Beyond the Orchard

by Anna Romer

  I gazed through the window. If anyone knew about thorns, it was me. I touched the charm that hung around my neck and saw my own mother’s face: her kind blue eyes, her freckled nose and wide smile. She had loved me, I’d always felt it. Yet a child’s lie had cost her everything, and there was no undoing that. I understood my father’s sorrows because they so closely echoed my own.

  ‘Dad,’ I began carefully. ‘Do you think Edwin had it in him to hurt her . . . Clarice, I mean?’

  My father shook his head, but seemed unable to meet my eyes. ‘I don’t know. It’s possible, I suppose.’

  ‘Then maybe she didn’t leave, after all? Maybe Edwin . . .’

  Dad fixed his gaze on the scene outside. The windswept beach, the brackish water in the bay, the hollow sky. ‘What does it matter now, Luce? There’s no way we can ever be certain. It’s only going to cause us more pain.’

  He was right on all but one count. Clarice’s fate did matter. It mattered to me. And if I wanted the truth, I was going to have to chase it alone.

  From where I sat, the grey sea and bleak white sky seemed endless. I turned my back to it. The cafe had emptied; we were the only remaining patrons. Our little corner in front of the window was an island detached from the larger continent of tables, bathed in watery light, serenaded by the whistling wind outside. The air seemed to shimmer around us, thin and silvery, as though some rare sort of magic had taken place, leaving us both raw and fragile.

  ‘Adam is arriving tomorrow,’ I said softly. ‘He’s decided to come over after all.’

  ‘You don’t sound too thrilled.’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure that I am.’

  ‘Lord,’ Dad muttered, not removing his gaze from the sea. ‘It never bloody rains, does it?’

  The Queen stood on the headland. Wild wind lashed her hair, and sea spray drenched her gown. Wringing her hands, she cried out to the seething ocean, ‘I cannot give her back! I will not.’

  —The Shell Queen

  25

  Bitterwood, 1930

  ‘Why did Warra die?’ Orah demanded. ‘He never hurt anyone.’

  They were sitting in the orchard, on the bench beneath the cherry tree. The dying afternoon light lingered high above them in the treetops, but here below, the cool fingers of night had already begun to gather.

  Edwin cleared his throat. ‘I don’t know.’

  Orah’s gaze lifted, and for a while, she seemed mesmerised by something that lay out of sight in the densely growing trees at the far edge of the orchard. ‘He could see himself in the land and sky,’ she murmured. ‘Like looking in a mirror.’

  Edwin felt the need to respond, to say something about Warra’s intelligence, his kindness, his honesty, his capacity for hard work – but the burden of the boy’s loss seemed suddenly unbearably heavy. He shut his eyes. ‘A shame,’ was all he said. ‘A terrible shame.’

  Orah bowed forward, pressing her fingertips into her eyes. ‘He saved my life. But I couldn’t save his.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault, Orah. There was nothing you could have done.’

  She looked at him sharply. ‘Mr Burke should hang.’

  ‘We’ve no proof it was him.’

  ‘He should be punished.’

  Edwin sighed, and then nodded.

  Her voice rang of defeat. ‘He won’t, though, will he?’

  Strange, how she reminded him of Clarice. Her loyalty, her instinct to protect those she loved; yet she had a strange fragility, as though she clung to life by a thread. He had begun to see Clarice in her gestures too, in the way she walked, the way she fixed her hair on the side, the way she screwed up her nose when she laughed. Had she always been that way, or had she fallen under Clarice’s spell, unconsciously emulating Clarice in the way that every daughter learned from her mother?

  She was watching him expectantly. His heart clenched. He groped for words, finding only a short quotation his mother had favoured.

  ‘Sin makes its own hell.’

  Disappointment registered in Orah’s eyes. She looked away quickly, as if embarrassed for him.

  Edwin had seen that look before, many years ago, a look bordering on pity. He’d been sitting in the mud with his back against the trench wall, staring fixedly at – a button, he recalled suddenly, a shiny brass button fallen in the mud, its grey thread still attached like a torn-out hank of hair. The captain had been calling his name. He had dragged his eyes away from the button, but only for a moment . . . Just long enough to register the gleam of contempt in the man’s eyes.

