by Anna Romer
Dad never spoke about why he left home. Whenever I asked, my normally articulate father would waffle on about Edwin’s aloofness, his inability to connect with people. As if these humble failings were, in my father’s eyes, unforgivable crimes. There are worse things than being bookish and quiet, my mother used to say in Edwin’s defence. Murder, for instance.
The soft sigh of the waves buffeted the cliff-face behind us. Overhead, a lonely sea eagle soared silently above the headland. My mother’s voice gathered force in my mind, competing with the sound of the wind and waves. A window opened in the back of my mind. Through it, I glimpsed a battlefield where two brothers fought side by side. Then, superimposed across the scene like a reflection in glass, was a woman’s face. At first, I thought it my own – but the hair was red-gold, while mine was fair. Clarice, I realised, my grandmother, the woman they both had loved.
I looked at Morgan. ‘What if she discovered that Edwin shot his brother? That he killed the man she’d once loved?’
Morgan considered this. ‘It explains a lot.’
His white shirt rippled in the wind, clinging to his chest and arms. A shiver went through him, and a thought bumped against my racing mind: He’s cold, give back the jacket. But my brain only had room for one idea.
‘She might’ve confronted Edwin. Things might have turned nasty. She would have been in shock, hating him. Maybe even scared of him.’
Morgan regarded me, his eyes full of shadows. ‘It still doesn’t quite add up. What about the baby?’
‘Mothers leave their children, you know.’
‘Not without good reason.’
I dug my hands into the pockets of Morgan’s jacket. ‘Like discovering your husband shot a man you once loved? His own brother? Seems to me that’s reason enough.’
‘To leave Edwin, maybe. But not to walk away from her little boy. Your theory might be right, but I’m not convinced it’s the whole story.’
The wind invaded our shelter, swirling up icy gusts of sea spray. Dusk had fallen; it was time to go. We picked our way across the rocks to the trail that led up the side of the headland. The climb in the twilight took concentration, and we were silent for a while. When we reached the crown of the headland, I expected Morgan to make a beeline for Bitterwood, for the warm fire glow of the kitchen. Instead, he turned and pondered the ocean.
‘There’s something we’re not seeing.’
I followed his gaze. Ten minutes ago our view had been vastly different; sitting on the rocks below, we had been almost eye level to the waves. Now we were birds gazing down on the endless water that stretched away before us into the dark.
‘Maybe she never bonded with the baby.’
Morgan became thoughtful. ‘When Coby came to live with us, he was shy and nervous. A scared little kid who jumped at shadows. Gwen loved him instantly – we both did. This one time, we took him shopping in the city. One minute he was there, the next he wasn’t. This look came into Gwen’s eyes, a look I’ve never forgotten. Fierce. I’ve no doubt she would have killed to get our boy back. He’d lived most of his childhood without us, he barely knew us . . . but already he was part of us. That’s how strong the bond can be. You’d do anything to protect your child. Anything . . .’
I studied him, surprised. His face had gone ragged in the twilight. I thought I saw a gleam, but before I could be sure, he shook it off.
‘What I’m trying to say is that Clarice must have had good reason for leaving her son.’ He rubbed his hand across his face. ‘Damn good reason.’
I slumped. ‘So what was it?’
‘We may never know.’
Sea spray chilled my face. Gusts of cold air found their way between my warm layers, made me shiver. I gazed back at my grandfather’s guesthouse. It rose from the landscape like a great dark castle, surrounded by tortured tree shadows in the falling dusk. It appeared to breathe sluggishly, a living thing trapped inside the illusion of bricks and mortar, stone and shingle. Beyond it, on the other side of the orchard, was a place of even deeper darkness, a door that led down through narrow passageways into the ground, where once, as a child, I had imagined seeing something terrible . . .
There in the corner. A jumble of bony shadows that look, if I squint through the dark, every bit like the crumpled, mouldering shell of a person . . .
Morgan stood beside me, and together we gazed at the old house. Images of Clarice bombarded my mind. Smiling at the fair-haired girl in the garden. Glowering at the church fete beside Edwin, her eyes unable to disguise her displeasure. And hurrying along the windy road that long ago morning, barefoot, oblivious to a neighbour’s offer of help.
