BELLE

Sweet Wattle Creek, 1931

With an effort, Belle swung her legs over the side of the mattress. She’d forgotten how high it was and only just saved herself from serious hurt as she landed on the floor. Limping across to the window in her ecru satin pyjamas, she took in a view of horses standing in dry brown paddocks, tails already swishing in the heat, and then a line of trees beyond which there was a trail of smoke. She tried to make out whether it was coming from a chimney or a distant bushfire, but the sky was so blue it made her eyes ache.

No sign of her visitor of last night, but now that it was morning it seemed entirely possible she had imagined the moving light. And the watching eyes.

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the sill, and tried to picture Martha standing here at her bedroom window, thinking of the day ahead. Perhaps thinking of her daughter far away. Belle squeezed shut her eyes, sending herself back into the past, trying to remember. A bird shrieked and the scent of gumtrees and dust made her nose twitch. She squeezed her eyes tighter but no matter how hard she tried nothing happened. If the memories were there they weren’t eager to make an appearance, not yet anyway.

She may never understand what had driven Martha to give up her daughter. The reason may not even have been a complicated one. Maybe it was as simple as Martha, being busy having a hotel to run, finding the effort of looking after a child just too much trouble, and seeing an opportunity to rid herself of the problem. Had she been unwanted from the day she was born?

That was a painful thought, and yet it was entirely possible. Many children were unwanted. She’d been lucky that Rory and Iris had loved her and given her such a comfortable life. And yet … she didn’t feel as if that was the reason. The very act of giving a child to such a couple showed a level of caring. And there was more, she knew it. The knowledge throbbed away like an aching tooth and she wanted, needed, to know.

The sun was getting higher. She must clean her teeth and wash her face, and then she would examine the food left by the Davies women and decide what she wanted for breakfast. Her stomach rumbled and she realised how hungry she was. She was halfway down the stairs when the clammy feeling came over her.

She stood, frozen. The need to look back, over her shoulder, was so urgent she could no longer resist, even though she wanted to. Reluctantly, she turned and her gaze fastened on the closed door at the end of the passage. Her heart gave a heavy thud.

At this angle she could see the small brass knob and it seemed to be turning. Opening. Whatever was behind it was about to step out … Her body gave a violent start and just like that the sensations began to dissipate. She tried to hang on to them, to understand, but already they were gone.

‘For heaven’s sake, Belle,’ she scolded aloud, ‘pull yourself together.’

She couldn’t remember a thing of her early life, and yet she was afraid of a door! Taking a deep breath, and then another, she pushed away her jumbled emotions and continued down to the kitchen.

She was going to see Martha’s solicitor this morning. Aneas Thomas. Henry said that he was the man to talk to, and Violet had told her last night he had care of Martha’s personal papers. Belle was returning to Melbourne on the afternoon train so she needed to accomplish all her tasks as soon as possible.

Normally that wouldn’t be a problem. Belle was someone who was used to getting things done in a timely manner. Unfortunately, it was Sweet Wattle Creek that didn’t seem to be in a hurry.

* * *

The old adage was true. A full stomach did improve one’s outlook on the world. Narrowing her eyes once more against the brilliance of the day, she stepped outside the back door of The Grand. Hands planted on her hips, Belle surveyed the yard.

Some of the outbuildings looked as if a strong wind would blow them over. She pulled at the rickety door of the old stable building but it had dropped and was now stuck on the paving. Belle needed a couple of good tugs to get it open, and she had to stop once and brush dust off her pencil skirt. She didn’t really know what she was looking for, but this had been her home and she wanted to see if there was anything that might jog her memory. A few sticks of broken furniture—bits and pieces that had clearly been put in here, out of the way, and then forgotten. Curtains of cobwebs hung in swathes from the ceiling beams and she backed away with a grimace, wondering if they were occupied.

From the appearance of the place, it had been a long time since anyone had kept horses in here. Which seemed to imply that the horses in the paddocks couldn’t belong to Martha.

Next was the garage, whose door opened much more easily. Inside was an object covered in a tarpaulin. She eyed it cautiously before easing off the covering. A motorcycle, the body painted green, with Triumph written in white, and attached to it was a sidecar that looked like a large cane basket with a padded seat.

