‘So they’re going to – what? Pay for a rodeo or a rock festival in Emu Springs? Wouldn’t the Hill already have bigger and better ones?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘They plumped for tourism. Using the actual country as the drawcard rather than something introduced. As I said, I just got the offer. Our application for it went in months ago but these things always take time. The Tourism Board liked our idea. And they’ve decided to send us a trial package if you agree – four or five guests – to sample a Station Stay. That’s how they’ll style it. We nominate a date and the guests arrive for a short visit – two or three days – then they report back to the board overseeing the venture. A good report means the Tourism Board will go all out for us with a twelve-month advertising blitz of the region, free of charge. Life Beyond The Barrier will be their slogan. Of course it will take work and time but in the long run it’s got to be worth a try. Particularly as the Tourism lot will select your first half-dozen parties.’
‘How? Are there going to be so many lining up for it?’
‘You bet.’ He gave a boyish grin. ‘They’re organising it like a competition. A free holiday for those who can make a case for why they want to sample “country” living. Those chosen for the visit get it gratis, but the Tourism Board pays you the full whack. In effect, it’s a grant from the government for helping yourself stay viable.’
‘Really?’ I chewed my lip. ‘It almost sounds too good to be true. What do you think, Marty? Would you want to cook for a bunch of strangers? I mean, they might be horrible.’
‘Were you worried about horrible guests coming to your B&B?’ she asked.
‘No – I mean, well, I hadn’t got that far,’ I said frankly. ‘Anyway, I wasn’t planning to feed them.’
‘Well, I’d be happy to do that. And as Ben says, everything’s here – dining room, bedrooms – we could get a couple of gas lamps, perhaps, for the bedrooms for when the power is off, and point out to them that living off grid is part of the experience. And it’d solve another problem for you, too.’
‘Which is?’
‘Your uncle’s fancy china and silver and glassware – rather than selling it, you could put it all to good use. Your guests won’t be expecting dinner served on Crown Derby plates.’
‘You’re probably right.’ I drew a breath, tossed a mental coin and nodded. ‘Okay, Ben. I’m willing to try it. So – how long do we have to prepare?’
‘I imagine there’ll be a bit of a lag – they have to select their winners, and the lucky ones will need to organise time off from work or whatever. What about we say three weeks from now? Might take longer but we want to fit in as many parties as possible before summer shuts us down.’
‘Okay.’ I looked at Marty. ‘You’re sure you’re up for this – because I can’t do it on my own.’
Her normally reserved expression was replaced by a wide smile. ‘Of course I am! I think it’s a great idea.’
‘Good,’ Ben beamed. ‘I’ll talk to Mark too; there’ll be stuff he can help with – taking them round the property, seeing they don’t get lost. Maybe Joe can pitch in as well. The good thing is it’s just a few days at a time so it won’t interfere too much with the real work of the place.’
‘Heaven forbid!’ I said lightly as I rose to collect the cups and carry them indoors.
It was a lot to take in. I touched the scabious grey railings and tried to look at the homestead through a stranger’s eyes. Familiarity needn’t breed contempt, I thought, but it could dull your perception of reality. My week here had re-accustomed me to the lines and proportions of my old home so that, compared to the golden haze memory had given it, I now saw it as no more than a comfortable house with intermittent power. Was that how a theoretical guest would view it? Grandfather had built for the climate with wide windows and high ceilings. The rooms were generously proportioned, the thick stone walls a barrier to heat and cold. And twenty-odd years before when my parents had refurbished the place there had been generous wool cheques to fund the expense of the quality furnishings lavished upon it. A guest, I thought, might be surprised by the degree of comfort it offered.
Marty and I had been spending our evenings in the kitchen, warmed by the slow combustion stove. That wouldn’t be suitable though for paying customers, so we’d need to light a fire for them in the winter parlour. It might be an idea to test it out first, ensure that the chimney wasn’t blocked. And cherry-pick the linen to put aside the best for those I was hosting. Marty’s suggestion about the dinner set too . . . I felt energised, my brain fizzing with plans. Could we make use of Palmer’s cellar? How long did it take for premises to become licensed to provide alcohol? Ben would know, or if he didn’t I was sure he could find out. I was suddenly impatient to start and wished that I had not wasted the morning in my fruitless quest. I could have gone into the Springs, bought the stuff I’d need to start painting, but it was too late now – and tomorrow was Sunday.
