Lyrebird Hill (9 page)

The flowers dropped from my fingers and scattered on the floor. Pressing my knuckles against my lips, I stared at myself in the mirror. I was hunched over, with possum eyes and cheeks darkened by the shadow of my hair.

The memory had been so vivid that I could still smell the woodsmoke from our old farmhouse kitchen, still feel the icy floorboards under my feet. The scissors rasped, and my thick dark locks slithered over my shoulders as I tried not to cry.

What happened on the rocks that day, Ruby?

I searched my reflection, but there was no hint of the bright, beautiful sister I had idolised as a child. Just my own familiar face – brown eyes, sweeping brows, unruly dark hair. Jamie’s hair had been waist length, her eyes golden and her skin paler than mine; if there had ever been a likeness, there was no sign of that resemblance now, at least none that I could see.

Mum, on the other hand, must still be aware of it. Hadn’t she commented, only last week, how much nicer my hair looked short?

In translation:
With long hair, you remind me of Jamie
.

Rob’s apartment in Coffs Harbour was on the top floor of an older style block on the hill. Inside, the renovations were extensive, and the suite now boasted a huge open plan area with
windows overlooking the jetty and Muttonbird Island, and then beyond to the Pacific Ocean.

I shifted uncomfortably on the sleek leather sofa. I had a champagne flute in one hand and a stick of cucumber in the other, and my bare feet were buried in the thick pile of a black flokati rug.

I should have been in seventh heaven.

Instead, I was glaring at the back of Rob’s head, quietly fuming.

Two weeks had passed since my mother’s opening in Armidale. In that time we hadn’t returned to the subject of the lace bra. For Rob, it seemed to have passed into ancient history; meanwhile, I continued to brood.

‘How’s that?’ Rob asked, glancing over his shoulder. He’d hammered a nail into the wall and was attempting to straighten his new painting.

I shrugged. ‘Maybe a bit to the left.’

He adjusted the painting, then moved back to assess the effect. Obviously pleased, he shuffled onto the couch beside me and poured himself a drink. Mum’s exhibition had closed yesterday, and the painting Rob had bought – the antique Singer sewing machine – had arrived by courier at Rob’s therapy rooms this morning. He had waited until I turned up before hanging it, and then insisted we celebrate the occasion with bubbly.

‘You’re very quiet,’ he noted.

‘I’m just not entirely convinced that it suits the decor. I mean, look at all your other stuff.’ I waved my cucumber stick at the room. ‘There’s all this chrome and leather and smoked glass, it’s all so mid-century. Mum’s old Singer would be more at home in a place full of older-style furniture, and . . . you know, antiques and collectables, that sort of thing.’

‘You mean, like
your
place?’

I slumped. Yes, of course I meant
my
place. And of course I couldn’t say so, because that would make me look selfish. But I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of resentment; Mum’s painting
seemed too personal to be displayed just anywhere. To me, it was more than just a work of art hung on the wall to enhance the decor; it was a fragment of my forgotten past, an image that held meaning for me. It was too fragile to be exchanged for money like ordinary merchandise. Too precious. Too full of memories.

My memories.

Abandoning my empty flute on the coffee table, I crossed the room to the balcony doors and stepped outside.

Rob caught up with me. ‘You’re not upset about the painting, are you, babe?’

‘Of course not. It’s just that . . .’ In truth, I
was
upset. I didn’t understand why he’d bought it and hung it on his feature wall, when he knew how conflicted I was about Mum. I gripped the railing and gazed unhappily at the street below. Light puddled beneath the street lamps, and two women in batik dresses laughed quietly as they hurried past. ‘I can’t stop thinking about seeing Mum, and then running into Esther Hillard. I know a fortnight’s gone by, but it all keeps replaying in my mind. It’s making me nuts.’

‘You still haven’t told me what you and your mum talked about.’

I shut my eyes, and when I opened them again, the world was still there; odd, I’d have sworn it had rocked off kilter for a moment. I felt woozy, cold. My fingers tightened around the rail.

‘Mum told me Jamie’s death wasn’t accidental.’

Rob shifted beside me. ‘I don’t understand. I thought you said she fell.’

I stared out across the dark sea. ‘There was an investigation,’ I said quietly. ‘Jamie’s injuries weren’t consistent with a fall, but the police never found any evidence of a third party. Apparently the only ones on the rocks that day were Jamie . . . and me.’

There was a stillness. I imagined I could hear Rob’s brain ticking over; it made a sound like a typewriter dashing out
sentences, the clackety-clack of keys increasing in speed until his assessment of what I’d just said was fully formed.

‘Christ,’ he said softly. ‘Now I get your mood. Ruby, I’m sorry.’

‘It’s okay,’ I said too quickly.

Rob ran his hand up my spine, rubbing gently between my shoulder blades ‘Seeing your mum again really put a spin on things, didn’t it?’ he said gently.

‘I guess.’

The wind picked up, and he slid his arm around me, tucking me close against his warmth. ‘You know, babe, I hate to say this, but maybe you and Margaret aren’t meant to be friends.’

I looked at him and frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Maybe it’s time to let her go.’

Breaking from him, I stared into his face. He was striking in the starlight, a man carved from granite rather than flesh and blood. All-wise, all-understanding. From the moment I met him three years ago, I had the sense that I’d known him forever; yet he still had the ability to take me by surprise.

‘You mean never see her again?’ I asked softly. ‘Cut all ties with her . . . just like that?’

Rob nodded.

