by Anna Romer
‘I heard someone laughing,’ she murmured sleepily.
‘Just birds,’ she heard the boy say, as though from far off.
She frowned. No bird could make such a sound. Perhaps the boy had misunderstood. She tried to gather the will to argue, but instead felt her eyes sink shut. She would rest, she decided. Just for a moment. Just until her strength returned. Taking one last look at the boy, satisfied he was near, she dragged the rough blanket back up over her and settled on the grass bed, quickly sinking into sleep.
She woke at intervals through the day, eating morsels of food the boy brought her, drinking the water he provided, but mostly escaping into an uneasy listlessness. Strange half-dreams washed around her. One moment she felt the giddy rise and fall of waves, and heard the cries of people drowning. But then a sense of calm took hold. There was just the crackle of the fire, and the wind in the trees. Eventually, night came. With a sigh, she let herself slip down into the soft leaf-scented darkness.
In her dream, her parents were arguing. Their angry words drifted up the stairs and along the hall to Orah’s room, finding her ears despite her retreat beneath the covers.
It’s everything I have, Mam said. I’ll not let you take it all.
Pa rumbled, I’m not asking for your last penny. Simply enough money to get me across the sea to the colonies and set me up for a few months until I make my fortune. The boys on the docks, even the sailors, they’re all talking about Australia. It’s the place to be. There’s wealth beyond imagining, gold under every clump of earth, all free for the taking.
What rot, Hanley, Mam said. Your mind’s been addled by talk. I’ll not have it, do you hear? I’ll not have you taking every cent of our savings and frittering it away on a dream.
Their voices grew quiet, and then stopped. An exhausted silence settled on the house. Orah didn’t want her father to leave. She didn’t want him to travel to another land, chasing a dream. Yet she couldn’t stop her heart from racing as she remembered his words.
Wealth beyond imagining, gold under every clump, all free for the taking.
The voices started up again. This time they didn’t belong to her parents. They were strange musical voices. Whispering urgently, close to her ear.
‘Wake up. Quickly, we have to go.’
Someone was shaking her, pulling her upright. Lurching from her dream, she flailed about, fearing the dark ocean waves had claimed her once more. Tiny bright stars still glittered in the sky, but daylight was edging up over the horizon, slowly invading the darkness. In the gloom, two young faces watched her.
‘Come on,’ the boy said, taking her hand. ‘Don’t make a sound.’
He hauled her to her feet, leading her away from the camp and into the trees. She trudged beside him, irritable after her dream, still groggy from sleep. So thirsty, her tongue glued itself to the roof of her mouth. She looked back over her shoulder. The girl collected Orah’s clothes and blanket, kicked earth into the fire pit, and then ran after them.
‘Hurry,’ the boy said, tugging Orah’s hand.
Behind them in the dark, a horse whinnied. A man’s voice rang out, calling to someone. Orah glanced over her shoulder, and into her mind flashed her father’s ruddy face.
‘Pa!’ she yelled, trying to twist out of the boy’s grip. ‘Over here, Pa!’
A deafening report split the silence, the night seemed to explode. Strong fingers clamped over her mouth. The boy pulled her after him into the bushes, and held her steady against a tree trunk.
‘That was gunfire,’ the girl whispered. ‘Old Mister’s feelin’ nasty tonight.’
For a hushed eternity, they crouched in the bushy shadows, listening. The clop of horses’ hooves and the quiet call of male voices drifted nearer, but then the noises faded away. Finally, they disappeared.
The girl tugged Orah to her feet and they stumbled away through the dark. After a while, she gave Orah’s hand a gentle squeeze. ‘No more funny business,’ she warned. ‘Those fellas aren’t who you think they are. If they catch us, we’re in strife.’
As the sun rose, Orah sat in a patch of sunlight watching him. He was crouched by the fire he had built, feeding sticks into the flames. Wisps of smoke drifted up to the sky.
She had thought him her age, but now saw he was a year or so older. A faint shadow darkened his jaw and upper lip, and he moved about with confidence. When he glanced over, she did not smile and he offered none of his own, but Orah sensed a silent conversation unfolding between them. As long as he was near, she would be safe; somehow, he knew this, and his frequent glances held reassurance.
