The Daughter's Promise (ARC)

by Sarah Clutton

  She marched past them and stopped in front of Willa in the hall, taking hold of her hands.

  ‘There is nothing I can say that will make this right. I’m so sorry you found out like this. I… I just can’t talk about it right now.’

  She hung her head, then dropped Willa’s hands and walked out the screen door and into the rain without breaking stride. The door slammed shut.

  Willa spun around as another movement caught her eye. At the other end of the hall, a huge hulking giant of a man stood in dirty clothes that had been plastered to his body by the rain. His grey hair and beard were matted and he looked at Willa with a shy, blank sort of expression.

  ‘Annabelle said I gotta have a shower,’ he said.

  ‘Okay,’ said Willa, as if this was the most reasonable thing she had heard all day. Her voice sounded remarkably normal. ‘I was just on my way to the bathroom,’ she said. ‘How about I show you where it is?’

  As she walked down the hall, the smell of something rotten wafted from the man.

  He leaned down to her and said, ‘You’re pretty.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Willa gently. ‘It’s very kind of you to say so.’

  ‘Annabelle says I stink,’ said the giant.

  That is not an understatement, thought Willa. ‘Perhaps,’ she said after a moment, ‘Annabelle was just trying to help.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said the man. ‘Haven’t had a shower for a while. My mum said it was time.’

  Willa blinked hard.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Mothers seem to know these things.’

  Twenty-Five

  Sylvia

  1977

  Sylvia took a step towards him. The blood on Dan’s face was from a cut near his temple. Two long, deep scratches started at his forehead and ran down the side of his face. His hair was matted with dried blood.

  ‘Dan? What did you do? Were you in a fight? What do you mean about Andrew?’

  Dan lifted a dirty, blood-streaked hand and swiped it across his jeans.

  ‘I think he’s dead,’ he said. His voice was hoarse. He turned to the table and began flicking through some papers. ‘It’s a nightmare.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ Sylvia tried to quell the hysteria that was rising up in her.

  ‘He’s gone over the cliffs. I’ve been helping the police search, but…’ He shook his head.

  ‘Why do you have all those cuts?’ asked Sylvia.

  ‘Jesus, Syl. Don’t ask dumb questions. I’ve been out on the cliffs for half the bloody night, pushing through bushes with the search party.’ He sat down at the table and began going through the papers. ‘I’ve just been into the office to get his will. I need you to do something for me,’ he added without looking at her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If Andrew’s gone, then we’re all up shit creek. Me and you, Lillian. Financially, I mean.’

  ‘Why?’

  He gave a heavy sigh and stopped rifling through the papers. ‘I found out that Andrew was taking money out of the trust account at work. To pay for his gambling. We fought, and I agreed to cover it up until he could get his hands on some of Constance’s money to pay off the debts. I countersigned some documents. The trail will lead back to me if I don’t sort it out now. God.’ He balled his hands into fists. ‘I’m so fucked.’

  ‘Just tell someone. It wasn’t you doing the stealing.’

  ‘It’s not that simple. And there’s something else. He promised ages ago that he’d change his will in favour of me. At the moment, Merrivale goes to Constance if he dies. There’s no provision for it to stay in the Broadhurst family if that happens. She could leave it to whoever she wants in her own will. He knew that wasn’t right. It belonged to my great-grandfather, Syl. Even before all this, Andrew promised to change it.’

  ‘Then why didn’t he?’ asked Sylvia.

  ‘I’m not sure. I had Lillian type the new will up ages ago, but he kept putting off signing it. Constance has some sort of hold over him. Maybe she knew about the gambling or something.’

  ‘What can you do about it now, though?’

  ‘I need you to forge his signature, Syl. I can’t do it. I’ve been trying all bloody night. He swiped angrily at a piece of paper on the edge of the table. It had dozens of lines of messy writing on it, one beneath the other.

  ‘But that’s fraud,’ said Sylvia in a tremulous voice. ‘And how can you do that to Constance?’

