Moonlight Plains

by Barbara Hannay

  Now, however, with her father’s death five years after their mother’s, Laura felt as if she and her brothers were drifting apart – three separate vessels sailing in three vast and very different oceans.

  Perhaps she was oversensitive after the breakdown of her own marriage, but this new sense of solitude made her anxious, especially since both her daughters were now living on the west coast.

  She was feeling especially low and vulnerable this evening as she started on the biggest task of all – clearing her father’s study.

  It had been her father’s favourite room, with his beloved mahogany desk and pale-green fitted carpets and white-painted floor-to-ceiling bookshelves built around tall elegant windows that looked down to the Charles River. Books, books and more books.

  Much to his family’s dismay, Ed Langley had given up law after the war and had turned to history. He once told Laura he’d hoped that studying the past would help him to make some kind of sense of the crazy maelstrom he’d just lived through.

  Quite a few of his history books had already been removed, in line with directions in his will that they be donated to the History Department at Boston University where he’d taught for forty years.

  There were other history books Laura was sure Charlie would like, if he ever settled down in one place. Then there were all the other books, the novels, the travel books, the ones on philosophy and music. Laura would take the volumes of art history, but just looking at the rest of the crammed shelves and imagining the task ahead exhausted her.

  Come to think of it, sorting the books was too big a task to begin on a Sunday evening . . . She would take a look at some of the paperwork instead . . .

  Laura eyed a row of large cardboard boxes on the bottom shelf of the bookcase behind the desk, some of which were clearly labelled, others left plain. Her father had mentioned several times that he planned to dump most of this. It was one of those jobs he probably would have attended to if he hadn’t died so suddenly.

  She picked up the nearest box. It was rather shabby and grey and fortunately not too heavy, and she lifted the lid, surprised to discover sheets of handwriting. Her father’s handwriting.

  In recent years, he’d rarely written by hand. All his correspondence had come via his PC.

  These papers looked like letters, and the top one was to a woman.

  Dearest Kitty . . .

  Laura frowned. She couldn’t remember anyone by that name in her father’s circle. There were a couple of Kates, but no one called Kitty. Who was this person? An old relative? There was no date on the letter.

  Quickly she flicked through other pages. Dearest Kitty . . .

  Dearest Kitty . . .

  Dearest Kitty . . .

  Nervous now, Laura sank into a chair and fearfully turned back to the top sheet. She would have to read this letter properly.

  Dearest Kitty,

  I heard a woman singing ‘Danny Boy’ on the radio tonight and my thoughts rushed straight back to you.

  Oh my God. After reading two lines, Laura was scared. This did not look good. As far as she could tell, the box held loads of letters written to a strange woman . . . For some very weird reason the letters hadn’t been posted, but even from this first sentence, the tone was clearly intimate . . .

  Confused and shaking, Laura forced herself to read on.

  I remembered the night I came back to the homestead after I’d been almost washed away and drowned trying to cross that damned creek.

  I was cold and wringing wet as I came into the house by the back door. I remember a pretty lamp with a ruby glass bowl sitting on the scrubbed pine table and the big blackened stove giving out gentle heat.

  Then I heard you singing.

  Even now, goosebumps prickle my skin when I recall your lovely voice. Honestly, Kitty, I don’t think you ever knew how good you were.

  I’d heard enough top-class singers to recognise your talent. My mother was an amateur violinist and a great music lover and supporter. When I was a youngster, I went with her to classical music concerts at the Boston Symphony and to the Lyric Opera. I heard a wide range of highly trained voices, all of them beautiful, but not once was I moved to tears the way I was that night by a girl singing sweetly to the accompaniment of rain on an iron roof.

  I knew you were singing for Bobby and I was so touched I nearly broke down completely.

  What happened to your singing, Kitty? What happened to you?

  Do you ever think about that night? It’s so clear in my mind. I came down the hallway to the room where we’d put Bobby to bed, and I stopped in the doorway.

