The Secret Years

by Barbara Hannay

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘No. Unfortunately, that’s the story. If I stay on as a soldier, it will upset the balance in our relationship.’

  ‘What century does that guy think this is? Doesn’t he know that sort of thinking went out in the Dark Ages?’

  ‘Well, clearly, he has a very tender ego.’

  Kaz made a scoffing sound. After a bit, she asked somewhat awkwardly, ‘So was it your idea to call the engagement off?’

  Lucy sighed. ‘Yeah, I guess. Actually, it was pretty much mutual. A kind of implosion. Everything seemed rosy and then it suddenly turned to shit.’ Lucy felt her mouth twist out of shape as she relived the evening in Sam’s flat when the truth had hit home.

  Now she had to take another steadying breath.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Luce,’ Kaz said gently. ‘If only I wasn’t down here at the Gold Coast, I’d come over. Take you out for a drink or three.’

  ‘I would kill for that drink with you, Kaz.’ Lucy indulged in a moment of feeling completely sorry for herself. ‘Actually,’ she added quickly before she did something stupid like crying. ‘I’ve been thinking about our travel plans. You remember how we were going to do England and Ireland together?’

  ‘Yes.’ Kaz sounded cautious.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d still be interested? I know it’s last minute, but the flights aren’t too expensive. It’s low season over there – mid-winter.’

  ‘Oh, Luce, I’m sorry. Brad and I are going to Thailand. We booked two days ago and we’re heading off straight after Christmas.’

  ‘Oh, right. That’s okay.’ Lucy’s voice cracked at just the wrong moment, making a mockery of her attempted nonchalance, but she soldiered on. ‘That’s fine. It’ll be – ah – fabulous for you both. You’ll have such a fantastic time. That’s wonderful. I’m so pleased for you.’

  ‘Brad would never forgive me if I tried to wriggle out of it now.’

  ‘Of course. Don’t even think about it. God no, Kaz. It was just a crazy suggestion off the top of my head. Spur of the moment.’

  ‘But you should go to England, Lucy.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m thinking I might.’ Had she really said that?

  ‘Don’t think twice, just do it.’ Kaz sounded genuinely enthusiastic now. ‘It would be magic to see England in winter. The total opposite of Townsville and, under the circumstances, I reckon that’s exactly what you need.’

  ‘Yeah.’ The idea of a solo adventure was taking root, making more sense by the second. The only stumbling block would be her mum, who had major hang ups about England and would probably put up a fight just like she had when Lucy had told her about her original travel plans. But there was no point in postponing it. She would head straight back to the apartment, have a shower and then start investigating bookings. When everything was settled she’d confront her mum.

  Right on cue, Ro had the predicted meltdown when she heard Lucy’s change of plans.

  ‘Not England again. I can’t believe you’d want to go there in winter. Honestly, it’s just like when you joined the army,’ she wailed. ‘You raced off then and did your own thing. You wouldn’t listen to me. You never do, Lucy. I couldn’t even guide you or influence you when you were little – not about anything – hair, clothes, your friends.’

  Lucy garnered as much patience as she could muster. ‘I think you’re overreacting, Mum.’

  ‘Overreacting?’ Tears filled her mother’s eyes. ‘How can you say that, girl? You know you rushed headlong into the army. I could have helped you to find a much more suitable career.’

  Lucy resisted the temptation to point out the flaws in her mum’s own career path. ‘The army’s been great for me,’ she said.

  This was met by a stubborn shake of auburn curls. ‘Great for you, maybe, but what about me? You did everything you could to get into a war zone.’

  ‘It’s not as if I was fighting in the frontline.’

  ‘You didn’t have to be. You were still in danger. There were people killed on the base, as you very well know. You visited that poor soldier’s widow yesterday, and took presents to his fatherless kids.’

  ‘Yes, but —’

  Dramatically, her mother flung her arms wide. ‘How do you think I felt, worrying every day, listening to the news and reading the papers, waiting for the knock on the door?’

  This set Lucy back. ‘You never said a thing.’