  He blinked away the memory to find himself alone on the bench. Shadows lapped at his feet, and as dusk began to settle, the ocean’s roar seemed loud, the waves crashing in time with his pulse. He stood stiffly and walked further down the hill. He could see the grassy mound, beneath which lay the icehouse. He thought of its cool dark passageways, its blind silence, and he drew strength from it. He had only intended to look, but then Orah’s words rang around him again, accusing.

  Burke should hang for what he did . . .

  He rattled the keys from his pocket, weighing them in his hand. Men like Jensen Burke saw themselves as untouchable, immune to the laws that other, lesser men abided by. He had been that way in France – young and bullish, full of his own importance. He and Ronald had been thick, two of a kind; swaggering among the men like lords, quick to jeer and point the finger at anyone they considered beneath them – Aboriginal soldiers, or those under-fed diggers of smaller stature, or bookish loners like Edwin . . .

  He should be punished.

  Later, in the central chamber of the icehouse, Edwin lifted the iron grate from the drainage culvert and reached for the wooden box concealed inside it. He prised open the lid. His old service revolver gleamed in the lantern light, still smelling faintly of oil and cordite. His mind conjured the image of young Warra lying in the bush, his blood leaking away into the dirt; the senseless waste, the sheer horror of loss seemed, in that moment, unbearable. In his ear, a tiny mosquito-like buzz.

  For the love of God, hold your fire . . .

  He swatted away the buzz, clicked open the barrel. Took six rounds from a small carton at the bottom of the box, and loaded them into the chamber. Then he hurried back through the icehouse, out into the cold air of the night, and towards the garage.

  Stern Bay, 1930

  Jensen Burke stepped from the shadows of the barn. He was tall and stringy, red-faced with a thick neck. If he was surprised to see Edwin, armed or otherwise, he failed to show it.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked gruffly.

  Edwin hesitated. The sound of the other man’s voice sent him reeling back through time. A gravelly drawl, spoken with just the right hint of nastiness that had once turned Edwin’s legs to jelly. Edwin gritted his teeth. He wasn’t that scared kid any more, and Jensen was no longer his captain.

  He raised his weapon. ‘A boy was shot last week. On your land. I believe you know something about it.’

  Burke’s jaw began to work from side to side, and he sent a glance across the green paddock towards the farmhouse.

  ‘Nothin’ to do with me.’

  ‘You’re wrong. It has everything to do with you. Especially since you’re the one who shot him.’

  ‘You can’t prove anything.’

  ‘I don’t need to.’ Edwin lowered his voice and stepped closer. He was now little more than an arm’s length away. He noticed, as though viewing himself from outside his body, that he was strangely calm. ‘I know it was you, Burke. I can see the guilt written all over your ugly face.’

  Edwin thumbed the firing pin, heard the neat click as it locked into place. Burke took a few stumbling steps back.

  ‘Just a minute,’ he said, pushing his palms against the air as though to ward Edwin away. ‘You can’t come here threatening me.’

  ‘That boy was part of my family.’

  ‘So what?’ Burke’s voice turned raw. ‘He was thieving my stock. I’ve got every right to defend what’s mine.’


  Edwin could smell the man’s sweat. It jogged a memory. Jensen Burke after the war, crouched over Edwin’s prone body, his knuckles slick with blood, his big fists pounding and pounding until Edwin blacked out.

  ‘Those kids weren’t doing any harm, and you know it.’

  Burke’s face crumpled into a grimace. ‘They were trespassing.’

  ‘They were on their way to see their people. Harmless kids. One of them witnessed the whole thing. And she’s keen to tell the authorities what she saw.’

  Burke’s eyes grew small, his mouth turned down. He made a coughing noise in the back of his throat, and then, without warning, lunged at Edwin, swinging his fist. Edwin was ready. Thrusting the weapon forward, he drove the mouth of the barrel into Jensen’s throat and backed him against the barn wall.

  ‘You’ll pay for what you did to that boy.’

