Secrets of the Springs

by Kerry McGinnis

‘Why did you marry her?’ I had asked once, utterly bewildered, and he had groaned and buried his face in my hair.

  ‘Because I was stupid and, truth be told, lonely. Besides, I thought I loved her. Back when I didn’t know what love meant.’

  Any starry-eyed eighteen-year-old would have believed him, I thought grimly, pushing the garden gate open. The cottage was compact, a much later construction than the homestead, but solidly built with a neat verandah and its own water tank, the stand of which had been netted in to make a shade house. Creepers covered the netting and within the space I glimpsed a child’s table, the plastic abraded and faded by weather, and a set of tiny chairs, one of which had tipped over and lay as if abandoned in the dirt. Guilt stabbed me again, the sight too emblematic of the damage we had done to lives other than our own.

  The front room of the cottage was both kitchen and living area. There was a gas stove, bakelite canisters above a workbench, a wall clock that ticked loudly and, in the middle of the room, a laminated table holding a condiment set and two table mats. There were mugs in the dish drainer and a calendar tacked to the cupboard. The fridge purred loudly in the silence; I averted my eyes from the jacket thrown across the padded lounge and the walking stick propped beside it and, opening the fridge, found the brisket in a tray on a shelf. Marty was right – it still oozed brine and would need a thorough soaking.

  The cottage reeked of loneliness; the bang of the closing door echoed through silence as I scurried across the verandah and shut the gate behind me. In the throes of my own pain I had wanted him to suffer but somehow, seeing the barren self-sufficiency of his life laid out in this fashion made me feel worse, not better.

  Gradually, room by room, the homestead shed its dust and grime but I was no closer to finding the lock that fitted Palmer’s little key. The linen chest and cupboards yielded a surprising number of oddities, but no box, old-fashioned tea caddy, or document case.

  ‘I don’t know where to look next,’ I admitted to Ben on his second trip. ‘There’re still plenty of rooms to go – what did my grandfather want with five bedrooms, for God’s sake? – but it’s hardly likely to be hidden in them, or the laundry. Why did he hide it at all? That's what really puzzles me. Why not just give it to you, or leave it in his office drawer where it could be found?’

  Ben stirred his coffee thoughtfully. ‘Have you considered that maybe there’s nothing to find? That he meant to write something, then as he got worse he forgot and just thought he’d done it? I imagine that could happen. What do you think, my dear?’

  I saw he was unaware of the endearment, though it registered with Marty for she flushed. ‘Well, I agree it’s possible,’ she said reluctantly. ‘He was very muddled towards the end. But that theory still begs the question – what does the key unlock? It’s not like he acquired it after his illness. He’d had it for years. I even asked him about it once.’

  ‘And he told you it held his secrets,’ I remembered. ‘Well,’ I huffed out an exasperated breath, ‘I just wish I knew where and what they were.’

  ‘It does seem strange,’ Ben agreed, ‘but meanwhile the house is looking splendid. Even the garden has improved.’

  ‘That’s just regular watering. I know,’ I added, ‘it was a long way down the list of imperatives when you’re short-staffed, but it does make a difference. And appearances count with buyers.’

  ‘You’re still determined to sell then?’

  ‘Of course. All that’s changed is that I’m staying on here until it does. And only because where I lived on the island has been sold.’ Kevin had rung the previous evening to pass on the news. He was almost as astonished as I that it had happened so quickly but the galling part was that the new owner planned to develop the old house into an accommodation lodge for visitors, partitioning the long verandahs into cubicles, and ripping up the dune grass to lay a tennis court out the back. So even if I’d had the wherewithal to follow my dream I would have been facing competition. Not for the first time, my ship of dreams had foundered on the hard rocks of reality.

  By Friday the last wall was scrubbed and the rooms smelled only of lemon cleaner and bleach. Those curtains still sound enough to withstand the machine were ready to rehang, and the last of the linen was making its way through the wash. The white paint on the verandah rails looked even shabbier in comparison with the sparkling windows and I wondered if Ben could be persuaded to include a tin of paint in the station’s essential supplies. Of course it wasn’t just the one tin; the timber would have to be scraped and a primer applied, and I’d need brushes as well, and gloves. I had no illusions about that – my hands were soft, unaccustomed to manual work. Still, I would be getting an estimate on Palmer’s furniture in the coming week. Whatever the sale of that was likely to bring, it would surely cover a little paint.

