Lyrebird Hill (3 page)

You girls tread carefully in the long grass
, she routinely warned. But Jamie and I always raced off, never listening. Down to the river, picking flowers and weaving hats from lomandra leaves. Ignoring Mum’s calls that dinner was on the table going cold. We’d hide beneath the gnarly casuarina that grew on the bank, bluebells and purple-pea trampled beneath our feet, giggling
madly with our heads together concocting wild stories, or belting out outlandish made-up songs.

The tension at the back of my head returned, and I rubbed it absently. According to the doctors, my amnesia was the result of the head injury I’d sustained the day of Jamie’s accident. The injury had earned me eleven stitches and three weeks in hospital, and a god-awful headache that lasted months. Afterwards, my brain had gone into lock-down, burying my recall of that year in an unyielding vault.

But now, as I drifted through the landscape of memories my mother had created, I felt the contents of that vault begin to stir.

The next painting was eerie, as beautiful as a dream. It was a garden panorama observed through the open kitchen window. Curtains billowed in the breeze, framing a perfectly manicured landscape. The garden had never been that well tended in my day; its beds were always choked with weeds and drifts of gum leaves and fallen banksia pods.

Here in the painting it resembled a picture postcard: roses frothed around the base of a nodding purple butterfly bush, and nearby a clump of spider dahlias bristled in the heat. On an elevated bank overlooking the vegetable garden grew a walnut tree, its bare branches festooned with last season’s pods. At the foot of the trunk was a small mound of earth, like a new grave.

It was a lyrical painting, magical – a summer song rendered in pigment and light – but the wintry tree with its blackened pods and grave-like mound infused it with a sinister element.

‘She’s certainly got talent, hasn’t she?’

An elderly woman had sidled up beside me. She was tiny, possibly in her nineties, and wore a red dress embroidered with white daisies, complemented by a knitted bag and gorgeous black patent shoes. Her snowy hair was braided into bunches behind her ears, and pinned to the neckline of her dress was a tiny bouquet of native daisies – yellow-buttons, we’d called them as kids. As she moved closer to the painting, the
overhead lights gleamed off the antique silver locket she wore at her throat.

She bent forward and squinted at the printed legend attached to the wall at the base of the canvas.

‘It’s called
Inheritance
. An intriguing name for a garden vista.’ She beamed, and her features shifted into a landscape of wonderful wrinkles. ‘I suppose the mystery is what makes it so enjoyable to ponder.’

It was probably nostalgia brought on by seeing Mum’s paintings, but this woman seemed ever so vaguely familiar. I wanted to ask her name, but I held back. The gaps in my memory made chatting about the old days awkward; from the age of twelve I’d habitually avoided talking about the past, and old habits were hard to break.

‘I’m not a big fan of mysteries,’ I admitted. ‘I’m the type who lies awake all night worrying over them. I’m much more comfortable knowing the facts.’

The woman looked at me, openly curious. ‘Then I feel for you, my dear. The way I see it, life is one big mystery. A person thinks they have it all figured out, that there’s nothing left to learn, and that’s usually the point when the next big question lands on their head like a bomb. You must spend many a sleepless night? I know I do,’ she added with a laugh.

I couldn’t help smiling. ‘You’ve got me pegged. I’m a chronic insomniac.’

We both chuckled, and a warm feeling came over me. I felt as if I’d known this woman for years. Her gaze seemed so open and friendly, so filled with approval. And her voice made me think of cosy things: buttered scones, bookshelves crammed with well-thumbed volumes, hot chocolate and laughter. The moment was so sweet that I lost my qualms and had to ask.

‘The artist is my mum. Are you a friend of hers?’

The woman looked pleased. ‘Yes, dear. At least I was, many years ago. We were neighbours.’

‘I
thought
you looked familiar! You’re . . .’ There was an embarrassing silence as I groped around for the name I’d obviously forgotten.

She smiled kindly. ‘You might remember me as Mrs Hillard. But please, call me Esther. I bought Lyrebird Hill from your mother, after . . . well, after you both moved back to town. It’s been a long time, Ruby. How old were you then – eleven, twelve?’

‘Thirteen.’

‘How’s life been treating you?’

‘Great!’ I said too hastily, then floundered. Now wasn’t the time to go into detail about how off-the-rails I’d been before I’d met Rob; how grief had driven a wedge between my mother and me; and how I still had the occasional nightmare about Jamie.

