by Cathryn Hein
Felicity pressed a knuckle to her teeth. ‘They’ll send me back.’
‘They won’t. We’ll protect you. Digby will protect you.’
‘He doesn’t trust me any more.’
‘He still loves you. You can earn it back.’
Felicity’s mouth twisted, her voice like a child’s. ‘I just wanted a proper home.’
‘I know. I know you did.’ Em felt a shudder beneath her feet, like the groan of a rousing giant. ‘Please, we don’t have time. Take my hand.’
For a harrowing moment, she didn’t move, then, with a hesitant step, Felicity reached out for Em. The shudder worsened. The ground lurched.
‘Now!’
Felicity lunged, but the earth was already giving way beneath her. Em thrust forward, catching her hand around the crook of Felicity’s elbow as she slid. Em was pulled forwards as Felicity’s weight dragged her to the ground. Pain exploded across her shoulders but she screamed through it, her grip as fierce as her yell. Around Em, the ground continued to heave. She braced herself against the soil, her face at the edge of the slip, looking into Felicity’s terrified eyes.
Digby’s voice roared out of the darkness. ‘Flick!’
‘Stay back!’ But Em’s order had no effect. Hands grabbed her legs and worked their way up until they hooked into the back of her jeans.
‘Get back. The ground’s too unstable.’
But Digby wasn’t listening. He knelt beside her, and reached towards Felicity. The grip on Em’s jeans tightened and she realised that it wasn’t Digby’s body across her legs, but Josh’s.
Josh risking his life for her.
‘Let go, Josh. It’s too dangerous.’
His voice came back steadfast. ‘No.’
Tears of pain and emotion burned her eyes as her grip on Felicity began to fail. The air was filled with the smell of ancient peat and decaying plants.
Digby stretched further out. ‘Take my arm, Flick.’
Em’s grip slipped again. She stared at Felicity, willing her to hang on. Her angel’s eyes were huge and dark in the moonlight.
‘Come on, Flick. Just reach across. I won’t let you go.’ Digby leaned forwards, reaching out. The movement caused a chunk of soil to break away and tumble down the dark wall that had opened like a monster’s yawn across the side of Rocking Horse Hill.
‘Dig,’ warned Em.
‘Come on. I’m here. Like I promised I always would be.’
The ground began to lurch in earnest. Panic and pain made Em cry out for Josh. The pull on her jeans tightened. An arm scooped around her legs like a pincer. The earth was slipping and she didn’t know how much more would fall away.
‘I have you.’ Josh’s voice was steady and promise-filled. ‘I won’t let you go.’
Desperation turned Digby’s voice hoarse. ‘Flick, please.’
Tears had streaked lines across Felicity’s muddy face. She let out a sob. For a moment she tilted her head downwards, then she looked directly up at Digby. ‘I love you.’
‘I know, baby. I love you too.’
Em began to sob. ‘I can’t hold on.’
Felicity wasn’t helping. Her arm had relaxed, her grip faltering. As she held Digby’s terrified gaze, her expression filled with a strange serenity.
Realising her plan, Em began to plead. ‘Don’t. Please don’t.’
The mud began to slide, a pulse of soil that moved like a wave under her stomach.
‘No!’
Digby lunged, catching his knee on Em’s injured shoulder. She screamed and suddenly the land was gone and Em was being dragged painfully backwards, her shoulder on fire.
‘Digby!’ Strong arms held her but her shrieks kept coming. ‘Digby!’
Her voice subsided to a wail. She dropped her head, uttering his name one last time, a pitiful sound, barely heard in the torrent of the night, until its last sorrowful trail was swept away by a roar and unholy tremor, as though the heart of Rocking Horse Hill had heard her cry and reached out through the earth to reply.
Except this time its voice was all fury.
Twenty-Seven
Josh’s feet sank into the spongy grass as he crossed the garden cemetery. The lawn had become so over-thatched some of the memorial plates appeared buried themselves. A few were completely overgrown, their black-and-brass-lettered faces reduced to tiny dark eyes peeking from the surrounding green.
