Sweet Wattle Creek

My dearest love,

It’s four o’clock on a winter’s afternoon and already getting dark. Spencer Street Station is dingy and Rory isn’t waiting as he promised. I haven’t seen him in fifteen years and I’d forgotten that about him, how he can never be on time.

Martha was composing the letter in her head, the words she would send to her lover.

She tightened her grip on her daughter’s hand in its colourful woollen mitten. Small fingers returned the pressure and big blue eyes lifted upwards, as if trying to read her thoughts. Martha smiled and was glad to see Belle smile back. At four years old her child had gone from a happy little girl to a quiet and serious one. Her smiles had become few, but when she did smile her face lit up the world around her.

Unfortunately, that world had become an uncertain place. Dangerous. Although Martha had once believed that to be impossible in Sweet Wattle Creek. Yes, there were storm clouds on the horizon and Martha knew that no matter how difficult, she must honour her promise to Belle’s father. The child must go away, just for a little while, until matters calmed down.

A pigeon landed on the grimy platform and began to peck on a morsel of food someone had thrown down. Belle pointed at it and asked, in a doubtful voice, ‘Nellie? Is that Nellie, Mama?’

There wasn’t much in common between Nellie, their beautiful snowy-white sulphur-crested cockatoo, and this mangy creature, but Martha supposed they were both birds.

Michael was good with Belle. Despite the four years’ age difference between them, he was always kind to her and willing to join in her little-girl games. And the Maxwells were upright people, even if they were too strict with the boy. But for that very reason she couldn’t tell them the truth. They would turn their backs on her.

Anxiously she looked about. Trolleys of luggage rumbled along the station platform, and the steam train hissed impatiently. Everybody seemed to know where they were going and were looking forward to getting there. She watched a woman draped in furs strut past, her small dog cradled in her arms, her entourage following. Martha settled her own fox fur about her throat, telling herself she was just as good as anyone here. That’s what they told you in Australia, that there was no one better than anyone else.

It was a lie, of course. Australia, and Sweet Wattle Creek, had its social hierarchies and social mores. Her family, the Bartholomews, had been pillars of the community, and Martha herself was a respectable married woman. But married women didn’t have children to men who weren’t their husbands.

It’s only for a short while, she reminded herself, repeating the words, as if repetition would make them true. Belle will be home again soon.

‘Mama?’ The husky little voice interrupted her thoughts and her hand was tugged. ‘Mama!’ Martha followed the direction of her daughter’s gaze and saw a tall man approaching, his dark hair the same shade as her own.

She knew it was Rory and yet, just for a moment, she found herself looking at him as if they were strangers. A handsome man of middle height but solid, and with the famous Bartholomew soulful black eyes. He was smiling at her as if he also was glad to see her, and in that instant she realised how very much she had missed her older brother since he’d shaken the dust of their small town off his shoes.

No handshakes or cool cheek kisses for Rory. It was either all or nothing for him, he hadn’t changed in that, and now he caught her in his arms and hugged her tight. Martha pressed her nose into the wool of his coat and breathed in his cologne and hugged him back. It was only when he released her that she noticed the changes in his thirty-four-year-old face. The signs of maturity. And grief.

He nodded, all the light leaving his dark eyes, and then he looked down at her daughter. Belle stared up at him, her head so far back that her hat slipped off. The scar on her smooth forehead was still raised and pink, although thankfully the cut, while deep, was healing.

Belle smiled back. With those icy fair curls and blue eyes, she was as unlike her mother and uncle as any child could possibly be.

Doubts swamped me, my love. I thought I could still change my mind despite my promise. I could still take Belle home. That was when Rory bent down and swung her up into his arms. He held her at eye level and she was dazzled, just as he’s dazzled every other female who crossed his path.

‘I believe you’ve come to stay, Belle,’ my brother said, and he gave me a look that held a question in it. ‘I just know you’ll like Melbourne so much that you’ll never want to leave again. That’s what happened to me.’

I found myself nodding and smiling back at him, but my mouth felt stretched and wobbly, and my eyes were so full of tears I couldn’t see. It’s for the best, I told myself, it really is for the best. But oh, my dear, my heart was breaking.