The Quilt Read online

  She held a suitcase in her right hand. He waited for her to speak.

  “I need you and I needed you to stay. That’s why I did it.”

  Hesitantly, she continued, her voice, toneless.

  “I thought I would get pregnant as soon as we were married. You wouldn’t realize the timing was slightly out and I know we’d have been happy. We would have been a family.”

  Her tone changed and became laced with bitterness.

  “But you were never here, you were always working. You didn’t even take me on a honeymoon and you wouldn’t sleep in the same bed as me.”

  Her eyes wandered to the old dog that lay beside Paul. Jess curled up a lip and omitted a small threatening growl. Leslie looked away towards the window and into the mass of small flecks of dust that were suspended in the shafts of morning sun light.

  Paul remained silent. Was there ever a time he had really loved this pitiful, insecure woman? How would it have been possible to raise a child with anyone this destructive? He should feel anger but there was only emptiness, he had allowed himself to be deceived. He had given the power to someone else to manipulate his future. It would not happen again.

  Paul said nothing, his eyes were unreadable. Leslie searched their depths for a hint of hurt, for the softness that was once familiar. When had he last looked at her in that way? She shuddered. He wouldn’t allow her to go.

  “We could still make this work. If you really do want to be a veterinarian we can move close to the campus. Buy a nice house and start a family while you study. A manager and Sean can run Twin Pines.”

  “No Leslie.”

  He sounded like a stranger. Leslie bit her lip. He wouldn’t let her go.

  “You can’t be serious, Paul. What do you want me to do?”

  Paul slowly rose to unsteady and unwilling feet. The only sound was the dull slow thump of Jess’ tail on the hard wood slats.

  He reached for the heavy suitcase taking it gently from Leslie’s hand. Her face relaxed and her lips parted. Paul stepped away from her open arms, away from the familiar perfume that enveloped him in sickly sweetness and turned his stomach. He ignored the throbbing pain and rising nausea and placed his hand firmly on her shoulder, without blinking he held her gaze, his eyes hard with resolve.

  He guided her down the stairs before turning to look at her for one last time. When he finally spoke, his words were even. There would be no compromise.

  “You asked me what I would like you to do. I would like you to walk back to the Shearers Cottage. I would like you to make sure you have everything you will ever take from Twin Pines. While you are doing that, I will ring for a taxi and arrange for it to take you anywhere you would like to go.”

  Tears overflowed and spilled from her eyes. They dislodged the thick black mascara that she had carefully applied an hour before and ran it in oily streams down her flushed red cheeks.

  For a few minutes Paul watched the fragile figure make its way slowly towards the Cottage. Her arm trailed behind holding the handle of the heavy case. She had almost reached the front door of Shearers Cottage before Leslie turned around. Paul wouldn’t let her go. He would have reconsidered. He would have followed.

  Behind her the puddles had dried and the dusty chalk coloured roadway leading back to the Shearing shed reached out lonely and stark. She had seen Paul Clarke for the very last time.

  Chapter 3

  “Twin Pines”

  Jean plugged in the jug. She didn’t actually feel like a cup of tea, but she did need a distraction, she needed to clear her mind before she started this next chapter in the life of the Clarke family.

  She walked slowly over to the quilt. It spread lazily over the back of her plush and comfortable lounge suite offering silent inspiration and motivation. Her fingers ran along the square that told the story of Twin Pines in pictures. Like many of the more complicated parts of the quilt she had located small individual illustrations and carefully stitched them into place to tell the story. Was this an easier task than committing pen to paper? Ultimately what would prove less painful?

  She knew there would be chapters other members of her family would have to write. Stories that were too raw and too personal for her to take the liberty of translating. Memories they may not want to share in detail with you the reader and they alone should be given that option.

  It was these early historical chapters that she anticipated with dread. She saw the pain and the loss etched deeply in Sean’s face as he was forced to recall days of hardship, littered with unanswered questions and personal loss. But no matter how dark the ghosts that haunt us, how deep the hurt they leave behind, they are the fabric that combines to make us what we are and their story was Jeans to tell.

  She shook her head sadly, trying to find clarity and order in the whirlwind of images and part answered questions tumbling through her tired brain. She rubbed slowly at the goosebumps standing like soldiers along the length of her arms as she settled back. The Clarkes murky past needed to be revisited for their story to be told.

  For many years, tall and proud at the entrance of a long tree lined driveway, stood a lonely Redwood Pine. It was obviously ancient. Its long branches reaching out like the limbs of an old man standing in stark contrast to the vivid and cloudless blue sky.

  Had motorists travelling on the State Highway taken a moment to stop and read the insignificant sign perched next to a bright red letterbox they surely would have wondered why a farm would boast a solitary tree and bear the name “Twin Pines Station”.

  Allan and James Clarke were born in a time when choices were limited and life was hard. They had come from a farming family and as with many children growing up in rural New Zealand they had left school with little education to take up their rightful place on the family property.

