by Di Morrissey
She nodded.
‘Want a drink, Ellie?’
‘Thanks, Steve. A light beer would be great,’ she answered.
Roly handed Ellie a director’s chair. ‘Here you go. Where is our esteemed editor? Hunched over a steaming keyboard with a green eyeshade, chewing a dead cigar? Isn’t that what editors do?’
Ellie laughed. ‘Maybe in your day, Roly.’
A guy in shorts and a T-shirt wearing a fishing hat leaned over and held out his hand. ‘G’day. I’m Nino Baretti. You a local lady or what?’
‘I like to think I’m a local. I went to school here for a while and my grandad still lives here. I’m staying with him.’
‘That’s a good girl. You like fish?’
‘I love fishing. And eating them.’
‘You want to take fish home to your pop, eh? You cook him, okay?’
‘Nino comes from a famous fishing clan,’ said Roly. ‘He just brought in a good feed.’ He pointed to a plastic crate with a wet sack over it. ‘He’s our weatherman, tells us when we should go out fishing. He’s remarkably accurate.’
‘Thank you, I’d love a fish.’ Ellie smiled at the man and he beamed back.
‘And that’s Bluey. From the ’Gong up north in New South Wales.’ Roly nodded at the man on the other side of him, whose friendly face was crinkled and freckled. He gave a cheerful smile.
‘Wollongong?’ Ellie said.
‘Yep. Got too bloody big for me, ’scuse my French. The missus over there likes it here too.’ A woman in casual slacks and a blouse waved to Ellie. ‘Once I retired we hit the road and never got past here!’ He chuckled.
‘Bluey was big in waste management,’ said Roly. ‘He’s got some hair-raising stories you should hear some time!’
‘Really?’ said Ellie politely.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Bluey. ‘Started as a night carter as a teenager. That’s a dunny man, you know. Climbed the ladder and was high up the ranks by the time I was fifty. Then I had to have dealings with the council. I didn’t last six months after that.’ He shrugged. ‘Once they knew I couldn’t be bought off, I was out. Bleeding well tried to force money on me. A lot of funny business goes on in some of the big rubbish companies. Lotta money in shi– ’scuse me, trash,’ he concluded.
‘You should talk to Shirley over there, too. Lot of stories even in this small gathering,’ said Roly, leaning back in his chair.
Nino twirled a finger. ‘Some of the stories here, you can’t believe they’re true! Better than anything you read in a book, eh, Roly?’
Roly turned to Ellie. ‘Small portraits of a park, perhaps? Vignettes of our small population?’ he suggested. ‘Articles not for the sympathy vote but to change some perceptions?’
‘Yes indeed, Roly. Poppy, Jon and I have already talked about that idea but it seems there are even more people here than we thought who could feature in the paper,’ said Ellie. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me a tick, I just need to talk to Steve.’
She drew Steve to one side and asked him about the lease arrangement he and Cassie had with the council.
‘I don’t want to pry into your personal business, but we’re trying to help,’ said Ellie.
‘There’s nothing very private or special about it,’ said Steve. ‘There was what they called the standard lease arrangement where they hired me and Cassie. We live here for free, manage and maintain the place. Any improvements or construction or stuff have to be approved by council. A fancy splash pool area or things like that would have to be approved, but we like it the way it is, really. So do our guests, so we haven’t gone down that route.’ He frowned. ‘This development business is a nightmare. I’ve been trying all day to get in touch with the director of the council division that controls caravan parks, but no one wants to tell me anything or speak to me about it. It’s like I’ve been blacklisted. No consultation encouraged,’ he said, then sighed. ‘There’re some people who see our town as an up-market holiday area to come to in summer. But they don’t care about the town as a whole the rest of the year.’
Ellie nodded, not knowing what she could say to cheer him up. ‘There’re lots of us who’ll give you all our support,’ she said at last. ‘Thanks for the beer, Steve. I better head off.’
She called out goodbye and was about to leave when Nino handed her a plump bream wrapped in a tea towel.
‘It’s all clean for you, love.’
‘Oh, how wonderful. I’ll return the tea towel.’
