by Anna Romer
I collected our tea things and took them to the sink. Ran the tap and rinsed them. Then, not looking at Lil, I said, ‘Do you ever wish you could see her again?’
Lil put away the shortbread and then took out a tea towel, joining me at the sink to dry the cups. ‘My sister doesn’t care to be found, Abby. I daresay she’s changed her name many times. Perhaps even left the country. Even if I wanted to, I’d never be able to trace her.’
‘But you’d like to see her again?’
She dropped her gaze. ‘With all my heart.’
‘What if I told you there might be a way?’
• • •
Lil hung the tea towel to dry and returned to the table, sinking into her chair. She watched the younger woman from beneath her lashes. She liked Abby, but she wished the girl would leave. All this nonsense about finding Frankie was making her head hurt. The only thing she wanted to do right now was retreat to her room and read Frankie’s diary page.
But Abby seemed in no hurry to go. Settling opposite Lil, she reached into the bag slung over her chair and pulled out a sheet of paper. She passed it across the table.
Lil stared at the sheet. It looked like a photocopy from a book. She examined the heading, Gundara Remembered by Mary Quail, but it meant nothing to her.
‘It’s an excerpt from a memoir,’ Abby said.
‘Oh?’
‘Tom found it on the internet last night.’
Lil frowned at the paper. ‘What’s it got to do with Frankie?’
‘Mary Quail was a midwife born at the turn of the century. She lived in Gundara all her life. Apparently she was quite a character, had her finger in everyone’s pies. And, as you’ll see, she was blessed with an extraordinary memory.’
Lil swallowed. Smoothing the excerpt of Mary Quail’s memoir on the table, she blinked to clear her vision and then began to read.
In 1942 my brother came home on furlough and we spent two glorious weeks exploring some of his old haunts. Childhood polio had made him unfit for combat so, to his eternal chagrin, he’d been posted at a war office in Darwin. ‘A hellhole of heat and mosquitoes,’ he called it, and was mighty glad to be home.
In early November he took me out to see old Lars Gilbertsen’s house, Ravensong, the stately wilderness mansion the Gilbertsens had built in the 1920s. Lars and his wife Inge had emigrated from Norway in the early 1900s. Lars was a recluse and his wife a raging socialite. Luckily they were also stupendously rich. According to my brother, Lars and Inge were once famous for their lavish garden parties. People would travel miles for the honour of attending. I didn’t believe a word of it, until I saw the house with my own eyes.
It was a splendid big place, surrounded by perfectly manicured gardens – the Gilbertsens were one of the few families in the district who could still afford hired help. I got my hopes up about being invited to one of their famous parties, but Lars was very ill when I met him, all hollow eyes and sunken cheeks, he seemed stooped and prematurely old, barely more than a shadow. And his famed parties had stopped several years before.
We were greeted at the door by a sullen, black-haired boy of about fifteen, Lars’s grandson, Ennis. Once inside, we were handed cups of watery tea and Christmas cake that I suspected had been from the year before, because it tasted mouldy. The large-boned teenage girl who served us was Ennis’s sister, Violet. She was a shifty lass, about seventeen, clearly uneasy with company. Judging by her lank hair and dowdy attire, her spotty face, she wasn’t getting the right care out here in the bush with her brother and grandfather. I felt sorry for her, and wished we could be friends, but she ignored my overtures.
Perhaps it was grief. Ennis and Violet had lost their parents many years before, when they were still little. Then in 1940, two years before I met them, their grandmother Inge had died. Soon after that, one of Lars’s business ventures crumbled when an employee died on the job and it was discovered that Lars had insufficient insurance.
By the time I met Lars he was sixty-five and bankrupt. For a while he lived off his assets, then eked a diminished income providing firewood around the region. A year after our visit to Ravensong, I heard that Lars had died. I don’t know what happened to Ennis and his sister. I heard a rumour that Ennis enlisted, though he can’t have been more than sixteen at the time. I assumed they were still living at the house, but by war’s end they both seemed to have vanished.
