Castle of Dreams by Elise McCune Sample Chapter

7/25/2019 Castle of Dreams by Elise McCune Sample Chapter

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PROLO UPROLOGUE

Castillo de Sueos, 1935

Vivien and Rose Blake rushed out through the heavy front

doors of Castillo de Sueos, yelling to their mother theyd be

home before dark. Too late Vivien remembered shed promised

to help Ma in the propagating shed with the orchids and lacymaidenhair ferns, but all day the rich scent of wild honey-

suckle climbing over the loggia had drifted through the open

windows, and now that lessons were over, outdoors beckoned

irresistibly. Feet barely touching the mosaic tiles, the girls ran

across the loggia, down the wide stone steps, and across the

lawn towards the rainforest.

Vivien had spent her childhood exploring the rainforest

with her younger sister. Both girls had been born in Ireland,the cold, rainy place of their mothers stories. Vivien was three

years old and Rose only a baby when theyd left, their mother

fleeing her violent, drunken husband. The only home either

girl had ever known was this castle in the rainforest.


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They knew every ancient tree, the names of every flower

and bird. They had learned to swim in the natural pool under

Mena Creek Falls. Together theyd hurry down the staircase

from the castle to the patio, and dive from the board into the

cool water. The creek rose in the mountains, flowed down

from the high country and wound its way through virgin

rainforest before plunging over the falls to the pool below.

No matter how far the girls roamed they never lost their way,

because every path eventually led back to Castillo de Sueos.

As she ran, Vivien glanced up at the clear blue sky, hoping

thered be a storm tonight. In the wet season, the nightly delugeof rain could become a lashing storm in an instant. Storms

seemed more thrilling when she crept into Roses bedroom

and, crouching close together on the window seat, they gazed

out into the shadowy night. Vivien loved the eerie silence

before the wind got up, and then the onslaught, the silvered

palm fronds thrashing wildly, the rain a crashing cacophony

against the castle walls. She had even tried a few times to

photograph the lightning coming out of black clouds. Ever

since shed received a Kodak Box Brownie camera for her

ninth birthday, Vivien had been fascinated by photography,

and had fallen in love with the effects she could create when

she processed the film in her darkened bedroom. Her favourite

photo was the one shed taken of Rose on the swing with her

hair flying out behind her. When Vivien had considered the

black and white print, she saw that after so many attemptsshed made a photo she was happy with.

They ran down the escarpment, jumping over quandong

berries for the fun of it, and along the kauri avenue. When

theyd passed the stands of golden bamboo they slowed and


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continued at a steady pace. Parrots, bright splashes of colour,

squawked and flew ahead of them.

Race you! cried Rose suddenly.

Vivien grabbed Roses hand and held her back. Lets goto the belltower.

Rose frowned slightly. Ma told us not to go there again.

That was because Harry said it mightbe unstable. He didnt

say it wasunstable.

Their stepfather, Harry, was kind and thoughtful, but when

hed spoken to Vivien last month and banned them from

going near the belltower his voice had carried a stern note.

Still . . . Ma said not

Oh, she wont know . . . if we dont tell her. Vivien looked

narrowly at her sister.

Rose pondered this for a moment, and then nodded. Okay,

its our secret.

Vivien dropped Roses hand. They ran along an overgrown

track with a canopy of arching branches from which birds

sang out piercingly and down into a gully. To Vivien, thegully, always cast in cool green shadow, was the loveliest place

in the ground.

Rose tugged on Viviens arm and they paused. Ive been

reading about the Aztecs in the encyclopaedia, she said. They

lived in a jungle like we do.

I know that.

They had a secret ceremony, a blood ceremony, said Rose,

pulling out her sharp herb-gathering knife from the sheafattached to her belt. Lets have a blood ceremony. Theres no

one Id rather mingle my blood with than you.

In spite of herself, Vivien laughed. Their mother supervised

their school lessons that came in the post. Theyd never had a


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chance to make friends with any of the local girls who attended

Mena Creek Public School and, with no cousins, Vivien and

Rose relied on each other for companionship.

Rose, theres no one else to ask.

Sitting down on a fallen log beside the shallow stream

that ran through the gully, Vivien brushed a few jumping

ants off her legs. Rose nicked her own thumb and handed the

knife to Vivien. And although it was supposed to be a solemn

ceremony, they couldnt help giggling when they pressed their

thumbs together and swore loyalty to each other. They waited

for a few minutes before they crossed over the stream andscrambled up the other side of the gully.

Nearly there, said Vivien.

Before them, on the top of a small hill, lay the sunlit ruins

of St Theresas church that had been destroyed by a cyclone

the previous year.

Vivien tried to avoid stepping on the wild bees in the starry

white flowers sprouting between the gaps in the old stone path

that led to the lychgate.

