Authors: Kimberley Freeman
CHAPTER TEN
B
ecause I’d never had a job before, I’d never called in sick before. I was familiar with the concept, having seen it on television sufficient times. But I was unprepared for how guilty I felt, even though I was genuinely sick. Lack of sleep had given me a thumping headache, and I couldn’t face another afternoon shift like yesterday’s.
Penny, for her part, was sweet and concerned, and offered to drop me in some food on her way home that evening, but I told her not to bother—I was worried I wouldn’t look sick enough when she arrived.
After I called I went back to sleep for a few hours, and so it happened that I was slouching around in my pajamas at ten o’clock, thinking about making a bowl of cereal to eat on the couch, when there was a knock on my door.
I put the milk carton down and went to answer it, reminding myself to look weak and pale just in case it was Penny.
“Dad!”
“Hello, darling,” he said, folding me in a hug. There wasn’t much of Dad: he was slender and narrow-shouldered, with a full head of gray hair and a gray beard that had grown wispier every time I saw him. He wore his familiar brown corduroy coat and pants that hung loose.
I stepped aside to let him in. “Mum was supposed to tell you to call me first. I mightn’t have been home.”
“She told me she’d let you know. Check your phone. Maybe she left a message.”
Dad was notoriously phone-averse, and I knew what had happened. Mum had
wanted
him to surprise me. It was her way of checking up on me, making sure I wasn’t doing what I oughtn’t. She knew I wasn’t working mornings this week, so she’d told him to turn up before eleven. But none of this would have been conscious on her part. She had no concept of privacy, especially where I was concerned. She had only a primal urge to keep me safe, and if that meant sending my father in unannounced to make sure I wasn’t climbing a ladder while smoking marijuana and juggling knives, then that’s what she would do.
“Come and sit down. Can I make you a cup of tea or coffee?”
“No, just your company, love. Don’t hover. Sit with me. I have a few things to tell you.”
I sat on the arm of the couch with my feet on the seat, looking at him. “That sounds a bit ominous.”
He smiled, deep lines traversing his face as he did. I loved it when Dad smiled, partly because it had happened so rarely during those awful years of Adam’s illness. Nor did I ever see him cry. Only once, at the funeral, as though all the years of sadness were finally allowed to emerge. The thought of it caught my heart unexpectedly, and I slid into the seat next to him to give him another hug.
“You look well,” he said. “Life up here is agreeing with you, I take it.”
“I have a job,” I said. “That’s new.”
He patted my knee. “Good for you.”
“Though I called in sick today. Had a rotten night and woke with a headache.”
“I have some aspirin in my wallet if you want some,” he said.
I waved his offer away. “I’ve already taken something. You said you had some things to tell me. Come on, out with it.”
“Ah. You’re not to worry, because it’s all fine now.”
I frowned. “Okay.”
“But I had a bit of a scare. A . . .” He cleared his throat. “Cancer scare.”
“Oh, Dad!”
Both hands went up. “Don’t worry, don’t worry. The biopsy proved negative and . . . it’s all a bit embarrassing. You know. In the waterworks.”
“I won’t ask any more questions,” I said. “Except, you are definitely fine?”
“Definitely.”
“Mum must have freaked out.”
“She didn’t know.”
“Are you serious?”
“How could I tell her, Lauren? She would have died of fright. You know what she’s like.”
“It’s not her fault. Adam’s illness made her that way.”
He twisted his lips in a rueful smile. “Actually, she was already a little that way, though you probably don’t remember. She and Adam were always fighting. She thought he should live his life a certain way, and he didn’t always agree.”
“I can’t believe you managed to keep it from her, though. That must have taken some planning.”
“Yes, I took care of the whole thing without her knowledge. Specialists, medical procedures, all under the smoke screen of work, conferences, so on. I tell you, I could have an affair and she’d never know.” He laughed at his own joke, but it was a bitter laugh.
I touched his arm. “I’m sorry you had to go through that alone. You should have told me.”
“I was even
less
likely to tell
you
, sweetie. You have your life to live. I’m
acutely aware that your freedom has been a long time coming. Which is why . . . you know I don’t like talking much on the phone. I can’t stand the silences. Your mother’s always there listening. I wanted to come and talk to you alone. When have we ever been alone together?”
