Willow Tree Bend

by Kaye Dobbie

  Of course I knew that everything would have to go extremely right for that to happen. And if it didn’t? There were so many hungry mouths depending on me that sometimes I felt overwhelmed.

  Positive thoughts.

  I opened the ute’s creaky door and dropped my booted foot down onto the dusty ground. Immediately, a cacophony of sound greeted me, and I smiled as I opened the gate, my anxieties slipping once more below the surface in the face of so much adoration.

  The two donkeys, Chocolate and Fudge, were calling to me in their usual noisy fashion, and the two horses, Sundae and Caramel, were not far behind them in their race to reach the side paddock fence. I smiled. I thought animals were great, which explained my ever-expanding brood. They didn’t ask for much back—well, food and water and medical care when they were sick, all accompanied by hugs and pats. But I couldn’t complain because they gave me so much love in return.

  I’d had two serious boyfriends since I left school and in my opinion neither of them was worth a fraction of one of my animal friends. After the last one walked out on me because I wouldn’t just drop everything and head off with him for a weekend of hot-rodding, I’d sworn off men. Maybe not forever. Perhaps in eleven years’ time, when I was forty, I’d re-evaluate the situation.

  My property at Willow Tree Bend had been part of the land holding on which the Taylor family had lived for generations. I even had some creek frontage, although this summer the water was little more than shallow pools.

  At the time I’d inherited, I had cautiously evaluated my good fortune and decided I couldn’t look after the whole twenty hectares I’d been given. So I’d sold off all but four, which were the best four naturally, and using the money, built a typical country house with a verandah all the way around, and breezy, open-plan rooms. I’d also put up fences and sheds, and dug a dam.

  It was all mine. I owned it lock, stock and barrel. Or at least I had before I’d taken out a mortgage to finance Green Dreams. The alternative was to give up my ambitions and work for my parents, and I couldn’t imagine Mum and I surviving that for more than a day. We were too much alike.

  Mitch the kelpie crept up to me, wagging his tail so hard he threatened to turn himself inside out. I knelt down on one knee to say a proper hello. The ground felt hard and rocky. Dry. There’d been no good rain for months now. Recently, I’d had to resort to carting in feed for the animals, and the dam was so low I was beginning to wonder where the water ended and the mud began.

  If things got much worse, and if my teetering business tipped over, I’d lose everything. It would break my heart, I knew that, but I kept telling myself that I’d just have to deal with it. Dad and Mum would back me up, of course they would, though I would insist on standing on my own two feet. It was a matter of pride with me that I do that—like following in the family tradition. Mum had made a success of her business through guts and sheer hard work, and Dad had taken on the role of chief provider for his family after his father died. The Cantanis and the Taylors were go-getters who didn’t let anything stop them from achieving their goals.

  Speaking of Taylors … I couldn’t see any sign of Lily near the house. Or Pompom, who should have been going crazy by now if he couldn’t get outside to say hello.

  I gave Mitch another pat. He looked a little relieved. He and the ugly little dog didn’t get on, but at least they didn’t come to fisticuffs. They just ignored each other with a dignified silence.

  Was my grandmother taking a nap? She probably needed one. Since she’d arrived for her unannounced and unexpected visit, she’d cleaned every inch of my place and I was too browbeaten to protest. She didn’t have to say anything, just run her finger across a surface and show me the result, and I’d find myself stammering out excuses like I was back in primary school and the headmaster had called me into his office.

  If Mum was here I’d be on the phone in an instant begging her to intervene, but she wasn’t. I still didn’t understand the reason for her absence, and when I’d asked my grandmother all she did was quote me a Bible reference.

  ‘“Forget those things that are behind and reach forth to those things that are before”.’

  I must have given her a blank look.

  ‘Philippians 3:13. Look it up.’

  I thought I’d pass on that.

  ‘Will you be coming to the cottage with us to see Hope?’ I asked her instead. ‘You might be on television, Gran.’

