The Daughter's Promise (ARC)

by Sarah Clutton

  ‘Oh,’ said Willa.

  ‘The Broadhurst family have been big property owners in the north of Tasmania since settlement,’ said Ian. ‘Dan’s Uncle Andrew inherited this farm. It was passed down from his parents. He was a lawyer by profession, though. Worked for my father in the early days. Nice chap. It was a tragedy, what happened to him.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Willa.

  ‘He was killed. Fell from the cliffs here,’ said Ian.

  Annabelle busied herself with the teapot.

  ‘How awful,’ said Willa.

  ‘Yes, terrible. Absolutely terrible,’ muttered Annabelle.

  ‘It really was,’ said Ian. ‘He was the sort of bloke where you thought, why him? He was such a good person in the community. Every Christmas he used to run a fund-raiser where people would drive from Burnie to Devonport in their beautiful old classic cars and the money would go to the community children’s fund. Do you remember that, Annabelle?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Annabelle. She’d been at the starting line for the event a few times as a child. She remembered Andrew Broadhurst standing next to the loudspeaker, then on the running board of his silver Jaguar, handing out huge bags of sweets and Christmas hampers to the children and their parents before the race. Annabelle had once begged her father to be allowed to go and take some of the sweets, but he had admonished her: Those sweets are for the needy. We’re not poor, girly. They might struggle a little, survive on hand-me-downs, but apparently that was different.

  ‘Dan was very close to him,’ added Annabelle as she reached over to refill their teacups, ‘Still, it was decades ago. Constance managed the place very well on her own after he died. It’s a wonderful legacy she left here. Merrivale is very precious to us.’ Talk of the death had put a cloud over the conversation, and Annabelle was irritated at Ian for bringing it up. She needed Wilhelmena to be in a positive mood for this chat. She wondered how to mention The Old Chapel and its significance to the property without sounding rude.

  As she was casting around for an idea, Banjo rounded the corner of the house and wandered towards them, his hindquarters swaying in a loping gate.

  ‘You’d better watch your cake,’ said Annabelle, pointing to the dog.

  Willa seemed to soften as the old yellow Labrador lumbered towards her. ‘Hello, beautiful,’ she said. Banjo sat at her feet and let his head be scratched.

  ‘Careful,’ said Annabelle, ‘you’ll be covered in hair. He’s shedding. It’s ridiculously annoying if you happen to be wearing black.’

  Willa gave her a look that Annabelle couldn’t quite interpret.

  ‘So,’ said Annabelle, ‘how did you know Lillian?’

  ‘I didn’t, said Willa. She kept one of her hands buried in the folds around Banjo’s neck.

  ‘Really?’ said Annabelle. ‘How bizarre! What’s the connection, then?’

  There was a pause, and Willa looked across at Ian.

  ‘I think Wilhelmena is still trying to work that out too,’ said Ian.

  ‘Oh,’ said Annabelle. ‘Isn’t that intriguing!’ She pondered this for a moment as she forked a piece of blueberry cake into her mouth. Looking at a whole blueberry bulging out of the moist vanilla sponge, she suddenly had an image of the lump in her breast. She bit down hard and jumped in with both feet. ‘Do you think you’ll be keeping The Old Chapel? I imagine it’s of no use to you if you’re living in England.’

  Willa had both hands on the sides of Banjo’s neck and was scratching him with all her fingers. She didn’t say anything.

  ‘I mean, it’s not exactly easy to pop back to Australia for a weekend at the beach, is it? You’ll be selling, I should think,’ laughed Annabelle tightly.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll need to talk about it with my family.’

  ‘Of course. Sorry. You’re married, I see,’ said Annabelle, motioning to Willa’s ring finger.

  ‘Yes,’ said Willa, looking up briefly again before returning her gaze to the dog.

  Annabelle sighed internally. So, Willa was one of those people. They always made her feel like she was at the beginning of a gym workout she hadn’t wanted to come to in the first place. Hard work. There were no easy offerings, but you just had to get stuck in.

  ‘Children?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Willa. Her face was inscrutable.

  ‘How wonderful. Boys or girls?’

  ‘One of each.’

  ‘How lucky!’ said Annabelle.

  ‘Yes,’ said Willa, after a beat.

