The Lost Valley

by Jennifer Scoullar

  Tom stood outside the modest church by the railway line, in the shadow of the Hills End gold mine. A far cry from the grandeur of St Mary’s Cathedral, where he and Harry had farewelled their parents, but much more Nana’s style. This simple rectangular building of brick and stone had served the people of Hills End as a place of worship for over eighty years. Generations of miners were buried in the little cemetery beyond the church yard. Now Nana would be buried there too.

  Tom nervously entered the doorway. He recognised a few townsfolk, and spotted Old George and Mrs Mills seated to the side, but he didn’t know most of the people. A woman hurried over to greet him. She had Nana’s eyes. ‘You must be Tom,’ she said with a kind smile. ‘Don’t you look fine in your uniform? I’m your Aunt Clara, from England. Your brother’s already here.’

  She pointed to the front of the church. Harry was standing near the altar, staring blankly into space. Tom knew that look – the expression his brother wore when he was trying to hide his feelings. Tom went to join him.

  ‘Hello little brother.’ Harry looked him up and down. ‘Where’d you rent the threads?’

  Tom managed a fleeting smile. ‘I can’t believe she’s gone. Nana was only sixty-six. That’s not really old, is it? My mate’s grandma is ninety.’

  ‘She wouldn’t have wanted to go on like she was,’ said Harry. ‘You should have seen her. Legs all swollen and she couldn’t get out of bed, could hardly breathe. Only thing keeping her going was that Mariani wine. Full of cocaine, apparently. In the end her heart just gave out.’

  ‘You were there?’

  ‘Came home last Saturday for a visit, and Nana was so sick I had to stay. Auntie Clara arrived on Sunday. Mrs Mills sent her a telegram. Nana was upset when she found out. You know what she’s like, not wanting to worry anybody. Said she wanted to be remembered the way she was when she was well.’

  Harry’s words lit a slow fuse. The more Tom considered them, the angrier he got. ‘Why didn’t somebody tell me?’

  ‘What would have been the point? Do you think the RAAF would release you because of a sick grandma? What sort of dream world do you live in?’

  ‘You could at least have let me know she was ill.’

  Harry shrugged. ‘Sorry, mate. I had my hands full.’

  Tom turned his back on his brother, sat on a pew and tried to calm himself. The day of Nana’s funeral was a time for sorrow, not anger. He should be happy that Nana had loved ones around for her last hours. She could so easily have died alone. Yet there was no rationality to his grief. Tom wished he’d been the one there instead of Harry. Wished he’d been the one to share those last precious days, and comfort her at the end.

  Grandma Bertha came over, crying crocodile tears. Tom bristled. Why was she even there? ‘My dear, dear boy.’ She leaned in to kiss his cheek and he dodged away. ‘Such a terrible loss. We’re all bereft.’ She spotted his aunt. ‘There’s darling Clara. I must offer my condolences on losing her mother.’

  He shook his head as she hurried away. What a liar. Bertha hadn’t visited them at Binburra once in the eight years since his parents died. Why was she pretending to care now?

  Harry sat down next to him and nodded towards Bertha. ‘Nauseating, isn’t it?’

  ‘What’s her game?’

  ‘Can’t you guess? It’s because of the will. If the Colonel left Nana even half of his fortune, we could all be filthy rich by the end of today. Guess old Bertha thinks we’re worth sucking up to now.’

  What a despicable woman. Tom wanted to throw Bertha out of the church then and there. Poor Mama, being raised by such a greedy, selfish person. She didn’t deserve that. He wished for the millionth time that his mother was alive.

  ‘How could anybody think about money at a time like this?’

  Harry rolled his eyes. ‘Why do you think half these people are here?

  Everyone stood as the service commenced with a prayer. ‘Dear Lord—’

  Tom didn’t bow his head or close his eyes. What had the Lord ever done for him, except take away the people he loved most in this life? His parents, Nana, Emma. Nana had loved Emma. Mama would have done too. How perfect his life could have been if the Lord had left him alone.

  The prayer seemed never-ending. In his mind, Tom started going through his mates at Point Cook. As far as he knew, every one of them had a living mother. Plenty had grandmothers and girlfriends too. None had a murderer for a father.

