Bitterwood, June 1993
We breakfasted beneath a vine-covered pergola in the garden, at a wrought iron table once part of an outdoor dining area. Most of the leaves had fallen off the vine, and beyond the bare sinewy branches, the sky was a clear lapis lazuli blue.
I had lain awake again the night before, tucked in my van, gazing up at Morgan’s window. At midnight, his light had finally gone out. I wondered what he’d been reading, and what thoughts had kept him from sleep. I wondered if he might have glanced occasionally at his own window, and thought of me snuggling warm in my van somewhere below. It wasn’t until later, into the early hours, that I had startled from my musings. What was I doing, lying awake sifting over every conversation I’d had with Morgan since my return? I wore a diamond on my finger that symbolised the promise I had made to another man. Guilt, then. Electrifying guilt that kept me awake for another few hours until finally I fell into a restless sleep.
I finished my coffee and stood up.
‘I have a surprise.’
Morgan narrowed his eyes.
‘It’s not really a surprise,’ I hurried on, ‘just something . . . of interest. Being a history buff, I thought you’d like to see it.’
He cast me a sideways look. ‘Not another bomb shelter?’
I smiled, and then found myself laughing. A giddy joy took hold and I almost skipped along the grass. Perhaps it was the fragile winter sun melting my defences, or maybe my night of tossing and turning, of sleeplessness and half-remembered dreams. Not my usual dark dreams, but rather soft sunny glimpses of hearts on ribbons, of churchyards and charred photos, forgotten letters, and lost things returning to their rightful owners. At some time during the night, I had flashed on what felt like a dream, but was actually a memory. Me at age ten, sitting in the orchard, trying to solve the puzzle written on a tree.
The same tree we now approached, a huge old bare-limbed cherry with a wrought iron bench beneath it. I tugged Morgan over and made him sit, then settled beside him.
His gaze lingered on my face. ‘This is your surprise? A garden seat?’
‘No . . . the tree behind us.’ In a moment of daring, I took his hand and guided his fingers across the scarred trunk where, a lifetime ago, someone had used a sharp instrument to carve into the bark.
‘When I was a kid,’ I explained, ‘I used to sit here all the time. It’s out of view of the house, like a secret grotto. This scarring on the trunk was what I loved most about it. I used to trace my fingers over the squiggles and lines, puzzling over whether they had once been words, or if they were just marks made by an insect.’
Morgan peered closer. ‘Like on a scribbly gum tree.’
‘Exactly, but last night I had a revelation. It’s a name.’
Morgan’s fingers were warm in mine as I guided them over the scars cut into the bumpy bark. ‘It says Clarice. Don’t you see? Edwin tried to burn away all evidence of her, but she carved her name on this tree and it’s still here. Amazing, isn’t it?’
The sun was making me tipsy. I felt like a teenager again, high on life. I shifted my position on the bench, swinging around so my knees rested ever so lightly against Morgan’s leg. Sitting there in my grandfather’s timeless garden, I sensed the rest of the world dissolve behind a veil of fog. While the sun shone in the orchard, darkness descended over the rest of the globe. Melbourne seemed an eternity away, and London – with its busy streets and historic alleyways, and the mod apartment I shared with Adam – seemed to exist in another lifetime.
I was still holding Morgan’s hand. His fingers curled around mine, gently, without pressure. He watched me, perhaps a little warily, perhaps waiting for me to let him go. Hastily, I did.
Morgan rested his elbow on the wrought iron seatback. ‘You need glasses.’
My glow winked out. ‘Why?’
‘You’re mistaken about the name. It can’t be Clarice. The first letter is an O. Next is R.’ He frowned at the scar. ‘Can’t make out what’s next, but that last is definitely an H.’
I slumped, frowning at the tree. The letters I’d been so sure of a moment ago were muddled again. Jumbled, turned back to a mess of swirls and wavering lines; insect scribbles, after all.
I huffed, unwilling to give in. ‘You’re the one who needs your eyes checked, Morgan.’
He sighed. ‘You only see what you want to see, Lucy. That’s always been your problem. You have a strong mind, and if you believe something to be a certain way, then that’s exactly how it appears to you.’
I pulled back, glaring at him. The fog lifted. The outside world began to intrude. The crash of waves at the foot of the headland was suddenly loud, joined by the drone of a distant car speeding along the Great Ocean Road. Ridiculously, I felt the prick of tears. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my eyesight.’
‘I’m not talking about your eyes.’
The knot between my shoulder blades tightened. I sensed, even before Morgan spoke, where this was going. Morgan lifted a brow and regarded me through narrowed eyes. I knew that look; growing up, I had seen it a thousand times. You’re not going to like hearing this, the look said, but it’s for your own good.
