by Anna Romer
Warra threaded more flowers, using up all the daisies until they formed a chain, fixing together the ends so it made a long necklace. He placed it around Orah’s neck.
‘It’ll keep you safe,’ he said with a grin.
‘Truly?’
He nodded, then tore away his gaze and looked down at the little inlet below them. ‘Me and Nala used to make them when we were kids. One of our aunties showed us.’
Orah settled back on the grass. It was finally making sense, why he’d brought her here; brought her to the ocean on a magical sunny day to make wildflower chains and happy memories. Until now, she had tried to avoid the ocean – shunned those rooms with sea views, refused to accompany Warra and Nala on their fishing trips, and generally tried to block out the pulsing, rushing roar of waves that defined their life at Bitterwood.
Today, though, Warra had shown her another face of the sea. A gentle sunlit face whose salty breath murmured not of death but of daisy chains and firm friends, of happy memories and life.
‘Today’s a good day,’ she said. Then, on a whim, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you.’
Warra seemed startled, but hid his surprise behind a smile. A smile that grew wider as he looked at her. He sat up suddenly. ‘I know what’d top it off.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I reckon if I asked Mr Briar if you could come home with me and Nala next week, he’d say yes.’
Orah’s heart swelled. ‘You think so?’
Warra nodded. Jumping to his feet, he reached for her hand. ‘Come on. Let’s ask him now.’
‘What about your family?’
Warra beamed. His dark gaze captured hers, full of pleasure. ‘Don’t worry, Orah. They’ll love you, just wait and see. Mum and them, the aunties and uncles. The other kids. All of ’em, they’ll love you. Just like me and Nala do.’
Giving her hand a gentle tug, Warra led her up the embankment. They walked back along the side of the headland towards Bitterwood. All the while, his fingers squeezed warm and steadfast around hers, as the daisy chain he’d made for her danced lightly over her heart.
22
Bitterwood, June 1993
Wintry morning sunlight flooded the bay windows. Without the ragged curtains, the sitting room had opened up. The timber floor gleamed honey-dark, echoing underfoot as I went to the phone. I dialled Dad’s number and waited. When he finally answered, it took me a moment to realise it was him. His voice was frail and shaky, old-mannish.
‘Dad, are you okay?’
‘All good, kiddo.’
‘You sound tired.’
He grumbled something inaudible, and then said, ‘Stop worrying, love. I already have Wilma fussing over me like a mother hen. How’s the clean-up going?’
‘Fine.’ I hesitated, hoping he was strong enough to cope with what I had to say next. Taking a breath, I plunged in. ‘I’ve been hearing stories about Edwin.’
My father sighed. ‘That’s nothing new.’
‘Did you know he had a brother?’
‘Ronald, yes.’
‘What do you know about him?’
A pause. ‘Not much. He died in the war. Why are you asking?’
I recounted Mildred Burke’s story about Clarice’s engagement to Ronald before the war, and her claim that Edwin was responsible for Ronald’s death.
‘She implied that Edwin killed him so he could marry Clarice himself.’
There was another gap of silence.
‘Dad—?’
‘Nothing Edwin did would surprise me.’
‘So you think it’s true? That he was capable of—’ Murder, I had meant to say, but the word stuck in my throat. This was my grandfather, a man related by blood. Privately mulling over all the possibilities was one thing, but voicing the question aloud made it all too horribly real.
Dad coughed. ‘If you’re asking me if he was capable of killing someone, then yes, I believe he was. Don’t forget he served in France during the war. They gave him a gun and taught him to kill, then sent him off to fight. I expect he was responsible for his fair share of deaths. His brother might’ve been among them, and Jensen Burke might even have witnessed it. But war is war, Lucy. Things happened over there that we won’t ever understand.’
I hung on his words. I’d never heard him speak about his father that way. Even when we holidayed at Stern Bay, he’d been dismissive of Edwin. My mother had been the one to fuss over the old man, listen to his stories, chuckle at his jokes. Dad had always been in the background, stony-faced, glancing at the clock, wanting only to be away.
