The Daughter's Promise (ARC)

by Sarah Clutton

  ‘Shit,’ said Sylvia. Without hesitating, she ran in after her.

  A blanket of chemical smoke was spreading across the ceiling of The Old Chapel like spilled black milk, and Constance was staring up as if it were an apparition. A ravaging wall of golden-orange flame obscured the back half of the building. Smoke was curling down the walls to meet the fire, thickening and blackening as they watched.

  ‘Let me atone!’ wailed Constance. She began coughing.

  Sylvia pulled her back into the vestibule. The curtains on the nearest window were a tower of writhing liquid orange. All around the room, fire was morphing into huge, shimmering, brilliant walls of flame, pushing an avalanche of heat towards them. Sylvia leaned back in horror, trying to pull at Constance.

  Constance jerked away, her eyes shining. ‘“I will be to her a wall of fire, declared the Lord. I will be the glory in her midst.”’ She held out her stick to keep Sylvia back as she stepped further into the living room.

  ‘Come back!’ screamed Sylvia, but the words were muted, thickened by the smoke in the air.

  ‘You must tell the truth, Sylvia. About the will. Annabelle will be all right if you do.’

  Behind her, Sylvia felt a jerk. Indigo was pulling at her shirt. Indi shouldn’t be in here. Too dangerous. Sylvia tried to lean forward to grasp at Constance, but heat slammed her face, her body, her lungs. There was a great whoosh, and fire seemed to engulf the whole space. Sylvia ducked, but from the corner of her eye, she saw Constance leap forward – as if she were a young woman – straight into the flames. Another explosion roared through the house. The main beam holding up the roof collapsed in a violent crash, sparks and ash and flame spewing across the room. Sylvia stumbled backwards, and Indigo dragged her out through the door and down the steps.

  Outside, the rain was harder now, and it swallowed them in a cold, fierce blanket. Sylvia turned her face up to it. The raindrops merged with the sooty tears falling down her face.

  A crowd of people were standing in the laneway, pointing, screeching, exclaiming. ‘Constance,’ breathed Sylvia.

  ‘We can’t save her, Mum! We need to get further back. The fire brigade will come.’

  ‘Where’s Annabelle?’

  ‘Over there,’ said Indigo. She pointed to the group huddled next to the woodshed.

  Annabelle was hunched over, keening. Willa was holding onto her, murmuring something. Sylvia stumbled towards them. The sound of breaking glass splintered the air. Flames and black smoke began pluming out through the little window at the top of the house.

  In the distance, the wail of a fire engine grew louder.

  ‘Constance,’ sobbed Annabelle, looking desperately at Sylvia.

  ‘I’m sorry, Anna. I couldn’t get to her.’ Sylvia put her hand on Annabelle’s shoulder. ‘Come away.’

  Flames were licking at the timber exterior now. Within minutes, The Old Chapel was engulfed in a crackling blanket that sounded like an angry waterfall.

  Willa and Sylvia both held onto Annabelle. ‘Come away,’ said Sylvia again, walking her backwards. ‘We’re all too close.’ She looked up the roadway as the huge red truck turned the corner, siren and lights blazing.

  Annabelle turned to Willa. ‘Please, don’t let the headstone burn.’ She pointed to the blackened stone covered in clumps of newly cut grass. ‘Little Maisy kept all my secrets.’

  Across the flower garden, a crowd had surged onto the lane, and as the fire engine approached, people stepped back to let it park.

  Sylvia ran across the garden and pushed through the crowd. A fireman clad in bright yellow jumped down from the truck and she gestured urgently. ‘There’s an old lady trapped in there.’

  Dan’s voice boomed across the chatter. ‘Over here for the hoses,’ he called, and a second fireman followed him towards the water supply.

  Sylvia felt her legs wobble. She ran back across the grass to where Annabelle and Willa were standing. Dan was suddenly beside them.

  ‘What the fuck happened?’

  ‘I don’t know. But Constance is in there,’ said Sylvia.

  ‘Shit,’ said Dan.

  Annabelle was panting and crying. Wailing.

  ‘Pull yourself together!’ Dan spat the words at her.

  Sylvia saw red. The noise of the crowd and the firemen, the flames and the wind was beating into her head in a violent cacophony as she finally understood all her terrible mistakes. She moved in front of Dan, spitting at him with unleashed anger and hate, ‘Don’t speak to her like that!’ Then she turned her back on him and put her hands gently on Annabelle’s shoulders. ‘Breathe with me, Anna. Breathe as I count.’