  ‘Haven’t been asked.’ She gave me a piercing look from eyes that were that same light green that Mum and Hope had inherited. There was something very fey about those eyes, as if they could read minds, and I was sure, in Gran’s case, she could.

  ‘Oh come on, Hope would love to see you there.’

  Gran gave me a smile that seemed to suggest otherwise.

  Why wouldn’t Hope want her mother to take part in the big homecoming scene? There were things going on here that I didn’t understand, like a dangerous undertow beneath a calm surface, and yet how could I understand when no one was talking?

  A few weeks ago, I was over at my parents’ house in Golden Gully. We’d heard Hope was going to appear in Looking Back and we wanted to watch a video of an older episode. I suppose we were keen to know exactly what we were in for. The program was well made—I could see how it would have wide appeal—and I’d found myself fascinated by the minutia. The star in this episode was a comedian and because he was so famous I’d presumed I knew everything about him, but that didn’t turn out to be the case. I discovered things that completely amazed me, and there were even tears at the end, when a long-lost relative unexpectedly reappeared.

  Hope, I’d thought, would revel in it. All that attention! I’d said so aloud, turning to my parents, only to be startled by how uncomfortable they both looked. And how worried.

  ‘What?’ I asked, trying to read their faces. ‘Don’t you want to be on national tellie?’ Then, with a laugh, ‘We can say no. It’s not like we’re going to be the main focus. Maybe you could ask them to take a long-range shot of us, far into the distance.’

  ‘Over the border,’ Dad quipped, and he seemed to be trying to return my smile, but it was an effort.

  ‘As long as we’re not expected to perform any re-enactments of your younger days,’ I joked. ‘You know how I hate dressing up.’

  They looked at each other as if I’d said the worst thing in the world. My mother had an expression on her face … ravaged sprang to mind. Of course I tried to get them to tell me what was going on, but they shrugged it off. Changed the subject. That was when I really started to get worried.

  Later on, when I’d done the dishes and spent some time checking out my mother’s new range of desserts—they really were classy and tasted even better than they looked—I’d overheard them talking. They were in the lounge, their voices low. I admit I was eavesdropping, but they were acting so oddly.

  ‘She hasn’t thought it through,’ Mum said, her voice a little high, which meant she was upset. ‘When I told her to come home I didn’t mean this. She could pick up plenty of work without baring her soul.’

  ‘You don’t know she’s going to do that,’ Dad responded, trying to pour oil on troubled waters, just as he always did. ‘Hope knows how far she can push it.’

  ‘I really want you to be right.’

  ‘She doesn’t know about the Angel, does she? Did you ever tell her about—?’

  ‘Of course not. That’s over and done with, Joe. In the past. Let’s leave it there.’

  I hadn’t thought my family had any secrets. But now …

  I gave Mitch one last pat and smiled into his brown doggy eyes. ‘Come on, mate,’ I said gently. ‘Let’s go do some work.’

  The fact that I’d already done a day’s work didn’t faze me. I enjoyed my time around the farm—although Dad told me it was really too small to be called a farm. This was my domain, and as I rounded the side of the shed and saw my new garden beds, all neatly laid out, I couldn’t help feeling a wave of pleasure and pri
de.

  I’d been experimenting with some new ideas and despite the lack of water everything was doing well. I’d chosen drought-hardy species, and the fleshy greys and reds stood out nicely. The idea was to interest some of my new clients in the concept of a dry garden.

  If I got any new clients.

  Inside, the house was indeed empty. Lily seemed to have vanished in a puff of Mr Sheen. Maybe she considered her work was done—the house certainly looked spick and span. I switched on a fan to stir the air, and then I poured myself a tall glass of cold water with ice. The mail I’d collected earlier from town was in my bag and I tipped it out.

  Bills, mostly. A request for help from a charity, and a price list from the local pizza joint. Pity that according to them I was too far out of town to get a delivery or tonight was the night I might have taken them up on the offer.

