Lyrebird Hill

by Anna Romer

  I shifted on my rock, picking my scabby knee. Mum thought she knew everything, but how could she? Life looked wonky through the bottom of a wine bottle. I knew because I’d checked. One day I’d held up one of Mum’s empties and looked through it like a telescope. I’d seen a wibbly-wobbly world where objects sprang about. Near, then far . . . then near again. Interesting for a while, but then I’d gone a bit giddy and some wine had dribbled into my eye and made it sting.

  I glanced at the clothesline, at the nighty flapping gently in the breeze. When I was with the Wolf, the world didn’t spring about and make me giddy. It seemed bright and stable, a happy place. I never stuttered or mumbled or did stupid things when I was with the Wolf. I stood taller, felt somehow prettier, smarter. Able to do things I usually fumbled.

  ‘Ruby, I need you here. Now!’

  I stood up, brushing leaves off my jeans. Going around the bottlebrush hedge, I dragged my feet back to the house.

  Mum was standing near the chook shed. My heart dropped. She was holding one of our hens upside down by the legs. Its body was as limp as a rag, brown feathers littering the ground. It was only when I got nearer that I saw the snowy tuft of tail feathers.

  ‘Esmeralda!’ I cried, running towards my mother, but I was too late. Mum was already positioning the little body across the chopping stump. She looked up and saw me.

  ‘Get me the wood-handled cleaver, will you, Ruby? This one’s blunt.’

  I couldn’t move. My arms went limp.

  Mum looked at me and heaved out a sigh. ‘Oh, Ruby, how many times have I warned you about getting attached to the chooks? Silly girl, you shouldn’t have named them all. They’re not pets, they’re here to provide eggs and meat. And this one’s stopped laying. Now fetch the cleaver before she goes cold.’

  My eyes began to sting. Esmeralda hadn’t been a pet . . . she’d been my friend. She’d followed me around the yard, pecking after my feet or letting me pick her up and cuddle her, all the while chattering in her special soft language.

  ‘Don’t just stand there gaping. Get the cleaver and stop this rot.’

  I gulped back tears. What would the Wolf do? Certainly not break down and blubber like a baby. He’d let out a bloodcurdling growl and spring at my mother, ripping her body in half like a ragdoll and spilling her guts all over the place, maybe even chop off her head and legs with the cleaver, then hang her up on the fence to bleed – just as she was planning to do with Esmeralda.

  ‘Bitch,’ I muttered.

  Mum flinched. ‘What did you call me?’

  ‘Bitch,’ I said again. I thought of the Wolf and yelled, ‘A horrible old bitch!’ Then, before Mum had a chance to react, I turned and ran.

  It took me twenty minutes to reach the old shearing sheds. They’d been abandoned nearly a hundred years ago, and had been overrun with tea-tree and cassinia, and tall silvery grasses that pushed through the derelict sheep ramps. Their iron sidings were buckled and eaten by rust, the paddocks surrounding them shaded with black-trunked ironbarks and red gums.

  The Wolf was waiting by the shed.

  ‘You’re early, Roo . . . Hey, what’s up?’

  Normally I’d have felt a twinge of disappointment to find a boy where there should have been a dangerous beast – but today I was glad.

  The Wolf took my hand and dragged me into the shade, his gaze serious, his eyes full of questions as he searched my face. I couldn’t speak at first, due to the lump in my throat. As we leaned against the shed’s corrugated siding, I bit my lips and tried not to cry.

  ‘Mum killed Esmeralda.’

  ‘Oh, Roo.’

  I slid down shed wall and sat on the ground. The Wolf flopped beside me. ‘What a blow,’ he said softly.

  ‘I hate her.’

  The Wolf’s face was pale beneath its splash of freckles. His dark hair stood on end. He looked fierce, much fiercer than a boy of twelve had any right to look.

  ‘Poor old Kangaroo,’ he said in a half-whisper, taking my hand. His fingers were calloused, warm. The way they curled carefully around mine made me feel a microscopic bit better.

  I leaned against him.

  We’d only known each other for a while, six months at the most. The Wolf had lived in Newcastle before coming to Clearwater, and was being fostered at Mrs Drake’s house, but I felt as if I’d known him forever.

  I shut my eyes.

