Other Side of the Season Read online

  ‘I happened to be in his way.’

  ‘Yes, but no, David. I was to blame. I did something so stupid. I hurt him. Not in the same way as everyone else.’ Natalie told herself it was different. But was it really? In the end did the how matter? She’d been mean and selfish. ‘I hurt him again recently, by not being brave enough, or thoughtful enough, to recognise he’d needed me. After the hearing, he came out to the B & B I run in the Blue Mountains and I guess he snapped again. I don’t know. I never even knew he was there. Sid signed him in.’

  And I failed him, she could have added.

  Natalie couldn’t make it up to Albie now, but she could use his letter to help David clear his father’s name.

  48

  Watercolour Cove, 2015

  ‘Nat, darling, it’s Tasha. I just got your message.’

  ‘Yes, hello Tash.’

  ‘What’s that noise in the background? I can hardly hear you, dear.’

  ‘You can probably hear the sound of waves and wind.’ Natalie tried cupping a hand around the mobile phone. She’d gone to the breakwall after leaving David. If she was going to do this, then she had to get the wheels she’d already put in motion moving faster.

  ‘You’re at the beach?’ Tasha gushed. ‘Marcus, honey, Nat’s at the beach.’

  ‘No, not exactly.’ Natalie considered telling her best friend the truth–that she was standing in front of a mirror sculpture, staring at her reflection. What she saw was blown-about hair bleached bottle-blonde, her true self hidden behind a mask of make-up still blotchy from all her crying. But for once Natalie’s appearance was the least important thing.

  ‘Marcus and I have a roaring fire,’ Tash was saying. ‘We were sitting here talking about your letter. He’s on the other phone making subtle enquiries with a few trusted colleagues, as we speak.’

  ‘Please, tell Marcus thank you. I’m afraid I’m going to need all the advice he can give me on the matter.’

  ‘Darling, what is it? What’s wrong? Jake?’

  ‘No, Tash, no, the kids are fine.’ She wandered along the breakwall, back towards the villa to get out of the wind, and when passing an old fisherman she instinctively waved. Stranger still, the man smiled and waved back. ‘Oh, Tash, everything I’ve tried so desperately to forget is about to come crashing down on me.’

  ‘What’s all this then, Nat? You were always one for a little drama. I’m sure things aren’t that bad. Tell me how I can help.’

  Natalie checked the street before crossing. ‘There is another favour I need to ask.’

  ‘Anything, darling.’

  ‘Firstly, tell Marcus that the situation has changed. Edward Hill is dead.’

  ‘He is?’

  ‘Yes, and I need you to scan that letter I gave you and email both pages to me.’

  ‘Of course, I can do that straight away, but Nat . . .’ Tasha hesitated. ‘What exactly are you going to do with the letter? Nothing foolish, I hope. You don’t need to implicate yourself in any of this unnecessarily. Marcus will be best to discuss the whys and wherefores with you directly, as soon as he’s off his other call.’

  ‘Tash, to be honest, I don’t know what I’m going to do with the information, except I promise you it will be the right thing. Finally, I will be doing the right thing.’

  ‘Surely with Edward Hill dead there’s no longer a need to do anything.’

  ‘I might have thought so before I came back home.’

  ‘Home?’

  ‘Yes, any minute now I’ll be on the veranda of a caravan park villa I’m currently sharing with Jake. The place looks across at the Dinghy Bay breakwall.’

  ‘You mean that Dinghy Bay?’

  ‘There could only be one. They’ve renamed the place Watercolour Cove, and it’s quite wonderful. Sidney seems content, Jake is in love, and . . .’

  ‘And you?’ Tash asked.

  ‘I’m standing here asking myself the question: if I do share that letter, who will get hurt?’

  ‘And do you know the answer, darling Nat?’

  ‘Unfortunately, I do. Matthew once told me there are winners and losers in this world, Tash, and that I was a loser. I wasted so many years trying to prove he was wrong. In the end, I lose either way. If I share the letter, I’ll be hurting the very people I’ve always tried to protect. The people I’ve always loved.’

