Bitterwood, 1931
Edwin was undressing for bed when he heard the hammering on the door. He groaned and sought the clock, grimaced at the time. A quarter to eleven.
He had returned home late from Apollo Bay to discover a stranger’s car parked along the verge. He had a sinking feeling, so when he found Clarice in bed, crying and not making sense he feared the worst. Clarice told him that Orah’s father had turned up, and was, at that moment, asleep in one of the guest rooms. She said Orah had gone to her room upset, and that there’d be hell to pay in the morning.
Edwin cursed himself for sending the letter. He had written it in a moment of weakness, overcome by guilt and remorse. Now, he’d have done anything to be able to turn back time and rip the damn note to shreds.
He gazed at Clarice’s sleeping form. She’d been restless of late, but had found relief with the help of Doctor Vetch’s sleeping draught and a cup of hot milk. Soon, the baby would come, but the thought brought Edwin no joy. In the past months, Clarice had grown frail. A frown line had begun to show between her brows, and she had chewed her nails to the quick. She bustled around the house, her face aglow, her eyes bright. This was her last trimester, the baby was due any day and the doctor had given her a good prognosis. Yet Edwin could see the cracks, the forced cheer.
His beautiful Clarice was afraid, and nothing he nor a battalion of well-meaning doctors could do or say would put her mind at rest. When the baby came, she would improve. That’s what he kept telling himself. Once she held that tiny healthy bundle in her arms, she could stop worrying. Her fear was only natural, after what she’d been through with Edith and baby Joyce, and Edwin had made it his life’s mission to protect her.
The hammering came again.
Clarice did not stir, thanks to the potent draught. Orah would still be sleeping. Her room was tucked away at the top of the stairs, out of earshot of the front door. On any other day, he may have ignored the ruckus, let the intruder go on their way and return at a more reasonable hour, but if Clarice woke, she’d be wan and fretful all day. Besides, Edwin had a restless feeling in the pit of his stomach.
It was probably Hanley. Edwin had knocked quietly on his door just after ten, and slipped him a tight bundle of notes; more money than Hanley Dane had seen in a month of Sundays, evidenced by the widening of his greedy eyes. He had blustered and tried to push the money back, but Edwin would not take it.
‘Leave now,’ he’d cautioned. ‘While the girl’s asleep. She’s happy here with us. We can provide for her, give her a decent home. Can you honestly say you could do the same?’
Hanley had stared back at him, his weather-beaten face a picture of sorrow. Edwin’s heart went out to him, but what could he do? They both knew he was right.
The hammering had stopped.
As Edwin descended the stairs, he heard an engine cough to life somewhere on the other side of the hedge. It quickly faded, lost to the crash and boom of waves against the rocks. On nights like this, when the tide was high, the roar of the sea was all you could hear; a bomb might go off and they’d be none the wiser.
In the sitting room, Edwin went to the window, but could see no sign of the automobile. He waited, and then caught a glimmer of it speeding along the narrow strip of road back in the direction of Stern Bay. Edwin breathed a sigh. It was over. Life could return to normal, he could carry on with a clear conscience now, and best of all – and here a spark of joy began to burn brightly in his heart – Orah was theirs at last. Not stolen, not theirs by devious means, but truly theirs. She would forgive them in time. She was a sensible girl, she would come to see that they had lied only to protect her. Now that she’d seen with her own eyes the sort of man her father was, she would understand their motive.
In time . . .
He considered going back to bed but something drew him to the front door. He told himself he wanted to be sure that Hanley had really gone, but it wasn’t just that. Something niggled. A shabby coat hung on the rack, reeking of smoke and grime, but it wasn’t that either. Nor was it his irritation with himself about the letter.
Opening the door, he glanced down.