  Allan was a tough man; it seemed he was born that way. He was ruthless, uncompromising and bad tempered. He was self-disciplined from hours of labour-intensive work. He rose with the sun and returned after darkness fell, seven days every week. He battled to extract a living from the unforgiving and infertile clay ground and demanded the same dedication from those around him.

  He had little time for people in general and even less tolerance for people he considered of no benefit to himself personally. A strikingly handsome man, Allan could dominate a room with his presence. But when Allan Clarke entered that room the atmosphere became charged and conversation became muted. Very few people felt at ease around Allan. He was a dangerous man, constantly fighting to control a demon hidden only just below the surface.

  While there was much to dislike in Allan’s abrupt, and often rude mannerism, no one could accuse him of being lazy or stupid.

  James was the younger of the two brothers. Like Allan, he stood well over six foot, was muscular and devastatingly handsome. He had the Clarke family’s dancing glacier blue eyes and an easy open manner that invited people to gravitate to him.

  He had grown up in his older brother’s shadow, he was bullied relentlessly and often endured the harsh physical punishment dealt out by Allan. Had James been an only child there was no doubt he would have excelled. He was intelligent and athletic; he also possessed a calm strength and confident leadership quality. Unfortunately his generous character struggled to develop under the constant ridicule and threat of the older Clarke brother.

  Mary and Charles Clarke could do little to protect their youngest child from Allan’s constant abuse. He towered above them both and did not hesitate to use intimidation or violence to control all of those around him.

  By his mid-twenties Allan had convinced his aging parents to abandon their fruitless struggle with land that would never support efficient farming practice.

  Allan had seen the opportunity to purchase and develop an eight thousand acre high country station in the North Island King Country district. It was at a time when land prices were crippled by the devastating worldwide events of the 1940’s.

  Allan was a cunning businessman, despite his lack of edu
cation. He predicted the boom that occurred in agricultural exports when peace and stability were finally restored. He also predicted that rural land prices would escalate dramatically in the 1950’s.

  “Twin Pines Station” as it was later named, became home to Allan, his younger brother James and their elderly parents, Mary and Charles, who by this time were in failing health.

  The only liveable structure on the huge, unruly, and only partially developed property was the Shearers Cottage. There was no logical reason it became known as Shearers Cottage. The previous owners had concentrated on farming Angus beef cattle until the property, like many others was left to deteriorate in the 1940’s.

  Within a few months of moving to the station Mary Clarke had planted a small fruit orchard near the cottage and two tiny Redwood pines one on each side of the rutted driveway that led from the busy main road to the Shearers Cottage. She planted one for each of her son’s. To Mary, they signified permanence, stability and security in a world recently gone mad.

  The tiny cottage was cramped, damp and uncomfortable living for the family of four. It snuggled almost on the edge of a clear cold river that looped lazily along the valleys of Twin Pines during its slow journey from the snow topped mountains to the fertile pastures below.

  Like many farms in the 1940’s the land had fallen victim to dense gorse, ragwort and secondary scrub growth. The fight to rebuild fencing, clear pasture and reclaim usable land was long and physically punishing. The two brothers launched an aggressive attack using heavy equipment and dedicating their life to establishing “Twin Pines” as a viable high country farm.

  Anne Saunders was the product of a normal functional local family. She grew up surrounded by love and security. Although not a stunning girl she was certainly attractive and could have had her choice from the many eligible bachelors in the area.

  Perhaps it was just normal teenage rebellion. No one could really understand why a popular, outgoing, pretty young woman would seek the company of a toxic and antisocial man like Allan Clarke.

  They had met when Allan made one of his infrequent visits to the local hardware store, which was owned and run by the Saunders family.

  The world was an insecure place, people had become aware of their own mortality and vulnerability as war raged and horrific images sent shock waves through the populations’ basic belief in security. It was not uncommon for romance to flourish quickly when the future seemed so unsure. Anne threw caution to the wind and married Allan despite her parent’s desperate attempts to discourage the relationship.

  The cramped, damp, miserable conditions for the family in Shearers Cottage soon started to take its toll. Allan and Anne shared one tiny room and Mary and Charles the other. Without complaint James settled on the small lumpy couch, his long arms and legs trailing over its edges. Working on the farm was his only escape, a time when he could find peace and privacy.

  Allan found his peace in a bottle. He drunk hard liquor and it oozed from his pores and hung rank on his breath. The demon that existed just below his skin started to make its way to the surface.

  Within a few months the tension had become tangible in the little house thick and septic like a festering wound. Allan’s alcohol-fuelled verbal abuse belittled, controlled and humiliated. His drunken rages left holes in the walls, the table and the kitchen cabinets. Eventually it left Anne with a blackened eye, broken teeth and a swollen cheek.

  That Sunday, James had stood silently, his broad frame filling the door way. He stared at Anne’s ruined face and the ice blue of his eyes became pools of dark anger his mouth set in a long dangerous line. When he connected with Allan he connected hard, his aim was calculated and sent the older larger man through the front window.

  The dawn chill had settled over the paddocks in a light damp mist when Allan regained consciousness. He was lying alone in a pool of broken glass and stale vomit.

