The Summer of Secrets

by Barbara Hannay

  Except that it wasn’t.

  This morning, Emily had to come to terms with the fact that she had committed adultery. She’d given in to a moment of weakness and yet nothing had changed. Robbie was still dead and Alex still held her responsible. Before he left, he had made that crystal clear.

  ‘All that talk of your mother and her flying heroics turned our boy’s head. It’s your fault he joined the RAAF.’

  No, nothing had changed. Alex still wouldn’t speak to her and sleeping with Rolf was surely a mistake. The pleasure and comfort had been real but fleeting. This morning, she wasn’t any happier.

  The kitchen was still littered with dirty dishes from last night’s meal. Quickly, guiltily, Emily stacked them into the dishwasher and set it humming, before wiping down the bench tops, as if, somehow, a sparkling clean kitchen might atone for her indiscretion.

  With the coffee made and Murphy, the golden lab, greeted and fed, Emily was scrambling eggs when Rolf came into the kitchen, fully dressed, his thick hair damp and tamed. She was uncomfortably conscious of her nakedness beneath the dressing gown and was relieved when he didn’t try to kiss her.

  ‘Beautiful morning,’ he said, looking out to the clear blue sky and its brilliant mirror image in the lake.

  ‘Yes, lovely.’ Emily poured coffee into a mug and as he seated himself on a long-legged stool at the bench, she handed it to him. Their fingers brushed. She caught the flash of awareness in his eyes and looked away quickly.

  ‘You’re not rowing this morning,’ he said.

  She managed a small smile. ‘I don’t like to abandon my guests and leave them to get their own breakfast.’

  Rolf frowned and she supposed she might have insulted him by implying that he was a guest, rather than —

  ‘Anyway,’ she said quickly, as she stirred the eggs with a dollop of cream and a sprinkling of chopped parsley. ‘There’s a CWA luncheon today and I still have to make a quiche.’

  This brought a smile. ‘I can never quite picture you at the CWA,’ he said. ‘You seem too … elegant.’

  In a different mood, in a different time, Emily might have been flattered by this description. Now, she said, ‘And I always think of you as being too perceptive to stereotype.’

  ‘Ouch.’ Rolf’s eyes, the grey-green of the sea on a cloudy day, shimmered with amusement. ‘Fair enough. I know the CWA claims that it isn’t all tea and scones.’

  ‘And it’s very true. I have some wonderful friends in the CWA,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t have got through this past year without them.’

  Besides, what was the point of being elegant when she wanted, more than anything, to be an everyday average granny with creaky knees and comfy old clothes, happily down on the floor playing Lego with her grandchildren, or covered in flour as they baked biscuits together?

  Now that was never going to happen.

  Emily suppressed a sigh. The eggs were almost ready.

  ‘Shall I butter the toast?’

  When Rolf asked this, she almost hesitated. She was uncomfortably conscious of the fine line they’d crossed and she wished there were guidebooks for having affairs with old family friends.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said and she tried not to think about Alex as she piled fluffy eggs onto two pieces of toast and took her place beside Rolf at the breakfast bar.

  The CWA meeting hall was buzzing with women’s voices when Chloe arrived. As she stepped through the doorway, she felt very much a stranger; a new kid in the school yard. Fortunately, Moira spied her and grinned and waved.

  ‘There you are!’ Plump and looking flushed in pink and mauve floral, Moira crossed the room, like a literal icebreaker, making small, chattering groups of women give way to her. ‘Welcome, Chloe, love.’ Arms out, she enveloped Chloe in a huge, smothering hug. ‘Come and meet everyone.’

  Chloe held out a box of peppermints. ‘Store bought, I’m afraid. I couldn’t manage homemade, but I thought you might be able to use these.’

  ‘Oh, aren’t you a sweetie?’ To Chloe’s relief, Moira couldn’t have looked more delighted. ‘Now, who would you like to meet first?’

  Chloe scanned the crowded room. The women were of all ages and dressed in a range of attire from conservative suits complete with pearls to hippie-style layers with floating scarves. There were hardly any boring slacks and tops, but Chloe was in her usual black trousers, although today she’d teamed them with a grey jacket instead of a white top. She wondered if she stood out as a city chick.

