Thornwood House (28 page)

A rifle fired, the blast cracking off Dad’s words. Dirt flew up near Dad’s feet. Dad jerked around. He staggered a couple of steps towards the Millers’ house, and I saw that Mr Miller’s brother was standing on the verandah holding a rifle. Dad began to charge at the house, but Mr Miller’s brother raised the gun again and took aim.

That’s when I screamed.

The rifle went off again. Dad stumbled and dropped to his knees and for one terrifying moment I thought he’d been hit. But he got up and ran back to the car. As he got nearer I saw the blood speckling his shirt and face and arms. I was sick with fright. He wiped at himself and I realised he’d cut his hand. Climbing into the car, he sat staring through the windscreen, shaking so hard I thought he was going to pass out.

Dad didn’t say a word on the ride home. When we turned onto William Road, I braved a look at him. He’d stopped trembling, but his face was blotched. He looked different. Empty, somehow. As if the dad I knew had gone and left this vacant shell of a man in his place.

4 a.m. Sunday, 5 October 1986

Can’t sleep, keep hearing the floorboards creak and doors rattling, keep worrying that Dad’s prowling around. I’ve never felt scared in my bed before, it’s not a feeling I like.

Dad’s fight with Mr Miller keeps replaying in my mind against my will. The more I try to blot it out, the bigger and brighter it seems to get.

God. It feels like my real Dad died and the man who drove us back from the Millers’ is someone else. A stranger. Someone bad. Someone straight out of a splatter movie or nightmare. Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m having a nightmare, maybe this whole mess is nothing but a stupid dream.

I just wish I could wake up.

‘M
um? Are you all right?’

I blinked awake. Sunlight poured through the kitchen window, showering light on the wooden floor. Outside, the sky was eggshell blue. Birds were going wild in the mango tree, as though the dawn of another day was something to celebrate.

Bronwyn stood nearby, peering down at me, a concerned frown crinkling her brow.

‘Here, drink this.’

She slid a cup towards me. Coffee-scented steam rose up. I wanted to grab it and start gulping, drench my system with caffeine and haul myself to full consciousness, but I couldn’t yet trust my trembling hands.

Bronwyn shuffled closer, her frown morphing into a worried scowl. ‘Are you sure you’re okay? You were talking in your sleep.’

I scrubbed my hands over my face. I felt groggy, still anchored in a drowse as though the greater part of me couldn’t wait to sink back into oblivion. ‘What . . . what was I saying?’

Bronwyn shrugged. ‘I think you were calling someone’s name.’

A barb of half-remembered fear. ‘Whose name?’

‘I couldn’t make it out, but you seemed upset. You must have been dreaming.’

When I closed my eyes to remember, the darkness behind my lids shifted and I glimpsed a bush track. I’d been running along it, calling out. The trees on either side were gilded by moonlight, their branches raking the sky, their sinewy trunks bowing and groaning in the wind. Somewhere ahead of me, a child was fleeing into the night, a little girl . . . startled by something in the trees –

‘You didn’t want to wake up,’ Bronwyn informed me, shuffling her feet and twining her fingers in knots. ‘I was shaking you for ages. You looked comatose, I thought there was something wrong. Mum, you scared me.’

When I pulled her into a hug she stiffened and tried to wriggle away. After a moment, she gave in and stood meekly, no doubt waiting for my display of sentimental weakness to pass.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered. ‘I’m sorry I scared you.’

She got free and stepped away, brushing at the creases on her dress, eying me with concern.

‘That’s okay, Mum. Feeling better?’

‘Sure.’ I pressed my lips to the rim of the cup and let the fragrant steam engulf me, breathing it deep until the last traces of dream residue were gone.

‘Is the coffee okay?’

‘Yeah, good.’

‘You haven’t tried it yet.’

I took a sip. It was piping hot with extra sugar and a splash of milk. ‘Perfect,’ I said, drumming up an appreciative smile.

Bronwyn was studying the misshapen diary spread open on the table in front of me.

‘A good read?’ she asked, frowning.

Odd how the brain works. In my dazed state I’d forgotten last night’s reading marathon. It crashed back with sudden clarity: Glenda’s story competition and her father’s revelations about Aylish – and then, most startling of all, his brutal attack on Hobe Miller.

