Willa stamped the snow from her boots. She placed the bundle of letters on the cluttered mud-room bench and peeled off her coat and gloves.
In the kitchen, the warmth of the huge black Aga began to penetrate her frozen bones. She’d walked around the entire suburb; more than six kilometres – four miles, she mentally translated for Hugo as she filled the kettle. It amused and annoyed her in equal parts that she was still translating distance for her husband after nineteen years here. The British were so outdated. Kilometres made much more sense. There were more of them, for a start, so you felt better about how much exercise you’d achieved. And you could divide them by a thousand, so it was much simpler in all respects. Still, she’d chosen to raise her family here in Oxford, so she supposed she’d just have to keep on translating.
‘Mum, there’s nothing to eat.’ Hamish loped into the kitchen, leaned his six-foot-two frame down towards her and gave her an easy kiss on the cheek. Her little boy had taken up residence inside the body of a gangly stranger, and Willa was unsure why this sometimes made her feel like crying. It shouldn’t. She should be happy he could get things down from the top shelf for her. That he was alive, here in their kitchen, towering over her. Giving her a kiss, for goodness’ sake. How many teenage boys kissed their mother for absolutely no reason?
Hamish pulled open the fridge and stood staring at the shelves, sending waves of cold air towards Willa’s chair.
‘Close it,’ she said, suppressing a smile. ‘If you’ve already looked and can’t see anything, it won’t have magically restocked itself. I’m going shopping soon.’
He grabbed the box of Cookie Crisp from the pantry shelf and headed back out of the kitchen towards his bedroom. ‘Can you get some more strawberry yoghurt, Mum? And some orange juice?’
Willa heard his words from the end of the hallway, a moment before the sound of a banging door. He’d be on his computer, probably playing some shooting game with his friends that involved headphones and yelling at each other and, according to Hamish when he was helping her to see the positives, lots of teamwork to find and exterminate all the baddies. Yes, there were rivers of blood, and disturbingly graphic and gruesome killings, but it also involved plenty of lovely synergistic collaboration, thereby making it excellent for future career skills. So that put her mind at rest. Obviously.
Willa sighed. She was just glad he liked being at home. She made a mental note about the yoghurt and orange juice, then looked down again at the letters and began sorting through them. Most were for Hugo. Investment, superannuation, insurance. She stopped as she noticed her own name on the final letter. Underneath the postmark was an unfamiliar business name: Enderby Jones Lawyers, 31 Elliot Street, Burnie, Tasmania.
A letter from Australia. From lawyers. Willa felt a swoop of anticipation in her gut, followed by a vague hum of unease. The whistle of the kettle interrupted her thoughts, and she placed the letter gently on the table before pulling a mug from the cupboard. She had never travelled to Tasmania. She knew no one who lived there. Well, not that she was aware of, although by now she was bound to have an old school friend who’d needed a change from Sydney and had uprooted their family to move to the furthest southern corner of Australia to grow organic mushrooms or start an alpaca farm.
Willa adored those life-change stories in her favourite Australian Rural Style magazine, which arrived monthly in the post. So many photogenic families living the dream: children in crisp cotton dresses and pristine wellington boots running through wheat paddocks or climbing gum trees or stirring home-made jam on stovetops in glamorous yet casually styled designer kitchens.
She dipped the tea bag into the mug of boiling water and added milk as she considered the possible reasons for an Australian law firm to be writing to her. Her mind was blank. Her mother’s estate had been finalised eighteen months ago. She’d barely kept in touch with her cousins in Perth over the years, so they were unlikely to send her anything through lawyers. She couldn’t be being sued for anything – she hadn’t been back to Sydney since her mother’s funeral three years earlier. And she wasn’t a witness in anyone’s court case, as far as she knew. And they were Tasmanian lawyers, from a town she hadn’t heard of, so she really had no idea what they could possibly want.
