by Anna Romer
I had intended to scold him for scaring us, for turning to the bottle when he should have confided in Wilma or me or Morgan, but my words got tangled somewhere between my brain and my lips.
‘Oh, Dad,’ I whispered. ‘I was so worried.’
‘Sorry about that, kiddo.’
He held my gaze, his eyes suddenly intense. I suspected his apology was less about worrying me and more to do with breaking his long-standing promise.
‘You got a shock,’ I said, remembering the letter crushed in my hand. ‘No wonder you were upset.’
Dad eyed the crumpled letter.
‘It was unexpected,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Edwin and I hadn’t spoken in years, not since we lost Karen. I’m not surprised he’s dead, living in that damp place by himself. He was in his nineties, you know.’ He cleared his throat, and shot a glance at Wilma. She nodded, and Dad looked back at me. ‘Lucy, there’s something I need you to do.’
I nodded. ‘I’ll ring the solicitor on Monday morning, see if I can get an appointment—’
‘Wilma can take care of that side of things. The favour I want from you is, unfortunately, a little bigger.’
I leaned closer. ‘Anything.’
‘Once probate goes through, Edwin’s guesthouse will need to be sold. The furniture is straightforward, the auction house can see to that. But the household goods – Edwin’s papers and personal items will need boxing and labelling, sorting through. Lucy, I need you to take care of it for me.’
I hesitated. Heat rushed to my cheeks, but the rest of my body turned cold. Carefully I folded the letter I still held, and kept folding until it resembled an origami failure. I barely noticed when Morgan took it from my fingers and passed it back to Wilma.
‘Sort Edwin’s things?’ I said in a small voice.
Dad nodded.
My chair creaked as I shifted my weight. Despite the intrigue of my grandfather’s letter, I had been dreading my visit to Bitterwood. Now, with Edwin gone, the prospect of returning to his drafty rabbit warren of a guesthouse alone was suddenly daunting. ‘Could the auction place deal with it? Or a company that specialises in clearing deceased estates? They do everything these days. I’m sure they’d gladly take on the guesthouse and ship everything off to the auctioneers.’
Wilma leaned forward. ‘Lower your voice, Lucy. You’re in a hospital.’
I sighed. ‘It’s a big job.’
‘Ah, Lucy,’ Dad said. ‘I’d have tackled it myself, if it weren’t for my blasted hip. And once I’m out of hospital, I’ll need Wilma at home with me. There’s no need to wait for probate. I already have the keys. You can go down this weekend, get it over with.’
I was clutching at straws. ‘Is that even legal?’
‘Bitterwood was my home once. As far as I’m concerned, probate’s just a formality. Besides, I want to put Edwin behind me. The only way to do that is to sell the old place as quickly as possible.’
My palms were damp. I opened my mouth to argue further, but from the corner of my eye I saw Wilma shake her head.
‘Anyway,’ Dad went on, sounding tired. ‘There’s something I want, something Edwin has hidden away. I need you to find it for me.’
I sat back heavily in my chair. Before today, Dad had never asked anything of me. There had been a time – so long ago now that it shimmered in my memory like a half-remembered fairytale – when my father’s clear voice had led a little lost girl through the darkness and back out into the light. A whisper from one of his stories had given me hope, promised me that the weak ones could fight back and become strong. Then I remembered the gold charm that had once hung from my mother’s bracelet, and Edwin’s letter claiming he had something for me, something that would explain everything . . . whatever everything meant. Perhaps there were answers for me at Bitterwood, after all.
‘What do you want me to find?’
Dad looked relieved. He accepted the glass of water Wilma offered, took a long swallow, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
‘There’s a photo album. Bound in black leather, with a crest on the spine. It’s full of old family snapshots. Your Grandma Dulcie gave it to me before she died, but Edwin took it, insisting that it wasn’t hers to give. Over the years I offered to have copies made, but Edwin guarded it like a hawk.’ Dad reached for my hand. His grip was so firm it almost hurt. He caught my gaze and held it. ‘Now that he’s gone,’ he added in a ragged whisper, ‘I want it back.’
