Burning Fields

by Alli Sinclair

  Rosie remained seated, trying to take in everything that had been laid before her. The way he agonized over something that didn’t appear to be his fault broke her heart. Her emotions ran wild—shock, sadness, love…Love? How could love fall into this turmoil? Glancing at Tomas with his head down, his back hunched, and his face expressing the pain within, she knew that love was a feeling that sat so incredibly right.

  “Tomas.” She rose and stood by his side. “Tomas?”

  He stared at her blankly, as if he hadn’t registered her presence. She gently rubbed his back and beneath her hand his body trembled, all the hurt and grief and self-blame about to explode.

  Tomas held his hands over his face and whispered in Sicilian.

  “What did you say?” she asked quietly.

  He looked up, the frown lines deep on his face. “Why are you so nice, Rosalie Stanton?”

  “I’m not always nice.”

  “I believe this is a lie.” This wasn’t followed by the usual smile that conveyed he was joking.

  Rosie removed her hand from his back. “You don’t think I’m sincere?”

  Tomas stared at her for so long she wondered if he’d lost the power of speech. Rosie moved away, not liking this strange turn he’d taken. It actually scared her.

  “I am sorry,” he finally said, his voice genuine. “I should not take my anger out on you. I admire your ability to accept people for who they are, but I am afraid that this will ruin our friendship.”

  “Tomas!” She threw her hands wide with exasperation. “Do you really think this is just a friendship?”

  The last of the evening sun caught the gold flecks in his brown eyes and bathed him in a magnificent golden glow.

  “I know exactly what this is.” Tomas moved closer and gently caressed her face.

  Her breathing grew shallow.

  “My bella,” he whispered before he placed his lips on hers. The world slowed, tilted on its axis, and sent her off-balance.

  And she didn’t mind at all.

  Chapter 26

  Rosie stood on the steps of the Rural Community Bank, waiting for the doors to open. The walk into town had done her good. It had given her a chance to stretch her legs and get her thoughts in line.

  Rosie smoothed down her floral dress and glanced up and down the street. Mrs. Marriott and Mrs. Daw stood out the front of Lofty’s Grocers yabbering about who knows what. Every so often they glanced at Rosie. Rather than torment herself with speculating what the topic of conversation was, she let her mind drift back to the events of the night before.

  Tomas had bared his soul and she’d glimpsed a side of him she’d never expected. His pain was deep, his torment strong, and his honesty refreshing. Finally admitting her feelings for him had been a risk, but it was one she didn’t regret. Although now, in the cold light of day, she wondered how their relationship would fare with so much going on around them. Perhaps today she could relieve one burden from her family.

  The bolt on the other side of the door jiggled and a moment later Sheila Dobson appeared in the doorway.

  “Rosie, hello!” Beamed the petite curly brunette. “I haven’t seen you for ages!” Her eyes travelled the length of Rosie as she leant against the doorframe. “My, don’t you look lovely! Doing something special?”

  “No, I…” She’d gone around in circles all morning, thinking it was a bad idea one minute then a stroke of genius the next. When it came down to it, her father would have a pink fit if he knew what she planned to do right now. Though she couldn’t sit and do nothing. Surely Mr. Channing would be sympathetic to their plight. “I don’t have an appointment but I was hoping Mr. Channing would be available.”

  Sheila moved away from the doorframe. “Sorry, Rosie, but he has influenza and I can’t see him returning for a few more days.”

  “Oh.” This was not the news she’d been hoping for. “Please send him my best wishes and that I hope he recovers soon.”

  “Will do. Do you want me to make an appointment?”

  Sheila went to walk inside, but Rosie quickly said, “No, I was just hoping to pop in for five minutes. Get some advice.”

  “All right. Well, try again later this week.” Sheila tilted her head to the side. “How’s your dad?”

  “Improving,” Rosie replied. It wasn’t quite a lie, but she didn’t want Sheila to know that her father’s progress had been slow. The last thing Rosie wanted was their financial status jeopardized even further if Mr. Channing didn’t see her father or brother as fit enough to continue running the farm. “Well, I best be off. Nice seeing you, Sheila.”

  “You too.” She headed inside to the cool darkness of the bank.

  Rosie remained on the steps and turned to face the street. The two town gossips had disappeared and a handful of young mothers strolled up the street, ducking in and out of shops or standing around and chatting with friends. Didn’t people have better things to do?

  The bank manager’s absence had thrown Rosie but she had to hold it together to tackle the next job on her list.

  * * * *

  Pushing the door of the church open, she entered the darkness and walked to the front. Her legs gave way and she sat heavily on the pew. Although her intentions for being here were good, Rosie was swamped with guilt and memories of her mother berating her for sticking her nose in other people’s business. But how could it be a bad thing when she was trying to help her mother?

  The door to the vestry opened and in walked Minister Robertson carrying a large bouquet of flowers. Although very new to Piri River, he’d quickly settled in and become a staunch favorite with the townsfolk. Not much older than Rosie, his youth could have been an issue but the congregation embraced it.

