The Valley of Lost Stories

by Vanessa McCausland

  ‘Hmmm, what?’

  ‘You okay? The girls asleep?’

  ‘Yes, their eyes were hanging out of their heads. I could really do with a cigarette right now.’ Nathalie propped her feet on the coffee table. ‘I’ve broken my ban and now I sneak them on the back porch when the kids are asleep, and Mike is late. How bad am I?’

  ‘Well, a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do.’

  Nathalie made a snorting sound.

  They both watched Caleb enter the room, crouch in front of the fire and stack fresh wood in the grate. His body was strong and lean, and with his angular jaw and wavy hair pulled into a low ponytail, Alexandra felt like she was watching a commercial for Levi’s jeans. She was about to whisper as much to Nathalie when she spoke.

  ‘Merci monsieur,’ Nathalie said, her lids heavy.

  ‘De rien,’ Caleb replied, glancing at her while stoking the flames.

  ‘Oh, you speak French?’ Nathalie pulled herself up straighter.

  ‘Un peu.’

  The pair of them rattled off a conversation in French.

  Alexandra was sure going back to the French department at the university would help Nathalie’s mental health. She would raise it with her at some point. Caleb got up from the fire and poured himself a glass of whiskey from the gorgeous Art Deco bar trolley in the corner of the room. He leaned against the mantlepiece above the fire as he sipped his drink. Caleb had barely spoken a word during dinner, so it was nice to see him animated, even if she had no idea what they were talking about.

  ‘What are you two chatting about in that sexy accent?’ Alexandra asked.

  ‘Oh, sorry. I always get carried away in French when I’m tipsy. Caleb’s just telling me he’s taught himself French and I’ve got to say, he’s good. His accent is excellent. He’s never been to France and I’m telling him he should go.’

  ‘Never been overseas,’ Caleb said, crouching again to stoke the fire.

  ‘Really? Shouldn’t someone your age be partying in Bali or Ibiza?’ Alexandra asked.

  Caleb shrugged and looked into the flames. ‘Not really my thing.’

  ‘What is your thing, Caleb, aside from cooking excellent French and Italian food?’ Alexandra asked.

  ‘I like the simple life,’ he said, his eyes flickering towards Nathalie. ‘Give me a campfire under the stars, a nice bottle of wine and a good book over a party any day. The bush around here is pretty special. There are some great hikes and there’s the river to swim in. I’ve got a dirt bike and a horse to ride. I keep myself busy.’

  ‘That sounds just perfect to me,’ said Nathalie, her eyes shining as she smiled at Caleb. She had finished her wine and was now lying on the lounge, her bare feet resting on Alexandra’s knees.

  ‘It could be worse.’ Caleb returned Nathalie’s smile.

  Oh God, thought Alexandra. Look at these two.

  ‘How do you survive without internet though?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve got plenty of books, a vintage record player, a clunky old typewriter. I happen to like old school.’

  ‘Very hipster. I feel like we’re in a time warp being in this valley,’ Alexandra said. ‘How did you even end up here?’

  ‘Caleb is a bit like this house – charmingly old-fashioned,’ Macie said, entering the room with a tray of coffee. Pen and Emmie came in behind her, settling into two armchairs.

  ‘Kids go down okay?’ Alexandra asked.

  Emmie gave the thumbs up and went over to inspect the drinks trolley.

  ‘He’s quite a history buff too, and he runs tours of the old mines.’

  ‘I’ll take you all for a tour tomorrow,’ said Caleb. ‘The site’s been abandoned since the early 1950s. The government just pulled the plug on a township of more than 2000 people. It went from a thriving shale oil mining town to a ghost town almost overnight.’

  ‘And what do you make of all this talk of ghosts?’ Alexandra asked.

