by R. L. Holmes
‘Were you thinking about all of us going or just me and you?’ Mum asks.
‘Well, the kids are pretty settled where they are, aren’t they. My parents are enjoying them being around and I’m sure Saracen is fine here.’ He leans forward and cringes at the sight of my mother’s lumpy face. ‘How long will you have those for?’
‘They’re actually better than they were.’ She feels overwhelmed by her ugliness. He looks handsome, tanned, strong and excited about another adventure. She feels like a captive in her own skin.
¥
He stays a week. Gran lends him some money to disappear, a one way ticket to Kalgoorlie. Mum doesn’t know. They had a quiet conversation out of the ear-shot of Tanny. They made a deal. Gran would give him money, if he let Tanny get on with her life. He agreed.
So at 5.30am on a cold, windy June morning, my father escaped again, without the responsibility of a family, without the commitment of a relationship and without saying goodbye.
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July 1999: Saracen
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After dad left, Tanny fled up north to stay with my brother and sister for a while. She had for a few days, religiously treated her facial lumps externally with calendula, chickweed and plantain and drank the juice of cleavers to clear her lymphatic system. Most cleaver plants, this time of the year are dried up, brown sticky messes, but Gran knew of a special batch that grows behind our pittosporum, on the other side of the fence. This batch is a never fail, reliable mass of succulent greenery that Gran uses all year round.
It’s winter now and the house feels cold and empty. Brambles has gone - buried in her favourite sleeping spot under the camellia’s, where a miniature soft pink rose has been planted in her honour; Seth sadly disintegrated into the earth; Tanny is doing her duty of child visiting and uncouth loud-mouth Potts had moved on from Mrs Rennie.
Well, only temporarily. Nothing seems to tear those two apart for long. She strolls up our drive with a fag hanging out of her mouth, arms open wide and bellowing, ‘Did ya miss me?’
I have to say, that I didn’t miss her at all and if Seth was still here, he certainly wouldn’t miss the cigarette smoke drifting over the fence upsetting the tomatoes.
The local dairy, that Rachel’s family owned has been sold to a baker, who set up a commercial kitchen and is selling freshly baked breads, cookies and slices. Rachel the black-eyed scowler, left boarding school and is training up as an apprentice beauty therapist. I laughed in contempt when I heard Moley telling Gran, with his little finger in the air as he counted the money. To me Rachel as a beauty therapist was as ridiculous as Moley being a ballet dancer.
The murder still remains unsolved. The words aphids on roses, disturbs me. Those words invade my thoughts often. I often wonder if it is Moley, he seems to be the only possible solution to aphid infested roses. The problem is, he seems to have absolutely no violence, or aggression throughout his entire body. Yes, he is a busy-body, nosy gossip. But a murderer? Highly unlikely. And why would he want to kill them anyway?
The daily newspaper keeps raising the subject every so often, just so we don’t forget this horrific crime. Just so we don’t forget how ineffective our police force has been. Rumours continue to circulate that the police keep hitting brick walls, that the only true suspect they had was Geoff and he’s gone. Every time we catch a whiff of someone being brought in for questioning, we with all our hearts hope that this time they will announce someone being charged with the murder. But still there is no one. And still these words, aphids on roses circulate in my pestering mind.
When I have a spare quiet moment, I let my mind go back to the day my hand blistered and burnt from touching Seth. I can see Geoff there on this warm September day, watching, eyes glued not on Daniel and Maria as I first thought, but on someone on the other side of the river. Who was it?
After helping Gran pour hot, sweet feijoa chutney into their glass jars, and prepared some tamerillos for stewing my eyes inadvertently land on the Encyclopaedia of Roses. ‘Do you think we missed something?’ I ask.
Gran raises her eyebrows.
‘Aphids on roses,’ I say nodding towards the large colourful book covered in smiling pink blooms.
‘Maybe,’ she says wiping the spill of feijoa off the bench. ‘I’m curious to find out about the red rose out the back. The one you call the Garden Witch. It’s pretty old that rose. I wouldn’t mind putting a name to it.’ She brushes her sticky hands onto her apron and wanders over to the bookshelf.
