Lyrebird Hill

by Anna Romer

  Magpie Creek Police have linked the car to a local man who was reported missing by his family in November 1986. Positive identification of the remains will necessarily await the results of forensic examinations and post-mortem.

  I sat back and stared at the screen until my eyes blurred. Maybe I was clutching at straws, but I couldn’t help wondering. Had Tony known the missing man, been close to him? Had the man been a one-time friend, a relative? Someone whose death had mattered enough for Tony to walk out on his wife with barely a word and travel 1600 kilometres into a past he’d so obviously put behind him?

  In 1986, Tony would have been fourteen. His father, then? Reported missing by his family; by Tony’s family. A family that Tony had – in the twelve years I’d known him – steadfastly refused to acknowledge. Shutting my eyes, I tried to restrain my rampaging thoughts. It was unlikely, probably just coincidence. Probably nothing more than connections made by a brain fuelled with exhaustion and grief.

  Logging off, I went out to the kitchen and looked in the fridge. It was crammed with food, but my hand reached robotically for a Crown Lager. The beer was icy, deliciously wet on my grief-tightened throat. While I drank, I stared at the black square of window. In it I saw the woman the past five years had caused me to become: hollow-eyed and gaunt, with shadows beneath the pallid skin where there should have been a healthy flush. I would be thirty this year, but my face wore the grey resignation of someone much older.

  I rubbed my palms over my cheeks, then smoothed my hair. It had escaped the neat ponytail I’d forced it into for the funeral, and reverted into a shaggy seventies-style bob. I recalled Carol’s restrained elegance, and grimaced at the small, boyish person reflected in the window. The pinched little face stared sullenly back at me, silently accusing: You see why he left? You see why he wanted her and not you?

  Turning from the window, I went along the hall to Bronwyn’s room and knocked lightly. There was no response, so I cracked open the door. Her lamp was on. She’d fallen asleep on top of the bedcovers – her fair hair fanned over the pillow, her face was blotchy from crying. She was wearing the pyjamas her father had given her a year ago, too tight now, and faded from overuse.

  ‘Bronny?’ I whispered, stroking her hair. ‘Let’s get you under the covers, sweetheart.’

  Up until six months ago, she’d seen Tony every Sunday without fail. Just as the church bells began to chime across the waking city, Tony would pull his dazzling black Porsche into the driveway, honking the horn as Bronwyn ran down the path to greet him. Meanwhile, I lurked in the front room, my lips pinched tight, spying on them through the shutters. Six or seven hours later I’d hear the familiar honking, and Bronwyn would rush in brimming with news of what a fabulous time they’d had, cooing over the presents he’d bought her, eyes aglow and cheeks flushed pink with joy.

  Then, six months ago, the visits ground to a halt.

  Tony stopped showing up for their Sunday outings. He forgot to ring, sending expensive gifts in lieu of a visit. Without explanation, he disengaged himself from her life. I watched helplessly as the sorrow grew in her like a sickness, turning my bright little girl into a forlorn shadow-faced creature who moped around the house as though, rather than living in it, she was haunting it.

  Bronwyn sighed and rolled over. Tucking the blanket around her, I laid a whisper of a kiss on her brow. She smelled of honey and chocolate, of fresh washed laundry and lemon shampoo. Safe, familiar smells. I was about to tiptoe out when I caught sight of a photo propped against her night lamp. I hadn’t seen it for years, and it brought back the past with a pang of sadness.

  Tony sat on a low concrete wall, the National Gallery’s water-curtain doors in the background. His eyes glinted behind his glasses and he was smiling his famous heart-stopping smile. He wasn’t traditionally handsome – his face was too bony, his nose too large, his teeth a fraction crooked – but he had a compelling quality, an intensity that was both guarded and beguiling.

  I switched off the bedside lamp and took the photo out to the kitchen, leaning it against a jar of peanuts on the bench so I could study it in full light. It felt good to look at his face, to pretend he was still out there somewhere, moving through life, perhaps taking a moment to gaze up at the stars and think of me.

  It almost worked.

  Then I remembered the coffin. The boggy slope, the yawning grave beneath the elm. By now the cemetery would be dark, its poplars and cypresses sagging beneath the weight of rain, the sky raked by fingers of lightning.

