Wildflower Hill

by Freeman, Kimberley

  “What’s it about?”

  “A woman named Pamela Lacey wrote it. Her aunt Margaret Day lived in Lewinford from 1929 to 1945. She kept a diary and passed it on to her niece when she died. The niece wrote it up like a biography. Fictionalized it a bit, I’m sure: names changed to protect the innocent . . .” Here she raised her eyebrows dramatically. “I had a quick skim with your grandmother in mind and . . . Look, I don’t know, but there’s a character in there who sounds like she might be based on Beattie. Young Scottish lass comes up from Hobart, desperate and poor, winds up owning a big sheep farm.”

  My blood electrified. “Yes! It must be Beattie.”

  “I can’t tell you how much of the story has been embellished, Emma, and Pamela Lacey is no longer around to ask. If it is Beattie, she’s a pretty minor character . . . dealt with in a few pages.” Penelope sat back, sipping her tea. “And it’s not a flattering portrait, I should warn you of that.”

  I was sorry I’d encouraged her to stay. I really needed to sit down and read the book that instant, not make small talk—something I wasn’t particularly good at anyway. Still, we spoke about the house, my plans, the weather, and she was soon on her way. I saw Penelope to her car, the book tucked under my arm. Then I found a patch of soft, overgrown grass between the poplars. The breeze had picked up, and the clouds were racing across the sky. The whole world seemed to be moving, but I sat very still as I read.

  The Scottish lass, as she was known, arrived one evening soaking wet with a tiny red-haired child in tow, asking for help. The book did not make it clear whether the child was Beattie’s, but her father came for her two pages later, so perhaps she wasn’t. Or was. Depending on my mood. The Scottish lass was involved in alcohol, drugs, illegal gambling, and possibly orgies—the word was never used, but “the worst imaginable congress between desiring adults” was referred to—before she seduced the owner of a local farm to sell it to her cheaply.

  Well, the author got that bit wrong. Beattie didn’t get her farm cheaply; she got it for free.

  I didn’t know what to make of it. The writing was so overwrought and sanctimonious that the events didn’t sound real. It did make me wonder if the man who gave Beattie the farm was the lover referred to in her letter, but the dates didn’t match up: Raphael Blanchard went back to England in 1934; the sexy letter was probably written in 1939. So did Grandma have more than one lover? Was the little girl in the photo her daughter? Who was the man who came for the little red-haired child? I wanted to believe, like Mum, that Granddad was the first. The only.

  But the worst mistake we can make about old people is to forget they were young once.

  I read the same seven pages again and again, looking for information between the lines and letters that simply wasn’t there. I started to understand that I might never know what Grandma’s secret was. That bothered me. I should have been around more when she was alive. I shouldn’t have taken her for granted. But I was off in London having my Terribly Significant Career, and even if she’d said she wanted to tell me something important, I might not have listened.

  I was listening now, that was for sure.

  Patrick came by Wednesday afternoon after school to pick up Monica. She usually walked, but there was a thunderstorm brewing somewhere behind the warm horizon. I was glad to see him but cautious about showing it.

  “Wow, you’ve done great things with the garden,” he said. “It’s therapeutic,” I said, showing him the mountain of branches and weeds.

  “You’ll need somebody with a trailer to help you with that. Do you want me to ask around?”

  “It’s fine. I have to get better at that stuff. Looking people up, sorting out problems.” I noticed he hadn’t taken off his sunglasses. “I wanted to talk to you about Mina, anyway,” I said, “so I’m glad you’re here.”

  “What is it?”

  “Two weeks without a rehearsal. She might forget it all, and time’s running out. Do you think her father would drop her off up here on the weekend? She could stay the whole weekend if she wanted to . . .” I trailed off, realizing I didn’t know the first thing about taking care of somebody like Mina. “If that’s not a mad idea.”

  Patrick smiled, pushing his sunglasses up on top of his head. It made a piece of his hair stick out at a right angle to his face. “I think it’s a lovely idea. But her dad won’t drive this far. I might be able to convince him to let me pick her up and drop her home, though.”

