by Helen Brown
Scott loosened his tie.
‘Not you,’ she snapped. ‘The little one.’
Jake reddened, stood up and dusted down the back of his pants.
‘Come here, my boy,’ Aunt Caroline commanded.
Maxine appeared about to intervene but when she saw how humiliated Jake looked she stopped.
‘Actually, I was about to go to the bathroom,’ he mumbled.
‘Nonsense!’ Aunt Caroline took a walking stick from the floor and waved it menacingly. ‘Up you come.’
Jake ran a hand through his hair. He shrugged at the audience and made his way up the steps.
‘No need to be shy.’ Aunt Caroline looked like a shark about to snaffle a shrimp. ‘Now come here!’ The old woman seized Jake around the thighs and pulled him down.
He cried out as he toppled onto her lap. The sofa squeaked and groaned under the extra weight. Maxine tried to scramble to her feet, but the seat lurched like a sinking ship. With a tremendous crack it snapped in the middle and, in a flurry of shouts and dust, collapsed.
Lisa ran forward, grabbed her aunt and yanked her out of the wreckage. The old woman’s wig had slipped sideways.
‘Are you all right, Aunt Caroline?’ she asked, lowering the nonagenarian onto a plastic chair.
‘Fine, perfectly fine.’
Lisa retrieved her aunt’s walking stick and handbag and placed them under her seat.
Dorothy Thatcher, Ron and Maxine seemed shocked rather than injured. Worst off was Gordon, who’d softened the old woman’s fall. He was on his knees, reaching for support from the balustrade.
The sofa resembled a dead animal sprawled on the veranda, vomiting rusty springs and horsehair. From a fold of rotting fabric, Lisa saw what looked like a silvery chain. She bent down and tugged it. Attached to the chain was a heart-shaped locket. The silver case was blackened with age yet the engraving was still visible. Roses were etched around the outer edge of the heart to frame a pair of letters that were intertwined. They were difficult to decipher, as if written in code.
‘Who were A and M?’ Lisa asked slowly.
Aunt Caroline let out a cry and lurched forward.
‘She’s having a turn!’ Maxine said. ‘Where’s her puffer?’
‘H-h-handbag,’ Aunt Caroline gasped.
‘Gordon!’ Maxine barked. ‘Get her handbag.’
‘Where is it?’ Gordon asked.
Aunt Caroline raised a vein-roped hand and pointed between her legs.
‘I can’t go in there!’ he said.
Exasperated, Maxine dived under Aunt Caroline’s skirt and retrieved the handbag. The old girl grabbed the puffer, flicked the lid off and sucked for all she was worth.
As Aunt Caroline’s lungs resumed normal service, Lisa turned her attention back to the locket. ‘I wonder if it can be opened?’
Aunt Caroline lunged and grabbed the chain. Lisa refused to let go. The old woman summoned all her energy and gave a sharp tug.
The links of the chain stretched then broke, sending the locket spinning through the air. Lisa cried out as it clattered onto the mosaic floor. The impact split the silver heart in two. As she bent to pick up the first half she saw it contained an old sepia photo. The man’s face was long and sensitive, the eyes hooded and sad. ‘It’s Alexander, our grandfather!’ Lisa cried.
The other half of the locket had skidded under Todd’s chair. Lisa crawled over the tiles towards it, but Aunt Caroline’s stick blocked her path. ‘I doubt it’s even sterling silver,’ the old woman said imperiously. ‘Not worth your trouble.’
Lisa pushed the walking stick aside and seized the piece of silver. Standing up, she dusted it off and stood under the light. Inserted in the locket segment was a sepia photo to match the one of her grandfather.
It was of an Aboriginal woman and a baby. Alexander and a black woman? And who was the baby?
Lisa’s reverie of shock and fascination was interrupted by the irritating bleep of Maxine punching numbers into her phone and shouting. ‘Hello? Emergency services? We need an ambulance. Fast.’
Chapter 36
Aunt Caroline had survived a restless night, but she’d stabilised, the nurse said. Everything was being done to keep her comfortable, she assured them.
‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ Maxine muttered as they followed the nurse down the gleaming corridor.
