‘It doesn’t have to be fraught with difficulty.’ Gwen sniffed indignantly, recovering herself. ‘I never had any trouble with Noel’s parents. But then again, I knew when to keep my nose out of things.’
Lucy went on diplomatically, ‘It’s such a huge concern, running a station of this size, and it must be very stressful at times. Did Dennis ever want to do anything else? I guess you’re lucky he didn’t.’
‘Lucky!’ Gwen retorted. ‘He’s the lucky one. We’ve supported him all these years. And he doesn’t always do things the way Noel expects. Sometimes I think, if he wasn’t our son . . .’ She left the sentence unfinished.
Lucy noticed that Gwen didn’t seem to be feeling quite so compassionate towards her ‘poor Dennis’ as she had been moments before. She looked questioningly at the older woman, and the hard expression quickly softened.
‘They tend to clash a bit, sweetheart—Dennis and Noel,’ Gwen explained. ‘You’ll see soon enough. Our other children are much easier to get along with. They went out into the world to get other qualifications, and they’ve all made something of themselves. But Dennis just didn’t quite have the courage to go out on a limb, so he stayed, and Noel has given him a livelihood all these years. You’d think he and Melissa would be a little more grateful, but instead they seem to think they own the place, and that none of the others deserve a share. I hate to say it about my own, but it seems to be sheer greed.’ She shook her head sorrowfully and sipped her tea.
Lucy waited attentively. Her new caution towards Gwen made her reluctant to comment, in case it appeared she was taking sides. Mel had made no secret of her dislike for Gwen, but she hadn’t gone into detail or laid the blame for the disharmony on her mother-in-law. Yet here was Gwen, during their very first meeting, doing her best to blacken Mel’s name.
After a moment or two of silence, Gwen went on in a moderated tone. ‘Dennis has Melissa in his ear all the time, I suppose. Melissa has been out to get everything since the very first day. And now Dennis is pushing to find out what Noel and I intend to do with this place. That’s a huge decision for Noel, and one that he will not be forced into making until he’s good and ready. We’re hoping that one day soon, one of the others will decide to come home and straighten things out a bit. Dennis has had too much say for a little too long.’
‘Do you ever have discussions as a whole family?’ Lucy suggested tentatively. She was certain that Dennis and Mel couldn’t be as unreasonable or grasping as Gwen had claimed. Surely, underneath, they all wanted the best for one another. She wondered if Gwen’s other children even had an interest in Charlotte’s Creek, given that they’d all left. ‘You know, about different ideas or solutions?’
Gwen sipped her tea again, raising her eyebrows sceptically at Lucy over the edge of the cup. ‘That would be assuming that all the members present would be prepared to be reasonable in their expectations, and maintain some decorum. I can assure you, that wouldn’t be the case.’ She put her cup down in its saucer rather heavily. ‘Really, it’s up to Noel and me. This place is ours, built with our blood, sweat and tears. Ultimately it is our decision as to what we think is best for its future . . . and whose hands we are happy to be leaving it in.’
Lucy nodded thoughtfully. It was a fair point.
Gwen looked hard at her before continuing, her voice lowered. ‘To be honest, darling—and I’m only saying this in the greatest confidence that it will go no further—I’m terribly afraid that Dennis’s marriage is, for want of a better word, doomed. And I suspect Melissa is just biding her time until Dennis gets his share of this place so she can take him to the cleaners. All this,’ Gwen said, waving her hand around, ‘that we’ve worked so hard for. Gone like that, overnight. This makes us very hesitant to make any changes in the near future. This property is much safer in our name for the present.’
Lucy nodded again, trying not to frown. If it was true that the two women hadn’t spoken in so long, she wondered how Gwen could presume to know so much about Mel’s marriage. Dennis and Mel certainly clashed often enough, but it seemed strange to Lucy that Mel would work so tirelessly by Dennis’s side, for the good of a station and a business that she intended only to destroy. She decided to reserve her judgement until she had further gauged the situation for herself. ‘They seem so stressed all the time,’ she observed at last. ‘Maybe that’s taking a toll on their relationship. You don’t think that perhaps they could sort things out and be happy together again one day in the future?’