Morgan didn’t quite smile. ‘You’re about to blunder into the worst mistake of your life, but you can’t see it. You’ve created a fairytale life for yourself over there in London, even furnished it with a handsome prince who is . . . how did you describe him? Kind, intelligent and thoughtful. Oh, and a good sense of humour. But it’s not real.’
He leaned near, tugged gently on a milky lock of hair that had escaped my ponytail. ‘If it was real, if you were genuinely happy, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. The joy would be there in your eyes, Lucy. You’d be glowing, bubbling over with excitement at the prospect of spending the rest of your life with the man you love. You’d be talking nonstop about Adam, but you’ve hardly mentioned him. You’d never have left London without him. Instead, you’re hiding out here in Edwin’s dusty old guesthouse with me.’
I got to my feet, suddenly tired. The spark had vanished from the morning, everything seemed dull and jaded; the bare branches, the damp grass, the soft winter sunlight – all of it ruined. I hated what Morgan had said, hated that he could read me so well. Most of all, I hated that he might be right.
‘Hey.’ He was beside me, his hand gentle on my shoulder, turning me to face him. I tried to twist away again, but he stepped into my path. ‘All I’m saying is there’s no rush. Adam will understand.’
I thought of the last time I’d seen Adam. We were saying goodbye at Heathrow, both of us shuffling, not knowing what to say. Adam in his rumpled shirt, his mouth set firm, me in my red leather jacket, hair pulled back, steadfast in my resolve to leave. He had leaned close as if to kiss me, but had instead pulled me against him and whispered into my hair.
Come back to me, Lucy. I couldn’t bear to lose you.
I had clung to him then, crushing him against me. Adam, with his pure heart and utopian dreams, his hiccupping laugh and gentle touch, his tireless work to save the world; I loved him more at that moment, on the brink of goodbye, than I had in all our two years together. I kissed him tenderly on the mouth, and with tears choking off any words I might have mustered, left him standing alone at the gate and hurried away.
‘Come on,’ Morgan said, glancing at the sky. ‘It’s time to go.’
My thoughts of Adam dissolved. My sullen mood ebbed, replaced by alarm. I clutched Morgan’s wrist as if to restrain him by force. ‘You’re leaving?’
‘We both are. It’s Friday.’
I stared at him, baffled. ‘Which means—?’
‘Which means that Stern Bay Historical Society is open for business.’
Stern Bay, June 1993
The old church hall had barely changed since 1930. Paint peeled from its weatherboard flanks, and grass had mostly swallowed the stepping-stone path to the front entryway, but the outlook – a paddock dotted with paperbark trees, with a small graveyard tucked into the back of the block – was still exactly as it appeared in the photo.
My gaze went to a sheltered nook beside the apse. There was the leadlight window, its coloured glass panes glowing crimson and green and amber in the sun. Sixty-four years ago on that spot, my grandmother Clarice Briar had stood beside Edwin, the sun in her eyes, her lips downturned as the camera captured her in a moment of anger.
Morgan joined me on the grassy verge. ‘Look up.’
Native ravens, black and glossy in the winter sunshine, perhaps twenty of them, gathered behind the hall in the branches of a dead tree. They startled suddenly, and lifted into the blue sky, filling the air with disgruntled cries.
Chills flew over me. I rubbed my arms, thinking of the photograph in the envelope I carried. Those birds might be descendants of the ones that had flocked here the day Clarice had her picture taken.
I gazed at the ravens, pulling my coat tighter about me. ‘She hated him, didn’t she? Edwin, I mean. You can see it in her face in the photo. She’s unhappy about something, and I get the feeling it’s to do with Edwin.’
‘We can’t know that.’
The ravens circled overhead, their cries sounding so desolate that I shivered again. ‘Why else would she leave? Why else would she abandon her baby and run away? She couldn’t stand to be around him a moment longer.’
Morgan stared at me, his eyes hard. ‘Speaking from experience are you?’
I stepped back, defences prickling, the denial already on my lips. Then I noticed the rawness in Morgan’s eyes, the subtle tightening of his mouth. It hadn’t been a reproach, I realised. For the first time, I saw myself through Morgan’s eyes: a wilful girl who had kissed him and declared her love, and then fled when things hadn’t gone her way. In that moment, he was no longer my old love, Morgan, but rather a man whose family had just come undone at the seams, a man who was probably hurting and confused . . . and now putting himself back in the firing line with someone who could disappear again without warning.
I nudged him with my elbow, found my smile. ‘I’ll say goodbye next time, Morgan. That’s a promise. Now let’s see if anyone remembers Clarice.’
