overnight bag from under the bed and began to pack.
Jeans, T-shirts, track pants. I hesitated over the black pantsuit I’d worn to Mum’s opening, then tossed it aside and went through my other clothes. Dark-coloured skirts and crisp businesslike shirts, more pantsuits. Rob was always reminding me that black was classy and sophisticated; best of all, it was slimming. You have to dress like the person you want to become , he always added with a wink.
Rubbing the dampness off my cheeks, I kicked shut the wardrobe door. At that moment, I hardly knew who I was , let alone who I wanted to become. The only reliable person I had in my repertoire was the person I’d once been.
Going over to my dressing table, I slid open the bottom drawer. Inside, I found a dozen or more of my old dresses, neatly folded, intended for the op shop. I took out a one-time favourite and went to the mirror. It was reminiscent of the fifties, with a soft collar and capped sleeves, gathered at the waist so the skirt flared out at the knee; pretty, a bit kooky, brightly coloured – a world away from the subdued corporate-style clothes I’d adopted since meeting Rob.
A world away from Rob.
Slipping out of my work clothes, I put on the dress and instantly felt lighter, more at home in myself. Feeling almost defiant, I packed the remaining dresses in my bag, and was about to slide shut the drawer when I noticed a photo lying face down on the bottom. Not just any photo, but the Polaroid I’d been searching for. Turning it over, I drew a sharp breath.
‘Jamie.’
She glowed against a background of trees, her dark hair falling loose around her shoulders, her gaze fixed on the photographer. Her face was breathtaking, a perfect oval, her delicate lips slightly parted, her almond-shaped eyes gazing with an intensity that was at once untamed and demure. She wore my mother’s ivorywedding dress, and her posture made me think of a wild deer, startled by the appearance of a hunter.
Mum had made it clear a long time ago that the subject of my sister was taboo. What’s the good of making ourselves miserable by talking about her, she always said. Words aren’t going to bring her back.
But as I studied the photo, a feeling of urgency overtook me. Eighteen years had passed since Jamie died. The grief had taken decades to heal, and even now the scar tissue over it was thin. I still had nightmares. I still couldn’t remember. I still felt waves of guilt when I tried to cast back to that day.
All of a sudden, I wanted desperately to understand why.
4
Brenna, March 1898
M y father’s wolfhound raced ahead of me along the river track, his big shaggy body quickly vanishing in the dense lomandra grass. It was only a few hours after dawn, but the morning was already hot. Spears of sunlight penetrated the valley shadows, making the dew shimmer in the trees and setting the grass alight with rainbows.
Ever since my acceptance of Carsten Whitby’s proposal just over a week ago, I had been dreading this day. My wedding was fast approaching, but I still hadn’t spoken to my friends at the encampment. I wanted desperately to see Jindera, to tell her my news; to explain about my father’s debt and Whitby’s offer, and my choice to leave Lyrebird Hill rather than see it fall into the wrong hands. But most of all, I wanted to see in Jindera’s eyes that she understood I wasn’t simply deserting her.
Harold began to bark. I glanced along the track, then up the hill, but couldn’t see him. Ducking under a low-hanging bough, I pushed forward along the riverbank. When I heard the yelp, and then a sharp high-pitched series of yaps, my stomach started to churn a little. I picked up pace and began to run.
‘Harold!’
I saw him up ahead, crouched with his haunches up and tail lashing from side to side, barking at something concealed from me on the other side of the grass. He released another sharp yip, then began to growl at what he had discovered in the
Jeans, T-shirts, track pants. I hesitated over the black pantsuit I’d worn to Mum’s opening, then tossed it aside and went through my other clothes. Dark-coloured skirts and crisp businesslike shirts, more pantsuits. Rob was always reminding me that black was classy and sophisticated; best of all, it was slimming. You have to dress like the person you want to become , he always added with a wink.
Rubbing the dampness off my cheeks, I kicked shut the wardrobe door. At that moment, I hardly knew who I was , let alone who I wanted to become. The only reliable person I had in my repertoire was the person I’d once been.
Going over to my dressing table, I slid open the bottom drawer. Inside, I found a dozen or more of my old dresses, neatly folded, intended for the op shop. I took out a one-time favourite and went to the mirror. It was reminiscent of the fifties, with a soft collar and capped sleeves, gathered at the waist so the skirt flared out at the knee; pretty, a bit kooky, brightly coloured – a world away from the subdued corporate-style clothes I’d adopted since meeting Rob.
A world away from Rob.
Slipping out of my work clothes, I put on the dress and instantly felt lighter, more at home in myself. Feeling almost defiant, I packed the remaining dresses in my bag, and was about to slide shut the drawer when I noticed a photo lying face down on the bottom. Not just any photo, but the Polaroid I’d been searching for. Turning it over, I drew a sharp breath.
‘Jamie.’
She glowed against a background of trees, her dark hair falling loose around her shoulders, her gaze fixed on the photographer. Her face was breathtaking, a perfect oval, her delicate lips slightly parted, her almond-shaped eyes gazing with an intensity that was at once untamed and demure. She wore my mother’s ivorywedding dress, and her posture made me think of a wild deer, startled by the appearance of a hunter.
Mum had made it clear a long time ago that the subject of my sister was taboo. What’s the good of making ourselves miserable by talking about her, she always said. Words aren’t going to bring her back.
But as I studied the photo, a feeling of urgency overtook me. Eighteen years had passed since Jamie died. The grief had taken decades to heal, and even now the scar tissue over it was thin. I still had nightmares. I still couldn’t remember. I still felt waves of guilt when I tried to cast back to that day.
All of a sudden, I wanted desperately to understand why.
4
Brenna, March 1898
M y father’s wolfhound raced ahead of me along the river track, his big shaggy body quickly vanishing in the dense lomandra grass. It was only a few hours after dawn, but the morning was already hot. Spears of sunlight penetrated the valley shadows, making the dew shimmer in the trees and setting the grass alight with rainbows.
Ever since my acceptance of Carsten Whitby’s proposal just over a week ago, I had been dreading this day. My wedding was fast approaching, but I still hadn’t spoken to my friends at the encampment. I wanted desperately to see Jindera, to tell her my news; to explain about my father’s debt and Whitby’s offer, and my choice to leave Lyrebird Hill rather than see it fall into the wrong hands. But most of all, I wanted to see in Jindera’s eyes that she understood I wasn’t simply deserting her.
Harold began to bark. I glanced along the track, then up the hill, but couldn’t see him. Ducking under a low-hanging bough, I pushed forward along the riverbank. When I heard the yelp, and then a sharp high-pitched series of yaps, my stomach started to churn a little. I picked up pace and began to run.
‘Harold!’
I saw him up ahead, crouched with his haunches up and tail lashing from side to side, barking at something concealed from me on the other side of the grass. He released another sharp yip, then began to growl at what he had discovered in the
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