A giddy stillness fell around us, like the eye of a storm. The wind stopped blowing. The ocean forgot to breathe.
‘What if she didn’t abandon her baby?’ I murmured.
‘How do you mean?’
The eerie calm lingered a moment longer. But then, as though stirred by the sudden whirl of my thoughts, the wind picked up and howled along the headland, making me shiver. When I finally spoke, my words were barely audible.
‘Maybe she never left Bitterwood.’
21
Bitterwood, 1930
He found Orah in the orchard, sitting on the bench beneath the cherry tree. She was carving into the trunk with a small penknife, absorbed in her task. Flecks of sunlight danced across her hair, picking out dots of gold, giving her the elusive air of a magical fairytale creature.
Edwin should have said something about defacing the tree, or about the inappropriateness of a girl her age possessing a knife, but how could he? When she glanced over her shoulder, her eyes were dark with grief. Edwin would have gladly taken the axe and hacked the tree down himself, if only to bring back her smile. He settled beside her on the bench, his heart heavy.
He had seen Clarice comfort her young ones, even Nala on occasion; pulling the child against her softness, whispering a meaningless jumble of words that somehow, surprisingly, had the power to soothe. Edwin had always considered this womanly trait a weakness. Using words to soften the blow of unhappiness or pain seemed to him pointless. After all, words could not bring back the dead.
Today, he would have given anything to have Clarice’s ability to weave comfort from words.
Instead, he had brought a gift, a golden bracelet from which dangled a small heart charm. He held it in a shaft of sunlight so it glittered.
Orah glanced at it, then away.
‘It belonged to my mother,’ Edwin told her. ‘Her father had it specially made. You see, there’s a tiny padlock for a clasp, and a pretty charm for luck.’
Still, Orah made no response. Her face was tear-streaked and grubby, and she stared at the swirl of letters she was carving with dull eyes.
‘It’s yours now, my dear,’ Edwin said softly. He would have liked to put it around her wrist, show her how to attach the tiny safety chain, how to flick the clasp with her thumbnail to open it. Instead, he placed it on the bench beside her. She didn’t look at it. She didn’t look at him. She just sat, digging the knife tip into the bark, apparently lost in the savage flick-flick rhythm of her task.
Edwin shifted on the bench. ‘I’m sorry about your father.’
Orah continued to ignore him, her lips pressed into a grim line. Anger, Edwin supposed, or grief. Whatever the reason for her silence, he understood it.
‘This won’t bring him back.’ Edwin adjusted the bracelet beside her, and then searched her profile for the longest time. ‘But I just want you to know that we care for you very much.’
Springing to her feet, Orah snapped shut the little knife and stowed it in her pocket. Without a word, without even looking at him, she dashed away down the hill, disappearing into the shadows beneath the trees.
Edwin stood up, gazing after her. The girl’s mood clung to him, a sticky cloud of sorrow and reproach. He brushed at his legs and shirtsleeves, at the seat of his pants, as though in the hope of dislodging it. Only then did he think to glance down at the bench
where he had left his mother’s gold bracelet.
It was gone.
As the months passed and summer faded into autumn, Orah spent most of her time in the orchard with Warra and Nala. Picking the last of the fruit, collecting spoiled berries from the ground, inspecting tree trunks for borers to kill. The leaves were beginning to turn. Mottled yellow now, but Warra said they would soon fade to gold and fall, leaving the branches bare as bones.
The day of the church fete finally arrived. Orah had been looking forward to the fete, buoyed by Clarice’s glowing account of previous fairs. Our mulberry jam has won blue ribbons for the past seven years. Just you wait, Orah. When you see all our jars lined up with their labels – I declare, you’ll burst with pride.
Orah slid into her petticoat, the starched cotton crackling softly as it fell around her. She had ironed it specially, laid it out last night on the chest at the foot of her bed. She had chosen her dress, polished her shoes, and even taken the buffing cloth to the bracelet Edwin had given her. She’d never owned anything so pretty. It should have enchanted her, delighted her with its soft golden gleam against her skin. But it only reminded her of those dark days after learning about Pa’s death.