‘That’s okay, you enjoy him for dinner.’
*
When Ellie and Sam arrived home, she saw that Patrick was busy in his study.
Ever since Mike had left, Ellie’s mood had shifted. Mike had distracted her, as he always did, made her laugh and look at the big picture, feel energised – and ignore shadows and memories.
But a blanket had fallen over her, not bringing warmth and comfort, but weight and worry.
Night was closing in. Ellie sat on the verandah, wrapping herself in a bulky cardigan as the breeze turned chilly. Her coffee had gone cold. She put down the notepad where she’d been scribbling questions to put to Kathryn O’Neill.
The more she thought about this woman, the more the spectre of the O’Neills seemed to haunt her. Shadows of memories shifted like dark clouds on the horizon, heralding a storm.
This house, her grandparents and family, the safety of the town and its people, had always protected and nurtured her, despite the nightmare that hovered at its fringes and never went away. Life did indeed seem to be a process of one step forward and two back.
The darkness was blurring the garden and trees. Sam shifted closer to her chair.
Then the steady step of Patrick came along the verandah.
‘It’s getting cold, love.’
‘Uh-huh.’
He sat in the chair next to her, leaning down to rub Sam’s velvety ears. ‘Dinner soon, matey.’
They sat together in a silence broken only by the rustling of leaves, the settling of birds.
Whether he saw in the darkness or just sensed that a tear had trickled down Ellie’s cheek, Patrick reached out and rested his hand on her shoulder.
‘One day at a time, love.’
6
Ellie waved at Patrick who was standing on the verandah, watching as she and Sam came back along
the track from the beach after their breakfast walk.
She knew he used to worry about her setting off down that path when she was young, determined to explore ‘on my own, Poppy!’ She’d always come back with treasures for him – a shell, a cuttlefish, driftwood. And he’d helped her when she’d put a message in an old rum bottle and sent it out to sea.
So many memories. But there was one that still haunted Ellie, which she’d never shared with her family. She’d overheard Patrick talking with her mother once, when Sandy had asked him if he knew of anything that had upset Ellie during the time she’d lived in
Storm Harbour while Sandy and Doug were overseas.
Ellie knew they were none the wiser. There was no way they could know what had happened.
Looking up at the house now, she thought that although she was indecisive about her future at the moment, it was clear that she had a deep attachment to this home, this place, this town.
As she and Sam walked back through the garden, Patrick smiled at her.
‘Maggie gave me another jar of her famous fig jam. I recommend it on toast with creamed ricotta,’ he said as they walked together into the kitchen.
‘Thanks, Poppy. I’m starving.’ She started cutting thick slices of fruit bread.
‘I hope your talk with Kathryn goes well today,’ Patrick said, sitting down at the kitchen table. ‘You can only do what you can. I’m sure Heather will back you up, since we now know those two have been good buddies for a long time.’
‘Yes. I wonder how they first met,�
� said Ellie.
‘Ask her,’ said Patrick.
‘Hopefully Kathryn will be more forthcoming about her life without Susan the watchdog around.’ Ellie paused and looked at Patrick. ‘Do you think I should ask her about the development rumours? Warn her, in case she doesn’t know?’
Patrick considered, rubbing his cheek with his hand. ‘I think you should tread gently for now,’ he said eventually. ‘We still don’t know for sure that an application has been lodged, or anything confirmed really, for all that Sally’s mysterious source told her. You could edge around the issue – find out if Kathryn knows anything about plans for the grounds – but until we have something more concrete, I don’t think we should upset her with something that might not be accurate or even true at all.’
‘Okay, Poppy, good plan,’ Ellie said. ‘Speaking of Sally, I’m catching up with her before I meet Kathryn. I’ll see if she can give me any more information.’
‘Good luck, Poss. You know, it’s great to have you on the Chronicle team.’
*
Sally and Ellie walked through the grounds of the caravan park and sat on a bench facing the river.
‘How peaceful is this?’ said Sally. ‘I can see why Ben likes staying here.’
‘Was it by choice? To be near the crayfish sculpture he was working on, or because of the family situation?’ asked Ellie.
