Thornwood House (27 page)

‘How did you know her?’

‘She was all alone, so she came to stay with us.’

‘She
stayed
with you? I never knew that.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why was she alone?’

Walking along the row, compacting the soil over his onion seeds, Dad trained his eyes on his feet. ‘Her mother had died, and her father was interned on account of him being a German immigrant. That’s what happened in the war, the government
was worried about security – though you’d never meet a more patriotic fellow than Jacob Lutz, your great-grandfather. He loved Australia, always said this country saved him . . . Anyhow, Jacob had been Magpie Creek’s Lutheran pastor for years, but on account of him being born in Germany, the Commonwealth Investigation Bureau made all these ridiculous accusations and sent him down to Tatura, an internment camp in Victoria. He was there for nearly three years.’

Dad fell silent. I waited. And waited some more. Then sighed. Dad was fifty-four, which was pretty old – but sometimes he acted
really
old, if you know what I mean. Staring into space, pondering. Forgetting things, getting his facts mixed up. He loved relating yarns about the old days, but they never quite seemed to match up from one telling to the next. This was one story I hoped he’d get right.

‘Dad – ?’

He smiled distractedly. Picking up his broom, he began re-marking a seed line he’d scuffed.

‘Your grandmother was happy living with us. She became one of the family – helping my mother with the chores, churning the butter, feeding the chooks, tending the little cornfield we had out the back, keeping the house nice. And your mum, she was just a tiny tot, a chirpy little thing with these big green eyes and a smile that made your heart melt like ice-cream in the sun. My mum – that is, your Grandma Ellen – adored her little Lulu, and spoilt her rotten. We all did.’

‘I can’t believe Mum never told me.’

‘Well, Glenny, it wasn’t all fun and games. There was a war on, and life was hard . . . but it was exciting, too. We had a couple of servicemen billeted with us. Most families in Magpie Creek had two or three boys staying with them. Army, or Air Force. A few Navy. Your grandmother used to cook up big shank stews with beef, and corn from the garden, and split peas. We had cream and buttermilk, and eggs from the chooks. Fresh
vegies and fruit. Families in town – or worse, in the cities – did it hard, eking out their coupons for a measly pound of butter a fortnight, or two pounds of sugar. They were interesting times. Rewarding if you kept your wits about you.’

Collecting the hose, he twisted the nozzle and directed a fine spray onto the onions. The mist showered rainbows over the bare soil, sending up the rich chocolatey odours of old manure and compost and dynamic lifter.

‘Dad?’

‘What’s that, Glenny?’

‘Why did they blame Grandfather . . . you know, for what happened to my grandmother?’

Dad stared at the rainbows for an age, as though mesmerised. Just when I’d given up on getting an answer, he said quietly, ‘Your grandfather had a bad time of it in the war. Got himself taken prisoner, you know all that. He was very sick afterwards, and I suppose folks thought he might be capable of hurting someone.’

‘But he wasn’t, was he?’

A long pause. ‘No, Glenny. No, he wasn’t.’

The sound of a car roared into the stillness. Dad turned off the water, coiling the hose over the tap. ‘There’s Mum,’ he said, ruffling my hair as he passed me on his way to the house. ‘I’d better put the kettle on.’

Saturday, 4 October 1986

Been working like mad on my writing project all week. What started as a ploy to impress Ross has ballooned into something much bigger. Mania. Obsession. I simply HAVE to tell my grandmother’s story. It’s as though she’s standing behind me saying: ‘Glenda, everyone else just wants to sweep me under the mat, forget me. As if they wish I’d never existed. You’re different. You understand. I want my voice heard, and you’re going to help me.’

I did understand, too. My beautiful grandmother had been attacked and left to die at the gully, lying there all night in the damp leaves, her poor head aching and her blood seeping into the dirt. Someone had done that to her, and I just couldn’t find it in my heart to believe that it was Grandfather.

Dad was always telling me to stand up for what I believed in. Trouble was, I’d never really believed in anything. Saving the whales was all very well, it was cruel how they speared them and cut them up to make perfume and stuff . . . but how was I supposed to get all fired up about whales when I’d never even seen one?

My grandmother, on the other hand, was a blood relative. There were no photos of her – none surviving, anyhow – and to be honest, I’d never really thought about her all that much until now. But blood was blood. And my grandmother deserved her voice to be heard.