  ‘There wasn’t any point, was there? You wouldn’t have listened.’ Now her mother pouted. ‘Daughters are supposed to listen to their mothers. I never had a mother to give me advice, but I bloody well would have listened if I’d had half a chance.’

  ‘You reckon?’ Lucy wasn’t prepared to take this lying down. ‘You had a father, Mum. Harry was a wonderful father and you’ve practically ignored him.’

  This time, her mum opened her mouth to protest, then seemed to change her mind and shut it again.

  Lucy seized the chance to push her point home. ‘And if we’re going to have this argument, what about the fact that I never knew my father and I’ve often wished I did? You wasted a fantastic opportunity with Harry.’

  The triumph of firing this missile was momentary. When her mother’s face crumpled, Lucy immediately felt guilty. Given the two-way tensions between them, she knew there was an element of hypocrisy in her own accusations. Just the same, she wasn’t going to be manipulated by her mother’s emotions. It had happened too many times in the past.

  Besides, she wasn’t going to England simply to escape. She was hoping to find out more about George – Georgina. She had a right to know about her own grandmother, surely? She had a sense that she might understand her self better if she knew more about her family’s past.

  ‘Could you try to look at this from my point of view?’ She was trying her hardest to sound calm and reasonable. ‘I’ve taken a big hit from this breakup with Sam and I need to get away for a bit, to be somewhere completely different.’

  ‘But you’ve just come back from somewhere completely different.’

  Lucy sighed. Clearly this was going to take a while.

  Harry’s yard was looking pretty good now. Lucy had cleared the straggling veggie patch and weeded the other gardens. She’d gathered up the fallen mangoes and mowed, whipper-snippered and raked the grass. They were sitting under the mango tree, enjoying a cool drink while the sprinkler hissed softly in the background, when she told him about her travel plans.

  She had already told Harry about Sam and once he’d realised she wasn’t too devastated, he’d reacted with surprising equanimity.

  Eventually, she’d felt compelled to ask. ‘Did you like Sam, Harry?’

  He’d taken his time to answer, before he’d eventually said, ‘Well, you know, he struck me as a young man who believed his own PR.’

  Lucy suspected that this rather damning description of her former boyfriend should have upset her, but it hadn’t.

  Now, having told Harry about going to England, she said, as casually as she could, ‘I was wondering if there’s anyone you’d like me to look up while I’m over there – like my grandmother’s family in Cornwall.’

  If Harry was surprised, he didn’t show it, but he took a while to answer. ‘It’s a long time since I’ve heard from any of them.’

  ‘I’m just curious, you know. About my ancestors and everything.’

  ‘I guess it’s up to you, Lucy. Just don’t expect too much.’

  ‘Well, no, I won’t. I know Mum had a tough time over there.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Has she told you about it?’

  ‘No. She just gets angry if the subject comes up.’

  ‘Yes, that would be right.’ Harry sighed.

  Lucy’s head was swarming with questions she longed to ask, but she’d decided to take her cues from her grandfather. If there were things he wanted to tell her he would. If not, she at least knew that she had a branch of the family – descendants of the dreaded letter writer – still living over there. And she had their a
ddress.

  __________

  Boxing Day found Ro at the airport, the last place she wanted to be, but as had happened so many times in the past, she’d lost another battle with her daughter.

  Now, Lucy was on her way. Already, the plane was a small dot in the sky above Palm Island, heading north to Cairns, and from there Lucy would take a flight on to London via Hong Kong.

  It was all so very disappointing. Her daughter had been home for such a short time and Ro had nursed such high hopes. Almost nothing had worked out the way she’d imagined. There would be no wedding plans. No pleasant mother-and-daughter mornings in bridal shops. No handsome son-in-law. No chance of a sweet little grandchild . . .

  So extremely upsetting.

  Ro had been desperately hoping that everything would be perfect this time, in the lovely new apartment with her lovely new man. She had dared to let her imagination get carried away, picturing an engagement celebration with champagne on the apartment’s balcony – and then all the happy plans that would follow.

