‘It’s not too bad at all,’ Alice told her. ‘Your CWA friends did a wonderful job and we’ve stacked the dishwasher with a second load.’
‘Oh, aren’t they angels!’
Jackie sipped her tea and it was just the way she liked it, steaming hot and sweet. ‘I must say, I think tonight went well.’
‘It was a good party,’ Hugh agreed. ‘Hell, it wasn’t just good, it was a bloody great party.’ Over the rim of his mug, he sent Jackie a smiling wink. ‘Thanks, love.’
‘And to think you fought me tooth and nail to call it off,’ she teased.
‘Did I?’ He gave a smiling shrug. ‘Ah, well, wives always know best.’
‘It’s turned out to be a perfect celebration for all of us,’ said Flora who was sitting on the floor near Xavier. Jackie had noticed that the two cousins had spent quite a chunk of this evening with their heads together, talking about music. She hadn’t realised they had so much in common.
Seth, who was looking exceptionally happy, chimed in. ‘The last big bash for the Drummonds of Ruthven Downs.’
‘That’s very true.’ For a moment Hugh looked sombre and Jackie was terribly afraid that they would all become sentimental and tearful, she more than anyone else.
But before that could happen, Hugh said, ‘You know what’s missing tonight?’ And he was looking directly at Flora.
‘Oh, no.’ Flora’s smile was incredulous and she rolled her eyes. ‘You’re not going to ask me now, Dad.’
‘Of course I am,’ said Hugh. ‘It’s my birthday and you always play it for me.’
‘Yes,’ cried Jackie. ‘We have to have “Danny Boy”.’ Flora had played this little piece for her father every year since she was eight, when she’d first learned the tune. Back then she had played it scratchily, with a few ear-splitting wrong notes, but with enormous pride, and it had become a tradition, one Hugh adored.
‘Come on, Floss,’ added Seth.
His sister needed no real urging. She was already on her feet, and was soon back from her room with her violin case.
Goodness, Jackie thought as she watched Flora remove the instrument and pluck the strings lightly, checking the tuning. I’m going to become sentimental and teary after all.
She drew a deep breath, fighting the impulse to cry as she remembered what both Flora and Kate Woods had whispered to her during the night – that a decision had been made about Flora’s future and it definitely included leaving Oliver. This was such good news.
It was a night for laughter, not tears. Their family’s eyes were on the future, even though it was filled with uncertainties.
Now, Flora tightened her bow, lifted the violin and tucked it beneath her chin. The room was hushed, everyone watching her. Even Alice looked entranced as she sat close to Seth, her hand linked in his. There was an extra-happy glow about that couple tonight, Jackie had noted with secret glee.
Lifting the bow, Flora drew it tentatively over the strings, testing the tuning one more time and making a slight adjustment to the tension of a string. Then another small change, until she was satisfied. She flashed Hugh a fond smile. ‘Happy Birthday, Dad.’ And she played ‘Danny Boy’.
The first beautiful notes of the haunting, familiar tune lifted fine hairs on Jackie’s arms. Tears pricked her eyes and her throat ached, but she forced herself to smile.
The music swelled and soared. These days, Flora could add expert flourishes and trills, and each note was sweetly pitched, clear and perfect, filling the room, lifting to the high ceilings. Jackie looked at the others. Seth was grinning from ear to ear and Xavier looked rapt. But Hugh, her darling Hugh, was struggling just as she was to smile. Alice, with a tight hold on Seth’s hand, also looked as if she was about to cry. Even Deb’s eyes were shining with fondness and pride.
Behind them on the far wall of the dining room, as a backdrop to the scene, stood the tall sideboard, with its softly gleaming timber and shiny new mirror, and the family photographs in their silver frames. Generations of Drummonds.
Jackie thought of Stella, who’d also loved this place and had worked so hard to be a good wife and mother despite her secret heartache. Poor Stella had probably been terribly worried when she hid those documents behind the mirror, but thinking about it now, Jackie thought she’d been wise to put a freeze on a very difficult situation and to leave it for future generations to sort out.
