Five

Yellow Rock, 1911

Somehow Lettie felt Thorne’s presence closer than she’d done since his passing. As though he sat beside her revelling in the speed and the tantalising scent of adventure. Not another vehicle in sight. The rolling green hills, high sky and lightly forested slopes creating the kind of landscape he’d promised. Everything they’d imagined, vast rugged tracts of land ripe for exploring.

The humidity brought out the scent of the eucalyptus and a hint of something sweeter along the well-defined track winding its way beside the brook. The first crossing proved nothing more than a watery dip lined with pebbles and shale, the second a little deeper, barely enough to cause a splash. A few houses dotted the clearings adjacent to the brook, small holdings more than like, basking under a brilliant blue sky. No sign of the promised storm.

The third culvert spanned a much wider section of the creek, and the still, deep water tempted her to pull up and take a break but the sun was already sinking towards the hills and the shadows lengthening.

Before long she rounded a sweeping bend and found herself in a thickly wooded section where the overhanging trees created a damp, dappled tunnel. The track became muddy and the wash-away from previous storms had left potholes and a steep drop off into the next crossing. She edged down the slope and through the water and by the time she’d reached the other side ominous clouds hovered above the hills and the light had begun to fade.

She pulled off her goggles and coasted along the track, impatient to reach her destination. To her right the range rose in a massive wall in front of the blue-grey clouds. For a moment she hesitated, debated turning back. She’d covered more than half the distance. A bright flash of lightning slashing down through the clouds made up her mind. She opened the throttle and forged on.

The remainder of the track proved more than acceptable and the final crossing hardly a concern. With a grin of accomplishment, she gazed up at the massive golden landform towering above the valley floor, pitted with channels where the rain had swept down over the centuries forming sinuous hollows.

If the man’s directions were good she should be almost there. She shifted into top gear, the eddying wind whipping her hair back from her face, and a curl of anticipation, perhaps excitement, twisted her stomach.

Gripping the wheel, she swung into the driveway and slowed to a crawl. Tall straight trees, their trunks mottled and spotted, arched above her forming a dank tunnel and Miriam’s words rang in her ears: Be firm. Don’t stand any nonsense.

Large thunderclouds loomed above a two-storey sandstone house surrounded by acres of long grass, swaying and shifting like an inland sea. She drew in a fortifying breath. ‘Let’s go and brave the bunyip in her lair.’

The shadows beneath an ancient angophora offered some shelter from the increasing rain and without further thought she drew to a halt and struck out towards the large house. Built of irregular sandstone in blocks of every imaginable hue, it sat square and squat despite its two storeys. A verandah shaded the front of the house and behind it the cliff face towered, throwing long shadows.

From the corner of her eye she sensed movement. She removed her gloves, the palms of her hands sticky with perspiration, and flexed her tensed fingers. A gleam of light shone briefly in one of the upstairs windows and she mounted the verandah, her heart thumping. But for the looming rock she’d have doubted she was in the right place. A deserted, desolate air hung merging with the cloying humidity.

If only she’d bothered to ask Miriam for more details. The longstanding family feud was a matter of history. As children, she and Thorne would threaten each other with excommunication to Great-Aunt Olivia, and then run for cover if Miriam heard the name pass their lips. How could anyone avoid speaking to a family member for decades? Thorne’s plans to visit had fired her imagination, a rite of passage he’d said.

Ramming her hands deep into her pockets she approached the doors. Low clouds barely visible against the darkening sky scudded above the house almost obliterating the two matching chimneys. The place appeared deserted, no sense of another person, no visible movement inside the house, the original flicker of light extinguished. Perhaps behind one of the shuttered windows Great-Aunt Olivia waited, watching her every move, ready to lure her into her world.

A small bell hung to one side of the doors, a rusty chain dangling. Chiding herself for her foolish fantasies Lettie rang the bell. The sound, surprisingly loud, echoed and faded and the chain slowly stopped swinging.

At last she heard footsteps approaching. A heavy dragging sound of bolts being pulled sent her leaping off the verandah. Resisting the urge to scramble back to the motor, she held her ground. With a grind of wood against sandstone the doors swung open.

A woman in a faded cotton frock, heavy boots and well-worn apron stood, arms akimbo, silhouetted against the dark interior.

Lettie took a couple of steps closer. ‘I’m looking for Miss Maynard, Olivia Maynard.’

The woman reached to the doorjamb for support, swaying slightly. ‘And who might you be?’ With her head tipped to one side she eyed Lettie for a long moment, leaving her in no doubt her presence was an imposition.

‘My name’s Letitia Rawlings.’

Something resembling a spasm of despair crossed the woman’s face and she dropped her gaze. ‘Nobody here. What do you want?’

An overwhelming sense of disappointment drowned Lettie’s trepidation. ‘I’d like to speak with Miss Maynard. I’ve motored up from Sydney.’ And she had no idea what had possessed her to embark on such a ludicrous adventure. Why hadn’t she stopped at the hotel in Wollombi and waited until the morning? Despite the stifling humidity an icy trickle traced her skin.

