Afterwards they had swum naked in the pool then lain on the sandstone to dry in the warm air. Unable to resist, Christina had swung her leg over his and placed her hands on his shoulders. Jackson had smiled at her and obliged. The memory made her shiver with pleasure.
‘So if I met you at eighteen, this would be wrong?’ Jackson said, sliding his hand inside her jeans and pulling her to him.
As they kissed, Christina thought of the model who posed for The Ravishing of Sophia. From the small photograph in the art book, her age was impossible to determine. She had never been identified, perhaps a local farmer’s daughter, an unavoidable cliché since eighty-odd years ago Rivers’ choices would have been slender. For all Christina knew, the model could have been Mary.
‘Well morality aside, assuming this girl was eighteen and Rivers was about thirty-five, there’s a balance of power issue, isn’t there. But either way, I have no evidence . . .’
‘And without evidence,’ Jackson released her, running to the overgrown patch of lawn that formed the stage, ‘there is no charge to be laid. Bartholomew Rivers is innocent, Your Honour.’ Jackson bowed with a flourish to an imaginary audience.
Christina applauded and laughed. Jackson had always been a ham. Perhaps the garden theatre might find itself pressed into service again.
Christina checked her watch. ‘I’d better get going. I promised Bee I’d help her prep Licorice for the show tomorrow.’
‘I’ll come and help.’ Jackson slung an arm over her shoulder. ‘Many hands, light work et cetera.’
‘Ha! I’d love to see you plait a mane.’ Christina wrapped her arm around Jackson’s waist and they followed the path to the stables.
‘Fair cop but I’m an expert at cleaning tack.’
‘Or are you worried we’ll talk about you behind your back?’ she said, giving him a dig in the ribs.
Jackson squeezed her tight. ‘I’d hate to think what secrets you two share.’
Christina wished Bianca shared her secrets with her but those days were long gone. Bianca’s descent into puberty had been rapid and ugly. These days Bianca struggled to say a civilised word to her, except when she wanted something. Even so, she’d barely managed a thankyou when Jackson shelled out ten grand for Licorice. Moments like those, Christina worried that Jackson’s affluence was turning Bianca into a spoilt brat. She wondered if Izzy was being equally as atrocious. She should ring Della. But as soon as the thought formed, she knew she wouldn’t.
They found Bianca in the wash bay, hosing down the black Galloway. Sugar watched on from her yard. Christina grabbed a carrot from the bag and broke it in half, offering it to the pony. ‘Poor old Sugar, Mummy still loves you,’ she cooed as the pony snuffled her hand hoping for more.
‘Poor old Sugar is eating me out of house and home.’ Jackson came over and scratched the pony behind the ears.
‘It’s not her fault Bee’s outgrown her.’
Over the summer holidays Bianca had shot up. Now thirteen, there was no way she could have kept competing on Sugar. Her legs dangled well below the pony’s belly and Jackson needed no convincing that Bianca required a bigger horse. Christina loved seeing Bianca ride Licorice. They looked good together and Bianca had developed a much stronger interest in competing now she owned a horse that loved to jump. During the show season they travelled all over the countryside. Jackson usually tagged along, using the trips as an excuse to go treasure hunting. It was the only time Bianca ever seemed to be her old self. Laughing with her friends, taking selfies with their ponies and cheering each other on. It gave Christina comfort to think that the old Bianca was in there somewhere, even if she chose not to show her to Christina and Jackson.
‘Are you ready for me to start plaiting up yet, Bee?’ Christina came over to where Bianca was rugging Licorice.
Bianca shrugged, which Christina took as a yes. Burying her annoyance at Bianca’s rudeness, she grabbed a comb and started sectioning Licorice’s mane. Bianca might find Christina and Jackson’s presence intolerable but she was far from pleasant company herself.
chapter thirteen
Winters often saw them stuck inside. They had been at Bartholomews Run for three years and Christina was used to hibernating in the house as the bitter winds whipped the mountain and the rain fell in sheets. With a fire crackling in the grate, all three congregated around its warmth. Christina knew Bianca would prefer to be working on her assignment in her bedroom but they had a rule about devices. No laptops in the bedroom and mobile phones went in the kitchen drawer between dinner and breakfast. After her own experiences at school, Christina had no wish for Bianca to be exposed to the maliciousness she had endured in those bad years between fourteen and sixteen. Even at a school such as Valley View with its firm stance on bullying in general and cyberbullying in particular, Christina felt it best to shut down all avenues for Bianca to be a victim.