As we entered the cool open space of the hall, a big-boned woman in her sixties hurried over to greet us. She introduced herself as Brenda Pettigrew, and when I explained about the photos and my quest to discover more about my grandmother, she patted my arm.
‘I was sorry to hear of old Edwin’s passing. Dulcie had been one of my mother’s friends, a lovely woman, devoted to Edwin. I suppose they’re together now.’
I glanced at Morgan, and he lifted a brow. I knew better than to get my hopes up, but I slid the photos from my envelope and passed them to Brenda. She shuffled through them, stopping at the one taken outside the church.
‘I’ve never seen this before. The old hall looks so well loved. I’m afraid these days we haven’t much funding to attend to the paintwork. I can’t make out the date—’
‘1930,’ I told her. ‘Actually, it’s Edwin’s first wife we’re interested in. That’s her there.’
Brenda examined the image more closely. ‘I know someone who might remember her. Mildred Burke and her husband had a big farm that once adjoined Bitterwood. Of course, they subdivided the land and sold it all off, but Mildred still lives in the original farmhouse. She’s in her nineties, but her memory’s as sharp as a tack. If anyone knows about the Briar family, it’ll be her.’
She sketched a map and gave me directions to the Burkes’ old farm, then paused, tapping a finger against her lips. ‘I wonder . . .’ Going over to a display of books, she retrieved a slender volume. The cover was well thumbed, the pages dog-eared. On the front was a black and white photograph of a smiling man with Brenda’s large square face. Beneath it was inscribed The Story of Stern Bay, by LM Pettigrew.
‘My father’s memoir,’ she explained, pressing the book into my hands. ‘He was a grocer by trade, ran the corner store for years, so he knew everyone.’
Morgan had wandered over to a large painting. It showed a ship caught in the midst of a violent storm. ‘It reminds me of an early Turner,’ he told Brenda. ‘It looks valuable.’
Brenda laughed softly, rubbing her palms together. ‘I can’t wait to tell my husband you said that. My uncle painted it. We always said Ken had a great talent, but he never had the confidence to follow it up. I think he painted that one from a newspaper clipping. It’s an English ship, the Lady Mary. It was Ken’s obsession. I’ve another picture very similar at home.’
‘Obsession?’ Morgan wanted to know.
‘The Lady Mary foundered north of here along the coast, only about thirty clicks from Bitterwood. Sadly, there were no survivors. Back in 1929 they didn’t have the communications we enjoy these days. A big storm blew up, according to Ken, and when the ship failed to dock in Melbourne, they sent a search party. The only evidence they found was a beach littered with debris . . . and bodies,’ she added quietly.
We found Mildred Burke’s farmhouse a few miles west of Stern Bay, at the very end of a steep street that led up into the hills. Its weatherboards were buckled and peeling, the gutters dangling loose, but the surrounding steep acre of grass was trim as a bowling lawn. As we approached along the drive, I saw why: a herd of white goats ran towards the van, bellowing in apparent excitement.
A woman pushed through the screen door, and waved the goats away. She was short and stout, her pink face obscured behind large glasses that magnified her blue eyes. Her thick hair was pure white, restrained by a squadron of hairpins.
‘You’re the Briar girl, then?’ she asked, dusting her hands on her apron and peering up at me. ‘I’ve just got off the phone to Brenda from the historical society. She said you’d be popping in. Come through. Don’t mind the mess. I’m baking for the CWA fundraiser next week. I hope you like scones.’
She ushered us along a narrow hall and into a generous country-style kitchen. A huge wooden table sat central, cluttered with mixing bowls and wooden spoons, packets of sugar and raisins. A fine layer of white dust coated every surface. Flour, I realised, seeing the mound of bread dough proofing under plastic wrap. The oven blazed and warm aromas filled the air.
‘Baking keeps me sprightly,’ Mrs Burke said, clearing a corner of the table and dragging out chairs. A cloud of flour wafted around her, puffing from her cardigan as she collected a leaning tower of mixing bowls. ‘But like all of life’s pleasures, it comes with a price.’
Morgan came to her rescue. ‘Let me get those, Mrs Burke.’
Mrs Burke adjusted her glasses and peered up at him, beaming. ‘Thank you, dear boy. Just on the sink, if you don’t mind. And please call me Mildred.’
I brought out the envelope of photos and placed it on the table. While the kettle boiled, Mildred took a batch of scones from the oven and put them on a cooling tray. She made tea, and Morgan helped her set the table with cream and homemade jam.
‘Dig in,’ she said cheerfully, plating up the fragrant scones. ‘Don’t be shy.’