‘Better come over to the farm, the main house is closed up.’ The woman’s pinched tense mouth belied her invitation. She slammed and bolted the doors leaving Lettie scuffing her feet until she reappeared from the back of the house. With a twist of her head she indicated the path then trudged off towards an area full of fruit trees encompassed by trailing, mildewed grapevines.

Still doubting the wisdom of her actions Lettie followed her through a small timber gate dangling on rusty hinges, the air redolent with the pungent fragrance of overripe citrus. They skirted a lichen-covered table and single chair beneath a sprawling lemon tree and a series of beehives further along the path but it wasn’t until they reached the far side of the orchard that Lettie spotted a second house, smaller, single storey, a stunted replica of the first.

‘Maynard Farm.’ The woman answered her unasked question and led the way between a series of fenced paddocks. ‘Where the horses are bred.’

Lettie stopped in her tracks. Originally Grandfather’s business had revolved around horse shipments. Walers for the Indian army then after he died Pater had turned to racehorses. ‘Have you always lived here?’

‘Worked here all my life. For the Ludgroves … and the Maynards,’ she added almost as an afterthought.

A rumble of thunder shook the ground.

‘Then you know Olivia Maynard.’

‘I do.’ She led the way around the back of the house, stepped up onto the back verandah and in a well-practised move, cocked her hip against the door. Unlike the big house, it swung open with barely a complaint. ‘You better come in.’

Before she had time to falter Lettie stepped into the cool, dark interior and stood hovering.

‘Close the door behind you. Keep the humidity at bay.’

The kitchen, dominated by a huge scrubbed timber table and blackened range, felt homely. Away from the brooding presence of the main house Lettie’s resolve strengthened.

‘Sit yourself down.’ The woman dumped her basket onto the table. ‘I expect you could do with something to drink.’ Disappearing into a small room off to one side she clattered and banged and then reappeared with two glasses and a bottle. ‘Lemonade?’

Lettie ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth dislodging some of the accumulated dirt and dust from the road. ‘That would be lovely.’

The woman pulled up a chair, sat down and poured two glasses then pushed one across the table towards her. The deliciously cool lemonade slipped down her throat and when she put the glass down she’d almost finished it. Not so the woman; she hadn’t touched hers. She had her chin rested in her interlocked fingers, studying Lettie intently.

Colour blossomed on her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry. I hadn’t realised how thirsty I was.’

Without asking the woman topped up her glass. ‘And who’s Miss Maynard to you?’

Lettie resisted the desire to down the second glass. ‘She’s my great-aunt.’

The ensuing silence made her feel ridiculously uncomfortable, like a child reprimanded for an unknown offence. Lettie pushed back from the table and stood. ‘I’m sorry to appear unannounced but I have a message for her … from my mother, Miriam Rawlings,’ she finished, rather hoping it would add some emphasis to her paltry tale. ‘She thought it would be better delivered personally.’

‘And that message is?’

‘I really would like to speak to Miss Maynard, it’s a personal matter.’

The woman’s eyes slid to the door then returned to Lettie’s face, resuming her intense observation.

Wriggling under her scrutiny Lettie scraped back her chair. Perhaps Great-Aunt Olivia had passed and this poor woman, with her stunned, ashen face and faded dress, was mourning her loss. Surely someone would have told Miriam if her aunt had passed.

‘She’s not available—at present.’

It didn’t sound as though she was too late, and the man in Wollombi hadn’t mentioned anything. ‘May I wait, or come back tomorrow? There’s a hotel in Wollombi. I’ll spend the night there and return in the morning.’

‘Sit yourself down. Finish your drink.’

That sounded a little friendlier, and when the corners of the woman’s mouth hitched in what might have been the beginning of a smile she noticed for the first time her dark eyes didn’t mirror the dour expression on her face; they held a gentle softness.

Lettie lowered herself back into the chair and picked up the glass, sipping slowly.

‘From Sydney, you said?’

‘Yes. I left early this morning.’

‘It used to take a good two or three days to make the trip. Brave girl though, driving all this way on your own.’

‘I enjoyed the drive.’ As she spoke Lettie realised just how true the words were. The fresh air, being alone, nothing to crowd her mind but the twisting, turning road and the passing scenery, something she hadn’t experienced for a long time.

‘Weren’t you worried about breaking down? Those motors can be unreliable. Not like a horse.’ Again her lips quirked and Lettie felt as though she was testing her.

‘The car belongs to my brother. He taught me to drive and I’m pretty familiar with the workings.’ Thanks to The Woman and the Car: A Chatty Little Handbook for All Women Who Motor or Who Want to Motor, the neat little book Thorne had presented her with when he’d first given her lessons.

‘And you’re delivering a message for your mother.’

Put like that it didn’t make her sound as though she was as independent as she liked to believe. Who was this woman? She looked as though she was some sort of hired hand with her thick grey hair caught in a messy knot at the nape of her neck and her stained calico apron. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name?’

‘Mrs Brown … Margaret,’ the woman added after a momentary pause.