  Not quite ready to broach the reason for her sudden appearance at the church, Rosie observed him arranging the flowers in vases, his concentration impressive. A few minutes later he straightened his back and he turned around.

  “I thought I felt a presence!” He laughed.

  “Sorry. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “Oh, it’s fine. In fact, the church ladies would be more than happy about the interruption. They don’t hold back on their disapproval.”

  “Because you’re doing the flowers?”

  He nodded. “It’s a passion and I am not ready to give it up.”

  “I can understand.” She leant against the backrest. The hardwood dug into her back and she shuffled forward.

  “I haven’t seen you here lately,” Minister Robertson said.

  “I’ve been…busy?”

  He shrugged. “Contrary to popular belief, you will not burn in hell if you don’t attend church every week. I must say, though, it is nice to see you here, Rosie.”

  “Thank you.” She pursed her lips.

  “Here.” He picked up a bright yellow rose and walked over to her. “A little piece of sunshine.”

  “Thank you.” Rosie accepted it and inhaled the sweet perfume.

  “So, do you have time for a cuppa?”

  “I’d love to.” Nerves fluttered in her belly. Just because she had a cup of tea with the minister didn’t mean she had to follow through on her plan…

  The minister motioned for her to follow him through to the vestry, out the door and toward the small cottage that served as the minister’s home. They walked along the stepping stones and as they passed a rainbow of flowers, Minister Robertson gently touched each bush and tree. He stopped and smiled at her, his face a light shade of red. “You probably think I’m crazy.”

  “No,” Rosie said. “Although I would like to know what you’re doing.”

  “I’m giving thanks for these beautiful specimens of nature. It’s important to stop every so often and appreciate what we have, don’t you think?” He continued walking and Rosie did the same.

  “I never thought of it that way.” O
verhead, a few wispy clouds danced across the bright blue sky, and the towering eucalypts gave off a heady scent that swirled through the warm air. This was Piri River at its finest.

  The minister entered the house and she followed him into the living room. Doilies were on every conceivable surface—on tables, on chair arms, on the back of the couch…

  “I’m figuring the church ladies had a hand in decorating this place.”

  “You are figuring right. They take it in turns to tidy and drop around meals—as if I’m not capable of doing it myself. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate what they do.” He left the room to go to the kitchen.

  She heard crockery being moved around while the kettle came to a steady boil. “Can I help?”

  “No, no, I’m happy to do this. Take a seat and I’ll be with you in a minute. I hope you like lamingtons.”

  “I love them!” Happy memories of lamington-making parties with her brothers danced in her mind. When they were young, Rosie, Alex, Geoffrey and Mum would have an afternoon of lamington baking, where one sibling would do the cake, the other do the icing and the other dipped the cakes in the shredded coconut. A wave of sad nostalgia washed over her and she sat heavily on the settee. Her bottom hit the hard cushions and she adjusted her position.

  On the small table in front, she spotted a pile of leather-bound books, entitled Births, Deaths and Marriages. With her family history reaching back a few generations, she’d never thought to look at the entries but now, with them right in front of her, curiosity got the better of her.

  “Minister Robertson, do you mind if I look at these books?”

  “Sure, sure!” He walked in carrying a tray. “And you can call me Jack.”

  “Okay…Jack.”

  “Feel free to look through them. They’re quite interesting and it’s helped me learn more about the families in the area. I’ve barely started, though.”

  “Ah, yes, there’s some interesting marriages of convenience that have happened in this town—mostly to do with land ownership and protecting reputations,” she said.

  Rosie put down the yellow rose and picked up the book on the top and opened the front page. She started sifting through, looking for the entry of her parents’ marriage, which was a year before she was born. She scanned the entries for July 1920 and noticed a few familiar names of townsfolk still in the area. Her fingers travelled lightly across the heavy parchment as she admired the beautiful penmanship of the person who had taken care in recording the history of parishioners in Piri River and surrounds.

  Her fingers moved slowly so it took a while to locate the entry for her parents. When she found it, she had to bring the book closer to read it properly: Cecile Louise Beauchamp and John Rodney Stanton—21 December 1921.

  The book slipped off Rosie’s lap and landed with a thud. Jack picked it up and turned to the page she’d just had open. He passed it back to her but she shook her head.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Read out the date of marriage for my parents, please.” Her mouth felt like someone had shoved a wad of cotton wool in it.

  “Cecile Louise Beauchamp and John Rodney Stanton—21 December 1921.”

  Rosie froze while her mind whirled in a crazy fashion. “According to this, my parents married when I was six months old.”

  “Surely it’s a clerical error,” Jack said.

  “My parents always told me they were married in 1920.” Rosie’s voice came out sounding oddly high, and a sharp pain stabbed her throat. Standing, she said, “I need to go.”

  “Perhaps finish your tea, give yourself a moment,” he suggested.

  Rosie tried to remain calm, though the effort felt futile. “Sorry, I’m just upset. I don’t know how…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Please, let me drive you to wherever you want to go.”

  “I’ll be fine. I need to walk.”

