‘Fiona!’ Grandmother Bridget was at the older woman’s side, knocking the cane away from Ross’s body and forcefully dragging her backwards. ‘That is quite enough.’
‘Yes, it is,’ their great-aunt agreed. ‘It is not my place to judge you, Ross. There is no need. When they weigh your soul it’s not heaven you’ll be going to. It’s hell.’
Ross fled the room, flung himself up the wide staircase, ran to his bedroom and positioned a chair under the doorknob. He crouched in a corner. How had he not known that he’d done such a terrible deed?
One that his family hated him for.
Chapter 3
Ross listened to Alastair calling to him through the panelled wood, a chink of light showing beneath the door. His brother had been knocking quietly for the last few minutes and, knowing Alastair, he wasn’t going away. Reluctantly, Ross moved the chair that was wedging the door shut and allowed his brother to enter the room. Ross crawled back to the space he’d been inhabiting on the floor at the end of the bed and scowled.
‘What do you want?’ he asked.
‘I came to tell you what happened after you left,’ said Alastair. He set the candle down and crawled under the bed to retrieve the biscuit tin that held Ross’s most special possessions.
Ross reached for the container. ‘Hey. What are you doing? Give it back.’
‘Shush,’ said Alastair. ‘I only wanted to see your marbles.’ He held the tin out of reach.
Ross tried to grab it. ‘If they find you here with me you’ll only say it was my fault and then I’ll get into more trouble.’
‘You will not,’ said Alastair.
‘Will so,’ answered Ross, finally snatching the case and hugging it to his chest.
They stared sullenly at the candle.
‘I want to play cricket tomorrow and if they thought it was my idea to break into the asylum then I’d be the one being locked in my room for a week and not you,’ explained Alastair. ‘Anyway, if you hadn’t have spat that lolly at Great-Aunt Fiona she wouldn’t have gotten so angry.’
‘A whole week?’ repeated Ross.
‘It won’t be so bad,’ said Alastair. ‘It could be worse.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Well, they decided against giving you the strap again and they did send me to my room too.’
That was something, Ross supposed, Alastair getting sent to his room too. ‘Did you know about the other baby, Alastair?’
His brother wet a finger and began waving it through the yellow candle flame. ‘Not really. I’d heard stories about why Mother is the way she is and I knew it had something to do with another baby but I didn’t know it was you. Do you remember the other baby, Ross?’
‘No,’ he replied.
‘You’re sure?’
‘I don’t know anything.’ Ross squeezed closer to the cold wall.
‘All right, don’t start being a girl. I’m only asking.’ Alastair picked up the candle and tipped it so that the wax dripped onto the saucer-shaped holder, forming a silky puddle that quickly dried, creamy and smooth.
It had scared Ross, what his great-aunt had said. He didn’t want to believe her but he was just a boy and she was a grown-up, and neither his father nor grandmother had said it wasn’t right. And Ross couldn’t remember anything. He couldn’t even recall being a baby.
‘Do you think it’s true, Alastair? What Great-Aunt Fiona said about me eating the baby?’
Alastair lifted the candle so that his face went white and then made a noise as if he was a ghost. ‘Wooooooo!’
‘Stop it,’ begged Ross.
‘Okay. Okay.’ Alastair sat the candle back down, screwing the base of it into the hardened wax. ‘Maybe the other baby was bad and that’s why you ate it, to save the family,’ he suggested. ‘Or maybe he attacked you when you were inside Mother and you had to fight back. You know some of the Greek gods ate their children.’
Ross’s stomach was beginning to churn. If it was true – if he’d eaten a little brother – then he was a cannibal and a murderer. A murderer twice over if the man on the penny-farthing happened to die. It was turning into a very bad day. ‘They hate me, you know. Mother and Father and Great-Aunt Fiona,’ said Ross.
‘Great-Aunt Fiona doesn’t like anyone,’ Alastair told him. ‘Least of all children. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’d eaten some of her own.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it anymore,’ said Ross. ‘Go away.’
