His hurting was down to a dull throb. Tom peeked under the covers. Someone had cut off his torn clothes and taped up his torso. His wounds were cleaned and dressed, and his right arm lay stiff and heavy in plaster.
‘Thank God, Tom.’ He hadn’t seen Nana standing there by his pillow. ‘I’ve been frantic with worry.’
He pulled the sheet higher, embarrassed to be naked underneath. When he tried to sit up, a sharp spasm gripped him and made him gasp.
‘Lie down,’ she said. ‘Try not to move. You have a broken arm and broken ribs.’
Nana gently raised his head and held two pills and a cup of lemonade to his lips. She smelt sweet, like roses. Like his mother.
‘This will help with the pain.’ He swallowed the pills in one gulp, drained the cup dry and asked for another. Nana placed the softest kiss on his forehead. ‘I should never have sent you off like that. You must have been thrown from your horse, Tom. Flame came home without you.’
‘Is she all right?’ he asked through fat lips. Talking hurt his jaw.
‘Listen to you.’ Nana smiled and smoothed his hair. ‘Flame’s fine, Tom. Now, tell me what happened. What do you remember?’
He closed his eyes, head hurting, his mind a fog of confusion. Part of him wanted to scream out what Harry had done, wanted the world to know, wanted to make him pay. Yet the instinct to protect his brother remained strong, ingrained in his being. Tom licked his swollen lips, but no spit would come. What to do? A small voice said this was his fault too. He’d provoked Harry, telling him about Father like that.
‘Tom?’
An expectant silence stretched between them.
‘Ask Harry,’ he said at last, unable to meet her eye.
‘Oh, my poor darling, you don’t know, do you? Your brother’s still missing. His horse came in after midnight without him.’ She dabbed his cut face with a washer dipped in warm water and Dettol. He tried not to flinch. ‘Listen, Tom, this is important.’ She reached for his hand. ‘Did you find Harry yesterday? Do you know where he might be?’
He turned away.
‘Look at me, Tom. Buster came home lame and he’s lost his bridle. Harry’s out there somewhere, probably hurt. You have to think.’
‘Sorry, Nana, I can’t remember.’ His voice broke into a sob. ‘I can’t remember anything.’
* * *
Tom dozed on and off all morning, thinking about Harry and listening to the sounds coming through the window; the grind of car engines, the clip-clop of hooves, the mutter of strange voices and barking dogs. A waste of everybody’s time. They wouldn’t find Harry if he didn’t want to be found.
The corner clock had chimed twelve when Nana brought in a bowl of steaming chicken soup and a plate of buttered toast. The town police sergeant followed her into the room; a stout, middle-aged man with a ginger beard.
‘Sergeant Murphy’s coordinating the search for Harry,’ she said. ‘He has some questions.’
Murphy cast a curious eye over Tom. ‘So you and your brother had a blue before he took off up the mountain.’ The clock ticked out the seconds. ‘Were you still angry when you went after him?’
‘That was my fault,’ said Nana. ‘I sent Tom to find Harry.’
Murphy frowned. ‘What happened out there, son? Where’s your brother?’
Tom began to shiver.
‘He doesn’t remember.’ Nana laid an eiderdown over him. ‘He must have hit his head.’
‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to speak to your grandson alone.’ Nana crossed her arms and shook her head. Murphy glared at her, pulled a chair up to the bed and settled his square frame into it. ‘You’re pretty beat up, son. You and Harry get into a fight out there?’
Nana stepped forward. ‘Sergeant, anyone can see the boy’s been thrown from his horse.’
‘Maybe so.’ Murphy leaned forward and tipped Tom’s head a little further back on the pillow. ‘But no fall caused those thumb marks around his neck, or these knuckle-shaped bruises.’ He fetched a hand mirror from the dresser and held it up for Tom. ‘Take a gander at yourself, son.’
Tom drew in a sharp breath, causing a white-hot pain to rip through him. He didn’t recognise his reflection. Eyes rimmed in black. Lips split and crusted with scabbed blood. Nose smashed and swollen … and those tell-tale bruises. The story of Harry’s flying fists was written all over his face.
‘With you looking like this, well, it makes me wonder how young Harry ended up.’ Murphy’s mouth turned up in a cold smile. ‘You might be able to fool your grandmother, son, but we both know you and your brother got into it.’
