SECRET GARDEN
September 1955
The bright yellow paint of her bicycle gleamed as Sonnet sailed, red strands whipping loose, down the row of towering sugarcane, their silvery-pink headdresses resplendent in the spring sunshine. In her wicker basket jiggled a string bag filled with fresh fruit and vegetables. The cloying odour of the crowded farmers’ market still clung to Sonnet. She had procured a dragon fruit for Fable to sample, and she couldn’t wait to see her face when she cut it open to discover the outlandish hot-pink flesh.
Olive wasn’t the only one who could impress Fable!
Sonnet’s heart was light. With happiness, perhaps; or something so much like it she didn’t care to analyse the difference. Here was a morning alone for the first time since her mother had passed. No pressing cries or cleaving hands, only the simple pleasure of gathering food for her family.
The solitary outing had been Olive’s idea, but even she must have been surprised by the speed at which Sonnet had accepted the offer. And who could blame her? For every two steps Olive made into their lives, Sonnet beat her one step back. Even as Sonnet chafed at Olive’s doggedness, she recognised herself in it. Sonnet would never admit it to Olive, but she was relenting. The fear and powerlessness of the dark morning Fable disappeared had softened something in her.
It was Gav who had carried Fable home to the cottage from that creek-side grove. Olive who had bathed her slender feet and hands, made Fable a warm breakfast and sweet milky tea and administered an aspirin from her pocket – as an anodyne placebo, it seemed. Gav, again, who sat Fable at the kitchen table and explained just how many aspects of the rainforest conspired to harm her during a midnight foray.
The highlight of his lecture was the Stinging Tree, bearing large heart-shaped leaves covered with tiny, toxic hairs which caused excruciating pain once embedded in human skin. Gav’s tale included a graphic description of early European explorers in the valley who’d wiped their arses with those conveniently large leaves and suffered such agony, they’d leapt off a cliff trying to escape it.
Fable must have been convinced, even if she’d remained stone-faced, for there had been no night vanishing incidents since. Days were another matter, though. Whenever Sonnet’s back was turned, Fable still slipped away to the ‘Green Woman’s Grove’, which didn’t seem healthy, frankly, but instinct told Sonnet not to interfere. She couldn’t fathom what Fable actually did all day in that grove, since she still hadn’t picked up, much less used, her sketchbooks. Perhaps she dreamed away the hours there, and maybe that was enough, for now.
Thoughts having turned once more to her responsibilities waiting at the cottage, Sonnet thrust harder on the pedals towards Heartwood. She couldn’t wait to show her new bike to her sisters – they had begged to come along when Gav had dropped Sonnet into town for the daunting purchase.
Never before had Sonnet spent so much money on herself. It was her first official purchase using their inheritance funds, and although some transport was justifiable, guilt at using Mama’s money had nearly outweighed the pleasure. It was money Mama had never dreamed she’d see from her parents. And even when Esther had received the windfall from her father, big-hearted only after death, using a cent of it had apparently proved too much for her Hamilton pride.
If Mama couldn’t bear to spend Malcolm’s money, how could Sonnet? It had taken persuasion on the part of Olive and Gav, for starters, followed by some hard soul-searching. Mama had expressly willed the money to the girls, placing no restrictions on its immediate use. Esther might have shunned the money herself, but she’d wanted the girls to use it when the time came. And the time had definitely come. Sonnet refused to rely on Olive constantly for transport; the less time spent captive in her car the better.
Even then, it had taken serious haggling over the counter of Ryan’s Wheel Lot, until Sonnet was satisfied she’d spent Mama’s money well. She resisted the eponymous Ryan’s suggestion that a dainty pink bike with floral basket was more appropriate for her ‘feminine needs’. Sonnet, noting the predominance of tractors and trailers in the yard, decided Ryan wasn’t as well acquainted with ‘feminine needs’ as he insisted.
Besides, she’d fallen head over heels for this sunny bike the moment she spotted it shining in the lot. It was bold and brave and tenacious – everything she wanted in a bike, and herself. She’d named her bike Freya.
On a wave of euphoria now, Sonnet soared, legs splayed, down the last hill to the cottage. Hair flew about her face. She arrived at the gate in a skidding, exultant rush.
Gav and Fable were hard at work in a garden which had changed dramatically in the few short hours Sonnet had been in town. Giant tropical butterflies flitted around the flowers emancipated from choking weeds. Fable’s pleas about redeeming the garden had apparently been taken up this morning.
Her uncle and sister scrambled up as she clattered in, their beaming faces mirroring hers. Fable admired the new wheels as Gav ambled over with an appreciative whistle. ‘What a beauty! How does she ride?’
Sonnet patted the bike. ‘Like a dream. Haggled Ryan right down, too. Want a ride?’