The day was glorious. Little birds darted in and out of

the thick foliage of the ancient rainforest trees; everything

was lush and green. Overcome with sudden happiness, she

glanced sideways at Rose. Today her cloud of chestnut hair

was secured at the back of her head with a pale green ribbon

and her cheeks were flushed a rosy pink.

Mrs Patterson, the postmistress at Mena Creek, oftenremarked Rose was going to be a beauty. And while last week

shed complimented Vivien on her lovely eyes and her long

black hair, adding kindly it needed to be cut and curled, Vivien

knew it was a half-hearted comment. Nonetheless, shed been


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secretly pleased and had felt like an American movie star for

the rest of the day.

Its a full moon tonight, said Rose happily.

At ten years old, Rose still loved full moon nights; thesewere special evenings when their mother read the tarot and

told them tales of long ago Ireland when you could easily

find a changeling on your doorstep or meet a goblin on a

country road.

I just hope Ma lets me go to bed early, said Vivien. Dont

tell anyone, but Im reading Lady Chatterleys Lover.

Whats it about?

You wouldnt understand, Vivien said distantly. Its a

grown-up book. Now that Vivien was almost twelve, she felt

that childhood was a long way behind her. She loved romance

and found it in paperback novels and the womens magazines

their mother subscribed to. It was another world she could

slip into to dream about the future: a brightly coloured place

with no shadows, perfect in every way, and she was at the

very heart of it.I would. Can I read it after you? Rose asked boldly.

No, Ma would have a pink fit if she foundyou reading it.

Perhaps when youre older.

Okay. Rose shrugged, unconcerned.

Vivien lifted the latch of the gate and they hurried past the

church ruins to the belltower that had miraculously survived

the cyclone except for smashed windows. It was their secret

hideaway, a place of enchantment, and Vivien had no intentionof obeying their mothers directive to stay away from the moss-

covered structure.

The late afternoon air, hot now as any fire in the distant

cane fields in the burning season, was heavy with moisture


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and Vivien could feel the desolation of the place that had once

been a gathering place for the local parishioners.

She lingered near the belltowers arched entrance with its

heavy wooden door hanging open, suddenly nervous becauseshe was meant to look after Rose. Vivien longed to go inside,

but what if the belltower collapsed while they were in it, and

Rose was hurt? Shed never forgive herself.

Come on, said Rose.

Vivien didnt move. She felt a prickling sensation. The

breeze strengthened and the birds in the rainforest fell silent.

She glanced at Rose and then looked up at the belltower

covered with moss and hung with tangled vines.

The Spanish immigrant whod built Castillo de Sueos

in the early twentieth century had also built the church and

the belltower. Harry, who knew the history of the castle,

had told them the Spaniard welcomed all denominations to

St Theresas, most likely in the hope of converting them to the

Catholic religion.

It was a square three-storey brick building with rectangularwindows on each of its sides on the first two levels and a

graceful spire reaching to heaven, which over the years had

become slightly askew. On the top level, the bell chamber

had open arches on each side to let the sound of the bell ring

out, each one with a narrow balcony surrounded by a wooden

balustrade. To Viviens right was a horse-watering trough filled

with leaf fall and rainforest debris.

Taking a deep breath, Vivien wished for once shed listenedto their mother, and not brought Rose here today. Then she

ran her fingertips along the strap of her Brownie. The last time

they were here Vivien photographed some of the headstones

in the little graveyard behind the church ruins and Rose had


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glued her favourite image on the cover of her latest scrapbook:

a marble woman with a crown of cracked flowers on her head.

Today Vivien wanted to photograph the interior of the bell

chamber, although shed have to make sure Ma didnt see the

developed images.

No, said Vivien, still hesitating on the threshold of the

arched doorway, unsure what she should do, until pride in

her ability to look after Rose made her take her sisters hand

and step inside, the humid, heavy air rushing to meet her.

The days sun passing overhead had warmed the bricks of

the walls but a general smell of mildew and rotting leaves stillpervaded the sultry air. A tangle of thick vines had crept over

the sills of the elongated, empty windows and now climbed

rampant up the walls.

Vivien led the way and they started up the narrow wooden

staircase, treading carefully to avoid birds nesting on the stairs

and a few rotted steps. Be careful Rose, she said. As they

climbed the steps to the bell chamber, they passed the landing

where the bell rope hung.

Compared to the lower levels of the belltower, the bell

chamber with its open arches was airy and bright. The fear

Vivien had felt earlier disappeared and she looked around

the familiar room, her mind ticking over the possibilities for

making photographs.

Oh, Viv, I forgot. I found this for you in the gemstone

shop, said Rose, taking a small parcel from the pocket ofher shorts and handing it to Vivien. Its for your birthday,

she said excitedly.