The sight was so unexpected that Belle laughed out loud. Had this been Martha’s? She tried to picture her mother speeding around the countryside with herself in the sidecar and couldn’t. Besides, it wasn’t that old. She remembered particularly because Charlie had had one like it and, after the war, every time she saw a young man riding by it had been a reminder of all she had lost.

Although the motorcycle had been covered, it still seemed remarkably clean when everything else was filthy. Almost as if someone had been working on it. She was certain, if she tried to start it, that the engine would fire up.

The motorcycle could be sold. Although, her hand lingered on the shiny body, she wasn’t sure who it belonged to, despite it being in her garage. Perhaps someone was storing it here because they believed The Grand to be empty?

She turned around and that was when she saw the makeshift bed. It was tucked in between a pile of crates and the wall, which was why she hadn’t seen it when she’d come in. Belle went over to look, noting the stack of neatly folded blankets and the pillow on top. There was something almost military about the precision.

She was still standing there, puzzling, when she heard Jo call out her name.

* * *

‘How did you sleep?’

That was Jo’s first question. In the light of day she looked taller, more slender, her brown hair braided and coiled around her head rather than cut short as Belle had imagined it to be last night.

‘Well, thank you,’ said Belle, her polite voice firmly in place.

Jo didn’t reply but she looked sceptical. She had a basket with her and an armful of what appeared to be towels and various other household necessities. ‘We have plenty of eggs and milk. That’s the joy of living on a farm, if we’re hungry we always have something we can cobble together. Makes us luckier than most at the moment.’

Belle must have looked bemused.

‘People without work, without homes, without food,’ Jo explained a little impatiently. ‘The children at my school, some of them don’t have shoes. They haven’t eaten. Isn’t it like that where you come from?’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Only it wasn’t, not in the circles the Bartholomews had moved in. She hadn’t been heartless, just blind. With a mental jolt she realised that she would have to think about such things now.

‘Mum sent you these. There’s a bag of biscuits from the store, too. Not the broken ones.’

‘Store?’

‘We own the General Store. Frank runs it mostly, but we all take our turn. Flo’s there some of the time—she’s a widow from Riverton—or Mum goes in.’

The Davies were the entrepreneurs of Sweet Wattle Creek, Belle thought, but didn’t say it. Jo would think she was being facetious.

‘I’m sorry if Mum upset you last night, Belle, but she means well. She was so keen to see that you were properly welcomed home. For Martha’s sake.’

‘I know, I didn’t …’ She shook her head, trying to decide how to approach her new acquaintance. Belle preferred to keep a bit of distance between herself and the world. She held back and didn’t give of herself willingly. Not since Charlie.

‘I didn’t quite know what to expect when I arrived. Certainly not so much kindness.’

Jo had been watching her with a frown but now she smiled. ‘Let’s go,’ she said. ‘It’ll only get hotter.’

Belle hesitated. She hadn’t shown Jo the bed or the motorcycle in the garage, and now she didn’t know if she should. If it was one of the travellers the constable had meant to move on, then what would happen if his hiding place was discovered? She’d been sorry for the people she’d seen yesterday, walking along the train tracks. A sort of fellow feeling.

‘Are you all right?’

Jo was looking at her oddly and Belle forced herself to smile. ‘Yes. Sorry. Shall we go?’

The Morris was already hot inside and they wound down the windows. A trickle of perspiration was making its way along the middle of Belle’s back and she wriggled to divert it. She smoothed her skirt and felt her stockings sticking to her damp legs. Although she’d left off her jacket, it had seemed important to dress up for the solicitor.

‘Your brother said your farm is beyond The Grand,’ she said, making conversation.

‘Morwenstow? Yes. First the Beauchamps’ place and then Morwenstow. The Davies were some of the earliest settlers here in Sweet Wattle Creek. Not as early as your family, of course.’

My family.

‘The horses in the fields around the house.’ Belle could see they’d already reached the outskirts of town. ‘Are they yours?’

