River Run

by Alexander, Nicole

  The water was running. Robbie wiggled back and forth on the branch. A tap squeaked. A pipe gave a groan. The jackeroo was whistling a tune. Then he started to sing.

  Oh, give me land, lots of land, under starry skies above

  Don’t fence me in

  Let me ride through that wide open country that I love

  Don’t fence me in

  Geez, Robbie thought, as Archie’s tuneless voice rang through the air, he’s terrible. At the veranda there was no sign of anyone now. Robbie lifted the shanghai just as Archie reappeared in the doorway with a towel over his shoulder, shirtless, wearing shorts. He was still singing as he dumped dirty work clothes on the floor of the ablutions block and walked towards the outhouse.

  This is for what you said, and for nicking my cray-bobs. Tongue poised between his lips in concentration, Robbie aimed the shanghai and fired, quickly reloaded and fired again. The sheep pellets were flung through the air with force. They landed on Archie’s chest, the tiny missiles biting into his skin with stinging accuracy.

  The boy let out a whoop of pain.

  Jamming the shanghai in his pocket, Robbie uncurled the rope and dropped from the tree to the ground, landing like a cat on all fours.

  ‘You little bastard!’ Archie yelled.

  Robbie ran like the wind. He ran past the kitchen, circled around the quarters and then continued onwards down the track to the machinery shed. Nearly out of breath, he reached Garnet ten feet in front of the jackeroo, flung his slight body up into the saddle and, digging the heels of his boots into the animal’s flanks, yelled out: ‘Go, boy, go!’

  Archie’s hand reached for him just as the horse bolted. Garnet headed straight up the road, past the stables towards the overseer’s cottage, and still Archie kept running, the cattle-pup close behind. Shoeless and shirtless, Archie kept coming. Robbie grinned and gave the horse his head as Bluey overtook the youth and sped after his master. The last he saw of the jackeroo was Archie standing on one foot, picking burrs out of the other.

  Chapter Nine

  The buzz of the generator powering the electricity to the house flickered slightly, waking Eleanor from a sweaty evening nap. She lay on the bed wondering if her decision to come home to River Run had been the right one. Eleanor wished she was more like her mother, strong and decisive. It was one thing to be let down by a man, quite another to run away from her job and her friends because she was having problems coping with the situation.

  Outside the coloured markings on the horizon shifted from pink to crimson until the lack of light eventually forced her to rise. She’d dreamt of a dog barking, of someone calling out, shouting, but now the only noises were of jazz music wafting through the house and spurts of laughter. Beyond the bedroom the ground floor was ablaze with lights. Convinced that everyone would be ensconced in the sitting room, Eleanor changed from her travelling clothes and tiptoed barefoot downstairs. At the bottom of the staircase she turned a sharp right, intent on escaping the public areas of the homestead. Ahead was the door that led into the servants’ area and kitchen, a sanctuary of sorts.

  ‘And who do we have here? Staff or wayward daughter?’

  Eleanor stopped and turned slowly. She hadn’t seen the woman lounging in one of the hall’s wing-back chairs. Expensively dressed in gold silk, the underskirt layered with tulle, the woman tapped a cigarette on the edge of a silver case and lit it with a matching lighter. A massive ruby and diamond ring shone on her hand.

  ‘Hello, Eleanor,’ the older woman slowly exhaled a long trail of smoke through scarlet lips. ‘My son Henry and I had quite a discussion about you. My, I forgot what a flame-haired girl you are. You remind me of one of those Renaissance Masters hanging in the Louvre.’ She tilted her head as if inspecting something of interest. ‘I can see why that Italian was so taken with you.’ She didn’t wait for Eleanor to reply. ‘Are they natural, those curls?’ The woman examined Eleanor critically. ‘They’re not in style, you know, however, you are interesting enough in your looks to carry them.’

  ‘Mrs Winslow, I …’

  The woman took a brief puff of the cigarette and, stubbing it out in the ashtray on a hall table, walked towards her. ‘Affairs can be good and bad, but if you’re going to have one, go where the money is, darling. God knows a woman receives few perks in return, after all.’