  ‘Darling, I wish I could help.’

  ‘You can, by sending the email,’ Natalie whispered, stopping short of the villa.

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘Time will tell if Matthew was right. Whether I win respect or lose everyone I love will come down to one thing. That letter.’

  Part 4

  49

  The Blue Mountains, 2015

  He’d started the letter with Sorry Tilly, each shaking stroke of his pen scratching against the fancy unlined notepaper. Then he mumbled, ‘No.’ This was his last chance–he didn’t want to start the note to Tilly with a sorry, even though he was. He balled the notepaper in his fist, discarding it in the empty bin, and tried again.

  Hello Tilly,

  It’s Albie. I’ve missed you, although I’m guessing you never missed me.

  Albie put down his pen and took a moment to look around the guestroom with its raked ceiling rafters, the occasional cobweb tucked in a corner. He thought about what he wanted to tell Tilly in this letter, things he would prefer to say to her face. If only he wasn’t so afraid his words–or his resolve–might fail him. He’d failed at just about everything his whole life.

  ‘An apology would be a start,’ he muttered, looking back down at the sheet of fancy paper he’d taken from the desk drawer.

  I need to tell you I’m sorry, Tilly. Sorry for so many things. Right now I’m sorry we won’t get to say a proper goodbye. This wasn’t my plan, I don’t think, although I can’t be sure. I came to see you and to see your daughter. I thought she might have been my daughter. When you never said, even when I asked, I imagined it to be so all these years.

  Albie cast his mind back to the pretty woman who had checked him in late yesterday. She was nothing like him, or Tilly. Had she not introduced herself as Sidney Hill, Albie would never have picked her.

  I see now that she can’t be mine. I know I asked you once. I’d wanted to ask for so long, only I think I was afraid of the answer so I never pushed. If you’d said ‘no’ I would lose hope. So, I came here to see her for myself, once and for all. If she was mine, I wanted to reassure her that not being part of her life did not stop me loving her. I know that to be true now. Family is forever. Remember you told me that, Tilly? That was the night we spent together. The night with the blue moon.

  Anger forced the pen nib through the delicate paper. Should he throw the letter away and start again?

  ‘No. No time,’ he said, taking a deep breath, and starting on a fresh line.

  You were lucky to get your forever family. I only wish I’d been part of that. All my life I’ve wanted to belong to someone, or have someone belong to me. People told me my mother loved me so much she sacrificed her own happiness to give me a future in a new country. They lied to me, Tilly. People lied to me a lot.

  Not long ago I found out people lied to my mother, too. They still took me away even though she was desperate to keep me. They told her I’d be safe until she found work, or a husband who could support a family. Before anyone knew, the government shipped me to the other side of the world, with no one to protect me.

  After Ulf and Hilda took me in, I finally felt wanted, and safe, for the first time in my life. Then you arrived, Tilly, and from that moment all I wanted was you. If only you’d wanted me. I mean really wanted me, not as second best to David Hill.

  Darkness began to close in around the loft room, the familiar mist tinging everything blue, while the late sun shone in through the window, casting a blanket of gold over the floor and furnishings to make everything the colour of a good whisky. Albie reached for his only friend. The bottle of scotch on the dresser.
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  I’ve never forgotten that time we made love. I stayed, watching you that night, hidden in the plantation. There you were, while I could still smell you on me, telling David he was your forever family. I thought you understood me and saw a future with me. I thought you wanted me, Tilly. I had no choice but to fight for you.

  Please believe I didn’t mean to hurt David. It was one punch, I swear. He was supposed to fight me back, but he slipped. I heard the crack as his head hit the first tree and I panicked, ran home and slipped into my bed. Later, when I saw your grief, I wanted to be there for you. I wanted to be the one to make you smile again. Instead, you chose Matthew. You were getting off that mountain any way you could.

  Albie wiped one cheek, but not before a tear dropped to the paper, the ink blurring. He half-filled the glass with scotch, sculling the amber-coloured liquid in one go.