The cry that shot from his mouth left him winded. He prayed that he was mistaken, that his eyes were playing tricks – even as he fell to his knees and gathered her into his arms. A mistake, please. Let it be a mistake. It can’t be her, it can’t be—
As he carried her inside and laid her gently on the couch, careless of the blood that seeped onto the fine silk cushions, he continued his silent pleading. It can’t be . . . It can’t be. It kept on long after he knew that it was no mistake, that the broken and bloodied creature in his arms was indeed his beautiful Orah, the sweet golden-haired girl who had brought his family back from the brink.
‘Clarice!’ he roared. Curse the sleeping draught. Why had he given her so much? ‘For the love of God, Clarice!’
Orah made a mewling sound. She was crumpled like a broken doll, her skin slick with blood, her poor head crushed. He could see the black stain above her ear, growing larger, eclipsing the bright gold of her hair. Edwin’s mind spun. He wanted to race into the hall and telephone the doctor, but dared not leave her. What if she slipped away while he was gone? And then the wait for help to arrive. Thirty minutes from town, possibly an hour at this time of night. Did she even have that long? What if she—
‘Clarice, get down here!’ Orah couldn’t die. He wouldn’t let her. He would keep her alive by sheer force of will. ‘Clarice! Oh . . . God.’
A murmur, a sigh from his sweet girl. He lowered his face to her. ‘Orah, love, can you hear me?’
‘Edwin?’
‘I’m here, little one.’
‘Where’s Pa?’
Hot tears stung Edwin’s eyes. ‘Did he do this to you, Orah? Did your father do this?’
‘I tried to go with him,’ she murmured. ‘But he . . . oh, Edwin, he didn’t . . . want me. You were right . . . Clarice said . . . he didn’t—’
Edwin began to weep silently. He longed to gather her against him, to hold her tight and make the pain go away, but he was terrified of hurting her. Jumbled words clamoured in the back of his mind, words of comfort and explanation, words of encouragement – but he could not give voice to any of them. He was losing her. He recognised no particular sign of that loss, just a dark foreboding that pushed against his mind. After the female silkworm moths laid their eggs, they only lived a few hours; he had often watched them fluttering on the windowsills, their movements growing erratic as the strength ebbed from their wings. Many thousands of times he had witnessed the dying of the moths . . . and the presence of death never failed to chill him.
Just as it chilled him now.
‘He’s here,’ Orah whispered. Her eyes widened, focusing on something over Edwin’s shoulder. She smiled. Her fingers fluttered weakly, and then her hands lifted from where Edwin had placed them on her chest. They hovered in the gloom, a pair of moths beginning their death dance.
‘Orah, stay with me,’ Edwin breathed. He grasped her hands, kissed the knuckles, willing her fingers to tighten, even for an instant, around his own. Instead, as though melting under the heat of his terror, her fingers relaxed and the sudden weight of her arms dragged them from his grasp. Her eyes, a moment ago so bright, trembled shut. A sigh whispered from her, and then she vanished into a stillness so profound that Edwin felt his heart vanish with her.
‘He’s here.’
Orah could see him clearly, just behind Edwin’s shoulder. Standing in his proud way, his dark eyes fixed to hers. Warra, she called. Warra, am I seeing you with my heart?
A breath, or a sigh. Yes.
Heaviness settled over her. She reached for Warra with both hands, expecting to feel his strong fingers grasp hers, but there was only emptiness and shadows. She was no longer in the sitting room at Bitterwood. All was dark.
Warra, where did you go?
A whisper nearby. I’m here, Orah.
She saw him then. Dear, beautiful Warra. He wore a wallaby skin at his waist and a necklace of wildflowers. His dark hair formed a halo around his head, and he was smiling so sweetly that it made her heart squeeze.
Put your arms around my neck and hold on, he told her. Climb on my back. Hold tight. Don’t be afraid. I’m a good swimmer.
She knew he was a good swimmer, she’d seen him in action. But why was he telling her now? There was no water here . . . Yet even as the thoughts formed in her mind, she heard a soft whooshing sound nearby.