  “That’s hard work for you.”

  “I don’t mind. I’m quite used to driving the distances.” He slid his sunglasses back on. “Can I call you back about this? I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Certainly, let me know.”

  I was growing to love gardening, which surprised me, as I’d never been outdoorsy at all. The long garden bed that ran down from the driveway to the laundry was my latest project. I’d started with the grass and weeds, careful to avoid the thorns on the overgrown roses. I found it hard work, physical work, and didn’t mind at all. I lost myself in it, and I liked the way it made me stop thinking. I didn’t think about my knee or Josh or my mother; there was just me and the sun-warmed soil.

  Monica came to find me around three o’clock. “How’s it going?” she asked.

  I surveyed the heap of weeds behind me, then looked back at the garden bed. “Feels like I’m getting nowhere.”

  “Do you want to come and see? I’ve finished in the cottage.”

  I climbed to my feet and peeled off my gardening gloves. “Really? Finished?”

  “Come and see.”

  I hadn’t been into the cottage since it had been emptied of boxes. I remembered a dark, cobwebbed space. Monica threw open the door, and I didn’t recognize the place. It was clean from floor to ceiling, mold scrubbed away to reveal golden floors and walls.

  “This looks fantastic,” I said.

  “Come in farther, there’s something interesting to show you.” Monica tugged my sleeve lightly. It was the first time since I’d told her about Josh that she’d been her usual friendly self.

  I followed her to the biggest of the rooms, and she crouched down under the tiny window to show me.

  “Look,” she said. “All the shearers who came here have carved their initials.”

  I bent to look. She was right. A collection of initials. It made me smile. “Are they in every room?”

  “Just this one and the one across the corridor. Some are in love hearts with a sweetheart’s initials.”

  This pricked my interest, so I went to the other room to look. But there were no BBs for Beattie Blaxland. Still, it got me thinking. Was Grandma’s secret lover one of the shearers? That would account for her talking about the opinions of the township.

  “You know what you should do,” Monica was saying, thumbing a smudge she’d missed off the window. “You should spend a little money decorating the cottage, then let it out for holidays. Farm tourism is big.”

  I was already shaking my head. “I’m going to sell the whole lot in March. That can be somebody else’s problem.”

  “You’re definitely going to sell?”

  I looked back at her and laughed. “Definitely. Probably. I don’t know. I can’t stay, I’ll have to get on with my life at some stage.”

  “In Sydney? Or back in London?”

  I took a moment to answer.

  “With Josh?” she continued quietly.

  I decided to tackle this issue head-on. “Why does it upset you so much that I have an ex-boyfriend in London?”

  “Whom you still love?”

  I spread my hands, not elaborating. Waiting for an answer.

  Monica sighed. “I’m sorry, have I been obvious?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s just me being silly. I thought you liked Patrick. You know, liked him. And I was quite invested in that thought, so . . .”

  “You were jealous on his behalf?”

  “I guess so.” She smiled. “Sorry.”

  “It’s all right.”


  “It’s just . . .” She trailed off. I waited. “I shouldn’t say anything . . .”

  I waited again. I had discovered over the years—accidentally—that silence made people talk more.

  “It’s just that Patrick likes you.”

  “Likes me? Or likes me?” I asked, feeling like a teenager.

  Monica shook her head. “He’s going to kill me.”

  “I won’t say anything.” Okay, that was weird. A little thrill ran through me. Patrick, with his exotic eyes and his straight back. I was right: he did find me desirable, enough so to tell his sister. The thought sparked off all kinds of unconscious reactions in my body. I actually laughed softly, like a giggling schoolgirl.

  “Anyway,” Monica said, “forget we had this conversation. I’m sorry if I’ve embarrassed you. Do you want a hand with that garden bed?”

  “I’d love it,” I said.

  We worked through the rest of the golden afternoon together in silence.

  Mina’s father insisted on meeting me, so I drove down to Hobart with Patrick to pick her up. We pulled up outside a huge, glassed mansion at Battery Point.

