by Anna Romer
‘Edwin Briar.’ Mildred clucked her tongue. ‘I always thought he looked more like an undertaker than the landlord of a fancy guesthouse. Look at him there, so young.’
I shuffled through the photos and pulled out the enlargement, buckling a corner in my haste. ‘What about the girl with them. Do you remember her?’
Mildred fumbled off her glasses, cleaned them on her apron, and then carefully examined the photo. ‘It must be their daughter. Edna, I think her name was. No, it was Edith.’
I leaned forward, ‘Edith,’ I whispered, eyeing the photo. ‘Is she still alive?’
Mildred shook her head. ‘She died, poor little thing. Of course, I never knew the particulars, just what I heard in town. We didn’t have much to do with the Briars, you see.’
‘Oh.’ I sat back heavily.
Morgan refilled Mildred’s teacup. ‘I get the feeling you didn’t much care for Edwin.’
Mildred sighed. ‘Not much. He and Jensen had a quarrel years ago. I never knew what it was about, probably leftover issues from the war. But it rattled Jensen. He was always nervy after, although I suppose that was just coincidence.’ She looked at me. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. I don’t mean to speak ill of your grandfather, but you deserve to know the truth.’
She stood and retrieved the proofing dough, peeling off the cling wrap. ‘My Jensen served with Edwin in the Great War. A bunch of them joined up together, local lads mostly. Jensen was thick with Edwin’s older brother. Ronald Briar was a fine young man, high-spirited, very handsome. I can still see him and Jensen standing on our front porch, proud as punch in their crisp uniforms. Full of swank and swagger, cracking jokes about how they’d have Fritz on the run and be home before we knew it.’
She punched the dough flat and began to knead it up again. ‘I was sad to learn of Ronald’s death. I sent a card to his mother up at Bitterwood. She took it hard. Ronald had always been the favourite. It would have killed her to know the truth.’
I sat forward. ‘What happened?’
Mildred turned the dough with a thump. ‘Friendly fire, they call it. It happens a lot in warfare, although you rarely hear of it. Jensen once told me that friendly fire accounted for twenty-five per cent of wartime fatalities. In those days, if someone ran towards you, friend or foe, you were under orders to shoot. Cowards were every bit as much the enemy as the other side, according to Jensen. But anyone who’d ever met Ronald Briar knew he was no coward.’
Morgan searched her face, thoughtful. ‘Ronald was killed by his own men?’
‘By one of them, yes.’ Mildred dropped the dough into a tin and dusted it with flour. Setting it aside, she wiped her fingers on her apron and looked at me. ‘Jensen was there when it happened, he saw everything. Poor Ronald was wounded, you see. He’d managed to drag another hurt soldier out of the firing line and back towards safety. Edwin was nearby. Ronald called for help, but Edwin didn’t acknowledge him. Instead, he raised his pistol and took aim. Jensen yelled a warning, but Edwin paid it no mind. He fired, taking down poor Ronald with a single shot to the chest.’
I pressed back in my chair, gripping the table edge. An image flashed to me: two young soldiers standing proudly with their mother in the orchard at Bitterwood. The woman’s hand rested protectively on the shoulder of her older, better-looking son. While Edwin, with his bony features and dark hopeful eyes, stood slightly apart.
My voice was a whisper. ‘Why would Edwin do that?’
Mildred’s frown softened. ‘How well did you know him?’
I stared at her. I wanted to say that Edwin had been my grandfather, of course I’d known him. But the sad truth was that I hadn’t, not really. After Dad’s breakdown, I had lived with Edwin at Bitterwood for three months. I’d sat at the dinner table with him, ignoring his attempts to engage me in conversation. I shunned him, avoided him – escaping into the orchard or losing myself in the library at the top of the stairs, or trawling for shells in the little cove at the foot of the headland. The last thing I’d wanted at the time was sympathy from a man I barely knew, a man my father had despised. In the end, when the going got too tough for me, I abandoned Edwin – just as everyone else had.
‘Not that well,’ I admitted.
