The Lost Valley

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Isabelle held her teacup with both hands, but couldn’t keep it steady. Time to admit defeat. Teaching the twins at Binburra had never been her preference. She’d tried to convince the Abbott clan they’d be better off at the local school, where they could mix with other children. Reminding Bertha that she herself had suggested it in the beginning.

‘Oh, my dear, you must be mistaken,’ Bertha had said. ‘As the boys’ guardian, I couldn’t possibly allow it. No Abbott child has ever had a public education. You must teach them yourself, Isabelle. I have complete faith in you.’

Complete faith. This from a woman who’d kept Isabelle from her grandsons for years. The hypocrisy was breathtaking.

She’d enlisted a string of tutors, but none had lasted long. The twins were intelligent, gifted students, and this year had gained their intermediate equivalency certificates with high marks. However they did love to play pranks on their unsuspecting teachers. As they grew older, the scale of their mischief escalated alarmingly. Last month, Mr Hancock had spent a freezing night lost in the bush after the boys gave him the slip. This incident with the snake, though, was by far the most dangerous. It might take a fair sum of money to buy Mr Hancock’s silence.

More tea lay in the rose-patterned saucer than in the cup. She gave up her balancing act and put the teacup down with trembling hands. No, it couldn’t go on like this. She didn’t have the energy any more. The twins were running wild here at Binburra. Sixteen-years-old and living in grand isolation, with no social life. No way to make their own friends, or lead their own lives.

The boys’ former camaraderie was turning into an unhealthy rivalry, and the chip Harry had always worn on his shoulder was growing fast. Sometimes the way he looked at Tom gave her a chill – all that veiled hostility. This angry, adolescent Harry wasn’t easy to love.

She shut her eyes, picturing the two lost little souls who’d arrived six years earlier. For Tom, Binburra had been a place of healing after tragedy. By contrast, Harry had never really recovered from the loss of his parents, especially his father.

Isabelle took her tea into the parlour. She opened the sideboard, where she kept her photograph albums, and flipped through the pages. An image of Harry on his eleventh birthday caught her eye, taken with her old box Brownie camera. The tip of his tongue showed from between his teeth as he glued together a model yacht. The picture of concentration. Such a clever boy, with a knack for building things, especially boats. What a shame Robbie had lost the family shipyard. Harry would have loved working there.

He tinkered endlessly with motors and helped Old George keep the farm machinery running. A whizz with electricity and engines, rigging up all sorts of mostly useful inventions. An automatic hay-lift for the loft. An electric chick incubator. Even a stream-driven dynamo to generate power. He possessed a boundless curiosity about how things worked, and once received a serious electric shock while investigating the wiring under the house.

And here was a photo of Tom at the same age – dressed in that silly home-made bird costume with canvas wings outstretched and hope shining in his eyes. She smiled at the memory. Five minutes later he’d taken a running jump off the haystack. A leap of faith. Biting the dust hadn’t dented his passion for flying.

Tom devoured books about aviation, collected toy planes and made mail-order Meccano and balsa wood kits, including twelve different World War I biplanes. It wasn’t enough for him to cram full every shelf. Tom wanted them to fly. In his bedroom he built an elaborate, overhead web of cotton and fuse wire, organising his planes into dramatic scenes of combat.

He knew everything there was to know about World War I flying aces like the Red Baron and Australia’s own Roderick Dallas and Robert A Little.

‘When I grow up I’ll be a pilot too,’ he’d say. ‘I’ll finally know how an eagle feels.’

Isabelle didn’t doubt him for a moment. Tom might be an optimist, a dreamer with his head and his heart in the clouds, but there was an indefinable sense of destiny about the boy.

She wished her father could have known him. Daniel Campbell had been one of Tasmania’s greatest naturalists and a pioneering member of the Royal Society, the oldest scientific organisation in Australia. He’d had a special love for birds, too, especially owls and eagles. How he would have loved Tom.

Isabelle took a deep breath. Decision time. The boys needed a circuit breaker and so did she. Time to broaden their horizons as her own dear mother had done for her. Time to take them to Hobart, so they could learn about the world beyond Binburra’s boundaries.

A plan formed in her mind. They could stay at Coomalong, Isabelle’s old family home next to Campbell College, where she’d once been Principal. Isabelle remained on the board. She’d donated her house to the school on condition that it be used not only for lessons, but as accommodation for scholarship girls. Harry and Tom would be able to attend classes and mix with people their own age. She would have a respite from the burden of their education.

It would be an adventure for them all.