It Happened at Mount Solitary Read online



  It Happened at Mount Solitary

  Alexa Aella

  copyright 2014.

  Chapter 1.

  Chapter 2.

  Chapter 3.

  Chapter 4.

  Chapter 5.

  Chapter 6.

  It happened at Mount Solitary

  Chapter 1.

  11th August 1991

  “One small cat changes coming home to an empty house to coming home.” Pam Brown

  I was having the time of my life living in London, as people actually loved my accent, and I had two very satisfying love affairs on the boil. So, I wasn’t planning on heading home to Australia; not for a long time. But then, last week, I received a phone call that changed everything. I soon found myself, crammed into a fast moving sardine can in the sky, on my way back to the Land of Oz; feeling seriously sad and shocked. My life in London: packed up, cut short, put on ice.

  I couldn’t sleep for most of the trip and to top it off, I was stuck in Dubai for eight hours, because of some flight delay. Luckily, I found an empty, reclining chair for a few hours, and so, I did get some rest! The problem was that, every time I nodded off, I would dream I was being hauled off to some court room, for the crime of exposing my ankle! Dreams are crazy of course. But when I woke up, I couldn’t shake the feeling of horror for some time. I, also, kept seeing in my mind’s eye, the waiting basket of stones. The punishment I had escaped. As you can imagine, I was glad when I finally boarded the Qantas flight, for the last leg to Australia.

  On the plane from Dubai, various babies began to wail; sometimes as a choir and at other times as lead vocalist. I tried to block out the beseeching squalls, and the sight of battle-fatigued parents, with their hair like bird’s nests; raw faces registering the fact that, carefree days of fun had fled. I wished I could help, but the thing is, I am hopeless with babies. Instead, I concentrated on eating everything set in front of me, and catching up with the latest movies. None of which I can recommend.

  I also had this terrific bore sitting next to me the whole way, named Thomas. He droned on and on about his trainfan escapades, even though, I was wearing headphones and watching a screen. Thomas the Tank, as I called him, privately, was returning to Australia, having completed his trip around various abandoned railways of Europe. It seemed that, he’d had a wow of a time, adding to his collection of old train tickets and timetables. I know quite a lot about such things now. More than I wish to know, that is for sure! The funny thing is that, I could easily imagine him describing me as that, “dead boring sort on the plane”, too!

  When we landed at Kingsford-Smith Airport, I almost broke down when I came out of the shambles which is customs, and saw the crowd of people, waiting like an expectant herd of cows, to greet family and friends.

  There was no one here to meet me.

  With some effort, I pulled myself together and pushed my battered suitcase with its wonky wheels through the crush of people and made my way toward the lift leading to the train. I just walked, putting one pointy, black, suede shoe down after the other. I was trying hard not to think of anything, because my brain felt bruised; I needed sleep and then, I could think about what had happened and what I could do about it.

  The lift went down like the space shuttle returning to Earth, and I came out on the subterranean platform, which smelt of fried rubber. After a short wait, I was on my way to Central Station, where I would change trains.

  When I stepped onto the train at Central, a sharp wind whipped my thin, silk jacket and long, brown hair, as though trying to steal them from my body. And more acrid, burning smells invaded my nostrils: like an assault. But I managed to haul my suitcase onto the train, and plonked myself down onto a sticky, vinyl seat; it was now past nine o clock at night, and not many people were making the two hour trip to Katoomba, in the Blue Mountains.

  I turned briefly and looked at the blazing lights of the city, which lay behind, as we rattled away to the west. I felt so far from London. And I had a strong feeling of strangeness; of things being unbalanced, of waiting for the world to right itself.

  I’m like a female Odysseus, I thought, finally returning home. But then, I had a further thought: someone really needs to update that story and many others, as it gets bloody annoying and boring how men are always portrayed as heroes of great strength, and females are seen as tempters, intent on tricking men. Probably it’s because men, mostly got to write all the stories in most of the religions and mythologies. They put themselves in all the positions of power and write the propaganda to match. I felt a sizzle of anger, but I was too tired to pursue these ideas further.

  I sat next to a grimy window, and sunk deeper into myself; I spaced out, as lights and sounds skittered and rolled past me. A thought registered in my tired mind: I really need a bath.

  A loud group of teenagers, with various tattoos got on at Blacktown and proceeded to fight and swear. They were trying hard to annoy a thin, businessman, wearing rimless glasses; his head an unprotected glittering, dome. He moved closer to me, and the gang began to smoke right in front of the, No Smoking sign, which they probably couldn’t read. This thought made me feel sad. The group lobbed off at Penrith, and all became quiet again. The train continued on its way, and soon began to climb toward Katoomba.

  The night closed in and grew darker, as the wind whistled an unearthly tune.

  We rattled past mountain suburbs clinging to the rocky landscape, hugged all around by bush, and I watched as lights were extinguished in houses, as people settled down to sleep. We progressed onward and upward. Suddenly, like a shrill cry of pain, the train ground to a stop in the middle of nowhere and the overhead lights began to flicker and dim. A night bird screamed somewhere, and silence, except for the groan of the wind, came down around us.

