Wildflower Hill

by Kimberley Freeman

“We’re three weeks out from shearing season.”

  “You can manage without me.”

  He pressed his lips together tightly.

  “I don’t care about sheep. I don’t care about anything but getting my daughter back.”

  “And if you don’t? If they won’t let her go?”

  “I’ll make them let her go.”

  That night Beattie was sorting her papers on the floor of the sitting room. The fire was warm, the wireless crackled, Charlie drew up plans for the shearing season. Beattie had dug out her passport and was consumed with a sense of purpose. She had phoned a shipping company that could give her a berth to London in two days. She had to finish up some important bookwork before then. From London she’d make her way to Glasgow, show up on Henry’s doorstep before he could protest. How dare he? How dare he take her child away and then try to control how and when Beattie saw her?

  The piece of music on the wireless finished. An announcer’s voice came on, smooth and rich. He was talking to another man, but Beattie was only half listening. There had been talk in the last month of an increasingly aggressive Germany, but it seemed so far away, so removed from her simple life down here at the bottom of the world.

  She became aware that Charlie had stood and turned up the wireless.

  “What is it?” she asked, looking up from her bookwork.

  “Did you hear?” he said.

  She shook her head.

  Music burst once more from the wireless. “We missed the news. Germany invaded Poland.”

  Beattie didn’t admit that she wasn’t even sure where Poland was. “Is that right?”

  Charlie shook his head. “You don’t understand. England had a pact with Poland.”

  Beattie’s heart grew hot.

  “We’re at war, Beattie.”

  He begged her not to go. The night before, he held her against his warm body all night. She barely slept, waking over and over with a swirling ache inside her. To be apart from him for so long . . . But she held true to her purpose. She would get Lucy, she would bring her home, they would live as a family.

  Deep down, she knew this fantasy had many things wrong with it, but she refused to acknowledge them. To make this journey, she had to be single-minded. She couldn’t sacrifice a moment of her focus.

  He dropped her at the dock just after midday.

  She turned to him, her eyes fixed on his. “Goodbye, my darling,” she said.

  He tried a smile. “You’ll be back soon. I’ll keep busy.”

  She nodded, tears pricking her eyes. She pushed herself against him, and their last kiss was searing, passionate. “I love you,” she said.

  “I love you, too,” he replied. “Forever.”

  She took her suitcase and waved him off, watching until the car disappeared around the corner. At the end of a long gangway, a large ship painted red, black, and rust waited. Gulls flapped overhead. The sour smell of the harbor rose up from the barnacled wood. Off to the side, a tiny wooden office shed. This was where she was to meet the booking agent and pay for her fare. She felt giddy at the idea of getting on the ship, of the long journey and the cold distance between her and Charlie. It was as though she could feel Charlie drawing away, farther and farther. And Lucy so far now. Both of them in opposite directions, and she alone at the center of the world.

  Beattie walked up to the office and pushed the door open. It was empty. She glanced around outside but couldn’t see anybody hurrying to help her. A cloud passed over the sun. Inside, two wooden chairs were pushed up against the wall. She sat down, pulled out a notepad and pen, and began to write Charlie a letter, one she could build on over the coming weeks. Furiously, she poured out her feelings. They would get married, they wouldn’t care what anyone thought, because this love was greater than worldly matters.

  “Miss Blaxland?”

  She looked up, quickly shuffling the letter into her notebook. “Yes?”

  A man stood at the door. He had dainty features apart from very dark eyebrows. “I’m Alan Jephson. We spoke on the phone.”

  She stood and offered her hand to shake. “When do we set off?” she asked, sounding braver than she felt. “I’m keen to get settled in my cabin.”

  He didn’t quite meet her eye. “I’m sorry, miss, but we’re not going to be able to take you to London after all. We’re all in a bit of a flap this morning and—”

  “Not take me to London? But I booked it.”

  “Things have changed since then. We had word this morning that the Germans have torpedoed an unarmed British liner off the coast of Scotland. The Athenia. Over a thousand civilians on board.” His mouth clenched, and Beattie didn’t know if it was fear or sadness. “We don’t know what to do. We’re waiting for orders.”

