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First published in 2016

Copyright Elise McCune 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in
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PROLOGUE
Castillo de Sueos, 1935

Vivien and Rose Blake rushed out through the heavy front
doors of Castillo de Sueos, yelling to their mother theyd be
home before dark. Too late Vivien remembered shed promised
to help Ma in the propagating shed with the orchids and lacy
maidenhair ferns, but all day the rich scent of wild honeysuckle climbing over the loggia had drifted through the open
windows, and now that lessons were over, outdoors beckoned
irresistibly. Feet barely touching the mosaic tiles, the girls ran
across the loggia, down the wide stone steps, and across the
lawn towards the rainforest.
Vivien had spent her childhood exploring the rainforest
with her younger sister. Both girls had been born in Ireland,
the cold, rainy place of their mothers stories. Vivien was three
years old and Rose only a baby when theyd left, their mother
fleeing her violent, drunken husband. The only home either
girl had ever known was this castle in the rainforest.

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They knew every ancient tree, the names of every flower

and bird. They had learned to swim in the natural pool under
Mena Creek Falls. Together theyd hurry down the staircase
from the castle to the patio, and dive from the board into the
cool water. The creek rose in the mountains, flowed down
from the high country and wound its way through virgin
rainforest before plunging over the falls to the pool below.
No matter how far the girls roamed they never lost their way,
because every path eventually led back to Castillo de Sueos.
As she ran, Vivien glanced up at the clear blue sky, hoping
thered be a storm tonight. In the wet season, the nightly deluge
of rain could become a lashing storm in an instant. Storms
seemed more thrilling when she crept into Roses bedroom
and, crouching close together on the window seat, they gazed
out into the shadowy night. Vivien loved the eerie silence
before the wind got up, and then the onslaught, thesilvered
palm fronds thrashing wildly, the rain a crashing cacophony
against the castle walls. She had even tried a few times to
photograph the lightning coming out of black clouds. Ever
since shed received a Kodak Box Brownie camera for her
ninth birthday, Vivien had been fascinated by photography,
and had fallen in love with the effects she could create when
she processed the film in her darkened bedroom. Her favourite
photo was the one shed taken of Rose on the swing with her
hair flying out behind her. When Vivien had considered the
black and white print, she saw that after so many attempts
shed made a photo she was happy with.
They ran down the escarpment, jumping over quandong
berries for the fun of it, and along the kauri avenue. When
theyd passed the stands of golden bamboo they slowed and

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continued at a steady pace. Parrots, bright splashes of colour,

squawked and flew ahead of them.
Race you! cried Rose suddenly.
Vivien grabbed Roses hand and held her back. Lets go
to the belltower.
Rose frowned slightly. Ma told us not to go there again.
That was because Harry said it might be unstable. He didnt
say it was unstable.
Their stepfather, Harry, was kind and thoughtful, but when
hed spoken to Vivien last month and banned them from
going near the belltower his voice had carried a stern note.
Still . . . Ma said not
Oh, she wont know . . . if we dont tell her. Vivien looked
narrowly at her sister.
Rose pondered this for a moment, and then nodded. Okay,
its our secret.
Vivien dropped Roses hand. They ran along an overgrown
track with a canopy of arching branches from which birds
sang out piercingly and down into a gully. To Vivien, the
gully, always cast in cool green shadow, was the loveliest place
in the ground.
Rose tugged on Viviens arm and they paused. Ive been
reading about the Aztecs in the encyclopaedia, she said. They
lived in a jungle like we do.
I know that.
They had a secret ceremony, ablood ceremony, said Rose,
pulling out her sharp herb-gathering knife from the sheaf
attached to her belt. Lets have a blood ceremony. Theres no
one Id rather mingle my blood with than you.
In spite of herself, Vivien laughed. Their mother supervised
their school lessons that came in the post. Theyd never had a

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chance to make friends with any of the local girls who attended
Mena Creek Public School and, with no cousins, Vivien and
Rose relied on each other for companionship.
Rose, theres no one else to ask.
Sitting down on a fallen log beside the shallow stream
that ran through the gully, Vivien brushed a few jumping
ants off her legs. Rose nicked her own thumb and handed the
knife to Vivien. And although it was supposed to be a solemn
ceremony, they couldnt help giggling when they pressed their
thumbs together and swore loyalty to each other. They waited
for a few minutes before they crossed over the stream and
scrambled up the other side of the gully.
Nearly there, said Vivien.
Before them, on the top of a small hill, lay the sunlit ruins
of St Theresas church that had been destroyed by a cyclone
the previous year.
Vivien tried to avoid stepping on the wild bees in the starry
white flowers sprouting between the gaps in the old stone path
that led to the lychgate.
The day was glorious. Little birds darted in and out of
the thick foliage of the ancient rainforest trees; everything
was lush and green. Overcome with sudden happiness, she
glanced sideways at Rose. Today her cloud of chestnut hair
was secured at the back of her head with a pale green ribbon
and her cheeks were flushed a rosy pink.
Mrs Patterson, the postmistress at Mena Creek, often
remarked Rose was going to be a beauty. And while last week
shed complimented Vivien on her lovely eyes and her long
black hair, adding kindly it needed to be cut and curled, Vivien
knew it was a half-hearted comment. Nonetheless, shed been

