The stars were nearer now, closing around her, carrying her along the Great White Way where every star was the spirit of a long-dead ancestor. She could see their faces, hear their voices and although they were strangers she felt the warmth of their welcome and was not afraid.
Drifting, forever drifting, rocking in the arms of a benign and loving Creator high above the earth it was easy to cast aside mortal thoughts and fears. For here was eternity, here was the mystery of death and life, and she embraced and welcomed it. The lullaby of Billy’s voice was in her head and she was once again an innocent child – naked of ambition and guile and earthly cares – fearless of the power that carried her so gently among the endless stars. She was sleeping in the arms of eternity and was content to remain there.
Time lost all meaning as she explored the great darkness which lay beyond the stars. She saw the birth and death of un-named planets. Saw the flight of comets streaking through the endless darkness and the heads of the craggy mountains of the moon which reared up in the cold blue halo of light that encircled it. She felt the warmth of velvet infinity, the chill of the ring around the moon and the breath of creation against her cheek.
With infinite sadness she began to drift away from this celestial celebration of life. Slowly and inexorably the earth was calling to her, drawing her back, settling her once more on the dewed grass of that sacred hill. She felt the chill of the night seep through her clothes, heard the cry of a lone bird and the great silence that cloaked the land around her. Yet the stars were still there and she yearned to be among them again. Yearned to feel the timeless peace, the comforting rock of those great, spirit arms that had held her so lovingly throughout the journey.
The rustle of movement beside her broke the spell and she emerged from the magic and blinked owlishly at the others. She’d forgotten she wasn’t alone and in that moment of awakening, she felt a stab of longing to retreat once again into the endless solitude the stars had offered. For this night had revealed the dreamscapes of her youth, the dreamscapes that were now indelibly etched into her very soul – and from which she never wanted to escape.
Chapter Twenty
The past ten years had flown, and Catriona was startled when she realised she was soon to celebrate her sixty-seventh, birthday. How could she have suddenly reached such an age? Where had the years disappeared to? She ran her fingers through the short-cropped hair that was now more silver than ebony, and wandered back to the homestead with the mail. She didn’t feel that old, in fact, she thought with a smile, most of the time she felt several decades younger. Her figure was still good, and she always made sure she was well groomed and smartly dressed, even if it was only in trousers and a shirt. Old habits died hard. She was too used to being in the public eye to change now.
She dumped the mail on the table and resisted opening it – the anticipation was all part of the pleasure. The newspapers arrived sporadically out here, as did the letters, but it was rather nice to have them all in one big delivery, almost like Christmas. As she waited for the kettle to boil, she stared out of the window and looked back over the past decade.
It had been a busy time, with triumphs and sadness for them all. Her work for the various charities meant she travelled back and forth to Brisbane and Sydney, and her involvement in the Academy had grown. She had gone to London to visit friends and take part in master classes and workshops in the Royal Opera School of Music. It had been a rewarding time, one that kept her young in mind as well as spirit, for how could one work with such young talent without their vigour and enthusiasm rubbing off?
Her visit to Paris had been bittersweet, for as she’d placed the flowers on Brin’s grave, she’d thought of the illness that had taken him from her. It was no longer a mystery, for medical science had moved on and identified the Aids virus. Now it was almost commonplace. Yet there was still no cure, and others, like Brin had fallen victim to it.
Clemmie had passed away a few months after her husband. Catriona still missed her longest, closest friend and when she was in Sydney she always put fresh flowers on their memorials. Fred Williams had surprised everyone by marrying a widow from Bundaberg, and once Connor was old enough and experienced enough, he’d handed over the management of Belvedere and retired to the coast.
Rosa’s swift and unexpected marriage to Kyle Chapman had barely staggered through their first anniversary. They had married in lust while still at college, despite all Catriona’s warnings that they were too young. Sadly, she was to be proved right, for Kyle soon came to resent Rosa’s driving ambition, and got his revenge by sleeping with as many other women as he could. Thankfully there had been no children. The divorce had been acrimonious on both sides and everyone was relieved when it was all over.
Now, at twenty-eight, Rosa was a fully fledged lawyer, having graduated with top honours. Instead of taking up the offers from more prestigious city firms, she’d chosen to work for a small firm which handled legal aid cases. She was tireless in her pursuit of justice for those who had no voice, and Catriona wondered if perhaps it was her family history that spurred her on.
Belinda had graduated from Police College and was now a Detective Constable in the Brisbane Drug Squad. Pat Sullivan worried about her, as did Catriona. It was a tough, ugly job, but at least she had a stalwart protector in Max, a large German Shepherd who’d been trained to sniff out trouble. Belinda was popular and led a hectic social life, but she still lived alone in a unit overlooking the Brisbane River. She rarely came home, and although Rosa and Harriet stayed in touch with her, and Pat told her all her news from her letters, Catriona hadn’t seen her for years.
Harriet still came to Belvedere whenever her busy schedule permitted. She worked for a firm of solicitors in Sydney as a corporate lawyer, and was swiftly being recognised as an excellent candidate for a partnership. She had confided in Catriona that her mother was not entirely happy about this career in the law, but was determined she should marry one of the junior partners who came from a good family and was due to inherit a fortune when his father died.
