The Daughter's Promise (ARC)

by Sarah Clutton

  But then she had returned Ian’s calls. In Constance’s will, he told her, she had been named as the primary beneficiary. Constance had changed her will almost forty years earlier to recognise her.

  Dragging herself from the memory of those first days after the fire, Annabelle pondered the latest email from Ian. It turned out that being rich required a substantial amount of work. There was no relaxing, as one might have expected after inheriting a ridiculously large fortune. Oh no. There were endless meetings with financial advisors, and legal papers to sign with Ian and her new Melbourne lawyers, then constant updates by email about stocks and shares. Then there were property advisors and portfolios, and board papers from companies she owned or had large shareholdings in. Charities Constance had been aligned with now needed a new patron, and there were plenty of tax implications to consider; pages and pages and pages of really rather tedious paperwork. In the beginning everything was unfathomably difficult. But now she seemed to be getting the hang of it. Indigo had been helping her lately. The girl was incredibly bright.

  Annabelle responded to Ian’s email, telling him she would be in on Monday to sign the latest round of documents. She pushed the button to turn on the kettle and looked out the window. On the site where The Old Chapel had stood, weeds and thistles had sprung up during the summer. Pete had sprayed them and cut them back a while ago, but there was something about the ash-enriched dirt that drew them back. She let her eyes land briefly on Maisy’s gravestone before they settled on the magnificent blue of the endless ocean. Out there, across the nothingness, there was something else waiting for her. She could feel it.

  She turned at the sound of the door opening.

  Indigo was holding up a magazine. ‘I know you like me to chuck anything out that’s not worth posting on, but the guests in Bay Cottage left this.’

  Annabelle took the magazine and scanned the cover. British Plants & Gardens.

  ‘Thought it was up your alley,’ said Indigo.

  The photograph on the front was of a delightful garden in front of a stone cottage. The trees were strung with colourful bunting and a table was set for high tea with the prettiest china.

  ‘Lovely,’ said Annabelle, smiling. ‘I might even pop my feet up and read it today. Cuppa?’

  ‘No. Gotta head back into town to the studio. If I don’t get these final pieces made, there won’t be an exhibition to open next week.’

  ‘How’s your mother?’ asked Annabelle. ‘Is she coming back for the exhibition?’

  Indigo hesitated. ‘She’s fine. And no. I asked her, but she can’t get away.’

  Annabelle let out a little sigh. ‘Never mind.’ She missed Sylvia. It had been lovely spending time with her before she left. The Northern Territory was so far away.

  Indigo backed out the door, waving goodbye. ‘See ya Friday.’

  ‘Bye, Indi. And… just so you know, the real-estate agent said Merrivale will be up on their website by Friday, so I’ve cancelled the cottage bookings from the start of June.’

  ‘Okay.’ Indigo nodded.

  Annabelle considered how kind Willa had been, insisting she stay on at Merrivale until her treatment was finished, and she felt ready to decide her future. Well, now she was ready. More than ready. She and Willa had come up with some very exciting plans.

  ‘I’d love you to help me with packing up the house when you’ve got time to fit in some more hours, Indi. I’d pay you, of course.’

  ‘Sure. I’d love to help. And you definitely won’t be paying me.’ Indigo waved again as she closed the door.

  Annabelle put the magazine on the table and thought of Indigo’s renewed passion for weaving. The girl was so talented. Annabelle had been utterly entranced at the state pole-dancing championships a few months ago. She couldn’t believe how Indigo had managed to go upside down on that pole and zoom around it like a lusty, semi-naked acrobat. She couldn’t believe she had enjoyed watching it. The agility! The core strength! It was captivating. It made her dizzy and proud in equal measure. Sylvia didn’t know what she was missing, being such a prude about it.

