Wildflower Hill (22 page)

Even though Beattie was sharp at the game, she began to realize just how dependent on luck she was. She knew when to raise the stakes, when to cut her losses. But the thing she could
never control was what cards found their way into her hands. She lost sometimes, and nothing could be done to help it.

The night before the game, the last night to practice, Mikhail asked her outright, “If you win, you keep me on?”

Beattie was taken aback. She’d never thought of what she’d do with the staff. She had no money to pay them, and as she understood it, she wouldn’t be getting the car that Mikhail drove. “I don’t know,” she said, guilt creeping into her heart. If she won, he would lose his job. “I don’t think I can.”

“Ah, is no matter,” he said gruffly, dealing the cards again.

“You could stay as long as you need to, to find another job. Alice, too, though I doubt she’d want to stay.”

“Is all coming to an end, anyway,” he said. “You may be owning very bad business soon.”

Beattie was crisscrossed by negative feelings: fear, self-doubt. This was madness. If she had any sense, she’d run away right now, head to Hobart, look for a job or join the dole queue . . . At this stage, she was sure she’d end up having to submit to a night of Raphael’s vile desires like a common prostitute, then no doubt find herself without a job the next morning. If that were the case, then she didn’t deserve to keep Lucy. Lucy would be better off with a mother like Molly.

Mikhail reached across the table and wiped a tear off her cheek with his knuckles. She hadn’t even realized she’d been crying. “We win sometimes, we lose sometimes,” he said. “No matter. We go on.”

She smiled weakly. “Thanks, Mikhail.”

“One more hand?”

“One more hand.”

*  *  *

There are two types of women in the world, Beattie, those who do things and those who have things done to them.

Beattie’s body felt it would shake apart from the inside. Her mouth was dry, her heart rattling her ribs.

Two types of women . . .

She stilled her hands to open the door to the sitting room. Raphael sat at the gleaming card table, shuffling the deck. He hadn’t seen her yet, but Leo Sampson, who was on the sofa, looked up and offered her an encouraging smile.

Those who do things and those who have things done to them . . .

Deep breaths. She walked stiffly to the table, sat down opposite Raphael.

He didn’t glance up, yet. “Just so you know, Beattie, Leo’s looked at the deck, and he’s checked up my sleeves for hidden aces.” He looked up with a wild laugh, met her eyes, his pupils widening with desire. “Oh, you look beautiful tonight. I am going to enjoy this. Did you bring the buttons?”

“No, I . . .” She started up from her chair, but Raphael leaped to his feet.

“I’ll get them. I’m terrified you’ll run if I let you go now. You look sick with fright.” He hurried out of the room, leaving Beattie alone with Leo Sampson and her own thunderous heartbeat.

“Beattie,” Leo said quietly when he was sure Raphael was out of earshot, “I’ve got contracts here, and he’s already signed them. I tear them up if you lose, but if you win, the house is yours. Perfectly legally.”

Beattie tried to concentrate on what he was saying. “I see.”

“He’s only signed over the house, the land, and the stock. He’ll take all the furniture, the car, everything.” He grimaced. “Beattie, if you win, you might be better to sell the whole place and use the money more wisely. Buy a little cottage in town.”

And have no job to pay for food. “Is this a good farm?”

“It’s a bad business, but only because it’s been run that way. The carrying capacity of the land is high. You could run seven or eight thousand sheep on it. Managed well, it could make you rich.”

Beattie nodded. It would still take some time before she could convince Henry to give Lucy back. There was hard work ahead. “If I win it, I’ll keep it.”

Raphael’s footsteps were returning. “I wish you luck, my dear,” he said. “And if things don’t go the way you hope, I wish you good courage.”

Tears pricked her eyes.
Deep breath. Still your hands.
She was about to find out exactly what type of woman she was.

The world slowed down. Raphael poured the buttons onto the table with a clatter, divided them evenly between himself and Beattie. Different shapes and sizes. She spotted a red bow-shaped button from one of Lucy’s dresses. She pushed forward three buttons, he the same.

Then he dealt the first hand of cards. She picked them up, closed her eyes before looking at them. Told herself to pretend she was in her room with Mikhail, just playing to keep the night away. Opened her eyes.

Two queens, a four, a six, and a two.

