Mr Winslow accused Sweeny Hall in the village of not knowing a bloody thing about cars. Mrs Winslow blamed her husband first and then the Studebaker and the makers of the automobile. Americans, damn unreliable, she decided, besides which, there was little point owning an automobile if bush mechanics didn’t know the first thing when it came to fixing them. Then there was the pointlessness of the journey, when they’d lost valuable ram sales. Which, added to the lack of loyalty shown by their fairweather friends, all in all the visit was a complete waste of time.
Robbie didn’t think he’d ever heard a woman complain so much.
Mr Winslow sat clenching the steering wheel, his knuckles growing white. Finally he lit a cigarette and in a low voice made a retort about wives behaving themselves. Mrs Winslow replied that she’d take Ambrose Park to the cleaners if she felt so inclined.
Robbie got out of the car. The Winslows followed, complaining about the heat, about how further south, on their property, it never seemed to feel quite as hot. That you had to be made of tougher stuff to survive out here on the plains. Hard country, Mr Winslow announced, staring down the empty road. Cultural desert, his wife stated. From the open boot, Mrs Winslow rifled through a suitcase, found a blouse and carried it to the tree. Here she sat, using the shirt as a blanket between her and the ground, tugging the length of skirt tight around her body, keeping her feet drawn up close. She lit another cigarette. Took two puffs and threw it into the scrub. Robbie found the glowing butt and stomped on it. Mr Winslow reprimanded his wife. Told her that the boy had more sense than her. That a lit cigarette could start a fire. The woman observed disinterestedly that there wasn’t much to burn and that using the word ‘sense’ in the same sentence as Georgia’s child was a joke. Mr Winslow apologised to Robbie, said it was the heat. That he was sorry that they’d miss the train.
Robbie walked around the other side of the tree and sat down. He wasn’t sorry at all.
The adults talked for a bit. About what they should do. How long they should wait for. The wife wondered if one of them should start to walk to find help. Not in this heat, Robbie warned, twisting his neck around the knobbly trunk of the tree. Mr Winslow agreed. He knew more than his wife. Rex will come along at some stage, said Robbie. His words calmed the adults and they began to talk more quietly about towing the vehicle, leaving the car in the village if they couldn’t be assured of getting it properly repaired, and taking the train to Sydney before heading home to their own property.
What Robbie didn’t say was whether the blue truck would appear today or tomorrow. They’d already collected the shearing supplies. Unless there was a breakdown, a serious injury or Mrs Howell ran out of something, no-one would be driving down the road to the village or coming in for quite a while. Everyone was too busy. You could drink the water in the radiator, he suggested. Siphon it out if you’ve got a bit of tube.
Mrs Winslow said the very idea was disgusting.
Someone will come, her husband comforted.
Robbie imagined a pile of white bones, one lot long and angular, the other thickset and round. The smaller bits would probably be picked up by a canny bowerbird, the bigger ones carted away by foxes, wild dogs or pigs, the rest eventually washed away on the crest of the next flood. It was just as the priest said. Everyone came from dust and would return to dust. It was simply a matter of time.
The adult talk slowly dwindled and, with the quiet, the eagle reappeared, circling downwards to land on the edge of the road. It was an old bird. The mid-brown of youth having darkened to a blackish-brown shade and with such maturity the eagle had grown cautious. It pecked at the kangaroo carcass, occasionally lifting its head to check the surrounds. Robbie watched the bird for some time, wishing he too could fly away.
The heat made his eyelids sag, made his limbs tired, his skin itch. Out in the west a pale stream of brown appeared. It rose vertically, dark against a silver sky. A dust storm or a dirty cloud signalling a westerly buster. The willowy pattern lengthened, thickened and then shrunk in height and width as if struck by indecisiveness. Robbie formed a square with his fingers, framing the indistinct shape where it sat on the horizon. It was similar to the haze he’d seen late on Friday afternoon before the shooting, before everything went topsy-turvy, but it neither drew closer nor retreated, and Robbie came to the conclusion that it was a fire. Someone was burning off, miles away. But when he looked again the pale line of colour was gone, engulfed by wispy cloud.
