by JH Fletcher
About Keepers of the House
Annaliese and Anna are two women divided by time but united by a common destiny and the heritage whose dramatic history exerts so powerful an influence upon their lives.
Anna Riordan, a very successful businesswoman who also dabbles in politics, is at a crossroads in her life. Her husband has just walked out on her, she is trying to decide whether to seriously pursue a political career, and then there is the matter of Mark, an old flame, and her ties to South Africa. Anna's great-grandmother, Annaliese, fled South Africa not long after the Boer War.
But she remembers the farm and the land, and impresses on young Anna that she must buy back that land – nothing else matters. Anna is sent on an unofficial government mission to test the winds of change in South Africa she makes contact with one of the black African leaders whilst there; a meeting that will, in the future, change her life.
Before she can move on with her life, Anna must come to terms with her heritage, with the ghost of Annaliese that haunts her, and decide whether she really wants her husband back.
Contents
About Keepers of the House
Dedication
PRELUDE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
Acknowledgement
About John Fletcher
Other books by this Author
Copyright
To Elizabeth
as always
PRELUDE
I saw it once in a painting by Arthur Streeton. Ever since I have held its image in my heart. It is weathered, sprawling, unpractical, totally lovely. There is a dried-up creek bed before the door with a rickety-rackety bridge spanning it. All around is the glory of the Australian bush. You can hear the birdsong, taste the underlying silence. It is my dream house. More; it is a metaphor of the longing for fulfilment that lies in every human heart and I, keeping faith with my vision of the future, am its keeper.
— Ruth Ballard (View from the Beach)
ONE
The first thing that Anna saw when she came into the house was the envelope propped foursquare against the crystal vase on the table in the entrance lobby. She turned it in her fingers, frowning. Mostyn’s handwriting. Her heart went pit-pat. Her thumbnail broke the seal. She took out the single sheet. Read it. Pain sliced.
Dear God.
The envelope slipped unnoticed to the floor. On numb legs, letter still clasped in her hand, she walked through the lounge to the terrace that ran across the rear of the house. She rested her hands on the stone capping of the wall and looked out at the manicured lawn, the flowerbeds that now, in the second week of December, were bright with petunias and antirrhinums, the scented heads of roses. Beyond the garden, the blue water of the harbour. The Manly ferry, toy-sized, trailed its wake as it tossed through the chop towards the city. The water was white-flecked, the air crackled with salt. The house unfolded its wings behind her.
Home.
It was here she had planned so many of her triumphs in recent years. To it she had returned to lick her occasional wounds; who, in the savage world of business, had not known a few of those? It had comforted her, cosseted her, protected her. Her safe stronghold. No longer. Now, with Mostyn’s note, the walls had been breached.
In the house the telephone started ringing. Anna did not move. It was probably Hilary with the latest production figures from the new factory in Geelong. They could wait. For the moment she was not up to Hilary’s obsessive pedantry, her accountant’s voice scratching dust over all Anna’s bright visions.
The phone stopped as the answering machine cut in. Released by silence, Anna walked down the steps to the grass. The turf yielded beneath her boardroom shoes. She had an urge to chuck away not only the shoes but everything they represented: the structure of deals and treasons, lies and promises, minutes and financial statements that for so many years had constituted her life.
All that, she thought, so that one day — today — I can come home to an empty house and find that my husband of thirteen years has walked out on me.
She was still holding Mostyn’s letter. She looked at it again. Behind the written words she could hear his voice, hot and spiteful, listing all the faults he claimed to have found in her in recent years. Yet the letter contained nothing of that; he had never been one to commit himself in writing if he could avoid it.
I’ve had enough. I’ll send for my things.
Just that. Not much to end a life with its attendant pains and joys, its hopes and plans and companionship.
Its love.
Because there had been love, surely? To count no triumph complete without sharing it. To feel warmth at the sound of his voice. To know contentment and peace in his presence. What were these if not love?
They had found this house together; like excited kids had run through its rooms, sharing their vision of its potential, its place in their future. They had eaten Sunday morning breakfasts on that terrace, crumbs and newspapers and the hot, strong smell of coffee. They had laughed together, wept together, clung together. Silly, trivial things.
Of course, there were other, less delightful memories. Of rows and more rows, particularly lately. And now this.
I’ve had enough.
The crash of her collapsing world reverberating in her head and heart, Anna Riordan climbed the steps to the terrace and went back indoors.
She looked in the kitchen. Mrs Casey had left a cold meal in the fridge. Mrs Casey was no doubt the reason Mostyn had taken care to seal his note. Meats, salad, cold potatoes, the remains of a fruit flan.
You will not think, Anna said, as adept at giving orders to herself as to others. You will eat and then you will have a bath. Only then will you decide what has to be done.
