Wildflower Hill

by Freeman, Kimberley

  “And he invited you?”

  “I handed out the canapés. Wait a sec, just sitting down at my computer now. What’s the name?”

  I spelled it for her. I heard keys tapping.

  “All right. Which one?”

  “Which one?”

  “Raphael Blanchard the first, the second, or the third? Minor nobility.”

  Nobility? “In England?”

  “Yes.”

  “The one who might have been in Australia in the thirties.”

  More tapping, more yawning. “That’s the first. He lived in Australia from 1930 to 1934, in Tasmania, apparently. Am I looking up local history for you from London? Can you appreciate the irony?”

  “Is there a picture of him?”

  “Sure is. It’s small . . . No, wait. Here’s a bigger one.”

  I walked to the hall table and picked up the photograph of my grandmother with the strange man. “Describe him. Is he stocky, square-jawed?”

  “Not at all. Bit of a pudding with wavy dark hair and girlie eyes.”

  I looked at the man in the photograph. There was no way he could be described as a pudding with wavy hair and girlie eyes. Still, I had difficulty letting go of the idea.

  “Want me to fax this to you?”

  “I don’t have a fax,” I said.

  “Mail it, then?”

  That would take too long. “I know. Could you look up the local high school’s fax number and send it there? Lewinford High School. Mark it to the attention of Patrick Taylor and say it’s for me.” I heard myself and immediately felt guilty. “Sorry, Adelaide. I know I’m not your boss anymore, but—”

  “It’s fine, Em. I’ll send it later today. You should get yourself set up with e-mail, though.”

  “I won’t be staying that long,” I said. “I’ll be gone soon.” Boy, was I tired of hearing myself say that.

  * * *

  Monica, recovered from her bug, returned to work on Thursday with the fax from her brother.

  “So who is he?” she asked as she handed over the folded picture.

  I unfolded it carefully. Disappointment. “Not who I thought it might be,” I said. “Another mystery. This man apparently gave my gran the farm in 1934, but I don’t know why.”

  “You should get on to Penelope Sykes.”

  “Yes, the florist told me that.” But I was reluctant to go down that path, making new acquaintances, trying myself tighter to the town. Perhaps I’d find everything I needed to know right here in the house.

  On Friday morning I was sitting at the kitchen table, eating toast and drinking coffee, when there was a knock at the door. Monica had her own key, so I knew it wasn’t her. I rose reluctantly—I liked neither being interrupted while eating nor unexpected guests—and went to answer it. A small woman with tightly curled black hair stood there. She might have been in her fifties, but any gray was assiduously dyed out.

  “Can I help you?” I asked, thinking of my coffee cooling on the table.

  She held out a forthright hand to greet me. “I’m Penelope Sykes. I hear you’ve been asking about me.”

  “That’s not strictly true; people have been telling me about you,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I was on my way past. I’m driving up to my sister’s in Launceston for the weekend. Is now a good time to chat?”

  “Come in,” I said reluctantly. “I’m just having breakfast.”

  Penelope studied each detail of the house avidly as we walked through to the kitchen.

  “Have you never been to Wildflower Hill before?” I asked, wondering if it would be rude to drink my coffee without offering her one, knowing it would be.

  “No, it’s been locked up for decades. A lot of history in here.”

  “Coffee?”

  She shook her head, and I warmed to her. I sat and resumed my breakfast. “There is a lot of history here. I have some books you can take, old records for the farm.”

  Her eyes widened. “I’d love that.”

  I shrugged. “They were going to the dump otherwise.”

  “Don’t throw away anything like that. I’ll take it. One day I’m going to write a book about Tasmania during the Depression.” She sat opposite me. “My mother knew your gran.”

  “She did?”

  “Not well. But she used to come and play up at Wildflower Hill some days in the school holidays. They lived on the neighboring farm for two years. Mum used to tell me there was a little girl who came every school holiday, and they used to play together all day. I can’t remember her name, though.”