The fire died down. Still Orah sat, watching.
When the boy got up to collect a handful of leaves, she followed him with her eyes. When he went behind a clump of bushes and out of her sight, she got up and stood where she could see him. His dark hair had dried into corkscrew curls, and Orah remembered the softness of it against her face as she’d clung to him in the water.
He returned to the fire, and Orah went back to her patch of sunlight. The boy rummaged in a canvas sack and took out a bag of flour, which he emptied into a pannikin. He added water and kneaded the mixture with his fingers. Rolling the dough into a clump, he laid it on a flat stone at the edge of the fire. He cleaned the pannikin with dirt, pulled a rag from his pocket and dusted it out, then carefully filled it with water from a flask. He positioned the pan over the glowing embers, and then glanced at Orah.
Orah burrowed into her blanket.
Her head spun. Their run through the bush had left her feet bruised and bloodied. Insect bites covered her legs, and her pale skin stung from the sun. She wished she were back in the quiet stillness of her bedroom in Glasgow, with Mam in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. There would be porridge bubbling on the hearth, and the smell of lanoline from the newly spun wool, and the spicy aromas of indigo and woad dye lingering in the warm air.
She shut her eyes. The earth pitched and rolled beneath her, one moment lifting her to the clouds, the next dragging her down into a dark trough. She smelled the salty panic of her body, heard her mother’s last cry as the ocean dragged her under—
Orah blinked and saw the girl standing before her. Up close, she looked to be Orah’s age, twelve or thirteen. She wore a shapeless dress of blue homespun, and her feet were bare and dusty. Her hair fell to her jawline, kinked with soft waves, streaked with tawny lights where the sun had touched it. Her eyes were dark and kind, and freckles danced across her brown skin. In her arms was a bundle of clothes – Orah’s clothes, dry and fragrant with sunlight.
‘Feelin’ better?’ the girl asked, placing the bundle on the blanket.
Orah reached for her clothes with a murmur of thanks, but then fumbled when she tried to pull them on.
‘I’m Nala,’ the girl said. She picked up Orah’s petticoat and shook it out, then held it against herself, as if taking its measure. ‘I was on the beach, remember?’
Orah nodded.
Nala handed Orah the petticoat and helped her slip into it. She pulled the skirt over Orah’s head, brushing her fingers over the creases, and then buttoned it into place. ‘You nearly drowned,’ she said gravely. ‘Warra saw you in the water. You were lucky.’
Orah looked across at the boy. He was kneeling beside the fire, prodding the embers with a stick. The bread he’d made was scorched on one side but golden on the other. He broke it into three pieces and set it on a flat rock to cool. A delicious doughy fragrance wafted on the air.
Nala helped Orah into her blouse, brushing out the wrinkles as she’d done with the skirt, and picked a grass stalk off the sleeve.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Orah.’
Nala beamed. ‘That’s pretty. What’s it mean?’
‘Mean?’
‘All names mean somethin’. I got mine ’cause Mum said I sounded like a grass wren, always chattering.’
Despite the gloom in Orah’s heart, she felt the beginnings of a smile. ‘I don’t know what my
name means, but I’m glad you like it.’
From where he crouched near the fire, Warra called a string of quick, musical words to his sister. Nala went to him, and returned to Orah with a plate of food. Bread, an enormous lump of roasted root vegetable caramelised by the fire, and some charred leaves that were fat and succulent. Nala and Warra settled nearby on a log with their own plates. They ate in silence. The bread was crusty and good. The vegetable was similar to potato only sweeter. The leaves burst like grapes and filled Orah’s mouth with fresh tartness. When the last morsel was gone, she sat back. Her face burned from the heat of the fire, and a deep bone-weariness crept over her.
A hush settled on the day. The birds fell silent. There was just the pop and crack of the embers and a soft clatter as Nala collected their plates.
‘I thought I heard my father’s voice last night,’ Orah said suddenly. ‘That’s why I cried out.’
Warra frowned. ‘Was he on the ship?’