Shouldnt you give it to me tomorrow?

I couldnt wait. Its for your collection of stones.


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Opening the brown paper wrapping and untying the string,

Vivien smiled delightedly. It was an opal stone: grass green,

with a touch of blue, and shaped like a heart.

Thanks, she said.

Did you know opal is considered a water stone because

as water runs over rocks it eases the transition to a new life

regardless of obstacles?

I didnt know that.

Thats what Ma told me.

Vivien hugged her sister. Its lovely.

The air was redolent with the scent of native jasmine. Rosewas with her. The day was perfect.

Roses face glowed with pleasure. She enjoyed finding

unusual stones to add to Viviens collection. And she was

good at it: reading books on gemstones, fossicking in the

rainforest, finding treasures in the window of the gemstone

shop in Cairns.

Viv, youre not going to a new life, are you?

No, of course not.

The opal felt warm in her hand and Viviens eyes were

drawn to the small alcove, to the right of the bell, with its

secret compartment. It was empty when shed discovered it by

accident a few months ago and shed wondered if the Spaniard

had hidden his gold there.

Ill leave the opal here, said Vivien. The full moon shining

on the tower will cleanse the opal.Rose giggled. You sound like Ma.

I guess I do, said Vivien, with a grin.

She wrapped the opal again in the brown paper, tied it with

the string and made a perfect bow. Well come back and get


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it in three days, she said, slipping the parcel into its hiding

place. Three was the magical number in fairytales.

Happily she turned around. Rose was out on the balcony,

both hands on the railing, gazing out over the rainforest. Chill

air rushed in through the arches; Vivien stood still, hardly

daring to move. All the fear shed felt earlier came back to

her. Shed been on the balcony herself the last time they came

here. Rose was perfectly safe. Yet Harrys words echoed in her

head:Might be unstable.

Wed better get going, she called lightly.

Dont you want to take some photos?Shaking her head, Vivien smiled at her sister as she came

inside. No, not now, the lights a bit diffused.

Okay. Race you to the bottom, cried Rose, and running

across the room to the top of the stairs she started jumping

down two steps at a time.

Vivien, close behind her sister, straight away saw the rotted

step with a birds nest on it.

Look out, Rose, she called, standing completely still.

Rose couldnt stop. She managed to jump over the birds

nest and hard onto the step below and, for a moment, Vivien

relaxed. Then she heard the sickening sound of splintering

wood, saw Rose lose her footing, and tumble down the stairs.

Vivien ran down to where Rose lay silent at the foot of the

stairs among broken timbers and cobwebs and leaves blown

in from the rainforest.Opening her eyes she looked at Vivien, puzzled at first

and then in pain.

Oh, Viv . . .

Where does it hurt?


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Viviens mounting concern for her sister made her speak

more sharply than shed intended.

My ankle . . . said Rose, her brows drawing together. Im

sorry, well get into trouble.No,Ill get into trouble, not you.

Vivien knelt down and stroked Roses forehead the

way she used to when Rose was little and had fallen over and

skinned her knees or forked lightning had lit up the night sky

outside her bedroom window and frightened her.

Ill have to hop home, said Rose sitting up and looking at

her twisted left ankle.

No, replied Vivien. You stay here. Ill go and get Ma and

Harry.

Concern and pain flickered in Roses eyes. Dont be long,

its getting dark. And my side hurts, too.

She patted Roses hand. Youll be fine.

Vivien stood up and ran out of the belltower, past the dark-

ening church ruins, and along the stone path to the lychgate.

Lifting the latch she stumbled through and sprinted downthe hill towards the shadowed rainforest track that led back

to Castillo de Sueos.


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HOM OMINGHOMECOMING

Warialda, far north Queensland, December 2008

As the plane began its descent into Cairns airport, I twisted up

my shoulder-length hair and secured it with the tortoiseshell

clip my mother had given me for my twenty-ninth birthday

last year. I only came home to Warialda in summer, usuallyfor no more than a week over Christmasto my mothers

great disappointmentbefore returning to Sydney to celebrate

New Years Eve with my friends. This year, though, I had

extended my trip by a week, hoping to spend as much time

as possible with Nan.

Warialda, an Aboriginal word meaning place of wild

honey, was the name of the tropical fruit farm in Babinda,

far north Queensland, where I grew up. It had belonged tomy fathers family, the Leightons, for three generations and

was one of the wettest places in Australia.

