BELLE

Sweet Wattle Creek, 1931

The kitchen was stifling despite the windows and doors being thrown open. It looked as if Lyn had been making gravy in a pan, while the meat sat resting, covered, on the table. Aneas was standing in front of her and she was crying.

Belle had burst into the room full of righteous purpose, determined to have the truth from them, but now she hesitated. Her certainty, which had carried her through Henry’s protests and attempts to stop her, faltered.

Aneas looked up, startled. ‘Belle!’ Lyn, catching sight of her, turned her face away, quickly wiping her eyes and picking up the gravy spoon so she could pretend to fuss with the pan.

‘The painting of Reims Cathedral,’ Belle said, and she sounded breathless. Emotions were simmering beneath the surface, but she felt in control of them. She wasn’t going to start crying and shouting, she wasn’t going to begin to scream hysterically, as Henry no doubt thought. This was too important.

‘My brother Alister painted it,’ Aneas said evenly. ‘He did it when he was on leave from the war. He had some friends in London and they sent his paintings to us after he’d died. There are others … he was affected by what he saw, and he said he found the act of painting helpful.’

‘Martha has a sketch just like that.’

Aneas stared at her for a moment, but she couldn’t read anything in his face apart from surprise, and then he looked at Lyn. She was still stirring the gravy, her back rigid.

‘Perhaps he gave it to her?’ Aneas said quietly. ‘A-a gift.’

‘I think he did. He sent it all the way from London. But not as a gift. I think he did it because she meant something to him. Because he was my father.’

Aneas’s eyes slid away as if he couldn’t meet her gaze any longer, and it was Lyn who answered. ‘That’s ridiculous!’ she spluttered. ‘What do you base this … this fantasy on? Martha had one of Alister’s sketches? Probably half of Sweet Wattle Creek had one of his sketches.’

‘It was in her bag, the one Aneas gave to me, the one that held her most precious memories.’

Lyn shrugged one shoulder, her face still turned away. ‘I’m sorry, Belle, but I don’t believe you.’

‘Do you have a photograph of Alister?’ Belle asked Aneas. ‘I’d like to see him. Even if I’m wrong, surely a photograph would prove it one way or the other?’

‘Belle,’ Henry warned from behind her but she ignored him.

‘Alister was my husband,’ Lyn’s voice was low and dogged. ‘He was mine. You have no claim on him, you or Martha.’

‘I’m not going to take him away from you,’ Belle protested. ‘I just want to know. That’s all. I need to know.’

Aneas sighed. ‘Very well,’ he said, and left the room. Lyn turned sharply, watching him go, and then her gaze slid to Belle and hardened. There was a bitterness in her face that had probably been growing for years. Thirty years.

She seemed to be struggling between her need to speak out, to release all her anger and pain, and her determination to keep her memories shut away. But the opportunity to give vent to all that suppressed emotion was too much for her.

‘Yes! Yes, I think he probably is your father. My husband. Martha stole him without a backward glance, and the worst of it was, he went with her. He didn’t care that he’d broken my heart and ruined everything. She had some hold over him. Something …’ She waved a hand, searching for the word and then shook her head when she couldn’t find it. ‘Men found her fascinating. You have it, too. Something base,’ she said with a savagery that was as painful as a slap.

‘Lyn!’ Aneas had returned and his voice was sharp. He looked pale and weary, as if his own emotions were draining the life out of him.

‘I found your birth certificate in his drawer,’ she said defiantly. ‘Why would he have that if you weren’t his? I couldn’t bear the thought of him taking it out and … and gloating over it. Thinking about Martha. So I pushed it under Martha’s door.’

‘You defaced it,’ Belle murmured, shaken. The savagery of the black ink, erasing her father’s name, made sense now.

‘This is Alister,’ Aneas interrupted, and the photograph he handed Belle was of a man in uniform, with two pips on the shoulder straps. He was staring into the camera lens, serious, his hair cropped short, his moustache carefully clipped.

Belle tried to see a resemblance to herself. His eyes looked pale in the black-and-white photo, but his hair was darker, not the unusual white-blonde of her own.