  Harry nudged him. ‘Sit down. The prayer’s over.’

  The service droned on. Now the minister was telling a potted version of Nana’s life. Where she was born and who her parents were. Where she grew up and her achievements as an educator and artist. But the story was incomplete. Scant mention was made of the second half of her life. A life spent conserving Tasmania’s wilderness, and fighting for the creation of national parks. A life spent with Colonel Buchanan. Tom seethed inside. How dare they turn his grandmother’s life into a lie.

  Afterwards Tom and Harry acted as pall-bearers, helping to carry the coffin to the little cemetery beyond the churchyard.

  ‘Our sister Isabelle has gone to her rest in the peace of Christ,’ intoned the minister, as Nana was lowered into the ground. ‘May the Lord welcome her to the table of God’s children in heaven. With faith and hope in eternal life.’

  Tom couldn’t stand any more. He hurried off towards the church, fighting back tears. Harry followed him.

  ‘How are the dogs?’ asked Tom.

  ‘Rex howled when she died,’ said Harry. ‘It was the damnedest thing.’

  ‘Are you going back to the house?’

  ‘We’ll both go,’ said Harry. ‘You can catch up with Old George and Mrs Mills. We’ll talk about the old days, get drunk.’ He put a hand on Tom’s shoulder. ‘We both need that, I reckon. But first they’ll read the will at the lawyer’s office in town.’

  ‘I don’t care about that.’

  ‘Really, little brother?’ Harry lit a cigarette, and gave him a searching look. ‘You don’t care what happens to Binburra?’

  Tom was gripped with a sudden fear. He’d been so blinded by grief, that he hadn’t thought about the practicalities of Nana’s death. ‘Of course I care. What do you think will happen?’

  ‘I think she’ll leave Binburra to us,’ said Harry. ‘It’s no use to Auntie Clara or Ann living in England. Ann didn’t even make it back for the funeral. We’re the ones who grew up there. It’s the closest thing we have to a home.’

  ‘I’ll die if Grandma Bertha got her hands on it somehow.’

  The mourners began wandering back from the graveyard. Harry flicked his cigarette to the ground, grinding it out with his heel. ‘Guess we’re about to find out.’

  * * *

  The office of Mr Bruce Billson LLB wasn’t designed for so many people, and there weren’t enough chairs. Tom, Harry, Clara, Bertha and her husband, Mrs Mills, Old George, and almost a dozen more who claimed to be relatives.

  ‘Parasites,’ whispered Harry. ‘Crawling from the woodwork at the prospect of a handout.’

  Mr Billson peered over his spectacles and thanked everybody for their attention. ‘If you could all please sit down.’ It was like a game of musical chairs as people tried to find a seat. Tom and Harry remained standing by the door. The solicitor produced a folded document sealed with red wax, along with a separate envelope. ‘Mrs Buchanan has asked me, as executor of her estate, to read this letter before I move onto the terms of the will.’ A hush fell on the room as he took a sheet of paper from the envelope.

  ‘I write this letter by way of an explanation. There has long been speculation about my late husband’s considerable wealth. As you know, the Colonel and I made conservation our life’s work. We always wished that work to extend beyond our lifetimes, and thanks to blessed and fortunate circumstances, this has been possible.

  It is not widely known that before he died, the Colonel founded a South African charity known as the Themba Trust. It was set up for two purposes. Firstl
y, to fund his network of private African game reserves. Secondly, to build and run schools in rural provinces, educating disadvantaged children and teaching local people how to coexist with wildlife such as elephants and lions.’

  Mr Billson looked up at the sea of expectant faces and wet his lips.

  ‘The Colonel arranged for profits from his South African mining interests to go to the Themba Trust.’

  Grandma Bertha’s disappointed gasp broke the silence. ‘There’s still Isabelle’s own money,’ her husband whispered, within earshot of Tom.

  It almost seemed like Nana had heard him.

  ‘I have recently set up my own charitable trust,’ continued Mr Billson. ‘The Binburra Conservation Foundation. Following my late husband’s example, I am leaving the bulk of my estate to this trust.’

