by Maris Morton
‘True. But you must be wondering all the same.’ Clio placed her cup on the corner of the stove and looked up at her. ‘Well, we started out all right. He couldn’t get enough of me in those days. Like a fool’ — she made a self-deprecating downturn of the mouth — ‘like a perfect idiot, I thought if a man lusted after you, it meant he loved you. Of course, I understand now that it’s some mysterious pheromone thing that turns the man on, nothing to do with anything else but sex. Probably, in some peculiar way, I reminded him of Ellen.’ She sighed.
‘He’d always been quiet, but I used to think still waters run deep, and I waited with passionate eagerness for him to reveal those magical depths. In the end, of course, I realised that there were no hidden depths. There’s nothing there.’ She kept her gaze fixed on Mary’s face, as if to read her reaction. ‘That was the first major disillusionment.’
Clio took up her cup again and sipped her tea. Mary offered her a chocolate biscuit, but Clio shook her head. This looked like developing into a lengthy session. Mary sat down, her back to the window, and watched Clio’s face while she listened to her words.
‘I thought he was impressed by my music, but I got that wrong, too. If pretending to like music was what it took to get me, then he’d pretend, but once we were married he didn’t have to put on a show any more. That must have been a huge relief.
‘Then, of course, I was terribly busy here on Downe. I was pregnant, a lot of the time. I told you about Allegra …’ Mary nodded; the dead baby girl. ‘I had the idea that if I made a real effort to get everything right, he’d learn to love me. If I became as capable as Ellen. So I taught myself to do all those things.’ She gestured towards the pantry, with its rows of preserves. ‘I even won prizes in the Glendenup Show.’ She was shaking her head slowly, as if amazed at her own folly. ‘It was like … like a search for some kind of meaning. What was life for, if my beautiful husband didn’t even want to know me? Me, I mean. The person I am inside.’
Mary was embarrassed by Clio’s candour, but she was interested in the marriage.
‘Am I boring you?’ Clio asked abruptly.
‘No, Clio. Not at all. Go on.’
Clio settled deeper into the chair. She was looking thin and tired, her hair tangled at the back from the pillow. ‘Then he killed David.’ Mary waited in silence, remembering what Janet had told her about the accident. ‘Everybody agreed it was an accident. As if a man would deliberately kill his own son.’
Tears were welling in those black eyes, and she swiped at them, smudging the moisture down her cheek. Mary passed her a tissue from the box on the dresser and she dabbed at her eyes.
‘Of course he didn’t do it on purpose, he couldn’t have. I kept telling myself that. But David was dead, my beautiful little boy, and somehow his death killed something in me, inside me, as if it was me he’d killed, and I could never manage to … to love Paul, not the way I had before, not after that.’ She lifted her head and stared past Mary, out through the window, and sat without speaking, her lips held tight.
Then she went on with her story. ‘It was Janet who came and told me. It was a weekend, lambing time, and she’d been driving down the race with Cec, behind Paul, to see the new lambs. She saw it happen. She’d gone back and phoned from her place, and the ambulance was on its way, and the nurse from Eticup. But she’d seen David, and there was no doubt he was dead. His neck was broken. I never saw him till the undertaker had tidied him up.’ She shifted her gaze to Mary. ‘David was … David was a lovely little boy. He’d just turned eight when he was killed. He used to get me to help him practise his reading, he loved the Dr Seuss books, and was just starting on Roald Dahl. He always wanted to read for himself. I made sure he had the books he liked. Martin never wanted to read, he’d rather be outside.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘David looked a lot like my father, the same luxuriant curls. He used to dance — jig around, really — when I played little tunes for him. He laughed. He wanted to learn the piano, but there wasn’t a teacher around here.’ Clio looked at Mary with sudden intensity. ‘He was such a happy child, the only thing on Downe that belonged to me. The only living thing.’ Clio’s gaze lost its focus, then she said, with flat finality, ‘I still had my viola then.’
A viola? This was the first Mary had heard about this. She knew vaguely that a viola was like a larger violin but had no idea what one sounded like. ‘What happened to it?’
