Beneath the Mother Tree

by D. M. Cameron

  On the notice board, a small hand-written note flapping in the breeze, caught her eye. It was scrawled on the same kind of paper, in the same messy longhand as the note found under her door. She felt fear run down her spine from the base of her neck where her tattoo sat.

  I know who you are. I know what you did. I’m watching you, bitch.

  Marlise scanned the area. Only Josh in sight and he still had his back to her. She ripped the note from the board in a flash of anger, tore it into tiny pieces and scattered them to the wind. The act of doing so filled her with resolve. That scar-faced wimp could go hang himself. She refused to be intimidated any more.

  As she approached Josh, she realised why Sharon held onto him like a delicious possession, the definition of muscle on his flawless back was impressive.

  ‘Hi, Josh.’

  ‘Shit, scared the daylights out of me. Didn’t see you there.’

  His chest was equally remarkable. ‘I thought Sharon worked here?’

  ‘She does. Three days a week, I do the rest.’

  ‘Do you know where a Maria something or other lives?’

  ‘Maria Boccabella’s? Can’t miss it. Follow this road towards the mangroves and you’ll see it on the left. If you hit the barge ramp you’ve gone too far. But you’ll fall over it. Brick monstrosity…Corinthian columns…the works.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She faltered, unable to stop her eyes slithering over his body one last time before walking off. She could feel him watching her and was glad for the sweat that made her dress cling. Instinctively, she swayed her hips more than usual, then stopped herself. What the hell was she thinking? Even though David was dead, she felt like she had betrayed him momentarily.

  Josh was right about the house. She had noticed it, set back from the road on a substantial piece of land, dominating the surroundings with its ludicrous size, shape and colour. The white horse from the church stood near the front door as if waiting for someone to let it in. It watched her knock, snorting in approval. Marlise heard shoe heels clacking on tiles. The door opened to reveal the elderly woman who had given her directions to the ferry.

  ‘I’m Marlise. I rang about the scooter.’

  ‘Ah, you are Marlise?’

  She watched the woman assess her, deciding if she was a dog murderer or not. ‘Si, si, come in.’ The woman nodded, patting the horse, speaking in Italian to it like it was a baby. She turned to Marlise. ‘Please. I show you.’

  The white tiled house smelt like an Italian bakery. Her senses were assaulted by the gilt and red velvet furniture, overly-dramatic against the white. They stepped down into a large garage containing three Italian sports cars and there, behind a green Maserati, stood a shiny new yellow scooter.

  ‘I bought for my nephew, but he no want to move here now. You no need for bike licence. You ride with car licence. We say $1000?’

  Marlise sat on the bike, surprised at how comfortable the seat was. ‘Could I try it first?’

  ‘Si si.’ The woman hit a button on the wall and one of the three roller doors slid up. Marlise turned the key. The bike jerked forward and died.

  ‘No, no, you put in neutral. See?’ She showed Marlise the gears.

  Marlise started it again, cautiously slipped it into first and drove out of the garage, savouring the high-pitched mosquito whine of the engine. She travelled the perimeter of the paddock that led down to the sea as the horse galloped past and out onto the beach. She headed back and switched it off. ‘Sold.’

  Maria burst into a torrent of Italian and hugged Marlise almost knocking her off the bike.

  ‘I need to go to the mainland to get the money. I’ll come back soon, okay?’ She heard the loud scrape of the barge ramp and decided to catch the barge.

  ‘Si, si.’

  Marlise went to dismount.

  ‘No, no, you take bike. I trust. Besides, I know who you are, where you live.’

  ‘Everyone on this island seems to know who I am and where I live.’

  Maria nodded profusely and thumped her on the back but Marlise wasn’t amused.

  All she could think of were the words scattered in the wind.

  I’m watching you, bitch.

  In the end, Riley grudgingly allowed Ayla to vacuum, insisting he do the rest as he headed off, sponge in hand, to the bathroom.

  His mother’s bedroom was the smallest room in the house. The only one painted: bright yellow, with faded stencils of teddy bears in one corner. The room where the baby died.