  Dear Esmeralda with her quick black eyes and excited chatter. From the time she’d been a tiny fluffy chick, I’d tickled her and talked to her and saved her the best scraps from the kitchen. In return, she’d laid a perfect brown egg most mornings for my breakfast. Only lately she hadn’t laid many, which was why Mum had given her the chop.

  ‘I’ll ask Mrs Drake if you can have dinner with us tonight,’ the Wolf said.

  I blinked away my tears and looked at him. He was oddly formal sometimes, the way he called his foster mother ‘Mrs Drake’. Doreen Drake was another casualty of my mother’s dislike list, which was probably what made me decide to accept the Wolf’s invitation. That, and the horror of what was being served at my own dinner table that night.

  ‘Will she mind?’

  The Wolf shrugged. ‘Nah. She’s glad of the company now that Bobby’s at uni. Come on, Roo. It’ll be fun.’

  ‘Well . . . okay.’ Then an idea came to me, and it made me feel another microscopic bit better. ‘Do you think it’s too late to visit Granny H?’

  The Wolf narrowed his eyes. ‘We were only there yesterday.’

  ‘She said her door’s always open.’

  The Wolf let out a growl of pleasure and sprang to his feet, flashing a toothy smile. He pulled me to my feet, and suddenly I was smiling, too.

  Running towards the trees, we took the uphill trail. Ten minutes later Granny H’s cottage came into view. Wild jasmine spilled along the verandah, and her door gaped wide. The smell of freshly baked scones sweetened the air. And there was Granny H, her silhouette shifting in the doorway, as if she’d been expecting us. Dusting her hands on her apron, she lifted her arm to beckon us in.

  ‘Hey, Ruby.’

  Pete’s voice snapped me back to the present. My eyes refocused. I blinked at the chopping block with its scarred surface and smudges of blood.

  The Wolf, I marvelled.

  Remembering him was dreamlike, as if he were nothing more substantial than one of the imaginary friends who had germinated out of my childhood loneliness. As a kid, I’d clutched at anything to fill the void left by my father’s death, and by my mother’s withdrawal into grief. Jamie got caught up with her friends at school, but I wasn’t outgoing like she was. Hence my inclination to invent friends of my own.

  But the Wolf was no invention.

  Shutting my eyes, I tried to summon him. He’d been my height, a wiry boy with a starved look about him. Freckles, pale city skin, dark hair . . . and something else. Vague images gathered like wisps of cloud, then broke apart. Tall trees silvered by moonlight, and a ridge of boulders crowded at the base by shadows . . . and deep in the darkness, a creature lurked, stealthy and unseen as it prepared to pounce—

  ‘Ruby, I don’t suppose you’re hungry?’

  Following the aroma of frying bacon, I found Pete in a small cleared area surrounded by a grove of photinia shrubs. These red-tipped trees were not native to Australia, but I recalled they had fire-retardant qualities. Appropriate, because at the centre of the grove was a wild-looking barbecue constructed from a 44-gallon drum. The drum must have been filled with earth or rocks because the fire burned just below its upper rim. Pete had positioned a blackened grate over the fire, on which sat an enormous cast-iron frypan. I glimpsed a scrummy-looking fry-up: crispy bacon rashers, scrambled eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms and wedges of sizzling potato.

  Settling onto a log seat near the fire, I accepted the tea Pete handed me. He had ducked back to his cottage while I was in the bath, and now wore a snug-fitting T-shirt that revealed a strong-looking chest and muscular arms. Taking the bench opposite,
he sipped his tea, regarding me over the rim of his cup.

  After a while, he said, ‘Can I ask you something about your amnesia?’

  I shifted awkwardly on the bench. ‘Sure.’

  ‘How much time did you lose?’

  ‘About a year.’

  Scratching his beard, he fixed me with his blue gaze. ‘I guess that makes sense. I was only here for six months or so.’

  He’d obviously been mulling over why I didn’t remember him, which struck me as odd; even without the amnesia component, recalling every classmate from eighteen years ago might prove a stretch for most people. Which made me wonder if there was more to our story.

  ‘Were we friends?’ I asked.

  He looked at his hands, and when he lifted his eyes again, they had turned dark. He nodded, and said huskily, ‘Yeah. We were.’