  Which left me still with the major puzzle of Palmer’s key. I had investigated every cupboard, wardrobe, shelf and drawer in the homestead and drawn a blank. Whatever secrets the little brass key concealed seemed destined to remain hidden. The one person whose opinion on the matter I hadn’t sought was Mark’s. The idea seemed silly at first; why would Palmer confide in a mere workman rather than his solicitor? But they must, I reasoned, have spent quite a bit of time in each other’s company. Even if Palmer hadn’t taken Mark into his confidence then mightn’t he still be able to work out where the mysterious ‘cellar’ was? I nerved myself to the task of seeking his help only to find him absent from the breakfast table.

  ‘Gone into the Springs,’ Joe said, forking chops from the pan. The meat the men had brought in was goat, from a wild flock running in one of the rockier paddocks. ‘It’s a regular thing. He leaves early Saturdays, ’n’ eats breakfast with the legal bloke. That’s when they go over the books of the other business.’

  ‘The agency? Of course, I’d forgotten. So, what are you doing today Joe?’

  ‘Bore run, ’n’ I got a fence to fix out at Carmencita. Bulls have been fighting across it. Be back for a latish lunch, Missus, if that’s okay?’

  ‘Of course, I’ll see there’re a few scraps left,’ Marty agreed and he grinned.

  ‘Okey-dokey, that’ll do.’

  ‘Would there be enough scraps for two?’ I asked her, ‘because I might just tag along – if you don’t mind, Joe?’

  ‘Always glad to have a gate-opener.’

  ‘Good.’ I felt a surge of optimism. ‘The hut’s still there is it – at Carmencita?’ He nodded. ‘Great. Is it locked?’ Once even the homestead had not merited a key but the world of the fifties was a different country.

  ‘What’s to lock up? Bit of camp stuff, few rusty tools ’n’ a lot of old junk. Ain’t no one used it, not for camping in any road, these last dozen years.’

  It was sounding more promising by the minute. I would take a pair of heavy gloves from the workshop and if Palmer’s mysterious cache was there I would find it.

  Rattling along the narrow roads around the bores I was surprised to discover how much I remembered. Even to the point of noticing a new – well, new to me – track heading off at right angles from the gate into Kelly’s paddock.

  ‘I don’t recall that, Joe. Where’s it go?’

  ‘To the drafting yards. Built just before the Crash. Old Les Wingate put ’em up. Big job it was.’

  ‘I can imagine. The country looks good, doesn’t it?’ It was as if nothing fundamental in the land had changed. I had ridden these paddocks with my father, pressing Bess into a trot to keep up with his larger mount, the dust and scent of pipe smoke as much a part of the day’s magic as the silvery shimmer of saltbush and the shape of his eyes smiling down at me. The memory prompted a question. ‘Where did you grow up, Joe?’

  ‘Well, now you’re askin’. Man’s so bloody old he forgets.’ He scratched his unshaven cheek while he thought. ‘Lots of places along the south coast of Victoria – Anglesea ’n’ further west. Me old man wasn’t one for settling.’

  ‘A bit different to here.’

  ‘Ye
p. The times ’n’ the country. I was a youngster durin’ the Depression – a jam sandwich for me tea, arse outa me strides, no shoes. Taught me summat but – most of what happens does.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘That bad as things might be there’s usually some poor bugger worse off.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ I said feebly. ‘I mean, I suppose one could be glad of a broken leg if the person in the next bed is dying of cancer.’

  ‘You got it.’ He slammed the brake on and we juddered across a gutter, the lock on the wheels dragging us sideways. I caught a flash from his bloodshot eyes as he straightened us up and changed down. ‘Damn truck must be as old as me. Yeah,’ he continued, ‘you might reckon I ain’t got much to show for myself – temp’ry sorta job, no home, but what about me boss, eh? Crippled up, wife dead, and he can’t see his little girl. Who’s the better off, you reckon?’

  ‘Why can’t he see his daughter? Marty said she was with her grandparents, and of course they’re somewhere on the coast, but there’s nothing to stop him visiting, is there?’

