by Jane Carter
Six weeks since Charlie died. He might be a voice in her head but he wasn’t coming back, no matter how long she waited.
Australia was in drought, or so her parents said. The sun would have to be shining. Outside it was dark for nine in the morning, with more black clouds moving slowly in. What would she give to feel some sun on her face.
The kids were up. There were noises downstairs. Television, scraping of chairs, endless chatter. Milo didn’t want to go to Zack’s birthday party. She could hardly force him. Saskia on the other hand, desperately wanted to go to Farah’s party but hadn’t been asked. She was broken-hearted.
‘Can I cook pancakes, Mummy?’ The question floated up the stairs towards her.
‘No, Sienna.’ Not this morning.
‘Why? I can make you breakfast in bed.’
‘No, Sienna. I’m already up. But thank you.’
‘Why? You like my breakfasts.’
Oh, but she could really do without the unholy mess that magically appeared with it.
‘How much flour do I put in?’
‘Sienna won’t let me crack the eggs!’
‘Don’t Sassy. Put it down. Mummy, Milo’s taken the maple syrup.’
‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ she called down. Maybe they needed the diversion. She walked down the stairs to supervise the pancakes.
After breakfast she found the tickets. She’d pulled open the drawer of the hall table looking for stamps, and there were five train tickets to Scotland. She’d bought them ages ago for the Easter break and totally forgotten. Her fingers were shaking. No, they couldn’t go. Not with Charlie, an empty seat beside them all the way to Scotland and back.
She wanted to go home and see her mother and her father and her sister, Rosie.
She ached to go home.
It was the first time she’d allowed herself to acknowledge it in ten years. What would her parents say if they just turned up, out of the blue?
Milo walked past her on his way upstairs. ‘Mum, what’s the Australian anthem, you know, like we sing “God Save The Queen”?’
Diana looked blankly at her son and then put the tickets back in the drawer.
He didn’t know the Australian anthem.
* * *
It was only three days later that she met up with Sebastian in a local cafe. ‘September—I can’t do it.’
‘Of course you can. That’s what I’m here for.’ Sebastian pushed over her coffee cup and passed her some sugar straws. ‘September is five months away and we’ve got lots done already. Come on, you’ll be back on track soon, this is an opportunity not to be missed.’
‘Damn you, Sebastian, I tell you I can’t. It’s not working. I’m not working. I can’t think, sleep or pot.’ She paused. ‘I’m thinking of going back to Australia.’ There she’d said it out loud. She looked around—the coffee shop was almost empty. It was nearly three, she had to go and get the kids.
‘Not a good idea, Diana. We’ve worked very hard to get you to this point. The children will be miserable. Anyway, you haven’t been back for twenty years.’
‘Ten.’
‘Whatever, they’ll be out of place and they don’t know your family.’
And wasn’t that the truth? ‘Suppose something happens to me and they don’t know my family, never met them? I’m feeling quite vulnerable. Just like that—poof,’ she snapped her fingers, ‘and it can happen.’
‘Don’t be maudlin. This invitation to exhibit at the Fulham Gallery is not to be sneezed at. I was very excited when they contacted me. It’s the next step, my dear.’
‘I won’t do it unless they hang some of Charlie’s paintings.’ She looked at him.
Sebastian sighed heavily and lifted his cup. ‘You ask a lot, my dear.’ He examined her face. ‘All right, you have some for me to look at? Our Charlie was fond of showing me pieces that always had “just a little bit more” to do before they were finished.’ Another huff.
Diana closed her eyes, shutting out the piles of unfinished works leaning against the wall. ‘I’m sure I can find ten, fifteen … please, Sebastian?’
‘For you, Diana, I’ll do it. Now forget about going off to some far off country. How about a little car trip to Bibury if you need a bit of country air? That’s an enchanting little place.’
‘Honestly, Sebastian, I think I need a little more than a couple of hours’ drive out of London to get my head back together,’ she said.
‘All right. You go off to Australia and come back nice and refreshed. Two weeks, three?’