She looked up at Aneas, and knew he could read her disappointment. But he had another photograph in his hand and now he handed that to her.

‘Oh.’

This one was of a boy. He was posed in a studio, an unlikely set of snow-capped mountains in the background, and he was half turned to the camera. His hair almost appeared white, and his pale eyes were as round as marbles.

‘His hair darkened as he got older,’ Aneas said quietly. ‘Yours has stayed the same. You do look like him, Belle. I saw it the moment Martha showed you to me. I don’t know how many other people saw it, perhaps not many. But Alister was my brother, and I could see the resemblance.’

‘I see it, too.’ Belle held the photograph tenderly, before passing it back to him.

Aneas smiled down at his brother’s young face.

‘When Alister joined up to fight I was surprised. He was a gentle soul. But he made us all proud, and ended up a hero. Took out a German machine-gun post and saved his men from certain death. His own life for theirs. Quite remarkable. We’re very proud of him, you know, Belle. You should be, too.’

‘Were they in love?’ she said softly. ‘Alister and Martha.’

But Lyn couldn’t stand any more. She threw down the spoon, splashing herself with gravy. ‘Love! It was an adulterous affair. It destroyed him, you know.’ She nodded her head. ‘He was never any good for anything after her. I kept expecting her to leave her drunken husband and run off with Alister, but instead she stayed and somehow that was worse. The waiting, the wondering, the lying there at night not knowing if Alister would still be here in the morning. It went on for years! I was glad when he joined up. He was killed at Bullecourt, but he died a hero. At least I have that. I am the wife of a hero and she’s nothing.’

She swept her gaze over Belle and there was no doubting her contempt. ‘And then there you were. Belle Bartholomew, arrived in town. All tricked out as if we were beneath you. Suddenly, Aneas and-and all the others were looking at you just as they had Martha. Like hungry dogs with a bit of meat.’

‘My father …’

Lyn raised her hand and for a heartbeat Belle thought she was going to strike her. So did the other two, because they stepped forward. But the rage seemed to drain out of Lyn as quickly as it had come. Her face was working.

‘Don’t you dare,’ she whispered in a voice that trembled and shook. ‘Don’t you dare say that. He was never yours. Or Martha’s. He was a lamb and she was the wolf and she destroyed his life. She destroyed my life. Once she got her hooks into him he was never the same. I tried to stop it. I tried to reason with him. He wouldn’t listen. He was in love, he said.’ She spoke it with venom. ‘What did he know of love? Of sacrifice?’

Now Lyn’s face was flushed and damp with tears and sweat, her eyes blazing, and her carefully pinned hair had begun to spring loose, tendrils sticking to her forehead and her neck. And just like that Belle recognised her.

‘You were the witch!’ she cried in astonishment. ‘You came to my room at The Grand. You did, didn’t you?’

Lyn blinked, startled by the words, and then she gave a harsh laugh. She bit her lip to stop it. Aneas put his hand on her arm to steady her, but she shook him off.

‘You did come to my room.’ This time it wasn’t a question but an accusation, and Belle knew it for the truth. The memory was there, tantalisingly close, and she reached out and finally grasped hold of it.

She was in her room, standing on a chair so that she could look out of the window. She liked to look out and today Mama had opened it up, not knowing about Belle’s favourite trick. Sometimes she could see the horses being harnessed or unloaded, and sometimes there were people coming and going. Sometimes Nellie watched her from the brick archway, her sulphur crest standing straight up, like an angry cat’s fur.

Today, though, what she saw was quite surprising. Mama was down there, in the little area between the back wall of the house and the outbuildings. She had her arms around Alister Thomas and she was kissing him. Kissing him so hard that Belle thought she might even be hurting him.

She didn’t hear the steps behind her, only the hiss of anger. It frightened her and she spun around. Mrs Thomas was behind her, her eyes wild in her white face, and she looked so like the witch in one of Michael’s stories that she lost her balance. Mrs Thomas didn’t try to help her or save her, she just watched as Belle fell off the chair and struck her head on the windowsill.

It hurt, the pain making Belle feel dizzy, and then everything went dark. But it was only momentary. As soon as she regained consciousness, Belle screamed.