  You rejected me. You left me behind. So I left the mountain not long after, only returning a few years back. When I arrived the gate was locked, the house empty, the packing sheds boarded up. I’d returned to help Ulf at a time when the banana business had needed more workers. But there was no banana business left and Ulf and Hilda had moved away. I asked Mrs Hill if they’d left a message for me before they moved. I asked if she knew where they were. I knew she’d lie. People always lied to me. I was so angry, so hurt, so out of control. You used to tell me not to cry. You’d always say, ‘Albie, first get angry, then get even’. So I did, Tilly. I got angry, like you said. Then I got even.

  First I started drinking, after two years sober. I’d found Ted Hill at the Fisho’s Club buying his mates from the council a round. He was bragging about getting approval to subdivide my home. I bought a bottle of scotch and waited in the car park. By the time he came out I was too drunk to make sense, other than swear and call him names. One quick back-hander across the head, like he used to do when we were mucking around in the packing shed as kids, knocked me sober. I think he felt bad after that, though, because he tried to make it up to me by buying a slab of beer and said he’d take me back to my motel. Ted wasn’t a bad bloke, I know that now, but I was still so angry, Tilly.

  The crash, all the little kids on the bus . . . It was me. It wasn’t planned. I just remember wanting to die. Taking Ted Hill with me would hurt David and his mother. So I grabbed the wheel and drove us into that bus. I realised I was still alive when I heard the sound of children screaming for help. It took me straight back to the home, all the nights I’d screamed and screamed and no one ever came to save me. And now I’d hurt those kids, and there was nothing I could do. Ted had been knocked unconscious and I just ran. I was scared and I couldn’t think.

  Now the screams won’t leave me alone. People have hurt me one way or another my whole life, Tilly. Then I go and do something so stupid. I hurt those children–two of them died. I destroyed families and I ran away. I hated myself for being silent all these years, so I’m fixing that. I’m speaking out. That’s why I’m telling you this now and why I wanted to testify at the royal commission. Testifying and talking about what had happened to me all those years ago wouldn’t bring the children back to their families, but I could maybe protect some other children.

  By coming forward to give evidence I had people wanting to help find my mother, only to discover she had died years earlier, alone in a rented apartment, then buried in an unmarked grave in Malta. But I fixed that. I let her know I loved her the only way I could.

  You were my last hope for happiness, Tilly. I truly believed with Matthew gone I’d finally have my forever family with you and Sidney. But the very second your girl smiled I saw two things. First I saw she was far too beautiful to be mine. Then . . . I saw David.

  Funny the way things turn out. You were right not to choose me. I never did make anything of myself. A loser like Albie Marhkt could never have been good enough for the likes of you.

  But I’m not Albie Marhkt–I never was him. I’m Alessandro Albertini and I’m going home now, Tilly. My mother loved me and she is waiting for me.

  50

  Watercolour Cove, 2015

  Tasha, efficient as always, had scanned the letter and emailed it immediately after hanging up. Natalie had the attachment open now, on her phone, and she was re-reading the words she already knew off by heart. Natalie had lost count of the number of times she’d read that letter since finding it, each time trying to imagine Albie’s desperation that grey day on the eve of winter. While she’d been downstairs with her daughter arguing about pink ribbon, a man had found the world so dark and depressing he’d left it by his own hand.

  That morning, having dispatched her daughter to Leura to buy ribbon, Natalie had stood outside the loft apartment, her ear pressed to the solid timber door to listen for noises inside that might indicate the guest was up and making moves to check out. Instead of the usual running water, footfall, or the zipping of suitcases, Natalie had heard only an eerie silence. She rapped her knuckles on the door a couple of times and waited.

  Silence still.

  Banging harder, she called out, ‘Mr Albertini?’

  Nothing. Perhaps he’d left when it was still dark outside, while Sid and Natalie had slept. Stranger things had happened at Brushstrokes over the years. One couple had checked out after only two hours. Their departure, however, had been loud and angry, and Natalie guessed they’d fought the entire trip home.

