‘She’s so beautiful!’ Betty stared at Pearl. ‘It’s hard to believe she’s related to us.’ She paused and examined the little girls. ‘Why does Thomasina hate her so much?’
‘I don’t know. Mum would never tell me the full story.’ Marguerite had told Sadie many loving stories about her mother and childhood but very little about her other relatives on either side of the family. When Sadie had pressed for more information her mother would become emotional, claiming she knew very little herself. There was always a part of Marguerite she kept private and Sadie felt she was prying when she tried to discover more. Regret and guilt jabbed at Sadie for all the family questions she had never bothered to ask Marguerite. As Chloe the nursing sister said just before Marguerite died, Sadie was now the culture carrier of the family. One day Betty might become interested in her relatives; the trouble was, Sadie herself barely knew that family. Too much had vanished with her mother’s last breath. ‘Thomasina always claimed that her mother mistreated her and favoured Marguerite. Perhaps she was mentally ill?’
‘Pearl or Thomasina?’ Betty was still studying the portrait.
‘We don’t know if Pearl was mentally ill. Birdie Pinkerton said she thought she was in her book about Pearl, but she’s hardly unbiased. She was in love with Pearl’s husband, after all. Anyway, enough speculation. We’d best make an effort and go and say hello to Aunt Thomasina.’
Betty made a face and Sadie silently agreed; she too was dreading this meeting. She hadn’t seen her mother’s sister for years and she resented that Thomasina had long avoided contact with Marguerite, only sending a card when she died. Poet’s Cottage had been left to both daughters but Thomasina had refused her inheritance. Marguerite had encouraged Thomasina to live on the property rent-free. Thomasina refused to live in the house, saying it was too damp and cold, and had settled in the small outdoor servants’ quarters.
Sadie and Betty walked through the delightfully wild back garden, past a verbena and a walnut tree, brushing aside spider webs in their path. The air was crisp and fresh and Sadie felt excited at the prospect of discovering whether she had a green thumb.
Betty stopped in front of a large stone sculpture of a menacing Bindi-eye Man. ‘Remember how they used to give me nightmares when I was little?’ She patted the statue’s enormous flexing fingers. ‘Dad would always come in and cuddle me until I went to sleep.’ Sadness flickered in her face and a dark thorn of guilt pierced Sadie.
‘They are pretty gruesome looking,’ she agreed. ‘They gave me nightmares, too. Mum let me sleep with the light on. Pearl gave several generations of her family nightmares! I wonder if that’s one of the reasons she wasn’t more successful in her day?’
‘Look, there’s Harriet Huntsman!’ Betty pointed to the large sweet-faced spider positioned against a tree, her eight stone legs hugging the bark.
‘All Pearl’s characters are here,’ Sadie said. ‘If this house was in England it would be open to the public.’
‘Good idea, Mum, with weird old Thomasina living out the back. She could be the resident witch.’
‘Shh,’ cautioned Sadie as they reached the small stone servants’ house.
Thomasina opened the door immediately as if she had been watching from a window while they approached. ‘So you’ve come,’ she said. ‘No great surprise there.’ She looked at Betty. ‘She’s grown!’ she said in astonishment, as if she had expected to see a baby and not a fourteen-year-old girl. ‘Good looking, isn’t she? Lovely and tall – not like you, Sadie. And a good bust. Cup of tea?’
Sadie and Betty blinked, taken aback by the old woman’s brusque manner. Thomasina was as unlike her mother and sister as it was possible to be. Her white hair was cut unflatteringly short, she wore no make-up, and whiskers sprouted from her chin. Her dowdy grey cardigan and red wool skirt had evidently been chosen for warmth not style, and on her feet was a pair of slippers with puppy dog faces. Betty avoided looking at these, knowing – dreading – that she would erupt into hysterics.
‘Why were you so sure we would come?’ Sadie asked some minutes later when they were uncomfortably sipping tea together in the tiny brick kitchen. Sadie couldn’t help comparing her aunt’s cluttered, shabby little house to Marguerite’s comfortable Provençal-style furnished apartment in Sydney.
Thomasina jerked her head. ‘The house told me,’ she said calmly.