‘I can see you haven’t been here long enough to begin to understand the situation.’ Gwen inclined her head in the direction of the other house. ‘That has never been a successful union.’ She was speaking briskly now.
Lucy backed down immediately. ‘Of course, I know nothing about all this. Everything at Charlotte’s Creek is completely new to me.’
‘Oh, but, Lucy,’ Gwen’s voice was full of warmth again, ‘your influence on those children is going to be invaluable, of that I have no doubt. Someone with manners, self-control and strong family values. And a trained teacher, for heaven’s sake! We’re so fortunate you chose to come here.’
Lucy blushed, embarrassed by the fulsome praise. ‘Thanks, Mrs West.’
‘Enough of this Mrs West business—call me Gwen! And I personally will do everything in my power to make you feel welcome and appreciated.’
Suspicious that Gwen was buttering her up, Lucy smiled awkwardly, and decided it was time to change the subject. ‘Mrs . . . Gwen, can you tell me about old Lotte who used to live here?’
Gwen paused and scrutinised Lucy’s face before answering. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I’m just interested, that’s all. The twins have been talking about this Grey Lady and Mel said that there was—’
‘Really, Lucy,’ Gwen gave a slight frown, ‘I wouldn’t have expected you to be taken in by that sort of nonsense.’
Lucy swallowed uncomfortably, but persisted. ‘Do you remember her?’
‘Goodness, no,’ Gwen exclaimed. ‘She was long gone by the time I came here. Even Noel can only just remember her. She died when he was still a boy.’
‘Was she Aboriginal too, like old Mollie?’
‘Oh no. She was the wife of the former owner of this place. Thomas Carlyle was his name. He left her in some sort of disgrace. Noel’s grandfather felt sorry for her and let her stay on when they bought Charlotte’s Creek. He was always a soft-hearted man, much like Noel is. They built that cottage for her, the one you live in now. I don’t think she had anywhere else to go.’
‘Was there something wrong with her?’ Lucy asked. ‘Why did they call her Loony Lotte?’
Gwen laughed. ‘That was just the Murris’ name for her. No, as far as I know she wasn’t insane. Just a lonely old lady with delusions of grandeur.’
There was a pause while Gwen poured Lucy and herself another cup of tea. Lucy decided it might be better to turn to more earthly matters.
‘Gwen, do you have time to show me some of your patchwork before I go? It’s something I’ve always been interested in.’
They spent a pleasant hour then, looking at samples of exquisite handcrafts. When it was time to go, Gwen walked her out onto the veranda, pressing a jar of homemade lemon butter into her hand.
‘I’ve so enjoyed having you, darling,’ Gwen said, smiling. ‘It’s been wonderful chatting with someone so polite and well educated. Someone who doesn’t feel the need to use a four-letter word in every sentence.’ She embraced Lucy warmly, in full view of the other house. ‘Please come again soon. No need to let me know first, just make yourself at home here, Lucy.’
After leaving Gwen’s, rather than returning to the house or her cottage, Lucy set off for a solitary walk. She wanted time to ponder her conversation with the older woman. Gwen had tried to dampen her curiosity about the Grey Lady and enlist her as an ally against Mel, but Lucy discovered that she’d only succeeded in doing the opposite. She was now more determined than ever to discover more about Lotte Car
lyle, and she also found that Gwen’s words had helped to explain some of Mel’s surliness. Lucy now had a new appreciation of the tenuousness of life in this remote rugged place, and of how easily relationships might fray under such personal and financial pressures.
Her walk took her down a leafy gully that began not far from the back of the stockyards, descending to a dry creek bed. She clattered along the little trail of round, moss-covered stones, vowing that the next time she visited a town it would be to buy a decent pair of boots. The boughs of the paperbarks and she-oaks entwined above her head to form an archway, strung with creeping figs, their sandpaper-like tendrils grabbing occasionally at her skin and clothes. Enjoying the relative coolness of the dappled shade, Lucy breathed in the unfamiliar tang of the creek vegetation, stopping here and there to pick up an interesting rock or abandoned freshwater mussel shell. Twice she disturbed clans of spotted butterflies resting in the leaf-littered creek bed. They rose up around her in a cloud of colour and fluttered among the branches for a while before descending again to nestle in the shadow.
