Beyond the Orchard

by Anna Romer

  Floorboards creaked under her feet, but only silence came from her father’s room. Rattling the door handle, she pushed open the door.

  The bedclothes were undisturbed, the pillow plumped just as she had left it. The wash water in the jug was cold, and the towel she had laid there sat pristinely white beside it. Orah’s father had left no trace of himself – not one grubby fingerprint, no smear of dust or muddy footprint.

  Orah grabbed the little bag she’d packed and raced downstairs. The kitchen was empty. She stood for a moment in the dark warmth, her knuckles pressed to her lips. Bitterwood wasn’t her home, Edwin and Clarice weren’t her family. Not her true family – that was Hanley, and she belonged with him. Blinded by tears, she rushed to the doorway, stumbling on the step, the doorframe catching her shoulder. She felt the bruise instantly bloom beneath her skin as pain moved through her. Violent, white-cold pain. Her limbs began to quake. Stumbling back, her only thought was to put as much distance between herself and Bitterwood as possible. With Nala gone and Warra dead, there was nothing for her here. The shockwave of hurt reached her heart and her mind greyed. Any love she’d had for these people drained away, leaving her empty and desolate.

  She had to find her father. Travel with him to Ballarat, do the best she could with whatever they had. It was right, she told herself, hurrying through the dark house. After all, Hanley was her family, and she belonged with him.

  31

  Bitterwood, June 1993

  Nala declined my offer of a cup of tea in the warm kitchen, admitting that she would feel more comfortable on the headland, with the fresh darkness of the sea and hills around her.

  I grabbed my coat and we walked along the drive, crossing the road and onto the headland. Nala pointed to a sheltered spot further down the embankment. The waning moon glowed brightly in the starry sky, lighting our way down the slope. The sea stretched away into the darkness, and breakers washed and sighed against the shoreline below. As we settled on a grassy bank out of the wind, Nala’s reedy voice lifted above the roar of the waves.

  ‘Len rang me yesterday, told me you dropped by the cottage. She said you were asking about Clarice Briar?’

  I snuggled deeper into my coat, nodding. ‘Dad told me Clarice walked out soon after he was born, and that she never came back. I’m trying to understand why. How well did you know her?’

  Nala pushed up her glasses and looked at me thoughtfully. ‘After she lost her daughters in 1927, she went into a dark place, poor thing. Edwin employed my brother and me to help her at Bitterwood. Edwin knew our mum, and we were glad of the work. Back then, kids like us didn’t go to school. You could either work or starve, and Bitterwood was better than other places we’d been. The Briars made us part of the family. Edwin taught us to read and write, and Clarice insisted we eat our meals at the table with them. Looking back, I think we helped fill the hole left when they lost their little girls.’

  ‘It must’ve been unbearable for them.’

  Nala’s dark eyes gleamed. ‘It was . . . until Orah arrived.’

  ‘Your friend.’

  Nala nodded, gazing out across the dark water. ‘The first time I saw Orah, she was a pale little speck clinging to an upended lifeboat. My brother Warra swam out and saved her. Orah lost her mum in the wreck that night, but she was so brave. We brought her back to Bitterwood, and she won Clarice’s heart. Edwin’s too. Anyone could see she reminded them of the daughter they’d lost, the older girl, Edith. Orah was clever and goodhearted, you know? We all loved her. But I think Warra loved her most of all. They had a bond, you see. But in 1930 . . .’ Nala brushed her fingers over the grass, and sighed. ‘My brother was shot and killed.’

  ‘Oh,’ I murmured. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘We never found out who did it,’ she said softly. ‘Of course, we had our suspicions, but not any proof. There was no enquiry. The police never even questioned any suspects.’

  I frowned. ‘No enquiry?’

  ‘That was the ’30s for you. A year or so earlier, in Central Australia, two Aboriginal men supposedly killed a white farmer who’d been abusing some women. In the months that followed, a local Constable led patrols to deal out “justice”, although what happened was anything but just. It turned into a massacre. Sixty or more Warlpiri people lost their lives. Stories like that are far-reaching. Even here, people were nervous afterwards. My family never pushed for an enquiry because they feared what may come of it.’

