Phillipa Davenport drove past the rustic-looking bullnosed verandah shopfronts and wondered if maybe she’d just travelled through some kind of time warp.
In the centre of the tree-lined main street was the usual epitaph to the town’s war dead that always made her pause and shake her head at the sheer number of young lives ended so wastefully, and at the other end of a narrow, grassed area stood a statue of a man on horseback. Pip had no idea who he was, but her curiosity was piqued and she made a mental note to find out.
Quaint was the word that jumped to mind as she made her way into Midgiburra, and even for a city-hardened journo the town was rather charming, although not the kind of place she would have chosen for a holiday.
It wasn’t exactly a holiday—more a case of forced relaxation away from the city grind. ‘Bloody Ted,’ she muttered. She was still a little annoyed at her boss—and long-time friend—Ted Malone for the part he played in her current situation. While she hadn’t exactly been fired, he’d made it clear she was not actively working for him for the next three months either. ‘We’ll call it long-service leave,’ Ted had said, leaving no room for reply.
While most people chose when and how they spent their long-service leave—doing something fun like an overseas trip or doing house renovations—Pip was forced into hers to stave off what her mother bluntly termed a ‘mental breakdown’.
In fairness, Pip had just finished the hardest assignment she’d ever undertaken, one that had come with significant personal danger and unrelenting stress but had put her at the top of her field in investigative journalism. She’d pretty much sacrificed the past four years of her life investigating political corruption and uncovering a high-profile MP with connections to the underworld and crime syndicates. Pip’s exposé had led to an Independent Commission Against Corruption investigation into Allen (Lenny) Knight, who had recently been convicted and sentenced to prison.
A series of death threats—which weren’t exactly unusual in her line of work—had been followed up by a number of frightening stalking incidents and then finally, the night she was attacked in her home.
After that, for so many months she hadn’t left her house. She couldn’t take public transport for a long time; the thought of sitting so close to strangers filled her with anxiety. She was wary of everyone and everything. Eventually, with a lot of help from her best friend, Lexi, who was always there encouraging her, taking her out, gently yet firmly making her integrate back into daily life, Pip managed to overcome the worst of her fear, but it was never the same. The unease was always there lurking under the surface, exhausting her, stopping her from enjoying life.
Pip hastily brushed the thought away. Just one day without thinking about the past would be nice.
The police hadn’t been able to tie the attack to Lenny Knight, something Pip still couldn’t completely make peace with. But in the end there was some consolation in knowing he was now behind bars where he belonged. That was close to a year ago. Although her physical wounds from that night had healed, the after-effects still lingered.
Pip shook off the heaviness that always tried to creep up on her whenever she thought about it and focused instead on the new beginning that stretched out before her.
Midgiburra’s main street wasn’t long, but to Pip it looked to have all the basics. She passed a small supermarket, a chemist and a bakery, noting they all included the name Maguire in the signage. There was also a newsagent and a butcher, and then further along, a feed store, petrol station and a pub. She drove past these as she followed the directions her uncle had given her to Rosevale, the place she would housesit for the next three months.
She’d never been down here before, hadn’t seen her uncle Nev since a family wedding seven years ago. But when her mother had teamed up with Ted after the attack, the call had gone out to family far and wide, and Uncle Nev had come up with the goods. He and his motorhome were taking a trip around Australia and his house would sit empty. Her mother had wasted no time in pointing out that the peace and quiet of country life would be the perfect place for Pip to recuperate and start writing her book.
That was her other dilemma—the book deal she’d recently signed, her no holds barred telling of the Lenny Knight case.
It should have been a celebration, but instead it was proving to be just another thing weighing her down. Where once she’d thrived on deadlines, now the idea sent her into a panic. All of a sudden, her drive seemed to have driven off without her, and she’d been struggling to put together a coherent sentence for weeks. Her passion for the job had evaporated, and the thought terrified her. She’d always loved writing, it was all she’d ever wanted to do, but lately she just couldn’t find the motivation.
She ignored the little know-it-all voice in her head that reminded her that the therapist—booked by human resources—had mentioned concentration loss as a symptom for something or other; she hadn’t really been listening. On reflection, maybe she should have tried to focus a little more, although at the time she hadn’t been in the most receptive of moods, having been forced to attend the session as part of her mental wellbeing and general we-want-to-make-sure-you’re-not-having-a-breakdown strategy. Pip had declined the extra visits the therapist had recommended.
