Thornwood House (33 page)

He didn’t seem embarrassed or bothered by our silence. I imagined he was used to it; for him, the world was always silent. I remembered what he’d said in the church yesterday, about not all silence being equal. I was beginning to understand. A lull hung between us now, devoid of talk, empty of conversation, punctuated by the chirp of cicadas and the pop of beetles against Bronwyn’s paper lanterns, by Corey’s muffled phone talk. And yet my awareness of him was acute, making it impossible for me to turn my attention elsewhere.

His hands began to move.
Can you hear the girls
?

I nodded, pointing in the direction of the jacaranda. I resorted to finger-spelling, stumbling on Bronwyn’s name, forgetting the crosshatched fingers of the W, making a botch of it.

Bronwyn’s . . . secret place.

Danny nodded.
Thornwood’s full of them.

My fingers tangled over themselves.
Easy to get lost
.

You like it here?

This brought a genuine smile. ‘Love it,’ I said, pulsing my fingers outwards from my heart. I drew my hand up from belly to chest, then made a diving motion with my fingers. ‘It feels like home.’

His gaze left my lips and he smiled into my eyes.

Do you have a secret place?

Maybe it was the beer I’d consumed, or perhaps the afterglow of all those chocolates. Or the heat, or vague exhaustion after a long emotional day, or even the unaccustomed pleasure of having company. Whatever the reason, I found myself getting to my feet, beckoning Danny to follow. We went down the stairs, through the jungle of hydrangeas and along the path that led into the front garden. The Millers had done a beautiful job. In the dim light, the grass was a green carpet. The trees had been shorn of their wayward limbs and now stood in the shadows, their fallen leaves whispering under our feet as we passed.

When we reached the rose arbour, I turned to Danny.

‘Not all that secret . . . but easily my favourite.’

He frowned as he looked around, no doubt taking in the tangled mess of leafless branches and gnarled trunks, the half-rotted flower brackets and desiccated rosehips. He ambled over to the bench inside the arbour and sat heavily. Reaching up, he snapped a hip from an overhanging bracket. Crumbling the dried pod in his fingers, he let it sift onto the ground, then looked across at me. I knew he was wondering – just as Hobe had wondered – why I didn’t dig out all the old rose trees and plant something else here instead.

So I had my excuses ready: I’m waiting for winter before I replant; I’m still browsing bare-rooted stock catalogues; I’ve been distracted by other things, what with the move and everything . . .

But the question never came. Instead, Danny patted the bench beside him, motioning for me to sit down. Taking out his notebook, he scribbled a line, his words barely decipherable in the gloom.

I can see why you like it here.

‘You can?’

Great view.

‘Oh . . . sure.’ I fumbled around a moment before perching on the furthest end of the bench, then followed his gaze across the valley.

The sun had swan-dived out of sight behind the faraway volcanic remnants. The sky was black, darkness had eaten up the garden. It was a glorious night, the air was restful and warm, tinged with the lingering after-scent of our feast. The girls were quieter now, but their disembodied voices floated in the stillness, a muffled counterpoint to the echo of Corey’s erratic loudness somewhere in the house.

Fingers closed around my wrist. Danny playfully tugged until I gave in and inched closer to him. He opened my hand and began to trace his fingers across my palm. Goosebumps shot up my arm and into my scalp, I had tingles. Something radiated from him, not heat exactly, but a raw sort of energy that made me feel all weird and goosy, not quite myself.

He tapped his fingers on my wrist. I looked down.

Then understood what he was doing. He drew the letter ‘Y’, then an ‘O’. I smiled. He’d abandoned his notebook in preference to my hand. I watched the words unfold.

You need new roses.

I laughed. Giggled, actually. Like a smitten fool. With every letter he drew, more tingles raced over my palm and up my forearm, shooting through my nervous system, turning my resistance to jelly. Butterfly wings fluttered up the back of my neck and into my hair. I tried to pull away, but Danny’s strong fingers held me captive.

I’ll plant them for you.

I shook my head. ‘No.’

Yes, I’ll even buy the roses. What’s your favourite colour, pink?

