Chapter Two

T he house waits for her, the shadowed coolness of the deep verandah whispering, welcome. Mara pulls open the screen door, fumbles for her key and unlocks the panelled wooden door to gain entry to the hallway. With the house protected by tuck-pointed white stone walls, the coolness extends here, edged with a lingering scent of toast.

Dropping her hastily packed bag to the floor, Mara makes her way to the kitchen where the late summer evening spills through a wide window. The blind has not been drawn to protect from the day’s heat, and Mara heaves the protesting sash up as far as it will go, which isn’t far despite her forceful shoving. When the entering sea breeze is tentative about its ability to battle the indoor stuffiness, Mara enlists help by unlocking and opening the back door. She leaves the wrought-iron screen outer door closed as a defense against mosquitoes.

She fills the kettle, pops a teabag into a mug, and opens the fridge to see if there is milk. A half litre. Cold meats, a bowl of deep red tomatoes, a block of cheese and eggs accompany the milk. Maybe, later, Mara might make use of them. At this stage, the stress of the afternoon and the heat have subsumed hunger. Stretching and rotating her shoulders in a futile attempt to loosen her stress, she carries the tea onto the porch overlooking the garden and slumps into the cast iron sofa with its worn linen cushions. The wooden boards are darkened with damp, telling her the pots clustered by the post railing have been recently watered. Mara must go next door and thank Mrs Bowen, tell her the news. She will be worrying.

First, other calls need to be made. Procrastinating, Mara takes her time over her tea. When the mug is empty, she places it on the side table, retraces her steps to the hallway, delves into her handbag for her phone and presses the quick dial for Peter. She glances at her watch. Seven thirty. Likely at dinner. Her guess is confirmed by the hubbub of voices in the background when he answers.

‘Hi.’ His voice is cheery, relaxed. ‘How’s things?’

Seems he’s forgotten the possible urgency of the call Mara took earlier. She presses her lips together and blinks to stop the tears which rise. This will be the first time she will say the words.

‘The call,’ she says, delaying the inevitable, ‘the one I had to take before you left for Sydney.’

‘Yes?’ His cheeriness diminishes. The relaxation stays. ‘What about it? Not bad news, I hope?’

‘I’m at Victor, at Mum’s place.’ Still she can’t say what needs to be said.

‘Is Kathryn all right?’ He is truly solicitous. Peter likes Kathryn, they have sparred amicably all the time Mara and Peter have been together.

‘No.’ The tears well. Mara fights the wobbling in her voice. ‘She’s dead, Peter.’ There, it’s done, it will be easier from here. She can tell Josie without breaking into a blubbering heap.

‘Dead?’

The restaurant noises fade. Peter must have left the table, found somewhere quieter. Mara appreciates the gesture.

‘What? How?’

Mara runs over the facts – the garden, midday, too hot, Kathryn must have fainted, or tripped over one of the many, many pots, or steps, how Mrs Bowen saw her fall, called an ambulance …

‘She died this evening, regained consciousness once.’ Mara’s mind flits to her mother’s odd murmurings about goddesses and the river, whichever river she might have meant, and goes back to Peter who is doing his own murmurings, of sympathy and sorries and what a wonderful woman Kathryn was. Mara wants to say, save it for the funeral. Not wanting to be unkind, she says, yes, yes, everyone loved her.

‘I’ll be staying a while,’ Mara says when the sympathies conclude for the time being. ‘There’ll be arrangements –’ mentally making air quotes around the word ‘– and the house to sort, and …’

‘I’ll fly home tomorrow, cut things short here, be with you by the afternoon.’

‘No, no need, honest. I can manage.’ Please don’t, is what Mara means. She needs to do this herself, not have Peter take over with his punctilious lawyer ways which will have everything out of her hands in a trice. ‘I’m about to call Josie. She’ll want to come down if she can.’

‘You’re sure?’

Mara searches for a hint of relief in his tone. The hint eludes her. She shouldn’t be this hard on her husband, should forget her suspicions.

‘Thanks, love, I appreciate the offer. Come when you can, on the weekend. See how far I’ve gotten.’

‘Call me any time, day or night, if you change your mind.’ Peter’s offer sounds like an order.

Mara acquiesces. ‘I will, and I must call Josie. She’ll be devastated.’

‘We’re all devastated.’ Mara imagines Peter shaking his head.

Hanging up, she fetches a glass and runs the tap for a minute to rid the pipes of tepid water before filling it. She swallows a mouthful, sets the glass on the counter and uses the wall phone in the kitchen to call her daughter’s flat.

Dealing with Josie’s outraged grief eases Mara’s own pain and, assuring her she, Mara, will be fine in the house by herself for one night and will be far happier if Josie sleeps and drives down tomorrow, assuming she gets leave from her bosses at the landscape design company – yes, they’ll be great, Josie assures her, they’re lovely guys – and with heartfelt mutual assurances of ‘love you lots’, Mara ends the call.

The hollow in her stomach could be hunger, or sadness, or both. Mara considers the cheese and eggs in the fridge, discards the idea. She can eat later. It’s past eight o’clock and she must talk to Mrs Bowen. It isn’t too late, not for this news.

