Melbourne, June 1993
Cold hands closed around my ankle, dragging me deeper into the water. A voice murmured in my ear.
Why did you lie . . . Why, Lucy?
Black water, so deep; a bottomless abyss without light or hope. Just like my guilt. I struggled, but the grip on my foot would not let go. In my mind, I could see those hands clearly: long-fingered and freckled, strong and lean, the nails blunt and neat. My mother’s hands.
You lied, and now I’m trapped here, here in this dark place . . .
I tried to break the surface, to rouse myself, but the hands were too strong. My mother’s face shimmered in the water below me. Her blonde hair clung to her cheeks, her mouth curved in an almost loving smile, but there was no warmth in her eyes. Blue as the water she was drowning me in, cold and unblinking. Somewhere behind her, the ocean roared.
Dreaming, I told myself. The same old dream. Just open your eyes and you’ll see the bedroom window with its yellow curtains, the dresser with the fresh roses, last night’s clothes on the chair. All you need to do is open your eyes.
I reached for the bedside lamp, but instead my fingers grazed cold, clammy stone. I felt my body – strangely insubstantial, as thin and small as a child’s – sliding away from me. I was falling, not down into the sea, but backwards in time, along a tunnel of almost pure black. If only you hadn’t lied, the voice whispered in my mind, I’d still be with you, darling . . . but now I’m trapped under the weight of all this water and it’s very cold here, Lucy . . . very cold indeed . . . The whispers grew more urgent, rising in pitch to a scream—
I kicked free and swam to the surface, woke up. Flicked on the bedside lamp. Placing my palms over my face, I breathed through my fingers until the panic ebbed. My cheeks were damp, my throat dry. The air felt sub-zero.
I checked the clock: 3 a.m.
My quilt was bunched at the foot of the bed, half-dragged to the floor. I yanked it back up around me and burrowed into its soft folds. Noises drifted in from the garden: night birds softly calling, branches creaking. The distant wash of water in the bay that seemed, at that moment, unutterably sad. Closer sounds – the rustle of bedclothes, the manic drumbeat of my pulse – were suddenly loud and invasive. Wanting distraction, I found myself remembering that moment on the verandah, Morgan’s palm against my face, my breathless anticipation as he leaned towards me, and then the sting of disappointment as his lips grazed my brow.
There was no point trying to sleep. My mind was buzzing, my limbs jittery. I reached for my water glass and took a swig, and then spied the manuscript Dad had given me the night before. Eager to dispel the aftertaste of my nightmare, I picked up the pile of papers and settled back against the pillows. Dad had titled his newest story Fineflower and the Man of Shadows. Within minutes, I had forgotten my dream and became submersed in the world of my father’s story.
Marriage to the old King was not what Fineflower had expected. Before their wedding, he had been tolerant and fatherly, but lately he’d grown cold.
Fineflower stood at the window, rocking her son in her arms. Gazing down on the waves that crashed against the foot of the cliff below the castle, she sent her mind back, trying to pinpoint the beginning of the change. Six weeks ago, perhaps, when her son was born? Or the long lumbering months before the birth, when she had craved nothing but fish? She had barely seen the King in those days, caught up as he was with his imperial undertakings.
Then she remembered.
Market day. Three weeks earlier.
The day she had seen the soldier.
Her soldier, as she now thought of him. He had been standing on the edge of the crowd, so fine in his blue jacket with brass buttons and golden sash, his shiny black boots. His eyes had sharpened when he saw her glance his way and Fineflower thought she’d seen him smile. In surprise, she had smiled back—
Perhaps the King had observed the admiration on her face. Perhaps he’d seen the brightness in her eyes, noticed the subtle quickening of her breath. Perhaps he had even witnessed that fleeting smile. Fineflower pressed a kiss to her baby’s forehead. Why should the King care? He was always preoccupied with important matters that he said were of no relevance to a woman. He rarely spoke to her, and then only to criticise.
Fineflower drew her shawl around her shoulders. The King had no right to be jealous. He had not minced his meaning when he said that Fineflower was a trophy wife, nothing more. A means to an end, a union between two kingdoms. A chattel.
