Thornwood House

by Anna Romer

  ‘Of course, Gurney and I rushed over to Thornwood. The leaves under the tree had been kicked around, but there was no sign of Glenda. Tony was beside himself, sick with fright. We brought him back to the house, and I managed to get some brandy down his throat. Poor Tony, he was jumpier than a cane toad, wouldn’t sit still. And the blood – I thought he’d hurt himself, but he wouldn’t let me near him to find out. He insisted on heading home to William Road. I offered to drive him but he got all teary again, kept babbling that Glenda might have recovered enough to take herself home via the gully. I convinced him to stay the night. Calmed him down and got him settled in the back room . . . but he must have taken off soon after. In the morning he was gone.’

  Hobe drained his teacup. ‘In those days, the Magpie Creek police station was unmanned at night. I rang Ipswich, but they said without an actual victim there was no point sending out a patrol. Then when they found Glenda the next day, the cops were all over us like ants on a honey-spill.’

  I searched Hobe’s face. Tony’s version of events explained why Glenda had abandoned her belongings in the tree. But how had her body ended up at the gully, over a mile away?

  ‘Didn’t they question why Tony saw his sister at Thornwood, yet her body was found in the gully?’

  ‘They said Tony’s brain was addled with shock, that he got his locations confused.’

  ‘Didn’t you think it was strange?’

  ‘My word I did, lass. But we were all so sick with shock and grief. You can’t function when you’re in that state. Later, I went to the cops and hassled them, but nothing came of it.’

  He sat for a time, looking at his hands. I wondered what he was thinking; the lines on his cheeks looked deeper, the crevices around his mouth dark with shadow. An air of defeat sat heavily over him.

  ‘About a month after Glenda died,’ he went on, ‘Gurney noticed his old Winchester missing from the shed. Now old Gurn was scrupulous with his firearms, always kept them racked up high, out of harm’s way. Of course, these days you’ve got to have ’em under lock and key, which makes sense with all the ratbags around . . . but back then the law was slacker. We puzzled over that missing Winchester for weeks, until it occurred to me that Tony must have taken it. And then last year when Tony died, the cops got interested again. Y’see, they’d finally found Gurney’s old Winchester.’

  ‘Tony used your brother’s rifle?’

  Hobe looked ill. He palmed his face and ran his fingers up into his sparse hair.

  ‘That he did, lass.’

  ‘God.’ My voice was barely a whisper. My heart shrank into itself, took on the smallness of a pebble. It fell into a well of still, cold water and sank without a trace. ‘Poor Tony.’

  Hobe sighed and shoved away from the table. I acknowledged that our conversation was over, but after this last revelation I’d lost the will to move. The tea had grown cold, the biscuits lay untouched on their floral plate. An echo of sorrow seemed to linger in the kitchen. Then Hobe beckoned me to follow him through a doorway and deeper into the old bungalow’s warren of rooms.

  It was like stepping into a natural history museum.

  Every inch of wall space was covered with picture frames – big 1950s landscapes, box-displays containing beetle or butterfly specimens, several faded old family portraits . . . and watercolours, dozens of them, all fine examples of Tony’s exquisite eye for detail: finches, frogs, gumnut blossoms, dragonflies.

  Bottle collections stood to attention along windowsills and shelves, and rustic cabinets displayed antique gauges and clocks and dials; cages dangled from the ceiling, inhabited by taxidermied canaries and sparrows. Birds’ nests hung in sunny windows, and the doors were furnished with cured animal hides – rabbits, dingoes, a kangaroo, even that of a moth-eaten red kelpie. Lined along the wide picture rails above us was an astonishing hoard of mummified creatures – dogs, cats, rabbits, snakes, and several specimens I couldn’t identify. Assemblages of rusty machine parts served as candelabras, bookends, doorstops; a wind-chime of antique silver spoons clinked as we passed beneath it.

  A narrow hall led to the back of the bungalow. We entered a small bedroom. Twin beds were crammed knee to knee in the tight space, divided by an antique bedside. The walls were crowded with more of Tony’s watercolours. Spiky kurrajong leaves, blue lomandra flowers, fishbone ferns, a turtle . . . and pencil studies of the various mummified creatures I’d seen earlier.

  Hobe waved a hand at a wall of drawings. ‘Young Tony was a talented kid . . . but I suppose you already know that.’