While we ate, she launched into the story of her family. I prepared myself for a polite interim of boredom before getting to the point of our visit, but was quickly intrigued.
Her husband had started life as a shearer, she said. As an eight-year-old, he’d entered the shearing shed, where his hard-headed father expected him to pull the weight of a grown man. Young Jensen lost the tips of two fingers before he was ten; the shears had been sharp, carving through his young bones like butter.
I let out an involuntary murmur, but Mrs Burke seemed oblivious, caught up in the momentum of her story.
‘I met him at a dance after the war. Love at first sight, I suppose you’d call it these days. He wasn’t much to look at – a burly, red-faced lad with shaving cuts on his jaw, and ears too big for his head. But he was kind, and he brought me flowers and fresh eggs, a luxury in those days. He wooed me for an entire year before my father finally gave his blessing. Sixty-seven years we were married.’
Morgan gave a soft whistle and reached for another scone. ‘What’s your secret?’
Mildred smiled. ‘To a lasting marriage? Friendship, of course. Don’t let Hollywood fool you into believing it’s all about passion. Passion doesn’t last.’ She sighed. ‘Poor Jensen died more than a decade ago. He’d gone out hunting. Meat for us, bones for the dogs. He was climbing through a fence and the wire snared him. He must have been struggling to get free, and bumped the rifle. A shooting accident, the police called it. Bled to death, poor man.’
‘How awful,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I missed him terribly when he went. That’s why I bake, I suppose. It keeps my mind on other things.’ She shook her head as if to dislodge the memory. ‘Listen to me, rabbiting on. Memory is the curse of old age, you know. You can wander around for hours looking for your glasses, only to realise you’re wearing them. But the past is all there. Thirty, forty, sixty years ago, all clear in your mind as the day it happened.’ She sighed. ‘Brenda said you have some snaps you’d like me to look at?’
Sliding the prints from the envelope, I placed the church fete photo on top of the pile, and slid it across.
‘The woman is my grandmother, Clarice. Next to her is my grandfather—’
‘Edwin Briar.’ Mildred clucked her tongue. ‘I always thought he looked more like an undertaker than the landlord of a fancy guesthouse. Look at him there, so young.’
I shuffled through the photos and pulled out the enlargement, buckling a corner in my haste. ‘What about the girl with them. Do you remember her?’
Mildred fumbled off her glasses, cleaned them on her apron, and then carefully examined the photo. ‘It must be their daughter. Edna, I think her name was. No, it was Edith.’
I leaned forward, ‘Edith,’ I whispered, eyeing the photo. ‘Is she still alive?’
Mildred shook her head. ‘She died, poor little thing. Of course, I never knew the particulars, just what I heard in town. We didn’t have much to do with the Briars, you see.’
‘Oh.’ I sat back heavily.
Morgan refilled Mildred’s teacup. ‘I get the feeling you didn’t much care for Edwin.’
Mildred sighed. ‘Not much. He and Jensen had a quarrel years ago. I never knew what it was about, probably leftover issues from the war. But it rattled Jensen. He was always nervy after, although I suppose that was just coincidence.’ She looked at me. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. I don’t mean to speak ill of your grandfather, but you deserve to know the truth.’
She stood and retrieved the proofing dough, peeling off the cling wrap. ‘My Jensen served with Edwin in the Great War. A bunch of them joined up together, local lads mostly. Jensen was thick with Edwin’s older brother. Ronald Briar was a fine young man, high-spirited, very handsome. I can still see him and Jensen standing on our front porch, proud as punch in their crisp uniforms. Full of swank and swagger, cracking jokes about how they’d have Fritz on the run and be home before we knew it.’
She punched the dough flat and began to knead it up again. ‘I was sad to learn of Ronald’s death. I sent a card to his mother up at Bitterwood. She took it hard. Ronald had always been the favourite. It would have killed her to know the truth.’
I sat forward. ‘What happened?’
Mildred turned the dough with a thump. ‘Friendly fire, they call it. It happens a lot in warfare, although you rarely hear of it. Jensen once told me that friendly fire accounted for twenty-five per cent of wartime fatalities. In those days, if someone ran towards you, friend or foe, you were under orders to shoot. Cowards were every bit as much the enemy as the other side, according to Jensen. But anyone who’d ever met Ronald Briar knew he was no coward.’
Morgan searched her face, thoughtful. ‘Ronald was killed by his own men?’
