by Di Morrissey
Lara suddenly realised the sweet musty smell in the air probably wasn’t Indonesian cigarettes as she’d thought. ‘Well, thanks very much, Sagaro. You’ve been very helpful.’
Following Sagaro’s directions Lara drove towards the scenic waterfall. There was a slightly sinister undertone to this place, she decided. She spotted a sign to the falls and was surprised to see a small general store. Aha. This must be the centre of the universe on the mountain, she thought. There was a petrol pump, a sign for the post office, a banner for a newspaper, a few tables and chairs under a bit of shade cloth, and a basket of fruit or vegetables of some kind with a sign on it ‘Free.’ Lara decided she’d call in for a coffee after visiting Thommo and before embarking on the drive back down the mountain.
The road turned into a carpark and small picnic area where the scenic walk began around the falls. Lara stopped the car and then saw a laneway on the opposite side of the road marked The Easement. She drove along it until she spotted a letterbox with the number 18 on it. There were no other farms or houses nearby that she could see. She got out of the car to open the gate, then closed it behind her and followed the grassy driveway. Tall trees – heavy pines, mountain ash and a rainforest variety she couldn’t identify – screened the house from the road.
It was an old weatherboard home thickly shaded with a carpet of rotting leaves around the entrance. Lichen, like grey acne, pitted the trunks of the trees and even on a sunny afternoon the place looked moist and dank. A weeping kind of house. It would be hideously cold and miserable in winter, thought Lara. She parked, walked to the front door and rapped the knocker.
She could hear movement inside and was debating with herself about going to the back door but hesitated. She should have rung him. But then the door opened cautiously and a man peered out at her. Her immediate impression was of a man in pain. Deep furrows in his face, a downturned mouth, a pinched expression. Yet she could tell he’d been a good-looking man once. Flashes of the smiling youthful servicemen in her grandparents’ photographs came to mind.
When he didn’t speak but simply stared at her, Lara smiled at him.
‘Mr Thompson?’ He nodded briefly and Lara went on. ‘My name is Lara Langdon, my grandparents were Harold and Emily Williams from Cedartown. I believe you knew them?’
‘I might have,’ he finally answered non-committally.
‘I’m sorry to drop in out of the blue, but I was wondering if I could chat to you for a few minutes? I’m doing my family history and I thought you might be able to help me.’
‘I doubt that. I keep to myself these days.’ He hadn’t opened the door and he was still regarding Lara suspiciously.
‘I understand that. But you did grow up here and were known as Thommo, is that right?’ persisted Lara. She knew she was right, there was a flicker in his eyes as he thought what to say, then he merely held the door open and stepped to one side.
‘You’d better come in.’
Lara followed him down the hallway to the neat kitchen. It was a sparse bachelor’s or widower’s kitchen – the basics were laid out for one person. One mug beside a small teapot, one plate with a knife on it. The only incongruous item was a rifle leaning in one corner. For snakes, she assumed.
‘Did you drive up here from Cedartown to see me then? I s’pose you’ll want a cup of tea?’
‘Tea would be lovely. Can I help?’ Lara hoped he might be more forthcoming over a cup of tea. ‘Yes, I came up here hoping to find you.’ Some instinct told her to hold off mentioning her father Clem just yet.
He didn’t say anything as he took another mug and a bigger teapot from a cupboard. ‘Nothing much in the way of scones or cake. Digestive Oval biscuits okay?’
‘Thank you.’
He kept his back to her as he turned on an old-fashioned electric jug and spooned tea from a Bushells tin tea caddy into the brown ceramic teapot. ‘So who told you about me then?’ he asked as he sat down at the little table.
‘Phyllis Lane, who was Phyllis Richards.’
He nodded. ‘Haven’t seen her for many years.’
‘She’s very spry and active,’ said Lara brightly. ‘Has most of her family here.’ She paused. ‘Do you have any family up here?’
‘All gone. I spent most of my life on the Central Coast. My mother moved there after the war when Dad was sick.’
‘Was he in the war?’ asked Lara.
‘No. He was too old for the war. Had heart problems.’