  Burke tipped back his head, his eyes wide. ‘What are you planning to do,’ he rasped. ‘Put a bullet in me . . . the way you put one into your brother?’

  ‘It’s a tempting idea.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have the guts.’

  Edwin slackened his grip, lowered the gun. ‘We’ll see.’

  Burke moved away, rubbing his throat. ‘If I get so much as a whiff of interest from the cops, I’ll go straight to Clarice. Tell her what sort of man you really are, Briar. I’ll tell her what you did.’ He coughed and wiped his mouth. ‘Poor bloody Ronald, what did he ever do to you?’

  Edwin disengaged the firing pin. He tried to back away slowly, as though with confidence, but Burke’s words struck at him, filling his veins with ice.

  ‘You know nothing about it.’

  Burke was trembling now, his big hands fallen limp at his sides.

  ‘She loved Ronald, you know,’ he said almost regretfully. ‘Really loved him. She only married you out of pity.’

  Edwin had heard enough. He turned to go, but then looked back over his shoulder.

  ‘One dark night I’ll be waiting.’ He spoke quietly, but his words echoed in the stillness with chilling authority. ‘It might be tomorrow. Or I might let you sweat it out for another fifty years. But I promise you this, Jensen. You’ll pay for what you did to that boy. However long it takes, in the end, I’ll make sure you pay.’

  26

  Melbourne, June 1993

  The fire blazed as I stirred the embers and added more kindling. I warmed my hands a moment, and then turned back to the room.

  Adam sat on the lounge, watching me. He looked tired after the flight. Black circles under his eyes, stubble darkening his jaw. I had collected him from the airport earlier that afternoon, and the drive back to Hennessy Avenue had seemed to take forever. Adam updated me on his job and our friends in London, while I talked about Nina and Coby, my grandfather’s death, Dad’s broken hip. Everything, it seemed, except my time at Bitterwood. Then, back at the house, I had settled Adam on the sofa, uncorked a bottle of wine, and told him what I’d decided.

  Crossing the room, I sat beside him. ‘I’m really sorry.’

  He scrubbed his hands over his face, reddening his eyes and leaving flush marks on his cheeks. ‘What if I was willing to move to Melbourne? Would that change your mind?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Lucy, we were so good together. We can be again.’

  ‘No, Adam. We can’t.’

  ‘You sound very certain.’

  I gazed at my wineglass, the wine inside catching the firelight, dark as blood.

  ‘I am.’

  He looked at me for a long time, and must have seen that I meant it. He dragged his fingers through his sandy hair, and then tried without luck to flatten it down again.

  ‘There’s someone else, isn’t there?’ he said quietly.

  My mouth was suddenly dry. I considered draining my glass, avoiding the truth for a few minutes more, but then decided I needed a clear head. I met Adam’s eyes.

  ‘Five years ago, I ran away from him. He didn’t love me the way I wanted, and he broke my heart. So off I went, all the way to the other side of the world. To London. I was a terrible mess. Until I met you. You made the pain go away, made me want to stop running.’

  ‘But you did run. In the end you ran back to him.’

  I wanted to deny this, but a flash came to me. The cave nestled in the headland, the storm raging over the sea. The grey eyes watching me from the flickering shadows. Our night beside the fire had eventuated from a chain of unrelated events – or so I’d thought. Now I wasn’t so sure. Maybe there was such a thing as fate or the universe leading a person along the path they most needed to travel.

  ‘I didn’t come back for him,’ I told Adam. ‘At least not intentionally. Anyway, we’re not getting together. Things are . . . complicated.’

  ‘So who is he?’

  ‘I’ve known him since I was a kid. He’s like family. Only,’ I glanced at Adam from the corner of my eye. ‘Only, you know. Not.’

  ‘Let me guess, the boy next door?’

  ‘Actually . . .’ I took a breath. ‘He’s more like the father of the boy next door.’

  ‘Hell.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘You love him?’

  I shut my eyes a moment, and then looked back at him. Nodded.

  Adam slumped. ‘Did you ever really love me, Lucy?’

