Thornwood House

by Anna Romer

  Yet something niggled. What about the roses? Was my gut feeling totally haywire, or was I right in thinking that the luscious red blooms twining up the verandah rails at the front of the hut were the same as the ones on Aylish’s grave?

  I went outside and down the steps. The roses had withered in the harsh sun, but I bent to sniff one anyway. The scent was dusty and faded, and yet unmistakable. A dark red perfume with a hint of cinnamon.

  Danny thudded down the stairs and stood beside me, writing in his notebook.

  Your friend has flown the coop. Covered his tracks. Wants us to think he was never here.

  ‘Why?’

  Maybe on the run from law. Or maybe an old bushie who likes to leave no trace.

  He wasn’t meeting my eyes. He seemed wary of me now. No longer flirty, but serious, almost businesslike. Not that I blamed him. I’d been giving him the signs – learning his language, digging out my prettiest blouse for the barbecue. Perhaps even, in my clumsy manner, attempting to flirt back. But the moment things got interesting, I’d run for the hills.

  He touched my arm to get my attention, and crooked his finger for me to follow. I trailed him around to the back of the hut, past the water tank. The forty-four-gallon drum was upended, the woodpile cleared. The ground around it looked swept.

  He was here a while, Danny signed.

  ‘How can you tell?’

  He indicated where the old guttering had been patched with a piece of tin, and then gestured at the roof where I could just make out the lighter shingles.

  ‘He’s done repairs,’ I realised.

  Danny nodded, then busied himself with further investigations, examining the water tank tap and then going over to look at a mound of tangled vines. I wondered if he was thinking about Tony, and their childhood exploits together. Tony had been a loner, happy to escape into his artwork, but I was patching together a picture of his friendship with Danny. They’d been like brothers, Corey had said. Joined at the hip, always in trouble. I could see them clearly, Tony with his saucer eyes, and Danny with his unruly mop of hair. Warmth crept in. My heartbreak over Tony had been severe, almost crippling at times . . . but I’d survived it. And my survival proved that I was now stronger – didn’t it? I recalled how easy it’d been to melt into Danny’s arms up at the rocky plateau, and how his embrace had felt so deliciously right, so tempting . . .

  I turned away, retreating to the perimeter of the clearing, heading off in search of my Minolta. The old camera was no doubt damaged beyond help, but it had been a faithful old friend and I wanted it back.

  Ducking into the tea-tree thicket I’d stumbled through before, I picked my way across the rocky ground until I located the smooth-skinned red gum I’d clung to during the attack. Walking in ever-widening circles, I searched outwards, lifting clumps of lomandra and toeing root hollows, scanning the leaf-litter and wandering downhill a way, all to no avail.

  Back at the hut, I found Danny still poking around out back. He’d pulled aside the mound of vines to reveal a low circular structure that looked like the top few feet of a buried water tank. Rather than corrugated iron, the tank’s walls were made of timber, thick planks set vertically in a deep round hole. It was topped by a huge flat lid constructed from thick boards bolted to a circular frame.

  Danny was writing in his notebook.

  It’s the original water catchment, very old. The early settlers dug straight down into the soil, lined it with timber like a well. Me and Tony used to drag the cover off, climb down inside. Heaps of fun, but if rain came, it filled fast. Our parents would’ve had a fit if they’d known.

  I smiled at this. Feeling brave, I touched Danny’s arm to draw his attention. ‘I’m sorry about before.’

  He looked at me for a long time. I started to think he hadn’t understood what I’d said, and that perhaps I should take his notepad and write it down for him, though of course that would lack the apologetic warmth I’d tried to convey in my smile . . .

  Danny cupped the side of my face with his fingers, pressing his thumb ever so lightly against my lips. He didn’t quite smile, but dimples appeared and he winked – which made the blood flutter through my veins and my knees go to jelly. Then, without another word, he headed off across the clearing.

  I stared after him. Wondering, all over again, why he always left me feeling so dangerously, so excitingly, out of my depth.

  21

  The following afternoon, dosed up on Panadol to calm my throbbing leg, I pulled up outside the school gates to wait for Bronwyn. I spied Danny’s black Toyota truck parked further up the hill beneath a poinciana tree, adorned with fallen crimson flowers . . . but I slid lower in my seat, content to hide out. Our botched kiss at the rocky plateau had stirred feelings that I was still trying to untangle, and I wasn’t yet ready to face him again.

