‘Maggie, please …’ Olivia reached out to her, eyes pleading for understanding.
‘Don’t touch me.’ Maggie’s voice was a hiss.
They stood facing one another. The only sound in the room was of their rapid breathing. ‘Why?’ Olivia broke the silence – her voice arctic. ‘Afraid you might have to accept who and what we are? Afraid the truth is more painful than all the lies we’ve been fed over the years? I’m hurting too, you know – you aren’t the only one that’s been damaged by all this. None of it was my doing, Maggie – just as it wasn’t yours. So don’t shut me out. We need one another more than ever before.’
The thunder of the sea was even louder in Maggie’s head now. The rejection, and the agony of knowing she’d been judged worthless lay heavy and cold, stifling the heat of rage, and dulling her senses. Unloved and unwanted by either parent, the pattern of her life had been clearly set from birth, through childhood and into that disastrous sham of a marriage. The thirty two years could be summed up in a single word. Abandoned.
*
Olivia felt an ache in her heart as she saw the tragic expression on Maggie’s face. Tragic, not through any self–pity, but because of the dull acceptance she saw there. Tragic because Maggie had no idea of how much she was loved by those who really mattered – and seemed on the brink of rejecting her one true chance of fulfilment. She stepped forward, wanting to reach out to her. Needing to reassure and comfort, but wary of alienating her further.
‘I’ll look after her,’ muttered Sam, his expression a mixture of grim determination and sadness as he gently put his arm around Maggie’s shoulders. ‘Come on, luv. Let’s get some fresh air.’
Olivia watched as Maggie let him lead her out of the room, and wondered if she would ever find that bright spark of life again that had made Maggie the person she was, the person they all loved.
‘Reckon you’ll be going back to England now you’ve got what you come for,’ said Jessie sadly.
Olivia dragged her thoughts into order. ‘I’m not going anywhere until I know Maggie’s all right,’ she muttered as she pulled aside the curtain and peered out into the darkness. She could just make out the glimmer of Sam’s white shirt and the red glow of two cigarette ends.
‘Don’t reckon she’s going to forgive that easy,’ muttered Jessie as she hauled herself out of her chair and began to clear away the debris of the uneaten tea. ‘That girl’s hurtin’ and there’s no tellin’ what all this will do to ‘er. Gawd alone knows what’s going through ‘er mind at this minute.’
‘She’s hurt and angry and confused,’ said Olivia flatly. ‘I’m the obvious target for all that, and I hold no illusions about us getting any closer until she’s come to terms with everything.’
‘And what about you, Olivia? How are you?’ The aged face was deeply lined, the eyes concerned.
‘Lonely.’ The word slipped out and there was no taking it back, yet it described her feelings exactly. She felt bereft, adrift on an endless sea with no rudder and no sail. For Maggie wasn’t the only one who’d lost everything. She took a deep breath. ‘I mean …’
‘I know what you mean,’ interrupted Jessie, her head nodding, the parrot earrings swinging. ‘You’re fondest memories have been made ugly. Your love and trust for Eva damaged by what I’ve told you today. But you’ll come to understand why Eva never told you. She loved you as if you were her own – you know that, don’t you?’
Olivia nodded. She was unable to speak.
‘Then don’t see it as a betrayal. See it as a gift of love. She was only shieldin’ you from an ugly truth, and would never have wanted to ‘urt either of you.’ The soft, gnarled hand gripped her arm.
‘And Maggie? Will she ever forgive me for being the chosen one – for having all the things she should have had?’
Jessie’s eyes were bright. ‘Eventually, I reckon. But it’ll take time.’ She gave a short cough of laughter. ‘She ‘as more than her fair share of yer mother’s attributes than either of you will be willin’ to admit – but strength of purpose and tenacity are not bad things to inherit if they’re used correctly, and Maggie ain’t the sort to be vindictive.’