Lil sat very still. There had been a time, many decades ago, when she’d been adept at hiding her feelings. Despite the turmoil and guilt raging inside her, she’d always managed to keep her face pleasant and her hands steady. But somehow the passing years had eroded that ability.
The sheet of paper trembled as she passed it back to Abby. The girl was watching her expectantly. Lil pulled her hands into her lap again and took a deep breath.
‘I don’t see how any of that relates to Frankie.’
‘The serviceman’s name was Ennis Gilbertsen, wasn’t it? Which means you could locate him through army records. He might have received a service pension, or be traceable through the RSL. If you found him, you might also find Frankie.’
Lil’s fingers knotted in her lap. ‘I don’t want to find them, Abby.’
‘Are you worried about discovering that Frankie has died?’
Lil sighed. ‘I’m afraid I wasn’t truthful with you before.’
‘Oh?’
‘There’s a reason Frankie doesn’t care to be found. You see, the day we left Ravensong, we had a terrible row. We said things. Unforgivable things.’
‘What was the row about?’
‘It was about him. Ennis. I was jealous, I suppose.’
‘You had feelings for him too?’
Lil scoffed. ‘Not the sort of romantic feelings Frankie had, but yes. In a way, I loved him too. You remember that our mother never had time for us? And because of all the days we skipped school – to look after our mother or just play truant for the hell of it – the teachers considered us a lost cause. But Ennis gave us what we craved most. What every child craves. Attention. Approval. Love.’
‘He locked you in a room for five years, Lil. How is that love?’
Lil got to her feet without answering. How could she expect anyone to understand? Going over to the window, she stared out at the garden.
A sullen black-haired boy of fifteen, Mary Quail had written. Lars’s grandson, Ennis. It had shocked her to see his name printed there in black and white. All these years his name had remained in the back of her mind like a moth fluttering against the window – her secret. Seeing it written there had jolted her. To think that he’d had a life before those days she had known him at Ravensong. To think he’d been a boy with a family of his own. She’d heard his stories, of course. Known about his heartbreak and sorrows. The loss of his parents, and then his beloved sister dying so young. But seeing it written there, now, all these years later, brought such an ache to her chest she couldn’t breathe. After the war, he used to say, I never expected to be happy again. But you girls are my salvation. I thought I was saving you by taking you away from your horrible life in Sydney. But in the end you’re the ones who’ve saved me—
‘Lil?’
She jerked around.
Abby’s brows were drawn in worry. ‘Are you all right?’
Lil picked up the tea towel, but the drying rack was empty. She twisted the cloth between her hands. Spots of shadow swirled before her eyes. She needed a tablet. ‘Actually, dear. I’m feeling a little peaky.’
Abby nodded. ‘It’s been another big day. I’m sorry I pushed you about finding Frankie. I do understand about the row you had, and why you don’t want to find her.’ She collected her bag then hugged Lil, placing a gentle kiss on her cheek. At the door, she looked back. ‘I’m glad you found your happy ending, Lil. Even if it didn’t include Frankie.’
Lil stood at the window watching Abby’s little car zoom off down the driveway. Then, when the dust of the girl’s departure had settled, Lil dropped her tea towel by th
e sink and marched out to the sewing room.
It was time to do what she’d been putting off for too long.
22
‘So that’s it?’ Tom turned on the brick path to look at me. ‘Frankie eloped with Ennis and they disappeared into the sunset together?’
Late afternoon shadows crept across the grass as the sun retreated over the hills. The scent of jasmine followed us along the wide brick path as we wandered deeper into the garden.
I nodded. ‘Meanwhile Lilly returned to Sydney and kept her sister’s secret.’
‘Do you believe her?’
‘Yeah, I do. Why would she lie about it?’
‘So Frankie could still be alive. Has Lil ever tried to find her?’
‘No, never.’
‘Why not?’
‘They had a row, said terrible things to each other. And then Frankie made Lilly promise not to go after her. And Lil, being Lil, has never wavered.’
Tom stopped beside a wooden arch overrun with clematis. The white flowers had long since fallen and turned to mush in the grass, but the vine was still green.
