Jarrod’s mind is elsewhere, so I watch him for a few moments before he notices me. He seems particularly fascinated in the miniature pewter wizards. His fingers linger on one when he becomes aware I’m watching from across the room. His hand goes still as his eyes lower to mine. He smiles, an innocent boyish grin, and points to the book wedged in the crook of his arm. It’s his family heritage book. I have to stop myself from looking too keen. Sure, I want to see that book, it might be able to fill in a lot of blanks about Jarrod, but it isn’t just that.
I try not to let it show how totally hung up I am on him. After all, he ignored me all week. Trying to look casual I get up and stroll across to where he’s standing. ‘So, you brought the book.’
With his elbow he points at the counter where his mother and Jillian are trying to work out where best exactly to hang the garments and stuff. ‘Yeah, and Mum.’
I look at Mrs Thornton and try not to probe. She would be an easy subject, her face is well-worn but trusting. She has light brown hair, with a fair bit of grey she apparently doesn’t try to cover as other women her age might. She’s wearing dark blue trousers that make her legs look really skinny and a pale yellow smock top that exaggerates a small roundish belly. ‘You didn’t bring your little brother?’
‘Nah, Dad promised he would take him fly-fishing in the creek that runs along the back of the farm.’
Their business done, Mrs Thornton follows Jillian to where Jarrod and I are standing. Jillian introduces us as if the two of them are old friends. I smile and shake Mrs Thornton’s hand. It’s small and cold, yet surprisingly strong. She tells me to call her Ellen, which is nice and casual and explains a lot about the woman. I like her instantly, even as she passes an uneasy glance at Jarrod. They’ve been talking about me. The thought irritates. So I have to do it. Just once, I promise myself. One brief probe.
She’s wary, a little fearful even, her senses sharply alert, which means Jarrod has told her I’m strange, or crazy or something similar. It disappoints me, but doesn’t change my opinion of the woman. After all, her wariness is based on the advice of her son. It’s Jarrod’s opinions that suck. How am I going to get through to him when he thinks I’m a head case?
Jillian invites Ellen to a cup of tea, but she declines. ‘Next time perhaps,’ Ellen explains. ‘I have to check on my husband, Ian, and our other son, Casey. I dropped them off at the river that borders the back of our farm this morning, but Ian’s leg isn’t the best. His medication sees him dozing often.’
She leaves and Jarrod follows me upstairs. We sit on the floor together with soya munchies for morning tea, the book sprawled between us. It’s thick and rich with history, beginning with the most recent families up front. Apparently Jarrod’s father, Ian Thornton, is an only child, whose father died several years ago at the age of sixty-six from a major stroke. His mother, who is still living, is in a suburban nursing home in Sydney with an older sister.
Immersed in history, time soon disappears. We break for lunch, and go downstairs where I heat up some vegetarian sausage rolls. We finish these and talk for a while, sticking to safe subjects like teachers and homework and Jarrod’s little brother’s antics.
We take our drinks up to my room but soon forget them as we sink back into the heritage book. It turns out Jarrod’s favourite subject is history, just like mine. We laugh about this and the feeling in the room is warm and relaxed.
I’m not sure what I’m looking for. I guess it’s a sign that proves there is a curse on the Thornton family. It turns out to be quite an informative book, giving interesting tidbits on heaps of families from way into the past. There are the usual family skeletons in the closet, some more so than others. Eventually a trend starts to take shape. Accidents, tragedies, appear more prevalent in certain families I realise, the really large ones, where there are heaps of births. It keeps me riveted.
It turns out Jarrod’s descendants go far back into English history to the Middle Ages, long before proper records were officially kept, so the early information is stuff that’s probably been handed down from parent to child. In that respect it’s hard to decide what’s fact and what’s elaborated fiction, exaggerated for entertainment value, perhaps retold around a hungry fire on a cold winter’s night.
I try to keep this in mind, especially when reading in the back of the book about the oldest family which is steeped in controversy. There’s a kidnapping of a newly-married bride by the bridegroom’s illegitimate half-brother on their wedding night, followed by the disappearance of the newly-married couple a while after. It was rumoured that the young bride carried the illegitimate half-brother’s child in her womb, and that he used some form of sorcery on her; but as the young married couple was never seen again, it couldn’t be proved. Yet the controversy continued when their eldest child, a son, returned to the family home on his twenty-eighth birthday to claim his inheritance. His identity was rejected, and a bloody battle followed. I wonder how much of this is true? No matter what I read after this my mind keeps zeroing back to this memorable family.