  Though I hadn’t seen Tony for months, suddenly I missed him unbearably. With him, I’d been different – strong, capable. I’d laughed more, worried less, opened up and found pleasure in unexpected places. When he left I pulled back into my shell – escaping into my work, neglecting my friends, desperate to lose myself. Tormented by the knowledge that the man I loved no longer loved me.

  The only light in that dark time had been Bronwyn. Despite her own confusion over Tony’s leaving, she’d been a chirpy little girl, seemingly wise beyond her six years. I’d thrown myself into mothering her, and been rewarded by moments of closeness we’d rarely shared before. Even as a baby, Bronwyn had gravitated to her father – she was the tiny moon that orbited Planet Tony, worshipful and constant. She’d run to me for scraped knees, for a bandaid and a pat . . . but afterwards she’d always hobble off to Tony, knowing he was the only one able to kiss away her pain, calm her vexation, tease a laugh from her baby lips.

  But then, after Tony left, we connected. Bronwyn would giggle madly and fling her arms around my waist, insisting that I was the prettiest, the best, the nicest mummy in the whole entire world . . . and those moments had saved me.

  I sighed. ‘Dammit, Tony. Why did you have to go and die?’

  I’d met him at art school. At seventeen I’d been critically shy, but determined to establish myself as a photographer. I’d grown up with my Aunt Morag, and after she died I’d found a Box Brownie camera in her belongings. I quickly became obsessed, and when I realised there were people who made a living by taking pictures, I was determined to count myself among them. Not knowing where else to start, I enrolled at the Victorian College of the Arts.

  Tony was in the painting department, and a few years ahead of me. He was talented, mysterious, popular, funny . . . yet oddly – and enticingly – vulnerable. We’d been rubbing shoulders at the local watering hole for nearly six months before I drummed up the courage to speak to him. To my baffled delight we hooked up quickly. Within a year I was pregnant. I deferred my studies, unable to think of anything but Tony and the baby. As our child grew within me, so did my confidence. Tony loved me, and the world was a happy place to be. Commissions for photographic work trickled in, and for the first time in my life I felt as though I belonged somewhere – truly belonged.

  Tony’s success came swiftly. He began selling his paintings through a top-notch gallery, building a name for himself, working harder than ever. He got invited to the Venice Biennale, a career highlight for him at the time, and also a memorable milestone in our life together. Bronwyn was born soon after his return, and it seemed that life couldn’t get any better. It was so dreamily good, so fairytale perfect, that it made me nervous. That was when the decay set in. Slowly, so slowly at first that I barely noticed.

  Tony began spending more time away. He was working at the studio, he said, preparing for a big group show at the National Gallery. Over the next few years a pattern developed. The more Tony withdrew into his career, the tighter I clung to him . . . and the tighter I clung, the further he withdrew.

  I chewed my fingernails to the quick, spent nights prowling the house, unable to sleep. My photos became dark and somehow disturbed: hollow-eyed children; solitary old people feeding pigeons or gazing out to sea. Bare trees, derelict buildings, empty playgrounds. Fear nibbled at my happiness, creating holes I could find no way to fill. On the surface, life went on as usual. We took Bronwyn to the beach, or for long country drives; we helped organise school concer
ts, attended ballet then netball like the doting parents we were . . . But privately, we were both wretched.

  We argued all the time. Money became an issue. We stopped making love. So when Tony started coming home later and later – and then not at all – I knew the end was near.

  How wrong I was. Unknown to me, the end had already been and gone.

  The phone shrilled on the kitchen bench, jolting me from my thoughts. I allowed it to ring, waiting for the answering machine to splutter awake. An entire evening of wallowing lay ahead and I intended to make the most of it. But then, at the last minute, I panicked and made a lunge for the handset.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Ms Kepler, it’s Margot Fraser here, Tony’s lawyer. Sorry to call so late in the day, but there’s a pressing matter I need to discuss with you. Are you free tomorrow?’

  I stiffened. Tony’s lawyer? My mind began to scramble, stirring up a muddy froth of guilt and alarm. My long-dormant survival instinct bubbled forth. Say anything, it warned; blurt any excuse to buy more time.

  ‘Tomorrow’s Saturday,’ I informed her lamely.

