Remnants

nigel featherstone

remnants

Pandanus Online Publications, found at the Pandanus Books web site, presents additional material relating to this book. www.pandanusbooks.com.au

remnants

remnants nigel featherstone

PANDANUS BOOKS A Sullivan’s Creek Publication Research School of Pacific and Asian Studies THE AUSTRALIAN NATIONAL UNIVERSITY

Cover: James Northfield, ‘Blue Mountains’, by courtesy of the James Northfield Heritage Art Trust © © Nigel Featherstone 2005 This book is copyright in all countries subscribing to the Berne convention. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Typeset in Goudy and printed by Pirion, Canberra National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry Featherstone, Nigel. Remnants. ISBN 1 74076 130 8. I. Title. A823.3

Pandanus Books acknowledges the support of artsACT in the publication of this book. Editorial inquiries please contact Pandanus Books on 02 6125 4910 www.pandanusbooks.com.au Published by Pandanus Books, Research School of Pacific and Asian Studies, The Australian National University, Canberra ACT 0200 Australia A Sullivan’s Creek Publication Pandanus Books are distributed by UNIREPS, University of New South Wales, Sydney NSW 2052 Telephone 02 9664 0999 Fax 02 9664 5420 Production: Ian Templeman, Duncan Beard, Emily Brissenden

For my family

Many thanks to Tony Macris, John Scott, Cuz D, Ian Syson and Rie Natalenko. Also Lesley Fowler, Jenny Hacker, Craig Cormick and Francesca Rendle-Short. Special thanks to Ian Templeman and Duncan Beard. Nigel Featherstone

Man can climb to the highest summits; but he cannot dwell there long. — George Bernard Shaw, Candida

He knows he is going to enjoy himself. First he lifts out the rusting metal funnel, then scrunches up sheets of old newspaper into balls, placing them at the bottom of the hollow barrel. Next he drops down small bits of kindling. When he thinks everything is ready to go, he strikes a match and puts it to an ear of newspaper, smelling the spice-like scent of spent flint. He waits for the kindling to catch — there needs to be roaring flame before he can replace the funnel. He can hear his father’s voice telling him to wait, be patient, otherwise the thing will die and you’ll have to build it up all over again, and what a waste of time that would be. Off in the distance he hears the cry of a peacock. When the barrel is filled with orange-red flame, he drops larger pieces of wood inside, then turns on the tap. He puts his fingers beneath the copper spout. A dirty brown trickle bravely pushes through. The water is lukewarm already. Soon it will be hot, so hot it will sting. Such a dependable little contraption, he thinks. He returns the funnel to the inside of the barrel and immediately he hears the sound. The puff-puffing. Within a minute the water becomes hotter, much hotter. And no longer dirty. He puts the brass plug in the bath, and walks out into the lounge room. There is only the vague hint of dampness in the house. The fire in the hearth looks to be out. Good. He thinks it must be about 11am but can’t tell for certain. Through the small windows on each side of the front door he can see blue sky through the plane tree branches across the laneway. There are new leaves on the branches, the lime-green colour is ridiculous against the sky.

It’s no longer winter, he thinks, but still it should be sufficient for my purposes. Back in the bathroom he begins to slowly peel off his clothes. The blue cardigan is first to go — slung over the doorknob. The white shirt and dark-blue trousers are next, then the black shoes with their almost metallic shine. The blue socks are last. When all is done he stands naked for a moment, exhausted from the undressing, feeling bathwater steam brush up against his body like a kind of animal eager for company. He lowers himself slowly onto the edge of the bath, and lightly drags his fingers through the water. With everything now ready, everything in its right place, he puts the lid over the mouth of the funnel and waits for the puffing to stop. He turns off the tap. Carefully he submerges himself in the water. He leans his head back onto the hardness of the bath edge, and closes his eyes. It comes, he invites it. He knows it now, like the memory of something that happened only a minute before: the platform hovering just above his head, both flimsy and secure, blocking whatever view is beyond. With his eyes still closed, his body remaining under water, he begins to jump up to reach the platform. Up and up. He’s going to get through, don’t you worry about that. He will see what’s on the other side — for a second time. Soon his heart is thumping hard inside his chest as if it’s trying to get out.

1.

Mitchell Granville woke some time before dawn. He needed to use the bathroom, but he could feel a damp chill on his face and his room was well and truly dark — he didn’t want to move. He lay in bed, on his back, his arms across his chest, and felt his rib cage rise and fall. What day is it? he wondered. He had to think for a moment before he could work it out, a nimble mind was no longer his. The heady taste of red wine lingered in his mouth and his eyes felt dry and sore as if he had slept with them open. It’s Monday, he decided. Oh, I know what’s happening today. He switched on his reading light, then pulled aside the sheet, blanket and eiderdown, and sat on the edge of the bed. Come on, he told himself, get to the toilet otherwise you’re going to do it right here and now. After standing up slowly, feeling stiffness in his back and legs, he headed for the

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bathroom. The house was silent like something dead and, strangely, it seemed empty already. Quite suddenly he became light-headed, unbalanced, and he stopped outside the toilet to put a hand on the wall to steady himself. He remembered the previous evening’s dinner, the spread of food they had eaten, the wine, the talk. You’ll probably be glad to have Main House to yourself, Ruth had said to him. Mitchell hadn’t offered her, the only other member of his immediate family, a response, but he knew what she had said was true. He finished in the bathroom and returned to bed. He was pleased to have his head back on crisp, white pillows. He knew that when asleep things seemed to be all right, in their place, just fine thank you. At 8am he woke again. Now the house had become alive with the hubbub of Ruth and Sarah talking loudly in the kitchen — it sounded as if more than just the two of them had stayed overnight. After wrapping himself in his dressing gown and putting on his slippers, he went to meet them for breakfast. The house felt cold. He shivered. Through the freshly cleaned glass panes of the front door he could see the morning was sheer and bright. It was early June and the days had been cloudless, but the nights had fallen below freezing, making the mornings white with frost. It wouldn’t have been hard to imagine an overnight fall of snow. ‘Good morning,’ said Ruth, sliding a plate of muffins onto the long timber table in the middle of the kitchen. Her grey woollen suit coat and matching knee-length skirt had the

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unusual effect of making her body appear younger but her face older. To a stranger she may have looked like a retired air hostess. ‘They’re cinnamon,’ she said. ‘Louise has just made them. There’s plenty for you to snack on for a week.’ Mitchell put his hands on the back of a chair, letting his weight rest there for a moment. Good old Louise — the caretaker’s wife had done it again. Sarah stepped over to him and kissed his cheek. ‘Hello, Uncle,’ she said. ‘Tuck in.’ ‘I can’t believe we’re eating again after last night,’ said Mitchell as he sat down at the table. ‘Louise even offered to do us bacon and eggs,’ said Ruth. ‘But I told her it would be far too much.’ She joined Mitchell at the table and hurriedly began to spread dollops of butter on a muffin. Ruth always seemed to be darting somewhere; her brother felt sure her heart would be the first part of her to go. Then again he thought that of everyone, including himself. Recently he’d been thinking about his own heart more and more. After a moment Ruth turned to him and, already sounding pleased with what she was about to say, said, ‘Looks like we’ve finally got there. It’s done.’ She smiled, more to herself than to anyone else. ‘Well, Mum,’ Sarah cut in, ‘not all of it’s organised. But the bulk of it’s over.’ Ruth got up to turn off the kettle. ‘All we have to do now is send out the invitations. But we don’t have to be up here to do that, we can post them from Sydney.’

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Sarah looked at her uncle. Quietly she said, ‘God, I hope I never have to go through this again. It would kill me, it really would.’ ‘It’s just as well we’ve got our act together,’ continued Ruth as if only she were taking part in the conversation. ‘I have such a busy few months coming up, I really do.’ At dinner the night before, over a chicken-andpumpkin pie and piles of home-grown winter vegetables, all of it washed down with a bottle of champagne and two of red, Ruth had once again told Mitchell about her months leading up to Sarah’s wedding. Jam-packed, she said, filled to the brim, how would she ever be able to cope. And the law had to answer for most of it. Martin Coach, the barrister who employed her as his legal assistant, had encouraged her to attend a conference in Bangkok. Then there was a trip to New York to negotiate business arrangements associated with joining a boutique but international legal firm. After all this she had planned a rest of sorts — an eagerly awaited European holiday with her husband George Partridge, a brain surgeon who was allergic to holidays in his own country. She told Mitchell that in all likelihood it wouldn’t be until September that she’d next be up at The Green. Obviously she worried about whether her brother, who was almost ten years her senior, would be able to cope with living by himself for a protracted period of time — she never said anything about it aloud, he just knew what she thought, he could tell. There had been times when he’d wanted to say to her: If only you really knew me, Ruth.

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‘Are you going to miss our weekly visits, Uncle?’ asked Sarah, her mouth half-filled with a muffin. He thought about the question. ‘Bobby and Louise will look after you, as always,’ said Ruth on his behalf. ‘I’ve got plenty to read,’ said Mitchell finally. ‘And there’s always sun where I like to sit.’ He knew it was ludicrous to suggest that sunshine always drenched his bench. Ruth began pouring the tea. In the cups it had the colour of new rust. ‘I’m just saying that if you’re looking for things to do,’ she said, ‘just ask the caretakers.’ ‘You make it sound like I’m about to keel over.’ ‘We know you’re not that old!’ said Sarah. Mitchell laughed under his breath. Sarah said, ‘And Brandon might be coming up too.’ ‘Really?’ said Mitchell. There was a genuine enthusiasm in his voice — the boy was his youngest grandson. In the same way that he had time after time held affection for Sarah, he had always been fond of Brandon. He never asked himself why, and he knew he shouldn’t have favourite nieces and nephews and grandsons and granddaughters, but he did, and he was too old now to do anything about it. Favouritism was a fact of life, it was an in-built edit mechanism. The last time he’d seen Brandon was at Irma’s funeral. ‘Have you spoken to him recently?’ Mitchell asked.

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‘A month or so ago,’ replied Sarah. ‘He’s thinking of studying landscaping or greenkeeping, something like that. That’s why he wants to come up here.’ ‘Well, it would be good to see him if he does visit.’ ‘He’s just bought himself a Volkswagen. I think he’s joining the other side, Uncle.’ Mitchell was about to reply when his sister cut him off. ‘Anyway, my dear,’ said Ruth, ‘we should throw these down our throats and then get going. I said I’d be at the Chambers by two.’ ‘And I have a stack of preparation to do,’ said Sarah obligingly. ‘We’re down one of the senior lecturers, so I’m taking on his workload. This corporate university approach really is a dog of a thing.’ ‘Every organisation has to be efficient with its use of funds,’ said Ruth as if she had been thinking about precisely this issue for the last half-hour. ‘I guess so,’ replied Sarah. Mitchell looked through the kitchen window. He wondered if his bench was covered in frost or sun. Mitchell opened the garage doors and watched as Ruth backed out her station wagon. Sarah got into the car, then wound down her window. ‘We’ll see you in a few months, Uncle,’ she said. She had always seemed much younger than her 41 years, but now with her mother about to drive her back to the city she looked even younger, almost like a teenager.

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He leant down and kissed Sarah on her cheek. ‘Take care now,’ he said. He meant it. He looked across to his sister. ‘I’ll ring you whenever I get a chance,’ said Ruth. ‘You know where to find me,’ he replied. Ruth turned away and stared along the driveway, as though she could be home simply by thinking about it. She put the car into gear, readying herself for the trip back through the mountains to the city. The Bells Line of Road, with its almost trance-inducing curves and climbs and dives and U-bends, had never been the easiest to navigate even though, for any Granville, it was as familiar as a domestic driveway. ‘Goodbye, Uncle,’ said Sarah. Mitchell took one pace back from the car. He watched as it left him alone and began gliding past the face of Main House, that grand sandstone post-colonial home featured in a dozen National Trust books. It seemed to him that this was not a departure but a farewell. There should be streamers of all different colours and a seething crowd, but he felt as if he should be the one moving, and that his sister and niece should be standing still, waving him off. The car disappeared from view. Mitchell knew Sarah would have to get out and drag open the heavy black wroughtiron gates so her mother could drive through. Then she would close them again before she and her mother could leave the mountain — this was the routine, the ritual, the tradition for anyone leaving Bellstay Green, all of it perfectly appropriate.

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Mitchell looked across the lawns. The bright morning sun had melted most of the frost, leaving a few white patches to bravely cling to the shadows. Yes, I know what’s happening today, he said to himself silently. He knew all those seemingly endless weekends in late summer and autumn, packed with his sister and niece’s frenzied wedding planning activities, had taken their toll — and probably not just on himself. John’s a rising star in the Party, Ruth had informed him on Christmas Day. Mum and Dad would be really chuffed if Sarah were to marry him, she said. Especially Dad. Yes, Mitchell agreed at the time, especially Dad. There was a photograph: Harold Granville, the esteemed Queen’s Counsel and one-time Deputy Premier of New South Wales, standing next to the Prime Minister of the day at a gala function. Curtin was the enemy, Harold would sometimes say should his eyes be caught by the picture, but you did have to admire him. Indeed, Mitchell thought, Dad would be truly chuffed. It sounded as if Sarah’s romantic interest could well be on the right path — a fine man, a potential Granville recruit. And potential recruit so quickly became actual recruit. Sarah and John’s announcement of their intentions to marry came in March. Mitchell received a telephone call from Ruth to share the news; he thought his sister may have had tears of joy — at long last her only child would be a wife. From that month onwards, Ruth and Sarah made the trip up to The Green every weekend to work out the arrangements. The service was to be at the Mount Bellstay Memorial Anglican

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Church, the quaintly dilapidated venue for all Granville weddings, and the reception back on the sprawling, lush green lawns in front of Main House. But the details seemed to take forever to finalise. One weekend Ruth invited up a flower artist, a man called Pip Kipper, to determine what could be used from the gardens (apparently it was possible to have too much choice). The Double Bay caterers made a day-trip to Bellstay Green, but ended up staying the night after they couldn’t reach agreement on that eternal question: modern Australian seafood or a traditional roast? Lists were made, then more lists. Ruth orchestrated it all as if it was her wedding she was organising, as if it wouldn’t happen unless she had a firm grip on the reins, as if she simply didn’t trust the whole thing to become reality. Sarah tried to keep up with her mother, but it seemed as if she could manage only a few hours of this frenetic activity before her hair became a mess and she would walk around the house and gardens with her eyes halfclosed from exhaustion. All the while Mitchell sat on his bench and read his books, watching the goings-on around him out of the corner of an eye. And each Monday morning he would stand on the driveway in dressing gown and slippers and see them go, knowing he had the luxury of being by himself for a few days before it all happened again. But this time it wouldn’t be happening again for months. After a long shower and dressing himself in his standard uniform — black shoes, dark-blue socks, dark-blue trousers,

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white shirt and blue cardigan — he collected his book from the bedside table and took it out to the bench. The timber slats felt cold and damp beneath him, but not icy. A slight breeze brushed his face. In the air was distance. He knew a hundred kilometres separated him from the city; it was almost half that to the nearest town. He closed his eyes. A nearby pine tree wheezed quietly to itself. A peacock cried out. He felt the first of the day’s warmth on his face — he let it settle on him, let it drench him. He opened his eyes. Then he saw her. Fricka. Stark white, her strong face turned away as if shy — she was drying herself by the koi pond; it would be a thankless task with one arm missing. He had seen her many times before. His father said he had found her and a companion in West Berlin in the sixties, and then put both on a ship back to Australia. But Mitchell had only ever known of Fricka by herself, not Fricka with another. He knew she always looked distinctly unsatisfied, that there was someone she needed to have by her side if she were to feel truly content. He looked away, staring up at the sky. Yes, he knew about this day. Solace would soon be his. He saw the rich mountain blueness above him, as if it were the depths of the ocean and he was about to go swimming.

2.

‘Letter writing is a lost art these days, don’t you think?’ suggested Louise, apropos of nothing, as she bent over and began pulling out clumps of vegetables that had seen better days. Almost a week had passed since Ruth and Sarah’s leaving, and Louise had told Mitchell that doing nothing more than eating, sleeping and reading books on a bench was unhealthy. Life’s an activity, she’d told him, and gardening is one of the best activities known to mankind. Mitchell at first wasn’t convinced — he’d never had a green thumb — but he’d woken to this new day with a generous mood and found himself agreeing to the idea of tidying up the kitchen garden. ‘I’m sorry, what did you just say?’ he asked her. ‘Writing real letters is such a good thing. I really admire those who still do it, you know, actually write real pieces of correspondence. But hardly anyone does it these days.

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Everything’s email, email, email. You have to wonder how Australia Post makes any money.’ ‘The mark-up on greeting cards must be good.’ Mitchell smiled to himself; he felt lazily pleased with his comment. ‘I guess there are lots of new things we have to embrace,’ continued Louise. ‘Almost on a daily basis there are new skills to learn, new information to take in. They say it’s a fast life now and that’s true. All we can do is make the most of it, be positive, and go along for the ride.’ Mitchell hadn’t heard her being quite so philosophical before. ‘Perhaps we should remember that saying about old dogs, mmm?’ he said. ‘Oh no, Bobby and I have been enjoying learning email. It’s perfect for keeping in contact with the kids. I email them once a day.’ Mitchell stood up and stretched his back. ‘Really?’ ‘They set it up for me. Bobby’s no good on it, but it really is very easy. You’re welcome to use it whenever you like.’ ‘You’re most kind, as always.’ Mitchell watched Louise van Hopetoun rip out a run of spring onions and toss them into the wheelbarrow. Like her husband, she was solidly built with distinct bone and muscle — the couple’s Dutch heritage was obvious. Everything the caretaker and his wife did seemed to exhibit strength. Mitchell felt weak in comparison, as if his English ancestry had not done him any favours. He knew this wasn’t true: what was in his blood had given him more than he could ever imagine.

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‘I have to admit though,’ Louise continued as if wanting to pack the hushed Bellstay air with spoken words, ‘that it sometimes does seem strange to be in that little cottage behind Main House spending half an hour in cyberspace. One minute I’m drying basil, the next I’m clicking on a browser and surfing the Internet!’ ‘You’re brave,’ he said. ‘The world you’re talking about is so foreign to me that it may as well be on Mars.’ ‘Oh, I can show you some great sites about Mars. Bobby loves his astronomy!’ Mitchell didn’t know what Louise was talking about, nor did he consider it even the slightest bit proper to contemplate knocking on the caretakers’ door and asking to use their personal computer. How could he? In a number of Sydney bank accounts sat enough money to buy his own Internet company, if, that is, he knew what such a thing did and how to go about buying one. The van Hopetouns might cook my meals, he told himself, they might help me garden when they probably have more important things to do, but asking to use their computer is just not going to happen. He also knew that the concept of sending electronic messages was unappealing. If anything, he would prefer to be involved in the type of letters that used handwritten paper in envelopes with stamps that you stuck on with the lick of a tongue. Indeed, over the next two days, he began to think seriously about this proper form of correspondence. And the more he thought about writing and receiving letters, the more it became a desire that grew on him slowly like good health

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after a dose of influenza. It would give him an unexpected but welcome rest from books, his bench and the odd bit of gardening. Louise may have been right — was solace the thing he really needed? He sent the first letters, written with a blue biro on paper so thin it almost looked transparent, to old law colleagues. The career of Mitchell Granville, Barrister, had been peppered with prestigious cases. The most famous was the subject of a Monday night television documentary, which won the producers both a journalism award and a defamation lawsuit. His Chambers in Kent Street were cramped, and his office had a musty smell as if someone lived there permanently, which wasn’t far from the truth. However hard he worked, Mitchell never gave in to the pressures of modernising. His desk was a place for letters, for documents, for case histories — for words on paper, not for a flickering blue screen and a plastic box that hummed when you tried to think. His one concession to technology was allowing his long-suffering assistant, a tall and impossibly thin woman called Alina Hunt, to have an electric typewriter. For months Alina looked happy on the machine, working quietly and efficiently as always. Until, that is, the day Mitchell realised she had upgraded the typewriter herself, covertly purchasing a laptop computer and carrying it home each evening to finish what she hadn’t managed to straighten out during the day. He offered to pay for the machine but she declined,

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making it very clear she would take it with her if she were ever to leave. At the end of that year he gave her a larger than usual Christmas bonus. Despite his occupation and the associated reputation for meanness, Mitchell considered himself a fair and reasonable employer. Lawyers as a species have both hearts and brains, he’d said more than once. For a time he seriously considered the possibility of becoming a Queen’s Counsel like his father, but after a telephone conversation with Harold he decided it wouldn’t be worth it. A run-of-the-mill barrister, so his father reasoned, involved much less chance of public scrutiny. For six months Mitchell mulled over the advice, only to ultimately decide his father was right. Harold’s soaring intellect, impeccable logic and rich, deep voice meant he could be nothing but correct. Even on the odd occasion when he wished to point out that he had in fact been wrong — like during the Newtown Hotel affair when he was forced to correct the public record by saying that he had in fact met with both the eventual developers of the site and a key High Court judge — he always sounded as if he could claim the moral high ground. I’m a traditionalist when it comes to politics, he liked to say, one who believes that honesty in public life is not just desirable, it’s non-negotiable. Despite not climbing the legal ladder as far as he aspired to, Mitchell was never short of work — the family name ensured a certain level of security. A steady stream of cases came through his office until, at the age of 73, while having an early evening whisky with his colleagues, he announced he

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had lost interest. It was a sudden decision, he told them, and he wasn’t sure what had motivated it, but he was adamant he didn’t want to work anymore. The colleagues looked at him as if they thought he would be dead within weeks. He said he liked the fact that his leaving might open the Bar to a younger generation. His colleagues looked bemused — clearly they thought he was not being serious. He said he’d see out his days at the house in Manly, the one he and Irma had bought almost fifty years before, the one they’d expected to stay at for only a year while they looked for something more suitable for a family. Plans are nothing more than plans, Harold liked to say — they are not reality. Wasn’t that the truth. When Mitchell arrived home later that night he told Irma. She seemed pleased with his decision, although she offered a gentle warning that retirement might take some getting used to, that for many it amounted to little more than emptiness. She sounded as if she was advising herself more than anyone else. Mitchell didn’t have trouble adjusting to a different, albeit quieter life. He and Irma took afternoon walks along the Corso, a ceaselessly busy place of fussy paving and glitzy high-rise apartments; the couple liked to travel close together as if holding hands. Sometimes they caught the ferry across the harbour to Circular Quay for cups of tea and a meander through the antique shops and art galleries of The Rocks. Mitchell would be beside her, feeling tall and heavy compared to her short, slight frame. His dark hair, once almost black,

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now more grey than anything else; hers grey too, but there was still a hint of the sandy blonde that he’d loved when she was not much older than a child. At home, in the small sunroom at the front of the house, Mitchell sat alone, indulging himself in book after book after book — Australian histories, biographies, autobiographies. Emptiness in Manly didn’t seem to be a problem at all. Only three recipients of Mitchell’s first eight letters responded, and one came from a colleague’s wife. Undeterred, he wrote back to all three, this time describing in more detail The Green and how these days he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else, that he considered it perfect, that he didn’t miss the restless monotony of the ocean one bit. He told them about his niece’s forthcoming wedding, the diligence of the van Hopetouns, and made general observations about winter. Weeks later he received just two letters in reply, but they were very short, not much more than what could be fitted onto postcards. It occurred to him that lawyers, once retired, were solitary types. His weekends were now as quiet as his weeks. One of the van Hopetouns might drop by the bench to say hello but rarely did Mitchell start a conversation; he just made sure to keep the book upright in his hands like a shield. God forbid that they should suggest any more gardening activities. Sometimes he noticed the sound of peacocks off in the gardens. Keeping the birds had been his father’s hobby. Harold always said that he loved their mournful call, that they added movement and colour to the gardens — he said he admired

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the way they weren’t seen for days but were often heard, like the best of children. They were far superior, he believed, to the native but more insubordinate lyrebirds. At the close of each day Mitchell dined alone in the sitting room, eating meals prepared by either Bobby or Louise (the fact that both of the van Hopetouns could cook was a source of regular amusement for Mitchell). When finally there was nothing else for him to do, he retired to bed knowing it was true: everything was all right when he was asleep. In his sleep he could dream of the company he needed. In his sleep he could conjure up whomever he wanted. But he needed only one thing, he wanted only one person. And Irma was now dead. It came to him during the first week of July as a fog, grey and thick like smoke from a summer bushfire, smothered The Green. He had an idea — it was just there, like finding a flower growing out of gutter. A letter needed to be written, one particular letter. So, after spending an hour tidying the house, he sat down at the table in the kitchen and began writing. Bellstay Green, Mount Bellstay. Then he stopped. What will my next words be? he wondered. None came to mind. He knew that even if he could find the words to write, he had no place to actually send them — he didn’t have an address for this particular letter. He flipped the page over and started a new piece of correspondence, this one to the colleague’s wife — she at least had appeared vaguely interested in mountains and the changing of seasons. But he remained

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fully aware that his barely started letter remained beneath, slowly being indented by the writing of words to someone he would have said only a polite good morning to if they had crossed paths in his Chambers. The next day he asked Louise how hard it would be to use the Internet to find an address — the idea about that one particular letter hadn’t left him alone for a minute. ‘It’s always worth a try,’ Louise replied. ‘Just drop on over.’ They were in the vegetable garden, breaking apart bales and spreading the lucerne. She had warned him that it was a job that needed to be done within a month of removing the last of the autumn vegetables. God forgive her indeed! ‘Could I give you a name?’ he asked her. Louise looked up at him with a serious expression on her face. ‘If I’m welcome in your house, then you’re welcome in mine. Just come on round.’ Mitchell said nothing. ‘All right then, what’s the name?’ ‘Is that the sort of information you need?’ Mitchell knew he was asking inane questions to delay the inevitable. ‘It would be a good start.’ He looked over the now pale-yellow surface of the vegetable garden. His hands itched. ‘Lindsay,’ he said. ‘Is that it?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘The Internet’s not that good!’ Louise laughed carefully. ‘What’s the last name?’ ‘Granville.’

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She looked away. ‘An uncle?’ ‘That’s all I have,’ said Mitchell, ‘his name.’ ‘I’ll put it in and see what happens.’ The following morning, along with a small plate of freshly baked apricot pastries, Louise handed him a scrap of paper. On it had been written an address: 1/8 Beach Road, Glendalough, Western Australia. Mitchell thanked her and disappeared inside the house. He didn’t know how the Internet could find an address but felt glad for its mysterious, unlimited abilities. Thinking good luck would come his way if he were to use the letter already started, he wrote the most basic piece of correspondence he could imagine. He was living at Bellstay Green. His children were working in the law, all married, all doing well. His grandchildren, including a set of twins, were at university or thereabouts — he saw them three times a year, for his birthday, for Easter and at Christmas. He was looking forward to seeing the whole lot of them at his niece’s wedding in September, although he knew they would tire him out in no time. He signed his name, then read aloud what he had written. In essence it was a simple list of facts, an over-distillation, like a Sixth Form summary of a novel which reflected the work’s skeleton but ignored its flesh and blood and pulse. But it was done, and Mitchell felt pleased. He placed the letter in an envelope, addressed it, and then went around to the caretakers’ cottage. He had a bounce in his step, a swagger in his gait — he felt almost drunk. Bobby was up a ladder, clearing leaves out of the gutters. Mitchell asked him to mail the letter that day if he didn’t mind.

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‘For you I’ll do anything,’ called down Bobby. ‘Leave it on the welcome mat to remind me.’ After dinner that night Mitchell sat in his armchair in the sitting room with a book resting in his lap. He wondered where his letter would be. Still in the caretakers’ cottage? In a bag of mail at the Mount Bellstay post office? Could it already be on a plane to Western Australia? He didn’t know where it was exactly, but he did wish he could track it all the way to the place of the address, keep an eye on it, perhaps even hold it in his hand, help it on its way. But he didn’t dwell on the wish for long. It hardly seemed right that two weeks had passed. Amongst the bills and a postcard from the colleague’s wife was a response to the letter, the one particular letter, the one that had started with an idea. Mitchell sat himself down at the kitchen table and opened the envelope. The handwriting looked familiar: neat, flowing letters with a substantial slant to the right. The paper wasn’t that dissimilar to what Mitchell had used. He was told about a small but comfortable apartment. His correspondent’s health was all right considering. There was mention of a loyal friend living upstairs who arranged trips to a beach called Cottesloe where they drank bucketloads of coffee overlooking a stretch of Indian Ocean — a year ago a man died there from having his leg bitten off by a shark. Apparently, when the weather was not too hot, which was often in summer, and not too wet, which was often in winter, there was a journey by bus to Bridgetown,

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a charming little village amongst the Karri, whatever the hell ‘the Karri’ was. It sounds so right, all of it. Mitchell could imagine the writing of the sentence about the man and the shark: there would be a wry smile as the words were put down on the page. Fifty-three years, he counted silently, and all we have is two small pages. He looked out the kitchen window. He saw the van Hopetouns slowly walking away from the house down the driveway — it seemed as if they weren’t the caretakers at all, just visitors on a garden tour and now ready to leave for home. He put the letter back in its envelope, placed it on the kitchen table and then went into the sitting room and stoked the fire. He grabbed his blanket and returned to his latest book. Sir Donald obviously didn’t mind sharing his life. Louise didn’t inquire about the exact nature of the mail delivery and this pleased Mitchell greatly. He didn’t know what his answer would be if she were to ask whether her efforts in finding the address had borne any results for him. Considering a response to a possible question from Louise was one thing, but crafting a reply to the actual letter was another. Everything he came up with seemed to be either officious (no doubt he’d never stop writing like a lawyer) or melodramatic. Still, the words from Glendalough swam restlessly in his head, and he kept on picturing that smile as some of them were being written. It’s the Irish in us, his mother would often say. And the convict ancestry too. The Granvilles enjoy a bit of black humour. She developed a habit of referring to the family

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as ‘the Granvilles’ — to Mitchell it sounded as if she was distancing herself, that she was glad not to be a blood relation, with some of the family at least. Despite the persistent doubts, Mitchell eventually gathered enough courage to approach the second letter in the same manner as the first — just write ruddy words on paper. With a pot of Earl Grey brewing beside him, he again sat at the kitchen table, gathered together his pad and pen, and began doing what he’d told himself to do. Words went down on the paper. He said he was prepared to make the trip to Perth; he wasn’t too old to put himself on a plane. He paused. There was nothing else he wanted to write. Is that it? he asked himself silently while pouring the tea. I think it might be. The letter was short and uncluttered, no polite conversational drivel; it had a point, it was a point. A week later came a response — and the words were few: From one correspondent to another, I dare you to come and see me. Would you believe it? Mitchell said almost aloud. He’s challenging me. Do I accept? What should I do? Really what’s the right decision here, where’s the wisdom? He walked around the house from room to room like an animal in a cage, returning every half an hour or so to the kitchen to again read that page, as if proving to himself that those thirteen words actually existed. Thirteen? Any significance? Was there a hidden meaning somewhere? Was he not picking up on a subtle sub-text? And then, while standing at the living room window, seeing Fricka shivering in the midday cold, the lawns

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and the bench soaking up whatever warmth the day offered, he made his decision in a bright flash of thought. Yes, he would do it. He committed himself. He accepted it, the challenge. He quickly scratched out a brief note to Ruth describing his travel plans. He wasn’t sure if she would be in Sydney to read it, but at least she’d get the information when next at home. He told her he had tracked down an old school friend from Payne College and intended to visit him in Western Australia. There was no way he could mention his correspondent’s true identity. Truly, no possible way. Secrets are secrets for reasons. No one should know the truth behind my mission, he told himself, not even the van Hopetouns. I will be on my own. In a flurry of telephone calls he arranged a return flight to Perth and booked accommodation at the Royal Swan Hotel. Five nights would be more than enough For what seemed to be the umpteenth time he walked around to the van Hopetouns’ cottage. He informed them of his plans. He told Louise of the old school mate. He thanked her for all her help in tracking him down. ‘Two boys with the same surname at the same school,’ she said, standing in the doorway of the cottage. ‘How odd!’ ‘How odd indeed,’ said Mitchell. ‘It brought great confusion to our families.’ ‘I can only imagine.’

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‘I was wondering, Louise, if you could drive me into Lithgow so I can catch the train to the city?’ ‘How about I drive you all the way to Mascot? I’ll take the opportunity to have lunch with my daughter.’ ‘Just a lift to Lithgow will be sufficient.’ Mitchell smiled at her, but he knew it was almost a scowl — after all these years he’d come to understand his own face. ‘Thank you,’ he said by way of apologising. ‘Thank you very much for suggesting I write letters. It was a good idea of yours.’ ‘Well, Mitchell, there’s plenty more where that came from.’ Louise smiled at him, a full proper smile. Mitchell stared at her; yes, he knew she was a good woman.

3.

The lack of mountains made traffic lights appear like significant landmarks. ‘You’re from over east,’ stated the taxi driver frankly. ‘Yes, the Blue Mountains near Sydney.’ ‘Thought you were from over east.’ ‘How can you tell?’ ‘You’ve got an over-east accent.’ ‘What’s an over-east accent sound like?’ ‘Yours.’ Mitchell turned away from the driver. He wondered how a city could have been built in a place where there was nothing but desert and flies for thousands of miles. He had visited Perth before — he’d completed cases in all Australian cities, even Darwin and Hobart — but this was the first time

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he realised the miracle of this city, one famed only for its isolation. Already he was looking forward to returning to the Royal Swan Hotel, being back inside that grand old building so proud of its position between the glistening city centre and the river, back inside his room, Number 139, fifth floor, a spectacular view. It was a fine place for a holiday. And that was the beginning and end of it, he’d decided on the flight over: just an escape from the eastern cold for a bit of western warmth. A suitable jaunt. Plain and simple. Plonked in front of him was a two-storey block of red-brick flats. It didn’t look like a place to live in, just one large undistinguished box. Two mature palm trees stood on each side like a troop of guards. There were no clouds in the sky. Mitchell felt small. The air was dry as if water hadn’t been around these parts for decades, which quite possibly was correct. He shook his head as if trying to tell himself that what he was about to do was hopeless, useless, futile — all that and more. Still he walked up to the building and opened its main door. Inside the hallway a dishevelled pushbike was chained to the stair rail, and junk mail spilled out from most of the letterboxes. (An architect-client had once told Mitchell that a letterbox was a dwelling’s signature. If that was the case, this place was illiterate.) A radio boomed from somewhere above him. The door on his left had the number ‘1’ painted on it. Next to it was a sticker: SAVE THE KARRI. There was that word again. The vaguely comforting smell of burnt toast hung in the air.

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He knocked on the door. In that instant a bolt of nerves shot through his body from head to toe. It felt like the day he was admitted to the New South Wales Bar. His father, looking almost gothic and oversized in his formal wig and silks, raised his left hand to officially swear in his eldest son. Mitchell had felt as if it was the first day of school all over again: his hands shook, his heart pounded up and out of his mouth. Now, as he stood in front of the plain timber door in a red-brick-and-tile Western Australian suburb called Glendalough, he didn’t think it was the first day of school, but it did feel like the first day of something that seemed equally unfathomable. He tried to reason the nerves out of his body — I’m just seeing another human being, simply another human being — but they remained deep inside him, as if he had drunk them down and now had to wait for them to dissolve. He heard the sound of a wet, rasping cough. The door opened. ‘Well, well, well, it’s Mr Mitchell Granville.’ There were no surprises. Lindsay had changed: he was older and fatter. But he did look familiar. Mitchell knew if he passed this man in the street, he would know who it was. ‘Hello there,’ he said. Lindsay smiled, showing teeth that had long ago forgotten they were meant to be white and set vertical. His breathing was laboured as if he had run a thousand steps to the door. He said, ‘You’ve accepted my dare.’ ‘It seems I have,’ Mitchell replied.

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‘Only the bravest are welcome in my house.’ ‘Shall I take that as a compliment?’ Lindsay stood to one side and held the door open. ‘Come in, do.’ Inside the flat, placed at one end of what some might call a lounge room, was a television with peeling fake wood panelling and a half-dead pot plant on top. Transparent curtains that seemed like they would disintegrate at any moment covered the room’s only window. A small kitchenette was to Mitchell’s right, a pale-pink formica table separating it from the living space. The ceiling was low and Mitchell wondered if he might need to duck down if he walked near a light fitting. The nerves remained and he was sure they were noticeable in his hands, in his voice, in the way he held himself. ‘I’ve just poured myself a pot of tea.’ Lindsay coughed. His face flushed red. ‘Would you like a cup?’ ‘Of course.’ ‘Will Prince Charles be all right?’ Lindsay smiled again. ‘If Prince of Wales tea is all you’ve got,’ said Mitchell, ‘then that will be fine.’ He had travelled too far to be humoured with jokes so old and tired. ‘Do sit yourself down,’ said Lindsay. ‘I’ve borrowed my friend’s armchair just in case you dropped by.’ ‘Sounds like a lot of effort for an event that may never have happened.’ ‘I guess I had a hunch.’ The armchair was covered in brown vinyl. At least it would be clean.