We should try to keep that sideboard, Jackie thought. It holds too many memories.
The prospect of movable memories was a comforting one.
‘Danny Boy’ came to an end. The last notes lingered and a hush fell over the audience, until they broke into a burst of cheering and applause. Some wiped their eyes.
‘That was marvellous, darling,’ said Hugh. ‘Thank you. You play it more beautifully every year.’
‘It was awesome,’ said Xavier.
Flora accepted the compliments graciously, and as she moved to put the violin away, Hugh said, ‘“Danny Boy” was my mother’s favourite song, too.’
Flora nodded. ‘I remember when I first learned to play it, Gran was even more excited than you were, Dad.’
‘Yes,’ said Seth. ‘When Gran lived in that little place in Atherton, that friend of hers, the guy next door, used to sing it for Gran sometimes.’
Jackie stared at Seth in surprise. ‘Her neighbour used to sing “Danny Boy”?’
‘Yes, do you remember, Floss? When we used to stay overnight?’
Flora pretended to pout. ‘You were always Gran’s favourite.’
‘You stayed there, too,’ said Seth. ‘But we had to take it in turns, because she only had that one tiny spare room with the single bed. Anyway, the point I’m getting to is that sometimes, when I stayed there, the fellow who lived next door to Gran used to come in and join us for a game of cards or Dominoes or whatever.’
‘Or Snakes and Ladders,’ chimed in Flora. ‘Yes, I remember him. He was a lovely old chap.’
‘But do you remember that he also used to sing “Danny Boy” for Gran, because it was her favourite?’
Flora frowned. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘I remember it distinctly. Maybe he only ever sang it once or twice. He wasn’t all that good a singer, to be honest, but Gran still loved it and he was a nice old fellow. An Englishman called . . .’ Seth was searching his memory.
‘Tom?’ supplied Flora.
‘Yes, Tom, that’s right.’ Seth frowned, staring into the distance, then shrugged. ‘Can’t remember his surname.’
‘No, neither can I,’ said Flora.
Not Kearney? Jackie almost cried, but just in time, she held her tongue. No, of course, it couldn’t have been Tom Kearney. She was getting carried away, trying to slot together an ancient jigsaw when too many pieces were missing.
Even so, she found herself thinking about the nice old fellow who’d lived next to Stella. Seth and Flora were right. He was English. He had only a little hair and a longish face with deep creases running from the corners of his eyes to the sides of his mouth, and his lively eyes squinted when he smiled.
He’d come to Stella’s funeral, too, and he’d been ever so sad.
Jackie turned to Hugh, and saw her own puzzlement mirrored in his face. Hugh nodded in silent acknowledgement and she realised he was wondering the same thing, but he was probably as doubtful as she was.
It couldn’t be him.
Neither of them voiced their thoughts. It was late and this bizarre coincidence wasn’t something to be shared with the others now. None of the younger generation had read Stella’s diary.
‘It’s been a huge day,’ Jackie said. ‘I vote we all go to bed.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Hugh. ‘You young people can keep partying if you must, but keep it quiet – make that very quiet – out on the verandah.’
‘I need to rescue my poor babysitter,’ Seth said, getting to his feet. ‘She’ll be desperate to get home.’
Everyone else rose too and there was a chorus of goodnights as people trai
led away – Deborah to her room, Flora and Xavier to the verandah, Alice and Seth off to the cottage.
As Jackie followed Hugh into their bedroom her head was swimming. Tom.
No, of course it couldn’t be him.
A lamp beside the bed cast just enough light to see by. In the semi-darkness she slipped off her sandals, unhooked her earrings and dropped them onto the glass tray on her dressing table. She looked again to her husband.
Before she could speak, Hugh said, ‘Thanks so much for tonight. It was perfect.’
‘I’m glad you had a good time.’
They moved towards each other, arms already reaching, slipping into a companionable hug as they had so many, many times. Jackie tucked her head against Hugh’s shoulder.
‘The party was just right,’ he said. ‘So much more than a birthday. It felt like a celebration of all the years we’ve lived here, and maybe a kind of staging point before the next chapter.’
