Page 72 of Where the Wattles Bloom

As they left the building, Rowena glanced across at a clump of trees a hundred or so metres to the right. In a clearing in the middle, she just made out a large area cordoned off by what appeared to be a white wrought-iron fence.

She shaded her face with her hand and squinted. ‘What’s over there?’

‘It’s the McCabe family cemetery.’

Rowena glanced at him, the afternoon sun catching blond highlights in his soft whiskers. ‘Really?’

He nodded. ‘Yep. You want to see it?’

‘Could I? It’s not too … ghoulish?’

‘Of course not. Come on.’

Rowena followed him past yards bordered by metal railings shining dully in the sunlight, then across the sparsely covered ground, conscious that he’d shortened his natural stride to match hers.

‘My great-grandfather picked the site himself so he could keep an eye on the shearing shed at all times. He planted the trees so there’d be shade and privacy for mourners, and to attract birds and bees.’

Rowena geared down another notch as they entered the shadows of the gums that towered overhead, walking through the trunks, aware she was approaching hallowed ground. A massive flowering ironbark situated at the back of the plot dominated the space, its spreading branches almost encompassing the entire breadth of the yard.

She looked up, the sky visible only in tiny speckles of blue through the drooping, grey-green foliage. Clusters of fluffy, pinky-red flowers emerged randomly like star bursts, their fragrance softening the astringent eucalyptus tang.

‘It’s beautiful here,’ she murmured, her voice low as befitted a place of last rest.

‘Yeah,’ he said, his voice also low. ‘I think so.’

The gate opened with a squeak and Lachlan indicated for her to precede him. Stepping inside tentatively, Rowena noticed the small plot was well cared for. Not in a manicured lawn kind of way, but the headstones, one of them dating back to 1932, were all intact and easily read, the concrete bordering each grave well maintained.

Nothing was overgrown and there was very little leaf litter strewn within the boundaries. Given the number of surrounding trees, that seemed miraculous. Someone obviously visited regularly.

She walked quietly amongst the dozen graves, all situated well forward of the ironbark. The only sounds breaking the silence were the ruffle of a light breeze through the leaves and the twitter of birds.

The headstones varied from a simple cross or upright plaque to a rather grand white marble slab right in the middle belonging, she assumed from the inscription, to Lachlan’s great-grandfather. He’d died in 1947 at the age of fifty-nine.

Someone had died at ninety-eight. And there were two children’s graves. Siblings. One eight, the other nine.

‘Oh.’ Rowena pressed a hand to her chest as she looked at two small, stone angel ornaments. ‘How sad.’

‘Scarlet fever,’ Lachlan supplied.

A section off to one side contained half a dozen small white crosses all close together. A paw print and a name had been etched on each.

Bo. Lady. Griff. Murphy. Scheherazade. Goldie.

‘Pets,’ Lachlan murmured.

Rowena nodded, touched by the simple yet powerful memorial. In her short time here, she’d come to learn that dogs were an integral part of Blairgowrie life.

Walking past the pet area, she came across a grave with reasonably fresh roses laid at the foot of the plain headstone.

Alice Regina McCabe.

Michael John Barry.

Taken too soon. Fly free now, darlings. Fly free.

Glancing over her shoulder at Lachlan, she said, ‘This is your mum and dad?’

He joined her, staring down at the grave. ‘Yes.’