Raphael, with polished confidence, threw down one of his
cards and picked up another. Pushed one more button onto the pile. Sat back to look at her.

He had four of something. Was it a straight? Or was it four of a kind? Or was he hoping for a full house?

She threw down her useless cards, picked up three more: equally useless. Decided she wouldn’t risk losing too much too early and met his bet.

She had two queens. He had four kings.

She had lost the first hand, and now he had eight more buttons than she did.

Raphael laughed as he collected his buttons. His pale eyes never left her face. She tried to hide her disappointment but knew it was written all over her. For the first time, she let herself imagine him making love to her. His cold fingers, his wet lips, his soft belly . . .

“Another hand, Beattie?” he said brightly.

She nodded, swallowing hard to wet her throat. What a fool she’d been. “Another hand.” She put in three buttons, figuring it was the only way to even things up.

He dealt the cards. She picked them up quickly, wanting to get it over with. This time she had two aces, two fours, and a six. Her heart thudded in her throat. If she were playing with Mikhail, it would be so easy. Throw in the six, hope for another four or ace. Bet high.

And there it was. A four. She had a full house. She steeled herself, put another seven buttons forward.

He saw her, then raised it another seven buttons. Her nerve failed. She matched his bet and showed him her cards. He looked at them, then growled, throwing in his hand.

Relief flooded through her. She scooped the buttons toward her. She was ahead by twenty-six buttons.

Now it all rode on the last game.

Beattie had never felt more nervous in her life. Her stomach itched, and her blood seemed to scratch at her veins. The glimmer of possibility: that she would not only avoid Raphael’s touch but would win the house. Her head seemed filled with light, and she had to remind herself to focus.

Raphael’s eyes were glued to her again, angry and desiring all at once. He pushed forward three buttons. She submitted three of her own. The cards fell in front of her. She picked them up.

It was a nightmare hand. A pair of twos, a four and five of spades, and a king. She had no idea what to do. Raphael quickly upped the bet with another ten buttons, discarded two cards, and picked up replacements. Did he have three of a kind? If so, she was ruined. She hesitated, not sure what to do. Then quickly met his bet and decided to throw in the spades and hope for another king or another two.

And there it was, another king. Her blood was thrumming.

Raphael pushed in another ten buttons. He was so certain. She quickly did the numbers in her head. If he won, he would have twenty more buttons than she did. If she folded, they would be back to even, and nobody would have won. They would have to play a tie-breaking game.

Then he picked up another card and made a self-satisfied noise, and her heart sank. He glanced up at her, a smile curling on his lips.

And she saw it. A tiny movement of his pupils, shrinking.
She thought about all those times she had watched Henry play in Glasgow and what it meant when his pupils—so dark against the irises—shrank like that. Raphael was bluffing, trying to make her fold so she would be forced to play a fourth game.

She pushed ten buttons forward, then another five. Her body shook, doubt crushed her.

His face fell.

“Go on,” she said. “Let me see them.”

He laid down his cards. They were a hodgepodge: clearly he’d been hoping for a flush. She laid down hers.

“No!” he shouted, a spoiled child jumping from his chair. He knocked the cards off the table, and they flew about her and skidded into her lap. “No! No! No!” He accented every exclamation with a thump on the table. Leo rose and tried to calm him, but all the noise and commotion seemed to be happening a million miles away. Beattie sat in silence and shock. She had done it. She had
done something.

And she was never going to have things done to her ever again.

Beattie stood at the crest of a hill, ten trudging minutes’ walk from the homestead. Grassy fields undulated away from her, the darker green of eucalyptus forest skimming the farm’s edges. Green hills: some in sunlight, some in lazy shadows. Silence. Silence for miles.

Miles and miles of silence. And all of them hers.

Emma: Tasmania, 2009

T
he driver of the car I’d booked wouldn’t stop talking. I itched to be free. I needed to stretch my leg. My sore knee had been cramped up for over an hour from the airport, and two hours before that on the plane. I’d tried stretching it out on the backseat for a while, but the angle had made my back and hips twinge.

So I nodded and hmmed in the right places, but I longed for the journey to be over. To come to rest somewhere. Finally, we turned off the last unpaved road and in between the stone gates, up the driveway. I looked at the front of the homestead. I’d only seen it in pictures, when I’d never expected to own it. The aging sandstone, the peaked windows, the overgrown gardens. As soon as the driver drew breath, I blurted, “Thanks so much. Here,” and threw a tip at him.