  At the far end of the room, trestle tables were laden with warming trays and casserole dishes, salad bowls and tall vases of flowers.

  ‘I don’t suppose Emily Hargreaves is here?’ Chloe asked Moira.

  ‘Of course she is. Look, here she comes now, actually.’ Moira waved to a tall, slim woman and Chloe recognised Emily from their Skype session. Today she was one of the suit and pearls brigade and was making her way towards them. ‘She must have spotted you,’ Moira said.

  ‘Hello there,’ Emily smiled as she reached them. ‘Lovely to meet you in person, Chloe.’ She held out her hand. She had to be well past fifty and possibly into her sixties. But she had admirable deportment and everything about her was tasteful, from the perfect jaw-length curve of her dark, streaked hair to the slim gold bangle that encircled her slender wrist.

  ‘It’s great to meet you, too,’ Chloe said, and she wished she didn’t feel nervous, as if she hadn’t already been through the interview process and been offered the job.

  ‘I’ll leave you two to it,’ Moira said and she sent Chloe an encouraging wink as she backed away.

  Emily smiled again. ‘Would you like a drink, Chloe? I believe there’s fruit juice, freshly squeezed from local products, of course, or a famous CWA cup of tea.’

  ‘I’m fine for the moment, thank you.’

  With another smile, Emily continued smoothly, ‘I should apologise perhaps for not meeting you sooner, but I thought I’d give you and Finn a chance to get to know each other first. I trust you’re settling in to the Bugle office?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’ In her effort to show no sign of hesitation, Chloe answered this almost too quickly. But her answer was honest. If she overlooked her unpleasant initiation on the first afternoon, followed by the next morning’s stuff-up at the mushroom farm, things were going okay at the office. And at least Finn had been good about letting her come to this luncheon today.

  ‘I’m sure you’ve discovered that Finn likes to focus on straight news,’ Emily said.

  Chloe nodded, chanced a small smile.

  ‘Speaking of which, I don’t suppose you’ve heard any updates about poor Ben Shaw?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Chloe. ‘Finn thought the police had a new lead, but it seems to have fizzled out.’

  Emily shook her head. ‘It’s terrible. Ben’s such a fine young man. He came here to make a new start and he was doing so well.’ As she said this, she looked quite stricken and her face was almost haggard, betraying her age.

  Then she gave a little shake and smiled again. The moment was gone. ‘But Finn does understand that innovation is the key to keeping our little paper afloat, Chloe. And I’m sure you already have lots of fresh ideas.’ She posed this last as a question.

  Fresh ideas … Chloe wasn’t sure that her ideas were especially fresh. ‘I – I’m thinking about doing a series about local female farmers,’ she said. ‘I know there are a couple of women in this district who run farms entirely on their own and others who work in partnerships. I’m hoping to talk to Greta from the red claw farm today.’

  ‘Great idea.’ Emily’s smile widened. ‘Greta’s here at this luncheon, of course. And so is Carol Frame, who has a wonderful potato farm that she’s run single-handedly since her husband died. I’ll introduce you later.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Heartened by this warm response, Chloe felt emboldened to add, ‘I also thought it wouldn’t hurt to run a couple of historical pieces.’

  ‘Historical?’ Emily gave a small shrug. �
�Perhaps. Although I’m not sure that would attract advertising.’

  ‘I’d work at finding a fresh angle. Some kind of modern connection. The schools might be interested.’

  ‘For school projects?’ Emily’s eyebrows rose as she considered this. ‘Well, yes, I guess that might work.’ Then she gave Chloe’s arm a somewhat maternal pat. ‘I have every confidence that you’ll come up with great ways to make these ideas work, Chloe.’

  ‘Well, I’ve only done a little historical research so far, but I’ve come across some fascinating stories. There are amazing ones about your mother, aren’t there?’

  ‘My mother?’ Emily seemed shocked.

