Wildflower Hill

by Freeman, Kimberley

  Perhaps it had once been a sitting room: there was a sofa, an upright piano. But now it was taken over by boxes. Cardboard boxes that were giving in to the weight of time, sagging and splitting; some plastic boxes with more recent things in them. I idly flipped the top off one. Papers, books, birthday cards . . . My heart caught. Here was a card I’d sent Grandma as a child. A picture of irises on the front; inside, my nine-year-old handwriting: Dear Nana Beattie, happy birthday and I love you, Emma.

  Tears. Where had they come from? I slid the card back into the box and wiped them away. When Mum had called me to say Grandma was dead, it had been such a shock. Even though she’d been in her nineties, I’d always imagined Grandma as being invulnerable. Immortal. She’d seemed so strong. I’d always thought I’d see her again.

  The tears and the dust set me sneezing again. I opened more windows, opened the doors onto the courtyard. Came through to the kitchen and let in light and air.

  Then I braced myself: stairs were getting easier, but they still made me nervous. One foot in front of the other, holding on to the dusty banister. When I’d made it, I stopped for a minute to rest the joint. It throbbed dully. The carpet up here made the air seem all the more stuffy. I went from bedroom to bedroom, throwing open curtains and windows, letting the breeze in, marveling at how many boxes of stuff Beattie had. She hadn’t actually lived in Wildflower Hill for decades before her death, but she had clearly used it as a place to send and store things. Perhaps she’d intended to come back one day and sort it all, or perhaps once it was out of sight, it was out of mind.

  The last bedroom was the master bedroom. Despite the aging carpet and the patterned wallpaper, it felt roomy and sunny. The window looked out into the branches of the big tree that the driver had been so worried about. Across the paddock was a small wooden cottage, an old open shed, and the fallen-down remains of what might have been stables once. Beyond were fields, rolling down and away. Uninterrupted silence, except for the shushing of the breeze in the trees. Then the breeze dropped, and all that was left was the beat of my heart. Beattie had sold off all but five acres of the farm and all the livestock long, long ago. Once it had been two thousand acres, a thriving business. I couldn’t even imagine two thousand acres, let alone the kind of work to take care of it. Grandma had seemed so ladylike in her old age, more concerned with designs and fabrics than farm life.

  I pulled the dustcovers off the furniture. An iron-frame bed, an oak dresser with a corroded mirror, bedside tables, a bookshelf crammed with old paperbacks, a camphorwood chest for linen. I flipped open the chest. The smell of mothballs was overwhelming.

  I closed the door on the master bedroom, making the firm decision not to use it during my stay. That would seem too much like I was settling in for a long time. It would be far easier to clean up one of the smaller bedrooms, live out of my suitcases for three weeks. I chose one on the western side of the house so it would be nice and dark in the morning. I opened the window and shook out the dustcovers, feeling overwhelmed by all the tasks ahead. Cleaning. Sorting. I’d envisaged all this differently. I’d thought I’d sort a couple of boxes, send most of it to the dump, give the place a bit of spit and polish, then leave it for the real estate agents. Easy. But none of this task was actually going to be easy, nor was it going to be quick. Perhaps if I were able-bodied . . . But then if I were able-bodied, I wouldn’t be here in the first place.

  A loud knock and a friendly shout from the front door shook me out of my self-indulgent misery before it started. Visitors? Already? I’d heard stories about country people but had hoped they weren’t true. I didn’t want endless visitors. I wasn’t good with people; I couldn’t make small talk. I always said the wrong thing, or misunderstood, or ended up seeming like a princess.

  I left the bedroom and went to the top of the stairs, then stopped. I really didn’t want to be going up and down if I didn’t have to.

  “Who is it?” I called.

  “Mr. Hibberd sent me,” a woman’s voice called. “The door’s open, can I come in? I know you’ve got a crook knee.”

  Mr. Hibberd. I’d expressly told him I didn’t need help. But before I could answer, she was in, one of my suitcases in either hand, standing at the bottom of the stairs. She was young—perhaps in her early twenties—with fair hair in a ponytail. She wore jeans and a blue T-shirt.

