I reach for colour, bright and warm.
Rejection another shade of black.

The rosé slipped coolly down my throat. The Vanguard bar was dimly lit but the conversation around me sparkled and shimmered. Wednesday evening. Mid-week drinks. Not as raucous as Friday night cocktails, but still lively and buzzing. Caleb slipped his arm around my waist and I leaned into him, hoping to feel – something. He smiled down at me happily before continuing his conversation with Tessa and Paul across the table.

‘Personally, when I finished my accounting degree, I couldn’t wait to be out the door. I don’t know how you and Ellie do it… further study. I feel ill just thinking about a library these days.’

‘No!’ Tessa exclaimed, eyes gleaming, bright. ‘Surely you are exaggerating.’

‘He’s not,’ Paul chimed in. ‘That Caleb even got into his degree still amazes me. We were the boys who weren’t meant to finish year 12, let alone get a degree.’

‘What do you mean?’ Tessa asked.

Leaning in close to her, voice hushed, Paul said, ‘Too busy with the ladies to get our homework done.’ Tessa reddened prettily. ‘Some habits die hard.’

‘Now, now,’ Caleb said, ‘I’m a changed man since I met Ellie. You just have to find the right girl Paul, that’s all.’

‘I wonder if I’ll know her when I meet her,’ Paul breathed in Tessa’s direction.

I felt ill.

Inviting Tessa had been Caleb’s idea. Thinking the shy, slight woman might be ‘the one’ for his perpetually single mate from high school. From what I could see, Paul had no desire to ‘settle’ for anyone for more than a night.

I poured the last of my wine down my throat and reached for the bottle to refill.

‘Well, Ellie and I are just different from you both I suppose,’ Tessa said.

‘So what are you studying? Is it something, intimate…’ Paul leaned closer, Tessa shifted uncomfortably.

‘Genocide,’ she announced like a shield, ‘but that’s not really drinks talk. Ellie’s thesis is far more interesting anyway. Famous poet, mysterious death, romantic love story… won’t you tell us a bit about where you are up to in your research Ellie?’ Tessa turned a pair of too-wide, startled eyes to me and I read her request, clear and pleading: talk about something else, shift the focus.

Caleb turned, an eyebrow cocked in my direction. ‘You know, I would like that too Ellie.’ He addressed the table, Paul now leaning back into his chair, ‘six months in and Tessa just told me more about your thesis topic than you have…’

Tessa laughed a little too high and reached for her glass, barely touched. ‘It’s truly a fascinating story… And so sad. Edward Barrington was famous beyond reason in England, but his wife was ill. So he risked everything to bring her here to Australia to get better. And she did. But then, less than two years later, he disappeared. All very mysterious. His wife remained in Australia until just before the First World War, when a young academic came over from England to learn about Barrington’s life here. He took her home…’

‘Dirty little bugger,’ Paul interrupted. ‘Getting off with the widow.’

Tessa slid an irritated glance at him before continuing, ‘Not at all! She was an old woman by then and he young and engaged. But he took her home to England, and then he died in the War. It’s a very sad story on all sides. She brought back Barrington’s poems from those few months in Australia. A plethora of work, all when everyone thought he produced nothing.’

‘And what is your angle on the story then Ellie?’ Caleb asked, eyes searching.

I tried for a brief overview, ‘I’m looking at a poem he wrote, one of his last, from when he was here in Australia. One that his widow brought back. It’s not well known, probably not his best work…’

‘But there is just something about it… isn’t there Ellie? Some questions unanswered.’

Paul scoffed. ‘A poem? What’s the point of that…?’

A glare from Tessa. ‘It’s personal. It was her father’s favourite poem. Wasn’t it Ellie?’

Shit.

‘So, you are looking to interpret the sadness?’ Caleb prompted me.

Sadness? The word took me by surprise. ‘Sad’ just wasn’t strong enough to describe the darkness and longing of The Fall. It was desperate and resigned and hopeless.

