Wellworth: A Domestic Thriller

By Eila Jameson-Avey

After Ally's marriage ends she returns to teach at the high school she attended. Her homecoming to rural Widyarra turns sinister when Ally discovers her colleagues are hiding deadly secrets. When Ally's chance at finally having a family of her own is jeopardised, she must uncover the secrets and expose historical wrongs. But who is the hunter an

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stories About Diversity
• Release date: Oct 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9781763750715

Eila Jameson-Avey

Eila Jameson-Avey is an Australian author passionate about storytelling that shines light on social justice and human resilience. Winner of the 2024 Varuna Fellowship and the 2021 Lane Cove Literary Award, she combines heartfelt research with lived experience to create stories that resonate deeply. Her novel Wellworth (Hawkeye Books, 2023) draws on her many years as a teacher and her love of regional NSW. Her poems have been published in Mona Magazine and Q Poetry. Eila respectfully acknowledges the Wiradjuri people – the Traditional Custodians of the land where she lives and writes – and honours their Elders, past and present. Author lives in  Yarrawonga, NSW

Book preview

Praise for Wellworth

‘A gripping and multi-dimensional story of family, loss, guilt, shame and secrets that will go to the grave. The combination of light brush strokes and grim undertones make Wellworth a convincing and powerful story.’

David Staume, Author/Screenwriter.

‘The search by Ally, a teacher, to comprehend childhood trauma seized my interest from the harrowing opening chapter to the last line. Readers are led to examine concepts of guilt, culpability and punishment in a typical country town setting that features a multi-faceted ensemble of people, positive and negative. Ally leads us through a dark world of childhood trauma and self-discovery to the place that holds many unexpected answers for her and others - the notorious orphanage Wellworth. I enthusiastically read the novel in two days, but the images have lingered a lot longer.’

Bob Campbell, Author.

‘Wellworth is a compelling story, full of mystery and intrigue. Eila’s characters come alive in the reader’s mind and make it impossible to put the story to rest till the last page is read. She is a master storyteller, showing us the best and worst of humanity.’

Jill Baggett, Secretary/Treasurer of Mudgee Valley Writers.

‘Wellworth is a commendable novel that truly codifies the phrase ‘never judge a book by its cover’, with strong characters, thrilling developments, and a few key shifts that feel like they’ve been there all along. Fans of contemporary fiction and those seeking more of a thrill will delight.’

Nita Delgado, Editor.

WELLWORTH

Eila Jameson-Avey



Image 2-2-2024 at 12.31.jpg

The forest stands tall, still, untouched for aeons.

Gum trees stand as sentries.

The golden-apparelled wattle shimmers,

As the tiny thrush’s song is drowned by the cackle of the kookaburra.

Bracken fractures under quickening feet. Breath hurried.

A crack reverberates. Concealed creatures scatter.

Limbs fold, crushing purple-faced orchids.

A succession of pops before stillness returns.

And another ceases to exist. Youth left to rot, never to age.

Silence.

Gradually the cacophony of the forest resumes.

Eyes stare unseeing. Mouths agape, not breathing.

No more than food for the forest creatures to consume.

1

‘They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I disagree. If it doesn’t kill you, it takes a part of you away and changes you forever. You’ll never be whole again.’ - Ally Williams

~

THE grey monolithic building looms from the wooded landscape, out of place in the ancient terrain, untouched since time began. Dust wraps around us as I pull up beside a chain-link fence. Our eyes follow its perimeter, the long grass evidence it wasn’t a recent addition.

‘How’d they build something like that out here?’ I ask, turning off the engine.

Gordon’s blue eyes search the dark building before us. ‘Looks like local granite. Probably built by the convicts back in the 1800s,’ he replies, studying the two large padlocks hanging on the six-foot metal gates. ‘They don’t want anyone getting in.’

‘Let’s follow the fence,’ I suggest, closing the 4WD ute’s door and stretching. The scent of eucalyptus refreshes me as I fill my lungs with fresh air. The surrounding pines and shrubs are alive with small birds hopping from branch to branch, their tiny songs making the place appear idyllic. However, the large grey building and its blackened windows - like dark abysses - tell another story.

‘I-I’m not sure, Ally,’ Gordie calls from the ute’s cabin. ‘At least you know it’s not demolished. Perhaps we can call the owners when we’re back in town. You know, get permission…’ He faces the granite building - a shrine to all the suffering it once housed.