Closing my eyes, I relaxed into the undulating movement of

the descending plane. In the year since Id been home last Id


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missed my family more than I cared to admit. Yet I wondered

if my mother knew she was part of the reason Id left home

almost ten years ago. Id asked my father before I decided to

move to Sydney why Mum was the way she was. Smothering.Mum had been an older mother, thirty-four when I was

born, and had miscarried three times before. Shed developed

eclampsia the week before the birth and was in intensive care

for five days after. It had been necessary for me to be induced

and, while I was healthy, I was a small baby. And after her

own traumatic experience of giving birth and coming close

to dying, Mum had been fearful when shed held her fragile-

looking baby for the first time; fearful the baby shed longed

for would die.

Her relationship with Nan is difficult, Dad had said. Shes

always felt Nan didnt love her. It made her determined youd

never doubt how much she loves you.

Life within my family was never easy, I thought as the

plane touched down on the tarmac. My mothers suffocating

behaviour and the uneasy atmosphere between Nan and mymother had sent me spinning away at eighteen. Id known

almost no one in Sydney, had never lived in a big city, yet I

wasnt concerned, not with a new world of experiences waiting

for me. I was pursuing the career I loved, first studying photo-

graphy, then finding an apprenticeship, and now working as

a freelance photographer.

I came out through the exit door and saw my parents

waiting in the crowd, my father looking relaxed with his handsshoved into the pockets of his jeans, my mother glancing

anxiously at each of the emerging passengers. Mum saw me

first and waved enthusiastically.

Hi, Mum, I said, wrapping my arms around her.


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Stella, she said, standing back to look at me, tears in her

eyes. Its so good to see you.

One arm around me, my father grinned. At sixty-five

he was still a fine-looking man: thick silver hair, no midlifepaunch, lean like me. His eyes were as warm and kind as ever

as he smiled at me.

I laughed. Well, its good to be home.

I linked my arm through my mothers and we went over

to the carousel. I soon spotted my distinctive red suitcase.

Pete, said Mum, pointing, theres Stels bag.

Dad hauled it off the conveyor belt before I could grab it.

He pulled it behind him, leading the way through the busy

terminal to the car park, where he swiftly stowed the suitcase

in the back of the Landcruiser.

As my father headed the car towards Mick Borzi Drive,

I asked my mother how Nan was going.

Oh, shes fine, Mum said. Slowing down a bit . . . shes

eighty-three, remember.

My maternal grandmother, Rose Bailey, widowed a fewmonths before I was born, had moved up to live with us at

Warialda fifteen years ago. Nan was charming in old age but

she was always a woman who liked to be organised.

Before she moved up to live with us permanently, Nan

would come up from her small farm, Fernleigh, near Goulburn

in New South Wales, to spend her holidays at Warialda. When

I was small, if Mum was busy baking or gardening, it was Nan

who would pick me up and carry me around. I loved the sweetsmell of her Evening in Paris perfume, and the softness of her

cheek when I touched it gently with my small hand. Later, as

a teenager, my heart always filled with tenderness and fear

when I gazed at her. Id thought then that she was so old that


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shed surely die soon, and it was a wonderful relief when she

kept on living, bright and beautiful. Now, as an adult, when

I hugged Nan goodbye I always held her tightly in case it was

for the last time.

Last year when Id been home I discovered, over a cup of

tea with my mother one rainy afternoon, that while she was

pleased Nan and I were so close, shed often felt excluded

from our conversations and the activities we shared. Nan, she

disclosed, had lavished the affection on me that she couldnt

give to her own daughter, and it had made for difficult rela-

tions between them at times. I recall staring at Mum and ina light voice I had assured her it wasnt true. But that night,

lying wakeful in my bedroom, I had thought about what she

had said and knew Mum wasnt mistaken. I had flown back

to Sydney the next day, but this holiday Id hint to Nan that

we should spend more time with my mother.

Id spoken to Nan on the phone two days ago. Id noticed a

reedy note in her voice, unpleasant to listen to, and worrying.

When I asked Nan how she was, she insisted that she was

perfectly well. Nonetheless, I was alarmed. I had already

decided that I wouldnt mention my concerns about Nan to

my mother; I didnt want to worry her.

How about you, Stel? How was Vietnam? Dad asked.

Great, I had a good time.

And I had.

In my tote I had the Zippo that Alex Bertelli, a photo-grapher from New York, had given me as a souvenir on my last

night. A stark memento of the Vietnam War, it was inscribed

with the chilling words: The only thing I feel when I kill is the

recoil of my M16.


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Alex and I had first met by chance in the lobby of the

Caravelle Hotel in Saigon when we were both checking in.

Wed exchanged a few words then about our reasons for being

in Saigon and discovered we shared the same profession. A fewevenings later, wed caught up for a drink in the roof bar and

watched the pale moon rising over the city. I was attracted to

Alex, and sensed that he was attracted to me, but we didnt

hurry things.