Clio ignored the question. ‘David was a special little boy. Martin was always Paul’s boy, always tearing about the place. If one of them was going to be killed in an accident, it ought to have been Martin. Paul thought he was wonderful. David liked to stay around the house, listening to me practise. Paul thought he was a sissy. Joking, but he meant it.’ She sat silently for a moment. ‘Paul didn’t like David any more than he liked me.’
The picture Clio was painting was too awful to be true. ‘Why did you stay, then, Clio?’
Clio was quiet before she answered. ‘I thought about leaving. I thought about it a lot, but there were many reasons to stay that seemed compelling at the time. I’d invested a tremendous effort transforming myself into the perfect farm wife, and by then I didn’t know any other role. That was one reason. Then the stud was starting to do really well, and I thought I was entitled to a share in that, since some of it was due to my hard work.’ Her face suddenly looked ancient. ‘I remembered my mother saying you’ve made your bed and now you must lie in it. I’d made a mistake, letting myself be carried away by Paul’s courtship, and I felt bound to stand by my commitment. It sounds stupid now, doesn’t it. Terribly old-fashioned.’ She’d taken a fresh tissue from the box and, after dabbing the residue of tears from her cheeks was folding and pleating it in her lap. ‘And, in the end, I really had nowhere else to go. My mother was dead, my father married to a young wife, with a new family. My sister was in England, also married with a family. None of them would have wanted to take me in. I had no friends anywhere but here. And I had no money.’
She looked so downcast that Mary was moved to sympathy. ‘There isn’t an easy answer, is there?’
‘No. No, there isn’t. We can only do what seems best at the time. I’ve never lived on my own and the thought of doing it then, demoralised as I was, was … terrifying. Absolutely terrifying.’
Mary was eager to end these revelations, but in her present mood Clio would be likely to take any change of subject as a rebuff. So she asked gently, ‘How do you feel now, Clio? Are you thinking of leaving?’ It was an impertinent question, but if she wasn’t planning to leave, Clio would have to be an idiot.
‘Leaving?’ Clio’s mouth stretched slowly into a grin, absolutely without mirth. ‘Oh yes, Mary. I know I should have gone years ago, but I’m getting ready to leave now. I’ve left it far too long.’
ALONE AGAIN in the kitchen, Mary wondered how she’d have acted, in Clio’s shoes. Her own upbringing had been utterly different, moving from place to place as her father’s career had dictated. As an army wife, Mary’s mother had needed to be independent, and Mary had followed her example when she’d married Roy. His frequent absences had given her the opportunity to pursue her own interests, to work when she wanted to, and to study subjects that fascinated her. She’d had different expectations of marriage, and more confidence in her ability to live independently than Clio had.
But at least she was beginning to discover answers to some of the questions that had intrigued her.
With Clio’s gift of gloom lying so heavily on her, it took a real effort to bring a smile to her face when she heard Cec approaching the back door.
THE RESERVE was alive with sunshine and the scent of honey. Clio had decided not to come with them, after all, and Cec and Mary walked along the sandy firebreak as they had before. The red leschenaultias were still lying like pools of fresh blood on the grey soil, and further on their heavenly blue cousins spread in a wave through the taller shrubs, forming something like the carpet of bluebells Mary had seen once in an English wood. Here, thou
gh, these taller plants weren’t stately oaks or beeches, but prickly leafed shrubs displaying just as many flowers as the smaller plants. Two weeks had made a difference: now an abundance of colours was weaving a luxuriant tapestry stretching as far as she could see.
Cec went ahead, in case of snakes. Mary walked with a deliberately heavy tread, crunching the scattering of leaf litter.
‘Acacia drummondii,’ Cec said, bending to a dwarf wattle just coming into bright golden flower. ‘Grevillea, mallee … you won’t remember their proper names. See these spider orchids?’ He stooped again to touch the long, fine petals, white shading to burgundy, radiating from a centre shaped like a tiny fringed slipper. Near them were greenish flowers so dainty they could be easily overlooked. ‘Those are bird orchids,’ Cec said. ‘Pterostylis barbata. There might be some donkey orchids, too.’