I turn and smile at Gordie. All these years later and he was no different to when we were at school. Gordie was the funniest, loudest guy in our group and always knew the latest gossip, even about the teachers. Yet according to Gordie, I was the fearless one.

It was strange how last night, my first evening in years in Widyarra, I ran into Gordie. I’d planned to eat a takeaway meal, alone, in my 70s decorated motel room. He’d convinced me to have a drink with him for old times’ sake and just like old times, one drink turned into one too many. I divulged the real reason I was back in Widyarra, and the other one: to find out who my parents were and why I was left at this cold foreboding place when I was three. And in a drunken moment of foolishness agreed to visit the old site.

We walk the perimeter for a few minutes when an opening in the chain-link fence is revealed. I squeeze through.

‘Not sure we’re supposed to go in,’ Gordie says.

‘Well, there’re no signs telling people not to trespass.’

His face cycles through the choices - to trespass or not - before he bends his large frame through the break in the fence.

Nearing the front of the building we’re devoured by its shadow and the feeling of menace increases. The verandah’s disrepair has me avoiding missing planks and loose boards. I make my way to the door, but the knob doesn’t turn beneath my hand.

‘Ha, did you think the front door would be unlocked? That we could just waltz in?’ Gordie laughs nervously.

‘You never know.’

We follow the high wall around the side of the building. Nothing is familiar. Overgrown bushes and rangy kikuyu grass hide the path. The windows are covered in grime and paint flakes from rusty metal downpipes.

A series of wooden stakes come into view. Cracked, clumpy dirt forms rows where vegetables had grown. Speckled sunlight shines through rusted holes onto the warped boards of a smaller verandah. We jump at the clap of a loose board, the sound reverberating around us. I turn the handle of a door I presume leads to the kitchen. Locked.

We move around to the back of the building.

‘Look, that must be where the staff lived.’

In front of us is a rundown two-storey house. A long front verandah resembles half-closed eyelids to the ground-floor windows. Faded curtains shut out the first floor.

‘Do you think someone still lives here?’ Gordie asks.

A twig snaps and in unison, we spin around.

Behind us, an old man aiming a shotgun, squints into the sun.

‘So. What do yers think yer doin?’

‘Um, hi.’ I raise my arms in submission. ‘I’m Ally and this is Gordon.’

‘I didn’ say who yers were. What yers doin?’ the old man slurs, spittle working at the side of his mouth.

‘Sorry, sir,’ Gordie says. ‘We’re very sorry to disturb you. Ally here, well, she used to be…’

‘I lived here, twenty years ago.’

His eyes appeared to see me for the first time and then he nods. ‘All kindsa misfits ‘ere. But tha don’ s’plain what yers doin here.’ He lowers the shotgun. Grey lanky hair borders his shiny bald pate. His saggy jowls highlighted with silvery stubble glisten in the sunshine. He’s shorter than me, his body bent from years of manual labour.

‘This is private property and yers trespassin.’

‘Do you own it now?’ I ask.

‘Nope. I’m the caretaker. Makes sure no good-fer-nothins try and squat here.’

‘We’re not squatters. We just want to have a look around,’ Gordie says, eyeing the shotgun. ‘Can we go inside?’

‘Ain’ nothin’ to see. Just a rundown old house.’ The old man spits on the ground. ‘When my missus was alive, she looked after it, but now it’s fallin’ ‘round me ears.’

‘I’m hoping something will jog my memory - I remember nothing about this place,’ I say.

‘Probably just as well.’ The old man chews. ‘Wasn’ a good place for little ‘uns to be. Hard old place and they made those that could work, work. My missus, she’d help some of ‘em, but they was harsh people here back then. Good riddance to ‘em all. Sooner they bulldoze the place, the better.’

Gordie looks nervously at me and back at the gun. ‘Are you paid to look after it?’

‘Can’ says I do. I get me pension and I get to eat off the land, what’s I can grow but otherwise I just stays here. Nowhere else to go. They took my life and my missus. The things she saw…’ He shakes his head.

‘Have you seen anyone else visit? Like me?’ My breath catches at the thought of meeting others who’d completed the same pilgrimage.