Just now, though, he had defended his father. It made me wonder if he had known, or at least suspected, all along that there was another side to Edwin’s story.
‘He had all your books,’ I said quietly. ‘An entire shelf of his bookcase dedicated to your stories. All of them, even the ones before I started illustrating.’
Dad let out a cough. I feared that he was up to his old tricks, trying to fake a coughing fit to escape the conversation. I hurried on. ‘They were all well-thumbed. He read them, Dad. Over and over, it seems—’
A strangled wheeze. ‘Got to go, Lucy.’
When we hung up, I replayed our conversation. Dad hadn’t been surprised when I’d hinted at the possibility of murder. The idea wasn’t new to him, I realised. Did he have his own suspicions about Edwin? If so, why was he reluctant to share them with me? A darker thought drifted in. Dad was protecting me. Perhaps his suspicions were not about Clarice at all.
My fingers went to the gold charm.
The last time I saw my mother, she had been standing in the dining room of our holiday cottage, her hair escaping its ponytail, her eyes wide and distracted. Scratches on her arms, her jeans muddy and ripped at the knee. Something had rattled her. Deeply.
Where’s your father?
The cogs in my mind began to turn. Had Dad known, or at least suspected, that something had happened to her that day at Bitterwood? Perhaps an argument with Edwin that ended badly. After all, Dad himself had once quarrelled so grievously with Edwin that he’d left home. All along, Dad might have been keeping his concerns about my mother’s fate to himself. Which made me wonder what else he was hiding.
Morgan had ridden off to find the beach where the Lady Mary had foundered, so I took the opportunity to escape into the orchard with The Story of Stern Bay. The day was a little overcast, but the sun poked through as I returned to my favourite spot beneath the old cherry tree. Basil curled on the grass at my feet in a shimmer of dappled sunlight, while I settled on the bench and began to read.
LM Pettigrew’s outline of his own life was straightforward. He had been born at the turn of the century, above the shop where he would spend the larger part of his life. He survived four years of war, and returned home to take over his father’s grocery business. He lived a humble life with his family at the back of the shop until his retirement in the late 1960s. Most engaging about his memoir were the colourful cameos depicting people who came and went from his shop. His short glimpses into other people’s lives were surprisingly detailed.
He had devoted an entire chapter to the Briar family, but much of it was about Edwin’s mother and the history of Bitterwood. There were only a couple of paragraphs about my grandfather, summarising how he and his older brother Ronald had enlisted together. Ronald had died in France in 1917, earning himself several medals for bravery. On Edwin’s return to Australia in 1918, he married a young woman from Kyneton.
They had a daughter, such a bright chirpy girl. Little Edith used to come into the shop with Edwin on occasion. She loved boiled sweets, her face would light up as she gazed around at all the jars and tins. When Edwin wasn’t looking, I’d let her dip into the lolly jar. My own darling daughters hadn’t yet come into the world, but my wife and I adored children, we couldn’t wait to have our own. We were ever so sad when Edith died in 1927. Diphtheria, she was only nine. Worse, we learned later that Edwin’s wife – I can’t recall her name, s
he so rarely came into town – had given birth to a second child, another little girl, who tragically died on the same day as Edith, barely three days old. They buried their girls in the same plot.
I sat back. Two girls. Sisters my father had never known, who had died on the same day. I couldn’t begin to imagine Clarice’s grief, or Edwin’s. Somehow, it added another layer of understanding to why Edwin had always seemed shrouded in a fog of melancholy. I closed the book and gazed up through the bare branches at the sky.
The girl in the photo was not their daughter. By 1930, Edwin and Clarice’s two girls were gone and buried, existing only as an aching void in the lives of those they’d left behind. A void later filled by another young girl with golden hair and a dark, anxious gaze. A girl who may have grown up and moved on, but who most certainly would still remember the couple who had welcomed her into their seaside home.
‘It would have been dark when the ship went down.’
Morgan’s gaze roamed the grey expanse of water. ‘The sky moonless, black with clouds. The sea violent enough to throw them off course. No lighthouse to guide them past the rocks.’