  ‘Yeah, there is. His wife’s folk won’t let him. Threatened to get some sorta court order if he bothers ’em. And I heard – might be wrong – that they’ve made themselves the kid’s legal guardians – or they’re gonna. On account of the talk that was going round at the time. Mind you – talk’s what it were. The cops questioned him but they never arrested him or nothin’ . . .’

  ‘Really? So what were they saying?’

  ‘Why, that he done it on purpose. That he was drunk when it happened.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous!’ The words were out before I thought. ‘Mark doesn’t drink. And even if he did – if he’s changed – he would never, never risk his little girl’s life.’

  ‘Didn’t say it were true. Of course he was in that bad a way when they found him he couldn’t be breathalysed, but the talk started ’n’ it were enough for Gail’s folk to take the kid.’

  ‘So you knew her,’ I asked. ‘His wife?’

  ‘Met ’er once or twice.’ He ruminated for a moment while the Carmencita mill came into view. ‘Course, I never been married but she struck me as a uncomfortable sort of woman to tie yourself too. Dissatisfied, like. Knew a yeller-bay mare like that once – nothin’ suited ’er. Pretty, but vicious. Well,’ he slowed up, slewing the cab into the shade of a stand of mulga, ‘what you reckon – boil the billy first?’

  ‘Why not?’ The trough was bare; too early yet for the stock to be drinking. I could see the tangle of flattened droppers and broken wire across the way and, back behind the tank and mill, the shape of the old hut with its rusty roof and sagging verandah. While Joe lit a fire I dug the smoko gear from the wooden box in the truck bed, tucking the gloves I’d brought under the belt of my jeans. There would be all sorts in the hut, the junk of years. I just hoped it wouldn’t include snakes.

  Fortunately it didn’t. For the relatively modest dimensions of the building, it contained an awful lot of stuff. Lengths of rusty chain, coils of wire, wooden pallets, wire-handled buckets made from various oil drums, some so old their bottoms had rusted out. There was the frame of a stretcher bed, an ancient wood stove and a battered timber table, pointers to the original purpose of the place before it had become a store for rubbish. I turned over various arcane-looking tools – shoeing pincers, blacksmith’s tongs and a lethal-looking pair of outsized secateurs that were surely never made for cutting plants. I found a set of branding numerals and was pondering over a massive pair of plated kidney-shaped vessels when Joe’s shadow darkened the doorway.

  ‘What yer doin’?’

  ‘Sorting this stuff.’ I gestured at my latest find. ‘What on earth are these, Joe?’

  ‘Camel canteens.’

  ‘Really? They look awfully big! And what would they weigh full-up?’

  ‘Nothin’ to worry a camel. Carry half a ton, a bull camel can. They made this country.’

  ‘Yes, my father told me that.’ What I actually remembered him saying was, ‘This country was built on the camel’s back.’ As a nine-year-old I had stood, gap-toothed, my hair in plaits, considering this odd statement, imagining a whole herd of the animals literally carrying the landscape – its sere growth and ochre rocks, and the unimaginable weight of the Barrier Range – all balanced upon their humps.

  ‘However did they stand up with it?’ I had wondered and he had roared with laughter, then cupped my head in his hands and pulled it forward to kiss my brow. A sad little pang of regret stabbed me for things forever lost. I sighed, eyeing the last heap of metal – rusted vehicle springs and some part of a horse harness – stirred it with my foot and turned away.

  ‘There’s nothing here. Are you ready to go?’

  ‘Just about. What’re you lookin’ for?’

  ‘Nothing. It was a silly idea. Why has all this junk been kept, anyway?’

  ‘I guess nobody got round to slingin’ it. More important stuff to worry about.’

  ‘You sound just like Ben,’ I said, stripping off my gloves. ‘Shall we go?’

  Chapter Ten

  Ben was at the homestead when we got back, comfortably ensconced on the sheltered side of the verandah with Marty, drinking tea. The lawn, I noticed as I climbed the front steps, was greening quite nicely, and the dusty geraniums on either side of the steps had freshened up again. One even had bud heads forming. My efforts with the leaky hose were paying off.

  ‘Nice drive?’ Ben asked as I waved to him. ‘Afternoon, Joe.’

  ‘Bit later than I reckoned on us bein’, Missus,’ Joe apologised. ‘We had us a puncture. Boss back yet?’

