I thanked God for the cellphone. Then I thanked God for voice mail as I patched into my answerphone. It had been only three days yet there was a queue of messages all wanting something from me, some just wanting to know where I was. Some I could ignore, others I rang back. Fortunately most of them were also out so I was able to leave reassuring communiqués without actually telling anyone where I was and why. A rest, a new phase of work, a refreshment of the soul, see you in a few weeks, love to all, goodbye.
But it made me think. There are so many threads connecting our lives with the lives of others. And so many of those threads cross and recross each other. Networking, I think, is the current term. But oh, how easy it is to slip through that net. To simply disappear. And no amount of recording or information sharing or electronic gadgetry would be able to track me down. Not one of the people who knew me would know where I was and how to start looking for me. Oh, there was Jason, of course, but I don’t suppose it would have occurred to him to tell anyone. Besides, he would have to explain why I had left so suddenly. With all the phones and emails and whatever, I had managed to vanish without a trace. But that was what I wanted, wasn’t it? Well, for the time being, yes, it was. And at least I had let everyone know I was OK, so no one needed to come looking for me.
Then it was back to work.
Bramble came by in the afternoon and I took time out to talk with her. She was not overly impressed with her new water bowl—dogs don’t appreciate such refinements I learned—but the
biscuits were a great hit. She taught me how to play fetch the stick, not an easy task in a bush clearing where the ground is littered with bits of broken twigs and branches. I marvelled at her ability to locate the correct piece. I even surreptitiously marked it with a notch to make sure she wasn’t cheating on me but, no, she got it right every time. But of course, how dumb can you get? It wasn’t the stick she was seeking out, it was the scent of my skin. The sudden comprehension of that intimate and tender act of friendship touched me so deeply that I stood there, among the fallen branches, and cried. Though I did wonder why I was so easily moved to tears.
For the next few days I was adrift in a timeless world, allowing the work to take me where it would. I laboured hard and when not in the studio I walked in the bush and up through the pines, my sketchbook and colours always to hand. This was also work, but of a different order.
I needed to be in contact with the wood and to know it as a living substance. I needed to know the trees as living entities, a different order of consciousness, but one I could connect with. And I needed to absorb that contact at a subconscious level for it to come back to me as inspiration. That’s what inspiration is, I think: you allow art and meditation to blend together for long enough and pow! You get a result.
I played music when working, Mahler mostly. In the evenings I wandered around the lake or moved listlessly through the cottage. I did try to read, but was unable to focus on the page. Sometimes I sat out on the deck watching the moonrise and listening for Connors’ music. He did not always play, but when he did I wondered if he knew I was listening. And during the hours of darkness that followed I was sometimes unsure which world I walked in.
Some nights after the rainstorm I again woke in front of the
mirror as Connors’ violin broke through the dream. Was it his playing that called me back? Or was it the sadness of the tune that drew me away? There was something out there, some consciousness that was not the bush or the pines, which had made itself my companion. Perhaps it was Anne Sullivan herself calling to me to save her broken body? Or was Connors leading me to damnation with his devil music? It all became part of the one reality, impossible to tell where one thing ended and another began.
Then there were the missing hours.
I put it all down to mental exhaustion, which, of course, made no sense. Yes, I was working hard, but I always do when I become immersed in a project. Nothing unusual about that. I’d done a lot of walking, true, but that was supposed to be a healthy form of exercise. In other ways I was actually resting: no parties, no late-night drinking sessions, no emotional stress, early to bed and, usually, late to rise. I should have felt fantastic when, instead, I felt constantly tired. But how else was I to explain away the holes in time?
The first one happened like this. I had just returned from a morning ramble through the pines and was ready for some lunch. The hot weather had continued and I felt dusty and clammy and spent ages standing under the shower. Then I padded, barefooted, into the bedroom, towelling off my hair and thinking about what to eat. Sitting on the edge of the bed I studied my reflection. Big decisions were to be made. To cut or not to cut? My hair was looking shaggy, a roughly chopped mop of two-inch spikes, the tips bleached almost white in the sun. I thought it looked great. On the other hand, who was here to see it? If this heat continued it would be more comfortable with an all-over shave. Perhaps I could leave a few bits at the front and the neckline to grow and shorten the rest…
Suddenly I felt as if I were falling, and jerked upright. Like the other awakenings, I was staring at my own reflection. Only
this was daytime. I shivered, even though sunlight was pouring through the window, and pulled the towel around my shoulders. I was still sitting on the bed but the room looked different. The light had changed; shadows seemed to have jumped across the floor. I couldn’t think how I had fallen asleep sitting upright, but that’s what must have happened. What was I doing, anyway? Ah yes, my hair, that’s it, I was thinking about my hair. I ran a hand through it. It was completely dry. I had got out of the shower a moment ago and it should still be dripping. How long had I been there? I looked through the window. The sun was low over the treetops and the afternoon was nearly gone.