As the morning dragged and the countryside drew dazed with heat, he peered around the trunk of the tree. The Winslows were asleep, the bark providing a pillow, the man and woman’s gentle whistling snores sounding like contesting birdcall. Mrs Winslow’s silver lighter lay next to a packet of cigarettes. Robbie snatched it up, slipping it into a pocket, then quietly walked to the boot of the car and opened his suitcase. Beneath the neatly folded clothes was his wide-brimmed hat. He’d snuck it in after his mother finished packing. Straightening out the squashed bits, Robbie put it on and then rummaged around until he’d found the shanghai. This he stuck in a back pocket, along with a pocketknife. Then, certain there was nothing else he could make use of, Robbie gave the sleeping Winslows one final check and walked off into the scrub.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Leaving Chad to sleep after depositing his laundered clothes on a chair in the room, Eleanor set out to find her sister. A quick search of the house suggested that she’d not returned since the episode in the garden. Eleanor entered the kitchen, where a bustling Mrs Howell was dabbing at the perspiration dribbling down a lined cheek.
‘You best find her,’ the housekeeper advised when Eleanor explained there was no sign of Lesley. The woman removed a large roasting pan from the oven, sitting the sizzling meat on the sink. ‘We don’t need her wandering off and getting all maudlin.’
It was a little late for that, Eleanor thought. ‘The place reminds her of Marcus,’ she shared, moving to stand near the whirring electric fan sitting on a bench top. ‘She shouldn’t have come home.’
‘So, Athena Pappas was right,’ Mrs Howell replied, somewhat reluctantly. ‘Well, the woman’s trained, so I guess it’s natural she should know more about these things than the rest of us.’
‘It seems so,’ said Eleanor, remembering anew Chad’s allegations. She hoped Chad’s state of mind was making him imagine the very worst of the Greek woman, but it was possible that Athena had been on the wrong side during the war. He was certainly convinced of her involvement. Such a recrimination made Georgia’s misgivings regarding a child born out of wedlock the least of their concerns. Eleanor felt sorry for Stavros Pappas. He was a boon to their district, but once word got out that the family were on the other side during the war, it was doubtful whether they would want to stay in the area.
‘I put this leg on so we’d have cold meat for lunch, but quite frankly I don’t think our appetites will be quite what they were yesterday. Except for our patient, of course. The man eats like a horse.’ Spearing the sheep meat with a three-pronged fork, the older woman lifted the large leg of mutton onto a platter and then covered the dish with a domed gauze meat-keeper. ‘That will keep the blowies away. What I wouldn’t do for a bit of rabbit. Your mother loved it. Stock, a few carrots, onion, flour and a sprig of thyme. Of course now with this myxomatosis thing, a person can’t go near it for fear of getting poisoned. Rex told me we’re selling rabbits abroad like it’s nobody’s business, now that no-one is buying them here.’ She clucked her tongue. ‘You wait, Menzies won’t hear the end of it if people start dropping dead at their dinner tables on the other side of the world.’
‘I don’t think the disease can actually be transferred to humans, Mrs Howell,’ replied Eleanor.
The housekeeper peered down her long nose. ‘That’s what people once thought about mice and the plague. Anyway, enough of this. What’s the matter with you?’ Mrs Howell asked Eleanor, once the oven had been turned off. ‘You have that guilty look on your face you used to get when you were a
child.’
‘Nothing.’
The older woman regarded her with an air of disbelief. Eleanor responded with an innocent smile. It was not that she didn’t want to share with the housekeeper what she had so recently discovered from their patient. Once she did, however, an in-depth discussion would certainly ensue, one that would lead to endless supposition regarding Chad Reynolds’ self-imposed silence and his accusations regarding Athena. Eleanor, concerned about finding Lesley, wasn’t prepared to delay any further. Besides, she reasoned, Chad’s story seemed totally plausible. He’d clearly been in the wrong place at the wrong time. ‘Where’s Mum?’ she asked.