She’s finding strength return in her wounded arm and with it, her warmth of touch and patience. The old Gran I loved so much is back; back to giving me undivided attention and nourishment. The arm is still a little vulnerable though. In fact I doubt it will ever become the strength it was, before Raven-Face.
‘I wonder if Mrs Rennie would know. She was living here when your father gave the rose to me. I remember showing her with much delight the present I received and saying I knew exactly where I was going to plant it. Oh yes, it’s all coming back now. Mrs Rennie said Laurie had shown her the rose before he gave it to me. Yes.’ She pauses for a moment and bites into a sugared blood red tamarillo. ‘Let’s pay Mrs Rennie visit.’
A strange expression of suspicion flashes across Gran’s face. Her colour fades a little and I sense there is something she is desperate to uncover. This is not about the rose at all. This is about something else.
¥
July 1999: Stranger
¥
I have been lying low. I seem to have been struck down by some sort of respiratory infection. I took some time off work to recover as I need to be strong for my final heist. I had a dream last night that that strange woman from The Spice House was in my room, hovering in the air and glaring at me. Her face expressionless, but her eyes filled with rage. How do I know her?
Draped in black clothing, she held out her hand in a closed fist. I was curious to see what she had in there. I leaned forward and in a flash she threw a yellow coloured powder into my face. I suddenly woke coughing, my lungs unable to take air in. I struggled to breathe and I furiously banged on the walls hoping my neighbours would hear.
‘Who are you?’
Whispers flood my room, senseless chatter circling round and round. I banged again on the wall. Still no one hears me. I feel a ball inside my windpipe rise further up into my throat. Finally with one hacking desperate cough, I vomited up what was blocking my life-force. It was the yellow powder she threw at me. I vomited yellow powder the woman in my dream threw at me.
Who are you?
The following day I go back to The Spice House to confront this strange woman dressed in black, only to be told by a shy young thing that she is out of town. Sure. Interesting coincidence.
My lungs remain bruised and sore and I am getting worried.
¥
July 1999: Saracen
¥
Potts answers the door with an unlit cigarette hanging out of her mouth. It’s a blustery winter’s day. The sky heavy, with thick grey clouds and pounding icy rain tosses in several directions from the violent winds. There was a storm warning announced earlier on the radio and we have concerns for our fruit trees and vines.
We don’t visit our neighbours much. Mrs Rennie is a private woman, very rarely talking about herself and often handing the conversation over to us or Potts. She is a mystery to me. They are an enigma, the two of them, opposites in every way, living together. I dare not ask them what their relationship is, because I’m a little afraid of the answer. But I often see flicking curtains and shadows watching from their house. I don’t think she’s a gossip. In fact she rarely leaves the house. But I suspect she wants to share our life, our adventures, and our dramas. We are her entertainment.
I’m surprised at how spotless the house is. Spotless and tidy like Mrs Rennie without a taint of Potts. Everything is beige. Beige floral curtains, beige and cream kitchen cupboards, beige and olive floor coverings and beige plain wall paper. A bouquet of pink rose
s stands in a glass vase on the side board releasing a sweet, lolly perfume into the air. Seth enters my mind.
Gran apologises for coming over uninvited, but assures her we will be quick. Mrs Rennie’s leg is bandaged again from the melanoma. The wound keeps bleeding and she’s in quite a state. But she welcomes us in warmly and beckons us to sit on her comfortable beige lounge suite. We comment on the roses, Mrs Rennie blushes and plays with the hem of her beige skirt.
‘Actually that’s the reason why we’re here,’ Gran says clearing her throat, that flash of suspicion appearing again. ‘Do you remember the rose my Laurie gave to me before he died?’
Mrs Rennie’s eyes roll into the back of her head then cautiously says yes. ‘You still have it growing don’t you?’ she asks.
‘Yes we do. I know this is a long shot, but I don’t suppose Laurie told you the name of it.’