‘Can’ says I does. Last things I wants ta see is them old men comin’ back. Bad, real bad. Wicked men. Can’t get away with it out there. Not anymore. Gots laws against it now.’

‘Do you remember any of the staff?’

Gordie looks at me, a question twitching at his mouth.

The old man squints, moving the shotgun to the crook of his arm. ‘I didn’t wants to know their names. Don’ wants to know ‘em now. If theys come ‘ere I stays away.’ He spits on the ground again. ‘Kids disappeared, ya know. No one cared. Not then, not now.’

‘Disappeared? Who? How?’

‘I told ya. Don’ know no-one’s name. Don’ want to know!’ He raises the shotgun again and Gordie pulls my arm, ready to retreat.

I don’t want to leave, not after coming all this way.

‘Can we look inside? I promise we won’t touch anything.’ I step toward the back door.

‘Look, I’m warnin’ ya. Best you don’ remember. You look like yers got yerrselfs sorted out pretty well. Remembering’s jus’ gonna mess you up all over agin.’

‘Thanks for the warning. Sorry, I didn’t get your name?’

‘Bill. Jus’ Bill.’

‘Thanks for the warning, Bill. But this is important.’ I search for a reason to share but he interrupts.

‘They’d be a lot of ‘ems pretty messed up. Go on. But don’ say I didn’ tell ya so.’ He waves the shotgun, ushering us inside.

~

Dust sticks to the ancient grease in the industrial kitchen. The odour of stale oil lingers. The kitchen leads to a corridor that runs to the front door past a large wooden staircase. Open doors offer glimpses of rooms in disrepair - torn furnishings and curtains, walls covered in filth and floors with threadbare carpets.

‘He’s not paid to clean!’ I whisper to Gordie.

We stop at the staircase. I look up.

I’ve done this before.

Gordie points to a door below the staircase. He tries it but it won’t open.

‘What’s down there?’ he asks.

I try to draw my eyes away from the landing curling above us. Everything’s amplified. The cobwebs catch what little light there is. Dust clings to the worn and dented woodwork, suspended in time. I flinch as I relive the thud from my nightmare. It happened; it’s not just a dream. The urge to escape has me turning away.

‘Let’s go.’ My voice is hoarse.

‘What is it?’

‘I don’t remember,’ I lie.

The caretaker approaches us, the shotgun swinging loosely in the crook of his arm.

‘What’s down there?’ Gordie asks Bill.

‘Jus’ the washing room, where the boilers were. They made the kids work down there.’

A shiver runs down my spine.

‘Can we go in?’ Gordie asks.

‘Nope. Not my job. I jus’ make sure no one comes in and damages anyfing.’ He lifts the gun. ‘Think it’s time yers were on yer ways.’

‘Sure,’ I say. Instinctively, I look up the staircase again.

A small dark-haired girl waits for her mother.

A sob rises in my throat.

I blink and she’s gone.

~

Gordie churns up the dust, taking full advantage of the 4WD as we bounce in every pothole. I watch the retreating figure of the caretaker in front of the sinister building.

My head whirls with memories. Foreboding weighs on me. Gordie steals a glance in my direction, and we pitch forward as the vehicle lurches into a crater. He turns his attention back to the dirt road. I hunch my shoulders, waiting for the memories to pass.

Twenty minutes later and Gordie’s travelling at his usual 110 kilometres.

‘Do you remember any of the staff?’ he asks.

I shake my head. ‘No. I suspect they’re all in prison for what happened there. Doubt there’ll be anyone around anymore that could help me.’

‘What do you think he meant about kids going missing?’ Gordie glances at me.

I will him to keep his eyes forward, recalling my drive here while Gordie slept off the previous night’s excesses. Carcasses and severed limbs once belonging to unfortunate native animals were strewn along the road. Anxiety at the unfamiliarity of driving on these narrow country roads had me expecting a roo to jump in front of me at any second.

I shrug. ‘Whatever he meant, it can’t be ethical. Pretty much sums up the place.’

Silence returns. I look at his profile - handsome in a rugged sort of way. Gordie’s eyes flick to mine, catching me in the act of appraising him.

‘And what about your love life?’ I ask, in an attempt to lighten the mood. He would be the most eligible bachelor in town - if he liked the opposite sex, that is.