  ‘It’s not. Not really. He promised me he’d change it. His intentions are all in this new will,’ Dan pushed the unsigned document across to Sylvia, ‘Merrivale is left to me if Andrew dies, but Connie gets a life tenancy. It’s not like we’ll be turfing her out. She gets to live there still. And you know she doesn’t need the money. She’s got a huge trust fund of her own. She could buy half the state if she wanted to.’

  ‘But Dan—’

  ‘Syl, you have to. If this new will goes through, I should be able to borrow money against Merrivale and pay off Andrew’s debts as well as put the money back into the trust account to cover his tracks. I’ll be doing Connie a bloody favour. It won’t look good if it comes out that her husband was diddling the clients by using their money when we were meant to be holding it on trust. Trust accounts are sacred, Syl. Untouchable.’

  Sylvia blinked hard, trying to process what he was saying, hearing the angry, entitled edge in his voice.

  ‘People won’t believe that Lillian didn’t know about it either – she’s in charge of the books. A scandal like this would shut the firm down. I’d be tarnished by association. I could lose my practising certificate.’

  Sylvia’s whole body began to shake.

  Dan pressed at her arm. ‘Lillian would lose her job. You know she can’t afford for that to happen. Len’s depending on her.’ He pulled her towards the table. ‘Look, his signature’s really swirly. Like that calligraphy you do. It’s pretty. You’ll be able to copy it.’

  Sylvia looked at Dan’s aborted attempts at Andrew’s signature. Dan’s handwriting was tiny, crude and squashed together. As far away from his uncle’s elegant script as it was possible to be. She glanced up at his desperate face.

  ‘I’ll be taking on his bloody debts, Syl! It’s the opposite of fraud. I’m doing him a favour. I’d be doing everyone a favour!’

  Sylvia wondered, as she picked up the pen, about the blood. About the huge double scratch on his face, like fingernails.

  What if there were no trust account debts? What if he was telling her that to convince her that changing the will wasn’t so bad? Why would Andrew be out on the cliffs in weather like they’d had tonight, anyway?

  What if he wasn’t dead?

  Twenty-Six

  Sylvia

  Sylvia let out her breath as the bang of the screen door echoed into Annabelle’s office. She sighed with disappointment. She had been a terrible sister and she was still failing at it. This afternoon, she was planning to leave for Devonport to catch the night ferry, and after that, she supposed she wouldn’t be back. She wouldn’t be welcome in this house, anyway. Her heart felt dark with loss.

  Dan was silent. He poured another glass of whisky, ignoring her angry look.

  ‘Goodbye, Dan.’

  She walked out, dragging the roaring silence of the room behind her. Outside, the rain was quickening. People were huddling on the veranda, holding coats over their heads and taking shelter beneath trees.

  Across the garden, she saw Annabelle walking briskly towards the back shed. The Paella Pan Man had already moved his food stall inside the large open-sided tent.

  She thought about the pain in Annabelle’s eyes. It had been terrible. No doubt it was partly due to seeing her in the room with Dan, and partly also due to the presence of Willa. Perhaps that accounted for it, but she couldn’t help feeling there was something she was missing. Annabelle’s face had been pleading, distant somehow. Something was very, very wrong. Sylvia could feel it. She had known it for ever really. Her sister needed something from her, but she wasn’t
quite sure what.

  She wished again that she hadn’t come to Merrivale today. It was such bad luck that Dan had found her leaving a goodbye note for Annabelle in the office. Neither of them was welcome at the fete, but Dan’s resentment at being publicly humiliated over their affair had made him cruel. And Annabelle was bearing the brunt of his damaged ego.

  Still, it was clear to Sylvia now that he hadn’t been lying; he wasn’t Willa’s father. But she had no idea who was. Dan had fitted. Thirty-nine weeks after that night in the car, Annabelle had given birth. Lillian had written, and the letter had left Sylvia cold. It was icy confirmation of Dan’s faithlessness and Annabelle’s betrayal. And yet it hadn’t been that at all. But the dates meant that Annabelle must have become pregnant within a week or two either side of that horrible night. The night Andrew had disappeared. The night Sylvia had forged the signature on the will.

  None of it made sense. Annabelle hadn’t had a boyfriend back then, and she was rarely allowed out except under Sylvia’s supervision. Sylvia had remained at home for nearly another two weeks after that night.

