Lost Autumn

by Mary-Rose MacColl

  Soon a silver pickup truck pulled over near where she was. He jumped out, holding a paper cup and water. “It’s just from the water fountain by the elevator, so not very cold, but it will help,” he said.

  She took a small sip. “Thank you,” she said. “I think you’re right. It’s a long way.”

  “Morning sickness?” he said.

  “I beg pardon?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I assumed. I’m so sorry. Forget I said anything. I’m just a bit nervous about all this.”

  She just smiled weakly. How had he known?

  He opened her door for her and helped her into the truck and then put her bags into the back. They were soon on their way.

  They drove along the riverside. The river was wide, like parts of the Thames, and brown.

  “How long have you known Madeleine?” she asked.

  “Maddie. We call her Maddie. Ah, gee, at least a decade. More. Frank was four when she took us in and he’s nineteen now. Decade and a half then. That went fast!”

  “How did you meet?” Victoria wasn’t exactly suspicious of Andrew Shaw, but she was cautious. The stories of people exploiting old folk were well known. Finian Inglis had said he wasn’t sure what Shaw’s interest was.

  “I’m a builder. I did work for her. Well, actually, I did work for her neighbors first.” He sighed heavily. “They were horrible people in the end. He was a lawyer, told me this story about Maddie wandering around her backyard half naked. I knew it was complete nonsense. She’d never have done that. She’s a very private person.

  “They put me on to do some renovations and then they got it into their heads I should check out her house. It was pretty rundown, and they worried it was going to fall over onto their house. I came to really like Maddie, and she didn’t like the neighbors much. But I thought they might be right about one thing, that her house might actually fall down around her, or burn down with the ancient wiring. So I offered to help, and after a bit, she accepted.

  “She’s not the most trusting person in the world, and nor am I, so we were a good cautious pair. After Ed passed away, Maddie looked after the kids for me while I worked on her house, and then she continued to look after them when they started school. They’re good kids and they know what she’s done for them. She’s been their mum, no doubt about it.”

  “Ed—is that Ed McIntrick?”

  “Yes.”

  “Her agent?”

  Andrew Shaw looked at her. “Hmm,” he said. “Anyway, she liked the kids more than me, I’d have to say.”

  He smiled, a likable smile. She thought of Ben then, who also had a likable smile. You never had any idea who people were.

  “Where are the kids now?” she said.

  “Frank’s at the university doing architecture, and Sally’s in year twelve. She’s going to do journalism. Maddie’s influence.”

  “You must be very proud,” Victoria said.

  “I am,” he said, looking over at her suddenly. “And very grateful to Maddie. She’s been there pretty well their whole lives. I’d do anything for her.”

  “Of course,” Victoria said.

  “What I mean is, me and my kids, we’d never let anyone hurt Maddie.” He took his eyes off the road again, long enough to make eye contact with Victoria.

  She nodded. She got the message.

  “So their mum’s not around?” she said. Was she interested? She couldn’t be interested.

  “Divorced,” he said. “And then she died.” The way he said it didn’t invite discussion.

  “I’m sorry,” Victoria said.

  He nodded.

  He was very good-looking, and he had these hands. She imagined he’d built houses with them, but they were really beautiful in and of themselves. He used them to gesture, touched his face, pushed his hair back.

  “Do you play an instrument?” she asked.

  She was definitely interested.

  “Drums,” he said.

  “I nearly said drums.”

  She was jet-lagged, tired, pregnant by another man, the man she was engaged to, and she was interested.

  “How on earth did you know that?” he said.

  Was he interested?

  “You have hands.”

  He looked at her and burst out laughing, and it was even better than his smile, one of those infectious laughs that makes you want to join in. “Doesn’t everyone?” he said.

  “Fine,” she said. “Yours are just . . . intriguing.”

  “Well, I’ve never had anyone tell me that.”

  “Are we off to see Madeleine—Maddie—now?”

  “No, I’m taking you to your hotel so you can rest for today.”

  “I’m not tired.” She wondered why he wouldn’t take her straight to Madeleine Bright. She wished she’d had a chance to speak with Finian Inglis before she left. “We can go today. I’m only here a week.”

  “You are,” he said, pulling into the driveway of the Heritage Hotel.

  * * *

  She had a room overlooking the river. The light was still all wrong, she thought. It was far too much day. She closed the heavy drapes. She turned on the air-conditioning and got in the shower, which was more like a waterfall, as if there was so much water in the world you didn’t need to care. It was heaven.

  Dressed in the hotel robe, she lay on the bed and called Barlow Inglis, caught Finian just as he was leaving.

  “Did you tell me Andrew Shaw worried you?” she asked.

  “Well, it’s just that Madeleine Bright is so old. It’s possible he’s found a manuscript and he’s somehow trying to make money out of it.”

  “He wouldn’t take me to see her today, although I asked. So I’m a bit stuck and I’m only here a week.”

  “Oh, that’s not good,” Finian said. “On the other hand, if he was doing something untoward, he wouldn’t want a journalist involved. For now, just take him at face value. You might be more tired than you think.”

  She decided to lie down for five minutes.