  “Hi,” she said, “I’m Monica Taylor.”

  “Emma.”

  “I know who you are,” she said, smiling. “Everybody in town knows who you are.”

  “Are they all going to come and visit unannounced?” I regretted the unkindness in my words as I said them. When had I turned into such a cranky old lady?

  Monica shook her head. “Okay, listen. Mr. Hibberd paid me to come down here this afternoon. My dad used to look after the gardens here when he was a teenager, so we have a family history of helping out. I’ve got a bunch of stuff for you in my car. Fresh linen, groceries, even flowers. I’m not here to interfere or be your best mate, I’m just going to drop off the stuff and go.”

  I sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s the stairs. They make me anxious. I know I have to get used to them, and it’s not as bad as it used to be . . .” I tried a smile. “I’m really grateful. Give me a second and I’ll come down.”

  “No need. I’ll just drop the stuff in the kitchen.” She was back out the front door, and I made my way down—descending stairs always hurt more—and then met her in the kitchen. She insisted I sit down—“I’m being paid, just let me earn it”—while she switched on the fridge, unpacked a new electric kettle, washed up some dishes and cups, and put the groceries away. All the while she chatted. She’d never met Beattie, but everyone in the town was proud of her for her independence, her spirit, and the way she insisted on stocking her world-class fashion line with Tasmanian wool. I listened, eyeing the kettle and longing for a cup of tea.

  Monica seemed to read my mind. “Now, how about I make you a cup of tea and then get out of your hair?”

  “Let’s have one together,” I said, still trying to make up for my lack of manners earlier.

  Monica beamed, transforming her pale little face. “I’d love that.”

  So we drank tea together. She told me about how she’d had a job in Hobart, but she’d recently grown impatient with city life—I tried not to laugh, Hobart was so small—and had come back to Lewinford to live with her brother, who taught English at the local high school. She got by working odd jobs and a few hours a week in the local pharmacy. As she talked, I thought about the huge task ahead of me. If I wanted to be out in three weeks, I’d need help.

  “Monica,” I said, “if you’re looking for work, perhaps I could pay you to come up here a few days a week and help me sort the place out. I’m going to sell it, but I’ll need to empty it first. There are hundreds of boxes, and the place needs a really thorough clean.”

  “I’d love to!” she squeaked “That would be so much fun. I was wondering how you’d manage with your knee the way it is. You’ll definitely need help. When do you want me to start? Now? I can muck out the kitchen for you while you go and have a rest.”

  As much as it made me feel like a nana, I had to admit that having a nap on nice clean sheets while somebody else got my kitchen ready was very appealing.

  “Okay, then,” I said. “Go right ahead.”

  Around three in the morning, I woke to the sound of rain and remembered I’d left all the windows open to air the place out. At first I lay in bed listening. It was only light rain, surely not enough to gush in windows. But then it intensified, the wind picked up, and I knew I’d have to get up. And face the stairs.

  I turned on every light, memories of the night I’d fallen coming back to me. Made my way down, then felt a rush of stupid pride. I went from room to room, closing windows and locking the dust back inside. Then up the stairs again and back to bed.

  By now, though, I was wide awake and couldn’t sleep.

  I stared at the ceiling for a long time, liste
ning to the rain, working out what time it was in London and what Josh might be doing; who might be at the dance studio; if the leaves had all fallen off the big oak across from our apartment yet. Then, because that hurt too much, I thought about nothing at all for a while. I became aware that the temperature was dropping, and then all at once I wasn’t comfortable anymore. I needed a blanket.

  I rose once again and made my way to the master bedroom and the old linen chest.

  I flipped open the lid. The smell was intense. I pulled out the sheets folded on top and shook them out. They were discolored and old. No point keeping them, really. The whole thing—chest and contents—could go to the dump at the end of the week. Monica had said her brother, Patrick, would come and help them with any large or heavy things.

