Lyrebird Hill (11 page)

Collecting my string bag from the counter, I headed for the front door, then paused. My nostrils flared. The sweet fly-spray smell I’d noticed earlier was stronger here. It seemed to be drifting from the bathroom. I looked over at Rob.

He made a show of checking his watch, then ran a hand over his mouth. ‘Will I see you tonight, babe?’

I gazed back at him, mentally shuffling through the apparently random list of things that were out of place in his apartment. The champagne in the fridge, the scent I couldn’t quite identify, the uncustomary disorder. And most of all, Rob’s hot–cold behaviour, as if he couldn’t decide whether he wanted me here or not.

He was watching me, probably wondering why I hadn’t replied to his question. Our eyes met, and something in his expression made me suddenly wary. I went along the short hall to the bathroom, where the chemical smell got stronger.

It wasn’t fly spray, I realised. And then I understood why it seemed familiar. It was perfume: ‘Poison’ by Dior. I hadn’t worn it for months; I’d never had the heart to tell Rob that it didn’t suit me. I’d grown up with a mother who daubed herself in essential oils and essences, and I had, somewhere along the way, adopted her preference.

Pushing open the bathroom door, I stopped.

A soggy towel lay abandoned on the floor. Another was draped over the side of the freestanding spa bath. Sitting on the rim of the tub were two champagne flutes. Even from the doorway I could see that one had a smear of crimson lipstick on its rim.

My lips parted. My skin flushed hot, then turned slowly to ice.

‘What a mess,’ Rob said, reaching past me to pull shut the door. I felt the heat of his body. He stood close. Too close. ‘It’s a good thing the cleaner’s on her way. I had a couple staying here while I was in Melbourne, some old uni friends. Slobs,’ he added. ‘I won’t be inviting them again anytime soon.’

I wanted to move, but I was locked in place. In my mind I was still seeing the champagne flute with its crimson smear. A dark fist of understanding wedged itself up under my ribcage and began to expand. Vaguely, I knew I was holding my breath, and it was making my heart thud unsteadily, but there was no room in my lungs to draw air.

‘We’d best be off,’ Rob said, and his voice broke the spell.

I turned on him and searched his perfect face. His mouth was tight, his gaze fixed on me; he must have registered my shock, but was resolutely ignoring it.

‘You lied,’ I said in a raw voice. ‘I trusted you, and you lied.’

‘No, babe.’ He stared into my face, almost raptly, his eyes aglow, as if spellbound by the pain he must surely see there. ‘You can’t seriously think . . . Oh come on, Ruby, it’s not what it looks like.’

‘How could you?’

Pushing past, I went back along the hall to the front door and wrenched it open. Rob caught up with me and took hold of my arm. ‘Ruby, you’re making a mistake.’

I shrugged him off. ‘My only mistake was believing you the first time. I never want to see you again.
Babe
.’

The minute I arrived home, I dragged my overnight bag from under the bed and began to pack.

Jeans, T-shirts, track pants. I hesitated over the black pantsuit I’d worn to Mum’s opening, then tossed it aside and went through my other clothes. Dark-coloured skirts and crisp businesslike shirts, more pantsuits. Rob was always reminding me that black was classy and sophisticated; best of all, it was slimming.
You have to dress like the person you want to become
, he always added with a wink.

Rubbing the dampness off my cheeks, I kicked shut the wardrobe door. At that moment, I hardly knew who I
was
, let alone who I wanted to become. The only reliable person I had in my repertoire was the person I’d once been.

Going over to my dressing table, I slid open the bottom drawer. Inside, I found a dozen or more of my old dresses, neatly folded, intended for the op shop. I took out a one-time favourite and went to the mirror. It was reminiscent of the fifties, with a soft collar and capped sleeves, gathered at the waist so the skirt flared out at the knee; pretty, a bit kooky, brightly coloured – a world away from the subdued corporate-style clothes I’d adopted since meeting Rob.

A world away from Rob.

Slipping out of my work clothes, I put on the dress and instantly felt lighter, more at home in myself. Feeling almost defiant, I packed the remaining dresses in my bag, and was about to slide shut the drawer when I noticed a photo lying face down on the bottom. Not just any photo, but the Polaroid I’d been searching for. Turning it over, I drew a sharp breath.

‘Jamie.’

She glowed against a background of trees, her dark hair falling loose around her shoulders, her gaze fixed on the photographer. Her face was breathtaking, a perfect oval, her delicate lips slightly parted, her almond-shaped eyes gazing with an intensity that was at once untamed and demure. She wore my mother’s ivory
wedding dress, and her posture made me think of a wild deer, startled by the appearance of a hunter.

Mum had made it clear a long time ago that the subject of my sister was taboo.
What’s the good of making ourselves miserable by talking about her,
she always said.
Words aren’t
going to bring her back.

But as I studied the photo, a feeling of urgency overtook me. Eighteen years had passed since Jamie died. The grief had taken decades to heal, and even now the scar tissue over it was thin. I still had nightmares. I still couldn’t remember. I still felt waves of guilt when I tried to cast back to that day.

All of a sudden, I wanted desperately to understand why.

Brenna, March 1898

M
y father’s wolfhound raced ahead of me along the river track, his big shaggy body quickly vanishing in the dense lomandra grass. It was only a few hours after dawn, but the morning was already hot. Spears of sunlight penetrated the valley shadows, making the dew shimmer in the trees and setting the grass alight with rainbows.