  There was a lamp on the dresser, casting a warm circle of light over the bed and over Bobby and you. Bobby was so very still I couldn’t tell if he was asleep or unconscious and he looked very pale, much as he had before I left.

  You’d changed out of your mannish shirt and trousers into a pretty blue floral dress, and you were sitting on a chair beside the bed, leaning forward, with your elbows resting on the mattress, watching Bobby, while you held his hand. Such a sight – Bobby’s big, work-toughened, farm-boy hand clasped innocently in yours.

  I could only see your profile, but I knew you were smiling as you sang, and your hair gleamed bright and coppery in the lamplight.

  So beautiful . . .

  Where are you now, Kitty?

  I long to find you, and yet I know that seeing you again would only break my heart.

  Take care. Sweet dreams.

  Ed

  Laura was shaking by the time she’d finished reading this.

  I know that seeing you again would only break my heart.

  So many questions screamed in her head. What was this letter about? Who the hell were Kitty and Bobby? When had this happened? Her father had recalled this night in such vivid, intimate detail.

  But he couldn’t have had an affair. There hadn’t been another woman in his life. There simply wasn’t. It was inconceivable.

  Shaken to her very core, Laura forced herself to read another letter. And then another . . .

  Half an hour passed . . . and then an hour. Often, she read with a trembling hand pressed to her mouth. At other times she could barely read the words through her tears. Page by page, she pieced together a story – an old story from long ago, a story that had taken place in Australia in 1942, during the war . . .

  By the time she finished reading she was shivering and aching. The room was completely dark and she was sitting in a small island of light from the desk lamp.

  Some of the more hurtful words her father had written were by now burned onto her brain.

  Kitty, I hope you are at least as happy as I am with my good, intelligent and eminently suitable wife, who is the most wonderful mother to our three very different but quite amazing children.

  How could he describe their mother as good, intelligent and eminently suitable? Laura was appalled. Her father hadn’t said his wife was beautiful or beloved, but eminently suitable?

  How could he say that?

  How dare he?

  Shocked and hurt, Laura could draw absolutely no comfort from the fact that her father had met this Kitty person in a foreign country years before he’d met her mother and that he’d apparently had no further contact with the woman.

  How could this possibly console her when he’d never forgotten the Australian girl? Never let her go? Clearly, he’d never got over his Dearest Kitty, and Laura couldn’t bear it.

  The bitter knowledge brought her world collapsing all around her. Everything she’d ever believed about her family and herself was imploding. There were cracks in the perfect image that had been her parents’ love, and she no longer knew the father she’d adored for almost fifty years.

  She wasn’t sure she could ever forgive him.

  13

  Moonlight Plains, 2013

  All morning, Luke was on high alert, ready for the first sound of a vehicle, or the first cloud of dust that would signal Sally’s arrival.

  She was due around n
oon and he was totally cool about her visit. At least, he’d assured her he was cool when she’d phoned a few days after their meeting at the nursing home.

  ‘Are you sure you’re happy to go ahead with this story, Luke? I couldn’t tell if you were serious the other day, or just keeping your grandmother onside.’

  ‘If you’re still keen to write the piece, then you’re welcome,’ he’d countered.

  He could hardly admit that his invitation had been completely impulsive. He’d already made one error of judgement by driving all the way to Townsville on the pretext that the stores there were bigger and better, when in reality, he’d chosen to avoid the increasingly annoying invitations from Kylie at the local hardware store.

  Served him right that he’d run straight into a Sally-sized complication.

  All it had taken was a glimpse of Sally’s candle-flame hair and delicate air and he hadn’t been able to think straight. Now he was setting himself up for another round of self-torture – being alone with her and knowing he had no choice but to respect her grief and keep his distance.

  Luke was genuinely sorry that she was suffering. He couldn’t imagine how hard it must have been for her to lose her husband. So the sane thing would have been to back right away from her, give her all the time and space she needed.

  Instead he’d invited her right back to the scene of her Major Mistake.