Lettie lifted the glass and finished the lemonade. ‘I’ll call back tomorrow if I may. Perhaps Miss Maynard will be available then?’

‘And where will you be spending the night? We’re in for a storm.’

‘I’ll head back to town, to the hotel in Wollombi.’

‘Got lights on that motor of yours?’

‘Yes, I have. I’m quite used to driving in the dark.’ Had spent more time driving at night than during the day if the truth were known. Weaving through the streets of Sydney, collecting Thorne and spiriting him home before news of another of his escapades reached Miriam.

‘Plenty of room here, and I’ve got a pie ready for the oven. I can’t turn Miss Maynard’s niece away.’

‘Grand-niece,’ she corrected for some unknown reason. Perhaps because Miriam was Olivia’s niece and she didn’t want to wear the same label. It was only Thorne who’d managed to keep the peace between Lettie and Miriam. And now, well … The familiar tightening in her throat caught her unawares. All so foolish, so ridiculously foolish to die in a boating accident on a picture-perfect autumn day.

‘Can’t choose your family. No matter how much you might wish it.’

Lettie lifted her head with a jerk. For the second time, Mrs Brown had as good as read her thoughts. ‘Now why don’t you go out to that motor of yours, collect up your belongings. I can’t imagine you came unprepared for a night or two away. While you’re doing that, I’ll air one of the rooms and we’ll eat the pie I’ve got here and have a bit of a chat.’

‘Will Miss Maynard be back soon?’

‘I’m sure she will. Go out the back here.’ She gestured to the door. ‘Walk around the house to the front. Can’t get lost, follow the path. And by the time you come back I’ll have everything sorted.’

It sounded very much the best solution and she didn’t fancy all the bends in the dark or the fords over the creek that twisted and turned along the track. Another rumble of thunder made the decision easy. ‘Thank you.’

Darkness had fallen but hadn’t dispersed the heaviness of the air. A sudden squall of wind and a flurry of rain sent her running the last few yards. She pulled her bag from behind the front seat and then, with a nod to Thorne, protected his pride and joy by lifting the roof and latching it against the rain.

The slate roof of the house glinted grey-black in the twilight and a bird shrieked somewhere in the distance then a jagged shaft of lightning illuminated the rock followed by a heavy rumble of thunder. Drawing in a lungful of the sweet, moisture-laden air she ran back along the path.

When she pushed open the back door her stomach rumbled in appreciation, the wholesome smell reminding her she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

Lettie tucked her bag out of harm’s way against the wall and moved a colander of green beans from the sink before rinsing her hands under the tap. In her absence, the table had been laid for two which meant Great-Aunt Olivia couldn’t be expected tonight. She shook the excess water from her hands then made some effort to tidy her hair by running her fingers through her damp curls and re-pinning them.

‘There you are. Everything’s ready. I’ll show you to your room after we’ve eaten. No one occupies the main house anymore.’

‘Have you always lived here?’

‘Born and bred.’

‘Then you must know my family. My grandfather, William Ludgrove, was born here. He married Alice Maynard. My mother, Miriam, is their eldest daughter.’

Mrs Brown gave a cursory sniff and dug the knife into the steaming pie. ‘Steak and kidney pie was William’s favourite, though he liked it cold, took it when he went out roaming.’

A sudden sweep of excitement raced through her. Thorne had been right. They did need to discover their roots, learn about their family. ‘Roaming?’

‘Great one for roaming was William in his younger days. Spent time with the Blaxland brothers, learnt all he knew from them.’

‘I’m sorry. No one’s ever mentioned anyone called Blaxland.’

‘Surveyors, explorers. Didn’t they teach you anything at that posh school of yours in Sydney?’

How did Mrs Brown know she’d attended school in Sydney? Lucky guess more than likely. ‘I … yes of course they did.’ History, she’d loved history. Could recite the dates of the kings and queens of England from memory—though mostly because the learning had been a punishment. ‘Are the Blaxlands your neighbours?’

‘Properties all over the place. Came from England originally, same as all our forebears. Made a name for themselves though. Taught your grandfather how to draw a map, use a compass.’

She had no recollection of Grandfather doing very much other than sitting in his big chair staring out at the trees in the Botanic Gardens. ‘Grandfather Ludgrove died when I was five. I didn’t know him very well.’

‘Obviously not. Eat up then.’

Feeling very much like that five-year-old, Lettie ate quietly and cleared her plate. ‘Thank you, that was delicious.’ She smothered a yawn.

‘You’re tired, take your bag and go to bed. Down the hallway, second door on the right. You should find everything you need.’

‘Let me help …’ She stood to collect the plates. While they’d been talking a heavy blanket of darkness had fallen and all but the area around the table was a grey blur. ‘It’s much darker here than in the city.’

‘Just the storm. It’ll pass. Leave the plates be.’ Mrs Brown held out a lantern. ‘Goodnight.’

Lettie took the lantern, picked up her bag and left the kitchen, the sound of the rain deafening on the roof. Her hand slid along the smooth timber dado as she made her way down the hallway, uncannily aware she was following in the footsteps of her long-forgotten family.