The day was funeral glum, as though Mother Nature had sensed a family’s grief and donned mourning clothes in sympathy. Grey clouds hung over the landscape, some with charcoal bellies, threatening rain. Unlike in Adelaide, where he’d been the last few days, spring had yet to cast its hope and sun-drenched spell over Levenham. Not that he or his family had much chance to experience the sunshine. Their view had been of hospital walls and the stoic face of the woman they all adored.
Though the operation had gone well and Michelle was recovering, surrounded by the rest of the family, Josh itched to be back there. After resisting for so long, they were all afraid of her emotions after the double mastectomy. The removal of tissue from Michelle’s other breast wasn’t necessary but the knowledge that she’d taken this preventative measure gave enormous relief to them all. Josh hoped it did for her too. On the surface, except for occasional spontaneous bouts of weeping, it seemed like it did. On the inside was anyone’s guess, and Josh wanted to be there, to reassure, to show his love.
But he burned to be here more.
Across the park, outside the low fence, reporters gathered in clusters, chatting among themselves while keeping an eye on the far corner of the cemetery. Levenham’s burial ground was split between old and new. Nearest the road, taking up several acres, were the low graves of the new garden cemetery, where Josh’s grandfather and other relatives were buried. But in the corner, rising up a slope and backed by a row of magnificent grey-trunked English elm trees, were the headstones, angels and raised marble slabs of the old plots.
As Josh neared, he could hear the words of the vicar as he spoke about a woman none of them really knew. Josh sought out Em as he hurried closer, silently apologising to the dead upon whose grassy graves he accidentally trod. Roadworks along the Duke’s Highway had delayed him and he’d missed the church service. As soon as the funeral was over he’d be straight on the road back. Unless things had changed.
Christ, he hoped they had.
He found her next to Granny B, the pair stiffly alike. Their backs were wooden, chins raised, looking across the grave and artificial turf-covered dirt mound towards nothing. Not disdainful, more defiant. Wallaces in body and soul. A light breeze curled the ends of their long wool coats and brought with it the sound of sobbing.
Josh entered the old cemetery and paused near a moss-covered gravestone, breathing steadily from his rapid walk. Granny B shot him a sideways glance before looking away again. The dismissal made Josh falter. He glanced at Adrienne, weeping into Samuel’s chest. One of the local policewomen he recognised from the investigation stood nearby, her watchful gaze on him. He nodded at her and received a small acknowledgement in reply, an action that made him breathe out hard. There was a possibility the Wallaces had restricted the funeral to family only, ruining his chance to talk to Em.
He looked at her again and for a brief moment she shifted her gaze until it connected with his. She didn’t smile. Not with her mouth, not with her eyes. Nor was her expression cold. She simply assessed.
Sixteen days after the tragedy and this was the closest he’d come to her. In the chaos that followed the landslide and its aftermath – the family’s grief, the recriminations and media swarm – she’d exiled herself and Muffy to Camrick. Untouchable. Jasmine had come for the remaining animals. Footage of her, grim-faced and silent, loading Kicki and Cutie into a horse float, and several cranky chickens and a furiously paddling white duck into a wire cage on the back of an old ute, appeared on the television. Lod and another horse were the last to go, then a large padlock was fitted to the gate and Rocking Horse Hill was l
eft to loneliness.
As he was.
At PaperPassion, the door remained locked, a blind pulled down over its glass panel. A typed card proclaimed the shop ‘closed until further notice’. He didn’t know if it would reopen. He didn’t know anything, least of all where he stood in her life.
Em looked away as the vicar began to recite the 23rd Psalm.
The Lord is my shepherd. . .
Josh lowered his head, fists curling, hating this impotence. Hating what had happened to them. Muttered ‘Amens’ followed the psalm’s last line. He was determined to at least talk to her, and took a few steps closer.
He halted as Granny B narrowed sharp eyes in his direction, then murmured something to her granddaughter. Em shook her head, the movement tiny. Granny B persisted and this time Em’s gesture became more distinct, as she jerked her head towards the road and the news crews. Her mouth thinned and she stared steadfastly across the grave, as though Josh didn’t exist.
