I said, ‘Let me,’ and took the thermoses while he opened the boot to receive them and the lunchbox.
‘Thanks.’ He pulled open the front passenger door and gestured for me to sit down.
‘No, no. You sit there, Marty, and I’ll get in the back.’ Where my face would not be visible. Almost fearfully I asked, ‘His daughter? What hap—?’
‘Thankfully she wasn’t hurt.’ He dropped into the driver’s seat, dismissing the matter with another question. ‘Got everything? You’re sure now? Let’s go then.’
The car bore us smoothly up the short drive and then away down the street while I frantically rearranged my thinking. I had thought Mark was safely out of my life, that with a little care (like my rapid exit from the agency the day Palmer died) we needn’t meet during my brief stay, but that now appeared improbable. My heart thudded so hard I felt momentarily faint; I wondered if I could cancel the day, have Ben turn the car about? Then I was forced to see the impracticality of that. What possible excuse could I make? No, the best I could hope for was that he would be out on the run, and if he was the one-man band Ben had intimated then surely that wasn’t expecting too much?
I had travelled this road twice a day throughout primary school and could have numbered every turn and dip in my sleep, but today it was only Ben’s voice informing Marty of the boundary grid that jerked me back to the present.
‘And that,’ he said a little later, nodding off to the right where the broken stone walls and chimney of the old cottage stood beside a single hardy pepperina tree, ‘was the first building erected on the Park. I was telling Orla – her great-grandfather built it.’
‘I always assumed it was a miner’s cottage,’ I confessed. ‘What on earth did he do for water two miles from town?’
‘There was a well. I understand it’s fallen in now. Gil said that bits of the stone coping are still there. I daresay Mark told him – he must’ve passed it a thousand times.’
‘I expect so.’ But I had never noticed it. ‘Marty,’ I said, ‘I was wondering – what happened to my pushbike? Is it still in the garage?’
‘Yes, it is. I remember seeing it not so long back but – what- ever made you think of that? You’ll use the Nissan won’t you? I suppose you could even drive it back when you go.’
‘I suppose I could,’ I said slowly. It was an idea. Fuel and accommodation for the journey would probably cost no more than the bus and plane fares, and once I reached Melbourne I could sell it and take the boat home. ‘Oh.’ My hopes fell as I remembered probate. ‘Damn! I can’t sell it yet. But I will use it while I’m here. If I can get it started. I don’t intend to monopolise all your time, Ben.’
‘Think nothing of it,’ he said. ‘You are our client after all.’
It was five miles (how well I remembered that figure) from Emu Springs to the homestead. I watched the rust-coloured ground speed by, and then, with a suddenness that always surprised me, we were rushing through the short tunnel of thick mulga and out the other side with Ben braking suddenly for the horse-paddock gate.
‘I’ll get it.’ I had thought never to stand there again with my hand on the chain loop, staring across at the roofs of the station complex. The sight of it, the dear familiarity, pulled at my heart. Until it ended, no childhood had been happier than mine was, and for the briefest instant my father was there beside me with his teasing voice and smiling eyes, the chieftain of our clan.
We approached the complex at a slower pace, Ben pointing out the different buildings to Marty while I stared my fill. It looked smaller, but only because my world had grown since last I came here. There was the big white house (white for coolness, my mother had said) set in a now neglected garden. I could see the shallow steps to the boxed-in verandah, and the swing tree, and the tall pole that held the outside light. Off to the side were the various sheds and the distant green thicket of pepper trees that marked the bore, above which the mill head was busily spinning. Dust spiralled past the stable yard and as Ben killed the motor I heard a cock crowing from somewhere. The sound was as evocative of childhood as the taste of bread and honey.
Marty broke the moment as she pointed down the pad-dock. ‘What’s that building over there?’
‘The old shearing shed,’ I said.
‘And the other little one with the garden?’
‘Overseer’s cottage. And that’s the history shed next to the stable yard.’
‘The history shed?’ Ben repeated.