Georgia, having apparently taken heed of the overseer’s suggestion of visiting the woolshed, was changing into work-clothes, following the Winslows’ departure. ‘And about time too,’ Mrs Howell said with an air of reproach. ‘One’s duty should never be shirked for the sake of entertaining visitors, even if River Run is a client of Ambrose Park. Things will be difficult for a while,’ she admitted, alluding to Robbie’s departure and Lesley’s return, ‘but once the stranger is gone, eventually life will get back to normal.’ Selecting two lemons from a bowl on the table, she rolled each one to soften them and then grated the rind from one before cutting each in half, the sharp knife slicing the scarred wooden chopping board.
Eleanor wasn’t quite as convinced as her old confidante. Firstly, there was her mother and stepfather’s relationship. It appeared there were three people in it. Eleanor may have felt a little more disgusted about Colin’s behaviour had it not opened up the possibility of his leaving River Run and her mother forever.
Mrs Howell squeezed the lemons into a bowl, stopping to pick the pips from the juice with a teaspoon. ‘Lemon tart,’ she explained. ‘Of course a woman’s a fool for cooking desserts in this heat.’
Still, there was something else, something that just didn’t feel right, and it had nothing to do with Lesley or Robbie or Chad’s ongoing problems following his war time service overseas. No, there was something unsettling Eleanor. Try as she may, she couldn’t understand what it was.
Mrs Howell walked into the pantry, returning with eggs and caster sugar. ‘Well, off you go, Eleanor. Go and find that sister of yours and bring her back here. I’ll make her a nice cup of tea and then you and I will sit her down and we’ll have a little talk. It’s time that young lady got her two feet back firmly on the ground.’
Outside, there was little improvement in the weather. Eleanor drew the hat down further over her forehead, hoping Lesley was resting in a shady spot and that the fresh air and open space would provide some much needed perspective. The sun bit through the cloth of the shirt she wore, as Eleanor scanned the garden, circumnavigating the front and rear lawns, shrubberies and roses. Already the backs of her hands showed a line at the cuff of the shirtsleeve between pale skin and a deepening brown, and her cheeks, chin and neck were noticeably tanned.
With no sign of Lesley, the outbuildings beckoned. Eleanor left the house surrounds to follow the rutted track past the schoolhouse and meat-house. The shady trees near two derelict timber structures showed no trace of her older sister and Mr Goward’s cottage was quiet. Robbie’s cattle dog Bluey was laying in the dirt at the end of a taut chain. He barely moved as she passed by. Pining already, Eleanor decided. Cattle dogs were notoriously loyal. As there were few enticing spots left to investigate, she headed towards the woolshed, hoping that Lesley may have walked in that direction and become caught up in the activity of shearing.
Ahead, the large corrugated iron roof reflected the sun’s rays with dazzling brightness. Eleanor continued walking across the rough ground, listening for the familiar sounds that she would forever associate with summer. But something wasn’t quite right. Eleanor stopped walking, started again and then slowed. It was the lack of engine noise. The sheep still called to each other, the dogs barked intermittently, however, the hum of the Lister engine was absent. A breakdown. That was the only reason for the machine not to be running. It wouldn’t take long for tensions to rise, not in this heat. A few minutes was one thing. The men could spend the time having a smoke, sharpening combs and cutters or resting aching limbs by lying flat on the lanoline-smoothed board. Any longer, an hour, two hours, meant the day’s work would be delayed. Every shed always had an agitator among its men. Someone willing and able to stir up trouble. Little was needed to rile tempers at times.
Taking a steadying breath, Eleanor rubbed at her temples. Her brain felt tight, as if it were being pushed and pulled in too many directions. Lesley should really know better than to wander off, she thought angrily, especially with everything else going on. Thoughts of Robbie mixed with the Winslows. Did Keith Winslow know of his wife’s philanderings with her stepfather? Did Georgia pull her arm away from Colin earlier this morning because she blamed him for Robbie’s leaving, for giving a young boy a rifle? Or because she was aware of Colin and Margaret’s relationship?
