Thornwood House

by Anna Romer

  ‘How did he die?’

  She frowned. ‘Tony never told you?’

  I shook my head.

  She studied the controls. ‘Some bushwalkers wandered into Thornwood from the national park. They found him under a tree, stone cold dead. His body had been mauled by animals. Apparently he’d been stalking around up there one night and fallen, broken his hip. Poor old guy, they reckon he must’ve starved to death.’

  ‘How awful.’

  ‘Yeah, it was. But it gives you an idea of the vastness of the place. Thornwood’s a huge property – you could walk for days and never see a soul. There are quite a few properties like that around here, up in the hills – especially bordering the national park. It’s beautiful,’ she added wistfully, ‘but you need to watch your step.’

  ‘Didn’t anyone miss him?’

  ‘Old Samuel kept to himself. Never even saw much of his family, as far as I recall. I supposed he preferred his own company, seeing as he wasn’t all that popular.’

  ‘Why wasn’t he popular?’

  Another puzzled glance. ‘Tony never told you that, either?’

  ‘He never spoke about his family. It upset him too much, so in the end I stopped asking.’

  Corey looked uneasy. ‘Well . . . I don’t know if should break it to you or not . . . after all, you’ve just moved there and you seem to like the place. I don’t want to give you nightmares.’

  I stared, waiting.

  She sighed. ‘He was accused of murdering someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A young woman . . . Tony’s grandmother. Poor thing,’ she rushed on, ‘it was back in the forties, just after the end of the war. There was a trial. Samuel walked free, but the damage was done. Rumours went around that he was guilty, that the case was discharged because his father knew the judge. Afterwards, the whole town went into shock. Everyone was related to everyone else in those days – people knew each other, and if tragedy befell one family it had a ripple effect through the district. That’s the nature of tight-knit communities like Magpie Creek. People know each other’s business, and they have long memories.’ She looked at me. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve spooked you, haven’t I? You’re white as a sheet.’

  I shook my head – not spooked. But her revelation had jogged my memory . . . A dream, too hazy to recall, but the gist of it came back. I’d been lying in the shadows in a bush clearing, unable to move, my limbs skewed beneath me, the shadow of something large and heavy crushing me beneath its dark weight –

  ‘Murder,’ I said, a little breathlessly. ‘It seems so – ’

  Corey widened her eyes in agreement. ‘Dramatic. I know.’

  ‘When we moved in,’ I told her, ‘the old man’s belongings were still in the house. Not just the furniture, but clothes and shoes in the wardrobe, toothbrush and shaving gear in the bathroom cabinet. Old tins of biscuits in the pantry. Nothing had been boxed up or thrown away after he died – it was all just left as it was.’

  Corey mimed a shiver. ‘Spooky. You must have been totally freaked.’

  ‘This’ll sound mad . . . but I wasn’t freaked at all. In fact – and here’s the crazy part – despite all that, the old place felt lived-in and welcoming. There was a vibe there, you know? Sad, but kind of happy, too. I had this weird feeling I was coming home after a long time away.’

  ‘You mean like a past life thing?’

  ‘Not exactly . . . more like a really strong connection.’ I flapped my hand, realising how absurd I must sound. ‘Probably just the afterglow of inheriting such an amazing property. It’s like stepping back in time to a more tranquil, graceful world. It was as if the house was holding its breath, waiting to come alive again. In a strange way, waiting for me.’

  Corey eyed me worriedly. ‘So you’re not going to dash off home and start packing your bags?’

  ‘No way,’ I said with a laugh. Secretly, though, my heart raced. I might not have the urge to rush off and pack any bags, but I felt an irresistible compulsion to . . . Well, to do something –

  The radio crackled, a sudden intrusion. Corey twiddled a dial and listened as the controller’s insect-voice buzzed into the cockpit. She signed off, then made an adjustment to her instrument panel. When she eased the steering column to the fore, the Cessna dipped almost imperceptibly earthwards.

  ‘There’s a storm on the way,’ she informed me. ‘We’ll head back now, if you’re done?’

  ‘Sure am.’

  Positioning my camera lens-down on my lap, I scrolled through the photos I’d taken, using my hands to shelter the viewing screen from the light bouncing off the Cessna’s wings. The shots were good: lots of glowing colour, crisp contrast, uniform lighting and clear depth of field.