Terrified that Betty would laugh, Sadie went to kick her daughter under the table.
‘Makes me sound like a nut-job, I suppose. You don’t have to kick me!’ Thomasina glared at Sadie, who blushed. ‘The house does communicate things to me. I knew as soon as I heard Marguerite had died that you would come. I bet she asked you to on her deathbed, didn’t she? Like Mother, she had a sweet way of making sure people did what she wanted. Marguerite wouldn’t live here herself. She wasn’t right for the house – didn’t have a creative bone in her body, unless you count flower-arranging, card games and describing Mother to people. Obviously, Sadie, you’re right for Poet’s.’
She’s crazy but harmless: Sadie tried to broadcast the thought to her daughter. She wondered if this was the result of Thomasina being childless and without friends. Or maybe it was simply that madness ran in families.
‘Do you think Pearl’s ghost is here?’ Betty asked.
At the mention of her mother, Thomasina’s face closed over. ‘Mother might have liked to believe Poet’s Cottage was part of her, but it wasn’t. She believed everything existed only for her, but the house belongs to no-one. It has its own soul. It chooses who it wants to enter its walls.’
‘It didn’t choose you to live there, then?’ Sadie ventured.
‘We respect each other,’ Thomasina said. ‘The house knows I’m near and that I look out for it. No, it never chose me to live there.’
‘I’m writing a book on Pearl,’ Sadie said carefully.
‘What a waste of your time,’ Thomasina replied sharply. ‘Surely she’s old hat? Who on earth would be interested in Mother’s silly Hairy Fairies and Gertrude Goanna these days? She was such a mediocre writer, anyway – she didn’t understand how children think. Christ knows she didn’t understand her own children. Her stories were so dull and wordy. And I hated Kenny Kookaburra – I wanted to shoot him when I was a child.’
‘There’s a lot of interest in Pearl,’ Sadie persisted. ‘She even has her own fan website – pearltatlow.com.’
‘People have too much time on their hands these days. I suppose television and mobile phones are softening brains. Not like in my day. We need another major war to sort all the idiots out. Or wipe everybody out and leave the planet to the cockroaches to run. I’ve had publishers writing to me about Mother but I burn their letters. Why can’t they let her rot in peace? I really don’t know what this country is coming to!’ Thomasina finished abruptly, grimacing with distaste. There was a low rumbling from the sky. ‘My washing! I should have got it in hours ago.’
‘Thomasina, will you contribute to the book?’ Sadie dared to ask. ‘I need to talk to as many people who actually knew her as I can – and you knew her maybe better than anyone.’
Thomasina stood up. ‘Alright,’ she said unexpectedly. ‘I’ll talk to you about Mother. What I have to say you may not like or be able to use in your book. My mother was an insane, vain whore. The world is a lot better off without her and may her stupid characters be lost to history. She was a terrible writer and an even worse mother. There, that’s the blurb for your book cover!’
Time alters memory
Sadie and Betty spent the evening getting used to the old house, which creaked and groaned while the storm raged outside. Jeremy had made sure there was a plentiful supply of logs and kindling and Sadie impressed herself with her fire-lighting efforts.
Sadie had expected to be berated for bringing her daughter to a house with no TV, but Betty surprised her with her enthusiasm for exploring the rooms, every so often running to Sadie with some new treasure she had found: a beautiful thirties-style brooc
h, a long string of pearls, a nearly empty bottle of Guerlain’s Shalimar perfume, the scent still lingering. A battered copy of Dot the Smallest Hairy Scary Fairy and the Crocodile Who Cared gave Sadie a rush of emotion. In childish handwriting the inscription read: This book written by Mummy belongs to me, Marguerite Tatlow.
Betty found her mother sobbing and embraced her. ‘Please don’t cry, Mum. I’m sure Nannabella M is with Pa now and happy we came to Poet’s Cottage.’
‘I miss her so much!’ Sadie said. Fear and doubt engulfed her. What had she done, bringing Betty to this tiny fishing village? A sea change for a retired couple was one thing, but for a young girl with her future ahead of her? Was Jack right when he said she wasn’t in the right frame of mind to make such a major life-changing decision? What would Marguerite have advised?