He folded it away while I opened the door and at last stretched my leg. It felt good. I stood up, taking a deep breath of the fresh country air. Apart from the rumble of the car engine, it was quiet. The driver went to the trunk for my
cases and lugged them up to the front door for me. Lichen bloomed on the gray pavers.

He stopped, shrugging his shoulder toward a tree on the southern side of the house. “Possums,” he said.

“Possums?”

“They’re killing it.”

I looked at the tree. A deadfall of gray-white branches lay under it, and spiky lomandra grew. “Possums are killing it?”

“They eat the new shoots. Look, one side is dying. You need to get a tree man out here to stick a collar on it.”

“On the possum?”

“On the tree.”

“Oh, I see.” I didn’t see. I didn’t really care. I felt in my handbag for the set of keys Mr. Hibbert had given me.
I’ve had the electricity, gas, and phone reconnected. But nobody’s been in there since before Beattie died,
he’d said.
I imagine it will be quite dusty. Will you need help cleaning it up?

I’d declined. I didn’t want to meet anyone or make any friends: too complicated. I planned to keep busy cleaning it up myself. I had a flight booked home in three weeks.

Now, as the car sped off, leaving only the sunlight and wind behind, I matched keys with locks and slowly got the front doors open.

Sunshine fell on the wooden floor of a long hallway. Dust danced in the light. The interior of the house was dark and airless. My lungs constricted. I left the door open behind me, my suitcases on the front step. Keys jangling, I stepped inside.

In front of me was a set of stairs: I could deal with those later. With my keys, I began opening doors room by room. A
small front room full of boxes. A dining room where a white dust cover had long since slid onto the floor. I ran my finger along the dining table. The dust was thick. My nose was starting to itch. More boxes in the dining room, lined neatly against the wall by the fireplace. I drew the curtains for a view of the driveway and front gate. The window had been shut so long that it howled when I forced it open. Wind rushed in, dislodging dust. I sneezed uncontrollably for a few moments, then moved to the room across the hallway.

Perhaps it had once been a sitting room: there was a sofa, an upright piano. But now it was taken over by boxes. Cardboard boxes that were giving in to the weight of time, sagging and splitting; some plastic boxes with more recent things in them. I idly flipped the top off one. Papers, books, birthday cards . . . My heart caught. Here was a card I’d sent Grandma as a child. A picture of irises on the front; inside, my nine-year-old handwriting:
Dear Nana Beattie, happy birthday and I love you, Emma.

Tears. Where had they come from? I slid the card back into the box and wiped them away. When Mum had called me to say Grandma was dead, it had been such a shock. Even though she’d been in her nineties, I’d always imagined Grandma as being invulnerable. Immortal. She’d seemed so strong. I’d always thought I’d see her again.

The tears and the dust set me sneezing again. I opened more windows, opened the doors onto the courtyard. Came through to the kitchen and let in light and air.

Then I braced myself: stairs were getting easier, but they still made me nervous. One foot in front of the other, holding on
to the dusty banister. When I’d made it, I stopped for a minute to rest the joint. It throbbed dully. The carpet up here made the air seem all the more stuffy. I went from bedroom to bedroom, throwing open curtains and windows, letting the breeze in, marveling at how many boxes of stuff Beattie had. She hadn’t actually lived in Wildflower Hill for decades before her death, but she had clearly used it as a place to send and store things. Perhaps she’d intended to come back one day and sort it all, or perhaps once it was out of sight, it was out of mind.

The last bedroom was the master bedroom. Despite the aging carpet and the patterned wallpaper, it felt roomy and sunny. The window looked out into the branches of the big tree that the driver had been so worried about. Across the paddock was a small wooden cottage, an old open shed, and the fallen-down remains of what might have been stables once. Beyond were fields, rolling down and away. Uninterrupted silence, except for the shushing of the breeze in the trees. Then the breeze dropped, and all that was left was the beat of my heart. Beattie had sold off all but five acres of the farm and all the livestock long, long ago. Once it had been two thousand acres, a thriving business. I couldn’t even imagine two thousand acres, let alone the kind of work to take care of it. Grandma had seemed so ladylike in her old age, more concerned with designs and fabrics than farm life.