Thornwood House

by Anna Romer

  The emptiness confused me.

  A moment ago he’d been real. Solidly real. Now, the cool expanse of space jarred me, dislodging me from the dream world into the thin atmosphere of actuality. I remembered where I was: the old sleigh bed in the back room. My gaze flew to the wall. Samuel’s photograph was a hazy rectangle trapped within its ghostly frame. I couldn’t see him from where I lay, it was too dark. I could still feel him, though: the sleeping weight of his limbs, the warmth of his skin, the soft fuzz of chest hair, the quiet thump of his heart –

  Rolling myself into the quilt, I burrowed deeper in the bed. Sneezed a couple of times, then groped in vain for a hanky. Ridiculous to feel so shaken by a dream. A foolish dream brought on by talk of accidents and murder, by my constant re-reading of Aylish’s letter. Yet it had seemed so real, as though it wasn’t a dream at all – but a memory.

  I found my hanky and blew my nose, then flopped onto my back and lay staring at the ceiling.

  I’d been sixteen when Aunt Morag died. She’d gone quietly in the night, stealing away without so much as a murmur. I’d found her the next morning, her body cold and rigid. So small. I’d always thought her a large woman, robust and tall as a man. The morning I found her I saw how mistaken I’d been. It was odd to see her lying there so still, her waxy eyelids resting shut. Her body deflated now that the largeness of her persona had gone elsewhere.

  When I was little, her fleshy arms had sheltered me, her stories had chased my nightmares, her cackling laughter had filled the emptiness that always seemed to hang around after my father’s death and my mother’s desertion.

  Now, as I lay in the quiet darkness of the back bedroom, the warm lilac-scented air drifting through the window reminded me so much of Aunt Morag that I longed to be a child again, snuggled in her arms, slipping easily, and so eagerly, from the chaos and disappointment of the waking world and into the tranquil haven of my dreams.

  My eyelids fluttered half-mast.

  A lilting voice entered my darkness. A man’s voice. With it came the scent of wildflowers, of sun-warmed skin and salty sweat. The weight of a warm body nearby, and me unable to stop myself reaching for him, my lips forming the shape of his name . . .

  Samuel.

  I struggled upright, gasping. Rolling to the edge of the bed, I stood shakily. When had it become morning? Hazy dawn light trickled through the windows. An orange sun rode the distant hills, burnishing the sky with gold clouds.

  I went to the dressing table and peered into the mirror. My face was chalky, except for my cheeks which flamed crimson. I’d bitten my lips so hard they were the deep blood-red of winter roses. My eyes shone in a way that made me uncomfortable. The sensible woman I’d worked so hard to become was gone. In her place, a wild-eyed stranger.

  Why was I drawn to this room night after night, like an addict craving her next fix? Was I really that lonely? Had my life become so vacant that I was clutching at dreams for emotional fulfilment? Or had being in this old house dislodged something within me that was now struggling to get out?

  Disjointed sounds drifted along the hallway from the kitchen. Cups clattered, a chair scraped the floorboards. Bronwyn was up and about, she must be wondering where I was. The radio’s muffled chatter worked on my nerves, and I knew the fragile bubble of my dream would not survive long in the harsh light of day.

  Already it was receding like an outgoing tide. I tried to draw it back, tried to hold tight to the sweetness, to the memory of the man I’d clung to in sleep, his lilting voice, the intoxicating scent of his skin and hair, his solidly reassuring nearness.

  But dreams were no match for the waking world; in the end I had to let it go.

  Hobe Miller didn’t say much as we walked around the house. His silence didn’t surprise me. After the edginess of our previous encounter, I’d half-expected him to show up in a crotchety mood. Instead he seemed thoughtful, reserved. As though something more weighty than my disorderly garden was pressing on his mind.

  To compensate for his quietness, I found myself chattering nervously as I pointed out the broken verandah rails, the cracked bathroom window, the buckled steps, the mango branch that scraped the eaves.

  ‘Will the old iron roof need replacing?’ I wanted to know. ‘Must the tank water be specially treated? The water tastes good, but how do I know it’s safe to drink? And how often should I clear the guttering? Is bushfire a problem, will it improve matters if I pay an arborist to prune the trees? And if I cut back the old rose vines, will they reshoot?’