  The businessman sitting across from me, pulled out his brick-like mobile phone, but he couldn’t get a signal. With a flounce of disgust he prised his laptop from his bag, and began to hammer away; every few minutes, his pallid eyes would look up at the door, in the hope that a guard would come and tell us what was going on. No one came.

  A mother with a sleeping baby, also, relentlessly pounded her phone; over and over in a kind of desperation. No longer lulled by the hum and the motion of the moving train, the baby began to shriek and the mother scooped up the child and began to walk up and down the aisle and whisper soothing sounds; to jiggle, and rock the infant into submission.

  An elderly man, clutching an old, brown, battered suitcase, of a kind, fashionable in the 1970s, closed his eyes, as though weighed down with more than a simple tiredness. Every so often, his grey, greasy head would roll to the side, and I could see that he had dribbled, on the faded collar of his polyester shirt.

  I looked on and felt outside myself.

  After about twenty minutes, the train lurched, and the lights became bright again. We sailed off, and the rest of the journey passed uneventfully.

  The station was empty at Katoomba, except for a chill wind and so I quickly scurried off the train into the cold night air, set my suitcase in motion, and put my head down. As I emerged into the street, a taxi cruised by the roundabout and seeing my twisting body, and raised hand, pulled in, swaying like a boat.

  The tiny, mini-skirted, blonde, middle-aged woman, driving the taxi, threw her cigarette into the gutter and with surprising strength, hefted my case into the boot, and off we trundled down the empty main street of the town. Everything felt surreal, especially, when I watched a possum with a baby attached to its back shoot across the road, just past the Carrington Hotel.

  How I loved the empty, decaying and majestic Carrington Hotel! This grand old lady had been built back in the late 1800s, to attract t
he moneyed beau monde. In its heyday, this place must have been so wonderful: reeking of gentility, glamour and grandeur. I remembered how I used to sneak into the abandoned gardens during school holidays, just to explore and dream and imagine. Once, I got to peek inside the abandoned interior, when dad, was commissioned to made a structural assessment. Such beauty and craftsmanship, of the kind you don’t see today. Now, buildings are thrown up as cheap as possible. No aesthetics and nothing to marvel at. So you end up buying something: anything, another handbag, or perfume, just so you can get a brief and fleeting feeling of pleasure.

  Then, memories of mum and dad began to crowd and bump in my mind. I remembered how mum used to take me to the Library after school every Friday to choose new books. Then afterwards, we would have afternoon tea at The Paragon, which is just about the oldest café in Australia, where alabaster friezes of classical Greek scenes line the walls. It always was a magical place for me. Mum used to order a pot of Earl Grey tea and I would have a strawberry milkshake. How long ago it seemed, and yet, also, somehow, strangely close.

  A sob threatened to explode from my mouth, and so, I pretended to cough, and strangely, I felt like laughing too. I couldn’t afford to fall apart. Not yet. I was sure mum and dad would be found.

  What had called me across the seas, away from having a blast in busy, magnificent and gritty London, was the fact that my parents had gone missing whilst on a bushwalk, somewhere near Govetts Leap, not far the village of Blackheath; close to the highest point of the Blue Mountains.

  Blackheath is a beautiful place. It was visited by Charles Darwin back in 1836, and there is a walk named after him, which follows his famous footsteps. This walk was a favourite of my parent’s and I had even meandered there myself, when I was younger.

  Mum and dad were both experienced bush walkers and dad was famous for his careful planning. So, their disappearance was odd. They had been gone now for over a week and no trace of them had been found. The authorities were running out of hope. Hope was all I had.

  My parent’s house sat a short distance from the famous Echo Point Lookout. The views from their front windows were panoramic and breathtaking, as you cast your eye over the ancient, traditional land of the Gundungurra and Darug People. Now, however, all was dark, and the bungalow already had an abandoned look about it, as the cab came to rest outside.

  I scrambled out onto the empty street.

  As the taxi leapt away, like an animal, into the night, I fumbled in my oversized handbag for my keys, surrounded by a waiting silence. As I did, I noticed a curtain in the house next-door twitch, and I could see the shadow of a person moving in a frame of orange light. A person watching me.

  A slinky cat suddenly slipped out of the hedge next to me, and wound itself around my legs, as I fumbled in my bag. The animal was as dark as the night, but I could see its green, lamp-like eyes, flashing like Morse code. Tristan, my Mother’s much loved feline friend, touched my leg with his wet nose and then, was gone.

  My footsteps echoed loudly on the damp-smelling cement driveway, as I walked toward the front veranda. I almost tripped over a pile of wet newspapers stacked near the door and I was startled, as the leaves of a pot plant, seemed to reach out to me like hands. After I had run this gauntlet, I unlocked the groaning front door, and dragged my suitcase in from the side of the road. I had arrived.