Midsummer's Eve (29 page)

“I don’t mind. I can sail another day. I would be worried all the time about the baby if I came.”

My mother kissed me and said, “Well, we’re all very sorry you won’t be with us, but I understand. You stay and look after Helena and the baby.”

They went off early. During the morning the baby seemed normal.

“I told you so,” said Maud.

“I get so frightened,” Helena explained.

“I know. They call it first-baby nerves. You’ll be better when you’ve had a few more.”

Helena looked startled at the prospect and I thought: That will never be. Hers is the most extraordinary marriage. At first we had thought it was such a convenient way out. At least it had given Helena married status which was so necessary as she was to have a child; but I doubted whether much good would come out of it.

Matthew had not returned. We had heard from him and Helena had written to the hotel in Sydney where letters might eventually reach him. There was a small township near us where letters could be delivered and posted. One of the men went in three times a week to take and collect mail. In a letter Matthew had said that his research had taken him to Van Diemen’s Land and he would send an address from there.

Helena had written telling him that the child was born but had had no reply to that so perhaps he had not received that letter. My parents had said that when we left we should have to let him know that we were leaving and that Helena was coming with us. But perhaps by then we should have had an address from Van Diemen’s Land.

I had heard the term “husband in name only.” Matthew was certainly that.

A wind sprang up during the morning. I heard Gregory Donnelly shouting to some of the men.

Maud was cooking in the kitchen and I went to her. “Is anything wrong?” I asked.

“Wrong?” she said.

“I thought I heard Greg shouting orders and there seemed to be a certain tension.”

“It’s the weather again. It’s always something. They don’t like this wind.”

“It’s unusual,” I said.

“It comes now and then. They have to make preparations. It can do a lot of damage. I daresay Greg is making sure they take precautions.”

I went to the baby. He appeared to be sleeping peacefully.

During the afternoon the wind grew fierce. I looked out of the window. The few trees were swaying; they looked as though they might be torn up. The wind battered them savagely; and I thought of my parents and Jacco.

They had been delighted at the prospect of wind—but not of this strength.

Gregory came into the house. I heard Maud talking to him.

“They wouldn’t have taken the boat out in this weather,” he said.

I ran out to him and he saw the anxiety in my face.

“What if they have taken the boat?” I asked.

“They wouldn’t,” he replied with conviction. “Nobody would on a day like this.”

“But they left early. They might have been out at sea before it became so bad.”

He looked away from me.

“I reckon they changed their minds,” he murmured. “Your father was saying he wanted to do a bit more exploring.”

I went back to Helena. She was still sitting with the baby who seemed to have recovered completely.

I wished that I had gone with them. Not knowing where they were was worrying.

In the evening the wind abated. But at sundown they had not come home.

I sat up all night waiting for them. Helena sat with me. We spoke little. We were afraid to put our thoughts into words. We just sat there, ears strained for the slightest sound of their return.

And so we waited.

But they never came back.

How I lived through those days which followed I do not know. I was completely numb. I could not believe that this terrible tragedy had overtaken me.

My father. My mother. My brother. The people I loved best in the world … all taken from me.

I could only console myself that I was dreaming. This could not have happened to such vital people. They had all been brimming over with life. I could not imagine a world without them. Always they had been there—the most important part of my life.

Helena tried to comfort me. She surprised me. She came right out of her lethargy to share my grief. Maud, Rosa, all of them—and particularly Gregory Donnelly—seemed to have undergone a change. He was quiet, gentle, and above all strong. But I wanted none of them. There was only one thing in the world I wanted and that was the return of my loved ones.

They had found the remains of the boat. It was washed up on the shore and Jacco’s body with it. My father and mother they did not find.

I lived on in that strange half world from which I could not rouse myself; nor did I want to for to do so would have brought me face to face with the enormity of what had happened to me.

There was one terrible day when a man came to see me. He insisted on talking to me. He wanted to know about my father mainly. At first I talked and then suddenly I was so overcome that I begged him to go away.

He talked at length to Maud and Gregory and most of the people on the property. I learned afterwards that he was from the Sydney
Gazette
.

The story was headline news. My father with his wife and son were drowned. He had come out as a convict to serve a seven-year term at the end of which he had acquired land; then he went home to claim estates and title in the Old Country. However, Australia and his past had lured him back … to his death.

It was a story, of course, which appealed to the readers. It went on prominently in the papers for several days.

These papers were kept from me for a while, but in time I discovered them and I read them through my tears.

I was too numb to care what happened, what they said. I could make no plans. I just wanted to stay in my room and try not to think.

Sleep was my only relief and they made sure that I had it. They gave me something … and I was grateful for that.

And then I was ill.

That was perhaps a blessed relief. It was some sort of fever. They cropped my hair and for a long time I did not know what was happening to me, nor where I was.

Nothing could have been better for me really. What I craved was forgetfulness. I wanted to go into a long sleep and never come out of it.

It was August before I began to get well. The tragedy was a little farther away but I knew it would be with me all my life. I was like a different person with my short hair which was beginning to grow in a short bob which just covered my ears.

My only real interest was the baby. He was now nearly four months old, a beautiful child, a little like Helena. She used to come in in the mornings and put him into my bed. He would pull at my short hair and try to catch my nose in his chubby fingers. He helped to soothe me and to a certain extent he did charm away some of my sadness.

“He knows you,” Helena told me.

How kind everyone was to me! Rosa used to come and sit with me and talk to me; she showed me her embroidery which her mother was teaching her. She was learning how to keep house. “I shall have to when I get married,” she said. She was clearly looking forward to the day when she would be. She looked upon Gregory Donnelly as a god almost. I supposed that was how her mother had brought her up to regard him. That was wise, no doubt, for if the day ever came when she married him, he would be sure of her uncritical devotion.

