Wildflower Hill

by Kimberley Freeman

  “Can I help you with those?”

  “What kind of a husband would I be if I couldn’t manage my wife’s suitcase?” He laughed.

  Beattie sat on the edge of the bed and watched him bring the cases in. His pale hair was growing thin, but still without a streak of gray, as though years of public life and political responsibility hadn’t worried him at all.

  He sat next to her. “Tired?”

  “I feel fine.”

  “Thirty hours on a plane and you feel fine.” He touched her hair. “My Beattie.”

  “When do you have to go?”

  Ray glanced at his watch. He was in London for a conference. Usually, Beattie didn’t accompany him, being so tied up with her own business back in Sydney. But she was slowly letting go of Blaxland Wool’s reins, as the company got too big for her to manage solo. That and the fact the children were now teenagers and quite happy to be left with an indulgent auntie for ten days.

  “Welcoming drinks are at six P.M. But I don’t have to go. They won’t miss me.”

  Beattie yawned. Maybe she wasn’t fine after all. “No, you should go. I’ll order room service and read a book.”

  “Don’t go to sleep too early. You’ll be out of sync for days.”

  “I’ll wait up for you.”

  She folded away their clothes while he showered and shaved, got his papers together, tightened his tie. Then he wasn’t her Ray anymore, with his goofy smile and taste for silly but gentle practical jokes. Now he was the Honourable Raymond Hunter MP, member for the federal seat of Mortondale, and shadow minister for health.

  “I won’t be too late,” he said, kissing her cheek.

  “Thanks, darling.” She tried a smile but could feel the corners of her lips were frozen.

  He tilted his head, examining her. “There’s something wrong, isn’t there?”

  “I miss the children,” she said quickly. And there’s more than that, but I can’t tell you. She met his blue eyes evenly. “I’ll call your sister to see how they are, and then I’ll feel better.”

  “Tell them I said hello.”

  After he’d gone, Beattie opened the window and let in the traffic noise and the cool autumn chill. She climbed up on the high bed and picked up a book but couldn’t really concentrate on the words in front of her. The last time she’d been in London was just before she and Henry had run away to Tasmania. But Ray knew nothing about that. She hadn’t meant for her past to become a secret, dark and buried and shameful, but somehow it had. What Ray didn’t know was that she had another motive in coming to the UK with him. For the first time in twenty-five years, Beattie hoped to see her daughter.

  Charlie’s death had been an agonizing rupture in her world. But shearing season was coming, and there was no stopping it. Leo Sampson helped her all he could, and Peter and Matt took control of the procedings. Beattie stayed upstairs in her room, crying for hours, sitting under the window so she could look down on the cabbage gum sapling she’d planted over Charlie’s grave. At night she dreamed that she was chasing him as he disappeared down a dim hallway, or was waiting for him to come back on Birch from the southern end of the farm. Waiting and waiting as the sun set and the sky turned cold and black. Then she would wake and feel his loss anew. Her arms and legs ached so much that she thought she was coming down with an illness, but no illness ever eventuated. She remained almost cruelly healthy. Heart in pieces, body robustly ticking along.

  Somewhere in the world, there was a war raging. Somewhere in the world, her daughter was being raised by another mother. But Beattie could not pick herself up long enough to deal with those worries. Months went by in a kind of awful stasis as the cloud of grief set in and would not lift, like the winter fog that sat in the valley behind the ridge. She saw no sunlight.

  Christmas approached, and Beattie found a little satisfaction in sewing a winter coat for Lucy and posting it to Scotland. With it, she included a long letter, explaining to Lucy that Charlie had died, and that was the reason she hadn’t written. A long silence followed, not unexpectedly.

  Easter came. By now Beattie had written six or seven letters, sent them off, and waited. No reply ever came.