  Of course, they would both make sure that the mistake wasn’t repeated, but he was nervous when he turned off the noisy Lucas Mill he’d been using to saw planks and heard the sound of an approaching vehicle.

  His chest tightened as Sally’s car appeared. It was a neat little city sedan in peacock-blue and it looked like a shiny jewel as she pulled up beside his dusty ute. Jess leapt out the minute Sally’s door opened and took off, racing across the dirt, tail wagging like a windscreen wiper on top speed.

  Sally was laughing as she climbed out, laughing and heart-stoppingly lovely in green patterned jeans and a coffee-coloured top that made her skin look soft and sensuous.

  Luke’s smile was strained as they said ‘Hi’, both careful to make sure no touching was involved.

  At least the dog’s overjoyed exploration of fence posts and grass clumps provided a helpful distraction. ‘I think Jess’s in her second childhood,’ Sally said.

  ‘She’ll find so many smells out here that she probably remembers. Kangaroos, bandicoots, cattle . . .’

  ‘I guess.’ Sally stood for a moment, shading her eyes as she watched her dog running in ecstatic circles. ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘I didn’t take much notice of the garden last time I was here. You’ve been mowing.’

  ‘Thought I’d better try to get the grass back to something closer to lawn.’

  ‘It must have been lovely once. Is that a pond over there?’

  ‘Used to be a lily pond. Apparently my grandfather built it for Kitty.’

  Sally smiled. ‘How romantic.’

  Then she looked as if she wished she hadn’t said that.

  ‘Do you need a hand carrying anything?’ Luke said to cover the awkwardness.

  ‘Um, if you could grab the esky, that’d be great, thanks.’

  Sally had insisted on bringing lunch. ‘I hope you like chicken salad,’ she said, lifting the lid to reveal a cling wrap–covered glass bowl filled with dainty pieces of chicken and avocado and cherry tomato halves.

  Girl tucker, Luke thought, swallowing a wry grin as he took the esky. ‘Looks terrific.’ He could probably do with a break from corned beef and pickle sandwiches.

  Slinging a large canvas bag over her shoulder, Sally looked up at the house. ‘How’s it coming along?’

  ‘I’m making progress, but you won’t notice any big changes yet. I’ve been mainly tackling the structural work – strengthening the roof beams and the foundations.’

  Sally nodded. ‘I guess that’s very important.’ Then she drew such a deep breath that Luke wondered if she might be nervous too.

  She looked back again at the sweeping paddocks, the stands of gum trees and the overarching blue sky. ‘Jess’s not the only one who likes the smells out here. There’s a lovely timbery scent.’

  ‘I’ve been milling cypress this morning.’ He pointed to the sawn timber.

  ‘Of course. It smells fabulous.’

  Luke couldn’t help smiling back at her. He was partial to the smell of cypress, too. There were days when he could quite happily live in a cloud of that woodsy scent. But there was absolutely no point in getting excited about the first tiny thing they had in common.

  ‘Well, I guess we should get down to business,’ he said.

  Determined to be sensible and professional, they’d settled on a lunchtime slot for the interview so they didn’t lose too big a chunk from their working day. They called to the dog and settled her on the verandah with a chewy treat and a bowl of water before they went inside.

  Sally made a show of great interest in the new roof beams as they made their way to the kitchen, which now boasted two chairs, plus an extra camp table.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she said reaching into the bulging shoulder bag. ‘I’m certainly not trying to tell you how to do your job, but I brought a few decorating magazines and brochures from a paint company. I’m afraid I couldn’t help myself. I love dreaming about houses and stuff, and I’ve been collecting these for ages.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks.’ Luke thumbed through a magazine with beautiful colour photos of country-style interiors – a simple table topped by an urn of flowers set beside a gauzily curtained window, a spacious white kitchen with views of grazing sheep.

  He had a pretty clear vision of what he wanted for this house, but it occurred to him now that it would be all kinds of fun to go through his ideas with Sally, tossing around options.