I had hardly been aware of him during the weeks of my misery. I had indeed been aware of no one except the baby and Helena who had been with me most of the time and had taken on a new stature in caring for me, so that she no longer seemed the helpless creature she had been.

Maud made special dishes for me.

“Come on,” she would say. “Just try a little to please me … to please us all.”

I would eat just for that reason. I drifted along not caring about anything, trying not to remember. I wanted to forget everything of the past for there had been very little of my past in which they did not figure. They had always been there … my beloved ones … they had cared for me, guided me, watched over me, given me their very special love.

I used to make up fantasies. They had been picked up at sea; a ship had taken them somewhere far away. One day they would walk in. But Jacco was dead. They had found his body. But my father and my mother … where were they? I knew in my heart that I should never see them again.

I cursed the boat. I cursed the wind … everything which had taken them from me.

Then the letter came.

It was from the lawyers who had taken over from Rolf’s father when he had died and Rolf had decided he did not wish to go into law.

They had heard the grievous news and they reminded me that on the death of my parents and my only brother, I had become the owner of the Cador estate. I was in possession of considerable property and wealth; and consequently there were many questions to be discussed. They thought it would be advisable for me to return to England at my very earliest convenience. I would have to decide what was to be done about the Australian property. My father had written to them of his wish to sell and they understood there was a prospective buyer.

They were my obedient servants, Yorke, Tamblin and Company.

I let the letter fall from my hands.

With it came certain reality. I had to come out of my fantasy world where I could delude myself into thinking this was a nightmare from which I should wake when my parents came into my room.

I had been ill; I had been in a fever; I had had hallucinations. No longer could I tell myself that.

I had to face the truth. They were gone forever. I was left desolate, alone, but a woman with responsibilities.

When Helena came in, I said to her: “We shall go home.”

She nodded. “When you are stronger. You have been very ill. Just yet the journey would be too much for you.”

“I’ve had a letter from the lawyers. I shall have to go back to Cador.”

“When you go, I shall come with you. We shan’t be parted, ever.”

“No. We have suffered … both of us. But we have to go on. So you’ll come to Cador with me?”

“I shall go where you go.”

“I don’t think I can face it yet, Helena. There are more memories there than here. It will seem that at home they are everywhere …”

“Perhaps you would rather not go to Cador?”

“Where else? London?”

She shivered.

“It would have to be Cador,” I went on. “You see, Helena, Cador is now mine. I am sure they never thought of this. My father …” My voice broke and I forced myself to go on. “He was not old … and there was Jacco and there should have been Jacco’s children … and to think of him … oh, Helena, I can’t go on.”

“Then let’s stay awhile. You can stay here as long as you like. This is your place, isn’t it, for all that it seems to belong to Greg Donnelly.”

“I just want to drift. I can’t go home yet. I’ll have to write to these lawyers. I’ll tell them I’ll come when I’m ready.”

She nodded. Then she said: “It suits us here … both of us … shut away from things that remind us and hurt us.”

“Strange,” I said, “I was so looking forward to going home.”

I felt the tears falling down my cheeks. I realized with amazement that it was the first time I had wept since it happened.

The weather was less hot now. This was winter. It seemed rather like our spring. I hardly noticed the change. I did not notice anything. It was sunrise and then it was sundown … and I went on living in limbo. I did not want to emerge. I was afraid to, for then I had to face my loss.

“Time heals,” Maud had said. I supposed the time-honoured cliché was true. It wouldn’t have lasted so long if it hadn’t been. Time did heal. It must. Did I feel any less bereaved, any less desolate than I had on the day they had brought me the news that that broken boat had been washed ashore?

I just wanted time to pass … to put as long as I could between myself and that tragedy. I only wished I could believe that in time it would be easier.

I was in my room a great deal. I had no desire to go out. I did not want to talk to anyone but Helena. I did not want to see anyone but her and the baby.

I would lie on my bed during the long afternoons, waiting for sundown and the night which followed, when I might sleep and escape into dreams where my parents would be with me. But then would come the awakening, that deadly realization that what I had thought I was experiencing was only a dream—and I was alone again.

That afternoon there was a knock on my door.

“Come in,” I said thinking it was Helena.

But it was Gregory Donnelly.

I did not feel the apprehension or annoyance which I should have before. I was just indifferent.

“I have come to talk to you,” he said. “May I come in?”

To ask permission was so different from the manner he had previously employed. But then everything had changed—even he.

I nodded wearily. He brought up a chair and sat down.

“You look better,” he said.

I did not answer.

“We’ll soon get you well. Maud says she thinks you’re picking up.”

Still I said nothing.

“I want you to know I’m going to look after you.”

I said quietly: “Thanks, but I can look after myself.”

“No,” he said softly. “You need someone. I’ll tell you what you need. You need a new life. You want to start afresh.”

“Yes,” I said. “I need a new life.”

“I can give it to you. We’ll do anything you want. We’ll go away for a while.”

“I shall go home,” I said.

“Later … yes. I’ll come with you. You’ll need someone to help you.”

“To help me?”

“A big burden has been thrust on you. You’ll need someone beside you … someone who cares for you. You need a husband. Don’t delay any longer, Annora.”

For the first time since the tragedy I smiled. He was trying to please me. He even called me by my rightful name. He was not going to run the risk of irritating me with his Annie.

I thought, He is asking me to marry him. Why? He wants the property. But I have so much now. Perhaps his ambitions have grown.

Yes, I felt a little better. I allowed my dislike of him, my distrust of him full rein. It took my thoughts from my grief to a certain extent. I let him go on.