Ocean Child

by Tamara McKinley

  Lulu had snatched a few moments of sleep during the night and was feeling limp with fatigue – the sight of the wonderfully familiar Vera was too much and she clung to her, sobbing. ‘She’s dying, Vera. I should never have gone.’

  Vera gave her a handkerchief and gently nudged her towards the door. ‘Dry your eyes and go and have a wash,’ she said gruffly. ‘Madam won’t want to see you in such a terrible state.’ She scrabbled in her large shopping bag and pulled out several packets wrapped with greaseproof paper which she placed on the side. ‘When you’ve tidied yourself up, you can eat. There’s steak-and-kidney pie, still hot from the oven, a flask of tea and a slab of cake.’ She looked with disapproval at Lulu’s slenderness and clucked like a mother hen.

  Lulu felt slightly better after her wash, but she discovered she had no appetite despite the heavenly aroma of Vera’s cooking. She forced herself to eat enough to satisfy Vera, who fussed and bustled about for a while before she left with the promise to return later. Lulu sat quietly at Clarice’s side and began to open the letters Vera had brought with her.

  They were mostly for Clarice, wishing her a speedy recovery. There was nothing from Joe – it was too soon,.

  ‘Lorelei?’

  She dropped the letters and rushed to Clarice’s side. ‘Thank God, oh thank God,’ she sobbed, as she took the birdlike hand and held it to her cheek.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ The voice was thin and bewildered.

  ‘I’ve come home,’ she said, as she tenderly brushed the silver hair from the pale forehead. ‘I’m here, Little Mother, and I’ll never leave you again.’

  Clarice shifted her head on the pillow, her eyes bright with tears. ‘Little Mother,’ she sighed. ‘How lovely.’

  ‘I’m just so sorry I never said it before.’ She leant on the bed, her face close to Clarice’s. ‘You’re the only mother I ever had – the best mother in the world, and I love you so much.’

  ‘I love you too,’ Clarice murmured.

  Lulu kept hold of her hand as she fell asleep again. Hope surged and ebbed as she watched her. Did she dare to believe Clarice would recover? ‘You must get well again,’ she whispered. ‘I need you, Clarice.’

  But Clarice didn’t wake again for another three days.

  *

  Huddled over the radiator while the snow softly fell outside the window, Lulu was rereading an old letter of Joe’s. The tone was a little stilted, but full of the day-to-day happenings at Galway House, the race meetings and the successes and failures of the horses in the yard. Bob was back in the saddle, and he and Ocean Child had won a couple of races and earned a handicap, so he was entering him for an important meeting in Melbourne in the New Year. Molly and Frank’s daily chats over the two-way were causing gossip, and Eliza and her father had moved to a house out at Deloaine, which was only a few miles away. She’d become a bit of a fixture around the yard – which pleased Molly no end, but he was concerned the stable hands were becoming distracted.

  Lulu tried to ignore the twist of jealousy. She had no right to feel like that. But his letter made her yearn to see him again.

  Dolly’s hastily scrawled note had come from the family country estate, where she was happily ensconced and already learning how to improve the bloodline of their stock. Her father had been shocked by her decision, but was coming around to the idea now he could see she wasn’t doing it on a whim. The engagement to Freddy had been quietly shelved with no regrets on either side, there had been no communication from her blackmailer, and she was looking forward to the local hunt ball, which she would attend on the arm of a young man who bred Brahman bulls on a large nearby estate.

  Bertie’s letter was short and to the point. He was delighted she was back, sorry Clarice was unwell and interested to learn that Lulu was related to Sybilla Henderson. He ended his letter by asking when he could expect the finished commissions.

  Lulu heard a rustle of bedclothes and rushed to Clarice’s side. ‘Hello, Little Mother,’ she crooned as she kissed the pale forehead.

  Clarice’s grip on her fingers was weak. ‘I’m glad … found him,’ she managed through her ragged breathing. ‘Frank’s … good man.’

  The short speech seemed to exhaust her and she fell silent, struggling to breathe, and clearly in pain.

  ‘Shall I get the doctor? Do you need some more medication?’

  Clarice closed her eyes and moved her head on the pillow. ‘No,’ she rasped. ‘Did … see Gwen?’

