by Anna Romer
I breathed deeply, relishing every second. The air glowed yellow from the late winter sun, and the smell of the garden filled my head, making me giddy.
Ennis held my hand the whole time, saying it was romantic. But his fingers grew damp and his firm grip gave him away. He seemed on edge, as though fearing I might dart off into the trees and disappear.
Of course, I wouldn’t. Even if I did manage to outrun him, where would I go? Beyond the garden, the bush stretched for miles in all directions. Getting lost out there would be worse than being trapped in our box of a room.
That was a depressing thought, so I turned my mind to something lovely. To the sunlight on my face, the fresh rush of the air. To the rough warmth of Ennis’s fingers around mine, and the way our shoulders bumped from time to time as we walked.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Ennis said.
‘Oh?’
‘Ever since Jean Lee.’
I glanced at him. I’d been right about Lilly’s nightmares. She had obsessed over that newspaper cutting, despite only having glimpsed it once. She often woke in the night saying Jean Lee was standing over us, or hanging from the window bars, or waiting in the still silence of the shadows like a ghoul. I tried to tell her Jean Lee was just a poor woman whose life went horribly wrong and that she should feel pity for her, not fear, but some days I’d catch Lilly in the bright room, crouching in front of the Warmray with the door open, peering in, her head tilted as though listening. As though the voice of Jean Lee was drifting from the ashes, recounting the grim tale of her death.
‘It’s time for us to leave here,’ Ennis said.
‘What?’
‘One day, we’ll be a proper family. Do all the things that regular people do.’
My pulse began to race and my fingers grew even damper than his. ‘What do you mean?’
He gestured around the garden. ‘We’ll leave all this behind us, Frankie. Start over. Find a little cottage by the sea. We’ll have milking goats and chickens for eggs, and a garden brimming not just with vegies but with sunflowers and roses. Think of it, love. The three of us living together on the outskirts of some pretty town. What a fine life we’d have.’
I stumbled along beside him, my ears ringing. A warning buzzed in the back of my head, like a fly trapped in a jar. Reminding me how Ennis’s stories and promises had led me astray before, had lured me and Lilly away from Stanley Street that March morning three and a half years ago.
But Ennis spoke so earnestly. His face bright with pleasure, his eyes aglow. Soon, I found myself under his spell once more, eager to daydream with him. To let his wild cheerfulness sweep me away. Because what if it was true? What if we could be a family and live a normal life somewhere out there?
In the garden with the sun shining and new leaf buds poking from bare branches, I could actually see our little beachside cottage. And the longing for a new life, the life he described, grew in my chest, a hungry vine that coiled around me and took root in my soul.
‘What would we do for money?’
‘I’ve always dreamed of being a carpenter.’ Ennis squeezed my hand. ‘I could get a proper job. Buy you and Lilly pretty new dresses. Lilly could go to school, take singing lessons. She’s got a real talent, hasn’t she? And you could do whatever you fancied.’ He furrowed his brow. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
I squeezed his fingers. ‘You know I would, Ennis.’
‘You’re fifteen now, Frankie. Next year you’ll be old enough to get married.’
A hot blush crept up my neck. ‘I’m old enough now.’
Ennis stopped walking and turned to look at me.
‘We don’t want to rush things, love. There’s so much to plan. I’d have to sell Ravensong, so we’d have money to buy our cottage and live on. We’re a way from town; it might take a while to find a buyer. There’s repairs, a tidy-up in the yard—’ He gazed about, his eyes shining as if he couldn’t wait to get started. Then he looked back at me. ‘But in the meantime, there’s something you need to do.’
I stared up at him. The sun had pinked his cheeks, and his hair was raked about, catching the light like tufts of black fire.
‘What’s that?’
He grimaced. ‘It’s your sister.’
I let go of his hand and stepped back, wary. Ennis tensed. He didn’t follow me, but he swayed forward as though unwilling to allow too much space between us. I tugged at my sleeves, trying in vain to cover my wrist bones. All my clothes were getting small and my body was in a hurry to outgrow them. I wasn’t quite as tall as Lilly, despite her being younger, but I felt as awkward as a newborn colt.
‘What about her?’