It’s the ocean, Warra whispered, his breath warm on her cheek. Now his hand grasped hers and pulled her lightly to her feet. To Orah’s surprise, they were standing on the headland. Not the gravelly embankment high above the rocks where she’d been earlier, but the gently sloping grassy hillside Warra had taken her the day he’d made the daisy chain. It was early morning. The sandy path that led down to the beach meandered around the headland like a white ribbon. The cloudless sky shimmered a perfect shade of blue. Below them stretched the indigo sea, trimmed with foaming waves. Look at that water, Warra said. Beautiful, eh? And all that sunshine, friendly as a smile.
All around them, paper daisies raised their white and yellow heads between tufts of soft green grass. Above them soared a pair of sea eagles. Orah smiled and thought her world complete. Here was the place she’d dreamed of, a place where everything – every stone, every tuft of grass, every tree – was a mirror, in which she could see herself reflected.
Someone called her name. She looked around, and joy exploded in her heart, for there was Mam, her very own dear mam striding towards them along the sandy path, her arms outstretched, her lovely face flushed pink from the sun. Orah let go of Warra’s hand and ran towards her mother. The last of the heaviness left her limbs, she was now as light as a bird. Flying free, she thought, as free as a cloud. But the notion only lasted a heartbeat. Here was Mam at last, weeping for joy. Orah’s own glad tears streamed from her eyes as she threw her arms around her mother’s neck and felt herself disappear into that warm, strong, loving embrace that she knew so well.
He lifted her with infinite care, adjusting the slight weight of her in his arms. Through the dark house he went, out the back door and into the garden. Picking his way across the grass, he followed the path downhill into the orchard. It was a starless night; shadows seemed to gather around him in the garden, as though paying their last respects. He walked past them, trying not to think of what lay ahead.
When he reached the icehouse, he paused to fumble out his keys and open the door. Pushing into the deeper darkness, he entered the damp passageway that smelled of earth and stone and staleness. The cool breath of the icehouse wafted around him.
He knew his way by memory, had ventured here so often since he was a boy that his internal compass was finely tuned to the number of paces he must take, the exact moment to turn, when to duck his head to avoid the lintel over the narrow entryway into the heart of the icehouse. In the room that had once stored blocks of ice throughout the long summertimes of his childhood, he finally laid her down. He tucked her back against the solid sandstone wall, her body on her side, the way she liked to sleep, and then, as an afterthought, he took off his cardigan and rolled it into a pillow under her head.
Fumbling in his pocket for a box of matches, he lit the old kerosene lamp. The cool yellow glow sent fingers of light exploring into the corners, chasing the shadows, making them dance sinuously up the walls. There was nothing left to do, but still he lingered. He wanted to hold her one last time, but how could he bear her deadweight again, when the act of carrying her here had almost finished him?
A shadow of cold. He and Clarice had wanted only to love her, but instead they had smothered her. Both of them, wanting so desperately to keep her safe, protect her, give her the life they envisaged, a good life. Instead, they had clipped her wings.
And now . . .
The ice room had become hollow, the air around him unearthly still. He could hear the soft whistle of his breath, the heavy thump of his heart – and, as though from another world, a muffled voice calling his name.
Pausing in the narrow entryway, he looked back.
The glow of the kerosene lamp washed her hair gold. Her small hands lay folded beside her face, her brow as smooth and white as a pebble. If he half-closed his eyes, he could imagine that she was only sleeping. That the stains on her skin and clothes were nothing more sinister than shadows; that her deathly stillness was only that briefest of moments before the next intake of breath.
He cursed himself. More tricks, he told himself. Nothing more. Yet that fleeting, knife-jab moment of hope held more pain than he believed anybody – least of all a man like him – had the capacity to bear.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. His voice bounced off the walls, tight with pain. ‘Can you ever forgive me?’
With the echo of his words turning to dust in his ears, he ducked beneath the lintel, along the passageway, through the door and out into the brilliance of a frosty dawn.