  I marvelled, unable to resist doing a quick calculation. There must have been a hundred exquisite little paintings. I knew several art dealers who’d have given their eye teeth – and substantial quantities of cash – for any one of them.

  ‘You have quite a collection.’

  Hobe nodded, shuffling past. ‘I expect they’re worth a bit, but I’d never dream of selling them . . .’ He shot me a sheepish look. ‘You must think I’m a sentimental old fool.’

  I shook my head. ‘I confess, I’ve got my own stash of Tony’s paintings under my bed. I put them away after he walked out, unable to look at them – but I can’t bring myself to part with them either.’

  Hobe averted his attention to an ink study of a black butterfly on a fig leaf. ‘Tell me, Audrey – what was he like? I only knew him as a boy. He was a good kid . . . but I never got to know him as a man.’

  I shifted uneasily. I’d avoided seeing Tony since we split five years ago, reluctant to stir up the quagmire of resentment and self-doubt that he’d inspired in me by marrying Carol. Those times when we met at Bronwyn’s school carnivals or dance concerts or netball tournaments, he’d been politely distant, as if he believed that keeping me at arm’s length was somehow kinder. Even so, those post-breakup memories of him had never been able to eclipse what we’d shared when we were together. Tony’s smile had once been like a radiant sun to me, warming many a dark moment and distracting me from my various fears. He’d been funny and attentive, and I’d spend countless wintry nights enveloped in his arms. Most of all, he’d given me a daughter who meant the world to me.

  ‘He was a wonderful man,’ I told Hobe, and meant it. ‘The best.’

  Hobe looked grateful, and just before he turned away I saw his eye well.

  I studied his profile. Beneath the leathery skin, he had a boniness that was unmistakably familiar. His sapphire eye, his snowy hair and willowy height . . . if I squinted, I could almost see in him a faint reflection of my daughter.

  ‘Hobe?’ I asked. ‘Tony and Glenda were your kids, weren’t they?’

  Hobe froze, then pulled in a ragged breath. ‘That they were, lass.’

  ‘Did they know?’

  He shook his head. ‘It was for their own good, y’see. We thought it best to wait until they were older, after they left home. If Cleve’d found out, he wouldn’t have coped. He doted on them, they were everything to him.’

  ‘But they were your kids.’

  Hobe smiled the saddest smile I’d ever seen. ‘Good kids, too, so they were. I’d have done anything for ’em. Anything at all to make them happy, keep them safe. Even if it meant giving them up.’

  ‘That’s why you made the aquarium for Bronwyn, isn’t it?’

  Hobe seemed to shrink into his frayed shirt. ‘When you and Bronwyn arrived, I saw it as a second chance. I’m sorry if I overwhelmed you both. I’m a foolish old man, I see now it was wrong of me to impose. I guess I was so eager to make a good impression that I botched it instead.’

  It took a moment to swallow the lump in my throat.

  ‘Don’t apologise, Hobe. You were only being kind, and Bronwyn raved for days about her aquarium. I guess I’m a bit overprotective of her at times, which is crazy because Bronwyn’s made of sterner stuff than I give her credit for.’ An idea came to me, a way to make it up to him. ‘You know, Hobe, I’ve been thinking it might do her good to have something to look after. Perhaps you could bring over a couple of Al
ma’s puppies for her to meet?’

  ‘I’ll do that, Audrey, indeed I will.’ Hobe attempted a smile, but he seemed distracted. Going over to one of the beds, he knelt on the floor and dragged out from under it a small dusty suitcase. He hoisted the suitcase onto the mattress, flipped the latches and yanked up the lid.

  ‘Tony left this here one time. I got the feeling he’d been knocking heads with Cleve a bit, having a few rows. Glenda and Cleve were close, but Tony . . . he always seemed closer to his mother.’ Hobe sighed. ‘Anyhow, Tony would’ve been about twelve when he arrived on our doorstep claiming he’d come to say goodbye. He was running away from home, so he said. Of course, I lured him inside, talked him out of it. Eventually he went home, but he left his old valise here.’

  Hobe sat on the bed, his face creased with a depth of sorrow I was only just coming to understand. ‘Looking back now, I wish I’d let him go. Maybe then he’d have been spared the nightmare of his sister’s death. Maybe he’d still be alive today.’