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secretly pleased and had felt like an American movie star for
the rest of the day.
Its a full moon tonight, said Rose happily.
At ten years old, Rose still loved full moon nights; these
were special evenings when their mother read the tarot and
told them tales of long ago Ireland when you could easily
find a changeling on your doorstep or meet a goblin on a
country road.
I just hope Ma lets me go to bed early, said Vivien. Dont
tell anyone, but Im reading Lady Chatterleys Lover.
Whats it about?
You wouldnt understand, Vivien said distantly. Its a
grown-up book. Now that Vivien was almost twelve, she felt
that childhood was a long way behind her. She loved romance
and found it in paperback novels and the womens magazines
their mother subscribed to. It was another world she could
slip into to dream about the future: abrightly coloured place
with no shadows, perfect in every way, and she was at the
very heart of it.
I would. Can I read it after you? Rose asked boldly.
No, Ma would have a pink fit if she found you reading it.
Perhaps when youre older.
Okay. Rose shrugged, unconcerned.
Vivien lifted the latch of the gate and they hurried past the
church ruins to the belltower that had miraculously survived
the cyclone except for smashed windows. It was their secret
hideaway, aplace of enchantment, and Vivien had no intention
of obeying their mothers directive to stay away from the mosscovered structure.
The late afternoon air, hot now as any fire in the distant
cane fields in the burning season, was heavy with moisture

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and Vivien could feel the desolation of the place that had once
been a gathering place for the local parishioners.
She lingered near the belltowers arched entrance with its
heavy wooden door hanging open, suddenly nervous because
she was meant to look after Rose. Vivien longed to go inside,
but what if the belltower collapsed while they were in it, and
Rose was hurt? Shed never forgive herself.
Come on, said Rose.
Vivien didnt move. She felt a prickling sensation. The
breeze strengthened and the birds in the rainforest fell silent.
She glanced at Rose and then looked up at the belltower
covered with moss and hung with tangled vines.
The Spanish immigrant whod built Castillo de Sueos
in the early twentieth century had also built the church and
the belltower. Harry, who knew the history of the castle,
had told them the Spaniard welcomed all denominationsto
StTheresas, most likely in the hope of converting them tothe
Catholic religion.
It was a square three-storey brick building with rectangular
windows on each of its sides on the first two levels and a
graceful spire reaching to heaven, which over the years had
become slightly askew. On the top level, the bell chamber
had open arches on each side to let the sound of the bell ring
out, each one with a narrow balcony surrounded by a wooden
balustrade. To Viviens right was a horse-watering trough filled
with leaf fall and rainforest debris.
Taking a deep breath, Vivien wished for once shed listened
to their mother, and not brought Rose here today. Then she
ran her fingertips along the strap of her Brownie. The last time
they were here Vivien photographed some of the headstones
in the little graveyard behind the church ruins and Rose had

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glued her favourite image on the cover of her latest scrapbook:

amarble woman with a crown of cracked flowers on her head.
Today Vivien wanted to photograph the interior of the bell
chamber, although shed have to make sure Ma didnt see the
developed images.
No, said Vivien, still hesitating on the threshold of the
arched doorway, unsure what she should do, until pride in
her ability to look after Rose made her take her sisters hand
and step inside, the humid, heavy air rushing to meet her.
The days sun passing overhead had warmed the bricks of
the walls but a general smell of mildew and rotting leaves still
pervaded the sultry air. Atangle of thick vines had crept over
the sills of the elongated, empty windows and now climbed
rampant up the walls.
Vivien led the way and they started up the narrow wooden
staircase, treading carefully to avoid birds nesting on the stairs
and a few rotted steps. Be careful Rose, she said. As they
climbed the steps to the bell chamber, they passed the landing
where the bell rope hung.
Compared to the lower levels of the belltower, the bell
chamber with its open arches was airy and bright. The fear
Vivien had felt earlier disappeared and she looked around
the familiar room, her mind ticking over the possibilities for
making photographs.
Oh, Viv, I forgot. I found this for you in the gemstone
shop, said Rose, taking a small parcel from the pocket of
hershorts and handing it to Vivien. Its for your birthday,
she said excitedly.
Shouldnt you give it to me tomorrow?
I couldnt wait. Its for your collection of stones.