  ‘He’s stocktaking the warehouse,’ Ben said. ‘He’ll be along later.’

  ‘Right,’ Joe muttered. ‘Well, I better eat and go fix that bas— damn tyre.’

  ‘Lunch is in the warming oven, Orla,’ Marty said. ‘I made pasties. The kettle should be boiling.’

  ‘Thanks, Marty. No, stay there, I’ll fix it.’ They looked very comfortable, almost as if our arrival had interrupted something private. I was happy to see it. Perhaps they had been discussing her future. With all the economies that had been made it seemed unlikely that the station account could afford to pay a cook, but I wasn’t about to ask and perhaps precipitate her leaving.

  When Joe and I had finished our meal and he’d gone off to wrestle with the tyre, I cleaned up, then pouring myself another cup of tea, carried the mug out to join the other two. Ben rose to pull back a wicker chair for me, its white cane sadly faded now to grey – which reminded me.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve come, Ben, though I suppose I could have rung you.’ I took a sip of tea. ‘Do you think the station could spring to a couple of cans of paint and some brushes? This,’ I waved a hand at the railings, ‘could really do with it; so could these chairs. I’d do the work myself and don’t forget we’ll be selling Palmer’s furniture. That ought to cover the expense.’

  ‘I think that’s an excellent idea,’ Marty said. ‘It’ll freshen the place up, make a good first impression.’ She eyed the flaking timber. ‘It’ll need a bit of work first. I could help. That way it’ll be finished in time.’

  ‘In time for what?’ I looked from one to the other. ‘What have you two been cooking up?’

  Ben cleared his throat. ‘It’s just a bit of an idea. About six months back a few of us in town got together and formed a Progress Association, looking at ways to maximise Emu Springs’ potential, in view of the crises that have overtaken both the wool and beef industry.’

  ‘Oh yes? Maximise potential? It sounds pretty serious, or,’ I added mischievously, ‘are you just wearing your legal hat?’

  ‘It is serious, Orla, because the town has lost population over it, and once the drift starts it only goes one way. Every little ghost town proves that. Your uncle was dead keen, so was Joel Patterson, and Jerry Rankin from the Shamrock. I wound up getting the secretary’s job and your uncle became president. We’d barely got started trying to organise some sort of festi
val, as an annual affair, when Joel went bust, then Palmer became ill . . . So we didn’t actually achieve much more than a few inquiries and ideas. But one of them – Gem Hole was going to run with it actually – was to provide tourist accommodation on a property. Give the customers a taste of life in the real outback; living on a station, going out on the run, watching a muster, visiting a shearing shed – that type of thing. Of course you’d have to offer first-rate accommodation and top meals, but with Ellen and this homestead you’ve got both, and the added bonus of you being a direct descendant of the original pioneer owner. Ellen told me of your plan to open a B&B on the island, you see, so I started thinking – well, if you want to do it, why not do it here at Malvern Park?’

  ‘It sounds splendid,’ I said, ‘only where do the customers come from? Nobody stops off in Emu Springs, Ben – not for more than ten minutes. They buy a coffee, a fridge magnet if they’re feeling reckless, maybe take a pic – and they’re gone.’

  ‘Because they think there’s nothing to stay for,’ he replied. ‘We show them that there is.’

  ‘How?’ I asked sceptically. ‘Running ads? It would cost thousands. I know, I looked into it back on the island. In the end I worked out that I didn’t need to because you could stick up a flyer in the shop in Currie, which is where the weekly boat service docks, and everyone that arrived would see it there. And it was the shop that people rang with their queries about weather and accommodation and what you could see. But King Island’s well known and who’s even heard of Emu Springs? That approach won’t work.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed readily, ‘not magazine ads or television, but we would need a voice of some description to speak with authority about what we can offer, and luckily we have one. I got the letter yesterday, which is why I’m here today. Well, that and your kind invitation of course. You see, a couple of years back the state government was looking into ways to keep little bush towns viable. The crisis in the pastoral industry was shutting them down – schools were closing as families left, and that began a domino effect until it became a game of first-to-the-bottom for the rest – bus drivers, mechanics, hairdressers – all the little businesses. And if it didn’t include your uncle’s, it certainly impinged upon it. Services dried up . . . a disaster all round. Eventually the government started funding grants to stimulate local economies in an effort to halt the rot.’