Dear Mikaela,
I am your grandmother, though you may not know of me.
I have no idea what your parents told you about me, but I have always wanted to meet you, and I hope one day you will read this letter. I was close to your mother until she met your father, and then everything changed. She separated herself from the family and I’ve had little contact since. As a young woman, she developed her own set of standards and principles, and she thought the way your grandfather and I lived was too materialistic. So she turned away from us, and dedicated her life to her husband and her faith. This was very sad for me, but I have respected her choice and kept my distance, despite questioning the wisdom of this many times. It feels like I have had no other option.
As a parent, you want to help your children, even if they reject you, so I have assisted the only way I could—by making financial contributions to your upbringing. Sadly, I lost your grandfather from a heart attack when he was forty-two, but we were fortunate in our careers, and this has enabled me to continue to provide for you. Your mother never declined money. I’m sure she wanted what was best for you, and I’m happy I could help.
When your parents died, Kurt informed me that he was taking over your guardianship, and that you did not wish to meet me. I’ve never known if this was true, so I have decided to keep making payments in the hope that some of the money will find its way to you, or at least make your life more comfortable.
I have also set aside a lump sum for your education. It troubled me that your mother didn’t pursue further study once she converted to your father’s religion. But I’ve always believed education is important and liberating for girls, and I’ve long sensed your upbringing might make access to higher education difficult.
If you do receive this letter, Mikaela, I want you to know that I would like to get to know you—on your own terms of course. I would make no demands.
With much love,
From your grandmother,
Brenda Jones
Miki sat with the letter in her hands while tears tracked down her cheeks and spilled onto the paper. The pain of Kurt hitting her was nothing beside this. So much sadness was exploding inside her. Why hadn’t her parents told her she had a grandmother? She couldn’t understand it—had it truly been because of their religion, as this letter suggested? But God taught of love and acceptance, the importance of family. If her parents had been close to God, how had they cut family out? And how had her mother felt about losing contact with her own mother? It was tragic. Miki couldn’t imagine erasing such an important bond. If the house fire hadn’t taken her parents, Miki and her mother would still be connected. She would always grieve this loss.
And where did this leave her relationship with Kurt? He had been receiving money that was meant to be hers and spending it all on himself. No wonder he hadn’t wanted her to leave home, because his regular payments would have ceased. The income from her grandmother had been financing the shop and his other acquisitions. The two utes. The new boat. The gym equipment. So, why the need to sell drugs? Was that his strategy to sustain himself after Miki became independent? She was beginning to understand many things.
She wondered, now, if Kurt actually cared about her, or whether she had simply been a means to an end. A source of income? No, he must have feelings for her. They’d shared so much. Their childhood. The loss of their parents and the farm. The forest. Didn’t that count for something?
And then, with a surge of sadness, she realised Kurt would never have told her about her grandmother’s letter and the money. He would have taken the income as long as he could, and maybe, eventually, he might have let her move on. It was clear to her now, that he’d burned down the shop, not just to hide the evidence of his drug dealings, but also to get rid of this letter.
So why hadn’t he disposed of it earlier? And why had he held on to the black folder? A shred of guilt? It wasn’t enough to absolve him.
She glanced down at the birthday cards, wondering why her mother had kept them. Surely she must have wanted Miki to read them one day and learn the truth.
This was her mother’s gift to her. A grandmother. Someone who cared.
Leaving the letter and cards on the table, she stood and walked out of the front door into Geraldine’s garden. After the rain, the roses along the front fence had rebounded, their pink heads bobbing in the quickening breeze that gusted up the street. The cold front had passed, and though the sky was grey it was lighter now, heading towards warmer weather.
Turning to face the mountains where the clouds hung steely and low, Miki saw the faint suggestion of a rainbow. Real, or imagined through the mist of her tears, it didn’t matter. All she knew was that the river running through her, like the waters of the river up in the mountains, was rich and deep with life, anticipation and hope.
Epilogue
A month after the episode up in the forest, Leon racked his kayak on the roof of his car and drove down to the water. It was only five minutes from home, but somehow he had neglected to do this in all the months he’d been living here. Today, however, the water was calling to him and he couldn’t wait to put his boat in.
The drive took him past the footy field where so many dramas had played out this year. It took him through grassy farmlands springing with growth, past an old disused sawmill, an orchard bursting with lime-green leaves, and down a gravel road to the river. The estuary was so wide here it didn’t seem like a river at all—more like an inlet or a lake. He pulled up on a grassy bank and wondered if he had ever seen water so still and glassy, the clouds and sky so perfectly mirrored.
The river had been here all along, and he wasn’t sure why he hadn’t taken advantage of it. Perhaps he’d been afraid of stirring his homesickness for Bruny Island, because he had missed it dreadfully when he first came here; he could admit that to himself now. He’d missed the quiet hiss of wavelets collapsing onto the flat grey shores of Adventure Bay. The wild Southern Ocean frothing against the cliffs down near the lighthouse. The peaceful paddling expeditions on the Channel, drifting among swans. He’d even missed carrying his boat across mudflats seething with crabs at low tide. But now the time was right to put his boat in here: on the other side of the Channel, where his new life was finally forming. He was still bruised and sore from his ordeal in the forest, but he was healing.