An ache spread across his chest and into his throat. He didn’t need much more proof. Whatever they’d once shared died completely that night.
Granny B’s mouth formed a moue, then she marched straight for the headstone where Josh stood and turned once more to the open grave, where Felicity’s coffin still hung by its straps over the hole below. ‘Joshua.’
‘Granny B.’ He gestured towards Em. ‘How is she?’
‘Rather well, considering, although I suspect her shoulder still gives her some grief. She was lucky it was only a slight dislocation.’ Granny B paused and contemplated the grave. ‘Lucky in other ways, too, of course.’ She threw a filthy look towards the road. ‘The parasites have been giving us hell, but after today we should find some peace.’ Her gaze shifted again and her voice lost some of its loftiness. ‘Although I fear Digby never will.’
Unlike Em and Granny B, who’d chosen navy and deep burgundy as their funeral colours, Digby was dressed in black. Black wool coat, black suit, black shirt. Stark against his clothing, held together with a simple white bow, was a large bouquet of pure white tulips, petals folded into delicate cups that trembled with Digby’s grief. His forehead still bore the pink line from the stiches he’d received and a pair of crutches leaned nearby against another grave. But it was his eyes that revealed where the real damage lay. A haunted, unfocused gaze that stared inward instead of out.
Suddenly Digby raised his head. For a long moment, he did nothing but stare blankly at Josh, then he straightened and nodded. Josh nodded back. They didn’t need words. Tragedy had tied them forever.
He turned back to Granny B. ‘He’ll recover.’
Felicity had made Digby a different man. In a strange way, she’d made them all different.
‘Yes, I suppose he will. He is a Wallace, after all.’ She gestured to the surrounding graves, some new and glossy, others lichen-covered and stained with age. ‘This was Emily’s idea, to bury her here among Wallaces. Can’t say I’m happy about it. Not sure Adrienne is either but Emily was adamant. She said it was the right thing to do. Odd attitude to have towards an attempted murderer in my opinion.’ She eyed him up and down. ‘And you? How are you holding up? You endured as much as my grandchildren that night.’
‘I’ll be fine. Once I talk to Em.’
‘Oh, you will.’
‘When?’
Granny B didn’t answer. Instead she dug into her pocket for a cigar, checking the end before lighting it with an expensive-looking rose-gold lighter. She puffed, the fragrant smoke drifting softly in the crisp air. ‘She’s protecting you, you know,’ she finally said.
‘Me?’
‘You and your family. From the vultures.’
‘I don’t need protection.’ All he wanted was Em. A chance to talk. A chance to apologise for what went before.
The media weren’t bothering Josh much now anyway. After the initial bombardment, news of Michelle’s cancer had caused them to ease off, and like Em’s family, his had closed ranks. With the exception of Karen, who, at over eight months pregnant, was uncomfortable, fiercely combative and couldn’t help taking swipes, no one was talking. Besides, the media weren’t really interested in him, not when they had the Wallaces.
‘You probably don’t, but she’s granting it regardless.’ Abruptly, Granny B lifted his hand, his damaged one, with not a trace of distaste affecting her powdery features, and patted it. ‘Patience, Joshua. Patience.’ And with that she marched off, back to Em’s side.
The two women murmured together for a moment. He hesitated, desperate for some sign, and was at last rewarded with the faintest curve of Em’s mouth. Then her eyes slid to him. And this time there was no mistaking their softened edges.
Josh raised his gaze to the sky and inhaled a deep, shaky breath. Relief and hope made his eyes smart. He blinked several times and flexed his jaw until the emotion passed. Patience. For Em he would find plenty. Aware of her, but without looking, he headed across to Digby and gripped his shoulder.
‘I’m sorry.’
Digby’s eyes were bloodshot and heavy. He acknowledged Josh with a grimace before reaching for his crutches, and hobbling to the edge of the grave for his final goodbye.
