Tyringham Park (35 page)

“
For you will bend and tell me that you love me . . .
”

The singing trailed off.

Was he overcome by the meaning of the words? Crying into his drink? Passing out? Pouring another drink?

After a long period of quiet Charlotte tentatively opened the kitchen door. Lochlann was asleep. By the soft light of the kerosene lamp he looked so handsome Charlotte felt a clutch deep in her
gut. Was it wrong to love someone’s looks so much? Could the divine harmony of his features be enough to satisfy her, as they might need to if Lochlann’s policy of no intimacy
continued? Was he being cautious until after the baby was born, and would he love her as a wife after that? Did he ever burn in the bed beside her in the same way she burned beside him?

“
For you will bend and tell me that you love me . . .
”

If it were possible she would give up everything – her social position and her fortune – to be able to believe that he ever would bend and tell her that he loved her.

She collected an eiderdown from the spare bed and placed it over him. Kneeling beside the chair she turned his face towards her and kissed him gently at first, and when he didn’t wake,
deeply and at length, positioning her head so she could breathe easily while she explored his mouth with an abandon unthinkable when he was awake, the taste of whiskey bringing back the memory of
another time, and firing her desire even more.

She cleaned up the smashed plate and scattered food.

The next morning Lochlann couldn’t understand why he was so hungry. He apologised to her for leaving her alone for the day in her condition, then went next door to the surgery, hoping
there wouldn’t be too many patients to disturb his hangover.

If only he would argue with her. His kindness was indifference. His caution was indifference. His indifference was indifference. Even when he was drunk she couldn’t puncture his
composure.

She reconsidered her fanciful notion of exchanging her social position and wealth for love. What an absurd idea it appeared to her only hours after she had entertained it. Common sense, in the
face of her desire for Lochlann, must have temporarily deserted her, for in the cold light of reason she knew that without her status and fortune there would be little left to love.

Australia
1940

Charlotte was aware of the date but thought it best not to draw attention to it. First wedding anniversary, and the day she was allowed at last to mention the baby in a letter
to her mother. The only difficulty was she’d have to get out of bed to find a pen and paper and she didn’t think her legs would obey a half-hearted command. No energy. If she rang the
bell on her bedside locker Mrs Parker would come in to ask her what she wanted and she could tell her to bring in a tray with paper and a pencil on it – she wouldn’t have to sit up to
write with a pencil. She could imagine her mother’s disgust at receiving a pencil-written letter, but she couldn’t have it her own way at every turn. It was either that or nothing at
all.

Perhaps she would think about it a little longer. Her mother had said not to write before this day, but she hadn’t specified an exact date to write. What difference would a week make? Or a
month? It wasn’t as if Edwina was on tenterhooks waiting for the announcement. The only news she wanted to hear was that one of the old servants had come forward to claim the reward for
locating Victoria, but seeing Charlotte hadn’t put any advertisements in the papers offering it, there wasn’t much likelihood of that happening.

At seven she had pretended to be asleep when Lochlann left to do house calls before surgery. She hoped he didn’t remember the significance of the date. She wouldn’t remind him.

After these last weeks in bed her limbs ached, and her hips and shoulders were sore to the touch. And now, lying on her back to ease her side, her heels were beginning to object to the
pressure.

Would this day be as long as yesterday and the day before yesterday? Sleeping passed the time but she’d already slept eighteen hours out of the last twenty-four, so she might have to
settle for closing her eyes. She must ask Lochlann to leave the blackout blinds down all the time to keep out all that bloody sunlight. If she heard that kookaburra laugh once more outside her
window, she’d go mad. Yesterday when she had asked Mrs Parker to throw something at it, the older woman had looked horrified at the suggestion and hadn’t done anything. Cutting up a
handkerchief and stuffing bits of it in her ears might solve the problem of intrusive noise. Where were the scissors? She must ask Mrs Parker, and tell her at the same time to change the sheets as
they felt limp, and there were crumbs in the hollow of the kapok mattress.

She looked at the clock, wondering if it was lunchtime yet. It said five past ten. Must have stopped. She lifted it up, squinted her eyes, and saw that the second-hand was moving. Leaning over
to replace it she let it slip – a miscalculation of distance – and heard the sound of breaking glass.

