by Margaret Way
Stuart, the last thing in the world I want to do is hurt you…. Stuart, I’m so sorry. I never meant it to happen this way…. Come right out with it, girl! Stuart, I don’t love you. I don’t think I ever loved you…. No, too cruel. Stuart, I’ve been thinking a great deal about this and I’ve come to the sad conclusion we’re not really meant for each other
And then there was the house under construction. God, oh God, please come to my aid.
God, no more than her mother would understand what she was doing now; Guilt racked her. Why had she taken so long to discover she didn’t love Stuart? She was twenty-six not sixteen. She was a professional woman, earning the respect of people she admired. She thought she knew her own mind. In all probability if she hadn’t met Raul, she would have gone ahead and married Stuart. Made her mother very happy. Or would she? Maybe a wedding wouldn’t have gone ahead at all. She wasn’t lying to herself. Her doubts had set in well before she laid eyes on Raul Montalvan. But now having done so, the question of whether she would marry Stuart was settled.
She went over and over the burning issue so much sometimes she wanted to scream, and once she started to cry in the shower from sheer frustration, unable to figure out what was happening in her life. Yet for the most part she was being carried so high on a wave of euphoria she wouldn’t have swapped places with anyone on the planet. So the days passed in a blaze of excitement. Raul was a sorcerer, placing a spell on her.
Her grandfather couldn’t bear to sit still, either. It was almost as though he had decided to fill up every moment of the rest of the life that was left to him. It would have worried her greatly, only he was looking wonderfully well. Eating well. Full of energy.
“What do you think?” he announced one morning at breakfast. “I’ve finally been able to line up a couple of matches for Saturday afternoon. I’ve been waiting on Chad Bourne, but he’s back and rarin’ to go. The Farrington brothers are available. I thought Raul could team up well with them. They’re all fine horsemen, Chad much more experienced—he plays the sort of game I imagine Raul does—but you have to even the teams up. As for the other team, Vince Siganto will captain it with Chris Arnold and the Dashwood twins, Mart and Matt. I thought we could have a party to follow. People will travel for miles to attend. We have to give them a good show, turn on our stuff. What do you say?”
“Sounds like a great weekend coming up.” Raul smiled at the other man’s enthusiasm. “What do I do for a polo pony? We’ve only got four days. I have to get to know the animal. One’s horse has a direct effect on the play, as you know. I generally play to win.”
“I’m sure you do.” Joel Moreland beamed his pleasure. “Don’t worry, I’m having one of my very best polo ponies trucked in. It will be here by midday, a Thoroughbred gelding. Called it Churchill, plenty of guts and needless to say he’s well trained. I don’t think you’ll have any problems.” He turned his silver head to smile at Cecile. “You girls can take care of the party, can’t you? Whatever you want, have it flown in.”
“Who’s to come to the party, Granddad?” Cecile asked.
“Everyone who turns up.” He laughed. “Best make it a big barbecue out of doors.”
And to heck with the numbers! Cecile thought. She should have some idea how many would make the trip to the station most likely from Alice Springs by Thursday if she started to ring around now. In the Outback, where horses were a passion, people loved the game. Once word got around a game was on with high calibre players, they could count on having quite an influx of spectators. Then there were the two teams with their womenfolk and personal entourages. Just as well.she’d had plenty of experience handling her Granddad’s impromptu parties. Tara would be a big help; her family did a lot of entertaining. She was pleased Tara was having such a good time even if she knew her friend was disappointed she wasn’t getting enough of Raul’s attention.
“He probably would like to spend some time alone with me,” she lamented to Cecile in a quiet moment, “only that never seems to happen. Joel is a dynamo. He’s over seventy, but he’s getting around like a teenager. Do you think Raul likes me?”
“Come on, everyone likes you,” Cecile said. “Don’t feel bad. There’s nothing wrong with you. He’s probably got a girlfriend back home in Argentina. A dazzling señorita called Brunhilde.”
“You’re joking. Even I know Brunhilde is German.”
“All right, Carmelita, then.”
“I think maybe he has.” Tara gave it her consideration. “He’s a pretty dark horse. I’m starting to think there’s someone.”
