BELLE

Sweet Wattle Creek, 1931

The railway station was tiny, a stop on the way to nowhere. When Belle got off and stood on the platform, it felt as if the whole world was stretched out before her, flat and brown, and she was alone in it.

Henry hadn’t accompanied her after all. One of his clients had demanded his attention, and because the man was important, and Henry was worried about his practice, he’d felt he couldn’t say no. Belle understood that, and if she admitted the truth to herself then she was actually relieved. Henry had begun fussing over her, and looking at her when he thought she wasn’t aware, as if her secret had changed something between them.

‘I’ll manage perfectly well,’ she’d told him with what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

But you’d have thought she was going to the other side of the world. ‘You don’t have to stay more than a night, Belle. That’s quite long enough.’

‘I want to talk to Mr Thomas.’ And anyone else who might have known her aunt. Her mother. And then there was her father, Nathan Ambrose, whose name had been scratched out so aggressively on her birth certificate. No one needed to know why she was asking questions, she’d be discreet, but she had a powerful urge to discover what she could.

On the way north the train engine had broken down and then there had been an altercation when a young man was caught riding in the freight carriage without paying. He’d jumped down while the train was still moving, and run away. She heard one of her fellow passengers muttering. Riding the rattler, he called it. Hitching a ride without paying from one town to the next was evidently quite a common event.

As well as that there had been numerous stops—it seemed that every dot on the map had a station where mail or other urgent provisions must be unloaded before they could travel onwards. The rocking motion had made her sleepy and she’d watched through half-closed eyes, trying not to think of her home being auctioned behind her, as the scenery went by. Sometimes groups of people walking beside the track would stare up at her, and if they had children, then they’d all wave so that she felt obliged to wave back. Occasionally they had horses or sulkies to ride, but more often than not they were on foot, carrying or pushing their belongings along with the help of a variety of apparatus. One woman had a wheelbarrow. She supposed these were some of the unemployed she’d read about in the newspapers, who’d taken to the roads in search of work. She couldn’t decide whether it was a brave thing to do, or foolhardy.

Belle couldn’t imagine herself or Henry taking to the roads—or the track, as it seemed to be known. But perhaps—although she struggled to imagine it—there were people in the world so desperate they had no choice but to set out into the unknown and hope for the best.

By the time she’d arrived at Sweet Wattle Creek the train was hours later than scheduled and she was tired. The engine had paused while the usual crates and boxes and bags of mail were unloaded and then moved off. Leaving her at the edge of nowhere.

This certainly wasn’t how she’d imagined her destination, and she had a slight panic, wondering if she’d been foolhardy herself to set out alone in search of her mysterious past. True, it was a distraction from her grief and the tragedy that had befallen her, but there was more to it than that. An empty hollow sensation had formed inside her, which she was beginning to think only the truth could fill. She wanted answers, and surely this was the place to find them?

Belle tightened her grip on her small weekend suitcase—at least it was light. The air was breathlessly hot, despite it being nearly eight o’clock in the evening, and the sun—a ball of brilliant yellow that made her eyes ache—was still casting long shadows. She had a vision of the house in Annat Street in the evening, with the trams rumbling along the Esplanade, and the sanctuary of the garden, with blackbirds settling and the soft colours of the English flowers Iris had planted. There was nothing soft about this place.

Belle rounded the corner of the small brick building and discovered a man in an official-looking jacket. He was stooping over a tub of plants with a watering can. They looked like geraniums, bright-scarlet flowers and large green leaves.

‘Excuse me?’

He looked up at her curiously, and then set the can down. He seemed mesmerised by her travelling outfit of tight, mid-calf-length grey skirt and snug-fitting jacket fastened over her white blouse—certainly no longer as crisp as when she had started out. Her hat was unadorned and drooped down to shade her face and was the only item of clothing she was wearing that made any concession to the heat.

He grinned. ‘You’ll be Miss Bartholomew, then.’

He knows me? Belle thought, startled, before she realised that of course he would. Henry had written to Martha’s solicitor, Mr Thomas, and no doubt he would have informed the rest of Sweet Wattle Creek. Her visit would not be made incognito and she’d been naive to think it could be.

‘They were waiting for you but when the train was so late coming in … They weren’t sure you’d turn up.’

‘They?’ Belle asked.

