by Anna Romer
Last night, in the cave, I had forgotten Adam, forgotten the life we had planned together. A good life, where we would rub along and find contentment. There would be no fire-lit nights in a cave above the ocean where once a ship had foundered on the rocks; there would be no velocity, no fast rides to clear the head. No giddy sense of flying, no cat rescuing, no magic . . . Yet nor would there be the crushing insecurity that came from utterly, helplessly losing your heart.
I dug my fingers into Morgan’s ribs, felt him flinch.
It made me feel better to hurt him, even just a little. The person I really wanted to hurt, of course, was myself. But the ache in my heart was already so intense, I feared that heaping on any more guilt would cause actual physical damage.
When we reached Bitterwood, I climbed off the bike and dragged open the gates, waited for Morgan to ride through. I gestured to him that I would walk the rest of the way. By the time I had pulled shut the gates behind me and walked on shaky legs to the verandah, I knew what I had to do.
A fire blazed in the kitchen. The air was delicious with the smell of buttery toast and scrambled eggs, melted cheese, bacon and tomato.
Morgan thumped around in search of a teapot, and then set about making tea, sending me thoughtful looks across the table.
As I watched him pour, I flashed back to another morning. It seemed a lifetime ago. I had been breakfasting at Morgan’s before a school excursion. Coby and Gwen bantered as they made last-minute sandwiches. Morgan skimmed the newspaper while he waited for the rest of us to get our act together. I was fifteen, old enough to know that what I felt for my best friend’s father was bad. All the other girls at school had crushes their own age, which seemed normal and healthy; trust me to get it wrong. Trust me to be the one standing there in that sunny kitchen, feeling like a traitor as the friendly clatter of plates and soft voices and the rustle of newspaper washed around me. All right, Lucy? Morgan would say, and smile in that irreverent way he had, adding a half-wink that made my teenage heart do cartwheels.
Now, a decade later, here I was in another kitchen, feeling just as lost and out of my depth as I had been back then.
‘A penny for them,’ Morgan said.
‘They’re not worth a penny.’
‘A ha’penny, then.’
‘Ha’penny?’ I smiled, trying to lighten the mood. ‘Careful, Mr Roseblade, you’re showing your age.’
‘Ouch.’
Our eyes met, and just for a moment, we were back where we had begun, all those years ago. Friends, caught up in our teasing banter, comfortable. But then Morgan’s face softened, became serious. He settled in the chair beside me and reached for my hand. ‘I meant everything I said last night. I don’t regret a minute of it. But you clearly do.’
There was so much I wanted to say. So many questions, too. But I found myself unable to voice any of it. I studied the ring on my finger.
‘I made a promise to someone, Morgan.’
Morgan gave my fingers a gentle squeeze, and then let them go. He sat back, raked his fingers through the dark mess of his hair.
‘If Adam is right for you, then you should be with him. Whatever my selfish reasons for wishing it wasn’t so, I love you too much to try and stand in your way.’
He got to his feet and then pulled me up beside him. He let his palm rest against the side of my face. Leaning in, he pressed a feather-light kiss against the corner of my eye and then drew me against him, whispered into my hair.
‘Goodbye, Lucy.’
He said it so easily, so casually, that he might have been mentioning what a fine day it was, or that the ocean looked calm in the sunlight. But the word echoed in my brain with quiet finality.
Goodbye.
He went to the door, and it was only then that I saw his bag was already packed. He had known what I would say. Or perhaps, he had sensed my hesitation and drawn his own conclusion about where we were heading.
He went out and without looking back, shut the door silently behind him. His boots thumped along the verandah, and then he was gone.
I told myself not to go to the window. Not to watch him leave. I stood very still, staring at the tea grown cold in my cup. Then the Harley started up, the motor revved into a growl. I heard tyres crunch along the gravel at the side of the house, heard the engine purr while it idled at the gate.
I stood very still, alone in the kitchen, listening.