‘It was the name I gave it as a kid. Grandfather’s old gear is in there – his buggy and harness and tools. It’s well worth a look. Maybe you should tell Gil; you said he’s into history.’ I stared at the homestead, trying to process the difference between the golden place I remembered and this new, shabby reality. The house was at once achingly familiar and dear, and distantly strange. It triggered a waterfall of memories that were overlaid with grief and the sense of never again. The ghost of my father sprawled in his squatter’s chair on the empty verandah, and at the white cane table my mother’s shade poured tea from the china pot painted with daisies. The gracious home I had taken so much for granted as a child seemed at once as old as a faded photograph and as fresh as a new minted thought. I drew a deep, steadying breath. ‘You said it would be unlocked so – shall we go in?’
As in a dream I led the way to the shallow steps where my path was blocked by a large grey cat that sat staring with slitted eyes at my approach. ‘Hello.’ I stooped and extended a hand and, after a moment’s cogitation, it padded towards me, inclining its head to my waiting palm. ‘Oh, you’re a fine fellow.’ He purred and rubbed his face against my leg, marking me with his scent, then stalked behind me onto the verandah. Even from the outside the emptiness made the homestead seem forlorn – and it wasn’t just the effect of the neglected garden where the grass was all but dead, and withered, struggling plants testified to the lack of care. Weeds had grown and died about the steps and even the foliage of the swing tree (as it would always be to me) looked thin and impoverished, throwing none of the dense shade I remembered.
Inside, the rooms were dim and dust laden. The furniture had been covered but our footsteps left marks behind and spiderwebs adorned the corners. Our shoes echoed in the stillness and when we stopped moving the silence was a palpable thing.
‘Good heavens!’ Marty said when we had penetrated to the kitchen. ‘When was this place shut up?’
‘Thirteen years ago.’ I went to the window above the sink and reefed back the curtains only to have the material tear in my hands. I dusted them off against my jeans and shrugged. ‘It’s to be expected, I guess. Facing east they’d get all the sun. Well,’ I looked around, ‘if we can find a cloth to wipe things down first, we could eat our lunch in here. Much warmer than the verandah.’
Marty was already opening drawers. She found a tea towel and set to work sweeping the table top and chair seats down, then wetting the cloth at the sink and wiping them clean.
Ben tutted. ‘You’re supposed to be having a day off.’ Outside a man’s voice called, ‘Hello?’ It came from the front. I stiffened and Ben smiled.
‘That’ll be Mark. I’ll bring him in. Can we offer him lunch – is there enough?’
‘Of course,’ Marty was opening cupboards. ‘Do you remember where the cups are, Orla? I’ll just give them a good wash.’
‘We’re in the back, Mark.’ Ben’s footfalls receded as he went to meet the newcomer, and I waited in a state of frozen apprehension until the two returned, the solicitor’s deliberate tread interspersed with the halting gait of a lame man. He came through the door and for an instant our eyes met. I don’t know what he saw in mine but I read no surprise in his – but of course he must have known I would be here. Ben said he’d unlocked the house after all, and he’d have told him the reason for it.
Mark nodded politely as to an acquaintance. ‘Orla, good to see you home. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to your uncle’s funeral.’
I ignored his last sentence ‘Hell
o, Mark. And it’s back, not home. I’m not staying. Have you met Ellen Martin? She was Palmer’s housekeeper.’
With his gaze and attention on Marty I had time to note the changes in him. He had aged. He had been twenty-seven when I left, but a stranger could easily mistake him for forty now. There was grey in his dark hair and the lines about his mouth were new. He had moved easily then, balanced and lithe, now my heart lurched in time to the cruel inequalities of his gait as he limped to a chair beside Ben. He had removed his hat before entering the room and now tossed it onto the dusty dresser saying, ‘This is very good of you, Mrs Martin. Are you sure? I could easily go home for my lunch.’
Marty demurred and Ben said heartily, ‘You’d be missing out if you did. Ellen’s the best damn cook north of the Hill, and south of it too, very likely.’
We made small talk throughout the meal, Ben carrying most of the load. There was soup in a covered pot, still hot, with sandwiches to follow and a delicious slice – a mixture of nuts and dried apricots between sheets of short crust pastry. The cat watched us eat from what was obviously a favourite spot on the dresser, and to break the pressure of all that was unsaid between us I gestured from him to Mark.
‘He’s made himself quite at home here, so who does he belong to?’