  She looked back down at the magazine. She didn’t have time to read it really. There was quite a lot to be done with getting the house ready for sale. Dan had cleaned out the shed before he left, but Annabelle still had to deal with sorting the contents of the house and dividing them up. She looked around at the vast array of knick-knacks, furniture, paintings and lovely antiques. Her new rental house wouldn’t take even a fraction of it. Perhaps Indigo would like to choose a few pieces to squeeze into Sylvia’s house down at the beach, which she was now living in. After that, she might help Annabelle to arrange a garage sale or organise the charity van to come and pick things up. What a shame she and Dan didn’t have any children to give things to.

  Annabelle thought of Willa then, and Hamish, and wondered if it would be appropriate to find them a memento amongst all these things. She clicked into her email and reread the one that had arrived from Willa a few days earlier.

  To: Annabelleb176@gmail.com

  From: Wfairbanks@lightscameraaction.co.uk

  So lovely to hear your news…

  Hello, Annabelle,

  So glad to hear your latest round of tests came back all clear. You must be feeling great. The new therapist sounds lovely, too. I know how beneficial mine has been, and even though it doesn’t change the past, sometimes my guy really gives me something to grab onto when everything feels dark. I’ve finally convinced Hugo (after three years!) that he should also be seeing someone, and the other day he gave me a hug and thanked me for insisting. I think the weight of holding us all together was becoming too much, so I am really thankful that he agreed to go.

  We all miss Sisters Cove. Hamish still talks about the surfing. He seems to have grown a few more centimetres and I may have to take out a second mortgage to afford the grocery bill if he doesn’t stop soon! It’s hard to believe he’s turning eighteen in eight weeks. He’s adamant he doesn’t want a party (huge sigh of relief, actually), so I’m thinking we will just take a few friends to the Cherwell Boathouse for dinner. You know I like an event to plan! It’s a favourite special-treat restaurant for us for dinner. I was there just last week for a birthday tea for a friend, and we had a marvellous time watching tourists punting down the river. The kids used to go to school right next door, so it will be lovely to take Hamish back to the place where he and Esme spent so many happy years as children. I find it peaceful to think of her there, watching the gentle flow of the river. Of course I still have awful, dark days, but I’m managing them. I know they’ll always be lurking.

  Let me know how Indigo’s exhibition goes. I emailed her some photos of my weaving efforts from the new class I’ve been doing, but they were pretty pathetic really. Even so, I loved doing them. I’ve met some lovely people in the class.

  Do let me know about anything I can do to make the sale of Merrivale easier for you. The solicitor is keeping me posted, but I mean practical things.

  Better run. My new job with the film company is quite busy. Only three days per week, but it always spills over to four because there are so many events on at the moment. I need to do some work tonight for a meeting I have tomorrow, so bye for now.

  Keep well and keep in touch.

  Love, Willa

  Annabelle sighed, then clicked out of her email. She pulled up the Google search engine and typed in Cherwell Boathouse, Oxford. A delightful picture of a multi-gabled dark Edwardian building popped up, set on the banks of a river with punts moored right out the front. She clicked into the other related images – winding waterways, spectacular drooping willow trees in bright green, then others in all the shades of autumnal brilliance framing a passing houseboat. What a beautiful place to live. She smiled to herself, imagining the gardens of the nearby Cotswolds she’d always longed to visit. She’d begun following all sorts of lovely gardens on Instagram, and there were a few from around that area. And some lovely guest houses and hotels.

  The
photographs lifted her spirits. She’d tried plenty of times to get Dan to visit the UK with her over the years, so she could do a garden tour. But he’d refused, preferring overseas trips with his mates to visit golf courses. But she’d always longed to visit England.

  She ran her finger across the magazine and wondered if she might send something to Hamish for his special birthday. Would that be presumptuous? She knew she wasn’t really supposed to think of him as her grandson, but sometimes her heart clenched at the thought of his lovely face. Perhaps just a small gift. Nothing too personal. What did teenage boys like? A penknife perhaps? Tickets to something? A nice book? She must ask Indigo. She would know. Then she could order it on the internet. She was getting quite good at online shopping these days. Online everything really. Being unwell for so many months during her treatment had forced her into it.