Sadie fought back against the momentary wave of panic. She was overtired from the flight, the drive and the sheer emotion of returning to Poet’s Cottage. Jack would see how wrong he was! The best thing she had ever done was move to Pencubitt. It had been a shell of an existence in Sydney once Marguerite was dead and Jack had moved out. She managed a weary smile at Betty, who was still watching her closely. ‘I feel worn out with all the excitement,’ she said.
‘It’s alright, Mum. I’ll make us some cocoa,’ Betty said.
That night, Sadie found it difficult to sleep. Wind and rain drummed on the roof, and waves pounded the shore in wild accompaniment. She ached for her mother. The pain of not being able to talk to her was overwhelming. Why had she taken her mother so much for granted, believing that Marguerite would always be there? Sadie wondered again why she’d brought Betty to this tiny village in pursuit of a woman who was long dead. How was Betty going to make friends here? What if she relapsed because her unstable, selfish mother had uprooted her from her life in Sydney? It had been nearly two years since the worst stage of Betty’s anorexia, but Sadie knew how much Betty had been through with her parents’ separation and then Marguerite’s rapid decline and death; she could never truly relax in the belief that Betty was totally cured.
And what did she know about Georgian houses? How would she maintain the gardens? The smell of damp in the house was sharp; how safe was it really? She had visions of toxic mould, asbestos, lead paint, leaking roofs, rusted spouts – not to mention the restless undead.
Every so often, Sadie tensed, hearing a creak that sounded like a footstep. Daytime jokes about ghosts and exorcisms no longer seemed so amusing at night. What if Pearl did walk Poet’s Cottage, loath to leave her beloved home? Her spirit might rest uneasily, resenting the new arrivals. Or did she have some message for Sadie? Every creak, every strange noise on the roof, made Sadie more fearful. Relief from the wild imaginings of her brain only came in the early hours when, exhausted, she dropped off to sleep, slipping immediately into an uneasy dream.
In her dream, she was standing at the front door of Poet’s Cottage when it suddenly blew open. From the darkness of the corridor she could hear a child’s laughter.
‘Mum?’ Sadie called. ‘Mum?’
She stepped into the house; from the kitchen she could hear the sounds of music playing, a jaunty jazz tune. A doll lay on the floor, its face streaked with dirt; its eyes had been pulled off long ago. There were puddles of salt water on the floorboards.
I mustn’t look in when I pass the kitchen, Sadie thought
in the dream. She was standing at the cellar door looking down the steps and a knocking sound was filling the kitchen. From the dark cellar came the spinechilling snarls of a wild beast. ‘Jack?’ she called. ‘Mum? Is there anybody home?’
Something rushed at her from the cellar, and she felt pressure against her hips like a small child pushing into her. A child desperate to get away from a wild beast. It’s in there! The Bindi-eye Man is down there!
‘Mum. Mum!’ Betty was shaking her. ‘There’s someone at the door.’
Sadie woke, disoriented, tangled in the sheets and her nightmare, hearing the front door knocker which had mingled with her dream. She ran to the window and looked down to see something colourful on the doorstep; she glanced up just in time to see a smartly dressed blonde woman of about her own age leaving through the gate. The woman paused and looked up at the house and their eyes connected for a second before Sadie pulled away from the window. How embarrassing. The visitor could probably see that Sadie had just dragged herself out of bed.
‘She’s left something on the doorstep.’ Sadie turned to Betty. ‘Run down and see what it is while I shower.’
The ‘something on the doorstep’ turned out to be a basket of homemade jams and chutneys with a small card that said, Welcome to Pencubitt. I hope you will be very happy in our village. From your neighbour, Maria.
‘How lovely,’ Sadie said, beginning to dismiss all the worries that had tormented her restless sleep. Perhaps life in Pencubitt wouldn’t be the social wasteland she had imagined last night. Neighbours leaving gifts in welcome was the sort of action Marguerite would have approved of; it was surprising how a small act of kindness could mean so much to the recipient. She made a mental note to find out where Maria lived and call in to thank her.