  “But . . . you have to go. I have to get to Scotland. When will you know? Whose decision is it?”

  He looked shocked. “Miss, do you not understand? You’ll be traveling into a war zone. We don’t know what those Jerries are capable of. You’d be taking your life into your hands. A hundred people died, including a little girl.”

  A little girl. Like Lucy. She started to cry.

  “There, there,” he said, handing her a big white handkerchief. “This silly war has all of us in a flap. You’ll see, it’ll be over by Christmas. Storm in a teacup. Save your traveling until then.”

  Beattie thanked him for his handkerchief and left the office, picked up her suitcase, and made her way back up to the street. She gazed up over the buildings. The big hump of Mount Wellington sat behind the city, striped with sun and shadows. What was she to do now?

  Dragging her feet and her suitcase, Beattie went into every shipping office she knew, even the one where Henry had once worked. At each one she heard the same story: wait and see.

  But she didn’t want to wait and see. She wanted to act now, while she had the courage and the anger. Her frustration intensified as the day progressed, until she was snapping angrily at shipping clerks who were only trying to preserve the lives of their crew at a frightening time.

  By the time she’d received her last refusal, it was too late for the bus back to Lewinford, and besides, she thought she might pay someone to drive her directly to her door in the morning. She tried to phone Charlie, but he wasn’t answering. He was probably out in the last shred of dusk, pushing sheep into paddocks, ready for shearing season. Thoughts of Charlie made her smile, and she fell asleep early and slept deeply.

  Charlie whistled the dogs back home, fed and watered Birch, and returned to the house.

  It was strange to be here alone, rattling around the empty house. Even though Beattie was slight, her warm presence filled the place. Everything seemed a little cold without her.

  Dusk had faded to dark, and he was pulling leftovers out of the refrigerator when a knock came at the door.

  Curious, he went to answer it.

  Six faces looked back at him, none of them friendly. He recognized Frank Harrow, his wife, Tilly, two of the old coots from the pub, and another two men whose faces were only vaguely familiar. His heart picked up its rhythm. “What is it?”

  “The lady of the house not home?” Harrow asked.

  Charlie shook his head.

  “We saw you leave town with her and come back without her. Been wondering what you did with her.”

  “She’s gone away a little while.”

  “Where? How long?” Tilly demanded.

  “That’s her own business.”

  “It’s our business if we think you done away with her,” one of the old fellows said, and Charlie realized they were drunk. The danger of his situation pressed itself upon him suddenly, and he tried to close the door.

  “No, no, wait on,” Harrow said, pushing the door open again with his foot. “Where you going, blackfella?”

  Charlie knew nothing he could say would make a difference, so he said nothing.

  “The lady’s gone missing, and you’ve got the whole farm to yourself. You sure you haven’t done something yo
u shouldn’t?” Harrow said.

  “We all know he’s done something he shouldn’t,” one of the unfamiliar men said. “Climbing aboard a white woman like that.”

  “I’ll thank you to keep it clean,” Harrow said. “My wife is here.”

  “What do you want from me?” Charlie asked.

  “Simple. You leave now, and we won’t hurt you.”

  Charlie nodded. What did it matter? He’d just sneak back tomorrow, around from the north. And remember to keep the doors locked next time. If he was going to keep the farm ticking over while Beattie was gone, he had to be more careful. “All right,” he said.

  Harrow looked taken aback. Perhaps he’d been hoping for a fight. Charlie shut the door behind him and pushed his way through them and down the path. They jeered at him, even the woman. He’d never thought women could behave like members of a pack, and it turned his mind to Beattie, her softness, her grace.

  Smack! Something hard and heavy hit him in the back of the neck. His legs crumpled underneath him, and his ears rang loudly. Consciousness receded, then sprang back. Voices in the distance, and one up very close.

  “In the dirt where you belong, blackfella,” Harrow said.