‘That’s quite enough, Sergeant.’ Nana drew herself up to her full height. ‘My grandson is not on trial here.’
Murphy stood up. ‘All right, I’ll go.’ His eyes bored into Tom’s one last time. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing more?’
Tom was torn, the blood rushing in his ears. It would be so simple, the sergeant was standing right there. Why not tell the truth, clear himself of blame, and save everyone this pointless search for the supposedly injured Harry?
‘Your soup’s getting cold.’ Nana fussed around, arranging his lunch on a tray and helping him sit up a little.
Murphy sensed Tom’s ambivalence and placed an encouraging hand on his shoulder. ‘Help us out here.’
Tom’s mind froze. Did he really want Nana to know the truth? How he’d mocked Harry with the awful reality of their parents’ deaths? Leaving that part out would be worse than lying. If not for his cruel taunts, Harry would never have dropped him off a cliff.
‘Speak up, son.’
‘Sorry,’ said Tom. ‘I can’t remember.’
Disappointment and concern clouded his grandmother’s face. He wished he had the courage to reassure her about his brother. Harry wasn’t the bushman Tom was, but he could live rough for a while. He’d come home when he was fed up with bush tucker and cold nights.
* * *
Harry held out for three days. Then, one morning, Nana came running into Tom’s room where he still lay, too bruised and sore to move.
‘He’s home, Tom.’ She couldn’t stop smiling. ‘Harry’s home.’
Tom craned his neck to see around her. His brother stood in the doorway, clothes filthy and torn.
‘Tom’s been so worried about you,’ said Nana.
Harry approached the bed with halting steps and dark, unreadable eyes.
‘Glad you’re home,’ said Tom. He hadn’t meant to say it. He’d meant to be angry, but the words just slipped out.
‘We’re all glad you’re home.’ Nana wrapped her arms around Harry. He barely tolerated the embrace, standing stiff and unyielding. ‘Come on, you can catch up with Tom later, dear. The doctor’s on his way to check you over, and you need something to eat.’
Tom held his nose. ‘Make him take a bath while you’re at it.’
* * *
Two hours later, Harry was back. Tom studied his stony face, wanting to ask if he was surprised to find him alive. ‘The whole town’s been searching for you,’ he said instead. ‘Where’d you go?’
‘Upstream.’ Harry shuffled his feet. ‘Nearly starved to death. Couldn’t even snare a bloody rabbit.’
‘What did you tell Nana?’
‘That I fell off Buster and got lost.’ Harry gulped hard. ‘What did you tell her?’
‘That I can’t remember.’
Harry exhaled and rubbed his sunburnt neck. ‘Didn’t mean to let you go, mate. I couldn’t hold on.’ He plucked at the cream counterpane with his fingers, the same fingers that had let Tom plunge into the abyss. ‘You’re a tough bugger, tougher than me. I told myself you’d fall in the water. I told myself you’d be all right.’
Tom sagged back on his pillows. He knew Harry, knew the darkness in him. The same darkness was in himself. Buried a little deeper perhaps, but it was there. Why else did he taunt Harry with a truth so guaranteed to hurt?
‘I shouldn’t have left you like that. It was a mongrel thing to do.’ H
arry looked him straight in the eye. ‘I’m sorry.’
Tom sat up, ignoring the pain of his cracked ribs. Had he misheard? Harry was never sorry, no matter what. His brother based this principle on one of Father’s oft-repeated PG Wodehouse quotes. It is a good rule in life never to apologise. The right sort of people do not want apologies, and the wrong sort take a mean advantage of them. Harry took everything their father had said to heart, with the literal interpretation of a child.
Tom snatched at the precious apology like a man overboard snatching for a life buoy. Eager to believe. In a hurry to forgive.
The knot of tension in the room unravelled. ‘How’s that dickhead, Hancock?’ asked Harry.
‘He’ll be good as new, apparently.’
Harry pulled up a chair to the bed. ‘I guess he won’t be coming back.’
‘Guess not.’
They talked about small things. Would Nana be foolish enough to engage another tutor? How long before Tom could use his arm again? Would he still be able to chop wood? Harry’s time on the mountain.