  “If you insist.” Jack went to the front door and opened it for her. “Rosie, if you need anything, anything at all, please call or come and see me. Promise?”

  She nodded, unable to speak as confusion clouded her mind.

  * * * *

  What would normally have been a one-hour walk took almost two. Rosie was torn between going back to the house to demand an explanation or putting the confrontation off for as long as possible. Although she’d travelled this dirt road many, many times over the years both on foot and in vehicles, everything appeared so different now. The cane that whispered in the wind, now felt like it was mocking her. The heady scent of the farms made her stomach a swirling mess of nausea. And the happy blue of the clear sky might as well have been the thunderous black sky of wet season.

  As she passed Il Sunnu, she debated about whether to go in and talk with Nonna or, even better, Tomas. But this was her problem to solve—if there even was a problem. Could she have been reading too much into that entry? Surely there was a logical explanation.

  Rosie took off as fast as her legs would allow. Her calves burned and her lungs screamed for air. She reached the top of the driveway and slowed her pace, her body tired from the exertion. Although, what she really needed was a chance to catch her breath and figure out how to approach this.

  She stopped at the base of the stairs and looked around the house she’d grown up in. To the left was the rusting frame her father had constructed from metal offcuts that he’d turned into a swing set with ropes and old tires. Further down the hill sat the cubby house where Rosie had spent her childhood with her brothers. They’d allowed her to dress them up in their mother’s old slips while the trio had tea parties with Rosie’s dolls. Bless them, her brothers never questioned Rosie’s demands, happily going along with her wishes.

  Rosie collapsed onto the step at the base of the stairs and focused on the mountains in the distance. They’d been a constant in her life, always there, just as her parents had been. However, the discovery of this lie had shifted something inside Rosie. What else had they hidden from her?

  The screen door creaked open and Rosie turned to find her mother standing in the doorway. Her hair was plastered to the side of her face and her complexion redder than usual.

  “Are you all right, Mum?” Rosie asked, trying to force some normalcy before she found the courage to question.

  “Yes, yes, just scrubbing the pantry, that’s all. I heard a thump and came out to see what it was. You look hot, darling. Let me fix you a cool drink.”

  Rosie got up and followed her mother, all the while wondering how she would broach such a subject. Should she ask her mother when they were alone? Or would it be better to have both parents in the room?

  She entered the kitchen and found her father propped up in a chair, sipping tea, his cheeks flushed pink. He greeted her with the lopsided smile she’d grown used to since the stroke. Her heart sank. This was the best he’d looked in a long time—did she really want to be the cause of a setback?

  “Where have you been, Rosie?” Her father pushed over a plate of biscuits. She picked one up and nibbled it but quickly put it down; the usually delicious treat now tasted like cardboard.

  “Rosie?” her mother said. “Your father asked where you’ve been.”

  “I…uh…” She just couldn’t pretend all was fine in her world any longer.

  Her mother sat on a chair, her eyes full of worry. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

  “I…” Find courage. Say what you need to. “I was at the vicarage having a cup of tea with Jack—”

  “Does he really approve of you calling him that?” her mother asked.

  “He asked me to but that’s not the point.” Her words came out harsh, and she wished she could tone down the attitude, however she’d already worked herself into a state. “I was waiting for Jack to make tea and he had some books on a table.”

  “What sort of books? Why were you at the vicarage?” asked her mother.

 
; “Mum, please, just let me say what I need to without interruptions.”

  “Fine.” She sat back and crossed her arms.

  “I was looking in the Birth, Deaths and Marriages register.”

  Her mother and father exchanged glances. He coughed, looked down and her mother’s face flushed an even brighter red.

  “Why did you lie to me about your wedding date?” There. It was out.

  Her father reached for his cane and struggled out of the chair. Normally, Rosie would try to help, then have her offer rejected. This time, though, she didn’t offer. She didn’t appreciate her father taking leave after she’d asked such an important question. He glared at Cecile. “I always thought this was a bad idea.”

  He hobbled toward the hallway.

  “Where are you going, John?” Her mother sounded panicked.

  “You should have told her years ago.” He disappeared, his shuffles echoing down the hallway.

  With the departure of her father, the air in the room grew heavy. Her throat felt like she’d swallowed razor blades. “Why didn’t you tell me? Were you worried that I would think less of you?”

  Her mother hung her head and placed her hands over her face. When she looked up, tears streamed down her cheeks. She sniffed. “I don’t even know where to start.”

  “I just need to know the truth.” Rosie kept her voice soft.

  “Oh, Rosie,” her mother sobbed. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “Then tell me.” Rosie hated that her father had left her mother to do all the explaining, but that was so typical—if a situation required emotion, he’d disappear.

  Her mother dabbed her eyes with the apron and said nothing. Rosie waited some more, then her patience wore thin.

  “Mum, I need you to talk.”

  She slowly shook her head. “I had hoped this day wouldn’t come.”

  “What do you mean?” An ominous feeling settled around her. She tried to shake it free but it wouldn’t budge.