  Charlie kicked him as hard as he could between the legs, and then Harrow was kneeling beside him, spitting venom and curses. Harrow dragged himself up onto Charlie’s chest.

  Charlie felt the blade but never saw it. Hot pain. Harrow was stumbling away, still cursing. Charlie felt at his stomach, pressed his hand against the searing pain. His fingers came away black with blood.

  Still disoriented, he couldn’t stand. He lay on his back, looking up at the stars. In the distance, a car engine. They were leaving. He had to get to Beattie’s car and drive himself to the doctor. But his energy was flowing away from him; he couldn’t gather his limbs.

  The car engine again, this time closer. They were coming back. Headlights washed over him. A silhouette of a man approaching.

  “You got to help me,” Charlie.

  The man leaned over him. Not Harrow. Leo Sampson.

  “Charlie? Oh God!” Leo saw the blood and recoiled.

  “You got to help me,” Charlie said again, and his own voice seemed to be coming from far away.

  “Did they do this to you? I heard them talking about you in the pub. They all left together, and I followed.” His voice was panicked, tripping over words.

  “Get me a doctor, Leo?”

  Leo bent to help him up, but the pain was excruciating. He yelped.

  “Just leave me here. Bring somebody back, quick as you can,” Charlie said. Each thump of his pulse seemed weaker than the last.

  “I will,” Leo said, climbing to his feet.

  “Leo, if I die—”

  “You’re not going to die.”

  “If I die,” Charlie said as forcefully as he could manage, “don’t tell Beattie how it happened. She’ll blame herself.”

  “But the police should know. They should be brought to justice.”

  Charlie shook his head, impatient. “There’s never any justice for men like me. You know that.”

  “But you deserve justice, Charlie. You’re a good man. One of the best.”

  “Just promise me. Don’t tell Beattie. Don’t tell anyone. I’d save her that pain at any cost.”

  Leo nodded gravely. “Yes, yes. I promise.” He touched Charlie’s shoulder, then turned and ran for the car.

  The stars looked on patiently, so Charlie gazed back at them. They had seen his birth; they had witnessed his greatest love. It was only right they should be here now.

  The car dropped Beattie off at the bottom of her driveway, and she hefted her suitcase up the dirt path. She had cried all the way up from Hobart, quietly in the backseat, and hoped she had made peace with her decision. After the war, she would go to see Lucy. In the meantime, she would play by Henry’s rules: she would write letters, send presents, call long-distance when their phone was connected. When the Germans were defeated and travel wasn’t so fraught, she would head over there—perhaps even on an airplane, if she had a good wool clip this year—and negotiate with them reasonably.

  Leo Sampson’s car was parked in her driveway. She frowned. She hadn’t been expecting him. She hurried to the front door, pushed it open. “Charlie?” she called.

  Leo appeared from the sitting room. He looked as though he had been up all night. “Beattie,” he said. “I didn’t know where you were.”

  “Charlie didn’t tell you?”

  He approached her, took her hand. “Come into the sitting room.”

  She pulled her hand away, fear icing her skin. “No. What is it? Why are you here? And where is Charlie?”

  Leo licked his lips.

  “Leo?” Beattie said, her throat blocking up with terror. “Tell me!”

  “There’s been an accident.”

  “No.” Her face crumpling, her chest heaving. “No, no, no. Not my Charlie?”

  “Beattie, I—”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m not . . . I’m not certain. I had driven up to see you, and Birch was there, all saddled up, reins dragging. He led me to . . . Maybe a snake spooked the horse. Charlie was . . .”

  She gazed back at him. Mute. Willing him not to say the thing she knew he was going to say next.

  “I’m sorry, Beattie, Charlie’s dead.”

  “Where is he?” she gasped. “Can I see him? Is he . . . ?”

  “His body is at Dr. Malcolm’s. You don’t want to see him, Beattie. Remember him in life.” Leo shook his head, pinched the bridge of his nose. “I can make arrangements for him to be buried right here in the house paddock, if you like.”

  Buried? Buried? Charlie in the ground. Her hands scrabbled at her face, her sobs so loud they terrified her.

