by Anna Romer
Beside me Bardo whined again and I whispered reassuringly, as much for myself as for her.
The locket had grown warm from the heat of my skin. I took a breath, and before I lost my nerve, I threw it into the darkest, deepest part of the river. It disappeared silently, joining the tumble of stones and water weeds and silt and fish eggs that the river carried on its back as it carved its way ever inland from the sea.
In October, Mum had another exhibition. Looking radiant, she rushed over to greet me as soon as I walked in the door.
We hugged, and then she took my hand.
‘Thank you for giving me Brenna’s diary. I loved my grandmother, but there was always a sadness about her that I never understood. If only I’d known she was an artist, I might have encouraged her to paint again.’
‘Do you think she stopped painting to protect her identity?’
‘No . . . I think it was more personal than that. I suppose it reminded her too painfully of the loved ones she’d lost. I’m only grateful I persisted with my art, because my passion for painting has healed me.’
‘I’m happy for you, Mum.’
She beamed. ‘Now that I know what Brenna went through, it’s given me a new perspective on my own life. I feel at peace for the first time since your father died – and I have you to thank for it.’
Slipping her arm around my shoulders, she gave me a quick squeeze. Just before she pulled away, I felt a rush of warmth and found myself hugging her back.
Since the inquest into Rob’s death, and my witness statement describing my memory of how my sister died, the tension between Mum and me had eased. There was still a vast chasm between us; we were basically strangers linked by blood; but our new, gentler treatment of one another had given me hope.
Mum left me to attend to a patron, and I wandered over to the perimeter. The gallery was smaller than the one she’d exhibited in at the start of the year. Her paintings had changed, too. They were still huge, but they were no longer realistic depictions of house interiors.
Each canvas bore great starbursts of crystalline colour, with intricate centres – flowers, I thought at first – captured within swathes of blue–white and filmy turquoise, clear pinks and carnation-blooms of palest yellow.
Her last show had sold out, and I saw that already most of these new works had red dots stuck to the wall beneath them.
One painting in particular caught my eye.
It was smaller than the other canvases, less vibrant. I went closer. It was a tiny portrait, the size of an orange. Wisps of dark hair framed the girl’s oval face; she had pointy cheekbones and a sweet rosebud mouth, and wide golden eyes.
I stood spellbound. Her name formed on my lips, but I was suddenly too breathless to utter it. Part of me felt like crying, while another part wanted to toss back my head and laugh. Joy and sorrow battled in my heart . . . and the joy won. I bent closer to read the printed legend attached to the wall at the base of the painting. Jamie, 1994.She would have been fourteen.
I moved along the wall, re-examining the other paintings with fresh eyes. More tiny faces peered from billowy starbursts, and from the centres of gold and tangerine carnation-blooms. All were dark-haired and achingly pretty – only the ages differed. Some showed the chubby-faced toddler I’d never known; others portrayed the Jamie I remembered most – the teenager who had it all: beauty, brains, popularity, attention from boys, and most significantly, Mum’s unconditional approval. The paintings were a celebration, I realised – of the daughter Mum had loved, and of the sister who had once meant the world to me.
A waiter swept past with a full tray, and I grabbed a mineral water. Smiling at the glowing portrait, I lifted my glass.
‘Here’s to you, big sister. From now on, may all our memories be happy.’
When November rolled around, a parcel arrived early for my birthday. It looked like a big flat box, quite heavy, but when I shook it nothing rattled.
It was one of Mum’s paintings, a portrait of two girls with their arms around one another. Both were dark-haired, one a little taller than the other. The taller girl was wearing a pink floral tank top and hippy pants; the younger girl wore an identical outfit, only in green. On their heads were crowns of wildflowers, and they were beaming happily, almost deliriously, as if posing for a photo.
Jamie and me.
Turning the painting over, I was surprised to find an inscription written neatly on a piece of paper glued to the canvas backing.
For my precious girl, Ruby
Love Mum
My eyes filled, and I tried to smile but my lips were suddenly trembling and hot happy tears were flowing over my cheeks.