‘Mr Thomas and his sister. They were planning to drive you to The Grand.’

Of course. Henry had said something about making arrangements, but Belle had thought he was being unnecessarily cautious. Now, looking at the empty landscape, she contemplated whether she hadn’t been cautious enough.

‘Is there a taxi-cab for hire?’

He couldn’t hide his amusement. ‘Can’t say there’s much call for taxi-cabs in Sweet Wattle Creek.’ And then he looked past her and his humour gave way to relief. ‘There’s Mr Davies. Frank! Would you come here a minute? Miss Bartholomew has arrived after all. She needs a lift to The Grand.’

Belle turned as she heard the crunch of booted feet approaching on the gravel path. From the hint of respect in the railwayman’s voice she expected someone older, but Frank Davies was young, probably a few years younger than her. Dark hair, a tanned complexion, and grey eyes which he was presently narrowing against the setting sun. He looked like a railway navvy in his old, dusty clothes, but his air of authority caused her to reassess that opinion.

He took the cigarette out of his mouth and dropped it onto the platform, then ground it out with the toe of his worn boot. His hair was flopping over his eyes and he pushed it back with his fingers. Something in the way he did that reminded her of Charlie and the memory was sharp and painful, but she didn’t have time to consider it further as he reached out his hand. She gave him hers, and he took it in a brief, hard grip.

‘Isn’t Aneas Thomas here?’

His eyes were on her, but he was speaking to the stationmaster. It seemed that her arrival had caused a ripple of disquiet.

‘Perhaps if it isn’t far I can walk?’ she suggested. She had only the one light piece of luggage, enough for the night or, at a pinch, two. There’d seemed no point in bringing more.

The two men exchanged glances. No one seemed to be in a hurry. Belle, used to getting things done quickly, felt impatience dancing along her skin. Finally, Frank Davies spoke again, a drawl in his voice.

‘I’ll take you to The Grand. The place was a mess, but from the moment you let Aneas know you were coming, my mother’s been over there, busy trying to make it fit for you.’

‘Oh.’ She’d put people out. It made her feel uncomfortable. ‘I didn’t realise. That’s very kind of your mother. Was it such a mess?’

He considered his words before speaking, which made her think it was. ‘We’ve had a few vagrants sleeping rough and they found their way inside. Constable Nash moved them on. We don’t like travellers here in Sweet Wattle Creek.’

Belle supposed it was meant to sound reassuring, but instead the words had a sinister quality.

‘Travellers?’ she repeated, thinking of the people she’d seen from the train. The people who in their desperation had taken to the roads.

Frank thought she was asking for clarification. His mouth tightened. ‘Travellers, that’s what we call them. Or swaggies, transients, sundowners. They leave the cities and take to the track looking for work. They carry their swags with them—their belongings—and set up house wherever they can. Doesn’t matter if it’s someone else’s land or they have to steal to feed themselves.’

‘They’re trouble,’ agreed the stationmaster.

Travellers had been living in Martha’s house. Belle wondered just how dilapidated it was. Perhaps she may not be able to stay even one night. Henry had warned her she was acting impulsively—behaviour that had surprised them both—but she’d been determined. Would she now have to return home with her tail between her legs? But no, she didn’t want to do that. She wouldn’t give up so easily. There were hurdles to be overcome, yes, but Belle told herself she was more than capable of doing so. And she’d prove it to him.

Frank Davies was watching her. He seemed to find her face of great interest. His staring was making her uncomfortable, and she opened her mouth to ask him if there was soot on her nose from the train, just as he bent down and reached for her suitcase. ‘Come on,’ he said gruffly. ‘It’ll be dark before we get there.’

Belle let him have it, her fingers nerveless, and he turned and strode off around the corner. The stationmaster misread her hesitation.

‘The Davies are one of the most respectable families in the district,’ he declared. ‘You’ll be right with Frank.’

She found the respectable Mr Davies busy loading some substantial-looking boxes that had come off the train into a horse-drawn cart. He was tall and lean but he seemed to have no trouble heaving them about. When he was finished he carefully set Belle’s suitcase at the back, so it wouldn’t get crushed.

‘If I’d known you’d be here I’d have brought the car,’ he said.

‘I don’t mind. Thank you.’ Belle tried to sound enthusiastic but it had been a long day.