She sat down at the table, digging her toes deeper into her Ugg boots. She pushed one frozen foot towards the Aga and with the other, rubbed Kettles along his black shaggy coat as he slept on his mat. She paused, trying to make her foggy brain think. No. Nothing. Her imagination had deserted her. She stared at the letter again and turned it over. No clues. She picked it up and in one quick movement ripped open the envelope and unfolded the thick sheaf of papers.
Dear Mrs Fairbanks,
Re: The Estate of Lillian Nora Brooks
Bequest to Wilhelmena May Gilmore Fairbanks
We act as executors for the estate of Ms Lillian Nora Brooks. Ms Brooks died on 15 November 2018, and enclosed is a copy of her last will and testament. As you will see, Ms Brooks has bequeathed to you a property, The Old Chapel, at 3 Lighthouse Lane, Sisters Cove. The property is a small converted church sited on a parcel of land of approximately three acres in the semi-rural beachside hamlet of Sisters Cove in Tasmania.
Ms Brooks knew that you had few ties remaining in Australia, and that you were resident in the United Kingdom, but it was her expressed intention that you visit the property before you make any decisions as to how you would like to proceed with respect to this bequest.
We are bound to advise you that there are two interested parties who would like to discuss purchase of the property from you, should you wish to sell it.
Enclosed are some documents that will need to be completed and witnessed, so that the title of the property can be passed to you in due course.
If you would like to visit the property and are able to travel to Tasmania, we would be happy to advise and assist you in this regard. Please confirm by return email that the following documents contain your full and correct details and provide us with your instructions. Please do not hesitate to contact the writer if you have any questions.
Yours faithfully,
Ian J. Enderby
Solicitor & Barrister
Willa stood up, her chair clattering backwards. Behind her, Kettles grunted and shuffled his shoulders before settling back to sleep. She looked nervously around the kitchen, as if someone might be watching her, waiting for her reaction, but it was empty and silent apart from Kettles’ gentle snoring. She picked up the letter and began rereading it. Lillian Nora Brooks. She knew no one called Lillian. Or Mrs Brooks. Or Miss Brooks, for that matter. She looked at the letter again. Actually, it was Ms Brooks.
Why would this woman – whatever her marital status – leave Willa a house? An old chapel? She scrolled through her mind, trying to drag up the names of religion teachers she’d known at school who might own a little church. People she’d met through her parents, perhaps? Her mother had had a religious aunt who had sent Willa fifty dollars and a white leather-bound Bible for her confirmation when she was fourteen. At the time, fifty dollars had been a small fortune, and Willa remembered spending it on a gorgeous floral skirt and a matching midriff top. Her mother had been horrified. It definitely wasn’t something she could wear to church. Although since they only went at Christmas and Easter, Willa didn’t think it particularly mattered.
Aunt Enid. That was the woman’s name. She’d lived in Darwin, or maybe Cairns. Somewhere up north and hot, and so far away that they’d never visited her. Willa had written a thank you letter and that was the last she’d heard of the woman. But surely Aunt Enid would be long dead by now. Maybe she’d had a child called Lillian Brooks, who’d grown sick of the heat and moved south. Although, now that she turned her mind to it, she remembered that Aunt Enid had been a maiden aunt. A spinster. The word conjured an image of a crinkly old witch; someone with a withered womb. It felt like a long shot – giving poor old Enid an illegitimate daughter in Tasmania.
She looked at the letter again and felt a tiny shiver run up her spine. Her shoulders reacted by jumping upwards. She shook her head, annoyed with herself for allowing a frisson of excitement to enter into the equation when the only logical conclusion was that the whole thing must be a mistake. Was bound to be! It simply didn’t make sense any other way. In a few weeks’ time, Hugo would be regaling their friends with the story at a dinner party, telling them how they’d sorted out a strange case of mistaken identity with lawyers on the other side of the world. The real Wilhelmena Fairbanks actually lived in New York, or Budapest perhaps (much more interesting). Willa imagined her namesake wandering down cobbled streets between medieval buildings, ducking into a trendy café to drink a hand-roasted single-origin coffee, leaning against the ancient brick wall and admiring the quirky light installation suspended from the thousand-year-old ceiling, all the while wondering why she hadn’t yet had news of her inheritance from Great-Aunt Lillian.