‘That’s quite a story, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’
I plucked a clematis leaf and tore it into pieces. For an autumn day, it was warm. My cardigan felt hot and prickly. I started stripping it off, then realised the cardigan wasn’t the problem.
‘You know, all along I’ve been admiring Lil for how well she survived her childhood ordeal. She created the perfect life with Joe, and enjoyed a fascinating career. She adores helping others with her volunteer work. She’s still strong and fit in her seventies. The way she chops all that firewood and tends the garden, grows her veggies and mows the lawn – I’m really quite in awe of her. But . . .’ I paused, unable to voice the sudden ache I was feeling.
Tom stretched his back. ‘You’re worried that underneath it all she’s unhappy?’
‘Yeah,’ I said, grateful that he understood. ‘I guess I am.’
‘Her turns are a concern. They must put a strain on Joe. But after what she went through as a kid, there’d have to be some baggage.’
‘When we were at the reserve that night, Joe mentioned nightmares, too.’
Tom stared across the garden, ‘I’m not surprised she has her demons. But she and Joe are devoted to one another, aren’t they? That must bring her a lot of happiness.’
‘Definitely.’
‘You care about them, don’t you? Not just because of the diary. You’ve found a bit of a soulmate in Lil.’
I smiled. Right from the start, Lil had seen behind my thick outer shell to the insecure mess I was inside. She hadn’t judged, just acknowledged, and in return had trusted me enough to give me a glimpse of her own private self, the self she kept hidden from most people.
‘We seem to understand each other.’
Tom brushed his fingers along my arm. ‘So now that Frankie’s sorted, where does that leave us?’
I dusted my hands together, dislodging the last crumbs of clematis leaf. Hugging my cardigan tighter around me, I met his gaze with more bravado than I felt. ‘I’ve finished the interview. Care to have a look? The only thing it needs now is your tick of approval.’
• • •
Tom switched on the lamp and climbed into bed. He poured himself a half-glass of brandy, then replaced the bottle on the bedside table and uncapped the lucky red marker he used for all his own editing, settling back against the pillow to read Abby’s interview.
It began with a portrait of Tom as a young man, struggling after his father’s death, and later riding his Harley into the wilderness to fulfil his dad’s bucket list. Tom poised his red pen over the first paragraph, intending to strike it out – it was far too personal – but something kept him reading and before he knew it, he had devoured the entire interview without having made a single red mark.
‘Bloody hell.’
Shuffling back through the pages, he re-read one of his favourite bits.
Gabriel is a formidable man, not just in stature – he’s a glorious six foot three, with a wild mane of reddish-blond hair and river-green eyes – but also in talent. He has the ability to turn straw into gold, quite literally. He bases his novels on the grimmest, most wretched crimes imaginable – abductions, murder, revenge killings – and somehow manages to transform the tale into a story that’s both beautiful and compelling in its portrayal of humanity overcoming the bleakest of odds.
‘A glorious six foot three,’ he marvelled. ‘How does she even know that?’ He had no idea how tall he was, and certainly not to the inch.
He shuffled the pages, pausing to read other favourite sections – it seemed there were quite a few of them – then he went back to the beginning and started reading it again. An hour later, the brandy bottle was empty and Tom’s eyes stung – he’d been awake since five in the morning, and it was now past eleven – but he was too wired to sleep. Damn, the woman could write. He had known she was good and he’d read her New York Times articles, each one riveting and amusing in its own way. But this . . . this was the work of an artist. She must have honed her skills since being back on home turf, because the story she’d written about him had a certain glow about it. It was deeply personal, and gave the impression the reader was getting intimate insights, yet Tom didn’t feel violated. Quite the opposite.
‘She’s turned me into a freaking superhero.’
He laughed to himself, finishing the dregs of his brandy. A glorious six foot three. Hmm. Could there be another reason the story glowed? A more personal reason? Maybe she was up there now, nibbling her fingernails, wondering if he was still awake. Her brow wrinkling as she pondered the idea of creeping down the stairs in the dark. To him.