  Caleb rubbed his jaw and looked into the fire. A sad smile played on his lips. ‘There’s all this mythology around the ghost of Clara Black, a woman who went missing in the valley in 1948, but there are other ghosts in these parts. The custodians of the land surrounding the valley were the Aboriginal Wiradjuri people. Some of the rocks here are still decorated with their paintings and ancient sites have been found, filled with Aboriginal stories about how they lived. Bone needles for stitching skins, axes, hammers, history hundreds of years old. There were massacres of First Nations people when the white men came. You might have heard of the Bathurst Wars in 1824. Martial law was declared and another brutal period in Australian history ensued. The use of firearms against the Wiradjuri peoples was sanctioned throughout the region. Soldiers were told to round up all the Aboriginal people and move them into the valley for stealing food. Their traditional hunting grounds had been destroyed. They were massacred here. But some say a woman and her baby managed to escape the killings and her descendants are still alive today.’

  Alexandra inched closer to the fire. ‘I just got shivers.’

  ‘So much of this has been forgotten. Few want to talk about it. Many Aboriginal people were slaughtered. There was also a massacre nearby, the Potato Field incident, which sparked revenge attacks by the Wiradjuri nation. The majority of victims were believed to be women and children. Personally, I believe the feeling in this region comes from these restless spirits. Of course, all these stories are now lost to history, confined to books, unspoken, to make white men feel better, but the feeling still lingers, as though the land holds onto the memory.’

  ‘Oh my goodness, I know exactly what you’re talking about,’ said Nathalie.

  ‘Me too,’ said Pen, hugging a cushion to her chest.

  ‘To quote Indigenous writer Raelee Lancaster, “. . . all land on this land, since the landing of the white man, has been haunted.” Is it so strange to think that places have a memory, too?’ Caleb asked. ‘It’s in the soil and the trees and these ancient cliffs.’

  ‘Une vieille âme dans un corps de jeune,’ Nathalie said.

  ‘Translation please,’ Alexandra said, nudging her.

  ‘An old soul in a young body.’

  ‘Peut-être,’ Caleb said, looking self-conscious, dusting his hands of ash from the fire.

  ‘Well, you two seem to be getting along rather well. I didn’t know you spoke French, Nathalie,’ Macie said, opening a silver cigarette case and offering one to her.

  Nathalie paused, seeming to study the cigarettes.

  ‘Oh, go on. You were just saying you felt like a cigarette,’ Alexandra said. ‘Macie, you’re a mind reader. Your hospitality is just beyond. Personal chefs, and now coffee, cigarettes and what are these? Chocolate truffles by the fire.’

  ‘Caleb made them. He’s quite the chocolatier.’

  ‘Of course he is,’ said Alexandra.

  ‘They’re exquisite.’ Nathalie waved the cigarette away. ‘No thank you. I really shouldn’t.’

  ‘It’s what I grew up seeing my mother do,’ Macie said, handing around the coffee. ‘She was the perfect hostess. And this place was her big love. When my father left us, she poured everything into restoring it. And, all that time ago, a woman renovating somewhere like this was a big deal. It wasn’t done. It was a man’s job. But she knew she needed to make it somewhere to host people so she could make a living to provide for me. She did all the cooking and the cleaning. The only help she had was from our gardener and groundskeeper. She’s passed away now, but I have this home as her legacy.’

  ‘Your mum sounds incredible,’ Alexandra said. ‘I never met her, did I? But I guess boarding schools are like that – shipped off by the parents.’

  ‘You went to school with Macie?’ Nathalie asked.

  Alexandra’s stomach tightened and her face grew hot. The room spun. What was she doing? She hadn’t told anyone about her school connection with Macie. She hadn’t even voiced it out loud with Macie herself. She was clearly drunk. All that talk of ghosts and spirits had unhinged he
r. The fire was too hot, roaring in the grate. Nausea washed over her.

  ‘Goodness, I thought I recognised you from somewhere,’ said Macie, her eyes narrowing and a smile playing on her lips. ‘How have we never worked this out?’

  Alexandra waved a hand, tried to be casual, but her mouth was dry. She gave a little laugh. ‘I think I suspected early on but then . . . it just got past the point of being able to say something–’

  ‘Oh, like when you don’t know a school mum’s name but it’s literally been years so you can never ask,’ Emmie said.

  ‘Exactly,’ Alexandra said, pressing her hand to her chest.

  ‘So, were you friends at school?’ asked Nathalie.

  A lump formed in Alexandra’s throat. ‘Oh, ah, well, we . . .’

  ‘I’d say we were acquaintances. We were in the same year,’ Macie said, lighting her cigarette and inhaling.