  I searched the dark water, thinking of all the young men I knew – Coby and Adam; the boys I’d grown up with in St Kilda; my London friends. If someone had shot and killed one of them as a teenager, there would have been an uproar. I couldn’t imagine the scars left by losing a brother so tragically, and with no punishment for whoever had killed him. I thought of the boy whose face grinned from the photo on the Tibbetts’ wall. Kept alive in his sister’s heart, but when Nala was gone, he would be forgotten.

  Waves crashed along the foot of the headland, and the wind delivered a gust of sea spray that sprinkled us like rain.

  I shivered. ‘Do you know why Clarice left Bitterwood?’

  Nala hunched in the wind. ‘I’m afraid I don’t. After my brother died, I went home. I was gone a couple of years. By the time I came back to Bitterwood in 1932, everything had changed. Clarice had gone. Orah’s dad had taken her to live with him. Edwin had a baby boy, and he employed a woman to care for him.’

  Nala looked at me and smiled. ‘Dulcie Frost was her name, your grandma. Anyone could see how she adored little Ronnie, and she was fond of Edwin, too. I helped in the guesthouse for a while. Then in 1936, the year I turned twenty, I left to get married. My kids were born, and the war came. Things got a bit harder after I lost my Charlie, so in the late forties I returned to Bitterwood for a spell. Business picked up for Edwin, and I was glad of the work. But I had another reason for being there.’

  She looked down at the grass again, plucking a daisy, twirling it in her fingers. ‘I was waiting for Orah.’

  ‘You thought she might return?’

  Nala nodded. ‘It niggled me, the way she left. So sudden, you know. Orah thought her dad was dead, but then he turned up out of the blue and she went off with him. It struck me as . . .’ She sighed and tossed the daisy back into the grass. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I was just being wishful.’

  ‘Did you ever see her again?’

  Nala shook her head. She brushed her fingers over her face, and dabbed her knuckles beneath her eyes. ‘Funny, isn’t it? Sixty-three years later, and I still miss her terribly. My brother, too.’

  The wind rose up. Beside me, Nala shivered. I leaned against her, sharing what little warmth I had. ‘Do you think Orah’s still alive?’

  Nala sighed. ‘I hope so. I often think of her out there somewhere with a family of her own, maybe some grandkids. I like to think she’s had a happy life.’

  ‘You said she left with her father. I don’t suppose you knew his name?’

  Nala looked around at me, her dark eyes framed by the black rims of her glasses. ‘I should, I heard it often enough. For a time, he was all Orah talked about. His name was Hanley Dane.’

  I froze a moment, staring at her. My pulse began to fly, the roar of the waves filled my head. ‘Dane,’ I whispered, ‘are you sure? He was a Scotsman?’

  Nala nodded, eyeing me curiously. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Because I’ve met him. This morning. He’s in a nursing home in Geelong.’

  Nala sat up straight, her eyes suddenly sharp. ‘Did he mention her? Did he say how she is, where she’s living? Oh Lucy,’ she added in a whisper, pressing her fingertips to the sides of her face. ‘I’d love to see her again, do you think . . .?’

  The waves boomed beneath us, the wind murmured over the grass. Bats circled overhead, sly shadows swooping against the night sky. I thought of the letter I’d found. Hanley’s words, written almost a decade ago, finally made sense. I can’t bring her back, but I simply must know how it was for her at the end.


  I looked at Nala, and the desolation I felt must have showed in my eyes.

  She slumped, and returned her gaze to the sea. ‘Did he . . .’ she began in a barely-there voice, and then cleared her throat. ‘Did he tell you what happened to her?’

  ‘No,’ I said softly. ‘But I hope he will.’

  My thoughts flew in circles as I returned to the house. Retrieving Hanley’s letter from its place among my collection of clues, I sat by the fire to reread it. But I couldn’t concentrate. I kept remembering Hanley’s face when he’d seen me in the doorway, kept hearing the tremor in his voice.

  Is it you? . . . Have you come for me?

  Later, when I queried him, he had tried to dismiss his reaction. Someone else, he’d muttered. She wore her hair long, too. I refocused on the letter, but the words seemed to jump around. I rubbed my eyes, and tried again, hearing Hanley’s voice in my mind as I read. I can’t bring her back, but I simply must know how it was for her at the end.