‘Nobody now. He was my daughter’s.’
‘Oh. Does he have a name?’
He shrugged. ‘Puss, Kitty? She was pretty young at the time.’
And still is, I thought. She had been four then, so she would be nine now. I wondered where she was. Plainly not with him. My heart went out to her. Poor little Celia, as orphaned as I had been. Parents, I thought, owed it to their children to be more careful – less angry, or hurried or careless – whatever it was that caused road accidents.
I said with careful formality, ‘I was sorry to hear of your accident, and the loss of your wife.’
‘Thank you.’ The sea blue eyes showed nothing but politeness. He drank tea, then put down the mug and wiped a knuckle across his lips. ‘So, if you’re not staying Orla, can I ask what your plans are for the Park?’
Ben leapt in before I could answer. ‘Things will jog along just as they are, Mark. Orla understands the situation and has agreed that selling isn’t an option, for now anyway.’
‘You’d sell the Park?’ The surprise in his face hardened quickly into something else – disbelief, contempt? Before I could decide he said roughly, ‘It means so little to you, then?’
‘Why should it? There’s nothing here for me now,’ I replied coolly. ‘If I could make money from it I’d sell tomorrow. As it is I’ve yet to receive a cent from the property since my uncle took it over.’
‘Only because the money he was holding for you got ploughed back into the station to keep it afloat,’ Ben protested. ‘What are you saying, Orla? Palmer started a trust account for you when your parents died. The station paid money into it every year, all audited, all above board. He —’
‘Then why haven’t I ever seen a cent of it?’ I asked. ‘Why not just pay it straight into my current account?’ I thought of the times I’d struggled to find the rent and feed myself. That first year alone had been a very difficult one for me.
Ben sighed. ‘Because he was Palmer – with old-fashioned ideas? The money was to be released at his discretion – those were the terms of the trust and he initially intended to wait until you were twenty-one before handing it over. Of course you were gone by then, so when it was a choice between using it or losing the station he chose to break the trust. That way, he reasoned, you’d keep the place and have a home to return to. It was his decision to make. I can’t say I didn’t agree.’
‘And he couldn’t have told me this? Not when I turned eighteen, when I got my first job, and could even vote?’ When I fell so disastrously in love, I thought but didn’t add. If I had known . . . but then he would never have changed his mind. I’d not have seen a cent before my twenty-first birthday, however great my need. That was Palmer, as unchangeable as rock, his attitude to women rooted in the Victorian age. ‘Of all the arrogant, pompous . . . he wasn’t even my legal guardian!’
Ben ignored my outburst to add, ‘The money was put to good use anyway. The Park’s free of debt and there’s not many properties can claim that. If – when – you sell there’ll be nothing owing.’
‘I suppose that’s something.’ I sighed, casting a discontented an eye around the kitchen. ‘The house is a mess, and as for the garden —’
‘I know.’ Ben was unapologetic. ‘You get what you can pay for and the budget hasn’t run to gardeners and house help I’m afraid. Your uncle understood that. If he hadn’t fallen ill – well, he did. All I’ll say is that his death’s a major blow to the Park. Still, between us, Mark and I can keep things going along the lines he wished. That’s right, isn’t it, Mark?’
He nodded; his eyes were once more on my face, their expression unreadable. ‘Yes. It’s not easy but we can just about scrape through.’ The words implied that it had been petty of me to complain. I flushed, admitting there was some truth in it.
‘Very well.’ I got up. ‘There’s something I want to check. How much time do we have, Ben? I don’t want to take up your whole day.’
He glanced at his watch. ‘I should be back by two, I’m seeing a client then.’
‘Okay. I won’t be long.’ I clattered cups and plates together but Marty glanced up to shake her head. ‘Go on, Orla. I’ll see to them.’
‘Thanks.’ I hurried from the kitchen, my feet knowing the way – down the hall, past the bathroom and the large built-in linen press to my father’s office, tucked in behind the small room with its padded chairs and open fireplace that we had called the winter parlour. Discounting the cellar part of my uncle’s rambling message it seemed the most likely place to find the elusive keyhole I was seeking. Except, I was forced to admit, having seen the state of the homestead that now seemed far from likely. But I had to start somewhere. Perhaps it was all a waste of time and the letter had been lodged with the bank, and Palmer in his rambling state of mind had simply confused the word ‘vault’ with ‘cellar’.