She pinched her lips together. If anyone should be angry, it was her. She hadn’t wanted to marry the elderly King. All she cared about back then was tending the roses in her garden. Her nostrils flared. How she craved the sweet heady scent of her blooms, but all she could smell was brine and the damp castle walls and the stink of rotting fish that wafted from the fishermen’s cove below. She bent her head over her sleeping child and breathed his scent instead. The milky sweetness, a hint of cinnamon. Her agitation eased. The boy was all she cared about now. And perhaps—
Her thoughts flew back to the soldier. How handsome he’d been, how proud; a brave soldier with knowing eyes and a secretive smile. In another life, perhaps Fineflower would have chosen a man like that to wed. Then again, perhaps she would not. She did not believe in love. Giving away your heart was a dangerous thing. It made you weak. It made you do things, and think things, and worst of all feel things that were not at all sensible.
Fineflower sighed and drew away from the window. Another dreary meal with the King. Another tedious night with his dull courtiers. Another night of nodding and smiling, of stifling her yawns, of daintily nibbling her modest portions of salad, while she longed to fill her grumbling stomach with fish and potatoes.
After placing her little prince in his cot under the watchful gaze of his nanny, she went downstairs. When she reached the dining hall, she was surprised to see the King sitting alone. His spotted old head rested in his hands and his bony shoulders shook. Muffled sobs echoed off the high walls. The piteous sight stirred Fineflower’s heart.
‘My lord,’ she called from the doorway. ‘Are you unwell?’
The King shot out of his chair, startled. He twisted around, his hawkish face shiny with tears. He stalked across the hall to where Fineflower stood, and grabbed her by the arm.
‘Betray me, will you?’ he cried. ‘Wretched girl, you have broken my heart. I thought you were different, but I see now that you are cut from the same cloth as all the others.’
‘Others?’
The King did not answer. He marched her through a doorway and into a shadowed corridor. They descended a flight of seemingly endless stairs, where torches shed feeble light. Water dripped from the walls, rats ran from their path, and the darkness echoed with the roar of waves below. The stairwell was cold, but the dungeon in the dark belly of the castle was colder.
‘Here you’ll stay,’ the King told her, ‘until you make the spindle leap and dance and fill this room with gold. If you succeed, I will grant any wish you desire. If you fail, I’ll hang you from the rafters and drain your blood.’
The door slammed on her cell.
‘What of my son?’ she cried after the King, but he did not reply.
Fineflower gazed around in dismay. Moonlight wafted through a high little window, barely piercing the darkness. Nearby sat a spinning wheel. In the corner was a mountain of white cocoons. Looking closer, she saw millions of silkworms, their pale bodies wriggling in the moonlight. Worms, around her feet, rustling in the straw mattress by the door, in the shadows – and there, lingering in the dank air, the faint fetid smell of mulberry leaves being slowly devoured.
As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she noticed four figures beneath the window. They hovered just above the floor, swaying gently, as though in a breeze. With a jolt of terror, Fineflower understood the King’s words.
I’ll hang you from the rafters . . .
The figures turned out to be maidens of similar age to Fineflower. Their arms dangled limp at their sides. Shadows made thumbprints where their eyes should have been, and their faces glowed waxy pale, the skin bloodless. Their feet did not touch the ground, Fineflower saw, but moved slowly this way and that, this way and that. On the flagstone floor beneath their stained silk slippers, their shadows shifted restlessly.
Setting the manuscript aside, I climbed from the bed. The night seemed unnaturally black. The air pressed against my skin, large soft fingers of darkness that made me shiver.
My father’s story had unsettled me, but I didn’t understand why. It seemed familiar, like an echo from the past that I recognised but could not quite place. Grabbing cardigan and slippers, I wandered along the hall to the sunroom. The cat was asleep in his box, a mound of white fluff that began to purr when I kneeled to stroke his back.