  Bronwyn appeared through the crowd of students and teachers. She hugged Jade and said goodbye to a group of other kids, then hurried towards the car. She waved happily when she saw me, and I had to swallow a lump of sudden emotion. Flinging open the car door, she deposited her rucksack on the back seat, and gave me a quick peck. She was tired and dusty and her clothes were muddy and grass-stained . . . but her face glowed and she was brimming with stories.

  Rather than our usual dinner in front of the telly, we sat at the table and, in between hungry mouthfuls of tacos and salad, she related a blow-by-blow description of her week. The great swimming holes they’d explored, the bush tucker lessons, the night excursions armed with torches to spot possums and wallabies and quolls. She rolled her eyes over the squashed tent she’d shared with Jade and two other girls, and raved about the prize-winning damper they’d made in a traditional bush oven.

  ‘Mr O’Malley knows all about the bush,’ she’d gushed. ‘Jade and I reckon he’s like that guy on telly who goes off into the wild eating grubs and stuff.’

  ‘I thought you couldn’t stand him?’

  ‘Oh, but he’s turned out to be really cool! He showed us how to make a flying fox and get across the river. And one night he told us these funny stories about Dad and Aunty Glenda, and Jade’s dad and Aunty Corey, all the crazy things they got up to when they were kids. Mum, he’s so funny, you wouldn’t believe half the things he says.’ She sighed happily. ‘What did you get up to while I was gone?’

  I recalled my trek into the hills; my discovery of the old settlers’ hut and consequent encounter with the squatter’s dog; I remembered Aylish’s letters and their shocking disclosure about Cleve and the stolen axe handle; I thought about my return to the hut a few days later with Danny Weingarten, and our botched almost-kiss at the rocky plateau . . . And decided that some stories were best left untold.

  So I just shrugged. ‘Not much.’

  ‘What happened to your leg?’

  ‘A dog bit me.’

  ‘Mum! How on earth did you manage that?’

  I cut us both another slice of mudcake. ‘Just careless, I suppose.’

  The Sunday after Bronwyn returned from camp, I drove her over to William Road to spend the day with Luella.

  ‘I won’t come in,’ I told her as I dropped her off at the gate. ‘Say hello to Grandy for me, won’t you? Be good, and I’ll pick you up at four.’

  ‘Okay.’ She pecked me on the cheek, grabbed her carryall – today crammed with photos of the school camp – then hurried along the path and up the front stairs to where Luella waited in the doorway. I gave them both a wave, then threw a U-turn and headed back in the direction of town.

  It was cowardly, but I just couldn’t face Luella.

  I needed time to absorb what I’d learnt about Cleve; time to prepare myself to look into Luella’s gentle green eyes and hide what I knew. And I needed time to steel myself against the awfulness of it, against the taint that was now seeping through the cracks of Thornwood. I couldn’t even enjoy knowing that I’d been right about Samuel, and right about his true feelings for Aylish.

  All I could think about were the empty packing c
artons stored under the house, and how much easier it would be just to uproot again and find somewhere else to live.

  Somewhere with a little less history.

  At four on the dot that afternoon I pulled onto the grassy verge outside Luella’s house.

  To my surprise Bronwyn was at the top of the stairs, waving to me. I started to wave back, wondering what she was up to, when I realised she wasn’t waving at all . . . she was beckoning.

  My heart sank. I got out of the car and went along the path. Bronwyn met me at the foot of the steps and grabbed my arm.

  ‘Grandy’s got something amazing to show you,’ she announced, steering me up the stairs and into the cool shadows of Luella’s hallway. ‘A surprise. You’ll love it, Mum,’ she added, noticing my reluctance.

  Luella greeted me in the kitchen, untying her apron and wilting my qualms with the magnetism of her smile. ‘I’ve brewed fresh tea, that Earl Grey you’re so fond of, love. And we’ve just pulled a batch of chocolate tarts from the oven.’

  When I drew breath to politely decline, my lungs filled with air that was chocolatey-sweet, intoxicating. Something in me unravelled and I heard a little voice say, ‘That sounds lovely.’

