Chapter 1 …
Michael Paterson slowed the car as it reached the T-intersection. ‘Brunswick Street’, read the sign that pointed to the left, and he turned the corner, peering curiously ahead.
It was one of those wide leafy streets, uncurbed, with poinciana trees casting a mottled shade along neatly trimmed footpaths. Only the centre of the road was tarred, leaving a flat stretch of gravel between the bitumen and the lawn. The houses were tucked well back, partly hidden behind thick walls of shrubbery.
He braked and glanced down at the slip of paper that lay on the passenger seat. Number twenty-seven, it read, in his own untidy scrawl. And there it was, the figures painted large and white against the dark green of the letterbox. Bringing the car to a standstill, Michael let the revs of the engine slow before turning off the ignition.
He was expected, having telephoned a few days before. The woman who had answered the phone, Bonnie, had seemed pleasant enough, though decidedly surprised.
‘If I could meet you . . .’ he had added, pressing the issue.
‘Well,’ she had replied faintly, ‘you’d better come. It all sounds very interesting, though I’m sure I won’t be of any help at all.’
They had made the arrangements then. Saturday. Twelve o’clock.
Michael glanced now at his watch, noting that the hands had moved relentlessly forward towards that appointed time. He gathered up his briefcase, opened the car door and swung his long legs to the ground.
The house lay quietly sleeping in the sunshine behind a mass of plumbago, the flowers of which had mostly fallen, creating a carpet of mauve. Along the paved pathway he went, across the wide verandah, coming to a halt at the front door. The paint was peeling, flaking away in small strips, although the timber underneath appeared sound. There was a brass knocker and a bell on the wall beside the door. Deciding on the bell, Michael could hear the melodious tones as they echoed through the house, followed by a thudding of footsteps as the door was flung open.
‘Bonnie?’ he said, not equating the young woman who now stood before him with the voice on the telephone a few days earlier. She had sounded much older.
‘No, I’m Bonnie’s daughter, Callie.’
Another woman appeared behind, older-looking, plump, with short grey curly hair. ‘I’m Bonnie.’
Michael held out his hand. ‘Michael Paterson. I phoned earlier in the week.’
Bonnie stared at him, a blank look on her face. Suddenly her expression softened. She ran a hand through her hair and gave a strained smile, glancing towards her daughter. ‘Oh, goodness, what with all the talk of selling the house, I had quite forgotten.’
He hadn’t considered that Bonnie might not feel the same interest as himself. She had seemed curious enough on the phone. A wash of disappointment dampened his enthusiasm. ‘I can come back another time if it’s not convenient.’
Bonnie laughed and beckoned him inside. ‘Goodness, no. After driving all the way from the city? Come in. Freya and I were just about to have some lunch. Will you stay, Callie?’
Callie glanced at her watch and grinned. ‘Love to. Stuart’s not picking me up until one.’
Suddenly Michael felt himself smiling back.
Lunch was an assortment of sandwiches — ham and salmon and chicken adorned with a garnish of parsley — served on the long mahogany table in the dining room. The tablecloth was stiff, as though starched, and delicately embroidered around the edges. Like a family heirloom, Michael thought, wondering at its age. He sat, feeling awkward, and noted his own lack of appetite.
‘Well, Michael, you’d better tell us why you’re here,’ said Freya, the woman Bonnie had introduced as her sister-in-law, as she helped herself to the tray of sandwiches.
They were all watching him, the three women, eyes wide and inquiring, waiting for his explanation. Yet he had none. Not really. This visit was prompted more by . . . What? he wondered, for a moment lost for words. A coincidence? A small piece of trivia that he had discovered less than a fortnight earlier.
‘A few weeks ago, I was sorting through a box of my father’s belongings, items that had been kept from his childhood. You know, first pair of shoes, christening gown, baptism certificate, that sort of thing.’
Michael rummaged in his pocket, his hand closing over cold metal. He brought it out and laid it on the tablecloth. ‘I found this tangled in the fringe of a baby’s shawl.’
‘What is it?’ Callie lifted the J-shaped object, holding it to the light.
‘It’s a horseshoe,’ explained Michael. ‘Or, rather, half of one.’
‘Funny colour for a horseshoe,’ commented Freya dourly.
‘It’s been silver dipped. Look near the cut mark. You can see the original metal inside.’
‘I’m not sure what an old horseshoe has to do with us or our family,’ added Bonnie, looking puzzled.
Michael leant across the table, touching his finger to the metal. ‘If you look closely, you’ll see the name “Ben” etched on the uppermost side. There’s some more writing, along the base. It’s very faint, but it looks like, “you always”. And on the back, you can just make out the words, “Hannah Elizabeth Corduke, Brunswick Street. 1915”.’
Bonnie picked it up, peering closely. ‘That’s definitely great-aunt Hannah,’ she said, tracing one finger across the words. ‘We’re the only Corduke family who ever lived around here.’
‘Who’s Ben?’ asked Callie, an expression of studied surprise crossing her face.
Bonnie shrugged and replaced the horseshoe on the tablecloth. ‘I have no idea.’
‘What makes you think there could be any possible connection between this,’ Freya paused as she indicated the horseshoe, ‘and you, Michael?’ Her gaze was frank, her question direct. ‘How did your father end up with it? Can’t he help you with your enquiry?’
‘Well, to be honest, I haven’t the faintest idea how it came into my father’s possession. And as for asking him — he’s been dead for almost two years.’
He hadn’t meant to sound so abrupt but the older woman, with her curt patronising tone, had made him defensive.
Freya glanced away. ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered, clearly embarrassed.
Michael touched her hand, noting the swollen finger joints, and gave her a wry smile. ‘Really, there’s no need to be. You didn’t know him.’
Freya gave a loud disapproving sniff and helped herself to another sandwich.
Michael tapped one finger against the horseshoe, bringing the conversation back to the reason for his visit. ‘It was just a surprise finding this, that’s all,’ he shrugged. ‘And I suppose the curiosity got the better of me. How did it come to be with my father’s belongings? What possible connection could my family have had with yours? I was hoping one of you could shed a little light on it.’
‘Perhaps if you told us a little of your family,’ prompted Bonnie. ‘Did they come from around here?’
‘That’s the strange thing. My father was an only child, and his parents were getting on in years when he was born. They were all city people, nothing to do with this area at all. I was quite young when my grandparents died, and I scarcely remember them.’
Bonnie seemed interested so he told her what he knew, addressing his words in her direction. ‘Funny, isn’t it?’ he ended with a grin. ‘Lately I’ve had an urge to know more about my heritage. When I found the horseshoe, I thought it might be a clue, a shortcut to finding out. I guess I was mistaken.’