‘Velocity is what you need right now, Luce.’ Morgan crossed the yard to his Harley. ‘It always clears my head. What do you say?’
I wandered after him in a daze. Just now, driving home from the hospital, I kept flashing back to Dad’s drunken bouts and eventual breakdown. I understood that losing Mum all those years ago had sent him over the brink, and that getting sober again had been a long struggle. What I couldn’t fathom was his apparent devastation over the death of a man he claimed to despise. A man he had shunned most of his life.
I looked at Morgan. If I asked, he would draw me against him and hug me tight, pat my back, comfort me the way I had seen him comfort Coby growing up. Bad idea. I needed to clear the fog of emotion from my head, not muddle it further.
‘A ride sounds perfect.’
Morgan gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze. ‘He’ll be all right, you know.’
I nodded, but I didn’t know. Not really.
Morgan helped me settle the bike helmet over my head, and then buckled it under my chin. I adjusted the strap and snapped down my visor. The outside world dulled. I felt trapped inside the bubble of my helmet, my thoughts noisy. My father’s hip would heal. What worried me most was his relapse into drinking. As I’d kissed him goodbye at the hospital, he’d promised that his bender had been a one-off and wouldn’t happen again. Despite his assurance, my old fears resurfaced. Dad had made promises before, and I had watched him break them one after the other, watched him slide back into his old drinking habits. Alcohol will kill him eventually, one of the Banksia House doctors had warned, unless he deals with the issues fuelling his addiction.
‘All right, Lucy?’ Morgan wanted to know.
‘Sure. Let’s go.’
Morgan fitted his own helmet and straddled the bike. I climbed on after him, locking my arms around his waist. In the old days, before I’d revealed my feelings for him, we had done this hundreds of times. According to Morgan, a fast bike ride was the cure for anything. Failed exams, quarrels with my father, high school dance jitters.
The ignition rumbled and Morgan nudged the throttle. The bike veered out of my driveway and onto the road. Morgan’s back was warm through his coat and the intoxicating scent of him enveloped me: motor oil, warm leather, and a hint of fresh sweat. It made me cling tighter, made me wish, just for a moment, that things between us had turned out differently.
Hennessy Avenue disappeared behind us. We rode down Dickens Street and then along Mitford, weaving through the heart of St Kilda before turning onto Beaconsfield Parade. When the traffic lights were behind us, Morgan increased the throttle and the powerful bike surged forward.
The wind blowing from the bay was icy. Morgan shivered. My own body responded, but whether from cold or Morgan’s proximity, I couldn’t be sure. His muscles flexed as he manoeuvred through the traffic, my hands warm around him despite the freezing wind. A car horn blared as we sped past. Suddenly I was fifteen again, under the spell of the rush, the dizzying thrill of the ride, my heart pounding in time to the Harley’s pulsing engine, my mind free. The sea air flushed away the chemical hospital smells; I forgot to worry about my father, forgot the surreal half-sorrow of my grandfather’s death. All I knew in that moment was the intoxication of travelling so fast that my breath caught in my throat.
And Morgan. Rock solid Morgan, his muscles rigid as the Harley crept over the speed limit, as he leaned into the curves. As he sped me away from the chaos of the city and out along the open stretch of beach road.
A while later we pulled onto a gravel ver
ge opposite the old Seamen’s Mission building. Waves lapped a tiny beach below us, and a little pier jutted out across the grey water.
I got off the bike and removed my helmet. Morgan unbuckled his chinstrap, pulled off his own helmet and then raked his fingers through his flattened hair. We stood that way, me breathless, Morgan gallant and intense as he regarded me.
‘Better?’ he asked.
‘Thanks. I needed that fresh air after the hospital.’
‘A ride never fails to clear my head,’ he agreed. He weighed his helmet in his hand and then wedged it against the bike seat, did the same with mine. As we walked to the end of the pier, he added, ‘By the way, I’m coming with you. To Bitterwood, I mean.’
I stared at him. ‘What? No.’
‘You don’t have to do it alone.’
I shook my head remembering my vow to avoid him. Today didn’t count – Dad’s fall and the news about Edwin had shaken me . . . but my promise to myself still stood. ‘I don’t need your help clearing the place.’