After a week in Saigon, we flew to Hue, the old capital of

Vietnam. We hired bikes and cycled to the Citadel and the

Purple Forbidden City, within its walls. We strolled hand in

hand around the ruins, seeing everything through a haze of

heat, the hot air pressing around us.

One night we made love in a sampan on the Perfume River,

where flowers from the orchards upriver floated on the surface

of the water. The next day we walked across the Truong Tien

Bridge, a symbol of romance.

Early on the morning of my departure for Australia, his

head close to mine on the pillow, Alex ran his fingers lightlydown my cheek, and asked if he could keep in touch with

me. I caught my breath, wavering, then finally smiled and

shook my head.

Alex looked into my eyes. I wont forget you, Stella.

I smiled again and this time he smiled back.

We both knew in our hearts that these exciting but dead-

end flings would be left behind as the memories of them faded.

I thought a lot about Alex when I returned to Sydney. Idenjoyed being with him but thered been something deeply

unsatisfying about our time together. It didnt come to me

straight away, as these things sometimes dont. With my

thirtieth birthday approaching, however, I could see it clearly


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now: I wanted to have something real, with someone whod

put his arm around me, draw me to him. I was finally ready

for someone to share my life with.

I didnt mention Alex to my parents. Instead I told them

about my photographic assignment for a travel magazine, in

the high-octane city of Saigon, the name by which its still

known to most, officially Ho Chi Minh City. The city is all

commerce and culture, full of life and vitality, and while Id

captured satisfyingly haunting images of colonial French villas

and art deco houses in shade and light, I was happiest with

the photos Id taken of everyday people on the street. I alwaysasked politely for their permission to photograph them, and

most agreed: one, a birdlike old woman standing behind a fish

stall, grinned at me with affection as I took the shot. It was the

best picture I took in Saigon, and I felt Id caught the crucial

element I tried to encapsulate in my photos: not an image of

the past or the future but a point in the universal present.

These days I travelled Australia and the world taking

photographs, always looking forward to my next assignment,

yet on my last morning in Vietnam Id walked the streets,

breathing in the smell of piquant spices, the sounds of traffic

and voices all around me, wishing I could stay longer.

Your old school friend Jack rang us when you were in

Vietnam. Hes a pleasant chap, said my father, interrupting

my thoughts. Turning onto the highway, he drove steadily,

past cane fields, paddocks speckled with grazing cattle, anda little country cemetery enclosed within an iron-rail fence.

He rang you? I asked, surprised andin spite of myself

pleased. Then unexpectedly from somewhere came a familiar

eagerness I hadnt experienced for so long.


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Jack Lucas, whod grown up on a sugarcane farm five kilo-

metres down the road from Warialda, had moved to Sydney the

year before I did. Hed studied Media and Communications,

graduated at twenty-two with a Bachelor of Arts, and workedfor Fairfax Media for two years before becoming a freelance

writer. He was now published in major newspapers and

magazines around the world. It was years since Id seen Jack

but occasionally Id still type his name into my search engine,

wondering again what had happened between us.

Jack would have been a teenager when my father had

last seen him, with light brown hair that flopped over his

forehead, a wide, determined mouth, and a hard body honed

by farm work.

Dad nodded. He was kind enough to take the time when

he was visiting his family. His mobile number is on the fridge.

He left his number?

Yes, he asked after you. When I told him you were in

Vietnam, he said hed love to hear from you when you

got back.At school, Jack and I had been good mates. Not long after

Id moved to Sydney, Id visited him in his flat in an old

subdivided mansion in Kings Cross. My eyes ran over the

piles of books and the reproduction Renaissance Madonnas in

gilt frames hed started to collect. After that wed sometimes

go to a cafe in Kings Cross and pretend we were in Paris at

the Cafe de Flore, soaking up the artistic vibes from the past.

How Id missed him, Id thought at the time. He musthave sensed it, for one unforgettable spring day when we were

lying together on the grass at the Botanic Garden, hed raised

himself on his elbow and leaned over and kissed me, slow and

sweet. Startled by the feelings that erupted in me, I sat up.


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He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and it seemed as

though I was meeting him for the very first time, that wed

never sat together on the school bus, had sleepovers or helped

each other with our homework.I was just about to return his kiss when his expression

changed. He looked embarrassed and it was as if a wall

separated us and we couldnt venture further.

Wed stayed another hour, uncomfortable and awkward,

discussing our future projects; then in the gathering dusk

we went along the Spring Walk and out of the garden. Jack

didnt hug me like he usually did when we said goodbye and

I wondered if he regretted kissing me. And after that we had

stopped seeing each other. Id felt hurt and upset when Jack let

our friendship end. When I didnt hear from him, I considered

calling him. I never did. Now, though, Jack was ringing the

house, asking after me. I wondered what had changed.

