The Daughter's Promise (ARC)

by Sarah Clutton

  ‘Willa? Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. I…’ She had to pull herself together. ‘I knew you’d be coming so I thought I’d wait.’

  ‘All right. Shall we take Kettles for lunch?’ Hugo was looking at her oddly.

  ‘I… No. I’ll put him in.’

  Willa took the old dog back into the kitchen. In the hallway, she looked at her face in the mirror. It was blotchy, her eyes puffy and pink. She brushed her hair with her fingers and put on a blue woollen hat that Hugo liked. It hid the mess of her hair.

  Outside, Hugo took her gloved hand and they walked towards the city centre. She wondered where they were going, but she didn’t have the energy to ask. She wanted Hugo to decide. She might like a cup of coffee. Yes, a cup of coffee would be very warming. Very nice.

  At the entrance to a new café on Little Clarendon Street, Hugo said, ‘Wait here a minute, darling.’ He went in and spoke to a man and came back out with a pretty hessian bag.

  ‘I ordered a picnic earlier,’ he said. He smiled at her kindly. So kind, her husband. It occurred to her that it was too cold for a picnic, that there was nowhere to go where they wouldn’t freeze, but she smiled back, because she knew she was letting him down. She needed to try. She loved him, and she needed to make things normal.

  They walked past the stunning brick edifice of Keble College Chapel, then crossed the road into the University Parks. Hugo led her down the familiar paths towards the Cherwell, where the wind bit into their faces and the bare beech and chestnut branches swayed. They kept walking along the banks of the river and eventually reached a grove of yew trees, and Willa felt her knot of anxiety lifting at the familiar, lovely sight of her favourite spot. They passed a lamp post, and ahead of them, between some large oaks, bare of leaves, a dark green fir tree sparkled with remnants of ice.

  Hugo led her to a park bench – a high-backed wooden seat with wrought-iron arms, but instead of turning around to sit, he said, ‘Here it is.’

  Then Willa understood. It was finally here. She bent over. In the centre of the seat was a small metal plaque:

  In memory of our beautiful girl

  Esme Katelyn Gilmore Fairbanks

  11 November 2001–28 February 2017

  She took a breath and let the emotions jostle in her mind. This is where we will come to remember you, darling. Her eyes tingled with heat and she squeezed Hugo’s hand.

  She sat on the bench and ran her glove along the black iron of the arm. Hugo sat down next to her and gave her shoulder a squeeze. He picked up the bag and placed it on his lap, and pulled out a thermos and two cups. After he’d poured the coffee, they sat and watched a young woman with a toddler. The little boy was running and falling in his huge, thick duffel coat. The girl must be his nanny, thought Willa. So young. Hugo was watching them too, and after a while, just as Willa was beginning to think they might see what food was in the bag, he said, ‘I was thinking about the house in Tasmania.’

  ‘Me too,’ she said.

  ‘I was thinking about who the woman might be.’

  Willa could hear the hint of forced cheer in his voice.

  ‘Yes, me too.’

  ‘I… I know you won’t want to hear this, but I think there’s only one person who it can be,’ said Hugo. He turned and looked at her, and Willa looked back. She could see his love, his open, trusting heart, but beneath all that she could see a hint of fear, and she almost couldn’t bear it.

  He squeezed her gloved hand.

  Willa was holding the coffee cup with her other, bare hand and focused on the warmth of it in her palm, the cold air against her knuckles. She reached down and placed it at her feet.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  She closed her fingers around the iron rail of Esme’s seat. Her beautiful daughter. Her little girl, who she would never see again. And now she had to think about that house. That woman. It was too much. How dare anyone interrupt this moment? This special day? Today was for Esme.

  Hugo reached into the bag and pulled out a large polystyrene cup and a plastic spoon.

  ‘Chicken soup,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Willa. The anger had gone as quickly as it had arrived. She took off her other glove and wrapped her hand around the cup and stared at her fingers, long and elegant. Her mother had called them pianist’s fingers. Her mother was within her, part of her. The part of her that needed to keep living. Her mother would have liked to sit here on this bench, remembering Esme.