‘A break’s all you need,’ Ted had told her a few days ago when she’d stopped into the office to collect some of her belongings. She hoped he was right—she was so desperate that she was willing to give anything a try. She hadn’t even put up much of a fight when her mother had called to tell her about Uncle Nev’s house being available. She just packed her bags and set her GPS. And here she was, in country Victoria with no idea where she was going—much like her navigation system, if the endless circle it kept trying to lead her around was any indication.
She pulled over to the side of the road and scrolled through her messages to locate the directions Uncle Nev had sent her.
Take the Old Ferry Road for about five k’s then turn right onto Clay Target Road. When you come to an old green tank, turn into the next driveway with a wonky gate. The track splits a few metres down the road, take the left and keep going straight until you reach the cattle grid and the house will be on your right.
Clear. As. Mud.
She left the instructions on the screen and put the phone on the passenger seat, ready to grab if she suddenly got lost. She found Ferry Road and assumed it was the old one—there was no sign that mentioned a young version—then went straight past the green tank. Uncle Nev had neglected to mention it was lying on its side in a paddock of overgrown grass. But after a quick U-turn, Pip spotted the wonky gate and managed to follow the rest of the instructions without further mishap.
Her Audi was probably not the best-suited vehicle to drive the dirt track full of potholes large enough to lose a small child in, but she picked her way carefully along it and breathed a sigh of relief as a house came into sight.
She was pleasantly surprised by the small cottage she pulled up in front of. It was the quintessential Australian farmhouse: square, with a wraparound verandah and a bullnosed iron roof.
The house was surrounded by a fenced yard, and off to one side stood two large tin sheds that looked fairly new. Her uncle was an avid traveller, so she assumed one of the sheds usually housed his motorhome while the other contained the workshop in which he designed wrought-iron work and timber signs. After Aunty Effie died a few years back, Nev had sold up and moved from Queensland to Victoria to escape the heat, and what started as a hobby soon grew into a small but successful business.
It seemed, though, that the heat had followed Uncle Nev. The area had been in drought for the past eighteen months, one of the worst in recent history, and Nev had headed down to Tasmania to get away from it.
Pip climbed out of her car. The heat outside was a brutal shock after the arctic breeze from the car’s aircon. She stretched her arms above her head and turned to survey her surroundings, noting the gentle sounds of the bushland around her.
She crossed to the gate, framed by a pergola with some kind of climbing plant woven over the top, though bare of leaves or anything green, and walked through. A squeak sounded as the rusty gate protested opening and then groaned again as she shut it behind her.
Beside the front door of the house was a timber sign with Rosevale engraved in the timber.
The key was supposed to be inside an old metal dairy can, and Pip eyed the collection of milk cans in all shapes and sizes arranged along the front of the verandah despondently. She gingerly tipped a few of the larger rusty-looking cans on their side, but there was no key. Pip worked her way along the row until she ran out of big cans, then turned to eye off the smaller versions scattered on a table and shelving beneath two front windows. A spider ran out of the first one, making Pip grimace and jump back. She poked at the next one a little more cautiously before finally hearing a promising rattle. The key that came out was not your run-of-the-mill house key—this one was a long, old-fashioned bronze skeleton key. An antique, just like the old house it belonged to.
She opened the screen door and fitted the clumsy-looking key into the lock and gave it a twist, happy when she heard a click and pushed the old wooden door open.
A long hallway led straight through the centre of the house to a back door, and Pip walked in, peeping through doorways. Two rooms, one clearly used as an office and the other a spare bedroom, were on one side, and opposite these was a lounge room that opened up into a kitchen. Two more doors on the far side of the house led to the master bedroom and a bathroom.
The house retained many of its original fixtures, with elaborate decorative mouldings and wide timber flooring throughout. She was pleasantly surprised to find a fairly modern bathroom, complete with claw-footed bathtub, and the bedroom with a double bed in its centre was bright and cheery with white walls and lace curtains over a wide window.