The old woman was as white as her pillow, her face chiselled, her hair flattened like seaweed. Her eyes blazed with unworldly intensity over the oxygen tubes in her nostrils. She smiled at the paper sheath of flowers Lisa was holding, but when she saw what they were, her mouth settled in a line.
‘I’m sorry,’ Lisa said. ‘I know you hate carnations, but it’s all they’ve got in the hospital shop. They smell nice.’
‘How are you?’ Maxine asked.
‘Terrible,’ the old woman rasped. ‘Some Greek woman across the hall was shouting all night.’
Maxine took the flowers away to find a vase.
‘So you’ve come to badger me,’ Aunt Caroline sighed.
‘Of course not.’
‘I suppose you were bound to find out sooner or later. This town’s full of snoops like that celebrant woman, Dorothy Whatchamacallit.’
Lisa took the old woman’s hand. It was waxy and cool. Aunt Caroline drifted off. Her lungs laboured to empty and fill themselves.
When Maxine returned with the vase of flowers, Aunt Caroline jolted awake. ‘Where was I? That’s right.’ She breathed in, focusing on a spot on the ceiling. ‘Your grandfather Alexander was a dashing young man. All the ladies loved him. Except his tastes were . . . how do you say . . . exotic . . .’
Aunt Caroline was drifting off again. Lisa raised a paper cup of water to her aunt’s cracked lips. The old woman gulped like someone who’d found an oasis in a desert.
When she’d finished drinking, she raised her hand, her nails glistening scarlet. ‘He became involved with a servant girl at the manor. Maggie, she was called. The silly fool went and got herself pregnant. Alexander wanted to marry her, but it simply wasn’t done.’ Aunt Caroline drew a ragged breath.
Lisa plumped her pillows to make her breathing more comfortable. ‘Look, you don’t have to tell us this,’ she said gently. ‘Just concentrate on getting better.’
The old woman snorted. ‘I’m ready to go over the border.’
Maxine and Lisa exchanged glances. ‘Shall I call the doctor?’ Maxine asked.
‘Keep that idiot away from me. He can go back to Pakistan.’ Lisa threw Maxine a look of horror.
‘Tell us what to do, Aunt Caroline,’ Maxine said in a soothing voice.
‘Shut up and listen,’ Aunt Caroline snapped. ‘The Trumperton family threw her out, of course. There was nothing else for it. I mean, it’s not as if those people had any understanding . . .’
Lisa cringed.
Aunt Caroline turned to gaze out the window. Boys were kicking a football around on a stretch of grass. Assuming the scandalous story was over, Lisa smoothed the hospital sheets.
But the old woman grabbed her hand and rallied. ‘The Trumpertons threw a society ball to take Alexander’s mind off things,’ she croaked. ‘They wanted to marry him off to a judge’s daughter. It was the biggest ball of the season. You can imagine what it was like. Horses and carriages trotting down that driveway. The ballroom full of beautiful gowns . . .’ The old woman’s lips settled in a faint smile. ‘The Trumpertons always thought themselves a cut above the rest,’ she continued. ‘Turned out the servant girl came from an important family, too. She was the daughter of some chief.’
‘You mean Elder?’ Maxine said.
‘That’s it. Anyway, when he found out what’d happened to his daughter he decided to visit the Trumpertons.’
Aunt Caroline’s legs thrashed under the sheet. Lisa stroked her forehead, trying to soothe her, but the old woman pushed her hand aside.
‘On the night of the ball, the Elder and his people assembled in the garden in front of t
he house. Maggie stood with them holding her baby. Old man Trumperton was highly embarrassed, of course. He shouted at them to go away.’
‘What did they do?’ Lisa asked.
‘They sang.’
‘Sang?’
‘It drove Alexander’s father mad. He set the dogs on them, but they didn’t run, so the dogs weren’t interested. All Castlemaine society was watching and laughing at him. The way he saw it he had no option but to . . .’ Aunt Caroline’s voice faded. Her eyes drooped.
Across the corridor, horses were galloping to the finish line on a television screen.
‘Do you think we should let her rest?’ Lisa asked Maxine.
The old woman’s eyes snapped open. ‘I’ll have time for that soon enough . . . Where was I? That’s right. Alexander’s father took his shotgun from the library. He marched Maggie’s father into the stables.’
‘My God!’ Maxine gasped.