Well, I could still test the chimney. I went to check the wood barrow but found it too depleted to raid. Joe then. I would find him, ask him to cut some more logs – but halfway to the quarters, common sense overcame my enthusiasm. It was late on a Saturday, and checking the chimney wasn’t that urgent. I was sure the men weren’t getting paid overtime, so Monday would have to do.
I stood irresolute where I’d stopped in front of the vehicle shed, testing my feelings as cautiously as one does one’s tooth when the pain suddenly ceases. I had not yet gone there but had subconsciously known that at some point I must, if I meant to stay. And it now seemed that I would. Taking a deep breath I pulled open the door of the Nissan and slid in behind the wheel. The sun was still what Dad described as ‘an axe handle’ above the horizon so there was plenty of time. I would be home before dark with the matter settled for good.
I drove slowly, chased by the Nissan’s shadow for the Park lay due west of Emu Springs. A vagrant memory came of winter mornings, bouncing on the seat, eyes half shut against the dazzling light, being driven to school by my mother. ‘Mummy I can’t see.’ I could hear my voice now, tinny and shrill like an old recording.
‘Well, it’s a good thing you don’t have to.’ There was a laugh in her voice. ‘Shut your eyes, or pull your hat down.’
But there was magic in the caress of the sun’s fingers on my skin and the brilliant pinpoints of light that were the result of staring into it for fleeting seconds. When I looked round, my mother’s face was rimmed in gold from the after flash and I remembered how I had laughed. ‘You’re all sunny, Mummy! Like a golden angel.’
‘Then I guess you must be my little cherub, huh?’ She had reached to brush back a strand of my hair. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to plait that for you?’
The ghostly voices vanished for, despite my turtle-like speed, I had arrived. The roofless shell of the stone cottage with the squared-off block of chimney was before me. Remembering all the times I had pedalled my bike that way, I turned the Nissan off the road and ran it in under the spreading arms of the pepper tree, killed the engine and sat, listening to the silence. It was very quiet; achingly so. Cracking the door open I caught only the whisper of the wind and the far-off cawing of a crow heading west. My shadow stretched before me, climbing the ruined cottage wall where the ragged ends of the roof rafters that had been tied into the stone work could still be seen. I splayed my palm against the tree trunk, fingers searching for the heart I had carved there as a teenager, but I couldn’t find it. Perhaps I hadn’t cut deeply enough and the tree had sloughed the impression off, layering it over with fresh bark. As time had layered over our love with betrayal and regret.
I turned to the cottage, the crumbling walls that had sheltered our trysts, and for one wild heartbeat it was as if the years had rolled back; gravel crunched beneath a boot sole as Mark limped into view from the far side of the cottage.
He looked as astonished as I felt, though doubtless not as dismayed. My first thought was to flee but before I could turn, he spoke. ‘Orla!
What are you doing here?’
‘I might,’ I said tightly, ‘ask you the same thing.’
‘I’m just thinking,’ he replied. ‘I often come here for that. What’s your reason?’
‘I can’t see that it’s any of your business. How did you get here?’ I coloured then, remembering his lameness, ‘I mean —’
‘I spend Saturdays at the agency. I’m on my way home.’ He jerked his head. ‘My vehicle’s back there. Look Orla, can we talk? This is the first time I’ve caught you alone and I wanted —’
‘There’s nothing to say,’ I interrupted him. ‘Apart from the rather obvious fact that it’s over. You were married and I was a headstrong silly girl – one of thousands, I don’t doubt. Not by any means the first to let her romantic notions overcome her common sense. But at least I finally found gumption enough to end it.’
‘You left without a word. I was frantic! What was I supposed to think?’