  The cold pushed into her, but Willa felt strangely warm, as if a small piece of her might nearly have been restored. The sharp fragment of a broken teacup, glued back together by a delicate line of glue. She needed the pieces to stay together now. She owed it to her husband and her son.

  ‘Perhaps we can stop by the travel agent on the way home,’ she said.

  Hugo gave her an uncertain smile.

  ‘I imagine you and Hamish can do without me for a week or two if I go.’

  Hugo didn’t answer immediately. But she could feel his relief that the burden he’d been carrying for both of them might have an end in sight. That there might be light at the end of this awful dark path she’d been treading.

  ‘We’ll have a lads’ week in,’ he said gently. ‘Steak every night.’

  Willa looked back at the little boy. His nanny was holding both of his hands and swinging him around. She gathered pace and lifted him off his feet. Hugo was looking too. The girl began turning faster and faster, and they listened to the child’s gurgling squeals of laughter as he spun through the air, and Willa thought: yes! Yes, little one! You can fly.

  Five

  Annabelle

  ‘It just doesn’t make any sense,’ said Dan. He finished the last of his red wine and refilled his glass. He put the bottle back on the table, picked up his knife and fork and attacked the lamb.

  Annabelle glanced at her own empty glass. ‘Well, I suppose Lillian had her reasons, darling.’

  ‘What reasons? It’s selfish. This woman in England has probably never even been here. Certainly not that we know about. She inherits a broken-down house on the other side of the world and Lillian tells her she has to visit it before she sells it.’ Dan sighed and gulped down another mouthful of wine. ‘She’ll end up selling it anyway, but it will just cost more. Selfish.’

  ‘Why will it cost more?’ asked Annabelle.

  ‘Two transactions. Legal fees and so on. The cost of the woman’s travel. It’s just a big fat expensive hassle. Lillian knew I would have bought it off her and let her stay in it until she died.’

  ‘Maybe she didn’t know that.’

  ‘I told her last year. When she was looking half at death’s door. She knew all right.’

  ‘What?’ Annabelle cringed. She pushed the rare lamb to one side and finished chewing on a bean. She tried to swallow, but Dan’s revelation was weighing on her oesophagus and she couldn’t get it down.

  Dan was looking at his phone.

  She picked up her beautiful navy and white tasselled serviette, part of a set she’d found on a shopping trip to Melbourne last year. Dan had told her she needed to use the trip as a tax deduction, so she’d visited a wedding expo on the same weekend.

  She coughed into the serviette. ‘What do you mean, you told her? Surely you didn’t mention the fact that she was dying?’

  He looked up. ‘She was bloody dying. Everyone knew it.’

  ‘Yes, but… still.’

  ‘Anyway, Ian Enderby says this Englishwoman has arranged a time to see the place on Thursday. He’ll bring her out. I might try to have a chat with her. You should too. Be nice to her. It’ll be easier to get her to sell to us if you’re friendly.’

  ‘I’ll be busy on Thursday. I’ve got a meeting for the garden fete committee. Then I’m setting up for Lola Peterson’s wedding.’

  ‘You can do that on Friday. Anyway, Indigo cleans the cottages and Pete sorts the mowing for you. And you told me they have their own florists comin
g to set up the arches and that other crap.’

  ‘There are lots of other things I need to do,’ said Annabelle, sniffing.

  Dan began playing with his phone again and Annabelle had a sudden urge to slap his hand. The idea was so foreign that it gave her a little buzz. She felt invigorated. She’d never in a million years do such a thing. If she were to make a point about his rudeness, she might do something like place her hand gently over his and laughingly say, ‘Darling, I’m still here! Silly thing.’

  Dan kept scrolling, probably looking at football scores or his email.

  ‘It takes hours to get everything perfect for the weddings. And the garden doesn’t do itself, you know.’ Her voice sounded whiny, and she thought: I am making the best garden and wedding ceremony venue on the north-west coast. Maybe the whole of Tasmania. You should be proud of me!