The creek took several twists and turns; on some of the bends, miniature beaches of coarse sand had been deposited in snowy dunes. On the edge of one of these, Lucy discovered a clump of baby tomato bushes, thirty at least, growing in a close huddle. She immediately thought of her mother, who grew delicious tomatoes every summer. Using a sharp piece of wood, she dug them out, being careful to keep the roots intact by lifting up the whole clod of damp sand in which they were growing, and placing it into her hat. These tiny plants would be the first instalment of her own vegie garden, she decided.
Suddenly, the sound of a ute engine jolted Lucy out of her reverie. Looking around, she was disappointed to realise that she wasn’t alone in the wilderness as she’d been fancying. She was in fact just below the homestead, the creek bed having wound back around, skirting the edge of the flat on which all the Charlotte’s Creek buildings were constructed. A little further downstream, she now noticed a well-defined pad, leading up and out of the creek; on further inspection, she found that it led directly up to the back of the family house. She hurried past it to her cottage, and had just enough time before dinner to temporarily plant the tomatoes in a pot of soil beside the steps of her cottage. Lucy smiled as she worked; the prospect of her own little vegie garden had given her a fresh sense of purpose. In her own tiny way, she would be making her mark in the Charlotte’s Creek soil, just as the ranks of women here before her had done.
Chapter 8
The following day was Sunday. On his way out to check some pig traps, Dennis dropped Lucy and the kids at a beautiful shady swimming hole in the creek that passed through Ginger Ridge paddock. Cooper built a fire in next to no time, and they boiled a billy and cooked sausages and onions on a hotplate stored in a hollow tree especially for the purpose.
Being with the children outside, in their natural environment, without the pressure of schoolwork or schedules, Lucy saw them in a new light. They were enthusiastic and knowledgeable about everything she pointed out. Their agility as they ran over the rocky creek bed, climbed the trees, and performed acrobatics off the rope swing into the water was astounding and a little terrifying. Risk assessment and duty of care had been so thoroughly drummed into her skull when she was teaching in Sydney.
The children showed her all their favourite spots in the vicinity of Ginger Ridge creek, including a superb hideout they’d constructed by hollowing out a cave underneath a monstrous currant bush, and lining it with bendy wattle boughs to preserve its shape. It was furnished with a squat, crudely constructed table made from an old pallet, four large flat creek stones for seats, and an assortment of old cutlery, chipped cups and several battered aluminium pots. Sitting in the greenness of the little bower with the lively faces of the four children so near her own, Lucy reminded herself that even though there was discord between the adults, it was the children she’d come here for. And when Cooper went to all the trouble of heaving another huge rock up the bank of the creek to provide her with her very own stool, she knew she’d been truly accepted into their realm.
All in all, it was a fulfilling weekend. So on Monday morning, there was a lightness in Lucy’s step as she strode towards the house to start the school week, and she gave Ted a cheery wave as he drove in over the grid. But before she reached the veranda steps, sobering sounds of conflict in the kitchen reached her ears.
‘I’m not doing it again!’ Billie was screeching at Mel. ‘Just because I’m a girl! I had to do it four bloody times last week! And it’s full of maggots!’
Lucy entered the kitchen warily. Mel was facing Billie, scrap bucket in hand. She must have just told the girl to take the scraps out to the chickens and collect the eggs.
‘Bit of rice won’t hurt you,’ Cooper said helpfully, peering over his mother’s shoulder at the maggots in the bucket.
‘Why can’t I do it?’ complained Wade.
Mel glared at the four-year-old, and he stared down at his boots. ‘Because I want the eggs to make it back to the house intact.’ She softened her tone a little. ‘I need them to make the pikelets for smoko, Wadey. Those fencing contractors eat like there’s no tomorrow, not to mention what Dennis and you kids’ll gobble. Half the chooks have gone off the lay with this heat, so I can’t have them smashed.’
‘I could go with him,’ Lucy volunteered.
‘I don’t need no help,’ Wade grumbled, looking up at Lucy from under his eyebrows. ‘What do you think I am, some kind of flaming baby?’