  Dan turned and strode across the garden towards the fire truck.

  Passing him, coming towards them, was the huge, hulking figure of Tippy Heokstrom. He was wearing a pullover that was two sizes too small, and his face was creased with worry. ‘You crying, Annabelle?’ he said.

  Annabelle put her hand to her mouth, then nodded, as her breath slowly normalised.

  ‘Yes, Tippy. My… my friend is in there.’ She nodded at The Old Chapel.

  ‘It’s a bad house. You was dancing and twirling in there in the kitchen. The night Mister Andrew came and I was hiding in the yard.’

  Annabelle nodded.

  ‘He hurt you real bad.’ His face wrinkled into a well of sadness. ‘Sorry Annabelle.’

  Annabelle lifted her hand to Tippy’s arm. ‘It’s all right, Tippy. It wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘It’s good I helped Lillian throw him in the sea,’ said Tippy. ‘He was too heavy for her.’

  Sylvia’s hand fluttered to her mouth.

  ‘I didn’t tell,’ said Tippy. ‘Lillian said I couldn’t ever tell.’

  Annabelle gave his arm a small squeeze and closed her eyes. ‘I always knew it was my fault,’ she whispered to Sylvia. ‘But I didn’t realise. I didn’t understand how things worked back then… I didn’t mean for it to happen.’

  Sylvia drew her little sister towards her, enfolding her, smothering her with conscience-stricken love.

  ‘I never meant for him to come near me, Syl,’ said Annabelle bleakly into Sylvia’s shoulder, ‘and I don’t know if I’ll ever get away from him.’

  Thirty-Three

  Willa

  The Merrivale gardens were empty. Outside, across the lane, an ambulance was parked next to two police cars as dusk settled. One of the fire engines was still there too, and firemen had been poking around in the remains of the blackened building all afternoon.

  Sylvia had insisted that Annabelle go to bed a couple of hours ago, and she and Willa had cleaned up the remnants of the ruined fete once they had convinced the last of the committee members to leave. Now they sat on the couch, sipping tea.

  ‘I’m sorry. About your house,’ said Sylvia, wincing as she thumbed the bandage on her arm where the fire had singed her.

  Willa shrugged.

  ‘And about finding out about your father. What happened to Annabelle – it’s… there are no words.’

  Willa nodded. She felt hollow.

  ‘Lillian sent me a photograph,’ said Sylvia. ‘Of you, when you were born. She took it when she went to collect Annabelle in Launceston, at the place your parents were renting.’

  A tide of emotion flooded through Willa. A rush of thoughts so enormous that she could barely hold onto any of them. She couldn’t speak.

  ‘You were the tiniest little thing. Just so sweet,’ continued Sylvia.

  ‘Lillian had one too, in her box of photo albums,’ she said eventually.

  They both seemed to sink further into the couch, sharing a moment of silent sorrow at the loss of all the photographs. The sound of Dan’s Range Rover pulling in near the kitchen door broke the moment. His car door slammed. Willa could barely believe he’d driven off after the fire was brought under control, leaving Annabelle to cope with the aftermath of such a terrible event. What a selfish man he was.

  He walked in and ignored them. He opened the fridge and t
ook out a beer, then leaned back on the kitchen bench. ‘I thought you were leaving town,’ he said, looking at Sylvia.

  ‘Not just yet,’ said Sylvia.

  ‘Well I don’t know why either of you is still here. You’re not wanted.’

  ‘We’re here for Annabelle,’ said Sylvia. There was ice in her voice.

  Willa’s stomach clenched in the silence that followed.

  ‘I think it’s you who needs to leave, Dan,’ said Sylvia. ‘You don’t love Annabelle. You don’t care about anyone but yourself. You should do us all a favour and pack your stuff.’

  Dan gave a short, barking laugh. ‘What?’

  ‘Anyway, this is Willa’s house now,’ said Sylvia. She looked around the beautiful living room. Teacups and plates were piled high in plastic crates against the walls, washed and ready to return to the hire company.

  ‘What the hell are you on about?’ said Dan. He was angry now. He stood up straighter, his voice disbelieving, but there was a flash of uncertainty in his eyes.

  ‘The will,’ said Sylvia.

  ‘What about it? I’m the named beneficiary. Now that Constance is gone, I have a clear title.’ He narrowed his eyes at her.

  ‘No, Dan.’