‘Christ.’ There was a thought. He studied his closed bedroom door. Not very welcoming for a night visitor. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he got to his feet and made his way across the room. Opened the door a crack and peered along the hallway. Just the darkness, but it seemed to crackle with possibility. A rush of heat raced over his skin, and the blood flowed hard through his veins. He went back to bed, a little breathless, but not from the exertion of walking without his crutches.
He slipped off his pyjama shirt, flung it onto a nearby chair, and then settled back against the pillow. To wait.
• • •
From where I sat on the windowsill in my tiny bedroom, the garden stretched away below me, a sea of night-time shadows. The white blur of an owl swept past, vanishing in a blink, and tree shapes crouched in the murky blackness. Leaning out, I looked in the direction of the orchard. Over there, the little vintage caravan slumbered, tucked out of sight among the overgrown trees, its roof arched like the spine of a hibernating animal, its interior foggy with the breath of something old and long dead.
Let it go. You were wrong. About all of it. Wrong about Frankie, and probably Shayla, too.
Stars blazed in the velvet sky, and watching them made it easier to forget the fearful stories I had been telling myself these past weeks. Easier to imagine happier outcomes. Frankie would be an old woman now, and I saw her in my mind’s eye, her dark hair flowing as she strode about her elegant bohemian house, living alone now and reconciled with her childhood ordeal, surrounded by adoring cats. And I pictured Shayla on the coast with her dad, the two of them eating takeaway, Shayla rolling her eyes over something her father said and then giggling because it really was quite funny, after all. She wore her mother’s glittery Kmart jacket, and her dark hair was clean and brushed and pulled back in a scrunchie. There was no wound on her head, no scratches on her hands, no bruises. They all belonged in the nightmare memories of another girl’s past. Alice’s past. My past.
Let it go.
I drank in the cold night air, letting my thoughts unravel. Soon, perhaps as soon as tomorrow if Tom was happy with my interview, I’d be leaving this place. Returning to my cottage in town. Writing my Deepwater feature for the Express, and getting on with my solitary life. I breathed deep, try
ing to fill the sudden hollowness in my chest by savouring the individual layers of scent I could taste on the air. Earth and mouldering leaf litter, eucalyptus and peppery bush flowers. And was that—
‘Smoke?’
Sliding off the ledge, I went to the door and peered out. The smell intensified. Opening the stairwell door, I tore down the stairs two at a time, and ran along the downstairs hallway. Smoke was billowing from Tom’s open bedroom doorway.
I burst in, met by a whoosh of flame as one of the curtains caught alight, then a roar as the other drape went up. Tom was sprawled face down on the bed, one arm flung off the side, the other curled over his head. I shouted his name and shook him, and he woke, groggy at first. Then he registered the fire and hauled himself out of bed, grabbing my arms.
‘Are you all right?’
I nodded. ‘Where’s your extinguisher?’
Coughing, he dragged the woollen blanket off his bed. ‘Under the sink.’
I raced into the hallway and down to the kitchen, and grabbed the fire extinguisher. Then I rushed back to Tom’s room, choking on the thick smoke. As I grappled with the extinguisher key, Tom worked on the worst of the flames at the wall near his bedside table, beating at the fire with his blanket. The fire started gobbling up the windowsill, sending out another spray of embers. The dry wood of the old house reacted like tinder, catching alight and burning fiercely. The fringe of the Indian rug below the window started smouldering. Tom grabbed the extinguisher from my hands and broke the seal, and aimed a stream of white powder at the flames. He doused the wall and the ruined curtains, and finally the rug. As the last flame puffed up its dying smoke cloud, I ran to the window and pushed it wide open.
Eyes streaming, my throat raw, I turned to Tom. He was streaked in soot, his bare chest black in places and for a wild, horrible moment I thought his shirt had burned off and that he was hurt. I flung myself against him, registering the scorching heat of his skin as I held him tight, my face on his chest.
His arms came around me, but only for an instant – and it seemed, only to steer me through the door and into the hallway where the smoke was less intense. Then he held me at arm’s length and searched my face in the hallway light.