‘By one of them, yes.’ Mildred dropped the dough into a tin and dusted it with flour. Setting it aside, she wiped her fingers on her apron and looked at me. ‘Jensen was there when it happened, he saw everything. Poor Ronald was wounded, you see. He’d managed to drag another hurt soldier out of the firing line and back towards safety. Edwin was nearby. Ronald called for help, but Edwin didn’t acknowledge him. Instead, he raised his pistol and took aim. Jensen yelled a warning, but Edwin paid it no mind. He fired, taking down poor Ronald with a single shot to the chest.’
I pressed back in my chair, gripping the table edge. An image flashed to me: two young soldiers standing proudly with their mother in the orchard at Bitterwood. The woman’s hand rested protectively on the shoulder of her older, better-looking son. While Edwin, with his bony features and dark hopeful eyes, stood slightly apart.
My voice was a whisper. ‘Why would Edwin do that?’
Mildred’s frown softened. ‘How well did you know him?’
I stared at her. I wanted to say that Edwin had been my grandfather, of course I’d known him. But the sad truth was that I hadn’t, not really. After Dad’s breakdown, I had lived with Edwin at Bitterwood for three months. I’d sat at the dinner table with him, ignoring his attempts to engage me in conversation. I shunned him, avoided him – escaping into the orchard or losing myself in the library at the top of the stairs, or trawling for shells in the little cove at the foot of the headland. The last thing I’d wanted at the time was sympathy from a man I barely knew, a man my father had despised. In the end, when the going got too tough for me, I abandoned Edwin – just as everyone else had.
‘Not that well,’ I admitted.
Taking up a tea towel, Mildred draped it over her bread dough. ‘Then you won’t know that he had a ruthless streak when it came to getting what he wanted.’ She lifted the loaf tin, but then seemed to change her mind, replacing it heavily on the table. She looked across at me. ‘Ronald was engaged to a lovely girl. They had planned to marry after the war. When Ronald died, Edwin wooed her instead.’
I exchanged a glance with Morgan. When I looked back at Mildred, my heart was racing. ‘Clarice.’
The kitchen was suddenly stifling, the air too hot from the oven. I stood and went to the window. The goats were congregating along the far fence. One shook itself and skittered away from the herd, bleating noisily.
I turned back to find Mildred’s blue gaze trained on my face. Her smile trembled at the edges.
‘I didn’t mean to upset you, dear.’
I let out a breath. ‘I’m not upset. Taken aback, maybe. I never knew Edwin well. He and my father didn’t get along. I’ve only just discovered Clarice. She intrigues me.’
Mildred nodded thoughtfully. ‘If only I could tell you more about her. For the most part, we moved in different circles. Before the war, I saw her frequently in the twelve months or so that Ronald was courting her. She was clever and kind, a thoughtful girl from a good family. Once she married Edwin, all that changed.’
‘In what way?’ I asked.
‘She cut herself off from all her old friends, became quite reclusive. We lost touch. I blame Bitterwood. Such a dreary place, stuck out along that isolated stretch of road, nothing but the sound of the ocean and the cry of gulls. And Edwin’s dull company, of course – enough to drive anyone nutty. I saw her once, walking along the old coast road. Away from Bitterwood, although town was a fair hike, about fifteen miles. It was early one morning, just on sunrise. I’d been in Apollo Bay with my sister, and was on my way home for the lambing. I stopped to offer Clarice a lift, but she ignored me. She seemed distracted, almost wild. The wind lashed her hair about. I’ll never forget it, bright as polished copper in the dawn light. Her face was chalk white. She was barefoot and wore a man’s old coat. I drove halfway home, but then started worrying and went back for her. By then, of course, she had probably found her way back to Bitterwood.’
I placed my palms on the sides of my face. My cheeks burned. The story of Edwin and his brother, and now this glimpse of Clarice, wandering along the road, seemingly quite out of her mind, were doing strange things to my head. The kitchen was suddenly airless. I glanced at the door.
Morgan’s chair scraped as he got to his feet. He gathered the tea things, carried them to the sink, returned the milk to the fridge, and then joined me at the window.
‘You’ve got a lovely herd of little Saanens there,’ he said, squinting out into the brightness. ‘Goats are good company, aren’t they?’
‘I’d be lost without them,’ Mildred agreed. She dusted her hands and opened the back door, then ushered us out onto the verandah. She whistled and the herd swarmed towards us. Several goats had curved horns growing from their knotty heads, others were coated in long whiskery hair; all had strange slitted pupils that seemed to regard us with grim curiosity.
As we wandered along a path and around the side of the house, the air was deliciously cool on my burning face. It cleared my head. I thanked Mildred for her hospitality and then thought to ask, ‘That morning you saw Clarice on the road, do you recall what year it was?’