This afternoon Bianca was working on her laptop whilst Christina lay in front of the fire perusing a book Kitchener Library had secured for her about Constance Sutton. Jackson sat by the window flicking through the weekend papers.
‘Mum, can I show you something?’ Bianca turned in her chair.
Christina marked her page then went and stood beside Bianca. The screen filled with an image from their garden, lush with textures of green and dripping with rain. From the angle, it appeared to have been taken from the studio above the barn.
‘Wow! Great photo, Bee.’
Without looking up, Bianca said, ‘Thanks.’
Christina contemplated the delicate shell of Bianca’s ear, the tiny curls that licked her golden skin. Bianca’s interest in photography arose after accompanying Jackson on one of his treasure hunts. Together they would roam the countryside rummaging through car boots and deceased estates, poking about in shops that called themselves antique stores when they were really just a collection of junk. One trip they had unearthed an old manual Nikon SLR and Jackson had helped Bianca set up a dark room. Christina assumed Jackson funded the purchase of the paper and chemicals. Bianca had no job, no means to afford such luxuries on her own. The camera had inspired her to take photography as an elective at school and Christina knew Bianca planned to continue with it next year.
Studying the photo, Christina realised that Bianca was really very talented. She was so secretive about her work, she never shared it. She supposed it was normal, but it made her feel as though she didn’t know her daughter at all. She’d borrowed a book from the library about teenage girls. It gave her some comfort to read about teenage brains rewiring and hormones playing havoc with their emotions. A lot of the examples the author, a psychologist, used as illustrations indicated that Bianca was in no way the worst behaved by a long shot. What the writer emphasised was how important it was for parents to be a steady presence, guiding them through these tumultuous waters. Christina had no idea if her emotional support was enough. It certainly didn’t feel like it. Given Bianca rarely shared anything with her these days, Christina chose her words with care.
‘I didn’t know you’d taken photos of the garden, Bee.’
Bianca mumbled, ‘There’s lots of things you don’t know, Mum.’
Christina flinched from the intended barb. ‘Yes, but my point is, it’s really good. Jackson, you should come and have a look at this.’
Jackson smoothed the folds of his paper. ‘In a minute.’
Christina hurried on. ‘Are there more, Bee?’
Bianca filled the screen with a photo of the summerhouse and the weed-infested pond. Her lens transformed them from dilapidated and neglected into objects of beauty. Each click revealed another image, some in colour, others in black and white. They were so good, Christina thought they’d make the perfect accompaniment to her notebooks and sketches. They could make it a joint project; perhaps it might go some way to bridging the gap that had opened up in their relationship. They’d certainly produce a better b
ook than the one she was reading now.
Bianca scrolled through her images. There was the wrought-iron archway covered in a sublime weeping rose. A sundial in the middle of a bed of French lavender. The family of magpies that spent their mornings on the lawn captured at dawn.
‘You have a real eye for detail, sweetheart.’
Bianca shook off the compliment. ‘This is what I really wanted to show you.’ She changed screen formats and thumbnails of her photos filled the monitor. She pointed to various pictures. ‘You’re looking for proof of Rivers’ work.’
‘I searched the garden for a link to him, something distinctive, personal, but I haven’t found anything.’
‘Because you weren’t looking closely enough. See the gates and that screen with the purple thing that grows over it every summer . . .’
‘Clematis.’
Bianca rolled her eyes. ‘The point is somebody must have designed and built these gates and screen. It’s not like they went to Bunnings.’
