Where the Fruit Falls

by Karen Wyld

  ‘Eleven is not too old for make-believe. And they’re both doing well at school.’

  Brigid ignored Iris’s scowl, and returned to her darning. She thought about how much Iris had changed recently. She knew it was the pain. And perhaps fear of death. Before the beginning of the year, Iris hadn’t appeared to be very sick, even though she was. Then she began to slow down dramatically. Painkillers no longer helped her sleep at night, so she was always tired. Brigid had overheard the doctor say to Stefan that she’d not last much longer. She missed how close they used to be, before the pain got unbearable. And remembered the affection Iris once had for the twins. Soon after arriving, she’d confided in Brigid that she’d never been able to have children of her own, despite yearning to be a mother. And that she’d always imagined having a pretty daughter, like Maggie. Now, Iris no longer tolerated the girls. They are too noisy and impertinent, she’d often say. Sounding more like her grumpy husband each day.

  Iris was also becoming like her husband in another way, which concerned Brigid more. She remembered that first encounter with Stefan, and his instant disapproval of her appearance. Not the scars from the fire, the colour of her skin. He’d not let up, all these years. He took any chance to mock her intelligence, to lecture her on the inherent inadequacies of her people, to tell her that she’d never do better than this type of work or the meagre pay he provided. She felt like she was back in the schoolyard. Different, othered, never enough. Iris had always expressed more progressive views than her husband.

  Insisting she didn’t see colour. That her husband was wrong, so don’t mind him. Then Iris changed. She began to repeat some of her husband’s views on the righteousness of Western settlement, and dying races being an unfortunate consequence of progress. Not in front of Brigid, or the girls. Whispered to her husband, when she thought they were alone. The friendship the women once shared was now gone.

  When Stefan had found out about the money Iris lent Brigid, he had insisted she sign a repayment agreement. She’d thought the new terms most unfair, so had asked Iris to intervene. Iris had refused to help, and told Brigid not to come complaining to her about trivial problems. And that Stefan was now solely dealing with that debt and Brigid’s ongoing terms of employment. With Iris no longer acting as a buffer, Brigid had to bear Stefan’s unfair treatment and insults in silence. She told herself it was the pain causing Iris to withdraw, and perhaps the cancer was somehow changing how she viewed the world. She tried to convince herself that surely Iris didn’t see her as less-than. It still hurt. Brigid knew she wouldn’t keep the promise once made to Iris: to care for her husband after she died. As soon as that debt was paid off, she’d be gone.

  As they walked through the mist, Maggie and Victoria held hands. Droplets of water clung to their skin and hair, but they no longer felt cold. All sounds outside the mist had stopped. The girls felt as if they had walked over a threshold, into a different world. They walked cautiously, unable to see too far ahead. Maggie concentrated on where she placed her feet, looking intently at the ground for obstacles that might trip her, while Victoria looked around, not wanting to miss anything that might lie obscured within the thick fog.

  Victoria stopped suddenly. ‘Can you see it?’

  Maggie lifted her head, her heart beating faster, little puffs of smoke accumulating in front of her.

  She giggled. ‘My breathing makes a trail of smoke, just like dragon’s breath.’

  ‘Look over there. Is it real?’

  Maggie looked in the direction her sister pointed to, fearful of what she would see. She saw nothing.

  ‘Can’t you see it?’

  Maggie shook her head, glad for once that she couldn’t see what Victoria saw.

  ‘It’s more like a huge serpent than a dragon,’ Victoria observed. ‘I can see how people would get confused. She’s frighteningly large and very beautiful. A rainbow, just like those little birds.’

  ‘Stop it. You’re just trying to trick me.’

  ‘No, I’m not. Can’t you see her?’

  ‘Let’s go. I don’t like it in here.’

  ‘Okay. Come on then, scaredy cat.’

  As they wandered back through the mist, taking each step with care, far away a man was making leaps of abandonment. While his colleagues observed, the bubble-suited man jumped over moon craters and the world held its collective breath in astonishment. Maggie and Victoria wouldn’t hear of that historical adventure for some time. Emerging from the haze, the girls were greeted by their mother – holding a finger to her lips. Quietly they stepped up onto the verandah, knowing their world had somehow dramatically changed. Once more.