T
HE
sun slipped below the tree line and the room lost its light. I felt suddenly cold. Pulling a sweater over my head, I moved out onto the deck and sat on the steps trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with me. Not sleepwalking, surely? I’d never done that before. Yes, I had been working but I wasn’t that stressed out. Was I? When Bramble wandered up and nosed my hand I clung onto her neck, burying my face in her shoulder. Warm tears wet both of us, smearing the dust in her coat. That was something else I don’t normally do, cry for no reason. Get mad, yes, but not all this snivelling.
‘I’m sorry girl, I can’t be doing with this. I’ve got to get out of here.’ I ducked inside, sluiced my face with cold water then, grabbing my purse and car keys, I ran for the truck.
‘No you can’t come. Go find Badger, go on. I’ll be back later, I promise.’
I went to the bar. It was the only place I knew and the only place I knew anyone, if you could call one conversation with the barmaid knowing someone. But I needed to be where there were people.
The place had changed character for the evening. Yellow strip lights flooded the room, making it seem bigger and closer at the same time. The air hummed with the buzz of a dozen conversations and a country blues singer filled in the gaps via the CD player. Maggie was there—different sweater, same lurid pink lipstick. She was pulling mugs of beer from the pump and laughing with the customers, but she spotted me as soon as I entered and her face lit up. Thank God, I thought, and ran to her as if she were my salvation.
‘Regan, hi, what’s up? Is something wrong?’
‘I need a beer, that’s all. No, everything’s fine.’
‘Well, you don’t look fine. Here get this down you. I’ll be with you in a moment.’
‘Thanks, I’m just thirsty. Been working, you know how it is—’
But she had gone, wiping the bar top and taking orders from a cluster of men at the other end of the counter. I took a long pull at my glass and realised how dry my mouth and throat were. My lips were cracked as I licked the foam from around my mouth.
Looking around I recognised one or two of the lunchtime crew but they were outnumbered by an older crowd that included a few women so I didn’t feel so out of place. People sat at tables in twos and threes. One of the women was playing darts with a man in a police uniform, tie loosened off and hat thrown down on the table. Two young girls sat in a side booth, giggling, their heads close together, their legs long and bare beneath matching leather skirts. By the time Maggie came back my glass was nearly empty.
‘Wow, I guess you did need a drink. Here, let me get you another. Sorry I had to leave you. This is usually the busiest time of day. People come in straight after work and some of them like to eat here.’
I had noticed the smell of cooking meat hanging in the air.
‘You’re not the cook too, are you?’
‘No, that’s my dad. Fancies himself as a chef. Are you hungry?’
‘No. No thanks. I couldn’t eat right now. The beer’s fine. Listen Maggie, you know we were talking about the Sullivan family, their history? You said some of the locals might know more about it. Is there anyone here I could talk to?’
‘Possibly, yes. Why, what’s happened?’
‘Nothing, it’s just…Well, I found some old grave markers and wondered if anyone knew anything about it.’
‘Well, there’s old Trevor Benson just come in. He might know something. Hey, Trev, there’s someone here wants to meet you.’
A barrel of a man in shorts dragged his hat off as he picked his way to the bar. He used the hat to wipe the sweat and dust from his head where a few wisps of white hair still defied the course of nature. His skin was pale and burnt red except where time had melded freckles into patches the size of cornflakes. He blinked at me with no sign of curiosity, and then focused on the beer pump.
‘This is Regan, Trev. She’s new round here. Interested in local history.’
He watched Maggie fill a large jug, then hand him a chilled glass.
‘She’s staying out on the Sullivan place.’
Trev whipped his head around to stare at me with red-rimmed eyes. ‘Ya don’t say. Well I’ll be—’
‘Can I shout your drink, Mr Benson? Perhaps you wouldn’t mind me joining you for a few minutes?’