For so long I had doubted; for so long I had believed that my mother had chosen to love one of her daughters, and not the other. In a flash of insight, I saw how wrong I’d been. Mum had loved us both with all her heart; the sense of emptiness I’d carried in me for the last two decades was not her doing, but mine.
Later, Pete had a present for me, too. We were sitting in his cottage by candlelight, picking at the remnants of my birthday cake – chocolate mud, with fresh cream and blueberry roulade. Roky Erickson’s Forever played softly in the background, and Bardo and the new puppy slumbered peacefully on the floor at our feet.
Inside the silver wrapping paper I found a gorgeous white vintage nighty, full length, similar to the one I’d once worn on my midnight forays with the Wolf. I held it up and shook out the creases, admiring the exquisite lace cuffs and décolletage.
‘It’s wonderful! In mint condition, too. Where on earth did you find it?’
‘It was Esther’s. A present from her mother in the forties when she got married. Esther always preferred pyjamas, it’s never been worn. She would have wanted you to have it. And wear it,’ he added mysteriously. Then he leaned over to kiss me on the lips, and dropped a second parcel into my lap.
Inside was a wolf mask. The pointed face was rubber, but the back of the head and the ears were faux fur; the mouth hung agape exposing large white fangs.
‘Oh,’ I said, then felt a smile creep up. ‘This does put a more interesting slant on the evening.’
Pete laughed huskily and took the mask, went to slip it on – but I plucked it from his fingers before he had the chance.
‘No you don’t,’ I declared. ‘This time around, I’m wearing the wolf mask.’
Pete shook his head. ‘Hang on, Roo. You’re the beautiful one. Beauty gets the nighty, remember? Beast wears the mask.’
He went to take it back, but I waved it out of reach.
‘Not in this game, he doesn’t.’
Pete made a sulky face, but his eyes were alight, glowing like sapphires in the candlelight. ‘Yeah, well,’ he muttered darkly, ‘there’s no way I’m getting togged up in Granny’s nighty.’
Laughing, I took his hand and led him outside. We sat on the grass and gazed up, my fingers linked warmly in his. The air was fragrant, scented with the spicy tang of wildflowers. Overhead the sky had disappeared behind a luminous galaxy of stars.
‘I don’t want this to end,’ Pete said softly.
‘What makes you think it will?’
Lifting my hand to his mouth, he kissed my fingers one by one.
‘You’re like a dream, Ruby. An incredibly beautiful, sexy dream. But in my experience, dreams always end. I guess I’m scared you’ll get tired of living out here in the middle of nowhere. You’ll go back to the coast and forget all about me.’
I pulled him close and kissed him. ‘There won’t be any going back. The new Busy Bookworm is thriving in Armidale, and Earle loves the tablelands climate. Besides, I’m becoming quite addicted to your company. You’re stuck with me, old thing.’
Pete beamed and drew me closer for another kiss, but I laughed and wriggled out of his arms. Unzipping my dress, I soaked up his wide-eyed appreciation of what I wore underneath: black boy-leg undies, and a slinky black lace bra. Placing my hands on his shoulders, I guided him back onto the moonlit grass, then slipped the wolf ma
sk over my head.
‘Welcome, dear Beauty,’ I said huskily. ‘Welcome to my humble abode.’
Acknowledgements
When I began Lyrebird Hill, Selwa warned me that the second novel is always the hardest. I was sceptical; after all, I had a bottom drawer full of rejected old manuscripts – surely they counted for something?
But Selwa is always right.
I made several messes of this story before it finally incarnated into a novel I feel proud of, and getting there took the help, advice, and guidance of a talented and dedicated team. I would like to express my deepest gratitude and thanks to the following people.
Number one on my list is my agent, Selwa Anthony, my wish-fulfilling jewel. She believed in me from the start, and stood by me for many years, always incredibly wise and kind and strong. The rumours are true, she has the ability to make dreams a reality!