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Opening the brown paper wrapping and untying the string,

Vivien smiled delightedly. It was an opal stone: grass green,
with a touch of blue, and shaped like a heart.
Thanks, she said.
Did you know opal is considered a water stone because
as water runs over rocks it eases the transition to a new life
regardless of obstacles?
I didnt know that.
Thats what Ma told me.
Vivien hugged her sister. Its lovely.
The air was redolent with the scent of native jasmine. Rose
was with her. The day was perfect.
Roses face glowed with pleasure. She enjoyed finding
unusual stones to add to Viviens collection. And she was
good at it: reading books on gemstones, fossicking in the
rainforest, finding treasures in the window of the gemstone
shop in Cairns.
Viv, youre not going to a new life, are you?
No, of course not.
The opal felt warm in her hand and Viviens eyes were
drawn to the small alcove, to the right of the bell, with its
secret compartment. It was empty when shed discovered it by
accident a few months ago and shed wondered if the Spaniard
had hidden his gold there.
Ill leave the opal here, said Vivien. The full moon shining
on the tower will cleanse the opal.
Rose giggled. You sound like Ma.
I guess I do, said Vivien, with a grin.
She wrapped the opal again in the brown paper, tied it with
the string and made a perfect bow. Well come back and get

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it in three days, she said, slipping the parcel into its hiding
place. Three was the magical number in fairytales.
Happily she turned around. Rose was out on the balcony,
both hands on the railing, gazing out over the rainforest. Chill
air rushed in through the arches; Vivien stood still, hardly
daring to move. All the fear shed felt earlier came back to
her. Shed been on the balcony herself the last time they came
here. Rose was perfectly safe. Yet Harrys words echoed in her
head: Might be unstable.
Wed better get going, she called lightly.
Dont you want to take some photos?
Shaking her head, Vivien smiled at her sister as she came
inside. No, not now, the lights a bit diffused.
Okay. Race you to the bottom, cried Rose, and running
across the room to the top of the stairs she started jumping
down two steps at a time.
Vivien, close behind her sister, straight away saw the rotted
step with a birds nest on it.
Look out, Rose, she called, standing completely still.
Rose couldnt stop. She managed to jump over the birds
nest and hard onto the step below and, for a moment, Vivien
relaxed. Then she heard the sickening sound of splintering
wood, saw Rose lose her footing, and tumble down the stairs.
Vivien ran down to where Rose lay silent at the foot of the
stairs among broken timbers and cobwebs and leaves blown
in from the rainforest.
Opening her eyes she looked at Vivien, puzzled at first
and then in pain.
Oh, Viv . . .
Where does it hurt?

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Viviens mounting concern for her sister made her speak

more sharply than shed intended.
My ankle . . . said Rose, her brows drawing together. Im
sorry, well get into trouble.
No, Ill get into trouble, not you.
Vivien knelt down and stroked Roses forehead the
wayshe used to when Rose was little and had fallen over and
skinnedher knees or forked lightning had lit up the night sky
outside her bedroom window and frightened her.
Ill have to hop home, said Rose sitting up and looking at
her twisted left ankle.
No, replied Vivien. You stay here. Ill go and get Ma and
Harry.
Concern and pain flickered in Roses eyes. Dont be long,
its getting dark. And my side hurts, too.
She patted Roses hand. Youll be fine.
Vivien stood up and ran out of the belltower, past the darkening church ruins, and along the stone path to the lychgate.
Lifting the latch she stumbled through and sprinted down
the hill towards the shadowed rainforest track that led back
to Castillo de Sueos.

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1
HOMECOMING
Warialda, far north Queensland, December 2008

As the plane began its descent into Cairns airport, Itwisted up

my shoulder-length hair and secured it with the tortoiseshell
clip my mother had given me for my twenty-ninth birthday
last year. Ionly came home to Warialda in summer, usually
for no more than a week over Christmasto my mothers
great disappointmentbefore returning to Sydney to celebrate
New Years Eve with my friends. This year, though, I had
extended my trip by a week, hoping to spend as much time
as possible with Nan.
Warialda, an Aboriginal word meaning place of wild
honey, was the name of the tropical fruit farm in Babinda,
far north Queensland, where I grew up. It had belonged to
my fathers family, the Leightons, for three generations and
was one of the wettest places in Australia.
Closing my eyes, Irelaxed into the undulating movement of
the descending plane. In the year since Id been home last Id