  Hobe acknowledged my barrage of questions with a nod, recording everything in a tiny notebook, his minuscule writing so neat it looked typed. Every time he paused to jot another memo, I snuck glances at him. He reminded me of a TV personality from the seventies, vaguely debonair despite the scarecrow clothes and awkward black tape covering one lens of his glasses.

  Finally he shut his notebook.

  ‘Your water tank’ll need a good clean,’ he informed me. ‘Ideally, a tank should be scrubbed out every two years, depending on the condition of the roof and pipes, as well as ridding it of any tree detritus, or dead possums and frogs that might have fallen in . . . which’ll mean drinking bottled water until the rain fills it up again. Taste’s a fair indicator that all is well, but I’ll test it to be sure. You’ll need to remove leaves from the guttering every month or so. Bushfire might be a problem, so have an early escape plan and keep the house area clear of debris . . . and why go to the expense of an arborist, when I can prune those overgrown trees m’self? As for the roses, I suspect they’ve carked it. Treat yourself to some new ones, lass. Better yet, plant something else that’s more suited to the climate.’

  The morning was ablaze. By the time we reached the edge of the garden, about halfway up the hill, my skin was damp and I wished I’d remembered to wear a hat. The air crackled and the trees clung tight to their thirsty leaves. Hobe seemed unbothered by the heat, but as we climbed the rocky embankment he drew out a handkerchief and mopped his face.

  Below us, the homestead looked stately and serene with its iron lace eaves and glimpses of stained glass shimmering in the early light. The mossy brick pathways wove in and out of the trees, and a froth of red and orange nasturtiums spilled from overgrown beds. It seemed impossible that such tranquillity could harbour so many secrets; even more unbelievable that those secrets may have involved brutal murder.

  Hobe seemed as absorbed by the outlook as I was. There was much I wanted to ask, but I knew I’d have to tread carefully.

  ‘Lovely view, isn’t it?’ I said, hoping to break the ice.

  Hobe frowned down at the homestead. ‘Hmmm.’

  I tried a different line of attack. ‘Corey told me you’ve lived in Magpie Creek all your life. She said if I ever needed to know anything about local history or landmarks, then you’re the man to ask. She called you a walking encyclopaedia.’

  Hobe looked stunned, then his face wrinkled into a radiant smile. ‘Young Corey said that, did she?’

  I nodded. ‘Actually, I was hoping you might know some interesting walking trails. My daughter’s a real nature buff and since a lot of Thornwood is bushland, we’re both keen to explore.’

  Hobe’s blue gaze darted down the hill to the house. ‘Tony’s daughter?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Corey told me, I hope you don’t mind me mentioning it.’

  ‘I don’t mind, Hobe. It’s no secret that Tony and I were never married. It didn’t work out between us. He met someone else and married her. And yes, Bronwyn is his daughter.’

  ‘Bronwyn? That’s a pretty name.’ His voice trembled and he kept his attention directed at the homestead. ‘Poor kid, losing her dad like that. A horrible loss for you both.’

  ‘It was hard,’ I admitted. ‘More for Bronwyn than for me. But she’s a bright girl, she’ll be okay.’

  ‘Nature buff, eh?’

  I couldn’t resist a smile. ‘She has her heart set on becoming an entomologist.’

  Hobe
blinked, then shook his head in wonder. ‘A little bug lady, is that right? Well, she’s come to the right place if she wants to study insects – this place is crawling with ’em!’

  We laughed louder than the quip warranted, but it was as if an invisible barrier between us had dropped away. The glow in Hobe’s face became luminous, his eye shone.

  ‘How old is Bronwyn?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘Eleven.’

  ‘A good age. Old enough to ask questions, but not quite old enough to know better than you do.’

  ‘Bronwyn must be on the cusp, then. There are times when she seems to know a great deal more than me. Do you have kids, Hobe?’

  He shuffled, averting his gaze back to the house. ‘It’s just me and my brother, two old bachelors rattling around up at the bungalow. I never married. I guess I was too busy taking care of things around the property, and keeping Gurney out of trouble. My brother’s a bit slow in the head, born that way – but good company most of the time. I suspect a lot more goes on under the surface than he lets on.’

