The Daughter's Promise (ARC)

by Sarah Clutton

Hamish clicked a couple more times and a photo of an uneven hedge and a postbox appeared. To the right of the picture, the edge of a small white weatherboard building with a dilapidated paling fence could be glimpsed. It was partially surrounded by a garden full of colourful plants. In the background, a paddock swathed in white appeared to hold some sort of crop.

  ‘Let me see,’ said Willa. She pushed Hamish’s hand off the mouse and manoeuvred the photograph around, but all she could see were trees lining a narrow dirt road, and an ocean backdrop stretching into infinity. She spun the photograph around and landed in the branches of a tree. ‘This is silly.’

  ‘Do you want me to show you the rest of the neighbourhood, Mum?’ asked Hamish, easing the mouse out of Willa’s hand.

  ‘Sure,’ said Willa, annoyed that she was so inept.

  Hamish flew over the tops of the trees and within a few seconds had stopped at a lavish-looking garden and large house. ‘Mansion’ might have been a more appropriate word given the scale of it, except that it looked to be made from weatherboard and brick and there was a certain casualness of style. It had the feel of a grand farmhouse. Around it were several other buildings.

  ‘Check out the neighbour’s place. Very fancy,’ said Hamish, sweeping the mouse across the length of the property. Willa counted four of five outbuildings and cottages. At one end were symmetrical rows of trees in what looked like an orchard, and formal gardens surrounded the house.

  Before she had a chance to comment, Hamish moved the mouse again and they were flying across a stretch of white sandy beach below a smattering of beach houses. Directly in front of the sand, the colour of the ocean changed from a deep blue-green to a pale sparkling aqua. He moved the mouse onto a larger building that edged the shore and was set away from the other houses. A label popped onto the screen: Sisters Cove Farmgate Café and Lifesaving Club.

  ‘Lifesavers. Cool!’ said Hamish.

  ‘It does look rather idyllic,’ said Hugo, rubbing his hand up and down Willa’s arm.

  ‘Mmm,’ said Willa, feeling oddly discomforted. It felt impolite to be staring into people’s back yards, and really, the whole thing was too much to take in. She stepped away, leaving Hugo and Hamish zooming across the screen, exclaiming at the remote, picturesque village and surrounding farmland.

  She needed to get something for dinner or they’d be forced to eat Hugo’s famous bacon omelette again, and she wasn’t sure she could stomach that. She looked at her watch and closed her eyes, realising she’d missed Antonio’s closing time and wouldn’t be able to serve their gorgeous artichoke and quinoa lasagne for dinner as she’d planned. She’d have to make do with a Tesco ready meal instead. She had no energy to cook. Lillian Brooks and her silly church house. A wave of foreboding made her shiver and her head throbbed. Still, headache or not, she needed to go shopping. Tesco it was.

  ‘I’m going to the supermarket,’ she said. She picked up her keys and handbag and headed towards the mud-room.

  ‘What about this house, Mum?’ asked Hamish. ‘Aren’t you going to ring the solicitor to see what you can find out?’

  ‘It’s night-time in Tasmania, Hame. I’m pretty sure he’s not waiting by the phone.’

  ‘Be careful, darling, the roads are icy,’ said Hugo. ‘Would you like me to go? You look a bit peaky.’

  ‘I’m perfectly fine,’ said Willa. I, Wilhelmena May Gilmore Fairbanks, am perfectly fine. She closed the mud-room door as her breath began to come in short, shallow gasps, the air receding just out of reach of her lungs. She held onto the bench top. Everyone is safe and well. Everything is all right. Deep breaths. Remember you have experienced this before and you will survive. Everything is perfectly fine, perfectly fine, perfectly fine.

  Except Willa knew that it wasn’t.

  Two

  Annabelle

  ‘I’ve finished Elm Cottage.’ Indigo dropped the mop bucket on the hallway floor and stepped towards Annabelle’s desk, flicking her dark-blonde hair away from her face.

  ‘Great. Now I need you to take those flowers to the annexe, then help me set up the chairs in front of the arch, please,’ said Annabelle.

  Indigo wiped her hands on her elephant-print harem pants, then dipped her hand into her pocket. ‘Found this under the cushions on the day bed. I reckon it’ll fit me. The woman who checked out looked about my size.’ She grinned at Annabelle, holding up a black lacy G-string like a prize.