  Standing abruptly, he went over to the barbecue and served up. As he passed me a plate of bacon, tomatoes, fried potato and fluffy scrambled eggs, he seemed thoughtful.

  ‘You said Esther was going to help you remember?’ he said, resuming his seat opposite.

  I slumped a moment, regretting those weeks I’d wasted after Mum’s opening. If I had visited Esther sooner, instead of running scared, I might have learned something. About Jamie. About the day she died. And possibly even something about myself.

  I tried to smile. ‘Esther told me she had fond memories of my sister and me as kids. She thought her reminiscences might help jog the bits I’d forgotten. Of course, I put off coming to see her, and now it’s too late . . . I guess I was scared.’

  I glanced at Pete through my lashes, expecting him to question this, but he only nodded, his gaze intent on my face.

  ‘Your sister’s death must have been really traumatic for you,’ he gently observed. ‘Anyone would be scared of facing that. You don’t want to remember everything in a rush, it would probably do your head in. Best to let the memories come naturally, not force them. Maybe being here will help,’ he added, almost to himself.

  Picking up my fork, I dug into the eggs, feeling better because of what he’d just said. His comment about not forcing my memories resonated with me; it made me relax a little, and recognise that my trip here hadn’t been too far off the mark, after all. I found myself sneaking another look at him from behind the curtain of my hair.

  The image of a boy with a square freckled face and ragged black hair and blue eyes nudged ever so gently against my awareness.

  Once, as kids, we’d been friends.

  All of a sudden, I understood why.

  That night I stood in the darkness of the house, letting the silence wash around me. Shadows seemed to draw apart to make way for me, the floor and walls and ceiling shifting and opening as if in welcome. The onslaught of sensations I had experienced earlier in the day was gentler now. The echoing voices dimmed, the dusty aromas were barely there – Mum’s grass-flavoured tea, her blackberry muffins and sour cream, and underneath it all, as if seeping from the rafters and walls, was the faint, haunting tang of apples.

  I switched on the lights and walked through the house, admiring Esther’s stylish touch. Leather lounge chairs were softened with crocheted cushions and throw rugs; colourful paintings decorated the walls and vibrant Turkish rugs warmed the floors.

  And books.

  Everywhere were bookshelves, crammed with row after row of wonderful old books.

  Running my finger along the spines, I hoped to see a title that I recognised as once belonging to me, but none rang any bells. Again I wondered if the book Esther had mentioned was Jamie’s diary; my sister had kept a diary for years, full of notes about what flowers appeared in spring, when we had rain, and little stories about the birds and lizards in the garden. As she got older, she had hidden her diaries away. Perhaps Esther had discovered one of these later journals secreted in the back of an old wardrobe?

  I searched for a while, but there was no sign of any diary, so I collected my overnight bag from the hall and went along to my old room.

  Esther’s flair for decor was evident here, too. A narrow bed sat near the window, over which was spread a colourful patchwork quilt. There was an art deco wardrobe and a wooden chair serving as a bedside, and a bright rug on the floor; it was a cheery room, and I felt instantly at home.

  I found fresh sheets in the linen cupboard in the hallway, and made up my bed. Stripping down to my underwear, I climbed in.

  Sleep didn’t come straight away.

  My brain was in overdrive. Every time I shut my eyes, a different image would accost me. One of Mum’s paintings. Or a dog-eared report of the investigation into Jamie’s death. Or the memory of my mum with the scissors in the kitchen that wintry day. Then Rob would somehow appear, his handsome face flushed pink from the exertion of his betrayal; Rob, the one person who had kept me anchored, had now cast me adrift on a sea of lies.

  I punched my pillow, then lay back. I felt off kilter, as if the protective armour I’d built around myself had broken open, leaving me exposed. I no longer recognised myself, and I sensed that the only way to be whole again was to find my way back to the truth.

  In the dark I unzipped my overnight bag and took out the Polaroid of Jamie. Propping it on the bedside, I studied it in the moonlight. She seemed sad.

  ‘What happened that day?’ I asked quietly. ‘Did we argue, did I push you against the rocks and hurt you?’

  No answer came back, of course. No voice from within, no glimmer of memory. Slumping back onto the bed, I gazed through the window into the garden beyond.