The injustice of this stopped my breath, then rage roared through me. ‘Well, how about what you should have thought of first? That you had no business carrying on with a teenager behind your wife’s back. If I’d been older that alone should have served as a warning. Told me the sort of man you were. Right, I know I threw myself at you. But I didn’t notice you running away,’ I said bitterly. ‘But you didn’t have to, did you? You knew you were safe with a good Catholic wife who wouldn’t divorce you, so there was nothing to stop you having it at home and away as well, was there?’
He raised a hand as if to stem the flow then let it drop. His face was unreadable as my crude words pelted him, but the blue eyes had hardened to stone. He said unemotionally, ‘I loved you, Orla. But if that’s how you remember it then it’s plain I was wasting my time.’ He turned and limped back the way he had come and standing there, shaking and shattered by the encounter, I suddenly longed to call him back. Anger immediately conquered this weakness, then his vehicle revved to life and a moment later drove into view veering towards the road, the gear change as he accelerated perfectly audible above the engine noise. Good, one half of me thought vengefully, some of my words at least must have hit their mark, but the other half wanted to cry, No! I didn’t mean it. Come back!
I had come here to exorcise the ghost of our affair, to reflect serenely from an adult perspective on the tumultuous experience of the past, but any sort of calm was impossible now. In the fading glow of sunset I paced under the fractured door lintel, too upset for reflection, my eyes scarcely noting what they rested on. The dirt floor held a scattering of dead leaves and the back corner was piled with dried roly-poly. There was the wooden bench – half a tree trunk resting on two stumps – and the open hearth where, presumably, Great-grandfather had cooked his meals. A huge old cast-iron kettle with the curly handle of the times still rested beside it. We had kindled fires on those blackened stones to supplement the warmth of each other’s arms. He would drive from the stock camp of an evening to be with me, and had fretted over the need for me to bike back to town alone, but I had never let him take me home as he had wanted. The risk was too great – for him, I said; besides, I could look after myself.
The fallacy of that boast was plainly obvious when, for the last time I had crept from my bedroom and fled town, two months into a pregnancy that should not have happened. I had staked everything on Mark’s willingness to follow me and had lost – a situation as old, I supposed, as sex itself. A stock music-hall comedy almost: A padded belly on the stage and the bathetic line, ‘’E done me wrong.’
Well, he had. I had sent word, begging for his assurance and help – I flushed now to think of that letter that had vanished into silence – and then I had found my pride and helped myself. And months later, my elderly saviours had turned up with their kindness and compassion. My eyes pricked and I blinked, too angry still to succumb to the relief of tears. I must ring them tonight, I thought, to find out how Rose was, and if the vendors had settled on the house contract yet, though it was probably too soon. The sale should see them comfortably to the end of their days. But I couldn’t return home yet, not in this state, and face them all over the dinner table. Taking a deep breath, I wandered back outside to lean against the western wall and watch the first stars prick out.
It wasn’t yet quite dark but the wind was rising and I shivered, pulling the neck of my jacket closed. Something touched my foot; the primitive part of my brain screeched ‘Snake!’ and I jerked, kicking out in fright to send the piece of dried roly-poly spinning away. The toe of my shoe hooked in something and I almost fell. Wobbling to stay upright, I swore, then bent to investigate, and that was how I discovered the trapdoor of my great-grandfather’s cellar.
Chapter Eleven
Afterwards, when I’d had time to think about it, it was obvious. Anybody trying to live through a Barrier summer under pioneer conditions would naturally dig a cellar. Underground was the coolest place to be. In Coober Pedy, where summer temperatures were every bit as extreme as those around the Barrier country, the people themselves lived underground. All the pioneers must have had a cellar in which to store their food – salted meat, whatever vegetables they could garner, anything tinned. Dad had told me about the crates of bully beef tins the army had fed from in the Sinai Desert, how they swelled in the baking heat, softening the solder and letting the air in. A tin thus contaminated could poison a man. It would have been no different here. Those families with goats could probably even keep scalded milk for a short time underground. How spacious the cellar was would depend on the size of the family using it.