We were standing on the spine of a rocky headland, twenty minutes by bike west of Bitterwood. The fragile sun had vanished behind a veil of grey. The air smelled metallic, and brooding purple clouds gathered on the horizon. Far below, waves crashed onto a narrow beach, frothing and foaming as they rushed up the shore then retreated, littering the sand with flags of black kelp.
Morgan pointed beyond the rocky front of the headland. ‘Look over there.’
I squinted, making out a shadow beneath the water. As the swell retreated, the shadow grew blacker, more jagged. It was a bank of submerged rock, extending beyond the headland for a mile or more.
‘The tide has come in,’ Morgan said, ‘but earlier this morning those rocks were above the waterline. Can you imagine how terrifying it must have been? To be so close to land, but the sea too rough to get ashore.’
‘No survivors,’ I whispered.
Morgan looked at me. His eyes reflected the violet-grey clouds, and the cold wind had flushed his cheeks. His dark hair stood on end from where he’d raked it free of the bike helmet.
‘What if someone did survive?’
I frowned, searching the water with renewed interest. In the hazy afternoon light, between the heavy bank of storm clouds and the grey ocean, I fancied I could see a ghostly ship capsizing. Its hull breaking apart, its mast lines tearing free, its cargo spilling overboard. The passengers and crew, panicked, going under. Then, a lonely little figure clinging to the remains of a lifeboat, shivering in the water.
‘The girl.’
Morgan nodded. ‘We’re not so far from Bitterwood. A few days’ walk, at most. She might have washed up on the beach, climbed the headland and found her way through the bush.’
I stared down at the beach below. How could a teenage girl survive the wreck, while everyone else perished? Part of me wanted to doubt, but a stronger part insisted anything was possible. Clarice and Edwin had lost two daughters. They might have warmly welcomed a little orphan girl into their hearts.
‘Come on,’ I said, heading for the path that led down to the beach. ‘Let’s take a closer look.’
On the way down, we found a cave. It was protected from the wind, yet the narrow entryway provided a clear view across the sea. In a sheltered corner near the entry were traces of a one-time fire. Any ash or cinders had long since blown away, but fire had blackened the cave floor and someone had bundled a stash of dry wood into a crevice. The wood was sandy and woven through with spider webs and dead insects. It had clearly been there a long time.
Leaving the cave, we climbed the rest of the way down to the beach. We walked along the hard sand, watching the storm clouds draw closer. After a while, I looked back the way we’d come. The cave was invisible, the cliffs dark with trees and afternoon shadows. Beyond the headland point, the embankment of submerged rock lurked beneath the waves.
We continued walking. The windblown sand stung my face, and the sea spray was cold, but I barely noticed. ‘Can you imagine what it must’ve been like for her? The ship falling apart, the cries and panic, the terrifying crush of bodies. She might have spent hours in the water. It would have been freezing. She would have felt alone, helpless.’
‘You paint a vivid picture.’
‘I can see it in my mind, almost as if I was there.’
‘That’s why you’re such a talented artist.’
I smiled at this, and then found myself going on. ‘Adam reckons my imagination controls me. He says I worry too much about things I can’t change. That’s why I . . . well, you know. Get the urge to run.’ I waited a beat, but Morgan didn’t respond. I pushed my windswept hair from my face so I could look at him. ‘He says that sooner or later I’m going to have to stop running and face reality.’
Morgan regarded me. ‘Adam doesn’t know you as well as he thinks he does.’
A prickly flush of warmth went to my face. ‘And you do?’
‘Maybe.’
I squared my shoulders. ‘Really?’
The storm clouds reflected in his eyes as he looked at me. ‘I know you lost your mum too young. I know you skipped childhood to care for an alcoholic father. And I know something happened at Bitterwood that changed you from a bright young girl into a jumpy wreck.’
He tried to hold my gaze, but I moved away from him, went to the water’s edge where thin wavelets lapped the sand. Picking up a pebble, I threw it into the swell. Something happened at Bitterwood . . .