In just under an hour wed turned off the public road and

through the open white gates of Warialda. We drove up the

long drive, edged with jacaranda trees in full leaf, and as

the two-storey stone farmhouse finally came into view, I sighed

with contentment. I always loved to return to Warialda.

Dad pulled up on the gravel in front of the house and I

took in the neatly swept boards of the wraparound verandah

and the large oriental planters with their blue and white vinepattern, colourful with petunias, at the front door. The skittish

kitten Trey, whod grown into a large, handsome tabby in the

past year, drowsed on a window ledge. He opened his eyes,

stood up, stretched himself, and sat down again. Bees foraged


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in the pink climbing roses that smothered the verandah posts,

magpies sang, and the air, scented with eucalyptus, was sharp

under the clear blue sky.

As I stepped through the front door, I instinctively lookedfrom the hall into the living room, where Id expected to

see Nan sitting in her usual place by the window. The seat

was empty, and I was aware of a sinking feeling in the pit of

my stomach.

Nan said shed have a rest before we got home, said Dad,

realising Id expected Nan to greet me at the front door. She

probably dropped off to sleep and didnt hear us coming in.

Upstairs on the landing, I paused for a moment outside

her door. Then, not wanting to disturb her if she was resting,

I turned and went into my own room. Nothing had changed

since Id been away. The curtains each side of the window

drifted softly in the warm air. On the dressing table, a book

I hadnt finished reading, the edge of the bookmark peeping

out, lay beside a bowl of fragrant summer roses.

Standing at the window, I gazed out at the familiarview: the lawn at the side of the house dotted with Japanese

maples, the high stone wall leading to the vegetable garden,

the birdbath and the old-world roses. Further still, out of sight,

was the greenhouse. Tomorrow Id pick some of my mothers

heritage tomatoes, enough to make several jars of relish.

As I was unpacking my clothes and hanging up my new

dresses, sewn from silks and cottons by a Vietnamese tailor,

a gentle knock sounded on the half-open door. My motherhesitated a moment before she came into the room. Light

from the window caught the few silvery strands in her hair,

otherwise dark like my own, and showed the fine lines of age

around her eyes.


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Thanks for the letters, she said, gesturing to my desk.

Emails are lovely too, but when I open the letterbox and find

a hand-addressed envelope from you it makes my day.

I nodded, and glanced at the wooden box on my desk whereshe stored my letters home. I wrote a weekly snail-mail letter

to the family and my mother carefully replied to each one.

Shed said she thought I might find them useful one day,

a record of my travels. Or my children might like to read them,

shed added with a hopeful smile. Id never told Mum this,

but I reread her letters often, finding the everyday details of

their life at Warialda comforting when I was so far from home.

Dads in the living roomtea wont be long, she said.

The bangles on her arm jingling, Mum went out the door

and I heard her footsteps recede down the stairs.

When Id finished unpacking, I wandered back to the

window and gazed out. My eyes fell on the orchard, and I

smiled as I remembered Nan lifting me up to pull lemons off

a tree. It was one of my first memories.

I showered and slipped into a pair of jeans that Id lefthere last year, pulled on a pale green t-shirt and sat in front

of my dressing-table mirror. I brushed my hair up into a

ponytail and, noticing the peridot studs in the jewellery tray

that brought out the colour in my eyes, I put them in my ears.

I dabbed a little 4711 Eau de Cologne on my wrists, went across

the hallway, and knocked gently on Nans door.

She opened the door within seconds, dressed simply in

a pair of slacks and a white blouse, ready to go downstairs.Stella, how wonderful to see you. She kissed me on the

cheek and then hugged me tightly.

Nan stepped back and I looked at her more closely then;

she seemed frail and tired compared to my last visit home,


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as though a gentle puff of wind might blow her slight frame

away. I knew that Id been right to extend my holiday to spend

more time with her.

Youll have to tell me about Vietnam, she said.It was a great trip, Nan. Ive plenty of photos to show you.

She smiled happily and turned her attention to the undone

top button of her blouse.

That would be lovely, she said, when the errant button was

firmly fastened. You are a wonderful photographer, Stella. Its

a gift you have been given and gifts must always be treasured,

she said.

Oh, I dont know about that, Nan. I just keep taking pic-

tures and some of them turn out okay. Come on. Mum will

be wondering where we are.

The next day was my birthday. I was born on Christmas

Eve, which could have been disastrous for a child, but Mumhad always taken great care to ensure that my birthday was

not neglected and presents were not combined. After dinner

we sat down on the verandah. The setting sun threw long

shadows across the garden and the paddocks beyond, and

lit up the lush cloud forest at the summit of Mount Bartle

Frere, Queenslands highest mountain, which lies behind

our farm.