  ‘She’s gone,’ whispered their mother.

  The girls beheld the empty rocking chair, watching as it made one last movement. They then noticed him on the stiff-backed chair next to Iris’s rocking chair, a faded patchwork quilt at his feet. Von Wolff had a dark cloud around him, and a half-empty bottle in his hand. Brigid led her daughters to their cottage, where she helped them select more fitting clothes. Now clad in black, they were told to stay away from the von Wolffs’ house. And to always, always play quietly. Out of respect. And fear.

  Brigid washed the dishes, listening to her daughters chatter as they played knucklebones on the grass out the front of the cottage. She sighed as the sounds of breaking glass came from von Wolff ’s studio, thinking of the mess she’d have to clean up later. Brigid would have left after the funeral, if not for the increasing debt. The interest Stefan kept adding didn’t seem right, but there was nothing she could do. As he’d reminded her only yesterday, she’d signed the repayment agreement and if she even tried to leave without repaying him in full, he’d call the police. Stefan mentioned that could result in the girls being removed and put in an institution for mixed-race children. He somehow knew this was Brigid’s greatest fear, and took pleasure in taunting her.

  She flinched as more sounds drifted over from the studio.

  ‘Angry man is angry again,’ muttered Victoria.

  Maggie said, ‘He’s sad.’

  ‘I don’t care if he is sad,’ Victoria replied. ‘He’s mean and angry. And no one likes him.’

  ‘Mr Stevens and Constable Peters must like him, they visit all the time. And Father Paddy. I like when Father Paddy visits, because no one drinks as much.’

  ‘I wish we could leave. This is not a good place. Von Wolff is a bad man.’

  Brigid put down the pot she’d been scrubbing and walked over to the cottage door. She saw the back of Maggie’s head as her daughter stooped over a flower, plucking off its petals. Victoria was looking towards von Wolff ’s studio. If a stare could set something on fire, that is what it would look like.

  Brigid called out, ‘What do think about going back to school?’

  Maggie said, ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  Brigid looked at Victoria, an eyebrow raised. ‘Well?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Wouldn’t you get lonely with us gone all day, Mum?’

  ‘I might, but I think it’s time you both returned to school. I can only teach you so much.’

  Victoria stood up. ‘I’m not leaving you here, on your own.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. Honestly. Wouldn’t you like to have more books to read?’

  ‘I want to see my friends again,’ said Maggie.

  Victoria muttered, ‘You have those annoying finches. We don’t need school.’

  ‘Don’t be mean. It’s not safe for your sister to walk to school on her own. What do you say?’

  Victoria sighed. ‘Okay then. If you think you’ll be all right.’

  ‘I will, don’t worry.’

  Maggie squealed, ‘Can we start tomorrow?’

  ‘Silly, tomorrow is a Saturday,’ said Victoria.

  ‘We’ll all walk there on Monday, and talk to the headmaster,’ Brigid suggested.

  Von Wolff had not objected when Brigid informed him she was sending the girls back to school. It would mean less noise during the day
, when he usually worked in his studio. Also, now that Iris was gone, he had begun to feel uncomfortable around Brigid when she was with her daughters. That motherly aura was distasteful to him. Stefan had been raised by a series of cold women; not one was his mother. His father, General Franz von Wolff, was an important man, or so said young Stefan’s nannies. Which is why the General had no time for his son. He did have time for the men in business suits and army uniforms who frequented the family mansion. The sounds of their raised voices had wafted out of the dining room, along with the smoke from their expensive cigars. There were no goodnight stories and kisses for young Stefan. Not with such a busy and important father. The sound of his father storming through the house, barking orders at servants and occasionally demanding they keep the boy quiet, was as close as Stefan came to being in his presence. His mother had died of a fever when he was just a baby, before he was old enough to gather memories of her. All he had was portraits in the hallway.