  ‘How did you go?’ Corey asked.

  ‘Great. You fly smooth. It makes a difference.’

  She chuckled. ‘Flattery will get you everywhere, kiddo. Most of the locals I take up complain that I fly too slow, the dorks. No sense of artistry.’

  I found myself giggling along with her, and – as the Cessna rumbled back toward the airstrip – I acknowledged again that I was enjoying myself. Despite the revelation about Tony’s grandfather and the shadow it cast over Thornwood, I was buoyant.

  My fingers slid into the pocket where I’d stashed the business card Corey had given me. I traced the edge of the card, wondering about the old handyman.

  Hobe Miller: tree lopper, possum catcher, chook pen builder, walking encyclopaedia. He’d know all about Thornwood’s history, Corey had said. And maybe even something more about Tony’s grandfather – the details of his murder trial in the forties, perhaps . . . and how he’d come to be accused of killing Tony’s grandmother.

  I made a superfast delivery to Cossart’s, dropping off my photocard and hastily filling out a job sheet. Then I tore back to Thornwood, my eyes on the dashboard clock. The morning’s adventure had transpired in under two hours.

  I expected Bronwyn to be curled up on the couch just as I’d left her, maybe sound asleep in front of a movie. The TV was blaring but the lounge room was empty.

  ‘Bronny?’

  I tried her bedroom, then went along the hall and checked the other rooms. They were empty too. She wasn’t in the kitchen, and when I paused on the back verandah to examine the yard, there was still no sign of her. My pulse tripped up a notch, my palms were sweaty. Calm down, I told myself, she won’t be far. Probably on her bench beneath the jacaranda, or in the vegie patch . . .

  The back of the house faced west, with a view across a forested valley to purple ranges. The north side of the yard rose steeply, ending at the foot of a small hill. The base of the hill was crowded with black-trunked ironbarks and thickets of tea-tree, while the peak was an open expanse of balding rocky outcrops. It was only noon but shadows had already engulfed the south face of the hill, while the northern slope was awash in light so stark it picked out every leaf and blade of dry brown grass. No other houses, no trace of civilisation; just hills and trees and endless sky.

  On the distant horizon drifted a huge grey flotilla, evidence of the storm Corey had forewarned. The clouds were benign for now, approaching slowly, almost stealthily. The shadows in the garden seemed to sense the impending havoc, shifting between the trees.

  Despite the muggy heat, I felt a shivery ripple on the backs of my arms. Had this picturesque place really been the scene of brutal murder? Had Thornwood once been home to a cold-blooded killer? I thought about the big airy rooms, the cosy armchairs, the gleaming furniture that fitted so well among my own. Suddenly the house no longer seemed the safe haven I’d imagined it to be.

  ‘Bron, where are you?’

  Thudding down the back steps, I ran along the brick path, past the neglected hydrangeas and through a corridor of overgrown pomegranates and loquats. The bench beneath the jacaranda was empty.

  I strained to listen over my crashing pulse.

  To my city ears, the booming silence at first seemed absolute. But soon a symphony of noise unravelle
d around me: cicadas droned, bees mumbled in the flowerbeds, cockatoos screeched and chattered in the treetops. Myriad bird species whistled from unseen hiding places . . . and there beneath it all, like the base note in a complex orchestral movement, came the deep-throated bark of bullfrogs in the creek.

  Through the din, I recalled Bronwyn’s words.

  If one of us died, the other would be alone.

  ‘Bronwyn!’

  Still no comeback. I was engulfed entirely by white hot panic. I raced downhill, ducking through a garden arch smothered by a wild wig of jasmine, my feet thumping over ground that was barren and dry. Gnarled trunks of grevillea and bottlebrush were choked by an impenetrable wall of blackberry brambles, and on the other side of the brambles I glimpsed a paddock dotted with citrus trees. From somewhere lower down the slope came the babble of water. Hoisting onto tiptoes, I peered into the paddock. A smudge of white hovered on the dark bank of what must be the creek. Someone was there, seemingly crumpled on the ground, motionless.