Downstairs in the kitchen, I brewed coffee and took it outside. Silver clouds etched the sky. A full moon sailed overhead like a hazy penny. Beyond the trees that sheltered my temporary haven, the city of Melbourne rumbled through the early hours. A siren wailed in a distant street. Traffic mumbled along Dandenong Road. Bats twittered in the fig trees that grew along the fence and the smell of onions and late-night sausages sat greasily on the ocean air. I breathed deep, savouring the familiarity of these sounds and smells of home, surprised by the longing they inspired in me.
Crossing the garden, I let myself into an old timber shed. The front garage area housed my former pride and joy – a Volkswagen camper, classic green and white with a split windscreen and every mod con from the 1960s. The van had languished in Dad’s garage for the last five years. He swore he’d been unable to find a buyer, claiming that no one was splashing out, thanks to the recession. Secretly though, I suspected, he hoped my old van might eventually lure me home.
At the back of the shed was a room that the owner had converted into a painting studio. In anticipation of Dad’s manuscript, I had brought the tools of my trade with me from London. Paintbrushes, several blocks of Arches watercolour paper, and a lovely old pottery water jar that Adam had given me. Dad had lent me copies of our books – twelve hardbacks to date, all written by him and illustrated by me. Six had won awards. I selected one and took it over to the big worktable, switching on the lamp.
My bright drawings tumbled across the page, spilling over the edges. Liquid ink, watercolour pencil, dots of gold leaf. The typesetting had a handwritten look about it, which suited the exuberance of the artwork. The finished illustrations appeared swiftly executed, but first impressions were deceptive. I had spent many hours sketching and re-sketching, erasing and sketching again until I deemed the illustration perfect. It was my way of making sense of my father’s pandemonium of words. If I could not fully understand the man, then I would content myself with understanding that part of him he poured into his stories.
Years ago, Dad had rewritten the Rapunzel tale, only rather than a castle, the girl had been trapped beneath a lake. She had flung up her long hair like a fishing line to snare the unsuspecting Prince and pull him to her. My drawings for that one had been very dark, arising from my memories of the summer my mother drowned. I asked Dad about it later, and he explained that his Rapunzel had been a kind of therapy.
Writing stories is how I work through things I don’t understand, he’d said. Karen was everything to me, you know that, Lucy. When we lost her, I fell apart. The Rapunzel tale, probably the other stories too, was my way of keeping her alive.
I thought of Mum with her regal height and large-boned frame. She had towered over Dad. My little dumpling, she had called him, at which he would pretend despair, but anyone could see how he adored her. It seemed impossible that a woman like her, invincible in my eyes and perfect in Dad’s, had been taken from us so quickly. One wrong step on some slippery rocks was all it took to change our lives forever.
I sat at the drafting table, shivering in pyjamas and cardigan. The coffee was hot and sweet and quickly warmed me. For the next few hours, I escaped into the zone, surrendering myself to the swirls of jewel-bright inks and watercolour that flowed from my brush. The only sounds were the clink of my pens in the inkbottle, the whisper of paint washing across the paper, and from somewhere beyond the doorway the quiet drip of dew from the trees.
By the time the sun rose, I had done a day’s work. Buckled sheets of watercolour paper littered the studio floor, ten full-colour sketches, created in a frenzy. But as I gazed at them, my heart sank. The images were good, that wasn’t the problem. What depressed me was the figure they depicted.
In several, he held a cat. In others, he stood on a low brick wall staring out across the sea, his wild hair tugged by the wind. There was even one of him sitting in a dark garden surrounded by fairy lights and winter roses. And beside him – tiny and ghost-like, insubstantial – was a sad little figure in a red dress.
The others I collected and squashed into the bin. I felt no regret, just annoyance that I’d wasted so many hours, so much paper and ink and effort. Spending time with Morgan was a bad idea. Best to avoid him. Besides, I was only here for a few weeks. How hard would it be? Going back to the table, I took out a fresh sheet of Arches, swirled my brushes clean in the water jar, and tried to summon inspiration, but nothing came.
I stood up, suddenly cold. I’d been sitting too long. My joints were stiff, my hands and feet numb.