‘Goodness me, no. The Beauchamps own all the horses. You probably can’t see their house for the trees, but it’s only a twenty-minute walk from The Grand. Less if you’re riding. They have stables and they race. They also own the cinema in Riverton. One of the boys is something to do with talking pictures, down in Melbourne. They consider themselves a cut above the rest of us,’ she added with a smile, to take the sting out of it. ‘But don’t let that worry you. They’re newcomers. The Bartholomews and the Davies … we’re Sweet Wattle Creek aristocracy.’

‘Considering I’ve only been here for five minutes,’ Belle spoke wryly and Jo chuckled. It felt nice, comfortable, and Belle wondered whether, if she stayed here longer, Jo might become a friend.

The town centre had a number of verandahed shops and businesses on either side of Main Street. Jo was chatting about the cinema in Riverton.

‘They showed Al Jolson in The Jazz Singer last Saturday night. Amazing to actually hear people talk on film! The Beauchamps had to get the cinema updated especially. Before that they’d only been able to show the silent films. Not that I have anything against them. I loved Flesh and the Devil. Don’t tell Mum that though.’

Belle had seen The Jazz Singer when it came out a couple of years ago. She wasn’t rude enough to say it but Jo guessed.

‘You’ll find we’re behind the times out here,’ she said, clearly not concerned. ‘If you stay long enough you’ll be grateful for any film, no matter how old. But then you won’t be staying, will you?’

‘No. I’m going back today. The afternoon train.’

Jo said nothing more. They’d pulled up at the kerb on Main Street and it was time to get out. ‘Thank you,’ Belle said again. ‘You’ve been very kind to me. I know your mother remembers me from when I was a child but that was such a long time ago. She went to a great deal of trouble for a stranger.’

‘Country towns are like that,’ Jo replied. Her eyes were amused. ‘We’d never let one of our own starve or sleep in grubby sheets. And despite what you think, as Martha’s daughter you are one of our own.

‘Aneas Thomas has his office just there. You have to go upstairs. If I’m still in town when you’ve finished I can give you a lift back. I’ll be over there so if you see the car then you’ll know I’m still around,’ and she pointed across the street where there was a small park and the familiar statue of a soldier with his head bowed. A memorial to those lost in the Great War.

Belle climbed out of the car, a new trickle of perspiration following the other one down her spine. She had the distinct sensation that she might begin to melt into a puddle on the footpath.

The solicitor’s office was situated above a shop. From a glance in the window at a display of sad-looking handbags with tarnished metal clasps, she thought it was a second-hand shop, but then she noticed the plaque. ‘Cash paid for goods’. A pawnbroker, then.

Belle climbed the stairs, straightening her skirt and smoothing back her fair hair. The air was as still and hot as the inside of an oven. How on earth could anyone work?

The door to the office opened onto a small space where a woman sat at a desk with a Remington typewriter in front of her and a rattly electric fan to her side. She was clacking away on the keys, frowning fiercely down at her work, and with all the noise she didn’t notice Belle.

‘Excuse me. May I speak to Mr Thomas?’

Her head came up with a start and she stopped typing. Her hair was a reddish colour mixed with grey and her eyes, under heavy unplucked brows, were a washed-out blue.

‘Oh! You did give me a fright. Yes, he’s in. Who shall I say?’ Her face was flushed as she got clumsily to her feet and Belle could see her floral blouse had large damp circles under the arms.

‘Miss Belle Bartholomew. My aunt … that is, Martha Ambrose, left me her hotel.’

Now the woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Oh my goodness. Oh yes. I’ll go and let him know you’re here, Miss Bartholomew.’

She vanished through an inner door, and although Belle couldn’t hear what the woman was saying, she could pick up her agitated tone of voice. It was upsetting really, Belle thought, that her personal life was being discussed by people she didn’t even know. This, she suspected, was the uncomfortable reality of life in a small town.

The woman reappeared, her stare avid, and she held the door open for Belle. But Mr Thomas had followed her out and came to shake hands. He was a tall, gangly man with a circle of grey hair around a bald dome of a head. He was wearing a jacket with shiny elbows and his shirt cuffs had been darned. Belle couldn’t help but wonder how good a solicitor he was if he couldn’t afford to buy new clothes. Henry wouldn’t be seen dead in something so shabby. But then she reminded herself that it could simply be the hard times.