Before Lucy could reply, the scrap bucket was being roughly thrust at her and Mel was shouldering her towards the door. ‘I need those eggs!’
‘So I just have to—’ Lucy began.
‘Dump it in the cage, plus a tin of grain,’ Mel barked, ‘and grab the eggs. Check their water too, eh?’
The chicken coop was at the far end of the machinery shed. Lucy had always imagined that she liked chickens, and her first sight of the rickety construction, on her arrival at Charlotte’s Creek, had sparked a vision of herself collecting eggs, warm and smooth, in a cloth-lined cane basket hooked over her forearm. In her mind’s eye, the plump little ladies had clucked contentedly and ruffled their feathers at her. And now her very first egg-collecting expedition was at hand. She set off with confidence. Molly and Wade condescended to accompany her to the bottom of the veranda steps, from where they could all hear a hen’s explosive cacophony floating across the yard.
‘That’s what I call timing,’ Wade said, inclining his head towards the distant coop.
‘What do you mean?’ Lucy asked.
‘That chook just laid an egg, didn’t it?’ Molly tolerantly stated the obvious.
Lucy was intrigued. ‘How can you tell?’
‘It just busted out laughing, didn’t it?’ Wade said, looking exasperated. ‘They always laugh real noisy like that when the egg’s out. Must be glad the job’s done, I reckon.’
Lucy nodded solemnly, then made a start towards the sound.
‘Watch out for white trash!’ Molly called after her, inexplicably. Lucy decided it was best not to stop and ask for further details. After all, Mel needed the eggs.
The multicoloured fowl were gathered on the inside of the wire door of the coop, but they shuffled back a little at the sight of a stranger. Lucy could feel their beady eyes fixed on her as she unlatched the door and went in. After a few moments of further scrutiny, the birds began to close in on her. Disconcerted, she flung the contents of the bucket across the floor of the cage and the chickens scattered to scavenge around in the scraps. Heart pounding, she strode across to the nesting box, trying to look composed. She’d heard somewhere that animals could sense fear.
But now she was faced with a new problem. A chook was nestled in the box, in a permanent kind of way. Her ginger feathers were fluffed up and her glare was positively hostile. Lucy turned and looked back towards the house. If only the twins had come with her. She supposed there was nothing for it but to wait until the hen ha
d finished doing her business. But the other chickens had nearly finished the scraps, and what then? Unlike the fluffy, benign creatures of her imagination, Lucy now noticed the sharpness of their curved beaks and long claws.
A stealthy movement caught her eye. A monstrous rooster, who’d been lurking in the shadows when she entered, had emerged to eat the best of the scraps, and was now sizing her up. He was a spectacular specimen, pure white all over. He met her eye with his own, reptilian one, and drew himself up to his full height. Raising all the feathers on his neck and head, he flaunted his tail, which was a fountain of gleaming plumes.
‘White Trash!’ Lucy whispered to herself in dismay, as realisation dawned. She swallowed and took a step backwards. This was apparently the signal the bird had been waiting for. He flew at Lucy, his feet clawing the space in front of her. Hit by a tornado of whirling air and feathers, she screamed and dropped the bucket, then cowered against the wall, covering her face. White Trash strutted in a circle before attacking again, and Lucy felt a sharp talon claw at her jeans. She endured a third assault in horrified silence; this time the spur bit into the skin of her thigh.
The door of the coop squeaked and Lucy peeped through her fingers just in time to see White Trash meeting with the toe of an enormous boot. With a feathery thud, the bird hit the tin wall and then fell in a heap on the ground. He gathered himself up quickly and retreated to the dimmest corner of the coop to rearrange his plumage and recover his pride. Trembling all over, Lucy looked up at Ted.
‘He’s all show, that coot,’ he told her. ‘Just gotta show him who’s boss, that’s all. Swing that bucket at him next time.’ Ted stooped and picked it up for her. She took the handle and gripped it tightly with both hands, trying to hide how much she was shaking.
Ted turned and made for the door again. Lucy wanted to cling to his shirt and beg him not to desert her. But instead she said, as calmly as she could, ‘Excuse me, Ted, the eggs . . . that chicken seems to be sitting on them. How long should I wait?’
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