Taking up a tea towel, Mildred draped it over her bread dough. ‘Then you won’t know that he had a ruthless streak when it came to getting what he wanted.’ She lifted the loaf tin, but then seemed to change her mind, replacing it heavily on the table. She looked across at me. ‘Ronald was engaged to a lovely girl. They had planned to marry after the war. When Ronald died, Edwin wooed her instead.’
I exchanged a glance with Morgan. When I looked back at Mildred, my heart was racing. ‘Clarice.’
Mildred nodded. ‘Yes.’
The kitchen was suddenly stifling, the air too hot from the oven. I stood and went to the window. The goats were congregating along the far fence. One shook itself and skittered away from the herd, bleating noisily.
I turned back to find Mildred’s blue gaze trained on my face. Her smile trembled at the edges.
‘I didn’t mean to upset you, dear.’
I let out a breath. ‘I’m not upset. Taken aback, maybe. I never knew Edwin well. He and my father didn’t get along. I’ve only just discovered Clarice. She intrigues me.’
Mildred nodded thoughtfully. ‘If only I could tell you more about her. For the most part, we moved in different circles. Before the war, I saw her frequently in the twelve months or so that Ronald was courting her. She was clever and kind, a thoughtful girl from a good family. Once she married Edwin, all that changed.’
‘In what way?’ I asked.
‘She cut herself off from all her old friends, became quite reclusive. We lost touch. I blame Bitterwood. Such a dreary place, stuck out along that isolated stretch of road, nothing but the sound of the ocean and the cry of gulls. And Edwin’s dull company, of course – enough to drive anyone nutty. I saw her once, walking along the old coast road. Away from Bitterwood, although town was a fair hike, about fifteen miles. It was early one morning, just on sunrise. I’d been in Apollo Bay with my sister, and was on my way home for the lambing. I stopped to offer Clarice a lift, but she ignored me. She seemed distracted, almost wild. The wind lashed her hair about. I’ll never forget it, bright as polished copper in the dawn light. Her face was chalk white. She was barefoot and wore a man’s old coat. I drove halfway home, but then started worrying and went back for her. By then, of course, she had probably found her way back to Bitterwood.’
She fell silent.
I placed my palms on the sides of my face. My cheeks burned. The story of Edwin and his brother, and now this glimpse of Clarice, wandering along the road, seemingly quite out of her mind, were doing strange things to my head. The kitchen was suddenly airless. I glanced at the door.
Morgan’s chair scraped as he got to his feet. He gathered the tea things, carried them to the sink, returned the milk to the fridge, and then joined me at the window.
‘You’ve got a lovely herd of little Saanens there,’ he said, squinting out into the brightness. ‘Goats are good company, aren’t they?’
‘I’d be lost without them,’ Mildred agreed. She dusted her hands and opened the back door, then ushered us out onto the verandah. She whistled and the herd swarmed towards us. Several goats had curved horns growing from their knotty heads, others were coated in long whiskery hair; all had strange slitted pupils that seemed to regard us with grim curiosity.
As we wandered along a path and around the side of the house, the air was deliciously cool on my burning face. It cleared my head. I thanked Mildred for her hospitality and then thought to ask, ‘That morning you saw Clarice on the road, do you recall what year it was?’
Mildred took a moment to consider this. Sunlight danced on her glasses as she shook her head. ‘It would have been springtime, on account of the lambs. But other than that, I don’t—’ She stopped. Looking at the sky, she rubbed her throat. ‘My sister was laid up with morning sicknes
s, that’s why I’d gone to stay. My niece was born in ’32, so I must have seen Clarice late in 1931.’ She shook her head and smiled. ‘As I said, my dear, memory is the curse of old age.’
Bitterwood, June 1993
We drove back to Bitterwood in silence. My mind was flying. I needed time to organise my thoughts, to allow what I’d learned that morning to sink in. I wound down the window, but the salt air caught in my throat. The cobalt dome of the afternoon sky, the windblown trees and the bright chatter of birds, the glittering ocean. None of it seemed real.
Mildred Burke’s words replayed in my mind.
He had a ruthless streak when it came to getting what he wanted.
As Stern Bay receded behind us, I burrowed deeper into my thoughts, trying to reconcile my quiet, bookish grandfather with the young man Mrs Burke had described. A man who had killed his own brother, and then married the woman his brother had loved.