The key was far too small for the drawers in my father’s desk, which weren’t locked anyway. Nor did it fit the filing cabinet, also unlocked. The corner cupboard contained only receipt pads and old wages sheets, the paper brittle with age, and a dusty collection of Thoroughbred magazines. There were old tax files, brochures, a book of unused waybills to travel stock, curled reams of yellowing paper, but nothing requiring a small brass key with a short shaft. Defeated, I gave up. Of course the box or drawer – whatever I was looking for – could be elsewhere in the house but a quick look at my watch showed there wasn’t enough time left to pursue matters now. Well, I would get the Nissan started and come back after I had checked that nothing was being held at the bank.
Mark had left by the time I returned to the kitchen where the lunch things had already been packed away.
‘He said to say goodbye.’ Ben, shepherding us out, locked the door and handed me the key. ‘You may as well keep it while you’re here. In case you want to come again.’
‘Thanks, I will. Tomorrow. After I’ve been to the bank.’
‘Oh,’ he said, holding the car doors, first for Marty then for me, ‘that reminds me. I did ring Dan Corrigan. The bank manager,’ he clarified at my blank look. ‘He extended his condolences and confirmed that Palmer left a package in their vault for you. You can claim it any time, he said – just take along some identification.’
‘Great!’ So my surmise had been correct and my uncle almost right, for weren’t vaults usually underground? ‘I’ll get round there first thing in the morning.’
Chapter Seven
The bank, however, also proved a bust. I accepted Mr Corrigan’s personal attention, his renewed condolences and the large envelope retrieved from the vault by a young female teller whom he summoned with the press of a bell.
She hurried in, glanced at me and did a classic double take.
‘Orla! Orla Macrae.’
‘Fiona Hurley.’ I rose from my chair and we hugged. We had shared a classroom and sometimes a desk. ‘Banking? I would never have guessed! What happened to acting?’
She laughed. ‘Ah, well. Teenagers, you know. Besides it’s Brigson now, not Hurley. Remember Roger?’
‘Yes, of course.’ The manager coughed and I said hastily, ‘Look, I’m only here for a couple of days. We should catch up.’
‘Yes, later. Come see me. We live behind the garage. It’s so wonderful to . . . Yes, Mr Corrigan?’
Palmer had signed across the flap next to the blob of wax that sealed the envelope. The package was heavy and lumpy, containing more than paper. With a murmured excuse the manager absented himself. I pulled the twine to break the seal, slid my finger under the flap then tipped the contents onto the wide desk. A flat jewellery case slid out first, the red velvet faded and a little rubbed. My parents’ wedding picture in a heavily tarnished silver frame came next, followed by a crystal scent bottle wrapped in tissue and a ring box. That was it. No letter. No paper of any sort, just evidence of Palmer’s conscientious carrying out of his executor’s duties. Valuables to the bank to – presumably – also await my coming of age.
I opened the jewel case, touching a finger to the pearl and diamond necklace within. There were matching earrings and a bracelet as well. I couldn’t remember ever seeing Mum wear them. Her wedding ring was a thin band; the engagement ring held the sapphire I remembered. I slid it on and off my finger, and sniffed at the scent bottle with its little tasselled top but smelled only the dryness of the bank air. There was a gentle cough at the door, which opened on Mr Corrigan’s enquiring face.
‘Thank you.’ I replaced the items in their bag. ‘I’ll take these with me. Do you need me to sign something . . .? And you’re positive this package was all that my uncle left with you?’
‘Yes,’ he confirmed. ‘You’ll see the date it was lodged there, under his name. Ah, here we are, if I could just get your signature on this.’ I took the offered paper and pen from his pale hand and scrawled my name. His nails, I saw, were manicured. ‘Thank you. Nice meeting you, Miss Macrae.’ I shook hands again and left the office. Fiona was serving behind her teller’s grille. I fluttered my fingers in her direction on my way out into the bitter cold of the pale-skied day, clutching my package, unable to think where next to look.
Secrets of the Springs Page 6