He strode off into the scrub. Mary trailed after him and found him crouching over a clump of strappy leaves. ‘Thought they’d be out.’ The yellow and brown flowers he was indicating had two petals that stood up like a donkey’s ears, two narrow ones hanging down that suggested the animal’s long nose.
Suddenly Cec was alert, remaining on his haunches and indicating for Mary to be still. He was listening, his face alight with pleasure. In a minute, he pointed. Mary had no idea what she was looking for.
‘Blue. See that bright blue? It’s a male Splendid Fairy-wren. See him now? There’s his mate, see? You have to be quick, they’re like lightning.’
Mary focused on the high-pitched twittering. What a colour! The female’s plumage was much more subdued, with only a shading of blue on her wings and tail. As Mary watched, more of the duller birds appeared, flitting in and out of the dappled shadows; then, in a crescendo of trilling, they were gone.
Every step led to another colour, another design of flower, a differently shaped leaf, a dazzle of complexity. Cec was almost humming with enthusiasm; or was that subliminal buzz coming from the myriad insects that were busy feeding from all these flowers?
When Mary got back to the homestead, she was still elated. It was hard to imagine the kind of mind that would bulldoze acre after acre of that natural garden, simply to grow wheat or graze sheep. Surely there were enough places with fewer beautiful things growing on them that could have been cleared without the vandalism? But, as Cec had said, you couldn’t rewrite history, and it was no good grieving over things that couldn’t be changed. At least the reserve was still there, in all its glory.
15
MARY REGARDED HER SUNDAY BREAKFASTS as a treat. This morning she browned two thick slices of the ham, without the glaze, and topped them with two perfectly poached eggs from Garth’s hens, dusted with paprika and garlic salt. While she was eating she browsed through Ellen’s diaries, being careful not to sully their pages with greasy finger marks or crumbs.
She was reading about Ben, the fourteen-year-old orphan boy the Hazlitts had brought with them from England. The sleepout she was using was the one they’d provided for Ben. Then later, when Ben had grown, they’d built separate quarters for him. That would be where Angus was living now. She wondered about the boy-turned-man: had Edgar paid him enough so that he could move away if he’d wanted to? Or had they kept him on short commons, with room and board as his recompense and only enough cash for tobacco, maybe, or a horse of his own and an occasional weekend among the fleshpots of Eticup? Had he been happy here or desperately lonely?
Mary closed the diary and ran hot water for the washing-up. When she’d been outside this morning she’d caught the scent of violets, and after she’d finished tidying the kitchen she’d go and look for them. Clio had said she liked their perfume.
She was rummaging through the heart-shaped leaves when she heard a vehicle pull up. She straightened, holding the few flowers she’d managed to find.
It was a police car. A tall young policeman was knocking at the back door, and when he heard her steps behind him he turned to face her.
‘Mrs Hazlitt?’ He was starting to say more, but saw from Mary’s face that he’d got the wrong person.
‘I’m Mary Lanyon, the housekeeper. Mrs Hazlitt’s not well.’
‘Sorry. I’m new to this district. Is Mr Hazlitt here? I tried to phone but his mobile’s turned off.’
Mary shook her head. ‘No, he’s in Perth. So is Martin.’ By now she was curious. What had the Hazlitts been up to? ‘Can I help you at all?’
The young policeman had come down the steps to her level but was still towering over her. ‘Does a … a Jamie Flowers live here?’
‘Jamie?’ She’d never heard his last name. ‘There’s a Jamie who works here. Young lad, dark hair?’
‘Sounds right.’ Mary could see that he was trying to decide how much to tell the housekeeper. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.’ Mary wanted to say Stop! This has got nothing to do with me, but he was launched now. ‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident, last night or early this morning.’
‘What?’
‘A motorcycle went into a tree. The lad was dead — deceased — when they found him. The motorcycle’s registered to Downe Merino Stud. He wasn’t carrying a driver’s licence … had his Medicare card and a bank book, but nothing to say who his next of kin is. Was.’
‘I have an idea he might have been too young to have a driver’s licence. And I think someone said he had a sister. I can’t help you any more than that. There’s no point disturbing Mrs Hazlitt, but we can try some of the other staff.’ She thought quickly: Cec would be the proper person to approach. ‘We’ll try Mr Melrose — he’s the studmaster.’
