Wildflower Hill (34 page)

The noise withdrew, the door closed.

Beattie returned to the sitting room, collected glasses and plates, and dusted cigarette ash off the table. Slowly, carefully, tidying the room, patting the cushions. She switched on the wireless. Christmas carols. Such a lovely change from the daily talk about Hitler and Churchill.

What had Charlie said to Mikhail, and why? Did he have feelings for her after all, and had he hidden them in some misguided attempt to protect her from the town’s opinion? Now she was confused. She had spent so long convincing herself that her feelings of love were nothing of the sort, that they
were just the folly of a lonely woman. What was she supposed to do now?

But Charlie was estranged from her. At one stage, that night when Mikhail had been sick, they had been close. Just a half inch of air between them. That long night of stories and secrets was years ago now; since then their roles on the farm had crystallized, and they’d moved away from each other. He was over at the cottage with the boys; she was at the house with her books and her sewing machine. There was surely no way to bridge that gap. She cursed him for taking that decision away from her, for deciding that the opinions of a handful of fusspots in Lewinford were more important than her feelings for him.

And now it was too late.

Before he left, Mikhail had taught Beattie how to drive the little utility truck, with its rumbling engine and wide tires, and so she took Lucy back to Hobart herself in the middle of January. The girl cried on arriving at Henry’s house, but Beattie wasn’t sure if the tears were about leaving Beattie or about having missed Henry. Henry hugged Lucy savagely. There was still no denying the bond he had with her.

“Thank you for returning her safely,” Molly said, touching Lucy’s shoulder lightly. “We’ve missed her so much.”

“And now it’s my turn to miss her,” Beattie said. “Walk with me a few moments?”

Lucy and Henry went inside, and Molly went out the front gate with Beattie and walked down to the big gum at the
bottom of the street. A hot wind had been blowing from the west for days, making Beattie’s skin dry and cracked.

“I want to have Lucy back more often. I want her for half the year,” Beattie said plainly. “She works well with the governess.”

Molly was already shaking her head. “It’s too disruptive for the child. She needs to be more settled at school. She doesn’t go to church when she’s with you. She runs wild.”

“She doesn’t run wild,” Beattie said, wondering if that was a lie. Lucy certainly had a lot of unstructured time on the farm. “She’s learning about the farm. She can ride a horse so well now, and she helps with the chickens and the garden.”

“That’s not a life for a young girl. She needs boundaries. She needs manners, she needs to be able to fit in. And she’s getting quite freckled.” Molly frowned, glancing up at the sun. It was fierce today, baking everything. “Henry won’t hear of it, I’ll warn you now. He did nothing but grumble the whole time she was away. He was unbearable. He loves that child more than you know.”

Beattie didn’t push it further. Parting from Lucy was always hard enough, without stirring up any old ill will.

Beattie dropped in on two of the boutiques she made clothes for in Hobart to collect money and new orders. She had stopped supplying to FitzGerald’s when she realized she couldn’t keep up with the demand. She was only one woman. So she concentrated on fewer designs in fewer sizes, charged four times as much, and took special orders if necessary. She
found wool loaned itself best to practical clothes, not the frivolous dresses she had loved to design as a teenager. She began to appreciate the beauty of simple lines. In her head she had dozens of designs, and she sometimes idly sketched them. But without a team of seamstresses, there wouldn’t be time to make them all, so she focused on keeping the business ticking over slowly.

Heat shimmered on the road, and Beattie drove home with the windows down. The car seemed empty on the way back without Lucy’s chatter. She always experienced the girl’s absence like a slow ache that wouldn’t go away. It had been nearly ten years since that day she had realized she was pregnant. Ten years gone in a blink. Why was she waiting, hoping for Henry and Molly to be kind to her? Surely by now she was wealthy and powerful enough to rise above any ideas they had to discredit her.

She drove up through hills and valleys, parched under the yellow sun. The road ran out and dirt took over. She slowed. Lewinford was approaching. She decided to stop. This time she wouldn’t let Leo talk her out of it. If they wouldn’t share Lucy, then she would have to get her back permanently.