Frank almost smiled as he pushed back that truant lock of hair. But she was ready for him this time. Although she could see in the fading light that he was good-looking, there was a hardness to his face that made her wary. He was not like Charlie at all.

Out of nowhere there was a terrible shriek and she jumped. Belle looked up and saw a large white bird fly across the pink-streaked sky, giving several more shrieks as it went. ‘Cockatoo,’ Frank Davies said laconically. ‘Plenty around here.’

Belle knew what a cockatoo was. They occasionally strayed into St Kilda and certainly they were at the cottage in Sorrento, but they were generally considered to be an inland bird. Something was tapping at the back of her mind, not quite a memory, more of a feeling. Before she could grasp it, whatever it was slipped away.

Awkwardly, she climbed up onto the seat, staying away from Frank Davies—the last thing she wanted was her thigh rubbing against his. When she was set he flicked the reins and the horse ambled off along the unmade road, leaving the station behind them.

Shadows were stretching out, and it seemed as if night was finally drawing in. Paddocks on either side were outlined with post and rail fences, and cattle and sheep stopped what they were doing to stare, while a horse tossed its head and ran off into the fading light. Ahead of them a few winking lights shone through the dusk.

‘Is that Sweet Wattle Creek?’ she asked, hearing the apprehension in her voice.

‘Yes. That’s Main Street you can see.’

We’re nearly there. But Belle’s relief was short-lived because the next moment Frank Davies had turned to the left, heading away from the town. Belle gripped the hard edge of the seat, twisting her head to keep the lights in view. ‘Mr Davies, what are you doing?’

Frank shot her a look and this time he did smile, she could hear it in his voice. ‘The town was always in two parts, five miles between. The Grand is this way, Miss Bartholomew.’

Ahead of her, in the fading light, all the colours melded together like a soggy painting.

‘I don’t understand.’ The brim of her hat was limper than it should be and there was dust in her mouth. She was hot and uncomfortable and she longed for a bath and a soft bed and sleep. She longed for Annat Street and the sad truth was that when she went back there would be no home. Not the one she remembered anyway.

Frank was explaining. ‘When the town first went up there was a difference of opinion as to where it should be built. The Bartholomews already had The Grand and the land around it. They wanted to sell to the developers, but the story is they were asking too much. Whatever reason, the new town was built further along to the east, and Sweet Wattle Creek has been split in two ever since.’

The Bartholomews were pioneers. They were here before the town. Why hadn’t she known this, why hadn’t Rory told her? She would have thought he’d be proud of his pioneering family and yet he had said nothing.

Frank had turned to her and she could see the shine of his eyes and the trickle of smoke from the new cigarette he’d lit.

‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’

He sighed and she thought that perhaps he wasn’t a very patient sort of man. Or perhaps he’d had a difficult afternoon and this wasn’t how he wanted to end it. ‘I said I wasn’t exaggerating, Miss Bartholomew. The Grand was in a terrible state. My mother has done her best but you don’t have to stay there.’

‘I can’t make a decision until I see it.’ She sounded irritable. It had been a long day or perhaps it was his own manner that made her think politeness could be dispensed with.

Frank said nothing and the silence drew out. The movement of the horse and cart wasn’t smooth—if it was it would have sent Belle to sleep, but the rattle and jolt kept shaking her awake. She blinked, and then blinked again. There were lights in the distance.

‘Is that it?’ she asked and pointed.

‘Nah. That’s the Beauchamp place. Morwenstow is beyond that—that’s the name of our property. Here’s The Grand.’

She hadn’t realised it was so close. The black shape rose up to her right and seemed to tower over her, solid and silent, before she understood Martha’s home must be a two-storey building. When Frank slowed the cart to a stop she sat staring, trying to pick out details, only now it was too dark to see them.

‘It looks like there’s no one here,’ Frank said. ‘I can’t leave you alone, Miss Bartholomew. You’re coming with me to Morwenstow.’

His assumption of being in charge put her back up. This, her first foray into independence, couldn’t end like this. She wouldn’t let it.

‘I want to stay. I want to see the house.’

‘You can wait until the morning. The constable cleared out the travellers but they could come back.’ He lifted the reins, and prepared to set the horse on its way once more.

Belle wanted him to stop—she had an awful feeling that if he drove on her courage would trickle away and she would turn around and go back to Henry. There were things she needed to know, questions to ask and mysteries to unearth.