‘Ha, yeah, God’s curse. A gay guy in macho central.’

Gordie begins his banter, telling me about the ones that got away.

I sit back, half-listening to his cheerful chatter as I contemplate how a mother - my mother - could abandon a small child in that cold, isolated place.

Gordie’s tone changes and brings me out of my reverie. ‘So, Robert’s still single.’ A smile twitches on his lips.

I flick my gaze away, checking the road is clear of roaming wildlife, but thoughts of Robert back in high school come flooding back. Robert the football star, headed for the big league until a knee injury stopped his meteoric rise. He was Widyarra High’s very own superstar. Most of the girls in my year were in pursuit of him - including me.

Gordie settles into the driver’s seat, getting comfortable in preparation for the divulging of gossip.

‘Well, I remember you two were almost an item,’ he continues.

I blush, having forgotten about the almost date Robert and I went on.

‘Whenever you were around, his eyes were always on you.’

‘I can assure you I didn’t encourage him. And it was only a trip to Mudgee to see some movie.’

‘And why didn’t it go any further?’

I sigh. ‘He was a nice guy.’ I screw up my face, thinking of something plausible to say. ‘The timing was wrong. I had uni and Robert had his football.’

‘He’s back in town. Single. Has been for years. You heard about his injuries?’ He flicks his eyes at me again.

I nod. ‘Trust me, I’m not ready for another relationship.’ I cross my arms. ‘Besides, if he’s such a good catch, why’s he still single?’

This time, Gordie sighs. ‘Long story.’

Silence descends in the cabin. I decided he isn’t going to share the details when he starts talking.

‘He met a girl in Sweden when he was laid off after his knee surgery - Helga. She came home with him and honestly, I thought she was the one. You know, that they’d get married, have kids.’

I lean forward in my seat, eager to hear more.

‘But then Dad died. We buried him. Mum followed a few months later. It was a terrible time for us, but also for Helga. She realised that her parents were also getting old, and here she was, living on the other side of the world. It was heart-breaking. She wanted to be with Robert, but she was homesick.’

I allow this information to absorb for a moment. ‘So, he hasn’t had a long-term relationship since?’

‘Nope. Coming up on five years. He’s still in touch with Helga - Christmas cards and stuff. She got married a couple of years back and has two blond-haired babies.’

I flinch. ‘Oh.’

We drive in silence, the atmosphere heavy until we reach the tiny town I sped through earlier. Gordie slows to the town speed limit. Crooked verandahs of long closed-down pubs and peeling paint of the ancient shop fronts bring with it a feeling of wretchedness.

‘Let’s stop for a coffee?’ Gordon rubs his five-o-clock shadow.

We pull up alongside shops that resemble Widyarra’s, but unlike Widyarra, they’re in disrepair and empty. A light flashes in the window of a general store advertising hot coffee.

‘Saw you guys drive past earlier. Where’d ya go?’ the leathery-faced shopkeeper asks, placing two styrofoam cups of coffee between us.

I reach for them, hoping they taste as good as they smell.

‘Wellworth,’ Gordon replies.

‘Wellworth. The old institute. I remember when it was open. Half-castes were sent there. Nowhere else to send ‘em.’ He looks directly at me. ‘And they were bad kids. Real bad.’

I bite my lip to avoid saying anything I’ll regret, fuming at the familiar frustration building inside me. That look - half-caste - the assumption, really bad kid.

~

Back in the ute, I sip the coffee but my frustration bubbles over. ‘Half-castes,’ I snort. ‘Bad kids!’

‘Ignore it. Times haven’t changed much here,’ Gordie says. ‘It was okay to use those terms back then.’

I huff and watch the green landscape whizz past, focusing on the difficult task I have later today. I wonder how the news of my return will be received.

2

‘My life is a series of snapshots. Some happy and some not: alone, together, and then alone. I can no longer bear looking at static moments. I want them to run consecutively, to flow like a movie that hasn’t ended.’ - Ally Williams

~

MY failings are confirmed as I stare at the familiar fibro house. The pale green exterior is unchanged, as is the warped aluminium screen door.

The cicada chorus, silenced at my arrival, resumes like guests at a party who’ve scrutinised the late addition. The urge to retreat is strong. I could return tomorrow, or perhaps next week, to embark upon the unknown. The irrevocable next step underlines my failures. Sweat pricks at my forehead and not because of the oppressive mid-afternoon sun.