Many thanks as well to the brilliant crew at Simon and Schuster for all their care and hard work, in particular Larissa Edwards and Lou Johnson; the wonderful Anna O’Grady, for getting my stories noticed; and my editors Claire de Medici, and the saintly and tireless Roberta Ivers, who always helps me weave more magic (and logic) into the tale.
A special thank-you to my German publisher, Goldmann, for their enthusiasm and faith in my stories. Knowing my books will be read in the language of some of my favourite authors is the thrill of a lifetime.
Thanks as well to Bolinda Audio, and the talented Eloise Oxer for bringing my characters to life in such a beautiful and compelling way. Heather Gammage for her skilful research and story input. Brian Dennis, Linda Anthony, and Drew Keys for their behind-the-scenes support over the years.
Russell Taylor for his steadfast love and friendship. Dan Mitchell for teaching me about the bush, and for being a wellspring of inspiration. Bet and Norm Mitchell for our wonderful Sundays. Rusty Lawson and Di Luxford-Lawson for reminding me to believe in myself. Stuart Ruthven for insights into character motivation, and Hailey and Luke for their love and passion.
I would also like to acknowledge and thank the Kamilaroi and Anaiwan people of the New England regions around Armidale in NSW, whose history and culture inspired some of my favourite scenes in Lyrebird Hill.
A very heartfelt thank you to my mum, Jeanette, for teaching me to love books; my dad, Bernie, who I miss every day; my sister Sarah for her loyalty and friendship; and my sister Katie for her pride in me, and for always cheering me on.
And finally my readers, who continue to brighten my life with their good wishes and encouragement.
My love and thanks to you all.
Anna Romer
2014
Exploring my Writing Process
For me, a novel begins a long time before I sit down to write. I always start a project with a new notebook. Over many months – or years – I fill it with photos, newspaper clippings, articles, and random scribblings. I make lists and timelines, draw maps, create detailed dossiers for my characters and build histories around them. I currently have about fifteen of these notebooks on the boil, each containing the raw ideas of a future novel.
As the bones of a story begin to emerge, I pick over my favourite themes – forbidden love, obsession, scandal and family secrets, and the lies we tell to each other and to ourselves. I never consciously try to work my themes into the storyline, but they are always brewing away under the surface, helping me to stay focused.
I also choose a fairytale that resonates with me, and think of ways I can weave it through the plot. In Thornwood House I played with the idea of Bluebeard, and his mysterious locked room which eventually tempted his wives to their deaths. The manifestation of this theme in the final story is very subtle, but it inspired the sense of curiosity and danger that I wanted to convey – both for the back bedroom of the house at Thornwood, and for the old settler’s hut near the gully.
When I finish brainstorming, my pile of notes is thicker than a telephone directory. I rarely look at these notes again. The story seeds have been planted; now it’s time to let them germinate and grow in the dark garden of my subconscious.
Meanwhile, I dive into the research, which is another great way to peel open further layers of story.
My research involves a lot of travel to soak up scenery and get a feel for local people and families and their fascinating pasts. For Thornwood House, I needed to know what life was like in the Fassifern region of Queensland during the 1940s, and how a small rural community was impacted by the war. I studied old newspapers, maps and photographs, and explored the landmarks in my story, such as Boonah’s historic Lutheran graveyard, and a spooky old settler’s hut I discovered in a forgotten paddock.
I also read heaps of war correspondence, as well as wartime memoirs and diary entries. Mum gave me a bundle of airgraph letters that were sent to my grandmother during the Second World War. These letters documented a young pilot’s longing for home, and made the war experience all the more personal for me.
By this stage I’m usually impatient to start the plotting process, which I really love. For me, there’s nothing more enjoyable than sitting at my ‘plotting table’ with a thermos of tea, and assembling the skeleton of a new story.
I love making a mess with scraps of paper, jotting down ideas for scenes and plot points and possible twists, and then puzzling them all together like a huge unwieldy jigsaw. The plot is always organic; when I start drafting, the story flies off on tangents and I invariably write myself into a corner. Back I go to the plotting table and re-shuffle my paper scraps until the problem is solved, then I return to my embryonic story and redraft. This phase of the process goes on for many months, and is a mental and emotional rollercoaster ride!