  Lulu bit her lip. ‘Briefly,’ she replied. ‘We didn’t have much to say to each other.’

  The faded blue eyes were unwavering as the breath rattled in her chest. ‘So,’ gasped Clarice, ‘she told you … me and … father?’

  ‘She said something,’ Lulu hedged, ‘but she’s always been such a liar, I didn’t believe her.’

  ‘It was true,’ she panted. ‘Thought … loved him … What happened … not my making.’

  ‘You don’t have to explain, Mother. Please don’t tire yourself.’

  The grip tightened on her fingers, her expression telling of her need to speak, to explain before it was too late. ‘Took advantage … foolish young woman.’ She lapsed into silence, her colour hectic, her chest rising and falling with the effort of breathing.

  ‘He treated all of you badly in the end,’ said Lulu. ‘Primmy told me. I almost feel sorry for Gwen,’ she admitted, ‘because she adored him and he deserted her.’ She leant closer. ‘But it took me that long journey to understand why Gwen behaved as she did – and to realise how blessed I am in you, Mother. Thank you for rescuing me and loving me.’

  A solitary tear ran down the parchment skin to fall on the pillow and the tension fell away from her fingers. ‘Tired,’ she panted. ‘So very tired.’

  ‘Then sleep, Little Mother. I’ll be here when you wake.’

  Clarice’s eyelids drifted shut, and after a while Lulu retrieved Joe’s letter so she could read it again.

  ‘Is … from Joe?’ Clarice’s voice was sleepy.

  ‘Would you like me to read it out?’

  ‘No,’ she sighed. ‘Personal … private.’ Her voice was fading and she seemed to shrink into the pillows.

  ‘It’s not, really, and I’m sure Joe won’t mind,’ said Lulu, smoothing out the thin paper.

  ‘Will … go … back?’

  Lulu’s tears gathered in a lump in her throat. ‘Probably not,’ she admitted. ‘I’m happy here in Sussex with you.’

  ‘Are you in love with Joe Reilly?’ Her voice was surprisingly strong, her breathing suddenly less erratic as she opened her eyes and regarded Lulu with piercing directness.

  Lulu blushed and nodded, hope sparking that at last Clarice was rallying. ‘I think so,’ she admitted, ‘but—’

  Clarice’s grip on her fingers was surprisingly strong for one so frail. ‘Then go to him, darling girl. Tell him. Don’t waste your life.’

  ‘I’m not leaving you again, Mother.’

  The grip weakened and her hand fell to the bedclothes as her eyes closed. ‘Tasmania is where your heart has always been,’ she said softly, ‘and now the man you love is there too. Don’t leave it too long, darling – he won’t wait for ever.’

  Lulu blinked back the tears. ‘I don’t expect him to,’ she said, her voice unsteady.

  ‘I wish I could have met him,’ sighed Clarice. ‘You will make a beautiful bride.’

  ‘You’ll meet him,’ sobbed Lulu, fearful at how tired she sounded, how distant – as if she was fading, drawing away from her bit by bit. ‘And of course you’ll see me as a bride. Why, you’re looking and sounding so much better already. It won’t be long …’

  Clarice’s parchment skin became luminous in the winter light from the window, and her eyelids fluttered.

  Lulu gripped her hand. ‘Don’t go to sleep, Mother. Please don’t. I have so much more to say to you.’

  ‘I must go,’ she murmured. ‘Eunice is calling me.’ Her voice faded, and with a last sigh, Clarice left her.

/>   Lulu climbed on to the bed and gathered her into her arms. She held her gently, her fingers running over the silver hair, her heart breaking. Her mother was gone, and she had never felt so alone.

  *

  Joe was sitting in his untidy office, Lulu’s letter on the desk before him. He was sorry Clarice had died, and his heart ached at the thought of Lulu in deep mourning. Frustrated that he could do nothing to help her, he shoved back his chair and went to stand in the doorway, hands in pockets, shoulder against the frame. If only he could have taken time off to go and see her, but England was so far away, and he had responsibilities here that he couldn’t ignore. It was an impossible situation.