  Her anger kept her awake at night. She knew that Molly and Henry would have a telephone, but they hadn’t given her the number. How dare they? All she wanted was to hear her daughter’s voice. It would give her so much comfort. Beattie couldn’t wait for this silly war to be over. The moment it was, she was going to Scotland, she was going to find them. In the meantime, she kept writing letters, pouring out her love for her daughter. And kept sending them into the silence.

  Beattie knew her business was faltering. Peter and Matt were young, not really up to the task of managing the farm. Her last wool clip had been the best ever, so she wasn’t worried about money, but she was letting the bookwork slip, organizing things too late or not at all. She had lost her heart for this business. Once the agricultural rhythms had seemed about new life, renewal, growth. Now she looked around her and saw only death. A gray pall had settled over everything, and she knew she had to get away.

  She advertised for someone to lease the business from her and began to pack her things.

  One morning as she made her usual pilgrimage to the letter box to see if there was anything from Lucy—there wasn’t—she found a letter with an Australian government crest on it. She frowned. She feared the tax office or perhaps even bad news from abroad. But the letter had nothing to do with taxes. It seemed the advisory war cabinet was ratifying a proposal to create five hundred positions for woman telegraphists in the air force. They needed a uniform—wool skirt and blazer—and wondered if Beattie might tender a quote for the work.

  Beattie read the letter twice by the letter box, then twice again in her sitting room. A warm tingle in her heart, like the first shoots of spring after icy winter. It was ridiculous. She could design a blazer and skirt, but she couldn’t make five hundred uniforms single-handedly.

  And yet all they had asked was for her to tender for the work. She would have to budget in hiring a dozen employees, buying a dozen sewing machines. She would have to do nothing but design, manage, and oversee the production.

  The morning slipped by as she worked at her desk, drawing, scribbling, tearing up, starting again. It had been so long since she’d felt any enjoyment in life that it was almost like being drunk. Pleasure, real pleasure. When she had roughed out six or seven designs, she turned her mind to the quote, estimating prices, crossing her fingers that she wasn’t too high or too low. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten. She looked up to see that the shadows outside had grown long. She had literally worked on the idea all day.

  She couldn’t remember when time had sped like that last. Each moment since Charlie’s death had been excruciatingly long. She knew then what might save her: work. But not work on the farm—there were too many memories for her here.

  It took six weeks for Beattie to hear that she’d secured the contract. By then she was already packed and ready to go. She’d had a broker find her a little place at Haymarket in Sydney, with a space big enough underneath for a small workshop.

  Rain fell the morning she left Wildflower Hill. The new tenants arrived and were trying to move their furniture in through mud and puddles. Their three little boys ran around inside, squealing with excitement. It made Beattie glad to know that the house would hear laughter and feel love again. She climbed into her car and didn’t look back at Charlie’s grave. She knew it would have made her cry.

  It was in Sydney, four years later, that she met Ray. Beattie had been invited to a fund-raising ball for the War Widows Guild. Normally, she liked to keep to herself. She wasn’t reclusive so much as wary. Where she lived now was vastly different from Lewinford. Nobody knew that she was a single mother of dubious morals. Nobody saw her sending the endless letters to Scotland, to her illegitimate daughter or her ex-lover and his wife. Nobody except Leo Sampson knew of her efforts to find Lucy through the tortuous and expen
sive legal system, or how the endless dragging on of the war had made all her efforts doubly difficult. Nobody knew, certainly, of the tears she cried into her pillow at night, realizing that her child would have changed vastly since she last saw her. Realizing that she barely knew what Lucy looked like anymore, and that the long absence had dulled her need to see the girl. In many ways, the Lucy she knew was gone forever. By now a tall and strange teenager would have taken her place in the world. One who, if Beattie guessed correctly about the poison Henry and Molly had filled her ears with, would be hostile toward her if they met.