He continued to stare at me. His eyes were pale and watery; he looked like a startled rabbit. He didn’t answer, but when I moved towards a side table he followed like a dog at heel, clutching his jug and glass.
‘Is that right now?’ he asked as we settled at the table. ‘Staying at John Sullivan’s, are ya?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Not at the house, though. I’ve taken the cottage for the summer. Apparently it belongs to his son, Jason.’
‘Well I’ll be…Ya don’t say.’
‘You do know the Sullivans then?’
‘No more ‘n anyone else. John comes in here most nights. We usually exchange a word, ya know, the weather, stock. Not that he’s got much. Stock, that is. Barely keeps the place ticking over and most of that’s down to his hired help.’
‘That’s the hairy one. Connors, isn’t it?’
‘Well, it is at the moment but they’re always moving on. No one stays long.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Blowed if I know. He’s a good enough boss and it’s not what you’d call a heavy workload. But you say you’re staying there. Some sort of farm worker, are ya?’
‘No, I’m just a guest.’
‘Well I’m…That’s a first. He’s not one for visitors. They always kept themselves to themselves.’
‘Who do you mean by “they”?’
‘Well, John and his son Jason. And there used to be his father too, the boy’s grandfather. He died about twelve years ago. Getting on by then, of course.’
‘So you knew him. What about Jason’s grandmother? That would be Jane, wouldn’t it?’
‘No, I never knew her. She died a long time ago, I was just a little lad. Why all the interest in the family?’
‘Well, I found some gravestones, all Sullivan wives, Jane, Mary and Anne.’
‘Ah, yeah. They say they’ve got the women buried up there.’
‘Those three, anyway. What happened to the others?’
‘There weren’t any others. Not a good place for women. Never has been.’
‘What do you mean? What happened to them? I heard Anne had some kind of accident.’
Trevor Benson took a long swallow of his beer and reached for the jug to top up his glass, then looked around nervously. It was early evening and, according to what Maggie had said, about the time when Sullivan would arrive for a drink. We were sitting either side of the table and I had a clear view of who was coming in and out while Benson had his back to the door.
‘There’s stories, but that’s all they are. Tales to frighten the kids, keep them from trespassing on Sullivan land. It’s like I said, they don’t like intruders, never have done. But they’re good people, always help a bloke in trouble. Ya can’t say a bad word against ‘em.’
‘Who was Anne? Where did she come from?’
‘That I don’t know. Local girl she was, but the family would have been immigrants like Michael Sullivan himself. He came over from Ireland and bought up some land. Not as much as there is now, of course. But he was a bright young fella, did well for himself. Built ‘imself a house. Oh, not the one that’s still standing—the first one was just a shack. But it was a beginning. Found ‘imself a wife and settled down. She was a spinster, well into her twenties, which was late to marry in those days. Women left home young. Fathers glad to get them off their hands. Not that there was anything wrong with her, ya understand. Only that she was bookish. Did a lot of studying and helped out at the school. Young Michael was a smart young man, could afford to be choosy, and with all the pretty young things around he chose the schoolmistress.’
‘And she had a son?’
‘She got pregnant straight away like they did in those days. No need for all this family planning then. New country. They needed young ‘uns to work the land. But the little one didn’t live longer than a few weeks. Nothing unusual in that then, but they say she wasn’t the same after, turned her a bit strange. Still, wasn’t long before she had another kid, David. And then young Michael’s mother came out to join them, which was just as well.’
‘Why was that? What happened to Anne?’
‘It’s like I said. She’d turned a bit strange. Reckon they thought the second baby would put things right, but it seems it got worse. Took to riding off into the hills. She’d leave the kid and go off all by herself for hours at a time. Often gone all day. Then one evening she didn’t come back. Michael was worried, tried looking for her but nothing he could do in the dark. He was out again first light. Then, when her horse come home without her, they got up a search party. By the time they found her it was too late. They reckoned she’d fallen from her horse and hit her head on a rock. Probably lain there hours, unable to move. Lost too much blood. They say the earth was soaked with it.’
‘Yes, I was told she bled to death.’
‘Who can say what happened. That was before my time, before anyone’s time that could tell you now. It’s just what they say. After that young Michael took to himself, him and his son, David.’
Trevor swung round in his seat as the bar door opened. No doubt he expected to see Sullivan, as I did, but it was Connors who came in. He hesitated when he saw me, as if he were going to speak then thought better of it, nodded awkwardly and walked up to the bar.
