“Oh dear!” The voice was sympathetic. “I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t count on it, Gail. In the hot season, they’re almost always booked right out. Both ways.”
“That’s what everyone keeps saying.”
“Maybe we can pull some strings for you,” Amy Campbell offered. “Would you like me to try?”
“Would you? I would be so grateful.”
“We’ll see what we can do. Meanwhile … why I was ringing … I thought you might like to visit.”
Before leaving the cramped passageway, she phoned the Station Terminal. As dreaded, there were no vacancies available. The fleeting hope that the bridal couple or someone else might have left a vacancy had come to nothing. So far. There was still time. And there was still Amy Campbell.
Returning to the bungalow, she again bathed, changed into sun-frock, sunhat and sandals and was at the bus stop at the end of the street in time to catch the ten o’clock bus to Barclay, back along the train line, where the Campbell family lived.
She was the sole passenger. Almost as hot as Else’s kitchen, the bus twisted and turned and lurched through acres of parched dead-grass paddocks. Twice, the driver pulled into the road’s rim to pick up a passenger. Both were leather-faced women wearing long black dresses, heavy black shoes and black head scarves tied under their chins. Both nodded to her before folding work-hardened hands over huge black cotton carry-alls.
After a laboured half hour negotiating corkscrew turns that illogically bisected rows of vineyards and secret clumps of tall trees, the bus turned into a straight stretch of road. They were coming into Barclay. At last. Shuddering to a stop, the driver turned up the radio, and the three passengers alighted. Stepping onto stable ground, she looked for shelter.
“Gail! Over here!” At first sight Amy Campbell was a comfortable middle-aged country woman, another bush bumpkin like the people on the train.
First sight was deceptive. Under Amy Campbell’s broad sombrero, her sun-tanned skin was smooth and soft and her brown eyes warmly friendly. Her body, only slightly thickened by middle age, was taut and disciplined and flattered by a chic pale blue linen frock. Her voice, no longer distorted by the telephone, was unmistakably private girls’ school.
Amy lightly kissed her visitor. “I’m so glad we can give you time. We’ve been so busy. The storms make extra work. And the humidity! It’s such a worry. We really wondered how we were going to manage to see you at all. The car’s over here …”
As Amy walked to the parked car, a silver grey Mercedes, her carriage was erect and proud and her movements graceful. She could have been a retired dancer, or an ageing elite athlete, or a socialite on vacation, or a career woman on assignment.
It was a moment of revelation. She’d never imagined that people who moved and spoke like Amy Campbell, people who drove expensive cars, lived in places so remote from the city.
Diffidently, she climbed into the passenger seat. Bathed in the perfumes of new leather and fresh polish and subtle cologne and the trappings of obvious wealth, she tried to pretend the novel experience was what she was accustomed to.
Amy started the motor, and the car purred out of the township and on down the main highway.
Making no demands on her guest, Amy happily chattered. “I remember your parents well. Your poor mother … so much heartbreak. And your father … you know he and Gus met overseas.”
Half a mile further, the Mercedes turned onto a side road and slid silkily across the erratic potholes of inadequately maintained bitumen. They were totally surrounded by green – luxurious green vines and tall green trees. No sign of dead grass or rusting dust or brittle shrub. The only interruption was an occasional driveway that presumably led to one of the secret houses she’d seen from the train.
“I’ve never been in a Mercedes,” she confided.
“My goodness!”
“I’ve hardly even seen one.”
“You’ll see them here, dear. Most of us had a good harvest last year. We were very fortunate. There were no problems with humidity last year. Humidity is our bugbear. That, and frost. I remember.”
They turned again, purring through open double gates and down a narrow unmade avenue lined with full-blossomed jacarandas. Tiny pebbles, flying from the wheels of the car, rained a rat-a-tat of small pellets against its undercarriage. Broad pools of mud, last night’s leftovers, significantly impeded even the powerful Mercedes.
“Your trees are beautiful,” she commented. “The wind stripped the Sunview’s trees.”