  Tom grinned with satisfaction. That would teach Bertha and the others like her. A confused murmur ran around the room, along with the sound shuffling of feet. Mr Billson paused until he had silence again.

  ‘My dear daughters, Clara and Ann. You have grown into strong, accomplished women, with careers, husbands and families of your own. It is a great comfort to know that you are settled, financially independent, and in no need of my money.

  My intrepid grandsons, Tom and Harry. You are the brightest of stars – clever and resourceful – with the world at your feet. You will be provided for, but too often I have seen young men lose their way when burdened with extravagant inheritances. I adore you both too much to let that happen.

  Missing you all terribly,

  With endless love,

  Isabelle Buchanan.’

  Mr Billson wiped his brow, and took a drink from the glass of water on the desk beside him. ‘If there are no questions, I’ll proceed to the formal provisions of the will.’

  There were questions, but Mr Billson studiously ignored them. Harry leaned close and whispered, ‘So much for us being filthy rich. I wonder what provided for means, exactly?’

  Individual bequests came next. Fifty pounds to the Field Naturalist Club. Seventy pounds to the Hobart Museum. One hundred pounds for the Hills End State School. Two hundred pounds each for Old George and Mrs Mills, plus an annual stipend. Jewellery to Clara and Ann. And then, ‘I give the sum of five thousand pounds free of all duties to each of my grandsons, Henry Edward Abbott and Thomas Daniel Abbott.’

  ‘Not a grand fortune,’ whispered Harry. ‘But not bad.’

  ‘I also devise and bequeath to my grandson, Thomas Daniel Abbott, all my house and land known as Binburra, and contained in Certificate of title Volume 8949 Folio 009. I bequeath the remainder of my estate in full to the trustees of the Binburra Conservation Foundation.’

  Mr Billson put down the document, and used a little cloth to clean his spectacles.

  Harry shook his head, stood and stepped forward. ‘What, so Tom gets Binburra?’

  ‘That was your grandmother’s wish, yes.’

  ‘Show me.’

  ‘I assure you—’

  ‘Show me!’ Mr Billson pointed out the clause. Harry read, and reread it, eyes darting from side to side, his breath coming in rapid pants. He glared accusingly at Tom. ‘Did you know about this?’

  ‘No, I swear—’

  ‘I was the one there when she died.’ Harry’s voice rose as he addressed the room. ‘The one watching Nana struggle to breathe, the one holding her hand at the end. Not bloody Tom.’

  ‘That’s because you didn’t tell me.’ Tom didn’t want to cause a scene at Nana’s funeral, didn’t want to provoke his brother’s famous temper, but some things needed saying. ‘I’d have given anything to be there, but you kept me away.’

  He’d expected Harry to blow up and storm about. But instead his brother’s eyes filled with tears, and he hurried from the room.

  Tom went after him. He followed Harry down the street, across the road, round the block. He followed him all the way to the railway station. Harry bought a ticket, moved onto the platform and sank down on a bench.

  Tom sat beside him. ‘I had nothing to do with what happened back there, Harry. Didn’t have a clue.’

  ‘I believe you, mate. You’re too damned honest to pull off a scam like that.’ He lit up a cigarette, and offered Tom one.

  ‘I don’t smoke.’

  ‘Of course you don’t.’ They sat for a while in silence.

  ‘Come back to the house,’ said Tom, kicking at the timber boards. ‘We can talk about it.’

  ‘What’s the point? Unless you’re planning to give me my half of Binburra. Make things square.’

  Tom scrubbed his hands over his eyes. Harry was right — it only seemed fair. But Nana’s voice was ringing loud and clear in his head; the sacred trust she’d bestowed on him during that last, magical trek into the wilderness. There is temptation here, Tom; buried in these cliffs and underground. Would you really trust your brother with that knowledge? I’m charging you with the guardianship of the tigers and this valley. They must always be protected. That was why she’d left him Binburra. It suddenly made sense.

  ‘I can’t.’ Tom hung his head. ‘You don’t understand—’

  A train whistle sounded in the distance.