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‘How long have you been here?’ he asked. ‘Some very lovely, peaceful years.’ Mitchell sat down in the armchair. Hanging on the wall above the television was a black-and-white photo of a naked middle-aged man standing against a white post-and-rail fence, a half-ruined church in the background. Mitchell didn’t look at the photograph for long. He turned away and watched Lindsay in the kitchenette pour out the tea — his skin had a translucent quality, there was still evidence of pink patches on his jowls but the rest of it looked like it was made from watered-down milk. The man was wearing brown pants, and a green cardigan over a bright yellow shirt. Red socks, no shoes. The cardigan was moth-eaten, of course. Lindsay Granville looked like a cross between Lord Muck and a bagman. When he was finished in the kitchenette, Lindsay walked slowly over to Mitchell, looked him in the eye as he handed over the cup and saucer, offered a small smile and then sat down in the other armchair. Yes, he was certainly larger around the girth, more a distended belly than a simple spare tyre of fat. Lindsay smelled like an old man. ‘Like the pope said to his mistress,’ said Lindsay, ‘this has been a long time coming, hasn’t it? God, that’s a tacky start to things!’ ‘How are you?’ ‘All right. And you?’ ‘I’m fine.’ ‘Fine,’ Lindsay echoed. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

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‘You never give much away, do you?’ ‘I could say the same about you,’ said Mitchell. There was a pause. Lindsay said, ‘Should we start again?’ ‘Yes, perhaps we should.’ Lindsay crossed his legs and then recrossed them as if struggling to make himself comfortable. Possibly not knowing what else to do, he began describing the histories of the building’s various inhabitants. There was a well-dressed office worker with dreadlocks, and a recently arrived Vietnamese family who had lost their two children in a boating accident on Fremantle Harbour. He told a story about another resident, a 17-year-old girl who worked in the bakery down the road during the day but had regular male visitors to her flat at night. Mitchell stared at the cup and saucer that he was clutching tightly with both hands; it felt as if the ensemble would fall apart if he held it any other way. Who were these people he was being told about? Why did he have to know about them? What did they mean to him? Sad stories, for sure, people washed in hardship. But what on earth did the whole mess of it have to do with anyone with Granville as their surname? Lindsay went on. He described how long it took to catch a bus to the city: a mere 15 minutes on a good day, which apparently meant he lived in the inner-city, although Mitchell doubted that reality — Glendalough certainly didn’t look like Sydney’s Glebe or Balmain. Lindsay described how

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his loyal friend, who lived in the flat above, regularly drove him to Cottesloe Beach, an old-money paradise just north of Fremantle’s industrial area. He repeated the story about the man who had lost his leg and life to a white pointer shark. It seemed that this sordid yarn had a hidden meaning, a universal truth that he was trying to discover by telling it first in a letter and now in conversation. ‘I’m here until Friday,’ Mitchell said suddenly. ‘You could take me to this Cottesloe place.’ ‘Not for a swim, I hope,’ said Lindsay. ‘No, not to get eaten.’ Lindsay sighed melodramatically. ‘For a moment there I thought you were looking for adventure.’ ‘Not with a shark.’ ‘I’ll see if Hugh is free tomorrow.’ Lindsay fell silent for a moment and then, after a loud swallow, he said, ‘How’s The Green?’ Wonderful, Mitchell thought, truly wonderful compared to this. ‘The same,’ he said. ‘The same,’ said Lindsay. ‘Of course.’ ‘Well, it hasn’t changed. Paul, Amanda and Mark — they’re my children — keep in contact, and sometimes they visit to see how I’m going. But they lead such busy lives. The aim of the game nowadays seems to be about how much one can pack into one’s life.’ ‘That’s very perceptive, big — ’ ‘Indeed,’ said Mitchell swiftly.

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He realised then and there that none of his children had come to visit him in the last few months. When he and Irma were living in Manly, there would be regular drop-ins from at least one of the children, usually just for a cup of tea or a light lunch. Sometimes the forever-reliable Paul, the eldest of the three, took the hint and turned up with a particular tool in hand ready to tackle a household chore, perhaps hang a new family photograph or fix a sensor light or clean the exhaust fans in the bathrooms. But none of them had visited since their father had moved to Bellstay Green. Paul had telephoned once or twice but that was all. Mitchell resolved to call each of them when he was back home. Surely it was possible to turn over a new leaf any time of year, not just on the first day of January. The two men looked around the room. They didn’t speak. Mitchell heard the music coming down from the flat above them — it sounded like something that might radiate from a factory. He noticed the lamp that stood on the small table between them. Holding up the light shade was a statue of Jesus, painted in faded but still garish colours. Mitchell turned away and looked at the carpet — he wondered what colour it was meant to be. ‘Maybe we should try a third time, big brother?’ There it was: big brother. Mitchell hadn’t heard that epithet for decades.

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Lunch was still being served at the Royal Swan when Mitchell returned, but he skipped it and headed straight to his room. He and Lindsay had agreed that the best thing to do was to have their afternoon naps. It seemed to be the one thing they had in common. We sleep a lot these days, don’t we? Lindsay had said as Mitchell slid into what felt like the comparative luxury of a taxi. Lindsay had smiled after saying the words, but he couldn’t have known that Mitchell considered them to be Irma’s words, no one else’s — they were owned by her. Mitchell lay on the hotel bed. He couldn’t sleep. Seeing Lindsay again had made his head feel as if his brain had been removed. He couldn’t think about the now, he couldn’t assess it, he couldn’t deliberate. Instead he stared at the Swan River slowly making its way out to Fremantle Harbour and beyond. The thin line of ocean he could see on the horizon was a deep blue, so much so it almost looked black, like the sky just before nightfall. It looked calm and peaceful, but Mitchell knew it would be anything but. He continued to stare at the line of ocean. And he remembered a summer. The big-print headlines pointed to a commotion brewing in Europe, one that would soon become an out-ofcontrol turmoil. He read the articles as if they were predictions for his own not-yet-quite-adult life. His parents rarely holidayed together, but one day just into the new year they made the surprise announcement that they were going to drive the family Daimler to Bermagui, a tiny fishing village on the far south coast of New South Wales. The day before they

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left, Mitchell listened to the joyful sounds coming from the main bedroom. There was his father’s laugh, so loaded in timbre and pronunciation it surely came from a musical instrument, not a man’s throat. His mother’s discreet giggle that matched both her small, sparrow-like frame and her name — Elizabeth. For Mitchell the sounds were disquieting. Although it was rare for his parents to exchange heated words, they were very much independent people and public displays of affection never occurred. Photographs of the couple, either in family albums or in clippings from the Sydney press, had always shown two people standing side by side as if they were nothing more or less than shy siblings. But in the bedroom that day they seemed not to care about letting their children know they were enjoying packing together. Yes, alarming. When a week later Harold and Elizabeth returned, they spoke of sitting on the local hotel’s balcony and gazing out across the ocean, waiting for the fishing fleet to return at dusk. It was a daily spectacle, they said, a little bit of small-town theatre the two of them could watch over and over to get their minds off what was happening on the other side of the world. To Mitchell the story seemed contrived, as if his parents had really just gone to Bellstay Green as usual but felt a strange urge to come up with something to convince everyone they had been away as a couple. Then, without prompting, his mother said she had learnt that, only a few months before their visit to Bermagui, one of her favourite authors had spent time fishing there for marlin — it was as if she had narrowly missed seeing a silver-screen idol. When Mitchell heard this

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he knew the holiday was true, that no one was lying to him. His mother could never have made up such an elaborate yarn — she was just not the storyteller type. He could remember the day she declared to the family that she couldn’t tell untruths, she just couldn’t do it. Some people, she said, couldn’t run very fast and she couldn’t lie. Harold looked at her that day as if she was from an alien land. Mitchell knew his mother was the most pure, honest and good-natured person he knew. And such people, he’d come to the conclusion early on in his life, were few and far between. During the weeks after their return from the coast there was an enthusiasm in the way his parents related to each other. One evening Mitchell’s mother dropped a piece of crockery and became visibly upset at her own clumsiness. His father put out his hand and squeezed hers. It was an image Mitchell would cherish, like a kind of lucky charm. Amongst the aloofness and the almost military sense of authority, his father was someone with a heart after all, one who actually cared for Mitchell’s mother. It was a revelation, although a somewhat uncomfortable one — Mitchell preferred to believe that his father didn’t rely on anyone, because a man’s reliance on another human being signalled personal weakness. However, over time, busyness and obligation, which was always allowed to become an obsession for any Granville, eventually worked their way into his parents’ lives, and soon they again appeared to be just two people under one roof, one a man of power and influence, the other a wife and mother. The natural balance was restored.

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Four decades later, in the middle of a damp Sydney winter, Mitchell’s mother died. It was a two-week struggle with pneumonia that ended her, and it wasn’t even a severe dose, not much more than a common cold. When the funeral was over, and family and friends had returned to the Granville home for tea and cake, Mitchell listened to a handful of her friends tell stories about Elizabeth’s devotion to Harold, how she ran the estate with such a keen sense of having everything in its right place, a tidiness, an ability to keep chaos at bay. If the Granvilles were good at one thing, it was organisation. Within the month, Harold had ARCHER & HOPE put the family home on the market. Soon he established himself at The Green, moving into the main bedroom. Mitchell and Irma made fortnightly visits. Ruth drove up regularly too, the back of her car packed with eskies full of frozen dinners for a man who loved his food but couldn’t boil a potato. But no matter who visited and what meal was cooked, for the rest of his days Harold Granville looked less than half a man without his Elizabeth. Mitchell realised that the males of the human species were the weakest. And he hated it. The telephone beside the bed rang at dusk. It was Lindsay. He said he still felt exhausted. He appeared careful to explain that it wasn’t due to the morning’s conversation, but because he often felt poorly late in the day. They hadn’t made any plans for the rest of the day, but Lindsay spoke as if they had. ‘I’m better before noon,’ he said, ‘before the day takes hold.’

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‘All of us Granvilles are better before noon,’ said Mitchell, sitting on the edge of the bed in his hotel room, feeling groggy from the sleep. ‘Hugh will come by your hotel at ten in the morning and then he’ll pick me up. Then the three of us will go out to Cottesloe.’ ‘If that’s what you want,’ said Mitchell. He knew he’d been the one to suggest the trip to the beach, but now it was becoming a reality he wanted to retreat. Things were happening too fast. Over east, when he’d sit at the kitchen table in Main House and fire off a letter, he was in control. But here in Perth, being in the same city as Lindsay, he felt as if he had no choice but to give in — but to what exactly? His head continued to feel depleted of its powers, as if it had become filled with sawdust. ‘It’ll be lovely,’ said Lindsay. ‘Oh, and big brother?’ ‘Yes?’ ‘I’m glad you’re over here.’ ‘Enjoy the rest of your day, Lindsay.’ ‘Yes, goodnight.’ That evening, like the one before, Mitchell dined in at the Royal Swan. He sat at the same table in the corner, the one with the good view of the room; he could also see the glint and twinkle of the night-time city scenery beyond a wall of glass. He liked making the same choices. Stability was better for good health than instability, he’d often thought, and sameness was a cousin of stability. Carefully avoiding snaring himself on fish bones, he so very slowly ate the fresh snapper, which was dressed

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in a kind of tangy sauce; over and over he read the label on the half-bottle of red wine. How will the next day at Cottesloe be? he asked himself. What skills do we need to do this? And what of this Hugh man? What will we do for the rest of the week? The wine label didn’t reveal many answers. Mitchell let his focus become a blur. He allowed his mind to empty completely. Lindsay, a resident of Glendalough, an estranged Granville, hadn’t been worth a worry for half a century and he wasn’t worth a worry now. Mitchell poured out the remainder of the bottle. He tasted the full-bodied richness of the merlot he was drinking. It smelled good in his nose, it tasted good on his tongue and around the insides of his mouth; he’d never been a big drinker but now he wanted the alcohol to take him over. The following morning, as Mitchell waited in one of the hotel’s black-leather foyer lounges, freshly showered and feeling full after a good breakfast, a young lady from reception walked over to him. She looked cautious in her approach. She said there was a call. Mitchell checked his watch. It was 10.15. He stood up and went to the telephone. ‘I’m sorry I’m late, but I’m afraid there’s been another change of plan,’ Lindsay told him. ‘Hugh’s not available this morning.’ After an obvious pause Mitchell said, ‘Perhaps I should get a taxi over to Glendalough.’ Being inside Lindsay’s flat was not how he’d wanted to spend the day, but he had slept well after the evening meal and there was a hint of charity somewhere inside him.

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‘No, I’m not the best today. We’ll do it tomorrow.’ Mitchell remembered the coughing he had heard when Lindsay opened the door the day before. ‘Are you ill?’ ‘Not the greatest,’ said Lindsay. ‘But I recommend Fremantle to you. It has some very fine restaurants and cafes. It’ll appeal to your maritime sensibility.’ ‘What maritime sensibility?’ ‘You’ve always been very sensible in more ways than one. I’ll call you again very soon.’ ‘No,’ Mitchell said, not caring for his brother’s play on words. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow morning.’ ‘If that’s what you’d like to do. But you’ll need Hugh’s number. I don’t have a phone.’ Mitchell breathed in deeply. ‘All right then, you call me.’ He did spend much of the day in Fremantle; he was at a loss as to what else he could do. After having lunch in a nondescript cafe half-filled with couples his own age, he walked some of the harbourside streets. The buildings looked either so dilapidated they appeared on the brink of toppling over or renovated to perfection, so much so they looked like reproductions. By mid-afternoon the day’s sunshine became affected by a plucky onshore wind, the strength of which Mitchell hadn’t experienced before, not even at The Green. With the change in weather came a change in his mood. The thought of spending a third night at the Royal Swan’s restaurant no longer appealed, and he wouldn’t be able to stomach another half-bottle of Margaret River’s finest.

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It had always been his habit to make the most of being in another city — as a working barrister, he had enjoyed hotels of a suitable quality and took care to dine in value-for-money restaurants — but now all of that seemed too much. And it seemed too much in an altogether different way if he were to be back inside Lindsay’s place. Lindsay’s first letter reply had described it as an apartment, but that just wasn’t true. It was a flat. Actually it wasn’t much more than a bedsit. The smell of the place was as if the air hadn’t been changed for years. If a toilet flushed upstairs, everyone would hear it downstairs, along with that noise some might call music. But it wasn’t just the flat that put Mitchell off. He remembered the morning’s telephone call. The more he thought about it the more he became uneasy, as if his cafe lunch wasn’t agreeing with him. It wasn’t to do with Hugh. (Mitchell didn’t yet completely understand the relationship Lindsay had to that man, although he had made a good guess.) Nor was it to do with the obvious lack of good health. No, it is this, Mitchell decided as he walked across the foyer of the hotel towards the lift: I am a man from Bellstay Green and Lindsay is from a shoebox flat, wearing rags for clothes, probably eating nothing more than tinned baked beans on toast. How can the gaping disparities between us be healed by a few hours of sightseeing? How could we have thought we’d sort it all out over a cup of Prince of Wales tea? His little jaunt to Western Australia was rapidly coming to an end — this Mitchell did understand, he knew it.

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When Lindsay telephoned the next day as arranged, Mitchell took no time to say that Ruth had asked for his urgent assistance with a legal matter involving the wedding — he had offered to advise her over the telephone, but she wouldn’t have it. This might have been the first time he had lied outright (he’d always persuaded his clients to tell the truth, at least he wanted them to tell him that they were telling the truth, whether they were exactly was beside the point). It bothered him that his story was a falsehood, but he couldn’t think of any other way of doing it. Honesty might be the best policy, but over-honesty was impolite. Lindsay’s response was to breathe heavily down the telephone, wheezing and coughing a little. He said, ‘I trust my dare has been worthwhile.’ ‘For whom, Lindsay?’ ‘What I said, big brother, was open-ended.’ By early afternoon Mitchell found himself thousands of miles in the air, enjoying Business Class comforts. He imagined what it was that he was flying over. Desert? Dusty red ranges? Hundred-thousand-acre cattle stations? He had criss-crossed this country in planes so many times before but he had no idea what he was flying over. And he really wasn’t sure that he cared. In the plane he fell asleep. He dreamt of a platform. The platform hovered just above his head. It felt both flimsy and secure, and it blocked the view of whatever was above him. But he needed to know what was there. Each time he jumped up and jammed his hand

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through the platform, his skin was cut open. Before he could get a glimpse of what was on the other side, the platform would swiftly repair itself. The dream broke his sleep. He tried to make himself comfortable but couldn’t. He didn’t know whether he wanted to be asleep or awake. But what he did know was that he wanted to be over east, at Mount Bellstay. Home. Home was anywhere over east. He knew that now. He telephoned Ruth within minutes of arriving at Main House. He didn’t know if he would catch her, but he did want to talk with her, to hear her voice. Familiarity, along with sameness, was part of that desire called stability. Rather abruptly, Ruth answered the call. She said she was in a right royal flap, frantically tidying up a few loose ends before she and her husband were to fly to Europe first thing the next morning. She managed to throw in a comment about the fact that the wedding’s wine list hadn’t yet been resolved. Mitchell said he would have a think about it and then hung up. After spending half an hour jotting down the names of the wines he had tasted during his stay in Perth, he rang her back and offered his suggestions. ‘What’s brought this on?’ asked Ruth. ‘What’s brought what on?’ ‘All those weekends we spent up at The Green you would just sit out on the bench and read your books. Poor old Sarah brought bridal magazines to the breakfast table and within two shakes of a lamb’s tail you’d disappear. Now you’re designing a wine list for her!’

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Mitchell knew she was right. ‘I like doing things for good people,’ he told her, almost mumbling. ‘You’re becoming unknowable, Mitchell.’ ‘Why do you say that?’ ‘Anyway, I really must get a move on.’ Ruth sounded as if she wanted to quickly put an end to the conversation. ‘I’ll send you a postcard from somewhere on the Continent.’ ‘I hope so.’ ‘All right then. Goodbye now.’ Ruth hung up. She hadn’t asked about the trip to Western Australia. Maybe she had other things on her mind. Or perhaps she simply hadn’t received Mitchell’s letter in the first place. Either way it didn’t matter. Lindsay was thousands of miles away, in more ways than one. And that was the way it should remain. Like closeness, distance was part and parcel of family life. Besides, there was a symmetry and completeness to the way Mitchell and Ruth related to each other, they’d well and truly grown accustomed to having just the two of them; this was the sibling set. Trying to add — or re-add — another person shouldn’t be considered. Balance must be retained at all costs. Mitchell heard again his sister’s barbed statement about his lack of interest in the wedding; he remembered also his personal resolution to connect with his family. He called Sarah. There was no answer at her home, so he rang her office at the university. He asked her about work. Was she still enjoying lecturing? Did she miss legal practice? He inquired about her feelings about the wedding, and her fiancé too. She

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answered each of his questions politely, which only encouraged him to ask more. Eventually she said she really was very busy, that she was in the middle of marking exams and had built up a certain amount of momentum that she didn’t want to lose. Mitchell apologised for the interruption and said goodbye. He telephoned each of his children. He knew they wouldn’t be home — all he wanted to do was leave messages on their answering machines. Answering machines wouldn’t question him. The last thing he needed was more questions. He simply told the three of them that he was well, and that he hoped they were too, and he was looking forward to seeing them soon. Regardless of his attempts to engage in the world of the wedding and make contact with the largely unknowable worlds of his children, there were images and sounds inside his head that he simply could not shift. That low ceiling. The dollhouse-sized kitchen. The noise coming down from the flats above. The smell of the place, the sort found in a tin of stale biscuits. All of it had settled inside his head and refused to shift, like a dull and tiresome headache. Don’t be drawn into that person’s life, he told himself. Each moment of each day we make a choice. We choose to wake up. We choose to kiss our wife’s forehead. We choose to wait for her to make us tea. We choose to offer to go grocery shopping. We choose to snap back at a thoughtless remark. Life is choice, he decided, and Lindsay had well and truly chosen his. End of story.

4.

It was typically old-moneyed Sydney, Number 2 Banks Street, Castle Hill. A sandstone place wrapped up in an acre of manicured gardens. Birdbaths, statues, sundials. Neat beds of blue and white annuals. A swimming pool that somehow managed to look both formal and natural. During each season, except winter, a man with a glass eye came and mowed the lawns. On two sides of the house was a wide verandah, as if the builders had forgotten to put on the outer walls. Sometimes Mitchell, a cheerful if not lonesome boy, would sleep out there in summer even before he was old enough to attend the nearby preparatory school. Ruth was never allowed to spend a night outside no matter what her age — she was a Granville princess, her father said somewhat unconvincingly, and no princess should be exposed to the outdoors. But Mitchell wasn’t alone

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out there. While lying on the canvas camp bed, he would stare into the darkest corners of the garden, hearing cats and possums scowl at each other like impossible neighbours. Towards the back of the garden, adjacent to the rear lane, was a set of old stables. Whitewashed walls and a shingle roof — it looked like it wouldn’t keep out an autumn’s drizzle let alone a summer thunderstorm. His mother had converted the building into a guesthouse, but it was more her place than anyone else’s. She had never failed to properly manage her natural shyness in order to entertain guests of the highest authority — lawyers, politicians and physicians — or be entertained by hosts of the same. The impression she always gave was that she thought it was her duty to be perfectly mannered, to follow protocol to the letter. But Mitchell had always known that his mother, because of her ‘occupation of marriage’ as she herself liked to describe it, needed to spend time alone. And it was out in the guesthouse that she could find sanctuary. One time he paid her a visit. He would have been no more than eight or nine years old. He opened the door to find her asleep on the bed. In the corner of the room was an old timber bureau with a typewriter on it. Lying next to her head was a journal. It was open and the page showed words in the shape of what Mitchell decided was a poem. He didn’t know his mother wrote poems, but it was no surprise to him — her slightness seemed right for someone who liked poetry. He left the guesthouse without reading the words. He knew he wouldn’t ask about the journal his mother kept. It felt like he’d seen her naked.

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Of course, there were other homes for the Granvilles. Mulliondale was another. Mitchell had only one memory of the place, a thousand-acre farm north of Orange. He was still a young boy, about 12 or 13 years old, and was inside a hayshed with Jeanette Scattergood — she was the only daughter of the widow who ran the farm next to theirs. Kittens had been born in a hayshed, and Jeanette and Mitchell were investigating. The scent and prickly feel of lucerne bails underscored the memory. That was the extent of the Mulliondale story, just a snapshot really. It was simply a place his father talked about on the odd occasion, only visiting two or three times each year to make sure the caretakers were taking good care. It didn’t need to return a profit, just break even, and even that wasn’t strictly necessary either. Then there was Bellstay Green, Mount Bellstay. Around the time Sarah and John announced their intention to marry, Mitchell found an old lithograph in a long, narrow wooden box beneath a bed in one of the spare rooms. 62 Portions, Situated at Mount Bellstay, Parish of Johnson, County of Hancock. He had known of the lithograph’s existence, but had never seen it before — his usual map of the mountain wasn’t something one could hold with fingers, but a series of images that made up a story of sorts. His paternal grandfather had bought Bellstay Green, its original name, as a summer retreat soon after it was built in 1870. The family referred to the larger dwelling as Main House. Hidden away in one corner of the garden was the small white weatherboard caretaker’s cottage. Years later an apple-packing shed was built on the

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edge of the property, but over time it became the place for caretakers to live out the remains of their lives. Most of Mount Bellstay’s original landowners were notable people: members of the Legislative Assembly, chief justices, pastoralists, surveyors-general and university lecturers. Many held huge tracts of land on the western slopes around Bathurst and Orange and needed places of rest when travelling along the winding mountain goat-track to Sydney. One hundred and thirty years later, Mount Bellstay, a basaltic peak rising 3467 feet into the sky, once volcanic, was a place of agreeable country homes positioned carefully within acres of recreated English landscapes that would ultimately take the shape of botanic gardens. There were never any shops on the mountain, just a tearoom (selling only tea and apple cider) and a part-time post office. Nowadays there were less than a dozen permanent residents. One was a poet who had gone mad — she had a habit of riding her horse around a roadside paddock wearing nothing but pink gumboots and a Vietnamese hat, yelling affectionate chants about Lenin and Mao Tse-tung. The others were senior retirees, three couples who kept to themselves and their acres of daffodils. All of them were shut in by the wild, cutting gorges and scraggly ranges of the surrounding national park. Most summers at least one bushfire would come in an effort to get rid of the landowners; blistering droughts would also try their best, but the landowners never gave in.

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How is it that a family in Australia can own one place like Bellstay Green for so long? a late-teenaged Mitchell once asked of his father. The answer was simple: Because we can. On a weekend in the middle of August, Mitchell woke later than usual to hear what sounded like a Volkswagen clattering up the driveway. He got out of bed. The house was so quiet his breathing sounded loud — if there were anyone else in the house, surely it would wake them. As he walked up the hallway, he heard knocking. He opened the door. ‘G’day, Grandfather,’ said a bright, smiling face. Young Brandon Granville. ‘Hello there,’ said Mitchell, tightening his dressing gown from the cold. The boy appeared taller now and quite possibly thinner. He wore work boots, black jeans, a white T-shirt under a flannelette shirt, and a black duffel coat. ‘I’ve come up for a bit of a visit,’ he said. ‘It’s good to see you! Come in!’ ‘It’s freezing up here.’ ‘We’ll have a pot of Earl Grey. That’ll warm you up.’ While preparing the tea, Mitchell listened to his grandson talk of not finding his law degree stimulating — it was ‘a drudge’ apparently. Through email Brandon had arranged to spend a day with the van Hopetouns to see if horticulture or greenkeeping might be more to his interest. Sarah’s recollection of her cousin’s career plans had been correct.

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‘I hope you don’t mind me coming up,’ said Brandon. ‘I’ll probably stay tonight, if that’s all right. I should have phoned you direct.’ ‘Oh, that’s fine. But a career crisis at your age?’ Mitchell guessed his grandson was about 19, maybe 20 years old now. ‘I know. I’m a bit young, aren’t I?’ Brandon spoke well of The Green. He said he’d read the early family diaries, kept in a trunk in the lounge room of Main House. The diaries contained numerous accounts of mostly successful attempts at creating cottage gardens in the mountain’s rich red soil. ‘I think there is something about this place that makes me think I’m kind-of in love with it,’ he said looking down at his hands. ‘Or maybe it’s just a mega-fondness.’ ‘You’ve not told your mother or father about this gardening idea, have you?’ said Mitchell, setting out the teapot and two cups on the kitchen table. The boy probably preferred a mug but this was Bellstay Green and there were rules to follow. ‘Yes, I’ve told Mum,’ said Brandon. ‘She reckons that as long as I stay at university, Dad won’t mind what I do. Perhaps I won’t tell him until it’s too late!’ ‘You’re a bit of a rascal, like him.’ ‘I guess so,’ said Brandon. ‘I know so.’ Mitchell took a quick census of the life of Brandon’s father. Mark had always enjoyed being the youngest of the children, making it his duty to take up all the possible opportunities to either entertain or shock. He had struggled

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with some subjects at school, but after an extended stay at Sydney University, the only place for a Granville to complete his education, Mark eventually finished his law degree. A year later he married Tanya, his Payne College sweetheart. They had Brandon in 1982 (Mitchell had finally managed to pinpoint the exact year). There were to be no other children. The key details of Mark and Tanya’s life, as well as the lives of Mitchell’s other two children, their spouses and all five grandchildren, were kept in a small notebook. Irma had initiated it when Paul was born, and she’d never failed in her commitment to keep it current. The notebook’s details included birthdays, hobbies, notes about the few health difficulties that had been experienced, even unsuccessful presents. It was one of the few possessions of Irma’s that Mitchell wanted to retain after her death. In fact he pledged to himself he would keep it current until he also shuffled off to wherever he might end up. He loved the notebook, not because of the information it contained, but because the thought of her handwriting made him sleep better. If he kept adding information to it, he would not only see Irma’s handwriting, but he would be able to take part in it, immerse himself in it, as if the two of them were again able to bathe together. ‘Grandfather?’ asked Brandon. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. You were saying?’ ‘I reckon I’ve come to the right place to learn about horticulture. I’m kind of lucky.’ ‘Indeed you are,’ said Mitchell.

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‘Not many people would have access to a place like Bellstay Green. It’s pure fortune.’ ‘Fortune, and a fair amount of hard work.’ ‘I haven’t had to work for this.’ ‘And if the truth be told, Brandon, I haven’t either.’ Mitchell knew that was the truth: he’d still be living at Bellstay Green whether he became a barrister or not. If he’d never worked a week in his life, he’d still have had the opportunity to retire to the mountain. For the rest of the day, Bobby van Hopetoun gathered the young Granville under his wing and took him on various tours of the gardens. Mitchell retreated to the warmth and comfort of the sitting room. Once in a while his attention would be caught by the two men outside in the garden, one strong but ageing, the other fit and still mostly a youth; they looked like master and apprentice. Lunch for both of them was an apple on the run — there was obviously a lot of horticulture to get through. In the afternoon, Mitchell watched as his grandson and the caretaker examined the massive and gnarled trunk of the wisteria vine that covered much of the front verandah. Mitchell understood that Brandon, like any Granville boy, would know all the paths and nooks and crannies of Bellstay Green, but it would be only a childhood knowledge, one of play and fantasy, not a wellstudied science. What spin was Bobby putting on the place? Did he understand it? Of course he understood it. But in the same way a Granville would? Surely not. Every now and again, Mitchell pulled his gaze back into the room and stared at the

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flames in the fireplace. The house was quiet around him, like a vacuum of familiar air. He wondered if it would be possible to die in Main House. He and Brandon ate dinner that night in the sitting room on a card table brought in for the occasion. Louise had prepared a lamb roast, the smell of which filled the house, at least those few rooms that were being used, with a sense of celebration — if there were only the two of them left in the family, this would be how they’d have Christmas. Mitchell picked out from the small cellar kept in a shed around the back of Main House a 1982 Hunter Valley merlot; he told Brandon that he’d chosen that particular vintage to celebrate his grandson’s year of birth, a gesture that made Brandon’s cheeks turn crimson. There was another reason for the choice of year, but Mitchell kept that to himself. When dinner was over, they retired to the lounges. Mitchell could tell the wine had gone to his grandson’s head — Brandon looked clumsy when tidying up. Leaning over to the side table, Mitchell picked up a wooden cigar box and put it on his lap. He opened the lid and smelled the sweet tobacco inside. It’s almost like port. He picked one out, clipped the end and put it in his mouth. ‘Just a funny little habit I have,’ he said, almost apologising. ‘I didn’t think you smoked,’ said Brandon, finally sitting down in the accompanying armchair. ‘I don’t.’

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Mitchell lit the cigar. He made sure it was alight, then laid his arm across the armrest, the cigar stuck between his fingers. He hoped the ashtray was somewhere beneath it. It looked like he knew what he was doing, that he was a regular smoker of cigars, an expert. But he would never smoke if he was alone or if Ruth was in the house, and he was sure he hadn’t smoked in front of Sarah either, or even the van Hopetouns. Nor was he convinced he knew how to do it properly. He’d often asked himself why he did it at all. And now he wanted to know why he was smoking in front of his grandson. Brandon looked around the sitting room. Mitchell wondered what the boy truly thought of Main House and Bellstay Green. Was he really in love with the place? Or was it just a sentimental attraction, like a security blanket, something from the past that seemed to never change? Mitchell let his eyes check the room too. He hadn’t noticed it before but there was surprisingly little decoration. On the mantelpiece was one of his mother’s vases, but there were no photographs beside it. Only two paintings hung on the walls, one of Castle Hill, the other a portrait of a friend of Harold’s, a justice of the High Court who looked pompously bored. ‘It’s been such a great day,’ said Brandon, perhaps realising too that there wasn’t much to look at, at least not inside the house. ‘The van Hopetouns know so much about this place.’ ‘So they should. They’ve lived here for almost 20 years.’ ‘I’d love to have their life,’ said Brandon.

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‘It could be lonesome up here for one person.’ ‘I think I could handle it.’ ‘They’re not the wealthiest people I know.’ ‘That doesn’t interest me.’ ‘Because you’ll never need to worry.’ Brandon looked up. ‘This family’s not that wealthy,’ he said. ‘Not really. Not when you compare it to the really big Australian families, like the …’ ‘How do you know?’ ‘I don’t, I guess, not for certain.’ Brandon paused for a moment. ‘Do you think I’m a proper Granville?’ A proper Granville, Mitchell repeated to himself silently. Granville was a funny word. As a boy Lindsay had once asked who the Gran was. Mitchell had looked down at his brother and laughed — he told him there was no Gran. But there must have been, Lindsay said and started to sob. Decades later a Sydney red rattler slammed into a bridge killing more than 80 people. The Granville Railway Disaster. Mitchell wondered why that wretched incident couldn’t have happened at Strathfield or Redfern or any another station. He heard the question again: do you think I’m a proper Granville? ‘Well, you have enthusiasm for success,’ he began, choosing his words carefully as he spoke, ‘and you’ve always been one for justice. And by the sounds of it you are quite fond of The Green.’ He looked at the last of the red wine in the glass in his hand as if the true answer to his grandson’s question was somewhere inside it. He said, ‘Irma used to say

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that she could see a little of me in you. But there’s also a fair dose of …’ Mitchell listened to his own voice trail off. ‘Of who?’ asked Brandon. ‘My … sister.’ It was the second time Mitchell had lied in as many months. ‘She’s kind of formal.’ Brandon laughed as if he was nervous. Mitchell chuckled a little. ‘Perhaps you could take up a post in the diplomatic corps if horticulture doesn’t work out.’ ‘We’re a funny lot, aren’t we?’ ‘You’re eighth generation Australian, Brandon. I thought being sixth generation was special, but I still feel a strange attachment to England.’ Mitchell was just talking now; it seemed all he needed these days were a few glasses of wine and a puff or two of a cigar and no one could shut him up. ‘And when I worked there as a young barrister for five years in the fifties it did start to feel like home. There’s so much more to what’s in our veins than just red and white cells. It links us to place, too.’ ‘But being eighth generation Australian doesn’t feel that special,’ said Brandon. ‘It’s just what I am. I’m a boy. I’m Australian. Who cares? Surely it’s what we are not that defines us. I think what I’m saying is, what does it mean to be Australian? Are we one thing or many?’ ‘We’re one nation built on the spirit of the ANZACs,’ replied Mitchell.

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‘I’m sorry but that’s just crap, Grandfather. We’re many spirits. Some of those spirits are very old, some of those spirits are very new.’ ‘Then we’re a schizophrenic nation. And that’s dangerous.’ ‘Or are we a richly diverse, soulful nation?’ ‘You think too much, Brandon. The ability to think simply is the talent of the wise. The point I was making is that when you end up travelling, you might not feel attachment to any other country but here, whatever the here actually is, and I do think that’s extraordinary.’ ‘That’s what I’m hoping. To have only one place as a home.’ ‘That’s a funny thing to hope for.’ ‘Hope isn’t funny,’ said Brandon. ‘It’s actually quite a serious business.’ ‘Indeed, you are your father’s son!’ said Mitchell, tapping the cigar on the ledge of the ashtray. Silently to himself he admitted, And you are Lindsay’s grand-nephew too. ‘Thank you for everything,’ Brandon said the following morning, standing in the bedroom doorway looking freshly showered. Mitchell lifted himself up off his pillows. He looked at his wristwatch on the bedside table. It was not yet 8am. His mouth tasted of cigar ash and red wine — not a good combination after the event. He said, ‘I think it’s the van Hopetouns you should thank.’

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‘I’ve already thanked them and said goodbye. I’m sure I’ll be back sometime.’ ‘So you’re returning to the real world, are you?’ ‘I guess I am,’ said Brandon. ‘I’ll come and see you off,’ said Mitchell, getting out of bed. ‘No, no, it’s okay — it’s really cold outside.’ ‘I’d like to,’ said Mitchell. ‘Visitors aren’t exactly a dime a dozen up here.’ Moments later, when he could no longer hear his grandson’s Volkswagen, Mitchell looked down to his red slippers on the white gravel of the driveway. In the bright morning light the gravel looked more bleached than usual, almost as if it were snow. There wasn’t the sound of someone’s footsteps on the gravel. The caretakers weren’t raking up leaves. Even the peacocks weren’t crying out their cat-like call. Just silence. Take control, Mitchell told himself. Just take control. He looked across the lawns to his bench. Fricka. She was still drying herself, she was still alone. The koi pond. A water garden. Building a long windy stretch of water — that had been one of Louise’s ideas; she had told him about it as she drove him to Lithgow on his way to Perth. It involved constructing a naturalised stream that could run from Fricka and the pond down to the lookout. She said she’d been thinking about it for a while, but thought it was the sort of project that needed Granville approval rather than something she and Bobby could just go ahead and do on a whim. She said

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they’d need professional help if Mitchell wanted to proceed — the advice of a professional landscape architect would be most valuable. With his mind on other things, his brother mostly, Mitchell had agreed. Louise contacted a man called Bruce Wallington in Sydney and arranged an on-site visit. The fees were not inexpensive but Mitchell had enjoyed the man’s three visits in the weeks before Brandon had arrived. The two of them, one an owner of land, the other a professional ideas man, walked the gardens, Mitchell pointing out as much as he knew, stories, anecdotes, hearsay evidence. On the third visit, over a pot of Earl Grey and some muffins, the landscape architect presented a rough sketch of what he had in mind. Let’s get this moving, Mitchell had told the man. This will be my change to The Green, my donation. Now, though, there was no landscape architect, no Ruth or Sarah either. And no Brandon with his ridiculous ideas about what makes a nation — heavens above, the boy hasn’t yet worked out manhood let alone nationhood! For company there was just that interminable silence and the van Hopetouns wandering about like they could live off the stuff. Mitchell Granville knew silence was good when there was a possibility of it ending, of it becoming something else not akin to lifelessness. But he didn’t know when this particular version of it might cease. The mountain was simply mute, as if it was a defence, like fire.