“It missed these. As you see. Which is quite nice really. Nearly there.” Slowing at a small intersection, the car passed a circular front driveway and started towards a side path leading to the back of the house. “No one uses the front door any more. Why they ever bothered to make a front entrance I can’t imagine.”
From the huge expanse of the high brown-tiled roof to the line of steps leading to the broad colonnaded verandah, the front of the house was densely festooned with lavender wisteria. An occasional gap revealed dark red bricks and square-paned windows. The front garden, a long narrow strip between house and vines, was thick with tropical growth. Huge bushes, red and orange and pink and purple.
“Do you like my garden?”
“Do you do all this?”
Amy laughed. “With a little help. But I love it. The storm missed it. Luckily, it took another route. If it had come in from the south … now that would have been a disaster. But it never does. Always from the west. Or north. Gus tells me.”
She began to comprehend Amy Campbell’s choice to live here. This minute, right now, could go on forever.
“Here were are.” Amy turned off the motor.
The Mercedes skirted a broad back lawn and pulled into an otherwise empty four-car garage.
“Everyone’s at work.” Exiting the car, Amy slammed the door.
Captivated by its rich clunk, she alighted, slammed the passenger door, opened it and slammed it again.
“There’s no sound quite like it,” Amy laughed, and led the way from the four-car garage. “Once you’ve experienced driving them, you can’t settle for less. Unless of course, you have to. We’re praying for another good year. The problem is the storm. It’s done its share of damage. It’s sure to affect the picking.”
“What’s that? Picking?”
“It’s harvesting. Unfortunately, the storm’s taken out a few acres of good grapes.” Amy led the way across the soggy lawn.
Heart sinking, she approached a long wall of wire mesh windows.
Set in its centre was a wire screen door. Adjusting her eyes to the inevitable abrupt transition into semi-darkness, she stepped into a shaded fernery. Moist and clammy, yet a relief from the burning outdoors, its smells were sweet and spicy and exotic; again, nothing like any previous experience. The potted plants were every shade of green, the few flowers exclusively reds and oranges.
“This is so beautiful!”
“The fernery’s mine.” Already at an interior door, Amy paused. “The men don’t quite see the point. Although they do sometimes bring a few chairs out here for a drink after work. It’s such a refreshing change for them. That point, they can see.”
“It must be a lot of work.”
“A lot of work? The fernery? Oh dear no! It’s easy compared with the daily slog. Though the men are right. The fernery does use an inordinate amount of water.”
She was intrigued. Obviously, there was more to Amy Campbell than expensive cars and beautiful clothes.
Leaving the fernery, they entered a broad back verandah that ran the entire width of the huge house. Shaded by drawn Holland blinds, and cooled by the adjacent fernery and the substantial overhead tiles, it was degrees cooler than outdoors. Redwood chairs and tables were set at intervals on the timber floor and a few bright pot plants were set under the glazed windows of the main building. At one end was a full-size table tennis table. A family place, it had the feel of caring and welcoming and protection from sun and wind and rain – and
even trouble. Last night’s havoc had left no mark.
“The children play here when they come on holidays,” Amy explained, before stepping through yet another door.
Following, she entered yet another huge area. The high ceiling and walls were soft pink-tinted grey; the floor was thick soft grey carpet, the furnishings soft floral greys and blues. At one side were a honey-coloured timber dining table and a dozen matching chairs. At the far end of the room and to the right were closed doors. Two ceiling fans slowly stirred the warm air.
“We don’t spend a lot of time in here.” Setting her sombrero on a side table, Amy ran her fingers through thick waves of glossy dark hair. “It’s a bit daunting. Through the side door are the bedrooms and the small lounge. Gus and I prefer that. Through the far door are the kitchen and the annex.”
“It’s a beautiful house.”
“I’m glad you like it. The men don’t come in from work this way. They change and eat in the annex. There’s a separate entrance. Gus’s father added it years ago.”
“It’s a lot cooler than the Sunview.”