  Bronwyn led me through the kitchen and out onto the verandah, where a feast awaited – Luella’s delicate Noritake teacups sat in place beside a platter of fresh scones and hand-cut chocolate pastries that made me goggle in anticipation . . . but Bronwyn tugged me past the table, down the back steps and across the garden towards the bunya pine.

  ‘Close your eyes, Mum.’

  Reluctantly, I obliged. Sunlight warmed my arms. Bright shards danced across my closed lids, turning the inside of my eyes blood-red. Blades of grass poked through my sandals, and I caught a whiff of jasmine, sweet in the sundrenched air.

  We stopped. There was a grating sound, a latch sliding in its casing – then the smell of moist heat, of soil and fertiliser and clammy concrete.

  ‘Watch your step . . . Okay, now open your eyes.’

  We were standing inside Luella’s glasshouse. It looked ancient, pieced together with salvaged leadlight windows. It was shaded by the giant bunya, but along the western side it was a suntrap – ribbons of yellow and crimson and emerald light poured through the muted glass panels, creating rainbows in the humid air.

  Workbenches had been built along both sides of the greenhouse and down the centre, leaving narrow walkways between. Crowded along the benches were hundreds of shallow plant pots sitting on trays of water. In the pots, the most curious collection of plants I’d ever seen. Some I recognised as the pitcher plants and sundews of Tony’s early botanical studies. Others were strange carnival freaks, balloon-like heads suspended on slender stalks; massive tubes with purple veins and frilled lids, brackets of waxy florets.

  ‘Wonderful, isn’t it, Mum?’

  ‘Oh . . . yeah.’

  Sounds filtered in from outside. Magpies and cicadas, the swish of wind in the bunya pine, the squeaky clothesline. There was another sound, a muffled buzzing close by. I went over to the nearest bench and examined a shallow dish in which grew a flat rosette of leaves, each leaf tipped with glossy pink hairs.

  ‘A native sundew,’ Luella said. ‘Each of those hairs is coated in sticky sweet-smelling glue. Insects flock to it, but then get stuck there and can’t escape. The leaf curls up around the hapless fly or moth and digests it.’

  She went along the workbench and pointed to another plant. Pairs of double-leaves nodded from thin stems; they looked like gaping mouths, deep crimson on the inside, fringed by teeth-like spines.

  ‘It’s a Venus flytrap,’ Luella informed us. ‘When an insect ventures between these leaf lobes, it bends the delicate trigger-hairs, then . . . snap! The trap fills with digestive fluid and begins to feast.’ She gestured to Bronwyn, ‘Untie your hair ribbon, pet – give it to me.’

  Bronwyn obliged, then watched in fascination as her grandmother smoothed the ribbon between her plump fingers and threaded it into the Venus flytrap’s jaws. She gave it a jerky twist, and the spiny leaf lobes snapped shut. Bronwyn hooked her neck in surprise, and I had to stifle an inane snort. The ribbon hung limply from the closed lips of the flytrap, looking every bit like a long pale tongue.

  Luella moved along, indicating another plant. This one floated in a small fish tank of water. A cluster of slender stems rose above the waterline, topped by yellow pea-like flowers. Submerged below was a hairy tangle of roots, studded with strange nodules that looked like white seedpods.

  ‘It’s bladderwort,’ Luella said, bending to peer through the side of the tank, beckoning Bronwyn. ‘Such a pretty flower, but don’t be deceived – it’s named for the bladders attached to the anchoring stems that grow beneath the water. Each bladder has a small opening sealed by a hinged door. Look closely, you might be able to see a pair of long hairs – yes, that’s it, come closer . . . You see there?’

  Bronwyn looked baffled, but nodded.

  ‘When the hairs are triggered,’ Luella continued, ‘they lever open the bladder door, which creates a vacuum. The prey – in this case probably an aquatic invertebrate such as Daphnia – is sucked inside the hollow bladder and digested. Marvellous, isn’t it?’

  ‘Why do they do it?’ Bronwyn blurted.

  ‘Because they’re hungry, of course.’

  ‘But why do they eat insects? Why can’t they just get their food from the soil, like other plants?’

