Lyrebird Hill (24 page)

‘Poor old Kangaroo,’ he said in a half-whisper, taking my hand. His fingers were calloused, warm. The way they curled carefully around mine made me feel a microscopic bit better.

I leaned against him.

We’d only known each other for a while, six months at the most. The Wolf had lived in Newcastle before coming to Clearwater, and was being fostered at Mrs Drake’s house, but I felt as if I’d known him forever.

I shut my eyes.

Dear Esmeralda with her quick black eyes and excited chatter. From the time she’d been a tiny fluffy chick, I’d tickled her and talked to her and saved her the best scraps from the kitchen. In return, she’d laid a perfect brown egg most mornings for my breakfast. Only lately she hadn’t laid many, which was why Mum had given her the chop.

‘I’ll ask Mrs Drake if you can have dinner with us tonight,’ the Wolf said.

I blinked away my tears and looked at him. He was oddly formal sometimes, the way he called his foster mother ‘Mrs Drake’. Doreen Drake was another casualty of my mother’s dislike list, which was probably what made me decide to accept the Wolf’s invitation. That, and the horror of what was being served at my own dinner table that night.

‘Will she mind?’

The Wolf shrugged. ‘Nah. She’s glad of the company now that Bobby’s at uni. Come on, Roo. It’ll be fun.’

‘Well . . . okay.’ Then an idea came to me, and it made me feel another microscopic bit better. ‘Do you think it’s too late to visit Granny H?’

The Wolf narrowed his eyes. ‘We were only there yesterday.’

‘She said her door’s always open.’

The Wolf let out a growl of pleasure and sprang to his feet, flashing a toothy smile. He pulled me to my feet, and suddenly I was smiling, too.

Running towards the trees, we took the uphill trail. Ten minutes later Granny H’s cottage came into view. Wild jasmine spilled along the verandah, and her door gaped wide. The smell of freshly baked scones sweetened the air. And there was Granny H, her silhouette shifting in the doorway, as if she’d been expecting us. Dusting her hands on her apron, she lifted her arm to beckon us in.

‘Hey, Ruby.’

Pete’s voice snapped me back to the present. My eyes refocused. I blinked at the chopping block with its scarred surface and smudges of blood.

The Wolf, I marvelled.

Remembering him was dreamlike, as if he were nothing more substantial than one of the imaginary friends who had germinated out of my childhood loneliness. As a kid, I’d clutched at anything to fill the void left by my father’s death, and by my mother’s withdrawal into grief. Jamie got caught up with her friends at school, but I wasn’t outgoing like she was. Hence my inclination to invent friends of my own.

But the Wolf was no invention.

Shutting my eyes, I tried to summon him. He’d been my height, a wiry boy with a starved look about him. Freckles,
pale city skin, dark hair . . . and something else. Vague images gathered like wisps of cloud, then broke apart. Tall trees silvered by moonlight, and a ridge of boulders crowded at the base by shadows . . . and deep in the darkness, a creature lurked, stealthy and unseen as it prepared to pounce—

‘Ruby, I don’t suppose you’re hungry?’

Following the aroma of frying bacon, I found Pete in a small cleared area surrounded by a grove of photinia shrubs. These red-tipped trees were not native to Australia, but I recalled they had fire-retardant qualities. Appropriate, because at the centre of the grove was a wild-looking barbecue constructed from a 44-gallon drum. The drum must have been filled with earth or rocks because the fire burned just below its upper rim. Pete had positioned a blackened grate over the fire, on which sat an enormous cast-iron frypan. I glimpsed a scrummy-looking fry-up: crispy bacon rashers, scrambled eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms and wedges of sizzling potato.

Settling onto a log seat near the fire, I accepted the tea Pete handed me. He had ducked back to his cottage while I was in the bath, and now wore a snug-fitting T-shirt that revealed a strong-looking chest and muscular arms. Taking the bench opposite, he sipped his tea, regarding me over the rim of his cup.

After a while, he said, ‘Can I ask you something about your amnesia?’

I shifted awkwardly on the bench. ‘Sure.’

‘How much time did you lose?’

‘About a year.’

Scratching his beard, he fixed me with his blue gaze. ‘I guess that makes sense. I was only here for six months or so.’

He’d obviously been mulling over why I didn’t remember him, which struck me as odd; even without the amnesia component, recalling every classmate from eighteen years ago might prove a stretch for most people. Which made me wonder if there was more to our story.

‘Were we friends?’ I asked.

He looked at his hands, and when he lifted his eyes again, they had turned dark. He nodded, and said huskily, ‘Yeah. We were.’

Standing abruptly, he went over to the barbecue and served up. As he passed me a plate of bacon, tomatoes, fried potato and fluffy scrambled eggs, he seemed thoughtful.

‘You said Esther was going to help you remember?’ he said, resuming his seat opposite.

I slumped a moment, regretting those weeks I’d wasted after Mum’s opening. If I had visited Esther sooner, instead of running scared, I might have learned something. About Jamie. About the day she died. And possibly even something about myself.

I tried to smile. ‘Esther told me she had fond memories of my sister and me as kids. She thought her reminiscences might help jog the bits I’d forgotten. Of course, I put off coming to see her, and now it’s too late . . . I guess I was scared.’