‘He ran the picture theatre in Cedartown, I believe,’ prompted Lara.
‘Yes.’ As Lara waited for him to elaborate he gave her a hard stare. ‘Why do you want to know all this old stuff?’ It was a challenging question but Lara answered gently.
‘I need to know where I come from. I have a lot of gaps in my immediate family history. It’s time I knew what the real story is.’
‘Real story? What do you mean?’ He was defensive, almost aggressive. ‘What’s your mother told you?’
‘My mother never told me anything, that’s the problem. I just have names on a bit of paper. Photographs I can’t identify.’ Lara had them in her car but although this man probably knew more than he was letting on, he wasn’t ready to identify the people in pictures as she’d hoped.
He stood up as the jug boiled and busied himself making the tea. He put the pot and a jug of milk on the table, added the sugar bowl and a plate with the flat oval biscuits arranged on it.
Lara went on. ‘The main person I’m interested in is Clem Richards. As it turns out he was my father. And I don’t know anything about him.’
‘He’s dead. Killed in Sydney in an accident.’ His tone was bitter and he sat and poured the milk and tea into their mugs.
‘He’d just left my mother after being on leave. Must have been dreadful for her to lose her husband home from the war in some traffic accident and then find out she was pregnant with me.’
‘Yeah. S’pose so.’ He added sugar to his mug and stirred it, studying the swirl on the surface of the tea. His clinking spoon was the only sound in the room.
Lara took a breath. ‘I understand you two were best mates. Grew up together, went through the war together. Must have been awful for you too.’
‘War was awful. Changed people. I never got over it.’
‘The war? Or Clem’s death?’ asked Lara.
He dropped the spoon on the tablecloth. ‘Why’d you say that?’ Again the defensive challenge. ‘I didn’t have anything to do with that. Why can’t you just let things be?’
Lara was shocked she’d hit such a nerve so early in the conversation. Thommo’s eyes were bright and fierce. A little scary. ‘Because I want to know what he was like. I never knew my father! I never even knew he was my father!’ Her vehement response startled them both.
‘That’s not my fault,’ he snapped.
‘So what’s wrong with sharing some of your memories, reminiscences with me?’ said Lara. ‘At least tell me about my father. You were with him so much.’ Lara meant the question to encompass their childhood, their war experiences, but Thommo seemed fixated on her father’s accidental death.
‘I wasn’t there. He got a taxi back to the barracks. We’d been gambling up the Cross and he did his dough. Three am it was and a truck hit the taxi. The truck driver was going to the markets.’ Thommo repeated this quickly as if it had happened yesterday.
Having just heard the heard the story from Phyllis, Lara was puzzled at the discrepancies in their versions of what happened and she wished she’d asked Aunty Phyllis more about the ‘incident’ over the money. ‘I’ve been told Clem Richards never gambled.’
‘He had money. A whack of money.’ Thommo rubbed his eyes.
‘And where was the game? Why would he go there if he didn’t gamble?’ Lara wondered aloud.
Thommo didn’t answer for a moment. ‘The Cross,’ he said.
Lara continued, ‘So how come the accident happened near Central Railway Station if he was coming back from Kings Cross? Phyllis
said he was heading to the barracks in Oxford Street, and was killed near Central, which isn’t anywhere near the Cross.’
Thommo just shook his head.
Lara persisted, sensing he was holding something important back. ‘And if he had no money on him, how was he going to pay for a taxi?’
‘I could have paid for it.’
‘Let me get this straight. Phyllis said the accident happened close to midnight because he got in on the eleven-thirty pm train. Yet you say it was three am. It sounds to me like he was killed just after he got off the train.’
At this, Thommo jumped up. ‘You’ll be sorry. You dig around you’ll regret it. Maybe there are stories you shouldn’t know. Don’t start poking your nose in things dead and gone. Leave the past alone. Go back to Sydney, whatever you find out won’t do you any good!’
Lara was stunned at this outburst. It came out of nowhere and seemed quite irrational. Then she went cold as she stared at this angry old man. ‘It was you! You’ve been putting those letters in my mailbox!’