Chewing the inside of my lip, I open the once-silver frame. It flings toward me, rattling in my hand. Paint flakes with each rap of my knuckles on the door. Reflected in its opaque glass, my blurry reflection stares back at me. Dark hair blows around my face in the autumn breeze. Lips form a hard line below tired eyes. I frown at my reflection. Whom did I look like? My mother or father? I knew my mother was Finnish - it was the one thing I was told - but my olive skin wasn’t from her. Who was my father and where was he from? Answers I may never learn. Yes, I will.

A ghostly shape makes its way toward me - Joe, with his familiar rolling lumber. Emotions in check, I plaster a smile on my face.

‘Hi, Ally! Hey, Sue, Ally’s here,’ Joe calls, flustered by my unexpected arrival. His hands lift to hug me, hovering, unsure.

The foster carers’ oath - thou shalt not touch the children.

‘Come in, come in. You haven’t changed a bit.’

I follow him inside. He’s as wide as he is tall, this man I call Dad. His dark, curly hair is peppered with grey. His face - now lined. However, his eyes remain a brilliant blue and his genuine smile is still comforting.

My time warp is complete when I see the mottled green settee and mustard-yellow chairs. Years before, I folded my legs under the gold-footed coffee table placed between the once plush chairs, eating crunchy peanut butter sandwiches. We watched Gilligan’s Island while Sue hovered with glasses of icy lemon cordial.

Now, Sue emerges from the kitchen in her uniform of apron and tea towel.

‘Oh, it’s so good to see you. What a surprise!’ Dyed blond hair curls around a chubby face. A broad smile gives way to a soft kiss on my cheek. Sue hasn’t changed. Her familiar scent of soap and butter wraps around me.

‘I swear you’ve gotten taller!’ she says, stepping back to look me up and down.

‘Hi. You look great. The place hasn’t changed.’

‘Do you want anything to drink? Tea? White and two sugars?’

‘Yes, please. But no sugar. Thanks.’ I settle into the sagging armchair, recalling afternoons watching The Brady Bunch and wishing I was Marcia.

‘So, what’ve you been up to? Is it school holidays in the city?’ Joe asks when we’re alone.

‘No, I’m on leave from my Sydney job. I’ve accepted a year’s teaching contract out here.’

‘And Mike? How’s he?’ Joe questions.

I grimace and consider my options - lie or truth. ‘Ah. No, we’re having a break.’ My voice catches in my parched mouth. ‘We’re separated.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Joe’s eyes don’t meet mine.

‘It was mutual,’ I lie. ‘We grew apart.’

‘Here you go, dear.’ Sue passes me a steaming cup of tea in the good china.

‘Love, Ally and Mike have separated.’

‘Oh, my! That’s sad news.’

I give a tight smile and sip my tea. Is it too late to change the story?

‘She says it was mutual. Grew apart.’

Sue settles into the green settee. ‘Well, that happens, especially these days - so much going on now. Not like when me and Joe got together. We were the only things happening in our lives.’ She sighs. ‘So, how long are you staying for?’

‘I’m teaching Maths at Widyarra High for a year.’ I sip the tea, wetting my mouth and wonder if any of my old teachers are still there. ‘I start next week.’

‘Oh, we’re so proud of you! You’re our most successful foster kid. Just like our own, you are,’ Joe says. His smile flickers and disappears.

‘I couldn’t believe it when we got that invite to the Opera House for your wedding. My gosh, I had to buy a whole new outfit.’ Sue’s smile is quickly replaced with a firm line. There’s a pause while she wipes her dry hands on the tea towel. ‘It’ll be so good having you around again. Old Jim’s place down the road is empty. I’m sure he’ll be happy to let you have it, and at a good rate. After all, you’re a local.’

‘Thanks. Yes, I could walk to work from there. I haven’t got a car yet. Thought I’d pick up a second-hand ute or something at Dale’s yard, if he’s still got it.’

‘Yeah, he’s still there. His boys are helping him run it. Think he’s training them up so he can retire!’ Joe says. ‘Hey, where’re you staying?’

‘Country Motel.’

‘If we’d known, we’d have set up the sofa bed. We’ve got three boys at the moment, all in high school. Brothers, Al and