‘A single shot, it was, through the temples.’
‘Our great grandfather was a murderer?’
‘They didn’t call it that in those days,’ Aunt Caroline said with a wave of her hand. ‘Not when those people were involved.’
Lisa and Maxine exchanged looks.
‘Surely there was retribution of some kind?’ Lisa asked.
‘The servants’ quarters went up in flames next day. Nobody was hurt.’
‘Was our great-grandfather arrested?’
‘He was never charged, but the scandal affected their business. They lost their money and left for New Zealand. That’s where Alexander met my mother, your grandmother Geraldine.’ Aunt Caroline slumped back against the pillows. The old woman’s eyes rolled back under half-closed lids.
‘So what happened to the baby?’ Lisa asked.
The ancient face turned to her. ‘Try asking those people in the house across the road from you,’ she whispered.
‘You mean Mrs Wright?’
Aunt Caroline nodded. ‘Shameful business. I tried to keep you away.’
‘You mean Mrs Wright was Maggie’s baby?’
‘No, not her,’ Aunt Caroline gasped. ‘There was a boy. A Trumperton from the wrong side of the doona.’
The old woman began to shudder violently. A jumble of sounds gurgled from the back of her throat.
‘She’s trying to say something,’ said Maxine.
‘What is it?’ Lisa asked, bending close to the withered lips.
‘Next time, bring champagne. Make sure it’s French.’
Aunt Caroline’s chest rattled. Life drained from her eyes.
Chapter 37
Kiwi fixed Lisa with a ruby eye as she wandered into the kitchen, Mojo coiling around her ankles. Lifting a muesli packet off the shelf, Lisa considered the unpredictability of life. Years could pass, sometimes decades, in a rut of routine. Changes were slow and subtle enough to be barely noticeable. Children grew slightly taller, facial lines a little deeper. It was easy to be lulled into a false sense of security, boredom even, and allow yourself to settle like oatmeal grains inside a muesli packet.
Then someone—or something—picks it all up and gives it a damn good shake. Seeds that were sitting at the bottom of the packet suddenly get thrust to the surface. Raisins collide with nuts. Oatmeal spills over the floor. People get divorced and change countries.
As she watched the muesli tumble into the bowl, her phone bleeped with a text from Maxine: ‘OMG! A.C. left a note @ retirement home demanding cardboard coffin.’
Maxine was in her element, organising the life out of their aunt’s funeral.
‘Was she an environmentalist?’ Lisa typed.
‘No. A cheapskate. Am upgrading to veneer.’
Portia glided into the kitchen, her hair gleaming like spun gold. ‘This new shampoo’s great, Mom. Where did you get it?’
‘Belle left it here.’
Portia opened the fridge and pulled out a plate of leftover lasagne. Lisa tensed—the child was actually going to eat! Excitement flattened to disappointment as Portia tore off a corner of pasta and fed it to Kiwi.
‘Can we go see the old people across the road?’
Lisa regretted sharing Aunt Caroline’s revelations about the murder with Portia the night before. Now Portia was bursting with curiosity.
Lisa hadn’t been near the Wrights’ house since the fire. Workmen’s vehicles had been parked outside the cottage for some weeks. The roar of chainsaws had gradually morphed into the buzz of saws and the tap of hammers. The old Holden was back in their driveway, but Lisa was nervous about rocking up.
‘I’m not sure they want to see us.’
Kiwi tugged another square of pasta from Portia’s hand.
‘Only one way to find out,’ Portia said.
It was unlike Portia to take interest in anyone outside her generation, so Lisa put on a sunhat and tossed another across the table. Portia inspected it briefly and cast it aside with a smirk. Cancer Council protection was painfully uncool.
Lisa maintained a slow jog to keep up with her daughter’s lolloping stride as they crossed the road. A magpie warbled at the top of the Wrights’ dirt drive, the bird’s black and white plumage contrasting with the flush of red flowers on the bottlebrush tree, a miraculous survivor of the fire.
One for sorrow . . . Lisa wasn’t superstitious, but it was impossible not to search for the second magpie. She couldn’t remember when her father had first recited it to her. No doubt Alexander had taught it to him the way she’d passed it on to her kids.
‘There it is!’ Portia cried, pointing out the magpie’s mate strutting through the undergrowth. ‘Two for joy.’