  Impatiently I pushed the envelopes aside. Where was Hope going to stay during the filming? Staying with my parents had been the original plan, but now that Mum was gone it occurred to me that she might want to come here. I glanced about, relieved that, thanks to Gran, things were clean and tidy now. All the same, I wasn’t all that keen on having my famous aunt casting a supercilious eye over my tatty second-hand table and chairs, and my other eclectic odds and ends. By the time I’d paid for the house I didn’t have any money left over to buy new furnishings, and anyway what was wrong with retro?

  Selfish perhaps, but I liked my peace and quiet, and the thought of Hope arriving with her camera crew trailing behind her wasn’t something I was looking forward to. I could grit my teeth and get through it—I’d have to. However, there was one particular aspect of the visit that made me want to cringe. Or leave town.

  The day after tomorrow we were all supposed to rendezvous at the old Willow Tree Bend cottage.

  I could see the cottage from my verandah, if I tilted my head to the side and squinted in the right direction. You could only physically reach it by turning off the Golden Gully road, and then down a long, unsealed driveway. If you had a horse, then it was possible to ride along the creek and get there that way.

  Not that I’d done either of those things for many months now, and for a very good reason.

  When the cottage was first sold, the new owners used to rent it out, and a couple of times there was trouble with the tenants. Once I had moved into my own newly built home, I’d felt obliged to keep an eye on the place—this was because of my family connection rather than a sense of civic duty. My mother’s stories of my grandfather’s forebears, migrating from England to Victoria in the 1860s, as well as the large family they’d raised, were tales I loved listening to. This was my story, too, and it made me feel even more a part of this country.

  I belonged.

  During one unforgettable year, a couple renting the cottage grew and sold drugs, which was disappointing in all sorts of ways. The police dealt with them, and the place had been sold again—at a knock-down price—in the first half of last year.

  The buyer was a man named Lincoln Nash.

  In 1987, when I was sixteen, I had a terrible crush on Lincoln Nash. I wasn’t alone—so did most of the teenage girls in Australia. He’d fronted a band called Black Crow, a sort of cross between INXS and Icehouse. Lincoln had been a Michael Hutchence/Iva Davies type of character—charismatic, talented and fascinating to the eye. He was also dangerous in a break-your-heart sort of way, and according to the gossip magazines he did break hearts and lots of them. When the band fell apart after their one successful overseas tour, Lincoln had walked away. He’d vanished from the public eye for years and it was only lately that he had re-emerged.

  He was now my next-door neighbour.

  But this Lincoln was a very different character from the one I remembered. Now he sang ballads, dark angsty tunes that weren’t my thing at all, and were probably aimed at an older crowd—he was thirty-five by my calculations. And most disturbing of all, he wore glasses with dark frames like Elvis Costello, whose lyrics always drove me insane. So, when he had moved into the cottage at Willow Tree Bend, apart from a momentary starry-eyed gasp, I’d shrugged my shoulders and dismissed him.

  Until that spur-of-the-moment encounter six months ago.

  Why had I done it? I wasn’t sure, but I still squirmed at the memory. I’d been in Golden Gully and ducked into the hardware store to get something—later I couldn’t even remember what it was. I recognised him as soon as I saw him, despite the short hair and restless stare. If I’d been thinking straight I would have realised he didn’t want to talk. That he just wanted to be left alone.

  But that morning I had received a phone call notifying me of my successful bid for the garden I was currently finishing. I was riding high, feeling bulletproof, which was probably why all of my natural caution had gone out the window.

  He was standing by a pallet full of seedlings, some of them way past their best, and it was my intention to tell him he could do better at the nursery on the road out of town. That was where I did my business. I might even have planned to mention that the old cottage he now lived in was my family home. Sometimes, in the mornings, when I cricked my neck, I could see him pottering around in the garden. Did he want some help with that? And, by the way, I’d been a big fan of his music once upon a time.