I rubbed my arms. A breeze touched my skin. Not the fresh wintry sea air, but air that was dank and mouldy as though drifting up from underground. The darkness is icy. It makes me shiver. Chills rush up my arms, up the back of my neck. She’s in here. I can hear her—
My face flooded with heat. My fingertips tingled.
Morgan came up beside me. ‘What was it, Luce?’
I sighed. ‘It was nothing.’
He bumped his arm gently against mine. ‘Tell me anyway.’
I opened my mouth, but then shut it again. I glanced along the beach, and the open expanse beckoned me. Run, said a voice in my head. Run as far and as fast as you can and don’t look back. But I didn’t run. I was getting tired of running. Besides, of everyone I knew, Morgan was the person I trusted most.
‘I used to like small spaces,’ I told him. ‘Escaping from the world, I guess.’
Morgan didn’t quite smile. ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’
‘There were lots of places to hide at Bitterwood. Up in the library, nooks and crannies in the guest rooms. The big shed where Edwin raised his moths. But the one I liked best—’ I took a breath, eased it out ‘—was the icehouse. It was creepy and dark. It intrigued me. I used to prop the door open, and feel my way down the stairs and into the blackness. It was like existing in the perfect night, no moon or stars, just utter nothingness.’
Morgan shifted nearer. ‘Didn’t Edwin keep it locked?’
I let a tiny window open in my mind. ‘He hid the keys in the pantry. I spied on him once, saw where he put them. One night, I unlocked the icehouse and went in . . . but the wind caught the door and slammed it shut. I got the mother of all frights.’
Morgan watched me silently. The wind fluttered his jacket collar, tore at his hair.
‘What did you do?’
‘I couldn’t get the door open. So I took out my little keyring torch and went in search of another way out.’
‘Did you find one?’
‘Yeah, there was . . .’ It’s colder, the deeper I go. So dark. And over there . . . I try not to look, but can’t help it, because huddled against the wall . . . in the corner . . . I swallowed, pushing away the memory, faking a laugh. ‘There was this old drain in the floor, I must have climbed down and crawled along it. I don’t really remember that part.’
‘How long were you in there?’
‘All—’ I shut my eyes. In the corner, I know it’s
her, I can hear her whispering to me, calling . . . I remembered to breathe. ‘All night, as it turned out.’
‘Hell. Where was Edwin?’
‘Asleep.’
Morgan caught my fingers. ‘You’re trembling.’
I tried to pull away. ‘Just cold. The storm’s nearly on us. We should head back.’
‘What was in there?’
My mother . . . huddled there in the corner. ‘Nothing.’
‘You saw something, didn’t you?’
I shrugged. ‘You know what kids are like. Put them in a dark room and their imagination grows wings.’
‘What did you think you saw?’
The sand seemed to drop away beneath my feet. I pressed my lips together, finally meeting Morgan’s gaze. ‘A body.’
Morgan didn’t react. He continued to watch me, his eyes thoughtful. ‘Was it real?’
I shook my head.
‘Did you tell Edwin?’
‘Of course not.’
‘You didn’t tell anyone, did you?’
‘What was the point? I knew what it was.’
Morgan waited.
I gazed out to sea. Storm clouds muscled at the edges of the sky, rolling closer. I burrowed my hands deeper into my pockets. ‘When they found my mother’s body, Dad didn’t cope.’
‘I remember.’
‘The day he went to the morgue to identify her, he said something. It really spooked me.’ My voice was barely audible over the wash and sigh of the waves. The wind blew against my back, and I felt the first spots of rain. Absently, I brushed them from my face. ‘He said they’d made a mistake, that the woman on the table wasn’t my mother. Of course, it was her – but Dad’s reaction shook me. I started obsessing. Worrying about where she might have ended up.’
Morgan gave a soft whistle. ‘So what you saw in the icehouse . . . you thought it was her?’
I nodded.
‘And it’s haunted you all this—’
Before he could finish, the sky opened. Raindrops fell in a deluge. Within moments, we were soaked. I gladly shoved away all thoughts of the icehouse and my mother, and turned to look back the way we’d come.