She led the way to the stone house and knocked on the back door. There was no sound from inside, not even the creaking of a floorboard, and after waiting a few minutes she concluded that Cec might have taken Janet off somewhere to look at wildflowers or fossils. She turned away from the door, glancing up at the policeman. ‘We’d better try the Graysons. Actually, they’re more likely to know who his next of kin is.’
The policeman followed her across the track, past the peppercorn trees to the Graysons’ house. The back door was open, and the sounds of television cartoons and childish squabbling announced that this family was spending its Sunday morning at home.
Gayleen was waiting at the door, when they got there. ‘Is your mother in?’ Mary asked her. She didn’t want the girl to hear the distressing news without any family support.
Gayleen was staring at the policeman, her face pale. ‘Is it …’
‘Gloria!’ Mary called past Gayleen. ‘Are you there?’
‘Mary! Come in.’ Gloria’s cheerful voice drifted from the kitchen. Mary glanced at the policeman, and they edged past Gayleen into the house. Gloria was sitting at the table peeling pears. Her daughter followed them in and was gnawing at a thumbnail. Garth appeared from the front of the house. He looked surprised by the sight of the policeman. For a long minute nobody spoke.
‘I’m afraid this gentleman’ — the policeman hadn’t given Mary his name — ‘has some bad news.’
The policeman cleared his throat. ‘We’re trying to find out who’s next of kin to Jamie Flowers.’
Immediately, the three Graysons leapt to the right conclusion. Gayleen burst into sobs and rushed past them, heading for her bedroom.
Gloria stood up, her sticky hands still holding a half-peeled pear. ‘What happened?’ she asked. Her voice was husky.
‘Motorbike hit a tree.’
‘Where?’
‘Just this side of Lake Grace.’
‘He’s dead, I suppose. You don’t survive motorbike crashes.’
The policeman nodded. ‘He wasn’t wearing a helmet. He had ID on him, but nothing with his next of kin. The bike belongs to this place.’
‘He didn’t have a licence either,’ Garth said. ‘It must be that farm bike he rides around on. He had no business taking it off the property.’
‘I’m pretty sure he’s got a sister up Lake King way,’ Gloria said. ‘I don’t know her married name.
He might have been heading there. Or coming back. Gayleen might know.’ She exchanged a look with Garth and wiped her hands firmly on her apron. ‘Okay, I’ll go.’
Garth pulled out a chair and invited them to sit down. Mary couldn’t see any way of leaving without seeming uncaring. Clio would want to know the details, anyway. She was still holding the little posy of violets, wilting from the warmth of her hand. Garth noticed them and said, ‘What have you got there, Mary?’
‘Just some violets I picked for Clio. A bit sad now, though. Can I put them in your chook bucket?’
Garth reached out to take them and sniffed them, before dumping them in the lidded enamel bucket beside the sink.
CLIO WAS SITTING up in bed listening to music, looking more alert than she had earlier. As Mary came in, she removed the earphones and smiled. ‘I had a nice sleep and I’m feeling much better. I might even get up and eat in the kitchen today.’
‘Fine.’ Mary was reluctant to spoil Clio’s mood, but she’d have to hear the news sooner or later. ‘Clio, we had a visitor earlier. A policeman. He came about Jamie.’
‘Is he that boy who’s helping out? I don’t think I’ve ever set eyes on him. Has he got himself arrested?’
‘No.’ Mary took a deep breath. ‘Last night — I think it was last night — Jamie ran his motorbike into a tree.’
‘His motorbike? Or ours?’
‘Yours, I believe.’
‘Well, he’ll have to pay for the damage.’
‘No, Clio. He won’t. He’s dead.’
This caught Clio’s attention. ‘Was he in any trouble?’
‘Garth said he’d been kicking the sheep, and Cec told him off. Gayleen told me he’s frightened of sheep and hates them. She was upset yesterday because she couldn’t find him.’
‘He’d have taken off somewhere to lick his wounds — being reckless, speeding. Happens all the time. Nowadays their friends put flowers, and often a cross, to mark the place. Ghoulish, I’ve always thought, and the plastic flowers are a blot on the landscape.’