So there I was, writing up a storm, trying to get the ending done before lunch. I’d decided that the person who killed my grandmother was a tramp, passing through Magpie Creek on his way north to the goldmines up at Ravenswood in search of work. I’d found a book in the school library about the post-war days. There’d been tons of men on the drift, travelling from town to town in search of work . . . I’d never know for sure, of course, but it fitted in well with my story.

I was just getting to the bit where they meet, it was coming along okay, too – when I heard shouting. A man’s voice, it sounded like Dad. My heart somersaulted. Dad never shouts. At first I thought he must’ve amputated his foot or something with the hoe. I rushed out to see what the matter was, but stopped halfway along the hall. I could smell chops cooking, and fried potatoes.

Dad was clearly in pain, but he wasn’t yelling for an ambulance. When the jumble of words started to make sense to me I slumped against the wall, sick to my heart.

‘You promised, Lu,’ Dad was saying. ‘A long time ago, you promised . . .’

‘Cleve, it’s not what you think.’

‘All these years, all these bloody years you – ’ Dad choked on the next words, which I couldn’t make out. I heard something rattle and crash to the floor, smash.

I ran to the kitchen. Mum was sweeping up a broken glass with the dustpan. Dad stood with his hands braced on the table, slumped over as though he’d lost the strength to hold himself upright.

Mum wrapped the bits of glass in newspaper and placed them in the bin.

‘Please, Cleve . . . calm down. We need to talk it over quietly. And,’ she added, with a glance at me, ‘in private.’

Dad’s head jerked around. He saw me and his lips trembled. His face was blotched red, his scars stark white. Turning back to Mum, he lifted his arm and shook the scrap of paper crumpled in his fist.

‘How long?’

Mum seemed to shrink. ‘Just the once.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Cleve, you’re overreacting, it was just – ’

Dad actually growled. He shot upright and crossed the kitchen to stand over Mum, his body trembling.

‘Overreacting?’ he said, his face close to hers. ‘Oh, Lu . . . you have no bloody idea.’ Pushing past her, he went out the door and down the back steps.

‘Mum?’ I said. ‘What happened?’

Mum shut her eyes, took a long while to open them. ‘Glenda, it might be best if you make yourself scarce for a while, love. Your father’s very upset.’

I stared at her. ‘What’ve you done?’

She just looked at me. She’d had us kids late in life; she’d been nearly thirty by the time she’d had me, but people always
said she could pass for a woman half her age. Now, she appeared small and frail and old.

Shouting came from the yard. I ran out and saw Tony sitting under the pine tree. He’d been daubing away at a little watercolour – it was a yellow finch perched on a spray of peach leaves, crazy how I remember that. Dad’s shadow fell on the page and Tony looked up.

‘Did you deliver this for your mother?’ Dad demanded, thrusting the piece of paper into Tony’s face.

Tony kept his eyes on Dad. He didn’t speak, just nodded. I groaned inwardly. He was going to give Dad the silent treatment, he’d learnt that from Danny Weingarten. I wished he wouldn’t.

‘How long’s it been going on?’ Dad yelled.

Tony shrugged.

Dad was trembling. I started to worry he was having a turn, maybe a heart attack or stroke or something. Whatever it was, it had converted him into a Dad I didn’t recognise.

He put his face close to Tony’s. ‘I ought to teach you a lesson you won’t forget in a hurry, my lad. You hear me, boy? How long?’

I didn’t catch what Tony said.

‘Maybe a while, eh?’ Dad’s voice broke. ‘Maybe a bloody while! What’s that supposed to mean, you idiot? Weeks? Months? Flaming years?’

When Tony didn’t answer, Dad grabbed him and dragged him across the yard to the shed. I followed, more scared than I’d ever been in my life.

‘Dad,’ I pleaded, hanging off his arm so he’d let go of Tony, ‘what’s going on? What’s Tony done?’

Dad shook me off and pulled Tony into the shed with him. He unhooked his hunting knife from the tackle bag hanging near the door then, jamming the knife into his belt, he hauled Tony through the shed and into the front yard towards the Holden.

The front flyscreen door slammed. Mum stood at the top of the stairs. ‘For God’s sake, Cleve! Let him go. Come inside and talk it through like an adult.’