I turned my gaze to the sea. Beyond the jetty lights, it was a vast dark nothingness. Muttonbird Island had been swallowed by the night, and the waves were present in sound only, lapping the invisible shore with their wet sighing-song. The wind tasted of salt and seaweed and waterlogged wood; smells I’d grown accustomed to in the eleven years I’d lived here. Sharp, vigorous smells that had seeped into me and changed me, made me forget the subtle fragrance of the arid western slopes where I’d grown up.

When Mum sold Lyrebird Hill in 1996 and moved us to Armidale, I hadn’t coped with the change. The sprawling university town was in the heart of the New England tablelands of northern New South Wales and its pace was laid-back – but to a girl who’d spent the last six years on a remote property, it was
overwhelming. I’d cried for weeks, unable to adjust to life away from my beloved bushland. Away from the river, from the wild-flowers and the freedom. Away from my memories of Jamie. But as the months rolled away, so did my anxiety. Slowly, I came to love Armidale’s leafy tree-lined streets and hustle-bustle of cars and pedestrians and whizzing bicycles. In many ways, the change had done me good.

And yet I’d never been able to shake the feeling of not belonging. Mum and I argued frequently; Jamie’s absence hung heavily between us. The minute I turned eighteen, I packed my bags and escaped to the coast. I got a job in a bookshop, and discovered I was good at it; I worked hard, learned the ropes, and slowly built a life for myself.

A cat wailed in the street beneath us, and in the distance a truck changed gears as it ground uphill on the highway. From the corner of my eye I could see through the patio doors to the white wall where Rob had hung my mother’s darkly colourful painting. A lot of love had gone into rendering that old Singer in such fastidious detail; talent, too, and years of practice. But mostly love.

Could Rob be right? Could it be time to close that chapter of my life and move on? And if so, could I really bear to cut ties with my mother, despite our ragged history?

Beside me, Rob shifted. ‘It’s getting cold, hon. You want to call it a night?’

When he slipped his arm around my shoulders and steered me back inside, I didn’t resist. It was only when we passed the painting that I hesitated. My toes dug into the shagpile rug, anchoring me in place as I studied it. It was a fragment plucked from a world that no longer existed for me; an echo of happy times, a tenuous thread to my childhood. Logic said that Rob was right. Mum and I were in each other’s too-hard basket. We were only making one another unhappy.

It was time to let go.

I tried to back away from the picture, but my toes wouldn’t unclench their grip on the carpet. So I stood there, wishing for a quiet place out of earshot of the sighing waves; a place where I could curl up, shut out the world, and let my thoughts unravel.

Rob drew me back against his chest and pressed his lips into my hair.

I closed my eyes. Into the darkness came our old farmhouse. I could hear a swishing sound. Mum was sweeping the kitchen floor. I was standing in the doorway, thirteen again. The back of my neck prickled, and I kept rolling my head from side to side, trying to get used to the lightness that had replaced my long hair.

I narrowed my eyes at my mother.

I hate you
, I said.
I hate you for cutting my hair. Jamie loved to braid it, her fingerprints still would’ve been on it. Now it’s gone and I’ll never have it back because you’re sweeping it away. I hate you.

Mum looked over and saw me standing there. She put her broom aside, and stepped over the pile of dusty hair, came towards me. I stood my ground. I wasn’t afraid of her. I knew she hadn’t heard the words I’d said. Only I’d heard, because I’d said them in my heart.

‘Oh, Ruby.’ Gathering me into her arms, she started to cry, hugging me tight, like she used to do when I was small. ‘My sweet little girl, what have I done?’ Her tears scalded my skin. She was soft and smelled like bottled apricots and honey. Once, I would have hugged her back, surprised and glad for the attention. But now I just stood there, listening as she sobbed my name over and over, as if she had lost not only Jamie, but me as well.

Rob left at dawn the following morning to catch a flight to Melbourne for five days of book promotion. I headed home to Sawtell, stopping by the supermarket on the way to grab some supplies. Despite it being Sunday, the shops were crammed with people and I was glad to escape back to the car.

My old Corolla chugged along at ninety, rattling and groaning and occasionally letting out a pop. She’d seen better days, and Rob was always warning about the perils of driving a relic four years older than I was. To my way of thinking, buying a new car seemed somehow disloyal. This old girl had been a faithful friend, and while she still had some life in her, I’d never dream of upgrading.

Pulling into my driveway, I climbed the stairs to the verandah. An enormous fluffy white cat was sunning herself in a patch of early light. She must have detected the contents of my grocery bag, because she curled around my legs, squeaking in excitement.

‘Hello there, Sissy.’

She belonged to Earle Bradley, the retiree who helped me at the shop. Earle had returned home a couple of days ago, after the successful removal of a malignant sunspot. Sissy’s appearance on my doorstep meant that Earle was out and about. He lived a few doors up the street, and I’d only seen him briefly since his return from Sydney, and was looking forward to catching up.

Hoisting Sissy onto my hip, I unlocked the door and went inside. The house was musty after being closed up overnight, so I put Sissy on the floor and walked through the house, opening windows. Kicking off my shoes, I retrieved my thongs from under the dining table, and took my groceries out to the kitchen.

Soon the aroma of sizzling bacon and fried tomato, melted cheese, eggs and toast filled my small cosmos. I collected a plate for myself, and one for the cat, and stacked them with bacon, then added cheese and tomato and a handful of wilted dandelion greens to mine. I was just about to retire to the patio when someone knocked on the back door.