“I’d be amazed if there weren’t,” Cecile said dryly.
“I guess.” Tara drew a deep sigh. “It’s not every guy who can make your knees buckle.”
“Anyway, you really want to live in Argentina?” Cecile smiled. “It’s a long way away and you’re a real Daddy’s girl. I always thought you were interested in Chris Arnold. He’ll be here at the weekend.”
“So he will!” Tara said, brightening somewhat.
CECILE LOWERED HERSELF into a planter’s chair on the veranda, feeling a little tired. Getting this party organized had taken time and effort, but at last she had everything under control. Tara, usually a bundle of energy, was pretty looped. She had gone off for a lie-down. It was now Thursday; Saturday morning everyone would start arriving: players, their entourages, friends and spectators. They were flying in, coming by charter bus, driving overland in convoys of dusty 4WDs. Generally speaking, everyone had a wonderful time at polo matches, and when the matches were on Malagari where the hospitality was legendary, they could expect the crowd she had catered for. Any food left over could easily be distributed among the station staff and the nomadic aboriginals who traversed the station on walkabout.
One such was Loora, a pure-blood aboriginal woman who had to be, on her grandfather’s reckoning, a good twenty years older than he was, which put her well into her nineties. Nineties or not, Loora looked and acted like a sprightly seventy-year-old, an eater and collector of a great variety of native seeds, nuts, bean-sprouting plants and edible fruits that grew wild across the desert plains. No one knew more about the botany of the desert than Loora. For tens of thousands of years the aboriginal people had been like scientists, probing the secrets of the wild bush around them. The early settlers, including her own family, had relied on the aboriginal people to reveal many of the secrets they had unlocked. Which plants were poisonous, which fruits were edible, which contained medicinal compounds, which had therapeutic qualities, which were hallucinogenic. Aboriginals in remote communities of Western Australian were already harvesting and selling their fragrant sandalwood to leading French perfumeries, the sawn sandalwood sent to a distilling plant from whence the aromatic oil was airfreighted to France’s top perfume houses.
For decades Loora had been harvesting various barks off the desert trees for her paintings, a collection of which was hung on one wall of her grandfather’s study. Loora also collected a bonanza of wild fruits that included wild plums, wild rosella, desert limes, wild pears and many types of berries, which were probably packed with antioxidants. These she presented in an attractive basket she had woven herself at Malagari’s kitchen door whenever she was on walkabout. Her grandfather had gone to the trouble of having the plums tested, seizing on the idea they might be a wonderful source of Vitamin C. Loora had known they were, decades before a Darwin laboratory came back with a glowing report.
Yesterday when Cecile and Raul were returning from a practice session at the polo field, they had encountered Loora on her way to the homestead, basket in arm. Raul had stopped the vehicle, astonished to hear from Cecile the old lady was considered to be well into her nineties. Loora, who had spent her entire life traversing the desert, had been moving along in a quite vigorous fashion, her full head of snow-white-hair unprotected from the rays of the sun, which were still very strong even though it was coming on to sunset. Cecile’s mind Went back to the strange encounter, which had been very much on her mind…
>
“IF YOU ARE what you eat we’d better find out what it is she’s eating,” Raul said, half joking, half serious as he stopped the Jeep.
“One hundred percent organic bush tucker,” Cecile replied. “The aboriginal traditional diet, plus the fact Loora’s always on the move. God knows how many miles she walks every day. She lives her life in the open air without all the stress that goes into our lives. I suppose the utter simplicity of life helps and she’s doing what she loves to do.”
“So let’s say hello.” Raul was already climbing out. “I don’t like her carrying that basket. It looks heavy.”
Cecile called a greeting. Loora answered with a big smile that displayed fine teeth, a startling white against her black skin. Even her skin was in the sort of condition a woman half her age might envy.
It was when Cecile turned to introduce Raul that Cecile was caught entirely by surprise.
Loora laid her basket down, then went right up to Raul as though she recognized him. “I know yah, don’t I?” Very softly she touched his arm as though eager for him to answer. “Yeah, I know yah,” she repeated.
Cecile looked on, puzzled. Raul, however, stood perfectly still, seemingly unperplexed by Loora’s behavior. “How can you tell?” He spoke slowly, his accent to Cecile’s ears far more pronounced than usual.