The discovery of the real Wilhelmena had been no mean feat, she could imagine Hugo saying as he topped up the red wine glasses and their friends exclaimed in appreciative awe, speculating about how such a screw-up could actually occur in this day and age of technology and data-checking. But wouldn’t it have been fascinating, they would murmur, if their Willa had actually been the Wilhelmena in question? Imagine that. A mysterious woman leaving you a house on the other side of the world!
Willa picked up the letter again.
Ms Brooks knew you had few remaining ties in Australia and that you were resident in the United Kingdom.
She shivered. The real Wilhelmena lived in the United Kingdom. And how on earth would a stranger know that she had few ties in Australia? And, now that she reread the subject of the letter and noticed her full name at the top, how likely was it that there was more than one Wilhelmena May Gilmore Fairbanks living in the UK? Gilmore was an odd middle name, passed down through the women on her mother’s side. Passed down, without fail, for many generations, to every daughter. Willa felt a heavy, dislocating sense of panic beginning to press in at the base of her lungs. Her arms started to tingle. She leaned forward and caught the table for support. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. It had been months since she’d had a panic attack. She dragged up the mantra she was supposed to use: Deep breaths, let your stomach expand. Remind yourself that everyone is safe and well. Remember that you can handle this. You’ve done it before. You can do it again.
She heard the back door open, then shut. She forced her eyes open and made herself stand up straight. There was the sound of stomping feet, then a brief pause before Hugo appeared around the corner and dropped his briefcase on the floor.
‘Hello, darling.’
‘Hi.’ Willa tried putting a normal sort of smile on her face while holding tightly to the table with one hand. She glanced down at the letter on the table, then back at Hugo.
‘What’s wrong? You’re white as a ghost.’ Hugo strode across the kitchen and put his hands on her forearms, trying to hold her gaze.
She looked down. ‘Fine. I’m fine.’
She took another deep breath, then picked up the letter and handed it to him. ‘I got this in the mail. Cup of tea?’
He began reading the letter, ignoring her offer of tea, and Willa slumped back against the kitchen bench, waiting for him to finish.
After a minute, he looked up at her, his head cocked to one side, his eyebrows drawn together. ‘Goodness. Who’s Lillian Brooks?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘A friend of your parents?’
‘Really, I don’t know.’
‘A distant relative, perhaps?’
‘Maybe.’
‘You said you didn’t have anyone left in Australia apart from your cousins in Perth, though.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Well who can she be, then?’
‘I don’t have a damn clue who she is, Hugo! Honestly!’
‘All right, darling, all right.’ Hugo put the letter on the table and came towards her, drawing her into a hug.
Willa stiffened as she tried to force back the burning tingle of tears, but Hugo pulled her tighter, refusing to let her go as she sniffed and pushed ineffectually against his chest. Eventually she slumped against him and breathed out.
‘Well it’s a mystery, but not one we can’t solve.’
‘What’s a mystery?’ Hamish stood at the entrance to the kitchen with an empty glass in his hand.
‘Your mother has inherited a house in Australia from someone she’s never heard of,’ said Hugo, as he finally let go of Willa.
‘No way!’
‘Yes way.’ Hugo picked up the letter again, taking a second look before handing it to Hamish.
Hamish scanned it. ‘Holy shit!’
‘Language,’ said Willa irritably. Her head was beginning to throb with the telltale aftermath of her almost-panic-attack. She supposed she should be dancing on the table. What sane person wouldn’t be after finding out they’d just inherited a house? Except they didn’t really need the money it might bring. And she’d quite like to know why a strange woman – who had obviously done a fair amount of research on her – had singled her out from across the globe to inherit a house in a town so tiny she’d never heard of it.