  ‘Anyway, lunch first,’ she said, becoming businesslike. ‘I just need to add a dressing to the salad.’

  ‘Would it be impolite to slap a few rounds of bread on the table?’ Luke asked as he watched her toss her dainty concoction with salad tongs.

  ‘No need.’ Sally shot him a triumphant grin as she produced bread rolls wrapped in a tea towel. ‘Fresh from the bakery.’ As they made themselves comfortable at the camp table and Luke took his first mouthful, he forgot his hankering for corned beef and pickle sandwiches. Sally had sprinkled the salad with toasted nuts and, combined with the dressing, the flavours were amazing.

  ‘I think you could convert me to chick food,’ he admitted as he tucked in.

  ‘Chook food?’

  ‘Chick food. Girl food.’ He gave a guilty grin. ‘Bit of a joke in my family. The guys think every meal should be mostly meat, while the girls seem to love salad. But don’t get me wrong. This is great tucker! I’m loving it.’

  ‘That’s a relief.’

  Sally was smiling again but there was still an awkward awareness between them. It wasn’t easy to pretend that the amazing night in the swag hadn’t happened.

  Luke eyed the notebook and pen she’d set beside her on the table. ‘So how does this work . . . your job as a freelance journalist? Is it tricky, having to chase stories all the time?’

  ‘It can be. Luckily, it’s not my only source of income. I’m actually juggling a few jobs at the moment.’

  ‘A few?’ Luke frowned as it occurred to him that she might be a widow with money worries. ‘What sort of jobs?’

  ‘Oh, nothing backbreaking. I work a few days a week as a marketer for a big engineering firm – or at least, it used to be big before the downturn in mining. I was originally full-time, but when they had to reduce staff, I was offered a choice – redundancy, or a part-time job in the head office in Brisbane.’

  ‘How’d you feel about Brisbane?’

  Sally shrugged and looked down at her plate. ‘I couldn’t really consider it. Not when Josh’s job was in Townsville.’

  Oh, yeah . . . Josh . . . the husband . . .

  Luke fought off an inappropriate desire to envy the poor bastard.

  �
��Then, when Josh died . . . unexpectedly . . . ’

  There was an uneasy pause while she pulled her bun apart.

  Luke cleared his throat. ‘Was there an accident?’

  ‘Yes. A car accident.’ Sally concentrated on spreading a piece of avocado from her salad onto a corner of the bun. ‘The company decided to keep me on after all. I don’t know, I guess they felt sorry for me. But they could only offer me two days a week, so I do casual work for the Townsville newspapers as well. Subbing, advertising features.’ She pulled a face. ‘It’s all pretty boring, to be honest. That’s why I really want to do a lot more freelance work. Interesting feature stories.’

  ‘Like this one?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her eyes were alight with enthusiasm. ‘By the way, I pitched this idea to My Country Home, and they’re interested. I can’t believe it. I’m so excited. This could be my big break!’

  Her bright smile caught Luke like a lasso. Damn it, he almost leapt out of his chair and swept her into his arms.

  ‘Only too glad to help,’ he said instead.

  But what he really should have told her was: Sorry, this story is a bad idea. This interview is a really bad idea.

  He was practically jumping out of his skin with lust.

  ‘I’ll make us some coffee, he muttered, leaping to his feet and grabbing the kettle. ‘And feel free to fire away with your questions.’

  A spurt of excitement fluttered through Sally as she opened her notebook to a clean page and picked up her pen. She loved gathering material and making notes and looking for leads. At this point, every story brimmed with possibilities.

  ‘I think I’d like to start with talking about you,’ she said. ‘The human angle. I can focus on other details later.’

  ‘So . . . what do you want to know?’

  Luke’s smile had a cute little-boy quality and Sally was momentarily distracted.

  ‘Um . . . ’ Hastily, she dropped her gaze to her as-yet empty page. ‘Number one, I guess, is why this project’s important to you.’

  ‘Well, you already know about the family connection.’

  ‘Yes, but do you have a more personal interest?’