  ‘It’s regarding Tony’s will,’ the woman explained, ‘and rather urgent. I’ll be in the office tomorrow until four o’clock, but I can drop by your house if that’s more convenient?’

  Fear laced through my stomach and tied itself in a knot. The last thing I wanted was anyone on official business coming here. Crazily, I had the urge to tell her about the spare room – all the boxes of books I’d stored there, Bronwyn’s old bike and the piles of untouched sewing that had been gathering dust for years. Surely she wasn’t going to insist we vacate the house immediately?

  ‘Ms Kepler, are you there?’

  ‘Yes, tomorrow will be fine. I’ll pop into the office.’

  She gave me the address, then said, ‘Sometime after lunch, let’s say two o’clock? It won’t take long, but if you’ve got any questions it’ll give us time to be thorough.’

  ‘Great,’ I said hurriedly, ever the chicken-hearted. ‘See you then.’

  ‘Here’s one.’

  Saturday morning, the kitchen smelled of toast and fresh coffee. Rain bucketed down outside. The windows were fogged, cutting us off from the rest of the world. Usually I loved hearing rain hammer the roof and hiss along the guttering. Today the sound was unsettling, a reminder that the secure little world we’d created here was about to end.

  Bronwyn elbowed me, tapping her finger on the rental section of the newspaper she’d spread across the table in front of her. ‘What do you think?’

  I blinked at the sea of print. Sleep had foxed me again last night, luring me to the brink of much-needed unconsciousness, only to skitter away the moment I began to drift. I kept seeing Tony’s grave, surrounded by sodden flowers and fast filling with water . . . and I kept hearing Carol’s fretful words: ‘Why would he do that, Audrey. Why – ?’

  I took a gulp of coffee. ‘How much?’

  Bronwyn made an approving sound. ‘Three-ninety a week. Second bathroom. Looks nice.’

  The coffee burned my throat and I let out a weak little cough. A second bathroom was all very well, but three-ninety? Our rambling old house had its drawbacks, but it was rent-free. Tony had never paid child support; I’d refused him that satisfaction. Instead, I’d agreed to stay on at the old house after he moved in with Carol. In the five years that Bronwyn and I had lived here alone, I’d saved a substantial nest egg that would go towards buying a home of our own one day. All I needed was a few more years . . .

  ‘Is there anything cheaper?’

  ‘That’s about the cheapest, Mum. Unless we cram into a bedsit.’

  I rubbed my eyes, seeing my nest egg swiftly sucked into the vortex of someone else’s mortgage. ‘Maybe there’ll be something in tomorrow’s paper.’

  ‘Tomorrow’s Sunday.’ Bronwyn’s finger moved expertly down the page as she continued to scan. ‘They don’t do real estate on a Sunday.’

  I gazed at her, wondering how an eleven-year-old knew these things. Wondering how she managed to stay so calm, while my stomach was twisting itself into knots. I checked the clock above the fridge. Only a few more hours of torture to go. The muscles in the back of my head were as tight as rubber bands. I rolled my shoulders to ease the strain, then tried to focus on my daughter’s finger as it snailed through the maze of potential new homes.

  The finger stopped abruptly. Bronwyn peered into my face. ‘You keep checking the clock. Are we going somewhere?’

  ‘Your father’s lawyer wants to see me this afternoon. It won’t take long. I’ll drop you at netball and be back in plenty of time to pick you up.’

  Bronwyn’s eyes widened. ‘He’s left us something?’

  I shrugged, not wanting to get her hopes up. ‘Carol might’ve changed her mind about the twenty-eight days. She could want us out of the house sooner.’

  ‘I’m coming with you.’

  I hesitated. The Sundays Bronwyn had once spent with her father were now passed in her bedroom – the door locked while she pored over photos of the two of them, shuffling through her mementoes, refusing to eat anything until early evening when she’d re-emerge red-eyed and solemn as a priestess. She’d been grieving for him long before his death, I realised.

  ‘Please, Mum?’ She gazed up at me, her eyes blue as springwater.

  ‘It’ll be boring.’

  ‘Please?’

  I sighed. Carol had hinted that Bronwyn would be well provided for. Whatever Tony had left her, it wasn’t going to repair the damage he’d done by withdrawing from her life. On the other hand, it might offer a welcome reassurance. I prayed that he’d left her something wonderful, so she’d know he really had cared.