  Hobe walked a short distance along the embankment, picking his way around clumps of brown tussock grass. When I joined him, he pointed along the ridge to where an outcrop of boulders jutted from a neighbouring hill.

  ‘You see that protrusion of stones, halfway along? That’s Bower’s Gap, it’s about half a mile from here. At a clip it’ll take you twenty minutes, thirty at most. There’s not much to see at present, everything’s burnt brown by the heat. But come spring, the north face of the hill will be a carpet of wildflowers.’ He looked back at me and smiled, his glasses flaring in the sun. ‘Wait ’til young Bronwyn discovers the butterflies that congregate there, millions of ’em, glorious to see.’

  ‘Sounds perfect.’

  ‘There’s plenty of wonders in these hills, Audrey. I don’t mind saying it’s a magical part of the world. As a young fella I used to walk for miles deep into the national parks. Sometimes Gurney and I would camp out for weeks at a time. I was obsessed with trying to picture what it was like millions of years ago when these hills were really alive.’

  Hobe pulled in a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. ‘Did you know that Magpie Creek was settled smack bang in the middle of a volcano remnant?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He seemed pleased. ‘Wild days, they would have been, with the air boiling and all those monsters lumbering around the place. Of course,’ his good eye glittered, ‘by the time I arrived on the planet, the countryside around here was all dairy grazing. The first farmers cut down all the trees – the beautiful old rosewoods and red cedars and brigalow. Now it’s just grass and wire fencing and dozy cattle. Poor old Tyrannosaurus Rex is long gone.’

  His gravelly laugh was infectious. I found myself grinning back.

  ‘It still has a presence here, though, doesn’t it? The volcano, I mean.’

  Hobe tore his eyes back to the hills. For a while we stared silently at the distant mountains, burnt-brown and barren, primordially beautiful.

  ‘This place gets to you,’ he went on, almost to himself. ‘It crawls under your skin, works its way into your bloodstream. I used to knock about with the old blackfellas who lived up at the Crossing. They believe the land is a kind of mother-spirit, that it gives birth to them, and when they die it swallows them back up. They consider themselves to be the keepers of the earth and trees and birds and wildlife . . . that they’re the earth’s sacred custodians. That’s why their sense of place is so strong. When you settle into land like this, you get a taste of what they were on about.’

  The sun had climbed the sky. I could feel my skin beginning to redden. My restless night was catching up with me. I felt languid, my eyes wanting to droop in the harsh light. The stillness folded around me, soothed me. No longer so eager to extract Hobe’s hidden secrets, I found myself wanting to reveal my own.

  ‘I never felt as though I belonged anywhere until I came here,’ I admitted. ‘The moment I saw the place, I knew. The house and garden, the hills behind and the view over the valley from the front . . . it felt right, somehow. Like reaching your destination after a long journey.’

  ‘Yep,’ Hobe said faintly. ‘Exactly like that.’

  There was no breeze. The birds had stopped prattling, there was only the hum of a lonely bee, and the whisper of wind in the dry grass. All else was still. The moment unravelled, hung suspended. Then a group of crows lifted from the branches of a nearby red gum, barking mournfully as they flapped into the sky . . . and the spell was broken. A solitary cicada began to chirp in the nearby bushes, and was soon joined by a chorus of birdsong. Cattle bellowed in the distance, and the scent of eucalyptus drifted up from the valley.

  ‘Better get on with it, then,’ Hobe said. ‘Never fear, Audrey, we’ll have your garden in ship shape before you know it.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Gurney helps me out sometimes. He’s a good worker, loves to feel needed. I’ll get him to trim your grass, no extra charge.’

  ‘Oh Hobe, of course I’ll pay him.’

  ‘Well, just a few bob if you like. He does several other lawns in town, makes a good job of it too. Keeps to himself, not a chatterbox like his brother.’

  I smiled at this, recalling the man I’d seen on my first visit to Hobe’s bungalow, the day I’d stopped to ask directions. He’d been taller than Hobe, with sparse snowy hair and a face that seemed frozen in an aspect of perpetual bewilderment. I also recalled his alarm when he’d heard that I was looking for Thornwood.