  Annabelle felt as if she’d hit a brick wall. ‘Would you like some more cake?’ She motioned to Ian’s empty plate. Willa’s cake had barely been touched.

  ‘No thank you,’ said Ian. ‘It was lovely, but we’ll have to be getting back shortly.’

  ‘Oh, of course!’ said Annabelle, cutting another slice of the cake for her own plate. She needed fortifying. This woman was making Dan’s plan to acquire The Old Chapel seem like a marathon task.

  She broke off a small piece with her fork and popped it into her mouth, closing her eyes momentarily to enjoy the moist sweetness of it. She’d realised this morning that she hadn’t got any poppy seeds, so she’d had to abandon her favourite orange cake recipe in favour of this. It was silly. Unlike her to run out of supplies. She was just so scatty lately. When she opened her eyes, she noticed that her guests were looking out towards the lawn. Sylvia and Indigo were walking across together. Annabelle’s heart sank.

  When they reached the veranda, Sylvia smiled at Willa and Ian. ‘Hello. I’m Sylvia, Annabelle’s sister. And this is my daughter, Indigo.’

  Annabelle was always struck by the differences between her sister and her niece. Sylvia could have been a cover-girl model in her day. She had the lithe figure and the interesting, angular face. Her hair was pulled back in a pigtail and she was wearing tight-fitting jeans and a button-up green shirt, sleeves rolled to her elbows. Indigo was shorter, and dressed in her usual colourful harem pants and a blue long-sleeved T-shirt. Her father must have been exotic – Indian, or perhaps Nepalese, pondered Annabelle for the millionth time. She knew Sylvia had been living in some yogi-type place when she’d gotten pregnant. Indigo had a lovely rich brown skin tone and thick dark-blonde hair. Today the mess of her hair was hidden beneath a mustard-coloured turban.

  Ian and Willa both stood and shook hands with the new arrivals. There was an uncomfortable moment as Annabelle wondered what to do. She really didn’t want them to sit down and discuss buying The Old Chapel, but she knew for certain that was what they were here for.

  ‘Ian and Willa were just about to leave,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, what a shame,’ said Sylvia, turning to Willa. ‘We were wondering if you’d like us to talk you through some of the artworks that Lillian left in the house. Obviously we don’t want to keep you, though. You might be all up to speed.’

  Banjo had abandoned Willa and wandered across to Indigo. She squatted down and ran her hand along his back, taking out handfuls of creamy hair in the process. She and Willa were smiling at each other.

  ‘Oh, that would be lovely,’ said Willa.

  ‘Great,’ said Sylvia. ‘Lillian was my oldest friend. We were at school together. I know she would have liked me to show you around.’

  Willa smiled and stood up. The wind blew her dress against her body. Annabelle wondered if the woman was eating. She was so unpleasantly thin.

  ‘Ian may have to get back, though.’ Willa looked at Ian.

  ‘I’m afraid I do. I have a meeting shortly.’ He turned to Sylvia. ‘Would you be able to drop Wilhelmena back to her lodgings if I head off?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Sylvia, at the same time that Annabelle said, ‘Oh, I can do that!’

  Willa looked from one to the other. ‘You’re both so kind. I’ll just fit in with your plans.’

  ‘If you’re finished your tea, we can head over,’ said Sylvia. ‘Lillian was an accomplished painter. If you’ve been in the house, almost all the works you saw were hers.’
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  ‘They’re amazing,’ said Willa.

  ‘I’ll come too,’ said Annabelle irritably. Why should she miss all the fun? Besides, she didn’t want Sylvia getting in Wilhelmena’s ear about buying The Old Chapel if she wasn’t there to plead Dan’s case.

  Annoyingly, she was due to meet a bride’s mother shortly. The woman wanted to talk about seating and locations for the ceremony on Saturday if the weather turned wet. Annabelle would have to keep watch from The Old Chapel doorway in case she arrived early. She turned to gather the tea things onto the tray, but froze when she saw the dog.