  When she woke and looked outside, it was dark, which was all wrong in the opposite way to earlier. She went back to sleep, and when she woke again she could see the beginnings of dawn making the cliffs across the river turn gold.

  She had been tired, she realized. It wasn’t just the jet lag. She’d been exhausted by everything that had happened. Having slept, she could see more clearly. The world was less sinister now.

  She took a walk through a university campus and then into the city, where she found a coffee shop. She had breakfast with tea; she couldn’t stomach coffee. The tea was appalling. Weak, lukewarm, with milk that tasted like cream.

  As she walked back to the hotel, she realized there were no photographers to worry about. They wouldn’t know her in Australia and the English photographers wouldn’t come this far to get a picture. She was known in London, because of Ben, and maybe Los Angeles, because of Ben, but not in Australia. It was such a relief. It made her think again that being with Ben, even if he got help as he’d promised, would mean a life of watching everything she did in case someone was taking a picture. Never bending down to stretch after a run, or wearing shorts, or coming out of her flat without being ready for them. Was that the life she wanted? Would they stop eventually, as Ben suggested? Or would it just get worse and worse?

  When she checked for messages back at the hotel, Andrew Shaw had called to say he’d collect her at ten to take her to Bright.

  She could hear a voice in the background, female, as he spoke on the message machine. She didn’t know if it was his daughter, a girlfriend, or the television.

  The fact that she wanted to know should worry her, she thought. The fact it didn’t worry her should worry her too.

  He had guessed she was pregnant. She didn’t look pregnant yet, and he hardly knew her, but he’d guessed. He’d known her
as she was.

  Ben hadn’t. Ben hadn’t known at all.

  Forty-four

  PERTH, 1920

  The next morning, Mr. Waters came to see me at the office in Government House. “I can’t thank you enough, Maddie.”

  “Oh no,” I said, “I didn’t do anything. And Helen—I don’t think she meant to . . . I think you misunderstood what we saw, sir.”

  He held his hand up to stop me speaking. “Helen is leaving us, Maddie. She’s going back to Melbourne today.” He looked as if it took considerable effort to keep his voice even.

  “Did Colonel Grigg dismiss her?” I couldn’t believe Mr. Waters would let the colonel do this. I couldn’t believe the colonel would do it. Mr. Waters loved her! Colonel Grigg had proposed to her! How could they just abandon her?

  “Helen decided to leave, Ned told me. And he’s broken off their engagement too, he said, in light of recent events.” Mr. Waters almost smiled when he said the second bit!

  “No, Mr. Waters, she broke it off with him. She doesn’t want to marry him. She never did. She loves you. Mr. Waters, I don’t think . . .”

  “You don’t think what?” he said sharply.

  “I don’t think it’s what you think, sir. I don’t think she and the prince . . .”

  He just looked at me.

  “I don’t think she did what . . . The prince, he . . .”

  He was glaring at me now. “Maddie, I don’t want to hear any more about this. I think we know where Helen’s heart is, and where it isn’t. It’s my own fault for pursuing her. I will not be so unwise again.”

  “But you love her.”

  “Stop!” he said. He gathered his composure. “The reason I told you what’s happened is that Colonel Grigg wants you to take over from Helen. He wants you to staff Prince Edward, help with his remarks. There’s Bunbury tomorrow and a couple of train stops en route to Adelaide. That should get us back to the ship.”

  For the first time, Mr. Waters looked as if he couldn’t care less about staffing Prince Edward or the trip or any of the things he was responsible for.

  “What about the letters?” I said. I didn’t want to have anything more to do with the prince.

  “We’ll just have to manage. I’m sure we can. We can leave the letters until we’re back aboard ship and go through them then. We’ll do our best.” He smiled weakly. “Maddie.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I did try to get her to stay. I can’t believe he . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence.

  * * *

  I found Helen at the front gate, waiting for her taxicab.

  “How will you get home?” I asked. I felt awful for her. She looked so small in her overcoat, her valise to one side. She had told me the story the night before, what had happened to her and Mr. Waters. My heart was breaking for her.

  “I’ve booked a train to Adelaide tonight and then on to Melbourne tomorrow,” she said. “And then, home.”

  “London?”

  “Temporarily.”

  “What will you do? Can you go back to Vanity Fair?”

  She nodded. “I’m sure they’ll take me back. I’m actually a very good editor.”

  “Did Colonel Grigg fire you?”

  “No. I quit before he had to.”

  “How can he possibly be angry with you? What a hypocrite. I don’t think Mr. Waters told him.”

  “Well, bully for Rupert. But someone did. James, Dickie. One of them did. And Ned was just itching to get his revenge. Anyway, I can’t stay. It’s all over.” There were tears in her eyes. “I tried to explain to Rupert, Maddie, but it was no use. He doesn’t love me, he said.”

  “He’s just angry because of what he saw, Helen. He’ll be all right. If he knew the truth, I know he wouldn’t give the prince another thought. He would be by your side. Can I tell him? Can I give him Autumn Leaves if I get it written?”

  Helen just smiled. “Of course you can,” she said.