‘Oh yes,’ she says leaping up and limping slightly towards a dark wooden wall-unit that almost covers the entire lounge room wall. ‘I wrote it down.’ She carefully kneels down and pulls open the bottom cupboard. Inside are stacks of hard covered books, diaries, all in numerological order. ‘I’m quite silly really,’ she says nervously. ‘My life is utterly boring, I must say. But for some reason I like to write my days down. Heather is always making fun of me for it.’
I frown and whisper, ‘Who’s Heather?’ to Gran.
She nods towards the door as Potts enters. Heather is such a pretty, feminine name, a pretty feminine plant. But for Potts, the name is spoilt rotten in cigarette smoke, plaid and phlegm.
‘What year was it?’ Mrs Rennie asks.
‘Tanny was 12, so 1976.’
‘Now let’s see - 1979, 1981, 1978 ahhhh, here we are 1976,’ holding a black hard covered diary. ‘Now it was a Christmas present?’
‘No, just a gift out of the blue. It was nothing but a thorny twig practically when he gave it to me. He said it’s a rare type. Got it from a friend who visited Europe.’
She opens the diary to the middle and begins working towards the back of the book. ‘No nothing about roses there. Or there.’ Her eyes flicker across several pages until she stops at one page. Her expression suddenly changes, colour runs from her face and her hand began to twitch.
Potts notices a change and wanders over to read over her shoulder. She flicks more pages over, as if trying to forget what she just saw until she reaches July 25th. ‘Ah here we go,’ she says throwing a hand into the air in relief. Out of the diary she reads - ‘Laurie showed me a rose he had brought his love. He said it’s called Spanish Lover, an apparently vigorous growing bush with big red blooms.’
She snaps the book shut. Potts steps back cautiously and asks us all if we’d like a coffee.
‘Please stop,’ Gran holds up her hand. ‘Can you tell me what the diary really says?’
Mrs Rennie gazes up at Potts and she nods, ‘You may as well.’ She sighs and opens the book back up and I sense she feels embarrassed.
‘July 25th,’ she begins then glances up at Gran for a second confirmation.
Gran nods.
‘As soon as Mary left, she arrived with flowing, golden hair and absolutely no guilt in her soul. She waited for him again. Her car a small blue Volkswagon parked down the road by the dairy. He must be some great catch, that Laurie, to have two beautiful women at his side.’
‘She stayed for an hour and then left in a hurry. I was in the backyard tending to a rosemary bush when he noticed me as he wandered out the backyard looking deflated and disheartened. In his hand he holds a rose stem. He called out to me and asked if I wanted it. I suggested he give it to Mary, since she is fond of gardening. He said the rose is called, Spanish Lover, a red bloom a prolific grower. It’s rare in this country, brought over from Europe.
Mary arrived with kids in the back. She has no idea what he does when she is gone. When she plays the wife, he plays the whore.’
The room falls to an eerie silence. The words she spoke are foreign to me. I had not met my granddad the artist or my uncle Robert so it feels peculiar and distant, as if she was reading a novel. Potts shuffles out the lounge and into the kitchen to make coffee.
‘What does this mean?’ I ask anyone who happens to be listening.
‘It means your Granddad had girlfriends,’ Gran answers in a low, unusually calm tone that bothers me slightly.
I hold my gran’s hand. It’s cold. She pulls it away to rub her nose.
‘I knew about her, you know,’ Gran says after a cold pause. ‘I never got a good look at her, but I knew there was someone.’
‘I didn’t see her again after that day,’ Mrs Rennie said as if that would help.
‘How often did she come over?’
Mrs Rennie shrugs, ‘I didn’t count. Sometimes a couple times a week, sometimes less.’
‘When did you first see her?’
‘I don’t remember the first time. It didn’t last long.’
‘I would catch him sometimes, day dreaming. I could tell his mind was with someone else. Call it woman’s intuition. He seemed infatuated with her and irritated that he was with me. She was a good distraction from his ordinary life, I suspect.’ She pauses again; her pride and dignity remain intact as she talks about her husband’s lover. ‘The rose,’ she suddenly says. ‘Was it a gift for her? Or did she give it to him?’