Mildred took a moment to consider this. Sunlight danced on her glasses as she shook her head. ‘It would have been springtime, on account of the lambs. But other than that, I don’t—’ She stopped. Looking at the sky, she rubbed her throat. ‘My sister was laid up with morning sickness, that’s why I’d gone to stay. My niece was born in ’32, so I must have seen Clarice late in 1931.’ She shook her head and smiled. ‘As I said, my dear, memory is the curse of old age.’
Bitterwood, June 1993
We drove back to Bitterwood in silence. My mind was flying. I needed time to organise my thoughts, to allow what I’d learned that morning to sink in. I wound down the window, but the salt air caught in my throat. The cobalt dome of the afternoon sky, the windblown trees and the bright chatter of birds, the glittering ocean. None of it seemed real.
Mildred Burke’s words replayed in my mind.
He had a ruthless streak when it came to getting what he wanted.
As Stern Bay receded behind us, I burrowed deeper into my thoughts, trying to reconcile my quiet, bookish grandfather with the young man Mrs Burke had described. A man who had killed his own brother, and then married the woman his brother had loved.
After lunch, I immersed myself in clearing a couple of upstairs bedrooms, while Morgan carried boxes of junk down to the garage. Later, as the sun drifted closer to the horizon, he suggested a walk on the beach. We crossed to the headland and climbed down the stony path to the sand below. I tried to focus on my surroundings – the clearness of the water, the miles of wintry blue sky, the scuff of sand beneath my shoes, Morgan’s quiet company beside me – but my thoughts kept returning to my grandmother.
The past is gone, Adam always said. Brooding over it only makes you crazy. But as the afternoon ebbed away and shadows began to edge across the beach, Morgan walking silently beside me, I realised that the past was never completely gone.
I still wore Clarice’s dress under my coat, and though it was probably my imagination, I could feel her presence rippling through it, a whisper in the silk as the wind ruffled it around my legs. While we walked, I saw her clearly in my mind: beautiful, distracted; rushing barefoot along that long-ago road, her red hair whipping in the sea wind.
‘Do you think it’s true?’ I wondered aloud. ‘That he shot his own brother so he could marry Clarice?’
Morgan looked at me. ‘We know the two brothers enlisted together, we’ve got the photo. But everything else could just be the imaginings of a lonely old woman.’
‘Mildred Burke didn’t really strike me as lonely. Besides, why would she invent something like that?’
‘Ron might know.’
I thought of Dad’s aversion to talking about his father, and his secrecy about Clarice. ‘I get the feeling he knows more than he’s willing to tell.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘That photo of the two brothers got me thinking. There’s a soldier in Dad’s latest story, and an old king who reminds me of Edwin. There’s also a restless young woman. Dad’s always telling me that writing is therapy for him, a way to mull over things he doesn’t understand. Maybe he’s using this story to understand his parents. He’s done it before with his characters.’
Morgan seemed surprised. ‘Based them on real people?’
I glanced at him, unable to stop a smile. ‘I can’t believe you read Dad’s version of Peter Pan and failed to see yourself in it.’
An eyebrow went up. ‘What, now I’m the eternal child?’
‘Actually, Dad sees you more as a pirate.’
His hint of a smile widened, turned into a laugh. ‘Crazy old fool. I never should have told him about my childhood dream of owning a boat.’
‘A boat?’
‘Yeah, well. More of a pipe dream for a landlubber who suffers chronic seasickness. Whenever the yearning for adventure strikes, I usually end up buying another volume on maritime history.’
I considered him thoughtfully. ‘Just when you think you know someone . . .’
Morgan went quiet, apparently absorbed in watching the sand roll away beneath his feet. The wind picked up, blowing a whirlwind of grit and icy sea spray across our path.
A shiver went through me. Morgan shrugged out of his jacket and settled it around my shoulders. I went to refuse, but the sudden cocoon of warmth held me captive. Morgan’s scent drifted around me: motor oil and wood smoke, cloves and beeswax, delightfully male, intimate. I breathed it in and then wished I hadn’t. Intoxicated, my bones loosened, a sigh escaped. I glanced quickly at him, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
He was frowning at me. ‘What’s up?’
I hugged myself deeper into the coat, regathering my thoughts. ‘I can’t get that image of Clarice out of my mind. I keep wondering where she was going the morning Mildred saw her.’
Morgan stopped walking, raised his face to the sky. Examined the cloudless blue for a while, and then looked at me.
‘Your father was born in October 1931, wasn’t he? If Mildred was right about the date, then Clarice was either heavily pregnant or she’d recently given birth. Either way, she was in no state to be out walking along the road at dawn.’
‘Then why was she?’