Christina didn’t want to undermine Bianca’s efforts, she truly didn’t, but Bianca’s idea was a bit of a stretch. ‘Sweetheart, in those days blacksmiths were common. Anyone could have designed and made the wrought ironwork.’
Bianca’s cheeks flashed red. ‘I think he made them.’
Christina drew breath. She needed to tread with care. A few arty shots and Bianca was convinced she had prosecuted her case. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ Christina conceded, ‘but the thing is, that annoying man from the Heritage Council wants solid proof.’
‘I know that!’ Bianca snapped. She glanced across at Jackson, still engrossed in the business news, and leaned closer.
Christina found this schoolgirl urge for drama amusing, though she took care to hide it.
‘Up at the stables,’ Bianca explained, ‘the stall at the end opens onto the yard, the one with the cobblestones and the well.’
‘I know which one you mean.’
‘Well, remember when we first moved here and I cleaned out the stables?’ Bianca searched her mother’s eyes.
Christina nodded, although she had no idea where Bianca was heading with this.
Satisfied, Bianca continued, ‘There were bits of old metal and an anvil that you said the blacksmith probably used when he came to shoe the horses. Remember?’
‘That’s right.’
‘No, it’s only half right. You said that originally this place used to be a Cobb & Co inn, before the railway closed down.’ Bianca leaned closer and a waft of coconut shampoo reached Christina. This close, she could see Bianca had plucked the arch of her eyebrows. When had she started that?
‘The end stall was where the blacksmith set his fire because it was the easiest place to shoe large numbers of horses passing through.’
‘Maybe.’
‘So whoever built the ironwork in the garden must have used the same space. It was already a working forge. It had the well in the courtyard.’ Bianca clicked on another photo to illustrate her point.
‘This doesn’t prove it was Bartholomew Rivers.’ Although Christina wished it did. It would be wonderful to think Bianca was right.
Bianca clicked through her photos, saying, ‘But someone made it, so I looked through the stuff I cleared out of there . . .’
‘You kept it?’
‘Yes,’ Bianca hissed. ‘You said not to throw anything out because we didn’t know what was important and what wasn’t. Remember?’
‘Did I?’ Bianca was probably right but Christina’s life was so busy she had enough trouble remembering what happened three weeks ago let alone something that happened years ago.
‘God, Mum! Anyway, I didn’t find anything but it kept bothering me. I started checking the wrought iron around the property and then about a month ago I found this.’ Bianca changed screens to a close-up of one of the gates from the driveway.
Christina had never seen them in such detail before. Now she thought about it, had they ever even closed the gates in the four years they had lived here? If asked, she would have said the gates were wreathed in leaves, possibly ivy. Bianca’s shot revealed that those leaves contained tiny birds’ nests with rounded eggs and strange little gnomic men frolicking amongst them. One peered out at them, poking out his tongue. Bianca zoomed in on one of the flowers. ‘See here, Mum? This is what I am talking about. I think that’s his signature.’
Christina peered where the cursor pointed. In the flat surface of the petal were the initials BR. Bianca changed screens again, zoomed in on a garden seat that circled an American dogwood down beyond the pool – again BR. Bianca had collected dozens of examples, too many to be coincidental. There could be no feasible alternative. Christina exhaled, ‘Bianca, this is amazing. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’
Triumph flushed Bianca’s cheeks. ‘Because I still needed proof that it was Bartholomew Rivers who had done the forging. I mean, random I know, but what if someone who happened to have the same initials branded every gate and fence around the property? And then, remember how Mrs Pryde made us do that course on how to shoe our ponies?’
‘Which you hated.’
Bianca covered her smile with her hand. ‘Yeah, that one. Anyway I was bored, waiting for my turn to trim a hoof, so I was just sort of looking through the farrier’s gear.’
‘You were snooping?’
‘Mum!’
‘Sorry. But it’s true.’
‘Can I get on with the story, please?’
Christina nodded.
‘Well in the old days, blacksmiths did more than shoe horses, right? They made heaps of other stuff. Anyway, I picked up this rod, which had this heavy lump of metal on the end. The farrier must have been watching because he scared the crap out of me yelling, “You’re lucky that’s not hot, it’d give you a nasty burn.”