‘A bit of both, probably. He tries not to show it, but I think he feels they don’t understand his art.’
‘Do you think Mrs O’Neill has any idea about the plans for the caravan park?’ asked Ellie.
‘I don’t think so, or I imagine she’d put her foot down. And Seamus O’Neill is away on his cruise so we can’t ask him about any redevelopment.’
‘Can’t you call him?’
‘Tried, but no answer. I asked Ben about it and he says his father turns off his phone and his emails when
he goes on holidays.’
‘It feels like someone is deliberately keeping things obscure and vague, and until it’s brought up at a council meeting we probably can’t find out too much.’ Ellie looked sideways at Sally and added, ‘You seem to have the inside info from someone in council. Can you say who it is?’
Sally smiled but shook her head. ‘Now, Ellie, you know a journalist can’t always reveal her sources.’ Changing the subject, she asked, ‘Have you worked out a way to talk to Mrs O’Neill about the Gardens and all the speculation?’
‘I’m seeing her this afternoon, at a sitting for a portrait she’s having painted. I’ll try to probe a bit, if it feels okay,’ said Ellie. ‘I also need to get some background material from her for this feature I’m writing, so I have to be careful. I don’t want to push her to the point where she just closes down.’
‘It would be good to see the plans for these townhouses.’ Sally sighed. ‘Wait till the locals find out more details . . . I think there’ll be a lot of backlash.’
‘Yes, but of course there’ll also be pressure from some people who see gentrifying a caravan park with expensive townhouses as a good thing. It might be seen as making the town more “up-market”,’ added Ellie.
‘Yep. Lining their own pockets. I bet there’ll be a queue to buy them,’ said Sally.
‘We need to get the facts and let the locals know what’s really going on,’ said Ellie.
Sally nodded. ‘You know, it’s always seemed strange to me that anyone would try to do something with this land while Kathryn’s still alive,’ she said. ‘But from what I’ve been told, I gather it’s all very time-sensitive, for some reason, which my source either doesn’t know or won’t say.’
‘Really? That’s interesting,’ said Ellie thoughtfully. Checking her watch, she stood up. ‘Thanks for the chat, Sally. I’d better get ready to see Mrs O’Neill.’
Sally stood too and was silent for a moment, then said, ‘Ellie, do you want to team up? We could share info and perhaps even agree what we use and when?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Ellie, pleased at the offer. ‘We can be far more effective if we put up a united front. I’ll let you know what I get out of Kathryn O’Neill if it’s of any value.’
‘It’s a deal.’
Smiling, they shook hands.
*
Ellie took her old bicycle, which Patrick had refurbished for her, and rode into town to Heather’s quaint bluestone cottage. The artist’s studio was attached to one side. She put her bike behind the garage and tapped on the studio door, which faced the street.
‘Come in, come in,’ said Heather, opening the door.
Ellie smiled at Heather’s profusion of grey curls restrained by a colourful scarf that trailed behind her. She wore a paint-spattered smock with large pockets over a maxi dress, and had bright red lipstick and colourful dangling earrings.
‘You look just as I expect a working artist to look!’ Ellie said, smiling.
It was the smells that entranced Ellie as she walked into the cluttered studio, which constituted one large room with window drapes pulled. There were two easels and a couple of armchairs, stacked paintings in varying stages of completion around the walls, shelves groaning under paint tins, bottles of turps, jars holding brushes, rolled cloths with brushes in them, rags and pots and tubes of paint, books, notebooks, as well as jugs and jars and bowls, candlesticks and strange figurines which, Ellie assumed, could be used as props. The profusion of objects and painting materials was somehow enchanting. The smell of oils, paint, coffee and a fading bunch of lavender filled the room, and at close quarters, Ellie caught the scent of Heather’s sweet familiar perfume.
‘Orange blossom. Make it myself,’ she explained cheerfully when Ellie commented on it. ‘Same with the lavender oil. Now. Teabag or over-brewed coffee?’ she asked.
She waved Ellie into one of the two armchairs, eschewing the more formal chair on a raised platform to one side of the huge canvas on the nearest easel, which was covered by a cloth.