5.

By the end of August Mount Bellstay had came to a halt. Fogs, thick and persistent, lingered throughout the day like tourists in the open-garden season. The frosts too were so severe that cracks appeared in the soil. Sleet showers came and went, a handful of light snowfalls too. The oaks and planes, and hundreds of plum trees, stood bare — they looked like skeletons rising from the ground. Bulb spikes poked through the soil, but it would not be for another two months or so that they could begin their task of cheering up the place. Wisely the van Hopetouns focused their attention on indoor projects, ferreting around in the various sheds and even working on their own cottage, but they were yet to ask Mitchell whether he would allow jobs to be carried out inside Main House. He wondered if they were going to ask him at all

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now that he was living there permanently. He wouldn’t mind, not really. In fact he’d probably enjoy the company. But only for a limited time — he’d recently decided he could talk aloud only for the length of an average court session, a legacy of a life lived in the law. And then one morning, as he sat with his legs covered in a thick green and blue quilted blanket and a book in his lap — Sir Henry Parkes: from ivory turner to ivory tower — the telephone rang. It was just past 11 o’clock and he’d been expecting an update from Sydney about when contractors were going to submit prices for the water garden. ‘Can I speak to Mitchell Granville, please?’ said a voice at the end of the line. ‘It’s Mitchell Granville speaking.’ ‘My name’s Hugh Lavelle. From Perth.’ Mitchell wondered what this had to do with the water garden. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he asked. ‘Hugh Lavelle. I live upstairs from Lindsay. I’m a friend of your brother.’ Mitchell sat himself down on the hallway chair. The air was cold. ‘Oh, yes.’ ‘How are you?’ ‘Very well, thank you.’ ‘Look, I think it would be wise if you came over again,’ said Hugh. ‘Why is that?’ Mitchell wondered if the landscape architect was trying to get through on the line.

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‘You could fly over again,’ said Hugh. ‘You don’t mind flying, do you?’ I don’t mind flying at all but how young do you think I am? ‘What is it you’re actually asking me, Hugh?’ ‘You need to see your brother.’ ‘I’ve already done that.’ ‘I know.’ ‘And no one would call it a great success.’ ‘I know that too, but …’ ‘So that’s that then.’ ‘Mitchell, didn’t you notice?’ ‘Notice what?’ ‘Lindsay is unwell.’ ‘He’s old, Hugh. Like you and me.’ ‘Yes, he’s old, but he’s also quite sick.’ Mitchell was finished with responding. ‘In fact,’ continued Hugh, ‘he’s very unwell. Winters knock the old slapper around a bit. Even Perth winters.’ Mitchell put his hand to his face and gently rubbed his eyes. ‘Yes, I do know all this, but I’d appreciate it if you eased up on the guilt, mmm?’ ‘I’m sorry,’ said Hugh. ‘Can I talk to him? Is he with you now?’ ‘No, he finds it difficult to climb the stairs.’ Mitchell remembered that his brother’s friend lived on the first floor. ‘I’ll consider your request.’ ‘That’s a good idea,’ said Hugh. ‘I’m glad you think so.’

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‘You’d better take down my telephone number.’ Mitchell recorded the number in the back of Irma’s book, then hung up. That night he again dreamt of a platform. The thing hovering just above his head. Flimsy, secure, blocking the view of whatever was above him. Needing to know what was there. Jumping up and jamming his hand through, skin being cut open. The platform swiftly repairing itself. He woke himself a number of times. His heart pounded beneath his chest. Main House, he almost cried out, stay the same, stay the same. It is your job to stay the same. He rolled over but remained awake. He knew that the only way he could get to sleep again was to make one particular decision. Return to Western Australia. You have to go there, Mitchell told himself. Really, you do. The flats hadn’t changed. Not that he had expected them to, although perhaps somehow he had hoped they would be different, better. The red-brick walls, the palms, the vaguely Art Deco details — it was all as he had seen before. He knocked on the door with the SAVE THE KARRI sticker on it and waited. The door opened. The man standing there wasn’t Lindsay. He was shorter and generally more rounded. ‘Hello?’ ‘I’m here to see my brother,’ Mitchell said quickly. ‘Oh, hi! I’m Hugh Lavelle,’ the man said, opening the door wider. ‘I spoke to you on the phone. I’m glad you’ve come. How was the flight?’

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‘Hello, Hugh. Where is he?’ ‘In the bedroom.’ Mitchell walked inside but stalled before going down the short hallway. ‘He woke a little while ago,’ Hugh said. ‘You have good timing.’ ‘Does he know I’m here?’ ‘I did warn him that it could be possible. Go on, head on down.’ The bedroom door was open. Mitchell peered inside. The room looked small, so much so that a double bed would have been impossible. He had expected to find the blinds drawn and half a face peering out from beneath the covers, but there was plenty of light in the room, and Lindsay was sitting up with his eyes closed, a pair of portable hi-fi headphones in his ears. He looked as if he was listening to a speech he found so inspiring he needed to absorb it while in a trance. On the wall above the bed was a picture of Queen Elizabeth II, a poorly applied thick line of red paint diagonally across her face. Mitchell remembered his brother’s early attempts at photography and his habit of embellishing them with oil paint. All of them, he recalled, had been hideous. This one was no different. Mitchell coughed loudly. Lindsay opened his eyes. Then he smiled. There was astonishment in his face but also, curiously, what may have been an apology. He removed the headphones and turned off the hi-fi. ‘Come in, for Christ’s sake!’ he said. ‘You’re standing there like the grim friggin’ reaper.’

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Mitchell took two steps forward, trying to decide whether he should sit on the edge of the bed or crouch on the floor. He stayed on his feet. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hugh partly closing the door behind him. ‘How are you?’ asked Mitchell. ‘The duty of my kind is melodrama,’ said Lindsay, ‘which is good considering the duty of your kind is for no drama whatsoever. But the theory’s nonsense because Hugh has me on my deathbed.’ Mitchell didn’t understand what his brother had just said. Again he surveyed the room; he was at a loss as to what else he should do. He saw the set of built-in cupboards, one door partly open, a black suit-coat draped over it. A pair of white shoes placed neatly on the carpet. Hugh returned to the room carrying a chair. Mitchell put out a hand to find the armrest and slowly sat himself down. The brothers didn’t speak again until Hugh had left the room. ‘I’m sorry about the last visit,’ said Mitchell, almost mumbling. ‘Big brother, family stuff can be so dour sometimes. Let’s forget it, mark it down as a bad move on both our parts. Too much water under the bridge, perhaps not enough water, or something like that.’ ‘What’s wrong with you?’ ‘Emphysema,’ said Lindsay plainly. ‘I should thank Dad’s love of cigars for that. Or maybe I spent too much time chanting protest songs at the gates of timber mills.’

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‘Badly?’ ‘Did I sing badly?’ ‘No, Lindsay, the severity of your illness.’ Mitchell crossed his arms. ‘Emphysema is emphysema. It’s bad enough. But the doctors say the tablets and medications are all doing their bit. Strangely, I’m a very healthy man apart from that one wretched fact.’ ‘I’m glad you’re basically healthy.’ ‘Thank you.’ Lindsay wheezed softly. ‘You look well.’ ‘I am well.’ ‘What’s your ailment?’ ‘Nothing.’ ‘Come on, everyone’s got something,’ said Lindsay. ‘Stiff joints. Bit of a heart flutter, but that’s it.’ It was a lot more than a flutter, but no one needed to know that. ‘Not even a touch of incontinence?’ asked Lindsay. ‘A dribble down the inner leg?’ ‘No, no, no, none of that.’ Mitchell checked the doorway — it was vacant — then looked to a place near his brother. ‘Why does Hugh have you about to keel over?’ ‘It’s not just old women who need to be needed.’ ‘Who’d ever guess?’ ‘Indeed,’ said Lindsay, ‘who’d ever guess when some of us can know.’ Mitchell now wanted to move on from Lindsay’s health. He asked general questions. About Perth as a city. About the surrounding countryside — was it all desert as soon as the

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suburbs finished? He inquired about the possibility of a trip to Cottesloe Beach, the one they’d arranged during the first visit but never happened. He appreciated Lindsay’s long, detailed answers to each of the questions. They allowed him to order his thoughts, to work out his next question, to get the phrasing right before he opened his mouth. A perfectly executed question could be a thing of beauty. But soon he ran out of questions to ask. After a long pause Lindsay stretched out his hand and put it on Mitchell’s knee. ‘I think I want to wear a jumper again.’ ‘What?’ ‘There’s no need for jumpers around here. Cardigans, yes. But not jumpers. And there are no mountains. I want to wear jumpers and see mountains. Maybe Sydney would be enough, you can wear jumpers in that rat-nest of a place, and see mountains. We can sort out the details later.’ Mitchell looked out of the window. A palm tree trunk appeared impossibly close, as if it and the glass abutted each other. He looked back at his brother. ‘You want to return to The Green?’ ‘Well, yes, thereabouts.’ ‘Ruth’s daughter is finally getting married next month. In front of Main House, you realise.’ ‘You told me that last time.’ ‘Did I?’ Mitchell didn’t like the fact that he had forgotten what they had already discussed. ‘Besides, I didn’t specifically say Mount Bellstay. I said Sydney.’

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‘You mentioned mountains.’ ‘Seeing mountains, not living on mountains.’ A pause. Lindsay said, ‘Well?’ ‘Well, what?’ ‘What about the idea? Me coming back over east?’ ‘It’s ridiculous.’ ‘Why so?’ ‘You’re actually serious, aren’t you?’ Lindsay smiled. ‘Jumpers aren’t that thrilling, you know,’ said Mitchell. ‘Big brother, let me tell you a secret. I was over at The Green not that long ago.’ Mitchell stared at Lindsay. ‘Well, it was a few years ago now. No one was around, and I didn’t stay for long, maybe half an hour at the most. But I wore a jumper that day, and I loved it. I remember it so clearly. I want to do it again, I want to do it over and over.’ ‘What do you mean, you were at The Green?’ ‘I just thought I should do that dreadfully nostalgic thing and stare at an old home from the other side of the gates. Pretend I’m on a movie set, or something like that.’ Mitchell didn’t want to form an image of what Lindsay was describing. He didn’t want to think that he could have been in Main House, with Irma, possibly with Ruth and Sarah too, and Lindsay was standing on the other side of the gates on the driveway, looking through. Did Lindsay manage to catch a glimpse of them going about their weekend business?

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Did he have to dive into a car to quickly escape? It felt as if someone had admitted to spying, to stalking, that someone had confessed to almost trespassing. Lindsay had tried to invade Bellstay Green. Mitchell didn’t want to pursue Lindsay’s admission. Instead he said: ‘You exaggerated your health to get me over here.’ ‘Hugh did. I didn’t.’ ‘Same thing, I’m starting to think.’ ‘If a story’s not worth telling,’ Lindsay said, ‘exaggerate it.’ ‘Mum used to say that.’ ‘Of course she did. But, big brother, we’re not talking about our mother or my health. We’re talking about my wanting to wear jumpers and see mountains.’ Mitchell considered his situation. Ruth and Sarah were two weeks away from coming back to The Green to start preparing for the wedding. On Mount Bellstay there was only that bloody silence. It’s true, he had his bench, but the days hadn’t yet started to lose their winter sting, and the fog and mist made the place so damp it did actually drip for the first few hours of each morning. Fricka remained, looking forlorn as always. He hadn’t heard from Brandon, not that he’d expected to, although he’d hoped that perhaps the boy would make another trip to see Bobby van Hopetoun, to get another horticultural lesson. Even riding out winter in the sitting room with a book, a blanket over his legs and the fire warm beside him had lost its charm. He knew he’d become trapped by the place. Bellstay had him in her clutches, between her teeth.

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She might have a vacuum of familiarity and it might be impossible to die in Main House, but he’d started to realise that living there was just as difficult. ‘Well, maybe we can consider Sydney,’ he said. ‘I suppose I could try to get you a seat on my flight but …’ ‘Oh, I don’t think we should fly,’ said Lindsay, sounding relieved that his brother had almost succumbed to the plan. ‘No, barbarians fly. The Indian Pacific will take us. She’s as glamorous as a night out in Kalgoorlie but she does the job.’ ‘What are you suggesting? That we catch the train?’ ‘You haven’t lost your Granville spark of perception.’ Lindsay winked at his brother. ‘I’ve heard horror stories about the train,’ said Mitchell. ‘Apparently it takes days.’ ‘The dry queen of Australis,’ said Lindsay. He shook his head. ‘Christ, I’ve never been terribly good at camp. But you know what?’ He put his hand on his chest and patted it. ‘The desert rattler is easier on the lungs than flying. Dear old Hugh said he can do the booking for us.’ ‘You’ve had this schemed for ages, haven’t you?’ Lindsay looked like he needed to think for a moment. ‘Not for as long as you might want to believe.’ ‘All right then, if your friend can organise the train and let me know all the details — times, costs, all those sorts of things — then I’ll think about cancelling my plane ticket. I’ll think about it, that’s all.’ Lindsay smiled.

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That night, in the same Royal Swan room as his previous visit, Mitchell found himself scratching out a letter to send to the van Hopetouns, a brief update of his revised travel plans — he’d made the decision while riding in the back of a taxi as it returned him to the hotel (Lindsay had used guilt to wonderful effect). He considered sending a note to Paul, but believed the one to the caretakers would do for now. There was only need for one set of people to know what he was doing, anything more would be overly complex and that’s the last thing he needed. While eating a room-service meal, some sort of chicken dish even he could tell had been microwaved, Mitchell wondered what he’d do when the telephone rang and he heard Hugh’s voice. Grill the man, he told himself, like the good barrister I’ll always be. Grill him about the details, the minutiae. Accuse him of not looking into the arrangements with the level of care required by the Granville brothers. Charge him for missing out on the most crucial piece of information. Make the man feel small. Indeed, the telephone did ring — Mitchell was climbing into bed. Slowly, carefully, Hugh described the travel plans. The lift to East Perth Station. The ticket collection. The maximum luggage amount allowed before charges applied. The sort of food that would be available on the train. The arrival time at Central Station in Sydney. It was all perfectly arranged as if Hugh lived for an opportunity like this. And it would all begin first thing in the morning. ‘Thank you,’ said Mitchell, ‘you’ve been most helpful.’

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What had happened to that intention to diminish this man? ‘It’s been my pleasure,’ said Hugh. ‘I guess I have no real reason not to go along with this thing.’ ‘I don’t think you do. And you and Lindsay are lucky — due to track maintenance the train’s been delayed until tomorrow morning. Otherwise it would have left three days ago.’ ‘Divine intervention, you reckon?’ ‘I wouldn’t go that far, but it does seem to be the right thing for you to do.’ Mitchell took a deep breath, then exhaled loudly. ‘You might be right.’ ‘I should leave you to it.’ ‘I’m unsure whether I should thank you or not.’ ‘Thank me when you get home.’ ‘I’m appreciating home more and more.’ ‘Goodnight, Mitchell.’ ‘All right then, goodnight now.’ ‘Oh, Mitchell?’ ‘Yes?’ ‘I’ve paid for it on my credit card. Lindsay doesn’t have one.’ ‘Give me your account details.’ ‘We can sort that out later.’ ‘No really,’ insisted Mitchell.

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‘You’re going to have the trip of your life, I really believe that.’ ‘I’ll let you know if you’re right. But please — ’ ‘Send me a postcard,’ said Hugh quickly. ‘Bye for now.’ The line went dead. The trip of your life, Mitchell echoed to himself as he hung up. If there was one thing he had learnt from 77 years of living, it was that some people are complex and others simple. He considered himself to be simple, albeit intelligent and well read. When he set out to do something, like build a water garden at The Green, his motives were straightforward — fill a day, present a gift. But his brother was a different story. From the moment he was born, Lindsay had dragged with him a whole net of tricks and tools of whatever trade he called his own. He was complex, so much so he could use this complexity to generate chaos. And he had the ability to use this chaos to attract considerable affection towards himself. Like generating a storm and then proclaiming to be a lighthouse. A shaman, Lindsay Granville was nothing less.

6.

A simple and unremarkable building, East Perth Railway Station looked more like a suburban bus stop than the start — and end — of an epic train journey. Hugh made up for the lack of architectural drama by fussing around the Granville brothers as if he was their personal assistant. He said it was the world’s last real transcontinental train trip, that they would be aboard for three nights and required the correct luxuries. As if suddenly taking his own advice, he scuttled off only to return a few minutes later with a brown paper bag that appeared heavy to carry. ‘Mad old blighter, I am,’ he said. ‘I almost left these to cook in the car!’ ‘Oh you,’ Lindsay said, ‘you’re such a Hugh.’ He took the bag and looked inside. ‘Port and chocolates — that divine combination. You really are a dear old man, Mr Lavelle.’

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Despite its large eagle emblem, the outside of the train looked like an over-sized sewerage pipe, but once Mitchell was inside he considered it to be civilised enough. It wasn’t the Royal Swan Hotel, but neither was it a YMCA. He placed his luggage bag on the cabin’s narrow couch, which he quickly deduced would fold out to become a bed. He put his shaving bag in the bathroom, his dressing gown and slippers on the rack, and returned to sit next to his luggage. He rested there for a moment, getting his bearings, knowing they were about to be lost. With a whistle and a shout the train began to pull away. It happened suddenly and without ceremony, and he was on the wrong side of the train to offer anyone a farewell. Lindsay and Hugh would have to do their thing, whatever that was, by themselves. Not knowing what an Indian Pacific passenger should do, Mitchell went in search of his brother. He couldn’t remember Lindsay’s cabin number and resolved to ask a steward. The one he stopped, with a greying Elvis haircut and bloated frame, looked like he had spent his life working the railways. Apparently Lindsay’s cabin was at the other end of the same car. Mitchell found it and knocked on the door. ‘Welcome to my studio apartment,’ said Lindsay, offering a broad smile combined with a theatrical sweep of his hand. Mitchell stepped inside. It was a relief to see his brother without the shoebox flat around him, without the unfortunate photographs and paintings, without the bonehead music coming down from above. And there wasn’t a man called

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Hugh Lavelle lingering like a winter’s shadow. Mitchell noticed what Lindsay was wearing. Black and brown check pants. On the man’s feet were white shoes. A bright red shirt was untucked so as not to show off his belly. Askew on his head was a yellow flat cap. He looked like a child dressed up to play the part of a golfer in a primary school production. ‘I told Hugh that you wouldn’t accept anything but the best,’ said Lindsay, sitting down on the cabin’s couch. ‘What were you referring to?’ asked Mitchell. ‘We’re travelling Gold Kangaroo service, isn’t that delightful? There’s one Deluxe Cabin per train, they say it’s quite something. But, sorry, it was already booked out. Besides, we would have fought over who had it. Maybe that would have been a bit of fun — a couple of old men having fisticuffs over who was going to have what!’ ‘We’ll be comfortable enough,’ said Mitchell with little interest. Although the train was yet to gather much speed, Mitchell held onto the luggage rack for stability. He had been on many boats in his time, harbour ferries, sailing vessels and pleasure cruisers, always as a guest of a client or a family friend, and feeling the sway and lift of the Indian Pacific reminded him of having deep water under his feet. Lindsay looked up at his brother. ‘Morning tea, sir?’ An image came into Mitchell’s mind: Louise van Hopetoun with a tray of tea and biscuits. Every morning at 10.30, six days a week (it was the only daily activity that didn’t always happen on Sundays), she would appear at the front

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door of Main House, a smile on her face even if she’d just walked through a thick and dripping Bellstay mist or the thermometer was on 30 degrees already. He couldn’t remember feeling this way before but now, perhaps because of the distance between home and wherever the hell he was presently, he smelled the sugar sweetness of the biscuits and the almost syrupy scent of the Earl Grey tea. A Main House day might start breathing at breakfast, he thought, however it doesn’t open its eyes until morning tea. Not that Mitchell wanted to be back there, but if it were possible for Louise to serve tea on the Indian Pacific this morning, he’d be thrilled. The dining car was grander than he had imagined. The walls had been coloured a rich red, the tone of which might be found in an exclusive Sydney restaurant. Black cloths covered stainless steel tables, and in the middle of each sat a yellow flower in a small white ceramic vase. Lindsay ordered Devonshire teas for both of them. ‘What’s the first stop?’ Mitchell asked. ‘The grand old desert whore,’ said Lindsay with a lazy smile. ‘Kalgoorlie. Hugh said it’d be tonight. Then the next thing we’ll know we’ll be in Adelaide. It’ll be nice to see that monastic city again.’ ‘We won’t see much of it from where we’re sitting.’ ‘We’ll see more of it than you think,’ said Lindsay. ‘Don’t you worry about that.’ ‘I’ll take your word for it.’ ‘My words are wise.’

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Mitchell knew that if they were children, they wouldn’t be talking about country towns or cities or the wisdom of words. Instead they’d be playing games like I Spy, or just running up and down the train making pests of themselves. If they were children, there wouldn’t be the requirement to think themselves into complication. If they were children, they would be nothing more than children. But when in your seventies, there’s a lot to choose from: it’s just as easy to slip back into childhood, into the teenage years, into adulthood and middle-age as it is to trip forward into death. He looked out the window. Perth’s outer suburbs rushed past. The city and its blanket of outer suburbs seemed pleasant enough, friendly and relaxed, like Sydney 30 years ago when it was a place to live rather than one only to make money. But despite Perth’s charms Mitchell could never settle there — it would be like him wearing denim jeans and a white T-shirt, something that wouldn’t be right, just ludicrous. The city was too far away and Lindsay was right, there weren’t enough mountains. Whatever Sydney had become, it was still the centre of Mitchell Granville’s existence. ‘For Christ’s sake!’ said Lindsay all of sudden. Mitchell turned back to look at his brother. ‘What?’ he said quietly. ‘You’re not going to spend the whole trip staring into oblivion, are you?’ ‘I’m finding it quite mesmerising.’ ‘Well, mesmerise me and say something.’

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A stewardess placed a plate of scones on the table, and bowls of cream and jam. Next she brought over a pot of tea, cups and saucers, a small jug of milk and sachets of sugar. It all looked impressive. Perhaps the next three days would not be as different, or as difficult, as Mitchell had originally thought. ‘I don’t know what I can tell you,’ he mumbled. Lindsay stared. ‘I don’t know where I should start,’ said Mitchell. ‘Words are always good,’ said Lindsay, ‘and somewhere is always the right place.’ Mitchell knew his brother was right. So he began. With Irma, his primary-school friend, how they had married in 1946 when the world had regained its sanity; before long the two of them started having children. He talked about the reliable Paul, the fiercely independent Amanda, and Mark, the son who would always express a boyishness. All three of them were now in their fifties, a fact that was both hard to believe and strangely reassuring — he and Irma had obviously done what was required of them as parents. Mitchell’s story was aided by keeping a mental picture of Irma’s notebook in front of him. It wasn’t that he might forget who was who, but it did enable him to coordinate his thoughts. Lindsay sat in front of him, slumped awkwardly to one side, continuing to stare. Eventually he leant forward. ‘I know most of this, you told me it in your first letter.’ ‘Oh, I’m sorry, of course I did.’ Again Mitchell silently reprimanded himself for forgetting what he’d already told Lindsay.

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‘Tell me something I don’t know, big brother.’ Mitchell started somewhere else. He was 19 years old when he joined the 9th Division and was shipped off to Syria. He lasted only six months in active service before suffering severe dehydration in Tobruk and was sent home. ‘These are all famous places this Australian would rather forget,’ he said with little emotion. He knew that none of this was unfamiliar to his brother either. Lindsay had joined up the same year by lying about his age, ending up in the 7th Division as a medic. He survived Tobruk and crossed over to South–East Asia to help the troops fighting the Japanese. Mitchell wondered if he had become like one of those old folk on trains and planes and buses who tell their life’s story to the passenger next to them whether the passenger was interested or not. ‘I know all this too,’ Lindsay confirmed eventually, staring at the plate of scones. ‘I know these famous places. Even people who’ve never been there feel like they actually have. These places have become mythologised, they turn up in the election speeches of Prime Ministers, men who weren’t there when it was all happening, but say they wish they had been. Crazy people.’ ‘Except you know these places better.’ The train’s movement was working on Mitchell — he felt surprisingly calm and lucid. ‘Better than who?’ asked Lindsay. ‘Better than me.’ ‘How so?’ ‘You lasted longer.’

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‘Is that a good thing?’ ‘To many people, yes.’ Mitchell watched Lindsay slowly turning the teapot, clockwise first, then anti-clockwise. A silence fell between them, one that felt as if it was constructed of masonry. The conversation quickly stalled in its tracks. Again Mitchell looked out the window — where else could he put his eyes? He remembered the year he was discharged, from both the hospital and the army. It was summer. He spent weeks recuperating at home in Banks Street, sitting in the garden, under that blue gemstone sky, thinking that where he lived was the right way up whilst Europe and most parts of the world continued to twist themselves inside out. He didn’t think about it much. He couldn’t. Instead he read his books and listened to the almost impossibly comforting sound of the birds around him: rainbow lorikeets, magpies, currawongs. The years turned over from ’41 to ’42, and he became fit enough to commence studying law. His time in academia began peacefully; the number of academic staff totalled two. The atmosphere in the corridors was like that of a seminary’s; Mitchell felt like he was studying to become a minister of religion. Three years later, the day before Christmas Eve, Lindsay’s service was over — he made it home. He said he was in good health and had suffered nothing more than a couple of broken nails. And his appearance backed up that almost impossible claim. There wasn’t a scratch on him. He wasn’t even thin. He looked like he’d spent the last four years seeing

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the world, travelling in style, eating in the best restaurants, trekking across mountains, riding motorbikes and swimming in oceans blissful and embracing. Clearly the enemy’s bullets and bombs had been disinterested in Lindsay Granville. Back home he looked handsome in his army medic’s uniform. He even spoke with an English accent, which added to the gentlemanly demeanour. That night, the family sat together at the dinner table. Mitchell stared at his brother, thinking: You lasted longer than me, right up until the very end, you, my little brother, survived for years — how could this have happened? Lindsay Granville had been an unmistakably great success. Ruth and Lindsay talked; the two brothers didn’t. Their commonality was the war, and the war was the one thing Mitchell didn’t want to discuss. He wanted to talk about university and law and the path he had chosen, the one that was steadily leading to him becoming a barrister. Lindsay spent his post-service days and weeks catching up with old school friends. When summer ended, Mitchell began his final year. The size of the Law School had swollen; it seemed there were now plenty of ex-servicemen available for the comparatively easy occupation of law. On the few days he wasn’t studying, Mitchell took Irma to the movies, they spent Sunday afternoons at Balmoral Beach or they sat on the banks of Lane Cove River. For the two of them it was calm and comfortable and perfectly apt. All the while Lindsay was out in the city or down at the beaches, coming home in the small hours of the morning,

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reeking of beer, swaggering unsteadily through the house, always accompanied by a variety of friends, mostly men. Many of them, Mitchell knew, stayed the night. They’re too drunk to go home, Lindsay would say; they fall asleep on my floor, he told them. But Mitchell wasn’t stupid, he knew what was going on. Lindsay put on weight and let his hair grow. His apparel went from military press and precision to second-hand suits with frayed cuffs and hems. The Granvilles did their best to ignore the behaviour and the decline in personal standards, but everyone knew it couldn’t be ignored forever. One evening, with the five of them dining together, Harold ended a long silence: ‘Lindsay, your current lifestyle isn’t right for this family.’ Lindsay didn’t wait long to reply. ‘If you’re asking me to stop whatever it is I’m doing that you don’t like, I won’t.’ ‘If that’s the case, then you must find somewhere else to live.’ Lindsay’s face was one of disbelief. ‘You’re asking me to leave?’ ‘No. I’m asking you to respect the standards of this family.’ ‘I will not respect the standards of this fucking family.’ Harold was not deterred. ‘If that is your choice,’ he said calmly, ‘then you should live the life you want, but you are to do it elsewhere. That, of course, will obviously mean us being distanced from you. You will drive a wedge between yourself and the rest of us. Besides, my life is public now, and therefore so is your mother’s, and Mitchell is heading in the same direction too.’

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Lindsay stopped eating. He looked somewhere away from the table, obviously thinking. He cleaned the corners of his mouth with his serviette. Then he stood up and walked out of the dining room. Mitchell heard the sound of the front door closing softly, no vitriolic slamming, no shouting of bitter last words. In the days, months, years that followed, Lindsay didn’t return to collect his clothes or any of his other personal effects. His bedroom door was simply kept shut. The room took on the name of ‘the spare’, but it wasn’t used for anything. And that was the end of that. ‘I’ve forgotten already,’ said Lindsay. Mitchell looked up. He stared at his brother. ‘What?’ ‘I’ve forgotten whether you have milk and sugar. I think the fact that the tea has begun to ferment suggests that it’s brewed for long enough.’ ‘Oh yes, a little bit of both.’ ‘The same as me. Do go on.’ ‘Do go on about what?’ ‘We were talking about the war, that stupid bloody thing,’ said Lindsay. ‘To think we still allow our countries to get into them.’ Struggling to pick up the thread of whatever conversation they were having, Mitchell said that he hadn’t maintained contact with Army people. To sit around an ANZAC Day table, he said, drinking schooners of beer in an inner-city Sydney pub wasn’t something he’d ever done. Being sent home because of sickness wasn’t the stuff of historical legend.

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‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I’m just rambling here.’ It really did feel as if he was talking to a stranger on the train — he could say anything and there’d be no ramifications. ‘I must say, big brother, you tell stories the way a newsreader reads the news. You’re displaying a rather clinical impartiality to what you are saying.’ ‘I’m saying words.’ ‘Yes, you are.’ Lindsay smiled — his face offered encouragement. ‘But I do agree with you about the marches. I attended them for a while, but then I failed to see the point. It’s just a family outing these days, quite similar in many ways to Sydney’s Mardi Gras, which is a nicely ironic fact, of course. Anyway, we won’t go there. Tell me about Irma.’ ‘What about Irma?’ Lindsay took a sip of his tea. ‘It’s either you tell me about her or I tell you about my life. And there’s every reason why you’ve never asked me about my life.’ ‘Because you’ve not been around.’ ‘Tell me about Irma.’ Mitchell was aware of the game they were playing. ‘Irma died in December,’ he said, knowing full well that with this subject at least there was little choice but to apply a clinical impartiality. He just said the words as if they meant nothing to him, that he was talking about a neighbour he saw only a handful of times a year. ‘I sold the house. Did you know about the house in Manly?’ ‘Yes, I did.’ ‘How much do you know about me, Lindsay?’

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‘News will always trickle through. It’s not like I moved to Paris and lived as a recluse or anything like that, as much as sometimes I wish I had. I’ve heard the City of Light is quite lovely, if you like cigarettes and dog shit.’ Mitchell picked out a scone. ‘Anyway, I moved to The Green earlier this year. I’m all right.’ ‘You’re all right?’ ‘Of course. I love The Green.’ ‘Everyone loves The Green.’ ‘You’ve never lost your sarcasm, have you?’ ‘Sarcasm is unintelligent humour. I’m not being sarcastic.’ Lindsay pushed his tea aside; it was mostly full. ‘How’s that old apple-packing shed? Lauder’s place?’ ‘Why do you ask about Lauder’s place?’ ‘I was always fond of that old shack as a kid.’ ‘It’s still there. But I have no reason to go inside.’ ‘I guess you don’t,’ said Lindsay. He looked into the distance. ‘You and I used to play in that garden although I can’t remember ever going inside. That Ben Lauder, the caretaker? He was always a bit creepy, I have to say. So quiet, too quiet, you have to watch the quiet ones. People don’t like the loud and gregarious ones, the ones like me, they say they find us threatening. But really it’s the quiet ones you have to watch.’ Lindsay laughed to himself. ‘Ben Lauder was a nutter, I reckon. I’ve sometimes wondered what you’d find in his house.’ ‘Why?’ asked Mitchell. ‘I think about a lot of things.’

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‘But why Lauder’s place?’ ‘Well, here’s a question. Why did our father choose to be there rather than at Main House the night he died?’ ‘Why can’t you be uncomplicated, Lindsay?’ ‘A simple reminiscence is like a fine cup of tea, big brother — it’s nice but ultimately pointless.’ Mitchell buttered the scone and took a bite. An elderly couple walked into the dining car. For a moment they stopped to choose a table; their walking sticks prevented them from falling over. Mitchell thought about how soon it would be before he and his brother were as frail as them. He didn’t feel frail but aloud he said, ‘I think I might need a bit of a nap before lunch. I didn’t sleep too well last night.’ It was true — he hadn’t slept at all well. And after rising early to prepare himself for a journey by train and then following that with the morning’s conversation, he had started to feel quite weary. He realised how much like hard work his brother actually was, what with the constant need to be on guard, to take care with words, to be entirely aware, to be considered, to be ready to knock off or be knocked off. A conversation with Lindsay Granville was like a courtroom drama, a jousting match. Yes, weary. ‘They say joy is a daytime nap on a train,’ said Lindsay. ‘I’ll let you know if they’re correct.’ ‘I’ll be waiting for you right here.’ Mitchell stood up. ‘I’ll see you later, then.’ ‘Sweet dreams, big brother.’

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The dining car seemed full when Mitchell returned. A sunset coloured the diners’ faces a pale-orange; obviously he had slept for much longer than he’d intended. He found Lindsay and sat next to him. Immediately, two nuns with sun-tanned, leathery faces, both of them obviously long-term inhabitants of the West, asked if they could sit with the brothers. The question was rhetorical — no other seats were available. ‘Oh,’ said Lindsay, ‘women with habits are just divine!’ Mitchell rolled his eyes. Here we go. ‘What shall we talk about, my sweets?’ asked Lindsay. ‘You decide,’ the women said together. ‘I’d be careful if I was you,’ offered Mitchell. ‘Don’t worry about my brother,’ said Lindsay. ‘He gets irritated in the evening until he has his food.’ Lindsay turned to face Mitchell. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’ ‘We’ve not seen each other for a little while,’ said Mitchell to the nuns. ‘Right,’ said Lindsay, ‘let’s talk about the role of the church in contemporary politics. No, how dull. How about the virgin birth. I love virgins!’ Mitchell knew he wouldn’t be able to handle his brother like this — who could? It was nothing short of crass. Straight-out vulgarity. Lindsay loved to stir the pot, to be the devil’s arch advocate. It made Mitchell want to punctuate the conversation with apologies. It made him want to recoil. After shovelling down his meal at a rate of knots, he politely asked to be excused from the table. He said he still hadn’t found his train legs.

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‘What have you been walking on all this time, big brother? Clouds?’ ‘You may well be right, Lindsay.’ ‘I thought there was a spring in your step.’ Lindsay chuckled. ‘Well, I hope that spring can get me to my room. Good night to all three of you.’ In the cabin, Mitchell switched on the reading light and lay on the bed. The mattress felt too thin but it was away from the chaos of his brother and that was good enough. Whatever was outside the window, it definitely wasn’t Bellstay Green. It wasn’t a collection of thick walls made of sandstone. It wasn’t black-slate roofing. Not a set of deep timber windows. Not perfectly polished mountain-ash floorboards. Not a bank of white azaleas drooping heavily with mist. He got off the bed and closed the blind, making sure the outside remained just that — outside. He retreated to his book: the life and times of Edmund Barton. Protectionism, for Mitchell at least, was taking on a whole new meaning. He read until he was only staring at the pages, not taking in the meaning of the words, the sentences no longer consequential strings of logic, just ink on paper. He let the book topple onto his chest. He allowed sleep to settle on him like a heavy load of water. For reasons unknown to him, he found himself silently saying over and over, At the heart of my nation is a black hole, in the middle of my country is a dead heart. But more to the point, the first train day was over. And he was still alive.

7.