“Of course. The old folk knew what they were doing. You know the Scots. They get around. Some of Gus’s predecessors lived in the East for many years. Why don’t you take a seat? I’ll fetch drinks.”
She sank into one of the broad deep linen-covered armchairs, as seductively sumptuous as the seats of the Mercedes.
Returning from the kitchen, Amy placed glasses of iced water on a small table and perched on the edge of the opposite chair. “By the way, I did try some contacts. There’s not much hope for a train out tonight. But they promised to keep you in mind. I’ll keep in touch.”
She wanted to cry.
“You look disheartened.”
“I’m so glad you contacted me,” she prevaricated. “This is a lovely room.”
“Most people like it,” Amy smiled. “This wing isn’t part of the original homestead, of course. Though it does adhere to the original architectural concept. The walls are thick and there’s substantial insulation. It’s comparatively effective. Gus and the boys are considering one of the new evaporative cooling systems.”
“It’s a very big house.” The iced water was soothing her dust-parched throat.
“Do you think so?”
“Compared with ours, it’s enormous.”
“I remember. We were there in … goodness! It was years ago, when I first married. I used to miss the theatres, and the shops. So much! But then, Gus would never leave here. Campbell tradition is paramount. So I never forced the issue. I get to the theatre when I can. We have our own interests here. I’ve grown used to it. There’s so much to like.”
Not difficult, if her hostess was talking about Mercedes cars and spacious houses. Except last night had shown that wasn’t all it was about. Amy’s calloused hands and muscled arms testified to hard physical labour. She must have found the early years away from her city home as hellish as yesterday had been at the Sunview. “Barbara said you were brought up in Melbourne. You came here when you got married.”
“Actually, it was after the War, the first war. Gus tried to persuade your parents to move up this way. He could have assisted your father to get on his feet again. Especially when the desert air is so good for the lungs. Your mother might have. Oh dear! Forgive me, Gail. I’m so sorry. You must be devastated.”
“It’s all right. Really. It’s all right.” It was not all right; it never would be all right.
Amy hesitated a moment only. “I wouldn’t expect you to remember us. You were just a little tot at the time.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Of course you don’t. You were just a little tot.”
“I don’t remember.”
“You poor thing.” Amy again apologised. “I’m sorry, I’ve touched a nerve. Tell me to shut up … if you want.”
Disarmed, she blushed. “I don’t mind. It’s nice to hear you talk about my parents. Not many people want to any more.”
“Your father, and then your mother – how you must feel! It must be very frightening for you. Still – now you have this chance, the desert air. You’re young enough to fight back. Of course, medicine is changing too. Since the last war … so many changes. So many new inventions. One has to say they’re long overdue. So much suffering.”
Awkwardly, she attempted distraction. “It must be very lonely for you.”
Immediately responding, Amy changed course. “Oh no! Goodness no! That’s the very last thing. There’s just so much to do! One is always on the go. It’s never dull. And most certainly not lonely.”
“Don’t you miss the city? I don’t think I could live here. Who do you talk to?” Since her arrival, there’d been no sign of another human being. No sound of traffic. No sound at all except their two voices. Not even a radio.
Again, Amy was happy to talk about herself. “The only thing I really miss, really miss, is my daughter.”
“Doesn’t she live here?”
“Not Phoebe. She lives in Melbourne. Though of course the boys are all here. They’re Campbells.”
Apparently being a Campbell was especially significant.
“What about you, Gail? How are you coping?”
“I only have Barbara. I thought you knew that.”
“I wondered. It seems impossible. There’s no one else at all?”
“Only somewhere in England, or Wales. I’m not sure. Here there’s only Barbara.”
“Your sister’s taken such good care of the three of you. How she managed to finish her studies too, I can’t imagine.”
“She plans to look for work in England. Once I’m okay.”
“I know. She’s phones occasionally. She was older when we met all of you. She knew Gus was particularly concerned about your father. We knew your mother less well. So Barbara more or less kept us in touch.”
“She’ll be happy to hear I’ve met you.”
“And the boys,” Amy urged. “You must meet my sons.
Although … it is our busy time. Perhaps.”
