by Lucy Walker
‘Goodbye, Jard. Over and out ‒’
Mardie’s last words had the cadences of a dying fall, the descending seventh. She could hardly bear to put the mouthpiece back on its hook.
So he doesn’t remember the night. Nor what went on through the night. Thank God very, very much for that!
Yet somehow it was sad. Something one fine cold night had happened in her life, and now must be lost. Gone for ever.
Except perhaps when she was old, grey-haired ‒ a grandmother sitting in an armchair ‒ she could then begin to tell the children her story …
Once in a wild, brown empty land a strange thing happened …
Of course she would have to marry someone, somewhere, some day. Otherwise she could never be a grandmother. And the story would never be told. But who would come? And when? She supposed that was every girl’s question.
Mardie pushed her fingers through her hair. Then she pulled her account books towards her.
It’s funny how work never stops, she thought. She bent her head and began adding figures to figures to make neat columns. She always did like neat columns.
‘That reminds me.’ She jumped up and went running to the door. ‘Those bricklayers and the spirit level! I’d better keep my eye on them. And they’d just better not say they’ve mislaid the thing again.’
Anything to take her mind off glad things that were sometimes sad things ‒ like falling down from the sky in a cracked-up ’copter, alone with a man whose image she could not get out of her mind.
It was two weeks later that two men came to The Breakaway. The two men! The runaways!
Mardie was talking to her builder, screened from the outside world by a head-high brick wall and a glass window about to be fitted into its wall space. Beyond the builder’s burly figure she saw the station waggon turn into the west side of The Breakaway and park under the trees.
More through-travellers, she thought, and went on running her fingers down the vertical line of the window frame.
‘There’s a space there wide enough to see through,’ she began. Then stopped short.
Through the space between the window frame and the unfinished brick wall she saw the driver get out of the station waggon on one side, then his passenger heft himself out from the far seat. They met at the rear of the car. They paused to make a few remarks about the new motel units, and as they did so they looked straight in Mardie’s direction.
It wasn’t their hats, their clothes, their hands or their boots she recognized. Those things were all too neat and spruced up for that. It was their faces.
She had seen these two men before. They had been dusty and hairy then. But she knew them, mostly because of the eyes. And their expressions. They had each carried a rifle in that before-time, and she had thought they were dingo-shooters, maybe. The morning light had been no more than grey shimmer of false dawn, but they had looked down at her. And they had recognized Jard. They had turned about and gone, faster than they came. They had given no help to the injured man lying beside Mardie, and they had not sent back help from wherever it was they went.
She had looked up ‒ that time ‒ pleading, right into their faces and she had seen their eyes. And the expressions in them.
Now, this day, Mardie stood statue still, a warning hand on the builder’s arm, and watched these two men standing some distance away, appraising the new brick building rising along the line of trees at the far side of The Breakaway. She remembered that it had been when they had looked down on herself and Jard lying on the ground, Jard had first opened his eyes and looked at her. Right at her. He had looked into her eyes, and the two men had seen his face and recognized him. Then scrammed. Jard had not later remembered anything about it. She had not told him about it on the two-way. But David knew about them. She had told him.
‘Mr Evans,’ she said in a low voice, dropping her hand from the builder’s arm. ‘If those two men come closer, keep them talking, but don’t tell them anything except maybe about building things. Not about anything else at all. Please. Not about me or the Richies, or who and what visitors come to The Breakaway. You understand? It’s important.’ The builder nodded. ‘Tell them nothing,’ Mardie repeated. ‘You know nothing except you’re the contractor up from the south to put up this building. You know nothing about anybody or anything. Promise me?’
He nodded. ‘Just as you say, Miss Forrester. I know there’s trouble outback these days what with the mining and strangers coming in for a share in the stakes. I guess they’re not your regulars, eh?’