  “Would your mother remember?”

  “She died four years ago.”

  “I’m sorry. Do you know anything else about the little girl? You see, I’ve stirred up a bit of a mystery.” I told her about the photograph, and she asked me to fetch it, which I did.

  “This was taken in about 1929 or 1930,” she said. “I can tell from the clothes but also the street scene. It’s Hobart. There were street photographers who would take photos of passersby, then sell them at the end of the week very cheaply. But this shop here . . .” She jabbed her finger at a shop sign I hadn’t even noticed. “MacWilliam farming supplies. They collapsed in 1931, during the Depression.”

  “So this child . . . ?”

  “She’s about a year old here, which would make her the same age as my mother. I wonder if it’s the same girl she played with. She had red hair. They’d run about like savages, Mum said, completely unsupervised.”

  “Do you think she was Beattie’s daughter?”

  Penelope shook her head. “No. Mum said a black car would arrive at the end of the holidays and come for her. A man and a woman. Mum always assumed they were her parents.”

  I felt let down, though I wasn’t sure why. “Oh. I see.”

  “I guess that Beattie was an auntie of some sort.”

  “Beattie didn’t have any siblings.”

  “Then they must have been close family friends . . . Have you finished your breakfast? I’d love to see those books.”

  I drained the last of my coffee, and took her to the sitting room, and gratefully off-loaded onto her the books that were piled up on the piano. She gazed longingly at some of the letters, but they were too private and too much part of our family to give away. She promised to go through some of her materials at home and see if Beattie was mentioned anywhere else. She left just as Monica was arriving.

  I put the photograph back on the hall table, feeling oddly disappointed.

  EIGHTEEN

  Saturday morning was overcast, threatening to rain, and I woke up with a scratchy throat and a headache. I thought about canceling my trip to Hobart with Patrick; I thought about staying in bed all day. But I would have felt too guilty. A hot shower cleared my head a little, and rather than my usual jeans, I put on the only dress I had packed. I brushed my hair out loose and hoped I looked nice but wasn’t quite sure why I hoped it. I’d thought at the start that Patrick was attracted to me, but I hadn’t really any evidence for it now. He was unlike most of the men I’d met. He wasn’t polished and confident like Josh, nor was he rough and blokey like my dad. He was quiet but not shy. Gentle but not weak. Not that I was falling for him; I was still in love with Josh. I was just intrigued by him. He was different.

  Patrick was dead on time, didn’t say anything about my dress or my hair, and we drove away from Wildflower Hill just as the rain started. He seemed happy not to talk, so I watched the landscape speed by outside my window while the windshield wipers beat a rhythm. Sheep stood still and miserable in the downpour under dead crooked trees.

  “Rotten weather,” he said at last.

  “I quite like the rain.”

  “No good for driving, though.” Then he was quiet again.

  I shifted in my seat so I could steal a glance at him. He had such a serious face, courtesy of severe eyebrows and a straight-edged nose. Then I turned my eyes to the windshield. The rain sheeted down, and Patrick slowed.

&nb
sp; “I’m sorry, I’d planned to stop at a little town not far up the road for coffee. But it might take a little longer to get there in this weather.”

  I realized at that instant that he was being quiet because he was nervous. He was holding the steering wheel tightly, and his whole body was drawn up tautly.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. “Wet-weather driving not your thing?” I tried to sound light, friendly.

  He didn’t smile. “Ah, you could say that.” Then a pause. “Our parents . . . There was an accident . . . Monica was seven, I was seventeen. We were in the car. Dad lost control in the wet. He and Mum both died.”

  I was speechless with embarrassment for a moment, then my imagination conjured what Patrick must have experienced in those moments, and I was speechless with pity. “I’m so sorry,” I managed. “I didn’t know about your parents.” Though, on reflection, I had wondered why Monica never mentioned her mother or father. “Take your time. My knee is fine at the moment.” Then curiosity caught me. “So what happened afterward? Who looked after you and Monica?”