Orah told them, haltingly at first, but then in a breathless rush, everything that had happened to bring her here. When she got to the part about Mam she hung her head, embarrassed by her tears.
Nala nestled beside her, her skinny arm sliding around Orah’s shoulders. ‘Poor thing, you miss your mum.’
Orah hadn’t wanted sympathy. She hadn’t meant to cry. By nature, she was a foot stomper, a shouter, a puller of grim faces. She had used all manner of tantrums to get her own way with Mam in the past. Yet never tears.
Nala continued to croon and pat Orah’s arm. After a while, her murmured reassurances began to take effect. The fire dried away Orah’s tears. She let out a hiccup, and then took a breath.
‘I have to find my father,’ she said. ‘He lives in Melbourne.’
Warra studied her, his brows creased. ‘You better ask Mr Briar.’
‘Mr Briar’s our boss,’ Nala clarified. ‘He runs a guesthouse with his wife. Warra and me work there. I cook and help clean the guest rooms, and Warra does the outside chores. Bitterwood, it’s called. A good place. They’re kind people, the Briars. They’ll help you find your dad.’
Orah’s spirits lifted. Warra went to the fire and returned with a tin cup, which he placed in her hands.
‘Thank you, Warra,’ she said quietly.
His eyes held hers, and the corners of his lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but it came close enough. Orah hid her blush in the cup, blowing on the tea. Steam rose off the green liquid, but it didn’t smell like any tea Orah recognised.
‘Emu-bush tea,’ Warra told her.
She sipped, then made a face and pushed the cup back at him.
‘Drink,’ he said. ‘You’ll feel better.’
There was such kindness in his voice that she did as he said, almost without thinking. The hot liquid burned all the way down, then sat warm in her belly.
‘Who was following us last night?’
‘Old Mister,’ Warra said.
‘Mister Burke.’ Nala pulled a sour face. ‘He reckons all this land belongs to him. Says he don’t want us crossing it, that we got no business here. But our family lives up there.’ She twisted around and pointed back the way they had come, to a line of distant hills. ‘Two days’ walk from Bitterwood. Mrs Briar lets us go home every couple of months. We stay a few days with Mum and our aunties, and then walk back.’
‘We walk along the beach, mostly,’ Warra added. ‘Then we cut across Old Mister’s land. He don’t like it, but it’s quicker.’
‘Lucky for you,’ Nala added quietly, squeezing Orah’s hand. ‘When that storm came the other night, we were on the headland. We took shelter in a cave. Early next morning, Warra went to find dry wood to build fire. That’s when he saw you.’
Warra took her empty cup. He looked at her, his pupils shining like black glass. ‘Rest again now. You’ll feel better after a sleep.’
Orah wanted to stay awake, talk more to Warra and Nala, but she was suddenly yawning, unable to keep her eyes open, as though her body was obeying Warra’s soft command. Warmth flooded her toes and fingers, her feet and legs. She looked over at Warra, who had returned to the fire. He saw her looking, and once again almost smiled. This time Orah smiled back. Then, reassured by the crackle of flames, and secure in the nearness of the boy who had saved her, she nestled back under her blanket.
8
Melbourne, June 1993
Dad was sleeping when we arrived. Tucked tightly into the hospital bed, frail and deflated, a different the man to the one I’d laughed and chatted with at the movies the night before. He stirred as the door whispered shut behind us, but seemed unable to keep his eyes open.
‘It’s the painkillers,’ Wilma explained. She huddled at the bedside, clutching my father’s hand. Her dark curls were unbrushed, fraying around her pale face.
I took the chair on the other side of the bed. Dad’s fingers felt clammy. I chafed his hand between my own, but his skin refused to warm.
‘He’s cold,’ I told Wilma.
Morgan brought over a blanket and helped us tuck it around my father. Dad’s skin was waxy, pasty white but for twin heat spots on his cheekbones. He stirred again, but quickly sank back into a doze. Wilma settled back at the bedside, clasping Dad’s hand again between her own. Her lips began to move. She’d never been religious. If she worshipped anyone, it was Dad. I guessed she was silently talking to him, encouraging him to rest well, to heal.