‘They’re not, but keep them talking, please ‒ about bricks and mortar or window frames that don’t always fit. Anything that has nothing to do with the district or anyone in it. As soon as I slip out behind the rear wall, keep their attention in this direction. I want to get across to the main building without being noticed. And I want ten minutes there before they come in for stores or drinks or whatever it is they want. Can you hold them up for ten minutes?’
‘Okay, Miss. You’re the boss round here. What you say goes. I’ll keep ’em talking. Or maybe just plain looking. I’ll give ’em a sight-seeing tour. How’s that?’
‘Thank you.’
She slipped to the back wall, then out through the opening for the future doorway. Once outside she glanced back over the half-wall and saw that Mr Evans had gone out to the two men. He was pointing to something on the west side beyond the station waggon as if telling them the problems of trucking up building materials from the south, or some such.
Mardie ran the few yards into the rear part of the store.
‘Mrs Richie!’ She was all but breathless. ‘There are two men out there who’ve just pulled in. They came in a station waggon. When they come in, will you keep them in the bar as long as you can? Offer them everything under the sun to keep them here ‒ drinks, food, chatter. Spoil them with attention. Please. I’ll explain later. But don’t tell them about me ‒ not even that I’m here. I want to get across to the office and call the Dig-in. The longer you can keep them here ‒ hours if possible ‒ the better. I’ll make myself some tea over in the office.’
Mardie slid crabwise along the wall of the bar towards the front entrance and peered out. The men were not in sight. They were still on the far side of the main Breakaway building, being held in thrall, Mardie prayed, by Mr Evans’s building problems in the outback. She made doubly sure there was no sound of oncoming boots ‒ no sign of approaching men casting their shadows before them as they walked. Then she slipped across the cement way under the trellis and into her office.
She closed the door and for no reason she could think of at the moment, or at any time later, she locked it. She crossed to the two-way fixture beside the wall table, then lifted the mouth-piece from the hook and pressed the code button for the Dig-in.
‘Red Wine answering. Over.’
It was David Ashton.
‘Bickleys Brandy, David. Oh, David darling, I’m so glad it’s you and not one of the others. Where’s Jard Hunter just now? Is he at the out-camp or somewhere up on the water-track?’
‘Thank you for the “darling”, darling. Remind me to kiss you for that next time we meet. Jard’s at the out-camp but I can get him on our out-camp code if it’s anything important. Over.’
‘I don’t know whether it’s important or something that’s really urgent. Can you keep listening, and is there no cut-in on the wave length anywhere? Over.’
‘I can keep listening. There’s no cut-in unless some outsider knows the code. We don’t use the Red Wine for any contact except to The Breakaway. Go ahead, Mardie.’
‘You remember about the two men who came out of the bush just before dawn when Jard was still unconscious after the crash? It was a few minutes before Mister Falldown arrived. Over.’
‘Yes. They cleared off without giving you any assistance. You said they recognized Jard. Were you certain about that?’
‘Yes. They said his name. Then bent down to look at his face and I saw their faces distinctly. The
ir eyes mostly. That was because I was pleading with them. That’s when you look straight into people’s eyes, isn’t it? Don’t cut out, David. I’ll finish what I’m saying first. They’re here at The Breakaway. Outside talking to Mr Evans, the builder. They’re dressed differently … sort of more like ordinary through-travellers. Not so outbackish. They’re neater. And they’re not carrying rifles this time. If they have rifles they’d be in the station waggon. When I told you about the men before, you said ‒ in a serious way ‒ Jard would be looking for them. I mean you spoke as if you knew who they might be, and that you distrusted them. Over.’
‘Don’t get worried about them at this stage, Mardie, but answer two questions if you can. Have they seen you yourself? If so, have they recognized you? Over.’
‘They haven’t seen me except at a distance. I don’t know if they would recognize me or not, as after all I’m upright and day-dressed now. When they came through the bush they sort of looked at Jard ‒ said his name ‒ then made off. Over.’