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missed my family more than I cared to admit. Yet I wondered

if my mother knew she was part of the reason Id left home
almost ten years ago. Id asked my father before I decided to
move to Sydney why Mum was the way she was. Smothering.
Mum had been an older mother, thirty-four when I was
born, and had miscarried three times before. Shed developed
eclampsia the week before the birth and was in intensive care
for five days after. It had been necessary for me to be induced
and, while I was healthy, Iwas a small baby. And after her
own traumatic experience of giving birth and coming close
to dying, Mum had been fearful when shed held her fragilelooking baby for the first time; fearful the baby shed longed
for would die.
Her relationship with Nan is difficult, Dad had said. Shes
always felt Nan didnt love her. It made her determined youd
never doubt how much she loves you.
Life within my family was never easy, I thought as the
plane touched down on the tarmac. My mothers suffocating
behaviour and the uneasy atmosphere between Nan and my
mother had sent me spinning away at eighteen. Id known
almost no one in Sydney, had never lived in a big city, yet I
wasnt concerned, not with a new world of experiences waiting
for me. Iwas pursuing the career I loved, first studying photography, then finding an apprenticeship, and now working as
a freelance photographer.
I came out through the exit door and saw my parents
waiting in the crowd, my father looking relaxed with his hands
shoved into the pockets of his jeans, my mother glancing
anxiously at each of the emerging passengers. Mum saw me
first and waved enthusiastically.
Hi, Mum, Isaid, wrapping my arms around her.

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Stella, she said, standing back to look at me, tears in her

eyes. Its so good to see you.
One arm around me, my father grinned. At sixty-five
he was still a fine-looking man: thick silver hair, no midlife
paunch, lean like me. His eyes were as warm and kind as ever
as he smiled at me.
I laughed. Well, its good to be home.
I linked my arm through my mothers and we went over
to the carousel. Isoon spotted my distinctive red suitcase.
Pete, said Mum, pointing, theres Stels bag.
Dad hauled it off the conveyor belt before I could grab it.
He pulled it behind him, leading the way through the busy
terminal to the car park, where he swiftly stowed the suitcase
in the back of the Landcruiser.
As my father headed the car towards Mick Borzi Drive,
Iasked my mother how Nan was going.
Oh, shes fine, Mum said. Slowing down a bit . . . shes
eighty-three, remember.
My maternal grandmother, Rose Bailey, widowed a few
months before I was born, had moved up to live with us at
Warialda fifteen years ago. Nan was charming in old age but
she was always a woman who liked to be organised.
Before she moved up to live with us permanently, Nan
would come up from her small farm, Fernleigh, near Goulburn
in New South Wales, to spend her holidays at Warialda. When
I was small, if Mum was busy baking or gardening, it was Nan
who would pick me up and carry me around. Iloved the sweet
smell of her Evening in Paris perfume, and the softness of her
cheek when I touched it gently with my small hand. Later, as
a teenager, my heart always filled with tenderness and fear
when I gazed at her. Id thought then that she was so old that

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shed surely die soon, and it was a wonderful relief when she
kept on living, bright and beautiful. Now, as an adult, when
I hugged Nan goodbye I always held her tightly in case it was
for the last time.
Last year when Id been home I discovered, over a cup of
tea with my mother one rainy afternoon, that while she was
pleased Nan and I were so close, shed often felt excluded
from our conversations and the activities we shared. Nan, she
disclosed, had lavished the affection on me that she couldnt
give to her own daughter, and it had made for difficult relations between them at times. Irecall staring at Mum and in
a light voice I had assured her it wasnt true. But that night,
lying wakeful in my bedroom, Ihad thought about what she
had said and knew Mum wasnt mistaken. Ihad flown back
to Sydney the next day, but this holiday Id hint to Nan that
we should spend more time with my mother.
Id spoken to Nan on the phone two days ago. Id noticed a
reedy note in her voice, unpleasant to listen to, and worrying.
When I asked Nan how she was, she insisted that she was
perfectly well. Nonetheless, I was alarmed. I had already
decided that I wouldnt mention my concerns about Nan to
my mother; Ididnt want to worry her.
How about you, Stel? How was Vietnam? Dad asked.
Great, Ihad a good time.
And I had.
In my tote I had the Zippo that Alex Bertelli, a photographer from New York, had given me as a souvenir on my last
night. Astark memento of the Vietnam War, it was inscribed
with the chilling words: The only thing I feel when I kill is the
recoil of my M16.