  Alexandra’s sick feeling intensified with the sweet smell of tobacco. ‘I mean, it was a big school, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Enormous. Very easy to get lost in.’

  Alexandra’s heart was beating fast. She stood. She needed to escape this too-close room. ‘Where did you go to school Caleb?’ she asked, desperate for a diversion. She walked over to the bar trolley filled with spirits in beautiful cut-glass decanters. ‘Here, let me pour some whiskey, is that what this is? Does anyone want any?’ She poured the amber liquid into several glasses, which she handed around.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Caleb, as she topped up his glass, settling into a chair next to the fire. ‘I wasn’t really much of an academic,’ he said. ‘I’m largely self-taught. Home-schooled.’

  ‘I think we could call Caleb gifted,’ Macie said. ‘History buff as we just heard, prolific reader, writer, musician, cook, handyman – can fix anything that breaks.’

  ‘Well, if your mastery of French is anything to go by, I’d have to agree,’ Nathalie said. ‘So, back to this high school connection. How intriguing. Which school did you go to again Alexandra?’

  ‘Prushville Girls, in Sydney,’ Macie said. ‘I was a boarder. Alexandra was a day girl, if I remember correctly?’

  Their eyes met and Alexandra felt a frisson run from the hairs on the nape of her neck to her toes.

  ‘Are all of those awful stories true about boarding schools? Cruel initiation rituals and strict teachers and rebellious girls?’ Nathalie asked.

  Alexandra felt paralysed, her limbs heavy. She forced the hot spirits down her throat in one gulp. ‘Oh, of course. School was a drag.’ She waved a hand. ‘You know, I think I’ll nab one of those cigarettes and go outside. It’s getting a bit stuffy in here with the fire.’ She took a cigarette, let Macie light it and prayed she wouldn’t follow her as she walked out of the lounge. She pushed the French doors open to the night, gasping with relief at the smell of eucalyptus on the cool breeze.

  She listened for the echo of steps on the marble entrance hall and felt her shoulders drop with relief when she heard nothing. She let out a shaky breath. Why was she getting so tense about this? It was a lifetime ago. If Macie hadn’t raised their connection maybe she didn’t care about what had gone on at that school anymore. It was probably better it was out in the open now. People moved on.

  Macie was a successful artist who owned a Sydney mansion and practically a whole valley. She’d been the perfect host. She wasn’t acting like a woman who was holding a grudge from something that happened when they were kids. Alexandra moved further into the cool night. The dark cliffs loomed above her, a reminder of just how far they were from everything. There was no sound save the movement of leaves in the breeze and the occasional hoot of an owl. But she sensed the thrum of life under the inky blanket. She looked up. The sky was clear and star-strewn. There was a brightness to the night sky that you didn’t get in the city. It was like looking to the edge of the universe. Perspective. How tiny her worries. How small her world. She took a deep breath. They really were in the middle of nowhere. There was a sound of scurrying from a bush nearby and Alexandra hurried back to the hotel porch. Her head was swimming. She sat down and extinguished her cigarette. Here she was judging Nathalie for her proclivity for wine, while she was totally drunk herself. Maybe it was just being here that was making her anxious. So many ghosts. So much history buried and a whole town abandoned and sunk into the earth.

  CHAPTER 20

  Nathalie

  She felt a hand, cool on her forehead. So good. So cool. She tried to open her eyes, but her lids were impossibly heavy. The flickering light of the flames played behind them. She must still be in the lounge room. It was like a cocoon. Was Caleb still here? How long had she been asleep? Open your eyes, she willed herself. But it was as though her body was a weight, sinking, unable to rise to the surface. There was a ripple, an arm behind her. She felt herself rising now. Her neck fell back and her eyes snapped open. She blinked until she could focus. Macie. Rose and sandalwood-scented hair fell over Nathalie’s face as she helped her to her feet. She heard herself grunt with effort as though she was outside her own body.

  ‘Where is everyone?’

