‘And how long before he wakes up?’
‘Mrs Webber, I have no idea. Such a question is rather like asking me how much twine can be found on a ball of string.’
‘But surely we can’t be expected to keep him here indefinitely,’ Georgia protested. ‘My son may have accidentally injured this man, however, I see no reason why we should be further penalised by having to be nursemaids to a complete stranger. A stranger who may very well be a –’
‘A communist,’ Mrs Winslow announced. ‘Or worse.’
Keith sighed. ‘There would be a time-limit to his stay, wouldn’t there, Doctor? I mean if there is no immediate improvement then one would have to assume that he’d be better off in a hospital or hospice where he can be properly cared for.’
‘That’s correct.’ The doctor paused. ‘But in the meantime, and considering the gravity of the situation, Mr Webber, I took it upon myself after consultation with the police to telephone Miss Athena Pappas. I’m sure you’ve heard of her. A very accomplished nurse, served in Italy and only recently arrived.’
‘Stavros’s daughter,’ Colin explained to the table. ‘Her father owns the general store in the village, a good man.’
‘She will have to stay here, of course.’ When no-one queried this, the doctor went on, ‘She’ll move in this afternoon to care for the patient. I do realise this is an imposition, but his needs must come first, regardless of the difficulties. I’ll return in a few days to check on him.’
When the doctor had driven away, Georgie turned to her husband. ‘I’m not having that woman in my home.’
‘Who is she?’ Margaret asked with interest.
‘She is unmarried, with an illegitimate child. I have no issue with her family, Stavros is a well-meaning, hard-working immigrant and he’s a boon to our district, but I’ll not have a wanton woman under my roof.’
‘Georgia, it is not up to us to pass judgement on the girl,’ her husband replied sternly. ‘Besides, the child was born in her home country. Who is to say that the father wasn’t killed in the war?’
‘And, and, and?’ Spittle formed in the corners of Georgia’s mouth. ‘The church is most clear on these things. Besides which, there has never been mention of a husband, dead or alive. It is morally wrong.’
Margaret fiddled with a packet of cigarettes. ‘So is abortion, which rather leaves the girl in quite an unenviable situation. You are aware, Georgia, that religious dogma has caused most of the turmoil in the world?’
Georgia began drumming the arms of the peacock chair with her fingers. ‘We are not as accommodating in our beliefs as you Press-buttons are.’
‘Actually,’ Margaret’s face was serene, ‘I’m an atheist, and a bloody good one. Cheers.’ She raised a glass.
‘Come on, girls,’ Keith Winslow pleaded.
‘Europe. The war,’ Margaret mused, staring out across the wilting rose bushes where birds perched limply in the fountain, wings outstretched. ‘I feel sorry for this Athena Pappas. No doubt it was a tremendous love affair set against a backdrop of pain and suffering. To adore someone and be forever apart …’
‘Fine. She can come,’ Georgia snapped, ‘but only until we get someone else who can take her place.’
‘Is there anyone else out here capable?’ asked Keith.
‘Not here, but I know where I can find someone. I’ll not have my house overrun with undesirables. If you’ll excuse me,’ Georgia got up from the table, ‘I have to make a telephone call.’
‘If you’re calling who I think you are, Georgia,’ Colin cautioned, ‘please give thought to the fact that this may not be the best time.’
‘Rubbish.’ Georgia strode away, the full skirt she wore swirling as she moved. This time Margaret Winslow refrained from making an aside. Instead, she turned her attention to Eleanor, arching one eyebrow enquiringly.
Keith was suggesting that they contact the Grazier’s Co-operative Shearing Company. He argued that their injured guest could well have worked in one of the Grazier’s run of sheds and that if they were given a description of the man, they could spread the word.
‘It would be easier if we knew his name,’ stated Colin. ‘I can’t understand how a man can be riding out in the bush without any identification whatsoever.’
‘Well, he wouldn’t be bothered about that if he were working nearby.’ Keith took a sip of his drink. ‘He could have been out and about searching for stragglers.’