I shrugged. “Almost never.” When Adam got sick, Dad had always functioned more like an accessory to Mum rather than a whole person. After fifteen, I didn’t have the dad memories other people did. I had some from when I was younger—he liked taking me grocery shopping with him, or getting me to time him as he ran up the hill near our house, or showing me how to make batter for corn fritters, always slopping lots of beer in the batter and theatrically cautioning me not to tell Mum.
“Exactly. Lauren, during this health scare, when I feared the worst, I realized something. If I got sick and died, your mother would make you come back. She wouldn’t rest until you were home, and then you’d never be able to leave again. It plagued me, almost more than fear of my own early death plagued me. My Lauren, just starting to bloom so late. She’d take it all away from you and she would never realize she was doing anything wrong; and you would do as she said because you’re a good girl. Such a good girl.” He dropped his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture I was very familiar with. Then he breathed in, lifted his head, and continued. “Promise me that whatever happens, you’ll never
ever
come home.”
“But, Dad—”
“You can visit, of course. You’re always welcome, but if you do, stay at a hotel. Don’t come back to Tasmania to live, and never
ever
come back to live in that house with your mother. No matter what happens.”
What a curious feeling I had then: I was being set free. My move to the Blue Mountains had always felt forbidden, something I was expected to get out of my system so I could return to life with Mum. But now, with Dad’s blessing, the world suddenly seemed lighter, wider.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said, kissing his cheek. “I promise.”
“Right. Well, I’m going to have to head off late this afternoon to catch my flight home, but I thought we could spend the day sightseeing. You can show me around Evergreen Falls.”
“Ah . . . that’s kind of awkward. I’m supposed to be home sick. If Penny sees me . . .”
“How about I smuggle you into my rental car, then, and we’ll head back down the range to Leura?”
“Sure thing,” I said. “Just let me get dressed.”
* * *
Dad dropped me home around four and continued on his way to Sydney. My headache had lifted, and I sat down once again with the old guest register and traced the Honeychurch-Blacks’ stay at the Evergreen Spa for 1926. To my surprise, they stayed for months. Page after page of the register listed their names, next to the same room numbers, and all written in the same thin, sharp handwriting. Samuel and Flora. The register gave me no further information, so I grabbed my phone.
Google did not return any entries for Samuel and Flora, but I did find the Honeychurch-Black family. Old, old, old money. At one stage they owned so much land in New South Wales that they might have made a claim as the state’s sovereigns. There were still Honeychurch-Blacks in Australia, and they were still very rich. As I was writing down a few names my phone tinged with a text message from Penny.
Coming by with leftovers. Not taking no for an answer.
I smiled. My stomach was gurgling with hunger. I hoped she had banana bread.
“Hey, sickie,” Penny said when I opened the door to her ten minutes later. “I’ve got tabouleh, a turkey-and-cranberry sandwich, and banana bread in here.”
I took the plastic bag from her. “Thanks so much. Do you want to come in?”
“No, I’m on my way to the gym. But . . .” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, an order slip from work. “A girl came in today looking for you. The one you chased out the other day. She gave me this to pass on.”
I unfolded it. It was the order slip on which I’d written Adam’s name, and beneath it were the words
Drew Amherst
and a phone number in England. “Oh, fantastic. Thanks.” It was her. It was
the
Drew who had given the photograph to Adam.
“You feeling better?”
“Yeah. The headache went away. Sorry about leaving you in the lurch.”
“No problem. Susie covered your shift. Was pretty quiet anyway.” Penny gave me a quick peck on the cheek. “See you tomorrow, then?”
“Definitely.”
I closed the door after her and took the food to the kitchen. The salad and the sandwich went into the fridge for later, but I picked at the banana bread while I made a cup of tea. My phone told me it was a decent hour of the morning in London, so it was safe to call Drew Amherst. I dialed and waited, trying to stop my leg from jiggling.
“Hello?” She had a small, sweet voice.
“Hello, may I speak to Drew?”
“This is Drew.”
“Drew, this is Lauren Beck, calling from Australia. I think your niece told you about me.”
“Ah, yes. She said you’re Adam’s sister? Is that right? I haven’t seen Adam in forever. How is he?”
“He’s . . . um . . . Adam died last year.” I got up and started to pace.
A shocked silence. Then she said, “I’m really sorry. Was it an accident?”
“No, an illness. He was sick a long time. And now I’ve inherited his books, and in one of them I found a photograph of him, up in the Blue Mountains. You had written on the back. I know nothing about his time up here and was wondering if you did.”
