“He never comes in.”
“Really?”
“Drops her off and picks her up. I’ve only ever seen him through his car windshield. She’s the oldest here; she’s just turned seventeen.”
“She seems very keen.”
“She’s amazing. But I think she’s sad sometimes. All the dances we do are to old show tunes or pop ballads. I think she really would like to do something more like real ballet.”
I opened my mouth to say that I could help, but then I changed my mind. I’d be gone soon. Best not to raise anyone’s expectations.
Monica and I were making headway. I was getting better at throwing things out. I didn’t need to keep every birthday card Grandma had ever received, every drawing Uncle Mike had done in kindergarten. I had a week to go before my flight, and if I worked around the clock, I believed I was going to make it. Monica stayed longer hours. I sorted boxes until the early hours, then fell to sleep dreaming of more boxes filled with random, unidentifiable things.
Then Monica found the key. She was cleaning out the dining room, pulling out all the drawers in the oak sideboard one by one. The key wasn’t hidden, it had just slipped to the back of the drawer and become jammed.
“Look,” she said, standing in the threshold to the kitchen, where I was sorting business letters on the table. I glanced up. She held it out, told me where she’d found it.
“It’s got to be for the shearers’ cottage, right?” I said.
“It’s the only door we haven’t been able to unlock.”
“Can you go and have a look?”
She nodded once, then took the stairs down through the laundry. I was skimming through an old letter to Grandma from a wool classer. I could barely understand what was being said, whether the letter was important. It was dated 1938, so Penelope Sykes might want it. I sighed, started a new pile. Went to the next letter. I started thinking about a coffee break.
Then Monica thundered up the stairs. “Emma!”
I turned; she stood at the top of the stairs, panting.
“Oh my God,” she said. “It’s full.”
“Full?”
“Come and look for yourself.”
I eased myself out of my chair. I’d learned that getting up after sitting still for a long time was a killer. Then I followed Monica carefully down the stairs and out through the laundry.
The sunshine was uninterrupted, but it was still cool. The morning breeze moved gently, rustling through the tall gums on the edge of the property. A pair of rabbits bounded away from us. We let ourselves out of the gate and across the overgrown green field to the shearers’ cottage, an old stringy-bark cabin on the edge of the property. The door stood open. Cobwebs everywhere. And boxes. More boxes.
In every room, boxes.
“Jesus,” I said.
“When does your plane leave?”
“Sunday at one.” I turned to her. She was smiling, and although I felt overwhelmed at the thought of more boxes—so many more boxes—I had to laugh. “I’m not going home, am I?” I said.
She shrugged. “I guess you could just take it all to the dump.
But I couldn’t. I’d only just begun to realize that I was looking for something in these boxes. I was looking for the story behind Grandma buying a sheep farm for nothing, for who the little girl in the photograph was, for what Grandma did before she had Mum and Uncle Mike and settled down to life as a businesswoman and an MP’s wife. I didn’t want to miss anything.
I opened the lid to the nearest box and peered in. Mostly books. Perhaps it wouldn’t take long after all. “I’ll ring the airline, cancel my flight. Rebook it later, when I know I’m truly finished.” That felt better; the sense that I was racing the clock had disappeared. “I’ll get the house properly ready for sale, even if it takes another month.”
“You want me to stay on?” Monica asked.
“Absolutely. I couldn’t do it without you.”
“Do you want me to clean out the master bedroom, then?”
“No,” I said quickly. I was superstitious: if I moved into Grandma’s old bedroom, that would mean I was staying forever. “I’m happy where I am.”
The two rooms I loved best in the house were the kitchen and the sitting room. My bedroom was just where I slept, and I didn’t tend to go up there until I was so tired that I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore. The sun in the kitchen kept me there during the day, and the fireplace in the sitting room kept me there at night. It wasn’t really cold enough for a fire, but I loved the sound of it, the glow of firelight. In London I’d only ever had central heating. My evenings involved listening to the radio, drinking a glass or two of wine, and reading old letters.