Ennis took my hand again, played with my fingers, fascinated by my fingernails.
‘I’m worried she’ll ruin it for us, Frankie. You know what she’s like. She doesn’t understand things the way you do. Would you talk to her? Tell her what we’re planning, see if you can bring her round?’
Friday, 2nd November 1951
She’s such a stubborn mule. For three months I’ve been trying to win her over. But whenever I start on about the cottage and the sunflowers, even the singing lessons, she slaps her hands over her ears like the child she is and refuses to listen.
‘You idiot, Frankie. There’ll never be a cottage by the sea. Ennis is a criminal, have you forgotten that? He dragged us away from home and has kept us against our will for nearly four years. Do you really think all that’s going to change?’
‘He loves us, Lilly.’
‘If you believe that, you’re stupider than I thought.’
That night after dinner, Lilly sulked off to bed with her dolls. Despite it being nearly summer, the night got cold so Ennis lit the Warmray and we sat before it on a blanket, sipping hot cocoa and, later, a glass of sherry each. Ennis grew ruddy-faced from the wine and set off once more on his ramble about our future life – how we’d be a stone’s throw from the ocean and enjoy picnic lunches on the beach whenever we pleased. But while he spoke, Lilly’s words rang in my mind.
Ennis is a criminal, have you forgotten?
In the three months since our talk in the garden on my birthday, his dreams had become my own. They made me itchy with excitement, and there were days when I thought of nothing else. The cottage with its tidy garden, the goats and chickens and sunflowers. The long lazy days on the beach.
Yet there was also a part of me that ached to see our mum again. Sloshed and foolish as she sometimes was, she was still our mum. And I wanted to see our old red brick house on Stanley Street with its creaky roof and windows that stuck when it rained. I longed to see our favourite teacher, Mr Burg, and our school friends, if only just to reassure them we were alive and well.
Ennis must have noticed my faraway look, because he nudged me with his shoulder and caught my eye. ‘Do you love me, Frankie?’
I looked at him. Perhaps it was the sweet wine, or the icy chill against my back while my face burned with heat, or maybe just the smoke stinging my eyes, but I couldn’t breathe. I felt as if invisible hands were locked about my throat, cutting off my air. When I finally managed to force out the words, they were barely a squeak.
‘Of course I do, Ennis.’
He watched me in the firelight. Flames danced in his eyes and I fell into a dreamy trance, unable to tear away my gaze. I examined his dusky eyelashes, the fierce wings of his brows, the bony jutting of his cheeks and nose and chin. The faint freckles and whiskers and little scar nicks that I had memorised.
‘Then promise you’ll stay with me,’ he murmured. ‘Whatever happens?’
My thoughts of the past began to melt away as the fire crackled and the air grew hot around us. The rawness in Ennis’s face entranced me. The fearful adoration in his eyes, the trembling mouth, the burning flush in his cheeks. Before I knew it, my head was nodding, my lips moving, my fingers curling with equal intensity around his. And the words were leaping off my tongue in a whisper that left me breathless.
‘I promise, of c
ourse I do, Ennis. Whatever happens, I’ll stay by your side. Always.’
• • •
Lil flipped through the pages, saying goodbye. Savouring the faint smell of the ink and the paper that had, over the years, grown as soft as rags under her touch. She told herself she was doing the right thing. By removing this thorn from her life, she would stand taller, be able to face her remaining years with a light heart.
But her fingers lingered, and when she reached the end of the diary, they began to fiddle with those pages, the ones that held Frankie’s final entries. And then somehow, before she knew it, she had torn them out and stuffed them into her dressing gown pocket.
‘Just once more,’ she promised herself. ‘And then I’ll burn them.’
She wrapped the diary up again and placed the parcel in the hole. Collecting her trowel, she backfilled the cavity with dirt and then dragged a rock over it. After stomping the edges with her gumboots, she collected handfuls of leaf litter and twigs, and scattered them to conceal the disturbed soil.
She ran her torch beam over the ground. Not perfect. But it would do for now.
