The Lost Valley

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Isabelle walked the phone away from the desk as far as the cord would allow. She peered around the corner of the library to make sure the boys weren’t in earshot. ‘No, of course I don’t mind. I love having them, but what about school? They’ve been here for weeks now.’

Bertha’s voice sounded thin and tinny on the other end of the line. ‘Things haven’t worked out with Scotch College.’

Oh. Isabelle could imagine what things hadn’t worked out. The bank manager had been in touch with her about the boys’ trust accounts. Robert had apparently cleaned them out along with the rest, cobbling together what money he could to pay failed funds and margin calls. An elaborate but doomed juggling act.

‘The twins won’t be returning for their final term?’

‘I’m afraid not, unless … unless you’re prepared to pay their fees yourself? I imagine the Colonel left you generously provided for.’

Bertha was right. Isabelle could afford to cover the costs, but it was the last thing she wanted to do. A disgrace, how sons of privilege were packed off to mainland boarding schools at such tender ages. Torn from the people they loved. Delivered into the hands of strangers. Her own son had been abandoned in such a way. He’d grown mistrustful and closed off because of it.

Silence stretched down the line. ‘Perhaps you could teach them yourself for the remainder of this year, then,’ said Bertha, a hint of irritation in her voice. ‘We’re only talking one term, and I’m well aware of the fine reputation you held as Principal of Campbell College.’

‘That was thirty years ago.’

She could hear Bertha breathing, planning her words. ‘My dear Isabelle, if you won’t pay their fees, and home-schooling isn’t possible, I believe Hills End has a public school …’

What? Things were worse than she thought. In the entire history of the family, no Abbott child had ever attended a public school.

‘Leave it with me,’ said Isabelle. ‘Would you like to talk to the boys?’

‘Next time, perhaps. Ernest and I are on our way out.’

Bertha ended the call and Isabelle sat down to think. Until now she’d had no clue how long the boys might be with her. She’d been frightened some nameless chauffeur might whisk them away any day. She hadn’t dared to hope it might be a more permanent arrangement.

These past two months, having the twins, had been one of the happiest times of her life. Since being widowed, Isabelle had retreated into herself, becoming more and more reclusive - losing interest in the bush restoration work that she and Luke had once been so passionate about. Fourteen years ago, together with a dedicated band of conservationists, they fought for Tasmania’s first national parks at Mount Field and the Freycinet Peninsula. Cradle Mountain-Lake St Clair soon followed. Heady days of bitter struggles, hard disappointments and some spectacular successes. She’d been a fearless warrior for Tasmania’s forests back then, like her father before her.

Then came Luke’s terrible illness. The proud, vibrant man she adored, wasting away in a fog of pain. He faced his death with the same courage and fortitude with which he lived his life. If it was possible, Isabelle loved him even more because of it. And as she nursed him through those final months, as a choking cancer stole the breath from his lungs, her vital force faded along with his.

By the time he died, she was a hollow shell. For months she spoke to no one. Her passion for conservation - her very passion for life itself - had died with Luke. She withdrew from her position with the Royal Society. Latest copies of the British Natural History magazine lay unread in the library along with Field Naturalist newsletters and scientific journals. When subscriptions ran out, she failed to renew. What was the point? At sixty she didn’t have the energy to fight and, without Luke, her work seemed empty.

Since the boys’ arrival, that was changing. She’d read the letter from their governess with its dire assessment of the devilish pair. Rude, irreverent, defiant. This was true. Old George, the yard man, had threatened more than once to tan their hides. Unpredictable and quarrelsome. Mrs Mills, the housekeeper, was forever shouting at them. Harry was prone to tantrums and black days of grief. Robbie’s death seemed to have hit him particularly hard.

So yes, the twins were incorrigible, but they were also clever and funny and charming. Filled with the kind of youthful exuberance that she’d forgotten existed. Brimming with curiosity and ideas and original thoughts. Tom and Harry, with their wonder at the world, were bringing her steadily back to life.

Of course it wasn’t a one-way street. Between nannies and boarding school and summer camps, the boys had been starved of love. A child’s heart needed feeding as well as his stomach. Their persistent, troublesome behaviour was a cry for attention and a rebellion against a lonely and highly regimented life.

Yet here, in the shadow of Binburra’s wild ranges, the boys were free to simply be. Riding and rabbiting. Hiking and camping with the dogs in the forest. Fashioning weapons: swords and shields from bush timber. Bows and arrows from saplings. Acting out elaborate battles that could last from daybreak until dusk. They swam and fished. They built boats and yabby ponds. They grew their hair long, played tricks on Old George and turned nut-brown in the sun.

Isabelle herself had enjoyed such a childhood and understood how there hardly seemed enough hours in the day. She demanded little from them, other than they be home for dinner. She endured their tempers, forgave them when they needed it, listened patiently when they talked. Adored them beyond measure.

The boys were very different. It was impossible to believe that two months ago she couldn’t tell them apart. Tom was easier to warm to than Harry. Harry was smart and sure with a razor-sharp wit, but he was also secretive and suspicious of her love. By contrast Tom had a kind of open, naive honesty that was most appealing. As was his interest in nature. It was Tom who drew her back to the library, exploring the natural history collection with an enthusiasm far beyond his years. He collected feathers and insects, tempted her into bush rambles, asked questions about devils and eagles and native tigers.

‘Tigers? They used to be at Binburra,’ said Isabelle, ‘but a wicked bounty scheme wiped them out. I doubt you’d find a single thylacine between here and Hobart.’

‘I’d like to go looking,’ said Tom. ‘I bet I’d find one, too, and if I did, guess what?’ He put a finger to his lips. ‘I’d never tell a soul.’

Isabelle smiled. Cut from the same cloth as his grandfather. The thought of losing him, of losing either of the boys, had filled her with dread. And now it seemed her fears were groundless. Thanks mainly, she supposed, to Tasmania’s gloomy financial outlook. Robert wasn’t the only victim of Wall Street. The papers were filled with stories of ruined financiers pitching themselves out of windows and off buildings and bridges. Shock waves from the crash reverberated internationally, crippling economies, threatening to plunge the entire world into chaos. Here in Tasmania unemployment was already at twenty-five percent and rising. As the depression took hold, it seemed nobody wanted to take on two extra mouths, especially an unruly pair of penniless orphans like Tom and Harry. Nobody except Isabelle.