  The ballroom of the Wentworth Hotel was ablaze under the dazzling chandeliers. Dozens of tables had been set with fine china and silver for a five-course meal, but Beattie was far too nervous to think of eating. She was due to give a speech. She had become something of a minor celebrity in Sydney since her designs had been picked up by a large American chain store. Nearly 60 percent of her business was in exports. She no longer designed for government and business but for department stores and fashion boutiques. Her practical but beautiful designs were in demand as women saw themselves as newly powerful and capable. And Beattie—young, single, wealthy—had become a symbol of those qualities herself. The Australian Women’s Weekly had run an article on her just after Christmas, and she found she was even recognized on the streets from time to time.

  The well-heeled guests drifted in. Women in long embroidered gowns, fox fur stoles, and suede bags; men in two-piece flannel suits, gold tie clips and chains, and silk cravats. Beattie had chosen to wear one of her own designs, a short skirt with box pleats, a V-neck silk blouse, and a short bolero over the top. She wore a silk flower on her shoulder and high heels trimmed with bows. The room filled with the smell of cigar smoke, and Beattie found it hard to catch her breath. She asked a passing waiter for a glass of brandy and surprised him by downing it in one gulp.

  “Thank you,” she said, returning the glass. “That’s a little better.”

  Finally, it came time for her to speak. The lights in the room dimmed, and she leaned on the lectern for dear life and took a deep breath.

  She’d been asked to talk about her success, how she’d arrived, where she’d arrived. But so much had to be left out of this account. Yes, she was a poor immigrant from Scotland who had struggled, making money working for Margaret Day, sewing buttons back on people’s jackets. But she mentioned nothing about the child she’d had to support, the drunken gambling husband she’d had to flee, the lecherous boss she’d had to outsmart. Yes, she had worked her hands raw mustering sheep in long winters only to return home to tiny serves of wild rabbit meat and parsnips for dinner. But she mentioned nothing about the man who had taught her to ride a horse, who had loved her and supported her through the difficult times. To narrate her life this way was to blend out all its contrasts, to make it far duller. But she could hardly stand up here in front of wealthy Sydney society and admit to having an illegitimate child, winning the farm in an unsavory bet, conducting a passionate affair with a black man. She wondered if those unpalatable truths would ever make their way into the light, or if the people of Lewinford were happy enough, now that she was gone, never to mention her again. Small enough in their outlook never to hear of her success on the world stage.

  She finished talking, feeling all the while like a fraud, and the audience erupted into enthusiastic applause. She was taken aback; she had thought she was boring everybody.

  “Thank you,” she muttered. “Thank you.”

  The band struck up as she left the stage, and the audience surged to the parquet dance floor. Beattie returned to her table, to a plate of melting ice cream. She was suddenly ravenous, ate the ice cream, and felt a little sick. The other guests at her table leaned toward her, smelling of expensive colognes and hair cream, told her how much they loved her speech, then spun out to the dance floor. Beattie sat alone, wondering when it would be polite to leave.

  “Miss Blaxland?”

  She looked up to see a tall man with fair hair and kind eyes looking down at her. He wore a beautifully cut striped wool suit.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “May I ask you for a dance?”

  Beattie’s eyes went to the dance floor and back to the man. She couldn’t dance. The events of her life had never taken her to the ballroom. The other women were elegant, knew what they were doing.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t feel much like dancing,” she said.

  He hesitated, no doubt wondering if her rejection was general. “Can I get you a glass of champagne, then?” he asked.

  She felt sorry that she’d turned down his offer to dance, and he did seem rather sweet. “Certainly. I would like that.”

  She waited until he returned, wishing she’d dashed off when she’d had a chance.

  He sat with her, offering her a champagne glass. She sipped from it slowly, aware that on an empty stomach, the bubbles would go straight to her head.

  “May I introduce myself to you properly?” he said with a steady, direct gaze. “I’m Raymond Hunter, member for Mortondale.”

  “My pleasure,” she said.

  “I enjoyed your speech very much.”

  “I thought I was boring everybody.”