  She closed down the computer and looked across at the magazine. Maybe she did have time to flick through a few pages. She got tired quite easily these days, since the chemotherapy, so perhaps she would sit down for a bit. She picked up her cup of tea and popped two mint slice biscuits onto the saucer.

  ‘Come on, Banjo,’ she said. The dog raised one sleepy eyelid from his place on the rug next to the kitchen table. Eventually he struggled to his feet and followed her out onto the veranda. As she passed the rose bush that brushed through the balustrade, she snapped off the droopy head of a Fair Bianca rose that had seen better days. She tossed it in amongst the mulch and wondered if she should go inside and get her secateurs. There were quite a few flowers that needed dead-heading.

  No, you won’t. You will sit and read and enjoy the beauty of this day and be kind to yourself.

  The voice was strong and clear in her mind. She smiled. Perhaps it was the voice of the mindfulness meditation therapist that the Cancer Council had recommended. Tilly. A pretty girl with a sweet, lilting Irish accent. Annabelle had gone to her class every week for nearly three months and it really had helped. Minute by minute. Day by day. That was how she lived now.

  She caught sight of another batch of soft-drooping rose heads on the lower branches of the bush and had an insatiable urge to clip them. Sit down and read that magazine, woman! She stood still and pondered the voice. Tilly didn’t usually sound quite so forthright. As she sat down on the lounger and opened the magazine, she realised with complete clarity that the voice in her head was Sylvia’s. She took a sip of her tea and then reached her hand down to ruffle Banjo’s ears. Bossy woman; how dare she interfere? Still – she put her feet up on the ottoman and opened the magazine – it really was quite a splendid idea.

  Thirty-Five

  Sylvia

  A few weeks later

  ‘Inhale, up. Square your hips to the front. Exhale. Elbows behind your back, inhale, lift, exhale, forward.’ Sylvia leaned down and put her forehead on her knee. From the corner of her eye, the white-orange streak of the horizon was pushing up a bulb of gold through the darkness.

  She kept speaking in gentle, rhythmic phrases. ‘Right hand up, left fingertips on the ground. Exhale, bend your front leg, step back, go into Vinyasa, exhale, Chaturanga, inhale, Downward Dog.’ As she took the class through the final moves, she was warmed by the golden beam of the rising sun spreading across the native grasses, lighting up the enormous shadow of Uluru behind her.

  ‘Coming into Savasana. Final relaxation. Hands are by your sides, palms facing upwards. Allow yourself to relax into this present moment. Enjoy the start of the day and the feel of the new sun on your face.’ A fly settled at the entrance to Sylvia’s nostril and began exploring. She huffed an out-breath and it jumped onto the bridge of her nose. Now that the sun was up, they would multiply into tiny, winged storm clouds all across the vast expanse of the red-dirt countryside. They would descend into ears and eyes and mouths, driving all those unsuspecting visitors who didn’t wear fly nets over their hats to the edge of madness.

  ‘Namaste,’ said Sylvia as she raised her hands into prayer position.

  ‘Namaste,’ said the group of women back to her.

  She let the sadness settle on her chest as she sat still, pondering the vast sky. Eventually the class members stood and stretched, and took in the extraordinary view. Some got out their phones to take photographs as the shadows and colours of the sunrise changed and merged, lighting up the extraordinary beauty of the central Australian desert.

  After another ten minutes, the guests piled onto the minibus and headed back along the dirt road to the resort. Some murmured at the prospect of the gourmet breakfast that awaited them, others chatted about the walking tour around Uluru they would be taken on later.

  ‘That was amazing! Thank you so much, Sylvia.’ Alana, a woman from the eastern suburbs of Sydney was gushing again. There had been a brokenness about her when she arrived for the five-day yoga retreat, but Sylvia thought that in just a few short days she had taken some baby steps towards self-actualisation.