Half an hour later, wreathed in steam, she lay in the hot scented water and, for the first time, brought her mind to bear on her situation.
She supposed she should have known a break was on the cards. The good times, the shared delight in each other, the enmeshing of minds and bodies had all ended years ago. For a long time they had not even made love, had been no more than two strangers sharing the same accommodation. Yet, in truth, she had not expected it. It was what happened to their friends; never once had she thought it might happen to her.
Now this.
She stirred restlessly in the bath, running her hands over a body that at forty-one was still taut and firm.
We had something precious but were so tied up in our piffling careers that we never bothered to take care of it. Never even realised that care was necessary. Now it is dead, from indifference and neglect. And we are supposed to be so smart.
Damn, damn, damn.
One question remained. What had happened to cause Mostyn to make the break?
Another woman?
She supposed that, in this situation, it was the first thing all women wondered. It was certainly possible. Mostyn’s eye had wandered often but she had always been care
ful to ask no questions, had not permitted herself to care too deeply; always, the moments had passed. She thought she would have known had Mostyn involved himself seriously with someone.
No, not that. What, then?
Only one thing seemed possible. Over the last few years Anna had had the Midas touch; all her ventures had turned to gold. Because of her flair she had been invited to join the boards of some of the largest companies in the land; political connections had caused her to be offered — and accept — a seat on the prestigious State Economic Strategies Committee.
By contrast Mostyn’s own career had topped out. No one could call him unsuccessful. He was executive director of a merchant bank, had a hatful of other directorships and enough cash to indulge his whim of investing in premium vineyards, both in Australia and overseas. It would have been more than enough for most men. Yet, somehow, his career had lacked the sparkle of her own.
He had known it and resented it. Small signs that, in retrospect, had been significant: a determination, ever more frequently expressed, that Anna’s career should be subordinate to his own; unreasoning anger when their schedules clashed and she was unable — or unwilling — to put off her arrangements to suit his.
Recently had come what might have been the final step in bringing him to the break. Some weeks earlier, Anna had been invited to lunch at an unfashionable restaurant by one of the main power brokers in the party. He had spoken ambiguously, yet to someone like Anna, who understood the language, his words had been unmistakable. People had been wondering, he said, whether she might be interested in a place, a very senior place, in government. If one happened to become available. If she should by chance be interested in a political career. No need for a decision right away, he had told her. Think about it.
She had gone home ten feet off the ground, bursting to share the news with her husband, who knew well that politics had been a source of unending fascination to her ever since the early eighties when she had spent two years as aide to Jack Goodie, at that time shadow Trade Minister.
Mostyn had been unable to handle it.
‘I’d as soon mix with the Mafia as that riffraff. At least you know where you are with the Mafia.’
‘Just a chat. They’re not committed. Neither am I.’
‘No such thing as just a chat with those blokes.’
He was probably right. She had not committed herself but knew she probably would, had felt the tingle of excitement that for her always signalled the lure of a new adventure.
‘Isn’t business enough for you?’ The genuine astonishment of a man to whom the acquisition of money was the world.
‘Probably not.’
For some time she had felt restless at the prospect of spending the rest of her life making nothing but money. Such a limited ambition … Whereas politics would give her the opportunity to stretch herself, perhaps even do some good in the world.
For some time she had become involved in a number of issues, women’s rights and third world matters among them, telling herself they were no more than sidelines.
Perhaps, with the cautiously worded invitation, it was time for them to move centre stage.
Had that caused the final rift? Probably. Since that conversation, if you could call it that, Mostyn had never stopped bitching about how her career was taking over both their lives, had made it clear that if she wanted him to play second fiddle she was in for a disappointment.
‘You needn’t expect me to trot along behind you …’
And then, two days ago, the Premier himself had phoned. An election was due next year; it would be helpful if he had an idea of her plans.
Even then she had not committed herself. She had not said no, either, as she had admitted when Mostyn questioned her. Some husbands would have been proud; he had been furious, had told her that she thought only of herself, that his career meant nothing to her.
It was nonsense and she had said so, angrily. It had ended in a terrible row, recriminations flying like bullets, and the spoiled brat she had married thirteen years earlier had stormed out in what she now saw had been a rehearsal for today’s main event.
Envy, she told herself. A petty, petulant reaction from a petty, petulant man. The thought made her feel better, if not much.
She stood up, body glowing from the hot water, mind clear. She reached for a towel and began to rub herself dry. Envy, pure and simple. Except that envy was never pure and seldom simple.
She knew Mostyn so well. He had always been a hatchet man, even had the nickname to go with it. Hatchet Harcourt, they called him in the city. If he fell out with you, people said, look out. Anna had never thought she would have to worry about that — her husband, for heaven’s sake — but now was not so sure.