  “We did,” he said. “Or rather, I did. It was right at the end of my final year of high school, and there was talk of sending Monica off to our uncle’s place in Melbourne, but we really wanted to stay together. We inherited the family home so we had somewhere to live. I got a part-time job, and we just managed. It was really tough. I worked whenever I could, I relied on the neighbors to pick her up from school when I was down at the university. I always felt guilty that she was growing up in such a strange way, but then she’d lost her parents, so I suppose it doesn’t get worse than that. Not my fault.”

  “Of course. You did a brilliant job. Monica’s a lovely young woman.”

  “I took the job at Lewinford High School when Monica was still there. Everything was easy for a few years then.” He shrugged. “I did my best.”

  I tried to imagine what it had been like for him. No teenage tomfoolery, no going out on drinking binges with mates. Working and looking after his little sister instead. It went a long way toward explaining his nature.

  I tried to remember what I was doing at the end of my final year. I was failing high school because I didn’t pay any attention, thought I was above it all. I’d already been accepted into two dance academies in the United States and was waiting to hear from one in London. Mum had wanted me to study in Australia. We always rubbed each other the wrong way, Mum and I. She was too controlling, and I was too single-minded. There had been an enormous fight, perhaps the worst of my life. I told her I hated her. I was a child who thought she was a grown-up. Patrick had all the responsibility of a grown-up but was little more than a child. As a rule, I tried not to be embarrassed about things I did in the far past, but that thought made me squirm for the spoiled brat I had been.

  “So how did you get involved with the Hollyhocks?” I asked.

  “Marlon,” he said. “You’ll meet him this morning. He was a drama teacher briefly at the school. It’s his project, really, and he used to have this ancient old battleax who played piano for him.” He smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, but she really was a battleax. Used to shout at the kids. He asked if I could replace her for a few months while he found somebody else, and that was two and a half years ago.”

  He talked for a little while about the kids. It had started out as a project between four mothers of children with Down’s syndrome, then it kept growing. Some of the children were autistic, some blind, one was even deaf but felt the beat of the music through the floor. They were drawn from all over the southern parts of Tasmania. He told her about the concert they put on last year and how the prime minister happened to be in Hobart and turned up at the last minute to watch, about how the dancing helped the kids with confidence, with coordination, and how they made intense friendships with each other. I felt myself growing apprehensive: he seemed so natural and accepting of their differences. I was sure I’d be awkward, say the wrong thing.

  The rain eased as we pulled in to our first rest stop and bought takeaway coffees. I walked around for a few minutes, noted that the ache wasn’t too bad, and urged Patrick to keep driving while the weather held. We were in Hobart by a quarter past nine.

  The Hollyhocks practiced in the theater of a private school looking down on the Derwent River. Patrick led me to wide double doors that were already open onto a large foyer. Beyond, a compact theater space waited. The seats were tiered, the stage on the ground. A tall, dark-haired man in tight leggings greeted us.

  “Oh, how lovely to meet you!” he enthused, grasping my hand and shaking it firmly. “You look beautiful! That frock is divine on you! I’ve only seen you in pictures. You’re twice as gorgeous in real life.”

  “Thank you,” I said, readjusting to his extreme sociability. “And thank you for letting me come today.”

  All his sentences were punctuated with dramatic emphasis. “No, no, thank you. The kids don’t know you’re here yet, but they are going to love meeting a real live ballerina! My God! They will die! Especially Mina. Right, Patrick?”

  Patrick’s gentle voice was in deep contrast to Marlon’s. “Mina Ballerina,” he said. “She loves ballet.”

  “She’s a star!” Marlon squeaked. “You’re going to love her.”