Mum was strangely tense when she gave me her gift. Stella,I hope you like it, she said warmly.

I untied the bow and ripped off the beautiful wrapping

paper, exposing a vintage jewellery box in forget-me-not

blue velvet. Inside the box was an antique diamond brooch


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in the shape of a rose. The diamonds on the open petals

of the full-bloom rose glistened in the evening light flooding

the verandah.

Its beautiful, I said, not wanting to hurt my mothersfeelings, while thinking a diamond brooch was a very strange

gift for her to give me.

The brooch was certainly lovely, but it was too ornate for

my taste and very old-fashioned. Id never worn any brooch

before and I doubted Id ever wear this one. While I appre-

ciated the gesture, I wondered why Mum had given it to me.

She reached over and touched my cheek.

Thanks, Mum, I said. Where did you find it?

Her answer surprised me. She said it was her brooch,

a bequest from a friend. It had lain in its blue velvet box for

more than five years, and she rarely wore it.

My mothers face was inscrutable; it was impossible for me

to tell what she might be thinking.

For a moment, there was an awkward silence around the

table.It was given to me by an old friend, she said again. No

one youd know . . . Do you like it?

Yes, I quickly replied. I thought of my dislike of wearing

jewellery. I kept it simple: leather strap watch, a few silver

bracelets and stud earrings.

Mum kept her eyes fixed on mine. I wanted you to have it.

I was a little confused by Mums intensity about the brooch,

but there was a suggestion of anxiety in her face, so I assuredher it was a lovely gift and Id always treasure it.

Nan didnt comment on the brooch, but she stared at it

quizzically, a slight frown on her face. Ever practical, she gave

me a voucher for David Jones department store that my father


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had purchased online for her. To buy what you really need,

she said.

Thanks, Nan, I said, kissing her soft cheek, glad she was

looking less tired than yesterday.More to my liking than the brooch was the book my father

gave me, Ansel Adams: 400 Photographs. I couldnt wait to

tear off its cellophane covering. Id admired Adamss photos

since Id seen the photos hed taken in Yosemite and the High

Sierra early in his career. Dad always gave me meaningful

presents connected to the art I love. He spent a great deal of

time searching for the gifts he chose, and inevitably they were

perfect. I immediately opened the book and started studying

the images, only looking up when my mother carried out

a spun sugar croquembouche with thirty lighted candles.

Nan smiled at my mother. What a beautiful cake, Linda.

Unused to compliments from Nan, Mums face flushed

with pleasure.

Nan stared at my mother for a moment before she turned

to me. Cut the cake, dear. I love caramel cream puffs.I picked up the birthday knife with its red ribbon tied

around the handle and carefully cut into the cone of cream

puffs bound by threads of caramel.

We sat around the red cedar table in companionable silence

eating cake and drinking tea, and by the time the white bee

boxes were pale smudges at the end of the garden Id forgotten

about the brooch. Until, that is, I saw Nan take it from its

velvet box. Holding the brooch in the hollow of her crinkledpalm, she gazed at it steadily for a minute or so, opening and

closing her hand, before she nestled it back into its bed of

watered silk and with quiet determination closed the lid, as

if she were shutting Pandoras box.


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When my father finished his whisky nightcap and rubbed

his eyes, and a cloud of insects drifted over the verandah

oblivious to the mosquito coils burning on the window ledge,

we retired to our rooms.I wasnt tired, though, and lay in my comfortable bed, in

the lamp-lit room, gazing out the window, remembering Nans

expression when she looked at the brooch, which Id put in

the bottom drawer of the dressing table. I wondered if she

knew who had left the brooch to my mother.

Id asked Dad about it when we parted for the evening

and he just shook his head and looked evasive. It wasnt as if

Mum had a lot of friends, or indeed family. There were some

family members on the Bailey side, but on the Blake side it

was just Nan with no other relatives who Id met.

Nan had grown up in Castillo de Sueos, a castle in the

rainforest about fifty kilometres from here. I recognised

in Nans mothermy great-grandmother, Ruby, who had

passed away before I was bornsome qualities I admired.

The Irishwoman must have had an adventurous spirit to leaveher homeland in 1926 and sail alone with her infant daughter,

Rose, to the other side of the world. It wouldnt have been easy

to start a new life in a strange country.

When Ruby arrived in Mena Creek shed met Harry

Blake, the new owner of Castillo de Sueos. Harry, once an

accountant in a city office, had come up from Brisbane in 1924

and bought the castle and the surrounding thirteen acres that

year from the Spaniard whod built the castle in the earlytwentieth century.

Ruby had obtained employment in the castle and the

position included accommodation. Early the next year shed

received a letter from her brother in Ireland informing her


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of the death of Patrick Devine, her husband. And with no

thought of mourning her loss, Ruby married Harry Blake in

the spring, the season of new beginnings.