My failed drawings weighed on me. In them, I saw all my other failings: my fearfulness, my guilt . . . my habit of running away when the going got tough. I longed for security, yet also suffered from a horror of being trapped. No wonder my relationship was on the rocks.
Wedding jitters, Adam had called it back in London. Cold feet. ‘It happens all the time,’ he’d reassured me. ‘Why don’t we take a holiday in Spain, just the two of us, give those frosty little toes a chance to thaw out?’
But it was more than just nerves. A whole lot more.
I agreed with Fineflower, I realised. Giving away your heart was dangerous. I had tried it once, and my heart had ended up broken. The best way forward was not to let it happen again. Ever.
Dad’s voice drifted back to me.
If you could have anything at all, what would it be?
As the morning sun glimmered over the horizon and turned the clouds to gold, a face came to mind, a man’s face with light grey eyes and a quirky half-smile that made my pulse race. It was a face made rugged by time, etched with laughter lines, framed by windswept dark hair. A face I’d known so long, it was almost as familiar to me as my own.
Becoming the custodian of a stray tomcat had thrown out my plans. It was Saturday, which I’d been intending to spend with my grandfather. I had dialled his number countless times in the last week to alert him to my visit, but he wasn’t answering. I was reluctant to show up out of the blue. He was in his nineties and a shock like that could be fatal. I decided to try ringing again in an hour. Meanwhile, there was a skinny, flea-bitten stray in urgent need of a makeover.
In the bathroom, I laid out towels, Betadine, eardrops from a quick visit to the vet, and tar soap. I ran tepid water and when the tub was a quarter full, I broke the bad news to the cat.
Surprisingly, he went into the bath with good grace. He squirmed and tried to make a dash for it when I brought out the soap, but then stood stoically as I lathered away the dirt and grime and blood from his matted fur. When I patted him dry with a fluffy towel, he lifted his luminous green gaze and looked right into my eyes. Then he began to purr.
The tips of his ears were in tatters, his delicate pink nose covered in scars. The fur had rubbed away around his neck, exposing the skin. Not a pretty boy, but my heart went out to him. It would take longer than four weeks to fatten him up and bring the lustre back to his coat, heal his wounds. But a month was all I had. After that, if I failed to find him a home, he would probably end up in a shelter.
I settled him in a patch of sunlight, but he wanted to shake himself and run about. His tail fluffed up, making me laugh, making me think of a fox’s feathery tail.
‘Basil,’ I decided to call him. ‘Basil Brush. What do you think?’
He ran into his cardboard box, but then reappeared a moment later, pink nose twitching. He wound himself around my ankles, tickling my shins with his whiskers.
‘Basil it is,’ I said softly, crouching to smooth my hand over his sleek head. Naming him was probably a bad idea, but under the circumstances, the dignity of a name was the least I could do for him.
Adam would say I was getting attached. He would shake his head and chuckle indulgently. Putty in my hands, an onlooker might think – but beneath his tousle-haired boyishness, Adam was all steel. He had to be, it was part of his job as an advocate for Amnesty. A job he excelled at; he worked tirelessly to raise money for people wrongly imprisoned – artists, writers, political activists. We had met at a charity dinner. Adam joked later that he’d paid the guest sitting next to me £50 to swap seats, and then set out to charm me with his most interesting stories. He needn’t have bothered with the chair swapping or the stories. At first glance, I’d liked him. He had a strong, interesting face and sandy hair that refused to sit straight no matter how much he combed it. When he spoke about injustice, he had a way of punctuating his sentences with a sharp inhalation, almost a gasp, as though the words caused him actual physical pain.
In the two years since we’d met, we’d been mostly happy. The nightmares I’d suffered since childhood ebbed away. Adam’s calm presence soothed my bouts of agitation. I had drifted along on the surface of my life, finally able to ignore the shadow-shapes that swarmed below in the depths. Adam proposed, and soon after that I moved into his Camden Town apartment. London was a beautiful labyrinth, especially with Adam at my side. I drifted through it as though in a dream. The hectic pace dazzled me, the constant stream of restaurants and charity dinners and theatre shows made my head spin. I was giddy with life, and I didn’t want it to stop. It made me believe that my life as a surface dweller was real; it made me hope that, in his quiet way, Adam was my saviour.