  ‘Eww,’ said Annabelle, grimacing. ‘Surely you’re not going to wear it?’

  ‘Why not? It’s designer.’ Indigo grinned and stretched the panties across her groin.

  ‘Right,’ said Annabelle, swallowing hard. ‘Waste not, want not, I guess. I don’t suppose she’ll ask for them back will she?’

  ‘Nah. Reckon she’d be too embarrassed. No one wants to admit they had sex on your couch, do they?’

  Annabelle felt a bit queasy. ‘Did you check the scatter cushions were clean?’

  ‘Yeah, all done.’

  Indigo grinned and strolled towards the door, and Annabelle felt a pang of jealousy at her unhurried, relentless positivity. So much Zen on what could only be a stress-addled day. One that could be the start of Annabelle’s new and incredible career, or could sink her before she’d even begun. She could feel her heart zinging in her chest already and it was only ten a.m. She needed to pace herself. The wedding wasn’t until four.

  ‘Annabelle, have you turned the water off?’ Pete, her farmhand, stood in his socks at the door of her office.

  ‘What? No! Is it off outside?’

  ‘Seems to be. I just tried the kitchen tap too. Nothing.’

  ‘Blast,’ said Annabelle.

  ‘Want me to check the pump?’ asked Pete.

  ‘Would you mind? I can’t think what would have tripped it this time, but you’ll need to prime it. Or something like that.’

  ‘Righto. Robbie used to do it, so I’m not the expert, but I’ll look up the instructions on the internet.’

  ‘Lord save us,’ muttered Annabelle under her breath as she followed him towards the door. She thought about all the reasons they would be needing water between now and the end of the wedding. Flowers, cleaning, showers, hand basins, washing-up, drinking water. Bugger bugger blast. The bride and her party were already in Bay Cottage getting ready. The hairdresser, the make-up girl – they’d all probably need water. And definitely flushing toilets. And the ceremony was taking place in front of the water feature. Double blast!

  ‘Let me know when you get it going,’ she called after him.

  She felt a little panicky flutter in her stomach and picked up her running sheet, nervous energy buzzing through her. The phone rang and she fished it out of the oversized front pocket of her gorgeous new denim apron.

  ‘Annabelle Broadhurst speaking.’

  ‘Hi, Annabelle. It’s Kevin here from Barry’s Bus Line. I’m in your side lane near the entry gate. Just wondering if you’re around. I’ve got a bit of a problem with a tree.’

  ‘I’ll be there in a minute, Kevin.’ She ended the call and looked across at Indigo.

  ‘Bus problems now. Brilliant. Luckily I love a challenge!’ She rolled her eyes comically and Indigo laughed. ‘Actually, Indi, you’d better take some water bottles down to Bay Cottage. Be super-apologetic and tell them the water will be back on in a minute. Maybe leave the flowers until after that.’

  Annabelle hurried towards the front door, conscious of her loud, heaving breaths as she balanced herself against the balustrade to pull on her boots. Her pants bit into the rolls of her belly and she sighed loudly again, a combination of frustration at the unwanted problems of the morning and annoyance at herself for having eaten most of the packet of mint-chocolate biscuits last night. Not a brilliant start to her new diet.

  Outside, the perfect blue sky and sparkling ocean views across the paddocks made her stop and take a calming breath. A perfect mild summer’s day. That was one good thing, at least.

  She glanced across at the dirty whit
e weatherboards of The Old Chapel. Its wild garden framed the endless blue backdrop beyond. The grass on the verge of the lane needed mowing. She would have to send Pete over in case the bride wanted photos near the barn with the ocean in the background. Farm chic was apparently the latest and best in photo opportunities. She supposed Lillian’s now neglected garden would fit the theme if it made it into the shots.

  Lillian had been gone for a couple of months now, but it had been a shock for all of them when the contents of her will had come to light this week. Annabelle wondered yet again about The Old Chapel’s new owner. Wilhelmena Fairbanks. She didn’t even live in Australia. How was she supposed to contact the woman? Today wasn’t the day to worry about it though, she supposed.

  At the gateway flower beds, masses of dark pink dahlia heads were swaying in the breeze. Beyond that, down the pebbled driveway, the back end of a tour bus was poking out from behind the boundary hedge. As she reached the laneway, Annabelle gasped. A huge branch from the old maple tree was slung in a monstrous leafy mess alongside the bus. A man – Kevin, she presumed – was rubbing his hand along the bus door. The shattered wing mirror dangled pathetically from exposed wires.