‘Damn long way to be chasing stray stock to end up on River Run. But I’ll give the neighbours a call.’ A slight breeze carried the sound of barking dogs. Colin got to his feet. ‘The first mob of sheep are coming in. We might ride out if you’re up to it, Keith, and help walk them into the yards. I could use the exercise.’
Keith was quick to agree. ‘You and Georgia should have a hit of tennis later on, Margaret,’ he suggested as everyone rose, except for his wife.
Margaret lit yet another cigarette. ‘In this heat? But I’m forgetting, mad dogs and Englishmen, eh, my darling?’ Her husband didn’t answer. ‘I already feel like I’ve spent the morning at the sauna. No, I think I’ll retire to a dark room with a wet towel on my forehead. There’s far too much activity going on here for anyone’s good.’
Chapter Seventeen
Mrs Howell cornered Eleanor at the bottom of the staircase, a plate in hand. The dish contained biscuits with marshmallow and jam, melted under the grill and sprinkled with coconut. It was a treat Eleanor remembered fondly and one clearly destined for her half-brother. The housekeeper swapped the plate from one hand to the other, immediately expressing concern over dinner now that the Winslows were staying another night. The menu was of prime importance and she wondered if something else should be served other than the usual Sunday roast. The older woman started reeling off a list of possibilities that included lettuce hearts with thousand-island dressing, grilled sirloin and apple crumble for dessert.
‘I’d discuss it with your mother, however, she went straight to the station office and shut the door. She’s been on the telephone ever since.’
Eleanor wondered if the recipient of that call was the preferred carer for the injured man. ‘It’s Sunday, Mrs Howell, and considering everything that’s going on, let’s just have one of your tasty roast dinners.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, Eleanor,’ Mrs Howell replied, crumpling the apron she wore between the fingers of her free hand. ‘You know it’s a terrible business this thing with Robbie and now having to put up with another total stranger. It’s not that I have anything against Mr Pappas’s daughter, not at all. In fact I believe she is quite capable. But with everything else going on …’ The older woman’s words hung. ‘And this heat. If only Inigo Jones was still forecasting. A person would know what to expect. Oh, I had my doubts initially with all his talk about sunspots affecting the weather, and I wondered about him when he couldn’t promise day-to-day predictions, but it was a comfort to know what to expect, long term.’
Eleanor couldn’t recall having ever seen the housekeeper so ruffled.
‘I’ve some frozen liver so I could braise that and add the juices to the gravy,’ she continued. ‘Well, I’m just chattering now. You don’t need the details, do you, my dear? No, of course you don’t. It was that policeman. Put me on edge he did.’ Mrs Howell smoothed the grey helmet of hair that was gathered so tightly at the rear that the skin around her forehead puckered. ‘Well, I’ve never been questioned by the law before and it was quite, quite upsetting. And the constable asked me about Robbie. What mischief the lad gets up to, that sort of thing. Then he questioned me about the Communist Party and whether your stepfather was actively against them, him being a Country Party man and a known supporter of Menzies.’ Lowering her voice she concluded, ‘He called Mr Webber a capitalist. I don’t think he likes this family very much. Of course I said nothing, either way.’
Eleanor didn’t respond immediately. Was the constable an aberration within the law enforcement profession to hold such a view, or had
she been blind to a disgruntled populace, to the class division within the bush, simply through her own naivety? ‘I wouldn’t worry, really, Mrs Howell,’ Eleanor replied calmly. ‘They have to ask all sorts of things, right or wrong. It’s their job.’ Her composure certainly didn’t reflect her own thoughts. She too was worried about the line of questioning. Eleanor was no legal expert but clearly the police were searching for intent.
‘I know, I know.’ The older woman absently ate one of the biscuits. ‘In the meantime there will be another mouth to feed and I’m supposed to sit with him,’ she gestured to the rear of the house, ‘until Athena arrives later this afternoon. He’s still unconscious.’ The housekeeper’s voice was hopeful. ‘It’s just a matter of keeping an eye on him. Your mother was quite emphatic about that.’
Eleanor found herself reluctantly agreeing to take on the task. ‘I’ll go and sit with the patient for an hour or so while you get the kitchen under control.’