That was, until my grandfather’s letter.
I have something for you . . . It will explain everything.
Upstairs in the bedroom, I took out the charm he had tucked inside the envelope with his note. A gold heart the size of my thumbnail, dented on one side, its edges worn smooth. I had recognised it instantly as the charm from the bracelet he had once given my mother. A bracelet I’d fiercely coveted as a child. The same bracelet that Dad insisted went into the sea with her.
I weighed the small heart in my palm. It was as light as a leaf, almost insubstantial – but to me it felt heavy, leaden with guilt. I pushed it back into the envelope.
It will explain everything . . .
Soon after the letter arrived, cracks began to appear in my perfect world. Adam’s presence was no longer quite so soothing; rather, he began to irk me. His long rambles about injustice and political freedom, his late nights on the phone or hunched over his desk drafting petitions and letters of appeal; the way he woke red-eyed in the morning barely able to string his words together until that first coffee.
Slowly, my nightmares trickled back. Cold fingers tugged me from sleep, and I woke drenched in sweat and tears, gagging on the smell of ocean air. Tired all the time, I found fault with Adam, picking arguments over trivial things. The shadow-shapes returned, resuming their gentle bump-bump below the surface. I threw myself into my work, but it didn’t help. My heart felt full of holes, through which seeped all the darkness I’d been suppressing for years.
The doorbell rang, bringing me back to the present. ‘Go away,’ I muttered, sliding the envelope out of sight beside my bedside lamp. ‘I’m busy.’
The bell buzzed again, and then someone hammered. I padded downstairs and yanked open the door.
Morgan stood there. His eyes were hollow and dark-circled, his jaw bristling with stubble.
‘What’s happened?’ I said.
‘Your father’s had a fall. A broken hip, he’s at the hospital.’ He moved nearer and cupped my elbows, as though to steady me. ‘Wilma said she tried to call. There was no answer so she asked me to come over.’
‘A fall? How did he—’ I broke off and frowned. ‘He was drinking, wasn’t he?’
Morgan nodded.
With a muttered curse, I ducked inside to get my wallet and car keys, my jacket from behind the door. After locking up, I pushed past Morgan and went to my van. I saw Morgan’s old Harley propped near the gate, but wasn’t surprised when he climbed into the passenger seat beside me. I started the motor before he’d even buckled up, and a couple of minutes later we were roaring along St Kilda Road towards the hospital.
I kept picturing Dad at the Astor the night before, his cheeks flushed from the cold, pleased about finishing his book. What could have turned his mood around so drastically? A broken hip was bad; that he’d been sozzled enough to fall over and break it was far worse. A memory came to me: Dad reeking of booze a few months after we lost Mum; armed with a baseball bat, he’d run out onto the street in front of our house and started taking swings at passing cars—
‘What would send him over the brink like that?’ I wondered aloud. ‘He’s been dry for fourteen years, not a drop in all that time. What could it be?’
‘No idea, Luce.’ Morgan stared through the windscreen. His face was serious, his eyes burning up the road ahead. ‘But I expect we’re about to find out.’
The city sped past. The chaos of rattling trams and buses and cars, the drifts of rubbish in the gutters and clouds of exhaust, the throngs clustered at pedestrian crossings, all seemed suddenly overwhelming. I clung to the steering wheel, my knuckles white, my arms rigid. Dad had promised. Fourteen years ago, he had made me a promise.
As far as I knew, he had kept it. Until now.
Suddenly the answer came to me. There was only one reason he would go back on his word, one reason he’d fall off the wagon. The same reason he had started drinking in the first place.
A face appeared in my mind’s eye. A thin face, peering from the past. The skin pulled tight over prominent bones, the brow creased in permanent worry. The eyes so dark they seemed black, an animal’s eyes, watching furtively as though a hunter lurked around every corner.
‘Edwin,’ I murmured, and the sound of his name, the sound of my grandfather’s name, sent a chill prickling over my heart.