  For several months an uneasy calm fell over the Cottage. Allan barely spoke and when he did his voice was measured and careful. Allan no longer drunk but his sobriety was more ominous than his unpredictable drunken rages had ever been.

  Winter was hard in the High Country. Not only was it hard for the stock but also for the people that chose to live in this special but wild countryside. Snow often brought progress to a standstill for the Clarke brothers and tempers in the small cottage were increasingly frayed by frustration. It wasn’t uncommon for one or both of the brothers to work well into the night even when inclement conditions should not have been ignored.

  On one such winter evening Allan hovered around the raging fire watching his mother poke yet another unnecessary log into its open mouth. Mary felt nervous and was making every effort to hide the dread that threatened to turn to panic.

  She rushed back and forth to the kitchen redoing dishes and looking anxiously through the window into the dead of night. Light snow scattered and melted on the blank glass. The men did not seem concerned that James had not returned from checking equipment on the ridge at the back of the farm. She looked out again into the darkness. Where was he? A sick, nervous premonition settled in the pit of her stomach.

  “Do you think James should have been in by now?”

  Mary glanced at Anne. Her eyes were dark with concern.

  “Yes I do, the weather is set to turn nasty and it’s already snowing.”

  Anne swallowed hard and stared at the blank cold glass. Her hand was resting protectively on the tiny pregnancy bulge just visible under her white and red checked apron. Silently, she prayed. She was not a religious person but the unexplained panic that enveloped her and held her paralysed at the black glass had no logic. He had been this late before. Why was fear ringing in her ears and tensing every fibre of her body? In desperation she reached in prayer to the only thing she thought might be more powerful than any human.

  “Allan, you should go and check up on James.”

  Allan was irritated by his mother’s fussing. He scoffed at the old lady and glared at his wife who stood frozen at the window holding her stomach and the brat that grew in it. He cursed and slammed his fist hard on the timber of the table. No one seemed to notice. No one had even commented when he had poured a large glass of whiskey into the tumbler.

  He took a long swig out of the glass that sat in front of him. The liquid felt familiar and soothing. The bitches were still staring out of the window. Why did they fuss so much? Why wouldn’t they shut up? Allan stood abruptly sending his chair across the floor. No one even flinched at the commotion he caused. He had gone soft after that incident with James. The whole family needed a reminder that he was the head of the household. He threw his glass hard against the far wall. Shards of glass scattered across the floor and still neither woman flinched.

  Bitches. They would all get a lesson about respect. Muttering under his breath Allan pulled on a woollen hat, oilskin and gumboots before moodily stomping out.

  Allan had a fair idea where James would be. They had been clearing a patch of scrub and bush on the boundary ridge for almost a month now. The progress had been slow and both brothers were impatient to get the job done before winter completely set in and halted their access to the higher areas of the farm.

  What the hell was he thinking going up there at this hour of the night and in conditions like these? Allan cursed the stupidity as he wound his way up the well-worn, muddy, access road. Light flakes of snow danced in the harsh glare of the headlight settling on the ground for only a few seconds before melting on the sodden earth.

  The ridge was littered with felled trees and deep tracks from the heavy machinery. They crisscrossed like a moonscape in front of the bike illuminated under the harsh glare of the head light.

  He turned off the bike. The flakes of snow were no longer melting and had settled to form a white carpet across the ground. A dark eerie silence enveloped Allan. Light flakes dancing and floating effortlessly around him in the beam of the torch were the only movement in a sleeping land.

  The farm landrover sat
where it had been routinely parked that morning. Allan put his hand on the bonnet; it was cold to the touch. An unfamiliar feeling of mortality and isolation surrounded him like a stranger. A shudder travelled down his spine. He needed a drink to calm his nerves but that would have to wait. What the hell had that bastard done? Where was the bulldozer?

  “James?” the words were snatched by a gust of wind and thrown back from the rocky cliff face beyond.

  Allan carefully turned the strong beam of the torch focusing at the edge of the cliff. The beam settled on a new area of crushed scrub and a jagged subsided rocky scar.

  James’ broken body lay on the rocks half way down the steep decline. He had been thrown from the cab as the bulldozer careened like a crazed child’s toy to its resting place at the bottom of the ravine.

  Hours had passed and he thought he must have drifted in and out of consciousness. He was vaguely aware that he should stay awake. He had to focus on living and the people whose very life depended on him. He didn’t seem to have any sensation. There was white all around him. Falling lightly from the sky and settling like angels around his body. It must be snow, but it wasn’t cold. Was this death?

  He imagined strong lights throwing rays of hope from the cliff above, he imagined sensation in his legs and warmth in his arms.

  Through dreamlike eyes he imagined the tall broad figure of a man, perhaps it was Allan, who stood high above him, holding a torch and silhouetted by a strong headlight shining from behind. The light settled on his broken body, lying on the snow covered rocks. James tried to wave but his arms would not move. He tried to call but his voice was silent. The figures arms folded as it stood wavering, fighting with itself and fighting with its demons. Finally, he imagined the sound of a motorbike as it was kicked into life. He imagined the noise of its engine fading into the distance. James then lapsed into unconsciousness.