‘I don’t know.’ Diana sank miserably into her elbows. ‘I’ve got to find the passports and book seats. Get the Suttons to look after the house. Pack. Ring my parents and tell them we’re coming.’
Should she ask, or just tell them? Just tell them. She pushed the coffee cup to one side
‘There you are,’ said Sebastian, ‘You have a plan already, that sounds more like you, Diana.’
So she did. And didn’t it feel good? She stood. ‘Sebastian, thanks for the coffee. You’ve been a great help. Trouble is, I have no idea what they’ll say. It’s been so long.’
* * *
‘All packed?’ Diana stood at the door. Milo was a tight ball on the bed, facing the wall. The room was unnaturally tidy. She could see the floor.
A muffled ‘yes’.
She went to sit on the bed and reached out gently to touch him.
‘You’ve done a wonderful job in here.’ She felt bad for not coming sooner to help him. She’d been emptying the fridge. ‘Have you remembered your charger?’ Janet and Bill had bought him an iPhone.
‘Yes. What shoes will I wear on the plane?’
‘Trainers, I think. They’ll be comfier than your new riding boots.’
‘Why do I need riding boots? Am I going riding?’
‘No. Everyone wears riding boots on a farm.’ Saskia had refused to wear them. They weren’t pink. So Diana had bought gumboots for the girls—pink gumboots.
‘I call your father Tommo.’ He turned to her restlessly. ‘And your mother Stella?’
‘Yep, that’s what they want.’ She bent over to kiss him. ‘It’s okay, you’ll love them and they’ll love you.’ No answer. Diana pulled up the duvet and tucked him in.
The girls were sitting up in bed intent on yet another change of clothes for their Barbie dolls. She noticed not a huge effort had been made to clean up the room. Diana sighed and started to pick up the day’s cast-offs.
‘Right, turn out the light. Could you please do a little tidy-up in the morning? This is a mess, guys.’
‘Are you sure I can only take one bear, Mummy?’ Saskia looked up. ‘I really want to take Horry.’
‘He’s too big—he’d need a whole seat to himself.’
‘He could have mine. I could stay with Polly or Grandma.’ Sienna didn’t look as though she was joking.
‘Listen, it’s going to be great. Your grandparents are dying to meet you, and I want to show you the farm where I grew up. Come on, kids, a little more enthusiasm.’
Sienna gave an exaggerated sigh and turned off her light. Diana went to sit on her bed and held her tightly for a moment, breathing in the scent of the freshly washed hair. God, she hoped she was doing the right thing. Five years since she’d seen her mum, ten since she’d seen her dad and Rosie. She would take the first steps and surely they would follow. They had sounded pleased. Would time have washed it all away? The past was a long time ago.
‘Mummy, in the plane, we’ll be awful close to Daddy, won’t we? Will he ask us for tea?’
Diana held her breath, not sure whether to laugh or cry. ‘I hope not, Sassy. But we can have a good think about him. It’s a special feeling being up there above the clouds. You’ll love it.’
Not sure she could physically do another thing, Diana turned off the downstairs lights. The stair light fell on her picture. The picture Charlie had painted for her, of her. Laughing, sprays of happiness—it was such a joyous picture. In his favourite acry
lics. He’d done it soon after they returned from Australia and their terrible trip. He’d set it around Mog’s Hill—well, his interpretation. There were a few sheep … she squinted. They could be sheep. It made her laugh, even now. Her dad would be horrified. But her Mum would love it. A Ned Kelly figure running down the hill behind her.
So, Charlie, you never told me who was that person in the body armour with a gun?
It’s not that difficult to work out, Diana.
And now you never will. She sighed looking at the picture. He’d said that the last time she’d asked.
Just a couple more days and they’d be there. She swallowed the nugget of worry that was worming around in her throat. It had to be all right.
Slowly she walked into the bedroom. Moved the suitcase and crawled into the bed, gathering Charlie’s pillow to her and rubbing her face into it, trying to catch the last lingering scent of Charlie. It probably wouldn’t be there when she returned.
