Thornwood House Read Free Page B

was still out there somewhere, moving through life, perhaps taking a moment to gaze up at the stars and think of me.
    It almost worked.
    Then I remembered the coffin. The boggy slope, the yawning grave beneath the elm. By now the cemetery would be dark, its poplars and cypresses sagging beneath the weight of rain, the sky raked by fingers of lightning.
    Though I hadn’t seen Tony for months, suddenly I missed him unbearably. With him, I’d been different – strong, capable. I’d laughed more, worried less, opened up and found pleasure in unexpected places. When he left I pulled back into my shell – escaping into my work, neglecting my friends, desperate to lose myself. Tormented by the knowledge that the man I loved no longer loved me.
    The only light in that dark time had been Bronwyn. Despite her own confusion over Tony’s leaving, she’d been a chirpy little girl, seemingly wise beyond her six years. I’d thrown myself into mothering her, and been rewarded by moments of closeness we’d rarely shared before. Even as a baby, Bronwyn had gravitated to her father – she was the tiny moon that orbited Planet Tony, worshipful and constant. She’d run to mefor scraped knees, for a bandaid and a pat . . . but afterwards she’d always hobble off to Tony, knowing he was the only one able to kiss away her pain, calm her vexation, tease a laugh from her baby lips.
    But then, after Tony left, we connected. Bronwyn would giggle madly and fling her arms around my waist, insisting that I was the prettiest, the best, the nicest mummy in the whole entire world . . . and those moments had saved me.
    I sighed. ‘Dammit, Tony. Why did you have to go and die?’
    I’d met him at art school. At seventeen I’d been critically shy, but determined to establish myself as a photographer. I’d grown up with my Aunt Morag, and after she died I’d found a Box Brownie camera in her belongings. I quickly became obsessed, and when I realised there were people who made a living by taking pictures, I was determined to count myself among them. Not knowing where else to start, I enrolled at the Victorian College of the Arts.
    Tony was in the painting department, and a few years ahead of me. He was talented, mysterious, popular, funny . . . yet oddly – and enticingly – vulnerable. We’d been rubbing shoulders at the local watering hole for nearly six months before I drummed up the courage to speak to him. To my baffled delight we hooked up quickly. Within a year I was pregnant. I deferred my studies, unable to think of anything but Tony and the baby. As our child grew within me, so did my confidence. Tony loved me, and the world was a happy place to be. Commissions for photographic work trickled in, and for the first time in my life I felt as though I belonged somewhere – truly belonged.
    Tony’s success came swiftly. He began selling his paintings through a top-notch gallery, building a name for himself, working harder than ever. He got invited to the Venice Biennale, a career highlight for him at the time, and also a memorable milestone in our life together. Bronwyn was born soon after his return, and it seemed that life couldn’t get any better. It was sodreamily good, so fairytale perfect, that it made me nervous. That was when the decay set in. Slowly, so slowly at first that I barely noticed.
    Tony began spending more time away. He was working at the studio, he said, preparing for a big group show at the National Gallery. Over the next few years a pattern developed. The more Tony withdrew into his career, the tighter I clung to him . . . and the tighter I clung, the further he withdrew.
    I chewed my fingernails to the quick, spent nights prowling the house, unable to sleep. My photos became dark and somehow disturbed: hollow-eyed children; solitary old people feeding pigeons or gazing out to sea. Bare trees, derelict buildings, empty playgrounds. Fear nibbled at my happiness, creating holes I could find no way to