  A succession of nannies tended to his every need. They never stayed long. Not because the General ran the house like a military barracks. They left because they would all eventually grow to fear Stefan. From a young age, the boy with the penetrating stare showed most worrying tendencies. At first it was his habit of ripping wings off the butterflies that dared to land on his dead mother’s beloved roses. Then the cruel whipping and kicking of hounds. When the nannies reported this to the General, Stefan was given a beating, for his father would not tolerate cruelty towards his dogs. The sacks of kittens the gardeners pulled out of the lake didn’t even raise an eyebrow when reported to the General. They did result in one more nanny’s quick departure. No one wanted to be around such a malevolent child.

  When the cobbled streets of the local village echoed with the footsteps of marching soldiers, the General thought it best to send his adolescent son away. Stefan was the last of the von Wolff bloodline, and the carrier of future generations must be protected so the General’s legacy would survive the looming war. Stefan was sent across the sea, to a maiden aunt of his mother’s. There was no love to be found in that house either. Even if there had been, the boy would not have been receptive to such a foreign emotion. The war was over on the eve of Stefan’s twenty-first birthday. Surrender was marked by the death of his father. Not on the battlefield, a heart attack in a brothel. Stefan had no interest in returning to either his family’s residence or the land of his birth. Instead, he packed his trunk and travelled further and further east.

  His inheritance meant he’d never need to work. Instead, he took up photography, at first to amuse himself. It soon became an obsession. His fixation on photography drove him to perfection, and he soon became an internationally renowned artist. Eventually, Stefan von Wolff turned towards the southern continent. Locating suitable land and an agreeable woman, neither of which he deserved, he settled. The property he’d purchased was a day’s drive from the city. Von Wolff found the pace of country life enabled him to concentrate on his art. In the early years, he’d venture out, taking photos of the landscape. He found many suitable subjects to photograph in local towns, with a preference for labourers and farmers. There was something in the lines of those weather-hardened faces that appealed to him. For relaxation, he’d fish for trout off the small pier over the dam. His love of music drove him to the city every so often, to attend concerts with Iris. Other times, he’d go alone, to meet with gallery owners and international buyers. As his wife became more unwell, he increasingly went to the city without her.

  Since her death, Stefan spent more time in the city, followed by long days in his studio. When Brigid said she intended to send her daughters to school again, von Wolff was pleased to hear those noisy pests of hers would be elsewhere during the days.

  TEN

  Victoria and Maggie sat at the table doing their homework, while Brigid finished making dinner. She was pleased with how they had resettled at the local school. And relieved they were away from this place during the day. Away from von Wolff. After Iris died, he didn’t make her work such long days, so she was able to have breakfast and dinner with her daughters. Sometimes he let her go early, and she’d walk towards town, to meet them along the road. Occasionally, Mr Stevens, one of the teachers, would drive Maggie and Victoria home. And then stay late, drinking with von Wolff. He was a regular on card nights, along with Constable Peters.

  ‘Victoria has made a friend,’ Maggie remarked.

  Brigid turned towards Victoria. ‘Do you want to tell me about your friend.’

  Victoria’s face reddened, and she didn’t reply.

  ‘It’s a man,’ Maggie disclosed.

  Victoria slapped her sister lightly on the arm, which made her cry.

  ‘Victoria,’ said Brigid sternly.

  ‘Sorry, Maggie.’

  Brigid asked, ‘This friend works at the school?’

  Victoria pretended to be busy with her homework.

  Brigid sat down at the table. ‘Victoria, who is this man?’

  ‘Crow. He works at the timber yard,’ Maggie offered.

  Brigid frowned. ‘Crow? What sort of name is that?’

  Maggie said, ‘It’s his last name.’

  ‘Gabriel Crow,’ mumbled Victoria. ‘I chat with him sometimes, on the way home from school.’

  ‘What do you talk about?’ asked Brigid.

  ‘Just stuff. Hunting, finding wild foods, things we did when travelling.’

  ‘He promised to take us fishing,’ said Maggie. ‘Mumma, can we go?’

  Brigid grinned. ‘Since when did you like fishing, Maggie?’

  ‘I don’t really. I just want to go anywhere that Mr von Wolff isn’t. And Mr Crow is real nice.’

  ‘I think I should meet this Mr Crow. Victoria, will you invite him to afternoon tea this Sunday?’