‘The son who lived was David Sullivan.’ I was trying to remember the inscriptions on the grave markers. ‘It was Mary who married him, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right, against all good advice, or so it’s said.’
‘Why was that?’
‘As I say, it was a strange set-up. Kept to themselves. No one went near the place, apart from work hands that is, and they were all strangers passing through. Farm had grown by then, and they were well off. Young David finished his schooling and worked the farm with his father. Never mixed with the locals, and no one thought he’d marry. He were well past his mid-thirties when he came courting Mary Price. She was no spring chicken either.
Youngest of a big family and had stayed on to look after her father when her mother died. Then David came on the scene and next thing they were announcing their engagement.
‘He had the new house built for her, the one that’s standing now. It was grand for those days, but I reckon they could afford it. He furnished it with the good stuff his grandmother had brought over from Ireland. She’d be gone by then, of course, but the old man was still there. I think he lived right up to just before the war.’
‘Mary had a baby, didn’t she? Thomas?’
‘Well, you’ve done your homework, haven’t ya? Yeah, that was Tom Sullivan.’
‘So what happened to Mary?’
‘They say she went looking for Anne’s ghost. That’s all talk, of course. But yes, she did start wandering about in the hills. It must have been lonely out there for her with just the two old men. And I reckon it was something about the land, too. It gets to people, women especially. They’re a bit less down to earth than men, I reckon, more inclined to let themselves get caught up with ideas. Anyway, she took to wandering off. And when she went missing they all said it was Anne’s ghost that called her away.’
Trevor sat back and topped up his glass from the jug. Then he looked at me sharply. ‘Why all the interest? You seen nothing strange up there, have ya?’
‘No, nothing. Just curious, that’s all.’
‘No, well you don’t want to start imagine things. That sort of nonsense causes no end of trouble.’
Trevor took another pull at his beer while I sat holding mine. My chest felt tight and I was thankful for the coolness of the glass. The room hummed around us; I could hear Maggie’s voice rise above it and occasionally bursts of laughter came from a crowd near the bar.
I became aware that I was being watched. I turned my head, ever so slightly, hoping that Liam Connors wouldn’t notice. But
there he was, sitting at the bar, staring at me. He nodded. I gave a quick smile and turned back to Trevor.
‘Was Mary dead too when they found her?’
‘Oh, no, no. But she’d been out all night in a rainstorm. Wet through and cold as stone. They carried her home and put her to bed. Pneumonia’d set in. Died a few days later and buried before anyone knew. Of course they all blamed Anne, or the land itself, which doesn’t make a lot of sense. But you know how people are.’
I was aware of Liam Connors’ gaze on me; the tiny hairs on the back of my neck lifted. I could just see the edge of him at the corner of my eye.
‘And what about the other grave?’ I asked. ‘Jane’s?’
‘That’s right. I was just a lad then. But I remember there was talk.’
‘What did they say happened to her?’
He shook his head. ‘I was too young, didn’t understand what was going on. But no one knows for sure, anyway. There was an inquest, of course, not that that made any difference. She died, that’s all.’
‘I see,’ I murmured, although I didn’t. ‘And did you know Jason’s mother?’
‘Ah yes, young Sarah. Pretty little thing. Bit odd, though. Involved with all that New Age stuff, she was, bit of a hippy. People were surprised when she married John.’
Just then the door opened and Sullivan himself came in. He hesitated when he saw me, but then came over to our table, his hat twisting in his hand.
‘Good evening, Regan. Didn’t expect to find you here.’
‘Just having a drink,’ I said, which sounded really stupid.
‘Gidday, Trevor, how’s the family?’
‘Yeah, good as gold.’
‘Good. Well, I’ll go and er…and…’ He backed away to the bar while I turned back to Trevor.
‘You were saying about Jason’s mother.’
‘Ah, no. Can’t tell you any more.’ He darted a sideways glance towards to the bar. I turned to see that Sullivan had joined Connors and, although they had struck up a conversation, Connors was still looking steadily at me. I was the one who turned away.
‘Oh, come on Mr Benson, there must be more to the story. You said the place was bad for women. What about Jason’s mother? What happened to her?’
‘No, I’ve said too much already. History’s one thing, tales for dark nights and campfires. But it’s that bloke’s mother you’re talking about,’ he jerked his head in the direction of Sullivan, ‘and his wife. I’m not gossiping, especially with him standing behind my back. He’s a good bloke and this is a tight little community round here.’