Lyrebird Hill
Authors: Anna Romer
For my beautiful Katie, with an ocean of love
You are a ruby in the heart of granite, how long will you try to deceive us? We can see the truth in your eyes.
RUMI
August 1898
I
t is midnight. I am hunched on the cold floor of the library, scratching these words by the light of a candle stub. Wind rattles the panes, and the air is heavy with the smell of gunpowder.
The men with guns are drawing near. I can hear their shouts as they trample the bracken at the forest edge. Soon they will thunder along the drive and through the trees to the house. Their dogs will catch the scent of blood and they will find us.
A man lies on the floor beside me, covered with my cloak. A dark patch of blood seeps through the grey wool.
‘Love,’ I whisper near to his ear, ‘can you hear me?’
He does not reply. I hear only the wind sighing in the red gums outside and the distant baying of hounds. I watch him in the moonlight, taking in the wide mouth bracketed by lines, the regal nose, the pale skin. His is a face that traps the gaze, draws the unwary observer into a state of curiosity. Then intrigue. And then, upon closer acquaintance, into a sort of fearful obsession.
I shut my eyes, but it does no good to wish away the past. My yearning is like a knife carving into the soft hollows of my heart. My sorrow feels fatal. All I want now is to die here in the dark in the presence of love.
I huddle closer. A coppery scent saturates the air. My father used to say that blood has the gutsy odour of raw iron, but I disagree. To me it is sour, like the rotting shadows of the casuarina tree I played under as a child; it smells of brine and ash, of snakes sliding beneath the old house, of metal buried too long in the earth.
So much blood.
My glance strays deeper into the room, but I cannot quite bring myself to focus on the other motionless body slumped in the shadows. My attention scurries around it, mouse-like and evasive. It is not that his death grieves me; quite the contrary, he was my bitterest enemy and I have good reason to rejoice in his parting. I only regret that, by dying, he has condemned us all.
Gathering my skirts, I lie down beside my love and link my hot fingers into his large cool ones. My sob fractures the stillness. Then silence returns.
I try to dredge up a prayer. Not for my own soul, for I am past saving – but for the loved ones I have lost, the ones who now haunt me. The Lord hears every prayer, my father liked to say; even the prayers of sinners. I try to summon the words but nothing comes. Perhaps my sins are too great after all, even for the Lord’s forgiving ears.
It strikes me then, how far I have travelled. Not only across a rough sea and into the heart of an unfamiliar land – but within those miles I have made the journey from girl to woman, and then more. Along the way my old self died, and this new, unknown self was born. She is an unfamiliar entity, a creature who makes me nervous and oftentimes afraid. Yet I feel more at home in her skin than I did in that of the naive young girl I used to be.
I edge closer to the body of the man beside me, trapping his stillness in my arms, wishing I could warm him back to life. Once, he told me that love has the power to create miracles. If that is true, then surely love will grant me this one last wish?
Come back
, I beg him.
Please come back.
There is so much to tell – so many lies to unravel, deceptions to unburden, truths I want so desperately for him to hear. Before he is lost, too.
But where to begin?
My breath draws deep, my thoughts race back to an earlier, happier time. The time before fate called me here; before love turned me into a murderer.
‘I come from a wild, harsh part of the country,’ I tell him softly, ‘where bare granite outcrops stretch for miles, and tea-trees form forests so thick that a cat cannot slip among them, a place where billabongs swelter in the blistering sunshine, and the mighty Muluerindie rushes inland from the sea, a place where black ironbarks rise into a sky so vast and blue it hurts the eyes . . .’
Those of us who fear the truth and dwell in a state of denial, have missed the purpose of living.
– ROB THISTLETON,
LET GO AND LIVE
Ruby, April 2013
‘H
ello . . . what’s this?’
I was standing in my cluttered bedroom, near the window in a patch of early light, my pulse tripping uncertainly. In one hand I held my boyfriend’s suit jacket; the crisply tailored charcoal-grey Armani he’d been wearing when he came in last night.
In my other hand was a scrap of black lace – a tiny, sexy bra, I realised. It had spaghetti-thin straps and a miniature gold horseshoe sewn into the lace between the cups. I’d found it in Rob’s jacket pocket. Not that I’d been snooping. He’d hung the Armani near my open window, presumably to air it while he was in the shower. When I went to investigate, I’d caught a barely-there whiff of smoke. Cigarette smoke, I thought, which puzzled me because Rob never allowed his patients to light up anywhere near the therapy rooms.
His voice drifted through the bathroom door. He was singing
‘Rhinestone Cowboy’, which surprised me. I’d known Rob for nearly three years, and in all that time I’d never picked him as a Glen Campbell fan. Maybe that’s what sparked my curiosity. Rob was a classical enthusiast. Brahms, Mozart, Liszt. If he was feeling in the groove, he might pull out some Shostakovich. Meanwhile I was mad about seventies folk – seventies anything, really – which I knew Rob considered terribly lowbrow. I’d been at him for some time to meet in the middle, compromise on both sides and find something we could both enjoy . . . but Glen Campbell? At any other time, I’d have been impressed.
I frowned at the bra.
Rob might have bought it for me as a gift. Which was crazy – I had curves, and lots of them; no one in their right mind would expect me to fit into such a tiny garment.
My heart clenched into itself. Who was I kidding? As the ache of realisation swept through me, I tried to contain it by standing very still. Holding my breath. Groping around in my mind for another, less horrible explanation, but finding none.