  Stay calm. Be in control. You are now a professional wedding ceremony host.

  ‘Good grief. What happened?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh. G’day,’ said Kevin. He looked at Annabelle momentarily, then down at the branch. ‘I just dropped a tour group in Stanley,’ he began, scratching his chin. ‘Thought I’d work out the best place to park for this wedding lot you’ve got coming this arvo. Looks like the lane’s a bit narrow.’ He pointed to the corner, where the bend in the main road met the laneway entrance. ‘Branch was hanging too far across.’

  Annabelle stiffened. No. No it wasn’t, Kevin! The branch was hanging in perfect balance with the rest of the tree, which has been extending its lovely branches across this lane for as many decades as I can remember!

  She looked up at the huge gash in the side of her beautiful deciduous maple, the showstopper of the front entrance to Merrivale. It looked traumatised. Unbalanced. She felt a little unbalanced herself. The tree was currently covered in tiny rust-red flowers before its main autumn display of deep-red leaves, many of which were now on the ground, about to wither. She loved that tree.

  ‘I see,’ she said, as her breathing returned to normal. ‘Well, you’ll need to get rid of that branch.’ She gave a tight smile of encouragement in direct counterbalance to her thoughts. Actually what she wanted to do was cry. After she’d strangled Kevin. ‘You can put the wood on the bonfire pile in the far paddock. Borrow our chainsaw if you need to – Pete will know where it is.’ She pointed in the direction of the pump house. ‘Sorry, but I have to get going.’

  She walked back up the laneway and stood for a moment at the first tree in the orchard, still covered in walnuts that were fast going to the birds. They’d harvested plenty to pickle in the week after Christmas, but the trees were still heavy with pretty green spherical nuts that might or might not yet be picked, depending on Annabelle’s energy levels after this wedding.

  She closed her eyes and reordered her thoughts. Priority one: water. She deviated past the studio and headed down towards the pump house at the base of the hill, where Pete was standing with his hands on his hips. His shirt was stuck to his chest. He was drenched.

  ‘Any luck?’ she asked.

  ‘Can’t seem to get the pressure valve going. Reckon it’s something to do with the flow rate from the council side.’

  ‘Right. What do we do?’

  ‘I’ve rung the usual pump guy in Burnie. He reckons his technicians are all booked today.’ Pete squatted down and twisted his screwdriver to open a valve. Water spurted out, hitting him on the forearms.

  ‘Really?’ said Annabelle. She had a sudden image of an angry bride in Bay Cottage who was probably wanting to shower at this very moment.

  They both turned their heads to look at the pump as it hummed into life. Annabelle held her breath, but after a few moments the motor sputtered and died.

  ‘That’s what it keeps doing,’ said Pete. He stood up to face her. ‘The other pump mob in Yolla said they were too busy too. Tried them straight after.’

  ‘Bugger,’ said Annabelle, staring dumbly at the silent pump. ‘Right. Let me talk to them.’ She pulled out her phone and dialled as Pete read out the number, then drummed the fingers of her other hand against her apron as the phone rang.

  ‘Burnie Pumps. Gary speaking.’

  ‘Hello, Gary. My name is Annabelle Broadhurst and I believe you just spoke with my farmhand, Peter Bledham, about a broken pump at our place in Sisters Cove. I understand your technicians are very busy today.’ She listened to the murmur of agreement on the other end. ‘The thing is, Gary, I have a wedding at our property at four p.m. today and a hundred guests who will require flushing toilets and drinking water, and caterers who will need to wash their hands and…’ she paused, mentally flailing around for some sort of culinary practice that required water, ‘steam their canapés!’ she blurted.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘In the meantime, I can’t hose down the exterior tables, I have a bride who is unable to shower or wash her hair and a mother-of-the-bride in complete hysterics in one of our cottages.’ Annabelle was amazed at how the slightly fabricated dramatics flowed off her tongue. She felt no concern about the lies – every bit of that scenario would come true if she didn’t get the water back on in the next hour, she was certain. ‘Now, I know this isn’t your problem, Gary, it’s mine. But I am begging you, if you have any romance in your heart, if you’ve ever been married, you’ll understand that I am utterly desperate and I cannot do without your urgent assistance straight away. I’ll pay whatever you want.’