Charlie had given her back herself. He’d helped her to crawl out of the wombat hole she’d dug for herself—that she was not worthy of being loved. Not deserving, not since Cody had died.
Without Charlie, who was she?
CHAPTER TWO
Mog’s Hill, Australia, April
Diana stood at the closed gate, her fingers fumbling with the stiff catch, just looking at the house. Simple white weatherboards topped with a grey corrugated-iron roof. Concrete steps painted green split the wide front verandah. The whole lot was overdue for a coat of paint. The white post-and-rail fence around the garden was netted to keep out the sheep. The wildlife too, mostly rabbits, wombats and the kangaroos. Not that her mother had ever declared it to have been very successful. The wombats went under, the kangaroos straight over the top and the rabbits ignored it altogether.
Charlie had been standing here with her the last time she’d seen it. ‘Is this it?’ he’d said.
‘Yes.’ She’d turned and punched him lightly on the arm. ‘My home, my dad’s and my grandparents’. Three generations of us Crawfords of Mog’s Hill, and don’t you forget it.’
But he’d just laughed at her, three generations meant nothing to an Englishman. And it had pretty well gone downhill from there.
She suddenly realised Milo had come up behind her. ‘This is your job,’ said Diana. ‘The oldest child opens the gate.’
‘Why?’
‘No real reason. We’ve always done it that way.’ She smiled at him. ‘It was always my job. I’ll show you.’ Yanking at the chain didn’t work. Gates at Mog’s Hill were usually easily opened, it was one of her Dad’s fetishes, swinging gates. Diana had to stand on the gate to free it. She ruffled Milo’s hair as they walked back to the car.
Turning off the road at the entrance to Mog’s Hill, the rumble over the ramp had silenced them all. Maybe feeling her tension, curious to be finally here.
Diana lifted her eyes, raking the familiar slopes and the soft, rounded hills around the house. Grey granite boulders, smoothed over the last forty thousand or so years and splotched with lichen, were scattered in unruly clumps over the ground. It was as though someone had painted a light green wash over the paddocks. There wasn’t much grass, considering it was April. But despite all the talk of drought there must have been some rain recently. It was a reflex action, checking for grass; apparently you didn’t lose that over the years. Diana had always thought she’d have made a good farmer if she’d ever been given the chance.
England, when you got out into the country, was all earthy and pungent. Here the light was brighter, the colours more intense and the smells clearer. She could almost taste the fresh, clean smell of Australia, and at last, there was sunshine on her face.
The late afternoon sun bathed the country in a soft glow, the best time to show off your sheep, her father had always said. The tall Lombardy poplars were turning into golden torches down by the creek. The willows had lost their leaves already.
Jeez. Ten years, where had they gone? Two dogs were barking, one of them jumping up and down on the spot with excitement. But more importantly, a figure waited on the verandah.
Driving through the gate Diana couldn’t take her eyes off the figure.
‘Milo, could you close the gate, please?’ She pulled at the tops of her leather boots and nervously plucked at the soft wool of the grape-green pashmina draped around her shoulders.
‘I did it, Mum.’ Her son looked for reassurance.
‘Thanks, darling. Good work.’ The figure hadn’t moved.
The garden, her mother’s pride and joy, was hardly recognisable. That there had been so little rain over the last few years was finally impacting. Diana had liked to think of it green and lush, no matter what her parents said about the drought. This wasn’t how she’d remembered it.
It was funny parking at the front, she’d normally have driven round to the back door, but her mother was out waiting for them here. Then they were all out of the car, clambering up the steps.
Her mother looked much the same. Slighter somehow. Still straight as a die and wearing a tweed skirt and a jumper in a soft mauve colour. Her mother had always liked lilac shades—they toned well with her fair skin and blonde hair. Her hair hadn’t changed, short with blonde streaks and not a grey hair in sight. If she was nervous she was hiding it well. She’d always hidden things well.