‘I found a new eagle nest, chicks and all. Once you’re out of that bed, I’ll show you.’
Their father remained the great unmentioned. Tom wanted to leave the subject alone. He’d have got up and walked out if he could. They tiptoed around the issue for a few more minutes, but Harry was gearing up to talk about him. It showed in his nervous eyes, and how his tongue flicked around his lips. ‘What you said about Papa,’ he said at last. ‘About what he did …’ His words ground to a halt.
‘I won’t take it back,’ said Tom. ‘I know what I heard.’
Harry held up his hand. ‘The thing is, I think I already knew. Not sure how. Just a feeling.’
Tom stared at his brother. All these years of putting Father on a pedestal, of being his defender and champion. How could he do that if he suspected?
‘I miss him every day,’ said Harry, his voice breaking. ‘I loved Mama, you know that, but I still love Papa too, despite what he did. It’s killing me.’ He fixed Tom with troubled eyes. ‘Do you love him?’
Tom tried to recall his father’s face, but it was a mere blur. Mama’s lovely image swam before him instead; the sunny smile and gentle eyes, the soft curl of her copper-coloured hair. She seemed so real, he could almost smell her rose perfume, almost hear her kind voice.
‘Well?’ said Harry. ‘Do you love Papa?’
‘Not any more.’ It felt good to say it out loud, like he was free of something. ‘You shouldn’t love him either, Harry. Father doesn’t deserve it.’
For an instant his brother’s eyes flashed with something akin to hatred. It happened so quickly Tom might have imagined it. A small fear squirmed in his stomach as he remembered hands around his throat.
The next moment Harry was smiling and shaking his head. ‘Wish I could see the world like you do, mate. Black and white. Good and bad – mostly good. My world’s a hell of a lot more complicated.’
‘Knock, knock.’ Nana came in with scones. ‘There’s jam and cream, just how you like, Tom, and Mrs Mills is bringing up a pot of tea.’ She set the tray down. ‘That’s enough talk for now, boys. You both need your rest.’
‘I’ll only go,’ said Harry, ‘if there are more scones in the kitchen.’
Tom watched him leave, his mind awhirl. So, all this time, Harry had a feeling that their father had committed a terrible crime. Tom started to shiver. He’d had no such feeling. What he’d learned in that overheard conversation had come as a complete shock, an utter heartbreak. Tom closed his eyes and faced the wall, wishing he could unhear every ugly word.
Chapter 8
‘Hurry up, Harry,’ called Isabelle. ‘There’s a long drive ahead of us.’
She climbed into the passenger seat of Miriam, their red Ford roadster; a present from Luke shortly before he died. She loved Miriam like one of the family, despite her quirks. An engine that hammered like an aeroplane on take-off, emitting clouds of scalding steam. Impossible gears. Dodgy brakes that meant you had to go downhill in reverse to help slow her down.
But Miriam had her strengths. Navigating rocky roads and managing mud. Crossing shallow streams and climbing hills with ease. When Binburra suffered one of its frequent power blackouts, Old George would remove one of her wheels, fasten a pulley to the hub and make a flat belt to drive the water pump and generator.
Tom honked the horn, and Harry heaved his bag into the back seat. ‘How come he gets to drive?’
‘Your turn on the way home,’ said Isabelle.
Harry frowned and got in. ‘Wait.’ He flung the door open and raced for the house, returning with the elaborate red speedboat he’d built from broken toys and old clock parts. The intricate mechanism powered it along faster than any shop-bought wind-up boat. He wrapped it in a linen sheet and stowed it carefully on the back seat.
Miriam back-fired with a deafening bang and Isabelle laughed aloud, brimming with optimism. Here was a chance to put their recent dramas behind them. The snake and Mr Hancock. Tom’s unexplained injuries – his arm still wasn’t right. Harry’s mysterious disappearance. Something awful had happened out there in the bush; something the boys refused to talk about. Whatever it was had fractured their bond, and made her feel excluded. This trip might help bring them all closer together.
Harry wanted to visit the Battery Point shipyards and go to a cricket match at Bellerive Oval. Tom wanted to visit the museum and Cambridge Aerodrome. Isabelle wanted to see a play and attend meetings of the Royal Society again. Everybody wanted to see a movie. Nobody wanted to see Grandma Bertha.