  Eleanor was desperate to escape the woman’s calculating stare but she was transfixed to the spot. The dress was undoubtedly of French design with a waspy waist, soft shoulders and yards of fabric. It was such a beautifully decadent gown to behold after years of wartime rationing. And it was reminiscent of couture house Dior’s much lauded New Look. Up close Mrs Winslow had a slightly receding hairline and too fine a nose for her overly long face, which could only be described as horsey. But as a whole there was something rather handsome about her, handsome and formidable. All Eleanor could think about was that Henry Winslow had actually told his mother about her and Dante. She really wanted to ask Mrs Winslow not to say a word to her mother or Uncle Colin, however, the woman’s lips were twitching in amusement, adding to Eleanor’s discomfort.

  ‘I gather your mother doesn’t know about your liaison?’ Mrs Winslow waved a hand when Eleanor was slow to respond. ‘She does wear the pants around here, doesn’t she?’ Removing a gold compact from her purse, Mrs Winslow touched up her lipstick. ‘Well, it’s to be expected. If a father has no sons and he wants his dynasty to survive, he has little choice but to cede succession to an only daughter.’ She picked briefly at a cuticle on a fingernail. ‘Such responsibility has to change a woman.’

  Eleanor had never felt quite so uncomfortable in someone’s presence.

  ‘But of course then there is the dilemma of choosing a suitable husband. Which begs the question of how your handsome father managed to do so well for himself. And now we have the younger son ensconced on River Run, name but no money.’ Mrs Winslow tapped her chin thoughtfully. ‘Did your mother acquiesce to your grandfather’s original choice or was it the other way around, do you think?’

  The woman was actually waiting for an answer. ‘Perhaps it was mutual,’ Eleanor replied sharply, wondering how this woman dare be so outspoken. But then she was Margaret Winslow, wife of the owner of one of the most famous sheep studs in Australia.

  ‘Actually,’ the house guest went on amiably, as if their conversation was quite tasteful and not one of the most inappropriate discussions Eleanor had been party to, ‘the whisper is that what your parents shared was pure love, which rather makes a second marriage second-best, don’t you think?’ The questioning tone was timed to perfection. ‘But I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that, do I? She has done well, your mother.’ Mrs Winslow nodded approval, her eyes flitting over the tastefully decorated entrance hall. ‘Very well. Of course it’s not like she started from scratch. Georgia had the bones of this place to mould. She’s nearly matched Winslow standards,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Nearly.’

  Eleanor wanted to feel offended, but the remark was made in such a way that it seemed quite without malice and was, in fact, simply an observation. She tried to excuse herself. ‘If you don’t mind, Mrs Winslow –’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes. We oldies are so boring to you bright young things.’ The woman stood, revealing a shapely figure that looked as if it had been poured into the dress. ‘Dior,’ she offered, observing Eleanor’s fascination. ‘I only wear Dior. Although we’re always a season behind Europe. Before you disappear, Eleanor, do tell me, how is that sister of yours? I know she’s still in Sydney but she hasn’t done something else unmentionable, has she?’

  Eleanor stiffened.

  ‘Your mother is quite monosyllabic when I ask after her.’

  ‘Lesley is quite well, thank you,’ Eleanor replied politely.

  ‘She’s quite different to you, isn’t she?’ Mrs Winslow said thoughtfully. ‘You know, I can still recall your father’s funeral. Lesley was inconsolable that day. Anyone would have thought that you were the stoic older sister. And t
hen, of course, after her young man’s death we heard that she’d tried to take her own life. A shocking thing. Was it five years ago? It seems much longer.’

  ‘Yes, it was five years. I’d really rather not talk about it if you don’t mind, Mrs Winslow.’

  ‘Of course. They do say time heals, my dear. Remember that. But can I ask one more thing? Has Lesley returned to nursing? I’m told that keeping occupied can help greatly. Takes the mind off things.’

  ‘Yes, she’s nursing at the hospice attached to the convent.’

  ‘Good. Well that’s all I needed to know.’ Mrs Winslow gave the slightest of smiles.

  Eleanor was beginning to remember why she’d never really liked Mrs Winslow. She was the type of woman who, while a guest in someone’s home, would search for the maker’s mark on a piece of fine china to check the quality.

  ‘Let’s hope she can get on with her life instead of wasting it.’

  The woman made it sound as if Lesley’s life was over.

