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I create escape. In browns and greys and maroons.

The Finniss River, Australia 2018

A cup of coffee warmed my hands as I gazed down an expanse of green grass that coursed in a gentle slope to the riverbank. The sound of the reeds rustling in the cold breeze and the tweeting of birds filled the silence. Barrington’s estate, Hathrone Farm, was just as beautiful as I had imagined from his poems. The homestead at the back was of the old style, with a low ceiling and thick sandstone walls. The verandah on which I sat was polished wood, almost certainly a replacement of the original.

I’d flown down from Sydney that morning, hired a car in Adelaide and driven the hour and bit from the city to the coastal town of Goolwa, just outside of which, along the Finniss River, lay Barrington’s former home. Despite growing up in suburban Adelaide, I’d never been to this holiday and farming region. So far, it looked to be a beautiful place.

‘Mum said you are welcome in now, she’s done with the builders.’ I turned and nodded my thanks to the tall, fair-skinned youth. ‘Thank you, Alison.’

‘Just head through to the kitchen,’ she pointed behind her, walking past me down the steps and, moving with the loping stride of a teenager newly grown out of childhood, headed to a shed on the side of the property. I watched as she hauled out a kayak and pushed it into the water, paddling out through the reeds onto the Finniss River. I rose, downed the last dregs of my coffee, cold now from the autumn chill, South Australia was always colder than Sydney, and headed inside.

The hallway was dark and empty, a weathered-looking rug running down its length. But finding the kitchen proved to be no issue. Voices, speaking rapidly over and around each other, floated down the hall from an open doorway, bright lights shining within. I entered cagily, feeling very much like an intruder. Within stood three workmen, a teenager (probably Alison’s brother) and Deborah Jenkins, the owner. We had spoken briefly twice now: over the phone when I asked to speak to her about the discovery of the bones, and then again this morning, when I arrived to the chaos of her home renovations and, plied with coffee, was asked to wait outside.

Deborah was tall, lean and, despite being the mother of teenagers, radiated youthful elegance. Her dark hair was pulled back in a high ponytail, a few grey hairs fuzzing from the sweep to catch the light from the window in a soft glow about her forehead.

Waving her manicured hands expressively, she addressed one of the workmen. ‘I understand Brett. We are happy to accept the delay. But it would be better for us if the time could be used on the shed extension, then come back to the lounge. What do you think?’

‘We can do it. No drama. But we will need to get the supplies. We’d have to invoice for them ahead of time…’

‘Of course! No worries at all. Just send it through and I’ll get on it. Then you and the boys can get back to work.’

The three workmen, clad in light green shorts and t-shirts, boots crusted with dirt, stood comfortably around the central kitchen bench, a bowl of cookies in the centre, a mug of coffee in each man’s hands. Despite their bulk filling the pristine kitchen with the musty scent of dirt and sweat, they seemed not at all uncomfortable. Like mates hanging out.

‘Mum, I have to go…’

‘Oh, yes, Billy, hang on.’ Deborah reached into her purse and proffered the boy a 50 dollar note. ‘Have a great day in town,’ she called as he slunk past the workmen and me, heading for the front door.

It was then that Deborah saw me. ‘Oh, Ellie! Alison got you. Excellent. We are just about finished here. Thank you for your patience.’

‘No trouble at all,’ I gave her my nicest smile as a wall of male faces, browned from the sun, turned and took me in. I couldn’t help but notice the strong muscles moving beneath their shirts and fought the blush that threatened to redden my cheeks.

‘Take a seat over here, dear,’ Deborah indicated a bench stool to her left as she turned back to the men. ‘Anything else, just give me a call. But we are happy for you to move on to the next stage while the lounge is paused. I’ll get that invoice paid ASAP.’

‘Cheers, Deborah,’ Brett, who seemed to be the boss said. ‘I’ll be in touch in the next few days with a start date.’

‘Thanks Brett. Have a good day lads.’

As they shuffled out, dropping their mugs in the sink on the way, Deborah returned to the coffee peculator bubbling in the corner. ‘Fresh cup?’

‘No thank you, I am fine.’