  ‘All right,’ I conceded. ‘Just don’t get your hopes up.’

  ‘Magpie Creek?’

  My heart kicked over. Tony had died there, and I knew with a sudden pinch of apprehension that the little town must have meant more to him than a random port of call. I remembered the Courier-Mail article about the man’s remains found in the dam . . . and wondered if I’d dismissed the connection too hastily.

  I cleared my dry throat. ‘That’s in Queensland, isn’t it?’

  The woman sitting behind the vast oak desk – Margot – smiled warmly. ‘It’s an hour or so south-west of Brisbane. Quite pretty, I’m told. Mostly farmland, but it boasts spectacular volcanic remnants that draw a lot of tourist interest. The town is small, but there’s a thriving art community and several award-winning cafes, as well as the usual amenities.’

  Bronwyn sat on a leather chair beside me, perched forward, gazing raptly into the lawyer’s face. She looked older than her eleven years: maybe it was the dark blue dress and smart black sandals she’d insisted on wearing. Then again, perhaps it was simply that she’d brightened on hearing the news of her father’s bequest. A considerable trust fund accessible when she turned twenty-one, and a huge delicate watercolour of a robin that she’d long admired.

  Most astonishing was what Tony had left for me.

  ‘A house,’ I marvelled, shifting awkwardly. I couldn’t help wondering if there was a catch. ‘What about Tony’s wife?’

  Margot nodded. ‘Carol is satisfied with Tony’s decision; she’s informed us that she won’t be contesting the will. Now . . . Tony left keys in security with our office. The probate process should take about a month, after which time the keys and all documentation will pass into your hands. In the meantime, perhaps you’d like to hear a little more about the property?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Margot opened a folder. ‘Thornwood originally belonged to Tony’s grandfather, but I expect you already know that?’

  I shook my head. ‘This is the first I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘Well, you’re in for a treat,’ she said, drawing out a large colour photo and placing it on the desk before us. ‘That’s the homestead – gorgeous, isn’t it? It was built in 1936, a classic old Queenslander with four bedrooms. It’s fully furnished – I’m assuming Tony
decided to keep the place intact for sentimental reasons. There’s a vegie garden, orchard, creek access . . . Also, hidden up in the hills surrounding the property, there’s a small dwelling that was probably the original settlers’ cabin, most likely built sometime in the late 1800s.’

  The photo showed a magnificent residence skirted by a shady wraparound verandah. Stained-glass panels curved out from twin bay windows, and iron lacework festooned the eaves. The garden surrounding it was a maze of hydrangeas and lavender hedges, with a brick path meandering up the grassy slope towards wide welcoming stairs. Dappled sunlight danced across the lawn, where a magnificent old rose arbour sat smothered in crimson blooms.

  ‘The house itself is quite a feature,’ Margot went on, ‘but as with any property, the true value is in the land. The total land size is 2500 acres – that’s just over a thousand hectares. The property adjoins two other large farms, but most of it backs onto the Gower National Park. You have 200 acres of grazing pasture, with rich dark soil, dams, fencing, a permanent creek . . . and according to the report, the views are stunning.’

  Bronwyn sighed. ‘Mum, it’s perfect.’

  ‘We’re not going to live there,’ I said hastily.

  ‘But Mum –’

  ‘We’ll sell it and buy a place of our own here in Melbourne.’

  Bronwyn gave me a mournful look, but I ignored her and resumed my inspection of the photo. After Tony’s death I’d vowed to forget him . . . for Bronwyn’s sake as well as my own; how could I do that if we were living in his grandfather’s house? The old homestead looked huge and rambling and mysterious. Probably full of secrets, riddled with ghosts, haunted by other people’s memories.

  Tony’s memories.

  Margot drew out another photo: an aerial view that showed the property as heart-shaped and densely forested. A section of cleared grazing land rolled along the southernmost quarter, a verdant patchwork stitched with fences and dotted with brown dams. Central to the photo was the homestead – a rectangular patch of iron roof, surrounded by sprawling gardens that rambled uphill and vanished into bushland. A ridge of hills swept to the north-west, mostly heavily treed, but there were curiously bald areas where stone formations pushed through the rust-red earth.