  ‘Sure. Still, just a quick cuppa with her.’ Dan looked up. ‘Talk gardens or something. Don’t you want to get your hands on The Old Chapel so you can offer it in your wedding options?’

  Annabelle prodded the lamb. ‘Maybe. I don’t suppose it would be popular with brides, though – thirty guests would be a squeeze in there. Forty at most. And we’d have to renovate it. But I suppose an ocean view would be nice.’

  ‘Exactly. Brides would love getting married there and having that view right behind them.’

  ‘No, I mean the view from here. Or from a marquee if we put one up where The Old Chapel is and start offering receptions as well as ceremonies. We could knock The Old Chapel down. We’d have a wonderful view from our bedroom then.’

  Dan looked at her oddly. Then he pushed back his chair and took his wine glass to his armchair in front of the television. Annabelle put down her cutlery and decided she was finished too. She looked forlornly at the pile of untouched Brussels sprouts on Dan’s plate and felt a stab of annoyance. She took the plates to the kitchen and then went into her office and sat down at her computer.

  Half a dozen emails about the garden fete had arrived since four p.m. She felt jittery just looking at them. It had felt like such a coup to be selected as the show garden for the Sisters Cove Autumn Festival and Fete, but now the whole thing was making her feel a bit wobbly. She had four weeks to get the garden up to scratch, or Mary Trelawney would never let her forget it. It wasn’t Annabelle’s fault that her garden had gotten more votes than Mary’s. Lots more votes! Still, it had to be absolutely perfect or Mary and her crew of complainers would make snide remarks for the rest of time.

  She sighed. They’d probably make the remarks anyway. She really needed Pete to work more hours to help her make the garden sparkle. The edges around the old elms needed redoing, but Dan would get cranky if she asked him to increase Pete’s weekly pay from their account. Maybe she could work out a way to set it up from the new wedding account so he wouldn’t notice. Alan from the bank would tell her how to do it. He was lovely about helping her with all that online business.

  * * *

  The sight of the seaweed tea flowing through the mulch soothed Annabelle’s headache. She hadn’t slept well. Too much screen time and answering silly emails before bedtime. She aimed the watering can away from the Japanese windflowers and towards the marigolds, emptying the can across the first golden row. The windflowers wobbled their white heads in the breeze and she caught the faint scent of the native frangipani tree.

  ‘Morning.’

  She looked up. Sylvia was wearing her yoga pants and a fitted singlet top. It defied logic that a sixty-two-year-old woman could look forty. Well, forty-nine perhaps. Much younger than she should look, in any event. They were not at all like sisters, although people often commented that they both looked younger than their years. The only thing that saved Annabelle from withering away to old womanhood was the fact that the chubbiness around her face smoothed out the lines. Sylvia’s face relied on lentils and meditation to do the same job. Annabelle thought her own method, involving a scandalous amount of chocolate, was far more sensible.

  ‘What are you up to?’ asked Sylvia.

  Annabelle smiled. ‘Hello, Syl. Just getting organised for wedding number three and the garden fete.’

  ‘Mmm. About that,’ said Sylvia.

  ‘Yes? Are you keen to do some pruning to help out? I won’t say no!’

  Sylvia laughed. ‘No. Not really.’

  ‘Seriously though, Syl. If you want to put your skills to use for these weddings, I’d say there’s lots of scope for extra income for you. I hear yoga for brides is all the rage.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘You could come and run a private class for them on the morning of the wedding. Calm their nerves.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Sylvia.

  ‘Or use your calligraphy skills. I had one of them asking me about people who could help with place cards and little sign boards. You’d be brilliant.’

  ‘God, no,’ said Sylvia. ‘I haven’t done calligraphy for decades. Anyway, I’m here about the fete, not the weddings. A couple of the women in my sunrise class this morning wondered if you’re going to include Lillian’s gardens around The Old Chapel in the fete tours. I don’t imagine the new owner would mind. Lillian did have an amazing eye for planting.’