‘Miss Bartholomew!’ He seemed genuinely pleased to see her and his pale eyes shone with warmth. There was an undercurrent of excitement about him, as if he had been looking forward to this meeting. ‘Lyn and I went to meet your train yesterday, but when it was so late we didn’t know if you were coming. I’m afraid the train service has become very unreliable.’

‘I’m sorry to have put you out. I didn’t realise.’

‘Never mind, you aren’t to blame. I believe Frank Davies stepped in.’

He showed her into the office and offered her a chair. ‘The weather has been trying the past week,’ he said with understatement. She noticed his gaze taking her in. Martha had been his client for many years, and he was bound to be curious. Did he see a resemblance? Did she look like her mother?

A moment later his secretary brought them tea and some jam drops. The woman was smiling a tight, forced smile, and when he didn’t acknowledge her, she tapped her finger on his shoulder. He gave her a startled look. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. This is my sister, Miss Bartholomew. Lyn Thomas.’

‘Miss Bartholomew, uh, Ambrose, so nice to meet you. I don’t remember you as a child, I’m afraid, and I don’t suppose you remember much about Sweet Wattle Creek, do you?’

‘Not a thing.’

Lyn was clearly dying to prolong the conversation but her brother wasn’t having it. He gave a meaningful nod at the door and, with a frown at him, she turned and left them alone.

Aneas Thomas waited until he’d stirred a teaspoon of sugar into his dark brew and then got down to business.

‘I’m sure you know I handled Martha’s affairs while she was alive, and I’m her executor now that she’s deceased. I was rather surprised when the letter I wrote to her brother wasn’t answered. I expected Rory to come back to Sweet Wattle Creek. Although he wasn’t the beneficiary of his sister’s will, one would think … his sister dying … that he would want to attend her funeral.’

His look was curious and Belle did her best to explain the inexplicable.

‘He didn’t tell me she’d died. I’m sorry. I only found out after … after Rory himself was gone. But of course our solicitor, Henry Collier, will have told you about all of that.’

‘He mentioned there were business problems at the time that prevented Mr Bartholomew from travelling.’ His expression was frank and sincere and also, Belle decided, kind. She felt herself relax a little. Possibly Martha had relied upon Aneas Thomas for more than legal representation. Perhaps he had been her friend.

He sipped his tea and set down the cup carefully, turning it so that it was perfectly placed. ‘The long and short of it, Miss Bartholomew, is that Martha left you all of her worldly goods.’

Such as they were. A hotel in the middle of nowhere and a Triumph motorcycle. But was there more? A surprise stash that would help her save the house in St Kilda at the last moment?

‘Can you explain what “her worldly goods” consist of, Mr Thomas?’

‘Of course. Although,’ he gave her another of his keen looks, ‘if you’re hoping for a windfall, I’m afraid there’s very little in the way of financial benefit. The Grand hasn’t been a functioning hotel in a very long time. Mrs Ambrose was advised to sell but she refused. I doubt anyone would buy it in the present financial climate.’

Belle was smoothing her white gloves, removing the creases from each finger with care, as if flawless gloves would help her through this difficult time. Or was it that she just didn’t want Mr Thomas to see the panic in her eyes.

‘She left no money?’

He didn’t seem to mind her bluntness—in fact he smiled, and was blunt himself. ‘Very little money. There are a number of bonds but with the stock market crash and the current financial situation, I wouldn’t imagine you’ll be able to cash them in. If you could sell the property … but as I said, I doubt anyone around here would be keen on buying.’

Belle sat very still. She had come to Sweet Wattle Creek only to find a circumstance that was eerily similar to the one back in St Kilda. But at least Henry could sell the St Kilda house. What was she meant to do with The Grand? Let it slide further into decay?

‘I don’t understand why she would want to keep it. It must’ve been a millstone around her neck.’

‘Oh I can answer that,’ he said. ‘Martha wanted to keep it so that she had something to leave. She hoped … I know she always hoped that you would come home. I can only think that was the reason.’ He smiled. ‘You’re very like her, you know. Not in appearance, although you have something of her in your face, but in the way you ask questions. As if you expect an answer straightaway. That’s pure Martha. She was always trying to hurry us up.’