Over the years Mitchell had often imagined how it would happen, how the end would come for him and Irma. If he went first, he’d think, he would leave behind a woman who had given the impression she would be more than happy to continue on alone. There was no doubt she would have a life beyond her husband, she would find enjoyment in her remaining days, she might even get more out of life than she’d ever had. But if it happened the other way around and Irma was to go first, then surely the Manly house would feel too empty, like it had never been lived in at all, and the Corso would appear pointless. Then there wasn’t a need to imagine anymore. A Tuesday morning in November. Irma went to collect the mail, as she always had. Mitchell heard a short, highpitched shriek — it sounded almost comical, as if in an instant

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she had realised something was very funny. Mitchell found her lying face down on the front path, her legs twisted sharply to one side. Less than 15 minutes later she was admitted to Manly Hospital. Lying in the bed in her hospital gown, her eyes closed, painkillers in her body, Irma looked as if she was ready to travel; in fact, she looked as if she was already travelling. Mitchell sat beside her throughout the day, doctors and nurses coming by to check on her — and him. At dusk he kissed her on her forehead and caught a taxi home. He had a boiled egg with salt for dinner. Over the following weeks Irma’s health deteriorated. Her doctor, an overweight young man with red hair and a wild bushy beard, said that life’s routine can keep people ticking over for decades, but then something comes along, perhaps nothing more than a simple fall, and the routine is lost and the downhill run starts. He said that, at best, Irma had lost her independence. But who was she becoming dependent on? Each day she spent in hospital, Mitchell saw that Irma left him a little more. On the first morning of December, just before 10 o’clock, he sat down on the plastic chair beside Irma’s hospital bed. Remarkably she looked better than she had for weeks. He saw a hint of colour in her face as if she had decided that day to wear make-up. The sparkle in her eyes reminded him of the luminescence that occurs when the sun breaks through during a thunderstorm. She inquired about the house. He told her the house was very well. She asked whether the Corso was busy; he said it was. She smiled at him, then whispered, ‘All I do these days is sleep, dear.’ She closed her eyes as if wanting to

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prove a point. Then she inhaled twice. She paused. Her head shifted to one side. Her jaw slackened and her mouth opened slightly. She drew a long, uninterrupted breath. Mitchell looked at her face and thought he could see someone stepping back just a little bit more. The doctor came in. He stared at Mitchell’s fingers holding Irma’s. He placed his own fingers around her wrist, then put his hand on her forehead, then on her heart. Mitchell looked out of the window. He saw a glimpse of ocean. The doctor offered the use of a hospital phone but Mitchell didn’t accept. He didn’t want to ring Ruth. No doubt she would rush across to the hospital and do all the right things — she would cry, she would hug him, she would say Irma looked peaceful, content — but he wanted to be free of family for a moment, free to be dragged a distance, as if wanting to be caught up in the wake of a boat. He got a taxi home. A cloudless city sky hung above him, and the colour of the ocean matched it. He knew Sydney, when it put its mind to it, could be beautiful. The house felt empty the moment he walked in the front door — surely two people hadn’t ever lived here. It seemed as if the place was no longer breathing, that it too had died during the day. Indeed it was how he had imagined it, as if he’d lived this day before. By 3pm the place was in the hands of a real estate agent. A week after the funeral, while having lunch at Ruth’s house in Double Bay, Mitchell declared he would be moving to The Green. It would be his permanent residence.

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‘Really?’ his sister asked, sounding as if she doubted the decision’s wisdom. ‘Where else should I go?’ said Mitchell. His sister didn’t respond. ‘So Bellstay it is,’ he said clearly. Ruth rang him the following day to say she had been making a few arrangements. She had contacted the van Hopetouns to inform them that Mitchell was coming and they were to look after him, cook for him, keep Main House in order — she had increased their salary accordingly. She said that she would come up every week or so to keep an eye on things. They would all be fine, everything would be all right. Mitchell knew his sister was trying to convince herself more than anyone else. But she was correct: they would survive. The Granvilles had always survived. It was in their blood. They could outlive anything with their sort of ancestry. The day Mitchell moved to The Green occurred without incident. The weather was impossibly dry and hot; the surrounding mountains looked as if they would start their own fire if no one else was interested. Ruth took charge of the removalists while Paul and Amanda and Mark drove the more fragile antiques and a small handful of the most precious paintings up in the back of their family station wagons. Sarah helped, and so did Brandon, but they were the only younger members of the family to have offered their assistance. Mitchell spent his first evening at Bellstay Green as a permanent resident setting himself up in the same room he had used as a child. (The main bedroom was his parents’ and

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would be forever so.) He put his clothes in the chest of drawers that had always been in front of the bed. On its top surface was the place where he used to build up a holiday display — yabbie claws discovered in the surrounding bush creeks, the small angular rocks he imagined to be Aboriginal relics, and feathers and pine cones and dried-up snakeskin too. This time he placed a photograph. Both of them were walking out of the surf, their bodies covered from neck to ankle in the swimming gear of the day. She had a smile on her face; he had a worried expression as if he thought something was about to jump at both of them from behind the waves. They were holding hands. Nine years old, that’s how old they were. Lying in his Bellstay bed that night he noticed the size of his body. He knew he had grown to become a tall man with huge hands; his mother said he would be a good piano player if ever he wanted to be one (he didn’t). But alone in Main House he felt larger than ever, as if all of a sudden he had become awkwardly gigantic. Ruth did as she promised: she drove up every weekend to check on him, most often during the week as well, even if it was only for a few hours at a time. She asked Sarah to come up on the odd occasion too. She even invited up some of her friends, many of whom had retired already, to drop in and see the gardens — and her brother. She organised for tradesmen to come and work on the house, often to the frustration of the van Hopetouns who had always been diligent to a fault in keeping the estate in perfect repair. Then came Sarah’s

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infamous declaration of engagement, and the hullabaloo that came with it. Mitchell never had the chance to feel alone for long. Early in the morning of the second train day, Mitchell found Lindsay sitting in the dining car with a young couple. Lindsay said he had befriended them during the last few hours of the night; together they had watched the sun rise over the desert. Apparently the couple were on their way to Sydney to get married — they smiled constantly, so much so that just minutes after sitting down Mitchell’s own mouth felt dry and sore. The couple looked too young to afford Gold Kangaroo Service; he thought they looked too young to get married. But then he remembered the photograph on the chest of drawers in his Main House bedroom. He listened as Lindsay plied the young man and woman with question after question about their courtship, about their wedding and honeymoon plans, about what sort of house they wanted — a ‘MacMansion’ or a humble old place? The couple weren’t nuns, but they weren’t family either, and this was obviously a source of considerable pleasure for Lindsay. He could ask whatever he wanted. Then again, he asked whatever he wanted of anyone anyway. At noon a waiter handed out the lunch menu. ‘Oh, my God,’ said Lindsay, ‘is it that time already? I think we should celebrate. We better order some white. Red for me. But white for the bride, of course!’ He laughed, and then looked at Mitchell. ‘What do you think, big brother?’

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‘I’m sure white would be fitting for the bride.’ ‘No, you fool, do you want some wine with lunch?’ ‘A glass of wine won’t hurt anybody.’ ‘Big brother, I wasn’t talking about hurting anybody.’ Mitchell read the menu. The choices for lunch were limited — neither of them appealed. He looked out of the train’s window and stared at the endless orange dirt, the moon-like rocks, the tiny bushes struggling to hold onto whatever soil was out there. Lunch came and went. Mitchell sat in the one seat for the rest of the day, amongst nothing but desert and his brother’s conversation, which became increasingly ribald the more wine he consumed. Why would anyone ask about how many sexual partners someone had enjoyed? Who would try to get invited to a wedding because they’d imagined the groom’s father to be a handsome, rather virile middle-aged man? More than once, Mitchell tried to break in to say he wanted to return to his cabin, but he found the talk to be impenetrable — the young couple appeared to actually enjoy Lindsay’s company. And besides, Mitchell wasn’t completely sure he wanted to be in the cramped confines of the cabin. He wanted to walk on solid, motionless ground, to breathe real air. Mountain air would be good. Bellstay air would be better. Yes, he was tiring of being in the west. Afternoon merged into dinner. When five bottles of wine stood empty in the middle of the table, Lindsay pushed himself to his feet. ‘Well, it’s to an early bed for you and me,

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big brother,’ he slurred. He coughed. His chest sounded like it was full of water. ‘We have a morning in the morning. Morning’s are for mourning, mourning the night that could have been, I’ve always warned.’ Lindsay laughed madly. Mitchell stared at him. ‘What is this claptrap, Lindsay?’ ‘This train will pull into Her Ladyship Queen Adelaide at 6.05 bird-fart time and you and I must be dressed and ready.’ ‘Dressed and ready for what?’ Mitchell’s tone was flat and to the point. ‘Understanding is not always the key,’ said Lindsay. ‘Which is a bit rich as I’m barely standing.’ ‘Your conversation is becoming tiring.’ Lindsay winked at the young couple. ‘Seriously, Lindsay, what the bloody hell are you trying to say? You’re embarrassing yourself.’ Lindsay blew kisses to the couple, then clicked his heels and saluted Mitchell. With a markedly unsteady walk, he left the dining car. Mitchell got to his feet and followed. He wanted to ask for clarification, he needed an explanation, but when he reached Lindsay’s cabin, the door was already closed. He stood in the narrow hallway, feeling the pull and sway of the carriage beneath him. The train didn’t feel like transport, just a trap on rails.

8.

In a taxi the Granville brothers were awake, but Adelaide around them still looked fast asleep. Soon Mitchell found himself standing in front of what appeared to be a semidetached bungalow, all white-washed walls and corrugated iron roofing. The place looked to be half the size of the van Hopetouns’ cottage at The Green, which itself wasn’t generous in dimension. Lindsay ran a hand through his thinning hair, and pushed open a low metal gate; when Mitchell pulled it closed behind him, its white paint flaked off in his fingers. They walked through a small courtyard. A rusting plough had toppled over in one corner and ivy was growing over most of it. Lindsay turned to smile at his brother — out of awkwardness, it seemed — and then knocked on the door. Mitchell heard the sound of footsteps on floorboards, then the rattling of a loose doorknob. The door opened and

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a woman appeared. She was wearing a shiny red dressing gown. She squinted against the early morning light. Her somewhat hunched-over stature and the lines on her face made Mitchell feel like a man in his prime. ‘Hello, Janice,’ said Lindsay. ‘Yes?’ asked the woman. ‘I’m Lindsay Granville. Remember?’ The woman held a blank look on her face before saying, ‘Oh, Lindsay! I thought you said Mitzy. Sorry, this black duck’s brain isn’t great first thing, I can tell you that. What a treat this is! Do come in. I’ll put on breakfast. We’ll have a fry up.’ Mitchell felt an uneasiness in his stomach. ‘I’m afraid this is going to be a lightning-fast visit,’ said Lindsay, stepping inside the house. ‘We’re on the Indian Pacific and have just taken shore leave to see you. This is my brother.’ ‘Hello,’ said Mitchell. ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said Janice, ‘I remember now. I did get your letter. Did I reply?’ ‘Well, we’re here,’ said Lindsay, ‘and that’s the main thing.’ ‘Bugger breakfast,’ said Janice. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got time for a quick cuppa?’ Mitchell shot a look at his brother to remind him of the fact that the train had stopped at Adelaide for only an hour and a half, and passengers had clearly been told not to leave the station. Lindsay had ignored all that when he’d phoned for a taxi.

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‘No,’ said Lindsay, ‘I’m afraid we don’t. We have to be back on the train within the hour, otherwise we’ll be stuck here in this city of churches.’ ‘There are worse places, you know,’ said Janice. ‘Really? I must find them.’ The interior of the house looked uncluttered, and there were no paintings hanging on the walls — it didn’t look like personal embellishments were wanted here. Janice Shoals invited her visitors to follow her into ‘the library’, but Mitchell couldn’t imagine where such a place could fit. They walked into a small room. Shelves neatly packed with books covered two of the walls. On one side of the room was a card table with torn vinyl, a laptop computer in the middle with a bundle of papers next to it. Mitchell guessed it was a library of sorts. A couch with holes in the armrests had been squeezed in behind the door; Janice nodded in its direction to indicate the brothers should rest there for a while. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘it’s a bit of a mess.’ Mitchell couldn’t see any mess. ‘This is where I work,’ said Janice. ‘And I’m going to keep on working until I fall off my flippin’ perch.’ She pulled out a chair from the card table and sat down. Her eyes were sharp — she now looked wide awake as if sleep was for those not interested in living. ‘You haven’t changed a bit, Lindsay,’ she said. ‘Although I noticed your dress sense has improved. You used to be such a … well, let me say, creative dresser. That’s not to say you’re no longer creative, just less obviously wayward in style.’

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‘Thank you,’ said Lindsay. ‘I think.’ ‘Right, then, if we haven’t got much time, we’d better get into things. You’ve come all this way for a story, if I remember correctly. Look at me, sitting here like old Mother Hubbard! I feel like a lifetime member of the storytellers’ guild!’ ‘Actually that’s not too far from the truth,’ said Lindsay. ‘I guess not, you clever thing.’ Mitchell glanced at Lindsay, then at Janice. ‘How do you know each other?’ ‘Your brother and I met by accident,’ said Janice. ‘That’s not exactly true,’ said Lindsay. ‘I was with Janice’s partner’s youngest brother for a little while, if you can make those mental athletics.’ ‘What, here in Adelaide?’ asked Mitchell. ‘Yes.’ ‘I didn’t know you ever lived in Adelaide, Lindsay.’ Lindsay shifted on the couch as if he were struggling to get comfortable. ‘Janice’s older sister, Beattie, knew our mother.’ Looking directly into Mitchell’s eyes, Janice said, ‘You see, my sister went to school with Liz in Sydney. I was a couple of years behind.’ ‘Liz?’ asked Mitchell. ‘Mum,’ said Lindsay. ‘Elizabeth is her name,’ said Mitchell. ‘We called her Liz,’ cut in Janice swiftly. ‘Anyway, Beattie came back to South Australia just after the First World

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War. She was following the son of a farmer she’d met at a dance in Sydney.’ She turned to look at Lindsay. ‘This is it, isn’t it, the story you want me to tell?’ ‘There’s no other one we want to hear right now,’ said Lindsay. He turned to look at Mitchell. ‘Is this okay with you?’ ‘I’m not sure I have any idea what’s going on here.’ ‘Just sit back and enjoy the ride. You’ll love this.’ ‘I reserve the right to make that judgement.’ ‘Indeed, big brother, indeed.’ ‘Anyway, boys, my sister married the bloke from Sydney and together they lived on the family farm down the bottom of the Fleurieu Peninsula. You’d think it would all be lazy picnics under gum trees, but down there she met some tough women, tough country women. To cut a long story far too short, she found rural life profoundly sad. The men were never around, in many ways, so the women held onto each other like life rafts, and everything was dictated by the weather’s luck. She left the farm after only three years of marriage and moved back up here where she got a job in a linen factory.’ Janice looked at Mitchell. No doubt he had a confused expression on his face. Irma had often told him how she could read his silent messages: how he rubbed the top of his head back and forwards when he was worried, how he scrunched up his forehead when trying to concentrate, and how he appeared to grind his teeth and flex his jaw muscles when angry. No doubt he was doing at least one of those actions now. ‘Stay with me, Mitchell,’ she said, ‘there’s a point to all of this.’

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‘There’s a point all right,’ said Lindsay. ‘Divorced women were the lepers of society back then,’ Janice went on, ‘and they still are, I reckon. But my sister worked in that factory for seven years before getting employment as a secretary to a local doctor. This was when I came back from Sydney to live with her. By the end of her working life she was teaching English at a public school down at Kingswood. She was always the reading type. She loved it. She liked to say that books kept her away from alcoholism, not that she drank much at all, but I think she had the capacity to drink a lot if there was more time in the day, if there were less books in the library.’ Janice now looked as if she wouldn’t be stopping for days. ‘This is where your mother comes into the picture. The group, it never really had a name, but geez did it take on a life of its own. There were only three when it started. Me and Beattie — and your mother, of course, but we got some momentum going. At first it was just a book club, although soon it attracted writers too. It wasn’t a bunch of silver-tailed women discussing Jane Austen, I can tell you! Most were the girls Beattie met during her time working at the factory. Factory girls stay together, or so they say. But it’s important not to romanticise the working class. It’s important not to romanticise any class. For better or worse, we’re all people on our respective rungs doing our thing. It shouldn’t be that way, and I’ll fight against it until I keel over, but it’s life — I’ve come to conclude that. I’ve changed a bit, haven’t I, Lindsay my sweet?’ ‘Mellowness saves the aged from disgrace,’ he said.

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‘You haven’t changed one bit!’ ‘I might still be a disgrace.’ Lindsay looked pleased with his comment. ‘I should hurry on,’ said Janice. ‘You don’t have much time.’ ‘No, not much time at all,’ said Mitchell almost under his breath. ‘I won’t be much longer,’ said Janice. ‘Well, obviously your mother was not a regular to the meetings but I know she did arrange her visits to catch up with Beattie when they were on. There were some tough old dykes who came along — the Blundstone boot brigade! — and they wondered what Liz was doing here, especially when Harold got lost in politics and almost ended up running that egotistical state of yours. Sorry, Mitchell, I get carried away sometimes, always have.’ She coughed. ‘Some of the women were suspicious of Liz, they didn’t think she fitted in to what the group was all about. But Beattie would stick up for her, saying she was a good sort so demanded the group’s hospitality. Besides, Liz had managed to get a few things published, initially poems in your typical literary rags, God bless their cotton socks. And she wrote stories too. Over time your mother started getting points on the board, more points than the rest of us put together. She earned her stripes. We started to look up to her. We started asking her to read from her own stuff rather than us read books by people — women mostly — we didn’t know.’ Mitchell tried to piece together whatever it was Janice had been telling him. Something about this woman’s sister.

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Something about the sister living in Sydney, then living on a farm, then working in a factory, and then ending up in a doctor’s surgery. A reading group. And something about his mother visiting. He knew his mother had for some time made annual trips to Adelaide — but she said it was to visit an aunt, someone he himself had never met or rarely heard reference to in conversation. He recalled how she always travelled in winter, when Castle Hill was cool and damp and people walked around with dripping noses, and when Mount Bellstay’s winds made ears and hands feel like they were about to snap off. His mother and father never argued about her going to Adelaide, it was just a place she liked to visit, to get some warmth into her life, she said. Janice turned to check the shelves, then returned to look Mitchell in the eye. ‘I remember one of your mother’s stories was about a farm labourer leaving his job — I can even remember the title: Out of Orange at Last. The group was quite taken with. Then she wrote her own short novel, in 1962 it was. This was her big one. The group thought the book was a bit of all right, and would you believe it, so did many reviewers. To this day it’s still discussed by those who love Aussie literature, real Aussie literature, the stuff with heart and soul and a point.’ Janice stood up and collected about half a dozen books from the shelves. She handed them to Lindsay, then sat back down in her chair. He checked them briefly before passing them over to Mitchell. The books were cold and old but mostly in pristine condition. The first had a simple design —

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just a thin, white card cover. It was called The Adventures of a White Girl and its author was J.C. Grey. The second book, entitled Underland and by the same author, felt weightier although the production wasn’t much better than the first. Mitchell flicked through the others until reaching a properly designed book called Out of the Wombs of Women. Again it was by J.C. Grey. He stared at the black and red woodcut image of a woman standing on a verandah with a baby in her arms. He smoothed his fingers over the image. He expected to feel ruts and grooves and get splinters in his fingers. Janice leant forward uncomfortably as if the reminiscing had suddenly given her a stomach ache. She said, ‘That’s it, Mitchell, your mother’s bloody legend of a novel.’ Mitchell stared at the book. ‘Not long ago,’ she said, slowing down now as if all the talk had exhausted her and she would soon need to have a nap, ‘there was an article about her in a Melbourne socialist literary journal but the author could only discuss your mother’s work, not your mother. Because no one knows who she actually was, you see. I do, but I’m one of only a few — there’s not many of Beattie’s women still alive. It’s a secret. And I think Liz would like it to remain that way. She never said as much, but that’s my hunch, and I trust my hunches.’ She paused, obviously waiting for someone else to say something. ‘So there you go, that’s the story you asked for. I’ve rushed through it for you. Is there anything you think I’ve missed, dear old Lindsay?’

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‘I think it’s a good summation.’ ‘What sort of word is “summation”, Lindsay?’ Janice laughed. ‘Anyway, how are we going for time?’ ‘Oh, Christ!’ said Lindsay, looking at his watch. ‘I’ve done my dash?’ said Janice. ‘Yep, you sure have.’ ‘I feel like a cheap hooker who tells stories instead of opening her legs!’ ‘There’s nothing wrong with cheap hookers — it’s the expensive ones who try to take you for a ride but never do. But enough frivolity. Can I use your phone? We’d better get back on the train before my brother here blows his cooler.’ ‘Right you are.’ Putting out a hand to indicate that neither of them should move, Janice stood up quickly and scooted out of the library. Mitchell felt the books in his hands. He looked at the one on top, the novel, the woodcut image on its cover. He had never seen it before, of course he hadn’t, but still it looked strangely familiar, as if it didn’t surprise him that his mother had written such a thing. But novels, at least the ones he had read, were inherently weighty, laden with ideas and burdened with characters stuck in the most important moments of their lives. He knew his mother had written the odd poem — he’d seen her that time out in the guesthouse sleeping beside her journal. But could Elizabeth Granville really have had the strength to carry around in her head such a cumbersome thing as a novel?

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He held onto the pile of books. He knew he didn’t want to let them go. But he would have to — it was obvious they were precious to this Janice Shoals woman. Besides, he asked himself silently, what would I do with them? I could read them on the train, but then what? Where in Main House would I hide them? He knew he couldn’t get them into the house — even imagining such an act made him feel as if he was considering importing contraband. Janice appeared in the doorway. ‘Right then,’ she said, as if the brothers were salesmen and she wanted them to go. ‘I told the taxi company it was urgent.’ ‘You’re one heck of a lady,’ said Lindsay. ‘You’re one hell of a flirt,’ said Janice, sounding as if she wasn’t entirely joking. ‘Christ, I love praise.’ ‘Now, on your bike,’ she said. ‘Be off with you.’ She left the room again. Mitchell stood up and walked over to the table. He put the books in a neat pile, letting his hand rest on the top one for a moment, staring at it, that wretched thing. Was it a better-bound version of his mother’s journal? Had she somehow snuck a guesthouse-written poem into the text? Who would ever know? He turned around. Lindsay was trying to ease himself off the couch — it was as if he had been partly swallowed by it. He reached out a hand to ask for help. But Mitchell stared him down. ‘What’s all this about, Lindsay?’ ‘What’s what about?’

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‘What are you trying to do to me?’ ‘Help me get out of this couch, will you?’ Mitchell didn’t offer his brother a hand. ‘You don’t want to do this to me,’ he said to Lindsay. ‘Hey, you blokes,’ came Janice’s voice, yelling from somewhere else in the house, ‘are you actually interested in catching your train or not?’ The bone-dry plain continued outside his cabin’s window, but now tussocky grass as well as the odd rolling bush dotted the place here and there. The sky appeared infinite, not sheltering, just endless, coloured deep blue up high with hazy white down on the horizon. Mitchell lay in bed for a while longer, letting the train jostle him — it felt almost affectionate. His stomach gurgled loudly. He looked at his watch. He’d slept for longer than he’d thought. He recalled that they’d made it back to the train with only a couple of minutes to spare. The two of them had immediately gone to their rooms. Mitchell had felt tired from waking so early and had returned to bed. It had taken quite some time to get to sleep — he couldn’t stop thinking about that book with the woodcut image on the cover. He wished he’d stolen the book from Lindsay’s friend, but then castigated himself for thinking such a thing. ‘God,’ he said aloud, ‘it’s lunchtime already.’ On his way to the dining car he paused briefly outside Lindsay’s door to see if his brother might like to join him, but

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he quickly thought better of it — the man could stay in there as long as he liked. The idea of dragging Lindsay out of bed and taking him to lunch wasn’t the most appealing thing he could think of: the Indian Pacific’s dining car certainly wasn’t the Royal Swan Hotel’s restaurant, but at least it looked expensive, and his brother was anything but expensive first thing in the morning. Besides, the older Granville was convinced now they weren’t just crossing their country, this wasn’t merely a trip to see mountains and wear jumpers. This was something else entirely. A trap, yes, a ruse. How much so exactly, he didn’t know. Not yet, but he would. Jesus, Joseph and Mary, he’d find out. Mitchell Granville might be simple, but he wasn’t stupid. If he could get his mind around Australian law, he could get his mind around his brother. Surely he could.

9.

Mitchell looked up from his meal and saw his brother coming towards him. Lindsay had to pause every few steps to rest, to steady himself, his eyes had a wet redness in them, and when finally he sat down opposite Mitchell, it took him a moment to settle his breathing. He’d changed from what he’d worn to Janice Shoal’s house. Now he was wearing electric blue pants that would have fitted properly ten years earlier, a pink poloneck top that was similarly too tight, and a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows. But the flat cap remained. Lindsay smiled hello. And then said, ‘Broken Hill.’ ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Mitchell, putting his knife and fork together, setting the plate to one side. He’d had the lasagne for lunch and felt comfortably full. ‘Broken Hill’s the next stop.’

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‘I was rather hopeful that we were closer to Orange.’ ‘You should know better than that, big brother.’ ‘Are you going to eat?’ ‘I’m not hungry,’ said Lindsay. The train went on with its unchanging tune, the same rush and clatter that had underscored the last day and a half. A door opened at one end of the carriage and a middle-aged couple and their young daughter, a pretty girl with a mane of long brown hair, walked in and chose a seat not far from the Granvilles. The family was all smiles. ‘What are you thinking?’ asked Lindsay. ‘You planned this morning’s …’ Mitchell let his voice trail off. ‘All it took was a letter, big brother, which the dear old bird seemed to have forgotten about.’ Lindsay grinned quickly but let it go. ‘Have you got anything else planned for this trip?’ Mitchell’s tone was straight to the point. ‘There are no other family friends I’d like you to meet.’ ‘That’s music to my ears.’ ‘Does it surprise you?’ ‘What? Mum’s moonlighting?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I’ll think about it.’ ‘You don’t always have to use your brain to come to a conclusion, you know. There are other things you can use, like your heart, your soul, a crystal in your suit pocket — sorry

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about the last one, I didn’t mean that. I’ve slept well and now have enough energy to make nonsensical remarks!’ Mitchell winced. Again he brought to mind the image of his mother out in the guestroom, asleep on the bed, her journal lying open beside her, that poem on the page. What would the thing have been about? Was it a paean to her friends in Adelaide? Was it a torch song for the cause? He now wished he had taken a moment to read that open page, to steal the poem from her. ‘If I could ask her about it when I got back home, I think it would mean more to me.’ ‘I see,’ said Lindsay. ‘I can’t go home and ask her about it, so what can you do? It’s just a story one old woman’s told us.’ ‘But if Mum was alive, it’d make all the difference, you reckon.’ ‘Perhaps. But it’ll take a while for me to consider your friend’s story. Much of it doesn’t make sense to me. If it’s all true, I probably won’t accept it for quite a while.’ Mitchell turned to stare out the window. ‘Anyway, what about you?’ ‘What about me?’ Lindsay sat back in his chair; his hands fell into his lap. His breathing was loud. He wheezed. ‘We’ve been sitting here having our meals, and you don’t say very much. Well, you say a lot, but not much of it is about you.’ ‘My story’s well documented,’ said Lindsay.

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Well documented? Mitchell repeated to himself. What is that supposed to mean? Photographs? Has he been keeping a photographic record of his life? Is that picture in the flat of the naked man in front of those church ruins a part of that record? Or is there something else? Is he referring to journals? Should he ask to read them? Mitchell was about to ask a question aloud, although he wasn’t exactly sure what it was going to be, when Lindsay cut him off. ‘I mean, I don’t think that there’s much to catch up on.’ ‘You don’t think …’ started Mitchell. ‘You know what I mean.’ Absently, as if he had a number of people in mind, and not looking anywhere in particular, Mitchell said, ‘I’d like to hear what you’ve got to say about your own life.’ But he didn’t understand what he was asking. He had resented the early morning detour into Adelaide. He had disliked the way he’d been informed of his mother’s past by a woman he’d never met. (That’s exactly what it had been, an information session, and Mitchell knew better than most that one person’s fiction is another person’s fact.) He wasn’t at all sure about Janice Shoals — despite having obviously rabid socialist ideals, she had agreed to take part in Lindsay’s increasingly autocratic game, perhaps even as a co-conspirator. But it was all about his mother, the brothers’ mother. And perhaps because of the commonality Mitchell felt, he wanted to know more about Lindsay, if only in an attempt to prevent something like the Adelaide fiasco happening again — to know would be to

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prevent. Or maybe he just wanted to hear another story, that another story might make the morning’s one null and void. ‘You don’t really want to catch up with me,’ said Lindsay. ‘Try me.’ ‘I think I’ve been trying enough, haven’t I?’ ‘Quit the word games, Lindsay.’ Lindsay’s face looked serious for a moment, then he smiled and said, ‘Well, a professional potterer, I think that’s me.’ He paused, perhaps considering which version of the story he would tell. Then he said, ‘You know Dad gave me an account with a few thousand pounds in it when I left.’ ‘See what I mean? I didn’t know that.’ ‘It was hardly a pot of gold,’ continued Lindsay, ‘but I’ve never needed much. I went to Melbourne for a while. Worked at the university. Got caught up in a few bits and pieces, you know me.’ ‘What sort of bits and pieces?’ ‘You do want to know about me!’ Mitchell stared at his brother. ‘Yes, I do.’ ‘Well, buckle up then.’ Lindsay leant back in his seat. For a man who loved conversations he looked somewhat uncomfortable, as if for the first time he had been asked to speak openly and honestly. His face was pale and there were bags under his eyes so distinct they looked like they’d been painted there. Mitchell thought his brother appeared like a hung-over man, then realised that that’s exactly what he was.

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Lindsay cleared his throat. He said that when he first arrived in Melbourne the city was knocking down anything that had the faintest bit of character to it, especially the grand old houses along the beaches. He joined a couple of historical societies but they were more interested in forming committees than actually saving anything, so he met up with a group of activists dedicated to taking matters into their own hands. He said they managed to save one entire block in the city centre where there were markets now. In the sixties Lindsay moved to Adelaide, thinking a smaller city might offer a greater chance of being whoever he wanted to be but still be ‘somebody known’. There he worked as bursar for a private school. But after a time he decided that Adelaide was too small — ‘like a cat’s bum,’ he said — and eventually he shifted even further west, to Perth. He did the books for a crisis-counselling centre before conning his way into the position of assistant manager for a hotel chain on Rottnest Island. ‘Being out there was sublime while it lasted,’ Lindsay said. ‘But like most of those greedy blokes, the owner is probably down the bottom of the Swan River with his feet in concrete. WA Inc put an end to those years of bliss.’ Mitchell knew what Lindsay was referring to, but surely it was just the market at work. Not wanting to return to the city, Lindsay bought a second-hand campervan and headed south — he ended up in a small place called Bridgetown. He said at first he was threatened by the forests, the large tracts of Karri. (Mitchell

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was struck by the realisation that the SAVE THE KARRI sticker on Lindsay’s front door referred to trees. Of course it did.) Lindsay said their sheer size and age made him feel small and insignificant — and he hated that. But it didn’t take long for him to recognise their beauty, that he felt at home only when the trees were nearby. He went on the dole and for $30 a week rented a fibro cottage just out of town; he got himself involved in the local conservation group. He said all the while he continued with his photography, having one or two low-key exhibitions each year, mostly benefits for activist groups. ‘There were only two or three photographs of yours in your flat,’ said Mitchell. ‘Looking at your own snaps does become depressing after a while,’ replied Lindsay. ‘It’s like spending your days looking in the mirror. No one wants that. Anyway, I’d rather remember a particular protest than stare at a photograph. There’s more life in a memory — at least you can muck around with it to spice it up when you want to, when you need to. Photographs are too frank. But it’s good to stow away one or two of your best ones, it keeps the confidence up. Really, I’m just a rank amateur.’ ‘You’re still doing it, I assume?’ ‘The protesting?’ ‘Yes, the protesting.’ ‘You know me. Can’t stop once my heart’s set on something.’ ‘Did you ever end up in gaol?’ ‘It comes with the territory.’

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‘Aren’t you too old for all of this, Lindsay?’ ‘You’re a Granville to the last!’ ‘Yes, I’m a Granville.’ Mitchell remembered his grandson’s question: do you think I’m a proper Granville? But what about himself? Was he a true Granville, a proper one? How can you really tell? Is the name enough? Is it ancestry? Is it the way one thinks, the way one solves problems? Is it the genes? Or the places? Is it all of these? If so, which one is the most important? Aloud he said, ‘I guess there’s more of Mum in you than …’ ‘It’s a shock to you, isn’t it?’ ‘What is?’ ‘Our dutiful, careful, polite little mother sitting down with a bunch of dyke socialists sipping soy milk while discussing the merits of spending a life chained to a factory sewing machine.’ ‘I’m not sure you represented her well with that statement.’ ‘Oh, I see,’ said Lindsay, ‘now you’re interested, heh? All I need to say is our mother mixed with soy-drinking socialist dykes, and it’s on for one and all!’ ‘Don’t get too excited, Lindsay. Besides, you’re talking very loudly.’ Mitchell looked across to the cheerful middle-aged couple and their picture-perfect daughter; the three of them seemed to be contentedly reading tourist brochures. They had smiles on their faces as if this was the one activity they truly adored.

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‘That’s like asking a bird not to fly,’ said Lindsay. ‘Come on, why don’t you tell me what you reckon? I’ve blathered on for long enough. You’ve had time to think your way into an answer.’ Mitchell waited a moment before finding the words. ‘Whatever world she was getting involved in is so distant to me, unknowable. I’ve never heard of any of those books. Mum may as well have been travelling to Spain or Poland or …’ ‘Russia.’ ‘Yes, perhaps Russia.’ ‘She was just a little wren, though.’ Lindsay smiled like he was a child with a mischievous trick to play on a neighbour. ‘A little wren that liked to fly high.’ His smile became broader. ‘Oh, stop me before I have to punch myself in the eye socket!’ Mitchell shook his head. ‘Oh, my God,’ said Lindsay. ‘What?’ ‘What’s that on your face?’ ‘What’s what on my face?’ Mitchell realised that he may well be starting to smile. ‘Go on,’ said Lindsay, leaning forward. ‘Go on what?’ ‘Bloody well laugh it up.’ ‘I am, aren’t I?’ ‘If you’re laughing, then we’re in deep trouble!’ Mitchell knew his face was flushing red. ‘Oh Lord,’ he said, trying hard not to give in.

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Lindsay said, ‘Imagine her sitting cross-legged on the floor with a serious look on her face as if the group was onto something really special!’ ‘Yes, little old mum in that room!’ Mitchell let it happen — he started to laugh. Lindsay joined him. ‘We should stop this,’ said Mitchell. He nodded in the direction of the family with the brochures. ‘They’ll think we’re drunk.’ ‘What a tremendous idea that is,’ said Lindsay, not at all trying to keep his voice down. ‘We must order a bottle at once. We must have alcohol!’ ‘Not after seeing Mr Death here first thing this morning.’ ‘Mr Death needs entertainment too.’ ‘Besides, are you going to pay for any of this trip?’ ‘Big brother, those with the money must always pay!’ Lindsay cleared a tear away from his eyes, laughed a little more, and then stopped to merely smile. ‘At least you know where I get it all from.’ ‘Get what from?’ ‘How I got to be Lindsay Granville, protester, photographer, wanderer, benefactor of good patronage.’ ‘What, you think you got it from our dear, sweet mother?’ ‘I reckon.’ ‘I think I’m starting to doubt the idea of bloodlines,’ said Mitchell.

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‘It’s just that, an idea.’ ‘Yes, but it’s an infamous one.’ ‘Fame doesn’t make something valid,’ reckoned Lindsay. ‘Besides, ideas are essentially nothing more than someone’s imagination. They’re inherently vacuous, really.’ At that moment the young couple from the day before walked into the dining car. They were smiling, of course. Mitchell looked around. Everyone in the train seemed to be smiling — even himself and his brother. Perhaps two days of staring at nothing but desert had sent the train riders stir crazy. ‘You two!’ called out Lindsay, looking relieved. ‘You must join us!’ Then he quickly leant forward in front of Mitchell: ‘I have nothing more to tell you.’ ‘I find that hard to believe.’ ‘You might need to try.’ The couple joined the Granvilles at their table. ‘Now,’ started Lindsay, ‘what have you two glorious love doves been up to today? I’ll bet you’ve been availing yourselves of each other’s bodies!’ Six hours later, after four empty wine bottles were piled in the middle of the table and there’d been too much banter about weddings and honeymoons for anyone to handle, Lindsay and Mitchell relocated to Lindsay’s cabin. Together they sat down on the unmade bed. Lindsay had suggested that the two of them retire to his cabin to enjoy the gifts Hugh Lavelle had almost forgotten to give them. He tipped some of the port into two glasses; he said he had ‘borrowed’ them from the dining

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car. He placed Hugh’s other gift between them. The curtains were closed. With the variety of brightly coloured clothes hanging from various hooks and handles and strewn across most surfaces, Mitchell felt as if he was travelling in a theatre’s storage cupboard. ‘Life is like a box of chocolates,’ Lindsay said in a ridiculous, childish voice. ‘One day it will be empty and tossed into a landfill.’ He chuckled to himself. If it was a joke, Mitchell didn’t understand it. ‘Nothing changes as you get older.’ Lindsay chased his chocolate with a loud gulp of port. ‘You just keep on eating and drinking and sleeping. No wonder we spend most of our later years in bathrooms.’ ‘Are you happy?’ Mitchell didn’t know where the question had come from. He blamed the wine, that melancholic poison. He wished he could reach out and put the words back in his mouth. ‘As can be,’ said Lindsay. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ ‘Well, isn’t that the whole point? The player with the biggest smile wins?’ ‘It seems that it was only moments ago that you were almost forcing me to smile, to laugh at our mother’s South Australian escapades and literary pursuits.’ Lindsay didn’t respond. ‘Tell me about Hugh,’ said Mitchell. ‘Hugh from the flats?’