She expected a rebuttal, some bluster of denial but instead he started to shake and turned away, his hands gripping the back of his chair.
‘Why, why didn’t you leave us alone?’ he whispered shakily.
‘I’m sorry. It’s an issue for me . . . I didn’t realise it would affect you so much,’ began Lara.
‘You don’t understand, you don’t know!’ he said through clenched teeth.
‘So why don’t you tell me?’ said Lara quietly.
He was still facing away from her breathing deeply, obviously thinking hard. He straightened and turned to face her, strangely calm. ‘I’ve got letters, some pictures. They might help you. They’re in my shed. Out the back.’
‘That would be great. Thank you.’
‘Come and I’ll show you.’ He opened the kitchen door and went through a small laundry and pointed to the aluminium shed. ‘They’re in there. In old biscuit tins on a shelf.’ He shuffled along the path and held the door open.
‘See the Arnott’s tins. Help yourself.’
‘Which one?’ asked Lara looking at the four or five rusting square tins above some tools and jars of nails and screws.
‘Lift down the red ones. I’ve got bad arthritis.’
Lara had a sudden flashback to her grandfather’s old wooden shed at the bottom of the garden at Cricklewood and how he stored things in Arnott’s biscuit tins with the distinctive label of a parrot on a perch with a cracker. She took down the top layer of tins to reach the ones with the red labels wondering what was in them. Perhaps letters and photos of Clem and Thommo as young men?
There was a clang and bang and the shed went dark.
‘What’s going on! Thommo?’
The door had banged shut and for a second she thought it was a gust of wind, but then she heard the scratching metallic noise of the bolt being slid in place. She remembered seeing the padlock hanging off it. Then she remembered the rifle in the kitchen.
‘Thommo! What’re you doing?’ Lara rattled the door and banged on it.
She shouted. There was no answer. She remembered the remoteness of this house. Shouting wouldn’t help. The unreality of her predicament spun in her head. What did he hope to gain by this? Lara slumped to the cement floor in the dark shed where chinks of daylight seeped under the door and along the roof line where the walls were bolted to the roof. She’d left her bag with her phone inside the house. Probably wouldn’t work up here anyway. Dear God, what was he thinking?
The shed smelled musty, with an odour of stale newspapers and rat droppings. She was trying to remember what she’d noticed when she walked in here. Nothing much, her eyes had been focused on the row of biscuit tins. She got up and began groping slowly and methodically along the bench, shelves and wall trying to identify implements. Maybe a heavy hammer or wrench would bust through the outside lock. As she felt her way she tried not to think about what might happen to her. Who would ever know where she was?
Tim had gone to Chesterfield with Toby and Tabatha after school. Lara would pick him up at about five pm. Toby’s ‘new toy’, as Dani called it, had Tim very excited. Barney had bought Toby a second-hand power boat, a racy little ‘flattie’ fibreglass hull with a six-horsepower outboard engine. It looked to Tim like a shallow seagoing skateboard and he was very envious of it and Toby dressed in his helmet and lifejacket. Barney had painted it bright orange with big purple flames along the sides. It was christened Chesterfield, and in smaller script was added on the inside of the hull: Driver Toby Poole, Pit Crew Len James and Grandad, Sponsored by Long River Gallery.
Now that Toby had turned nine Barney had been coaching Toby in boat handling, waterway rules and flag knowledge for the past year. In two weeks he’d enter his first big competition down the coast. This afternoon Tim was holding the stopwatch and timing Toby’s laps along the river.
As the sun sank Tim helped Toby hose off the boat after Barney had towed it on the light trailer behind the tractor back to the shed where it was stored next to the hay bales. The family of guinea pigs raced backwards and forwards taking no notice. The wallaby, now hopping around, followed the boys.
Tabatha appeared and asked how Toby’s times had been.
‘Good. He’s going to thrash those big boys,’ said Tim.
‘I hope so,’ said Tabatha. ‘Mum wants to know if you’re staying for dinner, Tim.’
‘No, my Ma is picking me up. What time is it?’