‘Tea would be good, thank you, as long as you have time. I don’t want to hold you up,’ said Ellie.
‘Lovely. It’s no bother.’ Heather turned on the kettle then started wiping brushes with a cloth and squeezing daubs of paint onto a palette.
‘Do you mind if I record our chat?’ Ellie asked, taking out her phone as well as a small notepad and pen.
‘’Course not. You can check with Kathryn too, but I’m sure she’ll agree. She hasn’t any secrets as far as I know,’ Heather said, chuckling.
Ellie pushed the record button. ‘Can you tell me about your friendship? You said you’d known Mrs O’Neill a long time. Where did you meet?’
‘It was when she came here as a young bride,’ Heather said, making their tea and handing Ellie a mug. ‘Knocked our socks off. Boyd was quite the catch – had been for years. By then, the matchmaking mothers were coming to the conclusion that he was a confirmed bachelor. So we were surprised when he brought Kathryn home. Not that we saw much of them, mind you. I believe Boyd liked to party, but the wealthy graziers kept to themselves. If you weren’t part of their social set you didn’t get a look-in. Which is why we always assumed Kathryn came from the same sort of background, not that she ever talked about it.’
‘It was also the war years so things were not as they’d been before, I guess,’ prompted Ellie.
‘It was a crazy time; there was a feeling of “live for today, who knows what tomorrow will bring”, that sort of thing. But life had started to settle down somewhat by the time Boyd and Kathryn were married. You know, the locals were very curious about Kathryn because not many people had met her. And there were the inevitable rumours, of course,’ said Heather.
‘Such as that she might be in the family way, as one older lady described it,’ Ellie said.
Heather chuckled. ‘There was no way Boyd O’Neill would be trapped into a marriage.’ She paused, then said, ‘The first time I saw Kathryn
I thought she looked like a fairy princess. I was just a teenager and Kathryn was barely twenty. Boyd helped her out of his town car and they went into the old Grand Hotel for a luncheon. I can still remember the dress she wore; a pale lemon silk with sprigs of violets on it. Everyone looked so dowdy during the war, and here was Kathryn, like a breath of spring. Artists remember things like that.’ Heather smiled.
‘She must have made quite an impression,’ said Ellie.
‘Oh, she did.’ Heather put down her mug and adjusted her easel. ‘The O’Neill family lived out at Craigmore, the wool stud. It’s not really that far out of town, but it was a world away in those days. Still is, in some ways,’ added Heather. ‘They owned some land in town, and I think they had an office. I seem to recall my father mentioning it once. They also owned a couple of the heritage homes. Kathryn told me that she and Boyd tended to stay over in town after functions rather than drive all the way back to Craigmore.’
Ellie nodded. ‘I know this is a bit off topic,’ she ventured, ‘but when I went out to Craigmore for an interview with Mrs O’Neill recently, the assistant Susan McLean was hovering. She cut short our interview when I started asking personal questions.’
‘Susan can be a bit of a problem, as I mentioned to you,’ said Heather with a sniff.
‘How long has she been working for the family?’
‘A couple of years. It was Kathryn’s grandson’s idea to employ Susan when he came back from the cattle station. Poor Seamus was worn out after years of caring for his frail wife Laura and I suppose Ronan thought it was too much for his father to look after Kathryn on his own. Not that she needs much help physically, and Susan’s not a nurse,’ Heather added. ‘She works as Seamus and Ronan’s assistant and makes appointments, that sort of thing.’
‘And Ben?’ asked Ellie. ‘He seems a bit of a lone wolf.’
‘Dear Ben. We artists don’t always fit in,’ said Heather. ‘I do like what he’s doing now with his wood carving. He seems to have found his artistic style. Although I must say I prefer brushes to that dangerous machine of his.’ She went on, ‘Maybe if they’d let him express himself in his own way when he was younger he wouldn’t be such a wanderer. Of course, Kathryn’s fond of him. She tries to protect him, as grandmothers do. I don’t think the rest of the family understand him. He always used to visit Kathryn and stay with her before Susan came along. I hear he’s staying at the caravan park this time, doing a carving.’