Tragically, the castle was swept away by a cyclonic flood

in 1948, leaving the scattered ruins and a few broken struc-

tures to be enveloped by the rainforest. Nan had once told

me, in an unguarded moment, that Ruby had predicted a

cataclysmic event the day before the cyclone made landfall,

when the bees absconded from the hives she kept. That was

the story anyway.

Floods were not unusual in the area but loggers hadfelled and trimmed the last of the giant cedars in the Mena

Creek catchment area, and the logs ready for transport to the

timber mill were piled up on the low ground near the creek.

The rising floodwaters lifted the logs into the stream and

they were carried to the railway bridge upstream from the

park where they banked up against the bridge creating a dam.

Ruby, remembering her prediction the day before, had

become anxious when the water coming over the falls dropped

suddenly; it then became a trickle and finally no water fell.

They nearly left it too late. Ruby, Harry and the staff who were

at the castle just made it to the high ground before the bridge

collapsed and a fifty-foot wall of water, carrying the huge cedar

logs, descended on the castle and the gardens.

Id first visited the ruins of Castillo de Sueos with my

mother when I was a child. Id had fun exploring the crum-bling, moss-covered structures, but the next time we went I

was a moody teenager. Mum tried unsuccessfully to interest

me in her familys history and in the rainforest plant life.

Finally she gave up and we went back home to Warialda,


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with me declaring loudly I never wanted to visit the boring

place again.

I had no idea how long I lay there, thinking about the past,

and only when I heard the grandfather clock downstairs chimetwo oclock did I switch off the lamp and close my eyes. As

I drifted asleep it was not Castillo de Sueos I was thinking

about but my childhood friend, Jack Lucas.

We had a quiet time on Christmas Day; Mum cooked Christmas

lunch: baked chicken and vegetables, and Nan made a white

chocolate snowball and strawberry trifle for dessert. I set the

table on the verandah and Dad poured the champagne.

After we finished our lunch we sat for a long time talking

until the cloud forest of the mountain darkened and a sudden

squall of rain drove us inside.

I switched on the lamps in the living room and Nan, taking

up her knitting, settled in her favourite chair.Linda, a slice of that Christmas cake you made wouldnt

go astray, she said, not looking up from her knitting. With

a cup of tea, please, she added, tersely.

Mum, Ill do it, I said, noticing how shed jumped up the

minute Nan asked for tea and cake.

Nan looked up, opened her mouth to say something and

closed it again.

There must be a reason for the constant tension betweenthem, I thought. Even when Nan had come up on holidays it

had been the samean underlying current of something not

quite right in their relationship that Id always found difficult

to understand.


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Dad, never one for conflict, must have sensed my slight

agitation and glimpsed the downhearted expression on Mums

face, for he smiled at her.

Linny, he said, in his slow country speech that masked a

sharp intelligence, that Christmas cake of yours is the best

Ive ever tasted.

Mum smiled back at him, a little ruefully, but didnt say

anything.

I agree, Peter, Nan said to Dad while looking at Mum.

Lindas fruitcakes are delicious. Stella, make sure you bring

a plateful.In the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, I listened to

the monsoonal rain pounding against the side of the house,

and heard the distant rumble of thunder.

I hoped Nan had thought about the way shed spoken to my

mother: a directive rather than asking politely. I doubted it.

Returning with the steaming cups and a plate of cake

on a tray, I placed it on the coffee table. Nan put aside her

knitting to sip her tea. Her hand was trembling slightlyold

age, I guessbut it was the way she gazed at my mother over

the top of her cup, a loving look, that made me feel she wanted

to tell her something, yet the moment passed in silence and I

realised I must have been mistaken.

After the family retired to their rooms, I went outside to

the verandah. The storm had passed and as I watched the

watery moon sailing across the sky I was reminded of oneof my favourite poems, The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes.

I kept looking up at the moon, remembering how Jack

and I used to walk from the school bus to his house or mine

reciting the poem and feeling sad for the ghost of Bess, the


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landlords daughter, who was doomed to plait the dark red

love-knot in her long black hair, over and over again, forever.

I walked through the garden to the edge of the moonlit

rainforest and glimpsed the light-drenched summit of themountain in the distance. I lingered for a while listening to

night birds calling and soaking up the beauty of the night.

And then I went back the way Id come, thinking about

Jack and wondering if he was home for Christmas.


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Elise McCune was born in Sydney. In 1973, she moved

to Perth, where she raised her two children, Lisa and

Brett. Elise now lives by the bay in Melbourne. You can

find more information about Elise and her writing at

www.elisemccune.com.

Documents

Castle of Dreams by Elise McCune Sample Chapter