  More sheets, no blankets. Right at the bottom, a scratchy gray one that stank so strongly of mothballs it nearly made my eyes water. I figured I could just put on another layer of clothes for tonight. I was about to put it back in when I noticed an old exercise book lying in the bottom of the chest. I flipped through it. The pages were blank. But just when I was about to toss it back into the chest, a photograph slid out of the book and landed on the pile of sheets.

  I picked it up. Black and white. The lower left corner was water-damaged. The couple in it were dressed humbly but tidily—he in a suit, she in a fitted dress with a hat and gloves—standing in the street. The woman held an infant with a frilly bonnet on.

  My eyes took a second to realize. The woman was Grandma. Unmistakably. Her round eyes, her wide cheekbones, and that smile that I’d inherited, which always looked fabulous on her but somehow looked goofy on me.

  But who was the man with her? Not Granddad, who was much taller and thinner than this man. And what about the child? Mum and Uncle Mike had both been born in the fifties, but this picture looked to have been taken much earlier than that.

  The smell of mothballs was making my sinuses ache, so I put down the photo and threw the linen back in the box to lock it away. I went down to the bathroom to wash my hands, then came back to pick up the photo and take it to bed. By the light of the lamp, I studied it some more. The man had his arm around Grandma’s waist; they looked like a couple. A couple with a child. But I must be mistaken. Perhaps the man was a cousin or a close family friend. We knew little about Grandma’s family back in the UK. I turned over the thought in my mind, then slid the photograph into my bedside drawer and turned off the light to wait for morning.

  I must have dozed enough to dream. I was back in London, and the apartment was full of birds. The noise was deafening. I startled awake and realized that the bird noise was real. I had never heard so many birds at once in my life. I rose, opened the window, and listened, astonished, as the air vibrated with their morning calls from the trees behind the house. Why on earth did people talk about the peace of country life? This was louder than traffic.

  Dreaming about London had made me melancholy. I got back into bed and screwed my eyes tightly shut and resisted imagining what Josh was doing. I wondered if he’d even heard that I’d left England, that my career was in tatters.

  I sat up. Of course he didn’t know. News of my injury had made the papers, but he never read anything but the business and finance section. Josh didn’t know. And perhaps if he did know, he might take pity on me and . . .

  Ouch. Was I desperate enough to settle for pity?

  I checked my watch next to the bed. It was eight in the evening in London. I couldn’t ring Josh, but I could ring Adelaide. She wasn’t my employee anymore, but surely she’d still be willing to help.

  First I had to conquer the stairs again. At the top, my heart fluttered. When was I going to get over this feeling? I figured there was nobody around to see me, so I sat on the top stair with my bad leg out in front of me and slid down on my bottom. All the way to the lower floor. Like a baby. At least it beat the feeling of vertigo.

  There was only one phone, and it was connected to a wall in the hallway downstairs. I really needed a portable phone, with an outlet upstairs, or my dreaded mobile; but I wasn’t going to be here long enough to worry about it. I’d make do. I dialed London, Adelaide’s familiar number, and waited for her to pick up.

  “Hello?” She sounded breathless, as though she’d been running.

  “Hi, Adelaide. It’s Emma.”

  Surprise. “Oh, Emma! I was expecting somebody else. New boss.”

  “Who are you working for now?”

  She sighed. “Alberto Moretti.”

  “No! The Flying Fascist? How on earth did you get that job?”

  “His last PA quit the same week you left for Australia. And yes, he’s just as bad to work for as people say. He rings at all hours of the day and night, he wants everything yesterday.” She chuckled. “It’s so nice to hear from you. Reminds me of the good old days when I worked for somebody who was normal.”

  “Was I normal? I’m coming to understand I was pretty self-absorbed.”

  “Yes, but in a nice way. How’s Sydney?”

  “I’m not in Sydney. I’m in Tasmania, six butt-jarring kilometers of dirt road outside a small town called Lewinford. My grandmother left me a house, and I’m cleaning it up to sell it.” I told her the whole story, even about the mysterious photograph I’d found last night. I knew I was rambling: too embarrassed to tell her why I really called.