Josh left them to their mourning, passing back across the lawn with his hands in his pockets and his head down, but his gaze was angled sideways to survey the journalists. One followed his progress as closely as he followed theirs. A hundred metres from the fence, near to where he’d parked his car, the journalist broke from the group. Josh maintained his long pace. He wanted to run, but it would only draw more attention.
They intersected at his car.
‘A word, Mr Sinclair.’
Josh didn’t answer. He yanked open the door, slid in and slammed it shut. The journalist pressed his face close to the window, continuing his questions. Josh started the car. The radio was pumping out the latest Pink single. He turned it up, loud, and put the car into gear.
The journalist stepped back. After all, Josh was a nobody.
But a nobody high on hope.
Tom waited by the open door of the garage while Josh lined the tray of his ute with a thick removalist’s blanket. In the sun, the easel’s timber glowed an even richer hue. So it should, given the layers of oil and hours of polishing Josh had put into it.
Excitement fizzed within him. It had been nearly three weeks since the funeral, five weeks since he’d last spoken with Em. Spring had finally come south and the day felt glorious. Thanks to Em’s text message it was about to get a whole lot better.
Though he could have lifted it himself, Josh allowed his dad to help him load the easel and secure it in its blanket. Together they replaced the tonneau cover, clipped it in place, and stood back with their hands on their hips. Maybe in a few months, once his mum was in the clear and his dad had the peace of mind he needed to leave Flanagan’s, this would be something they’d do often.
‘Have a look at you two,’ called Michelle from the back door. ‘Like a pair of proud cockies.’
Josh grinned at her. ‘That’s because we’ve a lot to be proud of.’
He didn’t mean the easel either. They were both proud of her, and thankful. No one knew what the other cancer and mastectomy survivor had told Michelle, what they’d shared, and in the end no one cared. Not even Karen who, with the joy of her first baby approaching, had felt the most let down by her mother’s defiance. All that mattered was that their plan had worked.
Even now, Josh still felt swollen with admiration. Proud of the way his mum gritted her teeth against discomfort, the way she’d adapted, the way she still managed to boss them all around without effort. And they adored her even more for it.
It hadn’t been easy for Michelle. Post-operation there was the shock of seeing her chest for the first time. The hideous drains and tight compression bra. She’d promised them the pain wasn’t as bad as she’d expected, until the injections of saline into her skin expanders began. That had proved to be agonising. Agonising but worth it. Within a few months she’d have ne
w breasts that defied gravity and age. Better than her daughters’, she liked to tease them.
She still couldn’t do much. No lifting, pulling or pushing. Josh and his dad found themselves almost elbowing each other out the way to help her. Best of all the notebooks were gone. ‘For another time,’ she’d said when Josh inquired after them during her first week home. If it weren’t for the fluid drains and bandages, he would have bear-hugged her until she squirmed and squealed in delight like she used to when he was a teenager.
‘She’s going to love it,’ said Michelle.
‘I hope so.’
His dad’s hand curled around his shoulder and squeezed. ‘No point standing around.’
‘No.’ Josh jangled the car keys. This was it. Five weeks of waiting about to end and now he couldn’t seem to move.
Michelle eased her way down the back step and to his side. She took his left hand and held it between hers. ‘Don’t be scared.’
‘I’m not.’
She sighed and gave him her favourite sceptical look.
He jangled his keys some more. ‘The text just asked if I’d mind coming to the hill. It didn’t say anything else.’
‘Of course it didn’t. Em understands that some things are too important for a silly text message.’ Her gaze softened. ‘She loves you. Now it’s time for you tell her the same.’
He’d come close, that night, but like everything else the chance had been lost in the drama. As soon as Em was safe, he’d left her with Muffy and his phone, yelling at her to dial emergency while he began his panicked scramble down the quarry in search of Digby and Felicity. He’d found Digby almost immediately, dangerously perched a third of the way down the quarry face. He was unconscious, with blood and mud stuck to his face. Beside him, protruding ghostly pale from the dirt, was a slim hand and forearm, already turning cold.