  ‘Now you best scat, otherwise your mother will discover you dawdling about down here and we can’t have that, not when she gave such a pretty speech about her youngest daughter being poorly.’ She gave Eleanor a knowing look. ‘They’ve been talking about Menzies and immigrants,’ she gestured towards the sitting room with a bored air, ‘and some muscled-up gun shearer from the Riverina. Gawd,’ she intoned theatrically, ‘in this heat. And I thought we were having a party.’ With a wink she walked away.

  Eleanor watched the sashaying stride of the woman and then, entering the poorly lit corridor, she closed the door and leant against the wood panelling. Eleanor would never forgive Henry Winslow. Ever. It was bad enough that Henry, who was more acquaintance than friend, chose to discuss her personal life so blatantly, but to tell his mother, knowing how intricately the Winslow and Webber families were linked. It was too much.

  And as for his mother …

  Chapter Ten

  The stone passageway was slightly cooler than the rest of the house. This area had been the domain of the servants in the last century and into the present, but now the disused rooms were either empty or used for storage, apart from the housekeeper’s accommodation. Only the kitchen at the opposite end of the hall remained abuzz with activity. Eleanor walked in that direction, the sound of voices growing.

  ‘Of course it would have to happen right now. Didn’t I tell you to change it over before tonight? You mark my words, if this dinner is ruined, Rex, I’ll not take the blame for it. In all the years I’ve been cook here, this has never happened. Running out of gas halfway through cooking a meal! I told him the flame was going yellow. Told him this morning again, but no, he had to drive seventy miles to pick up a piece of trellis for the garden. The garden. They can’t eat roses, although you’d think they could with the amount of time and money that goes in to the growing of them.’

  Eleanor could hear Mrs Howell clearly. Luckily the kitchen was positioned at the rear of the house, and the building large enough to ensure that the staff’s voices didn’t carry to where her mother and uncle entertained their guests.

  The kitchen door was partially open and the housemaid Alice sat cross-legged outside cradling a tray. It was obvious the girl was waiting for Mrs Howell to calm a little before entering. She started on seeing Eleanor, got to her feet and gave a surprised but welcoming smile.

  ‘Hello, Miss Eleanor. We heard you were here. You come for your dinner then?’

  ‘Call me Eleanor, Alice, please.’

  The girl smiled, but they both knew she’d never address her as an equal.

  ‘It sounds like Mrs Howell’s on the warpath.’

  ‘Rex forgot to change the gas bottle,’ Alice explained, ‘and the fire in the stove died when Mrs Howell was taking her afternoon rest. The wood ran out. I’ve been waiting here on account of Mrs Howell getting angry. The chicken Marengo is still cooking.’

  ‘Disaster.’ On more than one front, Eleanor thought, thinking of Margaret Winslow.

  ‘And once she starts talking to herself, then you know that things have really gone bad.’ Alice’s tray held a single pineapple. A scattering of toothpicks with cellophane tips suggested the dinner guests were hungry.

  Eleanor did her best to sound cheerful. ‘How’s the party going?’

  Alice opened her mouth to speak but then, thinking better of it, bit her lip.

  ‘I’ll go first, shall I?’ offered Eleanor.

  Every surface in the kitchen was covered with platters and pots, some clean, others dirty. Tomato and onion skins filled the scrap bucket while a massive bunch of parsley from the herb garden sat next to a stack of sliced bread with the crust removed. Mrs Howell was at the gas stove stirring a large pot, seemingly oblivious to the insects flying in through the open back door to mass around the overhead light. Outside, Rex staggered under the weight of a gas bottle as he manoeuvred it to the rear wall. There was a clang of metal and then a loud expletive. The room was boiling. A single electric fan barely stirred the air.

  ‘Dreadful man,’ Mrs Howell commented, sitting the saucepan on the adjoining Aga stove that she refused to part with. ‘Plenty of wood for the shearers’ mess, but the homestead … I never should have agreed to that new-fangled oven. You just don’t change what works, ever.’

  Alice cleared a space on the long table by shoving the tray against a stack of crockery. Tin and porcelain came together in a crash, attracting Mrs Howell who turned instantly.