Poor Pa. Orah could not bear to think of him dying under a pile of rubble. She had tried her hardest to forgive Edwin. It wasn’t his fault Pa was dead. Edwin and Clarice had been so terribly kind, taking her in, showering her in gifts and love, treating her like their very own daughter.
And yet . . . And yet . . .
Still the heartache, the yearning for her own family.
‘It could have been the orphanage,’ she reminded herself sternly.
Times were hard. Often, she heard Edwin and Clarice talking in low, worried voices. The guesthouse had been mostly empty over summer. Even so, they were luckier than most. They had hens for eggs and meat, vegetables from the garden, goats for milk. Tattered men often came to the door looking for work or a meal, and always left with little bundles of Clarice’s cake, butter, bags of tea.
Orah turned this way and that in the mirror. A pink flush clung to her cheeks. Clarice said she was pretty, but Orah couldn’t see it. She didn’t like her freckles. They ruined her skin. All those gingery speckles marring the peaches and cream she’d inherited from Mam. Orah tried to see Mam’s face in the mirror, to find her mother’s features in her own. With a jolt, she realised she couldn’t remember what Mam looked like. Her pulse quickened. She searched her reflection – the wide-spaced blue eyes that seemed too large for her face, the straight nose with its splash of freckles, the broad cheekbones and arching brows. She could see nothing of her mother, nothing of her father; it was all just her.
‘Mam,’ she whispered. ‘Oh Mam, where are you?’
An image flashed into her mind’s eye: a jumble of bones half-buried by sand on the ocean floor. An open trunk from which spilled their chemises and bloomers and petticoats . . . only now the garments were torn and tattered, their hems frayed, the fabric darkened by water stains.
‘Orah?’ Clarice poked her head into the room. The heat had flushed her face and her smile was luminous. ‘Darling, are you ready? Edwin’s finished packing and he’s impatient to get going. Oh pet, you look adorable. Just as well we’re taking the camera.’
Orah retrieved her hat from behind the door. Then, she did something that she’d never done before. Pausing again in front of the mirror, she smoothed her hair, patted her cheeks, brushed at her sleeves, and then delicately adjusted the gold bracelet so it hung just so around her wrist. Lifting her chin at her reflection, she gave a prim little smile. It was something she’d seen her mother do, this last-minute attention to detail, this stolen moment of preening. It made her feel grown-up, and it made her believe that somehow, however impossible it sounded, Mam was with her, ushering her now towards the door, smiling at her in that old familiar way that dimpled her rosy cheeks, and briefly kissing the top of her head. My bright girl, her ghostly mother whispered. My bright and clever Orah-girl, how lovely you look. And Orah suddenly found herself quite ready to face the day.
Clarice watched the girl as they drove along the winding road towards Stern Bay. Orah stared through the windscreen, her features empty of emotion like those of a doll. Edwin was no better, gripping the wheel with his long pale fingers, his eyes fixed rigidly on the road ahead.
This was not how Clarice had envisioned their new life together. Earlier in the day, she’d been brimming over with happiness, looking forward to the fete. But Orah had been chilly to her in the Ford. Not quite ignoring her, but near enough. And now Clarice felt the slow creeping in of her old despair. Time will heal, she kept telling herself. Orah will recover and learn to be happy again. But nearly two months had passed and Orah was still withdrawn. Clarice stole another glance, hoping to catch a glimmer of the girl’s old spirit, but there was nothing. Orah’s light had gone out. She was hollow as a shell. Would she come back, Clarice wondered, smoothing her shaky fingers over her skirt. Or would she resent them forever?
As they pulled onto the verge outside the churchyard, Edwin spoke for the first time.
‘Remember, Orah dear, you’re our niece visiting from Melbourne. We don’t want tongues wagging.’
Without replying, Orah shoved open the door and jumped from the utility. She ran across the grass towards the church and waited by the gate, her back to them as she watched the stallholders setting up their tables of goods.