God, poor Hobe.

Whatever he’d done to provoke Cleve Jarman’s attack, it seemed an extreme sort of punishment. And an extreme reaction from a man whose daughter had described him as ‘mild-mannered’. Then I remembered. Cleve in the kitchen shouting at Luella, brandishing a scrap of paper. And standing over Tony in the garden, yelling, ‘Did you deliver this for your mother?’ A letter. Was that why Cleve attacked Hobe, because of a letter? Were Hobe and Luella – ?

Bronwyn tapped her foot. Pulling out of my uneasy thoughts, I looked at her. I could tell she was miffed about me reading the diary she’d found. But, after what I’d just learned, I said a silent thank you to the universe that she hadn’t shown more interest in it . . . at least, not until now.

‘Actually, it was quite boring,’ I told her. ‘Just a bunch of waffle.’

‘Whose was it?’

I hesitated. If she knew it was Glenda’s diary, she’d guess that it must contain snippets about her father and would insist on reading it. I weighed up the consequences, and decided that – for now, anyway – a lie was the best policy.

‘No idea, some girl.’

‘Can I read it?’

I gulped some coffee, tried to act indifferent. ‘Well, sure. When I’m done. It’s a real snore, though. A waste of time. Don’t know why I bothered.’

‘It kept you up all night.’

‘Not all night. Apparently I was dead to the world when you found me.’

She considered me through narrowed eyes. ‘Mum, you fell asleep on your arms at the kitchen table, with all the lights blazing. How can you say it was a boring read?’

I drained the rest of the coffee so I wouldn’t have to answer. It scalded my throat on the way down, but it did the trick. My heart began to pump again and my brain cleared.

‘It’s Saturday,’ I remembered, leaping to my feet and tossing the diary up on a shelf with a pile of recipe books. ‘The barbecue’s today. What time did I tell Corey? Four? What time is it now? We’d better get a wriggle on, I still have to buy sausages – ’

‘Relax, Mum. It’s not even eight o’clock. In the morning,’ she added, scowling.

I slumped back on the chair, relieved. There still remained the better part of the day to prepare. Shop, make salad, chill beer. Shower and freshen up. Pump my body with caffeine and create a façade of normality by the time everyone arrived –

Bronwyn was still hovering. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

It was then I noticed what she was wearing. The new pink polka dot dress she’d bought with her Christmas money. Her good white sandals. She’d done her hair differently, too. Pigtails with white ribbons, very girly, she hadn’t worn it like that for ages. Despite her height, she seemed younger than her eleven years.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

She rolled her eyes. ‘You promised we’d visit my grandmother today.’

A familiar emotion rolled over me. Guilt. I’d forgotten. But with Bronwyn’s reminder, I felt a ripple of eagerness. Luella was a direct link to Samuel and Aylish. After what Corey had told me, I suspected Luella would be too fragile to cope with being questioned about them, but there might be other more subtle clues at her house – photographs, or mementoes; conversation threads that might unravel a little more of Samuel’s story. I knew it was early days to be planning intimate heart-to-hearts with a woman I’d not yet met, but I couldn’t stop myself hoping.

‘There’s no guarantee she’ll open her door,’ I warned, as much for my own sake as for Bronwyn’s. ‘Remember what I told you about her being a hermit.’

Bronwyn flipped a pigtail over her shoulder as though its presence irked her. ‘There are worse things than hermits, Mum.’

‘She might not like getting intruded upon.’

Bronwyn sighed. ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Mum. That’s what Dad used to say and I agree with him.’

Before I could muster an argument, she’d escaped out the door. I listened to her thump along the verandah and down the stairs into the garden. When the twitter of birds and the rasp of windblown foliage were all I could hear, I went to the window and peered out.

The sky had turned from eggshell to aquamarine. Cabbage moths flounced in the air, weightless as paper scraps. I guessed that Bronwyn had escaped to her jacaranda bench, no doubt to tally the minutes until we made our trek to William Road.