‘I’m sorry Mary. That I do not know.’
‘Well.’ Gran claps her hands and laughs, snapping us all out of this uncomfortable moment. ‘We seem to be no closer to finding out about the, “Aphids on roses.”’
‘What’s that?’ Potts asks, bringing in a tray of coffee filled mugs.
‘Oh we had a clue to the murder. I can’t tell you where this clue came from but, Aphids on roses, is it.’ Gran laughs again, her cheeks blushing in embarrassment.
‘Maybe the Spanish Lover is the killer,’ Potts says, half joking.
We laugh together and crack some jokes. But something was pestering me about this rose, the Garden Witch or Spanish Lover. It’s a vicious beast of a thing. Beautiful blooms with a strong aroma, but once its claws got into you; your skin is scarred forever.
‘If we found out who that lady was, we might find the killer,’ I say in a serious tone.
‘I doubt the murder has anything to do with your grandfather and his mistress.’ She sighs heavily. ‘Let’s forget that for a while, Sara. We’ve stayed here long enough. Besides I have a Garden Witch to deal to.’
¥
Gran, only with one good arm, dug at that thorny thing for hours in this tumultuous storm. She was offloading her anger, her shame. She wanted nothing in this place to remind her of that lady, his lover. But it was of little use as the beast scratched and taunted her viciously, its roots anchored deeply into the earth. This witch was old, like a fine wine. She knew her rights and stood her ground. The colour of her bloom is like that of a murderesses lipstick, her secrets yet to be revealed.
Mum’s still up north, so we have to go to the farmer’s market on our own. We still have plenty of product - Tamarillo chutney, chocolate fudge, wholemeal bread with sesame seeds scattered on the top, feijoa chutney, crab apple jelly, sweet apple fritters, feijoa and berry wine, marmalades, elderflower and thyme cough syrup and of course the skincare range.
With winter bearing down on us, the mornings are darker and the crowds have dropped in numbers. We still sell a fair amount of product and then go on to sell more at the supermarkets in the City.
Gran began studying her herbal medicine books again, revising, as if over the months her knowledge had faded. She started taking appointments just as the cold and flu season hit, so there are a fair amount of clients wanting urgent attention. Herbs such as thyme, Echinacea, elecampane, elderflower, ribwort, kawakawa, garlic, horseradish, eyebright and peppermint are dispensed frequently. Of course depression and anxiety are prevalent still in this small town. There are always plenty of herbs to help relieve these dark, dreaded feelings associated with fatigue and guilt.
>
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Mum arrives back home brimming with ideas for our business. She wants to expand Three Generations and had already approached the local supermarkets about the brand and according to her they are interested. She said that she can be The Generations representative up north so she can see her kids and come down here once a month. We agree this might work so we make some parcels up containing our samples of various jams, chutneys, wines and marmalade, and make our way to the local post office to courier them up.
Moley isn’t there this time, only Ms Anderson. I like her. Her eyes sparkle with adventure and humour and she always wears a smile even when counting a million little postage stamps of the queen’s face.
She greets us warmly and makes a comment about Gran having a fight with the cat. She’s referring to the many scratches and wounds she received from the Garden Witch who in the end won the battle.
‘How big is it?’ Ms Anderson asks showing some interest.
‘Taller than me. It’s pretty old actually. I planted it in 1976, so that makes it about 23 years old.’
Ms Anderson drops her eyes as she weighs the parcels. A strong rose scent enters the air, making my nose itch. Seth and the Garden Witch enter my mind. Ms Anderson suddenly seems irritated. Her eyelids twitch as her shaky hands fumble over the scales.
‘Was it a gift?’ she asks with a quiver in her voice.
‘Yes by my late husband.’
‘That’s nice.’ She drops a parcel containing chutney. Luckily it’s heavily bound in plastic bubble wrap and just bounced when it hit the floor. Balls of sweat seep out of her forehead and her breathing hastens, as if she’s unwell.
‘Are you okay?’ Gran asks genuinely concerned.
‘You know what happens when you have one too many coffees,’ she chuckles.