After lunch, I immersed myself in clearing a couple of upstairs bedrooms, while Morgan carried boxes of junk down to the garage. Later, as the sun drifted closer to the horizon, he suggested a walk on the beach. We crossed to the headland and climbed down the stony path to the sand below. I tried to focus on my surroundings – the clearness of the water, the miles of wintry blue sky, the scuff of sand beneath my shoes, Morgan’s quiet company beside me – but my thoughts kept returning to my grandmother.
The past is gone, Adam always said. Brooding over it only makes you crazy. But as the afternoon ebbed away and shadows began to edge across the beach, Morgan walking silently beside me, I realised that the past was never completely gone.
I still wore Clarice’s dress under my coat, and though it was probably my imagination, I could feel her presence rippling through it, a whisper in the silk as the wind ruffled it around my legs. While we walked, I saw her clearly in my mind: beautiful, distracted; rushing barefoot along that long-ago road, her red hair whipping in the sea wind.
‘Do you think it’s true?’ I wondered aloud. ‘That he shot his own brother so he could marry Clarice?’
Morgan looked at me. ‘We know the two brothers enlisted together, we’ve got the photo. But everything else could just be the imaginings of a lonely old woman.’
‘Mildred Burke didn’t really strike me as lonely. Besides, why would she invent something like that?’
‘Ron might know.’
I thought of Dad’s aversion to talking about his father, and his secrecy about Clarice. ‘I get the feeling he knows more than he’s willing to tell.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘That photo of the two brothers got me thinking. There’s a soldier in Dad’s latest story, and an old king who reminds me of Edwin. There’s also a restless young woman. Dad’s always telling me that writing is therapy for him, a way to mull over things he doesn’t understand. Maybe he’s using this story to understand his parents. He’s done it before with his characters.’
Morgan seemed surprised. ‘Based them on real people?’
I glanced at him, unable to stop a smile. ‘I can’t believe you read Dad’s version of Peter Pan and failed to see yourself in it.’
An eyebrow went up. ‘What, now I’m the eternal child?’
‘Actually, Dad sees you more as a pirate.’
His hint of a smile widened, turned into a laugh. ‘Crazy old fool. I never should have told him about my childhood dream of owning a boat.’
‘A boat?’
‘Yeah, well. More of a pipe dream for a landlubber who suffers chronic seasickness. Whenever the yearning for adventure strikes, I usually end up buying another volume on maritime history.’
I considered him thoughtfully. ‘Just when you think you know someone . . .’
Morgan went quiet, apparently absorbed in watching the sand roll away beneath his feet. The wind picked up, blowing a whirlwind of grit and icy sea spray across our path.
A shiver went through me. Morgan shrugged out of his jacket and settled it around my shoulders. I went to refuse, but the sudden cocoon of warmth held me captive. Morgan’s scent drifted around me: motor oil and wood smoke, cloves and beeswax, delightfully male, intimate. I breathed it in and then wished I hadn’t. Intoxicated, my bones loosened, a sigh escaped. I glanced quickly at him, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
He was frowning at me. ‘What’s up?’
I hugged myself deeper into the coat, regathering my thoughts. ‘I can’t get that image of Clarice out of my mind. I keep wondering where she was going the morning Mildred saw her.’
Morgan stopped walking, raised his face to the sky. Examined the cloudless blue for a while, and then looked at me.
‘Your father was born in October 1931, wasn’t he? If Mildred was right about the date, then Clarice was either heavily pregnant or she’d recently given birth. Either way, she was in no state to be out walking along the road at dawn.’
‘Then why was she?’
Morgan’s frown was deceptive. Behind that brooding face, I knew the history-buff brain was relishing the mystery of it all. I could almost see the cogs turning. We continued along the beach in silence for a way, but then Morgan stopped again.
‘What if that was the morning she left?’
I shrugged. ‘It’s possible.’
‘Mildred didn’t mention a suitcase.’
‘Maybe she left suddenly.’
Morgan shook his head and continued walking. ‘She might’ve just had a row with Edwin. Gone out to cool her head.’
‘Barefoot?’
He considered this. ‘It might’ve been a doozy of a fight.’
‘At dawn?’