Giving herself a few minutes’ reprieve, Mara walks into the garden. Night has fallen, the sun wandering off to warm the cold northern climes and build energy for tomorrow’s southern assault. The moon has not yet risen, and the stars are throwing off their daytime slumber, waking handful by handful. The Southern Cross emerges in its summer glory, more vivid here than in the too-bright city, rendering the garden grey and silver. Mara flicks a switch, and tiny lights glow on the edges of the path which winds between the flower beds. She follows the lights, Gretel searching out her brother’s breadcrumb trail, to arrive at a wooden arbour flush with a vigorous passionfruit vine in the last throes of fruiting. A handful of the crumpled, purple-skinned crop litter the weed-free ground.

A book lies unopened on the bench, The Robber Bride . This is – was – Mara pulls in her lips – a favourite spot for Kathryn to sit and read, an eye on her flowers, bushes and herbs, forever calculating where she could put more or what needed deadheading or pruning or re-potting. Her mother’s joy.

Mara herself sees gardens as green spaces charming to linger in on a sunny evening with a gin and tonic in hand, spaces which in her case you pay professionals to maintain while you get on with the important projects in your life. If Mara sells this house, it will have to be to a gardening enthusiast. A buyer who grasps plants the way Kathryn does. Did. Mara gulps back the swell of tears and gazes across the fence to Mrs Bowen’s house. The kitchen light glows warmly, the window open, speckled with shadows of hopeful moths assailing the flyscreen.

Returning inside, Mara makes her way through the house and out to the footpath. The metal gate in the neighbour’s white stone wall squeals, warning visitors their approach can never be secret. Mrs Bowen answers Mara’s knock clutching a lightweight dressing gown around herself. Her long brown hair with its newly accumulated grey streaks is pulled into a ponytail, her glasses perched on top of her head.

‘Ah,’ she says. ‘I reckoned it might be you.’ Mrs Bowen searches Mara’s face. ‘It’s not good news, is it, dear?’

‘No.’

‘I’m so terribly sorry.’ Mrs Bowen steps aside to usher Mara inside. ‘Come on in before these mozzies carry us off. I’ll make a cuppa. Have you eaten, dear?’

***

Josie arrives the next morning at the same time Mara finishes her call with a charming and efficient young woman from South Coast Funerals. Knowing she has barely started the long process of arrangements, Mara replaces the handset on the phone and opens her arms.

‘It’s not fair, Mum.’ Josie sobs into Mara’s shoulder. ‘She had years left!’

‘Possibly.’ Mara pats her daughter’s heaving back and sets her at arm’s length. ‘People will say we can be grateful she went quickly, no lingering in a sickbed, her mind and body going …’She grimaces, hearing the hollowness in her words. More time would have been good. And a proper chance to say goodbye.

Josie shifts out of Mara’s embrace and walks to the sink to pour herself a glass of water. She gulps it down, staring at Mara over the rim. Her eyes faintly accuse.

‘Why didn’t you call me yesterday?’ she says. ‘I could’ve come with you, been with you, seen Gran before … before …’ Josie bangs the glass onto the stainless steel and rubs her eyes. ‘I hate this.’

Mara holds out a hand. ‘Come and sit on the porch. It’s cooler out there, and we can talk about what we need to do.’ She checks the old railway clock above the fridge. ‘I have to go to the shops this afternoon, if we’re to eat.’

‘I’ll go.’ Josie follows her out and perches on a canvas chair which angles in towards the cast iron sofa. ‘I should have stopped on the way here.’ She bites her bottom lip, an old habit. ‘Sorry, Mum, for going off.’

Mara smiles forgiveness.

‘Did Gran say anything?’ Josie’s lips part like a baby bird expecting gratification. ‘You said on the phone she was lucid for a bit.’

‘Not very.’ Mara shoos a fly exploring the saltiness of her forehead. Even here on the cool south coast the heat is fierce by near midday. What on earth was Kathryn thinking to go out into it? She thinks of the book on the arbour bench. Had she gone to fetch it? It might have been there for days. There’d been no rain to show otherwise.

‘Mum?’ Josie prods.

‘Ah, yes.’ Mara brings her attention to the present. ‘Gran did say something, about wishing she’d gone home. When I reminded her she and Dad had gone to London, she said no, the forest, and muttered about a goddess and a river.’ She hesitates about telling the rest, about showing Mara to them and the river waiting.

‘Ramblings?’

‘I guess. Except …’ Mara lifts her thick dark hair from the back of her neck, searching uselessly for a breeze on her skin. ‘I do recall her telling me when I was small how she grew up in a place called the Forest, in rural Gloucestershire. Ages ago.’

‘And the witch story of course.’ Josie grins. ‘Confused, poor thing.’ She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes. ‘They say the earliest memories come to you when, when …’ She swallows. ‘I wish I’d asked her about it. Great stories, I bet.’

‘Yes.’ Mara stands and smooths her linen trousers. ‘Lost now, sadly.’ She takes a step towards the kitchen. ‘Let’s both go to the shops and you can fill me in how your studentship application to Kew Gardens is going, and afterwards I have to call the solicitor about Gran’s will.’ She gestures in the direction of Mrs Bowen’s house. ‘Our neighbour has offered to call around Gran’s friends for me, which is kind. I need to write a notice for the local paper, once the funeral home confirms the details.’

‘I’ll write the notice, would love to.’ Instead of walking into the house, Josie moves to the railing at the edge of the porch and peers out over the garden. ‘Gran has a sprinkler system, right? I’ll turn it on when it’s cooler. A lot of special plants here, and it would break her heart if we let them die in this heat.’

‘Thanks, love. Gran would approve.’