After parking close to the water, he hauled the kayak from the roof-racks and lugged it down to the shore. The river was like glass, and as he heard the soft swish of boat contacting water, it felt like coming home. He realised that putting the boat in was part of belonging; until now it hadn’t felt right.
Hanging on to the cockpit, he manoeuvred into the kayak and sat down gently without too much rocking. The boat dipped beneath him as if greeting his weight. They had forgotten how to be with each other, but it was coming back quickly.
Taking the paddle in both hands, he pushed off and the boat glided out. It was still, so still, and the water was waiting. He dipped the paddle, making soft splashes as the blade broke the surface. It was fluid and good; the kayak wanted to move.
As he paddled out, a cormorant startled from a tree and beat its way along the shoreline. A breeze rippled over, and he paddled into it, soft fingers of wind on his skin. Silver light reached across the river to the distant hills, picking out the white trunks of the trees and igniting them. All was quiet except the sounds of the birds and the rhythmic dip of his paddle.
For a while, Leon followed the shore, gliding beneath scraggly gums that held out their arms. Then he paddled onto the open water, finding his rhythm, warming up, his muscles switching on to the task. Later this afternoon he would call that nice vet and organise something. He was ready for new friendships.
This was his place now.
Acknowledgements
I am sincerely grateful to poets John Karl Stokes and Jane Baker for the epigraphs at the beginning of this novel. Thank you for allowing me to cite your fine words.
Writing a novel is mostly a solita
ry journey, but it could not be completed without the support of friends and family, or without the insight of others.
For bringing light to this novel, I thank the fabulous team at Allen & Unwin. Special thanks to Jane Palfreyman for pushing me to find the heart of the story, and Angela Handley and Kate Goldsworthy for providing detailed editing suggestions. I also thank my French publisher, Sarah Rigaud at Les Escales, for giving timely and perfect advice about the ending of the novel.
The final draft was written while I was an Artist-in–Residence at the Boyd Property, Bundanon, near Nowra. This was a valuable window of time to immerse myself in nature and art, and I thank the Bundanon Trust for this opportunity. I also spent time writing at the Cairns Bay Waterfront Retreat on the Huon River in south-eastern Tasmania.
For moral support and encouragement during difficult times, I thank Fiona Inglis at Curtis Brown Australia, and the wonderful Deb Stevens, my confidante and friend. Thank you also to the members of the Ramekins writing group for accepting me into your midst and giving thoughtful and caring advice on writing and life. Biff Ward, Robyn Cadwallader, Jenni Savigny and Dianne Lucas, I am grateful to have you as my literary friends.
Technical advice was provided by several friends and colleagues: Stephanie Robertson enlightened me about bees and bee-keeping; Judy Clarke shared insights into trapping and research on Tasmanian devils; Andrew McKee answered my questions about policing; Denise Kraus checked my medical facts; and Mandy McKendrick proofed my Tasmanian colloquialisms.
Several books inspired and informed the writing of this novel, including Engaging the Giants. A history of sawmill and tramways of Tasmania’s southern forests (Scott Clennett); Following their Footsteps: Exploring Adventure Bay (ed. C.D. Turnbull); A Short History of Tasmania (Lloyd Robson); Voyages to the Southern Seas (Danielle Clode); Into the Woods (Anna Krien); Tasmania’s Recherche Bay (Bob Brown); A History of Tasmania (Henry Reynolds); Into that Forest (Louis Nowra); In Tasmania (Nicholas Shakespeare); and The Forgotten Islands: One man’s journey into a truly gothic Australia (Mike Veitch).
Many other friends have supported me during the writing of this book, including Cindy Trewin, Alex Sloan, Jane Hodder, Marion Halligan, John Stokes, Kaaron Warren, Sarah Mason, Nigel Featherstone, Dan O’Malley, Sulari Gentill, Karly Lane, Kelli-anne Bertram, Craig Cormick, Jack Heath, Sarah Coleman, Heather Scott-Gagan, Alice Kenney, Sara Toscan, Jill Petherbridge, Sarah Toohey, Stella Clarke, Arianne Lowe, Deb Williams, Fiona Starr, Charlie Webb, Jess Winsall, Lynda Newman, Jeanne O’Malley, Denise Kraus, Felicity Sander, Emma and Mark Tahmindjis, Marina Tyndale-Biscoe and Lynne Whitehead. I thank you for your friendship and patience, for listening to me and for encouraging me.
Thanks also to my Facebook and Twitter friends for all your conversations and comments, and for distracting me when I needed to be distracted (and sometimes when I didn’t).
For proofreading and helpful suggestions I thank Marjorie Lindenmayer and Jim Viggers.
A major leap forward for this novel came about due to the incredible perceptiveness and understanding of my sister, Fiona Anderson, who read earlier drafts and tactfully pointed out what was going wrong and gave illuminating suggestions.
Above all, for endless patience, love and encouragement, I thank my family: David, Nina and Ryan. David read the manuscript more times than anyone should, and picked up my pieces when they were shattered; I owe a great debt to him. Nina and Ryan have journeyed through this book every step of the way, even though they may not have realised it at times. Their humour and humanity kept me in touch with the world.
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