I was sitting on the couch, well into my second glass of red, reading one from Granddad to Grandma from an official trip he took to Hong Kong, when “The Waltz of the Flowers” from Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker came on the radio.
I had to stop everything and listen, even though it hurt me. My first professional role as a soloist had been Dew Drop in Balanchine’s version, and this had been my moment. It was agony, here at the end of my career, to be reminded so brightly and sharply of the start of my career. My hopes. My dreams. My muscles and sinews seemed to twitch, remembering the movements, but I was still as a stone.
When it finished, I took a moment to gather myself, finished my glass of wine. I began to think about that first production. Balanchine’s choreography called for children to play the roles of Clara and the Nutcracker, and he’d simplified the roles. I was no great choreographer, but I knew Dew Drop’s dance inside out. Was there a way I could simplify it? Not for a child but for a girl with Down’s syndrome?
I stood and flicked the radio off, tested my weight on my knee in the middle of the sitting room floor. Like me, Mina couldn’t do anything complex or flexible with her legs. I hummed the tune and thought about some of the movements Marlon gave to the children. There was a lot of stomping and kicking. I tried to moderate these movements so they were more elegant, more like something Mina would think was ballet. Then I went through some of the arm positions, adding more to them so that they were telling the story that my feet couldn’t. A vision flashed into my head: Mina, dressed all in pale colors, dancing in the center of the stage. The others, in white, around her, echoing her movements. It wouldn’t be real ballet, not even close. But it would feel like ballet, especially to Mina, who longed for that music.
Then I sat back down. Did I really want to get involved? How long would I be here, anyway? If the boxes in the shearers’ cottage were just books and knickknacks, I’d be tossing most of it out by the end of the week, be on a plane to Sydney a day or so later.
But Sydney wasn’t where I wanted to be, either. Where I wanted to be was in my life six months ago. I bit my lip, determined not to cry or to feel sorry for myself. Determined not to feel the great emptiness.
Over the next few days, I kept refining the dance for Mina. All the time wondering if I was being an idiot. I didn’t really know anything about her or what she was capable of. But I just kept getting this vision of her in my imagination: her pale skin, the lights on her, moving with childish grace to the sublime music. I was almost certain I’d made it simple enough yet still sufficiently beautiful and elegant to satisfy a girl who loved Swan Lake.
Finally, I decided I’d have to speak to Patrick directly, show him what I’d come up with. I was prepared for him to say it wouldn’t work; I’d be disappointed, but it would be better than getting Mina’s hopes up over nothing.
I didn’t tell Monica where I was going, though I knew she’d find out. Patrick would tell her. She’d offer to drive me to town, and then she’d be there when I showed Patrick my ideas. Was I embarrassed about that? Perhaps. Was I hoping to be alone with Patrick?
Perhaps.
I told her I was going for a long walk and left her sweeping the shearers’ cottage. She was singing along to a CD she’d brought with her, happy enough. Always happy. I found it impossible to believe sometimes, con
sidering she had lost her parents so young. Patrick had done a wonderful job of keeping her stable under the circumstances. There was so much to admire about him.
I wasn’t falling for Patrick. It was Josh whom I thought about at night before I went to sleep. I’d go over the first time we met, or the night we moved into the apartment, or any one of the wonderful, glamorous moments in our wonderful, glamorous life. Sometimes my thoughts were the fantasies of a teenage girl. I composed elaborate scripts of what he would say and do on the day he begged me back, imagined in keen detail the feel of him when he took me in his arms at the airport, how he might cry over the pain he’d caused me. Then I’d grow embarrassed for myself and stop, resort to tears of my own instead.
But still, Patrick intrigued me. He was like nobody I’d ever met. I felt good when I was with him. I turned up at the school just after three o’clock, and the secretary at the office directed me to the English department’s staff room.
When Patrick saw me, he smiled and tripped over his words. “Emma. What are you doing here?”
“Hi. Surprise,” I said, realizing I sounded like an idiot. “I wanted to show you something.”
