Chapter Seven

South Australia, 1997

V estiges of summer remain on this autumn day in the sparkle of late afternoon sun on waves which dip and swell to their own eternal rhythm. Mara and Josie amble along the wet sand where lacy foam fills their bare footprints. The wings of wheeling gulls flash white in the blue sky, their screeching more distant the higher they soar.

Mara lets sunshine, sand between her toes, and her daughter’s upbeat mood soothe the tension of the last weeks. Her work is done. Kathryn’s house has been cleared bar a few pieces of furniture and the least valuable of the artwork for ‘staging’, a painter hired to freshen the walls and ceilings, the gardener retained, and an estate agent engaged. The slim young man in the dark suit was eager to plunge a For Sale stake into the soil by the front gate.

‘Popular, these houses, particularly with the retirees from Adelaide.’ He had hmm’d and measured and quoted and paid careful attention to Mara’s requirement for the new owners to be enthusiastic gardeners.

‘No problem,’ he assured her, adding a scribble to the extensive list on his clipboard. ‘Just might take longer to sell.’ He pursed his lips, smooth forehead furrowed, waiting for Mara’s reaction.

‘There’s no great rush,’ she told him. ‘My mother, and her garden, deserve the best.’

In the end, the decision to sell had been easy. Mara found she was glad to leave the house once it was reduced to a cold shell with her mother’s imprint erased. She had returned permanently to Adelaide, leaving bedding, towels, and minimal kitchen utensils for short stays at Victor Harbour should she wish or need to.

Saying goodbye to Mrs Bowen had been more difficult. Over banana loaf and tea, the kindly neighbour had assured Mara she would keep an eye on things and would ring at the first sign of any problem. It was the least she could do, she said, eyes moist.

‘Feels like forever before I can take up my studentship.’ Josie kicks up water. The bright white drops rise, dissolve in the warm air. ‘A whole winter to drag by.’

‘It’ll be wonderful,’ Mara says, already missing her daughter. ‘I hope they realise how lucky they are to have you.’ Her tone is teasing. In truth, she’s impressed at Josie’s knowledge and love for anything which grows.

Josie had taken control of Kathryn’s garden, identifying plants – a lot of these are hard to grow here, Mum – and instructing the gardener. The man, in his forties and a professional, wasn’t inclined initially to listen to a twenty-something with ‘book learning’ tell him his business. Josie quietly persisted, pointing out unfamiliar bushes, flourishing flowers which shouldn’t do well in the seaside climate, and straggly shrubs with scents he couldn’t identify and which the bees adored.

‘Your gran had a magic touch,’ he’d said at last. ‘True green fingers.’ He had finally cracked a nicotine-stained grudging half-smile. ‘Guess you must have it too.’

Josie snorts at Mara’s praise. ‘If I have talent, I must have inherited it from Gran.’ She grins. ‘Can you identify a rose bush, Mum?’

‘Of course!’ Mara gently slaps her daughter’s arm. ‘And a daisy. See how accomplished I am?’

They both laugh.

Josie skips a few paces ahead and twists about to face Mara, walking backwards. The sunlight spreads its glitter from the waves to her hair. ‘Which reminds me,’ she says.

‘Of what?’

‘Those books you found.’ Josie tilts her head to the side. ‘Have you had a chance to go through them properly?’

‘The books? Oh, the journals. The mysterious Aaron Appleby’s notes and sketchings.’ Mara grimaces. ‘No.’ She shrugs. ‘Had other things to do, and keep forgetting I have them.’

‘You should see what’s there.’ Josie twists about to walk forward, peering sidewise at Mara. ‘From what I’ve seen, they’re gorgeous. You could get them published.’

The delicately coloured plants with their various notations which Mara saw in the loft slip into her head. The medical uses, and the spiritual, magical, whatever you might call it. Like the belladonna. Mara sees the long stem with its green leaves and the tulip-shaped pale purple flowers, their yellow stamen, and beside the sketch the advice: ‘To forget past loves’.

‘I guess we could publish them.’ She throws out her hands. ‘Except I’d have to track down his estate, see if there are descendants, for copyright.’

‘Oh.’ Another sideways glance. ‘How hard would it be? Appleby can’t be too common a name.’

‘I suppose.’ Mara thinks about what she’s dealt with since February, the paperwork, the telephone calls, the dreariness. Tracking the heirs of a stranger about whom she knows nothing would be too much the same. She doesn’t fancy it. ‘Too much hard work,’ she says. ‘Especially from here.’

‘Think of the pleasure of discovery, Mum.’

They’ve reached the flight of wooden steps ascending the sandhill to the esplanade, the end of their walk. The strengthening sea breeze has summoned grey-white clouds which intermittently hide the sun. Mara halts at the bottom to wrap her unbuttoned cardigan across her chest. She folds her arms over the cardigan.