  Instead of shopping for her mother-of-the-bride ensemble, she was clutching a bunch of mascara-streaked tissues and making her teary way to the airport restrooms where she needed to wash her face. She couldn’t possibly go home to Keith looking such a mess. She certainly didn’t want him to know how upset she was.

  She just needed a moment, a little personal space to feel sorry for herself. And yes, to acknowledge that she was angry with her daughter. Not just angry with Lucy for calling off the wedding, or for racing off to England, but also for stirring up the problems from the past that Ro had been trying, desperately, to put behind her.

  Ro had tried to argue her case, but she hadn’t liked to fight too hard when she knew that her daughter was hurting about Sam. After all, she’d been rejected enough to understand the pain. She just wished Lucy had chosen anywhere to run to but England.

  England!

  Ro cringed as she remembered Lucy’s questions.

  ‘What happened in England? Why is it such a big dark secret?’

  ‘I blotted my copybook. Okay? Can we leave it at that?’ But any kind of admission to Lucy was a mistake.

  ‘Blotted your copybook leaves a lot to the imagination, Mum. Are we talking about major blottage?’

  Ro hadn’t replied. Not only did she hate to admit to the mistakes she’d made, but she also couldn’t bear the emotions that accompanied her memories of those years she’d spent in England against her will – the secret years, Lucy had called them. She simply wasn’t prepared to revisit that time, to dredge up the intense anger and betrayal she’d felt at being sent away from Kalkadoon to live among snobby, aloof strangers.

  Was it any wonder she’d dug in her heels, refusing to be called Rose and behaving atrociously? Getting herself into trouble of the worst kind?

  There was little to be gained by confessing to her daughter. The past was dead and buried. It had to be. Ro was moving on.

  With Keith.

  Unfortunately, though, Ro knew exactly where Lucy was heading. And why. She was well aware that the crumpled letter had disappeared from the kitchen tidy bin, complete with the address in Cornwall.

  When it had come to challenging Lucy about it, however, she’d backed down. It would have brought on another barrage of those difficult, searching questions from her daughter and she’d already been through the third degree.

  Now, as she stared at her pink-eyed, blotchy reflection in the restroom mirror, fresh tears welled, but before they could take hold, she splashed her face with cold water, which was fortunate timing, as a trio of giggling teenagers suddenly burst into the Ladies’.

  Lord, she had to get a grip.

  She patted at her face with a paper towel, reached into her handbag to feel for her lipstick and powder, and vowed to stop this self-pitying.

  After all, there was plenty to be thankful for. Christmas Day had been lovely, the Christmas of her dreams. She’d decorated the apartment tastefully with brand new ornaments, and set the table elegantly with white and silver. The seafood and champagne had been of the very best quality, and Lucy had got on beautifully with Keith and his daughters.

  It was time to be grateful for what she had. Time to let go of the past once and for all, or at least until her daughter came home and stirred things up again. With any luck, Lucy would be surrounded by exciting new sights and people in London and she would forget all about digging up trouble in Cornwall.

  Fixing her smile firmly in place, Ro reminded herself of the good news from the astrologer she’d visited a few weeks back. Her life was on an upward trajectory.

  At last.

  12

  Cornwall in January was all blustery winds, dark sheeting rain and even darker seas. Lucy, watching the huge waves explode onto rocky sea cliffs, was reminded of the books she’d read back in her school days about pirates and shipwrecks and smugglers flashing lanterns to send messages through the storm-lashed night.

  It was a damn exciting destination, she decided, although she could imagine that her mum, arriving as a child and alone among strangers, might have found the place rather grim and forbidding.

  Lucy, on the other hand, was rather enjoying her independence as a solo traveller. She’d caught a train from London to Penzance, and had loved every moment of the journey past pretty English villages, and fields bordered by hedgerows, and the astonishing, gobsmacking green of the hills dotted with black-and-white cattle, the forests of leafless trees. Then she’d picked up a hire car and had driven on, across more picture-perfect countryside with quaint, thatched farmhouses and little villages that seemed to cling to the cliff tops like barnacles.