Lisa stopped looking for any more magpies. Three for a letter didn’t make sense. Unless you counted emails.
As they walked through the corridor of blackened tree trunks, Lisa was impressed by the vigorous new growth sprouting from branches. Clumps of green were springing to life on the ground. The Australian bush had much to teach human beings about resilience.
The Wrights’ cottage was freshly painted in an apricot shade with a green trim under the windows. A new corrugated iron roof glinted in the sun. Weeds and a few tufts of grass fought through scorched earth that had once been lawn. Lisa glanced around the side of the house. The concrete gnome was still chortling into his pipe under the birdbath, but the tip of his hat was missing. He must’ve lost it when she’d hurled him through the window.
Mrs Wright opened the front door. A floral apron encased her tiny, stooped body. White hair frothed around dark brown eyes that flickered with confusion. Lisa felt her cheeks redden. She felt like a little girl trick or treating at the wrong doorstep.
The old woman’s face suddenly softened and beamed with recognition. ‘Oh, it’s you!’ she said. ‘Come on in.’ Leaning on her walking stick she beckoned them up the steps.
Portia and Lisa followed her into the front hallway.
‘I can’t thank you enough,’ the old woman said, taking Lisa’s hand and gazing into her eyes.
It occurred to Lisa only old people and babies could light up spaces with smiles that were incandescent. Perhaps those living close to life’s extremities experience each moment with full awareness and intensity. Overcome with shyness, Lisa mumbled they must be going soon.
‘But you’re just in time for a cuppa,’ her neighbour insisted. ‘And please. Call me Aunty May.’
Lisa and Portia removed their shoes and trod reverently down the hall. The house smelt of fresh paint and lavender. Lisa glanced into the bedroom. Net curtains shifted in a breeze. A 1950s wedding photo presided over a candlewick bedspread. A battalion of pill bottles stood to attention on the dresser. Without the clutter of boxes and old junk it seemed almost stark.
In the kitchen at the end of the hall, Mr Wright sat hunched over a Formica table peering at the horseracing page of the Herald Sun through a magnifying glass.
‘This is the young lady who saved our lives,’ Aunty May shouted.
He raised himself to a semi-standing position and off
ered a hand wrinkled as brown paper. Lisa shook it and smiled into the oil pools of his eyes. He creaked back onto his chair and raised his magnifying glass.
‘Never mind him, he’s deaf,’ Aunty May said. ‘Do you like living here?’
‘I’ve had my ups and downs, but I love it.’
Aunty May hobbled to the sink and filled the kettle, while Portia admired photos of dark-haired children on the window ledge.
‘I hear we have a few things in common,’ Lisa said, clearing her throat.
‘What’s that, dear?’
‘Trumperton Manor.’
‘Oh, that.’ Aunty May sighed, easing herself onto a chair. ‘We were happy there, but the garden got too much for us and I couldn’t handle the stairs any more . . . .’ The old woman’s voice trailed off.
‘I know what happened,’ Lisa said, digging into her pocket and retrieving the pieces of locket.
‘My grandfather, Alexander,’ she said, offering her the photo.
The old woman nodded politely, as if someone was showing her a scarf they’d knitted. Lisa produced the second half of the locket.
‘Do you know who this is?’
Aunty May pointed at her glasses on top of the fridge. Portia reached for them and passed them over. As the old woman perched them on her nose and studied the photo of the woman and child, she lurched forward. She let out a cry so weak and cracked with emotion Lisa thought she might collapse.
Mr Wright glanced up at his wife and assessed the situation. ‘Women’s business,’ he lisped through stumps of yellow teeth. He raised the magnifying glass and resumed his interest in tomorrow’s race.
‘That’s my mother, Maggie,’ Aunty May said, after she’d regained composure.
‘Your mother?’ Lisa said.
The old woman took a handkerchief from the pocket of her apron and dabbed her eyes.
‘Then who’s the baby?’
The old woman removed her glasses and rested them on the table. ‘That’s my half-brother, George,’ she sighed. ‘A lovely boy. He died of TB when he was sixteen.’
Lisa struggled to absorb the connection between herself, this woman and her own daughter standing solemn and white as milk next to the refrigerator. Her brain felt limp as a sponge.
