The Lost Valley

Chapter 8-1

Chapter 8

‘Hurry up, Harry,’ called Isabelle. ‘There’s a long drive ahead of us.’

She climbed into the passenger seat of Miriam, their red Ford roadster; a present from Luke shortly before he died. She loved Miriam like one of the family, despite her quirks. An engine that hammered like an aeroplane on take-off, emitting clouds of scalding steam. Impossible gears. Dodgy brakes that meant you had to go downhill in reverse to help slow her down.

But Miriam had her strengths. Navigating rocky roads and managing mud. Crossing shallow streams and climbing hills with ease. When Binburra suffered one of its frequent power blackouts, Old George would remove one of her wheels, fasten a pulley to the hub and make a flat belt to drive the water pump and generator.

Tom honked the horn, and Harry heaved his bag into the back seat. ‘How come he gets to drive?’

‘Your turn on the way home,’ said Isabelle.

Harry frowned and got in. ‘Wait.’ He flung the door open and raced for the house, returning with the elaborate red speedboat he’d built from broken toys and old clock parts. The intricate mechanism powered it along faster than any shop-bought wind-up boat. He wrapped it in a linen sheet and stowed it carefully on the back seat.

Miriam back-fired with a deafening bang and Isabelle laughed aloud, brimming with optimism. Here was a chance to put their recent dramas behind them. The snake and Mr Hancock. Tom’s unexplained injuries – his arm still wasn’t right. Harry’s mysterious disappearance. Something awful had happened out there in the bush; something the boys refused to talk about. Whatever it was had fractured their bond, and made her feel excluded. This trip might help bring them all closer together.

Harry wanted to visit the Battery Point shipyards and go to a cricket match at Bellerive Oval. Tom wanted to visit the museum and Cambridge Aerodrome. Isabelle wanted to see a play and attend meetings of the Royal Society again. Everybody wanted to see a movie. Nobody wanted to see Grandma Bertha.

Tom whooped as they headed for the gate. ‘Hold onto your hat, Nana. Hobart, here we come!’

* * * *

Isabelle found her key and opened the door wide. ‘Welcome to Coomalong.’ Tom and Harry stood in the front hall. ‘Go on, you two, take a look around.’ They dropped their bags and bounded up the stairs.

She hadn’t been to Coomalong since Robert’s funeral. Visits here were bittersweet affairs. Isabelle had grown up in this gracious old home in Sandy Bay, living here until she was twelve; the happiest childhood imaginable. Her father had founded Campbell College in the old wool store next door, offering working-class children – both boys and girls – a low-cost, progressive education.

Later on she’d lived here with her beloved Colonel Buchanan, known to all as the wealthy South African diamond tycoon who’d arrived in Tasmania one day and whisked Isabelle away from her husband. There was nobody left alive who knew the truth – that they’d met as children, right here, when he was a poor boy attending the school next door.

So many memories. She looked down at her wedding ring, twisted it in her fingers. Her hands didn’t look like they belonged to her, with their wrinkles and age spots. Isabelle rarely looked in the mirror anymore, but her hands were an unavoidable reminder that she was in the autumn of her life. There were things the twins had a right to know before she died.