  ‘I still do. Just . . .’

  ‘Just not enough.’ Adam sighed heavily and sank back against the cushions. ‘I always knew you were running from something. Someone,’ he corrected. ‘I suppose a part of me knew that sooner or later you’d have to come back here to face them.’

  I hugged myself, wishing Adam would get nasty, start shouting, calling me the names I probably deserved. But that wasn’t in his nature. Adam was a peacekeeper, and even now, while his heart was breaking, he did not have it in him to start a war. He reached for my hand, slipped his fingers around mine. His skin was warm and dry, his touch familiar.

  It made me think of the warm July afternoon he had proposed, almost a year ago. We were strolling along the Serpentine in Hyde Park, laughing at a family of geese as they splashed in the water. Adam had tugged me into his arms, whispered he loved me, and then pulled the little box from his pocket. The diamond inside had dazzled me, catching the summer sunshine like a prism, exploding into a rainbow of shimmers.

  I twisted the ring on my finger, slid it off. Placed it on the coffee table between us. I searched Adam’s eyes, found them brimming with more questions. I’d always believed that he couldn’t hurt me, but I realised now how wrong I’d been. The pain creasing his face, the confusion in his kind brown eyes, cut me to the core.

  ‘Where did we go wrong?’ he murmured.

  I thought back across the two years we had been together, trying to find the thorn that had come between us. Our meeting at the charity dinner, our instant chemistry. All the funny times we had in London, all the good times. With Adam at my side, I had drifted along, happily ignoring the shadows swarming under my skin. The nightmares, the guilt, and the way my feet got itchy whenever life took a complicated turn. But now, in hindsight, I understood that the shadows had never left me. They had been there all along. Adam’s presence in my life had merely pressed the pause button, held them at bay for a while. I had let myself believe that life in London – the new friends, the hectic pace, the giddiness of constant distraction – had banished the past. That running away had finally worked. Now I saw how mistaken I had been.

  I looked at Adam. ‘After I lost my mother, I built a wall around my heart. It was how I coped. Then when I met you, the wall seemed to crumble away. For the first time in years, I felt free as a bird. But I wasn’t free at all. I’d just built another wall around the old wall.’

  ‘Double indemnity.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘So what did I do?’

  I thought of my grandfather’s letter, and the golden heart charm it had contained. I wondered if things would have turned out differently if I had n
ever written to Edwin, never felt the compulsion to invite him to our wedding. Would fate still have orchestrated a way to lure me back?

  ‘It wasn’t anything you did, Adam. The past found a chink in the wall and slipped through. My old nightmares started up again, my old fears. I guess that’s what really brought me back here.’

  Adam took my hand again. ‘I don’t want to lose you, Lucy. Whatever you have to face here, you don’t have to do it alone.’

  I gave his fingers a squeeze, and then pulled away. My gaze drifted to the diamond ring on the coffee table, the red glint of the wine, and then finally the crackling fire.

  ‘That’s just it, Adam. I do have to face it alone. I’ve been on the run most of my life, but running away isn’t the answer. You taught me that. I have to take a stand, face my problems head on. The only way I can genuinely do that, is alone.’

  At seven the following night, I arrived on the doorstep of a tiny worker’s cottage in the colourful inner suburb of Prahran. The narrow house sat at the end of a cul-de-sac, a leafy haven that seemed worlds away from the nearby bustle of shops and cafes on Chapel Street.

  Nina opened the door, hugged me hello, and then peered over my shoulder. ‘Where’s Adam?’

  ‘He’s not coming.’

  ‘Oh. Where is he?’

  I bit my lip. ‘On his way back to London.’

  ‘Without you?’

  I nodded, blinking hard. ‘We’ve split up.’

  Nina searched my face. The crease between her brows deepened, but then her expression went soft and she gave me one of her upside-down smiles.

  ‘Come inside, little Bub. Curry’s still twenty minutes away, but the wine’s chilled. I’ll tell Coby we’re eating outside tonight. Seems like we’re going to need the fresh air.’ She gave me her hanky, clean and smelling faintly of lavender, and then ushered me inside.