  At the end.

  I sat back in my chair.

  Hanley had written to Edwin about his daughter.

  The daughter whose death he blamed on himself.

  I rested my head in my hands. Was it cruel of me to pursue this? Was it worth causing more heartbreak to an old man who already seemed deeply tormented? Besides, after my visit to Riverview that morning, Hanley would not want to see me again. Marge might be waiting at the door to bar my entry. Yet I couldn’t help feeling that Orah’s fate was linked somehow to my grandmother’s decision to leave Bitterwood, to abandon her husband and newborn son.

  It was after midnight. Good sense told me to go to bed. But my mind was racing, my heartbeat echoing like a drum in my ears. Going over to the table, I looked over my collection of puzzle pieces. The icehouse keys, the drawing of my mother, Edwin’s spidery letter, and my selections of the photographs – from which peered the face of a lost girl with eyes as large and fathomless as the sea. I pictured her out there in the cold water, clinging to the upended lifeboat, waiting. Waiting through the long night to die. Only she hadn’t died. A brave-hearted boy had dived into the stormy waves and swum through the wreckage to save her.

  I searched Orah’s features, hoping to find evidence of the inner strength, the stubborn streak she must have needed to cling to that lifeboat and survive. Yet the harder I looked, the more insubstantial she seemed to become. Almost ghostlike, as though she was vanishing right before my eyes.

  I rummaged in Edwin’s utility drawer for a pair of scissors, and took them back to the table. Picking up the photo, I cut out the girl’s figure so she was separated from the other people in the picture. Then, to distract myself, I settled Basil onto my lap and picked up my father’s manuscript.

  In the moment before the King’s sword came down, Fineflower closed her fingers around the soldier’s knife. Springing to her feet, she raised the knife and pricked its tip against the King’s throat. A single droplet of blood trickled onto the King’s collar.

  The King let out a bellow and dropped his sword. He did not dare move, but his eyes glared into hers with such hatred that she began to tremble.

  ‘Let me go.’

  The King sneered. ‘My men will soon return, and when they do I will order your execu—’ He broke off. His attention darted over Fineflower’s shoulder. With a cry, he staggered backwards, knocking over the spinning wheel.

  Fineflower whirled around. Beneath the window, the shadows twitched and fluttered. One by one, the other wives unravelled themselves from the darkness and dropped to the floor. They swarmed towards the King, reaching out their shadowy little hands. In the lantern light, their waxy faces gleamed with fierce pleasure, and as they surrounded the King, their thumbprint eyes sharpened in triumph.

  Fineflower turned away. The door was open and she slipped through it. Behind her in the cell, the old King howled like a struck dog. For one long terrible moment, the scream echoed through the castle, cut short at last by a whimper.

  Fineflower ran on. Up the damp stone steps she went, past the burning torchlight, past the dripping walls, past the rats who scuttled under her feet. The ocean roared beyond the walls, and the cold prickled around her, but Fineflower only ran harder.

  When she reached her chamber at the top of the castle, she went straight to the cradle. Her baby boy gurgled when he saw her and reached out his chubby arms. She gathered him close against her, wrapped him in his little blanket, and then fled the King’s castle. In the stables, she chose a sturdy roan stallion and quickly saddled him. With her baby strapped to her chest, she mounted the horse and rode through the castle grounds, towards the high stone fortress walls. The guards at the gate recognised her and smiled, waving her through. Leaning low over the pommel, Fineflower was about to kick the horse into a canter, when a dark shape in the shadow of the wall caught her eye.

  Tugging lightly on the reins, she turned the horse back to investigate. It was a man, beaten and bloodied. His face was purple with bruises, but she recognised the torn blue coat with its brass buttons and ruined gold sash.

  Dismounting from her steed, she went to him, kneeled at his side. She took his hand and pressed a kiss to his forehead. He flinched away at first. He had grown pale, his strength and spirit wasted away. Yet when he looked into her face, he seemed to brighten.

  ‘Here you are at last,’ he murmured.