Loora lifted a bony arm to tap several times on her right temple. “I got the gift!” she murmured. “I got it when I was just a little one.”
“I can see you’re clever, Loora,” Raul said, “but I come from far away. A country called Argentina. It’s in South America.”
“I know South America.” Loora tapped her temple again with a clawlike hand. “Longa go part of Gondwanna Land, but it break away. You not one of dose people, are yah.” It was a statement not a question. Loora flexed her tight facial muscles into a smile. “You come from different direction. Beyond the ranges.” She pointed off in the distance to where the sun was slipping down in a splendor of crimson, gold and purple behind the glowing ridges. Ridges that in prehistory were once sand on the shores of the inland sea. “I walk over dere many, many times collectin’ stuff in me dilly bag. You belong dere. Nasty times. I see it!”
Raul continued to stare at her. “You know all that just from looking at me?”
“Was given to me,” Loora explained. “The gift—the double power—it goes right back to the Dreamtime. Besides, I’ve seen your face before.” She lifted her head and stared at him keenly.
“No,” Raul replied, shaking his head. “No, Loora.”
Loora stepped closer, saying the word no over as though testing its meaning, then giving it some deep thinking. “So Loora got it wrong,” she said eventually. “I don’t know yah.”
“Not possible,” Raul said quietly, “but it’s a pleasure to meet you, Loora. Let me take that basket for you. It must be heavy.”
“Used to havin’ me hands full,” Loora said, but let him pick it up, something she didn’t always allow.
“You’ll come up to the house, Loora?” Cecile invited. ““Say hello? Everyone will be pleased to see you. My grandfather is at home.”
“You always kind to me, missy,” Loora said. “I say thank you. You ready to learn plenty about woman-business. You fall in love with this fella?” She cocked her head to one side, chuckling as embarrassment whipped color into Cecile’s cheeks. “Got no man now. He die longa longa time ago. Up there in the sky with the old people now. This one got a restless spirit!” She. gazed up at Raul for a moment. “Bold fella! Spirit wrestling goin’ on inside, though.”
“I’ve sensed that, Loora,” Cecile said, her eyes seeking Raul’s. What did she really know of him except that he had become very important to her?
“Never mind.” Loora leaned in to Cecile, her voice dropping to a mere whisper. “He got powerful magic, as well. Magic important. I know.” She brought up a hand, spoke from behind it. “He brings a child.”
Cecile gasped. The whites of the old woman’s eyes grew large. “I’m sorry, Loora,” Cecile said, shaking her head to indicate she didn’t understand.
Loora spoke again, even more quietly, though her words seemed to roar in Cecile’s ears. “He bring a child,” she repeated, her gaze more intense than ever.
LATER ON FROM the veranda outside her bedroom, Cecile caught sight of Raul walking away with Loora across the home gardens into the mauve mist of twilight. Raul had his sun-streaked head—it was so much blonder now—bent to the old aboriginal woman’s. They were obviously deep in conversation.
What about? With no contact with the aboriginal people, how had he so easily made a connection? She couldn’t pretend to know. So much about Raul Montalvan was a mystery. In some ways she could lock in to his thoughts; in others she had no key.
Then there was the thing that had most shocked her, which even now made her swallow. He brings a child. Did that pronouncement carry a warning? Or could Loora have possibly meant the tranquil little desert wind that aboriginal artists sometimes depicted as a child? There were human figures to represent east winds, west winds, soft winds, harsh winds, winds that brought great dust storms, others that brought thunder and lightning flashing across the desert skies. How could she remain calm when a tribal woman of acknowledged powers had made such a profound pronouncement?
RAUL AND THE STATION MANAGER, Brad Caldwell, had been meeting up late afternoons to acquaint each other with their playing styles and to trial maneuvers. It was when they were taking a break that Brad brought up Jared Moreland. It could never be said then that he had initiated the conversation, Raul thought, settling in to listen while endeavoring to keep the intensity out of his expression.
“He was a damned fine player,” Brad said, wiping sweat from his eyes as he sprawled his long limbs on the grass.