With the drawn-out curl of his question mark, I had discovered a ridiculous thing about myself: I was ticklish.

‘No,’ I nearly yelled, yanking my hand out of his grasp. ‘It’s green.’

Danny sat back. He was looking into my face, his eyes shadowed by the darkness. Plucking another twig from the bracket near his head, he snapped it into bits, tossed the shreds onto the ground at his feet. He rubbed a circle on his chest and tapped his chin.

I like this secret place.

I smiled. I liked it too.

‘Look at them,’ Corey said later as we lingered on the front verandah, watching the girls dart about on the midnight grass below. ‘Silly as a pair of wet hens.’

The potent cocktail of too much excitement, too many chocolates, and excessive giggling combined with the lateness of the hour had turned two mostly normal pre-teen girls into a couple of disorderly twits. Danny was trying to herd them towards his
Toyota to entrap Jade within and get home, but they kept shrieking and dashing off, garbling something about being chased by a mob of ghosts.

‘I should never have told them the story about Samuel’s haunted cottage,’ Corey said regretfully. ‘I seem to recall it had a similar effect on me and Glenda.’

I watched the moonlit shapes rushing about on the lawn. ‘Yeah, that old settlers’ hut sounds pretty creepy.’

‘I hope I haven’t given Bronwyn nightmares.’

I looked at her. ‘You said the same to me, the first time we met.’

She shrugged. ‘I know, but Samuel’s story was real. The cottage isn’t really haunted . . . although,’ she added with a mischievous lift of her eyebrows, ‘it
does
exist . . . and if you ever find it, look out . . .’ She waggled her fingers and made a hooty ghost sound.

I gave her a playful shove with my shoulder, then turned my focus back to the figures below. Danny had abandoned trying to lure Jade into the car, no doubt deciding the only sensible course of action was to wait until the girls ran out of steam. He wandered a little way down the slope, standing with his back to us, gazing into the gloomy trough of the valley, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched as if against a chill.

Corey nudged me with her elbow. ‘Thanks, kiddo.’

‘What for?’

‘We had fun. Even Danny enjoyed himself . . . for a change.’

I returned my attention to the man down at the edge of the garden. ‘How do you know?’

‘Because he stayed. Usually he slumps off home in a mood before the festivities have even begun.’

‘Why?’

‘Not everyone bothers with signing, Audrey. Not everyone makes an effort. Many do, of course – but then Danny’s not always the easiest person to have around. He’s hopeless with small talk, says it’s a waste of energy, then gets pissed off when people ignore him. He’s always been that way, even as a little boy.’

‘I take it he wasn’t born deaf?’

‘No, he had meningitis when he was a baby – although I suspect he’d have been just as difficult with full hearing. The early days were the worst, of course, when he was learning to sign, and Mum and Dad were still trying to remodel their lives around how best to raise a deaf child. Things were slow to improve; he was always so frustrated when he couldn’t make us understand. Trouble was, his tantrums weren’t vocal, the way most kids’ are. Things would start flying around the room . . . plates, spoons, shoes. Once – to Mum’s eternal horror – he pitched the glass containing Grandad’s false teeth at her.’

‘He seems . . . I don’t know, wary. Aloof. One minute we were laughing like loons, the next he’d gone all broody. I hope I didn’t offend him in some way?’

‘Hmmm.’ Corey frowned at her brother’s silhouette. ‘There must be a storm coming.’

‘Oh?’

‘He can always tell, even when it’s miles away. He can smell it or feel it, or – my personal theory – he senses the change in air pressure. Whatever it is, he’s never wrong.’

‘He doesn’t cope with storms?’

Corey shook her head. ‘Six years ago his wife Marci died in a storm. She ran out after her dog who’d taken fright, and a tree branch came down on her. It was one of those huge gnarly angophoras – in the days of logging, they were known as widow-makers. Corky wood, but heavy as all hell when it gets wet. Marci was deaf, too, so she didn’t hear the branch crack loose. Danny found her pinned there, but by the time he’d rushed back to the house for the chainsaw and cut away the branch, she was gone. He blames himself, reckons he should have stopped her going after the dog, should have got the branch off her sooner. He’s never forgiven himself.’