  Looking pleased, Luella mopped her hanky over her face. ‘Why, these little beauties have adapted to grow in areas where the soil is thin or lacking in nutrients – particularly acidic bogs, or wastelands where nitrogen content in the soil is poor or non-existent.’ She tucked the hanky back in her bra. ‘Generally these plants lack an enzyme called nitrate reductase, which allows other plants to assimilate soil-borne nitrogen into food . . . that’s why carnivorous plants rely on nutrients they get from insects.’

  Bronwyn looked solemnly at the bladderwort, but my interest had shifted.

  Over by a sheltered section of wall was a large earthenware pot containing a cluster of giant tubular pitcher leaves that towered over everything else. The tall leaves were twisted, with a puffed-up hood and a pair of petals extended like fangs.

  ‘What about this, Luella?’

  ‘Ah yes, that splendid specimen is one of my favourites.’ She approached the plant, her face aglow with sweat and pleasure. ‘It’s a Darlingtonia, commonly referred to as the Cobra Lily – magnificent, isn’t it? It belongs to the family of pitfall traps, otherwise known as pitcher plants.’

  Bronwyn elbowed in beside me. ‘What do they eat?’

  ‘Pretty much anything that’s foolish enough to crawl in – the usual flies and mosquitoes, wasps. Ants, slaters, silverfish. You see, like most pitcher plants, they have a brightly coloured visual lure at the lip of the trap – in this case, those fang-like protrusions – as well as the tempting sweet nectar that seeps from the hood. Look closer, my dear . . . do you see those little white splashes on the sides of the tubes? They’re transparent aeriolae, or false windows – they trick the insects into thinking there’s an escape hole. The insect struggles, but is further trapped by downward-pointing hairs, which direct them into the liquid below. The insect drowns, and eventually its corpse is dissolved . . . depending on the species of pitcher, the prey is broken down either by resident bacteria, or by enzymes secreted by the plant itself. The digested insect is converted into a solution of peptides, phosphates, amino acids, ammonium, nitrates, and urea – a veritable smorgasbord of essential nutrients!’

  Stroking the largest lily trumpet, Luella gave an appreciative sigh. ‘There are even pitchers that harbour insect larvae in their reservoirs. These larvae feed on trapped prey, and then provide castings which the plant absorbs. Instant fertiliser! Have you ever heard of anything so ingenious?’ she added, almost to herself.

  Bronwyn shook her head, obviously awestruck.

  I felt somewhat awestruck myself. Luella seemed so proud of h
er plants, I wanted to say something complimentary – but while she’d been speaking, my imagination had run rampant. I’d imagined a beetle-sized version of myself climbing past the Cobra Lily’s crimson fangs and into its mouth cavity. I’d followed the delicious trail of nectar, been confused by the transparent windows glimmering with muted sunlight. My tiny self continued its doomed journey, guided downward by the silky hairs until I was slipping and sliding, unable to stop myself splashing into the deep pool of liquid and bobbing helplessly among fly carcasses and mosquito husks.

  ‘What happens – ’ I cleared my throat. ‘What happens if they don’t catch any insects? Do they starve?’

  Luella gave me a curious look. ‘Goodness, no! They are, above all else, great adaptors. For instance, in winter when the insect population decreases, some pitcher plants produce special non-carnivorous leaves which assist in the absorption of soil nutrients . . . temporarily, anyway. That’s the beauty of these plants – they can adapt to virtually any environment, any circumstance, even lying dormant for years if they have to.’

  Her face glowed with evident pleasure. A change had come over her. She appeared more youthful, more alive, her skin brightened by the intensity of her expression.

  ‘You know so much about them,’ Bronwyn marvelled.

  Luella smiled. ‘I suppose I do, dear. I find them fascinating, there’s always something new to learn.’

  I let my gaze roam. I’d just realised what was making the muffled buzzing noise I had noticed earlier. Sunlight had fallen on a nearby row of pitcher plants, illuminating the tall tubular leaves from behind and allowing me to see the tiny swarming shadows within. Flies, perhaps hundreds, trapped at the base of each pitcher plant reservoir, buzzing in a ghastly unmusical symphony – most of them droning like broken violins, while others were barely able to raise a frail hum.

  The glasshouse was suddenly too hot, the air too humid to breathe. I inched towards the door, feeling two sets of curious eyes alight on me. I resisted the urge to look back. Shoving through the door, I stepped into the yard and made a beeline for the cool shade of the bunya pine.