The gate squealed shut. The Harley’s engine roared. Even from the back of the house, the noise seemed deafening, amplified by the cold clear air. It jarred me from my trance. Suddenly I was running along the hall, my footfall echoing loudly on the floorboards. Through the sitting room, to the bay window, its panes strangely naked without the ragged curtains. Both palms on the glass, I stared across the yard to the gate. I could still hear the bike motor rumbling, but the sound faded quickly. Then, there was just the silence.
Morgan was gone.
You’ve made the right decision, I told myself. You’re doing the right thing.
But another, smaller voice whispered defiantly in the back of my mind. If this is the right thing, then why does it feel so wrong?
Melbourne, June 1993
The Hennessy Avenue letterbox was overflowing after my week away. Grabbing the bundle, I headed into the house. The air was stuffy and cold, but I was too tired to bother lighting a fire. I opened a can of fish for Basil, and then emptied a tin of soup into a saucepan and heated it for myself. I ate in the kitchen, the book on my lap unread, a snowstorm of thoughts whirling in my mind.
My night with Morgan. The emptiness after his departure. My promise to Adam, and the shadow of my guilt. I knew what I had to do, but my resolve was shaky. No matter which way I turned, someone was going to get hurt. The snowstorm was quickly becoming an avalanche, so I shoved it away and tried to focus instead on the reason for my return.
I had arranged to meet with Dad the following day and hand over the photos. He would be emotional, perhaps even try to withdraw from me. It might not be the perfect time to press him further about Edwin’s history, but I was burning to continue our conversation about my grandfather’s wartime experiences, and the possibility that Clarice had met with foul play.
The chill of the house settled around me.
Arriving back in Melbourne had shaken me from whatever fantasy world I’d inhabited this past week. Camping in my van at night, a big old cuddly cat warming my feet. Spending the better part of my days trawling through my grandfather’s collection of curios and treasures, chasing ghosts. It all seemed such a long way away from reality. From the life I’d built for myself in London. My life with Adam. The life I was making such a mess of.
‘I can see why Edwin hid from the world,’ I told Basil. ‘The idea of becoming a hermit seems very appealing right now.’
Basil glanced up from his food. The light from the hallway caught his eyes and he seemed otherworldly, a spirit creature whose purpose was known only to himself. Then he went back to lapping up his fish, a cat again, scarred and battle-weary, with torn ears and a permanent crimp in his tail.
Setting aside my bowl, I shuffled through the mail: mostly bills addressed to the woman who owned the house. One, however – a postcard of Hyde Park in London – made my heart skip. Somehow I knew, even before I started reading the neatly printed message, what it would say.
Dear Lucy,
Don’t be angry, I know I promised you space, but I miss you terribly. Since you left, I’ve been going out of my mind. Things haven’t been great with us. We need to talk. I can’t wait any longer to see to you, and I’m useless on the phone. I’ve booked a flight and will arrive at Tullamarine on 15 June.
Adam xx
Still clutching the postcard, I got up and looked at the wall calendar, needing visual confirmation. Locating today’s date, I traced my finger towards the fifteenth.
Two days.
Checking the clock, I calculated London time: just after 7 a.m., Adam would be rushing for the tube, grabbing
coffee at the kiosk, on his way into the office. I rang anyway, waited for the answering machine to beep on. My own voice echoed from the other side of the world, inviting me to leave a message. A dullness washed over me, as though I’d fallen through the cracks of my life into a netherworld of shadows. I felt disconnected, torn between two realities, belonging in neither.
‘Adam, it’s me. I got your postcard. I wish you could have waited until I get back. Now’s not a good time. My grandfather died, I’m halfway through clearing his house for Dad. Can you cancel your ticket? I’m not—’ I broke off on a sigh. Tried to regather my thoughts, but failed. ‘Look, if you must come . . . fly safe.’
I hung up and went back along the hall, upstairs to the bedroom, and climbed into bed with my clothes on. Dragging the covers up to my chin, I stayed that way until the ache in my chest grew so bad I had to sit up. Hands over my face, I breathed through my fingers. When Basil meowed from the doorway, I came to my senses.