  After a few minutes she said, “I’m sorry, Emma. I’m really going to have to go. I’m sure Alberto’s trying to call me, and he’ll be cross if he can’t get me.”

  “Wait. I just . . . Have you . . . heard or seen of Josh?”

  Adelaide paused, thinking. “Josh? No.”

  “Adelaide, I know you’ll think I’m a fool, but . . . I don’t know if Josh ever knew about my accident and—”

  “He knew,” she said quickly. “He phoned me when you were in the hospital having one of your operations. He’d seen it in the paper.”

  I softened inside. “He did? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “He asked me not to. Didn’t want to . . . I don’t know.”

  “Get my hopes up?”

  “Yeah,” she admitted. “That’s what he said.”

  It stung. I took a second to catch my breath.

  “I really have to go,” she said.

  “If you see him,” I said, “tell him I’m back in Australia. Give him my mum’s phone number. I’ll be back in Sydney in a few weeks.”

  “Why don’t you just call him yourself?” she said gently. “You were together a long time. I’m sure he’d be pleased to hear from you.”

  I bit back a bitter laugh. “I don’t want him to think I have my hopes up.” I gave Adelaide all my contact details and let her go back to waiting for her phone call. I went to the front door and stepped out into the cool fresh morning. The birds were still calling, the sunlight was lying flat across the damp fields, the sky was the blue of dreams. It was a scene out of a glossy coffee-table book, and I knew I should have felt overwhelmed by the peace and beauty of it. But I just felt empty and lost.

  After breakfast, Monica arrived. While I was completely overwhelmed by the task of cleaning out the house, she was practical and organized.

  “Do you want me to set up the master bedroom for you?” she asked as she packed a dozen eggs and a package of bacon I hadn’t asked for into the fridge.

  “No, I’m going to sleep in the one closest to the bathroom,” I said.

  “The master bedroom’s so nice and sunny, though.”

  “You know what would be good? If you could see if any of these keys open the cottage across the paddock.”

  “The old shearers’ cottage,” she said, scooping up the keys. “I’ll see. And I’ll get your bedroom and bathroom set up. That way at least the places you’ll use the most will be clean.”

  I left her to it and went down to the sitting room to start sorting through boxes.

  I came to realize that Grandma never threw anything away, and it became difficult for me to do so, too. She
had every letter, every card, she’d ever received. Some of them were in neat folders: old electricity bills dating back years, not even for this address. They were easy to throw out. But correspondence between her and my grandfather, when he was away and she was home with the babies, was far more difficult to put on the pile. I found myself getting distracted constantly, stopping to read, then reminding myself that I didn’t have time for this. I started a “might keep” pile on top of the piano, and as the days went by, it grew.

  We tried every key on the ring and couldn’t open the shearers’ cottage. I’d peered through the grimy windows, but they were covered over with old gingham curtains. I phoned Mr. Hibberd, but he couldn’t help, either. “I gave you all the keys I had,” he said. “Call a locksmith.”

  I didn’t bother. I figured it was probably empty.

  By the end of the week, we’d piled up twelve boxes of rubbish by the door and needed help carting it all to the dump. Monica had organized for her brother to come on Saturday. So I wasn’t surprised, while opening the windows to air the main bedroom, to see a man standing at the foot of the sick eucalyptus tree, looking up. He didn’t see me, so I went down to greet him.

  “Hello,” I said. “You must be Patrick.”

  He turned his eyes to me. “Hello, yes, that’s right. I was just looking at your tree.”

  I don’t know what I’d been expecting of Monica’s brother: perhaps a meaty country bloke in a blue singlet with a workingman’s tan. But Patrick was a tall man with straight blond hair grown almost to his collar, pale skin, and heavy-lidded green eyes. He was also older than I’d expected. I knew that Monica was only twenty-one, but I estimated Patrick was in his thirties, like me. His face was more interesting than handsome. At first glance, he seemed to have something Eastern European about his bearing, like one of the great composers. A little intense, a little scruffy. I couldn’t help comparing him to Josh, who was so polished and so well made.