Skylarking (19 page)

FORTY

I
SAT IN THE TOWER WITH MY FATHER THE NIGHT
before I was to leave, and I did not know what to say. Nor did he. He began, and stopped, and began again, but nothing felt right to him, it seemed.

I wanted to tell him that I didn't mind. That it was enough to be back up there in the tower, the light shining out above us, feeling high and separate from the world. Knowing the waves would roll in and roll on forever, that the light would stand sentinel. Blink, flash, blink.

I stepped out onto the balcony, and the wind whipped my hair across my eyes. I raised my hands to my ears so that they didn't fill with the whistling cold.

The moon was nearing full, and the cape was spread below us in silvery light. The moon shadow of the lighthouse pointed across the scrub out to the sea in the direction in which the boat would take me tomorrow.

Nestled in behind us were the three cottages, a faint glow in the windows, three plumes of smoke, rising up and being taken by the wind. Inside ours, my mother, my sister and brothers would be going about their night-time duties. My siblings were relieved, I imagined, that I would be gone. That they might finally escape the brittle edge of emotion I had brought into our home. Mother would take it harder. But she, too, might breathe easier with me gone for a time, knowing that she and Father had set me on a path from where I might recover something of a life. Do my duty to the family. Marry.

In the smallest cottage, Albert would be reading to his younger siblings. He was a good brother and kind. At his pressing I had agreed that I would consider his proposal while I was away. That I would come home six months hence with a final answer. He had taken my hand in his and said I must promise to do this. And I said I would.

I would not marry Albert. I knew it then, but I could not bear to cause any more hurt before I left. I had told him to keep watch over my sister and brothers for me. I hoped, perhaps in time, that he might draw close to Emmaline. That she might bring him happiness.

There, too, was the Walkers' cottage. I could not see the emptiness that existed without her, but I knew it was there.

A few days ago, when Mother and I were packing, I came upon my shelf of books, Harriet's books, and I was suddenly filled with dread. I had not turned a page for months, but I could not imagine leaving without the company of those great friends.

Mother noticed me hesitate and said, ‘Oh, Kate. You must return them to Annie. They are Harriet's, after all.'

‘I suppose I must.' I took out
The Coral Island
and ran my hand across its cover. Mother moved over to me, and I felt her hand on my shoulder.

‘After George …' she started, and I hushed her.

‘Mother, you do not have to explain.'

‘But I do, dear Kate. It is just that those things that were his were all I had left of him. I could not let them leave my sight.'

‘I understand,' I said, and piled up the books and asked Mother to see them returned to Mrs Walker. I thought it best I didn't go myself.

Standing out there on the lighthouse balcony in the wind, I recalled how, just yesterday, holding little Lucy's hand on the way out to feed the goats, I'd suddenly felt a wretched tug right in the soft place where my rib cage met. It was the feel of her fleshy hand in mind. All those ridges of skin coming against each other, pressing sweat and warmth and feeling. I thought of all the times Harriet's hand had been in my own. I thought of how it was always her palm turned forwards towards mine, mine back towards hers and if, for some reason, we mixed this up, it felt so strange we pulled our hands apart, fumbling and laughing, until we had righted them and carried on.

I wondered, perhaps for the thousandth time, why I had not lain down beside Harriet at the hut and taken her hand in mine and not moved until they had come and found us. Why I had not recognised that I would never hold her hand again, and that holding it as it grew cooler and cooler until it was cold would have been a comfort, at least to me.

My father called from inside the tower. ‘Don't get too cold out there.'

‘Coming,' I replied and turned my head to look down further. Past the cliffs to our beach, and tucked back behind it to where I knew the hut was.

I had not seen McPhail again. Father had said that he had gone north and would be away for some months. He did not stop past to say goodbye. For this I was glad. I could not bear the thought of him near. I dreamed of him, of Harriet, and I woke in feverish sweats and rubbed at my eyes until I could no longer see the haunted visions in my head.

A cloud scudded across the sky, shadowing the moon, until it reappeared, bright, illuminating the cape once more.

I looked towards the bush that hid the clearing where Harriet lay.

‘I am sorry I am leaving you,' I said to the wind, ‘but I have to go from here.'

I ducked back in through the door to the warm lantern-light of the tower, and my father saw me down the steps and said I must sleep now for there was a long journey ahead.

Mother embraced me and held her lips against my cheek.

‘See that you send word as soon as you're settled.'

‘I will, straight away,' I said as I moved out of her arms.

The children had already kissed me and were running up the hill so they could watch me leave from the cliffs. Albert had chosen not to come down to the jetty.

Suddenly there was a shout from the track, and Walker was there. ‘Wait!' he called out.

I looked at Mother, anxious now to be away, not to prolong these goodbyes.

Walker was breathless as he approached. He held a package in his hand and pushed it towards me.

‘Annie wanted you to keep this,' he said as I took it in my hands. Rectangular and heavy. One of the books. ‘She knew it was your favourite. Harriet' – at her name he stopped, unable to go on for a moment – ‘Harriet always said.'

I thanked him, and he placed one hand on my shoulder and squeezed, just for a second.

‘Go safely now,' he said.

I hugged Mother one last time, and then Father helped me down onto the boat.

From the stern I watched the cliffs grow smaller. I waved and waved to the group at the top of the cliff. I saw Emmaline, holding Lucy's hand, keeping her safe back from the edge. In a trick of the light I thought I saw them throw their hands up to the sky. I thought I saw Harriet and me, standing on top of the world, of our cape, laughing and brave and fearless in the face of the lives ahead of us. So great and unknown.

I felt in my pocket for Harriet's ribbon. I drew it out and fingered the soft satin and brought it to my lips. I held it up and waved again, and the ribbon trailed out in the wind and twirled and swirled, and I saw the girls jump and wave both hands in the air.