  ‘Everyone had a bit too much to drink, but they’re all in bed now. We thought we’d let you sleep for a little bit longer. I was going to let you stay on the lounge, but those beautiful little girls of yours will be worried if they wake up and Mummy’s not there.’ Macie’s voice was soothing, and it drew Nathalie back to a memory of her own mother putting her to bed, sleep-addled and safe. The comfort, the warm smell of her neck. A sickening wave of emotion pulled through her and she heard herself moan.

  ‘Are you okay? Are you going to be sick?’ Macie asked, smoothing her hair. They were moving, out of the lounge and into the foyer, Nathalie’s arm around Macie’s shoulders for support.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Nathalie’s voice was a whisper. Her words were too slow, like moving underwater. Like drowning. Her hand went to her face. It was wet with tears. ‘I’m so drunk. I’m so embarrassed. I’m such a terrible mother.’

  ‘No, no you’re not. You just needed to let off some steam. Everyone did. It’s always what happens on the first night.’ They were at the stairs. Nathalie didn’t know how she was going to climb them. She sank onto the cool marble step. Macie sat down next to her and pulled her damp hair off her face. ‘Come on, we just need to get up the stairs. Get you into bed.’

  ‘I am. Terrible. You don’t understand. I almost left them forever. My own children. I almost never came back. I wanted to go to Paris. To escape them all. I left them for a whole night, and I had a newborn baby. I left him. I got drunk at the hotel. He’d just hurt me so much, I didn’t know what else to do.’ She was babbling but she couldn’t stop the words bubbling out of her mouth. The room spun tighter.

  Macie rubbed her back. ‘Who hurt you? It’s okay. It’s okay. Breathe.’

  ‘Mike. My husband. He cheated on me. Everyone thinks I have the perfect marriage.’ Laughter. Loud. Manic. Echoing off the cold stone stairs, through the dark foyer. She stifled it with a palm over her mouth. She was cold now and she convulsed, sickened at her own state. Unable to get up. Unable to get away from herself. ‘It’s all a lie,’ she whispered. ‘But I can’t tell anyone.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I want it to be perfect.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ Macie said, their eyes meeting. Nathalie thought she saw tears shining in her eyes, but then she felt Macie pulling her up and they climbed the rest of the stairs in silence. Macie opened the door to the room and moonlight streamed through the naked windows. Her little girls were clinging together on the bed, intertwined, hair like pale mermaid tendrils. Nathalie’s heart hurt with love for them. As Macie pulled back the covers on her bed and she sank into it, Nathalie grabbed her arm. ‘Please don’t tell anyone. I can’t. I can’t do it. I can’t leave him. I’m too weak.’

  She saw Macie smile, felt her hand on her face, before sleep closed over her like a glove.

  Jean

  1948

  She squeez
ed Liv’s little hands and pulled her into a big hug. Her daughter’s skin smelled of honey and the soap she’d washed in last night. The scent of it made Jean’s heart ache. What are you doing? You can’t leave her, she thought. But it was fleeting, replaced by an urgency, an excitement that curled in Jean’s belly. It’s just for the weekend. I’ll be back so soon. I just need this one thing for myself. And I need to see Father. But still the guilt was there rippling just beneath the surface of her skin. She pulled herself together and brushed away the moisture in her eyes.

  ‘I’m going to miss you so much, my darling. Now you be a good girl for Pam, won’t you? Eat all your supper and remember all your manners.’

  ‘I will, Mamma.’ Liv kissed her, waved and ran into the house with Bertie. She was grateful that her daughter seemed to have more of her father’s stable, easygoing temperament. She was such a good girl. Jean had to admit the only part of herself she could see in Liv was her love of ballet. She was relieved to not have a passionate, stubborn child, as she herself had been. Or perhaps it was this place, the valley, that had formed Liv. Grounded her. The days spent running with the other children, the hot sun on their faces, the cool river water on their backs. Always moving. Always outside.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough for having her,’ she said to Pam. ‘This trip to see my father is something that’s been playing on my mind for such a long time. He’s really not in a good way. He gets very confused. His memory is quite bad, it’s upsetting.’

  ‘Oh, that’s very sad. Yes, it’s best for Liv not to see him like that.’

  ‘It’s quite heartbreaking, but I do need to check in on him, see he’s being cared for properly. Thank you for having her. And you’re sure you won’t be too tired to have another child while you’re expecting?’