I glanced up at Tessa. Her passion breathed out across the table. It was like Barrington and his poem were her thesis. I felt my own interest responding, a glimmer of my former self. Uncomfortable, I shoved it down. I didn’t want to talk about this. I didn’t want to admit…

‘Well, what are the odds?’ Paul drawled from across the table. Bored of the conversation, he’d been scrolling on his iPhone.

‘What?’ Caleb said, irritation in his voice. Probably at being interrupted by his friend.

‘Your poet’s on the news,’ Paul said, turning up the volume on his mobile and placing it on the table, oriented for me to see.

We all hunched forward watching the device broadcast its tinny news report from channel Nine’s Facebook stream. A young reporter with short bobbed, brown hair and thick-rimmed glasses was speaking to the screen.

‘The bones were discovered yesterday, on a property just outside the town of Goolwa in South Australia. At this stage it’s too early to say, but there are high hopes that they may be those of the famous English poet Edward Barrington, who lived on the property until his mysterious disappearance in 1888. I spoke with the current owner, Deborah Jenkins, earlier today.’

The vision cut to a shot of a large verandah-rimmed home nestled on a green lawn. Beyond the house shone a waterway edged by reeds shifting in the breeze. Then a middle aged woman, dark-haired, face lined with wrinkles creased in a smile, stood by the reporter saying, ‘… the workmen found the bones. You know the rules here, with the Aboriginal history of the area. We contacted the council immediately.’

‘They could be aboriginal bones?’

‘Well, they say it’s not likely...’

‘So, this could be the missing body of Edward Barrington?’

‘Well, yes, yes indeed. It’s certainly a possibility. I’d never really thought much about the history of this place before. But as soon as I heard about the bones, Barrington was the first thought that popped into my head.’

‘How long until the bones are processed and dated?’

‘They say a couple of weeks, and then we will know. Such an amazing find. And on our little property…’

I turned to Tessa, our eyes meeting across the table. ‘Ellie,’ she breathed, ‘they’ve found your poet!’

‘They’ve found some bones.’ I said flatly.

‘How can you say that? It’s obvious! Amazing. This will put Barrington back into conversation, just as you are finishing your thesis on his work from Australia. The timing couldn’t be better for you Ellie.’

Oh it could. It really, really could. Yet despite myself something within me stirred.

‘This calls for a toast,’ Caleb said, beaming at me, something like pride in his eyes. ‘Cheers to Ellie, and her good fortune. To those with talent who deserve good luck. None more so than my girl.’

‘Cheers,’ Tessa echoed. I smiled lamely and gulped my wine. From across the table Paul’s dark eyes watched me. A small, knowing smirk on his face.

Conversation ebbed and flowed between us for a few more hours before we all decided it was time to head home. Waving to Tessa and Paul as they headed for the bus stop, Caleb looped an arm around me and pulled me into an embrace. I fought the cringe at the contact and allowed the hug. He pulled back, looking into my eyes. ‘Back to mine?’

Panic gripped my heart, how to say no? ‘I’d love to but…’

‘You have to work on your thesis. I understand, Ellie. Well, I do now anyway. I never really got it, a thesis on a poem. What does that matter? But seeing your guy on the news… people care about his works, his history. And the connection to your dad… Study might not be my thing. But I support you, Ellie. I do.’

Study might not be my thing either, I wanted to scream. I can’t focus, I can’t see the point. I feel trapped, caught between expectations. And I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I’m not enough.

But I smiled and nodded. Caleb pulled me close, brushing a kiss to my lips. I willed the rush of desire, the flood of lust that had had me gasping for him in those first few heady months. But nothing came.

We parted and I walked to my train, a stone in my belly. And I stopped at the corner store and stared at the window, stared and stared. And then I went in, and I bought the sav blanc and the rosé and a fresh packet of cigarettes and returned to my apartment, my balcony, glass in hand. The news report buzzing through my mind.

My fingers interlaced in my lap, curling together, then apart. I twisted my hands to thread my digits the other way, then back to curling. Fidgeting. I was fidgeting. Stop it. I clasped my hands together and faced my supervisor.