‘I’m starving. We won’t get any supper, you know, so let’s sneak down to the kitchen and steal something to eat while Mrs Blum isn’t looking,’ suggested Alastair.
‘No,’ said Ross.
‘Come on,’ coaxed Alastair. ‘You’re going to be locked in here for a week. Probably with only bread and water to eat. A whole week! You’ll be starving by the end of it. You’ll be like Robinson Crusoe. You’ll get so hungry you’ll have to eat the mice and you’ll have no one to talk to. You’ll be a prisoner. Like the people in the asylum. You might even go mad. Neither of us have ever been locked away for that long before.’
‘Stop it.’
It was true. Last year Ross had spent two days in his room for breaking an expensive vase after playing chase in the house with Alastair. By the end of it he’d felt like one of the animals at the zoo, but he didn’t think he’d go mad.
‘I’ll make sure there’s no one about and then you see what you can find us to eat,’ said Alastair.
‘Why do I have to be the one to do it?’ asked Ross, placing the special box on the bed.
‘You’re smaller than me so there’s less chance of you being seen, and secondly, I’m faster so if I hear someone I can run into the kitchen and tell you to hide.’
‘I don’t know, Alastair, it doesn’t sound like a very good plan,’ said Ross.
Alastair removed the pillowcase from Ross’s cushion on the bed. ‘There, now you have something to put the food in.’ He pulled Ross up from the floor and, handing him the bag, blew out the candle and opened the door. ‘They’re still in the parlour and then they’ll go to the dining room. They won’t even know we’re downstairs.’
‘I really don’t want to get into any more trouble,’ said Ross.
‘Wait!’ Alastair ran back to the bed, opened the tin and snatched up a couple of the marbles.
‘What are you doing? Give those back!’
Alastair opened his palm. ‘They’re only a couple of boring cat’s eyes. You can have them back when we’re finished.’ He pulled Ross into the hallway, flattening himself against the wall. ‘I’ll be Achilles. You can be Ajax. We’re storming Troy and stealing food for the army before we attack at dawn.’ Alastair ran along the hall. At the top of the stairs he beckoned to Ross. ‘They’re sneaky, those Trojans, so be ready.’
‘Oh boy,’ muttered Ross, but he kept pace with Alastair as they crept downstairs, crawling past the dining room as their great-aunt complained that her place setting was not square with the edges of the table. At the kitchen entrance they peered through the door.
Mrs Blum was carving meat for supper. Slabs of cold mutton were being arranged on a large platter, while other plates held piles of steaming potatoes, beans and carrots.
Alastair tapped Ross’s shoulder. ‘Go,’ he whispered.
‘No,’ said Ross. There was no possibility of entering the kitchen without being seen.
Alastair took the marbles from his pocket and rolled them across the kitchen floor so that the round balls hit the skirting board with a clatter. Mrs Blum stopped her preparations and, laying down the knife, went to investigate the noise. Alastair pushed Ross into the kitchen and he grabbed at the potatoes, stuffing them into the pillowslip.
‘You just can’t help yourself, can you, Ross?’
Alastair was gone. In his place their father blocked the exit.
‘Ross, what are you doing?’ Mrs Blum took the pillowcase from him.
‘But it wasn’t my fault,’ said Ross. ‘It was Alastair’s idea.’
<
br /> ‘It’s always your brother’s idea,’ said his father. Taking his son by the ear he led him upstairs, refusing to let go until Ross was back in his bedroom. ‘You’re an embarrassment to this family. I’d send you to boarding school except I couldn’t be sure you’d behave, so instead I’ve decided to separate you two boys. No more shared lessons or playing together. All that ends today. It’s time to grow up, Ross. If that’s possible.’
His father slammed the door and Ross fell on his bed, kicking his heels on the cover. After a little while he lit a candle and stared out the window to where the rest of the world readied for the night. He shouldn’t have followed Alastair or done what he’d said. Alastair always made a mess of things and he was the one who suffered the consequences.