Morgan’s frown was deceptive. Behind that brooding face, I knew the history-buff brain was relishing the mystery of it all. I could almost see the cogs turning. We continued along the beach in silence for a way, but then Morgan stopped again.
‘What if that was the morning she left?’
I shrugged. ‘It’s possible.’
‘Mildred didn’t mention a suitcase.’
‘Maybe she left suddenly.’
Morgan shook his head and continued walking. ‘She might’ve just had a row with Edwin. Gone out to cool her head.’
‘Barefoot?’
He considered this. ‘It might’ve been a doozy of a fight.’
Morgan’s mouth tightened and he looked out across the dark ocean. ‘Don’t you and Adam argue?’
I thought about this. ‘Not really.’
Morgan fell silent. The wind whipped his white shirt. It made a fluttery sound that I found distracting. He must be cold. I wondered if he regretted giving up his jacket, but I was too cosy now to offer it back.
The beach curved inland a little way. I recognised the sand hills I had played on as a kid. Our old holiday cottage came into view. Late sunlight reflected off the windows, and the tall pine tree swayed gently in the sea air. The place looked inviting, a friendly haven on the edge of the otherwise deserted shore. Ahead of us in the distance, a low formation of rocks disappeared into the water. I stopped walking. My fingers drifted to the charm I wore around my neck, patting it beneath the layers, checking that it was still there. That it was real.
Morgan must have noticed my hesitation. He touched my shoulder, indicating with a tilt of his head that we turn back. He stayed close, gently colliding with me from time to time. I was grateful for his silence as we retraced our sandy footprints to the headland. I had hoped the cold sea breeze would clear my head after the morning’s revelations – but instead I was beginning to withdraw into myself, become thoughtful.
I kept seeing two soldiers. One was broad-shouldered and handsome, his confident smile drawing me in, making me wish I had known him. The other boy, Edwin, was similar to his brother, yet his features seemed put together all wrong. His face was bony, compelling only for its strangeness. The large wet eyes with their dark soulfulness, the stubborn downturn of the mouth, the elfin chin. It was a gentle face, yet sombre and guarded. The face of a person who brooded silently, avoided confrontation. No matter how I tried, I just couldn’t see him pointing a gun at anyone and pulling the trigger.
Yet he had completed combat training and gone to war. And if Mildred was right, he’d committed an act of unspeakable malice. Was Ronald’s death an accident, or had Edwin acted with intent?
We reached the headland. The tide had gone out, so rather than climb the narrow track up the bluff edge, we picked our way around its base. The rocks were slippery, and once I almost lost my footing, my shoes splashing in puddles of seawater. We found a little cave just out of the wind, and sat for a moment to admire this new, rare perspective of the sea.
I shifted on my rock. Wet sand squelched beneath my shoes. Hugging deeper into Morgan’s jacket, I watched the waves. ‘Adam says brooding over the past makes you crazy. Do you think that’s true?’
Morgan continued to watch the dark water. ‘You’re asking a history professor?’
‘I’m asking a friend.’
He looked at me then, leaned in and really looked. The edges of his eyes crinkled up but he didn’t quite smile.
‘I believe we’re products of our past. For me, there’s nothing more intriguing than digging it all up, mulling it over. Finding out what makes a person tick.’
Maybe it was the warmth of the two coats, my torso over-hot while my face and hands and ankles froze in the icy blast of sea spray, but I found myself mimicking his body language, leaning nearer, my gaze locked to his.
‘What makes you tick, Morgan?’
For the longest time, the only sounds were the rush of the waves, the cry of gulls circling overhead.
The half-smile finally reached his eyes. ‘Love,’ he said at last, and then shrugged. ‘The idea of it, at least.’
‘You’re a romantic,’ I accused.
‘Guilty as charged.’
My brow inched up. ‘A cat-rescuing, bike-riding history professor who’s also a chronic romantic.’
‘And has a good sense of humour. What more could a girl want?’
That made me smile. I looked back at the sea. From this angle, the horizon arched hard against the pink-streaked sky. Dark waves lapped the shore, their crests gilded by the setting sun. A fragile kind of peace settled over me. Morgan’s solid presence felt grounding, while my thoughts flew out over the ocean like a bird searching, searching . . . but never quite finding the elusive thing it sought. Then, an image: a woman hurrying along a lonely windswept road, her bare feet bruised by the gravel, her hands numb with cold. If she had been running away, where were her bags, her shoes? Why had she refused Mildred’s offer of a lift into town?
An argument, Morgan had said.
I tried to picture my grandfather arguing heatedly, but somehow the mild-mannered man I remembered would not cooperate. Yet hadn’t Edwin once argued so violently with my father that Dad had run away from home . . . and stayed away for nearly three decades?
