* * *
Jack
Calendar House
That evening, Jack sat on the end of their bed, watching Celia brush her hair. She was keen to talk about the historical event she was organizing, and he encouraged her.
“Is Kim helping you?” he wondered.
“She doesn’t have time. Cliff has her working around the clock on that chicken farm.” She set the brush down and pinned her hair back. “It’s not fair, a bright woman like her, sweeping manure all day.”
“Is she smart?”
“Very intelligent. When she was young, she was selected by one of the big Launceston banks for their management program. They wanted to pay for her university.”
“What happened?”
“She fell in love.” She smiled. “Happens to the best of us.”
“Does that mean I’m forgiven?” he asked as she applied lotion to her face with dainty fingertip strokes.
“No,” she said cheekily, but her expression was tender.
He lay back on the bed and thought about Kim. He remembered Celia telling him, many years ago, that Kim had had a baby when she was only sixteen. Her parents had forced her to put the baby girl up for adoption. Apparently, afterward, no one reacted how Kim thought they would—the boy fell in love with someone else, her friends shunned her, and her parents remained ashamed.
“We need to help Kim,” he said. “It’s not fair, what she has to deal with.”
“Don’t worry about Kim,” Celia said. “She’s a survivor. But you’re right. I’ll talk to her. I’ll remind her that we are here for her.”
Chapter 5
Tuesday, August 22
Joelle
The Smithtons’ house
When she woke up, Brian was dressed for work and sitting on the end of their bed drinking a cup of coffee. His green work tie hung undone around his neck. A posy of small starry pale-pink flowers from the garden had been placed in a glass of water on the bedside table.
“My favorites. Is it my birthday?” Joelle asked.
“No. I just like making you smile.”
She sat up. “Where are the kids?”
“Getting ready for school. You slept in. Joey, is everything okay?”
“Yep.”
“Are you happy?”
She looked at the flowers he had picked for her. “Of course I’m happy. I’m here with you. And I love daphnes. Do you know why?”
He touched the end of her nose with his fingertip. “Tell me again.”
She told him the story, how there were daphnes in an old-fashioned cut-glass vase next to the bed when she first arrived at Darla’s. Darla got only an hour’s notice from the department that Joelle was coming. So many times, Joelle had imagined Darla hurrying to prepare: making the bed, choosing a soft pink towel that smelled like fabric softener, and dashing out into the garden with a pair of scissors to cut a bunch of flowers to brighten the room.
“A small act of kindness that lasts a lifetime,” Brian said.
Almost everything he knew about her came from then, as though she had been born into Darla’s family at the age of fifteen. Sometimes even Joelle forgot that there had been another family, her birth mother and her stepfather and his sons, in that rickety house at Pieman’s Junction so close to the tracks the plates in the cupboards rattled every time the train went by. Before that place, she had vague, uneasy memories of lots of different homes and schools. School was not easy for Joelle. Storytime was the only time she relaxed in the classroom; most of the time she was never certain what the teacher wanted her to do.
Like Darla said, there was no point thinking about the past. You had to get on with it.
“Sit still, my big, lovely man.” She set to work doing up his tie.
* * *
Jack
Coast Road
On Tuesday, Jack collected his mother from her home. She lived a few hours away in a cozy cottage on a headland overlooking rough ocean. It was once the family’s summer house and Victoria Lily had moved there after Jack’s father died. Jack was always grateful to her for letting his family have the Calendar House to themselves.
Jack and his mother spent a pleasant morning on the Fotheringhams’ property, viewing a pony that was for sale. This was halfway back to Vanishing Falls, but Jack knew his mother would appreciate the outing. Victoria Lily had been close friends with Roger Fotheringham’s mother. As they walked across to the stables, Victoria squeezed his arm with pleasure. It did her good to get back to the countryside.
Roger’s adult children had moved away from the farm, and the dozen or so horses he had accumulated were no longer being ridden. He showed Jack and Victoria a young chestnut mare. She had competed in novice dressage and was an 80 centimeter show jumper with potential to go higher. He wanted nine thousand dollars, which Jack thought was a lot, but before he could negotiate, Victoria told Roger it was a deal. She insisted the mare would perfectly suit any of Jack’s young daughters.
The men shook on it.
On the way home, Jack wondered if they had paid too much.
“I think I know what a horse is worth,” his mother said confidently. “I’ll write the check if you’re that bothered.”
“Don’t be silly,” he said. “Celia will be pleased. She’s been wanting a new pony for the girls.”
“How is Madam?”
“She’s very busy with her historical committee.”
“She needs something to keep her busy. She doesn’t work.”
“You didn’t work either, Mother.”
“I didn’t have half the appliances she has. I didn’t drive. I used to walk into the village every day.”
Conversations with his mother could be exhausting. He tried to be patient. He was her only son. He had a sister, but she lived far away and claimed to be too busy to provide emotional support to their mother. Apart from him, Victoria was quite alone.
“I have something exciting to tell you.” He lowered his voice to pique her interest. “I’ve come across a rare painting.”
She perked up. “Oh?”
With one hand on the wheel, he reached into his pocket and passed her a photo he had taken of the painting.
“It’s a beauty,” she said. “My first thought, seeing the wide blue sky and the pastoral scene, is that this is a Glover.”
“I haven’t had it appraised yet, but I think so too.” His thoughts strayed from the hurtling cattle trucks on the highway. “Can you imagine?”
“Goodness gracious,” she said. “Remember, in 1835 John Glover sent sixty-eight paintings to be exhibited in London, from his home in Van Diemen’s Land. Fewer than five of these have ever turned up. It’s baffling how so many paintings could vanish.”
Together they listed the general features of Glover’s work—the warm and cool greens contrasting with the hint of pink luminosity in the hills; the gum trees with their regrowth close to the trunk, a characteristic unique to the species as it regenerated following bushfire; and the hedonistic attitude of the Aboriginal people, at odds with the gravity of the landscape.
“We’ll unveil it at an exhibition soiree at the house,” he said. “You can pull back the curtain.”