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Mitchell nodded, and fingered the rim of his port glass. ‘He’s a lovely, loyal friend.’ Lindsay selected another chocolate. ‘He’s great company. It’s a pity he’s not a poof, and it’s a pity I don’t find him attractive. You thought we were together, didn’t you?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Well, he’s adorable, there’s no doubt about it. But the man who dotes runs the risk of turning his object of affection into an over-confident beast. Hugh used to be married, you know. Apparently she flung him aside for a man who treated her like a dog — go work that one out. But Hugh’s a nice bloke to know, he would do anything for you. Well, me at least.’ ‘Has there ever been anyone?’ asked Mitchell. ‘For whom?’ ‘You.’ ‘An Irma?’ asked Lindsay. ‘Yes, I guess, an Irma.’ ‘There has been one. But I’m tired and pickled to my boots, big brother. I can’t talk anymore. I don’t want to talk.’ He paused. ‘Let’s play.’ Lindsay placed a hand in the air as if about to direct traffic. Mitchell stared at it. Then his brain clicked — he knew what was about to happen. He put his hand up to meet his brother’s. They took hold of each other’s fingers. They gripped each other tighter. Fingers became red and white beneath the skin. Their hands shook as if both were diseased, refusing to let go.

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For the second time Mitchell smiled. Then he thought: In a day’s time we will be doing this again. Doing it again and again and again. Whenever we like. And no one will open a window onto a verandah and tell us to stop the games and go to sleep on our canvas beds. No one will tell us anything. We can arm-wrestle all we like. Their hands remained locked together. Mitchell realised then that at some point in the last eight hours — or was it in the last hour? — he had decided Lindsay should not end up in Sydney, but instead be back at The Green with him. Yes, that’s where he should be. Mitchell wanted him there. Wanted? He hadn’t wanted anything for too long. Had he just rediscovered the word? It felt dangerous; it frightened him. He considered letting go of his brother’s hand, but their combined grip was strong. ‘We’re getting too close,’ Lindsay said all of a sudden. ‘What?’ said Mitchell, jerking his hand free. ‘Too close to the east, I mean. I think we should take a break.’ ‘Take a break from what?’ ‘Slow things down a bit.’ Lindsay dropped a shoulder in Mitchell’s direction, then looked up like the younger brother he was. ‘Can we get out at Bathurst? I know a great bed and breakfast there. You can ring Ruth and tell her you’ll be a little late.’ Lindsay smiled as if he had quickly become dim. ‘It’s a gorgeous place,’ he said. ‘The owners are wonderful people. It’ll do us good. Don’t you think it would be fantastic?’ ‘It’ll cost us an arm and a leg to break our journey.’

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‘Fuck the money,’ said Lindsay. ‘Why don’t we just do it?’ ‘The wedding is a week today. I must make it home.’ Lindsay stood up and started waltzing in the middle of the room with an imaginary person, turning and dipping and leaning backwards and forwards, his port glass held delicately between two fingers. He closed his eyes. He began humming loudly to himself as if no one else was with him.

10.

They loved it, especially Irma. The two of them would take themselves off for little trips to scour the state for the ideal bed and breakfast — it was like a genteel hunt, a bit of prospecting. There were a few establishments they had found and ended up loving, visiting them repeatedly over the years, always boutique operations, usually historic buildings restored to within an inch of their lives. More than one of the places had been owned and operated by men, either in couples or alone. For Mitchell it took the shine off the experience, and he said as much to Irma. In return she told him that sometimes he tricked himself into being someone he was not, and sometimes he just needed to relax and enjoy his days. Relax a bit now, he ordered himself as he followed his brother through the mostly closed-up pavilions of the Bathurst Railway Station. Try to enjoy yourself.

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Out on the street Lindsay squeezed himself into a telephone booth; he picked up the receiver and dialled. He asked for directory assistance. Then, in a tone of voice that indicated he was proud of a recent achievement, he informed whomever he was now talking to that ‘they’ had arrived. Mitchell turned away. A wispy orange fog drifted about the streetlights. No one else had left the train at Bathurst, and the station and adjacent roads were empty, somewhat like Adelaide first thing in the morning. The air felt cold and damp as if it had recently rained. He couldn’t believe that only the day before he was surrounded by that heartbroken desert. At that moment he sensed a hollowness — he put his hand to his left breast and felt glad there was movement beneath his fingers. It seemed as though Lindsay had only just managed to prise himself out of the booth when a silver station wagon glided to a halt in front of them. A man and a woman — a fact Mitchell was thankful for — stepped from the car, smiling as if it was the only facial expression they knew. The woman looked stocky, with broad shoulders and a buxom chest; her facial features were not fine. The man was also solid, but not tall, and his fine wavy grey hair made him look slightly boyish. Both were neatly presented in blue knitted jumpers, wellpressed denim jeans and white joggers. ‘Claudia and Will,’ said Lindsay, ‘this is my brother, Mitchell. Mitchell, meet Claudia and Will.’ All four of them smiled at each other and shook hands. ‘Let us get you boys to some luxury,’ said Will. Luxury still exists, does it, thought Mitchell?

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They didn’t have to sit in the car for long before it pulled onto a bluestone driveway. There had been just enough time for spirited talk about how good it was for everyone to see each other; Mitchell had sat in the back listening to the conversation around him. The car stopped at the front door of a grand old two-storey building. According to Claudia, it had at last been heritage-listed the year before; she informed the Granvilles of this fact like she was talking about their muchloved only son. It appeared to be in immaculate condition as if the only thing they liked spending money on was the house. The gardens looked so neat and tidy that just one stray leaf would surely be considered hostile. ‘Welcome to our pride and joy,’ said Claudia, turning around to the back seat and smiling. ‘This is the Old Bathurst Courthouse Bed and Breakfast.’ ‘You’ve made it look like the bloody QE II,’ said Lindsay. Claudia and Will laughed loudly. ‘You blokes go straight in,’ said Will. ‘You deserve it.’ They entered the house. The timber floors and walls of the entry foyer, and all its antique furniture, were polished to perfection. It almost made Main House at The Green look like a worker’s cottage. Mitchell recognised the soothing sounds of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony drifting out of a nearby room. Luxury does still exist, he decided. Especially in an old courthouse. He inhaled, he filled his lungs with the air of the place; he exhaled a long, deep sigh. He felt relieved, almost comfortable.

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‘Don’t worry about checking-in,’ said Claudia, ‘we’ll go through all that jazz later.’ Will came into the house carrying the brothers’ suitcases. ‘Come on up,’ he said, ‘and we’ll show you where you’ll be staying.’ Mitchell and Lindsay looked at the stairs in front of them. No doubt both of them thought the same: there were too many bloody steps, but by God they wanted to be up there, in what would be decent beds, falling asleep in a house, not a silver bullet of a train. ‘Let’s do it,’ said Lindsay. Inside each room upstairs was a four-poster bed. White lace covered chests of drawers and bedside tables. Leadlight lamps too, multi-coloured and slightly overdone. A modern black television with a matching video player beneath seemed to be the only indication they were not about to spend the night in a museum. As if accommodating members of the Royal Family, Claudia formally allocated a room to each of the Granvilles, and then she said that her ‘pottering brother’ was going to make ‘his special’. As they walked back downstairs, Mitchell thought that pottering seemed to be the right word for Will, but brother didn’t. He’d had the pair of them pegged as a married couple. ‘What’s your brother’s special?’ he asked, clutching the balustrade. ‘Oh, you’ll see,’ said Claudia. ‘Yes, big brother, you will see. You will see many bright new things!’

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Downstairs again they eased themselves into the plush, deep red lounges of the sitting room. Scores of paintings hung on the walls: running horses, country lanes, bowls of fruit. Janice Shoals would have had a heart attack if she saw this place. Mitchell remembered that woman sitting in her library, telling her story as if she was a librarian and the brothers were school children. He shook the image from his mind. That whole saga had happened in another state, in all meanings of that word. Will handed over mugs of what smelled like hot chocolate. There was obviously alcohol involved, definitely rum, but something else as well. Mitchell swilled the liquid around his mouth as if tasting a fine wine. He wondered what he’d be dreaming of that night. ‘Will, you’re a medicine man,’ said Lindsay, taking a long sip of the drink, then placing a hand on his chest. ‘A doctor for the soul, you really are.’ Claudia asked about the trip. Mitchell said it had been a reunion of sorts. Lindsay giggled to himself. ‘What’s funny?’ asked Mitchell. ‘What a few days the two of you have had!’ said Claudia. ‘They shouldn’t make days like these anymore,’ said Lindsay. ‘We’ve lost the skills to deal with them.’ He leant forward and placed an already-empty mug on the coffee table in front of him. ‘And with those oblique few words of wisdom I think it’s time for me to go to bed. I’m sorry to retire so early. We’ll catch up properly in the morning, all morning, all day.’

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He stood up. ‘It’s just great to see you,’ said Claudia. ‘And it’s great to finally meet you, Mitchell. We’ve heard so much about you. We’ve been looking forward to this for so long.’ Mitchell quickly drained his hot chocolate and stood up too. He thought his stomach might be glowing. ‘Yes,’ said Will, ‘we’re so glad to have you here.’ ‘It’s great to be here,’ said Lindsay. ‘Thank you for your already considerable hospitality,’ said Mitchell. As he followed his brother out of the room, Mitchell caught Claudia and Will glaring at each other — they looked baffled. The following morning, the sickly rich smell of bread baked fresh filled the house. Mitchell walked into the breakfast room; he felt well rested and right within himself. He couldn’t exactly remember his dreams, but he knew they hadn’t been disturbed. Perhaps there had been a medicinal quality to Will’s suppertime drink after all. Or were the luxurious, excourtroom surroundings working on him? Propped up at the table was Lindsay, his body wrapped in a shimmering white dressing gown taken from his room — he could never own a piece of clothing so new or pure. But that was the only thing about him that didn’t look past its use-by date. At least I’ve made an effort for your friends, the older brother thought, I’ve showered and shaved and I’ve combed my hair. But you, you look like you can’t be bothered.

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In the middle of the table was a pile of small bread rolls, bowls of cereal, and fruit and yoghurt. ‘It’s just a simple continental breakfast,’ said Claudia walking into the room carrying a plate stacked with lamingtons. ‘It’s nothing much,’ she said, almost apologising. Will followed her with a serving dish full of scones. Soon the four of them were eating. Lindsay tried making his usual comments but most of them, to Mitchell at least, sounded forced. Claudia and Will, however, made sure to fill in the blanks, providing a weather forecast — cool with light rain developing — and informing them that the Granvilles were their only guests for the next couple of days. As the hosts spoke, there was a lack of complication in their words, an accent without particular intonation or inflection. But there was also sophistication — perhaps the two of them had travelled extensively and discovered that the world was not the same as Bathurst, that it wasn’t all colonial gold mines and rolling green pastures. Mitchell had to admit the pair knew how to exhibit hospitality at every turn, as if there was nothing else on earth they would rather do. Within the hour breakfast was finished. Lindsay declared he wanted to sleep off the excess of all the food he had eaten. ‘I think I’ll need a caesarean if I’m not careful,’ he said as he got up to leave the room. ‘I’ll bring up a pot of peppermint tea,’ said Claudia. ‘It’s a great digestive aid.’ ‘He looks like he needs a bloody good rest,’ said Will.

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Mitchell realised then that his brother had actually been eating very little. In the Indian Pacific’s dining car, cups of tea were largely left undrunk, a piece of fish was picked at, a slice of garlic bread might have one bite taken out of it, but that was all. Yes, he had consumed a lot of wine, and he seemed to enjoy Hugh’s box of chocolates (which Mitchell assumed was now empty), but he hadn’t been over-eating, that was for sure. Will began clearing away the table. Without looking at Mitchell he said, ‘Would you like me to take you on a walking tour around town?’ ‘I was hoping to spend the morning reading actually.’ ‘If that’s what you’d prefer,’ said Will, almost to himself. ‘I haven’t had much time to read over the last few days.’ ‘Whatever you like.’ Mitchell watched Will carefully stack plates on an antique wooden trolley. It looked to be such a delicate task, almost one of great importance, but mundane too. He felt sorry for the man. Will was obviously intelligent and eloquent, but he was doing something a child could do. Being off the train made Mitchell feel like doing good deeds. Maybe it was also because he was now in a place more east than west. The damp air felt like a favourite piece of clothing, homely and comfortable. If he didn’t think too much about Lindsay, he even felt peaceful. Yes, being back inside a house of the law was a good thing. ‘On second thoughts,’ he said, ‘why not?’

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In jumpers and jackets and with scarves wrapped around their necks, hands in pockets and breathing out fog, they walked into town. The day was overcast and a persistent chill hung in the air — no doubt the light rain that had been forecast wasn’t far away. Between potted histories of Bathurst landmarks — ‘this place on our left is The Doctor’s House, doctors have lived in it since 1876’ — Will told a story about how he and his sister had been raised on a farm near Orange by their widowed mother. Mitchell said his father had owned a thousand-acre property near Mullion Creek, a hamlet 20 kilometres north of Orange, although the family hadn’t spent much time there over the years. ‘How about this place here for tea?’ said Will, stopping suddenly. ‘It’s your tour,’ said Mitchell. ‘Well, let’s go inside and warm up a bit. It’s really quite cool outside, eh?’ They entered a renovated church that wasn’t much bigger than a country house. The Holy Order Cafe. Mitchell considered the name contemporary for a town like Bathurst, quite risque, surely blasphemous to many. They sat down near a smouldering open fire. Apart from Mitchell and Will, the cafe was empty. Will ordered a pot of Earl Grey tea to share. ‘It’s good to see Lindsay again,’ he said tapping his fingers on the table as if anxious for a hot drink, ‘and it’s nice to finally meet you.’

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‘When was the last time you saw Lindsay?’ asked Mitchell. ‘Oh, it would have been a good few years ago,’ said Will. ‘Perhaps ten, maybe more.’ ‘Really?’ ‘I’m sure it would have been that long. In fact, it’s coming back to me now. It was the Bicentennial Year, so 1988.’ ‘Any person watching how you and your sister react to him would say you have kept in regular contact.’ A waitress brought over the tea. Will began rearranging the table as if it wasn’t quite laid out to his satisfaction. Without looking up he said, ‘I guess that would be true. But it’s mostly been letters. Always has been. Claudia thinks he’s probably one of the last true letter writers, a real chronicler of everyday life. She’s kept them all, you know. Has a file of them in the office. Reckons they’ll be valuable one day, the libraries might want them. She’s probably exaggerating, though. But I’ve read a few of them, so I know what she means. Nothing huge ever seems to happen in your brother’s life but he’s able to describe it all in such a way that makes it so enjoyable to read — makes you feel a part of it, you know? We must have hundreds of them now. I’ve always thought that there must be something similar somewhere else.’ ‘Really? That many?’ ‘Oh, I think so.’ Mitchell pictured a filing cabinet packed with letters. Fancy someone like Lindsay Granville writing anything of value. It was a bitter thought and it didn’t sit right with him.

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Bitterness, he’d always supposed, had never been one of his defences, but now he couldn’t be entirely sure. Wanting to change the topic he said, ‘You and your sister have never married? So to speak, of course.’ Will poured the tea. ‘She’s the spinster,’ he said, ‘I’m the bachelor. We’ve both had relationships, but we’re so close in age, it’s almost like we’re twins.’ ‘Is your mother still alive?’ ‘No, she died a long time ago. My older sister’s still kicking on, though.’ ‘Does she live here in Bathurst?’ ‘No, she was still out at Mira up until a few years ago but she moved into town.’ ‘Mira?’ ‘That’s the name of my mother’s property,’ Will said helpfully. Mitchell returned the cup to the saucer and thought for a moment: there used to be a farm called Mira next to Mulliondale, he could remember that much. ‘Your mother’s property,’ Mitchell said, more to himself than Will. ‘Yes. My mother is Thea Scattergood.’ Will’s tone was matter-of-fact. ‘Really?’ ‘Yes, really.’ ‘But I thought that she had only one daughter,’ Mitchell said, ‘a girl called Jeanette. I have vague memories of being with her in a hayshed and playing with some kittens.’

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Will thought for a moment. ‘What exactly has your brother told you about me and Claudia?’ ‘You run a very luxurious bed and breakfast in Bathurst.’ ‘What else?’ ‘Nothing else.’ ‘Lindsay said he would tell you on the train coming over.’ ‘Tell me what?’ ‘I don’t understand,’ said Will looking to one side. ‘He said he would have told you.’ ‘When did you last speak to my brother?’ ‘Last week.’ ‘You just said it was in 1988.’ ‘We didn’t see him last week, we spoke to him. He rang from Perth.’ ‘He said we’d be visiting you and your sister?’ asked Mitchell. ‘Yes, he did.’ ‘What exactly did you talk about?’ Will swallowed loudly. ‘He said you and he would be coming over. And he would call from the station when you arrived.’ ‘What else?’ ‘Look, that’s about the extent of it,’ said Will, clearly becoming agitated. ‘We said that it would be good to see him and great to finally meet you. He really didn’t tell you about any of this?’ ‘No, he didn’t.’

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‘That’s a pity.’ ‘Indeed it is.’ The waitress came back to the table and, sounding uninterested, asked if she could get them anything else. Will said they were fine. Then, to Mitchell, he said: ‘I’d like to take you out to Mira.’ ‘What for?’ ‘I think it would be good for you.’ How do you know what will and won’t be good for me? Mitchell thought. ‘We could head off straight away,’ said Will. ‘The day’s not great for it, but it’ll be all right. The road’s not that bad nowadays.’ Mitchell heard water dripping off gutters, the sound of cars swishing along wet roads. He didn’t want to go anywhere, he was tired of going places. He pressed a hand to his face and dragged it over his mouth, feeling newly shaved skin, smooth and dry. His eyelid flickered; he pressed a finger on it but it didn’t stop. ‘Bugger the weather,’ said Will. ‘Let’s get home and grab the car.’ For a moment Mitchell thought it wasn’t Will he was sitting next to. This can’t be that dirt road that we used to drive along 60 years ago, Mitchell said to himself silently as he sat strapped into the passenger seat. Back then the road, or more precisely the track, felt like it pleasantly travelled around the edge of nowhere, but

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now it seemed to link a few ragged paddocks to the edge of town. He remembered Jeanette Scattergood and the barn with the kittens. He would have been so small back then, perhaps it was only a photograph he could remember, one in a book, one that might not even have been of him. But then again he could smell it, the recollection. Memories are felons, he decided. As witnesses they are inherently unreliable. They drove on. The landscape changed little and the rain showed no signs of easing. Soon they turned onto a dirt driveway. Mitchell felt the double clatter and shake of the car’s tyres crossing the cattle grid. The property was without a gate. Just paddocks and fences, and a few spindly eucalypts struggling here and there, looking out of place. Sitting on a gentle rise was a small white cottage with a pine tree windbreak to one side. ‘Is that your old home?’ Mitchell asked. ‘Yep,’ said Will. ‘I can’t see any other buildings.’ ‘They’re on the other side now. A new house over that ridge there, bloody great big thing it is, and all the sheds are over that way too. This place has changed a lot over the years.’ None of it looked familiar to Mitchell. ‘So who lives here, then?’ he asked. ‘No one now.’ They crossed another cattle grid and entered what would have once been an enclosed garden for the weatherboard cottage. The fence was now mostly collapsed.

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Will parked the car next to the remains of a rose bed, its red brick edge still visible, a dozen or more old roses remaining, twisted and half-dead. After he turned off the engine he crossed his arms on the top of the steering wheel. ‘It’s just an empty old house,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I’ll show you around. This bloody drizzle is going to go straight to our bones. Sorry, I forgot to get us some wet-weather jackets.’ ‘We’ll be all right,’ said Mitchell. ‘Yeah, you’ve got the country in your blood,’ said Will. ‘You’ll be fine.’ They stepped out of the car. Following Will to the house, Mitchell’s joints felt stiff, the top half of his body bent forward as if he was now best shaped to only be in an armchair, or on the hard furniture of a train. It hadn’t taken long to feel out-of-sorts again. He was starting to think seats were both his refuge and his downfall. They stepped onto the wooden verandah. Will retrieved a key from beneath a rock. ‘Come on in to where I used to carry on as a child,’ he said. The insides of the house felt cold and the smell of mould tickled Mitchell’s nose. He wondered if he had ever been here before. I must have, he decided, little Jeanette would have invited me in — playing with kittens in the barn would have entertained us for only so long before we would come inside for lemonade and coconut slice. He let the memory settle on him like the rain on the paddocks outside. Felons, he told himself again.

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‘What are we doing here?’ Mitchell asked as they walked into the kitchen. Will stepped over to the back door, unlatched the lock, and then opened it. ‘Follow me,’ he said. At the rear of the cottage, sloping away into a gully, was a large but clearly forgotten garden. Only a handful of trees remained, some with their trunks rotted out. In the centre of the garden stood a cluster of steel arbours covered in wisteria — they leant to one side as if tired of battling the wind that no doubt came in from the paddocks. Stone paths disappeared into what might have once been garden beds. Yes, kids would have loved all this, Mitchell supposed, it would have been endless. They stepped onto a wide, straight path made out of flat rocks; drifts of pine needle covered parts of it, grass grew in the cracks. He turned to look at the rear of the house and saw the rusting water tanks and drainage pipes that had long ago separated from the walls of the house. He looked back to see where he was going. His landscape architect would have a field day with the place. ‘Watch where you put your feet,’ said Will as they started going down a series of steps. ‘Some of the stonework is not as good as it used to be. Lean on me if you need to.’ Concentrate, Mitchell told himself, otherwise you’ll be going right over. He turned himself sideways, doing a slow crab-walk forwards down each step. His breathing was heavy.

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He knew, if he was by himself, he would stop more than half a dozen times to catch his breath. He knew, if he was by himself, he would never have been here in the first place. After navigating the last step, he looked up. They were standing on a stone landing. A low semi-circular wall curved around half of it. Beyond was a waving surface of tall reeds. He looked around to his left and saw a white shape. What? No, no, no, that’s not right. He turned away quickly and looked to his other side. At the end of the wall was an exposed concrete footing, a large tuft of grass growing out of a crack. ‘I’m not sure I’ve got a clue as to what I should say to you,’ said Will. Knowing he would have to see the white shape again, Mitchell slowly looked back to his left. Staring at him from the other end of the wall was a strong godly face, someone drying themselves after bathing, turned away as if strangely shy. Mitchell Granville stared at it — it looked grotesque. ‘Apparently it’s called Wotan Bathing,’ said Will, ‘or something along those lines.’ Mitchell stared at the sculpture. It was the same size as Fricka, the same lines and curves. Even the face looked similar, but the shape of the backside gave it away that this was male. In the air was a rural emptiness as if something long ago had sucked the life out of it. ‘Why did you want me to see this?’ Mitchell said slowly. ‘What, the sculpture?’

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‘Yes, the sculpture.’ ‘Oh, it’s not particularly that,’ said Will, ‘it’s the whole thing, the garden and the steps and this viewing platform over the water. My mother would never have made something like this, not without help and direction. She was pretty handy with a lot of things, farm stuff, but she wasn’t particularly creative. This is where Claudia and I grew up, where we ran amok. We loved it, as any kid would. Although it was really just a paddock with a few trees in it back then.’ For Mitchell, the penny dropped. ‘Couldn’t you have just told me?’ he said. Will didn’t respond. ‘I’m getting very sick and tired of people playing games with me. I think I might start asking questions with yes or no answers. Does that sound fair enough to you?’ ‘Lindsay said …’ Mitchell swung around to face Will directly. ‘Who cares what Lindsay says or doesn’t say? Really, who cares?’ ‘Maybe you …’ ‘Maybe I should do what?’ ‘Talk to your brother.’ In the heavy silence that followed, Mitchell thought that if he could lose one or two decades of his old-age frailty he would run up to the sculpture and push it over into the water on the other side, let it gurgle and drown, make it sink and disappear. He wanted to find something inside him that could destroy what he needed to. He wanted to find his anger. There was too much for him to get together to make complete

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sense out of where he was and what he was being shown, but he did know, and he knew it completely, that if he could make the sculpture disappear he would. ‘Let’s get you out of this rain.’ Mitchell looked at Will. In the face he saw both Lindsay and his father. He said, ‘What’s your surname?’ ‘Scattergood.’ ‘And what’s your middle name?’ Will paused before continuing. ‘Granville.’

11.

He knocked. He heard nothing. He knocked again. Still he heard nothing. He turned the doorknob to see if it was unlocked. It was. He opened it slowly. The room was dark. It looked to be the right place for his brother — for all his trickery, Lindsay didn’t deserve the light of day. You deserve to be locked in here and left to rot. Mitchell took two steps into the room. ‘Lindsay?’ he called out. The only response came in the form of irregular wheezing. ‘Lindsay?’ he called out louder. ‘You just stay sleeping. You just keep on dreaming of whatever perverted life you dream about.’ Mitchell returned to his own bedroom. There he began to feel light-headed as if the air he was breathing wasn’t

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enough, as if the floorboards weren’t supporting his weight. He lay down on the bed and stared at the hood of the fourposter — it hung over his body like a parachute. The air smelled of chemical cleaner. The old Bathurst Courthouse. It no longer felt like the place to be. He shouldn’t be here, he shouldn’t be on trial like this. He closed his eyes but saw only the Mira cottage, the unmaintained garden and the straight path leading to the steps, down the steps, onto the landing. He saw the sculpture’s hard, angular face. Fricka’s companion piece, no doubt about it. It existed. And there was a space for another. A short while later, after being unable to fall asleep, Mitchell heard knocking on his door. ‘Yes?’ he called out. The door opened. Lindsay appeared. He was wearing a crumpled black suit, a purple shirt under a red V-neck jumper, white shoes. Stuck in his lapel was a white rose. His face looked pale as if he hadn’t slept for days. ‘It’s dinner time,’ he said. Baxter’s, a sparsely appointed restaurant in an old bank building, was mostly full. The patrons, middle-aged and welldressed, looked as if they were on their way to the theatre. A young male waiter presented himself at the Granvilles’ table and politely asked if they were ready to order. Lindsay asked for a bottle of red wine — Mitchell noticed it was the most expensive on the list. The waiter smiled dimly.

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‘Yes?’ asked Lindsay. ‘He’s waiting for you to order your food,’ whispered Mitchell. ‘Oh food, what a novelty.’ ‘Just order, will you.’ ‘I’m the little brother,’ said Lindsay to the waiter, ‘in case you haven’t noticed.’ He looked at the menu and then obviously chose his meal randomly. ‘I’ll have the smoked salmon with bok choy and the duck as the main, thank you.’ ‘I’m having the same,’ said Mitchell, handing over his menu. Lindsay looked at him with a bemused expression on his face. ‘What a great choice, big brother. It seems we do have something in common!’ ‘Thank you, that’ll be all,’ said Mitchell to the waiter. He wanted to move the boy on so he didn’t have to be subjected to any more of Lindsay’s comments. Lindsay crossed his arms and rested them on the table. Mitchell turned to look into the middle of the restaurant as if they were on a train and there was a view to stare at. ‘What?’ asked Lindsay. Mitchell didn’t respond. ‘I did tell you,’ said Lindsay. ‘What did you tell me?’ ‘I told you we weren’t going to drop in on any other friends.’ ‘This has been a nice little game for you to pass the time, hasn’t it? That’s all it’s been. Why bother talking about it?’

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‘A game is something you want to win.’ ‘Precisely,’ said Mitchell. The waiter brought the bottle of wine to the table. A small amount was poured into Lindsay’s glass; he put his nose to the rim, took a sniff, then loudly swilled some around his mouth. He smiled his approval and the waiter poured out two full glasses. Mitchell watched it all as if he wasn’t actually there, as if the person in front of him was someone on a television screen, someone he couldn’t properly engage with, someone he could turn off if he so desired. ‘What were you wanting?’ asked Lindsay. ‘Company.’ Mitchell was shocked by his own frankness. ‘What? ‘Never mind.’ ‘When I wrote out my dare,’ said Lindsay, ‘I never thought you would come over west. I was wrong. The moment you arrived I knew it wouldn’t work out — at least I was right on that front.’ He smiled uncomfortably as if asking for encouragement to continue. ‘When you went back to The Green early I wanted to ring you, but whenever I tried to nut out what I wanted to say, it just sounded so … I don’t know. So I decided to leave it up to you. That might have been a bit of cowardice on my part. But then you turned up a second time, right out of the blue.’ ‘How can you say that, Lindsay? It wasn’t out of the blue. Lavelle rang me. You know that. You pretended to be sick.’ ‘Emphysema is what I have.’

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‘I know that.’ ‘All right, there was a little bit of manipulation on my part. There are things I wanted you to know.’ ‘But why drag me through it like I’m a child?’ ‘I had planned to tell you.’ ‘What exactly had you planned to tell me?’ ‘All that you now know.’ ‘What you left to poor Will to tell me, you mean.’ Lindsay sat back in his chair. He took a drink of his wine. ‘Look, you wouldn’t have believed me unless you met the people involved. You’d turn away as usual. You’d pretend it didn’t exist, do the usual Granville thing. You’d assassinate the truth with questions. You simply would not have believed me.’ ‘Lindsay, whatever Dad had been getting up to, it doesn’t …’ ‘So it’s clear to you, is it?’ ‘I’m not stupid, Lindsay. I’m sure there aren’t many sculptures called Wotan Bathing in Australia. Am I meant to think that it’s a coincidence that the companion piece to Fricka Bathing at The Green happens to be on the neighbouring property to Mulliondale? Am I meant to think that it’s just sheer chance that Claudia, whose surname is Scattergood, has a striking resemblance to our sister Ruth? That when I look at Will, whose middle name is Granville, I see someone who’s the cross between you and me and our father?’ ‘Of course it’s no coincidence.’ The waiter delivered a basket of bread. Neither of the brothers took a slice.

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Mitchell said: ‘How the hell does Will know about the sculpture of Fricka?’ ‘I think I might have told him about it.’ ‘Oh, I see, so you tell him things, but not me.’ Lindsay looked down at the table. ‘For God’s sake,’ said Mitchell, ‘just drink your wine.’ Lindsay did what he was told. He put the glass to his mouth, clearly just wetting his lips, then took a great mouthful, finishing the remainder. He poured another, and then motioned to the waiter to bring a second bottle. Mitchell closed his eyes. His brain was already too fuddled for him to say that he didn’t think it wise to have another bottle. After a moment, and without opening his eyes, he said, ‘I do want to ask you something. How did you find out about this wretched Bathurst business?’ ‘Which part of it?’ ‘The Bathurst part.’ ‘I told you before. I came over here.’ Mitchell opened his eyes. Slowly, carefully, he said, ‘You came over here, this close to The Green, unearthed a few little bits of information about our family, and then went merrily on your way back to Western Australia?’ ‘Stranger things have occurred, you know.’ ‘I don’t believe you one bit.’ ‘You never have.’ ‘I’m going to ask you again.’ Mitchell knew he was using his courtroom voice. ‘Did you discover all this by mistake?’

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The waiter appeared at the table with a new bottle of wine. Mitchell asked about the whereabouts of the entrees — he wanted to do something as basic as eating. Apparently the food wouldn’t be long. That sounded not short enough. ‘Yes,’ said Lindsay firmly. ‘I had a feeling.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Putting two and two together is always a good start.’ Lindsay was obviously grinding his teeth as he spoke. ‘Dad went to Mulliondale, mostly by himself. If he wasn’t getting himself into trouble, there would have been something wrong. But eventually it got the better of me and a few years ago I came over east to go back out there. Thea Scattergood was still alive then, very old, but she remembered me, she put it all together. Jeanette wasn’t that interested in seeing me. I think she thought I was the enemy.’ The entrees arrived. The brothers ate in silence. Mitchell found the dish too rich and put it aside. He sat back and sipped on his wine. He could feel the alcohol working in his head, on his hands, his stomach and legs. There was so much he wanted to say, but he also knew there was the option of not saying anything at all. He felt convinced that whatever he and Lindsay would speak about over the next hour or so would ultimately alter nothing. Their parents were dead. Thrashing it out over too many bottles of red wine and a country meal was not going to change anything — they may as well go and play a game of cards with Claudia and Will.

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‘I’ve been thinking,’ Lindsay said, wiping his mouth on a serviette, leaving most of his entree to go cold. ‘Let’s stir our sister up a bit.’ ‘Which sister?’ ‘Very funny,’ said Lindsay without laughing. ‘I’m talking about Ruth. Let’s rev her up at this wedding.’ ‘She would shoot you.’ ‘I’m serious. It would be wonderful fun.’ Strangely Mitchell felt a warmth in his stomach. Perhaps it was just the wine, but in the back of his mind he knew it was more. He crossed his arms around his chest, almost as if he was trying to squeeze out the feeling. Quickly he recalled a long-ago weekend at Castle Hill: Ruth, who would have been about ten years old, had organised a sleepover. On the Sunday morning, one of her quieter school friends was having a shower. Lindsay took Mitchell aside and said he was going to creep into the bathroom and steal her towel and all her clothes so she would have to do a nuddy run back to the girls’ bedroom. Mitchell told Lindsay the idea was silly, but it didn’t stop him. Lindsay crept up to the door, then started to giggle and was forced to retreat. Mitchell continued to try to persuade his brother against the prank, but the more Lindsay tried to open the door the more he began to laugh too. He couldn’t help himself; they were brothers, they were teenagers. Then, despite knowing it was wrong, Mitchell joined in. They took it in turns to try to open the door. Finally Lindsay managed to open it, but he got only as far as halfway

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inside when the water cut off — there was no time to get the towel or the clothes. After sprinting outside and into the back of the garden, the brothers collapsed onto the lawn, rolling about laughing as if they wished they could do nothing but pranks for the rest of their lives. ‘Listen to this,’ said Lindsay. ‘We hang around here until Saturday, checking out all the local op shops, Vinnies and places like that. Turn the joint upside down looking for clothes for me to wear. This town is full of old money, you can smell it. There must be hundreds of ball gowns from when the grand old dames of Bathurst finally kicked the bucket. I could go the whole nine yards. Flowing frock, tiara, gloves, Melbourne Cup hat. The lot. Imagine the look on her face!’ Mitchell said, ‘You’re drunk.’ ‘No, I’m not.’ ‘Ruth would kill you.’ ‘But the glory would be ours!’ ‘No,’ said Mitchell, ‘the glory would be yours, not mine.’ He took another drink of the wine. He started to imagine how the event would unfold, but he swiftly told himself to stop — it was absurd. Despite himself, however, as if a moment or two of wild fantasy could extend his life, he kept on with the imagining. Perhaps he could get Brandon to pick them up from Lithgow in his Volkswagen. Brandon would like Lindsay, and Lindsay would adore Brandon. They could park the car between Main House and where the wedding marquee would be set up on the lawns. Ruth would see Mitchell — she

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would probably run up and chastise him for disappearing for all this time. But he would be too busy opening the door like a chauffeur. Then she would see who was in the outfit in front of her. Lindsay would smile, maybe lean forward, purse his lips and kiss his sister’s cheek. Would she scream? Would she down her champagne with the shock of it all? Maybe she would ask security to get rid of him, to expel both of them. Mitchell shook his head. How much have you drunk? he asked himself under his breath. ‘I’d light up that stale fart of a wedding like a bushfire,’ his brother said loudly, his hands now held out wide as if on a stage and trying to get the attention of the audience. ‘The caretakers would come and throw you out, Lindsay. They’re big people, both of them. This is not a joking matter.’ ‘But imagine the whole bloody lot of them!’ Lindsay was laughing wildly now. ‘I could go up to that fascist new husband of our niece’s and start slapping him around with a couple of loose elbow-length gloves. Tell him with a thump of a handbag to look after our Sarah or I’ll come and visit him in the middle of the night and leave the head of a horse in his bed — though he would probably like that kind of thing. And then, when at the church the minister asks if anyone wants to object, I could make a mobile phone ring and stand up and say that Penny Cillen from the Darlinghurst Review would like to say a few words.’ The waiter delivered the main course, interrupting the conversation for the second time. The meals, well-balanced

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piles, sculptured and teased, were stranded in the middle of huge white plates. Lindsay put his hands to his face as if he had never seen food like it. Mitchell picked up his cutlery and began eating. He knew he needed to eat something, otherwise the wine might make him lose control, and losing control couldn’t be tolerated. ‘You know,’ said Lindsay, playing with his meal, ‘the whole drag thing is not something I’m into. It’s good for a laugh when other people do it. It’s not something Baddersly and I were ever into. But they expect you to be. Apparently a lovely off-the-shoulder number is a fag’s uniform. Although bloody hell, it would be fun to do for Ruth.’ ‘Forget it, Lindsay, you won’t be doing it.’ ‘I’ve done it before.’ With a mouthful of food Mitchell stared at Lindsay. ‘That’s right, big brother, I have a track record of gatecrashing weddings. In my younger days, of course, when I was keen on embarrassing people.’ ‘Well, that hasn’t changed.’ ‘Why stop doing something that’s fun?’ ‘Like I said, forget about it.’ Lindsay sat back. He picked up his fork and ran his fingers along its length. He tried to puncture the palm of a hand with the prongs. He smiled to himself. Mitchell had the waiter bring over a jug of water. After pouring out two glasses, he said quite casually, ‘Maybe you should tell me about Baddersly.’ It seemed for each story he

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was told he was trying to submerge it with another, to suffocate it. Stories are arguments: they fight each other, they can cancel each other out. ‘Why on God’s earth should I do such a thing?’ asked Lindsay. ‘Because you said you would tell me about your Irma.’ ‘But we’re having fun plotting tricks against out sister!’ ‘It’s you who’s having fun,’ said Mitchell. ‘Oh, of course you’re having fun too.’ ‘Just tell me about this Baddersly chap, whoever the hell he is, or was.’ Lindsay sighed loudly. ‘There’s not much to tell.’ ‘So he’s that important to you, is he?’ Lindsay put down his cutlery and looked at his meal. Sounding weary, as if the laughter of a moment ago had worn him out, as if he had been cornered and knew the only way to escape was to do as he was told, he began sharing a story about a man called Geoffrey Baddersly from Victoria. Lindsay simply called him Baddersly: ‘He was one of those people you just couldn’t call by their first name.’ Lindsay met the man when the latter was in his final year of Theology College — he’d been allowed to assist an inner-city church with its more mundane chores. Almost sheepishly, Lindsay said that he himself was a member of the congregation, although immediately qualified that statement by saying he wasn’t really a believer, he just found solace in the architecture, the music and the theatre of it all. He said he would spare his brother the gruesome details, but way led onto

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way and before long he and Baddersly were meeting up for walks in the Dandenongs. ‘I wish I could say we were more imaginative about it, but we weren’t. We were blokes.’ For Baddersly, apparently, the relationship was neither expected nor hoped for — it just happened. Lindsay reckoned he had never in his wildest imagination thought he would fall for a tall, skinny man of religion. ‘But the heart wants what the heart wants,’ he said, ‘although you must always question its judgement. The heart is such a strange organ, and its music is unpredictable.’ Mitchell again remembered that photograph in Lindsay’s flat. The simple, humble church ruins. The man, stark naked, leaning against the fence — there was pride in the way he stood there. Had Lindsay and this Baddersly man gone out to a harmless old building in the country and set up that photograph? Was there meant to be a not-sosubtle message about sexuality and a religious institution’s oppression? He returned to listen to his brother. Soon enough the church discovered the existence of the relationship and it suggested Lindsay leave the congregation and instructed Baddersly to keep his desires to himself. ‘Sounds a bit familiar, doesn’t it, big brother?’ Mitchell didn’t respond. They tried to keep it going, but eventually the pair of them moved to Adelaide where Baddersly managed to find employment as a social worker.