Dad never spoke about why he left home. Whenever I asked, my normally articulate father would waffle on about Edwin’s aloofness, his inability to connect with people. As if these humble failings were, in my father’s eyes, unforgivable crimes. There are worse things than being bookish and quiet, my mother used to say in Edwin’s defence. Murder, for instance.
The soft sigh of the waves buffeted the cliff-face behind us. Overhead, a lonely sea eagle soared silently above the headland. My mother’s voice gathered force in my mind, competing with the sound of the wind and waves. A window opened in the back of my mind. Through it, I glimpsed a battlefield where two brothers fought side by side. Then, superimposed across the scene like a reflection in glass, was a woman’s face. At first, I thought it my own – but the hair was red-gold, while mine was fair. Clarice, I realised, my grandmother, the woman they both had loved.
I looked at Morgan. ‘What if she discovered that Edwin shot his brother? That he killed the man she’d once loved?’
Morgan considered this. ‘It explains a lot.’
His white shirt rippled in the wind, clinging to his chest and arms. A shiver went through him, and a thought bumped against my racing mind: He’s cold, give back the jacket. But my brain only had room for one idea.
‘She might’ve confronted Edwin. Things might have turned nasty. She would have been in shock, hating him. Maybe even scared of him.’
Morgan regarded me, his eyes full of shadows. ‘It still doesn’t quite add up. What about the baby?’
‘Mothers leave their children, you know.’
‘Not without good reason.’
I dug my hands into the pockets of Morgan’s jacket. ‘Like discovering your husband shot a man you once loved? His own brother? Seems to me that’s reason enough.’
‘To leave Edwin, maybe. But not to walk away from her little boy. Your theory might be right, but I’m not convinced it’s the whole story.’
The wind invaded our shelter, swirling up icy gusts of sea spray. Dusk had fallen; it was time to go. We picked our way across the rocks to the trail that led up the side of the headland. The climb in the twilight took concentration, and we were silent for a while. When we reached the crown of the headland, I expected Morgan to make a beeline for Bitterwood, for the warm fire glow of the kitchen. Instead, he turned and pondered the ocean.
‘There’s something we’re not seeing.’
I followed his gaze. Ten minutes ago our view had been vastly different; sitting on the rocks below, we had been almost eye level to the waves. Now we were birds gazing down on the endless water that stretched away before us into the dark.
‘Maybe she never bonded with the baby.’
Morgan became thoughtful. ‘When Coby came to live with us, he was shy and nervous. A scared little kid who jumped at shadows. Gwen loved him instantly – we both did. This one time, we took him shopping in the city. One minute he was there, the next he wasn’t. This look came into Gwen’s eyes, a look I’ve never forgotten. Fierce. I’ve no doubt she would have killed to get our boy back. He’d lived most of his childhood without us, he barely knew us . . . but already he was part of us. That’s how strong the bond can be. You’d do anything to protect your child. Anything . . .’
I studied him, surprised. His face had gone ragged in the twilight. I thought I saw a gleam, but before I could be sure, he shook it off.
‘What I’m trying to say is that Clarice must have had good reason for leaving her son.’ He rubbed his hand across his face. ‘Damn good reason.’
I slumped. ‘So what was it?’
‘We may never know.’
Sea spray chilled my face. Gusts of cold air found their way between my warm layers, made me shiver. I gazed back at my grandfather’s guesthouse. It rose from the landscape like a great dark castle, surrounded by tortured tree shadows in the falling dusk. It appeared to breathe sluggishly, a living thing trapped inside the illusion of bricks and mortar, stone and shingle. Beyond it, on the other side of the orchard, was a place of even deeper darkness, a door that led down through narrow passageways into the ground, where once, as a child, I had imagined seeing something terrible . . .
There in the corner. A jumble of bony shadows that look, if I squint through the dark, every bit like the crumpled, mouldering shell of a person . . .
Morgan stood beside me, and together we gazed at the old house. Images of Clarice bombarded my mind. Smiling at the fair-haired girl in the garden. Glowering at the church fete beside Edwin, her eyes unable to disguise her displeasure. And hurrying along the windy road that long ago morning, barefoot, oblivious to a neighbour’s offer of help.
A giddy stillness fell around us, like the eye of a storm. The wind stopped blowing. The ocean forgot to breathe.
‘What if she didn’t abandon her baby?’ I murmured.
‘How do you mean?’
The eerie calm lingered a moment longer. But then, as though stirred by the sudden whirl of my thoughts, the wind picked up and howled along the headland, making me shiver. When I finally spoke, my words were barely audible.
‘Maybe she never left Bitterwood.’