Lochlann came in smelling of health, antiseptic, wood-smoke and sunshine.

“Up you get,” he said. “Doctor’s orders. Mrs Parker has packed us a picnic.” His voice was full of enthusiasm, or at least the pretence of it. He reached down to
pick up the clock and didn’t comment on the cracked glass front.

“I don’t want to go anywhere,” said Charlotte through the sheet.

“I’m afraid you’ve no choice if you want to celebrate our anniversary with me and who else could you spend it with? I have to make a house call to old Mrs Humphries out Ober
way, and there’s a waterfall there the like of which you’ve never seen before.” He bent down, lifted the sheet and kissed the top of her head. “Happy anniversary.”

How could he even say the words? The irony was hard to bear.

“I haven’t the energy,” she said, keeping her eyes closed. “You go. I’ll stay here.”

“It’s such a beautiful day it would be a shame to waste it. Come on. You don’t have to talk, eat or even get out of the car. Just come for the spin to mark the occasion. I can
help you dress or get Mrs Parker to if you’d prefer.” He headed towards her wardrobe.

“Don’t touch anything,” she said, then added with weariness, “I’ll come. I’ll dress myself.”

“That’s the spirit.”

She didn’t move.

“I’ll wait in the kitchen.”

He’d rather go on his own, she knew. What would she add to the journey?

Nothing.

She heard the voices of the two talking quietly in the garden, as they often did. “How is she today?” was the opening question – she waited for it – but after that she
couldn’t distinguish any words. Invariably they walked towards the bottom of the garden, ostensibly to look at the self-sown potatoes and pumpkins, but really to make sure she couldn’t
overhear them.

The flicker of energy she felt when Lochlann came into the room died as soon as he left. He would probably give her ten minutes to dress herself before coming back to check, so there was no need
to make any move yet. She didn’t have to go on this outing. No one would think any the worse of her – Lochlann hadn’t run out of patience yet, Mrs Parker thrived on her role of
nursemaid, and there wasn’t anyone else who knew about the anniversary.

Except those back home, of course, but they didn’t count. Her mother would be expecting news, now that the day had come. There was a lot to be said for living so far away. If she stayed in
bed all day her family wouldn’t be any the wiser. She could write that there had been a party, a dinner or a trip to the coast to celebrate the day, and they would never know the
difference.

On second thoughts, she would ask Lochlann to write the letter. He would be better able to explain how the baby had died, seeing as he did the delivery while she was unconscious for the final
few minutes. But even he couldn’t answer why, as he didn’t know and if he didn’t know, who would? He could tell them the main facts: the baby was a boy and had lived for ten
minutes, during which time Lochlann had baptised and named him Benedict, hoping that the “blessing” in the name might prompt the failing infant to rally, but it hadn’t.

Only the priest, Father Daly, and Lochlann, who carried the white coffin, were present at the burial on top of the windy hill above the church. She remained in hospital for a further week, next
door to Mrs Hogan who had given birth to her seventh healthy child, and she would have stayed longer if she didn’t have Mrs Parker to care for her when she returned home.

She rocked to give herself enough momentum to sit up and, with difficulty, swung her legs onto the floor. She felt dizzy, so stayed still until that feeling passed. Taking her time, she stood up
and wobbled. Was she losing the use of her legs? She held onto the brass bed end and called for Mrs Parker who came in straight away as if she’d been waiting at the door, and asked if there
was anything she could do to help.

“Yes,” said Charlotte. “I’ve decided to go on the picnic with the doctor. If you would be so kind as to get me my French navy maternity dress out of the wardrobe. I think
it’s the only thing I have that will fit me.” She sat down heavily on the side of the bed while Mrs Parker collected the clothes and then began to dress her as if it were a great
honour. By the time Mrs Parker slipped on the court shoes, Charlotte was exhausted.

“Come on now,” encouraged the housekeeper, taking her arm and guiding her into the kitchen where she passed her over to Lochlann. “A day out in the bush will do you a world of
good. You can’t beat a bit of fresh air.”