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Alex and I had first met by chance in the lobby of the

Caravelle Hotel in Saigon when we were both checking in.
Wed exchanged a few words then about our reasons for being
in Saigon and discovered we shared the same profession. Afew
evenings later, wed caught up for a drink in the roof bar and
watched the pale moon rising over the city. Iwas attracted to
Alex, and sensed that he was attracted to me, but we didnt
hurry things.
After a week in Saigon, we flew to Hue, the old capital of
Vietnam. We hired bikes and cycled to the Citadel and the
Purple Forbidden City, within its walls. We strolled hand in
hand around the ruins, seeing everything through a haze of
heat, the hot air pressing around us.
One night we made love in a sampan on the Perfume River,
where flowers from the orchards upriver floated on the surface
of the water. The next day we walked across the Truong Tien
Bridge, asymbol of romance.
Early on the morning of my departure for Australia, his
head close to mine on the pillow, Alex ran his fingers lightly
down my cheek, and asked if he could keep in touch with
me. Icaught my breath, wavering, then finally smiled and
shook my head.
Alex looked into my eyes. Iwont forget you, Stella.
I smiled again and this time he smiled back.
We both knew in our hearts that these exciting but deadend flings would be left behind as the memories of them faded.
I thought a lot about Alex when I returned to Sydney. Id
enjoyed being with him but thered been something deeply
unsatisfying about our time together. It didnt come to me
straight away, as these things sometimes dont. With my
thirtieth birthday approaching, however, Icould see it clearly

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now: Iwanted to have something real, with someone whod

put his arm around me, draw me to him. Iwas finally ready
for someone to share my life with.
I didnt mention Alex to my parents. Instead I told them
about my photographic assignment for a travel magazine, in
the high-octane city of Saigon, the name by which its still
known to most, officially Ho Chi Minh City. The city is all
commerce and culture, full of life and vitality, and while Id
captured satisfyingly haunting images of colonial French villas
and art deco houses in shade and light, Iwas happiest with
the photos Id taken of everyday people on the street. Ialways
asked politely for their permission to photograph them, and
most agreed: one, abirdlike old woman standing behind a fish
stall, grinned at me with affection as I took the shot. It was the
best picture I took in Saigon, and I felt Id caught the crucial
element I tried to encapsulate in my photos: not an image of
the past or the future but a point in the universalpresent.
These days I travelled Australia and the world taking
photographs, always looking forward to my next assignment,
yet on my last morning in Vietnam Id walked the streets,
breathing in the smell of piquant spices, the sounds of traffic
and voices all around me, wishing I could stay longer.
Your old school friend Jack rang us when you were in
Vietnam. Hes a pleasant chap, said my father, interrupting
my thoughts. Turning onto the highway, he drove steadily,
past cane fields, paddocks speckled with grazing cattle, and
a little country cemetery enclosed within an iron-rail fence.
He rang you? Iasked, surprised andin spite of myself
pleased. Then unexpectedly from somewhere came a familiar
eagerness I hadnt experienced for so long.

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Jack Lucas, whod grown up on a sugarcane farm five kilometres down the road from Warialda, had moved to Sydney the
year before I did. Hed studied Media and Communications,
graduated at twenty-two with a Bachelor of Arts, and worked
for Fairfax Media for two years before becoming a freelance
writer. He was now published in major newspapers and
magazines around the world. It was years since Id seen Jack
but occasionally Id still type his name into my search engine,
wondering again what had happened between us.
Jack would have been a teenager when my father had
last seen him, with light brown hair that flopped over his
forehead, awide, determined mouth, and a hard body honed
by farmwork.
Dad nodded. He was kind enough to take the time when
he was visiting his family. His mobile number is on the fridge.
He left his number?
Yes, he asked after you. When I told him you were in
Vietnam, he said hed love to hear from you when you
gotback.
At school, Jack and I had been good mates. Not long after
Id moved to Sydney, Id visited him in his flat in an old
subdivided mansion in Kings Cross. My eyes ran over the
piles of books and the reproduction Renaissance Madonnas in
gilt frames hed started to collect. After that wed sometimes
go to a cafe in Kings Cross and pretend we were in Paris at
the Cafe de Flore, soaking up the artistic vibes from the past.
How Id missed him, Id thought at the time. He must
have sensed it, for one unforgettable spring day when we were
lying together on the grass at the Botanic Garden, hed raised
himself on his elbow and leaned over and kissed me, slow and
sweet. Startled by the feelings that erupted in me, Isat up.

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He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and it seemed as

though I was meeting him for the very first time, that wed
never sat together on the school bus, had sleepovers or helped
each other with our homework.
I was just about to return his kiss when his expression
changed. He looked embarrassed and it was as if a wall
separated us and we couldnt venture further.
Wed stayed another hour, uncomfortable and awkward,
discussing our future projects; then in the gathering dusk
we went along the Spring Walk and out of the garden. Jack
didnt hug me like he usually did when we said goodbye and
I wondered if he regretted kissing me. And after that we had
stopped seeing each other. Id felt hurt and upset when Jack let
our friendship end. When I didnt hear from him, Iconsidered
calling him. Inever did. Now, though, Jack was ringing the
house, asking after me. Iwondered what had changed.