“I don’t want to be in the way.”
“Oh, my dear! Of course you’re not in the way. If Phoebe were here, I’d take time off to be with her. Look …” She led the way across the room to a display above the mantle over the open fireplace.
Central, was a huge oil painting of a middle-aged man. Wearing a Victorian-era three-piece suit, he was large, even-featured, sandy-haired and bearded. Standing against blue curtains, one hand was conventionally placed on a tall pedestal. Unconventionally, the other hand held aloft a bunch of purple grapes. Commanding blue eyes glared from under bushy eyebrows, as though ordering the artist to accept the bizarre inclusion of the grapes.
Surrounding the painting was a satellite display of photographs in different sizes and shapes, some in colour, some black and white and some self-consciously tinted in faux sepia. The entire exhibition filled half the height and half the length of the long wall.
“My Rogues’ Gallery,” Amy smiled.
“The big man looks scary.”
“I believe he was. Stories abound. He certainly was a regular tyrant. I would think it was the only way to be in any way successful in those pioneering days.”
“Who was he?”
“He was the first Campbell out here, Angus. They say he was a bit of a rascal, way too adventurous for the family back home in the old country. So he came out to make his fortune and finished up here. You can see the likeness in most of the family. Though they are not, thank goodness, so formidable.”
Guided by her proud hostess, she dutifully commented on the frequent family likenesses in the Rogues’ Gallery. Amy’s husband, Gus, a first-born son, had fought in World War One. His first-born son, named Angus as were all the first-born sons, had opted to be known by his second name, Richard.
“There’s by far too many Guses and Anguses already in this family,” Amy laughed. “It gets so confusing. They all have big families. They’re all over the place. You could go to Ic
eland and find an Angus Campbell.”
“They all look so alike.”
“Ah, yes. They do have strong genes. But then, that’s often the way with the Scots. My boys are obviously from this branch of the Campbells. Many of their cousins are too. But not Phoebe.” She indicated the photo of a smiling young woman, dark-haired and dark-eyed like her mother. “This is Phoebe. Our second child.”
“She’s like you.”
“Not a Campbell, no. I’m afraid we do rather stand out,” she sighed. “Although that will change as the children arrive. Phoebe and Richard were very close – before he enlisted. She served in the Women’s Land Army. There’s Jake, my second son …”
Jake Campbell was another obvious Campbell. Handsomely even-featured, sandy-haired, blue-eyed and wearing an open-necked shirt, he’d been photographed sitting at the wheel of the grey Mercedes.
“That’s a recent photo?”
“Last year, as a matter of fact,” Amy nodded. “And here’s Rick. You’ll meet all the boys. They’ve all stayed close to the nest.”
Like his younger brother, Richard was a sandy-haired blue-eyed Campbell. But the photo could not be recent. The baby-faced young man laughing at the photographer was wearing a World War Two army uniform.
“Did you take this?” The photos were boring; it was something to say.
“As a matter of fact, Ryan took it. He’s a mad keen photographer … or … he was, when he was younger. Here … see … he’s my youngest …”
Ryan was baby faced, handsome, blue-eyed and sandy-haired. Unlike his slender brothers, he was built like a tractor. Built like his formidable ancestor. “They’re all very good looking.”
“Neither Jake nor Ryan got to this last war.” Amy was moving quickly along the wall of photos. “Jake enlisted, of course. Then poor Gus fell ill. So that ended that. Jake was needed here. And Ryan, of course, wasn’t of age. Which left … you’ve seen the photo of Rick.”
“There’s one a bit like it at home. It’s Dad in his uniform. We had to hide it … after … it was too sad …”
“What a shame! Memories … they’re so precious.”
Not all memories.
Amy stopped in front of a silver-framed photograph of herself in First Aid uniform. “I’m very proud of that one. The War was awful. But we women did our bit as best we could too. Actually, that’s when I cut my hair. Before that, it was quite long. In one way, they were good days. There was so much to do. Even with all the worry. They were certainly memorable. Another precious memory.”
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