‘They are beautiful books,’ she admits. ‘With the ton of catching up I have to get on with, I can’t even begin to think about them.’ She arches her brows. ‘If I don’t remind my National Trust committee of my existence they’ll decide they can do without me. Not to mention the school governors.’

‘How terrible.’ Josie giggles and takes the steps ahead of Mara, two at a time. At the halfway platform she peers down. ‘When I’m in England,’ she says, ‘I could go to this Forest place if you tell me where it is, do a bit of hunting around, see if I can find anything.’

Mara loves her daughter’s eagerness. ‘Great idea, when you can drag yourself from the delights of London.’

‘Ha! See you at the top.’

Josie leaps the rest of the stairway, putting Mara in mind of a young deer. Deer? Where did the image come from? It must have been the talk of Aaron’s journals and England. She follows more slowly. Josie is right. Aaron Appleby is an intriguing mystery. And why did Kathryn have his journals to start with? Maybe, one day, she’ll try to find him.

***

Mara eats alone that evening. Peter is in Sydney. When she invited Josie to stay after their beach stroll, offering to make lasagna, a favourite, Josie declined. She’s catching up with college friends, a pub meal not too far from her flat. She’ll see her parents on the weekend. Cool enough for a Sunday roast? she asks. Please? Mara accedes.

A lasagna is too much effort for one person and Mara reverts to cheese on toast. She opens a bottle of Coonawarra Shiraz, pours a glass and savours the peppery tang, eating at the kitchen table. Afterwards, she carries the remaining half glass into the living room, plumping onto the cream sofa, nestling into the cushions and thinking to catch the news, see if anything has happened in the world. As she reaches for the remote on the polished wooden side table, the phone rings. Mara places her wine on the glass-topped coffee table, sliding it from where Aaron Appleby’s journals sit waiting for a thorough read, and walks to the kitchen to answer the phone.

‘Hi there.’ Peter, cheery, relaxed. ‘How’re things?’

‘Fine,’ Mara says. ‘Saw Josie today, went for a walk on the beach, enjoy the sun before autumn takes a proper hold.’ Not much to report. ‘She’s coming for Sunday lunch, demanding roasts. Sweets too no doubt.’ Lemon cheesecake?

‘Ah.’ Concern replaces the relaxed cheeriness. Mara readies herself. ‘Things are critical here,’ Peter says. ‘We were hoping to wrap up by Friday, be home for the weekend. Not gonna happen, I’m afraid.’

‘You have to stay the weekend?’ Mara bridles. Weekends are sacrosanct, bar an hour Sunday night prepping for the week.

‘Sorry, love.’ The concern deepens. ‘It’s tough. The thing is, if we don’t have the full report ready for Monday, my hide’ll be well and truly tanned.’

Mara carries the handset to the living room, glancing at tonight’s company of red wine. She’ll be keeping the same company for the next several days.

‘I guess it can’t be helped.’ She works hard to sound sympathetic. What she should be doing is asking what in particular keeps Peter from her, from Josie, from home? This project, this demanding client, has stolen her husband’s time for months.

He might as well move to Sydney, save the firm the airfares and hotel costs … If he’s using a hotel …

The notion squirms in Mara’s mind, stretching its arms to wakefulness. She bites her bottom lip. She can’t say anything, doesn’t want to sound like a harridan, shouting accusations. Or even hinting at them. Weariness washes through her. The toll of dealing with Kathryn’s death, emotional and physical. She’s imagining things.

‘Knew you’d understand. And I’ll make it up to you, promise I will.’ He’s jaunty now. ‘Why don’t you book the Red Ochre for next weekend? You love it there.’

Mara does love it there, with its stunning views over the River Torrens to the city skyline. A celebration restaurant for anniversaries and birthdays. And apologies?

‘Good idea,’ she says. ‘Call me over the weekend, if you can.’ There’s the let-out-of-jail card if he’s unwilling to call. Mara chides herself again for being too soft.

She returns the handpiece to the kitchen wall and wanders into the living room. Ignoring her wine, she picks up the topmost of Aaron’s journals and sits on the sofa with the book on her lap. Not wanting to risk the journals being accidentally lost in the clearing of Kathryn’s house, Mara had wrapped them in tissue paper, slid them into a labelled box and asked Peter to take them to Adelaide. Later, Josie had discovered the box, removed the journals and left them on the coffee table, telling Mara they were too special not to be displayed. And there they had sat, waiting to be read.

The faded leather cover was once deep tan. The edges are decorated with detailed tooling of leaves, acorns, flowers, which the century has smoothed to gentle ridges when Mara runs her fingers over them.

Josie’s idea about having the journals published plays in her mind. First, she should read them in detail, see if her initial impressions hold throughout. A little longer and wider than A4, the journals are nearer to the old foolscap size. The flyleaf in the one she holds has the same inscription as the other book, Aaron Appleby, Barnley, this time dated 1896 to – and a blank.