‘And after I’d stopped having a heart attack I said, “What is it?”
‘And he said, “A branding iron, like you use for branding horses.”
‘Everyone was laughing at me because, you know, they all live on proper farms where they have to help out with this stuff all the time, not like here. I mean we don’t even have a dog.’
‘Jackson doesn’t like dogs.’
Bianca rolled her eyes. ‘But the important bit was that the farrier said he used the one I was holding when he made things for people’s houses – like gates and sculptures for their gardens.
‘He said that he branded the decorative pieces so he could always prove that the piece was his. And that’s when it clicked. As soon as I got home I dug through the feed box where I’d shoved the scrap metal and I found it, the brand that had made all those signatures.’
Bianca pulled away. Her eyes shone and she pursed her lips as if locking her mouth now all those words had tumbled out. The sullen teenager had vanished and Christina wanted to grasp this girl to her heart and hold her there forever. ‘Where is it?’ she said.
‘Up at the stables. Do you want to see?’
They darted through the pouring rain and scuttled into the dry corridor that ran the length of the horses’ stalls. Sugar and Licorice whinnied and hung their heads over the stable doors. Christina gave them each a net of hay before rejoining Bianca in the feed room. She was bottom up, feeling behind one of the feed bins. Rocking back on her heels, Bianca looked stricken. ‘It’s not here!’
‘What do you mean it’s not there, sweetheart. It has to be.’ Christina wriggled in beside Bianca and wedged her arm behind the bin, praying for no nasty surprises. ‘What’s it doing back here anyway, Bee? It’s not like anyone’s going to steal it.’
‘I thought I should keep it safe, just in case. Can you feel anything?’
Christina stretched until her shoulder was wedged between the wall and the sharp edge of the feed bin. Her fingers grasped at a knob of something cold and hard but she couldn’t shift it. ‘Grab me the torch,
sweetheart, and maybe the rake.’
Whilst Bianca shone the torch between the feed bin and the wall, Christina used the handle of the rake to tip the metal rod up and over so she could pull it out, but it stuck in something soft. She twisted the handle and fished it out. It was one of Jackson’s jumpers, the one he had accused her of wearing and losing.
‘What’s this doing here?’ Christina unfolded it, showing it to Bianca. It could have been the anaemic beam of the torch but Bianca seemed to pale at the sight of the navy sweater. Before Christina could be sure, Bianca switched off the torch. ‘Bee, don’t do that. I can’t see what I’m doing.’ Bianca switched the torch back on but kept her face hidden in shadow.
Christina laughed. ‘Did you think I had a dead rat or something, silly?’ She leaned over the bin and hooked the rake handle under the rod, tipped it up and grabbed it. Moving to the pool of torchlight, Christina wiped the dust off the brand with Jackson’s jumper and turned it upside so they could see the inscription on the metal base. Even in this poor light Christina knew Bianca was right. For good measure, she ran the brand under the tap in the yard and stamped it into the dirt floor of an empty stall. The mark read BR.
Making their way back to the house, Christina felt reinvigorated. She could feel the story building around Bartholomews Run. Armed with this new information, she planned to revisit all the art books and comb them for clues as to how Rivers used the garden in his work. She linked her arm through Bianca’s.
‘There must be other pieces that connect Rivers to Bartholomews Run apart from The Wallbuilders, Bee. The ironwork must feature in the landscape. Maybe those gnomic men and the birds are a recurring motif. What do you think?’
Bianca did not reply. After they took off their boots and hung up their sopping jackets, she handed Christina the navy jumper. Christina noticed there was a large white stain on it, probably pony slobber. Bianca must have borrowed the jumper and then, feeling guilty about ruining it, shoved it behind the feed bin. ‘Oh, yes, thanks. I suppose I should wash it. Although I wouldn’t mind thrusting it under Jackson’s nose to prove it wasn’t me who lost it. What d’you think, Bee? Can you imagine his reaction?’ Christina laughed.
The Making of Christina Page 14