Morgan’s mouth tightened and he looked out across the dark ocean. ‘Don’t you and Adam argue?’
I thought about this. ‘Not really.’
Morgan fell silent. The wind whipped his white shirt. It made a fluttery sound that I found distracting. He must be cold. I wondered if he regretted giving up his jacket, but I was too cosy now to offer it back.
The beach curved inland a little way. I recognised the sand hills I had played on as a kid. Our old holiday cottage came into view. Late sunlight reflected off the windows, and the tall pine tree swayed gently in the sea air. The place looked inviting, a friendly haven on the edge of the otherwise deserted shore. Ahead of us in the distance, a low formation of rocks disappeared into the water. I stopped walking. My fingers drifted to the charm I wore around my neck, patting it beneath the layers, checking that it was still there. That it was real.
Morgan must have noticed my hesitation. He touched my shoulder, indicating with a tilt of his head that we turn back. He stayed close, gently colliding with me from time to time. I was grateful for his silence as we retraced our sandy footprints to the headland. I had hoped the cold sea breeze would clear my head after the morning’s revelations – but instead I was beginning to withdraw into myself, become thoughtful.
I kept seeing two soldiers. One was broad-shouldered and handsome, his confident smile drawing me in, making me wish I had known him. The other boy, Edwin, was similar to his brother, yet his features seemed put together all wrong. His face was bony, compelling only for its strangeness. The large wet eyes with their dark soulfulness, the stubborn downturn of the mouth, the elfin chin. It was a gentle face, yet sombre and guarded. The face of a person who brooded silently, avoided confrontation. No matter how I tried, I just couldn’t see him pointing a gun at anyone and pulling the trigger.
Yet he had completed combat training and gone to war. And if Mildred was right, he’d committed an act of unspeakable malice. Was Ronald’s death an accident, or had Edwin acted with intent?
We reached the headland. The tide had gone out, so rather than climb the narrow track up the bluff edge, we picked our way around its base. The rocks were slippery, and once I almost lost my footing, my shoes splashing in puddles of seawater. We found a little cave just out of the wind, and sat for a moment to admire this new, rare perspective of the sea.
I shifted on my rock. Wet sand squelch
ed beneath my shoes. Hugging deeper into Morgan’s jacket, I watched the waves. ‘Adam says brooding over the past makes you crazy. Do you think that’s true?’
Morgan continued to watch the dark water. ‘You’re asking a history professor?’
‘I’m asking a friend.’
He looked at me then, leaned in and really looked. The edges of his eyes crinkled up but he didn’t quite smile.
‘I believe we’re products of our past. For me, there’s nothing more intriguing than digging it all up, mulling it over. Finding out what makes a person tick.’
Maybe it was the warmth of the two coats, my torso over-hot while my face and hands and ankles froze in the icy blast of sea spray, but I found myself mimicking his body language, leaning nearer, my gaze locked to his.
‘What makes you tick, Morgan?’
For the longest time, the only sounds were the rush of the waves, the cry of gulls circling overhead.
The half-smile finally reached his eyes. ‘Love,’ he said at last, and then shrugged. ‘The idea of it, at least.’
‘You’re a romantic,’ I accused.
‘Guilty as charged.’
My brow inched up. ‘A cat-rescuing, bike-riding history professor who’s also a chronic romantic.’
‘And has a good sense of humour. What more could a girl want?’
That made me smile. I looked back at the sea. From this angle, the horizon arched hard against the pink-streaked sky. Dark waves lapped the shore, their crests gilded by the setting sun. A fragile kind of peace settled over me. Morgan’s solid presence felt grounding, while my thoughts flew out over the ocean like a bird searching, searching . . . but never quite finding the elusive thing it sought. Then, an image: a woman hurrying along a lonely windswept road, her bare feet bruised by the gravel, her hands numb with cold. If she had been running away, where were her bags, her shoes? Why had she refused Mildred’s offer of a lift into town?
An argument, Morgan had said.
I tried to picture my grandfather arguing heatedly, but somehow the mild-mannered man I remembered would not cooperate. Yet hadn’t Edwin once argued so violently with my father that Dad had run away from home . . . and stayed away for nearly three decades?