‘Help yourself to some cookies love.’ She poured herself another mug, all coffee, no milk or sugar and came to sit on the stool opposite me, ‘Righto, now I am all yours.’ She offered me a welcoming smile.

‘Thank you for seeing me.’

‘No trouble at all. I mean, reporters…,’ she rolled her eyes theatrically and grinned, ‘but a young lady studying. For you I will always have time.’

‘You are having renovations done? You look to be very busy.’

‘Yes, sorry about the mess. That’s how we found the bones. The hold up with the lounge is causing no shortage of drama. We wanted the works done by November – it’s my 50th. But the bones have thrown a spanner in that plan!’

‘So they were found quite close to the house?’

‘Yes, yes,’ Deborah said, slurping her coffee down between sentences, ‘just out on the side. Would you like to see?’

Surprised, I nodded. ‘Yes, yes please.’

‘Follow me,’ Deborah stood, plucking up a cookie as she led me out of the kitchen to the opposite side of the house. We walked through a large lounge room. It had been gutted. Walls stripped back to the frame, bare board beneath my feet. ‘We are knocking out this wall,’ Deborah pointed to the wall that would be the outside of the house, a small door stood in its centre. ‘We want to open it up more, have a larger room and then a deck that heads out to the far garden. Great spot to sit outside and enjoy the river views with a glass of vino.’

‘Sounds delightful.’

‘Wait until you see the side views.’

Pushing the small door open, Deborah led me down some makeshift scaffold stairs. ‘Mind your step. They had already removed the verandah here before we had to pause.’

Before me was a large rectangle of cleared dirt, perfectly flattened. Around it were deep cuts in the soil, orange plastic sticking up and out of the cuts.

‘So this is where the extension will be?’ I asked, showing an interest.

‘Yep, those are the footings,’ she indicated the orange plastic rim, ‘and then beyond will be the deck.’ We stepped over the footings and walked across yet more flattened ground until we came to a rough edge of turned earth. It sat on the verge of the bushland that surrounded the property. Looking up towards the river I realised this angle afforded a more sweeping view around the river’s natural curve, allowing us to see further down it’s passage, the birds swimming over the currents, the reeds poking through. For a moment, I lost myself in those shimmering waters.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Deborah smiled. ‘And there,’ she pointed to the upturned earth, ‘is where they found the bones.’ I glanced down. I don’t know what I had expected to feel. Something. I took a moment. It was a beautiful resting place. Lined by trees, the water not far away.

‘What was here before?’ I waved my hand back over the flattened outline of the extensions.

‘Just grass. When we bought the place last year, Andrew’s retirement gift to himself, my husband’s a little older than me, it was all overgrown shrub. We’ve had gardeners in to clear the area for grass, and give the bush some shape. Found a patch of old woody rose bushes, they had to go. Then Andy had the idea of the deck. Summer parties. We honestly never thought there would be any traditional owners here. And the poet! Well, that thought had never crossed my mind before.’

‘When will you know the age of the bones? Does the dating take long?’

‘Around a week or two they said, so we are just waiting. But we know they’re not aboriginal.’

‘You do? I thought that was still in doubt…’

She waved a hand. ‘No, that was just for the news. The Ngarrindjeri elders were here the very day they were found… and they know. Their ancestors were smaller in stature and buried standing up. This was a white man’s body for sure…’

A thrill of excitement raced through me. ‘So, it really could be Edward Barrington?’

‘Umm,’ Deborah mumbled distractedly, ‘Barrington. Oh, well I hope so! At first I thought them being aboriginal would be the biggest issue,’ she heaved a sigh. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I get it. The importance of culture. But I now realise an unknown body is a far greater hold up. Police, forensics, I tell you. I really hope it’s your man.’

She grinned at me and I found myself smiling.

‘It would have been a lovely place for him to rest. It would have made her happy,’ I said.

‘Who’s that then?’

‘His widow, Rosalind. They originally moved here for her health. She was older than him by some 12 years, and a divorcée, quite the topic for gossip when they were wed. She had a lung illness, probably TB. The climate here cured her. But then she outlived him, by about 40 years. He was not 30 yet when he died.’