They’d been together for thirteen years. Wilma was a psychologist at Banksia House in Melbourne when Dad was admitted there after his breakdown. All his life he had struggled with depression, which had contributed to his addiction to booze. When Karen died, he’d been lost. He spent six months in Wilma’s care, detoxing and learning how to deal with his grief. When he left the institution, they stayed in touch for a few years. Letters, phone calls, occasional catch-ups. Dad liked to say theirs was a great friendship that bloomed into love. As a happy side effect, Dad’s episodes of depression became less frequent, less intense. In the past few years, he had stopped his medication, managing his illness with yoga and organic food. Wilma could be sharp-tongued with lesser mortals – namely me – but she was Dad’s guardian angel.
Today she wore no make-up, and I realised I’d never seen her without it before. Her face was round, patterned with delicate lines, her eyes soft blue. Without the strong lipstick and dramatic eyeliner, she seemed younger, almost vulnerable.
‘Wilma,’ I whispered. ‘You look tired. Have you eaten?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m all right, Lucy. My only concern at the moment is Ron.’
Morgan slipped out the door, leaving us alone.
‘Dad was fine last night,’ I said. ‘What happened?’
Wilma untucked a hanky from her sleeve and blotted her cheeks. ‘I woke this morning and found him on the bathroom floor. He was groggy, disorientated, couldn’t remember what had happened. I called the ambulance straightaway, despite his objections. At first I thought he’d just fallen, hit his head. He didn’t say anything, just gripped my hand. His fingers were like a vice – he must’ve been in dreadful pain. It was only after the X-rays that I learned about his hip.’
Morgan returned with sandwiches and three cups of coffee. Wilma hunched over her coffee, taking quick little sips until she’d finished. I took it from her fingers, and then passed her mine. We liked it the same, lots of milk and sugar. She drank that too, and accepted one of the soggy kiosk sandwiches Morgan apologetically offered.
Once she’d eaten, she seemed brighter. Reaching into the bag slung over the back of her chair, she withdrew a crumpled letter.
‘It’s from your grandfather’s solicitor,’ she said quietly. ‘Ron forgets to check the mailbox, and it was among the pile I left on the table for him last night. I found it this morning, crushed on the bathroom floor. I presume it’s the reason he . . . he was upset.’
Her fingers trembled as she passed the letter across the bed to me.
I took it, but my eyes were suddenly swimming. It had t
o be shock setting in, the fright of my father’s accident. Fear, perhaps, that Edwin had written to my father after all, told him that he had contacted me and sent me my mother’s gold charm . . .
Morgan took the document from my fingers, scanned the contents and read it aloud. ‘“. . . regret to inform you of the death of Edwin Albert Briar of Bitterwood Park in Stern Bay. I’m under instruction to tell you that the deceased has left his estate in its entirety to you, Ronald Gordon Briar. Please call this office and make an appointment to discuss probate at your earliest convenience . . .”’
I looked bleakly at Morgan.
He passed the letter back. ‘Sorry, love.’
A sense of unreality washed over me. I waited for the grief, for shock, but none came. In truth, I wasn’t entirely sure what I should be feeling. My mother’s death in 1977 had torn apart the already fragile relationship Dad had with Edwin. After that, we never mentioned my grandfather’s name; it was an unspoken law between us. I’d never really understood the animosity between Dad and Edwin, only that their grievance had its roots in a row they’d had when my father was a teenager. Their falling-out had sent Dad running from his family home, not to return for almost thirty years.
I stared at the solicitor’s letter in my hand. Edwin was gone. Whatever explanation he had meant to give me was gone too. Now I would never know how he had come to possess my mother’s gold charm. I’d never know why, after years of silence between us, he had suddenly wanted to see me.
‘Mad old buzzard,’ Dad murmured, and then opened his eyes, looking blearily around at us. ‘I’ve been here all along, you realise, listening in.’
I scrambled to my feet, the letter forgotten. I pressed my forehead to his, breathing him in. The whiff of antiseptic brought a lump to my throat. There had been a time when my father smelled of wonderful things: ink and old paper, dusty books and binding leather, candle wax and polished wood. Calming smells that even now, in the sterile hospital room, stirred in my memory.