  ‘Banjo! Stop!’ she screeched. Banjo had his front paws on the coffee table. His head was bent to the side and he was licking the blueberry cake, which sat on top of a delicate ceramic cake stand. Annabelle stepped around her chair, shrieking, and as she did so, the cake stand toppled onto the tiles of the veranda and shattered. ‘Bad dog! Bad, bad dog!’ She stamped her foot and shooed him away just as Banjo gulped down a huge chunk of cake. He slunk behind an armchair.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’ said Annabelle her hands covering her mouth as the others looked on. ‘You’re such a naughty dog, Banjo!’

  The dog lowered his head and shuffled further away.

  ‘If only he’d eat the snails from my agapanthus, we’d all be a lot happier.’ Annabelle was trying to make light of the situation, but the words came out a little bit shrill.

  ‘Banjo, you crazy dude,’ said Indigo, giggling. She shook her head, and Willa laughed too.

  Annabelle leaned down and picked up the larger pieces of the broken cake stand, putting them on the table. ‘You all go ahead,’ she said, not daring to look up. For some unfathomable reason, she felt tears welling in her eyes. ‘I’d better tidy up here. I have someone popping in soon about a wedding anyway.’

  Ian coughed. ‘Ah, Sylvia, I really should get the key to The Old Chapel back from you now, actually.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Sylvia.

  ‘You’ve been a great help to the estate, saving me from having to employ a maintenance person. But, now that Wilhelmena is here I need to formalise things.’

  Willa interrupted. ‘I don’t mind. If she’s always had the key, and she’s able to keep an eye on the place for a while longer, then…’ She shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Of course I can,’ said Sylvia.

  ‘Well, I suppose so,’ said Ian. ‘If you’re sure, Wilhelmena.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘Great,’ said Sylvia. ‘Let’s head over.’

  ‘Do you need some help, Annabelle?’ asked Willa.

  ‘No, no. Not at all. You carry on.’

  ‘Thank you for the cake. It was lovely.’

  They both looked sideways at her barely touched piece of cake.

  ‘You’re more than welcome,’ said Annabelle.

  Annabelle put the broken fragments of the cake stand on the tray and carried it into the kitchen. There was something unusually defiant about the way Sylvia had turned up today. The way she was pursuing The Old Chapel. Usually she was much more laid-back – left things to fate or karma or some other cosmic force that seemed to float about and sprinkle fairy dust on whatever she touched. Although, of course, Annabelle hardly knew her sister these days. She’d only been back in Tasmania for eighteen months, and even though Sylvia was living so close, sometimes a week or two would pass between them running into each other. They’d seen each other more when Lillian was dying, of course. Sylvia had taken care of her, so she was in and out of The Old Chapel every day. But since then, hardly at all. Sylvia didn’t like coming over in the evenings for dinner, and so Annabelle had to push her to have lunch now and then. They occasionally ran into each other at the surf club if there was a community meeting or they were both there having coffee or dinner with friends. But it didn’t feel like enough. It didn’t feel sisterly.

  After she’d cleaned up the mess, Annabelle checked her diary for the day’s jobs. She really must make a doctor’s appointment to get a script for her hormone pills. The lump popped into her mind again. Silly. That little cyst certainly wasn’t worth bothering poor Dr Collins about. A waste of time. And Annabelle had hours of work to do in the garden, then a garden meeting tonight with the ridiculously large subcommittee to discuss the autumn garden festival. What a busy, busy bee I am, she thought as she hurried to the office to deal with her emails. As she sat down, she felt a strange little wave of nausea, and wondered if the tea was reacting with the blueberry cake.

  * * *

  ‘I think the money raised should go to the church,’ said Patrice Richards. She was perched on the edge of her chair, her perfectly combed hair sitting prettily in grey waves around her face. She wore pink lipstick the exact shade of the roses on her blouse. ‘After all, they let us meet here for a very reduced rental each month.’ She sniffed. Patrice was the church organist, and spent most Fridays tidying up the gardens around the little graveyard at the rear of the church where her husband was buried.

  ‘No way!’ said Elaine Yellowstone, her cranky face set in its usual scowl. ‘The bloody churches have fleeced the community for too long. And what do they give us back? A prayer and a pat on the back, and if you’re really lucky, they’ll lend us a priest who will later be moved on to another parish but in the meantime he’ll molest your kids for free. A fat lot of good that does for the needy!’ She drummed her fingers on the table and directed a withering look at Patrice, who had slunk down in her chair.