“Hang on just a second.” He shut down his computer and stood up, pulling on a gray hoodie. “What is it?”
I explained to him what I’d been working on. He nodded, didn’t show any real sign of excitement. I started to fade . . .
“‘The Waltz of the Flowers’?” he said. “It sounds a little complex for her.”
“You’ll have to let me show you. But if you think it’s too hard for her, that’s fine. I just imagine she’d be beautiful at it.”
He smiled, hitching his backpack over his shoulder. “Okay, I’ll take you down to the music room, and you can show me.”
We walked through the school as it emptied. He’d said that it was a high school, but there were kids from all age groups here. Patrick was tall, with a very straight back, and seemed quite oblivious to the older teenage girls who glanced at him under their eyelashes as he walked by. The music room was empty but unlocked. A low stage was set up in the corner, but it was covered in boxes full of musical instruments.
Patrick opened the cupboard and found a CD player. “I’m fairly sure we have that music on a CD,” he said, rummaging in the cupboard.
Now I was starting to feel foolish. He was going to put a CD on, and I was going to dance to it. But not the dancing I could do, not the dancing I used to do, when I was in full flight. For one of the first times in my life, I felt awkward in my own body. Embarrassed.
He found the CD and put it on, and I steeled myself and thought about Mina. Went through the movements. Now he started to smile broadly, nodding.
“Yes, yes,” he said. “Keep going. It’s beautiful.”
I wanted to say, “You should have seen what I used to be able to do.” I wanted him to see me dance, to watch what my body was capable of, to know the grace and beauty that I could pull down from the sky. I stumbled to a halt, not meeting his eye. “Anyway, there’s more of the same,” I said. “And about six other kids could be involved. Is it worth my coming to another rehearsal?”
Patrick flicked off the CD player and steepled his hands against his lips, thinking. “I think that’s up to you,” he said at last.
“Up to me?”
“Mina will want to. Her father will be happy to let her. But it could take her a little while to learn it all.”
“Oh. I’d have to teach her? I couldn’t just show it to Marlon?”
He thought about this. “Perhaps not,” he said slowly. “I think you would need to do it.”
“Okay, well . . . I think I’ll be around for another three weeks or so.”
“Perhaps six?”
He was asking me to stay. Did I want to stay? It wasn’t even a question I could answer. There was nothing for me back in Sydney.
“Yes, perhaps six weeks. I can’t sell the place until March, anyway.”
“If you could get us through to the Christmas concert . . .”
I wanted to say no. I didn’t want to commit. Not to anything. But why not? Was I imagining that my knee would suddenly get better? That I would be off, back to London, to resume my career? Tears pricked my eyes.
Patrick stepped forward, gently touched my wrist. “I’m so sorry, Emma. This is too much to ask of you.”
“No, no. I’m fine. I’m just thinking,” I said, embarrassed by my sudden tears, surprised by the warmth of his hand on my arm.
“Mina will be fine. She doesn’t need to learn a special dance.”
“She does,” I said, feeling it deeply. “I know what it’s like to be young and obsessed with ballet.” I forced air into my lungs, sniffed back the last tears. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cry.”
“Tears come when they come,” he said, withdrawing his hand. “Do you want me to run you home? I can pick up Monica.”
“I’ll stay,” I said. “I mean, I’ll stay here in Tassie. Until the Christmas concert. I’d like to help out.”
“That’s . . .” He looked like he was trying to hide a grin. “That’s great, Emma. It’s amazing.”
The phone’s ringing woke me early the next morning. Early? It was eight o’clock. I’d slept in. Too much wine.
I felt for the receiver on my bedside table. “Hello?” I managed.
“It’s Penelope Sykes. I have something for you, and I wondered if it might be all right for me to drop by this morning on my way through.”
At least it seemed people were figuring out I didn’t like drop-ins. “Sure. What is it?”
“I was flipping through those old record books when I found it. It’s a letter. Personal. Very personal.” A short chuckle. “You should probably keep it.”