  ‘Izzie – Isabella Galbraith?’ Chloe prompted, wondering if she’d somehow got her wires crossed.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She is your mother, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Emily again, but there was no sign of a smile now.

  Despite the disappointing response, Chloe felt she had to continue. ‘Izzie sounds incredibly heroic. Moira told me how she ran the Bugle for so many years, but then I read about all the flying she did in World War II. She has to be an amazing role model for young girls today.’

  Emily sighed and looked down at her clasped hands, beautifully manicured, the nails perfect ovals, painted in a classic nude tone. ‘I don’t know, Chloe,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure that’s a great idea.’

  Chloe had to press her lips together to stop herself from blurting out a surprised response.

  ‘Most people around here already know about Izzie,’ Emily said.

  Chloe doubted if this knowledge extended to the younger generation, but she was silenced by the bleakness in Emily’s eyes.

  ‘If you’d rather I didn’t write about her, I’ll certainly respect your wishes,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you. I think, for the moment, I’d prefer it if you followed up other avenues.’ This was said graciously, but with quiet determination.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Chloe was rewarded with another of Emily’s beautiful smiles.

  ‘Now, let me introduce you to Greta.’

  Chloe was happy to meet Greta, but she was also incredibly curious about Emily’s reaction to her mother’s story. From her research, Chloe had been wowed by Izzie. Surely she was an all-round heroine?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Emily could never quite rid herself of a feeling of guilt when she walked down the corridors of the nursing home towards her mother’s private room. Not that she had forced her mother into this place. Quite the opposite, really. After Izzie had broken her hip, Emily and Alex had been fully prepared to try their very hardest to care for Izzie, once she’d been released from hospital and rehab.

  Izzie Galbraith had, however, tackled the situation in the same manner that she’d approached everything else in her life: head on.

  Never afraid of modern technology, she had used her iPad and the hospital wi-fi to research her chances of recovery. She had learned that it would be a lengthy process. Mortality rates for the elderly in the year following a hip fracture were distressingly high. Complications often set in, caused by blood clots, infection or pneumonia.

  It was in her own best interests, Izzie had decided, to submit to all-round professional nursing care. Thus, a nursing home was her best option and, as with all other important decisions in Izzie’s life, once this decision was made, she had faced her fate bravely and without complaint.

  Well, almost without complaint. The staff at the home were always on their best behaviour when they attended to Izzie’s needs. Anyone new was quickly inducted into how Izzie liked her bed to be made, how she preferred the curtains to be drawn, where her slippers should be placed, ready when she rose, and how her wheelie walker must be parked, just so.

  Everyone’s life was easier if they got these details right.

  Today, Izzie was asleep when Emily quietly entered her room. She was lying on her back with her mouth a little open, looking surprisingly defenceless.

  Emily had given up bringing flowers. When her mother had first moved into the home, Emily had brought fresh flowers every week, until she’d been asked not to.

  ‘I’m not sick,’ Izzie had said. ‘And I’m certainly not a film star. And flowers start to smell if people don’t change the water often enough.’

  Now, quietly, Emily went to a chair in the corner and sat, rather pleased to have a moment of privacy to compose herself. She was still terribly conscious of the ‘night of sin’ she’d just spent with Rolf. She knew that her lapse couldn’t possibly show on her face, but she had a ridiculously childish and unreasonable fear that somehow her mother would be able to guess.

  Of necessity, Emily forced her thoughts elsewhere and found, to her dismay, that they veered straight to Alex. Once again, she was remembering the dreadful fight they’d had on the night before he left for Red Hill, the atrocious things they’d said. Or rather, yelled.

  The insults were awful, as if they’d forgotten the wonderful love that had brought them together, all the good years they’d enjoyed, pulling alongside each other as life partners in every sense.

  The fight had been born out of terrible pain, of course. The pain of losing Robbie and the unbearable tension that had followed ever since, including the dreadful blame game.

  Remembering all of this, Emily lifted her gaze to her mother as she lay looking so peaceful and innocent. You knew he blamed you, didn’t you?