  ‘In her own haphazard way, I suppose,’ said Annabelle, turning back to the marigolds. She knew she shouldn’t feel miffed. Lillian was dead for a start, and being jealous of a dead person felt just a little bit, well, childish. Still, she looked over at the tall blue artichoke heads swaying amongst the parched dahlias in the overgrown beds on Lillian’s side of the lane, and supposed the wild extravagance of the garden might draw in a few extra people. Everyone seemed so entranced by The Old Chapel for some unfathomable reason. Paint was curling off the weatherboards and the whole thing would probably blow over in a decent storm.

  Sylvia followed her gaze. ‘I think I can rustle up a couple of volunteers who might help get it in order. Leandra Pickle seemed keen. And her husband too, apparently.’

  ‘Well I won’t have time. You should probably talk to Lillian’s solicitor about it, though, before they go in and start digging around.’

  ‘I already have,’ said Sylvia.

  Again Annabelle felt a surge of something like jealousy.

  ‘I asked him when the new owner is coming out. And I passed on an offer from Indigo to buy the place.’

  ‘Really? Indigo wants it?’

  ‘Yep. Why not? Great views. I was surprised Lillian didn’t leave it to her in her will, actually. It would have been a nice godmotherly thing to do.’

  Annabelle turned back to her watering can and splashed in another black dollop of concentrated seaweed mixture, then leaned down to get the hose. ‘I should probably tell you that Dan and I want to buy it too. It makes sense for it to be returned to the estate, don’t you think? For the heritage. Obviously.’

  ‘Really?’ said Sylvia.

  Annabelle considered the raised eyebrow and the inscrutable smile. Actually a sort of smirk. And Sylvia’s tone. It sounded superior. Big-sister sort of superior. As if she knew better.

  ‘Absolutely!’ she said.

  ‘I’ve only ever heard you whinge about the place,’ said Sylvia.

  ‘No,’ said Annabelle slowly. She felt certain that wasn’t right. Yes, she’d been perplexed that Lillian had ignored all the maintenance the house had needed and had let it become an eyesore for her neighbours. Well, she and Dan were the only neighbours, but plenty of tourists visiting the lighthouse stopped to look at the little weatherboard church building that, from a distance, seemed to sit right on the cliff edge, with the ocean as its only backdrop.

  It was so dilapidated that she had no idea how Lillian had managed to paint her canvases in the building – or live in it for that matter. It was so dark and dingy inside; you could tell just from standing on the doorstep how bad it was. But she’d never whinged about it. Had she?

  Annabelle turned up the pressure on the tap and the hose flew out of the watering can and began whipping around like
a lunatic snake. Water sprayed across Sylvia’s knees, then the hose lurched through the freshly turned flower bed towards Annabelle and sprayed jets of water through the dirt, leaving her soaking and covered in muddy flecks. She stamped on the hose and turned off the tap.

  ‘Sorry.’ She dropped her eyes.

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Sylvia. She held up a key. ‘I’m going to go through a few more things of Lillian’s. Try to clean the place up a bit more. I can’t think who this Englishwoman is, but it looks like we’ll find out on Thursday.’

  ‘Yes. Dan thought I should invite her for a cup of tea,’ said Annabelle, squeezing out her shirt.

  Sylvia made a strange guffawing sound.

  ‘Well, if we’re going to be neighbours, it makes sense.’ Annabelle tried not to pout. ‘I’m going in to have a shower.’

  Sylvia gave her a wave and headed off towards the boundary fence.

  From the verandah, Annabelle spied her sister pushing on the boundary gate and crossing the lane. Sylvia hesitated at the door of The Old Chapel, seeming to take in the view of the ocean. Then she fitted the key into the door and disappeared into the little front entry.

  Annabelle pulled off her boots and went through to the shower. Dan had been so concerned about money lately. So keen for her to start this wedding business when he found out how much people would pay. She wondered how they could afford to buy The Old Chapel if they were meant to be watching the pennies. Apparently they’d had some investments go bad, but she hadn’t asked the details. She didn’t really want to know. Dan had always looked after the money side of things.

  She picked up her new bottle of shower gel and smelled the fragrance of white lilies. It made her think of the last of the flowering lilies in the top beds by the shed. What a shame they’d be gone by the time the fete came around.