‘It wasn’t his fault.’

‘No, it wasn’t. But he’s a stubborn son of a gun. We get a lot of storms this time of year, too. Poor old Danny’s in for a rocky ride.’

‘Why won’t he speak?’

Corey stared down the dark slope at her brother. Her features softened. In the dusky glow of the verandah light, her eyes were no longer milk-chocolate. They’d lightened, turned warm and gold as honey.

‘I suppose he does it to be contrary. And possibly to make a stand, in some warped way that only he can fathom. The one thing he hates more than being pigeonholed, is being considered weak. In a hearing world, being deaf is a disability, but Danny won’t tolerate anyone implying he’s disabled. If he can’t speak as clearly as a fully-hearing person, then he’d rather not speak at all.’

‘Wouldn’t his life be easier if he tried?’

‘Oh yes, but don’t ever dream of telling him that. The last person who attempted to convince him to speak ended up with a broken nose.’

I considered the shadowy figure on the lawn with fresh eyes. ‘I’ll remember not to press him . . . Holy crap, it wasn’t you, was it?’

‘Lord, no! A teacher at school. The guy meant well, but Danny just lost his straw. He was about fifteen at the time – it was the year after Tony left and Danny wasn’t coping. He insisted on attending the regular school, even though in those days Magpie Creek High wasn’t suitably set up for deaf students. He’d been cautioned, told to return to the special school in Brisbane. They sent letters home, even threatened legal action – all to no avail. In the end one of Danny’s teachers tried to reason with him, and offered to help him apply for a grant to get a hearing aid and learn speech . . . but Danny, in typical form, gave in to his primordial instincts and punched the poor guy in the face.’

‘A bit extreme,’ I observed.

Corey sighed. ‘To him being deaf is nothing more than having green eyes when everyone else has blue. He refuses to acknowledge his limitations which, sadly, I must say, is not always to his advantage.’

‘You have to admire him for standing on his convictions, though.’

‘Hmmm . . .’ she said doubtfully. ‘But I expect when poor old Ross O’Malley was waiting at the surgery to have his nose re-set, he wasn’t applauding my brother’s commitment to his convictions. He probably wanted nothing more than to wring the little bastard’s neck.’

I looked at Corey. ‘Ross O’Malley? He teaches at the primary school now, doesn’t he?’

‘Yeah, I expect you’ve met him?’

‘Not yet. He was away when Bronwyn started school. I’ve got an appointment for a catch-up on Monday.’

Corey snorted. ‘Lucky you, something droll to look forward to. I must say, though, I’ve got fond memories of Ross. Twenty-odd years ago he taught me and Glenda at Magpie Creek High. Tony too.’

Glenda’s Ross, I realised. ‘What’s he like?’

Corey jangled her car keys from her back pocket. ‘Oh, a bit of an oddball, but nice enough. Somewhat haunted, I suppose.’

‘Haunted?’

She studied her keys, weighed them in her hand, then looked at me. ‘Not long after Glenda died, Ross left the school. We thought he’d had a transfer, but then a year later he was back. I couldn’t help wondering if Glenda’s death affected him more than he let on. She’d had a crush on him for ages. I was horribly jealous, I hated anyone who took Glenda’s focus away from me. But after Ross came back the following year he was changed. Less confident, almost nervy. As though he’d aged into an old man. Later I heard that the night Glenda died, Ross’s wife had a miscarriage and soon after that, his marriage ended. No wonder the poor guy had seemed so defeated.’

‘You think something happened between him and Glenda?’

Corey let her gaze drift away, giving her attention to the dark valley. ‘I don’t know. Glenda and I had a sort of falling
out, we didn’t speak much in the months before her death. It’s my greatest regret,’ she added in an quiet voice. Then she shook herself and gave a husky laugh. ‘I can’t imagine that anything happened between them. Ross was her first real love – sadly, her only one. He used to be considered quite a dish, way back in the day, although to see him now you’d never believe – ’