In just under an hour wed turned off the public road and
through the open white gates of Warialda. We drove up the
long drive, edged with jacaranda trees in full leaf, and as
the two-storey stone farmhouse finally came into view, Isighed
with contentment. I always loved to return to Warialda.
Dad pulled up on the gravel in front of the house and I
took in the neatly swept boards of the wraparound verandah
and the large oriental planters with their blue and white vine
pattern, colourful with petunias, at the front door. The skittish
kitten Trey, whod grown into a large, handsome tabby in the
past year, drowsed on a window ledge. He opened his eyes,
stood up, stretched himself, and sat down again. Bees foraged

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in the pink climbing roses that smothered the verandah posts,

magpies sang, and the air, scented with eucalyptus, was sharp
under the clear blue sky.
As I stepped through the front door, Iinstinctively looked
from the hall into the living room, where Id expected to
see Nan sitting in her usual place by the window. The seat
was empty, and I was aware of a sinking feeling in the pit of
mystomach.
Nan said shed have a rest before we got home, said Dad,
realising Id expected Nan to greet me at the front door. She
probably dropped off to sleep and didnt hear us coming in.
Upstairs on the landing, Ipaused for a moment outside
her door. Then, not wanting to disturb her if she was resting,
Iturned and went into my own room. Nothing had changed
since Id been away. The curtains each side of the window
drifted softly in the warm air. On the dressing table, abook
I hadnt finished reading, the edge of the bookmark peeping
out, lay beside a bowl of fragrant summer roses.
Standing at the window, I gazed out at the familiar
view: the lawn at the side of the house dotted with Japanese
maples, the high stone wall leading to the vegetable garden,
the birdbath and the old-world roses. Further still, out of sight,
was the greenhouse. Tomorrow Id pick some of my mothers
heritage tomatoes, enough to make several jars of relish.
As I was unpacking my clothes and hanging up my new
dresses, sewn from silks and cottons by a Vietnamese tailor,
agentle knock sounded on the half-open door. My mother
hesitated a moment before she came into the room. Light
from the window caught the few silvery strands in her hair,
otherwise dark like my own, and showed the fine lines of age
around her eyes.

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Thanks for the letters, she said, gesturing to my desk.

Emails are lovely too, but when I open the letterbox and find
a hand-addressed envelope from you it makes my day.
I nodded, and glanced at the wooden box on my desk where
she stored my letters home. Iwrote a weekly snail-mail letter
tothe family and my mother carefully replied to each one.
Shed said she thought I might find them useful one day,
arecord of my travels. Or my children might like to read them,
shed added with a hopeful smile. Id never told Mum this,
but I reread her letters often, finding the everyday details of
their life at Warialda comforting when I was so far from home.
Dads in the living roomtea wont be long, she said.
The bangles on her arm jingling, Mum went out the door
and I heard her footsteps recede down the stairs.
When Id finished unpacking, I wandered back to the
window and gazed out. My eyes fell on the orchard, and I
smiled as I remembered Nan lifting me up to pull lemons off
a tree. It was one of my first memories.
I showered and slipped into a pair of jeans that Id left
here last year, pulled on a pale green t-shirt and sat in front
of my dressing-table mirror. I brushed my hair up into a
ponytail and, noticing the peridot studs in the jewellery tray
that brought out the colour in my eyes, Iput them in my ears.
Idabbed a little 4711 Eau de Cologne on my wrists, went across
the hallway, and knocked gently on Nans door.
She opened the door within seconds, dressed simply in
a pair of slacks and a white blouse, ready to go downstairs.
Stella, how wonderful to see you. She kissed me on the
cheek and then hugged me tightly.
Nan stepped back and Ilooked at her more closely then;
she seemed frail and tired compared to my last visit home,

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as though a gentle puff of wind might blow her slight frame

away. Iknew that Id been right to extend my holiday to spend
more time with her.
Youll have to tell me about Vietnam, she said.
It was a great trip, Nan. Ive plenty of photos to show you.
She smiled happily and turned her attention to the undone
top button of her blouse.
That would be lovely, she said, when the errant button was
firmly fastened. You are a wonderful photographer, Stella. Its
agift you have been given and gifts must always be treasured,
she said.
Oh, Idont know about that, Nan. Ijust keep taking pictures and some of them turn out okay. Come on. Mum will
be wondering where we are.