They dressed quickly to explore the fishing village. Little had changed in Pencubitt over the years, even though it was now being marketed as one of Tasmania’s top tourist destinations. Only a few cars passed them, driving slowly, as Sadie and Betty walked down a long winding street flanked with pine trees. The main street looked exactly as the postcards promised, with Enid Blytonish tea shops and stores with names such as ‘The Stranded Whale’, ‘Ye Olde Chocolate Shoppe’ and ‘The Swinging Anchor Tea Rooms’. Beyond the tourist strip there was a large supermarket, a town hall and a small kindergarten at the top end of the village near the Catholic church.
On the headland across the bay loomed Blackness House, the village’s magnificent colonial mansion.
‘Imagine living there,’ Betty said. ‘They must have got so lonely. It’s such a grisly name, too.’
‘I’d prefer to live in Poet’s Cottage,’ Sadie agreed, hugging her. ‘Too many rooms to clean at Blackness House. The name comes from an old Scottish castle – the Tasmanian owner’s father or some other relative was apparently imprisoned in the Scottish Blackness and died there. If anywhere in Pencubitt is haunted, I’m sure that’s the place.’ She remembered something else. ‘Did you know Poet’s Cottage was also designed by the architect of Blackness House? Edward Frick Hellyer – he also built Poet’s. He was quite well known in his day but apparently committed suicide in 1837.’
‘Really?’ Betty’s eyes never left the mansion. ‘That’s pretty cool. I wonder if he killed himself in Poet’s? That would make a murder and a suicide.’ She turned to Sadie, shivering in the crisp sea breeze. ‘I’m starving, Mum. Can we go and eat?’
Tears came to Sadie’s eyes but she attempted to hide them from her daughter; any emotion around food could be dangerous to Betty. It had been so long since she had heard her daughter express a desire for food that it was overwhelming to hear such a normal sentence from her mouth.
‘Of course we can, darling.’
As Sadie and Betty walked back to the village, trying to decide where to eat, they passed an elderly woman enjoying the sunshine on a wooden bench outside a stone cottage, a Maltese dog at her feet. Her small garden was filled with daphne, eggs and bacon, chamomile, daisies, red geraniums, poppies, agapanthus, roses and lavender. Seagull Cottage was written on a small white plaque on the door. The old woman called a greeting, and Sadie stopped by the gate.
‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘I’m Sadie. This is my daughter, Betty.’ She admired the woman’s garden.
The old woman peered into Sadie’s face. ‘You’re a Tatlow,’ she said. ‘Marguerite’s daughter, Sadie. I heard you were coming back. Tatlows always return to the island. Good for you! Poet’s needs creative, loving spirits. Yes, I can see Marguerite in you. I was terribly sorry to hear about her death. She was a dear little girl.’
/> Sadie felt as if all the air had been sucked from her. Marguerite being referred to in the past tense seemed shocking and unreal. ‘Thank you,’ she managed to say. ‘I miss her terribly.’
There was a pause while the woman studied her. ‘My name is Birdie Pinkerton,’ she said finally. ‘I knew your grandmother very well. I wrote a book on her.’
‘Birdie?’ Sadie had to struggle to suppress her excitement. ‘I’m so delighted to meet you. I’ve read Webweaver, of course. It’s fascinating. Thank you for writing it. It meant so much to me as a child to discover more about my grandmother. There were so many things that my mother would never tell me. I can’t believe I’ve run into you like this. You look so well!’ She knew Birdie had to be around a hundred years old but the woman in front of her could easily have passed for twenty years younger. Her long white hair was pinned up with a jewelled comb and she wore a lavender-coloured cardigan. A string of pearls adorned her neck and her thin lips were a slash of bright rose lipstick. Her milky, pale blue eyes were alert.
‘It’s the Pencubitt air and lifestyle. One of the doctors who worked here for a while said the air from Antarctica was so cold and pure it blew all the germs away: he loved to complain he didn’t have enough work to keep him busy!’ Birdie said. ‘I feel my age, believe me. It’s not much fun to grow old. A terrible dreary thing. Too much time to sit and think of all the loved ones you’ve lost. It’s horrible to be one of the last left.’ She turned her keen gaze on Betty. ‘This must be your daughter. What a pretty little face! Is she your only one?’
Poet's Cottage Page 2