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Ah yes, here’s the real life story. ‘The sixties were a strange time,’ Lindsay said. ‘I was about to shift from being a political person to a politicised person. I’m not sure how good that was, for anyone really, although it was better than being average, I suppose.’ The two of them lived harmoniously despite the odd indiscretion. Harmoniously, he said, because they may have been the first couple not to care about the law, the church, or other people whose sexuality differed from the norm. ‘We just wanted to live our lives,’ he said. Because of Adelaide’s size they decided to make the move to Perth, their only income being from Lindsay’s work with the counselling centre. Eventually they were able to take the opportunity of working at Rottnest Island. ‘I’ve sometimes thought about writing a book about all the little things that happened out there. We used to call it the Island of Fagos! But you can have too much of a good thing.’ Lindsay and Baddersly then packed up for the third time and headed south to Bridgetown where they again lived on the smell of an oily rag, doing as little as possible. Lindsay signalled the end of his story by picking up a bit of carrot from his plate and loudly eating it like a rabbit. ‘So that’s that then,’ he said. ‘The Baddersly saga.’ ‘Is he still down there?’ Mitchell asked. ‘He was for a long time.’ ‘Did he rejoin the church?’ ‘Oh no. The last time I spoke to him he said he believed in green Karri fairies — so to speak, of course —

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rather than the Almighty. But I knew he was talking rubbish because I’d seen him sit out on a rock in the garden and pray. Maybe he was praying to green Karri fairies!’ ‘What about you? Where do you find your solace these days?’ ‘I find solace by having coffees overlooking Cottesloe beach where a man died from a shark attack.’ He paused for a moment. ‘You know, I’m not sure why I keep thinking about that particularly grim event. I guess every one of us just wants to be close to the source of things. A heart-beat, a fast car, the glorious blast of heroin. For that poor man the source was just an early morning swim in the ocean. And he paid the price. What a morbid thought! What are you doing to me, big brother?’ ‘Do you see him much?’ asked Mitchell after a thoughtful silence. ‘No, he’s dead. That’s what happens when you get eaten by a shark.’ Mitchell stared at his brother. ‘My God, I’m so sorry.’ ‘What for?’ ‘For Baddersly.’ Another pause. ‘Oh Christ, it wasn’t Baddersly who died at Cottesloe. No, no, no. He hates swimming. He’s happy and healthy down at Bridgetown.’ Mitchell felt stupid. For his words, for his ill-fated concern. ‘Do you see him much?’

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‘I’m no saint,’ replied Lindsay. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ ‘What is it that stared love in the face then went off searching for the empty excitement of rediscovering my lost youth?’ ‘I still don’t know what you’re talking about. What do you mean?’ ‘Nothing,’ said Lindsay, selecting another slice of carrot, ‘all of this means absolutely nothing. That’s the point. But Baddersly is the one, there’s no denying it. For years, decades even, I’ve tried to con myself into thinking the opposite, and sometimes it even works. I’m a mystery to myself. Anyway, some days I think there’s still time to fix it all up. And I might do it one day, ring him out of the blue — Lord knows where I might be — and tell him to dust off the other half of the bed because I’m on my way.’ ‘Will he be waiting for you?’ ‘Nothing has value unless you gamble something to get it.’ ‘Perhaps.’ ‘Most likely more than perhaps. But what about you, big brother? Are you a saint?’ ‘What?’ ‘How’s your halo?’ Mitchell ignored the question. ‘You know, our lives could have been so different if you’d stayed with Baddersly.’ He didn’t know what he was saying — the words seemed

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unfamiliar to him, alien, they felt poisonous in his mouth. But he had said them and now there was nothing he could do about it. Lindsay was clearly stunned. ‘Eh?’ ‘You could have joined the club of the married,’ Mitchell continued, trying to give the impression that he knew what Lindsay was asking. ‘It seems that it was there for you.’ ‘Two men don’t marry. It’s an absurd notion.’ ‘We would have had more in common if you had.’ ‘And that would have gotten us where?’ ‘We’d have something to talk about. Irma would have loved you. She would have loved him too.’ Lindsay put his cutlery down on his plate with a loud clank. ‘You’re forgetting one large detail,’ he said loudly, obviously wanting to start something, ‘our father had sex with our mother once too often and out popped his greatest threat.’ ‘For goodness sake keep it down, Lindsay.’ ‘No, bugger them. Fuck them!’ Mitchell slammed down his hands onto the table with a loud crash. ‘Quiet!’ Lindsay pursed his lips, and stared at his half-eaten meal. He put a serviette to his mouth. ‘Port?’ he said, as if he had suddenly decided they were having an altogether different conversation. ‘I don’t think so,’ said Mitchell, crumpling up his serviette and placing it on the table. He wasn’t going to look at his brother. ‘We’ve already had enough wine.’

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‘Come on, just one more. I’ll pay.’ ‘No, Lindsay. No more.’ ‘We’ll plan more tricks to play on our sister.’ Mitchell looked up and stared at his brother. He knew if he did it long enough, Lindsay would give up. He had seniority. He always had. ‘We’re going to have so much fun at home, we really are. I never expected this, I really didn’t. God, I can’t wait to ring Hugh after the wedding and tell him about everything that you and I have gotten up to. This is going to be so bloody good. It’s a cliche, big brother, but by Christ it’s a good one — we’re going to have the time of our lives!’ Ever so slowly they returned to the Old Courthouse. It felt much colder now, and the dampness clung to the air. Lindsay coughed with almost every step he took; it looked like it hurt him. Oddly Mitchell remembered the fact that Bathurst was the birthplace of a man his father had admired greatly. Joseph Benedict Chifley. Simply Ben Chifley to the man in the street. But the man in the street wasn’t impressed after their Prime Minister, someone who started his career as a staunch unionist, finished it by using troops to break the ’49 miners’ strike. Although, for Harold Granville at least, it was the right progression from egalitarianism to conservatism, from democracy to authority, from sharing the power to using the power to achieve the greater good. Mitchell was about to remind Lindsay of this historical fact but quickly decided against it — another conversation with his brother was not

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something he needed right now, especially when it would involve their father. Especially when they were drunk. Again. Once they were back inside the bed and breakfast, wrapped in the dark-timbered warmth of the old courthouse’s entry hall, Lindsay declared he’d had more than enough of everything; he said his bed was calling his name. With little ceremony he went upstairs. Mitchell stayed downstairs. He found Claudia and Will busying themselves in the kitchen. Will gave Mitchell a smile as if he wanted to apologise, then offered another of his hot chocolate drinks. ‘That would be nice,’ said Mitchell. ‘But, please, no alcohol. I’m already pickled to my boots.’ ‘Half your luck,’ said Will. Claudia asked about the dinner at Baxter’s (she had recommended the venue). Mitchell said the food was lovely. Will handed over a mug and Mitchell thanked him. He began sipping at it. He hoped he would be asleep before long. He wanted an extended, unbroken sleep. He didn’t want to think about the conversation he’d had with Lindsay. He wanted Irma. Being asleep was the only thing he had in common with her now. When he was asleep, he wasn’t a single man. And he no longer wanted to be a single man. He was tired of working things out by himself. Within the scheme of his life she had not been dead for long, but she had been dead for long enough. ‘It’d be nice to stay in touch with you,’ said Will. Mitchell looked up quickly, startled by the words that had just been spoken.

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‘I’m sorry?’ ‘Mount Bellstay isn’t far from here.’ Will leant back on the wooden chopping table in the middle of the kitchen. ‘Indeed it’s not,’ said Mitchell. He wondered what Ruth was doing, if she and George were back from overseas yet. Had she tried to contact him at The Green and got no response? A telephone call would have to be made. He should get back home sooner rather than later. He had been away too long. He thought about his brother upstairs. He tried to imagine how it would happen, how he would get Lindsay into the house. He pictured it — it felt as if he was trying to carry back home a half-dead part of himself. ‘We’ve visited it once,’ said Will. ‘Have you really?’ Will stood still; he didn’t answer. ‘Yes, we drove up there,’ said Claudia, letting water out of the basin. ‘We saw the big wrought-iron gates. The driveway. We poked our heads into the gardens, went looking for the shed where Harold went after Mum died.’ ‘When did your mother die?’ ‘End of 1981,’ said Claudia. ‘We read about it in the papers, how a bit later Harold was found by his caretaker in some shed near Bellstay Green, but there’s so many forgotten shacks and old buildings up there, so we took some snaps of a few then left.’ She looked around the room, the ceiling, the benchtops, as if she liked to have the photographs nearby but had recently lost them.

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‘Mount Bellstay’s kind of an eerie place, I reckon,’ said Will. ‘Bit of a tourist trap these days too.’ ‘We’re all right here,’ his sister said. ‘We could be doing a lot worse.’ ‘A home isn’t just a floor,’ said Will. ‘It’s not just four walls and a roof.’ Mitchell put down the mug. He hadn’t drunk much of it, he couldn’t stomach the strong dairy taste. ‘That was very nice, thank you.’ He knew he was slurring his words. ‘I’ll see you both in the morning.’ ‘Sleep tight,’ said Claudia and Will together. In the room, in bed, Mitchell found no time to order the dream he wanted.

12.

Little by little he removed himself from beneath the sheets. Then he sat on the edge of the bed. His head didn’t feel his own — the night’s sleep had been broken by the amount of alcohol in his system. ‘Take it easy,’ he mumbled, ‘take it easy.’ In the shower he let the hot water pummel his chest and belly, his thighs, his legs. He stared down along his body. How could all of this have once been a boy’s? How could it have once been filled with enough energy to run around a mountain garden from dawn until dusk, without raising a sweat, without losing breath? He put his hand on his groin and washed himself. ‘You’re so old now,’ he said. Soon he walked into the kitchen. Will greeted him. A pot of tea and a plate of golden brown and flaky croissants had been set out on the table in the middle of the room.

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Mitchell poured himself a cup of tea. Claudia, busy rolling out what looked like the base for a pie, wasted no time in saying that the rest of the Scattergood week was booked solid and this would stretch them. It sounded as if she wanted to stop anyone else from speaking, that even she had come to the end of her tether and didn’t want to hear any more talk of Bellstay Green or mothers or fathers or dinners with too much alcohol. Not that Mitchell had spent much time with her, but maybe Lindsay had. No doubt Will had told her about the trip out to Mira. She could have chuckled her response; she might have said that Mitchell deserved it all. Mitchell took a croissant from the plate, but he barely managed the taste of whatever tea he was drinking let alone a sweet, rich pastry. He held the croissant in his hand, too polite to return it to the plate. ‘Is Lindsay up and about too?’ asked Will. Mitchell said his brother was no doubt sleeping in, wallowing in the luxury. He would check on him in due course. But within a minute he found himself walking as quickly as he could back up the stairs. He knocked on Lindsay’s door. A faint ‘hello?’ Mitchell pushed the door open. ‘Not a good night,’ said Lindsay, sitting on the edge of the bed in singlet and underpants, hunched over, his face pale. Something shifted inside Mitchell. ‘What can I get you?’ he asked. ‘A drink.’

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‘Water?’ ‘Yes, water would be perfect.’ In the bathroom Mitchell filled a tumbler, then went back to the side of the bed and handed it to his brother. He heard Lindsay’s breathing — it sounded like he was trying to pull air through pine needles. ‘Bugger this illness,’ said Lindsay. ‘It’s really not much fun.’ Mitchell sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Let’s get you to The Green, mmm?’ There wasn’t any fog at the train station, just more of the light rain that seemed to be a permanent resident of the town. Soon the country train arrived — it looked more modern than the Indian Pacific but far less noble — and the brothers boarded. Will dutifully carried on the luggage and placed it in the storage racks above the Granvilles. My brother, thought Mitchell, seems to collect manservants — I wonder if we’re going to be showered with more gifts of chocolates and port. Will leant over and lightly touched Mitchell’s shoulder to say goodbye, then crouched down and held onto Lindsay’s arm. Mitchell turned to look out the window: smiling at him on the platform was Claudia — she didn’t look like a friend but neither did she look like family. Mitchell’s mind knew exactly what she was but his heart had no clue. A bell rang and Will rushed out of the carriage. All of them except Lindsay waved to each other briefly, courteously. It seemed too hurried to be a true farewell.

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Lindsay tilted his head back. He had his eyes closed but his mouth was wide open. His Adam’s apple rose and fell each time he swallowed; it looked like it required more effort than usual. The patchy stubble remained on his jawbone, on his chin — just a thin covering as always, and grey so it looked even thinner. He had dressed himself in the pink poloneck top and the black suit pants from the night before. Will had persuaded him to borrow a huge, brown winter coat, but it hung off Lindsay’s body as if he was a child trying on an adult’s clothing. Mitchell found himself once again looking out of a train window. When we’re home I’ll put him in my bed, then get the spare room together, ask Bobby and Louise to help me. I’ll light the fire in the sitting room, make sure to rid the house of the Bellstay dampness that no doubt has made itself comfortable while I’ve been away. I’ll unpack Lindsay’s things and get them into a chest of drawers. In the window’s dirty reflection he saw Lindsay’s head suddenly collapse forwards. Mitchell faced his brother. ‘Are you all right?’ ‘Hangovers just keep on getting worse and worse,’ said Lindsay. Mitchell turned around to look towards the rear of the carriage. Sitting there were four teenage boys, all of them wearing earphones, their faces betraying the fact they should have been at school. He looked back to Lindsay. His brother’s hands were limp in his lap, shaking. ‘Are you cold?’ Mitchell said. ‘I can get a jumper for you.’

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‘My life for a jumper, heh? That’s a worthy ambition. Or is it a trade?’ His breathing began to quicken. ‘What’s happening?’ asked Mitchell. ‘It hasn’t been as bad as this for years.’ After again turning around in his seat, Mitchell called out, ‘How long is it to Lithgow on this thing?’ One of the boys removed an earphone. ‘What?’ Mitchell repeated his question, this time clearly stressing each word. ‘Half an hour,’ said the boy. ‘We’re not far away now,’ said Mitchell returning to his brother. ‘I’ll get one of the van Hopetouns to come and pick us up.’ ‘I tell you,’ Lindsay said, ‘I’m never drinking again.’ ‘I doubt this is all because of the wine.’ ‘That was a joke, big brother, just a little joke.’ They sat in silence. I’ll ring Ruth, Mitchell told himself. I keep saying this but I have to do it. She must know where I’ve been. I have to tell her that the school-friend story was a bad lie, a not very cunning trick to throw her off the scent. Could she have worked it out already by herself? Possibly. She’s not a stupid woman — the Granville astuteness is ever-present in her. Whatever, I’ll have to ring her, wedding or no wedding. Quietly Lindsay said, ‘I think you should take me to a doctor.’ ‘In Lithgow?’

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‘I know there’s a few of them on the mountain but they’re all retired, aren’t they?’ Mitchell understood what his brother was saying. Mount Bellstay had always been populated by retired professionals who had long ago given up any kind of relevance. ‘I’ll get you into bed. We’ll get the fires going. You’ll be all right.’ ‘I’d like to see a doctor,’ said Lindsay a little louder. ‘My throat feels like a scrunched-up toilet roll.’ ‘We’ll see how you are when we get to Lithgow.’ ‘You can see how I am now.’ Lindsay’s face showed a look of alarm. ‘Okay, we’ll get you to a doctor in Lithgow,’ said Mitchell. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be all right.’ The train passed through scattered mountain villages, most of them no more than a pair of signal boxes and a trackside rail master’s cottage. Mitchell thought he saw a hawk circling in the sky but when he had a closer look, it was just dirt on the window. He saw his own lined face in the reflection. But if he turned a certain way and made a trick of light and shadow, there was a hint of youthfulness. In the reflection he could see Lindsay’s hands still clutching themselves, still shaking. At Lithgow station Lindsay shuffled out of the carriage, wheezing as if he actually wanted to, as if it was the only way for him to know he was alive. Struggling with carrying his and

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his brother’s luggage off the train, Mitchell made sure to avoid looking at the teenagers — he didn’t want to confront the stares that would surely confirm they thought that all old men should die sooner rather than later. A station worker stepped out of his office onto the platform and stood with his legs apart, his arms behind his back as if somewhere on him was a concealed gun. ‘Can you call me a taxi please?’ Mitchell asked him. ‘We’re going to the hospital.’ The railway officer looked confused. ‘Just a doctor would be fine,’ said Lindsay. ‘No,’ said Mitchell, ‘I’m going to get you to Casualty.’ Lindsay stopped on the platform and doubled-over. He coughed violently; it seemed like he was about to vomit. When he finished, he looked up at Mitchell, staring with his teary red eyes, spittle hanging from his mouth. He smiled and said, ‘Do you think I’m casual enough for Casualty?’ Reception looked falsely cheerful. Walls a warm shade of yellow, two bunches of fresh flowers — it could almost have been a hotel foyer. Mitchell told Lindsay to describe his symptoms to the triage nurse, but when she became momentarily distracted by a more demanding patient, he whispered in his brother’s ear not to mention the last few days of drinking. ‘What last few days of drinking?’ Lindsay said too loudly. ‘I wouldn’t know what a day of drinking was if one stood up in my soup.’

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‘Oh, Lindsay, you’re incorrigible.’ ‘Such vocabulary!’ Lindsay looked like he was about to say more but was interrupted by another outburst of coughing. A doctor, looking absurdly small and young, came and took Lindsay into a nearby consulting room. Mitchell stood at the counter knowing some of the patients were staring at him. Could the patients be thinking that the two men had an entirely different relationship? Surely not. He and his brother were not similar in appearance, certainly not in terms of attire. He looked down at his hands and rubbed them together as if hoping to be transported somewhere else. Despite the warm colours of the room he could smell antiseptic. A child began to cry, and a mother whispered words of comfort. The doctor reappeared. She told Mitchell that his brother was fine — Lindsay had just been overdoing it a little and the only medicine he needed was some rest for a day or two. Still she wished to admit him overnight. To keep him under observation, she said. There’s plenty to observe, thought Mitchell, have fun with it. He said he would book himself into a motel before returning later in the afternoon to visit. He knew he could ring the van Hopetouns and ask to be collected, but he also knew he didn’t feel quite ready to be back home, the journey didn’t seem over just yet. Going home now would be like reuniting with an old friend a week before the agreed date — neither party would be prepared for it and it would fail. One must always be psychologically prepared. ‘Good luck,’ the doctor said bluntly, putting a form in a tray and reading out the name of the next patient.

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She looked up at Mitchell as if wondering why he hadn’t moved on. ‘There’s a big conference in town this week,’ she said. ‘You might have to ring around.’ ‘I’ll be fine.’ He asked the nurse behind the counter if he could use the telephone. She pointed to a blue payphone in the waiting area, a battered directory hung beneath it on a piece of string. He sat beside the telephone and began trying bed and breakfasts for vacancies but they were all booked out. He tried motels, then hotels. The diminutive doctor was right: the town had been booked for something called the Second Biennial Australian National Tourism Conference and beds had been secured months in advance. A young woman looked up at Mitchell and suggested he try the local caravan park. She was wearing a basketball cap emblazoned with the initials NY, a small child beside her sitting restlessly. Mitchell began turning pages but he didn’t know what he was now looking for. The young woman leant over and quickly flicked through the pages before pointing to an advertisement. ‘Here it is,’ she said helpfully. ‘It might be your best bet.’ Silently Mitchell persuaded himself to at least try the caravan park’s number, out of politeness more than anything else. A woman’s voice down the line told him that she had one van left. He knew if Irma was around, she would offer advice: It’s better than a gutter, so we should be grateful. He recited his credit card details. After hanging up, he turned to the young woman and thanked her for her assistance.

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‘It was either that or the pub in town,’ she said, narrowly avoiding being hit in the face by a tiny bandaged hand. ‘And you wouldn’t want to stay there, I can tell you.’ The insides of his van smelled of cigarette smoke — it made him think he was in yet another taxi. Orange and brown curtains dating from the seventies covered the small windows, and the bedspread looked thinner than Lindsay’s hair. If his brother’s flat in Perth had a kitchenette, this place had nothing more than a camp stove. The washroom appeared smaller than the one in his Indian Pacific cabin. For a split second he wondered if Claudia and Will had any bed and breakfast friends in Lithgow, but the two of them and their Old Courthouse, their macerated town and that tumbledown farm called Mira, rushed at him and he shut his eyes. He woke. The afternoon’s light had almost gone. For a moment he thought he was back on the Indian Pacific — he could hear a rushing sound around him — but as he became aware of his location, he realised that heavy rain was pounding down on the caravan’s roof. Covering his head with his suit coat, he hurried to the office. To a woman who looked like she would rather be sunbaking down the coast he said he needed to use the telephone to call the hospital. She nodded in the direction of a blue payphone. He couldn’t see a directory. He asked her

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for the hospital’s telephone number and she pointed to a handwritten list of numbers stuck onto the wall above the payphone. He rang the number and asked about visiting hours. He looked at his watch. He had half an hour left. ‘Can I ask who are you coming in to see?’ said the nurse at the other end of the telephone. ‘Lindsay Granville.’ ‘And who am I speaking to?’ Am I being cross-examined here? ‘Mitchell Granville,’ he said, ‘Lindsay’s brother.’ ‘Hang on a moment.’ On a low table covered in women’s magazines sat a small fish bowl with two goldfish mouthing at the water’s surface. Mitchell put a hand to his face and rubbed his eyes. ‘Lindsay’s been sleeping on and off for most of the afternoon,’ said the nurse back in his ear. ‘He’s asleep now. Doctor says it would be best to let him rest. Is that all right with you?’ ‘Of course not,’ said Mitchell. ‘I’m just about to come in and see him.’ ‘Well, doctor’s orders are — ’ ‘I don’t care about doctor’s orders.’ ‘I’m sorry, but it’s in the best interests of your — ’ ‘Goodbye.’ Mitchell slammed down the telephone. He was about to open the office door when he remembered. Ruth. Bloody Ruth and his promise to her to confess all. He checked for

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change in his wallet. He found enough gold coins to make a short call. She needs to know, he told himself, she really does. His fingers shook as he dialled his sister’s home number. ‘Hello?’ ‘Ruth?’ ‘Is that you, Uncle Mitchell?’ ‘Oh, Sarah, how are you? How are all the wedding plans? You must be getting nervous, mmm?’ When in doubt, his father had always told him, ask questions. ‘Not yet, but I will be very soon.’ ‘You’ll be fine. It’ll be beautiful. And so will you.’ ‘Thanks, Uncle, I hope so. I’ll get my mother for you.’ Mitchell turned and looked at the reception woman. She was filling in a crossword. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ Ruth’s voice sounded brittle. ‘Oh, well, I’m fine,’ said Mitchell. ‘I could do with a hand here,’ she continued quickly. ‘George’s been a dead loss this week. He reckons Europe exhausted him.’ Mitchell couldn’t imagine a heart surgeon being a dead loss. He realised then that, despite the confrontation with the nurse barely a moment ago, he had a good spirit in his thoughts. Perhaps now that he and Lindsay were close to The Green, and soon would be sharing Main House, he had found some kind of optimism. He was ‘over-east’, and he was becoming more and more so each moment that went by.

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‘The flower artist,’ Ruth went on, ‘got hit by a car last week and has had to get someone else in who really has no idea. The wedding cake is running late and it looks like we’re going to have to pay for the thing to be couriered up to the mountains instead of being delivered, because they’ve stupidly double-booked. Sam’s of Double Bay has finally decided that the quality of seafood at this time of year is too unpredictable and that traditional cuisine — your standard roast, basically — would be easier for everyone.’ Ruth’s words pelted down like the rain on the caravan’s roof. Mitchell waited for her to say, And to top it all I’ve been worried sick about you. But it didn’t happen. It seemed that Ruth’s mind was simply too full of everything to do with the wedding, not her daughter, but the wedding. ‘John’s also had the ’flu for the last few days and says that he doesn’t trust doctors. I mean, how silly is that? You’re getting married in three days time and you won’t go and make sure you’ll be better. Men, I tell you.’ ‘A silly duffer,’ said Mitchell. The reception woman looked up at him in amazement, then quickly scribbled on her crossword. Ruth continued as if she had been waiting for this moment for months. Mitchell did a check of his own children’s weddings. He couldn’t remember any particular misadventures. The couples were always married in the Mount Bellstay Memorial Anglican Church. He paid for receptions. Speeches happened;

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his own had always been brief, perhaps overly so. Guests had enjoyed three-tiered cakes covered in white icing and embellished with flower motifs. And dancing, plenty of dancing. No one had tried to reinvent the wheel. Not that Ruth was trying to reinvent anything, but sometimes she sounded as if she wished she could. ‘Anyway,’ she said, finally beginning to settle, ‘when will you be home from Perth?’ ‘I’m not sure, perhaps Tuesday, as in tomorrow.’ Did Ruth think he was calling from Western Australia? ‘You’re cutting it a bit fine, aren’t you?’ asked Ruth. ‘Don’t you worry, I’ll be there.’ ‘I guess we can compare adventures,’ she said. ‘Sarah and I will be up on Thursday. The marquee’s arriving first thing Friday morning. There will be a few things you might like to help with.’ ‘It’ll be a pleasure,’ Mitchell said swiftly. He realised he wouldn’t be able to tell his sister about Lindsay. About Lindsay being on his way to The Green. About Lindsay full-stop. It would have to happen unannounced. He would have to work out the logistics of it all. Perhaps the van Hopetouns could help — they were diplomatic people, the couple’s relationship with the Granvilles had always been based on neutrality. Yes, he would use them. He couldn’t think of much else he could do. ‘I’d better go,’ he said. ‘Right you are.’ ‘Goodbye.’

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Mitchell made his way back to his van. As he already felt damp to the bone, he didn’t worry about protecting himself with his coat. He tried to avoid the large mudcoloured puddles but most of them still caught him out. Once inside he switched on the kitchenette light. He looked at his suitcase slumped up against the fridge. His body did a slow shiver. In the bedroom he found two spare blankets and another thin orange bedspread. He made the bed, then stripped down to his underwear before sliding himself between the sheets. Outside, the rain hammered as if desperate. In his mind he heard Lindsay’s coughing and wheezing. He heard his sister’s verbal telephone assault. He saw Fricka’s companion piece on a farm next to Mulliondale. He saw Claudia and Will’s beaming faces when they collected him and Lindsay from Bathurst station. He heard the young lovers’ constant amusement at his brother’s conversation — had Lindsay’s wit really been that impressive? Janice Shoals: her stories, her books. He remembered Hugh worrying about the chocolates melting in the boot of his car. He remembered the warm air on the balcony of the Royal Swan Hotel as if it would take only an hour for skin to crack like a dried-up creek bed. But most of all he heard Lindsay coughing and wheezing. Lindsay coughing and wheezing. Lindsay. The man he was now trying to smuggle home.

13.

More than ever before looking like a cross between Lord Muck and a bagman, Lindsay lay in his hospital bed, propped up against his pillows and reading a dog-eared New Idea magazine. His hair appeared a wayward mess, his face was unshaven. But his breathing sounded easier and his eyes had returned to being like those of a boy who’d just stolen a chocolate bar. ‘Hello there,’ said Mitchell. ‘Where did they put you last night, big brother? In the basement?’ ‘An establishment called the Lithgow Holiday Village. It was all right. I could have spent the night in the gutter. I’m lucky.’ Mitchell pulled up a chair and sat down.

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Absently, Lindsay turned the pages of the magazine. ‘Hugh gets these rags. I’d almost forgotten how wonderful they are. Did you know that our Nicole wants to be in love again?’ ‘It’s raining cats and dogs outside,’ said Mitchell. ‘How much more Lithgow can you get?’ ‘By going to Wollongong.’ Lindsay looked up. ‘A perceptive sense of humour! You are a revelation!’ ‘It’s surprising to see you so well.’ ‘They say I’ve got to stay put until they build Noah’s Ark, or something or other. They’re all worried about water in the lungs, but I’m more worried about water on the brain.’ ‘I don’t think I can spend another night in a caravan. Granvilles and caravans are like …’ ‘Fire and ice?’ said Lindsay, finally putting the magazine down in his lap. ‘You’ll need to do better than that if you’re going to join the funny club.’ Mitchell looked out the window. A sea of cars. A bank of drab transportable buildings. Narrow garden beds struggling between bitumen and brick walls. No trees. None of it made him think of health. He returned to his brother. ‘I’m going back to The Green today,’ he said. ‘I’ll get the house together. All you need to do is to call and I’ll get Bobby or Louise to come and pick you up. It’s only half an hour away.’ ‘I know how far away it is,’ said Lindsay. ‘I thought perhaps seeing all those ocean sunsets might have screwed up your sense of direction.’ ‘Direction, yes. But not time.’

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‘I should leave you to rest,’ said Mitchell. ‘Trashy magazines are very restful.’ Mitchell stood up. He extended his hand to Lindsay. ‘What’s that?’ asked Lindsay. ‘A hand. Men shake them.’ ‘Oh, really? It must be an eastern-state tradition.’ Lindsay stretched out his hand. ‘I’m looking forward to having you around,’ said Mitchell, putting his hand in his brother’s. ‘I can’t wait to be home.’ ‘We’ll sort out Ruth. And the wedding.’ ‘Both of us will be true Granvilles.’ ‘We’ll survive.’ Mitchell considered the handshake tight, tighter than he had expected. Their fingers twisted red as if in an arm wrestle. ‘By hook or by crook,’ said Mitchell. ‘Yes, by hook or by crook. Lindsay Brandon Granville will be on the ark, between the lions and the … lionesses.’ ‘Indeed.’ ‘You know, one day you’re going to have to tell me about Irma, about your Baddersly.’ Mitchell took his hand away. ‘Really, big brother, you’re going to have to talk about it.’ ‘Goodbye, Lindsay.’ Lindsay offered a small smile, one part mocking, one part compassion and one part something Mitchell couldn’t fathom to save himself.

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He looked through the hospital foyer’s glass revolving doors. The rain was truly pounding now, torrential. I’m going to have to ring the van Hopetouns to get them to pick me up, he thought. But they’ll ask me questions. I don’t want to have to find answers. They might be diplomatic people but they’ll still ask questions. No, don’t ring the van Hopetouns. ‘You look lost.’ He turned around. Next to him stood the young woman with the basketball cap and the restless child. She looked relieved — perhaps she’d been given good news. ‘Yes, I think I am lost,’ admitted Mitchell. The woman stepped in front of him. ‘Where do you need to go? The caravan park?’ ‘Yes, and then Mount Bellstay.’ ‘I can take you.’ ‘Thank you, but I’ll be fine.’ ‘We have an orchard not far from there, just down the road. Seriously it would be no trouble.’ Mitchell looked past her out into the rain. The van Hopetouns were definitely a no go. What else? He could call yet another taxi. The thought of both spending the money and dialling the number felt too much for someone who had taken over five days to cross Australia when it should have taken only five hours at the most. If he never caught another taxi in his life, he would be a happy man. ‘You’re very kind,’ he said. ‘It’d be an honour to accept your offer.’

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‘It’ll be an honour to take you,’ she said. ‘I hope you don’t mind driving in a pretty wonky old Beetle.’ ‘My grandson has a Volkswagen.’ In the car, heading out of town, Mitchell made sure he did not allow one question about himself. He asked his driver how her daughter had come to have a bandaged arm. Almost proudly she told him that a spider bite had swollen up and became infected. He asked her about the apple farm, about business, whether she had a roadside stall or a distribution deal. He managed to dredge up questions about irrigation, fruit bats, bushfires, day labour. They talked about the impact of the goods and services tax on small rural family businesses. She changed down through the gears and began winding her way up through the thick forest on Mount Bellstay’s lower slopes. The car almost stopped as it met with the last hairpin bend, then strained its way to the top of the mountain. The rain-soaked bush gave in to the gardens. She will need to turn right, Mitchell thought, onto Granville Avenue, and then there they will be, the big black wrought-iron gates of Bellstay Green. An image came to him: Claudia and Will sitting in their car, staring at the gates and the white gravel driveway on the other side, getting out, peering in, taking a photograph as if they were at Taronga Zoo. ‘Just here would be fine,’ said Mitchell suddenly, pointing to the side of the road. ‘No, no,’ said the young woman. ‘It’s a door-to-door service. Where exactly do you live?’

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‘Really,’ said Mitchell, strengthening his tone. ‘I’ve already taken you out of your way.’ He didn’t want her to see where he lived. ‘Are you sure?’ ‘You’ve been very kind.’ ‘But it’s wet. Look at it out there!’ Mitchell said to her quickly, ‘This will do, thank you.’ She pulled the car onto the gravel and stone roadside edge, and slowed down to a stop. Mitchell turned to the backseat to say goodbye to the little girl; he said he hoped her arm would get better soon. He returned to the child’s mother, went to touch her shoulder but immediately thought better of it. ‘Thank you again for the lift,’ he said. ‘I’ve enjoyed your company.’ Strangers have permission to say the nicest things. There are benefits to being unknown. Mitchell smiled briefly and got out of the car. He waved at the young woman. He watched as his lift turned around and disappeared. On the mountain the rain had downgraded itself to drizzle, but it still quickly wet his face. The tops of the towering roadside eucalypts were lost in a fast-moving fog. One step at a time will get you home, he told himself. His breath ghosted into the air. He picked up his suitcase and began walking. He remembered that he hadn’t showered since staying at the Old Courthouse. He hoped he hadn’t given off an old-man smell in the Volkswagen.

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One step, then another. Just keep walking and you’ll get there. It’s not that wet, just light rain. Beautiful, glorious, light mountain rain. There’ll be your own bed — how good will that be? Another step, and another. Soon he saw them. Massive and black. Very definitely closed. In a book somewhere on a shelf in Main House was a photograph the same as this — Irma had said it made the place look like a film set. He opened the gates. The metal felt cold and wet. He stepped through, then shut the gates behind him. He heard the loud clunk and rattle. Minutes later he found himself in his bedroom. His bed looked perfectly made. Had he left it like that or had the van Hopetouns been in to straighten up a few things? He put his hands in the pockets of his coat and pulled out the folded and now crumpled Indian Pacific ticket. He placed it on the chest of drawers, next to the photograph of him and Irma coming out of the surf. He remembered Lindsay’s bedridden advice: Really, big brother, you’re going to have to talk about it. He reached out his hand to turn the photograph face down but stopped himself. In the kitchen he found a small pile of mail on the breakfast table. Most were bills but there was a handful of letters he didn’t recognise — he assumed they were misplaced wedding correspondence. At the bottom of the pile lay a large brown envelope; on the back was written BRUCE WALLINGTON LANDSCAPE ARCHITECT. He opened

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the package to find a series of folded drawings and a letter with dollars marked against quantities. Better late than never, he thought to himself before putting the drawings and the letter back into the envelope, then returning the envelope to the pile. He stood at the table, looking about the large room. He saw the stove-top and oven where the old fuel stove used to be. The wooden benchtops Bobby had installed a few years before. In his mind he walked through the rest of the house, into the lounge room, into the sitting room where he had dined with Brandon, into each of the spare bedrooms, into the bathrooms. It wasn’t a luxurious bed and breakfast in Bathurst, but it was enough. Surely for two brothers, two old men, it would be adequate.