A church, for pity’s sake. She wasn’t even religious. And in Tasmania. All she knew of the smallest and least populated state of Australia was that it was generally cold and was full of forests and people who loved to bushwalk. They were probably all lovely people, but if she was being honest, Willa didn’t really enjoy bushwalking all that much. She knew it was the sort of thing people like her were meant to enjoy – fit, environmentally focused people. She considered herself a prime candidate for enjoying a bushwalk; she was a strict devotee of recycling, she had a worm farm, last year she’d bought an electric car, and she did like to walk. It was just that she preferred to do it on the streets, and within mobile reception range where at all possible, so she could download podcasts to listen to as she paced out her kilometres, later to be translated into miles, all within shouting distance of lots of other humans in case she should fall and twist her ankle, or require directions or a quick stop for a cappuccino.
‘You must have heard of her somehow, Mum,’ Hamish was saying.
Willa looked across at her beautiful boy and noticed a large pink pimple that was forcing its way out from underneath the stubble at the corner of his lip.
‘Mum?’
‘No. I haven’t,’ she said sullenly.
‘Let’s look at it on Google Maps,’ said Hamish, striding past her and across the living room to the family computer on the antique writing desk in the corner. He plonked himself onto the leather chair and began tapping furiously at the keyboard. Hugo followed him.
Willa felt an odd reluctance to make the letter into any kind of reality, but after a few moments, she joined them anyway.
After Hamish had clicked a few times, a patchwork quilt of green and brown paddocks came into view. They butted right up against the vast blue-green ocean. Small clusters of houses dotted the edges of the narrow laneways and roads that divided the paddocks. Every so often a blackish oval delineated a dam or a lake of some kind.
Willa realised she was holding her breath.
‘Go on Street View,’ said Hugo.
Hamish clicked a couple more times and a photo of an uneven hedge and a postbox appeared. To the right of the picture, the edge of a small white weatherboard building with a dilapidated paling fence could be glimpsed. It was partially surrounded by a garden full of colourful plants. In the background, a paddock swathed in white appeared to hold some sort of crop.
‘Let me see,’ said Willa. She pushed Hamish’s hand off the mouse and manoeuvred the photograph around, but all she could see were trees lining a narrow dirt road, and an ocean backdrop stretching into infinity. She spun the photograph around and landed in the branches of a tree. ‘This is silly.’
‘Do you want me to show you the rest of the neighbourhood, Mum?’ asked Hamish, easing the mouse out of Willa’s hand.
‘Sure,’ said Willa, annoyed that she was so inept.
Hamish flew over the tops of the trees and within a few seconds had stopped at a lavish-looking garden and large house. ‘Mansion’ might have been a more appropriate word given the scale of it, except that it looked to be made from weatherboard and brick and there was a certain casualness of style. It had the feel of a grand farmhouse. Around it were several other buildings.
‘Check out the neighbour’s place. Very fancy,’ said Hamish, sweeping the mouse across the length of the property. Willa counted four of five outbuildings and cottages. At one end were symmetrical rows of trees in what looked like an orchard, and formal gardens surrounded the house.
Before she had a chance to comment, Hamish moved the mouse again and they were flying across a stretch of white sandy beach below a smattering of beach houses. Directly in front of the sand, the colour of the ocean changed from a deep blue-green to a pale sparkling aqua. He moved the mouse onto a larger building that edged the shore and was set away from the other houses. A label popped onto the screen: Sisters Cove Farmgate Café and Lifesaving Club.
‘Lifesavers. Cool!’ said Hamish.
‘It does look rather idyllic,’ said Hugo, rubbing his hand up and down Willa’s arm.