Some scenes – endings in particular – are more difficult to write. I enter avoidance mode: gardening or knitting or brushing the dog, or collecting wildflower seeds for my various regeneration projects – meanwhile freaking out over the gaps in my story, worrying myself into a state of creative agitation. By the time I’m ready to write my most challenging scenes, I’m a mess . . . but that’s good! Angst and chaos are part of the writing process, too, and are frequently the catalyst for better work.
Often I write to silence, but some scenes require that I work from a place of heightened emotion. If this is the case, on goes the music – Mumford and Sons, Will Oldham, Yma Sumac, Roky Erickson, Loreena McKennitt. For especially dark brooding scenes I play Espers, Six Organs of Admittance, PG Six, Nick Cave; for the ending I’ll crank up Muse, maybe a few Metallica tracks, or some weird obscure 70s folk rock. At some stage during a critical scene I’ll pull out Evanescence and have a great old cry.
Understandably, after all this intense focus, the story lines begin to blur; it becomes easy to overlook mistakes. One of the most exhilarating (and terrifying) parts of the process is handing over the novel draft to my agent and editors . . . and my eagle-eyed sister. They are the ghosts in the novel machine, and without them the story would be a shambles. An editor’s job is to pick apart a story and then send it back for the writer to fix. If someone points out that part of the plotline or a character doesn’t work, I gladly make the changes, knowing the story will be better for it. It’s a daunting process, but my ‘behind the scenes’ team always gives me deeper understanding and insight – not just into the novel we’re working on, but more importantly, into the craft of storytelling.
Another vital part of the process – especially after slogging towards deadlines – is clearing the brain fog. For me, this usually involves vanishing deep into the bush never to be heard from again . . . well, at least not until dinnertime! I’ll swim in the river, or climb into the hills and daydream on a bed of wildflowers. When I finally return to the world with the peppery scent of yellow-buttons clinging to my clothes, my brain and body are fully recharged.
One of my favourite quotes comes from Joseph Campbell, who said, ‘Follow your bliss.’ For me, the process of creating a novel is very much about following the trail of ideas that I find most intrigui
ng and inspiring . . . a strategy that works well for writing in general, and also for life.
Anna Romer
2014
HAVE YOU READ THORNWOOD HOUSE?
Anna Romer’s first novel is an enthralling, haunting tale of obsession, love and courage.
Read on for a peek at the prologue and first chapter . . .
When you’re all that stands between the murderous past and the fate of those you love, how far would you go to save them?
When Audrey Kepler inherits an abandoned homestead in rural Queensland, she jumps at the chance to escape her loveless existence in the city and make a fresh start.
In a dusty back room of the old house, she discovers the crumbling photo of a handsome World War Two medic — Samuel Riordan, the homestead’s former occupant — and soon finds herself becoming obsessed with him.
But as Audrey digs deeper into Samuel’s story, she discovers he was accused of bashing to death a young woman on his return from the war in 1946. When she learns about other unexplained deaths in recent years — one of them a young woman with injuries echoing those of the first victim — she begins to suspect that the killer is still very much alive.
And now Audrey, thanks to her need to uncover the past, has provided him with good reason to want to kill again.
Prologue
On a sunny afternoon, the clearing at the edge of the gully resembles a fairytale glade. Ribbons of golden light flutter through the treetops and bellbirds fill the air with chiming calls. The spicy scent of wildflowers drifts on a warm breeze, and deep in the shady belly of the ravine a creek whispers along its ancient course.
But then, come dusk, the sky darkens quickly. Shadows swarm among the trees, chasing the light. Sunbeams vanish. Birds retreat into thickets of acacia and blackthorn as, overhead, a host of violet-black clouds roll in from the west, bringing rain.
Here now, in the bright moonlight, it’s a different place again. Nightmarish. Otherworldly. The open expanse of silvery poa grass is hemmed in by black-trunked ironbarks, while at the centre stands a tall, fin-shaped boulder.