Catriona smiled as she thought of the young woman who had become such a part of her family. Hattie was a determined young woman with a mind of her own. She would carry on defying her mother and make her own decisions, and for that Catriona admired her. And soon the house would be ringing with the sound of their laughter, for Harriet and Rosa were coming to Belvedere for a couple of weeks to celebrate her birthday. She shrugged off the thought that she was far too old to be celebrating anything – birthdays still held a touch of magic, despite her age – and she was actually looking forward to the party she’d arranged.
Sifting through the letters, and finding only one or two of interest, she swiftly read through them and carried the bundle of newspapers out onto the verandah. She would sit out there in the sun with Archie and catch up with the news.
Catriona’s eyesight wasn’t what it was, but even without her reading glasses, she had no difficulty in seeing the newspaper’s headline. The words, printed over two weeks ago, leaped out at her in screaming, thick black letters above the photograph. The hotel in Atherton had finally given up its terrible secret.
Her hands trembled and she experienced a disturbing flutter in her chest as she reached behind her and grabbed the arm of the verandah chair. Fear struck deep, shifting the layers of her life, making their hues and textures suddenly too bright and sharp-edged. Sinking into the soft cushions, she closed her eyes. Yet the images remained with her, clearer now than they had been for decades. It was as if the newspaper article had somehow ripped away the shroud she’d deliberately erected over the memories, and exposed them in the cruel black and white of truth.
Catriona opened her eyes and stared through the glare of a summer afternoon at her surroundings. Her gaze was drawn inevitably to the Poinsianna trees. They were still in bloom, the scarlet flowers weighing down the branches, the petals drifting like bloody confetti onto the grass. A sob rose deep in her throat and she fought the overwhelming need to
cry out, to shatter and disperse the memories of what had happened all those years ago.
She took a deep breath, blinked away the tears and glared out from the shaded verandah into the dazzling shimmer of heat. Her experiences in life had taught her to control her tears, to stifle the emotions and stiffen her resolve. Kane’s abuse had been firmly relegated to the depths of her memory – his subsequent murder lingering only in the occasional nightmare. She had realised very quickly that if she was to survive and succeed, then the past had to be firmly left where it belonged. Yet the shock of seeing the news report had brought back the almost debilitating fear that had been her companion through those terrible times. Her secret was about to be exposed. Did she have the strength to deal with it, to tell her family, and admit to what she and her mother had done?
She stared out, unseeing, her mind in turmoil. There was no way to avoid it, but how to relate such a tale? How on earth could she possibly reveal the catalogue of abuse and murder without shattering the trust she’d built up with Rosa and Connor? Suddenly, her age seemed to weigh on her as she faced the daunting prospect of what must come. Life had always proved a challenge, but now her armour was no longer bright, her defences weakened by the passing years. Things were about to change, just as they always did when you least expected them to; that was how the world was, and now the challenge of that change brought a dread she’d never experienced before.
With a deep sigh she made a conscious effort to dispel the fear and relax. Her pulse eventually steadied, but as she looked down at her hands, still elegant, the nails painted, the rings glittering, she realised they were trembling. The diamonds sparked fire in the sunlight, and the plain gold band accompanying them was loose, and worn with age. It had been so many years since Peter had put it on her finger and there had been a time when she’d contemplated throwing it away. Yet, despite the sad memories of what it had once stood for, she knew why she’d never discarded that gold band. It was constant reminder of her mistakes, a warning never to trust a man again. She touched it, turning it round and around her finger, remembering her short marriage and the betrayal that had ended it.
The raucous squabbling of the rosellas drew her back to the present, and with an impatient flick of her hand she swept the newspaper from her lap. In awful fascination she watched how the pages detached themselves and floated to the verandah floor. She gave a wry smile. Fate seemed determined to mock her, for the front page settled at her feet, the stark image of the hotel looking sinister in the bright sunlight.
She placed her foot firmly in the centre of it and scooted the page beneath her chair. It was out of sight, but could never be far from her thoughts. Soon she would have to face the past and the demons which she’d fought against all her life. The shadows had always been there, now they were emerging from the darkest recesses of her mind, demanding to be faced.
Catriona shook her head in an attempt to be rid of them, and with a cluck of impatience got to her feet. She had lived with the inevitability of this day most of her life – until now she’d managed to ignore it – and would carry on doing so for as long as possible. As she stood at the verandah railings and looked out, she realised her emotions were getting the better of her. Despite the lurid headlines, the police would hardly be interested in a murder that had taken place over fifty years before. They had their work cut out with current cases, and no doubt, by the time they got their fingers out and started working on this one, she’d be long gone. Besides, she reasoned, she had been a child back then, and anyone who might have remembered her would be long dead. There probably wasn’t any clue to link her to the place either, so why on earth was she getting into a panic? Stepping down from the verandah, she dug her hands into her pockets and lifted her face to the sun before striding off to check on the new fences and corrals.