  ‘It never gets old,’ said Sylvia. ‘It’s worth the start in the dark.’ She smiled, and Alana launched into a story about how she was used to the dark anyway, because her husband had always made her get into bed with the light off unless she kept her weight under fifty kilograms. If the scales went over, he’d call her a fat slag and refuse to look at her.

  ‘That’s awful,’ said Sylvia. ‘What a good decision it was to leave him.’

  ‘Oh no, I haven’t left him!’ said Alana. ‘I’ve just decided to go on lots more retreats this year. He might complain when I’m slow at keeping up the Botox, but he sold his tech company for forty-eight million last year!’

  Maybe the baby steps weren’t towards self-actualising, pondered Sylvia. Maybe it was more like self-preservation. She felt a little pang of sorrow. The poor woman had sold her soul, yet in some deluded part of her mind she felt she’d gotten a reasonable deal.

  Stop judging, Sylvia.

  Holding their yoga mats and phones the women hopped off the bus. Sylvia waved to Alana and walked towards the staff tents. The ‘tents’ were actually hotel rooms with circular white canvas roofs and floor-to-ceiling glassed-in views of the huge red rock formation of Uluru. The staff tents were less luxurious than those of the guests, and only had a view of the desert. Still, Sylvia found hers restful and beautiful, though she wished she hadn’t committed to a twelve-month contract. She had needed some space, some time to decide if she should settle down in Tasmania. But now she missed it. It really was home.

  She knew she needed time away so she could begin to forgive herself for what she had done to Annabelle, too. When The Old Chapel had burned down, and Sylvia had learned the story of what had happened to her sister, she could hardly function for weeks. She couldn’t bear it. Poor darling Annabelle. She wanted to go back and gouge out the eyes of her younger, sillier self. The story was one she could never have imagined, particularly the part where Constance had killed Andrew, although no one had discussed that again. It seemed disrespectful to the old lady’s memory.

  When Annabelle had started her cancer treatment, Sylvia had taken her to every appointment. But still, her relationship with her sister felt tenuous. Annabelle had accepted her many apologies, but she had been exhausted and sick, and Sylvia wondered if the forgiveness she had bestowed was more to do with pleasing her. Although, there had been a shift in Annabelle’s tendency to want to please everyone. Sylvia had felt it.

  When a friend had got in touch about this contract in the Northern Territory, Indigo had promised to keep a close eye on Annabelle. And it seemed that despite the aftermath of the fire, Constance’s death and the ongoing cancer treatment, Annabelle had been doing remarkably well. She had so many friends who had wanted to support her.

  Dan had moved out the day after the fire, and Sylvia assumed their divorce would be finalised soon. She had been pondering what had happened between herself and Dan. Why did a notion of your perfect first love stay stuck in your head? How had she allowed it to overrule her loyalty to her sister? Teenage love was so different. A mom
ent in time when everything felt extreme – the love, the passion, the disappointment. Somehow, over the decades, Dan had moved in to Sylvia’s psyche as the perfect lodger. With the passing of the years, the anger over their fraud and over the fling she imagined between Dan and Annabelle had dimmed. She had cocooned her teenage love from the hurts. She had remembered only the good. No one had ever compared to him. But in the end, he was just a man. A selfish, flawed man. And she had threatened her relationship with Annabelle by falling for him again. The shame felt endless.

  There was a quick knock and then the sound of the sliding door into her tent. It was Jenny, the dining room manager. She looked frazzled. ‘The new Danish waitress is sick. Any chance you can give us a hand on the breakfast shift, Sylvia?’

  Sylvia smiled. ‘Sure. I’ll just get changed. Be there in five.’

  Six minutes later, she walked into the dining tent and headed for the kitchen.

  ‘These are for the couple on table ten,’ said Jenny, pointing to two plates under the warmer holding artfully arranged omelettes sprinkled with chives and surrounded by mushrooms. Sylvia picked them up and took them across the room to an American couple, who thanked her profusely in delightful Southern accents. She picked up their empty juice jug and scanned the room for plates to collect.