Gav took the handles from her, chuffed grin on his weathered face as he circled out into the paddock. His oversized bulk was ridiculous on the yellow frame. Fable clapped with a girlish cheer, and then clutched Sonnet’s arm.
‘Sonny, you have to see what Uncle Gav and I unearthed in the garden – it’s all so magical!’ She led Sonnet along an uncovered pathway. ‘Look, our own wishing well and it still works! All this time it was hidden here. Uncle Gav says our grandpa built it!’
Sonnet grimaced at ‘grandpa’, peering into the dark well.
Gav came up behind them, puffed and smelling of the strange maleness the girls were still adjusting to. ‘Now don’t have a hissy fit, Sonnet,’ he said. ‘It’s fake. Doesn’t go deep.’
‘Am I so transparent?’
He slapped her back. ‘You’re a worrier, pet.’
Fable was already pulling her away along another pathway. ‘And it gets even better, look what else I found!’
Under the dappled shade of a frangipani tree, where flowers lay scattered on the red earth, Fable presented a neat circle of river stones, set around the trunk. Each stone was unique; some polished painstakingly, others coarsely shaped by nature itself.
‘It’s a faerie ring!’
Sonnet crouched to examine the stones. There were a dozen or more, spaced evenly and purposefully apart. ‘You’re too old for believing in faeries, Fabes,’ she said absently, tracing a barely distinguishable name and date carved into one stone.
Fable snorted. ‘Oh, come on. I’m saying, imagine! This could be our faerie garden. Plummy will love it. She can bring Mama’s baby dolls out here and I’ll make signs and pebbled paths, and paint the stones to look like houses.’
Sonnet felt Gav’s shadow fall across the stones in the same moment she comprehended exactly what she was looking at. She paused, sickened. ‘I don’t think this is a play area, is it, Gav?’
Something not-quite forgotten flared in his eyes. His face slackened. ‘They were . . . something Olive lost, when we lived here.’
Fable looked at her uncle in confusion. ‘Doesn’t she remember she left them here?’
Gav grimaced.
‘But there are so many,’ Sonnet said, quite staggered.
‘Yep. There were – so many.’ Gav shrugged. ‘Look, you girls can do whatever you want with the garden, it’s yours now. I’ve neglected this place far too long. If you keep it neatly trimmed back from now on, you can do as you like.’
Sonnet stood, brushing earth off her capri pants. ‘Fable, these are Olive’s stones. I don’t want you to disturb this circle, and I certainly don’t want you painting anything here.’
*
Inside the cottage, Sonnet came upon Olive and Plum in silent repose. Olive was pinned to the couch by the sleeping girl, and surrounded by hardcover Enid Blyton books. A hand drifted slowly over burnished auburn curls, as Olive stared through the window. Sonnet stopped for the uncomfortable ache striking up in her heart.
Unutterable questions beset her. How could you bear it, Olive, when children came so carelessly to Mama? Was this why you stood aside and allowed your own sister to be driven out of town? When did you finally rise from your bed of perpetual miscarriage to admit your stubborn God had never intended to answer your prayers?
Olive’s face turned and the sorrow exposed there, in the instant before dignified veneer re-formed, revealed more than Sonnet could ever have wanted to know.
Olive moved to shift Plum off her lap, and Sonnet quickly bade her to stay. ‘She’ll be awake soon enough.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Olive whispered, settling back uneasily. ‘It was the only way she’d nap. She refused to stay in bed, wanted me to read her all these books, and when she finally fell asleep I didn’t dare move her.’
‘She doesn’t like to sleep alone. You did the right thing.’
Embarrassed by Olive’s relief, Sonnet busied herself in the kitchen. The bench was buried under fine bone china.
Sonnet turned, mystified. ‘Is this your collection?’
‘No, it was your grandmother’s. I thought you might be interested in it. She collected Shelley china. I’m not into crockery and such. But Essie had been asking for it ever since she was a girl. She’d sneak into Mother’s cabinets, take her favourites and set up these elaborate tea parties for her book characters. She’d get such a whipping – but it never stopped her. She loved that china more than Mother herself. When Mother finally passed on, she left the whole collection to me. She knew I’d never liked it. Always troubled me that she did that. I’d been keeping it stored here, waiting for Es.’
Sonnet rotated a delicate teacup in her hand. ‘I’m sure Mama would be glad to know her own daughters will have them now.’
Olive was chuffed – way too chuffed. Sonnet looked away.
Her next words, then, amazed even herself. ‘And listen, about your offer a while back: helping you out with some alterations in the shop? I might be willing to give it a trial.’ She busied herself stacking plates, rushing on lightly, ‘And if you wanted to watch Plum for me, maybe I can have a go at minding your shop. Could be a way for me to get to know some of the local ladies . . .’