She flicked the nearby light switch and breathed a sigh of relief that the power was on before heading outside to bring in her suitcase and bags. As promised, there was long-life milk in the pantry and bread in the freezer, so for at least tonight she’d be fine—tomorrow she would venture into town for groceries.
Pip took her phone out and called her mother to let her know she’d arrived safely, and gave her a rundown of the house.
‘Are you sure you’ll be okay out there all on your own?’ her mother asked.
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Because your father and I could come out and stay,’ she said.
‘The whole point of coming out here was so I could write. There’s not much chance of that if you two come out here,’ Pip pointed out. ‘We’d be poking about old second-hand shops and doing morning teas in cafes.’ Pip had been slowly making her way through the house checking the windows were locked as she talked. It was a ritual she had performed ever since her attack, and by the time she’d finished she was feeling more settled.
‘It would be fun, though,’ her mum mused.
‘It wouldn’t get this book written.’
‘No, I suppose you’re right,’ she sighed.
‘I’ll be fine. I’m already feeling more relaxed,’ Pip said, hoping she sounded convincing. She couldn’t actually remember the last time she felt relaxed—anywhere.
‘We’re just a phone call away. And did Neville leave you his neighbours’ phone numbers like he said he would?’ she asked.
Pip smiled at her mother’s concern. Even at thirty-five it was nice to still have your mum to fuss and worry—to a point.
‘Yes, Mum. I’ll call them if I need any help with anything, I promise.’
They said goodbye and Pip plugged in her phone to recharge.
She loved her parents—they’d always been there, cheering her on and celebrating her achievements, even though they worried about her working in a field of journalism that could, at times, be extremely volatile. She also knew they were trying to step back and give her the freedom she was desperate to regain, which was hard considering they were the ones who’d picked up the pieces when she’d been at her most vulnerable. Still, she was a grown woman and she needed to get back on her own two feet, and if that meant she had to get used to being out here alone for a while so she could write her book, then that’s what she’d do.
But first things first: she needed a coffee and something to eat. After searching the pantry, she located a packet of Scotch Finger biscuits and a tin of instant coffee. She put the kettle on, vowing she would set up her coffee machine first thing tomorrow.
Taking her mug and the packet of biscuits out through the screen door that led off the kitchen, Pip realised that the verandah wrapped around the side of the house and joined the front. There was no railing here, instead a small hedge grew along the edge of a narrow garden, bordering the timber floor and giving uninterrupted views out across the property. A pair of long gumboots sat neatly against the wall, and an oilskin coat hung on a hook near the back door. Pip settled herself at a small round table and put her feet up on the opposite chair as she took in the open paddocks before her. This was kind of nice, she thought, trying not to wrinkle her nose at the cheap, bitter coffee and long-life milk taste as she took a sip from her mug. ‘This’ll be fine,’ she told herself firmly. Tomorrow she would start writing.
A woman sat on a blanket in a small clearing under a huge old gum tree. Her face was partially hidden under a wide-brimmed sunhat. The vintage blue and white wraparound dress she wore was tucked around her legs, which were crossed at the ankles, and a pair of chunky slip-on shoes with a wide heel graced her feet. Everything about the woman looked out of place—as though she were in the wrong time. Pip moved closer, drawn to her. The air was heavy—the ground looked dry and parched. There was no sound. Not even the trees rustled. Everything was completely still.
The woman on the blanket was bent over, writing. The pen in her hand raced across the paper, and Pip followed the graceful movement of her hand as it glided across the page. Who was this woman and why was she out here alone? Pip looked around but didn’t recognise where she was. A tall gum tree, its massive trunk smooth and grey, towered over them, casting a shadow across the blanket on the ground.
‘Hello?’ Pip ventured finally, breaking the silence, and the woman looked up—
Pip’s eyes opened and she turned to look at the bedside clock. Three-fifteen. God, it was so hot. She kicked the sheets off. The fan whirling overhead did nothing but circulate the warm air around the stuffy room. She glanced at the window behind the pulled curtain but dismissed the idea of opening it. She would never sleep knowing there was an unlocked window. She’d rather swelter than risk throwing caution to the wind like that—besides, it didn’t seem any cooler outside.
At some point, though, she dozed, eventually lulled back to sleep by the constant thrum of the fan.