Someone cried out in response, down in the yard, but Belle was too busy struggling to get up, to get away. The witch loomed over her. ‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘I wish you’d hit your head so hard that you’d die. That’s what I wish.’

Finally Belle got up. There was something warm running down her face and she knew it was blood. It was dripping onto her white pinafore. She tried to reach the brass door knob, but the witch grabbed her and swung her about, high, so that her feet left the ground.

The window was open and Belle knew that in an instant the witch would toss her out of it and she would be smashed to pieces on the ground below.

Alister was there. She hadn’t heard him come in, but now he took her from the witch, holding her, staring at her face and the blood. Then Mama was there as well, taking Belle from him, holding her so tightly. She heard the sound of Alister’s hand on the witch’s face. She knew he’d hit her, because Mama loosened her grip and Belle could turn her face, and she saw the bright-red mark on the witch’s cheek.

It was a jumble of movement and sound after that. The witch was crying, sobbing as she ran out of the room, and Belle could hear her blundering down the stairs. She wondered if she’d fall and then thought that she might be glad if she did. Then Alister had his arms around Mama and Belle, and it felt so safe.

‘They mopped me up,’ Belle said now, aloud. ‘Cleaned up the blood, and my cut.’ She touched the small scar on her forehead. ‘I remember him, my father, I remember him saying that I would have to go away, and Martha shaking her head and telling him that she would look after me, but Alister was crying. I remember him crying. And he said, “You know what she’s like.” And I think that was when I went to live in Annat Street.’

‘How can you remember? You can’t possibly remember that!’ Lyn tried to bluff her way out of it.

‘I do remember.’ At four years old the memory had been frightening enough to remain, hidden deep, and now in this moment of high drama it had been released.

Alister was her father, she knew that now, but he’d caused pain to those closest to him. Martha, too. Both unhappily married, they had found each other, loved each other, but there had been a terrible cost.

‘I think Belle should go home now,’ Henry spoke behind her. She’d forgotten he was there. ‘I’ll drive her, if you would be kind enough to lend me your car, Aneas.’

Aneas hesitated. Lyn had turned her back again and was staring at the stove. ‘Yes, very well,’ he said, and he sounded very weary. ‘I think that would be best. We’ve all had rather a shock.’

‘Thank you for telling me about my father,’ Belle said, but Lyn didn’t bother to look up, and it was Aneas who nodded. Slowly, like an old man, he followed them as they made their way out.

‘Lyn has taken all of this very hard,’ he said, and hesitated. He was offering excuses for her and he knew it, but perhaps it had become a habit. ‘She loved Alister, but … I suppose the worst of it was that they made her believe the affair was over. After you were born he promised her it was finished. When she followed Alister that day, the day you remember, she caught them together. It was overwhelming for her. She had a sort of breakdown.’

Belle shivered, remembering her feet so close to the open window.

‘Alister felt responsible. He insisted you be sent away.’

‘But you knew who I was?’ She searched his face. ‘Couldn’t you have done something then?’

Aneas turned his face and she sensed that the past did not sit comfortably with him. ‘I knew who you were. I suppose I should’ve said something, done something, but I was content for you to go. I was worried about my brother, and Lyn. It was all so … disruptive. I wanted my peace back again, Belle. I’m not a very courageous person. I’m sorry.’

On the way back in the car Belle watched lightning flash over in the west, zigzagging across the sky. No rain yet, but she could smell it in the air. Henry glanced at her as he drove cautiously on the unfamiliar road.

‘Are you all right?’

She tried to find an answer. ‘I don’t know. I think so. At least now I have my answers.’

‘I know Lyn is a nasty piece of work, but I can’t help feeling sorry for her.’

‘No one won, did they? Alister, Martha or Lyn. They were all miserable.’

Henry was silent, and she wondered if her words had struck a chord with him. Perhaps he was beginning to realise that marrying the wrong person could have dreadful consequences.

He cleared his throat. ‘Was it worth it? Coming here and stirring up all this scandal? Or do you think you would rather have stayed in Melbourne and never have known?’