Ever since my acceptance of Carsten Whitby’s proposal just over a week ago, I had been dreading this day. My wedding was fast approaching, but I still hadn’t spoken to my friends at the encampment. I wanted desperately to see Jindera, to tell her my news; to explain about my father’s debt and Whitby’s offer, and my choice to leave Lyrebird Hill rather than see it fall into the wrong hands. But most of all, I wanted to see in Jindera’s eyes that she understood I wasn’t simply deserting her.

Harold began to bark. I glanced along the track, then up the hill, but couldn’t see him. Ducking under a low-hanging bough, I pushed forward along the riverbank. When I heard the yelp, and then a sharp high-pitched series of yaps, my stomach started to churn a little. I picked up pace and began to run.

‘Harold!’

I saw him up ahead, crouched with his haunches up and tail lashing from side to side, barking at something concealed from me on the other side of the grass. He released another sharp yip, then began to growl at what he had discovered in the grass.

‘Come here to me, boy!’

Ignoring my command, he darted sideways then retreated. Several feet away, I spied a long black body with a tinge of red along its belly. Hands shaking, I dragged open my dillybag and took out the revolver Aunt Ida had given me. Cracking open the frame, I fumbled six cartridges into the cylinder and snapped shut the breech. Pulling back the hammer, I took aim at the snake and cautiously approached. My pulse began to crash noisily in my ears. As I cleared the lomandra, the snake raised its head and hissed softly as it prepared to strike.

Holding my breath, I took aim and fired.

Harold yelped and dashed behind me, cowering and shaking his head. His ears would ring for days, and he would be gun-shy for a while, but he was alive.

Not so the snake.

Its head was gone, severed cleanly. Although it was dead, the nerves that wove along its lengthy backbone continued to function. The glossy body lashed and coiled on itself, the delicate tail looping and whipping the ground, slippery black in the sunlight.

Finally the sleek body stilled.

I emptied the unspent cartridges and stowed the weapon back in my dillybag, then grasped the snake’s tail and picked it up. Its skin was velvety smooth, its strong muscles now limp. Calling Harold to my side, I continued along the river towards the camp, my mood now even more sombre.

Mama used to say that all God’s creatures valued their lives as much as we valued ours. My memories of her were hazy, but I’d never forgotten her gentle manners and kind, calming voice. She had loved all living things, and in my mind’s eye
I imagined her shedding a tear for the creature whose life I had just ended.

My own eyes were dry as I made my way towards the camp, but I understood my mother’s viewpoint. Deadly as it had been, the red-belly black had possessed a fierce beauty, and I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of regret for its demise.

Jindera, on the other hand, would be delighted. It wasn’t every day someone arrived with breakfast.

Jindera was crouched at the river’s edge, collecting water in a bark dish. Her bony spine formed a ridge down the back of her yellow dress, and wisps of her hair lifted gently on the breeze. She was singing, her voice thin and eerie as it drifted in the still morning.

Further downstream a couple of boys were stalking the shady shallows, probably hunting turtles they would catch with their hands. Some girls were sitting along the banks weaving fishing nets from grass fibres. They looked over when they saw me, and one of them waved and called out to Jindera.

Jindera got to her feet and turned to greet me. When I lifted the snake for her to see, she smiled.

‘Where you get that long fella?’ she wanted to know.

‘I shot him.’

‘We hear gunfire. Boys go along track, see you. Why you shoot him?’

I pointed to Harold. ‘The fool of a dog nearly got himself bitten.’

Jindera took the snake from my hand, calling to the other women as she held her prize aloft. Meera, an older girl with a tiny baby strapped to her back, ran ahead of us to stoke the campfire coals. Meera, like most of the others, wore only a string around her hips from which hung a scrap of wallaby hide. There had been a time when the people’s nakedness had embarrassed
me, but over the years I had stopped noticing. Jindera was the only one who wore European-style clothes, and I suspected that her choice had less to do with modesty, and more to do with the fact that her dress was a gift from my aunt.

As we headed back to the camp, Jindera was quiet. I knew she sensed my mood, and was waiting for me to speak, but it wasn’t until we arrived at the perimeter of huts that I raised the courage to tell her.

I stopped walking. ‘Jindera, I’m getting married.’

Her soft brown eyes held the question, but she remained silent.

‘I’ve come to say goodbye,’ I told her. ‘I’ll be going away for some time.’

Still Jindera said nothing. I knew she understood me, because she was holding her shoulders tight and a crease had appeared between her brows. She examined my face for a long time. At last she asked, ‘Where you go?’

‘Tasmania. It’s far from here. Across the water to another land.’

Jindera frowned, then shook her head. ‘No cross water Bunna. Danger there. Bad spirits.’

A wedge of sorrow lodged in my chest. ‘I don’t want to go,’ I admitted. ‘But Fa Fa is in trouble. He’s lost a lot of money, and now the men from the bank want to take our land away—’

I stopped, unable to go on. Jindera’s people had already lost their land – to us. But while ever my father owned this small pocket of wilderness there was at least a small haven for some of the Indigenous people. I thought of the poisoned damper, of the night raids and the cruel beatings, and I had to look away.

That was when I saw Jindera’s mother, Mee Mee.

She was sitting on a cleared patch of earth beneath the salmon gum where the marsupial skins had hung the last time I had visited. She was bent over a flat grindstone, a bark dish of water on one side and bowl of fine black seeds on the other.
While I watched, she sifted a handful of seeds onto the grindstone, trickled it with water and then began to pound the seed with a smaller stone. The seeds came from grasses, or the flat succulent pigweed the native people called munyeroo. Later, when the men arrived back after the day’s hunt, the sticky balls of seed meal would be placed on hot coals and baked. Mee Mee’s seed cakes were highly prized, and whenever they were freshly made she always set a couple aside for me to take home.