Belvedere Cattle Station sprawled over two hundred square miles of grazing land, mallee scrub, mountain and bush, its furthest pastures edging the tiny settlement of Drum Creek, a small community still clinging to the old ways despite the exodus by the youngsters who preferred the bright lights and opportunities offered in the cities. Nestled within the triangle of the Great Dividing Range and the Chesterton Range, the creeks and billabongs rarely ran dry, and although this latest drought had lasted five years, there was still a glimmer of water running over the polished shingle and sleek black boulders of Drum Creek.
Yet the grass had no goodness in it, and Connor had advised taking the herd of cattle up to the mountain pastures for the summer, or at least until the rains came, for it was an expensive business hand-feeding the mob. With most of the men and the cattle gone from Belvedere, there was a strange lifelessness about the place, an emptiness that seemed to reinforce her sense of being alone. Yet, as Catriona walked through the long, pale grass, her senses were piqued by the scent of dry, warm earth, sweet wattle and eucalyptus. The sky seemed closer here, all-encompassing and endless. No city lights masked the magic of a starry night, or polluted the Wedgwood blue of the day, and Catriona often felt she was at one with the primal men who must have trodden these paths before her, for they were untouched and unsullied by modern life and still held the magic of a land undiscovered.
The peace surrounded her, the whisper of her trousers against the grass a reminder of the times when she’d ridden across these pastures, the wind in her hair, the sun on her back as the horse galloped full-stretch towards the empty horizon. A reminder of carefree walks, of picnics with the children and long, lazy days by the billabong, drying off in the sun after a swim and as she walked she felt the dread drift away and the calm return.
She came to the creek and settled on the bench she’d had erected many years before around the base of the ancient Coolabah tree. It was a sturdy piece of work, she acknowledged as she sat down on the sun-bleached wooden bench and leaned back against the rough bark. This was her favourite place – an arbour for contemplation – a shady corner of the vast property which had become her private hideaway over the years.
The water in Drum Creek was clear, reflecting the diamond specks of sunlight that dappled through the overhanging eucalyptus branches. It eddied around the black boulders and chuckled its way downstream to the billabong. She could hear the birds calling to one another, an orchestra of sound far more beautiful than any manmade music. The bellbird chimed, the magpies crooned and the galahs and parakeets squabbled. A kookaburra laughed in the distance and she smiled, for above all, that was the sound which reinforced her love for her Outback home and warmed her soul.
Despite the tenuous shade of the Coolabah tree, she could feel the reassuring warmth of the sun on her shoulders. She flicked her hand at the swarming flies, but it was ritual, a habit honed over the many years she’d spent in the Outback, and she knew it would have little effect for the flies were persistent and wouldn’t leave until the sun went down.
Leaning against the solid, warm bark of the old tree, she watched the water and the bright blue flit of the tiny wrens as they swooped down from the trees to drink. It was too hot and bright for the wallabies and kangaroos, but once the sun went down, they would come here to drink. It was a sight which always gladdened her and made her feel at one with her surroundings. ‘Getting too bloody soppy in your old age,’ she muttered crossly as she stood and brushed the dust from her trousers. ‘Time you pulled yourself together, woman.’ She glared at the river as if defying it to reply, then turned away and looked back at the homestead.
The little wooden house had been repainted many times over the years, and it bore little resemblance to the tiny shack she’d first seen as a child. The new extensions had doubled its size, and although the verandah needed some work doing to it – the steps were constantly being chewed by termites, the posts were a favourite scratching pole for Archie, and there were a couple of tiles missing on the roof – it looked sturdy and was the home of many happy memories. With faded shutters and fly-screens, the house reflected the earthen colours of its surroundings and seemed settled and comfortable among
st the tall pale grass and stands of drooping eucalyptus. She could have spent more money on the place – after all, she had enough – but, actually she preferred it the way it was. ‘We can moulder into old age together,’ she muttered. ‘And to hell with everything.’
She took a deep breath of the good clean air and drank in the sight of her beloved home. Belvedere was somnolent in the afternoon heat, the surrounding bush alive with the call of birds and the sawing of crickets. Horses dozed in the shade of the pepper trees in the far paddock, and the cows complained as they waited to be milked. The great barns and the cookhouse stood off to one side of the main clearing, and behind the bunkhouse and horse corrals there were the chicken coops, dog pens and dairy parlour. Belvedere was almost self-sufficient, but was beginning to look its age.
Catriona shielded her eyes against the glare and looked over at the manager’s cottage. Connor was expected to return tonight, and she was looking forward to hearing how the summer drove had gone. She sighed and began to walk back to the homestead. It was quiet without the majority of the men around, and she missed Connor’s cheerful smile. He had turned out to be a man she could be proud of; a man who, strangely, often reminded her of her father for he loved the isolation of this great Dreaming Place, and understood its delights and its dangerous beauty.
Archie carefully jumped down from his customary cushion and stretched his neck so she could scratch under his chin. He was over fifteen now, arthritic and overweight, very different to the scrap of fur she’d found all those years ago. Catriona stroked his sleek ginger fur and ran his plumed tail through her fingers. ‘Reckon you want your tucker,’ she muttered. ‘You only talk to me when you’re hungry.’
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