Her carryall was propped near the kitchen door in readiness for our departure. I couldn’t resist a peek. Inside was the box of Cadbury Roses we’d bought, albums of photos, mostly Bronwyn and her father, and a handmade glitter-encrusted card. ‘For My Grandmother’ she’d written in fancy letters. The card stirred an odd mix of feelings. Envy, because it had been a very long time since she’d bothered to make a card for me. Protectiveness, because there was a strong likelihood that her quest to meet Luella could end in disappointment. Jealousy, because I feared that my daughter might need someone other than me to fill the void her father’s death had left behind. And a giddy, illogical sort of fear that I might lose her.

Crazy, I reasoned.

Still, it couldn’t hurt to take an active stand against this newest threat. Grabbing a pair of secateurs from the utility drawer, I headed outside.

The flowerbeds were overflowing – the bobbing heads of roses and gladioli, sunflowers and daisies and gerberas created a brilliantly hued concerto in the harsh light. Bees hovered, and butterflies sailed from leaf to leaf looking for a tender spot to mark out their eggs.

I walked uphill towards the sea of nodding flower heads, planning which combination would have the most impact.
A big bunch, I decided, showy and brazen and bursting with colour and scent. Wobbling roses, perky gerberas, maybe a few sprigs of timeless lavender; a shrewd and ingenious combination of cottage garden with reliable old-world charm.

I might not be able to fill any voids, but I had a pretty good idea about how to impress a prospective grandmother. If you can’t beat ’em, Aunt Morag had been fond of saying, then you might as well go down with all guns blazing.

We stood at the door for an eternity. Both of us wide-eyed, nervous. Bronwyn hugged the massive bunch of flowers to her chest, her carryall with its bulging cargo of chocolates and photo albums slung over her shoulder.

The verandah was cool and shady, dark beneath its canopy of white wisteria and climbing roses. The outlook was pleasant – bushland and distant hills, the pretty garden – but I had the jitters. Someone was watching us. I didn’t know how I knew, only that I had the feeling of eyes peering through the shuttered windows, eyes that were as curious as our own.

‘Come on,’ I told Bronwyn. ‘We’ve been here five minutes, I don’t think she’s going to answer. We might as well head home, come back another time.’

Bronwyn put on her most pleading face. ‘What if she was out the back and didn’t hear the first few times we rang? Please Mum, just a bit longer?’

Before I could answer, she reached out and pressed the doorbell. Muffled electronic chimes burbled deep inside the house. I waited to hear footsteps, waited to hear the creak of floorboards, the rattle of the door being opened.

There was only more silence.

‘We can’t stand here all day,’ I insisted. ‘We have to prepare for tonight – the salmon isn’t going to marinate itself, you know.
Besides, there’s a fete over at the Lutheran church. Why don’t we pop in on the way home, Jade might be there?’

‘No.’

‘Come on, Bron, your grandmother’ll still be here next week. We can come back then, have another try.’

Ignoring me, she shot out her hand and rapped on the flywire door.

‘Gran! Gran, it’s me, Bronwyn!’ she cried shrilly. ‘Gran, please come out, I’ve brought you something.’

‘Bronny, I don’t think it’s a good idea to . . .’

Bronwyn kept knocking. The flywire door shuddered and clanged, making a horrible racket.

‘Gran, please come out. It’s Bronwyn, your granddaughter. I’ve come all the way from Melbourne to see you!’

I sighed. ‘Bron, you’re making a fuss. Even if Luella
is
inside, she won’t want to open up now. What must she be thinking?’

Bronwyn’s eyes filled. ‘I don’t care what she thinks. I just want to see her, talk to her. You don’t know what it’s like, Mum. I really want to meet her.’

‘Then you’re going about it the wrong way. Carrying on like this is only making things worse – ’

There was a soft click.

We froze. A mouse-like scuffle came from behind the door, and then the snicking sound of a deadlock tumbling in its chamber. Behind the flywire screen, the front door rattled.

And swung open.

In the dim half-light of the entryway stood a woman. She was tall and stout; her pudgy face was blank with shock. She shuffled forward, peering through the flywire, blinking her small grey-green eyes. She wore a fifties-style floral dress, and her grey-streaked brown hair was teased into a bouffant bun, dressed with a velvet ribbon – white, like the ones in Bronwyn’s hair. Her makeup was perfect, as deftly applied as a movie star’s.