Belle felt tears sting her eyes and looked away, her voice dropping. ‘I don’t understand why she gave me away. It seems quite bizarre to discover at my age that my parents aren’t my parents.’

Aneas shuffled his papers, possibly embarrassed by her emotion or his inability to explain his client’s actions. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to that question, Miss Bartholomew. Martha was a private person. Her friend, Violet Davies, might’ve been in her confidence. Or Michael.’

The name seemed to resonate. Did it mean something to her? Belle wasn’t sure. She was tired and emotional and she might be imagining things.

‘Michael?’

‘Michael Maxwell.’

‘I thought my father’s name was Nathan Ambrose?’

‘Yes. Nathan Ambrose died in 1915.’ Again that hesitation followed by the apologetic smile. ‘To be honest, Miss Bartholomew—and I think like Martha you prefer me to be honest with you—Nathan was an alcoholic. He lived at The Grand but their marriage had become a formality only.’

Her father was a drunk. ‘Poor Martha.’

‘Yes.’

‘And Michael Maxwell. Who is he?’

‘His parents were residents of Sweet Wattle Creek but they perished in a fire when he was still a boy. Martha was very fond of him. He stayed with her at The Grand, and helped with the running of the place. He was a pilot. Went off to fight in the war but afterwards he came back. The Grand was no longer a working hotel by then—Martha had given up the licence when Nathan died—but he helped her with the upkeep. Unfortunately, he was away when she passed on. I did hear a rumour that he was back in town, but I haven’t seen him myself, nor have I had a chance to speak to him.’

It sounded intriguing and slightly worrying.

‘But … I would’ve thought, in the circumstances, she would’ve left her property to this Michael Maxwell.’ It sounded to Belle as if Michael had been more of a son to Martha than she had been a daughter.

Aneas hesitated and then he sighed. ‘Once again I’m being candid, Miss Bartholomew. She did leave The Grand to Michael originally, but she changed her will not long before she died.’

‘Oh.’

He cleared his throat. ‘In regard to Michael … I should warn you …’

A tap on the door interrupted him. Lyn stuck her head in. ‘More tea?’ she asked brightly.

‘No, not for me,’ Aneas replied a little rudely, Belle thought.

‘Nor me, thank you, Miss Thomas.’

Lyn widened her eyes. ‘Oh no, it’s Mrs Thomas,’ she said. ‘Aneas calls me his sister but I am in actual fact his sister-in-law. I was his brother Alister’s wife.’

The clarification seemed so important to her that Belle felt like apologising, but as she opened her mouth to do so, Lyn turned to Aneas.

‘Are you nearly done? I’m sure Miss Bartholomew must have other errands to do, and she wouldn’t want to miss the afternoon train.’

‘Yes, of course. Nearly done, Lyn.’

The door closed again.

‘Which reminds me …’ Aneas stood up and went to a safe behind him, unlocked it and took out a brown Gladstone bag, which he then set by Belle’s chair.

‘Mrs Ambrose left this with me for safe-keeping. It contains all her personal papers, everything that she wished to preserve. I’m sure you’ll want to take it with you. Of course when you’re finished, if there’s anything you want to ask, I’d be more than happy to attempt to answer your questions.’

Except, as he’d already intimated, Martha kept her private affairs to herself.

Belle reached for the bag. The leather was old and battered, and it was heavy. She hoped Jo was still here, because carrying the bag all the way back to The Grand would be a feat of endurance she wasn’t sure she could manage.

Abruptly the room felt even more stifling, and when she stood up black spots danced in front of her eyes and she wondered whether she might faint. She took a deep breath and then another, until things steadied.

‘Again, if you need my assistance, Miss Bartholomew, please feel free to call.’

‘Thank you. I will.’ With an effort, she followed him out of the office.

Lyn was standing by her desk. ‘I hope you have a pleasant journey, Miss Bartholomew,’ she said, but she sounded stilted and insincere. ‘I think you’re doing the right thing going home to Melbourne. Really, you wouldn’t enjoy staying here in Sweet Wattle Creek. You don’t belong.’

Belle knew then with absolute certainty that, if Aneas had been her mother’s friend, then Lyn Thomas was not.