Peter Tuft was a round man, robust and vibrant, but slowing down as he neared retirement, his grey moustache drooping over swollen lips. A deep frown of irritation (or was that disappointment?) marked his brow. Presently, he dropped the stack of papers in his hand, my latest chapter, and leaned back in his chair heavily. Folding his hands over his rounded belly, he fixed me with his milky blue eyes. Silent. Staring. I held his stare as long as I could. Then, shame flushing my cheeks, looked down and away. I knew. He breathed in. I braced myself: for my reprimand, for dismissal from my scholarship, for what I deserved.

‘When did you last see your mother?’

Shocked, I looked up sharply. His eyes remained on my face, but softness had replaced the irritation of before.

‘We spoke… last month.’

‘Not over the holiday?’

‘Easter was never something she was into.’

‘We all need family, Ellie.’

I looked away, mouth set in a grim line.

Peter huffed loudly and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the desk. ‘So, are you going to ask me? For the time off?’

Confused, I cocked my head at him. ‘To go to SA? To see the burial site, speak to the locals? The discovery of the bones is all over the news. People are talking about Barrington again, the town is alive with the memory. It would be ripe with inspiration for your thesis.’

He glanced pointedly at the pages before him, ‘Inspiration seems just what you need. And perhaps family.’

‘Phone calls with her are plenty. I live here now, not in Adelaide,’ I said, purposely avoiding his real point.

‘Ellie Cannon,’ Peter said, straightening, ‘I’ve never known you to be a fool.’

I frowned at him. Where was this going?

‘This,’ he flicked his wrist at my pages before him, voice hardening, ‘is not a chapter. It’s not even a collection of thoughts. It’s just words, repeating your first chapters, but in new phrases. You haven’t brought me anything new in months.’

Six months.

‘Something has to change. You, have to change. What happened to the passionate girl who first walked into my office and announced her thesis topic? Who had already written the outline plan and argued confidently against my suggestions? What happened to the girl who would be a professor? Because she is not here now Ellie. She’s not been here for a while.’

‘You know what happened.’

A frown. ‘Yes, Ellie, yes I do. But you can’t let it best you. I told you to take time off, to reset. But you haven’t. It won’t just heal, Ellie, you have to work at it.’

‘There’s nothing to work on. What’s done is done.’

‘So act like it!’ I cringed back at his sharp tone and looked at him through hooded eyes.

“Ellie, this cannot continue. I have given you all the leeway I can. All the time I can. But if this… phase doesn’t correct itself, well, you know what I have to do.’

I did. I would have to leave my thesis, abandon my PhD, my academic goals. Was that what I wanted?

Into my silence Peter sighed. ‘Go to Goolwa, Ellie. Speak to the people, walk the land that Barrington called home. And visit your mother. In person. You two need to talk this out. You need to find closure.’

‘I can study well enough from here. And my tutes…’

‘Tessa will take your tutes. They will learn more from her anyway and the parental complaints will wash over…’

Shame burned my cheeks. I was struggling, but that didn’t make it right to let down the first years. I hadn’t known parents had complained, but I wasn’t surprised. I had given them so little lately, I hadn’t even marked the last semester papers.

‘… Ellie, this is not a choice. You will go to South Australia, on research leave for the next four weeks. Don’t object. You will go. And you will deal with what has happened to you, to your family. And when you come back you will present to me a new core chapter. One with the fire of your first and we will never speak of this time again. You will go, or you leave me no option. Have I made myself clear?’

I nodded, sullen. Fingers twitching for a cigarette.

‘Your study leave starts now. Go. Pack a bag and go home. Bring back that sparkle. Bring back yourself. You are dismissed.’

I stood up stiffly, gathering my satchel and headed for the door.

‘Ellie,’ I paused on the threshold. ‘I understand Ellie. I do. But you have to rise above it. You cannot let this take you down. Not any longer.’

I pulled the door shut behind me, harder than I needed and walked out of the university. Irritated, but for the first time in a long time, energy bubbled in my core.

Next Chapter: Chapter three: Barrington’s Place