Rivulets of perspiration ran down her spine and pooled across her stomach. Surely the heat would ease soon. For six days since her arrival home the weather had remained unrelenting. It hung heavy and hard like a blanket, causing Eleanor to drink so much water that she felt like a puffer fish, but her thirst was never satiated. The corrugated iron roof of the shearing shed glistened. She wiped at the sweat trickling from her hairline. In a shirt-pocket was the packet of Lucky Strikes gifted to her by Margaret Winslow. Eleanor cupped her hands to light a cigarette as a wind rose, extinguishing the flame. She lit another match, exhaled deeply and blew out the burning sliver of wood. The smoke curled upwards before it was caught by the breeze and whisked away.
The action of smoking comforted Eleanor. Although standing out in the middle of the flat in the heat didn’t make the cigarette particularly enjoyable, it turned her thoughts to more pleasant things. Georgia and Colin would have to sit down with Chad, hear his version of events. Dinner would be the perfect opportunity. Her offer was not without selfish reasons. It was true that everyone needed to hear Chad’s story and the truth couldn’t have come at a more perfect moment now Robbie and the Winslows were gone. The thought of their four remaining family members happily coming together over pre-dinner drinks was an almost impossible thought, making Chad an ideal diversion, for more than one reason.
There were so many things Eleanor was interested in knowing about him. Where he lived. Why he was visiting the Harrises. What he did for a living. Why he’d decided to immigrate to Australia after the war, for clearly that was the case. She told herself such curiosity was natural. That it had nothing to do with attraction. That it was simply relief at knowing the truth about the wounded stranger who, by tonight, would be a recuperating house guest. Considering Robbie’s actions, Chad’s recovery and seeming lack of anger towards his attacker, and by extension the Webber family, was most charitable.
As for Athena, that situation was beyond Eleanor and too difficult to fathom considering the friendship shared between them in such a short time. The nurse was in Australia now, hopeful of a new life. Passing judgement on another, for incidents that may have been impossible to avoid, didn’t seem right or fair and none of them were equipped to deal with Chad’s accusations. Besides which, Eleanor had read enough newspaper reports and heard many stories from within her own circle of family and friends, to know that war time made people do extraordinary things to survive. She was of little doubt that Athena’s primary concern would have been the safety of her child, which didn’t make any of her actions right, if what Chad said was correct. Yet, Eleanor’s father once spoke of the German soldiers, saying they were ordinary boys, like him, following orders and doing what they could to stay alive. Of course, Eleanor understood Chad’s concerns. He’d been fighting for all the right reasons, on their side and the war was still fresh for him, as it was for many. This, however, was Australia. The war was over. While she may not have been at the front, the Webbers were the recipients of their own share of tragedy. Eleanor didn’t want Menzies’ immigrants br
inging their recriminations and anger with them, like so much unwanted baggage. This was meant to be a new world for them. Leave the bad bits of the old ones behind.
A steady line of smoke streamed from the chimney of the shearers’ quarters. Clothes flapped on the line outside the jackeroos’ bunkhouse. In the distance the squeak of the Southern Cross windmill resembled nails down a blackboard. Suddenly the wind dropped. To the west a line of brownish smoke hung on the horizon. Eleanor stamped out the cigarette and stared at the dirty streak smudging the blue sky, before resuming her path.
The grouping of men outside the woolshed soon became obvious. Eleanor slowed, not wanting to draw attention to herself as she tried to make sense of what was going on. Shearers, rouseabouts and wool rollers stood in a circle, along with the classer, wool presser and other shed-hands. Arms folded across Jackie Howe singlets and cotton shirts, fists plunged deep into pockets, they fidgeted and mumbled, their voices like a gathering wave.
A few yards away, directly opposite, stood Hugh Goward, her stepfather and the jackeroos. These men were quiet and watchful. Clearly outnumbered, they waited for events to unfold. It was only when Eleanor was nearly upon the crowd that she recognised Dawson, Rex and Fitzy. The threesome were gathered at a right angle to the main group and maintained a respectful distance, clearly reluctant to take sides. For just a second Eleanor was sure a wad of cash exchanged hands between the cook and the Aboriginal. She knew she shouldn’t have been shocked. Rex, on spotting Eleanor, held his hand up for her to stay where she was.
River Run Page 28
