Like Clockwork by Margie Orford Read Free Book Online

countless times. A young girl’s face looked out at her from beneath the Red Cross letterhead. It was dated six months earlier.
    ‘You know the right people. I saw your film on television,’ said Natalie.
    Clare took her phone out of her bag and dialled. The tension around Natalie’s shoulders went as Clare gave the information about her daughter.
    ‘They will do what they can. That was the director of the Southern African Refugee Centre,’ said Clare. ‘They will phone the shelter as soon as they have located her.’
    ‘Good,’ said Natalie, satisfied with their transaction. ‘I will phone you and tell you what they do.’
    The interview was over and Natalie looked exhausted. Clare felt exhausted too. She was glad that she had a flask of tea in her car. She was going to need it before the next part of her journey.

8
     
    Clare sat in her car. She lifted her hands to her temples and pressed, trying to contain the horror that pulsed there. She turned the key and the car purred in response. The street was empty, desolate, as she paused, looking for running children before turning right. Someone had flanked a concrete garden path with petunias but the tender pink petals had been mutilated by the south-easter. Clare turned away from their defeat. She did not pay much attention to the white car ahead of her that indicated left towards the majestic solidity of Table Mountain.
    She turned right, accelerating across the oncoming lanes when there was a lull in the traffic. She headed north, where the mountains petered out into hills and wheatfields. She was looking out for the sign to Serenity Farm, so she did not notice the white car pull over into a lay-by. Even if she had, she’d have been too far away to notice the fury that her sudden disappearance provoked in the driver.
    As always, the faded lettering on weathered wood came too soon after the bend. Clare turned left sharply, a driver hooting in her wake. And then the sound of traffic was gone. Overhead, the ancient, ghostly gums reached their branches upwards and over. Their embrace created a dappled arch that extended like the nave of a cathedral towards the house inthe distance. Clare drove down the rutted drive, avoiding the corrugations that had become worse over the years she had been taking this road. This suspended moment was the bridge between her world and the cloistered place that sheltered her twin.
    Clare parked her car at the reception area and got out. She always remembered not to lock here. To do so would bring the fear of the world that surged back and forth on the freeway into this haven, but it took her some effort to override the instinct to both lock and double check.
    Father Jones was waiting for her on the polished red steps. ‘Hello, Isaiah,’ she said, lifting her face to be kissed. He leaned towards her, breathing her in. His hand smoothed the familiar curve in the small of her back, and her body softened in response.
    ‘Welcome, Clare,’ he said. Twenty years had not diminished her feelings for him. When he hooked his arm at her elbow, as a brother would, they were aware of the loss – but it was one they had both accepted..
    ‘I am glad you came.’ There was no reproach. He understood her long absences. ‘Constance has been so anxious since your call.’
    Clare looked at him. ‘More anxious than usual,’ Isaiah amended. ‘She’s waiting for you.’
    They walked down the narrow path, the plants they brushed against wafting sharp autumn scents up to them. Isaiah stopped at the edge of the clearing. On the other side of it stood the cottage, white, symmetrical, perfect, where her beautiful twin had purdahed herself. Isaiah pressed her arm.
    ‘Thank you,’ she murmured.
    Clare stepped past the sundial to knock on the front door. Constance would not answer before she had allowed Isaiah to return up the narrow path. Clare listened for the susurrationof her sister’s skirts, her body alert as she waited for the door to open to