The next day was my birthday. I was born on Christmas

Eve, which could have been disastrous for a child, but Mum
had always taken great care to ensure that my birthday was
not neglected and presents were not combined. After dinner
we sat down on the verandah. The setting sun threw long
shadows across the garden and the paddocks beyond, and
lit up the lush cloud forest at the summit of Mount Bartle
Frere, Queenslands highest mountain, which lies behind
our farm.
Mum was strangely tense when she gave me her gift. Stella,
Ihope you like it, she said warmly.
I untied the bow and ripped off the beautiful wrapping
paper, exposing a vintage jewellery box in forget-me-not
blue velvet. Inside the box was an antique diamond brooch

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in the shape of a rose. The diamonds on the open petals

ofthe full-bloom rose glistened in the evening light flooding
theverandah.
Its beautiful, I said, not wanting to hurt my mothers
feelings, while thinking a diamond brooch was a very strange
gift for her to give me.
The brooch was certainly lovely, but it was too ornate for
my taste and very old-fashioned. Id never worn any brooch
before and I doubted Id ever wear this one. While I appreciated the gesture, Iwondered why Mum had given it to me.
She reached over and touched my cheek.
Thanks, Mum, Isaid. Where did you find it?
Her answer surprised me. She said it was her brooch,
abequest from a friend. It had lain in its blue velvet box for
more than five years, and she rarely wore it.
My mothers face was inscrutable; it was impossible for me
to tell what she might be thinking.
For a moment, there was an awkward silence around the
table.
It was given to me by an old friend, she said again. No
one youd know . . . Do you like it?
Yes, Iquickly replied. Ithought of my dislike of wearing
jewellery. I kept it simple: leather strap watch, a few silver
bracelets and stud earrings.
Mum kept her eyes fixed on mine. Iwanted you to have it.
I was a little confused by Mums intensity about the brooch,
but there was a suggestion of anxiety in her face, so I assured
her it was a lovely gift and Id always treasure it.
Nan didnt comment on the brooch, but she stared at it
quizzically, aslight frown on her face. Ever practical, she gave
me a voucher for David Jones department store that my father

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had purchased online for her. To buy what you really need,
she said.
Thanks, Nan, Isaid, kissing her soft cheek, glad she was
looking less tired than yesterday.
More to my liking than the brooch was the book my father
gave me, Ansel Adams: 400 Photographs. Icouldnt wait to
tear off its cellophane covering. Id admired Adamss photos
since Id seen the photos hed taken in Yosemite and the High
Sierra early in his career. Dad always gave me meaningful
presents connected to the art I love. He spent a great deal of
time searching for the gifts he chose, and inevitably they were
perfect. Iimmediately opened the book and started studying
the images, only looking up when my mother carried out
a spun sugar croquembouche with thirty lighted candles.
Nan smiled at my mother. What a beautiful cake, Linda.
Unused to compliments from Nan, Mums face flushed
with pleasure.
Nan stared at my mother for a moment before she turned
to me. Cut the cake, dear. Ilove caramel cream puffs.
I picked up the birthday knife with its red ribbon tied
around the handle and carefully cut into the cone of cream
puffs bound by threads of caramel.
We sat around the red cedar table in companionable silence
eating cake and drinking tea, and by the time the white bee
boxes were pale smudges at the end of the garden Id forgotten
about the brooch. Until, that is, Isaw Nan take it from its
velvet box. Holding the brooch in the hollow of her crinkled
palm, she gazed at it steadily for a minute or so, opening and
closing her hand, before she nestled it back into its bed of
watered silk and with quiet determination closed the lid, as
if she were shutting Pandoras box.

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When my father finished his whisky nightcap and rubbed

his eyes, and a cloud of insects drifted over the verandah
oblivious to the mosquito coils burning on the window ledge,
we retired to our rooms.
I wasnt tired, though, and lay in my comfortable bed, in
the lamp-lit room, gazing out the window, remembering Nans
expression when she looked at the brooch, which Id put in
the bottom drawer of the dressing table. Iwondered if she
knew who had left the brooch to my mother.
Id asked Dad about it when we parted for the evening
and he just shook his head and looked evasive. It wasnt as if
Mum had a lot of friends, or indeed family. There were some
family members on the Bailey side, but on the Blake side it
was just Nan with no other relatives who Id met.
Nan had grown up in Castillo de Sueos, acastle in the
rainforest about fifty kilometres from here. I recognised
in Nans mothermy great-grandmother, Ruby, who had
passed away before I was bornsome qualities I admired.
The Irishwoman must have had an adventurous spirit to leave
her homeland in 1926 and sail alone with her infant daughter,
Rose, to the other side of the world. It wouldnt have been easy
to start a new life in a strange country.
When Ruby arrived in Mena Creek shed met Harry
Blake, the new owner of Castillo de Sueos. Harry, once an
accountant in a city office, had come up from Brisbane in1924
and bought the castle and the surrounding thirteen acres that
year from the Spaniard whod built the castle in the early
twentieth century.
Ruby had obtained employment in the castle and the
position included accommodation. Early the next year shed
received a letter from her brother in Ireland informing her