And then I let it go. It spun up for a moment in an eddy of wind and then whipped up and away. I watched it against the flurries of white caps, against the blue sky, the racing clouds. Then it was lost, and I could see it no more.

The cliffs grew more distant, and I turned to look at what lay ahead. Captain Patterson stood at the prow, scanning the horizon.

‘Alright there, miss?' he called back.

‘I am,' I said.

EPILOGUE

H
AD
I
KNOWN WHAT WAS TO COME
,
WOULD
I
HAVE FELT
so light, so free, with every mile I travelled away on the boat that day? I thought I had experienced everything, lived it all in those years on the cape, but I knew nothing of the love and the loss that lay ahead of me. I did not realise that I would step off the boat onto a jetty that led to a road that led to a city and eventually to a man and babes I would bear and then lose as men in the filthy foreign mud of a land I would never get to see. That, as happens, one thing leads to another and to another. Good or bad. Joy or sorrow, there is so little about it that we can control. It is fate, damn destiny, that has its way with us.

Oh, to remember. It is sweet and bitter, both. To remember it all has filled me with the vast light of the cape again, allowed me to feel Harriet's hand in mine once more, bruised me with grief. I often return to that day in my darkest hours, to the doubt that haunts me still, the moment – again and again and again – when the gun goes off, when she falls.

Forgive yourself,
I have sometimes imagined I hear her whisper in the wind. For that is what she would have said. And, perhaps, when the day comes for my redemption, not so long away now, I will find that I have.

What I lost – what was elusive – in all those years of trying not to remember, was the truth: about her, about us. She made me, is always part of me. For all that came after, for every other moment that has plucked at my heart or made it sing or broken it, there was never a time, never a love, like that.

Harriet, my Harriet, my love.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Skylarking
is a work of fiction, based on the true story of the accidental shooting of Harriet Parker by her best friend, Kate Gibson, in the hut of Donald McPhail at Cape St George in 1887. I came upon this story while camping with dear friends near the site of Harriet's grave at Greenpatch camping ground in Jervis Bay, New South Wales.

For my research on the true story of what happened at Cape St George, I am indebted to Bridget Sant's work
Lighthouse Tales: Intrigue, Drama & Tragedy at the Lighthouses of Jervis Bay.
I have explored a number of lighthouses during the writing of this book and am grateful to staff and volunteers at the lighthouses of Point Hicks, Cape Schanck and Cape Otway for their time and generosity in answering my endless questions. I used the collections of the State Library of Victoria to read diaries and accounts of young women and lighthouse keepers from the era, and the National Library of Australia's excellent resource, Trove, to examine newspaper articles, including the records of the inquest into Harriet Parker's death.

The historical records of the Cape St George Lighthouse make no mention of Aboriginal people, evidence of the way in which the historical record so often ignores the ongoing colonisation and dispossession of the traditional custodians of this land. The stories and experiences of Aboriginal people are not mine to tell but are ones that I respectfully acknowledge. The context and depiction of the Aboriginal characters in this work has been influenced by my research into the Gurnai Kurnai people during the nineteenth century, in the area now known as East Gippsland.

A number of resources were useful as I approached this aspect of the book, and I am grateful for the Australia Council's
Protocols for Producing Indigenous Australian Writing
and the Australian Society of Author's
Writing About Indigenous Australia
resources, produced by Dr Anita Heiss and Terri Janke.

Kate Gibson and Harriet Parker became my Kate and Harriet. I have only guessed at what might have occurred between them, and I do not know what became of the real Kate. I hope that my imaginings do justice to the real lives these women led.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My publisher and editor, Aviva Tuffield, took a chance on me, and I am eternally grateful that she did; her care and precision have been first class. The wonderful team at Black Inc., Sophy Williams and Jessica Pearce in particular, have been ever enthusiastic; I thank them for their expertise.

Kate's voice first appeared in an exercise in a fiction class at RMIT. This novel would not exist without the support of the teachers and students in the Professional Writing and Editing course. My thanks in particular to Michelle Aung Thin, Clare Strahan, Olga Lorenzo, Penny Johnson and my fellow students in the fiction classes, whose insights were so valuable. Before RMIT, a host of teachers sparked my love of books and words, and I am grateful to all of them, and to the many teachers who continue to inspire young writers today. Special thanks to Lisa Jacobson, whose timely support set me back on this writing path.

I am indebted to the wonderful women of my writing group: Kim Hood, Katherine Collette and Emily Stoikovich. Thanks also to Meg Dunley for wisdom and friendship, and to the combined talents of the ‘writerly ladies'.

Particular thanks to Kelly Gardiner for guidance, inspiration and the use of her desk, bookshelves and teapot when I was deep in editing; and thanks to Lucy Treloar for pertinent and valuable advice. A week at Varuna provided uninterrupted writing time and engaging companionship.

My love and gratitude to Erika Wells – your support and unwavering belief in me is a treasured gift. To my friends: ‘the girls', my SLV colleagues, and all who offered excitement and practical help, I am so lucky to have you. The fact that this book is an ode to friendship is not a coincidence.

My beloved grandmother, Patsy Cullinan, handed down the pudding recipe. Thank you to Helen and Graham Burns and all in our extended families. My sister Maggie Mildenhall is wise and wonderful and my trusted adviser. A house full of books is a precious thing and is among the multitude of reasons I am grateful to my parents, Liz and Peter Mildenhall. This book would have been impossible without you.

Gracie and Etta, thank you for being crazy and clever and funny and brave and for teaching me so much. Adam, you created a space in our life so that I could do this and have championed this book and me every step of the way. Thank you.