  Patrick frowned, checked the address on the piece of paper, then turned off the car. “That’s a big house,” he said.

  “Is it just the two of them?”

  “As far as I know.” He climbed out of the car, and I followed. We went up to the front door and rang the bell. I stole glances at Patrick in the yellow midday light, but he seemed oblivious to them.

  At length, the door opened, and Mina’s father stood there. He was a tall man with a ruddy complexion and thin black hair. He didn’t smile. “Good afternoon,” he said, offering his hand to shake. “I’m Reynold Carter.”

  “Emma Blaxland-Hunter,” I said, shaking his hand. “And this is Patrick Taylor.”

  “You’re the ballerina,” he said expressionlessly. “Come in.”

  Patrick and I exchanged glances as we followed him into the house, down a polished parquet hallway and into a large, heated sitting room. Mina sat demurely on the sofa, a little suitcase at her feet.

  “Patrick! Emma!” she said in an excited voice. She remained still under her father’s gaze, though her feet twitched happily.

  “This is a lovely home,” Patrick said, his eyes going to the window to take in the view down to the Derwent River.

  I noticed a laptop set up at a desk by the door. I would have thought a man like Reynold Carter would have a fancy office, not a corner.

  “Now, Mina can look after herself well enough,” Reynold said. “Don’t do too much for her. Her independence is important to me. And to her, of course.”

  “I’m just looking forward to spending some time with her,” I said, touching the girl’s hair. She smiled up at me affectionately.

  “Yes. Well.” He cleared his throat. “She hasn’t stayed away from home overnight, so call me if you have any problems.” He was already turning away, his eyes going to the computer screen. “Excuse me a moment.”

  Patrick picked up Mina’s bag while her father clicked a few keys. He returned, not meeting our eyes. “I’m sorry. I trade shares online. The U.S. markets are still open. Saturday mornings are a busy time for me.”

  “That’s your job?” I asked, aware that I shouldn’t pry but curious nonetheless.

  “I was a stockbroker before Mina’s mother died,” he said, matter-of-fact. “I had a nanny for her for a while but then decided she was better off with me at home.”

  “Daddy works all day and all night,” Mina said.

  “But I’m here, aren’t I?” he said defensively.

  She put her arms around his waist and cuddled him. “I love you, Daddy.”

  “You be good,” he said, kissing her on the top of her head, then extricating himself. “Call me if you need me.”

  We helped Mina into the back of the car. She was excited and chatty now. Her father didn’t come to the door to wave her off, and I found myself growing angry at him. Sure, he had provided her with a big house, but Mina clearly needed love. She was such an affectionate, sunny girl.

  Then I remembered Patrick’s advice to me. We don’t really know what goes on in families. Best not to judge.

  I noticed that Mina’s excitement bordered on anxiety as we drove through the big front gates at the driveway up to Wildflower Hill. I decided to ask Patrick to stay for the afternoon, because Mina knew him better, and I wanted her to settle in. He waited downstairs, playing the out-of-tune piano, while I took Mina up to her room. It was the one next to mine, and Monica had turned it over the day before. Fresh sheets, and wildflowers in water on the dresser. Mina put her suitcase on the bed and sat next to it thoughtfully.

  “Are you okay?” I said.

  “This house is dark and old,” she said.

  “It is. Over a hundred and fifty years old. Are you scared?”

  “No,” she said. “Which is your bedroom?”

  I knocked on the wall. “Right next door,” I said.

  She smiled. “Okay.”

  Downstairs, Patrick was picking out the melody to “The Waltz of the Flowers.”

  “That’s your song, Mina,” I said. “Let’s go and dance.”

  Mina was happier, less worried, downstairs in the sitting room. She marveled over all my dancing awards, which I’d lined up on top of the piano. I pushed the couch back up against the wall and the coffee table under the window to clear a space, and we danced.