‘I’ve got a cottage over on the coast in Sawtell,’ I told her. ‘And I’ve—’
Met a really nice man
, I’d been about to say, but again my words stalled. I recalled the bra at the bottom of my handbag, and decided the topic of work was the safer option. ‘I have a little bookshop twenty minutes’ from home in Coffs Harbour, the Busy Bookworm. Despite everyone going digital, it’s been doing really well. I sell rare and second-hand books, as well as all the latest releases.’

Esther beamed. ‘I simply adore books. I’d love to see your shop – but I’m afraid my days of travelling to the coast are over. That sea air is a bit too humid for my old lungs.’ She patted her chest, and her bouquet released a sweet peppery scent.

It made me think of grassy slopes, and river water gurgling over stones, and the sound of children laughing. An image flashed into my mind: a room full of cluttered bookshelves, in which a grandmotherly woman sat in a patch of sunlight, reading from the volume in her lap. I saw two children perched at her feet, listening intently. I strained to bring their faces into focus; it was just a tiny glimpse of memory, but all of a sudden it seemed important. Yet even as I grasped for it, the scene slipped away like smoke.

Esther gestured at Mum’s canvas. ‘Margaret’s done a splendid job, hasn’t she? It’s been fascinating to see how the old farmhouse must have looked when the three of you lived there.’

‘It was more cluttered,’ I admitted. ‘Mum was quite a collector back then. She had stuff crammed into every corner.’ Despite my reluctance to talk about the past, the memory of our unruly living spaces touched me like a smile. My shoulders relaxed and I found myself rushing on. ‘Jamie and I were chronic hoarders, too. We filled the place with all the treasures we brought back from the bush – birds’ nests, lumps of driftwood from the river, that sort of thing. Mum’s paintings don’t do justice to the chaos we created. She’s made it all seem very empty.’

‘I suppose that’s how she remembers it,’ Esther said gently.

A length of silence followed. I feigned absorption in the painting, trying to think of a question to ask my companion that would divert our conversation in a new direction. There were plenty of topics that didn’t involve the past: Where had she bought her fabulous dress? Great shoes, too. And what was the story behind the lovely locket she wore? But standing there surrounded by my mother’s enormous canvases depicting a place so closely associated with my childhood, the past seemed inescapable.

Besides, I’d been quiet for too long.

Esther looked at me carefully. ‘You and your mother had a sad old time, didn’t you?’

‘Yeah,’ I muttered, unable to stop the sinking feeling. ‘We did.’

‘I’ve thought of you both so often over the years. Poor Jamie, too. She was such a bright girl. It must have been awful never knowing what really happened to her. All those years, wondering and worrying. I don’t know how Margaret coped.’

My face tightened in shock. ‘What do you mean?’

Esther frowned and moved nearer. ‘They never did find who was responsible, did they?’

‘Responsible?’ The nameless fear that had lain dormant in me for years stirred. I drew a steadying breath and centred myself. ‘Esther, you must be mistaken. Jamie fell. She hit her head. No one was
responsible
. It was an accident.’

Esther searched my face, seeming to take in every pore and freckle and line, frowning as if my features were a puzzle she was unable to work out. ‘Is that what your mother told you?’

I stared at her, trying to stem the panic. I had no memory of Jamie’s death; I couldn’t remember finding her on the rocks that day, or the aftermath of questions; nor could I remember her funeral, or the months that followed. Mum had sat me down one day and outlined a simplified version of events, no doubt hoping to unlock my memory. But when the vault refused to open, she’d given up trying.

‘Mum said there was a lot of rain that day,’ I explained, my words coming in a rush, leaving me breathless. ‘The rocks were slippery, Jamie must have misjudged the incline and lost her footing. It was definitely an accident, Esther. Maybe you’re thinking about someone else?’

Esther pressed her fingers to her earlobes. ‘Oh, Ruby, I do beg your pardon. My memory isn’t as good as it used to be. I’m sorry I’ve upset you.’

My lungs deflated, and I slumped. My limbs were suddenly shaky, my brain wired. A vague feeling of nausea swam around inside me.

‘That’s okay,’ I said in a mouse voice. ‘No harm done.’

Esther’s keen eyes – so intently trained on me until that moment – darted away. I followed her gaze across the gallery. People were milling in smaller groups now, or had detached from the central cluster to wander around the walls admiring the artwork. I saw Mum standing in the midst of a small gathering at the nibblies table.