  Willa felt a wall of tension between them expand as Sylvia held his glare.

  ‘The other will. The original. Willa is Andrew’s daughter.’

  Dan scoffed. ‘What?’

  ‘It was Andrew who got Annabelle pregnant,’ said Sylvia.

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘It’s true.’ Annabelle stood at the door, her face wiped clean of make-up. She was wearing her pyjamas.

  Dan stared at her, uncomprehending.

  Annabelle sighed. ‘You need to leave, Dan.’

  ‘Have you all lost the fucking plot?’ said Dan, looking from Annabelle to Sylvia.

  ‘Please don’t speak like that,’ said Annabelle. ‘For forty years I’ve gone along with you. I’ve loved you. Supported you. But now you need to listen.’ She looked at him steadily. ‘Andrew was violent. He was violent to Constance, to Lillian, to me. He was a violent, sadistic man.’

  ‘He wasn’t,’ said Dan. His face was tight with disbelief.

  ‘You were young, Dan. I don’t blame you for not spotting it. But what he did to me was more than any woman – any child – should have to bear. I did bear it, though. I survived. I always thought that if I told you, you might not believe me.’ She looked across at Willa. ‘But now I realise I don’t need you to believe me.’

  Dan turned away, half staring at the floor. Then he turned back. ‘You’re not taking my house.’

  Sylvia said, ‘It’s Willa’s house, Dan. She is in line to inherit. She’s Andrew’s next of kin. The real will would have recognised her as the beneficiary.’

  ‘Don’t be crazy. You go down that road, Sylvia, and you’ll rob Annabelle too. Leave things as they are. She’ll get half of Merrivale in the wash-up.’

  Sylvia shrugged.

  Dan spluttered. ‘If you want to contest the will, you’d have to admit to committing fraud! To swapping the documents. You signed the damned thing.’

  She shrugged again.

  Dan exploded. ‘Fuck it, Syl! Don’t be so stupid! I was saving his arse. You know I was!’

  ‘Dan,’ said Sylvia, calmly. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘I’ll fight this. I’m not going to let you ruin my reputation. And what for? You don’t even know her!’ He gestured at Willa with a flick of his hand.

  ‘She’s your cousin, Dan. Your blood, and mine.’

  Dan said nothing. Willa’s dislike of him twisted in her stomach.

  Sylvia sighed. ‘Don’t be stupid. It doesn’t all have to come out. You can just sign the paperwork to transfer Merrivale to Willa and get it all done quietly. It’s in your interest to avoid a public scandal. I’ve read Lillian’s diaries. I know what really happened with the trust monies. And not just the once. It happened when that resort investment failed a while back too, didn’t it? You borrowed money to prop things up.’

  Dan’s face cracked.

  ‘Lillian only stayed silent to protect Annabelle from a scandal. So don’t be an idiot. Just organise the transfer.’ She looked across at Annabelle, who gave a small nod. ‘We don’t want you here,’ said Sylvia.

  Dan turned his back, both hands resting on the kitchen bench, as if it was holding him up. Then he turned.

  ‘The diaries are gone,’ he said. ‘Burned to ash, I’m guessing.’

  Sylvia stood. ‘Then it’s my word against yours, I suppose. I’m happy to take my chances.’

  ‘Who are they going to believe in court, Syl? A respected solicitor with an unblemished forty-year career? Or a drop-out hippy?’

  The angry exchange was making Willa’s head throb. What were they talking about? Wills? Fraud? ‘I don’t want Merrivale,’ she said quietly. ‘I have a house. And a family. This house is a part of who Annabelle is.’ She looked out the window, past the fire engine and the charred skeleton of The Old Chapel to the ocean. ‘It belongs to Annabelle.’

  ‘No. It doesn’t,’ said Sylvia. ‘In reality, it belongs to you.’

  After a pause, Willa spoke again. ‘When the house I grew up in was sold after my parents died, it was awful. When we lost Esme, well, of course, that put it into perspective, but when I think about all the losses I’ve been through in the last few years – both my parents and my daughter – that home, it mattered. When it was sold, it made me feel as though I’d lost my roots. I think I’ve been looking for somewhere to put them back down. And when I found The Old Chapel, I thought, maybe this is my place, because something about being here felt right.’ She paused, pulled her gaze away from the window. ‘But maybe it was meeting all of you – a sense of people being in a place they belonged to – that satisfied something in me.’ She sighed. ‘Sylvia, I can’t take their house.’