Great-grandfather’s proved to be adequate for his needs, modest as they probably were. But I only learned that the following day when Joe and I returned to investigate. All I accomplished that evening in the rapidly falling dark was to ascertain, with a screwdriver from the Nissan’s tool bag, the size of the actual trapdoor, a heavy object plated with metal that I tried – and failed – to lift. At this point common sense overcame curiosity. I would see nothing in the dark anyway – best to return tomorrow, with Joe and possibly a ladder. The important thing was I had found it, though why Palmer would choose such an odd place to cache something was beyond me. If, of course, he had; that remained to be seen.
I said nothing of my find to the others over dinner. Instead Ben, still at the homestead when I got back, explained our plans for hosting tourists to the two men, his enthusiasm for the venture plain. He turned a bright gaze on Joe, who seemed to have doubts, as he asked, ‘Yeah, I can see ’em stayin’, but what’re they gonna do? I mean, a bunch of townies – it’s not like there’s a beach, or fishin’ to fill their time here.’
‘That’s where I thought you could help. You’ve done a bit of shearing, haven’t you?’
‘Well, I can get a fleece off if I have to,’ Joe agreed, ‘but I ain’t no shearer.’
‘That’s good enough,’ Ben said. ‘You could give demos. We could hire or buy a few sheep – half a dozen would do for starters – and hand feed them in the yards maybe. Perhaps get an orphan lamb or two that the kids could feed. What do you think, Orla? Mark could drive the guests around the run, boil the billy, that sort of thing. And there’s the shearing shed – the wool press, the sorting table – plenty of interesting stuff for people who’ve never even seen a fleece. Orla can give them the station’s history and with Ellen’s cooking . . .’ He beamed at us, an architect proud of his plans. ‘You’ll have the happiest tourists in all of New South Wales.’
Mark, who up to this point had contributed little to the conversation, said, ‘It’d be tying us down to extra work, feeding sheep, bottling lambs. You sure it’s going to be worth it, Ben? Not just some flash in the pan that’ll leave the place out of pocket?’
Nettled that Ben’s opinion should be sought over mine, I said coldly, ‘I think it’s worth trying and it’s my decision that counts. I do own the Park and I’ll be doing most of the work – and Marty of course. The occasional drive around shouldn’t tax you too much.’
Joe jumped in at th
is point, saying, ‘What about the old blacksmith’s shop? There’s my mate Les Wingate, used to do a bit o’ smithin’ – maybe you could get him to come out, light up the forge and knock out a bit o’ metal for ’em? He’s good. Learned the trade off his dad, who made all the horseshoes round the Springs. Back before the war, that was. The first war.’
‘Wingate.’ The name triggered a memory. ‘Didn’t you say he built the drafting yards?’
‘Yeah. He did yard buildin’, fencin’. Handy old bloke.’
‘That’s a great idea,’ Ben’s enthusiasm bubbled from him. ‘Exactly what we’re looking for – a way to showcase the old skills. I take it he’s retired, Joe?’
‘Yeah, still got plenty o’ muscle, but. Be worth askin’. He likely sits around all day with nothin’ much to do – might jump at the chance.’
I listened, saying little, relieved when Mark made his excuses the moment the meal was over. Joe drained his mug and followed, then once the dishes that he insisted on helping with were done, it was Ben’s turn. He seemed as energised as ever, leaving with a spring in his step and a promise to get things underway immediately with the tourism people.
‘Well, there’s one person happy,’ I commented as the vehicle lights vanished behind the mulga.
Marty gave me a searching look. ‘You are okay with this, Orla? You’ve been very quiet all evening.’
‘I think it’s brilliant,’ I said truthfully. ‘The way Ben’s set it up we can hardly lose. Unless we’re very unlucky with our customers it’s money for jam – the first twelve months anyway. What about you, Marty? I mean, I know I said that I couldn’t do it without you, but if you really don’t want to stay on I’ll understand.’
Secrets of the Springs Page 10