  She listened to the slight delay on the other end, and wondered if she’d taken the right approach.

  Eventually Gary spoke. ‘My wife left me last year. Ran off with my best man on Valentine’s Day. Known him my whole life.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Annabelle, momentarily blank at this absurd bit of bad luck. Why had she felt the need to mention romance? Stupid, stupid, stupid. ‘I’m so sorry, Gary.’

  ‘Just kiddin’ you, Annabelle.’ Gary laughed.

  Annabelle wanted to scream with frustration. She looked at the broken pump and wondered if she might be about to lose her mind.

  ‘Look, if you give me half an hour, I’ll lock up the office and come out myself. See what I can do. Send me a photo of the pump so I can bring a replacement with me in case I can’t get yours fixed.’

  ‘Gary, God bless you. I’ll make sure my firstborn grandchild is named after you,’ said Annabelle, letting the tight belt of panic around her stomach unwind slightly. That promise was an easy one to make. She and Dan had no children, so they were unlikely ever to have any grandchildren. And if the fairies somehow magically delivered her one in the future, she was sure Gary would never find out. Some promises were obviously meant to be broken. She ended the call.

  The pump sputtered into life, then died again.

  ‘I’d better go and see how the bridal party are coping with the drought,’ said Annabelle.

  She marched up the hill towards Bay Cottage, leaving Pete squatting by the pump. As she passed the machinery shed, her eye was caught by the sun glinting off the breakers along the coastline as far as she could see. Such a shame The Old Chapel got in the way of the view. ‘Well, Lillian,’ she muttered. ‘Apparently you and your silly bequest haven’t been the worst thorn in my side this week. It turns out that water pumps and idiot bus drivers have beaten you to the prize.’

  The sound of crickets clicking and skittering in the grass and the gentle swish of the breeze through the gum trees was her only reply.

  She sighed. She couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Lillian was having the last laugh. The identity of this mystery woman who was inheriting The Old Chapel kept rubbing at the edge of her thoughts, like a freshly formed blister.

  Ahead of her, the door to
Bay Cottage was ajar and she peered through the fly screen. ‘Hellooo.’

  A blonde girl in her late twenties in a floral silk kimono-style bathrobe came to the door, her hair in hot rollers. ‘Oh, hello!’ She smiled, and Annabelle found herself entranced by the girl’s incredibly prominent front teeth with a large gap in the middle. She lost her train of thought for the slightest moment.

  ‘I… er, I just wanted to pop my head in and see how it’s all going.’

  ‘Oh, great. I’m Leanne. One of the bridesmaids. We’re pretty good. Although Petra’s a bit stressed.’ The girl smiled again, then leaned towards Annabelle and whispered, ‘Hates her hairdo. Wants to start again. I’m trying to convince her it’s fine. Although she does look a bit like Cleopatra,’ she added, widening her eyes.

  ‘I’m sure she looks lovely. You wouldn’t want to get the timing of the day out of whack by starting again,’ replied Annabelle conspiratorially. Plus, there’s no water to wash it.

  ‘Exactly.’

  The two women shared a moment of silent agreement and Annabelle realised she was waiting for the girl to smile again. There was something about her strange teeth that turned her from ordinary-looking into alluring.

  Another girl in an identical floral robe came out of the living room towards them, a man with a large camera around his neck behind her.

  ‘Petra’s just thrown up,’ said the girl nervously. ‘Hopefully it’s just wedding-day jitters.’

  Annabelle felt her own stomach begin to churn with all the possible implications.

  ‘Really?’ said Leanne. ‘I felt a bit off after that seafood we had last night. Hope it’s not food poisoning.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s not,’ said Annabelle. ‘That comes on within a couple of hours. As you said, it’s probably just nerves.’

  ‘She can’t get the toilet to flush,’ said the girl miserably.

  ‘Oh gosh,’ said Annabelle. ‘Look, I’ll bring a bucket of water over to flush it manually. The pump has just gone down briefly. I’ve called an emergency technician. Sorry, girls. It’s the council’s fault. The flow to the area has been reduced due to some technicality, and the pumps don’t like it.’ She wondered if that sounded feasible. In any case, it was better than blaming it on their own temperamental infrastructure.