  Harry’s nostrils flared and he stood. ‘What is it that I don’t understand? That you were always her favourite? That now you can rub my nose in it?’ He took a long drag on his fag. ‘Is this some sort of payback? It’s not my fault Papa didn’t love you.’

  Tom was determined to stay calm, but Harry had hit a chronically raw nerve, and the emotional pressure cooker of the funeral had taken its toll. ‘That bastard killed our mother, but you don’t give a fuck about that, do you? All you care about is wallowing in the past, and feeling sorry for yourself.’

  Harry shirtfronted him, almost knocking him off his feet. Tom lashed out with his fist before he’d properly regained his balance, managing a glancing blow off Harry’s chin.

  Before either of them could do any real damage, the station master got in between them. ‘You lads should be ashamed of yourselves. Now pick up your hats.’ He cuffed Tom around the ears. ‘You, especially, disrespecting your country’s uniform like that. I’ve a good mind to report you for public brawling.’

  Tom could see the train coming. What a mess he’d made of things. ‘Harry, please come back to the house.’

  ‘No, thanks.’ He was breathing hard and staring at Tom with wild eyes.

  ‘Please, Harry.’ The train pulled into the station. ‘Don’t you have a bag or something at Binburra you need to get?’

  ‘Tell Mrs Mills to send it on.’ The train rattled and hissed to a halt. ‘Oh, and Tom, I’ll say hello to Emma for you.’

  ‘Emma?’

  ‘She’s back in Hobart working as a model.’ There was a malicious twist to his mouth. ‘We’re going together. I’m seeing rather a lot of her, if you catch my drift …’

  Tom felt like he’d been struck. It was all he could do to keep from launching himself at Harry. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  Harry shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’ He opened a carriage door, jumped in and doffed his hat. ‘Goodbye, little brother. If I see you again in this lifetime, it’ll be way too soon.’

  The train ground into motion. Tom felt the world shift beneath his feet as a vast emptiness claimed him. He clutched at Karma on the silver chain around his neck. How hollow life was, now everyone he loved was gone.

  Chapter 20

  Tom remained at Binburra for twenty-four hours after the funeral. Old George and Mrs Mills agreed to stay on as before, to care for the elderly dogs and be general caretakers.

  ‘Can you water Nana’s seedlings, and plant them out when they’re ready, please George? And Mrs Mills, can you make sure Nana’s bedroom window stays open for her quoll? And leave it a dish of chopped rabbit each night.’

  ‘Lord knows I had this same conversation with your grandmother, just before she passed,’ said Mrs Mills with a smile. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll look after the wee mite.’

  * * *


  Tom returned to Point Cook subtly changed. His mates noticed it. His instructors, everybody. He’d always been a fair flyer, but now he became outstanding, displaying the sort of skill, courage and confidence that set him apart from his peers. ‘What’s happened to you?’ asked Stu. ‘Got the devil on your tail?’

  His next flight evaluation deemed him to ‘possess excellent technical skills, together with an uncommon natural aptitude. My one concern is that he flies with a certain reckless abandon that could prove hazardous to himself and his fellow pilots.’ Tom read the evaluation and laughed. What did they expect from a man with nothing to lose? He relentlessly practised aerobatics above a railway line so he could tell if he was coming out straight or not: stall turns, loops and vertical dives at one hundred and fifty miles per hour. Pushing himself to the limits of safety and earning himself the nickname of Mad Tom.

  When the first term ended, he was the only cadet to stay on base during the three-week mid-year break. What else should he do? He couldn’t bear the thought of Binburra without Nana. He had nowhere to go and nobody to miss him.

  Tom spent his days swotting up on theory, picking his instructors’ brains and cadging dual practice flights whenever he could in the Westland Wapitis. It took his mind both off his loneliness, and Harry’s disturbing parting comment about Emma.

  The cadets would be graduating to these single-engine biplane bombers in second term. Compared to Tiger Moths, the bigger, more powerful Wapitis were rumoured to be slow and clumsy. On the ground they needed to be manhandled by several men into flying position. However, Tom soon grew to love the grand, old aeroplanes. When the others returned for final term he had a head start, and was flying them solo after three hours.