Tom whooped as they headed for the gate. ‘Hold onto your hat, Nana. Hobart, here we come!’
Isabelle found her key and opened the door wide. ‘Welcome to Coomalong.’ Tom and Harry stood in the front hall. ‘Go on, you two, take a look around.’ They dropped their bags and bounded up the stairs.
She hadn’t been to Coomalong since Robert’s funeral. Visits here were bittersweet affairs. Isabelle had grown up in this gracious old home in Sandy Bay, living here until she was twelve; the happiest childhood imaginable. Her father had founded Campbell College in the old wool store next door, offering working-class children – both boys and girls – a low-cost, progressive education.
Later on she’d lived here with her beloved Colonel Buchanan, known to all as the wealthy South African diamond tycoon who’d arrived in Tasmania one day and whisked Isabelle away from her husband. There was nobody left alive who knew the truth – that they’d met as children, right here, when he was a poor boy attending the school next door.
So many memories. She looked down at her wedding ring, twisted it in her fingers. Her hands didn’t look like they belonged to her, with their wrinkles and age spots. Isabelle rarely looked in the mirror anymore, but her hands were an unavoidable reminder that she was in the autumn of her life. There were things the twins had a right to know before she died.
Emma Starr threw off her neat navy pinafore, kicked off her shoes and fastened her wavy, red hair into a ponytail. The morning shift at À La Mode Fashions and Haberdashery had lasted longer than usual, and now she was going to be late. Not even time for lunch. Argh. She’d have to grab an apple from her stinky bag and eat it on the way. Emma opened the bottom drawer of her dresser and pulled out a pair of boy’s dungarees and a blue serge work shirt.
She was about to slip her petticoat off, when she stopped. Heavy footsteps sounded in the corridor outside. Who could it be? All the other girls had gone home for the holidays.
The door burst open and Emma screamed. A boy, about her own age, and here she was dressed in nothing but her underwear. She took another look at him, despite her fright. Handsome, distractingly so. Tall and well-built with lightly tanned skin, golden hair and wide brown eyes that he now politely averted.
‘Sorry, Miss.’ He seemed as shocked as she was.
Good grief, here was another one, peering over the first boy’s shoulder – good-looking as well, a little darker with bolder eyes.
He started to laugh and held his nose. ‘What smells?’
Emma burned with embarrassment. She grabbed a throw rug from the bed and used it to cover herself. The boy in front had turned bright red, while the one behind tried to push past into the room.
‘Shove off, Harry,’ said the first boy. They backed out and closed the door.
Emma quickly pulled on her shirt and buttoned it up. It was way too big for her. That fact hadn’t bothered her before, but now she regretted having to go downstairs looking like a shapeless sack of potatoes. She pulled her dungarees on over her petticoat, no longer trusting that the room would afford her any privacy. Hefting her duffel bag with both hands, Emma hurried out to the landing and peered over the banister.
The boys were standing together with an old lady at the foot of the staircase.
‘You’ve been holding out on us, Nana,’ said the darker boy with a grin. ‘You didn’t say there were girls.’
‘Girls?’
‘Yes, indeed, and half-dressed ones at that.’ He wagged a finger at Tom. ‘Who’s a naughty boy, then? My brother should learn to mind his manners.’
‘You said we could look around, Nana,’ said Tom. ‘How was I supposed to know she was in there?’
The old lady spotted Emma at the top of the stairs, and gave a welcoming wave. ‘Come down, my dear. It seems my grandsons owe you an apology.’
Emma descended with hesitant steps, dragging the duffel bag behind her.
‘I’m Mrs Isabelle Buchanan,’ said the old woman. ‘And your name, dear?’
‘Emma Starr.’ She pushed a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, wishing her bag didn’t smell. They probably thought it was her.
Mrs Buchanan was apparently too polite to mention it. Instead, she said, ‘This is Tom and Harry.’
The flame was leaving Tom’s cheeks. ‘Sorry for barging in on you like that, Miss.’
‘Mrs Woolhouse didn’t tell me about you,’ said Mrs Buchanan. ‘Otherwise I’d never have let the boys go wandering about like that. She said the girls had gone home for the holidays.’
The Lost Valley Page 4