‘Listen carefully, Mardie. Let them see you, and don’t be scared about them. If they are the men we think they are, they’ve everything to do with mining exploration, and that’s all I’m saying for the moment. Their rifles would be for game-hunting. That’s their front cover. We at the Dig-in want to catch up with them. Jard especially. So see if you can get the Richies to inveigle them to stop over at The Breakaway. You know ‒ one of those three timber rooms at the back where the truckies put up. If you yourself deal with them, treat them casually, the same way as you treat the usual stop-overs. I can promise you they won’t harm anyone at The Breakaway. They’re not that type. It’s Jard’s business they’ve stuck their noses into. Can do? Over.’
‘Can do all right, David, but it won’t be easy for me to treat them as well as we treat our usual customers. They left me and Jard to perish out there in the bush ‒ so I don’t love them any. But I’ll try.’
‘You don’t have to love them, sweetheart. Keep all the loving for me. I’m the one on the waiting list. Just keep them entertained ‒ or whatever it is you do for stop-overs. The thing is to keep them there till I can get in touch with Jard. Don’t let them near your office because they might pick up our call-signs, or pinch the code book. If they’re the men I think they are they’ll give their immortal souls for the code book. If they’re not our interest, then there’s nothing lost. Okay?’
‘I’ll tell Mrs Richie to charge them double on account of deserting us in our hour of need ‒ meaning Jard mostly.’
David’s laugh was soft and endearing.
‘You can make the bill triple if they’re our boys. Meantime keep it in mind that you just might be mistaken. Light at false dawn can be misleading. What makes you think they don’t look outbackish now? Over.’
‘Too neat. City casual wear ‒ as if they’re playing at being through-travellers. But their faces and hands are burned brown like everyone else living out here.’
‘You sound very certain.’
‘I am. You don’t forget those faces and those eyes when they belong to two men who desert you.’
David’s voice was still quiet and reassuring. He even put in a mild laugh ‒ perhaps to comfort her.
‘Well, sweetheart, in spite of such churlish treatment you and Jard are still alive and kicking, so don’t chew on it too hard. If they’re not our men, they’re harmless. If they are, we’ll catch up now. That is, if you can hang on to them long enough. Will do?’
I was thinking about Jard not being alive and kicking, not me, Mardie thought. She could hardly say that over the air to David. After all, Jard was Joanna’s possession. Was or wasn’t he? Not anyone ‒ not David nor anyone else must ever know just how she, Mardie, had felt about Jard that night. Nor how she had held him and kept him warm …
‘You still on the air, Mardie?’ David’s voice came through.
‘Yes. I was just thinking. I’m not scared of the men harming me. I’ll harm them first ‒ and mean it. But you’re sure the Richies will be all right? Over.’
‘Absolutely sure. Down south, at home in their suburban boxes, that pair are sweet-living, law-abiding citizens. Up here’s different. You with me?’
‘Yes, David, if you say so.’
‘The only thing to remember is not to let them near your office, and that code book, or any code at all. Lock such things up in your safe. Enough for now, Mardie love. You’ll get a call from Jard as soon as I can contact him. Keep smiling. Love to the Richies. Over and out.’
‘Over and out,’ Mardie said softly. But of course David didn’t hear that. He had already cut from the air.
Chapter Ten
Mardie took the Richies into her confidence, and all three of them put their heads together as to methods by which to make the two men welcome when they came into the store. Mr Richie busied himself pouring them very, very generous drinks, and Mrs Richie offered them lunch.
‘I’ve something special,’ she said with a broad smile ‒ not mentioning she’d taken it out of the deep freezer only five minutes before. ‘You’re lucky. We only have our special recipe for brush-turkey one day a month. Today’s the day.’
‘Brush-turkey, hey?’ the taller man said with a grin. ‘You must have been out moon-lighting, Missis. It’s against the law to kill brush-turkey up this way, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. But we didn’t kill it, you see. It was brought in by one of the station owners passing through. I don’t ever ask questions when things like this come my way. What did you say your name was, please?’
‘I didn’t say, but I’m Jim and my mate’s name is Bill. Smith and Brown are the surnames.’