  A flash of dream. Tree-shadows and swirling, frantic shapes. Shouting, and a hazy figure with its arm raised, the arm lunging down again and again, the darkness disjointed and crackling with fear –

  If one of us died . . .

  Heart thudding drunkenly, I stumbled downhill, seeking a way through the wall of vines. Each stout blackberry branch sprouted hundreds of sharp thorns, their lethal points tipped scarlet in the sun, barring my way as effectively as a barricade of barbed wire.

  I lost sight of the figure. A bolt of panic went through me. Making a hasty decision, I threw myself into the first narrow breach I came to. Long arms of blackberry sprang across my path, their spiky barbs snagging my clothes, clawing my skin, tangling in my hair. I got trapped, felt the red-tipped spines stab into my arms and back. Then just ahead I saw open ground. With one final push, I broke through the vines and staggered into the orchard.

  Bronwyn jerked around, her face blotched by the sun, her eyes filled with alarm. I registered only her shock and, driven by primal instinct, I rushed to protect her. With my first step, my foot snagged in a loop of vine. Before I could stop my momentum forward, the ground flew up and slammed into me. The breath left my body with a grunt, and I lay there stunned.

  ‘Mum – ?’

  I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Then, with a hoarse wheezing gulp, my squashed lungs recovered and the world swam back into focus. Twisting my head around, I squinted into the mottled sky. A face was peering down at me, pale eyebrows furrowed, nose wrinkled.

  Disengaging the noose of blackberry vine, I struggled to my feet, brushing at my clothes. The paddock spun, so I rested my hands on my knees and tried to breathe. When my vocal chords regained consciousness, I gasped, ‘What in blazes do you think you’re doing?’

  The eyes – so blue they eclipsed the sky – widened.

  ‘Mum, look at your arms!’

  I stood upright, glaring at her. Her cheeks were flushed despite her sunhat, and she was holding a jar of dirty water. The water was swarming with small black wriggling things. Tadpoles.

  ‘I told you to stay inside,’ I said hoarsely. ‘I’ve nearly had heart failure.’

  She blinked, then gave a quick shrug, feigning indifference. ‘There’s rain coming, so I brought the washing in,’ she said with a vaguely accusing tone, ‘and you were gone for ages, I thought you’d forgotten about me . . . Anyway, I didn’t go far.’

  I hiccupped. ‘Bron, you don’t know who might be lurking around this place . . . weirdos, or anyone.’

  She hooked her neck out and stared around, eyebrows raised, making a performance of it. ‘Nope, just us.’

  ‘Next time, please just do as I ask, okay?’

  ‘Mum, you’re a mess. Your arms – ’

  I looked down at myself. Every inch of my skin was filthy, criss-crossed with nasty-looking scratches and trickles of dark blood. My T-shirt was littered with leaves and my favourite jeans were ripped at the knees.

  Tears began to leak out of my eyes.

  Bronwyn wrinkled her brow. ‘Mum?’

  I sniffed, wiping my nose on the back of my hand, brushing blackberry dross off my ruined jeans.

  Bronwyn took a clean hanky from her pocket and unfolded it. I blew my nose, dabbed my eyes, and gave the hanky back. She was staring at me as if I’d grown horns, and I knew I should at least try to explain myself. But how do you admit to an eleven-year-old that she is all you have, and that the idea of losing her – even just the idea of it – is enough to unhinge you?

  It was too big a burden to put on a child, of course, so I held my tongue and stowed my fear back in the shadows where it belonged.

  ‘It’s lunch time,’ I said instead. ‘We can order pizza, if you like. Or fish and chips?’

  Bronwyn gazed across the distant hills, avoiding my eyes. She swirled the muddy water in the jar, swilling the tadpoles at breakneck speed around the inside of their glass prison.

  ‘Fish and chips’ll be fine.’

  ‘Great,’ I said bleakly, and limped back up the hill toward the house, this time taking the scenic route through the jasmine.

  Later that night, reeking of Dettol and smothered in bandaids, I paused in the doorway of Samuel’s bedroom.

  Breathing the scent of rain that hung in the air, I wondered why so many outside noises were rushing in. Water gurgled in the guttering, raindrops drummed the wet leaves. A bullfrog’s lonely serenade echoed off the walls.

  Then I realised I’d left the window open.