‘Come on, boy.’ I patted the bed. He jumped up beside me and lowered his head for an ear rub. The cuts on his face were healing, leaving pale patches of skin where the fur had yet to grow back. I smoothed my palm over his thin body. Moments later, he tucked himself against the mound of my feet, and settled into sleep.
Two days.
Adam would look at me and know. Just as I’d known what he’d written on the postcard before I read it, he would take one look at me and know there was someone else.
Closing my eyes, I sank deeper into the bed. My hair tangled over my face, and as I breathed slowly through it, I smelled the ocean and wood smoke and the salty dampness of the cave where we had taken shelter. Rain-soaked clothes, wet skin, the crackling fire. Me melting against Morgan, yearning for him, all my old feelings rekindled.
I took deep breaths. The wild reckless joy of that night was about to cost me dearly. Adam would know; Adam, who had only ever been kind and good to me, would know that I had betrayed his trust in the worst possible way.
Yet even as the first tears began to leak from my eyes, I couldn’t stop the yearning. I could still taste Morgan’s skin on my lips, could still feel the soft length of his hair between my fingers . . . and I wanted to taste and feel him again. Even if I could travel back through time to change what had happened between us, I knew that I wouldn’t.
Basil began to purr. The soft vibrations tickled the soles of my feet, and strangely, despite the agitation that had taken hold of me, I began to calm.
In two days, Adam would be here. But I couldn’t think of it now. I would rest my exhausted brain in sleep, and worry about the rest of the world in the morning. Rolling onto my side, I snuggled into the pillow, and it was only then that I realised I was still clutching the postcard, damp now from my tears, and rumpled into a wad between my fingers.
The Stork Cafe was right on the beach. Dad was waiting when I arrived. He sat on the far side of the cafe near the wall of windows that overlooked a spectacular ocean view. His crutches were propped against a chair, his face pale and anxious. I kissed his cheek and gave him a quick hug before settling myself opposite. I placed the envelope on the table between us.
Dad eyed it warily. ‘I’ve already ordered. Poppy-seed cake all round, that okay?’
I nodded to the envelope. ‘Open it, Dad.’
He drew it across the table, but then rested his hands on it and looked at me. ‘You must have questions.’
‘Only about a million.’
His smile seemed a little shaky. He turned his face to the window. The water in the bay was steely, the waves flecked with dirty white foam. The greyness of the day seemed a fitting backdrop for our meeting. Dad sighed and looked back at the envelope.
‘Where to begin?’
‘You could start with the row you had with Edwin when you were fifteen. It was about Clarice, wasn’t it?’
The wind blew across the sandhills and rattled the big windowpanes. The air inside the cafe was still, but Dad shivered.
‘Edwin was always distant,’ he began. He clasped his hands tightly on top of the envelope, and then gazed back at the window. ‘When I was younger, his aloofness hurt me. I suppose that was why, when I learned the truth about my real mother, I found it so easy to resent him.’
‘Why do you think he never told you about her?’
‘I guess for the same reason I never told you.’
‘To protect me?’
He nodded. ‘Edwin would have wanted to spare Dulcie’s feelings. And his own. My father was a very private man. Secretive, even. Mum – Dulcie – knew that Edwin had been married before, but in those days it was one of those topics people never discussed.’
‘What about the row you had with him?’
‘A few days before Dulcie died, she called me into her room. Said she didn’t want to go to her grave with a burden on her chest.’ Dad let out a ragged sort of laugh. ‘Then the bombshell. She told me how Edwin’s first wife, Clarice, was my natural mother. She said that Clarice had run away and left Edwin with a new baby – me – and that she’d broken my father’s heart, which is why he never spoke of her . . .’
Dad looked up as a waiter arrived at our table with a tray of cake and tea. When he’d gone, Dad continued.
‘I remember thinking that Dulcie must be delirious, that the medication was affecting her brain. She gave me this old photo album, but before I had a chance to go through it, Edwin took it back. Mum said Edwin was wrong for hiding the truth from me. I wanted to ask more, but she drifted into sleep after that.’