Beattie was almost a curiosity in Lewinford these days. Normally, she drove an hour north for her supplies, to a town large enough not to care about who owned Wildflower Hill and why. When she parked her mud-splattered utility truck outside the post office—across from Leo’s little stone cottage—one or two curious locals stopped to see who owned it.
Beattie climbed out proudly, pulling off her gloves and tucking them into her handbag. Tilly Harrow’s slit-eyed husband, Frank, was sweeping the footpath in front of the shop. He stopped to scowl at her. She shrugged off the attention. She was dressed well—her own designs—and her dark hair was arranged perfectly behind her ears. She knew she looked good: fit and well from hard work and good living. Let them die for the fact that she was now a wealthy woman.

A hot wind buffeted Beattie’s hat, and she raised her hand to hold it on. She crossed the road and rang the bell. Leo answered and ushered her inside into the cool.

“Beattie, what a delight! You look marvelous. Come in, come in.”

He showed her through to a narrow study with polished wooden floorboards and an oak desk that didn’t quite fit the room. It was shoved tight up against a window that looked out into a gully of overgrown bushes. Leo’s beard was almost entirely gray, and his fingers were yellow from nicotine. His office smelled strongly of tobacco.

For a little while they talked, but then he asked her how Lucy was. Beattie came to the point. “That’s why I’m here. I want full custody. I’ll take him to court if I have to.”

Leo nodded. “That might be expensive.”

“I can afford it.”

“And you might not win. You might end up with reduced access. The courts won’t look favorably on you. He’s married, you aren’t.”

“A girl should be with her mother.”

Leo seemed to be about to say something, then stopped
himself. “My warnings from last time we still hold,” he said instead.

“I know. But I want to do this. I have a past, and I’m not proud of it. But Henry does, too. I could call on witnesses, if necessary. Billy Wilder, Doris Penny, the women who owned the store where he ran up all his debts. People back in Glasgow, if I have to. I was only eighteen! He was thirty.”

Leo sat back, considering her. At length, he said, “Put all of this into a letter. Take your time. Write it slowly and carefully, and list names of people who could help. When I have it, I can set this in motion.”

She stood and leaned across to shake his hand. “Thank you. I’m glad to have you on my side.”

Beattie woke late in the night. It was so hot that she’d left the window open, and she saw that she had kicked off her covers. Was that what had woken her? The heat?

No, it was something else. She became aware of the faint but distinct smell of smoke.

She startled, leaped out of bed. She leaned out the window and sniffed the air. Smoke on the wind, and the wind was hot and fast.

She pulled on her robe and hurried downstairs, opened the back door, and descended through the laundry and into the paddock. She had a view of the fields behind the house to the north, the rising slope of the ridge. The smoky sky glowed amber. The eucalyptus forest was on fire.

Beattie froze for a few moments, watching the leaves on the
trees behind her house rattle harshly in the wind. The wind was coming from the northeast. That meant the fire was coming this way.

She yelped, began to run for the shearers’ cottage. “Charlie! Charlie!” she called, her voice seized by the wind. In snatches, a terrifying sound like trains roaring past. Was that the fire? Abby and Birch were spooked already, kicking against the stable, alerted by the smell of the smoke. “Hang on,” she called to them. Her heart thundered. Charlie would know what to do, wouldn’t he?

He met her at the front door, his face soft from sleep. He opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, then his own senses told him.

“Jeez, Beattie,” he said, breaking into a run. The dogs were at his heels. “Saddle up Abby quick and run down as far as you can to open up the gates. Take the dogs, but don’t bother driving the stock, they’ll have to figure it out themselves.”

“Aren’t we going to get in the car and run?” she asked.

He turned to her, his eyes glittering in the dark. “You want to lose everything?”

She shook her head.

“Then we stay.”

Beattie’s heart thumped loosely under her ribs. She dashed to the stable and, with shaking hands, saddled up a skittish Abby. Birch tore off the minute the door was open and galloped south. Beattie could barely mount Abby, who was tossing her head and dancing from side to side. Beattie soothed her and spoke to her softly, even though she wanted to shriek with fear. What on earth would she do if she lost it all? The
house? She could never rebuild it. The stock? Even if she bought new stock, what would they eat on a burned-out farm?