She tossed the towel into the laundry basket and walked naked into the bedroom. Theirs, it seemed, no longer.
She would have to watch her back.
She put on a deceptively simple linen dress in a tone of dusty pink that suited her colouring. She had bought it in Genoa the last time she had been in Europe; it was one of her favourites for a summer evening when she didn’t want to get too tarted up. She brushed her dark hair — no grey so far, although after this episode who knew what she might find in the morning? — and put on the dab of lipstick that tonight was her sole concession to the conventions of make-up.
As she did so, she thought deliberately about what she had to do. Speak to Maurice Steyn, first of all, if she could get hold of him. He was her lawyer and would have to be told, much as she hated the idea. She would check the answering machine for messages, return Hilary’s call, if that was who it had been. She might phone Monica; it was what friends were for, wasn’t it, to lean on in times of trouble? The idea of leaning on anyone was so bizarre that she found herself smiling at her reflection in the dressing-table mirror.
Perhaps the shock of all this will make me cuddly, she thought. But doubted it. Loving, yes, that might still be possible. But cuddly? Never.
Apart from sitting on the phone for an hour, she had no plans for the evening. Tidy up the bits and pieces, eat her supper on the terrace, have a glass of wine and watch the lights come up in the city on the far side of the harbour … She could have done all that in a dressing-gown. In nothing at all, come to that. The idea of sitting in the nude, clutching the phone and discussing her marital problems with the dignified Maurice Steyn brought the smile back to her lips. How the idea would have horrified him!
So why go to the trouble of dolling herself up in her favourite Italian dress to make a few phone calls?
Because I must, she told herself. Suddenly she felt like tears. Resolutely she fought them down. I have to prove to myself that the show will go on. My show. However much I want to lie down and scream my heart out, I shall not do it. I shall not allow him to destroy me.
Purposefully, as presentable as she could make herself, Anna walked down the stairs to her study.
Let’s get on with it.
Two hours later Anna, plans for a quiet evening blown out of the water, sat with her friend Monica Talbot eating Chinese food at a harbourside restaurant in the Rocks.
Monica had been less surprised by the news than Anna had expected, and had at once suggested that they should go out and eat together.
‘Cheong Wah’s,’ Monica had said. ‘Eight o’clock.’
It was nice to be bossed for a change.
Monica was bowstring-taut, angry-eyed and neurotic. She’d been through two husbands and now blamed the world — or at least the male part of it — for them both. One had been wealthy, pleasant. After five years she had caught him making up to a woman she had regarded as a friend. The second had been a dealer on the stock exchange who relieved stress by drinking. When he drank, he used his fists. The first time, Monica had warned him; the second, she had packed an overnight case and walked out. Anna had sheltered her on that occasion; now she was returning the compliment.
Not that Anna needed it. She could look after herself and said so.
/> ‘Don’t you believe it. Your husband’s no different from the rest of them. They’re all bastards.’
‘Mostyn’s not the bash ’em and mash ’em type.’
To Monica, Mostyn was male, the enemy. ‘I wouldn’t put it past him.’
‘He’s probably home already,’ Anna hoped. Or did she? She couldn’t be sure.
‘Reckon there’s someone else?’ Monica asked.
‘Thought you might be able to tell me that. They say the wife is always the last to hear.’
Above their heads the bridge’s familiar girders loomed against a rash of stars, but here, on the cobbled waterfront, her new situation had made all things strange. It was like finding herself in a new, incomprehensible world where the signs were back to front. I don’t understand this new place, Anna thought. I don’t want to understand it. Bruised ego or not, she wished with desperate fervour that everything could go back to how it had been three hours ago. Futile, no doubt, but knowing it did not stifle the wish.
Monica was not into wishes where husbands were concerned. ‘It stuck out a mile. You were bad for his ego. A wife more successful than he was? No way he would put up with that.’
Her own thoughts; yet she disliked hearing them from anyone else. Absurdly, she found herself defending the indefensible. ‘He’s not that bad —’
‘If he’s so marvellous, why aren’t you home with him instead of sitting here with me?’
Monica was right, of course. His place was here, with her. They’d dined out a lot together, once. Had fun together. Once.
‘He certainly chose his moment. The first free weekend I’ve had in yonks and he messes it up.’
‘Only if you let him.’
That was true, too. For the first time in thirteen years she could do what she liked without thinking about anyone else. She could walk the beach, stay in bed, get on a plane. She could do anything she wanted. If she wanted anything.
Oh Moss, she thought, how could you?
If he’d turned up that minute she would have thrown herself at him. Open arms; open legs, too, no doubt. You make me sick, she told herself.