He caught my gaze. ‘I’m not talking about packing up your grandfather’s belongings. The last time you were at Bitterwood, you rang me to collect you. I thought it was about your mum, but it wasn’t, was it? When Gwen and I picked you up, you were more distressed than I’d ever seen you. But you refused to tell us what had happened.’
‘I got spooked. That’s all.’
Morgan frowned. The afternoon sun caught the ginger in his stubble, turned his grey eyes almost blue. ‘I’ve never seen a kid look more haunted.’
‘I’m not a kid anymore, Morgan.’
He shifted closer and smiled almost grudgingly, a crooked smile that parted his lips and made him look suddenly boyish.
‘So I see.’
Heat rose to my face. I turned to look back along the pier to the mission across the road. Bare paddocks surrounded the old building and a few straggly gum trees did their best to shelter its art deco lines from the wind. The chapel’s stained-glass windows gleamed in the sunlight, several broken panes hinting at the empty darkness within.
‘Besides,’ I went on, ‘I need to focus on finding Dad’s album.’
Morgan laughed softly. ‘I promise I won’t distract you.’
I glared at him. ‘Thanks all the same, but I’d rather do it alone.’
He nodded, and then asked, ‘Why do you think Ron’s so keen to retrieve this album? It’s not like him to be sentimental. He and Edwin weren’t close.’
‘It’s probably just a bunch of old family shots,’ I agreed. ‘Nothing to get excited about.’ I shrugged for good measure, hoping Morgan hadn’t heard the flutter in my voice.
Photos. No big deal. Most people had them. Most people . . . but not us. Of course, we had plenty from when Mum was alive. Holiday snapshots at our beachside cottage near Bitterwood, and endless childhood Polaroids of me with my parents. But there were few of other relatives. My mother had lost all her family photos in a flood, while Dad had only a shoebox of loose pictures, mostly of Grandma Dulcie and himself as a little boy. The prospect of poring through an old family album made my pulse fly. Especially one my grandfather had been so reluctant to part with. Had he kept it from my father out of spite, or because there were photos in it he didn’t want Dad to see?
Besides, the old man might have left something for me at the house. A package with my name scrawled on it, perhaps. A letter in his spidery handwriting, enclosing the answers he’d promised. Or even just a note explaining how he had come to possess my mother’s charm, when it should have been lost in the sea.
Morgan shifted closer. ‘It’ll take forever on your own.’
I pulled my gaze back to him. ‘I’ll be fine.’
He lifted an eyebrow. ‘I expect you will. That’s the thing about you, Lucy. When you really want something, you don’t let fear stand in your way of getting it.’
He turned his attention to the horizon, squinting into the brightness. Far away in the distance, the ghostly silhouette of an ocean liner nudged across the edge of the world. It looked so peaceful, so intent on its journey. A tiny fleck of grey moving across the vast ocean, unaware of the shadow-shapes that bumped through the deep waters below.
I rubbed my arms. The idea of returning to Bitterwood was suddenly a mixed bag. I was burning to find the album, and possibly discover links to the past. My father’s past and my own. Perhaps even a link to my mother’s past, as well. At the same time, the thought of searching my grandfather’s gloomy old guesthouse gave me the shivers. Morgan was right to suspect that something had once happened to me there. I told him I’d been spooked, but it was more than that. Much more.
His words lingered in my mind. When you really want something. And I did want this, I realised. I wanted to know why Edwin had sent me the charm, why he had insisted I visit. I wanted the explanation he’d promised. Mostly, though, I sensed that returning to Bitterwood might somehow help me close a chapter of my life that I’d been trying to outrun for the past sixteen years.
At my request, Morgan dropped me off in Acland Street outside a vintage clothing shop. I hesitated in front of the window. Behind my reflection – fair hair pulled back, frown lines, wide worried eyes – was a display of antique sewing machines arranged among gorgeous handmade dresses. I had a flash of a dark-haired girl bent over her latest creation, stitching late into the night, and me sitting nearby reading to her from a magazine, the two of us laughing. The memory made me yearn for those simpler times. The past and present, I thought, each unable to exist without the other. At that moment, London seemed dreamlike, while Melbourne, with its wintry sea air and rattling trams, its echoes of another life, was suddenly very real.