‘Bless you, you’re a good child. Now I must get this up to Robbie. You know he got the strap this morning.’ The housekeeper hurried up the stairs.
Eleanor intended to check on Robbie herself. As far as she knew he’d been locked in his room since last night, but apart from the formidable Spanish Inquisition line of questioning he’d been subjected to from everyone, Eleanor never dreamt he’d be flogged as well. But such things didn’t dampen his appetite, he’d already devoured scrambled eggs and toast, a luncheon tray of sandwiches and soup and was now to be treated to a snack, while Eleanor could barely pick at her own meals. The solid clack of the housekeeper’s sturdy lace-ups echoed in the hallway above. Perhaps it was best she stay away from Robbie, at least for a day or so. Eleanor’s feelings towards him were mixed, a confusion that stemmed from her inability to reconcile the boy she knew and loved with yesterday’s actions. What child did what Robbie had done? But then, what child was happy to bash frightened birds to death with a stick?
In the passageway Eleanor stopped at the sickroom. The key hung on a nail nearby. She wondered briefly what Jillian and Henrietta were up to. No doubt reading the Sunday papers and enthusiastically discussing any young man who may have caught their eye. How she wished she were with them. Unlocking the door, she stepped across the threshold. The room was dark and stuffy with heat. A smell of stale air and dust combined with the scent of disinfectant. It took time to adjust to the lack of light but gradually Eleanor was able to decipher the shadowy outlines within the room. A dim square of light marked the curtained window while a narrow closet and washstand stood against the opposite wall, items of furniture that had been used in the 1880s. The bed was positioned against the wall and the shape of a person was recognisable. She hesitated briefly before flicking on the overhead light. The bulb popped noisily, throwing the cramped area into darkness again. Eleanor opened the curtains and lifted the window. Two wide pieces of timber had been attached to the outside of the window, effectively barring escape. These were recent additions. Very recent. It seemed no-one was taking any chances with their guest. She turned to look at the man as light and fresh air circulated through the flyscreen. He didn’t stir.
A standard lamp had been positioned next to the patient and a drip hung from it, plastic tubing winding down to a brown arm. A clean bandage dressed the shoulder wound, another bound his head. Clearly the doctor was not exaggerating when he’d advised that it was best not to move him.
Sunlight angled in through the window, highlighting the fine stubble on the man’s face. Eleanor sat next to the bed, studying him carefully. The long dark lashes, longish brown hair. The width of his bare chest, emphasised by the pull of taut white sheets. The man looked so different to the bloodied stranger she’d ridden towards yesterday. He appeared younger, harmless, innocent, certainly not some dangerous radical. Memories of Dante came to her, his tapering fingers and olive skin, and she found herself comparing him to the man before her. The stranger’s muscular arms were dark from the elbows down and a brown V marked the bite of the sun on his neck. His hands were large and capable and his nails slightly dirty. This man lived his life outdoors.
‘Who are you?’ she wondered aloud. Now she was here sitting at his bedside, it was impossible not to feel guilty at having wished him removed from their care. Tentatively, she reached out, touching the back of his hand. Her eyes flickered to his. They remained closed, unseeing, a sheen of moisture covering his skin. The room was stifling. A side table held an old-fashioned pedestal fan and Eleanor flicked it on, positioning it so that the weak stream of air was directed at the patient. Then she opened the bedroom door, trying to entice a non-existent draft.
‘Can you hear me?’ she asked. Somewhere there were parents, perhaps a wife, brothers and sisters, friends, anxiously waiting to hear news of the man who lay before her. ‘My name’s Eleanor. You’re safe at River Run. It’s a sheep station.’ The anger and shock Eleanor experienced at the time of the shooting returned and she looked up at the ceiling, imagining she could burn a hole through the cracked plaster into her brother’s room.
She thought of the stranger out in the paddock. Of the billowing grass and the warm sun as he rode towards the river on a quiet Saturday afternoon. Regardless of what anyone thought or said, or even her initial inclination, the Webber family were responsible for what had happened. ‘Don’t worry,’ Eleanor said softly, ‘we’ll look after you.’