14.

It had become so familiar to him now, the tree branches and kindling piled above his head. He jumped up but didn’t go very high. He tried again, got a bit higher this time. Again, then again and again, like a spring-loaded toy. He could jump twice as high as his body but it wasn’t enough. He screamed out in frustration. He heard a voice: Come on, you can do it! He paused, then waited, catching his breath. Now go! Jump! He did it. He crashed through. The sides of his face were cut open, sliced apart, but it didn’t matter. For the briefest moment he poked his head through the thin platform and then saw what he needed to see. He opened his eyes. Where he was didn’t smell of anything like a caravan park or a bed and breakfast bedroom or a cabin in a desert train. It was his Main House bedroom. ‘Don’t waste time,’ Mitchell mumbled.

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He shaved quickly and showered, he dressed himself in a set of clothes from the cupboard. Black shoes, dark-blue trousers, white shirt, dark-blue cardigan — the freshness of the garments pleased him, it felt like he’d climbed into a new bed. What’s my plan of action? he asked himself over a cup of hot tea in the kitchen. I have to prepare Lindsay’s room. Get the bed made, dust the cupboards and floors. This won’t take long. Then I’ve got to make a fire in the sitting room and one in Lindsay’s room too, get some life back into this place. Then I have to telephone Ruth and warn her. ‘Or would it be better to …’ he said aloud. ‘No, you must ring her.’ Once that call is done, I’m going to ring Lindsay to see how he is, then make a time for Bobby or Louise to pick him up. And then, and only then, when all this is complete and in place, I will check the landscape architect’s drawings and prepare a response. While crouching in front of the sitting room fire, watching flames begin to tangle around themselves, he heard a knocking on the front door. A woman’s voice called out, ‘Hello, Mitchell? Is that you in there?’ Mitchell stood up slowly. ‘Yes, it’s me,’ he said. ‘I was wondering who was here,’ said Louise walking into the room. ‘I saw smoke coming out of the chimneys.’ ‘Yes, I’m back,’ he said, giving her a wide smile. Louise looked younger than he had come to picture her in his mind — it seemed that he had been away for years. Although her hair was grey and tied up in a bun, it was the way

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she held herself, with strength, that showed there were decades left in her. Perhaps she’d been pickled in Bellstay oxygen. ‘We’ve been worried about you,’ she said. ‘Your sister really was fretting.’ ‘She’s been overseas. I should have been fretting about her!’ ‘She’s rung me every day to see if I’d heard anything.’ ‘I find that hard to believe,’ said Mitchell. ‘Well, she was very worried. And so were Bobby and I.’ ‘Didn’t you get my note?’ ‘Mitchell, it didn’t divulge much, I have to say.’ ‘It was written in a hurry.’ ‘I’m sorry. How was it, your trip?’ Here come the questions. ‘Good, thanks.’ Louise paused for a moment; she looked at him from the corner of her eye. ‘Old school friend?’ ‘I think you know who I saw, Louise,’ said Mitchell stepping closer to her. ‘And soon Ruth will too.’ Louise looked momentarily confused. She stared at the floor, clearly thinking through the options. Then her eyes lit up and she smiled. ‘Oh, that’s wonderful!’ she said. ‘And you will meet him as well.’ ‘I’d love that. When?’ ‘Tomorrow.’ Mitchell had decided that no matter what the hospital said, he would have the van Hopetouns collect Lindsay withn a day and bring him home.

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Louise briefly diverted her eyes. ‘Tomorrow?’ ‘Yes.’ She let go of her smile. ‘But, Mitchell, the wedding preparations will be in full swing.’ ‘I know.’ ‘It’s none of my business, but I’m wondering whether this isn’t terribly good timing. These things can be quite …’ Mitchell stared at her. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m being nosy. I beg your pardon, you should have stopped me before. I’ll have morning tea around at 10.’ ‘I’m busy preparing the house for him,’ said Mitchell. ‘You should leave that to me and Bobby.’ ‘No, it’s good for me to do it. You’re paid to look after one bloke, not two.’ ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t worry about that!’ Louise almost laughed. ‘I will call you if I need anything.’ She reached out for Mitchell’s hand and squeezed it gently. ‘It’s good to see you.’ She smiled quickly, almost nervously, and hurried out of the house. Yes, she was a good woman. Only a monster would deny such a fact. Preparing the second bed took less time than Mitchell had imagined. He fumbled his way through the corners — it wouldn’t be as good as Lindsay’s bed at Lithgow Hospital but it would have to do. It seemed obvious to him now that the van Hopetouns had come into the house while he was away

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and remade his bed. He knew he’d never had any homemaking abilities, but trying to make a bed now made him feel like a man, an old man. He sat down at the breakfast table and unfolded the landscape architect’s drawings. (He wouldn’t realise it until much, much later but by spending most of his days in the kitchen he was making Main House smaller, more understandable, knowable.) The scheme for the water garden appeared exactly how he and the designer had discussed it. It started at the old koi pond, then cut through a green wall of rhododendrons before swooping down a grass embankment and ending at the lookout. There had only ever been a sandstone bench to mark the lookout; he used to sit there as a child, go dinosaur spotting, he saw more than one. Irma knew about the lookout. As a teenager Mitchell had taken her there during her first visit to The Green, her first true visit, one with a romantic purpose. The two of them had walked a little way into the bush and collected flannel flowers together; they were the only native plant Mitchell liked. While standing at the lookout she laughed, she said she didn’t think she had the skills to see extinct things wandering around on the sides of volcanoes. That evening he ran a bath for her. Mount Bellstay had recently been connected to the electrical grid, but the Granvilles had installed only new lights and an oven, not a hot water service. His mother said there was something charming about a fuel heater for the bath, that it was such a part of the Bellstay experience. When his mother

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made a comment like this, his father would look at her as if she was wired the wrong way, that she wasn’t quite in the right century. Mitchell remembered how that night he’d made himself busy in the bathroom while Irma and his mother enjoyed an easy conversation in the kitchen. He took great pleasure in getting the fire going in the barrel, building up the flames until he knew he would put the funnel on, and it would start puff-puffing, always the puff-puffing. As the water became hot then hotter and gathered in the base of the bath, he imagined Irma being in the water. Her body would be smooth and pale. He wanted to be in the room with her, he wanted to wash her back, her fine sandy hair, her underarms, her growing breasts. He wanted to become naked with her, be in the water with her. They would look good together, the two of them. Perhaps they would sit up and kiss each other, stop and look into each other’s faces, and then their hands could go beneath the water and find each other. This desire made his blood flood to where it needed to go, and without the aid of fingers or hands he found himself closing his eyes, enjoying the almost painful rush of it all. He hoped Irma wouldn’t be able to smell anything different in the bathroom when she entered. A minute later his father appeared in the bathroom doorway, telling Mitchell that surely the water was ready, there was no need to fill the bath right up to the top, water is hard to come by up here, you’re old enough to be well aware of this. Quickly Mitchell left for his bedroom. He got dressed, then

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took himself back down to the lookout. He promised himself that he would kiss her there before she left for Sydney, that he would do it at that very spot, with its view stretching out into the blue-oiled beyond, both of them sitting on the seat, turned towards each other. It wasn’t an original idea, but why should it be? What he wanted wasn’t original in the slightest. Now it would all change — he wanted to make a mark, like a boy carving his name into an oak tree. Yes, the landscape architect’s design was in accordance with their discussions: simple and grand like Main House itself. And there was a place for her, Fricka Bathing down the bottom, with the view. He felt like telephoning Sydney straight away to discuss it, but then realised — he had forgotten to ring Ruth. He sighed loudly. He leant into the back of the chair, a hand went to his face. His skin felt soft and supple again. He checked the clock above the stove: three minutes before noon. Despite the two fires that were now well and truly alight — one in the sitting room, the other in Lindsay’s small but cosy enough bedroom — the house felt cold and empty. He shivered and tightened his cardigan. ‘Finish checking the design,’ he mumbled, ‘but you must ring Ruth before ringing Lindsay or Wallington.’ He rearranged the plans as if he were a building inspector, and then grabbed a pencil. Throughout his life he had reason to examine a handful of architectural plans: various family members, including himself and Irma, had undertaken house or garden projects, or both. He had enjoyed

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the precision and control in the drawings, the sense of foresight (he had decided early in his career that nine-tenths of the law was not possession but foresight). He began making notes on Wallington’s drawings; there were details he liked, a few things that might have to be moved, but on the whole there was something warm about the whole proposal. The water garden would have to happen — he was going to make that mark. In the middle of his enthusiasm for the plans came the sound of the telephone ringing in the hallway. ‘Is that you, Mitchell?’ asked a voice. ‘Yes. Who’s this?’ ‘Hugh Lavelle. From Perth.’ ‘Oh, right, yes. How are you?’ ‘Very well. Did you have a good journey?’ ‘The end always justifies the means, Hugh.’ ‘I’m just ringing because Lindsay’s asked me to let you know he’s on his way home.’ ‘It’ll be great to have him here.’ Mitchell wondered about what transport arrangements Lindsay had made. ‘I’ve managed to get him on a flight today,’ said Hugh. A pause. ‘I’m sorry, what did you just say?’ asked Mitchell. ‘He’s booked onto a plane. QF 8 — ’ ‘What?’ Another pause.

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‘You sound like you’re just as much in the dark as I am,’ said Hugh. ‘What the hell are you telling me?’ ‘Has Lindsay been in a hospital over there somewhere?’ Hugh had concern in his voice. ‘The old codger made some garbled comment about it being very cold and moist over east and that he fell ill.’ ‘Are you telling me my brother’s on his way to Perth?’ ‘As far as I know he was only ever going to be away for a week or two.’ Mitchell sat down beside the telephone. He heard Hugh say: ‘If you like I can get him to call you once he’s home.’ ‘Yes, that probably will be necessary.’ ‘Mitchell, he did say one other thing.’ ‘And what was that?’ ‘He said that I shouldn’t expect him to be home for long.’ Mitchell’s spirits bucked. ‘What was that?’ Hugh repeated what he had just said. ‘Really?’ Mitchell stood up. ‘Yes, really.’ ‘And what do you think that means?’ ‘He’s never talked about leaving Glendalough before,’ said Hugh. ‘He likes it here. At least, that’s what he’s told me.’ ‘Well, thank you for calling,’ said Mitchell. ‘I’m sure Lindsay will explain all soon.’ ‘I’m looking forward to his call. Goodbye now.’

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Mitchell hung up. Lindsay must have gone home to collect his things before coming back to The Green permanently. No doubt he had loose ends to tie up: end the lease on the flat (Mitchell felt sure his brother didn’t own it), pay some bills, say goodbye to Hugh and any other friends he might have. Whatever’s going on, Mitchell told himself, it doesn’t look like he’s going to make it in time for the wedding. This could be a good thing. He looked down the hallway. He saw the rugs covering the dark timber floorboards. Paintings hanging from the picture rails. The high pressed-tin ceiling. Or Lindsay isn’t coming here at all. Mitchell shook his head. I can’t work him out. He heard the silence again. The Main House emptiness surrounded him. The house felt as familiar as Claudia and Will’s bed and breakfast: a home but also not a home. A place to be, but not somewhere that properly supports life. Four walls and a roof, shelter, luxurious shelter, but what was missing? Exactly what was it? People? Or what happens between people? Nausea came up from his stomach. Something inside him began gnawing at the walls of his belly. It felt as if he’d been poisoned by someone. He thought about having a glass of milk, that’s what you do when you’ve got something gnawing. I can’t be alone here. I can’t just be here and simply wait. Be somewhere else. From the rack beside the front door he grabbed the long black winter coat, the black felt squatter’s hat and the black

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scarf. He walked outside. He buttoned up tight — yesterday’s drizzle had become today’s light rain. He walked past the garages. Bobby was splitting logs with an axe outside the woodshed — he called out hello, he said that winter was back. Mitchell asked him to keep an eye on the house. He followed the stone path at the end of the driveway. He walked through a part of the garden that had always been heavily wooded. Here the trees were old, sullen. Shrubs that had once been showy and appealing were now mostly dead wood. Decomposed leaves and spent flower blooms carpeted the ground; the ground felt almost muddy. He ducked down to avoid the low branches — he didn’t want them to knock the hat off his head. He found a gate. It took a moment to work the frame away from the drift of leaves that had gathered at its base. He walked down a series of bush-rock steps and onto the road. He stopped for a moment and looked around. He knew Granville Avenue was a horseshoe shape. At one end was the true avenue with overhanging oak trees and the gates to The Green — things looked expensive there. But here, at the other end, it was a simple laneway: its narrowness meant only one car could pass at a time. Hedges of hawthorn and English laurel grew behind dry-stone walls. If it wasn’t for the native bush that managed to get its grubby paws onto some of the road’s edges, this thing — Granville Lane — could be in Yorkshire. Just keep walking. You’re getting wet. Soon he got there, Lauder’s place, sitting beside the lane as if waiting for a lift out of the mountains. There was no

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room for any plants to grow between the crumbling edge of the bitumen and the small building’s peeling green weatherboard front. He knew its history. Years ago it had been used as an apple-packing shed when The Green had its own fruit trees, when most of the estates on Mount Bellstay kept orchards — the caretakers set them up for extra, much-needed income (their wealthy employers were rarely inclined to share their spoils). Each season they would cart the mountain’s fruit to the cottage just outside the boundary of Bellstay Green. Once there they packed it by hand into crates, making it all ready for the trip down to Windsor. But the small harvests and the caretakers’ lack of time for upkeep meant the orchards were never truly viable. The apples fell to the ground, the trees went to rot, and eventually the employers removed the plantings for driveways or house extensions. One estate demolished its orchard to build a Turkish bathhouse. Mitchell walked past the ivy-covered concrete water tank attached to the side of the cottage. He went through the small timber gate. The lawn around the back of the place was rough and patchy underfoot. Autumn leaves waited in piles for collection — the van Hopetouns were at least making sure the place looked lived-in. After finding the key in the meter box, he opened the door. It had been years since he had reason to be inside the place. When Ben Lauder died, Mitchell’s mother had carried out the old man’s wishes for his ashes to be scattered throughout the garden. That day, Mitchell and Irma took a peek inside. It was sparsely furnished and neatly kept. They didn’t stay inside for long — it felt as if they were looking to buy the place.

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Now he saw Ben’s old tool room was packed full of boxes. The only bare surface was a porcelain basin, yellow stained, a tap missing. Hanging on the walls were axes, saws, drill bits. A blue hurricane lamp hung off a nail on the wall. Pieces of old gardening machinery filled the kitchen: a lawn mower that looked like a museum piece, two wheelbarrows with wheels missing, and what seemed like an A-frame rabbit hutch. The door for the bedroom opposite the kitchen only partly opened; Mitchell just managed to squeeze his head around to see that it too was filled with boxes and general household junk. He looked to one end of the sitting room: there a bank of windows looked over a loose huddle of sheds in the back garden. Ben’s half-size grand piano — a sixtieth birthday present from Harold — had disappeared. Mitchell thought he could remember it being handed over to a distant Granville cousin. In its place were more boxes. At the other end of the sitting room sat a worn-out red couch, a bunch of timber planks piled up on top. Beside the couch, two bookshelves packed with old books. He walked into the second bedroom. Three single beds. A long low cupboard down one wall, a cot on the other, and a tall upright cupboard near the front windows. Through the glass panes he saw the laneway, the dry-stone wall and a grove of plane trees from over in Bellstay Green — their empty black branches scratched the clouds. He remembered one year when there had been a wild storm and a grand old pine tree had bent and snapped, crashing through the roof of Main House. Harold had asked Ben to put the children up for the

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night. It was the first and only time Mitchell and Lindsay and Ruth had stayed in the cottage overnight. Mitchell spent 12 hours feeling frightened that rats would eat his eyes and he would wake up blind. Returning to the sitting room, he picked up each timber plank from the couch, slowly making a collection of them in front of the fireplace. There were no coals in the fire, and no screen. Shifting cushions aside he found an old blanket; by the look of the creases it had never been unfolded. He lay down and tucked himself in as best as he could. When in doubt, he thought, fall asleep. Late afternoon, neither day nor dusk. The air wasn’t stained with cigarette smoke, nor was there the chemical smell of pine-scented cleaner. His hands felt stiff from the cold. He needed to use the bathroom but he wasn’t about to step outside — the bathroom in the house was just that, a room for a bath and its wood heater. He remembered Hugh Lavelle and the telephone call. He wondered if Lindsay was back in Glendalough now. He wondered if his brother had been trying to ring. No, no, no, leave your brother to your brother. He closed his eyes and listened to dripping coming from somewhere near the front door. It sounded as regular as a hallway clock.

15.

The morning’s overcast sky hung low and the light rain had become drizzle again — that’s a mountain for you. Back in Main House, after completing his usual routine of shaving and showering and having a slow breakfast, Mitchell grabbed a book and sat down at the kitchen table. He read page after page, sipping on his Earl Grey tea, his legs crossed beneath him. In his hands he felt a stiffness. His skin itched, no doubt because of that wretched couch in Lauder’s place, probably full of all sorts of bugs and mites. Except it had been comfortable, surprisingly so, and he’d had the best night’s sleep in recent memory. Certainly better than any on the train, and much, much better than the night the pine tree crashed onto the house. Just after 8am he heard a car coming up the driveway. It didn’t sound like a Volkswagen: no clattering engine, just

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the rolling crunch of tyres on gravel. He knew who it would be. He stared at the pages of his book, gazing at the words, almost looking beyond the paper as if trying to shift himself to another place. Did he want to be in Bathurst? No. Adelaide? Definitely not. Perth? He was surprised to discover he wasn’t sure on that one. Soon Ruth and Sarah bumbled into the kitchen, all chatter and smiles. Both were wearing blue denim jeans, the mother in a dark-blue jumper with the collar of a light-blue shirt showing. But Sarah — she had on a white T-shirt beneath a black leather jacket. It suited her, she was looking younger by the minute. Or was Mitchell simply feeling — and looking — older? He fixed his eyes on his sister’s face. He said hello. She smiled at him, greeting him warmly. He hadn’t rung her. He hadn’t told her anything. What she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. He didn’t want to hurt her. But what about when Lindsay arrives, whenever that might be? ‘You’re looking well,’ she said. ‘Kettle’s just boiled.’ Sarah stepped up to him and kissed him on his cheek. ‘Good to see you, Uncle.’ ‘And you, Sarah.’ Before much more could be said, Louise hurried into the kitchen carrying a plate of muffins. She greeted each of the Granvilles, then left the house as if not wanting to interrupt. ‘Well,’ said Ruth, taking one of the muffins. ‘I hear you’ve had a pleasant week sitting in Perth’s lovely sunshine.’

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‘As they say,’ Mitchell replied, ‘it is the jewel of the west.’ He didn’t want to pursue this line of conversation. He told Sarah that she looked slim and asked her if she had lost weight. ‘That wedding dress of hers,’ said her mother, ‘is not the most forgiving thing in the world.’ ‘Mum! You helped me choose it!’ ‘I’m not making any particular comment,’ said Ruth with a barely hidden smile. ‘Besides you’ll look gorgeous on Saturday, truly, amazingly gorgeous.’ She poured herself a cup of tea and mumbled something about the need to make telephone calls. She left the kitchen. ‘Are you excited?’ Mitchell asked his niece. Sarah pointed at her mouth and rolled her eyes, indicating her mouth was full and she couldn’t talk. He realised he felt hungry, painfully so, and began breaking apart his own muffin and eating a portion. Again he thought of his brother. Lindsay wouldn’t have just gone back on a whim. There would be a plan, there would be a goal and he would achieve it no matter what got in his way. Mitchell hated not knowing whatever it was that his brother was planning — perhaps it was all part of a lead-up to Lindsay’s long jump into the wedding. He realised that his brother may well have tried to ring while he was over at Lauder’s place, to share details of the plan. Silently he told himself off for not being in Main House when a telephone call was likely. ‘Bloody nervous,’ Sarah said eventually, ‘more for Mum than me.’

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‘Make sure you stop to take it all in,’ Mitchell quickly offered. ‘Photographs will mean only so much. Whatever happens, this is your day. The bride’s day.’ ‘I’m actually really looking forward to having all the cousins here. Paul and Amanda and Mark.’ ‘They are a gregarious bunch when they’re together. They take after Irma — she was always able to talk under twelve feet of concrete.’ Sarah smiled uncomfortably and turned away. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing them too,’ said Mitchell. ‘It’s been a while. Too long in fact.’ He heard the sound of Ruth on the telephone having an argument. ‘I don’t know why Mum’s getting her knickers in a knot,’ said Sarah. ‘We haven’t got much to do today. Between you and me I’m not sure why we had to come up early in the first place — it’s tomorrow that the marquee arrives. I think Mum just wants to make sure everything’s perfect.’ ‘Saturday will be your favourite day.’ ‘That’s a great way to put it.’ Sarah stood up and patted her stomach. ‘But if I have another muffin you’ll have to roll me down the aisle.’ ‘Oh, I’m sure that won’t be the case.’ ‘Look after yourself,’ Sarah said as she left the room. I will, Mitchell thought, don’t you worry about that. He spent the day in the sitting room, partly reading, partly watching the goings-on around him. It seemed overly familiar, all of it: where he was sitting, what he was doing, and

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what was now happening at Main House. It felt like nothing had actually happened, neither Perth nor Lindsay. It appeared as if he and his sister and his niece were back where they started, eating van Hopetoun muffins in the kitchen, talking about a wedding, preparing for a day of frenetic stress. Ruth was everywhere and nowhere at once, looking relaxed, then excited, then nervous as if she thought there hadn’t been enough planning, that they’d forgotten too many things. She and Sarah and the van Hopetouns tidied each room in Main House, some were even rearranged. They made up the spare beds. They created spaces for those who would bring their own sleeping gear. They polished the brass, cupboards were emptied then repacked. Surfaces dusted and bookshelves restacked. As usual, Sarah was one step behind her mother. Mitchell wanted to ask Ruth to calm down, slow down, but he knew saying that would not have had the desired effect. Most of all, however, he thought of the telephone in the hallway, that miserable piece of technology, the thing that seemed to be the link between the now and the tomorrow. But all it could muster was silence, at least when Ruth hadn’t jammed it to the side of her head, yelling at someone or other to get their act together. He was tired of waiting for Lindsay to telephone him; he would have to make the call himself. And that couldn’t happen until the house was empty. It was a private matter, one between brothers. By the end of the day, Ruth and Sarah had black-bag eyes and their bodies looked slumped as if they had run to Sydney and back. After a light meal of Bobby’s French onion

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soup, a Granville family favourite, the two women retired early. Mitchell sat alone in the sitting room. With its tidied surfaces the space now felt odd, foreign even. It didn’t seem like he was in a room in Main House, Bellstay Green. It didn’t feel like something he knew. Where once he thought it impossible for him to die in Main House, now he felt he would die if he stayed. He waited for the house to fall silent, for the fire to become only a soft glow. Then he grabbed his winter coat and hat and scarf. He walked out of the house. He knew where he was heading: to an apple-packing shed at the back end of Granville Lane.

16.

Friday morning, not yet 7.30. The marquee looked as if it was barely going to fit on the front lawns of Main House. It was bigger than could be imagined, and creamy white, it came with windows and doors and frilly edges — it looked like a stage prop for the filming of an Arabian epic. Ruth, dressed in her staunchly blue denim jeans and a thick, well-pressed white shirt, busily dispatched orders in a respectful but authoritative voice. Sarah stood at a distance looking as if she was hoping the wedding wasn’t going to be hers. Main House definitely isn’t the place for me right now, Mitchell thought as he watched it all happening from his position between the garage and the wood shed. He didn’t move an inch so as to remain hidden. He wondered if Ruth and Sarah had noticed he hadn’t spent the night with them in the house. Unlikely — they had other things on their minds.

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A workman began using an ear-piercingly loud machine to secure the huge tent pegs into the lawn. The place is now a reception venue, Mitchell thought. Yes, a set piece. Slowly he turned around and, like a guest without an invitation, disappeared along the garden path and through the gate onto Granville Lane. Back in Lauder’s place he stood in front of one of the bookshelves. He selected a volume, an ancient-looking novel, put it back, then chose another but that didn’t appeal either. There were more books behind an armchair but he decided that first he would have to move the planks of wood. To shift the wood meant he would have to rearrange a number of boxes. Knowing there was little else to keep him occupied, he began sliding boxes under the bed in the second bedroom. When that place was fully packed he began piling them in the cot. Thinking the upright cupboard could store some of the smaller boxes, he tried opening the doors. At first he thought they were locked, but with just a quick rattle and pull the doors gave way. Staring at him was a wall of yellow envelopes, packed in tight, only the edges showing — it looked like an electricity substation. Ben must have been quite the correspondent. Mitchell turned around and put the box that he was holding on the bed and then went back to face the cupboard. He ran his fingers along the envelope edges, stopped somewhere, anywhere, and pulled one out. The envelope was labelled with a year: 1976. The numbers were written in black, the lettering neat and bold. A man’s

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handwriting. He opened the end flap of the envelope. Inside were smaller white envelopes. Personal letters. Not knowing why he did it — perhaps it was an effort to rid his mind of all the frenzied activity happening back at Main House — he picked out one of the white envelopes. Written on the front was Lindsay Granville, 4 Forest Lane, Bridgetown. He turned the envelope over. Written on the back was Bellstay Green, Mount Bellstay NSW. Carefully he opened it and slid out the thin paper. He read the first few lines. My dearest Lindsay, Your last letter made me feel so melancholic. I do hope your troubles with Geoffrey sort themselves out sooner rather than later. ‘God is love, I dare say. But what a mischievous devil love is.’ (It’s a quote from Butler, my sweet.) Mitchell knew the handwriting: he’d seen it used in a journal left on a bed in a guesthouse at the back of a garden. But still he turned to the last page to make sure. ‘Oh Lord,’ he said aloud. He poured out the rest of the yellow envelope’s contents onto the mattress. Some of the letters were addressed to Mrs H.R. Granville, 2 Banks Street, Castle Hill NSW. He opened these and immediately recognised that handwriting too. It had a generous slant, the letters were small and flowed easily. He didn’t read the words, he couldn’t — it would be like trying to stare into the middle of the sun, or gulp up an ocean. Instead he put the letters back where they belonged. Randomly, he picked out yet another yellow envelope. This one was labelled 1966. It too was packed with letters. He went to the bottom of the cupboard. 1947. It was thinner than the others. For a moment he wondered if there

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was anything in it at all. He poured out the small collection of letters. One was addressed to somewhere in Melbourne. Dear Lindsay, it read, I’m not sure you will want to read these words, but I feel I need to tell you how the wedding went. It was perfect Sydney weather, not too hot, and not too cold. Mitchell spent more time ignoring all and sundry. I guess you have to expect that from him. I really think that like his father he’s not fond of people. But Irma looked beautiful. It was her day and she held herself as if nothing was going to get in her way. I know mothers-in-law are obliged to say it, but she is a very pretty woman, so doll-like. There’s a strength in her I recognise. She will need it. Mitchell turned over the page and read the last line. I wish you had been with us. But I know it’s difficult when your brother makes it impossible for you to be home. Stay well. Your loving mother … Mitchell stared at the white paper, at the handwritten words. Find the earliest envelope. 1946. He opened the first letter he found. The correspondent said he was pleased to receive his mother’s letter and wished to accept her offer of corresponding through the written word — it allows me to get close to you but remain distant from those I need to have at a distance. And how I love disobedience! Mitchell sat down on the floor, his back against the end of the bed, the bank of envelopes in front of him. He put his hands to his face. ‘Oh Christ,’ he mumbled. For the rest of the morning, as if he wasn’t in control of his movements, he opened every large envelope in chronological order and scanned each of the letters. He found more of the exchanges between his mother and brother.

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But there was also a small collection of letters to Lindsay from Ruth. They were similar in tone to his mother’s initial correspondence — a desire for reconnection. In the envelope marked 1980 were letters between his father and his brother. These were not long, and the language was clipped and to the point: I’ve let this linger on too long and now I can’t see a solution. Forgive me. Wherever you may end up being, my boy, never stop being who you are. Mitchell saw an envelope marked with the present year. He picked out a letter and opened it. June 13. He put his hand to his mouth. Pressed it hard as if trying to stop himself breathing. This was his own handwriting, this was his own letter. That most basic piece of correspondence. How he was living at Bellstay Green. How his children were working in the law, all married, all doing well. His grandchildren, including a set of twins, at university — he saw them three times a year, for his birthday, for Easter and for Christmas. How he was looking forward to seeing the whole lot of them at his niece’s wedding in September, although he knew they would tire him out in no time. ‘Anyone in here?’ came a voice. It was Bobby van Hopetoun. At the back door. ‘Yes?’ In a flurry of limbs, Mitchell tried to refile the letters and envelopes, jamming them back onto the shelves. He felt as if he was about to be caught reading someone else’s diary, that someone was about to see him in the shower. But these

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were family letters, letters written by his own family, some of which had been written by people who were no longer living. It’s unwise to speak ill of the dead — are there rules about reading their mail? Bobby appeared in the bedroom’s doorway. He waited for a moment, briefly putting on a friendly face before taking a step forward. ‘Ben had been doing it since the late 1950s,’ Bobby said as if he had been asked a question. ‘When I took over, he asked me to do the same.’ Mitchell sat silently. ‘He said the envelopes would be marked with LP written on the top left-hand corner. It stood for Lauder’s place. They were the ones I was to put in here. For years I’ve been following these orders.’ Bobby stepped closer; he was standing right next to Mitchell now. ‘But then curiosity got the better of me.’ ‘You and Ben did all this?’ ‘It’s part of the caretaker’s duties, I’m afraid, to look after the correspondence library.’ Bobby put out his hand to help Mitchell to his feet. Mitchell took it and slowly, awkwardly, stood up. He placed a hand on the end of the bed to steady himself. ‘Louise?’ he asked. ‘Does she know?’ ‘I have an arrangement down at the post office that anything with LP written on it is for my collection only.’ Mitchell waited for a moment. He looked at the cupboard. Then he turned away to stare out the window with its view of the laneway. He recalled how he’d given Bobby

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letters to post across to Perth but now he realised that Bobby was having the same letters sent back to him, ones to be added to Lindsay’s collection here in Lauder’s place. He felt that nausea build again, the feeling he’d had after Hugh had telephoned to say Lindsay was back in Western Australia. He imagined his brother reading one of the letters only to slide it in a new envelope, write LP in the corner, then post it back. ‘But then again,’ said Bobby, ‘she has sometimes needed to come in here, to drop things off. I can’t say for certain that she doesn’t know about all this.’ ‘Thank you,’ Mitchell said. ‘For what?’ ‘For being honest with me. I think you might have been the first for some time.’ ‘Please know that I haven’t ever spoken to Lindsay.’ The caretaker sounded as if he was trying to make clear his innocence. ‘I wouldn’t know the sound of his voice. I just knew you had a brother.’ ‘Has he ever written to you?’ ‘Once.’ Mitchell looked van Hopetoun in the eye. ‘He felt obliged to tell me what he was doing,’ said Bobby. ‘He gave me the opportunity to say no. He said that if I felt uncomfortable doing it, then I should say so and he would store the letters somewhere else. Look, you should come back to Main House. It’s cold in here. And the rain has been getting in. That’s why I converted this cupboard into a big file. Ben just had the letters in boxes and they were getting wet.

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I even took a few back and ironed them while Louise was doing a run into Lithgow.’ He started to laugh but quickly stopped himself. ‘I’ll return to Main House soon enough,’ said Mitchell. ‘If you need anything,’ said Bobby, ‘you know where to find me.’ ‘I’ll be all right.’ ‘No, really, if …’ Mitchell turned and stared at Bobby’s face. When he was alone again, Mitchell pulled out one last envelope as if to prove to himself the letters were in fact real. 1998. It was another thin year with only half-a-dozen letters inside. He took out two or three. Immediately he recognised the handwriting of Lindsay’s Glendalough address. Notebook writing. Irma’s notebook writing. He let the letters slip from his hands.

17.

He lay on the couch, caught in a half-sleep as if his body didn’t know whether it needed to fight or fly away. Just move and the day will happen. He waited a little while longer. A few minutes after 5am he got up and went into the tool room, collected the hurricane lamp and found a box of matches in a jar of nails. He lit the lamp, then donned his coat and hat and scarf. He felt cold as he walked up the lane but it didn’t bother him. There was no light except from the lamp. Within a couple of minutes he was again standing between Main House’s garage and the wood shed. The sky looked as if it was only just starting to think about shifting from black to bruising blue. The kitchen light was on. It’s wedding day and Ruth’s up. She can’t sleep. Mitchell turned down the lamp’s wick, making just enough light to show where his feet needed to go, and sneaked

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around the rear of Main House. At the back door he blew out the flame. He took off his shoes, opened the door slowly and quietly crept down the hallway. In the bedroom he got into his nightclothes and slid between the sheets. He heard the click of a light switch, the sound of footsteps coming down the hall. A door closed. She’s gone back to bed. She’s too tired now. She won’t make it. He turned on his reading light and picked up his book, one he had read so many times before, Menzies: a life. After barely reading a page he closed his eyes. He remembered being at Baxter’s. He saw Lindsay sitting opposite him, talking loudly, drunkenly, his arms out sideways as if he was about to flap off over the horizon. He heard snippets of the conversation. ‘Two men don’t marry.’ ‘We would have had more in common if you had.’ ‘Old Bathurst money.’ ‘Flowing frock, tiara, gloves, Melbourne Cup hat. The lot.’ In his mind he saw a man in a church being slapped in the face with a loose glove, then he heard wild, uncontrolled laughter. A loud thump. He opened his eyes and looked around. Menzies was face down on the floorboards. Hang on, he thought, Lindsay can’t actually be seriously considering coming to the wedding wearing a bloody dress. Even if Lindsay and Ruth had written to each other sporadically over the years — a fact that, despite the evidence, Mitchell found hard to believe — she would still certainly not appreciate something as ruinous as her brother turning up at her dear daughter’s wedding dressed like some cheap version of

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Danny la Rue. No way. I must stop this once and for all. The merest possibility must be annihilated. He swung himself out of bed and jammed his feet into his slippers. ‘You haven’t got me yet,’ he mumbled quietly, pacing up the hallway. On the table beside the telephone was Irma’s notebook. He picked it up and opened it. He tried to avoid looking at her handwriting but it was difficult — it seemed as if her writing was everywhere. He found Hugh’s number towards the back of the book. Dial it, he told himself. Dial it and find out. You need to know this. You’ll need to warn Ruth if this is going to happen. She deserves as much. He sat down on the edge of the chair and dialled the number. The phone began to ring. ‘Lindsay?’ asked a voice. In little more than a whisper Mitchell said, ‘Is that Hugh?’ ‘Yes. Who’s this?’ ‘Mitchell Granville.’ ‘Oh, I’m sorry, you sound like your brother sometimes. What’s wrong?’ ‘Is he with you?’ ‘Who? Lindsay?’ ‘Yes, Lindsay, my brother.’ ‘No. Why?’