  Of course, Izzie had been aware of Alex’s simmering resentment. And she’d been at the Lake House on that fateful day when they’d received the devastating news.

  As a special treat, Emily had brought Izzie away from the nursing home to have lunch in her old home with herself and Alex. Emily had gone to the trouble of preparing her mother’s favourites, a mustard-stuffed chicken, followed by a raspberry Bakewell tart for dessert.

  ‘You should come to lunch more often, Izzie,’ Alex had told her with a grin. ‘We don’t usually have such fine fare.’

  The comment had surprised Emily. Surely her husband must have known that he’d left himself wide open for one of her mother’s digs.

  Izzie hadn’t missed the opportunity. ‘Why do you say that, Alex? What does Emily serve you when I’m not around? Vegemite sandwiches?’

  ‘No, no,’ Alex responded with equal speed and an annoyed gleam in his eye. ‘Mostly we have delicious salads.’

  ‘But I usually don’t bother with dessert,’ Emily explained, hoping to keep the peace.

  ‘Nor should you,’ Izzie replied stoutly. ‘Alex would soon run to fat now that he’s no longer working with cattle every day.’

  So they were already tense when the doorbell rang, shrilly slicing through the quiet afternoon.

  Alex frowned and sent a sharp glance across the table to Emily. ‘Were you expecting anyone?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ she said. She had no idea who it could be. Their place was so private, they hardly ever had callers unless they’d been invited. Most people telephoned first. Then Murphy began to bark, so she knew this was definitely a stranger.

  ‘I’ll go,’ she said, dropping her napkin onto the table as she rose from her chair.

  It didn’t occur to her to worry, until she peeped through the glass panel in the front door and saw the two figures in Air Force uniforms.

  Oh, God.

  ‘Alex!’ she called, knowing instantly what this visit must mean and that she couldn’t face it alone.

  Alex must have caught the panic in her voice. He was at her side almost immediately, just as the doorbell rang again.

  ‘It’s the RAAF,’ Emily told her husband and she saw the colour leach from his face.

  For a fraught moment, they stared at each other, frozen in terror, not wanting to hear the news that their son, their beautiful only child, had been killed. Emily didn’t want Alex to open the door, but of course he had to, eventually, reaching for the knob with a shaking hand.

  Two middle aged, smartly uniformed servicemen stood on the top step.
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  ‘Mr Hargreaves?’

  The men were perfectly trained and they did their job well, delivering their message with meticulous care. Compassionate, sensitive and practical, they had all bases covered. But Emily, distraught, just wanted to scream at them to go away.

  If her mother hadn’t been there, she might have behaved very badly indeed, but she was distressingly aware that Izzie had loved Robbie too. Deeply, painfully; perhaps more than she’d loved anyone else.

  Instead of weeping, however, Izzie sat alone, a tiny figure, still as a statue. No tears. Just a terrible, tragic stillness.

  ‘Emily.’

  Emily blinked, wrenched back to the present, to the room in the nursing home, to the sound of her mother’s voice. ‘Mum,’ she said, rising. ‘You’re awake.’ She crossed the room, kissed her mother’s thin cheek. ‘How are you today?’

  ‘Fine. How long have you been here?’

  ‘Not very long. I was happy to sit.’

  ‘You’ve been brooding about Robbie again.’

  ‘Just a little.’

  Izzie frowned. ‘Have you heard from Alex?’

  ‘I rang Red Hill,’ Emily said, avoiding a direct answer. ‘Alex is fine.’ Then, not wanting to pursue that subject any further, she pulled her chair closer and sat again. ‘I have some news that might interest you,’ she said. ‘I’ve hired a new journalist. A young woman.’

  This most definitely piqued her mother’s interest. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Chloe Brown.’

  Her mother frowned. ‘She’s not a local?’

  ‘No, she’s from Sydney. She’s had a lot of experience on a women’s magazine. I’m hoping she’ll write colour stories to attract more advertising.’

  Emily was prepared for a negative response to this, but to her surprise, Izzie seemed even more interested. ‘What’s Finn think of her?’ Izzie was, in fact, Finn Latimer’s number-one fan.