Olivia pulled her cardigan over her shoulders. She needed air, and time to think. Leaving the tiny house, she stepped out into the garden. There was no sight of Maggie or Sam and she took a deep, appreciative breath of the flower filled air as she leaned against the picket fence and stared out at the encroaching rainforest. The night was cool after the heat of the day, the stars so bright and clear she felt she could almost reach out and pluck them from the sky. The moon sailed benignly across the vast velvet backdrop of night, its reflection mirrored in the calm ocean, and Olivia wondered if Giles could see the same moon above London.
She stared into the night, serenaded by the carpentry of crickets and the deep bass of cane toads. The loneliness deepened as she realised how much Giles would have loved this place. Deepened further as she silently admitted she had made a terrible mistake in letting him go.
*
Irene’s funeral was ten days after their return to Trinity, and despite Olivia’s misgivings, Maggie had been determined to attend. Sam drove them down to Cairns, he and Olivia obviously affected by the shroud of silence Maggie had deliberately wrapped around herself since their return home. It was her protection, her refuge, and the only person she’d permitted to breach that wall of resistance was Sam. She wasn’t ready to face Olivia, the resentment and hurt was still too raw.
Maggie’s heels echoed on the stone floor of the wooden church as she walked up the aisle and took her place on the hard bench. The air was cloying, filled with the heady, over–sweet scent of lilies. White candles flickered in the hot breeze that drifted in through the open door and the sun poured through the stained glass windows on to the assembled mourners. Yet Maggie barely noticed, for her attention was fixed upon the coffin.
As the service droned on she didn’t pay attention to the words or the hymns. She stood when others stood. Sat when others sat. Bent her head as if in prayer. Yet all she could see was the coffin. All she could think about was the woman inside it. The anger was cold now, the former heat of hurt and pain buried deep, replaced by icy acceptance. Irene had cheated her again. Cheated her by dying. Now she couldn’t be faced. Couldn’t be questioned and accused, and made to acknowledge the selfish cruelty of what she’d done to her own flesh and blood.
Maggie watched as the coffin was lifted by the pallbearers and carried out into the baking heat of the churchyard. Still shrouded in her aloneness, Maggie followed the cortege to the grave–side. She knew one of the bearers was her half–brother, but didn’t have the energy or the will to wonder if he mourned his mother’s passing. For after all, why should she care? They were strangers, and after today they would probably never see one another again and he would remain ignorant of their conjoined heritage.
The words of internment and the slow lowering of the coffin into the deep, rich black soil were followed by the thud of earth on the coffin lid and the single red rose from William.
Maggie stood by the gaping hole, only vaguely aware of the others drifting away. She picked up a handful of soil and let it trickle from her fingers onto the polished oak. Then she brushed her hands together and turned away. Irene had indeed paid for what she’d done all those years ago – now her reign of destruction was over. It was time to stop punishing herself and her twin for what had happened. Time to pick up the threads and move on – to look forward, never back – and strengthen those very special ties that bound her to Olivia.
EPILOGUE
1948
England was enjoying an unusually warm spring. Daffodils bobbed their bright heads in the breeze, their vibrant yellow splashing pools of sunshine across Wimbledon Common. Delicate blossom fragranced the air, drifting like confetti into the dappled shadows, where snowdrops and primroses peeked through the long grass.
Olivia lifted her face to the gentle warmth of the sun – so different from the aggressive heat of Australia – its very kindness so much a part of England. For here the colours seemed muted, less jarring to the eye, more polite somehow. She smiled as she watched the strolling couples and the children playing in the sunshine. Memories of the war were beginning to fade, and despite the strictures of rationing, and the changes to the landscape made by the bombing, people were picking up the threads of their lives again.
She took a deep breath, grasped her cheap, cardboard suitcase more firmly, and began to walk, knowing she too must look to the future. For the threads of the past had snared Maggie and herself and entangled those they loved. It was time to weave a new pattern – one that was strong and founded on truth – one that could only be woven with the help of tough, British fibre.