Soon the wind and rain would cover her footsteps, erode all evidence that she’d been here. That anything was buried beneath those gnarly tree roots. And when she was gone, time would eat away any trace of the book. She imagined the tree sending its tiny feeders through the pages, drinking up Frankie’s writing. Devouring the paper, digesting her story into nothingness. Letting Lil’s spirit find the peace it had always craved.
25
At dusk on Friday night, we stood near the tall entry gates to the memorial park, Tom’s fingers linked in mine. The lantern parade, kicking off Gundara’s Autumn Fest, made its way down the main street, the big, colourful lanterns glowing in the fading daylight. Huge bamboo-and-tissue-paper constructions bobbed over everyone’s heads – animals and flowers, fish and birds, some needing two pairs of hands to hold them aloft. A glowing possum sailed past us, followed by a sulphur-crested cockatoo and then a huge red fox. Streams of school kids held smaller offerings, flowers and stars they’d made in community workshops. It was a dazzling spectacle of colour and light, and the mood of fun was infectious.
The parade entered through the park gates where it broke formation, the lantern-bearers merging with the crowds and heading across the bridge to the band stand where later there’d be live music. We walked down to the blazing fire pit, finding a space between some goth-looking uni students and an older hipster couple. A girl with pink hair and nose rings went by lugging a baby on her hip, and when her big gumnut lantern bopped Tom on the shoulder, she eyed his crutches and apologised. Tom laughed and tickled the baby, and the girl drifted off, smiling.
He caught my look. ‘What?’
‘You old charmer.’ I slipped my hand behind his head and leaned close, claiming a kiss. ‘Never picked you as a baby guy.’
‘Yeah, I’m full of surprises.’
‘What else have you got up your sleeve?’
‘You’ll just have to wait until we’re back under that magnolia tree to find out.’
His laugh was absurdly lewd and it started me giggling like a tipsy teenager. He grabbed my hand again and drew me against him, but didn’t kiss me, just held me there and smiled into my eyes.
‘You look ridiculously beautiful tonight.’
I disentangled myself and did a twirl, making my vintage Diane von Furstenberg flare above my knees. Colourful lanternlight swirled around me, and when Tom pretended to swoon, my heart soared. Was life supposed to feel this way? Loose-limbed and free, deliciously giddy, the night full of glowing flowers and birds, and beautiful men who tickled babies and made me laugh?
I linked my arm in Tom’s. ‘I love the parade. It’s my favourite thing all year.’
‘You look happy.’
‘Yeah, you too.’
Tom’s gaze broke from mine, and he nodded over my shoulder. ‘Do you know that woman? She keeps looking over here. I think she’s trying to get your attention.’
I twisted around. Coral Pitney stood beside the mulled wine stall, a crying child clinging to one hand and a rumpled sheet of paper in the other. She was staring right at me.
• • •
He was in trouble. Serious trouble. As he watched Abby weave between the partygoers, the sight of her transfixed him. The swish of her bright, body-hugging dress and the glimpse it provided of her long, sexy legs. A feeling came over him that went way beyond admiration. He had managed to convince her to stay a few more days, even though she’d sent off her interview on Wednesday. While tradies drifted in and out repairing the fire damage in his room, he and Abby had set up a makeshift camp under the magnolia tree. Abby had thought it romantic, and Tom wasn’t going to argue with that. He liked seeing this side of her – the funny, tender-hearted person she was behind her no-nonsense façade – and the more he got to know her, the more he found he wanted to know. He was in trouble, all right . . . and he’d never felt happier.
‘Tom Gabriel?’ A blonde woman with a diamond nose-stud grinned up at him. ‘I’m Kendra Nixon-Jones. Abby’s boss at the Express. Enjoying the parade?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Smashing interview. Abby made you sound like a real star. And that picture with your gran? Aw, Tom. It’s a real showstopper.’
Tom forced a smile, but something in the woman’s tone raised his hackles. ‘Abby’s a terrific writer. The Express is lucky to have someone of her calibre.’
‘It’ll be in tomorrow’s paper, if you’re interested. We’re doing a bigger print run to cater for festival visitors, and it’ll be online too. Exciting, eh?’
‘Hmm.’
Kendra smiled, her tongue licking briefly against her bright red bottom lip. ‘Do you get out much, Tom?’
‘Not any more.’