  She had forgotten a few of the movements from last time, but she held herself beautifully, with a straight back and strongly pointed feet. We went through the whole piece three times, with Patrick picking out the tune, then we found the CD player, and Patrick and I sat back on the couch while Mina performed for us.

  She took my breath away. When I’d first met Mina and the others, all I’d seen were their similarities. But now I was seeing through to the young woman underneath: the liquid eyes, the clear skin, the fine dark hair, her dimpled elbows and soft white hands. When Mina danced, she was beautiful.

  Patrick leaned over to speak quietly in my ear. “You have done a brilliant job with her. And with the dance. The movements are perfect for her.”

  “She’s the one doing all the work. She has natural grace.” Monica’s words came back to me, that Patrick liked me. I felt the heat of his arm against mine, and I let myself enjoy it.

  “Stop talking and watch me!” Mina demanded, midway through a relevé.

  We laughed and returned our attention to her. Her eyes shone with happiness, and it was such a lesson to me. Mina would never be able to dance ballet properly, but she danced anyway. And she loved it.

  Patrick and I applauded loudly when she was done, and she theatrically bowed and blew us kisses.

  “Now I’m tired,” she said.

  “Good,” I replied. “That means you worked hard. Real ballerinas work very hard.”

  She fetched Snakes and Ladders out of her suitcase, and we sat on the floor in the sitting room and played together. My knee ached, but I didn’t mind so much. Around dusk, Patrick said he had to go home.

  Mina looked uncertain again, like she had when she’d first arrived.

  “It’s okay, Mina, I’ll be here with you,” I said.

  “Is this house very safe?” she asked. “Are there locks on all the doors?”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  I saw Patrick off at the door. He was reluctant to go, I could tell. Perhaps I was a little reluctant to let him go. I felt a pang of regret as he drove away. The evening cool crept across the fields and hushed through the blue gums. I went inside to make dinner.

  Mina helped me, sitting at the table, shelling peas, while I cut up chicken to go in the pasta bake.

  “What is my daddy doing now?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. What does he usually do on Saturday afternoons?”

  “He works on the computer,” she said.

  “Well, that’s probably what he’s doing now.” I sat down with her. “Are
you missing him?”

  She smiled at me. “A bit.”

  “You’ll see him tomorrow. We’ve got more rehearsing to do before then.” I reached across and squeezed her hand. “Would you rather go home? I can call Patrick to come and get you.”

  “No. I’ll be fine,” she said. “Ballet dancers have to work really hard.”

  “They do.”

  “Then I’ll stay and keep working.”

  Around midnight, the wind picked up, and I could hear thunder rumbling in the distance. It was enough to make me get up and close the window in my bedroom. I got back into bed, then realized I could hear a knocking sound.

  I sat up. It was coming from the wall adjoining Mina’s room.

  I climbed out of bed again and went next door. “Mina?” I said, opening the door.

  She looked up at me in the dark. She was by the wall knocking, just as I’d shown her yesterday. I switched on the light and saw there were tears on her face.

  “Sweetie, what’s wrong?” I said, hurrying over to her.

  She said something, but all her words were jumbled up behind her tongue. I took her hand in mine. It was cold and clammy. She was terrified. “Do you want me to call your dad to come and get you?”

  She nodded, sobbing.

  I led her to my bedroom and put her in my bed. “You wait here, where it’s warm and cozy. I’ll call Daddy.”

  She nodded again.

  I went downstairs and switched on all the lights. I found the phone number that Patrick had written down for me and dialed it. It rang and rang. Six times. Seven. Eight. Nine . . .

  Finally, he answered. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Carter, it’s Emma Blaxland-Hunter here.”

  “What is it?” Not friendly. Not at all.

  “Mina’s got herself all wound up about the storm, and she wants to come home.”

  Silence. I waited.

  “Mr. Carter?”

  “I’m not coming out in the middle of a storm.”

  At first I was too shocked to speak. Then I said, “But she’s crying with fear.”

  “We all have to do things that we don’t like. She’ll have to stay there. Call me in the morning if she hasn’t settled down.”