“There’s plenty of fresh air on the verandah,” said Charlotte. “I don’t need to go elsewhere to find that.”

“A change of scenery, then. Here you are.” She handed Lochlann the basket. “Wait till you see what I’ve prepared for you. There won’t be a skerrick left for the
wildlife.”

“By the weight of it, you didn’t skimp on anything. Good. I’m hungry already,” said Lochlann. “Come on, careful now.”

Charlotte slipped on the shiny lino. “Leather soles,” she said to Mrs Parker.

“Do you want me to roughen them for you?” asked Lochlann.

“Hardly worth the bother. I’ll be staying in the car, so there’s really no need. Thank you, Mrs Parker. You’re a treasure. I don’t know what we’d do without
you.”

“You Irish and your blarney,” smiled Mrs Parker. “You’d give me a big head if I believed everything you said.”

“It’s no blarney,” said Lochlann. “If anything we’re holding back. We won’t be late, but still won’t see you until tomorrow. Good luck and thanks
again.”

I bet she thinks that he is the one who needs the good luck, thought Charlotte, watching the ground as she tentatively put one foot in front of the other.

“Would you look at that view!” said Lochlann, a few miles into the journey. “Those blue mountains. And that has to be the sea in the distance. Hard to
believe. Must be forty miles away.”

Charlotte politely turned her head to the left, trying to concentrate on what he’d said. Yes, the mountains were indeed blue, and that blur in the distance could indeed be the sea. Was
there anything else she was supposed to look at? Turning back to stare straight ahead again, she forgot to ask or comment. As usual, her thoughts turned to her mother and how she imagined
she’d respond when she received news of baby Benedict’s death.

“Don’t say I’m with you,” said Charlotte, when Lochlann turned into Mrs Humphrey’s driveway, all mud and tussocks. “Park the car behind that tree in case she
sees me.”

“I was going to anyway, for the shade.”

Two dogs ran out to dance around Lochlann and bark. Charlotte was relieved when they followed him to the door.

A flock of parrots, so brightly coloured they looked as if they were designed for paradise, squabbled in the trees in front of her. The sky was cerulean blue and the frostbitten grass, yellow
ochre. If she decided to paint again, she would have to give up the greys she favoured when she was younger as they would look dead in this luminous brightness. Not that she had any intention of
painting while she was suffering from this bone-wearying lassitude – the act of picking up a paintbrush was as alien to her now as the thought of riding to hounds.

She liked this weather – warm days followed by cold nights which were conducive to sleep. It was sleep she craved, both to fill in the time and to lose her conscious self. She wished
humans were hibernating animals who could pass months at a stretch in a dark place.

After leaving the main road Lochlann needed to concentrate to avoid the water-filled potholes and the soft mud that might send him into a skid.

“A bit of an obstacle course,” he said. “Not surprising with all that rain last night.”

He followed the track for about a mile before turning the car and parking it on an incline in case the battery or starter gave trouble when they were leaving. It would be unlikely that there
would be anyone around to give the car a push if either of those failed – in all the times Lochlann had been coming here he hadn’t run into another human being. Fishermen favoured the
pools upstream on the other side of the main road.

“Would you just look at that?” Lochlann breathed in reverence.

Charlotte was already looking.

The shallow trout stream had swollen to a churning brown and white tumult of water, carrying branches with speed along the central flow, which was split at intervals by trees and rocks.

Charlotte remembered with a jolt another flooded river that had broken its banks at the time Victoria disappeared, but quickly pushed the image out of her mind. Today of all days she
wouldn’t think about her lost sister. Too many losses to take in at once.

“Damn. I forgot the camera. The falls should be spectacular today.”

“Haven’t you enough photographs of waterfalls? You must have a hundred by now.”

“That’s not many when you consider how many there are around and how different they are from each other and how different they look at different times.”

He threw his door open with an exaggerated flourish. When he came around to her side, she said she wasn’t leaving the car – she had made that clear earlier – and besides, she
couldn’t walk in her shoes, and he said “Well, we can’t get any closer than this by car,” and he opened her door and bent down and slipped off her shoes and scored the soles
with a sharp stone. She was conscious of his hand on her ankles as he replaced the shoes.