  I sat on the bed next to the suitcase. ‘You can’t know that, Hobe.’

  He didn’t answer, so I drew the old case onto my lap and began to poke through Tony’s belongings. Checked shirts, a pair of grubby jeans, rolled socks. A sketchpad of ink studies, a paintbrush rolled in a hanky, a tin of watercolour tubes: familiar lilacs and greens, cerulean and ochre, all dry and crumbled. At the bottom of the suitcase I found a large cigar box. The rubber band that had once held its lid in place had perished and fallen away. The contents of the box had tumbled out. I studied them, not daring to breathe.

  A man’s watch. A set of keys, a wallet embossed with the initials S.R.

  ‘They were his grandfather’s,’ Hobe said. ‘Old Samuel had them on him when he died. The police gave them to Luella, but she didn’t want them. She gave them to Tony, and – apart from his paints and papers – those old relics were his pride and joy.’

  Thumbing the rusty clasp on the wallet, I let it fall open. My heart nearly stopped when I saw the photo. It was a faded black and white snapshot of a young woman. She would have been about sixteen, achingly pretty, her oval face framed by long dark hair, her almond eyes alight with mischief.

  I knew her. I’d seen another portrait of her just over a week ago, locked inside the dark cavity of the tallboy in the old settlers’ hut.

  ‘Aylish,’ I breathed.

  Hobe peered over my shoulder. ‘No, lass,’ he said. ‘That’s Luella.’

  Understanding dawned. ‘Samuel carried her photo in his wallet. To the day he died.’

  ‘So he did.’

  ‘He must have loved her, after all.’

  Hobe had picked up Tony’s sketchbook and was examining a tiny blue kingfisher vibrantly rendered in pen and ink wash.

  ‘How could he not love her, lass?’ he said softly. ‘How could anyone not love her? She’s one in a million.’

  24

  Luella was in her garden, a massive sunhat shading her face, her hands swamped in canvas gloves. She waved when she saw my car, met me at the gate, ushered me through, absurdly pleased.

  ‘Why, Audrey! What a lovely surprise, I was just thinking about you and Bronwyn, wondering when I’d see you again – ’ She frowned. ‘What is it, love? You look peaky.’

  ‘I’ve just come from the Millers’ place,’ I began, then floundered. On the drive over I’d planned my inquisition; there was so much I needed to know, so many questions aching to be asked. But seeing her concerned smile, catching the glimmer of worry in her eyes, knowing that just beneath the surface lurked the constant threat of more bad news . . . I found myself groping around for an easier, gentler way to confront her.

  My voice was tight. ‘Hobe has quite a collection of Tony’s artwork, doesn’t he?’

  Luella’s smile faltered. ‘Oh, indeed . . . ?’

  Insane, I felt the prick of tears behind my eyes. Then a sudden rush of anger – at myself, at Luella . . . and bafflingly, at Tony.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me Tony was Hobe’s son?’ My voice came out all wrong, a twisted sharp thing that I didn’t recognise as my own. ‘Didn’t you think Bronwyn ought to know her own grandfather? I’ve treated Hobe appallingly, thinking his interest in my daughter was inappropriate, maybe even perverse . . . I’ve just found out that it was because he knew all along that she was his granddaughter, and now I’ve made a terrible mess of the whole thing. How could you, Luella? How could you keep it from us?’

  My outburst stunned me, but Luella didn’t seem all that perturbed. With studied care she placed her secateurs on the rim of a birdbath and took off her gloves. Her hands were small and pink, damp. She gave my arm a firm squeeze.

  ‘I’m sorry, pet. I really am. Every time I’ve seen you and Bronwyn I’ve tried to drum up the courage to tell you both about Hobe. And every time I’ve failed.’

  I slumped, the anger gone as quickly as it had come.

  ‘I was so mean to him, Luella. You should have seen his poor old face.’

  ‘He’ll get over it.’

  ‘He told me everything. About how you met when you were young, and he went off to Vietnam then came back half-insane, and how Samuel influenced you to marry Cleve. Then the letters in the tree, and your plan to run away and sell chutney in spite of you being a terrible cook, which I can’t believe because your cakes are just so . . . so – ’ My outburst stalled. Tears pricked my eyes and I had to rub them away.