She eased closer. ‘Pity. Why’s that?’
‘Guess I’ve lost touch with that part of my life.’
‘Oh?’ Her eyes widened, lips parting again. ‘How did you let that happen?’
Tom was lost for words. Hammering out dialogue on a typewriter was easier for him than holding an actual conversation with another human being. Small talk left him for dead. He shrugged, opting for the truth. ‘Divorce.’
Kendra leaned against his arm, giving him an eyeful of her ample cleavage. ‘Then I’ll have to treat you to a night on the town.’
The perfume wafting off her skin made Tom’s eyes burn. He shifted, reclaiming his personal space. There was something predatory about this woman. Did Abby really get along with her? He glanced over at the mulled wine stall. Abby was talking to the pregnant woman with bottle-bleached hair. Beside the woman a small girl slouched, bopping her rumpled fish-lantern on the ground. The woman’s voice was shrill, drawing glances from passers-by, although Tom couldn’t make out what she was saying. Abby didn’t look happy. She was frowning at a sheet of paper and nodding her head. Should he go over and see what the fuss was? Too late. The woman gave Abby an awkward hug and moved away, dragging her scruffy child with her.
Abby returned to the fireside. She passed Tom a paper cup and smiled stiffly at Kendra. If she was pleased to see her boss, she didn’t show it.
‘I see you’ve met Tom.’
Kendra made a cuddling motion against Tom’s arm. ‘A real dish, isn’t he? I can see why you sang his praises in your article.’
Tom gulped the warm spicy wine, not taking his eyes off Abby. The firelight caught the gold in her hair, flushing her cheeks pink, but her happy smile from before had vanished. ‘You okay?’ he asked.
She glanced back at the stall. ‘That was Coral Pitney. Shayla still hasn’t come home.’
Kendra made a scoffing noise. ‘There’s always drama with that family.’
‘Not this time,’ Abby said. ‘Shayla left a note to say she’d gone to visit her dad on the coast. But Coral’s just spoken to the father today, he reckons he hasn’t seen Shayla. No one’s heard from her in three weeks.’
Tom frowned. ‘An
d the mother’s just getting worried now?’
Abby bit her lips together and shrugged. ‘Apparently Shayla runs off a lot. Always comes home, or the cops drag her back. When she didn’t show, Coral assumed she was with the dad.’
‘Seriously.’ Kendra sighed. ‘The kid’ll come rushing back the minute she runs out of cash. Same old, same old.’
‘Has Coral gone to the police?’ Tom asked.
Abby drained her drink. ‘Yeah, she’s been at the station all afternoon, answering questions and filling out forms. They said they’d put the word out for Shayla, which means entering her details into national databases and posting on social media. Pretty much the same thing they told me.’
Tom frowned. ‘You don’t sound too hopeful.’
‘What good are databases and social networks if she’s stuck out in the bush somewhere?’
Kendra sniffed and looked at Tom. ‘The local cops have had a gutful of Coral Pitney. She’s a real dirtbag, always up to some scam or another. Not to mention she’s with a different man every week. Each of her five kids has a different father, and she’s taken out more restraining orders than you can poke a stick at. Believe me, Coral Pitney is attracted to trouble like a fly to shit. And her eldest daughter’s no different.’
Abby’s eyes flashed angrily. ‘How can you say that? Shayla’s just a kid. I had a feeling it was her in the campground, and Coral just showed me her photo. It was Shayla all right, and now something’s happened to her. I feel responsible.’ She looked across at Tom, her eyes bright and somehow wild. ‘This is why I need to do the Deepwater story. So that girls like Shayla wake up and stop taking unnecessary risks with their lives.’
Kendra’s cheeks shone red in the firelight. ‘Abby, I know you’re on some weird crusade because of what happened to you as a kid, but I’ve got to think of my sponsors. There’s not going to be a Deepwater story.’
Abby crumpled her paper cup. ‘What do you mean, no Deepwater story?’
‘It’s old news, Abby. Ancient history.’
‘What about Shayla?’
Kendra sneered, light flaring off her nose stud. ‘The Pitneys of this world are not newsworthy, Abby. No one wants to read about people like them. They’re a burden on the system and are better off ignored.’