Fingers curled around my wrist. Esther’s skin felt as smooth as ancient satin, but her grip was firm.

‘Will you promise me something, Ruby?’

I frowned at her, still shaken by our exchange.
Any
request for a promise made me wary, let alone one put forth by someone I’d only just met.

Esther released my wrist, but her eyes pleaded with me until I nodded.

‘Will you visit me at Lyrebird Hill?’ she asked. ‘Please say you will, my dear. We can continue our conversation in private. I have fond memories of you and Jamie as children. Perhaps they’ll help you remember? Besides, I’ve got something for you. A book,’ she added quietly.

Surprise made me ask, ‘What sort of book?’

Esther glanced over her shoulder, then replied hastily. ‘Now’s not the time to talk, love. Please say you’ll come and visit. I’ll show you the new gardens I’ve planted, and the seedling nursery, which I know you’ll adore. It’ll be great, we can make a day of it.’

I blinked at her. Visit Lyrebird Hill? Return to the place I’d spent the past eighteen years running from? Immerse myself in all the sights and sounds and smells of my childhood home, and risk
remembering
? The mention of a book rang my alarm bells, too.

‘I’ll think about it,’ I said reluctantly. ‘The shop’s pretty hectic at the moment. I might not be able to get away for a while.’

Esther adjusted her bag and smiled. ‘Well, when you
can
manage a couple of days off, why don’t you come and stay? There are plenty of spare bedrooms, as you know. Please do, Ruby. It would mean so much to me.’ Unpinning the bouquet of wildflowers from her collar, she pressed it into my hand. ‘Just turn up whenever you like, dear. Any time of night or day. My door’s always open.’

She hesitated, as if wanting to say more. Instead, she kissed me lightly on the cheek, then turned to join a group of patrons heading towards the entryway. I watched until she reached the
door, and caught a last glimpse of her white hair and red dress, before she disappeared outside.

‘Ruby!’

I looked around. Rob was weaving his way towards me through the crowd, balancing glasses of wine and a mini cheese platter.

‘There you are,’ he said, handing me a glass and helping himself to the platter. ‘Incredible turnout, isn’t it? All of Armidale must be here. Margaret’s sold just about everything, too. Having fun?’

‘Not really,’ I admitted, and gulped my wine. ‘I’ve had enough. I’ll say goodbye to Mum, and then meet you outside.’ Before he had a chance to respond, I stalked away into the thinning muddle of people, making a beeline for my mother.

When she saw me approaching, she hurried over and took my arm, steering me towards a quiet corner of the gallery.

‘I was wondering where you’d got to,’ she said. Her face was flushed and her chignon had frayed from its pins. ‘I’m afraid I’ve been caught up; did you get a chance to look around?’

‘The paintings are beautiful, Mum. All from memory, I suppose?’

She nodded. ‘Although I’ve spent the past four years cursing myself for not having the foresight to photograph the old place. It would have made my job a great deal easier.’

‘I’m sure Mrs Hillard would have welcomed a visit.’

Mum tensed. ‘You know how I feel about the place, Ruby. The paintings were a way for me to try and find a sort of closure. Actually going back there would have just opened up old wounds.’ When I didn’t reply, her eyes narrowed on my face. ‘What’s wrong, Ruby? You look pale.’

My pulse picked up, and I took a breath. ‘Speaking of Esther Hillard, she was here.’

Mum glanced over my shoulder. ‘Oh? I must say hello.’

‘She had to leave.’

‘That’s a shame. I haven’t seen her in ages. I’d love to catch up with her.’ Mum seemed to ponder this, then said a bit too loudly, ‘Had a good chat, did you?’

‘We did, actually. She mentioned Jamie.’

Mum forced a smile, but her eyes were wary. ‘Both you girls used to visit her when you were little. You went through a stage where you spent more time at her place than you did at home. She was very kind. To all of us.’

I did vaguely recall those early visits, but only one memory stood out. I thought of the flash I’d had while talking to Esther – the half-remembered room with its cluttered bookshelves and aroma of hot chocolate, and the cosy feeling of wellbeing.

‘She told me something about Jamie. It freaked me out.’

Mum paled, and her fingertips went to her throat. ‘Ruby, please,’ she said in a half-whisper. ‘Now’s not the time. Why don’t you drop by my place tomorrow, we can talk then.’