Free Lyrebird Hill by Anna Romer

been.
    – ROB THISTLETON, EMOTIONAL RESCUE
    Ruby, April 2013
    T he week following my return to the coast was hectic. Several large deliveries of books arrived at the shop, and I threw myself into unpacking and cataloguing and finding space for them in my already impossibly cluttered shelves.
    On Friday night, I went home early. Although my bookshop was in the busy metropolis of Coffs Harbour on the north coast of New South Wales, I lived twenty minutes south of there in the small seaside village of Sawtell. My tiny cottage was perched on the hilltop overlooking the sandy curves of Murray’s Beach. On a windy day the salty breath of the ocean whispered through my rooms, teasing the curtains and enticing me out onto the patio to inhale the view.
    Kicking off my shoes, I unloaded my groceries in the kitchen, then went out to the garden and picked a handful of fresh greens. When Rob rang and asked me to dinner, I found myselfmaking excuses. He had resumed his usual chirpiness after our tiff about the bra, but I found myself watching him more closely now, reading hidden meaning into his words, looking for a chink in the armour of his innocence. I’d even stalked him once or twice, getting myself all sweaty and worried, working myself into a mood – but he’d only been with clients, or at the bar with his mates, or picking up laundry from the woman who washed and ironed for him.
    There’s no one else, Ruby. When are you going to get that through your thick skull?
    I was trying to be happy with that. But since Mum’s opening and my chat with Mrs Hillard, things had changed.
    I felt as if I’d fallen down a rabbit hole and emerged into a world that was, by all appearances, normal, but under that veneer of normalcy was a life I didn’t recognise. Esther’s slip about Jamie, and then her gentle backtracking to save my feelings, still haunted me. I understood why Mum had never told me the truth, and appreciated that she’d only been trying to protect me with her silence; but something niggled.
    Going out to my bedroom, I opened the wardrobe and took down a shoebox. Wiping off a layer of dust, I removed the lid and stared at the old photos inside.
    After Jamie died, Mum had boxed up all our childhood photos and put them away, unable to cope with the grief they inspired in her. Once, I had rescued a Polaroid of Jamie from Mum’s hoard and hidden it in my room, bringing it out to get me through those times when Jamie’s absence seemed too painful to bear.
    Where had it gone?
    Urgency gripped me. I shuffled through the snapshots, hoping I’d overlooked the Polaroid in my haste. But it wasn’t in the box. All of a sudden, I needed desperately to find it. If I could see my sister’s face, catch it in my mind and hold it there, I felt sure my restlessness would subside.
    From under my bed, I dragged out an old suitcase. Inside was an assortment of knick-knacks and odd flotsam that didn’t belong anywhere else – dog-eared certificates, cigar boxes stuffed with old stamps and coins – but there was no Polaroid. Next I went through my collection of vintage handbags; still no luck. As I was packing them away, I came across the dusty bouquet of wildflowers that Esther Hillard had given me the night of Mum’s opening.
    I picked it up, thinking about my promise to visit. I never would, of course. How could I? The idea of seeing the old farmhouse again filled me with unease. It was one thing to see an idealised version of my childhood home in Mum’s paintings; after all, they were only oil paint on canvas. But to actually venture into the landscape of my past was simply too daunting.
    They never did find the person responsible, did they?
    Absently, I lifted the bouquet to my nose and drank in its dusty, peppery, wildflower scent. And just like that, the vault slid open and the past rushed out to engulf me.

    Our farmhouse was cold this time of year, colder today because Mum had left all the doors and windows wide open. I was