  When she had returned to her bed, cold and terrified after signing the will, she knew she couldn’t stay in Sisters Cove. She couldn’t stay with Dan. But it took time for her fare to be arranged and a job to be found in Melbourne. And Annabelle hadn’t left the house during that time for a single evening.

  Sylvia had refused to meet with Dan that whole time, so she had been at home too. Annabelle had barely looked at her during those long days. Evening meals, when their father insisted they eat at the table together, were awful, silent affairs, the air as thick as rancid butter. It had left their father perplexed.

  Could it have been a boy from school she’d met during the daytime?

  There was a small voice inside Sylvia’s head telling her that it was important she find out. Annabelle needed her to know. She followed her sister across the grass, the rain running coldly down her neck and squelching beneath her feet. By the time she reached the shed, the rain had soaked through her clothes. She opened the door.

  ‘Annabelle?’

  In the dim light, she could see Annabelle moving from one side of the shed to the other. She was pulling dusty old sheets of board away from the wall, craning her neck to see behind them.

  ‘What are you looking for? Can I help?’

  Annabelle ignored her. After another minute of searching, she turned back to the door, pushed past Sylvia and strode across the garden towards the little gate onto the road. Sylvia followed. Annabelle crossed the lane and reached The Old Chapel, but instead of going in, she walked through the garden and disappeared behind the house. The rain continued, a steady blanket of cold, beating through Sylvia’s clothes. She passed the corner of The Old Chapel and stopped at the back of the woodshed, where there was a storage area. It was the only place Annabelle could be. She peered in.

  Annabelle was panting heavily, turning from one end of the tiny dark space to the other with a look of disbelief on her face.

  ‘What do you need, Annabelle?’

  ‘A trestle, all right! I need a trestle table for Tippy’s honey. Lillian always kept one in here. You cleaned up. What have you done with it?’ Her voice was brittle with anger.

  ‘Anna, there’s no point setting it up. I don’t think this rain is going to ease. How about you come inside?’

  ‘Don’t you dare tell me what to do!’

  ‘I’m sorry. But you’re shivering. I’d really like you to come inside and dry off. And I want to apologise, for everything.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think? You’re leaving. You’re leaving me again!’ She was glaring at Sylvia, her eyes full and bright, her face taut.

  ‘Yes, but I… I thought that would be the best thing to do. For you. I’m still your sister. And I know I wasn’t there for you back then. I mucked things up. I’m still doing it.’

  ‘Yes. You are! You always thought you knew best. So quick to judge. All the time. Your own daughter won’t even tell you what she’s doing with her life because you’re so damn judgemental!’

  ‘What do you mean? What about Indigo?’

  ‘Oh, forget it,’ hissed Annabelle. ‘You ruined my life when you walked out back then, and now you’re doing it again.’

  Sylvia felt the bitter blame in the words, and before she could stop herself, she said, ‘But you didn’t help things either. You didn’t tell me anything. If I’d known there was a boy on the scene, that you were pregnant, I would have supported you. Helped you to keep the baby if you wanted to.’

  Annabelle came towards her out of the gloom of the shed. Her face was twisted with fury. ‘Go away! Just go away!’ she screamed.

  Sylvia stumbled backwards. ‘Anna, really. I’m so sorry I left. I was afraid. I was afraid that Dan had killed Andrew!’ She blurted out the words in a rush of anguish. ‘I was terrified. I ran away because I thought I might have helped him cover it up.’ She put her hands to her mouth to stop the sob.

  Annabelle stopped and squinted at her. ‘What?’

  ‘There was so much blood,’ said Sylvia. ‘On his face, his hands. Then he asked me to forge the will. I did it, but later, when they found Andrew’s body… Well, they couldn’t rule out foul play, because he’d been in the water for so long, near the rocks. But when I thought it through, I had this terrible niggling doubt. I could barely eat or sleep.’

  ‘No,’ said Annabelle bluntly.

  ‘It’s true,’ said Sylvia.

  ‘No. Dan didn’t kill him.’ Annabelle shook her head. ‘I know he didn’t.’ She reached out and touched Sylvia’s hand. ‘There’s something I should tell you.’