Taking a breath, I opened the shop door.
A bell tinkled as I went inside. Nina looked up from the counter. She had plaited her dark hair back from her face, and her cheeks were pink from the heater burning nearby. Rushing over, Nina gathered me in a bear hug.
‘I’m sorry about your grandad,’ she whispered against my cheek. ‘And poor Ron. Is there anything I can do?’
‘All under control. But curry night’s off, I’m afraid.’
‘Coby’ll be disappointed. He was looking forward to seeing you. He felt like a goon for not coming over to say hello last night.’
‘Are we okay, then? The three of us, I mean.’
She sighed. ‘You know what Coby’s like. He took it hard when you left. He had a massive crush, but that wasn’t what hurt him. You’re his family, he felt abandoned. But he loves you, Lucy. We both do. We miss having you in our lives.’
I bit my lips to stop the sudden tremble. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt him. I didn’t mean to hurt any of you, I was just . . .’
‘You had a few things to sort out.’ She gave my arm a squeeze. ‘Nothing wrong with that. Besides, now that you’re back you’ll have to put up with me using every trick in the book to keep you here permanently.’
I smiled. ‘Dad wants me to clear out Edwin’s guesthouse. I’m leaving in the morning.’
Nina’s brow wrinkled. ‘By yourself?’
‘I work better that way.’
‘Ask Morgan to go with you. He’s been chirpier since you got back.’
I ignored the last bit. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘He’s good in a crisis.’
I almost laughed. ‘It’s not a crisis, just a clean-up.’
‘It’s a huge job!’
‘It’ll keep me busy for the next week or so. Take my mind off . . .’ I stalled, realising my blunder.
Nina’s eyes sharpened. ‘Take your mind off what?’
‘Oh, you know.’ I shrugged, trying to sound offhand. ‘Wedding jitters.’
Her smile fell away. Taking my hand, she dragged me towards the back of the shop. Pushing me onto an overstuffed lounge, she settled beside me.
‘Come on, Bub,’ she said in a low voice, ‘spill the beans.’
The old nickname made me smile. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You and Adam. What’s r
eally going on?’ She picked up my hand, turning it this way and that as though considering it for one of her displays, making my diamond twinkle under the light. ‘Has something happened between you?’
‘We’re fine.’ I tried to pull back my hand, worried she might feel how damp it had suddenly become, but she wouldn’t let go.
‘You’ve fallen out, haven’t you? That’s why you’re here alone.’
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and looked longingly at the door.
Nina tickled the top of my hand. ‘Steady on, old Bub. You’re not jetting off just yet. Since I won’t get the opportunity to pick your brains tomorrow night, I need some answers now. Please, Lucy. Tell me what’s going on.’
I sighed. ‘Things got a bit rocky with Adam. Quarrels, you know what it’s like. My nightmares came back. I was tired from lack of sleep. Nothing major, but we agreed to have some time apart.’
‘The wedding’s still on?’
‘Yes. I think . . . I don’t know, Neeny. I really don’t know.’
A dark brow shot up. ‘Do you realise how long it’s been since you called me Neeny?’
‘Five years?’
She looked into my face. ‘Bub and Neeny. Are we back, then?’
My smile was a little wider than I’d intended. ‘Seems that way.’
She chafed my cold fingers between her warm ones. ‘You’ll figure this out.’
‘I’ve made a mess of it all,’ I admitted.
‘No . . . you just have unfinished business.’
I looked at her, my old anxieties creeping back. ‘Coby, you mean?’
She shook her head. ‘I think you know who I’m talking about. Someone you used to love. You know, Bub, you can’t make a fresh start in London with Adam until you’ve properly settled things here.’
I searched her dark eyes, wondering how much she knew. Or, at least, how much she had guessed over the years. I’d been naive to think that my closest friend hadn’t noticed all the longing looks, the stolen glances, all the blushing and stumbling around I had done in Morgan’s presence.