Mam went overboard.’
Hanley stared. The little colour remaining in his face drained away. The silvery stubble on his cheeks and the faded blue of his eyes seemed stark compared to the grey pallor of his skin. His lips moved silently. He shook his head, his eyes fixed questioningly on hers.
‘Mam didn’t survive the wreck,’ Orah told him. ‘She drowned that night.’
Hanley’s head dipped, as if he’d taken a blow. His face buckled, and he reached across the table towards her. When Orah did not make a move to grasp his hands, he slumped against his chair back, his hands palm-up on the table, his fingers trembling.
‘Oh Posie,’ he said wetly. ‘All those years alive and well in Glasgow, and me caught up in my selfish quest . . . an empty quest and foolish dreams. I wanted to redeem myself in her eyes, make her proud. Now it’s too late.’ He looked at Orah suddenly. ‘I’ll make it up to you, my girl. Only this morning there was talk of another find, to the west of where I’m camped. A big nugget the size of a baby’s fist. It’s only a matter of time . . .’
Orah stood and went to the window, gazed out at the garden. ‘We never wanted your money. Mam cared nothing for wealth. Love was all she wanted. Did you never wonder how different our lives would have been if you’d stayed?’
Tears ran down her father’s face. This time he didn’t wipe them away. His eyes were strangely naked. ‘Every day of my life, Orah girl. That question haunts me every single day.’
Shadows moved across the window as the sun drifted towards the western horizon. A fly flew into a spider’s web in the corner and buzzed angrily for a time, but soon its protests dwindled to a hopeless grizzle.
Orah frowned at her father suddenly. ‘How did you find me?’
Hanley rubbed his stubbly cheeks. ‘Several weeks ago, a letter arrived. Addressed to me, care of the hotel in town. It was from your Mr Briar. He said you were staying with him and his wife. I borrowed a truck and got on the road . . . and here I am.’
Orah stood very still. ‘A letter – from Edwin? Several weeks ago?’
‘Aye, that’s right.’ He patted his pocket and took out a rumpled grubby paper. ‘Here, read it for yourself.’
Orah took the page. She recognised Edwin’s neat script, but when she tried to read the letter her gaze danced all over the place and she could make no sense of the words. Only one line stood out to her, the date. Just three weeks ago.
Orah’s fingertips turned cold and she threw the letter on the table. Her father collected it and poked it back in his pocket, then sat looking at her, as if waiting. Orah could not speak.
The cold spread from her fingers, up her arms, finally settling over her heart. Edwin had told her Pa was dead. He had never mentioned the possibility that he’d been wrong, that Pa had survived. So why had he not told her he’d written to Pa? Had he wanted to spare her more disappointment? Or had he known her father’s whereabouts all along?
‘How did Edwin know where to find you?’ she murmured.
Her father nodded. ‘A couple of years back, a man came to see me, claiming he was from Immigration. He left money, so right away I knew something was off. I couldn’t recall the name he gave, so I made some inquiries in town, and a woman at the hotel in Ballarat recalled that a well-dressed gent had travelled from the coast, apparently keen to locate me.’
Orah felt a chill. ‘Edwin.’
Her father nodded. ‘He left no forwarding address, and so I thought I’d hear no more from him. But then he sent the letter and told me about you. The one thing I can’t fathom,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘is why took him nearly two years to write.’
Orah settled her father upstairs in the smallest of the guest rooms, the one at the other end of the corridor to her own. There was no ocean view, only a pretty outlook over the garden. She brought a jug of hot wash water and laid out clean towels and a block of soap. She wished him good night, and then hurried downstairs.
Clarice was tidying the kitchen, packing away the remains of Hanley’s supper.
‘Did you know?’ Orah demanded.
Clarice paled. ‘Orah, dear . . . please try to understand—’
‘Edwin said Pa was dead, killed in the mine. But he lied!’
Clarice placed a hand over her belly. She glanced at the ceiling, as though fearing Hanley might overhear them, and then moved nearer to Orah, her voice low.
‘Edwin thought it for the best, love. He found your father in a terrible state. Sick and destitute, barely able to care for himself let alone a daughter. He was living in a shanty. Broke, surrounded by disease. It shocked Edwin deeply, and he couldn’t bear to think of you going to live in such a place. You were better off with us.’
Orah clenched her fists. ‘Then you knew? All along, you both knew but you kept it secret. For nearly two years?’
Clarice’s hand drifted towards Orah, as though to touch her, but then she drew it back. ‘We only wanted what was best.’
‘But that’s not up to you. You’re not my parents.’
Clarice drew herself a little taller. ‘Edwin smelled the drink on your father, Orah. I’m sure you smelled it yourself this evening. Hanley’s in no fit state to care for a young woman. What sort of life would it be for you if you went with him?’
‘You had no right to lie.’
‘We were only protecting you.’
Orah felt a whirlpool rising up in her. She had trusted Clarice, come to love her. But now, everything was unravelling. The sea roared in her ea
rs. The waves crashed, the dark water lapped at the edges of her mind. She slapped her hands over the hotness in her cheeks.
‘I don’t need your protection.’
‘But Orah, that’s what families do. Protect one another.’
‘You and Edwin are not my family.’ Her fingers curled into fists against her cheeks. ‘You’re nothing to me!’
‘Oh, Orah.’ Clarice grasped the table edge to steady herself. ‘Love, of course we are. You’re a daughter to us, and we love you. Please don’t say those things, darling. You love us too, you know you do.’
‘You’re wrong. You’ve lied to me about my pa and I hate you!’
‘Please, sweetheart.’ Clarice’s voice cracked. Her eyes were large, her gaze pleading. ‘Get some rest tonight. It’s been an emotional day. You’ll feel different in the morning—’
Orah turned and ran from the kitchen, not wanting Clarice to see her tears. Up the stairs she fled, stomping along the upper landing, pushing into her room, slamming the door behind her. She glared around at all her lovely things, the things that Edwin and Clarice had given her. Pretty clothes, new shoes, lace shawls and filigree clips for her hair. Nothing mattered now. She could not stay, how could she? She fell onto her bed, and lay stiffly for the longest time. Her tears dried, but she didn’t bother summoning any more. What was the point? She just glared at the shadows on the ceiling, a million thoughts burning through her mind.
Edwin and Clarice didn’t love her. They had betrayed her, tricked her, trapped her with their lies. Bitterwood was ruined for her. The only choice she had now was to leave.
After a while, she sat up. Roughly unclasping her golden charm bracelet, she threw it onto the floor. Then she grabbed her satchel and began to pack the few things she would need to start her new life with Pa.
When she knocked on her father’s door, there was no answer. She knocked again, and waited. Then pressed her ear to the door.
‘Hanley?’ she called softly. ‘Pa . . . are you awake?’