  She took Sylvia’s sleeve and pulled at it, and when Sylvia didn’t move her feet, she dropped it and turned towards the ocean. Seemingly oblivious to the rain, she began walking past The Old Chapel. When she reached a small gate into the paddock, she stopped and opened it.

  Sylvia hurried after her and closed the gate behind them.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘Connie knows,’ said Annabelle. Her hair was being swept back in the wind, and she was concentrating, looking straight ahead, walking fast.

  ‘Connie knows what? About the will? That I forged his signature?’ asked Sylvia. She stepped around a cowpat and stumbled as the grass grew rougher.

  ‘Yes,’ said Annabelle. ‘Andrew had asked her that night, before he died. Asked her to pay off his debts. She said she’d do it because she was afraid of him. He was violent,’ she added. ‘Did you know that?’

  Sylvia shuddered. The matter-of-fact way Annabelle was speaking was unsettling.

  ‘Connie knew the debts were never going to end. That his gambling was an addiction. She was afraid of him. She knew she couldn’t live like that any longer.’

  ‘What?’ said Sylvia. A sweet, sick sensation erupted at the back of her throat.

  They were standing near the cliff face now. In front of them were three flimsy strands of wire. Waves were crashing into the rock face below.

  Annabelle took Sylvia’s hand and looked at her steadily. ‘Constance knew that man deserved to die, long before he raped me.’

  Twenty-Seven

  Annabelle

  1977

  Annabelle looked up at the rain coming in through the open door in the foyer. She needed to get up. Needed to do something. She pushed herself off the couch, dragging at a knitted blanket that was slung across the back. She wiped it roughly across her face, then glanced down again at Sylvia’s ripped top, knowing she needed to cover it before Dan came back.

  On the hook in the vestibule she spotted Lillian’s gardening jacket. She walked across the room, each step making her grimace at the sharp, throbbing pain between her legs and across her back. She put on the jacket and zipped it up, then turned to look out the door into the blackness. Nothing.

  She stepped outside and rain pitter-pattered coldly into her hair, its gentle tapping rhythm melding with the background rush and hiss of the ocean. Af
ter a moment, she caught the sound of voices. She crept towards them, peering around the corner of The Old Chapel. A weak glow of electric light came from the tiny window high up, and as Annabelle stood squinting, shaking, the clouds parted and moonlight moved across the garden, right onto little Maisy’s headstone.

  Lillian and Andrew were standing near the woodpile. The rain began to ease and the noise of the ocean receded. Lillian was shouting. ‘Tell me! Just tell me!’

  Andrew just stood and looked at her.

  ‘You’re a monster!’

  ‘Stop it,’ he snapped. ‘It’s none of your business who I sleep with.’

  ‘That wasn’t sex, you bastard. It was rape!’

  Before Annabelle could register the shock of the words, Andrew raised his hand and hit Lillian hard across the face. Her head whipped sideways and she stumbled backwards, letting out a low cry. But she recovered almost immediately and threw herself at him, lashing at his chest, screaming, pounding at him.

  Annabelle shrank and cowered, holding onto the building. She was stuck, completely frozen.

  Andrew seemed momentarily stunned too, then with one sure movement, he grabbed Lillian and threw her backwards against the tin wall of the woodshed, slamming her head into the corrugations with a vicious clang. Then he raised both hands to her neck and lifted her off the ground. Lillian’s feet were flailing, kicking metallic thumps against the shed that became weaker and weaker as Annabelle watched. There was deathly fear on her face, and soon everything was completely, terribly silent.

  Annabelle stared until panic broke through her trance. She looked around, but there was no one there to help Lillian. Only her. She stumbled back up the steps of The Old Chapel, kicking off Sylvia’s shoes as she went. Her eyes moved in small, jerky motions around the room. Something heavy. Something heavy. They fell on Len’s ashtray, and she knew immediately that that was it. She grabbed it, and the little removable tray clattered to the floor, ash scattering over the mat. The cube-shaped marble base of it was a solid weight, heavier than she expected. She pulled it behind her and ran back outside, flying with the terror. At the corner of The Old Chapel, she stopped.