  Ayla vacuumed as fast as she could, deciding she would ask Tilly to offer this job to the other cleaner. This house was too freaky, and Riley was obviously uncomfortable with the arrangement. As she manoeuvred the vacuum under Marlise’s bed, it blocked up. She switched it off, but didn’t want to look, imagining a mummified foot of a dead baby jammed in the end. It was only a piece of paper.

  Dear Marlise,

  I hope this letter finds you and my little Riley. I know he is too young to read so please tell him how much I love him and miss him. It’s aching me to sleep at night for the want I have to feel his small body in my arms again. I don’t miss our squabbling but I miss your wildness. Before Riley you were a wild one. We had the best of times didn’t we pet? I miss that. What’s happened to you? I’m calling you. You’re not answering. Would you not just call me? I would love to hear from you. Why are you not writing me? Didn’t you get my last letter? It would go a long way to let me know if you get this or not. I’ve enclosed a few bob. Hope it eases the burden. Wish I could send you more but things are a bit tight this end. I hope to make it back to America soon as I can afford the ticket. I know you’re sick to the guts of me but it’s hurting me to all buggery not seeing Riley. He is my son also. I hope you’re not planning it in your soul to do anything stupid Marlise

  Under the bed was a wooden box which had tipped over, spilling a pile of letters and photos across the floor.

  His mother, as a young woman, was stunningly beautiful. The man in the photos looked so like Riley it had to be his father. A tap turned off in the bathroom, she quickly placed everything back in the wooden box, discovering it had a false bottom. She slid the false bottom over the contents, impressed at how the box now appeared empty. Then she remembered Marlise’s instruction to not vacuum under the beds. Ashamed, Ayla pushed the box far under the bed where she thought it had been and packed up the vacuum.

  Riley was in the kitchen. ‘Orange juice?’ He handed her a glass.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Would you…I mean…are you free for the rest of the day, or do you have other jobs?’

  ‘I’m all yours.’ She hadn’t meant to sound coy.

  He put his glass down on the sink, almost smashing it in his excitement. ‘Maybe you could show me more of the island?’

  ‘I’ll need to drop my cleaning stuff home first.’

  He insisted on pulling the trolley, and though he went barefoot, his speed and agility on the gravel road was impressive. She smiled at the image of him sitting in the cave with those formal shoes on.

  ‘David would have been fascinated by the plants here. They’re smaller than at Burrawang, like they’ve had to cope with more wind and salt and less rain. Everything grows on a larger scale up there.’

  ‘Was he a botanist?’

  ‘Property developer, originally, mainly retired by the time Mum met him, but a keen gardener.’

  ‘Did he have a favourite plant?’

  ‘Carnivorous.’

  ‘Carnivorous…as in insectivorous?’

  Riley nodded. ‘He had the largest collection in the southern hemisphere. National Geographic did a story on it. I’ll never forget Mum’s face when he showed her his collection. She hated those plants because they ate mosquitoes.’ His face clouded over. ‘She destroyed them before we left. I thought that was nasty. She can be incredibly cruel when she wants.’

  Ayla couldn’t get the contents of the box out of her mind. She tried to remember what Riley had said about his father on the jetty t
he other night, something about his mother lying.

  ‘What about your birth father? Do you see him at all?’

  Riley’s face contorted. She immediately regretted raising the subject.

  ‘Mum told me he died when she was pregnant, but I found this.’ He pulled a photo from his pocket. ‘If he died, then how can he be holding me as a three-year-old? She admitted she lied, said he didn’t want anything to do with me so she let me believe he was dead.’

  ‘The way he’s smiling at you, looks like you were the love of his life.’

  Riley gazed intently at the photo before slipping it back into his pocket. ‘I don’t trust her.’

  ‘Do you always carry that around?’

  ‘If Mum gets her hands on it, she’ll throw it out. It’s all I have of him.’

  Ayla knew then, it was imperative she tell him. She was contemplating how to explain the letter, when she became aware he was waiting for an answer to a question he had asked. She hadn’t been listening. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘What about your father?’

  ‘He drowned at sea seven years ago in a trawler accident. Freak storm. They found the boat but never their bodies.’ She was impressed at how unemotional she could sound, as if rattling off a series of news headlines.