‘Oh, that’s tragic! To overcome society’s pressures, sickness and then to lose him anyway. I can understand that, to some extent. When Andy and I were first seeing each other my friends didn’t like it. But you know what? It’s not about them. It’s about us. Tell me they at least had some happy years before he passed?’ she begged dramatically.

‘By all accounts they were a devoted couple, utterly in love, and very happy here.’

‘How romantic. Tragic, but romantic. Why is it that the best love stories always end in grief?’

‘I think it gives them more substance. To love is one thing, but to love over adversity…’

‘Wise words young lady,’ Deborah smiled at me wryly and I felt myself blush. ‘Did they have any children?’

‘Sadly no. It is assumed Rosalind was too ill or too old to conceive…’

‘Sounds like they had a lot of pain in their lives.’

We stood in silence regarding the empty hole in the ground.

‘So…’ I began, ready to break the moment, but the crush of footsteps interrupted us.

‘Hey Mrs J,’ a light friendly voice called from behind us. We turned. There stood a young man around my age, tall and lean, moving with an easy grace that suggested a wiry strength to his limbs. Tanned skin peaked out from his arm length brown shirt, his hair a mess of brown curls atop his head. He smiled at me easily, hazel eyes shining. I didn’t think I’d ever seen such an open, warm smile. I blinked.

‘Taj! Oh, I’d forgotten it was your day. The garden needs it. Things here have been such a mess since, well, you know.’

‘No problem Mrs J. I know what needs doing. Just wanted to let you know I was here. Didn’t want to startle you.’

‘That’s very thoughtful, Taj. This is Ellie, I was just showing her the gravesite. She is doing a thesis on the poet they might belong to. Now we know they are not Kaurna or Ngarrindjeri.’

Deborah bobbed her head respectfully, and I wondered at her polite diffidence with this youth.

‘Pleased to meet you Ellie,’ Taj gifted me another of those smiles, and I felt a welcome warmth spread through my belly.

‘And you.’

‘In town for a while?’

‘Around a week, initially at least.’

‘Make sure you get down to the Coorong. Best first thing in the morning.’

‘You mean where the mouth of the Murray is? Can I drive there?’

‘You can, but it’s better from the water. You wanna see if you can get on a boat. Plenty of us have them around here.’

‘Thank you, I will keep that in mind. Local pro-tip!’

Taj grinned at my lame attempt at humour. ‘Well, have a great stay. Mrs J, I’ll just get to it now. Won’t be in your way.’

Deborah was wearing a private smile I couldn’t interpret as she waved Taj off and returned her attention to me.

‘For while you are on dry land,’ she smirked, ‘I think it might be worth your time to check out the local library. They’ve been doing a whole heap of electronic archiving, things like newspaper articles, birth records. Could be that you find something about your poet, local info. If he was as famous as they say on the news, I am sure little old Goolwa would have wanted to write about him at the time.’

‘Thank you, yes, I will do that. Is the library in the town centre?’

‘Right on the main street. Nice quiet space too. Well, I have to leave it there. Alison is due at a job interview in an hour and I haven’t seen her return from her kayaking yet. Teenagers!’ Deborah rolled her eyes, but an indulgent smile gave away her lie.

‘It was nice to meet you Ellie.’

‘And you, Deborah. Thank you for seeing me, and for the coffee.’

‘The pleasure was all mine. And hey, if you find anything interesting before you leave, about the poet I mean, be sure to pop past. All this bone stuff has stirred up my interest in our famous former resident.’

‘I would be happy to, though I wouldn’t hold your breath that there is much new to find.’

‘Well, perhaps pop round anyway. It would be nice to see you again before you go. You can tell Taj and I about Barrington over a coffee and some more cookies.’

Again, that secretive smile. My hands twitched, wanting to fidget. I clamped them into fists. ‘You are very kind. I will call if I have anything new to share.’

‘You do that,’ Deborah smiled. ‘You can see yourself out? Good girl. Enjoy Goolwa, Ellie dear. It really is an inspiring place to be.’

Next Chapter: Chapter Four: What does the past hold?