I sat up, my curiosity piqued. “I’d be grateful if you dropped it in.”
“Good. I’m just leaving now. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
I showered quickly and got dressed for the day and tried to shake the hungover feeling. I knew that drinking a lot and alone wasn’t good, but last night I’d fallen all the way into the pit and couldn’t climb out. Today would be better, I promised myself.
Penelope was on my doorstep right on time.
“Will you come in for tea?” I asked as she handed me the letter.
“No, I’ll be on my way. I don’t want to interrupt you.”
I realized I must have seemed unfriendly, perhaps even hostile, on her last visit. “It’s no trouble,” I said, smiling too much, feeling like a fool. “I’ve pulled out a few more things for you.”
“Call me next week, perhaps, at a time that suits you.” She tapped the letter softly. “There’s no addressee, no date. But it was in the back of a book from 1939. I assume from the record books that it’s your grandmother’s handwriting.” Then she was backing away, heading for her car.
I opened the letter, still standing in the doorway. A light breeze plucked at its corner. Penelope was right, it was Grandma’s handwriting. It started midsentence, so it was only one sheet of a longer letter.
. . . but love isn’t a thing to be told what to do, and I am not a woman to be told what to do. I love you, and whatever anyone else says, nothing can change that immovable fact. I feel as though I have loved you always, as though you were a star in the sky at my birth, waiting patiently for me. When I look at you, my ribs ache. My skin burns. I’m thinking of you now and flushing warm. Is there anything more natural and beautiful than such a reaction? Even if we turn off our minds, turn off our hearts, our bodies still draw to each other. It’s primitive. If there is a God, it is what He wished for us. When you are inside me, we complete a circle that was never meant to be broken. I don’t care what they’re saying in town; they are small-minded fools who can’t see beyond the surface. Be reassured, my darling, that you are mine and I am yours. They can’t hurt us.
I had to take a moment to catch my breath. The passion of the letter wasn’t just in the words, it was in the strength with which the ink had been
applied to the page. I knew this was my grandmother’s writing—the same handwriting that had written me good wishes on all my birthdays, the same handwriting that had told my grandfather he had missed my uncle Mike’s first steps—but it couldn’t possibly be written by my grandmother. If it was in a book from 1939, then that was long before she met Granddad.
Unless it was to Granddad and had just found its way into the back of the old book somehow.
But even as I tried to rationalize it, I knew I was fighting a losing battle. This letter wasn’t to Granddad. None of Grandma’s letters to Granddad sang with that much passion. They were full of phrases like “thank you for being so reasonable” and “you are very good to send me such a lovely gift” and “when you’re home, we should organize the Christmas holidays.”
When you are inside me . . .
“Jeez, Grandma,” I muttered. “You’re full of surprises.”
NINETEEN
Beattie: Tasmania, 1935
Two thousand sheep, an empty house, and a failing business. Mikhail had caught a rabbit, and now Beattie carved its stringy meat onto two plates. There were potatoes, too, from the vegetable patch. No dining table to eat on. In fact, Beattie kept the rooms without furniture locked up. The echoes drove her mad. Mikhail had moved his bed into Alice’s old downstairs room and had helped Beattie maneuver her bed upstairs to the master bedroom. She’d bought a table for the kitchen. Every other room was empty.
She’d done her best in the two months she’d owned Wildflower Hill. But how was she to tell Mikhail that her best wasn’t enough? That she would have to sell and that they would both have to leave? He had nowhere to go.
Along with the house and the sheep had come the debts. The wool clip had not been enough to pay them off. Beattie’s neighbor, the canny Jimmy Farquhar, had been quick to offer to buy some of her land. Under Leo Sampson’s advice, she sold him three hundred acres. She used most of it to cover her debts, some to pay out her employees—Alice left immediately, but Terry and Mikhail had stayed on—the rest she put aside. There would be no more money for a year, until the next wool clip. She had to make it last. She couldn’t spend it all on furniture and food. So she made do with nothing.
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