  I took a seat in the front row while they set up the room. Patrick retrieved an electric piano from the backstage area and ran through some pieces on it. Marlon pranced about making up dirty lyrics until the first children and their parents arrived, when he became so dignified and circumspect that I wondered if I’d imagined my first impression of him. Slowly, the front rows filled up with parents, while children—from small ones to young adults—lined up with Marlon to have armbands attached to their wrists. Pink for left, blue for right. Ten of the eighteen had the almond eyes and square features of Down’s syndrome, but apart from that, the children varied widely. I watched them getting ready. Some seemed brighter, more connected somehow. Others were off in a dream. Other children were alternately very focused or noisy or apprehensive and clinging to their parents. But when Patrick started playing the opening strains of an old love song from a musical that I couldn’t place, they all snapped to attention and moved into their positions. Marlon started calling, “Move pink! Move blue! Turn! Arms up and . . . slowly.”

  I admit I didn’t think it could be a pretty sight. I thought they would be clumsy, awkward, unable to follow instructions properly. But there was a childish grace about the dancers, a deep enthusiasm infused through their limbs and shining in their faces. It was beautiful. I had never felt more human. I blinked back tears—I didn’t want anyone to think I felt sad or sorry—and let the slow, melancholy music wash over me.

  As it finished, the parents and I applauded loudly. Marlon turned and gave a theatrical bow. “And now,” he said, “our special guest. Guys, this gorgeous creature in the first row is a famous ballerina, Emma Blaxland-Hunter.”

  I wasn’t sure what to do, so I smiled and gave a little wave. In seconds, the children were crowding in front of me, asking for autographs, calling out questions. I didn’t know who to look at or answer first, but then an older, dark-haired girl with Down’s syndrome slid into the seat next to me and took my hand. I turned to her.

  “I’m Mina,” she said.

  “Nice to meet you,” I replied, smiling.

  “Mina Ballerina.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of you.”

  “Could you teach me ballet?”

  She spoke thickly through her tongue, but I could understand her perfectly, unlike some of the others. “I . . . I can show you a few moves, I guess.”

  “I already know all the positions. Let me show you.” And she tugged my hand and pulled me out of my chair.

  I found myself in the center of the stage with a crowd of children around me. Mina stood in front of me and went through the positions. I helped correct her arms on fourth position and her feet on fifth, though physically, she simply couldn’t manage the last one.

  “Show me something else?�
� she asked.

  I glanced at Marlon, who smiled and shrugged. I had no idea what Mina was capable of. “How about the first arabesque position?”

  “Is that more standing still? Because I’d rather learn a dance. I like Swan Lake.”

  “The dances from Swan Lake are very hard. I’d have to think about it. I’m not—”

  “Can you dance for us?”

  “I . . . No, I can’t. I injured my knee. It doesn’t work properly anymore.”

  Mina nodded reverently. “That happened to my friend,” she said. “She had a car accident and she’s in a wheelchair.”

  Marlon interrupted. “Okay, Mina. Let other people have a turn with Emma. Who wants autographs?”

  A general chorus of “Me!” went round, and as I signed autographs, I tried to think about what kind of dance I could teach Mina. I felt that I’d disappointed her. She clearly hadn’t the physical ability for anything from the great choreographers: she could move her arms well enough, but her lower-body flexibility was always going to let her down. Yet she was keen and was clearly crazy for ballet. And having watched the first dance, I could see that she stood out in terms of her ability.

  I watched the rest of the rehearsal, lost in thought. Marlon was wonderful with the children, firm and loving, occasionally cracking cheeky jokes to make them laugh. Patrick played beautifully and was patient and calm.

  As the rehearsal finished and the children began to file out, chatting happily, Mina approached me again. “Will you come and see us next week?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll try to. Patrick has to drive me, so I’ll have to ask him.”

  “Will you teach me some ballet?”

  “Mina, I’m really only here in Tasmania for a little while.”

  Patrick, who had heard his name, came over to join us. “Come on, Mina, your dad will be waiting out front.” He led her off. I picked up my bag and hitched it over my shoulder.

  Patrick returned. “She lives alone with her dad,” he explained.

  “He must be proud.”