Bereft by Chris Womersley Page A

steps. “No need for you to come here again, Mr. Wakefield,” she announced to an astonished Fletcher from the top step, before slamming the heavy door behind her.
    It was only later at their barracks at Abbey Wood that Quinn had discovered the note the girl Margaret must have stuffed into his pocket when she embraced him. But even now, on a hot night in an abandoned house thousands of miles from that London parlour, he could conjure her quivering gaze that, were it the sound of an instrument, would be akin to a violin’s deepest low.

    10

    S adie was as good as her word. The following morning she led Quinn to his parents’ house, down gullies and through stiff tangles of wattle and grevillea.
    It took more than an hour and, when they arrived at the ragged edge of the property, Quinn wondered how he would find his way to the shack again.
    Sadie tied a length of blue wool several times around the lower branch of a large bloodwood tree. “Meet me under this tree,” she said, as if reading his thoughts. “I’ll be here in an hour or so, and we’ll go back to the shack together. It’s safer that way. I’ll go now and try to find some food for us.”
    â€œWait.” He still had no idea why he had chosen to trust this strange girl. “What about Robert Dalton?”
    She waved a fly from her face. “I’ll be careful. He’ll never catch me. He’s hopeless. Remember, one hour.” Then she scampered away like a sprite and ducked into the undergrowth before he could think of another thing to say.

    His mother was asleep when, again clutching a fistful of lavender, Quinn entered her room. Her features were slick with sweat. When she opened her eyes, she mouthed something unintelligible, then, gasping, said, “My poor, prodigal boy. So smart in your uniform.”
    Quinn smoothed a hand schoolboyishly down his front. The uniform felt stiff and unwieldy here, without purpose. He needed to find some civilian clothes and rid himself of the stink of war.
    She looked at him for a long time. “I have sometimes wondered, if I longed for you enough, whether I might be able to produce you, the way a magician does his scarves and rabbits. Remember that Houdini chap we used to read about? A foolish thought, of course, although you are here now and—don’t tell anyone this because they will think me mad—I swear I have seen a little girl pass by in the hall. A fever has its benefits, perhaps. There are reasons to be fond of grief, as someone wiser than I once said. What do you think, Quinn?”
    â€œAbout what?”
    â€œWould you think it possible to imagine someone into being? With nothing but love?”
    It was a good question. Quinn couldn’t answer. His mother held out a hand to him, and he understood she wanted to touch him as she had on their first meeting, to prove to herself that he was physically present and not an angel or phantom concocted by her sorrow.
    She licked her lips. “I hoped we would see each other again, but I never imagined it would be in this life.”
    Quinn had also pondered this meeting on countless occasions and had fretted over his mother’s possible reaction to the news that it was actually her own brother who had killed Sarah. With bitterness, he remembered what she had told him on that first visit: Robert has been my saviour in all this. And he realised there was no way he could ever tell her the truth of what he saw on that afternoon, for it would surely kill her. It would have to be enough for her to know it wasn’t Quinn.
    â€œEven my firstborn isn’t near me,” his mother said. “William became a farmer. Married. He couldn’t stay here, not after what happened. He took it very hard. He writes to me sometimes, but not often. He has a new life now.”
    It was difficult to imagine William married. He had always been more comfortable dealing with objects than people, one of