  They arrived at her front door.

  ‘So, we’re both fatherless.’ He looked at her like this new fact changed everything.

  The rusty croon of Johnny Cash drifted between them, claiming love was a burning thing.

  ‘Who’s playing the country and western?’

  ‘Mum. I forgot, she only works a half day today.’ Ayla was frozen, trying to decide how to tell him about the box.

  ‘Do you want me to wait here?’

  ‘Of course not. Sorry. Come in.’ The moment had passed.

  Her mother was painting at the kitchen table.

  Ayla turned Johnny Cash down. ‘Mum, this is Riley.’

  ‘Pull up a seat, Riley.’

  ‘Won’t be a tick.’ Ayla left for her bedroom, her head spinning. How could she explain reading such a personal letter? She would hate for him to assume she had been snooping. Standing at her window, she could see between the trees, the waves curling in. On every wave came the same question: why would a mother hide a father’s love from her son?

  In the kitchen, they were deep in conversation about Johnny Cash.

  Her mother turned as she entered. ‘Riley’s a bit of an expert on country and western, it seems.’

  Ayla pulled a face. ‘Great.’

  ‘Not an expert. My stepfather had an eclectic collection of records which I slowly absorbed, that’s all.’

  ‘Riley builds and carves in wood, Mum. Made his own tree house.’

  ‘A man of many talents.’ Her mother was impressed.

  ‘You want to see my tree house?’ Ayla pretended she had a delicious secret.

  He looked intrigued. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Ayla, Rayleen rang. Her mother’s worried about Grappa. He hasn’t been on his walk for days. Why don’t you go and see him? Or call him…invite him to dinner tonight.’

  ‘If Aunty Dora’s worried, why doesn’t she ring?’

  ‘She did. He’s not answering. I’ve tried too. You’re his whole world, Aylee.’

  ‘I’m sick of being his whole world. Let’s go, Riley.’ Ayla shot out the front door, they crossed the road and followed the winding track through the thick scrub. Images of Grappa kept harassing her, the way he laughed so hard he cried, the way he would stop at a certain tree, pointing to a crevice in the trunk, and declare, ‘Doorway to their realm.’ The way he got so drunk sometimes he passed out. He needed to learn to look after himself. If he couldn’t make an effort with Riley, then why should she make an effort with him? It’s a two-way street old man.

  She looked back at Riley who had stopped in the middle of the Pandanus grove, one foot on a waterfalled root system.

  ‘Pretty special, isn’t it?’

  In here the pounding of the sea was subdued.

  ‘I’ve never seen so many palms naturally occurring in one place before.’

  ‘We locals call this the Pandanus Forest.’

  For a moment, in the cool green shade fanning out above their heads, she felt she had known him all her life. He dared to remove a leaf from her hair. The lemony tang of the sunlit scrub beside them pervaded. In this palm dappled light, he had stepped from another world. If he was the dark lord of the faeries, she was entirely under his spell.

  ‘Where’s your tree house?’

  ‘A bit further.’ They continued walking. ‘This is a mysterious track. The way back is shorter than the way there. I’ve even timed it.’ She glanced at him, wondering if he would think her mad.

  A smile crowded his face. ‘I had a track like that in the rainforest at Burrawang.’

  They continued until the path opened onto a sandy clearing. Ayla knew no one had been this way all morning because her hair felt covered in spray due to the fine cobwebs she had passed through. They stopped at a grand old ghost gum, white elephant skinned and wrinkled at the joints. She pointed to the cliffs on the left. ‘That’s where the cave is, and beyond that is the best sand dune hill to roll down. I’ll take you there sometime.’

  At the circle of Norfolk pines, she jumped over the small fresh water stream that snaked its way down to the beach, reached across it and took his hand. ‘You ready?’

  Her childlike-self pretended he was Far Dorocha and the Nor folk really existed. A tremor ran through her body as he stepped across the rivulet and she led him into the circle, half expecting the earth to crack open. She hadn’t had this much fun in years.

  But of course, nothing happened.

  As he approached the gigantic fig, she whispered, willing it. ‘When he touches the tree, the Nor folk will appear and surround him.’