Dad ignored her. He gave Tony a shove. ‘Get in. And you stay here,’ he said, looking around at me, but I hopped into the car beside Tony. Dad didn’t even bother to remind us about seatbelts. He just jumped behind the wheel and gunned the motor, screeched into reverse and backed out onto the road. A moment later we were rocketing south in the direction of town.

My last view of life as I knew it came when I looked back through the rear window. Mum was standing on the grass verge staring after us, clutching the sides of her head like a crazy person.

The following pages were gummed together. I wanted to know more, wanted to carry on reading, but my eyes felt like cinders. I was seeing flickers of shadow at the edges of my vision; I needed to sleep.

Tucking the diary against my chest, I went through the lounge room and down the hall. When I reached Bronwyn’s door I didn’t stop to listen like I usually did, just continued past to my own room. Flopping onto the bed, I lay unmoving.

My brain sifted through what I’d read.

Aylish had lived with Cleve’s parents during the war, after her father was interned. She’d been happy there, and everyone had adored little Luella – or Lulu, as they’d called her then. All of which was juicy enough to ponder in depth – but after reading about Cleve’s emotional outburst, I was stymied. He’d obviously discovered the letter Tony had delivered, but why had it outraged him so?

My head felt huge and swollen, invaded by dead people, crowded by memories that weren’t mine. I wanted to get up and steam open the rest of the diary, read what Cleve was planning. Teach Tony a lesson, he’d said. But a hunting knife . . . Holy crap, what sort of a lesson was he planning?

My head spun.

I needed sleep. Craved it. Depended on it. Without it, tomorrow would be a disaster. I’d be flustered and frazzled and end up making a ham sandwich out of the day.

Trouble was, my curiosity was alight. Even now, at two-thirty in the morning, eyes agog with exhaustion – all I could think about was rushing back to the kitchen, re-boiling my pot of water, steaming open more pages. And finding out what Cleve planned to do with that hunting knife . . .

What the hell.

2 a.m. Sunday, 5 October 1986

Oh God, I can’t bear to write it. But I have to. Ross says if I’m going to be a writer then I have to face things even if they’re painful. That’s what writers do. Confront fearful things, then write about them.

Dad sped towards town, past the airfield and through the roundabout, then headed south along Briarfield Road. We passed the turnoff to Grandfather’s place and kept going. It took a while to realise where he was taking us, but then we saw the big gate and the steep drive that led up to the Miller property. I knew the place pretty well, because me and Tony used to come here years ago, when we were kids. Mum used to send us over on Sundays with jars of jam or pickle – that is, until Dad found out and put a stop to it. Lazy good for nothings, he called the Millers; I won’t have them teaching my kids how to fail at life.

Even before we approached the house, Dad started honking the horn. The sound of it ripped through the afternoon, and Mr Miller and his brother appeared on the verandah.

Dad parked the Holden and hurtled out, just as Mr Miller was coming down the stairs. They met halfway across the yard, and Dad gave Mr Miller a shove. Then he started yelling.

‘Stay away from my family! You hear me, Miller? Stay away or I swear I’ll kill you.’

Me and Tony huddled in the car, cramped together, holding hands. Don’t look, Glenny. Don’t look. I think that’s what Tony was saying, but I can’t be sure. I knew he was right, I didn’t want to look – but my eyes refused to obey. They kept staring, staring right at Dad and Mr Miller.

Dad was shouting, his words slurring together, not making sense. His arm shot out and he punched Mr Miller in the chest. Mr Miller staggered, but caught his balance. It took a second for him to act, but then he came at Dad like an angry bullock, fists first, throwing a good one right into Dad’s face, then one to the stomach.

Dad bent double. He looked winded, hands on his knees, gasping. Mr Miller’s younger than Dad, a good ten years, maybe more. I could see Dad’s face was blotched and sweaty, his chest heaving for breath. He was having a heart attack, I was sure. Then he let out a bellow and threw himself at Mr Miller. I thought I saw sunlight flare off something in his hand.

There was a horrible screech. Then I saw the blood.

Mr Miller fell to his knees, his hands gripping his face, covering his eye, blood streaming between his fingers. He was making a horrible noise, a sort of screeching bellow, over and over as though he had lost his mind. He yelled something at Dad, but his words were muffled by his hands.

Dad stood back, trembling all over. ‘Stay away, you scheming bastard,’ he said in a weird voice, staring down at Mr Miller. ‘Stay away – ’