  “Not at all. I think we were all enchanted. At least I know I was.”

  Don’t drink too fast, Beattie. She put down the glass and took a deep breath. “Well,” she said. “How long have you been in parliament?”

  “Three and a half years.” He smiled. “Though it feels like dog years sometimes.”

  She laughed softly. Encouraged, he told her a few stories about life in Canberra. She was disarmed by his self-deprecating humor and found herself laughing as loudly as the crimson-faced dowager who’d had too much to drink at the next table. Her keenness to get away softened, and when he asked if he could call on her the following night and take her to dinner, she didn’t say no.

  Nor did she say yes.

  “Ask me tomorrow when I’ve had nothing to drink,” she said, offering him the empty champagne glass as evidence. “I’ll give you my phone number at work.”

  He respectfully copied down the number with a black fountain pen, then saw her into a cab at the entrance to the hotel. She smiled all the way home, flushed and still laughing at some of his jokes.

  Beattie had learned the hard way to separate her living space and her working space. In the first two years in Sydney, she had lived directly above the workshop and found herself at work from the moment she woke till the moment she slept. Now she took the tram down to Castlereagh Street every morning, to her little workshop with the desk and phone in the corner and the sound of the electric sewing machines running all day. Ray phoned her just after lunchtime, just after she’d convinced herself he wouldn’t call, and made herself unexpectedly disappointed.

  “So?” he said.

  “Yes,” she answered.

  Almost despite herself, she found herself with a new beau.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Beattie never intended to keep Lucy secret from Ray. It had happened almost by accident, not by design.

  They had two dates together before he had to return to Canberra for parliament. He hadn’t so much as held her hand, let alone kissed her. It wasn’t time yet for sharing her shady past with him. He was gone for two months, wrote periodic letters full of humorous observations, and promised to take her out again when he got back. She got on with life, didn’t really think of him.

  It was nearly Easter when he came back, and he surprised her with his interest. With the way he spoke, as though they were already a couple. He took her to a restaurant on Pitt Street and told her about how much he’d missed her. She was flattered. That was all.

  Or was it? She was so relaxed in his company. She liked him—truly liked him, for his kind eyes and his boyish humor.

  At her door that night, he kissed her softly on the lips. Her reaction surprised her. She pressed her body close to his, returning his kiss with passion. It had been so long sinc
e anyone had held her like that. But he pulled away gently, laughing.

  “I have a surprise for you on the weekend,” he said.

  “What is it?”

  “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

  So she waited the week out, thinking of him idly in her spare moments. But still not taking him particularly seriously.

  Ray sent a card on Friday that told her to be ready to leave Saturday morning, to pack things for an overnight stay. She did as he asked, curiosity piqued. An overnight stay: did that mean he wanted to sleep with her? Perhaps her fierce embrace the other night had given him the impression that she would. Would she?

  He arrived just before nine in his big Dodge, wearing a trilby and a knitted cardigan. He was handsome, with his rangy athletic body and his fair hair. Despite this boyishness, he was a person with much authority and public responsibility. She wondered if he behaved differently in Canberra. He loaded her suitcase into his car, and they took off.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Up to the mountains,” he said with a smile.

  The autumn air was clear and cool. Pale bluish mist sat in the valleys. They wound up the mountain road. The sun was bright on the hood of the car and on the yellow leaves of the trees lining the road. She was comfortable to sit in silence, watching the scenery speed past. Just being with him was so easy. She glanced at him while his eyes were glued to the road.

  “I can see you looking at me, Beattie,” he said.

  She laughed.

  “Out of the corner of my eye,” he added.

  “What are we going to do up the mountain?” she asked.

  “My parents live at Katoomba. I’m taking you to meet them.”

  Her heart cooled. “Really?” He was taking her to his parents? Were things that serious? She hadn’t told him anything about her past. Should she?

  “Don’t sound so worried,” he said. “They’re very nice.”