  ‘Dan was going to sell it anyway,’ said Sylvia. ‘Selling Merrivale in conjunction with The Old Chapel would have made it worth much more. That’s why he wanted The Old Chapel.’

  ‘What?’ said Annabelle, turning to Dan. ‘You were planning to sell Merrivale?’

  Dan ignored her. He reached into a cupboard and took out a bottle of whisky.

  ‘Surely you weren’t?’ said Annabelle tremulously.

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ muttered Dan as he poured the whisky.

  ‘Dan? We worked so hard. The gardens, the new business… This was our dream…’

  ‘It was your dream, not mine. The weddings were the only way I could think to keep the whole bloody thing going. It costs me a fortune, the upkeep of this place. I’m sick of spending all weekend mowing lawns and listening to you whingeing about why I haven’t trimmed the hedges or mulched the orchard. I’m sixty-six, Annabelle. I’m bloody tired.’

  There was so much anger in his voice. Willa felt herself withdrawing into a corner of the couch.

  ‘Well, it’s not yours to sell,’ said Sylvia. ‘In the original will, Andrew’s heirs got everything.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Annabelle, blinking rapidly. ‘Yes.’ After a minute, she turned towards Willa. ‘Yes, that’s how it should be.’

  ‘Well it’s a moot point,’ said Dan. ‘No diaries. No evidence. No proof.’

  ‘I have the diaries,’ said Willa quietly. ‘I took them to my rental house yesterday.’

  All three heads swivelled to look at her.

  ‘And I found the extra box of them. The missing ones.’

  Sylvia shot Willa a disbelieving look, but a smile formed on her lips. Then she turned to Dan, triumph showing in the tilt of her chin.

  ‘You’ll get nothing if we don’t fight for this place, Annabelle!’ roared Dan. ‘Half of bloody nothing! The other assets are a pittance. I can’t retire if I don’t have this place to sell. Don’t you see?’ Dan’s face was puce. He slammed the whisky glass down on the bench and Willa jumped.

  Annabelle didn’t flinch, though. She cocked her head to one side and seemed to consid
er the idea.

  After a moment, she walked to the couch and sat down carefully next to Willa. Then she smiled brightly. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do see.’

  Thirty-Four

  Annabelle

  Twelve months later

  Annabelle stared at the email from Ian Enderby. There seemed to be endless rounds of paperwork to sign these days. She found it tiresome, all this work she now needed to be on top of.

  She thought back to the moment, just a fortnight after the terrible fire that had killed Constance, when she had finally returned Ian’s incessant phone calls.

  ‘I need to talk to you about Constance’s estate,’ he’d said.

  She had sighed, picturing the face of dear, serious Constance. She missed their weekly cups of tea. She missed Constance. She’d been a solid presence in Annabelle’s life for more than forty years. She supposed the church would inherit the bulk of her fortune. And some would go to Dan, as surviving family. There was a niece on Constance’s side in Melbourne, too. No doubt any remaining relatives would soon come out of the woodwork now that there was an estate to distribute. It was such a vast fortune, so Dan had once told her.

  Constance owned a treasured Royal Worcester tea set that Annabelle had often admired. She had hoped that would come to her, so she could think of Constance when she sat down to drink a cup of tea. She raised her hand to the cross around her neck and fingered it; a habit she’d had for most of her life. Constance had gifted her the silver cross when she turned sixteen, and she had worn it ever since, even though she wasn’t really sure if she still believed in God. Still, it was sensible to keep your options open.

  In the few days since the fire, her grief for Constance seemed to be interspersed with panic about how she’d manage now that she’d thrown Dan out. Emotionally, physically and financially she was a wreck. Still, she had insisted that Willa take ownership of Merrivale as was her birthright, even though it meant Annabelle was now practically destitute and soon to be homeless. Her and Dan’s assets, when they removed Merrivale from the equation, were apparently quite limited. Dan had squandered most of their investments and superannuation in a failed property development a few years ago, it turned out. Well, he didn’t use the word squandered, exactly. ‘I was ripped off by a mate’ might have been the phrase. She remembered he’d been stressed when a friend’s hotel chain went bust years ago, but she knew now that he hadn’t told her the full story at the time. Perhaps, she admitted to herself, because she wouldn’t have been interested. Still, making Dan sign Merrivale over to Willa was strangely satisfying. It made her happy, despite her panicky moments wondering how she could possibly find a job at her age, with so few skills.