‘Mmm,’ said Willa, feeling oddly discomforted. It felt impolite to be staring into people’s back yards, and really, the whole thing was too much to take in. She stepped away, leaving Hugo and Hamish zooming across the screen, exclaiming at the remote, picturesque village and surrounding farmland.
She needed to get something for dinner or they’d be forced to eat Hugo’s famous bacon omelette again, and she wasn’t sure she could stomach that. She looked at her watch and closed her eyes, realising she’d missed Antonio’s closing time and wouldn’t be able to serve their gorgeous artichoke and quinoa lasagne for dinner as she’d planned. She’d have to make do with a Tesco ready meal instead. She had no energy to cook. Lillian Brooks and her silly church house. A wave of foreboding made her shiver and her head throbbed. Still, headache or not, she needed to go shopping. Tesco it was.
‘I’m going to the supermarket,’ she said. She picked up her keys and handbag and headed towards the mud-room.
‘What about this house, Mum?’ asked Hamish. ‘Aren’t you going to ring the solicitor to see what you can find out?’
‘It’s night-time in Tasmania, Hame. I’m pretty sure he’s not waiting by the phone.’
‘Be careful, darling, the roads are icy,’ said Hugo. ‘Would you like me to go? You look a bit peaky.’
‘I’m perfectly fine,’ said Willa. I, Wilhelmena May Gilmore Fairbanks, am perfectly fine. She closed the mud-room door as her breath began to come in short, shallow gasps, the air receding just out of reach of her lungs. She held onto the bench top. Everyone is safe and well. Everything is all right. Deep breaths. Remember you have experienced this before and you will survive. Everything is perfectly fine, perfectly fine, perfectly fine.
Except Willa knew that it wasn’t.
‘I’ve finished Elm Cottage.’ Indigo dropped the mop bucket on the hallway floor and stepped towards Annabelle’s desk, flicking her dark-blonde hair away from her face.
‘Great. Now I need you to take those flowers to the annexe, then help me set up the chairs in front of the arch, please,’ said Annabelle.
Indigo wiped her hands on her elephant-print harem pants, then dipped her hand into her pocket. ‘Found this under the cushions on the day bed. I reckon it’ll fit me. The woman who checked out looked about my size.’ She grinned at Annabelle, holding up a black lacy G-string like a prize.
‘Eww,’ said Annabelle, grimacing. ‘Surely you’re not going to wear it?’
‘Why not? It’s designer.’ Indigo grinned and stretched the panties across her groin.
‘Right,’ said Annabelle, swallowing hard. ‘Waste not, want not, I guess. I don’t suppose she’ll ask for them back will she?’
‘Nah. Reckon she’d be too embarrassed. No one wants to admit they had sex on your couch, do they?’
Annabelle felt a bit queasy. ‘Did you check the scatter cushions were clean?’
‘Yeah, all done.’
Indigo grinned and strolled towards the door, and Annabelle felt a pang of jealousy at her unhurried, relentless positivity. So much Zen on what could only be a stress-addled day. One that could be the start of Annabelle’s new and incredible career, or could sink her before she’d even begun. She could feel her heart zinging in her chest already and it was only ten a.m. She needed to pace herself. The wedding wasn’t until four.
‘Annabelle, have you turned the water off?’ Pete, her farmhand, stood in his socks at the door of her office.
‘What? No! Is it off outside?’
‘Seems to be. I just tried the kitchen tap too. Nothing.’
‘Blast,’ said Annabelle.
‘Want me to check the pump?’ asked Pete.
‘Would you mind? I can’t think what would have tripped it this time, but you’ll need to prime it. Or something like that.’
‘Righto. Robbie used to do it, so I’m not the expert, but I’ll look up the instructions on the internet.’
‘Lord save us,’ muttered Annabelle under her breath as she followed him towards the door. She thought about all the reasons they would be needing water between now and the end of the wedding. Flowers, cleaning, showers, hand basins, washing-up, drinking water. Bugger bugger blast. The bride and her party were already in Bay Cottage getting ready. The hairdresser, the make-up girl – they’d all probably need water. And definitely flushing toilets. And the ceremony was taking place in front of the water feature. Double blast!