  His thoughts returned to her letter. At least she wasn’t alone, for Sybilla had left Brisbane earlier than planned and had arrived to take charge of things until Lulu felt more able to cope. From what she’d written, Lulu was finding solace in her work, and she’d made great inroads on the commission pieces – but there had been no mention of her returning to Tasmania now she was free, and that was the hardest part of all.

  ‘Joe?’ Eliza appeared in the office doorway. ‘I think you’d better come and look at this.’

  ‘What is it, Eliza?’

  ‘You’ll see soon enough,’ she said grimly. ‘Come on.’

  He followed her out of the yard and through the paddock to the leafy corner that had been fenced off many years ago when his grandfather was still alive. The family pets had been buried here, each little plot marked with a cross and their name.

  ‘Why have you brought me here?’

  ‘Look.’ Her voice was unsteady as she pointed.

  It was then that he saw the freshly carved markers and his blood ran cold. There were three of them, each adorned with an eyeless doll’s head, the names crudely etched but all too legible.

  Molly

  Frank

  Lorelei

  Joe’s skin crawled as he stared into those sightless eyes. Gwen Cole still sought revenge, and there was no telling what her crazed mind would think up next.

  *

  Sybilla had proved to be a stalwart help over the past three months, and although she remained acerbic and rather bossy, Lulu found she turned to her more and more for advice.

  The house didn’t feel quite so empty when she was around, and as they worked together in the summer house, or walked across the downs, their friendship deepened. But her true solace came with her sculptures. The commission pieces were almost ready for the foundry, and she’d begun to work on some of her own ideas, using the sketches she’d done in Australia.

  ‘What do you think I should do, Sybilla?’ They were in the summer house, the watery sun flooding in on a crisp March day. ‘I’m sure I won’t be able to finish anything in time for the exhibition, and I can’t let Bertie down again.’

  ‘You’re perfectly capable of finishing at least three pieces by July,’ she replied, ‘and Bertie doesn’t really expect much from you this year, so I wouldn’t fret over it.’ She eyed her thoughtfully as she put down her palette knife and ran her fingers through her tangle of hair. ‘It really is time you stopped relying on me for everything, you know. I have a husband and a house in Brisbane to get back to.’

  Not the least offended by her tone, Lulu smiled. ‘Doesn’t he mind you being away so much?’

  ‘Alf gets along just fine without me,’ she said briskly. ‘He goes sea-fishing and bush-walking and spends hours messing about with his motorbikes. I reckon he doesn’t know I’m not there half the time.’

  ‘Do you have children?’

  ‘Children are overrated, if you ask me,’ she said with a sniff. ‘They ruin your life by demanding every ounce of energy from you, and end up breaking your heart. Better off without them.’

  Lulu remained silent as Sybilla picked up her palette knife and vigorously added dabs of burnt umber to the canvas. She suspected that behind that gruff exterior beat the heart of an unfulfilled woman who would have loved to have had children and a husband who took some notice of her – but she would never voice those thoughts. If Sybilla ever decided to confide in her, she would be happy to listen.

  ‘I’ve had a thought,’ said Sybilla a few moments later. ‘If you do manage to put something together for London, I might be able to persuade the gallery in New York to take them as well. I’m due to exhibit there in September, and it would be a tremendous boost to your career if they agreed.’

  ‘Do you really think they might?’ Lulu felt a burst of energy and excitement.

  ‘Only if you get on with your work and produce something they can show,’ she said drily, ‘and you won’t do that by sitting there grinning like a fool.’

  Lulu laughed and eagerly turned her attention back to the drawings, the energy building as her imagination soared. Sybilla was right. She was perfectly capable of producing several pieces in time. They needn’t be cast in bronze, but fired in the oven – which would give them the rustic effect she’d been searching for.

  *

  ‘She’s gone missing,’ said Molly, her arms tightly folded as if to hold in the fear he could see in her eyes. ‘The police say there’s no sign of her at her place, and it looks as if it’s been deserted for weeks. They managed to speak to that bloke she was living with, but he said she’d booted him out and sold off the horses a couple of months back. He hasn’t heard from her or seen her since.’

  Joe led her to the chair in his office and sat her down. ‘I’ve doubled the guard at night,’ he soothed, ‘and every man has a rifle. She wouldn’t dare come back again – not now she knows we’re ready for her.’