‘I’m glad,’ Jackie said. ‘And I know what you mean. I don’t feel so bad about the thought of leaving here now, do you?’
‘Not at all. I think I’m looking forward to it.’ He kissed her forehead. ‘As long as you’ll be there too.’
She smiled up at him and when their lips met, their kiss felt familiar and dear, yet full of promise.
‘I love you.’
‘I love you too, Jackie girl.’
The words, so often shared, meant as much tonight as they ever had. Jackie’s mind flashed to the rest of her family. To Seth and the difficult year he’d just weathered. To Flora and the brave decision she’d made. To Stella and Tom and their long years of separation and probable loneliness. ‘We’ve had such a happy life, Hugh. We’ve been so lucky.’
‘I know, I know.’
She went into their adjoining bathroom to remove her make-up and clean her teeth. She was applying moisturiser when Hugh appeared, wearing his striped pyjama bottoms.
‘This Tom fellow who lived next to your mother,’ she said as Hugh reached for his toothbrush. ‘It must be a coincidence, surely?’
Hugh frowned. ‘I suppose so. I don’t know what to make of it, to be honest.’
‘I wonder if he’s still alive.’
Their gazes met in the mirror and Jackie knew Hugh was as desperately curious as she was.
He smiled. ‘We could always try to find out.’
40
I’ve always wondered if this day would come, and now it has. Stella’s son and his wife have visited me, and I liked them very much. They’ve found a diary of Stella’s. Apparently it has been hidden for years, but everything’s out in the open at last and I’m glad. I was never ashamed of my love for Stella and our story deserves to be told. They asked me to add a final entry, which I’m happy to do.
Looking back now, it’s hard to believe that I almost didn’t call on Stella. I had no idea what to expect after all that time . . .
When a strange vehicle pulled up at the front steps, Stella was home alone, busily packing in preparation for leaving Ruthven Downs.
Her first reaction was annoyance. She’d been making such good progress, sorting her clothes into piles – those to throw away, those for charity shops and those she would keep to take with her. She didn’t want to have to stop now to make cups of tea and polite conversation.
She wanted this packing to be finished. After that, she planned to clean the house from top to bottom, to have everything perfect and ready for Hugh and his new bride when they returned from their honeymoon.
Outside, the car door closed and Stella heard firm footsteps on the gravel. She went to the dining room and peeked through the curtains. And froze.
No.
It couldn’t be.
She clutched at the back of a dining chair for support. Surely she must be seeing things? She blinked and looked again through the fine net curtain, and this time, even though she hadn’t seen him in more than twenty-five years, there was no mistaking the tall figure mounting the front steps.
Her heart began to pound so loudly she barely heard his knock at the front door, and her legs were so weak, she could scarcely make it down the hallway.
When she opened the door, he didn’t look any different. Not really. More suntanned than ever, and greyer, of course. She thought his receding hairline made him look even more intelligent.
‘Hello, Stella.’
‘Tom.’
Keeping a death grip on the door handle, she wished she wasn’t wearing her oldest house dress, wished she’d shampooed her hair, wished she was one of those women who wore make-up around the house.
‘I finally got your letter,’ Tom said. ‘It was forwarded to my new post in New Guinea. I’ve been working up in the highlands, so it took a while to reach me.’
Stella nodded, still too surprised to speak sensibly. Over the many, many years since their parting in Cairns, their letters had been infrequent. Mostly, they’d been polite, a little stilted, dealing with superficial news, but the contact with Tom had still been intensely important to her.
Four years ago, she’d written to tell Tom about Magnus’s stroke, and she’d found his letters incredibly comforting during the difficult long years that followed, nursing her bedridden and helpless husband.
Just six months ago, she’d sent the news that Magnus had died, and more recently she’d told Tom about Hugh’s wedding and her own plans to leave Ruthven Downs.
Tom said, ‘Port Moresby’s only a quick flight away from Cairns, so I thought –’ He hesitated and lifted his hand in a gesture of uncertainty. His smile had a nervous tilt, and the shimmer in his eyes caused a hitch in her breathing.