The shower stopped. Rob clattered around in the ensuite, whistling as he dried off. I imagined marching in there and demanding that he tell me what he’d
really
been up to last night – but fear kept me frozen in place. What if he admitted he’d met someone else; what if he broke up with me?
The flimsy bra dangled from my fingers like a dead kitten.
I sniffed it. Definitely cigarette smoke. And perfume: ‘Poison’ by Christian Dior. I knew it well; I had a large purple bottle sitting on my dressing table. I’d only used it once or twice to please Rob. He’d presented it to me soon after we started dating, gift-wrapped and tied with a glittery card that said,
Thanks for the happiest three months of my life
.
Our first few months
had
been happy. For me, deliriously so. I’d been single most of my adult life and secretly ashamed of the fact. I was thirty, and while all my girlfriends were getting married and popping out kids, I’d been following my dream.
That was my justification, anyway. People were always asking when I was going to get my act together, meet someone nice and settle down. Start a family of my own. I never had the heart to tell them that babies and husbands just weren’t my thing, so I’d waffle on about career, and the miracles of modern medicine, and how women these days were delaying motherhood even into their forties.
I stared at the bra, then at the doorway that separated me from the man I loved. He was still whistling and banging things around, and each tiny sound made me feel increasingly alone.
Until I met Rob, my small bookshop had been my life. I’d worked hard to set it up from scratch, scrimping and saving and mapping out my plan with the precision of a military strategist. I had gravitated towards what I loved best, and somehow it had all fallen neatly into place. I stocked the latest bestsellers, but mostly the books were second-hand – with a scattering of music CDs and audio books to keep things interesting. I had a clutch of regular customers, most of whom I’d become close to over the years. I’d made a lot of friends that way – fellow bookworms who, like me, loved nothing more than sitting around the dinner table after a great meal, guzzling red wine and rambling on for endless hours about books.
Back then, those bookish dinner parties had kept my loneliness at bay. The shop helped, too. Even so, there’d been days when I found myself gazing through the window out at the sunny footpaths, scrutinising the passers-by. Plenty of gorgeous men, but they all seemed attached or gay or in too much of a rush to stop in and browse my books. I rarely went on dates; there’d been a few set-ups, but nothing had ever lasted past the three-week mark.
That was, until I met Rob.
I had liked his face the moment I saw it on the flyleaf of his first bestselling book,
Let Go and Live
. He had a wide, friendly smile and a rugged boyishness. I was drawn to him and wanted
to meet him, so I devised the plan of holding an author signing at my shop.
To my surprise, Rob agreed.
The signing was a tremendous success, and Rob had lingered afterwards over a glass of wine. He was even more gorgeous in the flesh: tall and lean, impeccably groomed. Of course, he wasn’t perfect – he had a scar beside his left nostril, and his thinning hair was trimmed close to his scalp – but he had a way of speaking, a mesmerising attentiveness that disarmed me.
Not long after that, he asked me out.
‘Ruby?’
I startled from my thoughts. Tucking the bra into my dressing gown pocket, I made a lunge for the bed.
Steam billowed into my room as the ensuite door opened. Rob stood in the swirling vapours, his body gleaming and damp, his chest hair glittering with water droplets. He looked every bit the gorgeous buffed underwear model – without the underwear.
‘Still not dressed?’ His voice was smooth, but there was an undertow of irritation. ‘We’re leaving on the dot of eight, don’t forget.’ Reaching back around the door, he took a clean towel and scrubbed it over his head. ‘I couldn’t find my aftershave. Did you move it?’
‘I . . . ah, I was cleaning up. It’s in the—’
I swallowed the lump in my throat, unable to get the image of the bra out of my head.
Ask him now
.
Demand an explanation.
My lips parted, and the question took shape in my mind, but I couldn’t get my tongue around the words.
Are you having an affair?
‘Never mind.’ Rob said, and I thought I heard him sigh. ‘Really, babe, I wish you’d let me hire you a housekeeper. Or at least one of those organising experts. A man could vanish into your clutter and never be heard from again.’
He winked to let me know he was joking, and I forced a smile. But inside my dressing gown pocket my fingers had
knotted themselves into the bra strap. The elastic grew tighter and tighter, strangling the blood flow to my fingertips.
‘Rob,’ I began, but again my courage faltered. Now wasn’t the time. I was in bed in my dressing gown, my face bare of make-up. My hair was unbrushed, and long wisps clung to my damp neck under my collar. Worse, my breasts and belly and bottom and thighs were without the advantage of support wear. A heavy feeling settled over me. All of a sudden the idea of a confrontation – especially one that might involve a doll-sized rival – seemed too daunting. I would have to wait. Wait until my heart stopped hammering and I could speak coherently. Wait until I was looking my best. Wait until I could confront Rob from a place of certainty.
‘What’s that, honey?’ Rob was adjusting his tie in my antique cheval mirror, intent on his reflection.
‘Do you—’ I cleared my throat and tried again. ‘Do you think she’ll be happy to see me? Mum, I mean?’
Rob glanced at me via the mirror. ‘She sent you an invitation, didn’t she?’
‘I guess.’
I inched deeper into the bed, wanting to vanish. I’d been surprised to receive an invitation to my mother’s latest art exhibition in Armidale. Mum and I had never seen eye to eye, even when my sister Jamie was alive. After Jamie died, I’d left home at the earliest opportunity, and Mum and I had drifted even further apart. Our current relationship consisted of occasional random phone calls for birthday or Christmas, and infrequent postcards.