  Night fell early though – about mid-afternoon – and of course it was raining, so Lucy’s journey had been a little scary at times. She made her way slowly, windscreen-wipers thrashing madly, down narrow, winding country lanes, which on occasions were bordered on both sides by alarmingly tall hedges.

  With next-to-no visibility, it was particularly scary when a tractor appeared out of nowhere, completely blocking her way. But phew. She’d finally made it. Or at least, she’d made it to the seaside town of Portreath, which, according to the map, was very close to Penwall Hall, the address on the letter.

  Relieved to have arrived, she pulled into the very last spot in the tiny, crowded car park next to a white-walled pub called The Seaspray Arms.

  With the wind whipping at her heels, she snapped the central locking and dashed through the icy rain and into the welcome warmth of the pub to find a low-ceilinged room with dark beams, a flagstone floor and, best of all, a blazing log fire.

  Locals in thick sweaters or tweed jackets were gathered in happy groups, and there was music playing – something low but jaunty – in the background. It could have been the setting for an episode of Doc Martin.

  Eyes turned her way as she unwound her scarf and hung it with her new designer trench coat on a rack near the door. She didn’t mind the none-too-subtle stares as she ran her fingers through her damp hair. She was feeling pretty good about her appearance tonight.

  She’d bought a fab, morale-boosting wardrobe of new winter gear in London and tonight she was wearing Le Skinny charcoal jeans and ankle boots, and a fine wool, cherry-coloured sweater with a polo neck. After growing up in tropical Townsville, where the winters had never really been cold enough to bother with more than the occasional cardigan, it was a novelty to dress stylishly for the cold.

  Now, walking up to the bar, Lucy felt a new confidence. It was surprisingly liberating to be so far from home and from everyone she knew. Away from Sam. Returning to singledom was not such a bad thing after all.

  ‘So, what can I get you, love?’ The barman was a cheerful chap, middle aged, with a round, ruddy face and a fringe of hair circling his bald patch that made Lucy think of Friar Tuck.

  ‘I’ll have a whisky, please.’ It was too cold for beer. ‘And a packet of crisps.’ Already she’d learned not to call them chips.

  ‘Would you like water
with your whisky?’

  ‘No, neat’s fine.’

  ‘You’re an Aussie.’

  Lucy grinned. ‘I am indeed, mate.’ As she drew up a barstool and he set the drink in front of her, she wondered if Australian girls had a reputation for drinking their whisky neat.

  ‘On holiday?’ the barman queried politely.

  ‘Yes.’

  He looked apologetic. ‘It’s not the best weather for it.’

  ‘Maybe, but I don’t really mind.’ Then she felt compelled to justify her vacation choice. ‘I’m looking into my family history while I’m here.’

  Now he nodded sagely. ‘Genealogy.’

  ‘Well, sort of,’ she mumbled, before taking a sip of her drink.

  He left her then to attend to other customers. Lucy took another sip of the whisky and felt it warming her insides all the way down. She opened the packet of chips and looked around her. It was all so very different from her favourite pub in Townsville, which was open and airy and had views of the river and the tropical beer garden at the back.

  This place was snug and colourful, with overhead lights reflected in the rows of hanging glasses, so that they shone like chandeliers. Rows of colourful liqueur bottles added to the ambience, as well as decorative old brass ships’ fittings and framed prints of marine charts and of sailing ships in the harbour. Someone had written a sign on a blackboard in curvy script: Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass, it’s about learning to dance in the rain.

  Lucy smiled. In Townsville, the sign would be more likely to say: No shirt, no beer.

  The locals, after their initial quick inspection, were no longer taking any notice of her, so she was free to observe them. Quite a mix, really – elderly couples, men she guessed were farmers or fishermen, groups of laughing young people. There were none of the suits and ties she’d seen so much of in London.

  Everyone seemed to know each other and they were all now back in conversation, probably discussing small details of their lives, the state of the world, sharing jokes, by the looks of things. She felt quite comfortable about sitting alone, however, and was enjoying herself – trying to imagine living here for a few months, making friends, fitting in. She wondered why her mum seemed to have such bad memories of the place.