‘Hello, everyone … Milo, Sienna, Saskia.’ Awkward hugs for the children. Her mother straightened. ‘Diana.’ There was nothing awkward about the bone-crushing hug she was receiving. Her mother’s strength was always surprising. Diana had overtaken her in height by the time she was twelve and was, at the very least, a good six inches taller.
‘Oh, Mum!’ But she couldn’t say any more as she squeezed the tears back in. The distinctive waft of Fidji, her mother’s trademark scent, hadn’t changed.
At last the interminable journey was over.
Stella patted her back stiffly. They pulled apart, and stood looking at each other before she managed a shaky, ‘Thank heavens. Come on in. Did you have a good trip?’
Two cement pots, painted dark green and bursting with shocking pink chrysanthemums, flanked the steps. The screen door squeaked and banged shut behind them. It was almost dark in the front hall as she passed her parents’ wedding portrait on the left, and that of her grandmother and grandfather on the right. Her eyes skipped the photo of Charlie and herself and stopped for a moment, examining the picture of the three of them—Rosie and herself with Cody in the middle, the light from the open door to the kitchen spilling on it.
Everyone trooped through into the kitchen. There was a roast sizzling in the oven and warmth from the Aga stove.
‘How are the Suttons?’ her mother asked.
‘Bearing up, I guess.’
A plate heaped with fresh buttered scones lay on the well-scrubbed table. Three blue hard-plastic mugs were placed next to three, very familiar Willow-patterned china cups, with a small bowl of the shocking pink chrysanthemums in the centre, next to her great-grandmother’s old silver teapot, rubbed down to the brass on the handle. For some reason that brought a lump to her throat.
She had to have some space.
‘Out. Why don’t you all go outside and I’ll call you in a minute when tea’s ready. Does that sound a good idea, Mum?’ Diana didn’t wait for an answer.
Milo would go. Milo was trying so hard to do the right thing. He’d been trying so hard for the last eight weeks, it was infuriating. Sienna would go if he went, but Diana would have to really work to get Saskia outside. Transferring Sassy’s hand to Sienna’s, she pushed the two of them towards the back door.
The back screen door jumped shut behind them. She watched them go down the back steps and stop on a patch of the dry brown grass. They stood there quietly, Sienna still holding Saskia’s hand, Milo scuffing the dirt into little clouds with his new boots. Why wouldn’t they go and do something?
‘They’ve grown so much.’
Her mother sounded wistful. She shouldn’t b
e all that surprised, it had been five years since her mother had come to England to visit, but they’d sent plenty of photos.
‘Where’s Dad?’
‘Getting in some sheep he’s thinking of selling tomorrow. The truck will be here in the morning. The meat market for sheep is good. They’re off to the Middle East with a bit of luck.’
‘How is Dad?’
‘So, so.’
That wasn’t very revealing. ‘How are Rosie and Mal?’
‘Fine. They’ll drop by in the morning. They’re dying to see the kids.’
Her sister and her husband lived not far away, in a cottage about half a kilometre down the road.
‘And Granny? I couldn’t believe it when you told me.’ Diana leant against the faded laminex counter and reached over to take a piece of one of the scones that had crumbled off.
‘It’s been ghastly, really. We’re trying to get her to move into a nursing home. Getting her to move and finding one for her to move to seem to be equally as difficult. She’s so stubborn. Perhaps you’ll be able to talk some sense into her. You and she always got on so well.’ Her mother busied herself filling the teapot.
‘Does she really have to go? Can’t you get help? Isn’t there somewhere local?’
‘Judge for yourself,’ Stella answered.
These conversations were familiar—getting nowhere with her mother. Diana took the mug and stopped her from adding the milk.
‘Just black, thanks.’
‘You used to have milk and two sugars.’
‘I stopped.’ About twenty years ago, when she couldn’t afford milk and sugar. ‘How long has Granny been—how long have you known?’
‘I suppose we’ve known for three years. Dementia is not entirely unusual in a ninety year old, but the last six months it’s really got a lot worse.’ Stella poured herself a cup of hot tea, steam rising above the rim of the blue-patterned cup.