  “I’m so sorry,” Leo was saying, trying to gather her against him for comfort.

  But she didn’t want to be held, not by anyone who wasn’t Charlie.

  Leo backed away. She collapsed at the bottom of the staircase, sprawled herself out, and banged her head on the corner of the closest stair. A scream trapped inside her. Time telescoped—minutes, hours. Emptiness. Emptiness. Year after empty year, waiting ahead of her.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Emma: Tasmania, 2009

  A warm breeze moved through the bushes outside the double doors of the school hall, and in the distance I could see the masts of boats down in the harbor, colored flags flapping. I waited on a long wooden bench while Patrick and Marlon set up inside, to enjoy the turn toward summer. Blue skies, warm sun on the grass and on the water. One by one, cars arrived and the children were dropped off. One or two came up to hug me, and I was taken aback by their artless affection. Mina came last, in her father’s white Lexus. She got out, closed the door, and he drove off. I walked down to the car park to greet her. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her cheeks were flushed in her pale face.

  “Hello, Mina,” I said.

  “Did you come back?”

  “I did. I’m going to teach you some ballet.”

  Her face broke into a broad smile. “Really?” She grabbed my fingers in her warm, soft hand and squeezed them hard. “Swan Lake?”

  “The Nutcracker. Is that okay?”

  She nodded, not releasing my hand, and we went inside.

  Marlon took them through his usual warm-up, then Mina and I split off into a back room with the stereo and the Nutcracker CD. It took her a little while to understand that she’d been singled out, that I wasn’t going to invite Becky or Zack or any of her other friends. But once she figured out the situation, she devoted herself with intensity to the task. I was hugely surprised—embarrassed though I was to admit it—by the way she applied herself to learning the movements, and even more surprised by how well she copied them. I saw in her real grace. After about half an hour, though, she flagged.

  “I’ll learn some more later,” she said, abruptly stopping in the middle of a movement.

  It took m
e a second to adjust my focus. I wanted to say, “You’ll never learn if you give up that easily,” but had to remind myself that she wasn’t a ballerina; she was a girl with Down’s syndrome. And she had done brilliantly.

  “Well done,” I said. “It’s a great start. You are going to be the most beautiful Dew Drop anyone’s ever seen.”

  She took my hand and shook it solemnly. “Can I go back with the others now?”

  I watched the rest of the rehearsal from the stalls. Actually, I watched Patrick’s back quite a bit more than I watched the rehearsal. He had a straight back, nice square shoulders. A little on the skinny side but not bony. Josh worked out; he had the muscles of a docker even though he spent all day inside an office, where he had to lift nothing heavier than his BlackBerry. For the first time ever, this struck me as funny.

  Rehearsal finished, and Patrick and I had to wait outside for twenty minutes with Mina because her father was late. I took her through her steps again on the grass, but she had trouble concentrating without the music, so I let her be. Finally, the Lexus arrived. He beeped, and Mina walked down to the car park with a quick “goodbye.”

  “He never comes to watch rehearsal?” I asked Patrick quietly.

  “Never.”

  “Concerts?”

  “Never.”

  The door slammed and they drove off.

  “Bastard,” I said.

  Patrick sighed. “We don’t really know what goes on inside families. Best not to judge.”

  “Does she have a mother? Siblings?”

  “Her mother died when she was little. No siblings.”

  I turned the thought over in my mind for a while. Then Patrick said, “Are you hungry?”

  “No,” I said, before I realized the ramifications of his question: hunger in company meant a lunch date. “I mean, yes. A little. We’ve got to eat, after all. Did you want to go and get some lunch?”

  “If you like.”

  “Sure. Why not?” I said, wondering if I sounded at all nonchalant.

  We wound up in a café at Sandy Bay. The coffee was a disappointment, but it was nice to look at Patrick’s front instead of his back. I found it hard to believe that I’d once thought him more interesting than handsome. In fact, his face was appealing. His eyes, in particular, were an unusual shade of green, and the outer edge of his lids creased upward in an exotic way.