The tree–lined avenue seemed drowsy in the sun light, the houses mellow in their neat gardens, chimney smoke drifting aimlessly into a clear blue sky. It was strange how quickly she’d become used to the little wooden bungalows with their corrugated roofs, and the startling green of the tropical plants – this all seemed so alien, so old and settled after Trinity – and she felt she no longer belonged.
Olivia stood on the pavement and looked across at the house where Giles had once lived, saw the tweak of net curtains in an upper window and knew she was being watched. She bit her lip and turned away. There had been a time when Giles’ mother would have rushed out to greet her, but the front door remained resolutely closed, the net curtain firmly replaced. Giles was no doubt working in the city, planning to return to his bachelor flat in Knightsbridge for a solitary evening before a gas fire. Perhaps it had been a mistake to come?
The hinges complained as Olivia opened the gate and walked down the brick path to her own front porch. As she stepped into the hall and put down her case, the sunlight streamed in with her, chasing away the shadows, but not quite dispelling the abandoned aura that clung to the house with lingering resentment.
Taking off her hat and gloves, she shrugged out of the dowdy brown overcoat she’d had to buy in London and hung it on the hook by the door. Because of the unexpected warmth of this spring day, the cardigan provided enough protection over her cotton dress. She kicked off the low heeled pumps and padded in her stockinged feet from room to room, ignoring the memories, casting aside the darker thoughts that plagued her as she threw open the windows and gathered up the dust–sheets. Maggie and Sam would be arriving tomorrow, and she needed to have everything ready for them – yet, by the look of things, it would take a month of Sundays to get this place straight.
The bedrooms were shadowy, strangely silent and empty now that Eva was no longer here. Olivia opened the window and removed the dust sheets, then sat on the bed and stared out over the roofs to the park. The eiderdown crackled beneath her, the goose feathers a strong reminder of cold nights when she’d snuggled beneath the covers waiting for the hot water bottle to warm the linen sheets. She could remember Eva feeding her chicken soup when she’d had measles. Could remember the stories she would read when sleep seemed to elude her, and could almost hear her voice in the silence that surrounded her now. Forgiveness for what she’d done had come easily – Jessie was right – Eva had tried to protect her, and by remaining silent, Eva must have suffered. It wouldn’t be right not to forgive.
Impatient with her thoughts, she looked at her watch and was amazed at how long she’d been up here. It was late and would soon be dark. Time to close the windows again before the night air chilled the house any further. Olivia hurried out of the room and made a cursory inspection of the rest of upstairs. Eva’s room held too many memories and there was still a lingering hint of the talcum powder she used. The three spare rooms were soulless, but she could arrange flowers on the night stands and find some prettier bed covers for her visitors. The bathroom was beyond redemption, unfortunately. It was as icy as ever, the great heavy bath set in the centre of the room like a monolith, the chain on the plug still broken, the fine web of cracks still veined in the enamel. She closed the door and hurried back down stairs. What she needed now was a cup of tea, then she would see about lighting a fire in the sitting room.
The kitchen was gloomy, the linoleum cracked in places, the boiler on the wall a lingering threat. Olivia struck a match, turned the knob and ducked as the boiler roared to life with an explosive pop. She’d always hated the thing, but if she was going to stay a while, she needed hot water. There was no milk or sugar, her ration book had long run out, but the cup of tea was hot and welcome and went some way towards dispelling the dust in her throat. She carried it into the sitting room and after lighting the fire, perched on the window seat that overlooked the back garden. In the lengthening shadows of a spring evening she could see how neglected it had become in her absence. The lawn needed cutting, the rose bushes needed pruning and there was a forest of bindweed choking all the flowers in the borders Eva had so loved.
Turning her back on this depressing view she looked around the room she and Eva had spent so much time in, and realised for the first time how shabby it was, how dark the wallpaper and paint, how threadbare the carpet. Eva’s plans to refurnish and decorate had come to nothing, and once war had been declared, there seemed little point.
‘Hello? Anyone home?’
Olivia hastily put down her teacup and turned towards the door. Giles stood there, tall and straight, smart in his city suit, his hair and trim moustache gleaming in the sunlight. There was a sense of purpose in the set of his shoulders, and a return of confidence in his stance that told Olivia he was content with life.