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‘Is he downstairs? In his flat?’ ‘No, he’s … why are you … Look, I’m sorry, it’s 3.30 in the morning over here.’ Mitchell pressed the telephone’s receiver hard against his ear. ‘I just need to know where he is.’ ‘Bridgetown,’ said Hugh. ‘Where? Oh.’ ‘He came over on the flight I booked for him,’ said Hugh. ‘Then he picked up some extra clothes and left the next day. He didn’t really say much to me. It was just a quick chat. Quite odd, in fact.’ ‘When is he coming back?’ ‘Lindsay knows Lindsay best of all,’ said Hugh. ‘I think I could do a pretty good job of it,’ said Mitchell, not entirely believing himself. ‘Well, that’s more than I can do.’ A pause. ‘I’m taking myself up north to my godmother’s place in Geraldton. Going to have a break. The last few weeks have been too much. You Granvilles are a tough lot. I don’t know what makes you tick. I don’t understand what you are on about. You complicate things. I’m too old for complication. Maybe the bunch of you need to be hit by a bolt of lightning or something.’ Mitchell looked along the hall to the front door. For a moment he felt sorry for his brother’s friend. It was obvious Hugh’s affections for Lindsay were considerable. Yes he doted, but was there really anything wrong with that? Hugh wanted to be involved, he wanted to relate — that’s just what human

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beings do. Perhaps it doesn’t matter who is who and what is what when you’re an ageing man. You just want company. Yes, we just want company. ‘Hugh,’ said Mitchell, ‘do you have the number down there? The Bridgetown one?’ ‘Of course.’ ‘Well, could you give it to me?’ After a moment, Hugh said, ‘Hang on.’ Mitchell heard Sarah cough in her bedroom. He hoped she wasn’t about to leave her room for a drink of water or to use the bathroom. This wasn’t the time to clarify anything. There had been too many twists and turns since June to explain it all with just a few spoken words. This wasn’t a legal case, there were no clear rules, no overarching principles, no precedents, there was no one charged with the responsibility of making a decision. This was a family matter — chaos. A shaman manages chaos, he doesn’t control it, he loves it. ‘Are you there?’ Hugh said. ‘I think this is it.’ ‘Just a second.’ Mitchell grabbed the notebook and the pen lying next to it. ‘Tell me what it is.’ He wrote down the number. ‘Thank you. Oh, and Hugh?’ ‘Yes?’ ‘All the best.’ ‘Yes,’ said Hugh, sounding startled. ‘And you too. Goodbye now.’ Mitchell used a finger to hang up. Three-thirty in the morning in WA or not, I have to call him. Lindsay mightn’t be on his way, but then again I’ll only know for sure when I’ve

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heard his voice. He dialled the new number. He turned around to face the wall. He hunched his shoulders like a man trying to shield himself from a bitter wind. ‘Geoffrey speaking,’ said a voice. ‘Good morning. Is Lindsay there?’ ‘Who’s speaking?’ ‘He’s there, then.’ A pause and a sigh from down the end of the line. ‘I’ll see if I can wake him for you, Mitchell.’ Again Mitchell heard Sarah coughing — God, she couldn’t be getting the ’flu, could she? He felt the cold, hard wood of the hallway chair press into him. ‘Is that you?’ asked Lindsay. ‘What are you doing?’ ‘What do you mean, what am I doing?’ ‘Where are you?’ ‘I’m here.’ ‘Bridgetown?’ ‘Yes, that’s where you’ve rung me.’ Mitchell swallowed. ‘You’re staying there?’ He heard the sound of Lindsay breathing. There was no wet, raspy chest. The wheezing was gone. ‘Why are you ringing at this hour?’ asked Lindsay. ‘Is anything the matter?’ ‘I need to know where you are.’ ‘Four thousand kilometres away, big brother. Four thousand kilometres away.’

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‘I thought you were coming back here. To live with me.’ Lindsay didn’t respond. ‘What was all that stuff about jumpers and mountains?’ Again Lindsay said nothing. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Lauder’s?’ ‘I haven’t been sending those bloody letters to The Green all these years just because I’ve run out of space over here, you know.’ ‘What’s the reason, then?’ ‘You.’ ‘What?’ asked Mitchell. ‘You.’ ‘Why am I the reason for a few people to send a couple of letters to each other?’ ‘You sound threatened,’ said Lindsay. ‘I’m asking you a question.’ ‘A threatened man threatens.’ ‘Go to hell, Lindsay.’ ‘I’m there and loving it.’ ‘And so you should.’ ‘Love and good health are in the south-west of Western Australia, I know that now.’ There was another telephone silence. Mitchell hated them, hated them. In a quiet, more guarded tone, Lindsay said, ‘You say that I should have aligned things a bit better. But don’t you think that’s a little hard to do when you’ve been asked to hide yourself or leave?’

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Lindsay didn’t allow Mitchell the opportunity to respond. ‘After we both returned from the war,’ he said, choosing his words carefully, ‘when Dad was starting his stint as Deputy Premier, he told me he couldn’t cope with my lifestyle. Of course I protested. He said that if I didn’t advertise the fact that I wanted to live this particular life, then he could try to cope with it, if I kept it quiet. But it was so much more than that.’ It sounded as if Lindsay had practised what he was saying, that he always knew his actions would lead to this. ‘I endangered Dad,’ he continued, ‘because I was prepared to get arrested for wanting to save a house or a patch of forest or a bunch of whales. I wasn’t just different, I was politically different, I wanted to be an activist. There’s not much difference between being a unionist and an activist, to dear old Harold at least. I just wanted to exist publicly. So he put some money in my account and told me to live however I wanted, but to stay out of his way. He never asked you and Mum and Ruth to follow suit — it was only my relationship with him that couldn’t exist while he pursued his own public life. But you all immediately assumed that it was the same for you lot, that all of you had to distance yourselves as if you too would end up on the front page of the papers. Particularly you. Particularly you, big brother.’ ‘But I remember a conversation where he told us all to follow him,’ said Mitchell. Nausea welled up inside him again; it felt as familiar to him now as telephone silences and dreams of platforms. ‘Dad said that your lifestyle was not appropriate.

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You said you wouldn’t change, so he told you to leave. He told us it was your choice and therefore you had to live with the consequences, that we’d all need to distance ourselves from you, all of us, he said that, he required it.’ ‘A conversation like that never happened.’ ‘But I remember it.’ ‘I can tell you that there was no such conversation. Dad and I talked mostly behind closed doors. You all just assumed it was for you three as well. But that was never his intention. Even he said it was only temporary, just for the duration of his time in politics.’ ‘But I …’ ‘Mitchell, there are no buts. The way I tell it is the truth. You all just obeyed him, especially you.’ ‘Why especially me? We all did it. Mum and Ruth too.’ ‘No, especially you. Because you were the one who would always do whatever he told you to do. Whatever Dad did and said, you would follow. If he told you to walk in front of a semi-trailer truck right now, you would do just that.’ ‘Forgive me for sharing my surname with my father.’ ‘And you know what? Beneath all these second-hand clothes and empty platitudes, this bad hair and terminal coughing, I’m just one big screaming Mr Granville too.’ ‘I’m not sure you’re a proper Granville, Lindsay.’ ‘Whatever. For my first twenty years I, like everyone else, would have given you what you wanted. But you could never deal with me. You could deal with Ruth, but not me. I was a fun-loving, gregarious kid. You hated that. I argued

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with our mother and father. You hated that. I went to the war and lasted longer. You hated that. I wasn’t going to follow the Granvilles into the mire of the law. You hated that too. I think Dad was a little put off by me, but he did it more for you. Because your jealousy would have made you lose your mind if I had stayed around. He separated us.’ ‘You’re a conniving bastard,’ said Mitchell. ‘Our family’s Australian royalty.’ ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’ ‘We’re at the top of the food chain. White, AngloSaxon, Protestant men born and bred into the top rung. We’re it, there’s no one above us. We’re white pointers. We should live off the beach of Cottesloe. Actually we’re more than white pointers, we’re gods. We’re both at the very, very, very top, except for decades now I’ve been trying to crawl my way back down again. But you’re right, no one cares about what Mum did in Adelaide — her books mean fuck-all in the scheme of things. No one will worry about Dad. So there’s a family estate at Mount Bellstay, a retreat for those who’ve found the North Shore too wild, too busy. But we’re just frauds like most people. That’s not a class thing. It’s just what living is all about. And Mr and Mrs Harold Granville were not protected from it, no matter how hard they tried. You’ve put them on pedestals, particularly Dad. No one else might want to know about us, but we should know about us. Who really is the proper Granville?’ Mitchell stood up. ‘You’re just a bloody conniving bastard.’

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‘I needed to con you otherwise it wouldn’t have happened. You know that.’ ‘A fucking conning bastard.’ ‘Come on,’ said Lindsay. ‘All you lot are the same.’ ‘What lot?’ ‘You lot can’t be trusted.’ ‘Oh, come on, big brother, you know you’re …’ Mitchell moved the receiver away from his ear. He heard the muffled voice of his brother calling out. He stared at the bone-coloured plastic handset: it had always seemed at odds with Main House’s sense of history. Lindsay called out again: ‘Please, Mitchell.’ There was desperation in his voice. Perhaps he’d realised he had gone too far, one step beyond what normal, average good citizens thought was reasonable. Slowly Mitchell put down the handset, he hung up the line and he could hear Lindsay no more. He stared at the front door — a solid piece of timber, dark in colour, so much so it looked black. There still wasn’t much morning light yet, just the murkiest blue hue that seemed almost malicious. Despite yesterday’s hectic sense of preparation and the expectation of the new day before them all, the house seemed to have lost its pulse, knocked flat on its back. A shape. Somewhere in the corner of his eye. Wearing a white nightdress. Thick grey hair spread across the shoulders. ‘I haven’t

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slept properly for a week because of you,’ said a voice, a woman’s voice. Ruth’s voice. Slowly Mitchell turned his head to look down the hall towards his bedroom. ‘I was just …’ ‘Are you happy yet?’ ‘… ringing my friend over in …’ ‘You have no idea, Mitchell.’ ‘… Western Australia who’s been having …’ ‘For goodness sake, give it up.’ Ruth took a step forward. ‘Give what up?’ Mitchell stared at her. ‘Just because your middle name’s Harold doesn’t mean …’ ‘When was the last time you were in Lauder’s place?’ asked Mitchell. ‘What’s that got to do with this?’ He looked at her face. He knew he could break her if he wanted to. ‘When was it?’ he asked again. There was more fright in his voice than anger. ‘When were you last inside that place?’ Ruth briefly looked behind her as if expecting to see her daughter standing there. ‘I’ve been in there once when Dad died,’ she said almost whispering. ‘But it was only a quick visit, only a few minutes. I was with the Coroner, I had to do it. I never want to go in there again.’ ‘You’ve kept in contact with him.’ ‘With whom?’

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‘Don’t play games with me.’ Ruth wrapped the cardigan around her tightly and crossed her arms. ‘Yes, I have written to Lindsay on and off. I tried to persuade him to come home. At least just for a visit. But he never would.’ ‘It was Dad who asked him to leave,’ said Mitchell. ‘Dad was trying to save you.’ ‘I’m going to bed.’ ‘It was all because of you.’ Mitchell walked towards his sister. ‘I’ve tried to fix it,’ said Ruth not getting out of the way, ‘believe me, I’ve tried. But it’s impossible when you are so hard to talk to. Everyone finds it difficult. Poor Sarah gets a few words out of you, but only because she puts in the effort.’ Mitchell didn’t need to hear this. He brushed past his sister. ‘All of us just want you to be you,’ she pleaded. ‘You’re not Harold Granville. You’re Mitchell Granville. And that’s good enough for us. We don’t want you to go the same way as Dad. We’re trying to save you.’ He felt a hand reach out and try to squeeze his fingers. By accident he touched the smooth, moisturised skin of Ruth’s hand. He almost stalled.

18.

Near the beginning of his life he used to put his head down on his school desk during history classes and listen to the textbook facts. 1813. Blaxland, Lawson and Wentworth. Three men bravely navigated their way through the impossible ranges west of Sydney. For another twenty years, however, the Blue Mountains would remain free from permanent European hands. William Govett, a young surveyor who documented his journeys, wrote that they had to travel through almost impenetrable scrub. Mitchell would try to imagine the native bush being hacked away, torn apart and beaten, the newcomers making clearings for their dwellings in a strange, ancient place. He knew of a grove of trees down by the old timber mill. They were called Antarctic Beech. His father told him it was the only place the trees grew other than Tasmania — apparently it proved Mount Bellstay had

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connections to prehistoric places. The boy Mitchell wondered if the mountains’ first landowners ever saw dinosaurs. Now in his Main House bedroom, he looked through the window. Pure blue — he knew this type of sky only ever happened in his part of the world. He stepped out of bed. He showered and then dressed himself in front of the mirror. He made sure his bow tie was straight, his well-pressed white collars even; Sarah alone deserved as much. For longer than he needed to he ran a handkerchief over his black shoes. They looked perfect when he was finished with them. In the kitchen, Ruth ignored him. Sarah greeted him, then in a pleasant enough voice said, ‘Where were you last night, Uncle?’ ‘Out walking,’ he said. ‘Feeling a little anxious for you. This is an exciting day.’ Lying seemed to be becoming a habit. Sarah looked at him as if she felt concerned for his welfare. ‘There’s porridge on the stove,’ Ruth said and left the room. Paul and Lara were the first to arrive, of course. Their two daughters, the immaculately dressed Rebecca and Jane, had brought along their boyfriends; someone should have told the boys to comb their hair. Then came Amanda, bright as summer sunshine — ‘You’re looking really well, Dad’ — and her husband Joel, with his saggy-eyed expression that suggested he’d rather be dozing in a hammock. Morrison and

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Cale, the twins, looked uncomfortable in their matching darkgreen suits. All of them, the family, stood together in the kitchen, chatting, catching up, laughing, the noise of it like hundreds gathering for the opera. ‘How was your trip over west?’ Joel asked Mitchell, making conversation. ‘It’s a nice city.’ ‘I reckon Western Australia is a very healing place. I lived there for three summers. I found the people were rarely ever sick. Such a healthy lot. Must be all that ocean and sunshine. A great place for a relaxing holiday.’ Mitchell turned away from his son-in-law. He saw on the mantelpiece the mail he’d left on the kitchen table — had someone forgotten to tidy them away in a drawer? At the bottom of the pile was the thick envelope from his landscape architect. He stared at it. It now seemed like nothing more than an envelope, just another piece of mail. And he’d now seen more mail then he would ever need to. He looked somewhere else. Mark and Tanya arrived just as the family was collecting itself in the dining room. Tanya told Mitchell that Brandon was driving up by himself, being such an independent soul and all, and getting more and more so by the day. ‘There’s a good spirit in that one,’ said Mitchell. ‘What do you mean?’ asked his daughter-in-law. Her hair was short, almost shaved, and the large earrings and lack of make-up gave her the look of a woman who knew her powers.

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Mitchell considered his words, chose the right ones, got them in the correct order, tried them out in silence before speaking. He wanted to say, He’s lucky — he’s got the good spirit, not the bad spirit. But that had complications, ramifications, links to other people, people who couldn’t be acknowledged. ‘I’m sure he’ll do well at whatever he decides to do.’ All of them sat down, ready to eat. Ruth and Sarah, one woman the day’s director, the other the star attraction, joined the table. Remarkably they were still in jeans and shirts. Everyone congratulated Sarah on her hair. It had been gathered into a perfect scroll on the top of her head, but two wisps had been allowed to tumble down her temples. Somehow she looked both younger and more elegant. Her face flushed pink as she humbly informed them she had done it herself. On the table Louise and Bobby laid out bowls of seafood pasta and salad, fresh bread too. Bobby poured out champagne for everyone, then asked the adults whether they wanted a glass of white wine as well, a semillon, Hunter Valley, perfect for the season. The adults said yes. Mitchell ate slowly, listening to the babble made by his children and their spouses and his grandchildren. It was true: put them all in one room and it really did seem as if this was the only time each of them were allowed to talk. Just before 3pm Ruth, now looking officious in a stark white suit-coat and knee-length skirt, announced it was time. Everyone was to get a move-on. Paul and Lara drove Mitchell

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to the church (rather conveniently their daughters and boyfriends had decided to walk). In the car Paul and Lara made small talk about the beautiful weather, how spectacular the swathes of daffodils and jonquils and bluebells looked in the gardens, and whether the car’s registration had been paid. Mitchell sat in the back seat, watching the avenues of trees pass by his window. The Mount Bellstay Memorial Anglican Church was indeed an odd building, a rather ugly blend of small gothic cathedral and fibro garage. Century-old tree ferns, looking like ceiling fans stuck on top of street lights, defended the grounds — the lawns appeared to be made out of moss rather than grass. A handful of graves rested to one side. Mitchell didn’t go over to the headstones. He knew who was buried there, a man and a woman who’d been married years before, and then, in accordance with their wills and testaments, buried beside each other. Harold and Elizabeth. Harry and Liz to some, apparently. They were unknown to most, including their family, including each other. Or did the two of them know about each other’s lives? The wedding guests looked every bit from Sydney. Hats and gloves, waistcoats and cummerbunds. Good hair, expensive hair, extraordinary hair. The men stood around talking to each other as if still in the board room, protected by hands in pockets and extended bellies. The women, in a multitude of colours, showed off how much they could afford with false modesty. The church filled quickly. It too was dressed to the nines. Bunches of white and yellow flowers had been fixed to

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the ends of the pews with ribbon. There were two enormous floral arrangements at the front of the church. Sarah’s husband-to-be stood with his groomsmen on the tiny stage, all four of them turning around every few moments as if expecting to be gunned down by a sniper. Then finally Sarah appeared: she had a beaming smile, but there was also a look of relief, as if she knew it would all be over soon and she could be just another person again, not a bride, just someone else. The minister welcomed the gathering, and then, in a voice that was candid about the fact he did this for pocket money, gave a short, safe sermon. The vows came — I do; I do — then the ring, the kiss, and the end. More than once during the service, Mitchell had looked back to the main doors of the church. He needed to see if there was anyone there who looked as if they had been poured into a frock before getting lost on their way to the Melbourne Cup (a description he soon discovered fitted at least half of the women). He didn’t find the person he was looking for, and he felt glad. He wondered how soon it would be before one particular conversation, a Baxter’s in Bathurst conversation, would be out of his mind. How soon it would be before one particular holiday, the one in Perth and on a train that had crossed a country, would be forgotten. He knew it was all about waiting. His days had been about waiting for some time. On the return drive to The Green, Paul looked at his father in the back seat. ‘Are you all right, Dad? You seem a little quiet today.’ ‘What more could you want?’

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‘I’m sorry?’ said Paul. ‘Never mind.’ ‘If you need anything, just let us know.’ ‘I will.’ Mitchell spotted Lara, who was driving, check him in the rear-vision mirror. Yes, she understood her powers, she knew what she was good at, knew how to tell other people what they were good at too. His son was in good hands and this pleased him. Amanda and Mark were similarly well looked after. Is that it? he asked himself. Is that all I’ve had to do? Set them up? It did seem right, but somehow it was also wrong, shallow, empty. He looked at Paul. He wondered whom his eldest son now most resembled. Paul used to look like Irma: slight in stature with sandy-coloured hair. But when the boy reached his teenage years he began filling out, soon becoming as tall as his father, reaching a six-foot figure. He’s looking more like you every day, dear, Irma had said to him. And looking like you means looking like Harold. Back at The Green, catering staff meandered around the lawns passing around champagne. The flutes had been engraved: John & Sarah, the Eighth day of September. Every guest, except children of course, would have a souvenir of the day; no expense had been spared. Family and friends trailed the wedding party through the gardens, standing back, watching, sipping on their champagne, commenting on the sun’s warmth or the dress or the fantastic Blue Mountains setting. Soon everyone filed into the marquee and began grazing on

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Sydney’s finest traditional wedding cuisine — a banquet of roast lamb or beef. Seafood it wasn’t, but did anyone really mind? The Master of Ceremonies was someone Mitchell hadn’t seen before. Sarah’s heart surgeon father, George, garbled his way through a speech no one could hear. John’s father, a Chief Executive Officer of an iconic Australian company, said a few words as if asking for staff support for his latest merger. Mitchell stared at his sister. She looked dutifully mute, listening to the comfortably drunk words glorify Sarah. She was smiling like never before. He couldn’t allow himself to begrudge her anything. The day was a success in every possible way. It was even successful in a way she didn’t even know — Lindsay was miles away and, so it appeared, that was how things were going to stay, whether she liked it or not. She was a living, breathing goddess of marriage. But where is Dad in all of this? Yes, where’s Dad? March 1982. The 28th. Mitchell had just arrived in Brisbane where he was to assist a judicial inquiry when Irma rang him — Harold had been found in Lauder’s place, slumped over the side of the bath, the water’s heat long gone. Mitchell left his hotel room and walked along the river. He didn’t think, his brain felt shut down, closed up, turned off. He stopped by a massive fig tree. Nailed on its trunk was a label announcing its common name — Moreton Bay Fig — and its botanical name, which Mitchell soon forgot. Its huge buttress roots made places in which children could play; there was no

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grass growing there, just dirt, some empty chip packets and a soft-drink can. He wanted to sit between the roots, press himself against the tree. The Coroner was brought in because of the hint of suspicious circumstances, at least those circumstances of a selfinduced nature. But after a week of investigation and analysis it was concluded that, at the age of 92, in the depths of winter in the mountains, it didn’t take much for unnecessarily hot water to stop the beating of a frail old heart. Natural causes were the words on the death certificate. A State Funeral was held a week later. The evening news showed archival footage of Harold heading down the steps of Parliament House in the city, walking into a bank of journalists to announce his resignation. It was winter and he was wearing a long, black winter coat, his signature black squatter’s hat, black scarf, black gloves. He looked like a country preacher. If anyone had famous last words in a job, it was Harold Granville. Honesty is not usually the stuff of politicians, he said, but I can honestly tell you that I have become a bored politician. And as a citizen of this brilliant country I believe that there is nothing worse than that. So an opportunity now exists for someone younger, keener, wiser. And I’m off to spend time with my family. With that he walked down the remainder of the stairs and got into his waiting car. Mitchell could recite the words, the exact voice inflections, the pauses — for years people asked him to do the impersonation at various dinners, at Easter family get-togethers, at Christmas time. But no one asked him to do it after Harold died.

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Now he saw Fricka Bathing, bright white, almost starched. Still naked, still trying to dry herself with one hand. And she hadn’t stopped looking shy, perhaps she was more bashful than ever — one wall of the wedding marquee was barely six feet away. Mitchell recalled the large yellow envelope at the bottom of the pile of mail in the kitchen, the one with drawings of a water garden. What on earth am I to do about that? Do I really want to see that thing built? Do I want to construct something that may well end up derelict and clapped-out like the one out at Mira? At this late stage do I have the energy to make something worthwhile happen? Perhaps I could arrange for Fricka’s companion piece to be brought from Mira to The Green, and then both could be installed at the lookout that gazes into the wilderness. It was an appealing thought, but he was starting to see the pattern, the one everyone was pointing out, the one about following, following one particular man, down to the way he dressed, the way he talked and smoked cigars — the way he even tried changing the bloody earth. Did he really want to see the water garden built? No. Fricka would stay where she was, exposed, waiting for people to leave her alone. And Wotan, the sculpture out at Mira, would remain where he was, waiting to topple into the reedy water at his feet. Send the landscape architect a cheque for services rendered to date, decided Mitchell, include a quick thank-you note and that would be the end of that.

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Away from Fricka was the vegetable garden, the one he and Louise had worked on in autumn. He saw the spread of lucerne, once yellow but now grey and decomposing. He remembered the conversation with Louise, the unexpected talk about the lost art of letter writing. Without that talk, Mitchell wondered, without that hour of gardening, would any of this have happened? The wedding would still have come about no matter what, that much was true. But Lindsay? And the train trip through Adelaide and Bathurst? He looked around the marquee for the van Hopetouns. He found them sitting at a table of people he didn’t recognise. Bobby and Louise seemed to be fitting in easily as if they were family. But they weren’t family, could never be family, should never even want to be part of this family, surely they knew that by now. He watched a woman talking to Louise; seconds later, Louise tore a corner off the Order of Reception. Then, with a pen from her handbag, she began writing something down. She handed the scrap of paper to the woman, the two of them nodding and smiling as if conspiring against a guest. It reminded Mitchell of when he had asked Louise for Lindsay’s address and she had returned the next day with all the information he’d needed. Although he didn’t understand much about the Internet, he had wondered how she had obtained the address when there was no sign of a computer in Lindsay’s flat. Was it simply a matter of walking down to Lauder’s place and opening a particular cupboard? Letter writing is a lost art these days, don’t you think? she had said.

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A simple conversation starter? Or a few sunny words hiding a darker plan, cooked up by someone who wanted to interfere, part of a whole team who wanted to make something known? Mitchell looked at Louise. She was smiling away as if she had never had a bad thought in her life. He knew at that moment he would not confront her. He wouldn’t accuse her of plotting against him. Yes, she was a good woman, pure and loyal to a fault. And Bobby was a good man. Their job had become one of looking after him, and they carried it out to the full extent of their abilities — if there was only one thing Mitchell knew, it was this fact. It seemed to him that if he didn’t bring all this to bear on Louise’s shoulders, that if he kept his perhaps wayward suspicions a secret, he might redeem himself. When the speeches ran out of steam, waiters handed out desserts. Mitchell tried to latch on to the talk at his table but the afternoon was fast becoming evening — the light was losing itself quickly — and he felt tired. He leant towards Paul. He said he was going to get some fresh air. Paul looked at him and smiled, then said he would make sure no one sat in his father’s chair. ‘Are you sure you’re okay, Dad?’ ‘Yes, Paul, I’m fine, thank you.’ Mitchell left the marquee and walked to the front steps of Main House. There seemed to be more of them than he had ever noticed. They were sandstone and of convict origin — 130 years of use had worn each down in the middle. He hadn’t

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before been aware of the need to watch where he put his feet on the steps, but that is exactly what he did this time as he climbed up to the front door, and a climb it was. As he opened the door, he heard their words. Give it up, said Ruth. For decades I’ve been trying to crawl my way back down, said Lindsay. Even Hugh: You Granvilles are a tough lot — maybe the bunch of you need to be hit by a bolt of lightning or something. Grab the lamp, Mitchell told himself, leave all this to the others. Slip away.

19.

Someone’s little girl was staring at him. He wanted to talk to her but before he found the right words she sprinted out of the room, as if she’d suddenly realised that before her lay a ghost. It was evening now. Sharply defined shapes moved around the bedroom. He saw the dark-timbered chest of drawers, and Menzies on the bedside table next to him. He heard what sounded like an aeroplane taking off — the noise of a hundred people talking, yelling, dancing through the tail-end of a wedding reception. Oh, Lord, I never made it out of Main House. Mitchell lifted himself off the bed, grabbed the hurricane lamp and the box of matches, and without lighting the lamp he left the house through the back door. Being careful to remain in the parts of the garden that weren’t

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flooded with light, he slowly wound his way around to the path that would take him through to Granville Lane. He stepped onto the bitumen and paused to light the lamp. He could still hear the wedding reception. He lit the lamp and began walking slowly along the middle of the laneway. The evening’s chill seeped between his clothes and his skin; he hadn’t picked up his father’s coat and hat. He looked down at his slow steps, saw the expertly pressed suit pants (the van Hopetouns would always be expert at everything they did) and the polished black shoes, both coloured a kind of yellow by the lamp. He looked up. Ahead was a soft glowing light. A light? Why is there a light? There should be no lights at this end of Granville Lane. That’s not right. Where am I? He turned around, but there was nothing but darkness that way. There won’t be any lights where I’m going, he told himself silently. He began walking in this new direction, towards the darkness, but realised quickly that the noise from The Green was now on his left. It needs to be on my right if I’m trying to find Lauder’s place. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said aloud, ‘what’s going on?’ He stopped again. Make sure the reception noise is on the correct side and just get there. He turned around and began walking in his original direction. Each step he took felt

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heavy, each step seemed to take far too long. But they were moving him in the right direction, towards Lauder’s place. Surely his feet were taking him towards Lauder’s. As he got closer he saw it was true — a deep yellow glow was bleeding out across the bitumen. And it was coming from Lauder’s. Someone had turned the lights on inside the place. Getting closer Mitchell smelled the burning of pine needles, half acrid like a chemical, half sweet like perfume. He walked up to the cottage, he faced it, he looked through the dirty and cracked glass panes beside the front door. A fire had been lit in the hearth, the room was filled with light. But he saw no one. He found the side gate and walked to the back door. It was partly open. ‘Hello?’ he called out quietly. Cautiously he opened the back door and stepped inside. He heard nothing except the crackle and snap of the fire — perhaps the thing had only recently been lit. He walked up to it. Someone had placed a screen in front of the fireplace. He checked both bedrooms but saw only boxes and tools and planks of wood. He opened the cupboard with the letters. The lamp lit up the shelves of tightly packed envelopes. ‘Hello?’ he called out louder. ‘Who’s in here?’ Mitchell walked into the kitchen. On the table were two bottles of red wine and a tray of what looked like dessert from the wedding. Pavlova, caramel slice and two small pieces of wedding cake; the white of the icing shone at him as if it

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was plugged into a generator. Plates and cutlery. Two glasses of water. ‘Come on, who’s here?’ He was almost shouting now. Still no reply came. He looked back at the wine. The two bottles of wine. Red wine. And the tray. The food was packed on it as if someone didn’t know the meaning of restraint, that if something was worth doing well it was worth overdoing. Overdoing. That could mean only one person, a man whose middle name should have been Excess. Mitchell allowed himself a kind of excitement, he let it gather and roll together, building, building. But it didn’t build for long. Bobby, he realised. He’s a kind man, he’s looking after me. Mitchell found the couch. He blew out the lamp and then lay himself down. He turned his head to watch the flames. He could no longer hear the jetting din of the reception, and this pleased him greatly. He closed his eyes. Sleep is always a pleasure, no matter what has happened, or is happening, or is about to happen. Wait and the caretaker will take good care. Thank God for Bobby van Hopetoun. ‘I sleep so much these days,’ Mitchell said to whoever was listening. In a yard where plants were not sacred, where if one was accidentally broken there wouldn’t be trouble, the two of them gathered old branches, wedging them in tree trunks, making a strong triangular frame. They layered smaller ones across, then even smaller ones the opposite way. He knew that

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no matter how secure it looked it would never be able to hold the weight of two boys, perhaps not even one. Regardless, he climbed up the tree. He put one foot on the platform. Then another foot. It held for a moment. Look at me! he shouted. You can see so far from the top of the world! Then with a crash he crumpled onto the ground beneath. ‘Are you all right?’ ‘No,’ Mitchell said, ‘I think I’m hurt. I’ve sprained …’ ‘Are you okay?’ He opened his eyes. He was inside Lauder’s place. Inside Lauder’s place. He sat up a little. The eiderdown from his bedroom in Main House had been spread across his body. He blinked quickly. Someone slowly sat down in the armchair beside the fire. He watched as the face came into focus. A black suit. A dark blue shirt. But no neck tie. Brandon. Mitchell sighed. ‘What are you doing here?’ ‘Bobby told me where I’d find you.’ ‘Yes, thank God for Bobby.’ ‘This place was a bit cold, so I lit the fire. I’ve brought dessert. I could get it for you now if you like. I pinched some wine too.’ ‘Oh, a glass of wine would be lovely.’ ‘Um, I forgot to get glasses, though.’ ‘Well, we’ll drink from the bottle.’ Mitchell had never drunk straight from the bottle but he didn’t care now. He put his head down on the couch’s

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armrest. He heard sounds of kitchen drawers being opened and closed. His grandson returned and sat down in the armchair, a bottle in one hand, two white mugs and a corkscrew in the other. Expertly, almost dramatically, Brandon opened the bottle. He poured out the wine and passed over a mug. ‘Thank you,’ Mitchell said sleepily, raising his mug slightly into the air. ‘Cheers, I guess.’ ‘Yes cheers, Grandfather.’ Brandon’s voice was almost a whisper as if there was someone else in the house beyond just the two of them. He sipped at the wine. ‘I’ve never been inside this place before.’ ‘The garden’s always been a great spot,’ said Mitchell. ‘I used to play here when I was little.’ ‘So did we all. Scores of us Granville boys did.’ ‘And girls,’ said Brandon. ‘Boys liked it more.’ ‘I don’t know about that.’ The fire popped and hissed. Both of them stared at the flames. Mitchell took a drink from the mug. He thought about the cottage they were in. He could sell the place for a pretty penny. Surely a Sydney family would snaffle up this rare opportunity to secure a piece of Mount Bellstay real estate, get their hands on their own slice of weekend heaven. They’d probably demolish the building and the garden, all of it was too far gone now to be restored, and soon the acre would be just a levelled patch of red basaltic soil. But what would happen if the new landowners ran out of money and a new

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house was never built? What would naturally begin to grow in the soil? Eucalypts, wattles and flannel flowers? Or daffodils and jonquils and bluebells? ‘Brandon?’ he said eventually. ‘Yeah?’ ‘We’re old news.’ ‘Sorry, Grandfather?’ ‘We’re old news. Like this mountain surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of miles of ghastly national park, we’re not meant to be here. Not anymore.’ Mitchell wasn’t sure what his next words were going to be, but he didn’t worry. He just let them come when they were ready. ‘There was a Granville who came to Australia at the end of the eighteenth century.’ ‘The convict?’ said Brandon. ‘Do you know his name?’ ‘No.’ ‘Lindsay Brandon Granville,’ said Mitchell. ‘He ended up becoming a bush solicitor.’ ‘My middle name’s Lindsay,’ said Brandon. ‘I know. I chose it.’ Brandon sat back in his chair. His two hands clutched the mug as if it was a warm drink. ‘What’s this convict dude got to do with me?’ ‘I’ve decided that rebels are the best thing,’ said Mitchell. ‘Do you think I’m a rebel?’ Mitchell took another sip of the wine.

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‘Why do you think I’m a rebel, Grandfather?’ ‘Obedience breeds loneliness,’ said Mitchell. This was something he now knew like the exact weight of his body. ‘I arrived at the wedding late,’ said Brandon. It seemed he wanted to talk about something else. ‘But I just never quite got into the spirit of it.’ ‘I wonder what sort of spirit it was?’ Frogs began croaking in the water tank. Brandon said, ‘I thought I should tell you that I’m not sure about horticulture or any of that gardening stuff.’ ‘No?’ asked Mitchell. ‘You’re thinking of the law?’ ‘I think I might travel for a bit, maybe for a year. See what happens.’ ‘Whatever we do,’ said Mitchell, closing his eyes, ‘let’s live our own lives.’ There was a long pause. ‘You look like you’re moving in,’ said Brandon jokingly. Mitchell didn’t respond. ‘Can I sleep here?’ asked Brandon. ‘I don’t feel like being in Main House tonight.’ With the wine and the fire and the blanket and his grandson sitting in the armchair opposite, Mitchell felt his heart pump slowly within his chest; he knew one day it would have to stop. Possums began attacking each other on the corrugated iron roof. ‘Brandon, I don’t feel like being in Main House either.’

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Mitchell Granville woke before dawn. He needed to use the bathroom but it was dark and he didn’t want to move. The toilet wasn’t far away but to get there meant going down a series of outdoor steps around the back of the house, and that wasn’t going to happen without enough light — no one might hear him if he were to fall. What day is it? A taste of red wine lined the insides of his mouth, his eyes felt dry and sore. In the armchair opposite was a shape sitting upright, its head leaning to one side. He heard a soft snoring. It’s a Sunday morning in September. He focused harder on the shape in the chair. He recognised who was with him. ‘Thank you so much,’ he whispered. He dragged his legs out from beneath the blanket. He was still wearing the black shoes; what remained of the fire’s glow reflected in their shine. He stood up slowly, feeling stiff and out of shape. Being careful not to make a noise he took small, uncertain steps out of the room. He squinted to see the end of an armchair or the start of a wall. He walked onto the hallway runner — if he stayed on it he would eventually find himself at the back door. He stood in the cold, damp mountain air outside Lauder’s, relieving himself over a stone retaining wall. He looked up into the sky. Blue-black. What must have been cloud made some patches darker. It’s only just morning but it feels like twilight. He repeated the word in his mind. Twilight. How strange — the beginning of the day felt like the end. Relax a bit. Yes, just relax a bit.

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It came to him then. Totally came to him. He was no saint, of course he wasn’t. He was an Australian barrister, a husband, a brother, a father, a grandfather. And at each of these things his performance had been flawed in one way or another. He had failed where he should have succeeded, but had succeeded where he should have failed. He may have been hard to talk to, he may have expected too much from those around him, he may have spent too much time in his mind. He may have followed where he should have let go. And he may have let go where he should have followed. He lived in a place surrounded by wilderness and that was no place for anyone. He lived on a mountain, but no one can live on mountains forever. Some considered him unknowable, like God. Others thought his powers were godlike. Really he was just a man with old fortune in his veins. But there was one thing this Granville man had been good at: being faithful to the only person he had ever loved. He had never strayed from her. Never let himself be taken away from her. He may well have been old news, he might have been on the way out. But he had no secrets, he had lived only one life, and surely that counted for something. He thought of Lindsay thousands of miles away, possibly in a house — no, not a house, a shack, perhaps something similar to Lauder’s. Lindsay with his Irma, a good man called Baddersly. Enjoy it, my brother. Mitchell thought of the platform in his dream, jumping through, cutting himself, seeing what he needed to see. What was over him, above him,

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on the other side. Just air and sky, oxygen, then no oxygen. Then coming down, all the way down, back to earth. In the twilight morning, Mitchell finished doing what he had to do. The cold was beneath his clothes. He shivered. He checked his collar — it was buttoned up, and the bow tie was still there except it now seemed to be at an angle. He went to return inside but stopped. He saw the simple outline against the gloaming sky. He knew there was no telephone inside the weatherboard cottage, there wasn’t a television either. For neighbours there would be the frogs in the ivy-covered concrete water tank and tick-ridden possums in the dying windbreak of pine trees around the side. There were bush rats too, if he cared to consider them. To get water, there was the hand pump just outside the kitchen. If he needed a hot bath, he would have to light the fuel heater in the bathroom. A hot bath, with water so hot it will sting. The thought of it made his body feel warm, as if his blood could run wild into the mountains around him. Yes, he knew he was going to enjoy himself.

PANDANUS BOOKS Pandanus Books was established in 2001 within the Research School of Pacific and Asian Studies (RSPAS) at The Australian National University. Concentrating on Asia and the Pacific, Pandanus Books embraces a variety of genres and has particular strength in the areas of biography, memoir, fiction and poetry. As a result of Pandanus’ position within the Research School of Pacific and Asian Studies, the list includes high-quality scholarly texts, several of which are aimed at a general readership. Since its inception, Pandanus Books has developed into an editorially independent publishing enterprise with an imaginative list of titles and high-quality production values.

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