  I took a step towards him, just as a couple of giggling adolescent girls went by, casting him little glances. He didn’t look up at them until they’d passed, and when he did he was frowning. I watched him reach into his pocket and slip on some dark glasses. That seemed a bit pretentious; after all, he hadn’t been a star for fifteen years, and it was only people my age and older who still remembered him. But in my exultant state I was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  My friendly ‘Good morning’ elicited another frowning glance. His head tilted as the dark gaze behind the lenses flicked down my tee-shirt-and-jean-clad body and reached my mud-caked boots, pausing there, as if they were far more interesting than the rest of me.

  ‘Is it?’ he’d said, and walked away.

  Surprised, appalled, I stood and stared after him. I knew my face was as hot with embarrassment as it felt, but I could deal with that. It was his indifference, complete and utter indifference … I wasn’t used to men being indifferent to me.

  Was that an arrogant admission? Maybe. I was a reasonably attractive woman, and my body was toned and strong from my physical job. Men tended to smile back at me. Yet it was more than that. Maybe I was being contrary, but he’d been my idol throughout my formative teenage years and his behaviour had felt like a betrayal.

  It was after that encounter I swore to myself that there would be no neighbourliness from my side of the fence, not while Mr Nash was in residence.

  But that was before Hope made her announcement, and now we would all be trooping up to the cottage tomorrow whether we liked it nor not.

  I wondered what Lincoln Nash would think of that. I was shallow enough to want him to hate the intrusion. Maybe he’d lock the door and refuse to let my famous aunt inside? I pictured Hope tapping on the windows, pressing her face to the glass, while Lincoln glared at her.

  That made me smile.

  Maybe, I thought, it would be fun after all.

  HOPE

  12 January 2000, Melbourne

  Home. Did she really still consider Australia, and in particular Willow Tree Bend, home? After all this time? She’d been unable to get away and ‘spread her wings’ quickly enough, and when, from a distance, she had thought of the cottage, she’d certainly never imagined it through rose-coloured glasses. Like most performers, her past had become a mish-mash of real and make-believe, bits of which she trotted out, depending upon which questions she was asked.

  Never quite the entire truth.

  Hope was under no illusions about the aim of a program like Looking Back, which was to astonish its audience and, if possible, drop a few bombshells along the way. The meagre details of her life, which she had sent to the producers as part of her contract, were
never going to be enough for them. So, she’d made herself a backup plan. There was her romance with the Hollywood director, she could expand on that, and her early struggles in the Melbourne theatre scene, some of them particularly dire. She’d known real poverty during those months before her career began to take off. Surely that would satisfy them? She’d also had an intense fling with a man who was now an Australian celebrity and she was expecting them to discover that. Maybe it could make a nice little denouement right at the end of the show?

  Looking Back had assigned her a personal assistant, or was she in fact a spy? The PA’s name was Prue and she was as skinny as a whip with pink hair, but her smile was warm and admiring as they shook hands. ‘I love your work,’ she’d said, as if she really meant it. Another thing in her favour, as far as Hope was concerned, was that she dealt competently with the luggage and then drove them calmly through the heavy rush-hour traffic into the city.

  ‘We thought you’d be more private and comfortable here,’ she’d explained, when they ended up in the foyer of a boutique hotel just off Bourke Street. ‘It’s rather quirky. Used to be a homeless people’s dosshouse,’ Prue added with a grin, as if a past history like that was something to be pleased about.

  Hope tried not to shudder.

  ‘You’ll meet with everyone in the morning,’ Prue was explaining to her. ‘In the meantime, if you need anything, do let me know. We’ve lined up some media interviews when the filming is done, but I don’t think you’ll be bothered before that.’

  The unspoken statement was that she wasn’t famous enough to need special security for the hordes of fans not hanging around on the street outside.

  The girl meant well, but it was a relief to be alone again.

  Hope went to the window and looked down into the narrow thoroughfare. There were trendy little shops there, and busy cafes. She thought about changing her clothes and setting off to enjoy the ambience, but suddenly the effort seemed too great. What she really wanted to do—and it was the strangest sensation, one she hadn’t felt in many years—was to curl up into a ball under the cover on her bed and squeeze her eyes closed.