Free Thornwood House by Anna Romer Page A

might have been ‘bloody Tony’, but her words were eaten by the Cessna’s rowdy engine. Gathering her hair, she twisted it distractedly into a knot at the nape of her neck and stared out at the sky. The hair sat restlessly on her shoulders for a few seconds then, strand by strand, began to reach out exploring tentacles and resume its forward migration.
    ‘She’s lucky to have you,’ she said at last. ‘A girl needs her mum, there’s no better shoulder to cry on. I don’t know how I’d have gotten through adolescence without my mum, bless her.’
    It was a kind thing to say, but it stirred a rush of guilt. I tried to smile, but my face felt stiff and masklike.
    ‘Things are a bit strained between us at the moment,’ I said over the engine. ‘Bronwyn rarely cries about her father – not in front of me, anyway. She hides in her room, as if grieving is something to be ashamed of. Some days I think she’s okay, then other times I worry.’
    ‘We all grieve in our own way,’ Corey said, with a sideways glance. ‘I don’t have kids of my own, not yet anyway, so I’m no authority – but give her time, Audrey . . . my guess is she’ll be fine.’
    Far below, the Cessna’s shadow raced beneath us, a small dart-like ghost rippling over hills and valleys, jumping brown dams, and weaving across a patchwork of green and gold paddocks sewn together by post-and-wire fencing. It skipped across yellow dots of baled hay, teasing the cattle that browsed in their quiet fields.
    Corey tapped the windscreen.
    ‘First property’s coming up on the right. We’re approaching from the south-west, that line of trees marks the northern boundary. In a moment, we’ll swing east, then hook back around and approach from the north-east boundary so the sun’s at our back. I can make a second pass if you want.’
    I leaned on the passenger door, balancing the base of the camera against the outer window rim, cushioning it with the heel of my hand as I squinted into the viewfinder.
    Rust-coloured soil showed beneath a worn carpet of golden grass, and the corrugated farmhouse roof tossed up shards of fractured sunlight.
    Steadying the camera, I switched to manual focus and began shooting before the property had filled my lens. Distractedly, I thought: Corey’s a good pilot. These’ll be first-rate shots. We’re riding smooth despite the hard wind I can feel buffeting my face from below.
    We progressed over the heart of the property, the Cessna’s groaning engine keeping pace with the metronome whirr of my camera. The farm’s gravel driveway looped back on itself and then shot eastwards, towards a stretch of tarmac that joined the highway. A heartbeat later, the property slid away and we were coasting over a darkly treed mountain ridge.
    ‘You need a second pass?’ Corey yelled above the din.
    ‘No, that was great.’
    ‘All right, we’ll go north-west now. The second property’s not far.’
    Somehow Corey managed to keep the sun at my back, which made my job a breeze. It seemed no time passed before all four of Cossart’s farm holdings lay behind us.
    As Corey manoeuvred the Cessna into a wide turn, I began snapping random shots. A ragged circle of peaked hills curved beneath us, green and lush, crosshatched by gullies and shadowy ravines. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen. From up here the world looked peaceful, and yet it was easy to imagine this colossal ring of extinct volcanic remnants as a one-time chaotic furnace of ash and lava.
    ‘Look down there,’ Corey called, pointing to my window.
    As the plane swung westward, the pilot-side wing tilted straight up while mine dipped almost vertically beneath me. Theground rose sharply and for one dizzying moment I imagined reaching out my hand to touch the treetops.
    Then I realised what Corey was doing.
    ‘That’s Thornwood.’ I couldn’t keep the laugh out of my voice. ‘I recognise that hill at the back of the homestead, and that crescent-shaped rock-face.