  ‘I have a key, Mr Albertini, and I’m opening the door,’ she said a little more tersely, her polite rap now a fist thump, just to be certain. The last thing Natalie wanted was to be confronted by naked strangers, which was why, until she knew it was safe, she always chose to focus her gaze on the floor upon entering.

  There was a smell to the room that she had trouble picking. The half-empty litre-bottle of scotch may have accounted for that. The bedroom’s blinds and blackout curtains were closed and the bath towel set, normally rolled, tied and placed thoughtfully on one corner of the bed, was left scattered across the patchwork quilt. The bed had not been slept in either and she cursed under her breath.

  Why do people crush the decorator cover rather than sleeping in the sheets provided?

  That’s when she saw them, leaning against the six-pillow fortress on the king-size bed–the two pages of fancy notepaper from the desk compendium that Sidney had tried to suggest was old-fashioned. ‘People email these days,’ her daughter had said. ‘You’d be better off providing free Wi-Fi.’ Natalie had replied that Brushstrokes guests liked to draw and would, therefore, appreciate quality paper being on hand. Sometimes a guest would use the paper provided to leave Natalie a tiny work of art as a thankyou.

  ‘Like Mr-Late-Checkout-Albertini has obviously done this morning,’ Natalie said smugly, humming as she collected both folded sheets of paper in one hand, then moving swiftly to the windows to draw back the curtains and allow the morning sun to brighten the room so she could appreciate the notepaper’s contents. She’d expected a sketch. Instead she saw handwriting on both sheets. One a brief note, while the other–a much longer letter–forced Nat’s gaze to freeze on the salutation, like the morning’s bitter frost had done on the window.

  The letter started with: Hello Tilly.

  She hadn’t read more than the first paragraph when her hands and legs began shaking, the tremor travelling so quickly through her body that standing was impossible. She plonked herself on the edge of the bed with its crumpled quilt cover, turned her attention to the second sheet, addressed To Anyone Who Cares, and read the three lines written there.

  Natalie wasn’t sure how long she’d sat on the bed. She put the short note down beside her and took up the letter again, but something in her gut wouldn’t let her read it, staring instead at the scuff marks on the varnished timber floor. The boards would soon need sanding and polishing, she noted. Then she thought vaguely, maybe rugs were better. Rugs provided warmth and Natalie was feeling very cold.

  As though a light switched on, a sudden swell of bright sun flooded into the room from the en suite
. She startled, hesitated a moment, then cleared her throat.

  ‘Mr Albertini?’ she called, her voice a timid squeak. Step by shaky step, she moved across the room towards the open bathroom door.

  At first Natalie struggled to make sense of the scene, like her brain had shut down and time had slowed. Dazed by the sun’s rays streaming through the giant highlight window, her initial thought was that the guest, fully clothed except for his feet, was standing tiptoe on the edge of the claw-foot bathtub.

  Yes, that’s it! He’s looking out the bathroom window. The views of the mountains were extra spectacular on the eastern side of the house. Or had the light bulb blown and he was attempting to change it? I should get a ladder. At least fumbling around in the dark might explain how the contents of the bathroom vanity happened to be strewn over the floor.

  As Natalie looked up, reality stabbed at her chest, her eyes no longer playing tricks. A man’s body was hanging from the rafters, his dangling toes turned towards the window above the bath, and while she couldn’t see his face, Natalie somehow knew.

  ‘Albie!’

  Without conscious thought, Natalie backed out of the bathroom, two things on her mind: her daughter on the way into Leura township to buy ribbon, and her son’s laundry ritual.

  Is today Monday or Tuesday?

  Natalie had no idea.

  She had to call the police, but shouldn’t she check the room for more evidence first? Like the lone ball of scrunched-up paper in the middle of the empty basket by the desk. Without a second thought, she collected it up and shoved the rubbish in her pocket before rushing from the room–one hand clasping the letter, the other hand clamped to her mouth and fighting the bile rising in her throat.

  Almost slipping down the stairs leading from the loft, she grabbed the phone from its charger on the kitchen counter, her hand trembling so uncontrollably she could scarcely punch in the numbers.