Belle was aware of his gaze on her as he drew up outside The Grand. ‘I’m glad I came, Henry.’

‘What will you do now?’

She turned to face him. ‘I don’t know. I want to stay on. I have Tilly and Gwen to think of. Whatever you say, Henry, they are my responsibility. And there are others I can help.’ And there was Michael, she thought to herself. Her heart ached to have him here now, to have his arms around her.

‘You won’t be coming back to Melbourne, then,’ he said, and it wasn’t a question. He looked resigned, as if he’d come to terms with her decision at last.

‘No, I won’t. I’m sorry, Henry.’

He nodded and dredged up a smile. ‘Goodbye, Belle,’ he said. ‘I wish you well. I really do.’

It was good of him, especially when he considered she was making the worst mistake of her life. Belle smiled at him. ‘Goodbye, Henry,’ she said, and climbed out of the car.

* * *

The storm had finally broken and Belle lay, listening to the rain on the roof. She’d left her window open a few inches, and the smell of damp, clean air filled her room.

Everyone was in bed. She hadn’t told Tilly and Gwen what had happened when she got back. She hadn’t decided yet whether she would tell anyone about Alister and Martha. As for herself, she was glad to know the truth, but remembering how much they had damaged themselves and those around them made her consider if it would be best to leave their memories to the past.

When she’d come up to bed, she’d stood for a while outside the room with the small brass handle, before opening it and looking inside.

It was just a room. The tremor of fear, the clammy horror that had once held her enthralled was gone now that she knew the truth. It had been a terrifying experience for a four-year-old child, but as an adult she could look at it with fresh eyes. She didn’t approve of what Lyn had done, but she could understand.

The knock sounded soft on her bedroom door.

Belle sat up, thinking Gwen was having nightmares or Tilly was looking for Bucket. She slid off the bed and made her way barefoot to the door, just as the knock came again.

‘Belle?’

A tingle like an electric current ran through her, making her skin prickle and her heart beat faster. She opened the door a crack, and stared out wide-eyed. ‘Michael?’

He was standing in the shadows and it was him, really him.

‘Michael,’ she whispered, and reached out to take his arm. He was wet, dripping wet, and now she saw that his hair was plastered to his head and his clothes were sodden. ‘Michael!’

‘Sshh,’ he said, almost laughing. ‘You’ll wake them. I got caught in the rain. The motorbike broke down a mile or two down the road, and I had to walk. I’ll have to fetch it in the morning.’

‘You’re back,’ she said stupidly, and wanted to fling herself into his arms and hold him tight. Suddenly she felt shy. She’d been so looking forward to seeing him again and now she was tongue-tied. He was the same man and yet he was different because of what had happened between them.

‘I’ll be barnstorming at Riverton day after tomorrow,’ he told her, and there was quiet pride in his voice. ‘Thought I’d come here first and make sure everything’s all right.’

‘Oh. That’s … that’s wonderful.’ She meant it. He was flying, doing what he loved best.

‘After Riverton we go on to Melbourne, a few stop-offs on the way. If Smithy wants me, I’ll head on over to Adelaide after that. Who knows where else. I got to him at just the right time, Belle. One of the pilots fell ill and he was short a man. He grabbed me with both hands when he saw me walking up to him in Hay. I didn’t think he’d let me come home first, before Riverton, but I persuaded him I had to. That was the deal.’

‘I’m glad you did.’

She wanted to tell him about Alister, about Martha and Lyn. About Henry. But there would be time tomorrow. Right now she needed to put her arms around him and hold him.

‘Will you come in?’ she said, watching his face.

He reached out and touched her cheek, his fingers cold from the rain. ‘Better not,’ he said. ‘Don’t want to wake the girls. I can wait, Belle. I’ve waited this long.’

She leaned forward to kiss his lips, and they were cold, too.

‘We both have,’ she whispered.

The kiss deepened and she thought he’d change his mind and come into her room after all, but then, reluctantly, he drew away.

‘Goodnight, Belle,’ he whispered.

‘Goodnight, Michael.’

He nodded, and left, and she heard him going down the stairs and then the door at the back closed. Belle couldn’t contain her smile as she climbed into bed.