  ‘I hope he doesn’t mind coming here?’ I asked. ‘To Thornwood, I mean.’

  Hobe shook his head. ‘It’s just that we’ve always avoided this property in the past. Sounds silly now, us being close neighbours and all. We’ve barely set foot on the place these last twenty years. I suppose young Corey told you I was none too fond of Samuel Riordan?’

  I nodded. ‘She also told me about his murder trial. I must confess, I’m curious to know more.’

  Hobe adjusted his glasses. ‘Well, now. There was never any concrete proof that Samuel Riordan was guilty of murder . . . but mark my words, lass, he was a scoundrel. I used to call him the black snake – if you were fool enough to cross him, he’d strike before you could blink.’

  ‘You think he was guilty?’

  Rubbing a knotty finger under his good eye, Hobe looked at me warily. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I suppose it was the war that changed him, turned him sour . . . that’s what people say, at any rate.’

  ‘Did he see active service?’

  Hobe looked uncomfortable. ‘He was a prisoner of war, lass. Spent several years in a Jap camp. Now, those boys of ours did it tough over there. I don’t mean any disrespect to them, none at all. They helped save this country, poor bastards – and the women too, trading their young lives so that those of us back home could carry on in freedom and peace. I suppose Samuel did his fair share of the saving, he might even have been a hero like they said. But when he came home he was damaged somehow, not right in the head. Some say he’d have been better off copping a Jap bullet. Better for all of us.’

  ‘What do you mean, not right in the head?’

  Hobe raked his sparse hair, thoughtful. ‘An old fella I knew had been a war prisoner. He came home changed too, only not for the worst. He said that after the horror years of a Jap camp he developed a powerful awareness of the smallest kindnesses. He’d get all misty-eyed when his wife laid out his slippers or made him a cuppa. Poor old bloke, he reckoned that being deprived of compassion and gentleness all those years had turned him about, made him appreciate things more.’ Hobe’s attention slid away, darting from sky to hill to tree then back to sky, apparently unable to settle on any one thing. ‘Not Samuel, though. He came back cranky as a cut snake. When he died, I wasn’t the only person in Magpie Creek to breathe a sigh of relief.’

  I conjured the face of the man in the photo, trying to picture him as a snake, a scoundrel. Impossible. To me there was only the gleam of
desire in his dark eyes, the appealing curve of his perfect lips, the seductive half-smile that made me feel warm and somehow precious. If a rotten core lay beneath that fetching mask, then I was well and truly blind to it.

  ‘Audrey – ?’ Hobe was frowning at me. ‘I’ve troubled you with all this talk, haven’t I? You’re pale as a grub. Come on, lass, we’d best be getting back. I’ve got sheets of glass to buy and a shed full of offcuts to sort through. That bathroom window isn’t going to fix itself, now, is it?’

  The walk down the hill provided a welcome distraction. Somewhere between the vine-choked back garden and the shady path that meandered beside the house, I regained myself. Soon, I silently vowed, I’d be soaking my weary bones under a cool shower. Swilling caffeine, munching a breakfast of reheated pizza. Immersing myself in normality, breaking free of the uneasy residue left by my dreams.

  As we rounded the house, a glimmer of peacock-blue caught my eye; Hobe’s pristine Valiant was like an oasis of colour in the sun-browned landscape. Even my beloved Celica, parked a few metres away, looked neglected by comparison.

  We walked down the slope in silence. I was no longer edgy around Hobe. Odd, I felt nearly as comfortable with him as I did with Corey.

  Hobe darted forward. At first I thought he was heading down to his car – that perhaps he’d said goodbye and I’d been too absorbed in my thoughts to hear him. But he waded through the grass towards the fig tree, and crouched in the shadows beneath the sprawling canopy. He was looking at something on the ground.

  As I approached, I saw it was a straggly white pom-pom. It let out a shrill pip and began to flap its stubby wings.

  ‘Poor little bloke.’ Hobe studied the fig tree’s dark underbelly of branches. ‘He must have been turfed out of his nest in last night’s windstorm . . . or by crows. There’s no sign of any other chicks. Probably got themselves snatched by feral cats.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A little boobook hatchling – cute little fella, isn’t he?’

  ‘Will it live?’