  Luella dug in her sleeve and withdrew a pressed hanky, handed it to me. ‘You and Hobe had quite a morning.’

  ‘Yeah. I guess we did.’

  She sighed, then turned and went along the path towards the house. When she reached the steps, she looked back.

  ‘Come on,’ she said huskily. ‘I think we need a good strong drink. And I’m not talking about lime cordial.’

  Luella poured sherry into tiny frosted glasses. I drained the sickly brew in one gulp, then dipped into my tote and removed the letter. Passing it across to Luella, I said a silent prayer that she’d understand.

  She eyed the crumpled note with suspicion.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s from your mother. She wrote it to Samuel after he returned from the war.’

  Luella took the letter, but didn’t unfold it right away. She turned it this way and that, obviously mystified.

  ‘I found it at the homestead,’ I explained, fumbling to find the right words. ‘Samuel had hidden it behind an old picture frame. I guess he didn’t . . . It was – oh hell, Luella. Please, just read it.’

  She studied my face for ages, then got to her feet. I followed her down the stairs and into the shade of a rangy old plum tree, where we sat on a garden seat. The peppery scent of crushed nasturtiums rose around us. Somewhere high in the branches overhead an insect screamed, a prolonged cry that made me shiver.

  Luella’s face was pale. She smoothed the note on her knees and began to read.

  Silence edged around us, punctuated only by the rollicking melody of a butcher-bird high in the bunya, and the soft creak of the clothesline. The day was balmy, and the sherry had thinned my blood. If my heart hadn’t been skating around so erratically, if my mind hadn’t been whirling, I might have curled up in the warm grass and drifted into a weary daze.

  Luella folded the letter and sat back. ‘It’s dated the day of her death.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She said she was taking someone to meet him – someone special. Do you think she meant . . .’ She gave a dry cough. ‘She meant me, didn’t she.’

  ‘I believe so.’

  Tipping back her head, she peered at the sky. Her plump throat was satiny smooth and her face composed. I could tell – by the tremor of her lips, and the pink in her cheeks – that she was hovering in the eye of an inner storm.

  ‘I don’t remember her,’ she said. ‘Not well, at any rate. After she died, I used to pretend that little Lulu had gone to heaven with her, and that I was a different child. I even insisted that Poppa start calling me Luella, rather
than . . . oh – ’

  The storm broke. Luella’s face crumpled and tears began to rain. I hesitated . . . but only for an instant. Gathering her against me, I held her while she sobbed. She was a large woman, tall as well as fleshy – but there in the shade beneath the plum tree she felt frail and insubstantial, a small girl weeping inconsolable tears for her lost mother. I held her close, patting her back, soothing her as best I could with wordless sounds, the way I used to soothe my own child.

  She pulled away, gave me a watery smile.

  ‘You know, when I said before that I don’t remember her, it wasn’t quite true. I suppose it’s safer to store my memories away, lock them where they can’t hurt me. But Audrey, there are glimpses. Flashes here and there, like bits of a dream. I remember being in this leafy clearing, a fairytale place where the trees were full of birds. And Mumma reciting all their names – whistlers and butcher-birds, scrub wrens, flycatchers. And I remember that she always seemed sad. I don’t mean depressed, but there was often a shadow behind her smile. Except for this one time when she glowed with happiness.’ Luella looked into my eyes and tried to smile, but a tear rolled over her lash. ‘It was the night she died.’

  Something uncoiled in me, a dark sort of hope. ‘You remember that night?’

  She nodded. ‘It’s hazy, but it’s always haunted me. We’d gone out late, walking along a dark track. I was scared at first, but then Mumma started singing and her voice reassured me. I just remember that she was beaming all the while, as if she was keeping a secret from me. We walked a long way. I never knew where we were going. I realise now that she was taking me to meet . . . to meet Samuel.’ She peered at me through damp lashes. ‘One part of the memory is even hazier, but it’s the part that haunts me most. You see, I saw a face in the trees that night. A big pale face, like a ghost. It scared me . . . and I ran away.’

  In the stillness, the insect in the branches above us shrieked again. I found myself remembering Bronwyn’s story about the cicada hunter. Right then I felt like an ill-fated cicada at the mercy of a hunter-wasp; ridden along by the force of my curiosity, unable to help myself yet dreading where it must lead.