  ‘Eleanor!’ she exclaimed, ignoring Alice. ‘Heavens, girl, you scared the daylights out of me. If you want your dinner you’ve come at a bad time. The soup’s going lumpy, the chicken’s not cooked and dessert … Well, I haven’t even got to that.’ She frowned at the housemaid. ‘I was relying on Miss Hastings to help instead of poor Alice but of course she’s late and then the gas ran out and Alice is so terribly slow, aren’t you, Alice? Mrs Webber was very adamant that everything had to be perfect this weekend. Dear me.’

  ‘It’s not like we’re entertaining the King.’ Eleanor tried to ease the older woman’s concerns.

  The housekeeper wiped her hands on a tea towel. ‘And just as well. God bless His Majesty.’

  ‘God bless,’ Alice muttered as she stabbed cubes of cheese, cocktail onions and pineapple onto toothpicks.

  ‘Well, how are things going out there, Alice?’

  ‘The ladies are on their second martini, Mrs Howell, and the men have had at least three western wobblers. I don’t think they’ll notice what they’re eating by the time dinner’s ready.’ She began to insert the laden toothpicks into the pineapple.

  Mrs Howell looked unimpressed. ‘Of course they’ll notice, you silly girl.’

  ‘Can I help with anything?’ Eleanor offered, swatting at a moth. Alice was beginning to sniff.

  ‘Heavens, no.’ The cook strained the soup through a colander and began to bash the lumps with a wooden spoon. ‘But you will have to give me a moment to get these hot savouries ready for the oven before I get your dinner.’

  ‘I’ll get my own, Mrs Howell, but thank you.’

  ‘You modern girls,’ the cook commented. ‘Well, suit yourself, I know you’ll be able to find what you need.’

  Mrs Howell had almost resigned when her mother remarried but, convinced the household would fall into ruin if she left, the housekeeper remained. Everyone was grateful. Georgia barely knew her way around a kitchen, such had been her upbringing, and her love of the outdoors had stymied any tendencies towards domesticity. Eleanor cut two slices of bread and added wedges of cheese and tomato. She would have loved a glass of sherry after her recent altercation with Mrs Winslow but she didn’t dare raid the sideboard in the dining room in case she was seen. Barefoot with ankle-length pants and a shirt tied at the waist didn’t constitute clothing in her mother’s eyes. Neither, it appeared, did her outfit meet with Mrs Howell’s approval. She was now studying Eleanor’s shoe-less feet with a frown.

  ‘Done.’ Rex stood at the back door, a flashlight in one hand
and a spanner in the other.

  Mrs Howell lit a match and, turning the gas knob, took a good two steps back and held the flame gingerly to the cook top. The gas flared. Mrs Howell blew out the match. ‘Well, you took two years off my life, you did, Rex. Gallivanting into town instead of tending to your duties here. Not keeping the wood pile topped up. Just because petrol rationing has ended doesn’t mean you can just take off when it suits you. I’ve a busy household to run here and –’

  ‘Nice to see you too, Mrs Howell, on this fine evening.’ Rex winked at Eleanor. ‘And you’re right, of course. We shouldn’t be bothered about picking up oils and rabbit-traps or cutting wood for the mess just because men have to be fed during shearing, not when there’s entertainments at the Big House to consider. We’re only bringing in thousands of sheep from paddocks that could swallow a whole country in an effort to get some of the finest fleeces to market.’

  ‘Impertinent man,’ Mrs Howell mumbled with Rex’s departure. ‘Alice, come here and light this oven. I’m too old to be getting down on my knees.’

  Alice obeyed as Mrs Howell began to ready a tray of prunes individually wrapped with bacon. ‘Why we have to be serving this up when we could have had some nice toast with a bit of fish paste and parsley atop, I’ll never know.’

  Eleanor ate as the women worked, a glass of water from the rainwater tap finishing off her meal. Her offer of help was declined politely so she cleared a space on a bench top and sat watching as Mrs Howell made the garnish for the chicken dish. Bread was fried and placed in the warming oven and parsley was finely chopped and set to one side. Alice returned after handing around the cheese and pineapple and promptly left with the cooked prunes and bacon.

  Mrs Howell glanced at the kitchen clock on the wall. ‘Fifteen minutes and then I’ll serve the soup.’