Just then some car lamps lit up, shining directly at them. Belle held up a hand, blinded. A female voice called out, ‘Frank? Is that Belle? We were just about to leave.’

‘Jo!’ Frank shouted back and secured the reins before jumping down. As Belle clambered off the seat, struggling in her tight skirt, he appeared at her side and reached up to grasp her by the waist. She didn’t have time to refuse his help and the next moment she was airborne, but only briefly, before he placed her feet neatly on the ground.

His voice was close to her cheek, his breath warm and smoky. ‘Looks as if you got your wish, Miss Bartholomew. I hope you don’t regret it.’

She stepped away, making it clear his help would not be further required, and turned towards the person approaching them. In the light from the headlamps Belle could see it was a slender woman in a skirt and a short-sleeved blouse. She wore a scarf tied over her hair.

‘I’m filthy from cleaning,’ she explained, wiping her hands on her thighs. ‘It’s been a big job. I think we have some of the rooms habitable at last. Hello, I’m Frank’s sister, Jo Davies.’ She held out her hand to clasp Belle’s in a warm, friendly grip.

‘I’m sorry to hear you had to do all this work for me. I didn’t know. I should pay you …’

Jo glanced at her brother and something passed between them. ‘Nonsense,’ she spoke easily, her voice trembling as if she was trying not to laugh. ‘My mother, Violet, was Martha Ambrose’s best friend and she was adamant you couldn’t spend a night in The Grand in the state it was in.’

Belle knew her face was flushed. They thought she was a fool, arriving here, totally unprepared.

‘Come on,’ Jo said. Frank stood back, waiting for her to go first, and there was nothing to do but follow.

The Grand had been built butting directly onto the street, but instead of taking them to the front door, Jo led them around to the back. ‘The door at the front is locked and we haven’t been able to find the key,’ she explained. ‘You can’t get in that way.’ There was a lane, and a little way further along, a gate stood ajar within the arch of a high brick wall.

Pale light threw a pattern on the shadowy desolation of an old stable yard, and Belle could see a lamp inside the window on the ground floor.

‘Careful, there are some broken bricks,’ warned Jo Davies as they followed in her wake.

‘Isn’t there a generator?’ Frank asked with that hint of impatience.

Jo shot him an amused look. ‘Couldn’t get it started.’

‘Haven’t you got school?’

‘Summer holidays,’ Jo reminded him. She turned to Belle to explain. ‘I’m a teacher at the Sweet Wattle Creek school. Well I’m the teacher.’

‘So there’s no electricity?’ Belle tried not to feel appalled, and wondered if she could remember how to light a lamp.

‘Not this far out of town.’ Frank answered her this time. His gaze settled on her face. ‘I’ll give the generator another try. I might be able to start it.’ And he disappeared around a corner into the deeper darkness.

‘Why do men always think they can do a better job?’ Jo said to no one in particular.

Belle lifted her face to stare up at the windows in the second storey. There was no light there and she imagined Martha standing behind the glass pane, staring back at her.

‘It looks haunted.’

As soon as the words were out of her mouth she wished them back. She wasn’t the sort of person to imagine ghosts and ghouls. It just showed how tired and rattled she must be, to have said such a thing.

‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’ Jo shot Belle a guilty sideways glance. ‘Sorry, that wasn’t a very helpful thing to say, was it?’

Away to the right came the sound of a motor spluttering and then failing. Jo smiled smugly and opened the door in front of them. Inside was what appeared to be a kitchen and Belle saw a woman stooped over the oven with a brush and shovel. The bucket on the floor was already full of ash and bits of charcoal. Something scuttled into the shadows.

‘Only mice,’ Jo said matter-of-factly. ‘Mum?’ She went to the woman to help her up, and Belle saw that Violet had white hair and her lined face was gentle and sweet, with an almost elfin quality. She must be about sixty years of age, the same as Rory was. ‘Mum, she’s here after all. Frank brought her. The train broke down.’

‘Oh, she’s here after all!’ Violet’s face lit up. ‘Belle?’ She came forward, passing the dustpan and brush to Jo, and reached out to take Belle’s hands. ‘Oh, Belle, my dear. I can’t believe you’re home. After all these years.’

Home.

The word echoed in her head, the building enclosed her, and Belle couldn’t breathe.