Chapter 4
Adelaide, 1910
The garden party was their grandmother’s idea. An opportunity for Alastair to be paraded before a selection of Adelaide’s finest on the occasion of reaching twenty-one. Ross selected a glass of champagne from a tray and then quietly manoeuvred back through the guests to the corner of the marquee. He winced at the taste of the alcohol, emptying the glass on the lawn. The liquid foamed before evaporating into the ground. He stared briefly at the grass then lifted his gaze to follow a young woman. The hem of her white gown trailed across the turf and was slightly dirty. She was tiny about the waist and she toyed with a blue-tasselled sash, her face concealed by a large hat. Beneath the brim her coiled hair was a masterpiece and Ross found himself wondering about the thickness and length that was twisted and curled into such clever proportions. She stood slightly apart, her spine straight, shoulders pulled back so that from where he watched the stretch of material across her chest verged on the undignified.
Ross waited for the girl to move so that he might better see her features. If she proved pretty he thought of introducing himself, but beauty could also mean an inclination towards waspishness, which he’d encountered in the past. While he deliberated on whether to approach the young woman, his friend Drummond emerged from the mass of partygoers to speak to her and then, one after another, three other companions joined in so that the girl was encircled by admirers and Ross realised he was most definitely on the outside looking in. She laughed, accepted the champagne offered and as she sipped from the flute he saw her unobstructed profile and berated his caution.
Connor Andrews arrived to stand slightly behind him. He was bearded and stunted to a mere five foot five inches and his Scottish accent remained strong despite over a decade in Australia. Had Connor been alive in the 1700s, Ross had no doubt he would have helped mobilise the clan for war. The man excelled at taking and giving orders, which made his official position as head of stables a poor description for someone who was often sent inland to their other holdings to check on the management of those properties.
‘So which filly will catch your brother’s eye, do you think?’ asked Connor.
‘All of them, I’d imagine,’ replied Ross. The girls flocked to his brother like seagulls searching for a morsel of bread. Alastair’s leanness of youth was gone, replaced with a broadness that matched his impressive height, and he exuded a confidence that Ross admired.
‘Aye, well, you’re not helping your chances hanging back here,’ said Connor.
‘I’m not looking for a bride,’ countered Ross, as the girl was gradually absorbed by other guests forming tight rings of conversation.
‘Neither’s your brother,’ said Connor with a wink. ‘He’s playing the field as you should be doing. Not that he was ever lacking with the ladies. University’s done Alastair some good.’
Ross doubted that studying the classics and French was going to be of help in the real world. ‘And what’s he going to do with all that learning, Connor?’
‘Alastair’s born to be a laird. The Much Honoured Alastair Grant. Has a nice sound to it,’ said Connor.
‘It might if we were still in Scotland,’ complained Ross.
‘Aye, right. I dinnae see your father complaining about keeping to some of the old ways.’
‘As if he would.’
‘Come now, lad. He’s been tough on you boys but didnae you come out of it fine. The both of you have. If you have the chance, tell your father I fired McKinley. The man’s a useless manager,’ Connor told him. ‘How are things at Gleneagle Station? Have they made a grazier out of you yet?’
‘Hot and dry,’ replied Ross. ‘And yes, I’m learning.’
‘Good, and how long are you staying in Adelaide?’
‘One or two nights. Enough to appease my father and spend a little time with Alastair.’
‘Aye, well, your father won’t take kindly to your one-foot-in-the-stirrup visit,’ said Connor. ‘Neither will I. We’ve two new mares in the stables that could do with some work.’
‘I don’t think he’ll mind, as long as the Grants are united for the occasion. Besides, it’s all about Alastair, and with the house filled with visiting relatives it’s hardly a homecoming when the younger son has accommodation in the city.’
‘Aye, family can be strange at times. Do you think he’ll take the car or one of the sheep properties?’ Connor asked, referring to Alastair’s choice of birthday gifts.
