Lyrebird Hill by Anna Romer Read Free Book Online Page A

collection of drawings and Jindera’s vast store of experience that accompanied them were a testament to our friendship. We had refused to let fear dampen our alliance, and we were both the richer for it.
    ‘Brenna?’ came a voice from outside.
    A shadow darkened the hut’s doorway, and I caught a whiff of horse sweat and tannery leather, rifle oil and gunpowder; scents that did not belong in the tranquil darkness of Jindera’s hut.
    I emerged into the sunlight, Jindera close on my heels, to find my foster brother, Owen, dismounting his horse. He was tall for a twelve-year-old, and lean; the grey shirt and breeches he wore seemed to hang off his skinny frame. The sun had bleached his hair, and his eyes shone blue as lagoon water.
    Owen’s face lit up when he saw my companion.
    ‘G’day there, Jindera.’
    ‘Hello, young Owen. You be good boy for Aunty?’
    ‘I try.’
    ‘How them fish biting upriver?’
    ‘I caught a couple of turtles this week, but no trout.’
    They bantered for a while in their easy way, while I bundled my journal into my dillybag, only half listening.
    Owen had been orphaned a decade ago when an accident on a neighbouring farm took his parents. My father – Fa Fa, to those close to him – had found the little boy wandering along the road in the dark, hungry and as skinny as a stray dog. Fa Fa brought him back to the farmhouse, where our Aboriginal housekeeper Millie fed and bathed him and swaddled him in one of Fa Fa’s old shirts. Owen soon became my father’s shadow, perched on the saddle behind him when he rode out to check the fences, sitting at his feet when he smoked his evening pipe,sleeping at the foot of his bed. He had been a cherub of a child, eager to run errands or lend a hand with chores, a golden boy we all adored.
    ‘Is Aunt Ida on the war path?’ I asked warily.
    ‘Afraid so, Sis. You have a visitor, and he wasn’t all that pleased to arrive and find you not there.’
    ‘Oh dear.’ My heart kicked over. ‘It’s Mr Whitby, isn’t it?’
    Owen made a face and nodded.
    I sighed. Poor Mr Whitby. Owen disliked him intensely, despite the fact that Whitby was one of my father’s oldest and most trusted friends. Whitby lived in Tasmania on a large property, but often travelled to New South Wales on business. He had bought nearly a dozen holdings on the New England tablelands after the property crash in 1893, and liked to keep his finger in the pie of their management and occasional sale. Although he was in his mid-forties – a few years younger than my father – he had never married. Aunt Ida said that he was wed to his work, but my father scoffed at this. Carsten is a private man , he would declare, he keeps his personal affairs close to his heart .
    ‘Where is Whitby now,’ I asked with more calm than I felt. ‘At the house? Has he brought news of Fa Fa?’
    Owen examined a hangnail and took his time to answer. ‘Fa Fa is still at the auctions in Newcastle. Aunt Ida’s bailed up Whitby in the parlour. She’s feeding him leftover Christmas cake and bottled apricots. Whitby seemed anxious for you to join them.’
    Jindera was frowning at me, her eyes dark with quiet disapproval. She shared Owen’s lack of esteem for Carsten Whitby, although she would never admit as much. Whenever I told her that he had visited, or if I enthused about his polished manners or fine looks, Jindera always managed to find something of greater interest – a gumnut fallen from a tree, or snake tracks in the dirt, or the dusty wrinkles that time had drawn across the palm of her hand.
    We said goodbye to Jindera, and Owen climbed on his horse and hauled me up behind him. He clicked his tongue, and the mare plodded along the track towards home. I hooked one arm around Owen’s middle and settled myself for the ride back to the house.
    ‘Did Whitby mention the nature of his visit?’ I asked.
    My brother shook his head, and nudged the horse into a trot. I twisted around, trying to see