Dad picked up his fork and broke off a corner of cake. He chased it around his plate for a while, and then sighed. ‘Of course, there was a row over the photos. Edwin refused to hand them over. He didn’t deny Dulcie’s story, just told me to forget it. To forget Clarice.’
‘That seems harsh.’
Dad nodded. ‘I flew off the handle. I said some things I’m not proud of, ranted and raved at him for an hour or more, but in typical Edwin fashion, he barely said a word. Dulcie died in her sleep that night, and for a time our argument was forgotten.’
He stared at his slice of cake. ‘After the funeral, I tore the house apart looking for those bloody photos. I began to doubt if they even existed. Then I started bombarding Edwin with questions. Why had Clarice abandoned us? Where had she gone, was she still alive? I blamed him for chasing her away, accused him of being unlovable, a bore. Then my own doubts set in. Had she left because of me? Maybe she never loved me, never wanted the burden of a child. Finally, worn down by my hectoring, Edwin turned on me. I’ll never forget the look in his eyes – the wild, desperate look of an animal hunted into a corner. He said, “She left because she loved you.” Then he slammed the door behind him and I didn’t see him again for nearly thirty years.’
‘What did he mean?’
Dad shook his head. ‘I’ve spent a lifetime asking myself the same question. Now I’ll never know. Whatever secret Edwin was protecting has gone with him into the grave.’
My fingers found the ribbon around my neck. Now was the perfect time to tell Dad about my mother’s charm. About Edwin’s letter, and his promise.
I’ve something for you that will explain everything.
My father frowned at me across the table. His shoulders were hunched, his collar ruched up around his ears. His face was pale, but twin blotches of livid pink burned on his cheekbones. My gaze drifted to the crutches, and I flashed back sixteen years: Dad lurching along the hallway at our old house, thumping his hand along the wall as he went, spilling wine from his flagon.
I couldn’t tell him, I realised. Giving him the photos today had burdened him enough. If I unloaded anything more, he might crack under the strain.
My appetite had deserted me, but I picked at my cake, washing it down with hot tea. Dad watched me for a while, and then started on his own poppy-seed wedge, but didn’t get far. Pushing away his plate, he picked up the envelope.
Drawing out the photos, he shuffled through them, pausing from time to time t
o examine one more closely. When he got to the church fete photo, I leaned over and pointed out the fair-haired girl.
‘Who’s that?’ Dad wanted to know.
‘I was hoping you could tell me.’
‘Is she one of my . . . my sisters?’
I held myself still. ‘How did you know about them?’
‘Lionel Pettigrew once gave me a copy of his memoir. I thought he might know something more, but he said he’d put everything into the book. It saddened me to learn I’d once had sisters. I felt robbed. If only Edwin had told me, things may have turned out differently between us. I discovered more about my family background from Lionel’s little book than I ever learned from my own father.’
I reached out across the table and touched his hand. ‘She isn’t your sister,’ I said quietly. ‘They both died three years before this photo was taken.’
Dad was silent. He spread a couple of photos on the table, and then chose one of the children in the orchard. ‘There she is again, the fair-haired girl. What about those Aboriginal kids with her . . . any idea who they are?’
I shook my head. ‘Maybe their parents once worked for Edwin.’
Dad shuffled the photos back into a pile, but then he paused and went back to the orchard shot of the kids. He studied it again at length.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘There’s something about the little Aboriginal girl with the basket. I don’t know . . .’
‘Do you recognise her?’
Dad examined the print again, but then sighed. ‘My head’s all over the place. I’ll be seeing Clarice in my dreams tonight. I had hoped that the photos would somehow put an end to the questions, the wondering. But . . .’ He gave a defeated sort of shrug. ‘They’ve only made me more curious.’
Replacing the photos in the envelope, he set them aside. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes watery bright. There were crumbs in his beard, and a worried knot between his brows.
‘All my life,’ he murmured, ‘she was a thorn in my happiness. No matter how good it got – meeting Karen, having you, getting my books published – no matter how happy or successful I tried to be, Clarice was always there in the background, haunting me. If only I’d known why she left, why she abandoned me. Even if her reasons had hurt me, it would have been better than not knowing at all.’