‘I know what I’d take,’ said Ross. A bell rang. ‘Speeches.’
‘And my cue to leave,’ said Connor.
Ross moved out from behind the marquee and leant against the timber support. They were lined up on the lawn, his grandmother and parents, his mother managing a shaky wave in his direction. Alastair, skolling a glass of champagne to the accompanying laughter of friends, strolled casually through the guests, stopping to say hello to various people before joining the family. He appeared so relaxed, so suited to the role of elder son. His hair shone. His teeth were straight and white. His face was tanned in the way of those who received just enough sun. Even Alastair’s clothes were perfect. It was not that Ross had dressed any less fashionably for the celebration, his father had made sure of that, but rather if the two of them were in the same smelly attire of a bagman Alastair would still appear the better dressed. It had little to do with quality of cloth or expense, but the way Alastair presented to the world an air of acceptance for what had already been his due and what might be forthcoming.
Someone called out to Ross and he gave a vague sign of acknowledgement, raising the empty glass but not moving. His father was quick to commence one of his lengthy discourses, a well-practised fable on the importance of family and duty often heard by Ross over previous years. On this occasion, Alastair’s name was frequently inserted along with an inventory of the history of the Grants in South Australia. A necessary inclusion, Ross supposed, when his brother was yet to distinguish himself, and Morgan Grant had rarely shied from the public. Some of the guests began to talk softly. Ross felt his mind slowly close off from the festivity of Alastair’s life, until the family and their friends and relatives became boxed and lidded.
Even the opportunity of seeing his brother was not quite enough to draw Ross from Gleneagle Station without feeling irritated by his family’s demands. He’d been more than pleased when his father had agreed to his request to work on a holding in the mid-north of the state, forty miles northeast of Burra, and since leaving he’d not missed any of them. Ross’s great-aunt was long dead, however the seed she’d planted with those cruel words in his childhood had taken root within him.
It was strange how the memory of that day lingered. Ross still recalled the accusatory looks and the hopeless feeling of dread, which had trailed him for months as if it had human form. The horror of his malformed dead twin and the implication that the fault somehow lay with him far outweighed the shock of discovering the existence of another brother.
Ross knew that the antics of that long-ago afternoon contributed only somewhat to his penance. Although the wandering inmate and the little boy were eventually located, it seemed to Ross that it was the revelation of the details of his birth that had led to their lives changing. He and Alastair rarely sp
ent another afternoon alone together. Alastair was sent away to school and Ross’s childhood was filled with allocated hours with tutors, his free time with friends limited.
Soon after that day, he began to have the dream. Even now, when it came massing at the edges of his subconscious, Ross was only aware of a darkness, an impenetrable thickness that at times threatened to choke him. There was always a feather and a set of scales in the dream, and although he placed no belief in the Victorian conviction that entry to heaven depended on the outcome of one’s soul weighed against a feather, Ross couldn’t shake the feeling that his chances of spiritual acceptance were shaky.
He grew up with the knowledge that his birth came with a mark against it. That was part of the reason he’d ended up at Gleneagle, on a property with few visitors, a tight-knit group of wiry men and an honest manager whose wife was cook and mother to them all. The other reasons were varied and more complicated and Ross was still trying to untangle them, like knots in a rope, trying to figure out how he’d been led astray as a child, cast out by his family and then, on willingly choosing exile, how he’d come to love where he now lived more than home.
Later that afternoon, Alastair found Ross napping on one of the garden benches, far from the gathering that was making merry noise on the opposite side of the house.
‘This is lovely.’ Alastair kicked at the seat and Ross jolted awake. ‘We’ve barely spent any time together and you’re passed out at the back of the garden.’
‘Over, is it?’ asked Ross.
‘Hardly. There’s another crate of champagne to finish.’ Alastair pushed Ross further along and sat down. ‘It’ll be some time before the old man puts his hands in his pockets like this again. Come and help me make the most of it.’
Stone Country Page 3