‘After six o’clock,’ said Tabatha. ‘She’s late.’
Tim went into Angela’s kitchen where she was preparing dinner for the kids. Helen was sitting watching with a cup of coffee.
‘Ma is late. Should I call Mum? Ma’s never late.’
‘Let’s call your grandma’s mobile first,’ suggested Helen.
When there was no answer Helen said, ‘Well, not to worry, we’ll set a place for you.’
But Tim was suddenly anxious. ‘She’d ring me if she was going to be late. Why doesn’t she answer?’
‘Lara was going up the mountain, wasn’t she? I hope she’s not driving down in the dark. What was she doing up there?’ Angela exchanged a look with her mother.
‘I dunno. Trying to find someone, I think.’ Tim was worried. ‘Can we call my mum please? She’s been out getting stuff for painting.’
Dani was instantly concerned. ‘I’m out in the scrub, Helen. It’ll take me forty-five minutes to get to your place. Keep Tim there if you don’t mind. I’m not sure what to do.’
‘There’s no point in you driving up that dreadful road in the dark. We’ll hear soon enough. Don’t worry, love,’ said Helen. But she didn’t sound very convincing.
‘I’m going back home. Keep me posted.’
Dani hung up and picked up the bag of items she’d collected to use in her collagraphy. As she was driving back to The Vale her mobile rang. She hoped it was Lara.
‘Dani? This is Jason. I wanted to suggest a date to go to the beach –’
She cut him off. ‘Jason, tell me about that mountain road again. My mother went up there and hasn’t come back when she said. I’m a bit worried.’
Jason was immediately concerned. ‘She’s not driving down now, is she? When was she due back?’
‘Nearly two hours ago. It’s not like her. I hope she hasn’t had an accident.’
‘Have you checked with the police? Do you want me to call?’
‘No. But I just feel I should drive up there, is there mobile reception? She’d call if there was some problem.’
‘I’ll check with the local cops. Reception is patchy, doubt you’d get it at all. Listen, if you’re really worried I’ll drive you. It’s a bad road but I know it. Where are you?’
‘I’ll be home in about twenty minutes.’
‘I’ll meet you there, we can go in my four-wheel drive.’
She hoped by the time Jason turned up that she would have heard from her mother. But neither Helen and Barney nor Dani had any news.
‘The
re’s no reports of any accidents. She could have broken down, got sidetracked, who knows? And with no mobile reception, there’s no way of letting you know,’ said Jason striding into The Vale.
‘But she’d know we’d worry. Surely she’d knock on someone’s door and use the phone,’ said Dani.
‘Places are scattered, farms tucked away. What was she doing up there anyway?’ asked Jason.
‘She was going to try to find some old friend of her father’s. I’m worried, Jason.’
‘Get a torch and a jacket. I’ll call Helen and tell her I’m driving you up. I’ve got a satellite phone, Helen can reach me on that.’
‘Jason, you don’t have to do this –’
‘Nonsense. It’s a hideous road, worse in the dark. And I don’t think you should wander around alone up there.’
‘Thank you,’ said Dani gratefully, taking her jacket off the hook of the door.
In the beam of the headlights the road seemed to be barely the width of the car. A thick tangle of trees loomed from inkiness as they swept around each hairpin curve, the boulders at the edge of the road on one side, the ravine on the other, picked out in the roving flashes of the lights. Dani found she was periodically holding her breath and even though Jason was a confident driver she shuddered to think of her mother negotiating this road in daylight let alone darkness.
Jason was trying to take Dani’s mind off her worries. ‘So who was it your mum was looking for up here? Do you know where?’
‘God, I didn’t tune in too well. I haven’t a clue about this bloke’s name. Thommo something. He’s an old bloke who knew Mum’s real father. It hadn’t registered with me she was just going to hop in the car and cruise around. I didn’t think she had an address.’
‘Who told her about him?’
‘An old aunty she found. I have no idea where she is either. I’ve been so wrapped up in all the Isabella stuff, I didn’t take in the details. I thought she was just pottering through the museum and so on. It wasn’t until she told me about those letters that I took some notice.’