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of the death of Patrick Devine, her husband. And with no

thought of mourning her loss, Ruby married Harry Blake in
the spring, the season of new beginnings.
Tragically, the castle was swept away by a cyclonic flood
in 1948, leaving the scattered ruins and a few broken structures to be enveloped by the rainforest. Nan had once told
me, in an unguarded moment, that Ruby had predicted a
cataclysmic event the day before the cyclone made landfall,
when the bees absconded from the hives she kept. That was
thestoryanyway.
Floods were not unusual in the area but loggers had
felled and trimmed the last of the giant cedars in the Mena
Creek catchment area, and the logs ready for transport to the
timber mill were piled up on the low ground near the creek.
The rising floodwaters lifted the logs into the stream and
they werecarried to the railway bridge upstream from the
parkwhere they banked up against the bridge creating a dam.
Ruby, remembering her prediction the day before, had
become anxious when the water coming over the falls dropped
suddenly; it then became a trickle and finally no water fell.
They nearly left it too late. Ruby, Harry and the staff who were
at the castle just made it to the high ground before the bridge
collapsed and a fifty-foot wall of water, carrying the huge cedar
logs, descended on the castle and the gardens.
Id first visited the ruins of Castillo de Sueos with my
mother when I was a child. Id had fun exploring the crumbling, moss-covered structures, but the next time we went I
was a moody teenager. Mum tried unsuccessfully to interest
me in her familys history and in the rainforest plant life.
Finally she gave up and we went back home to Warialda,

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with me declaring loudly I never wanted to visit the boring

place again.
I had no idea how long I lay there, thinking about the past,
and only when I heard the grandfather clock downstairs chime
two oclock did I switch off the lamp and close my eyes. As
I drifted asleep it was not Castillo de Sueos I was thinking
about but my childhood friend, Jack Lucas.

We had a quiet time on Christmas Day; Mum cooked Christmas

lunch: baked chicken and vegetables, and Nan made a white
chocolate snowball and strawberry trifle for dessert. Iset the
table on the verandah and Dad poured thechampagne.
After we finished our lunch we sat for a long time talking
until the cloud forest of the mountain darkened and a sudden
squall of rain drove us inside.
I switched on the lamps in the living room and Nan, taking
up her knitting, settled in her favourite chair.
Linda, aslice of that Christmas cake you made wouldnt
go astray, she said, not looking up from her knitting. With
a cup of tea, please, she added, tersely.
Mum, Ill do it, Isaid, noticing how shed jumped up the
minute Nan asked for tea and cake.
Nan looked up, opened her mouth to say something and
closed it again.
There must be a reason for the constant tension between
them, Ithought. Even when Nan had come up on holidays it
had been the samean underlying current of something not
quite right in their relationship that Id always found difficult
to understand.

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Dad, never one for conflict, must have sensed my slight

agitation and glimpsed the downhearted expression on Mums
face, for he smiled at her.
Linny, he said, in his slow country speech that masked a
sharp intelligence, that Christmas cake of yours is the best
Ive ever tasted.
Mum smiled back at him, alittle ruefully, but didnt say
anything.
I agree, Peter, Nan said to Dad while looking at Mum.
Lindas fruitcakes are delicious. Stella, make sure you bring
a plateful.
In the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, Ilistened to
the monsoonal rain pounding against the side of the house,
and heard the distant rumble of thunder.
I hoped Nan had thought about the way shed spoken to my
mother: adirective rather than asking politely. Idoubted it.
Returning with the steaming cups and a plate of cake
on a tray, Iplaced it on the coffee table. Nan put aside her
knitting to sip her tea. Her hand was trembling slightlyold
age, Iguessbut it was the way she gazed at my mother over
the top of her cup, aloving look, that made me feel she wanted
to tell her something, yet the moment passed in silence and I
realised I must have been mistaken.
After the family retired to their rooms, Iwent outside to
the verandah. The storm had passed and as I watched the
watery moon sailing across the sky I was reminded of one
of my favourite poems, The Highwayman by AlfredNoyes.
I kept looking up at the moon, remembering how Jack
and I used to walk from the school bus to his house or mine
reciting the poem and feeling sad for the ghost of Bess, the

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landlords daughter, who was doomed to plait the dark red

love-knot in her long black hair, over and over again,forever.
I walked through the garden to the edge of the moonlit
rainforest and glimpsed the light-drenched summit of the
mountain in the distance. Ilingered for a while listening to
night birds calling and soaking up the beauty of the night.
And then I went back the way Id come, thinking about
Jack and wondering if he was home for Christmas.

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Elise McCune was born in Sydney. In 1973, she moved

to Perth, where she raised her two children, Lisa and
Brett. Elise now lives by the bay in Melbourne. You can
find more information about Elise and her writing at
www.elisemccune.com.

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