“Played his shots like you. Sorta graceful, if you know what I mean. Some players are as rough as guts. That’s what brought Jared to mind. We were pretty much of an age. He was a few years older and Joel’s son and heir of course. In other words, one hell of a broad canyon between us, but he was a good guy. No side to him like his old man.”
“He died in a freak. accident, I understand.” Raul contrived to sound sympathetic. “The family don’t speak about it and naturally I don’t ask.”
“Well, you know there was a bit of controversy about that.” Brad chewed thoughtfully on a blade of grass. “Not at first. In fact, not for a few years. It was supposed to have been just a kid who was involved, but the rumors got started the kid hadn’t acted alone.”
“What?” Raul heard his voice snap, but he was unable to prevent himself.
Brad gave him an odd look. “Actually I get nervous just talking about it.”
“That bad?” Raul swiftly modified his tone. “Sorry if I overreacted. You really shocked me.”
Brad shrugged his big shoulders. “Kinda shocked us all. Talk was there was some bad blood between Jared and one of the stockmen. A guy called Frank Grover. He was pretty friendly with Jack—Jack Doyle up at the house.”
“Ah, yes, Jack.” Raul leaned back, trying to take in a vital piece of information totally new to him. “Did you have any idea what it was about?” How had it happened Frank Grover’s name had never been mentioned within his family? “Surely Joel knew everything there was to know concerning his son’s death?”
Brad offered up a deep sigh; “I tell you, mate, Joel in those days wasn’t in the frame. Losing his son almost destroyed him, though he managed to soldier on. Too many people depending on him in one form or another. It was the missus, Mrs. Moreland, Joel’s wife—a powerful lady—that stirred up a hornet’s nest of trouble for the kid’s family. Ben Lockhart, that was his name. Nice-lookin’ kid. Looked like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Good people, the Lockharts, so they said. It was a crime they met with such bitter enmity from the missus. Lockhart went broke—starved out I reckon, so much bad feeling whipped up by you know who—and the creditors moved in. The whole lot of ’em moved away. I remember the sister
, Lori, Lorianne or something. Boy, was she a looker! Had this glorious head of thick wavy hair. A bit like yours, only lighter, a dark blond. A real shame!” Brad shook his head from side to side.
For a moment Raul felt he really was a stranger in a strange land. There was a terrible tension right through his body. How did Moreland’s wife get into this? “So what caused the bad blood between Jared and Grover? Do you know?”
Brad’s lean face wore the laconic expression of a man for whom life held no surprises. “No big mystery! A woman, what else? Frank was real sweet on Johanna Muir, a maid at the homestead. Very pretty she was, too, but not a patch on that Lori. Turns out Jared was pretty keen on her, too. Can you beat that! With all the girls he coulda had, he falls for the housemaid. Got her pregnant, anyway. Turns out that baby was Daniel, you know, Daniel…?”
Raul nodded. Daniel Moreland wasn’t one of this faceless figures. In fact, he had liked him. “I was at the wedding. Daniel is Jared and Johanna’s son.”
Another wry smile from Brad. “Nothin’ would have come of it if Jared hadn’t been killed. People reckon he would have married her. I say no, not with that mother! Not to speak ill of the dead, but she was a regular monster mum. Odd because Mr. Moreland is one of nature’s gentlemen. The missus drove that girl away. One day she was there, the next she wasn’t, and she would have needed help. You don’t just walk off into the desert. Somehow she was spirited out. Then on top of it, Jared was killed. I’d have believed. it if someone told me the missus had had Johanna killed off. I tell you. Mrs. Moreland was ruthless when it came to her family. She thought the sun rose and set in her son’s eyes. Me, I’d have run a million miles from her. Maybe Jared would have, only he was destined for disaster.”
A kind of numbness was spreading through Raul’s body. Why hadn’t his family ever pointed a finger at Mrs Moreland? Joel Moreland had been the sole aggressor, according to his mother. Now Brad Caldwell, who would be in a position to know, said it was the woman who had been filled with visceral hatreds. He needed time to think about this. This wasn’t the story he’d always been told. The past was unraveling and it wasn’t in sync with his mother’s version of the sad tale. “So Frank Grover hated Jared Moreland. Is that what you’re saying?”
