Thornwood House Read Free Page A

relative? Someone whose death had mattered enough for Tony to walk out on his wife with barely a word and travel 1600 kilometres into a past he’d so obviously put behind him?
    In 1986, Tony would have been fourteen. His father, then? Reported missing by his family; by Tony’s family. A family that Tony had – in the twelve years I’d known him – steadfastly refused to acknowledge. Shutting my eyes, I tried to restrain my rampaging thoughts. It was unlikely, probably just coincidence. Probably nothing more than connections made by a brain fuelled with exhaustion and grief.
    Logging off, I went out to the kitchen and looked in the fridge. It was crammed with food, but my hand reached robotically for a Crown Lager. The beer was icy, deliciously wet on my grief-tightened throat. While I drank, I stared at the black square of window. In it I saw the woman the past five years had caused me to become: hollow-eyed and gaunt, with shadows beneath the pallid skin where there should have been a healthy flush. I would be thirty this year, but my face wore the grey resignation of someone much older.
    I rubbed my palms over my cheeks, then smoothed my hair. It had escaped the neat ponytail I’d forced it into for the funeral, and reverted into a shaggy seventies-style bob. I recalled Carol’s restrained elegance, and grimaced at the small, boyish personreflected in the window. The pinched little face stared sullenly back at me, silently accusing: You see why he left? You see why he wanted her and not you?
    Turning from the window, I went along the hall to Bronwyn’s room and knocked lightly. There was no response, so I cracked open the door. Her lamp was on. She’d fallen asleep on top of the bedcovers – her fair hair fanned over the pillow, her face was blotchy from crying. She was wearing the pyjamas her father had given her a year ago, too tight now, and faded from overuse.
    ‘Bronny?’ I whispered, stroking her hair. ‘Let’s get you under the covers, sweetheart.’
    Up until six months ago, she’d seen Tony every Sunday without fail. Just as the church bells began to chime across the waking city, Tony would pull his dazzling black Porsche into the driveway, honking the horn as Bronwyn ran down the path to greet him. Meanwhile, I lurked in the front room, my lips pinched tight, spying on them through the shutters. Six or seven hours later I’d hear the familiar honking, and Bronwyn would rush in brimming with news of what a fabulous time they’d had, cooing over the presents he’d bought her, eyes aglow and cheeks flushed pink with joy.
    Then, six months ago, the visits ground to a halt.
    Tony stopped showing up for their Sunday outings. He forgot to ring, sending expensive gifts in lieu of a visit. Without explanation, he disengaged himself from her life. I watched helplessly as the sorrow grew in her like a sickness, turning my bright little girl into a forlorn shadow-faced creature who moped around the house as though, rather than living in it, she was haunting it.
    Bronwyn sighed and rolled over. Tucking the blanket around her, I laid a whisper of a kiss on her brow. She smelled of honey and chocolate, of fresh washed laundry and lemon shampoo. Safe, familiar smells. I was about to tiptoe out when I caughtsight of a photo propped against her night lamp. I hadn’t seen it for years, and it brought back the past with a pang of sadness.
    Tony sat on a low concrete wall, the National Gallery’s water-curtain doors in the background. His eyes glinted behind his glasses and he was smiling his famous heart-stopping smile. He wasn’t traditionally handsome – his face was too bony, his nose too large, his teeth a fraction crooked – but he had a compelling quality, an intensity that was both guarded and beguiling.
    I switched off the bedside lamp and took the photo out to the kitchen, leaning it against a jar of peanuts on the bench so I could study it in full light. It felt good to look at his face, to pretend he