  Silver moonlight drenched the hillside. The old walnut tree was still and shadowlike. Its trunk glowed ivory, its leaves hung motionless; it might have been a dark version of Mum’s painting.

  Just before I drifted off, I wondered if Mum’s tin was still buried beneath it.

  The following morning I had a brisk wash in the outdoor bathroom, and pulled on soft jeans and a cardigan over my singlet top.

  Taking a pot of tea to the verandah, I sat in a patch of dappled sunlight and listened to Pete clatter about as he attended to his ute’s broken wishbone. The weathered decking felt smooth and cool beneath my bare feet, and my tea was hot and strong. The morning had all the ingredients of a total bliss-out – except for the bruised feeling around my heart that, despite my resolve not to think about Rob, still persisted. I realised I was beginning to dread my return to civilisation; the possibility of running into him gave me butterflies.

  Pete was hoping to have the ute working the next day; he had some seedling deliveries to make to a nursery in Armidale and had offered to help me organise a tow truck for my car. It was also a good opportunity to visit Mum.

  Whatever you do, I cautioned myself, don’t mention Jamie.

  I stared down the slope, feeling suddenly grim; if not Jamie, then what else did Mum and I have to talk about?

  My gaze lingered on the walnut tree. The sun had risen over the hill, stitching a lacework of gold on the grassy slope beneath. Again, I thought of Mum digging under the winter-bare tree, her face wet with tears. Why would she bury an old tin? I’d gone in search of a spade the day before to see if it was still there, but Pete’s arrival had side-tracked me. Now seemed the perfect time to get back to it.

  I got up and skirted the house, making my way around to the barn. Pete’s battered ute sat in front of the open doorway, speckled with shade. A pair of jeans-clad legs poked out from underneath it, and Old Boy sat nearby, chewing fleas out of his tail. Bardo had flopped in the doorway, and as I hurried past, her tail lifted and thumped the ground, as if in greeting.

  At the back of the barn among Esther’s tools, I found a spade. Carrying it back down the hill to the walnut tree, I began to dig. The soil was ropy with roots, a nightmare to excavate. Sweat soon prickled my ribcage, and I had almost convinced my myself I was chasing a wild goose – when the spade struck something oddly yielding.

  Clearing the loose earth, I crouched to examine what I’d found. A mouldy tarpaulin. My hopes de
flated, and I almost filled the hole back in. Only the memory of my mother’s tears made me reach down and lift a half-rotten corner. The inner layers of burlap were black with mould, riddled with cockroaches and worms. When the sunlight hit them, they detonated in all directions, black fragments of insect-shrapnel dissolving back into the earth.

  Inside the rotted material was a large rectangular tin.

  It was an old Arnott’s biscuit tin, with a rosella on the lid. When I shook it, something slithered inside. Re-burying the tarpaulin, I filled the hole and carried the tin back to my spot on the verandah, bursting to know what it contained.

  A bundle of letters, tied with black ribbon.

  They were only slightly damaged by damp; the envelopes rippled where moisture had infiltrated the tin and absorbed into the thick paper, but they had somehow escaped the ravages of mould and were, for the most part, in good condition. Something of a miracle, considering they were dated between 1898 and 1899.

  There were about thirty envelopes. One stood out from the others, so I started with that. It was addressed to Master James Whitby, at Brayer House, via Wynyard, Tasmania. It caught my eye because James Whitby had been my grandfather. He died when I was six, the same year I lost my father. My memories of Grampy James were fleeting: he’d been confined to bed when I’d known him, a thin man with a sallow face and a soft, almost whispery voice.

  I took out four pages. Each page was decorated with wide margins of exquisite watercolour drawings – gum nuts and seedpods, blue daisies and bright crimson-capped mushrooms, birds and spiders and butterflies. In among the botanical studies danced tiny figures with wings: imps and fairies, a lizard in a bowler hat, and a beautiful lyrebird inside a cage, its long tail feathers sweeping through the bars. As I shuffled through the pages, the luminous images came alive in the sunlight.

  Going back to the first page, I scanned the beautiful copperplate handwriting, an artwork in itself, its swirling script tugging my eye across the page. But as I began to read, my pleasure turned to puzzlement.