“Again, I’m sorry. I didn’t know Adam all that well. We had one mad summer, a bunch of about seven of us, all staying at my grandfather’s house. Granddad was away in Perth, and everyone just started showing up, sleeping on the floor, you know. We were completely feral, ate nothing but cheese sandwiches, went swimming at the Falls for hours every afternoon. It was a crazy time, but then Granddad came back and I got a job in Sydney and I didn’t really see any of them again.”
I stopped in front of the fridge, in front of the photograph. Maybe that’s what my mother meant by “odd” people. “There’s another boy in the photograph with him. It says on the back his name’s Frogsy.”
“Yes, I remember him. That wasn’t his real name. What was it? Sorry, my memory’s not great. It was something French, that’s why we called him Frogsy. He and your brother were inseparable. I bet if you could find him, he’d have some better memories to share.”
French. Would I be reading through the phone book for every French surname I could find?
“Anton!” she said suddenly. “Anton something-beginning-with-F. Fourtier, perhaps? If you give me your phone number, I’ll let it turn over in my mind a few days. It might come back to me.”
I already had the phone book open to F, my finger scanning down ahead of my eyes. “Fournier?” I asked.
AG Fournier. 78 Fallview Road.
“Yes, that’s it,” she said. “Nice work. Anton Fournier. Frogsy. He and Adam did everything together.”
“I’ve got the phone book in front of me. He still lives in Evergreen Falls.”
“Is that where you’re calling from? Evergreen Falls?”
“Yes, I came up here because . . . it was the last place Adam was happy before he got sick.”
Her voice was kind. “Well, I’m certain if you can find Frogsy, he can tell you what made your brother so happy.”
I thanked her and ended the call, then immediately dialed Anton Fournier. The phone rang and rang, long past when an answering machine might have cut into the line. Finally, I gave up, vowing to try again tomorrow.
* * *
After work the next day, my dirty apron stuffed in my bag, I let myself in to the west wing and made my way, bravely, up two flights of stairs and along to the room Samuel Honeychurch-Black had once stayed in. The door was locked, so I gave it a good hard rattle. It was old and half hanging off, but I hadn’t the strength to break it. Which is why I’d brought the screwdriver from home.
I held my torch between my teeth, feeling a little like a spy as I crouched down to insert the screwdriver in the keyhole. I wasn’t sure what to do next, but I jiggled it with all my might, and to my horror the door handle dropped off with a thud and rolled a little way across the wooden floor.
Now all I had to do was insert the screwdriver where the handle had been, give the tongue of the lock a poke and . . .
click
. The door was open. I was aware I’d gone from sneaking where I shouldn’t, to stealing things, to breaking things, and I was surprised by how little guilt I felt. As I climbed to my feet and crossed the threshold I supposed it was good that Tomas was a long way off in Denmark so he wouldn’t be implicated if anyone caught me.
Of course, the moment I stood inside the room I realized it had been pointless coming here. Many decades had passed; the room had
been stripped of furniture, and this was now just another empty room like all the other empty rooms. I walked the floorboards carefully from one end of the room to the other, feeling with the toes of my sneakers for loose ones beneath which love letters might be stashed. I ran my torch and my fingers over the windowsills looking for carved initials and love hearts. I spotted a peeling strip of wallpaper and pulled it loose to check behind for scribbled declarations of love. I even stood in the center of the room and closed my eyes and tried to
think
the secrets out of the walls, but of course that was fruitless, too.
I felt deflated and mildly foolish, not to mention guilty for breaking the lock with no good reason. I closed the door behind me, made my way down the stairs and out into the soft evening. The wind was up and roaring through the pines. It smelled like rain was on the way again, and the air was cold. I shoved my hands in my pockets for warmth and headed home to go through the guest register again. I tried not to think about why I was so determined to know the identity of Samuel Honeychurch-Black’s lover. Was I living vicariously through them? Nobody had ever felt for me anything like the mad passion represented in the letters, and I wanted to know what kind of woman aroused such feelings. Would Tomas ever feel that way about me? I couldn’t imagine it. He hadn’t sent love letters, though we had had some lengthy text exchanges. He rarely called me to speak, and I wondered and worried if that was because my conversation didn’t interest him. But then I reminded myself that he spent a good portion of time beside his ex-wife’s hospital bed and probably didn’t want his conversations being overheard.