‘It’s good to see you, Tom.’ She took a step back, opening the door wider.
‘Is this – a convenient time to call?’
‘Yes, of course. Come in.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Would – would you like a cup of tea?’
Tom smiled at her then. The skin crinkled around his grey eyes and she felt the same rush of tingling excitement that she’d felt on that very first night in Singapore.
‘Yes, please,’ he said politely. ‘I’d love a cup of tea.’
She led him down the hallway and her heart picked up pace as she passed the doorway to the dining room and saw the sideboard where she’d hidden her diary pages and Magnus’s letter. Her husband had discovered her history with Tom, but her children knew nothing, and she wanted to keep it that way.
‘Would you like to wait here?’ she asked, indicating the lounge room. ‘Or would you prefer to come through to the kitchen?’
Tom nodded towards the room at the end of the hallway. ‘The kitchen. Let’s not stand on ceremony.’
While Stella boiled water and set cups and saucers on the counter, Tom stood at the kitchen door looking out over the paddocks.
‘This is a beautiful property.’
‘Yes, it’s looking at its best. We’ve had a good wet season, so there’s plenty of pasture.’
He turned from the view. ‘And your son has taken over the cattle business?’
‘Yes, Hugh’s been looking after the cattle ever since Magnus had the stroke.’ Not bothering to hide her motherly pride, she added, ‘He’s a very organised and businesslike grazier. This year, he made sure he’d mustered and sold off the stock before the wedding, so I haven’t had to worry about the cattle while he’s been away.’
Tom nodded his approval. ‘And your daughter? Deb?’
Stella smiled, remembering the time in Cairns when Deb was a baby and Tom had sung her to sleep with ‘Danny Boy’. ‘Deb’s not the slightest bit interested in cattle. She’s off in Central Australia somewhere, camping with a group of artists and painting desert landscapes.’
She warmed the teapot, added tea leaves and boiling water and changed the subject. ‘What about you, Tom? What have you been doing?’
They sat at the old kitchen table, drinking the tea and eating buttered slices of date loaf, and he told her stories about the places he’d wo
rked, in South America, in India and now in New Guinea.
‘You’ve always been an adventurer,’ she said. ‘Even before the war, you were in Malaya.’
‘I’ve tried going back to England, but it just doesn’t feel like home any more. It’s so cold and grey and – and predictable. I’ve come to love the tropics.’ Tom smiled. ‘The heat, the strong colours, the chaos.’
And the women? The question jumped into Stella’s head. She knew there must have been other women in Tom’s life. He was too handsome and virile to have lived like a monk. But did she want to hear about his love life?
‘You never married,’ she said.
Tom didn’t answer. He simply sat looking at her with a bemused, frowning smile, as if he couldn’t quite believe that this fact needed to be stated. Stella felt her cheeks grow hot.
‘So you’re not going to stay here?’ Clearly he was as adept as she was at changing the subject.
She shook her head. ‘I want Jackie, that’s Hugh’s wife, to have free rein. I’d hate her to feel as if her mother-in-law was breathing down her neck.’
‘That’s thoughtful.’ Tom picked up his teaspoon and seemed to study it carefully, even though it was a very plain little thing. He turned the spoon over, as if to check its hallmark.
Stella was remembering a time, long ago, when he’d held her hand as carefully as that, studying her fingers, kissing her knuckles one by one.
‘Have you finalised your plans?’ he asked quietly.
She had sudden difficulty breathing. Why was Tom here? Was he hoping she might go away with him?
How could she go now? She couldn’t. Not without sharing awkward explanations with Hugh and Deb, with the risk of exposing details that Hugh, in particular, should never learn.
‘I’ve bought a cottage in Atherton,’ she said. ‘It’s about an hour from here, on the Tablelands. It’s where I plan to live.’
The disappointment in Tom’s eyes almost broke her heart. Again.
She did her best to explain. She told him about the most terrifying night of her life, when Magnus had hurled insults and accusations about their adulterous relationship. She told him about Magnus’s letter to his lawyer, his misguided belief that Hugh wasn’t his son, his plans to disinherit Hugh.
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