  ‘The thing with the dolls was bad enough,’ Molly said with a shiver, ‘and the slashed tyres were expensive to replace – but to leave a dead rat on my kitchen table and cut up all my photos of Patrick is sick. She’s mad, Joe, utterly mad, and I’m terrified of what she might do next.’

  Joe put his hand on his mother’s shoulder, but he had no words to comfort her. Gwen Cole’s campaign of terror had affected them all. He had the stable hands patrolling the house and stables every night with guns, the police making regular detours to scour the boundaries and the neighbours on alert for anything suspicious. The owners were getting jittery, making noises about taking their horses away, and if it went on for much longer she would ruin his business. He just thanked God Lulu was safe in England.

  ‘We’ll get through this,’ he said, trying to instil some kind of assurance in his voice. ‘If she is insane, then she’ll get careless. It won’t be long before she’s caught and locked away for good.’

  *

  The London house had been sold long ago, so Sybilla and Lulu had booked into a hotel close to the gallery. Bertie was well acquainted with the gallery owner, and they had come to an agreement over Lulu exhibiting there. Now the gallery was alive with the chatter and laughter of the large gathering that spilled out into the manicured gardens beneath a star-studded July night. Waiters glided from group to group with champagne and caviar, cigarette smoke drifted up to the chandeliers and the mixture of perfumes was quite heady.

  Lulu turned to Sybilla with a grin. ‘They seem to like what they see, don’t they?’

  Sybilla smiled and tossed back her hair. ‘I reckon you could say we’ve woken up London to Australia,’ she drawled in her Queensland twang, ‘and when we exhibit in New York in September, I think you’ll find they’ll like us there too.’

  Lulu’s eyes widened in excitement. ‘They’ve agreed?’

  ‘Of course,’ she replied haughtily. ‘I do have some influence, you know – and Bertie’s marvellous at pulling strings.’ She waved to someone on the other side of the gallery and bustled away – a billowing vision in red and purple silk.

  Lulu couldn’t stop smiling. New York. Who would have thought it? She eyed Sybilla’s paintings on the white walls. The canvases brought the Outback to life with their searing colours and harsh beauty, and she could almost smell the eucalyptus. Her father’s sister was a gifted artist who could replicate the
debris of the bush floor with ease – who could paint a waterfall tumbling over red cliffs and capture the rainbow it created – and whose delicate touch could catch the glint of avarice in the eye of a tiny fairy wren as well as the ominous power of the great wedge-tailed eagle as it hovered over its prey.

  Glad to have a few moments to herself, she moved through the crowd and inspected her own work. It was very different to her last exhibition, for there were fewer pieces, none of them as stylised as before, and certainly no large bronzes.

  The life-studies were two feet high, standing on tall slender glass tables about the room. There was Joe in his broad-brimmed hat, saddle over his shoulder, dog at his feet – and here was Peter squinting into the sun from beneath his bush-hat, with a calf slung around his neck, his long coat falling almost to his bootheels. The largest piece stood a foot higher. It was the trunk of a tree, with the bark peeling away and drooping like paper. At its foot sat a tiny rock wallaby, busy cleaning his snout, ears alert for danger.

  Lulu moved on until she came to the child. She sat beside a bucket and spade, her tiny star-shaped hand holding a shell to her ear, eyes wide with wonder and curiosity as she listened to the ocean sighing within its depths. But her favourite piece was the foal, taken from the drawings she had done in Hobart on the night Joe had first kissed her.

  It had been the hardest piece to get right, and had only been finished the day before, but it evoked such sad memories she felt the tears threaten. Without Clarice and Joe beside her, it all seemed rather pointless.

  ‘I like the child with the shell. Is it supposed to be you?’

  She turned and gasped with surprise and pleasure. ‘Dolly!’ she exclaimed. ‘You didn’t tell me you were coming.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have missed it for the world, darling,’ she murmured as they embraced. She was dressed in an outrageous creation of silk and lace that left very little to the imagination, but her eyes were bright, her face glowing with health. ‘Wonderful exhibition. I recognise Joe and Peter – you’re so clever – and I simply adore the foal. I’d like you to meet Jasper Harding.’