  But again, nothing. She caught the scent of that ever-changing sweetness she always smelt here.

  ‘What a specimen. It’s a mother tree for sure.’ He stroked the rough trunk, softly, with the back of his hand.

  ‘A mother tree?’

  ‘David showed me this article. Scientists have discovered trees communicate with each other through a complex underground system.’

  ‘I think I read about that…through a symbiotic relationship with fungi in the soil or something?’

  He nodded. ‘And the largest tree is what is referred to as the mother tree. She sends out warnings, signals, nutrition, whatever is needed, protects and nurtures the younger trees. Sacrifices herself if she has to.’

  ‘Grappa always says humans underestimate trees.’ She patted the immense trunk and started to climb, which was simple as most of the branches grew horizontally. As she did so, her head cleared of all emotion. Whenever she had a problem, being in this tree helped solve it.

  He needs to know about that box, tell him. The thought was simple and precise.

  He followed her to the end of a mammoth limb. Sitting with her back nestled into a vertical branch, so safe it felt like she was snuggled into an armpit, she said, ‘My favourite spot on the island.’

  He lay on the bough, worn flat through decades of use and went to place his head in her lap, but hesitated.

  ‘Please.’ She touched his head so he lowered it to look up through the branches at the sky.

  The weight of his head was electrifying. She dared to rest her fingers in his hair. ‘When Grappa was a little boy, my great-great-grandmother told him this tree was called the Nor Folk Tree,’ she was shocked. The words had tumbled out of their own accord.

  ‘I thought it was some kind of fig?’

  ‘It is.’ She had to continue now she had started. He looked up at her as she told him about Grappa’s Nor folk and how she thought she had seen one.

  ‘Maybe you’re their Queen?’

  She looked down at him. ‘I know now it was my overactive imagination.’

  ‘Shhh, you don’t want them to hear you say that.’

  At first, she thou
ght he was teasing, but his face remained open to all kinds of possibilities. Relieved, she shut her eyes and leant against the tree. The Nor Folk were an intrinsic part of her imagination, she hadn’t realised how important it was that he didn’t ridicule. Her mind fluttered back to the letter. Explain how it happened, the voice in her head insisted.

  As the words fell out of her mouth, she felt the dappled light disappear. It was only the sun going behind a cloud, but it spooked her. She described the box and the photos, and felt his body go tense. ‘One of the letters got caught in the vacuum. When I was trying to get all the crumples out I read a tiny bit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. It just happened.’

  ‘What did it say?’ Something had strangled his voice.

  ‘He said how he missed you so much he ached to hold you in his arms again. He wanted her to tell you how much he loved you. He was saving up to come back, to be with you.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘I...I don’t know.’

  Riley sat up. ‘Knew it.’ The words seethed out of him. ‘My mother… she…’ His gentle face choked with anger.

  ‘Please don’t confront her. She’ll know I vacuumed under the bed.’

  ‘That’s the last thing I plan to do.’

  ‘It’s already hard enough with Grappa carrying on.’

  ‘Maybe my father is still alive?’ He hung his head as if weighed down by too many new thoughts. The sun came out from behind the clouds and a perfect shaft of light shone on his hair, directly in front of her. In the bright sunlight, up this close, she could see strands of blonde in among the black.

  ‘My God, you don’t have pitch-black hair.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Come on. Quick.’ She scrambled down the tree.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We need to show Grappa.’

  ‘Show him what?’

  ‘Your hair.’

  ‘My hair?’

  11.

  Grappa had no idea how long he’d been asleep, or what day it was, when the glare from the skylight woke him. He shifted onto his back, watching the thick puffs of cloud float across the sky, remembering how he had laid here in this bed after Nettie died and drank for ten days straight. How he didn’t want to die but was scared if he stopped drinking, the hard cold fact that he would never see her again would annihilate him. How the dolphins had woken him out of his drunken stupor by surrounding the boat and calling until he staggered onto the deck, then the way they played until he was laughing, until he was crying. As quickly as they came, they went. The last of them, the one with the propeller scar near his top fin, catching his eye, as if to say, ‘wake up to yourself, old feller.’