  * * *

  Back in the office, there was a spider letter. I didn’t know the content of the letter but the prince’s happy mood after it was delivered told me his mistress had changed her mind. I didn’t speak to him myself, but I heard him making jokes with Dickie. Mr. Waters was still reserved with the prince, and the prince didn’t come near us. I wrote remarks and asked Colonel Grigg to talk them through with the prince. He was only too happy to take over, found me easier to manage than Helen.

  It was three days later, on the train east, that the prince asked if I could come to see him about the day’s letters for signature.

  I went to his study but he wasn’t there. I called out, “Sir?” and heard him call back from his private quarters.

  I went toward the door, and I felt afraid. I knew I had to go in, but I didn’t want to.

  I decided if anything happened, I would kick him as hard I could and run back out.

  I went in.

  It was dim in the prince’s private study, despite the brightness of the day outside. The shades were drawn and the prince was sitting in an easy chair, pen in hand. He was sipping from a glass.

  “Sir?” I repeated.

  “Maddie,” he said, looking up and smiling. “Maddie, dearest, these letters today are the best of the best. And Ned tells me you wrote my remarks for this morning. Marvelous work, my dear.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He stood then and put down the letter in his hand, the glass. “Drink?” he offered.

  “No, thank you,” I said.

  “Rupert seems unhappy with me,” he said, smiling.

  “I don’t know, sir,” I said. “Perhaps he is.”

  “He’ll come round, I should think. Always does.”

  I didn’t respond.

  He stumbled a little on his way to the decanter on the side table, poured himself a drink, took ice with tongs and dropped it into the glass. “Hear that?” he said. “I love that sound.”

  I did not speak, only looked at him. He disgusted me.

  I don’t know if I had somehow communicated my feelings, but it was the last time he asked for me personally.

  Forty-five

  BRISBANE, 1997

  M. A. Bright lived in Paddington, which was nothing like its London namesake. It was hilly and darkly green, more jungle than suburb, pocked with little wooden houses on legs, mostly painted in a uniform cream with dark green and dark red trim. Stumps, Andrew Shaw had said in the truck on the way. The legs of the houses were actually called stumps, not legs. The houses were up on the legs—stumps—because of floods, he explained. “Brisbane’s a river city.”

  M. A. Bright’s house was built high on a block that rose steeply at the front. It commanded a view over the neighborhood. If it flooded, Andrew Shaw said, the entire city would be under. There was a rock wall and stairs leading up. In another climate, colder, mistier, it would be haunted.

  “Maybe it started as a way to mitigate flood and it became the Queensland vernacular,” Andy said. Victoria liked that he used that word, vernacular.

  They went in—Andrew Shaw had a key, Victoria noted—and found the writer just inside the door, sitting in a big comfortable chair on the enclosed front veranda, a crocheted blanket over her knees.

  She was like an aged writer in a novel, Victoria thought, the kind the word wizened was invented for. Victoria had known Bright was in her nineties, yet had expected someone larger, more imposing. M. A. Bright was tiny in the big chair, her face wrinkled so much there were more wrinkles than face. White hair fell in wisps about her skull.

  Inside, her cottage was well maintained and neat, a rug on the floor. It looked as if someone was caring for the place. On the table next to her was a signed picture of Diana, Princess of Wales, and another picture, a young woman Victoria didn’t recognize, Bright herself, Victoria assumed.

  She remained seated i
n the chair but smiled up at Victoria warmly, extending her hand, which Victoria took.

  “Miss Bright, it’s an honor,” Victoria said.

  “You’re the writer,” M. A. Bright said. Her voice was certain, and she gave the appearance of spryness, but the thing that would stay with Victoria was her eyes. They were a blue-green, and they looked directly at a person, directly at life, Victoria thought.

  “No, you’re the writer—I’m the hack,” Victoria said, laughing.

  The old woman was staring up at her intently. “I had a friend who said that once,” she said. “She said I was a writer and she was a hack.”

  “Well, in this case, there’s no false modesty. Autumn Leaves, which I’ve reread on the flight over, is so very beautiful.”

  “It has a happy ending.”

  “It does?” Victoria said.

  Victoria had wept when she read the last pages of Autumn Leaves. It was awful for the young ambulance driver, awful for her captain. They had been at cross purposes and had lost each other.

  “It was a story handed to me,” the writer said. She laughed then and said, “Literally!”

  “Wow! You would only get one story like that in a lifetime. Shall I sit?” Victoria wanted to get her tape recorder out so as not to miss anything.

  “Oh, please do,” Miss Bright said. “Where are my manners?”

  Andrew Shaw, who’d gone further inside the house, came out then with a teapot.

  “I made tea, Maddie,” he said.

  “Oh dear,” she said. “At least there’s Sally’s banana cake. You may have to ignore the tea itself, Victoria.” She laughed and then said, “Actually, we can’t have that, Andrew, can we? We can’t drink tea that tastes like an old boot. Victoria’s from London!”

  The old woman stood up—she was spry—and led them through the house. The interior was painted white, with gleaming honey-wood floors and high ceilings of pressed metal. It was really rather charming, Victoria thought.