  Switching on the light, I cast around for damage. The curtain was sodden, rainwater puddled the floorboards. Everything else appeared intact . . . until I saw the solitary nail on the wall where once a framed photo had hung.

  Crazy, the sudden panic. I dashed across the room, my limbs all at once loose and hot with dread. Why hadn’t I put the picture somewhere safe, out of harm’s way? Why hadn’t I remembered to shut the window? I imagined Samuel’s portrait buckled by water, the emulsion curling away from the backing paper, the image lost forever because of a stupid oversight . . .

  The silver frame lay face down on the floor. Picking it up, I found the glass was smashed, and all that remained was a perimeter of jagged splinters like shark’s teeth. The photo was unharmed. Picking out the loose shards, I took the frame over to the bedside lamp and tilted it to the light. Without the glass, details I hadn’t noticed before became apparent: shallow creases etched his forehead, laugh lines radiated from his eyes; a light growth of stubble shadowed his jaw, and there was a mark on his cheekbone under his eye – a freckle or mole, maybe a scar.

  Turning the frame over, I removed the buckled backing board and peeled away the photo, intending to stow it somewhere safe until I could have it remounted.

  That’s when I saw the slip of paper.

  It had been tucked behind the photo, but the passage of time had bonded it flat against the cardboard backing. As I peeled it free, and – with wobbly fingers – unfolded it on my knees, I saw it was a letter.

  Wednesday, 13 March 1946

  My Darling Samuel,

  For four and a half years I feared that you’d forgotten me, or worse – that you’d died in a distant land. Knowing you’re alive is both a prayer and a dream come true. I’m sorry we argued in the street today, please understand it was not my intention – I was overwhelmed to see you alive. Forgive me, darling?

  I must see you again soon. I can’t wait until tomorrow. I need to speak to you tonight, somewhere where there’s no one to pry or judge. I’ve so much to tell you, and there’s so much I need to hear – your travels, how you fared in the war, your plans now that you’re back, and most pressingly – although I’m terrified to ask – if you, after all these silent years, still want me for your bride?

  Please agree to meet me, dearest. Tonight at our secret place, nine o’clock? I’ll be the one wearing a big happy smile for you. And though I know you hate surprises, prepare yourself, my beloved Samuel. I’m bringing someone to meet you, someon
e very special.

  Yours forever,

  Aylish.

  The looping copperplate had been dashed off hurriedly. Some of the words ran together, others were so faded against the yellowing notepaper they were nearly unreadable.

  Smoothing the letter on my lap, I tried to read between the lines.

  Something told me that Aylish was Tony’s grandmother . . . the young woman Samuel had been accused of murdering. Of course, I couldn’t know this for sure, there was no concrete evidence . . . just the mention of ‘someone special’ who I guessed had been a child, and Aylish’s obvious devotion despite Samuel’s years away at war.

  What had happened between them, why had they argued? Had they met at their secret place that night, had all been forgiven? Or had Samuel misunderstood the letter and assumed Aylish guilty of a more odious crime? Samuel may have been unable to send or receive mail while he was away, which would explain Aylish’s fears that he’d forgotten her or been killed. But I couldn’t help wondering if there was more – much more – to their story.

  Forgive me, darling?

  I read the letter several more times, then drew it close and breathed its scent. Dust and old paper. Bitter ink. And very faintly, a waft of rose. Refolding it, I stowed it in the bedside drawer. Then I looked at the photo again under the lamplight.

  Yes, a woman had taken the snapshot, I could see it in Samuel’s eyes. His seductive smile had been trained on her, deliberately and fiercely, as though no one else in the world existed.

  Once, many years ago, I had been besotted with Tony – but he had never smiled at me that way. I had clung to his affection like a drowning mouse clinging to a stick of driftwood; desperately and fearfully, with all the tenacity of someone who has been lonely before and dreads going back there. Tony had loved me, I knew that. Yet he’d never really loved me –

  ‘Samuel,’ I breathed, and his name on my lips was both intimate and desolate. I looked closer. His eyes were small and slanted like a cat’s, intensely dark, maybe black. The broad cheekbones and strong jaw might have been sculpted from stone, but any ruggedness was softened by the perfect, full-lipped mouth.