Olivia’s initial rush of pleasure was tempered by the memory of their last meeting and the rather stilted letters they had exchanged over the ensuing months. She stood, suddenly shy, her fingers tugging at the narrow white belt on her cotton dress, her tone uncertain. ‘How did you know I was here?’ she asked.
‘Bush telegraph, old thing. Mother phoned and I got the first train.’ Giles strode into the room and threw his hat on the couch. ‘I hope you don’t mind me turning up like this, but…’ He faltered, the confidence momentarily shaken.
Their eyes met and Olivia was saddened by the awkwardness that had grown between them. ‘Of course I don’t mind, you silly boy,’ she scolded softly as they kissed one another’s cheek fleetingly and draw apart again. ‘If you hadn’t come I would have searched you out. You know that.’
Giles sat down, picked up his hat and balanced it over his knee. ‘Not really,’ he murmured. He looked back at her, his gaze unwavering. ‘It has been five months, and your letters were non–committal.’
Olivia silently acknowledged he was right – but it had been necessary at the time, for so much had happened during those intervening months, she had become almost bankrupt of any emotion. ‘I had a great deal to contend with,’ she murmured. ‘I didn’t think it fair to burden you with any of it.’
‘I see.’ Giles’ hand wasn’t quite steady as he lit a cheroot and snapped the lighter shut. He seemed to Olivia to have regained his assurance, for when he looked back at her, his gaze was penetrating and steady, his expression rather stern.
‘So why come back, Olivia? You made it perfectly clear there was nothing for you here in Wimbledon.’
It was Olivia’s turn to hesitate. Giles seemed so different – so distant and self–contained. It was hard to know how to tackle the thorny subject of why she had really come back to Wimbledon, for he wasn’t making this home–coming any easier. ‘I had to return sometime,’ she said as she stood up and began to pace. ‘The house must be put on the market, the furniture sold or put into storage. Mother’s effects sorted through and dealt with.’
‘So this is just a flying visit? You’re still planning to make a life for yourself in Australia?’
His tone was tinged with uncharacteristic bitterness, his expression enigmatic, and Olivia wondered what was going through his mind. Ther
e had been a time when she could read him like a book, but this Giles was almost a stranger. ‘Of course,’ she said softly. ‘I have family and work there, and despite everything that’s happened, it’s where I belong. I know that now.’
Giles nodded thoughtfully as he stubbed out the cheroot. ‘The clinic’s going well, according to your letters. You must be very proud – it’s quite an achievement.’
Was that a hint of sourness in his tone? Olivia decided to ignore it. ‘The clinic is doing splendidly, and we’ve even managed to equip a small emergency theatre. We’ve set up a series of hygiene classes as well as the ante and post–natal side of things, and persuaded a retired doctor to oversee the morning surgeries.’
She smiled as she thought of Doc Harris. ‘Poor man. He came to Trinity with plans to spend his final years out on his fishing boat, then he saw what we were trying to achieve and before he knew it he’d thrown in his lot with us. He’s marvellous with the Aborigines, and the kids adore him. I think, in a way, it’s given him a whole new lease of life.’
‘It strikes me Trinity didn’t know what hit it once you’d arrived,’ said Giles with a ghost of that old familiar teasing light in his eyes. ‘Must have shaken the old place up a bit.’
Olivia grinned. ‘The influx of young, single English nurses certainly caused a flutter. Two of them are already courting, and Sam tells me the drovers and ringers are coming into town more regularly, so it’s boosted his trade. He’s even cleared out the back room behind the dining room and holds dances there every Saturday night.’
Giles must have noticed the brittle note beneath her bright tone, for he frowned. ‘And what about you and Maggie?’ He rose from the couch, but made no attempt to touch her, merely moving past her to stand by the window where he could look out over the Common. ‘I must say, I was flabbergasted when you wrote and told me you and Maggie were twins – I would never have guessed.’
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