  Fineflower stroked his matted hair. ‘Let us leave this place,’ she told him gently. ‘We can start a new life together. You see here, I have my son.’

  The soldier smiled at Fineflower’s little boy, and climbed to his feet. Fineflower mounted the horse, and helped her soldier up behind her. They rode away from the castle, not once looking back, and many leagues vanished behind them. They passed towns with little walled gardens, and crossed streams and bridges and acres of parkland. They rode along the edge of a vast glittering ocean, and then inland past rivers and mountains. Finally, a dark mass of trees came into view.

  In the deepest part of the forest, they arrived at a cottage. The soldier dismounted and took a key from his pocket, and let them inside. From the pantry, he brought bread and ale and sweetmeats, and they shared a meal while Fineflower nursed her baby.

  Later, in the crackling firelight, while the little boy slept in his mother’s arms, the man of shadows settled himself close by. Poking from his pocket was a corner of fine crimson.

  Fineflower smiled. ‘I see you still have my heart.’

  The man nodded sadly. ‘I was wrong to demand it. My love held you prisoner, just as surely as the King’s dungeon. Can you forgive me?’

  Fineflower lifted a brow. ‘You’ll give back my heart?’

  ‘Only guess my name,’ he told her on a sigh, ‘and I’ll willingly return it.’

  Fineflower’s body filled with warmth. She might not be any good at spinning silk thread into gold, but she had a knack for seeing behind a person’s mask.

  ‘Your name is Love,’ she replied.

  The man of shadows smiled. Reaching into his pocket, he drew out Fineflower’s handkerchief. It was crumpled and grubby, the edges worried by his fingers, the corners damp with his tears. When he held it out to her, the cloth began to glow like a tapestry of burning cinders.

  Fineflower understood then that the man of shadows had been right. The human heart was truly a treasure, far more valuable than diamonds and emeralds, far more precious than gold thread. Nothing in this world or the next existed that was of greater value . . . unless, of course, it was a heart that glowed with love.

  She reached for her soldier’s hand and closed his fingers around the scrap of crimson cloth.

  ‘Keep it,’ she said. ‘It’s yours now.’ Then she drew him near, and when their lips met, the forest beyond the cottage door came alive with the sound of birdsong.

  For a long time after finishing the story, I wandered through the house. I didn’t bother with the lights; the glow of my torch seemed enough. The rooms were vast and echoey without their mantle of clutter
, and I found myself shining my light around into every corner, every cupboard and crevice, searching – although not entirely sure what I was searching for. Keys, perhaps. A parcel from Edwin with my name on it. Or maybe I wasn’t searching at all, but simply letting myself disappear for a while in the emptiness and dark, so that my tangled thoughts could unravel.

  Basil trotted at my heels, occasionally darting off to investigate a mouse, or running ahead into the darkness, whiskers twitching. Writing stories, my father had once told me, is how I work through things I don’t understand. His tale of Fineflower, I now felt certain, was his own story. Through it, he had worked the threads of his wish fulfilment. The mother defying the old king, returning for her little boy, saving the soldier and riding off to a better life. A life that glowed with love given and love received. As I stalked through those empty corridors and hallways, I carried with me the image of a woman: tall and willowy, her curves swathed in red silk, her copper-gold hair gleaming gently in the torchlight. Several times I turned, expecting to see her . . . but there were only shadows.

  I would have liked to ask her if my father had gotten it right in his fairytale – if, in the end, she had found her happy ever after. I hoped she had. With all my heart, I hoped that she had. Yet something told me Dad’s story was simply that: a story.

  Geelong, June 1993

  Hanley did not seem surprised to see me. He nodded resignedly, and then beckoned me over to his bedside. Gestured for me to sit, and then reached for me. His fingers trembled as they circled my wrist. His skin was warm, dry as paper, the old bones beneath fragile as those of a bird, but there was strength in his grip.

  ‘Can you see them?’ he asked. He directed a glance to the other side of the room, to his aquarium. ‘Are they moving around in there, Lucy? Do they look happy?’

  I could see nothing from where I sat, just the aquatic plants swaying in the artificial current, and the overhead lights reflected dimly in the glass. There was no movement on the snail front, but the old man seemed to need reassurance.