‘So that’s the troublemaker.’ Her mother stood in the doorway.
‘Mum!’ Eleanor chastised. ‘I can’t believe you just said that.’
‘Well, he’s hardly a welcome guest.’ She looked at the patient, taking in the drip and the bandages. ‘We have no idea who this man is.’
‘He looks like someone who works in the country, if you ask me.’
‘Perhaps.’ Her mother moved closer. Arms folded across her chest, she leant over the bed. ‘He looks foreign to me.’
Brown-haired and tanned, he was rather unremarkable to look at except for generously full lips and those long lashes. ‘Foreign?’ Eleanor repeated. ‘He looks like one of us.’
‘Well, it would be easier, wouldn’t it, if he was a communist coming to attack us? At least then there would be an excuse for Robbie’s behaviour. He’s saved by his age, of course, from having to atone for his crime in any meaningful way but, nonetheless, I worry what effect this may have on us as a family.’
‘For heaven’s sake,’ Eleanor responded, ‘didn’t you listen to what the police said? We’d hardly want him to be a communist. It seems to me that they’re trying to draw a connection between Robbie’s actions and our family’s political leanings. They could well think that the shooting was done on purpose to support Menzies’ views. Dad would –’
‘Leave your father out of this,’ her mother replied curtly. ‘They’d hardly believe that we’d use our own son to make a political point and get a newspaper headline.’ Her tone became more civil. ‘The police are simply conducting a thorough investigation and, I might say, clutching at straws at a time when everyone’s talking about the communists and this damn referendum. Of more concern now is what happens to Robbie.’
‘I’m sorry, Mum. You’re right. I’m just tired.’
‘Of course you are. We all are.’ Georgia leant against the washstand, absently rubbing dust from her fingers. Her expression softened. ‘Colin said you were very brave last night, riding all that way back to the homestead when it was growing dark.’
‘Did he say that?’ Eleanor shrugged. ‘I felt bad leaving Robbie out there alone.’
‘Nonsense, you did the right thing.’ Dark smudges ringed her mother’s eyes. Eleanor guessed if they both looked in a mirror, they would appear equally washed out.
‘Colin tells me that a juvenile facility may be suggested for Robbie. I think it unlikely, firstly because of his age and the family connections and secondly, especially if we are the ones who take the necessary steps immediately.’ Her eyes grew moist, a most uncommon response for a woman whom Eleanor had not seen shed a te
ar since the day of her father’s funeral. ‘It’s not what I want, but our only option is boarding school. Robbie must go once shearing finishes.’
‘He won’t like that.’
‘To be honest, neither will I. But he’s been running wild on the property for the past year. The governess can’t control him. The wooden spoon makes no difference, or the strap for that matter, and he can’t spend every second day locked in his bedroom.’
Eleanor wondered if the incident at the crow trap should be mentioned, but decided against it. She didn’t know if Robbie was possessed of a violent streak or if environment and an overactive imagination were at the root of his actions. But the glazed anger showing in his eyes as he belted those birds to death, and the palpable excitement that emanated from him as he climbed from the tree with the news that he’d shot the stranger was real cause for concern.
Georgia moved to gaze out the partially boarded-up window. ‘Your stepfather believes discipline is key. And I suppose I must agree. If Robbie can’t be controlled, if he won’t abide by our rules, then he must be put into the care of those who can instil some measure of self-control. Your sister and you certainly benefitted from boarding, although your father and I argued over the necessity of it.’
Eleanor could only imagine how upset Robbie would be. ‘When will you tell him?’
‘Colin intends to telephone the headmaster at the King’s School, Parramatta, tomorrow, to ensure there is a place for him this term.’ Her mother moved to stand in the centre of the small room. ‘In the meantime we’ll leave it until the last moment to tell Robbie. He’ll continue with his lessons, but otherwise he’ll remain in his room until he departs. He has to.’ Georgia gave a little sob. ‘I would let him out in a day or so but we can’t. Once word gets out about what’s happened, everyone will expect Robbie to be punished. It’s not right, of course, he’s a child, but I have to do it, if only for propriety’s sake.’
River Run Page 13