  ‘Let’s keep it civil, Elaine,’ snapped Lucy Benson.

  There were eighteen of them sitting around four large trestle tables that had been pushed together. Lucy was standing at one end, directing the meeting. Every so often she stopped to make notes on the whiteboard.

  ‘Did you say your children were molested by someone?’ asked Vera Haysworth. Her voice crackled across the meeting from the other end of the joined tables. Everyone turned to look at her. ‘That’s terrible, dear.’

  ‘Turn up your hearing aid, Vera,’ said Mary Trelawney in a loud stage whisper. Her posse of friends tittered, but several others tutted and scowled at her.

  You are a cow, thought Annabelle. A jealous, bitter, dreadful woman.

  Lucy tried to get the meeting back into order. ‘So far I think the majority are keen on donating the money to one of the environmental groups or a charity for cancer.’ She turned and underlined cancer and environment on the whiteboard.

  ‘My Stan’s really struggled after his prostate operation. It’s the mental bit they find hard, isn’t it?’ said Abigail Beddingham. ‘You know, erection difficulties, which is tough on a man, isn’t it? I vote for the cancer charity.’

  Annabelle cringed. This was a public forum. And there was a man present! It was all very well to say these things to close friends or family, but seriously, Abigail had no sense of occasion. She was only about fifty, but was married to a much older man. A retired judge. He was so withered and creaky-looking that Annabelle had sometimes wondered how on earth he’d managed to woo the glamorous Abigail. And anyway, the fact that he was about a hundred was much more likely to explain his problems in the erection department.

  The meeting had been dragging on for over an hour, and they were only up to the second item on the agenda, the fund-raising aspects of the garden fete. They were supposed to be donating half of the funds to a local charity, but nobody was agreeing on which one. It was hot in the church hall and Annabelle was sweating. She pressed her arm against her side as she felt a trickle of sweat from her armpit run down into her bra. She knew she was pressing against the lump, and she imagined it dislodging and floating through her body, leaving toxic cells in its wake. Which was silly, because it was a perfectly harmless cyst.

  ‘Let’s get this show on the road. Can we agree that it’s between the cancer counselling service and Landcare?’ asked John Boyle. He was very good at getting things back on track, thought Annabelle. Men were so much better at sticking to agendas.

  There was a general murmur of agreement.
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  ‘All right. All those in favour of the cancer counselling service, then?’ said Lucy.

  Everyone except Annabelle, John and Patrice raised their hands.

  ‘Well, that’s settled,’ said Lucy. ‘I think the important thing is that the funds will be going back into the local community. The cancer counselling service in Burnie is really worthwhile, and I know we’ve all had experience of cancer. It just seems to be getting more and more frequent. They’ll be really happy to have our support.’ She smiled around at the group, but Annabelle refused to meet her gaze. ‘Let’s take a break and have a cup of tea, shall we?’

  Annabelle looked down at her hands as the buzz of voices around her rose. Chairs scraped and people began moving towards the tea table. She felt sweaty and a bit queasy. The whole thing was irritating. She had very much wanted to support the local Landcare chapter, who were busy pulling weeds out along the river near Sisters Cove. Surely her vote should have counted for more than the others given that she was hosting the damned fete? She stood, but a sudden dizzy spell made her sit back down. A sick, clammy coldness come over her. Her heart was pounding. She could hear it drumming in her ears. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong with me.

  ‘Are you all right, Annabelle?’ Mira put her hand on Annabelle’s shoulder.

  Annabelle tried to speak, but the nausea became a violent whirlpool and her throat felt like it was closing. She opened her eyes, but her vision was blurred. She could hear herself making a noise – Help. Help me – but it wasn’t coming out properly. The chicken sandwiches! They must have been off. She’d sneakily taken two chicken and walnut finger sandwiches from Lucy’s platter as she came into the little rear kitchen to get the teacups ready. They’d just looked so delicious! Perhaps she had salmonella. Or something worse! She was certainly poisoned. Terror gripped her – sheer, utter terror – ice-cold and heavy. She was dying and Dan wasn’t even here. She hadn’t helped him with The Old Chapel, and now Sylvia and Indigo would get it, which was fine, but still. How would he manage without her? What about the wedding on Saturday? She wasn’t ready to die.