‘Jim Smith. Bill Brown. I seem to have heard names like that before.’ Mrs Richie was busy rinsing glasses while her husband filled up for the visitors. ‘I must have read those names in a book. You wouldn’t be famous people, would you?’
‘I guess you’re a very literary person, Missis. Smith and Brown are real pedigree names. Now what about that brush-turkey? Eh, Bill? Sounds good to me.’
‘If you’re thinking of staying overnight I’ll need those two pedigreed surnames for the register,’ Mr Richie said cheerfully. ‘What’s the hurry, anyway? Stay the night, have an early breakfast, and you’ll make the Swan River in time for tea tomorrow afternoon.’
Mr Richie had doctored the beers with a modicum of pure alcohol.
Not enough to put them on their ears, he reassured himself. Just enough to keep ’em affable and wide open to suggestion.
Mardie was in the next room all this time ‒ the one on the far side of the pressed iron wall that did not reach the ceiling. Her special job for this occasion was listening-in. Voices rise, and even the row of shining brasses and the fern baskets wouldn’t keep out a word that was said in the bar. Mr Richie meantime was hoping Mardie did not possess the sixth sense that would inform her about the pure alcohol. She was too much an innocent to know about that kind of double-dealing ruse.
‘You must be pretty keen on business round here,’ the man called Bill said. ‘Almost begging us to put up for the night. Do you treat all through-travellers to this “Welcome-and-stay” technique?’
Oh dear. Perhaps Mr Richie’s overdone it, Mardie feared. She need not have worried. Mr and Mrs Richie were old hands at handling odd customers.
‘As many as will listen,’ Mrs Richie said. ‘And they always come back for more. You see, there’s only one way to teach people what a good place this is. That is, give them a taste of it. Clean sheets, hot water, early-morning call with a cup of tea brought in. And …’
‘And brush-turkey some station owner delivered just by chance,’ Jim finished. ‘Such enterprise deserves patronage. Specially as you have a point about being able to make the Swan by tea-time tomorrow. Seven hundred miles is a bit far in one go, after all. Eh, Bill?’
Mr Richie nodded sagely, refilling the glasses once again.
‘And no other stop-over till you get bang on this side of the Darling Ranges, Mr Smith!’ he
said. ‘By the time you get there, you think you might as well finish the next sixty miles and get home after midnight. A bad mistake that. You know something? There’s more accidents going down the Bindoon Hill on the last stage late at night than any place else from north to south. It’s steep, it winds, and the driver’s three parts asleep … worn out with travelling. Should have stopped over ‒ best at The Breakaway, of course ‒ and had a good night’s rest before he ever got as far as the Range.’
The two men looked at one another. Mr Richie guessed the extra drops of pure alcohol were working. The visitors seemed amenable to suggestion.
‘Tell you what?’ He capped his case. ‘We got the nicest waitress-cum-housemaid this side of the black stump. She’ll look after you. The prim and proper type, mind you. We wouldn’t have any other. No nonsense in our stop-over. But she’ll make it more pleasant for you to eat the turkey, and later find yourselves waking up to that early-morning cup of tea ‒ when called. Good service. That’s our motto and what gets us our good name.’
Bill shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s the bit about that flaming Bindoon Hill that settles it,’ he said. ‘Nothing to do with housemaids or turkeys. Weather report from Perth says it’s raining down there, and I don’t fancy that Bindoon Hill at two in the morning when it’s a slippery slide.’
Mardie, on the far side of the wall, gave a sigh of relief. How cunning can we all get? she wondered. She was not only discovering a new side to herself but also new aspects of Mr and Mrs Richie as business managers for The Breakaway. One lives and learns! she thought, a trifle ruefully.
She slipped out through the far door and across to her office.
She locked the door behind her. And then put the code call through to Red Wine. David Ashton came over the air immediately.
‘Bickleys Brandy here,’ she said, giving the code name.
‘Red Wine answering, Mardie. I’ve been sitting glued to this so-and-so chair for nearly an hour. What luck? Over.’