I glanced at Pete through my lashes, expecting him to question this, but he only nodded, his gaze intent on my face.

‘Your sister’s death must have been really traumatic for you,’ he gently observed. ‘Anyone would be scared of facing that. You don’t want to remember everything in a rush, it would probably do your head in. Best to let the memories come naturally, not force them. Maybe being here will help,’ he added, almost to himself.

Picking up my fork, I dug into the eggs, feeling better because of what he’d just said. His comment about not forcing my memories resonated with me; it made me relax a little, and recognise that my trip here hadn’t been too far off the mark, after all. I found myself sneaking another look at him from behind the curtain of my hair.

The image of a boy with a square freckled face and ragged black hair and blue eyes nudged ever so gently against my awareness.

Once, as kids, we’d been friends.

All of a sudden, I understood why.

That night I stood in the darkness of the house, letting the silence wash around me. Shadows seemed to draw apart to make way for me, the floor and walls and ceiling shifting and opening as if in welcome. The onslaught of sensations I had experienced earlier in the day was gentler now. The echoing voices dimmed, the dusty aromas were barely there – Mum’s grass-flavoured tea, her blackberry muffins and sour cream, and underneath it all, as if seeping from the rafters and walls, was the faint, haunting tang of apples.

I switched on the lights and walked through the house, admiring Esther’s stylish touch. Leather lounge chairs were softened with crocheted cushions and throw rugs; colourful paintings decorated the walls and vibrant Turkish rugs warmed the floors.

And books.

Everywhere were bookshelves, crammed with row after row of wonderful old books.

Running my finger along the spines, I hoped to see a title that I recognised as once belonging to me, but none rang any bells. Again I wondered if the book Esther had mentioned was Jamie’s diary; my sister had kept a diary for years, full of notes about what flowers appeared in spring, when we had rain, and little stories about the birds and lizards in the garden. As she got older, she had hidden her diaries away. Perhaps Esther had discovered one of these later journals secreted in the back of an old wardrobe?

I searched for a while, but there was no sign of any diary, so I collected my overnight bag from the hall and went along to my old room.

Esther’s flair for decor was evident here, too. A narrow bed sat near the window, over which was spread a colourful patchwork quilt. There was an art deco wardrobe and a wooden chair
serving as a bedside, and a bright rug on the floor; it was a cheery room, and I felt instantly at home.

I found fresh sheets in the linen cupboard in the hallway, and made up my bed. Stripping down to my underwear, I climbed in.

Sleep didn’t come straight away.

My brain was in overdrive. Every time I shut my eyes, a different image would accost me. One of Mum’s paintings. Or a dog-eared report of the investigation into Jamie’s death. Or the memory of my mum with the scissors in the kitchen that wintry day. Then Rob would somehow appear, his handsome face flushed pink from the exertion of his betrayal; Rob, the one person who had kept me anchored, had now cast me adrift on a sea of lies.

I punched my pillow, then lay back. I felt off kilter, as if the protective armour I’d built around myself had broken open, leaving me exposed. I no longer recognised myself, and I sensed that the only way to be whole again was to find my way back to the truth.

In the dark I unzipped my overnight bag and took out the Polaroid of Jamie. Propping it on the bedside, I studied it in the moonlight. She seemed sad.

‘What happened that day?’ I asked quietly. ‘Did we argue, did I push you against the rocks and hurt you?’

No answer came back, of course. No voice from within, no glimmer of memory. Slumping back onto the bed, I gazed through the window into the garden beyond.

Silver moonlight drenched the hillside. The old walnut tree was still and shadowlike. Its trunk glowed ivory, its leaves hung motionless; it might have been a dark version of Mum’s painting.

Just before I drifted off, I wondered if Mum’s tin was still buried beneath it.

The following morning I had a brisk wash in the outdoor bathroom, and pulled on soft jeans and a cardigan over my singlet top.

Taking a pot of tea to the verandah, I sat in a patch of dappled sunlight and listened to Pete clatter about as he attended to his ute’s broken wishbone. The weathered decking felt smooth and cool beneath my bare feet, and my tea was hot and strong. The morning had all the ingredients of a total bliss-out – except for the bruised feeling around my heart that, despite my resolve not to think about Rob, still persisted. I realised I was beginning to dread my return to civilisation; the possibility of running into him gave me butterflies.

Pete was hoping to have the ute working the next day; he had some seedling deliveries to make to a nursery in Armidale and had offered to help me organise a tow truck for my car. It was also a good opportunity to visit Mum.

Whatever you do
, I cautioned myself,
don’t mention Jamie
.

I stared down the slope, feeling suddenly grim; if not Jamie, then what else did Mum and I have to talk about?

My gaze lingered on the walnut tree. The sun had risen over the hill, stitching a lacework of gold on the grassy slope beneath. Again, I thought of Mum digging under the winter-bare tree, her face wet with tears. Why would she bury an old tin? I’d gone in search of a spade the day before to see if it was still there, but Pete’s arrival had side-tracked me. Now seemed the perfect time to get back to it.