Mara opens the back cover. Yellowing empty pages greet her. What made Aaron give up his project? How long had he been executing these exquisite drawings, testing the recipes for forgetting past loves as well as curing fevers and rashes, recording his findings? She leafs through, and comes across a much folded and creased sheet of thin paper.

Frowning, Mara sets the journal down and takes up the other one. She holds it vertically by the spine and jiggles the pages with suitable gentleness. The letter she discovered the day she found the journals in the suitcase flutters to the table. Mara had forgotten it in the thrill of Josie’s announcement about Kew Gardens and the distractions which came afterwards.

Using her fingertips, Mara unfolds both sheets and lays them side by side. They are in the same handwriting, a less tidy version of the annotations in the journals. Letters from Aaron Appleby. As both are dated Midsummer 1897, Mara must work out from the content which comes first.

She scans the shorter one.

My dear Hester, I have completed my duty, and not to my satisfaction I am unhappy to say. I’m eager to be on my way home to you and our beloved girls. Give them a kiss from their loving Papa. I miss you badly, A

Hester must be Aaron’s wife, and the girls must be Ellen – Mara’s grandmother, the child in the sketch Mara saw in the loft – and another girl. Kathryn never mentioned an aunt, as she hadn’t spoken of Hester, who must have been her grandmother. Mara traces the name with her fingertip. Hello, great-grandmother, nice to meet you.

Aaron’s duty? When Mara reads the longer missive she works out it was written first, likely the day before. Also addressed to Hester, the missive contains a brief, unhappy account of a visit to his parents. They must have lived near Shrewsbury, Mara assumes, because he mentions the warm beauty of the countryside as a contrast to the coolness of his reception. He goes on to talk about finding a family by the name of Ward from whom he wishes forgiveness – for what is not mentioned – and then there is a plea to Hester. Mara reads this bit twice, sensing Aaron’s anguish over this unresolved matter:

This is not yet enough, Aaron writes . I have been idling my time away. When I return home, there is a matter I would talk through with you, my love. There is more I must do, more is expected of me, if you will be patient as ever?

Mara reviews the later, shorter bit of correspondence. Was the duty this visit to the Wards, whoever they might be? Did Aaron not find them? Did they, like his parents, not welcome him if he did? The one-hundred-year-old mystery niggles at Mara’s brain.

She’s amused at herself for wanting to play detective. Who cares today what Aaron’s duty was a hundred years ago and what else he had to do? Mara can’t help herself. She carefully turns the blank pages, making her way backwards until the last entry. May 1897. A month before the letters.

There are also no flowers, herbs and notations here, simply an idyllic nineteenth century rural scene.

A stone wall with an open window, herbs or flowers drying on the sunny sill. Flowering plants bask beneath the window, and to the side a pair of brown butterflies hover over flower beds blazing with colour. At least, they would have blazed. Age has faded them, like the journals’ covers. Mara pores over the earth-coloured path wending its way between the beds and down to a stream. Water ripples over glistening stones, and the long fronds of a willow tree cast deep shadows.

The scene is alive. Mara expects to hear the water purling, bees buzzing. She turns another page, and here is more of this garden. A mature oak tree spreads its branches over long grass dotted with faded blobs of red, yellow, purple. A simple wooden table is set with a tall teapot and cups, a plate which holds cake or biscuits. Here is Ellen again, sitting in the grass, smiling at the artist. Behind her, another girl with blonde curls and pink cheeks half rises from a chair at the table, stretching for the cake. Hester and Aaron’s other daughter.

Mara’s heart expands at the sight. Lightly penned and bursting with life, this is a drawing sketched with love, with joy. She stares at it, hungry to embrace the joy, missing it as if the willow, the oak, the table were the only home she had ever known and she has been ripped from her roots. Tearing herself from the page, Mara closes the journal and sits with the book on her lap. Her fingers rest on the aged leather, her fingers trembling under a weight of unexpected and uncalled for longing.

Finding Aaron Appleby. A mission. Josie is right. There will be true pleasure in discovering this man filled with love for his home and his children, and more should Aaron prove to be her own forebear. And then there’s Hester to learn about, and the other, nameless little girl. Mara sets the journal on top of the first and takes up her neglected wine. She sips, and thinks. Go to England to do her research?

Peter doesn’t need her. She grimaces. Might not want her either. Putting time and distance between them should jolt her husband into realising Mara can’t, won’t, be taken for granted any longer. She closes her eyes to better experience the anticipated warmth of his welcome home, his renewed love and appreciation.

Josie, too, no longer needs her, and will be in England herself soon. Mara could stay until September to help Josie settle in.

At the end, however, it’s Kathryn’s words which make the decision for her, beating a soft tattoo in her head: The Forest, the river. The river’s waiting. Been patient too long, the goddess. She loves us, you see.

Mara will travel to this Gloucestershire Forest, wherever it is. Summer will arrive soon, such as the season is in that cool country. She will go, and she will find her family. And she will search for Aaron Appleby, try to discover why his journals stopped so abruptly in 1897, and if he ever did complete his duty satisfactorily.