  Victoria nodded as she got up to set the table for dinner.

  Maggie had been in the flower garden since they’d finished lunch. Brigid asked her a few times to help set up for their visitor, then gave up. Maggie was worried she’d miss Mr Crow’s arrival. She wanted to make sure he saw their flower garden. Mid-afternoon, Maggie’s excited squeal alerted Brigid that their visitor had come. Brigid wiped her hands on a tea towel, and went outside. Her first impression was: Gosh, he’s tall. Brigid was taller than average for a woman, so Danny had only been slightly taller than her. From a distance, Gabriel appeared to be almost a foot taller. As he got closer, she noticed he had dark brown hair, like Danny’s. Only difference was the lack of curls. He reached out a hand, in greeting. Brigid smiled, and looked up. His eyes were a warm brown, with copper streaks. As if shooting stars had exploded in his irises.

  He smiled too. ‘You must be Brigid. It’s good to finally meet you. The girls have told me so much about you.’

  Brigid blushed. That radiant smile of his had made her knees weak. She’d not felt this way in such a long time.

  ‘And you must be Mr Crow. I’ve hardly heard anything about you.’

  She noticed Victoria and Maggie standing behind Gabriel. Victoria had on her Oh Mum, don’t be so embarrassing expression. Brigid looked back at Gabriel; he was still smiling.

  ‘Please, call me Gabriel. I didn’t mean for the girls to keep me a secret.’

  ‘Looks like you were a secret that couldn’t be kept.’

  Victoria let out a groan, and left. Brigid paused: Is Victoria embarrassed because she saw me flirting? Was that flirting? If so, did he start it?

  Maggie said, ‘Come this way, Mr Crow. We’ve set up a tea party outside, with a view of the dam.’

  She grabbed his hand, and practically dragged him away from her mother. Brigid followed, and blushed again. She couldn’t help herself. He was just so fine-looking, from every angle. Victoria was already sitting at the table, book in her lap.

  ‘Sit here, Mr Crow,’ insisted Maggie. ‘In between Victoria and me.’

  Brigid took the only seat left, across from Gabriel. Keeping her eyes averted, she hoped her cheeks were no longer flushed. She co
ncentrated on pouring the tea, while Maggie piled his plate with food.

  ‘Sugar?’ asked Brigid.

  He shook his head. ‘Not for me. Kidney problems run in my family.’

  ‘Does your family live around here?’

  ‘No, south-east. We’re river people. I visit them as much as I can. And you? Where’re you from?’

  ‘Far west, originally. Near the coast. I’ve been away for thirteen years. Mostly up north.’

  ‘I’ve not made it too far north, or over to the west coast. I want to, one day. Really keen to see red desert sands.’

  ‘It can be spectacular up there, especially at night. The stars are so much brighter. Everything is brighter, really.’

  ‘I do a bit of stargazing. Even know about constellations and such.’

  Maggie said, ‘I remember watching stars from Bethel and Omer’s house. So many falling ones. Aunty Isabelle told me a story about a falling star. Do you remember that one, Victoria?’

  Her sister put her book down, and reached for a scone. ‘Of course, silly. It wasn’t that long ago.’

  Victoria spread jam on her scone. Gabriel handed her the pot of cream, and she politely thanked him. Meanwhile, Maggie talked incessantly to Gabriel. He’s supposed to be my friend, thought Victoria, becoming increasingly annoyed at her sister. Brigid didn’t notice the growing tension; she was too enthralled with the visitor. Gabriel was easy to talk to, and so patient with the girls. He soon had Victoria smiling, and Maggie listening intently. Brigid loved watching him with her daughters. They’d not been this happy since living with Omer and Bethel. They’d always had time to listen to the girls, and never talked down to them. Iris had also loved being around Maggie and Victoria, but she’d babied them. Even so, Brigid knew they’d been missing Iris. And disliking how nasty Stefan was becoming. It was good to see them enjoying Gabriel’s company. Brigid hadn’t managed to get much of a word in. Still, she was surprised at how relaxed she felt around him. Except for the occasional discomfort of blushing whenever he beamed that beautiful smile her way.