“Oh, please, please, God,” she said, screwing her eyes tightly shut. She urged Abby forward, whistled to the dogs, and began to ride over uneven ground in the firelit night, opening gates, eyes on the wind. Her robe got caught on barbed wire, ripped. Large, thin pieces of ash began to flutter over her. First one or two, then dozens. It was raining ash. Thundering footfalls from behind her as a family of kangaroos raced through the farm, heading south, away from the fire, leaping fences as though they weren’t there at all.

Abby had had enough. She put her head down and threatened to buck. Her head was darting, her nostrils wide as she snorted her fear. She shied wildly at shadows and at nothing, then sidestepped away from a thrashing branch. Inexperience made it difficult for Beattie to stay in the saddle.

“Whoa, whoa, girl,” Beattie said, but she could feel herself slipping. She dismounted quickly, and Abby jerked her head and the reins slipped from Beattie’s hands. Abby was off in a second, galloping away.

Beattie turned. Dread chocked her. Flames were roaring down the mountainside. She didn’t know what to do.

Charlie. He was at the house alone.

She turned to the dogs. “Go!” she said, pointing after Abby. “Go on.”

They looked at her; they seemed uncertain.

“Go now. Go!” She began to run back toward Charlie. She didn’t care if every damned sheep she owned was destroyed; she was going to stay by his side.

The ash that fell now was alight, sizzling into smoky lifelessness as it hit the ground. She ran harder than she’d ever run, until her thighs burned with pain and her heart hammered her ribs. In the distance, she could see the stables were alight. Embers must have gotten under the eaves. Against the red sky, the silhouette of Charlie moved on the roof of the house. She put on an extra burst of speed.

Suddenly, the wind dropped. Quiet, eerie by contrast.

“Charlie!” she called. “The wind’s stopped.”

He turned to see her running toward him. “It’s going to swing around,” Charlie said. “Hang on.”

Sure enough, moments later, the trees began to shake again. The thinnest branches were buffeted in circles, then ripped off and cast away. A fresh shower of ash rained down on them.

She was at the laundry and could see that Charlie had the hose up on the roof, putting out embers as they pelted the house.

“It’s heading east,” Beattie cried, relief flooding her despite the choking smoke. “The wind’s changed direction. It’s going to skim right across the top of us.”

Up on the roof, Charlie was swearing.

“What is it?”

“The pump’s failed.”

“I’ll bring water.”

“No, forget the buckets. Check the pump!”

Beattie looked at the pump dumbly. She had no idea. Embers swirled around her.

“Check where the hose is connected,” he called.

She could hardly focus. The hose was turned over on itself,
blocking the flow. She unhooked the fold, hands shuddering, and water burst out all over her. The hose had disconnected altogether.

“Hurry, for God’s sake, Beattie!”

She fumbled for the hose, fitted it back on the pump, pressed down on the clamp as hard as she could.

Up on the roof, the sound of water. “That’s it!” he said. “That’s it!”

His silhouette up there, against the flames, made her heart clench. What if he slipped and fell? Or what if flames caught him? If her house was still there but Charlie wasn’t in it, it was hardly worth saving. With sudden clarity, she realized that she loved him. That all of the concerns about what people thought were ridiculously small and petty. Why should either of them let anyone else’s opinion dictate their lives?

“Be careful, Charlie,” she shouted. “Please, please be careful.”

He didn’t answer. The fire wasn’t drawing any closer, and she allowed herself cautious hope. She clutched the collar of her dressing gown to her throat. The rain of ash eased. The wind was definitely driving the fire in another direction. But what was to stop the wind from changing again?

Moments passed, her heart kept beating. The wind died down. Ash settled and didn’t catch.

“I reckon you can turn the hose off now, Beattie,” he called. “But I’m staying up here.”

“Then I’m coming up, too.”

“You stay down there.”

She didn’t listen. She turned off the hose and ran into the
house. Up in Lucy’s room was a ladder into the attic, which led out onto the roof parapet. Through there she could climb up onto the tiles. Charlie sat there, the hose dormant at his side. He had his arms around his knees, and his face was streaked with soot.

“I said not to come up,” he said.

She put her hands on the gutter to pull herself up, but he stood carefully and waved her down.