Edwin walked around to the back of the utility and unlatched the tailgate. Lifting a box of preserves and jams from the tray, he hoisted it into his arms. His gaze went to Orah. ‘She just needs time,’ he told Clarice gently, but his words had a flatness that betrayed his own fears.
Clarice retrieved the basket of cakes and slices she and the girls had baked. She glared at her husband, and said under her breath, ‘This is your doing, Edwin. If we lose her, you only have yourself to blame.’
He looked at her, shock widening his brown eyes. ‘I thought you’d be relieved to have her father out of the picture.’
Clarice wanted to rage, to lash out and strike him. But she kept her voice low. ‘She was happier while there was still hope. Now she blames us. You realise that, don’t you? She blames us for her grief and pain.’
‘She’ll recover.’
Clarice breathed a ragged sigh. ‘I pray you’re right. Because if we lose her, Edwin, I’ll never be able to forgive you.’
Orah had feasted on toffee apples and ridden a pony, had her picture taken, and helped sell preserves from their stall. Clarice had been snappy with Edwin, and Orah was secretly glad. Glad too, when the Ford had finally rattled them back to Bitterwood. Back to Warra and Nala.
Now, walking along the clifftop with Warra, her knees got the wobbles. As they climbed down the side of the headland that overlooked the sandy inlet, her breath hitched. She tried not to look at the sea, but it was suddenly all around. She fought the childish urge to take Warra’s hand, to draw strength from his strong grasp the way she had done after the shipwreck.
Far below, the water frothed and foamed as the waves crashed against the foot of the cliff. The sea-spray air was salty, and sunlight splashed bright flecks of gold on the swell.
Warra must have noticed her frown, because he took her hand. ‘Look at that water. Beautiful, eh? And all that sunshine, friendly as a smile. Nothin’ round here to worry about, is there?’
She looked at him, shocked and pleased all at once by the contact of his skin on hers, the strength in his fingers, the smoothness of his palm. Warmth flooded her, and she felt a twinge of almost painful gratitude at his words. He was right, too. There was nothing to fear. At least, not with him at her side.
‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, feigning suspicion.
Warra’s dark eyes were alight. He led her down towards a grassy embankment that overlooked the tiny beach below. Here grew wildflowers, big loose rings of them, protected from the wind. The ocean’s roar became duller, the wind dropped away. The sun warmed O
rah’s arms. When they reached a patch of native daisies, they stopped.
It was odd, she thought, that of all places he had brought her here. Many miles in a westerly direction along this very coast, her ship had wrecked. Warra knew she still had nightmares. Soon after her arrival at Bitterwood, Warra had asked about her dreams and she had told him. He had nodded, as though dreams were a serious matter, and said, ‘It’s your spirit talking to your mum’s spirit.’ She hadn’t really understood, but afterwards her dreams had faded a little, not pressed quite so sorely on her mind.
Warra released her hand and crouched at her feet, plucking daisies from the grass. They were white with yellow centres, and made a rustling papery sound in Warra’s fingers. Orah sat on the soft grass next to him.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Making a memory chain.’
She gave a little snort. ‘What’s that?’
‘You’ll see.’
Warra settled himself beside her, and dropped his collection of flowers in her lap. Taking one, he split the stem with his fingernail and poked the stem of a second flower through the tiny gap. He split the second stem, threading a third flower into that.
Orah shut her eyes. She drank in the scent of sunlight, of grass and wildflowers, the salty sea. The world might have been perfect, but for the knot in her heart. She could feel it drawing her inwards, a dark shape that bunched and strained, cutting off her breath. For one horrible moment, she was alone. Her head spun, she was falling through time, back to that night in the water—
Her eyes shot open. Warra was beside her, watching. His smile was gentle, his gaze almost black in the sunlight. He held up one of the flowers.
‘Paper daisy. Each link is a good memory. Can you think of something?’
She rubbed her eyes, embarrassed by the sudden wetness on her cheeks. ‘Right now. Sitting here on this grassy patch with you. It’s not exactly a memory, but it will be one day.’