‘Let me know when you get it going,’ she called after him.
She felt a little panicky flutter in her stomach and picked up her running sheet, nervous energy buzzing through her. The phone rang and she fished it out of the oversized front pocket of her gorgeous new denim apron.
‘Annabelle Broadhurst speaking.’
‘Hi, Annabelle. It’s Kevin here from Barry’s Bus Line. I’m in your side lane near the entry gate. Just wondering if you’re around. I’ve got a bit of a problem with a tree.’
‘I’ll be there in a minute, Kevin.’ She ended the call and looked across at Indigo.
‘Bus problems now. Brilliant. Luckily I love a challenge!’ She rolled her eyes comically and Indigo laughed. ‘Actually, Indi, you’d better take some water bottles down to Bay Cottage. Be super-apologetic and tell them the water will be back on in a minute. Maybe leave the flowers until after that.’
Annabelle hurried towards the front door, conscious of her loud, heaving breaths as she balanced herself against the balustrade to pull on her boots. Her pants bit into the rolls of her belly and she sighed loudly again, a combination of frustration at the unwanted problems of the morning and annoyance at herself for having eaten most of the packet of mint-chocolate biscuits last night. Not a brilliant start to her new diet.
Outside, the perfect blue sky and sparkling ocean views across the paddocks made her stop and take a calming breath. A perfect mild summer’s day. That was one good thing, at least.
She glanced across at the dirty white weatherboards of The Old Chapel. Its wild garden framed the endless blue backdrop beyond. The grass on the verge of the lane needed mowing. She would have to send Pete over in case the bride wanted photos near the barn with the ocean in the background. Farm chic was apparently the latest and best in photo opportunities. She supposed Lillian’s now neglected garden would fit the theme if it made it into the shots.
Lillian had been gone for a couple of months now, but it had been a shock for all of them when the contents of her will had come to light this week. Annabelle wondered yet again about The Old Chapel’s new owner. Wilhelmena Fairbanks. She didn’t even live in Australia. How was she supposed to contact the woman? Today wasn’t the day to worry about it though, she supposed.
At the gateway flower beds, masses of dark pink dahlia heads were swaying in the breeze. Beyond that, down the pebbled driveway, the back end of a tour bus was poking out from behind the boundary hedge. As she reached the laneway, Annabelle gasped. A huge branch from the old maple tree was slung in a monstrous leafy mess alongside the bus. A man – Kevin, she presumed – was rubbing his hand along the bus door. The shattered wing mirror dangled pathetically from exposed wires.
Stay calm. Be in control. You are now a professional wedding ceremony host.
‘Good grief. What happened?’ she asked.
‘Oh. G’day,’ said Kevin. He looked at Annabelle momentarily, then down at the branch. ‘I just dropped a tour group in Stanley,’ he began, scratching his chin. ‘Thought I’d work out the best place to park for this wedding lot you’ve got coming this arvo. Looks like the lane’s a bit narrow.’ He pointed to the corner, where the bend in the main road met the laneway entrance. ‘Branch was hanging too far across.’
Annabelle stiffened. No. No it wasn’t, Kevin! The branch was hanging in perfect balance with the rest of the tree, which has been extending its lovely branches across this lane for as many decades as I can remember!
She looked up at the huge gash in the side of her beautiful deciduous maple, the showstopper of the front entrance to Merrivale. It looked traumatised. Unbalanced. She felt a little unbalanced herself. The tree was currently covered in tiny rust-red flowers before its main autumn display of deep-red leaves, many of which were now on the ground, about to wither. She loved that tree.
‘I see,’ she said, as her breathing returned to normal. ‘Well, you’ll need to get rid of that branch.’ She gave a tigh. . .
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