‘You’ll see.’ He undid the ties along the full strain of fence, allowing the wires to sag, then, while I held Ambler’s reins, went off into the scrub and returned carrying a length of dead wood over his shoulder. He dropped it across the wires, stretching them down into a V, and led the horses across beside the log, then retied the strands behind us. ‘Use your nut and you’ll get round most things.’ I had thought him clever and had boasted about it at school – how we had ridden through a fence without cutting it or using a gate. It was all too easy now to see him applying the same methods in the matter of taking my mother as his wife. Change Henry to Harry and alter the spelling of his surname while keeping the sound of it. The marriage – a registry office affair, I remembered Mum saying once – must have occurred somewhere else, for when they reached the Park it was as man and wife. His previous marriage to Lillian must have been kept very quiet for it not to have ever surfaced but I imagined that more than a few couples must have lost track of one another during the war years, and Lillian may well have found someone else.
‘Orla?’ I had the sense it was the second time Ben had spoken my name.
‘Hmm – sorry?’
‘You’re away with the fairies. I’m here to help, remember?’ He rose from his chair rubbing his hands. ‘So where do I start?’
When I actually looked at it, Joe and I had made fair inroads on the old paint work. Swathed in Marty’s full-length pinnies (‘You’ll ruin that good shirt!’), Ben and I got down to it, and by dusk when he straightened up with a rueful grimace, there wasn’t a speck of white left on the railings or their support timbers.
‘Thank you, Ben, that’s marvellous.’ I unclenched my fingers from the sanding block that Joe had made for me and brushed fine grains of sawdust from my jeans. ‘I’ll get the primer on in the morning and sand it over after lunch. That’s what the tin says.’
‘Always good to listen to paint tins,’ he agreed straight-faced, then groaned and brushed at his cotton coverings. ‘I won’t be able to straighten up tomorrow.’
I smiled. ‘You know I used to think solicitors were a stuffy bunch. You could serve as a poster boy to show they’re not.’
‘Well, thank you, ma’am. On behalf of my legal brothers I’m happy to act as your proof.’
‘Um,’ I said, ‘reverting to earlier matters . . . when do you think we’ll hear about our guests?’
He shook his head. ‘Orla, Orla, will you quit fretting? You know as well as I do when the mail reaches town.’
‘Yes, but what if —?’
‘It won’t – whatever it is. They’ll love the experience. It’s their idea to come, remember? Nobody made them book.’
I sighed. ‘I keep imagining horrors – the power failing, the bore packing it in . . . But you’re right of course.’
‘Good.’ He removed the apron and ran a hand through his thinning hair. ‘I could eat an ox. Shall we go and see what culinary delights there are for dinner?’
‘Honestly, Ben. I sometimes wonder if it’s Marty you love, or her cooking.’ The words were out before I thought, and I would have called them back but he didn’t take offence.
‘It’s all part of the same package. Appreciating art needn’t lesson one’s feelings for the artist.’
‘Of course not.’ I was abashed by his dignity and gave him a penitent smile. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to tease.’
‘That’s all right, my dear.’ But he sighed as we went inside.
I went off for a shower before Marty sounded the dinner bell. Joe turned up when it rang, greeting Ben familiarly. ‘Thought you law blokes never left yer office? I see yer finished the job out front, Orla. Looks good.’
‘With Ben’s help. I’ll start painting tomorrow.’ I eyed the empty setting. ‘What’s happened to Mark?’
‘He went to the Hill lookin’ for spare parts. We started the diesel up at the shearin’ shed yesterday, to check the gear. Turns out a couple things on the plant are cactus. Hardly surprisin’ – been sitting there twenty odd years. Gotta get ’em workin’ if you want yer sheep shorn.’
‘Do we?’ I asked Ben. ‘It seems a lot of trouble – I just assumed everything would be in place, but to have to spend money on it . . . Would it matter if we just skipped it?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s part of the package.’ He made quote marks with his fingers. ‘“See a sheep being shorn, learn the history of the station, experience the arid beauty of the saltbush country . . .” You have to deliver on what you promise if you’re to succeed in the venture.’
‘Sounds to me like what you promised, Ben. If they expect history I had better look up Grandfather Charles’ records and see if I can cram a few facts into my head.’ I felt butterflies flapping in my stomach. ‘But what will interest a tourist?’
‘Just about anything that’s different to their lives,’ he said easily. ‘How the shearing shed worked for instance – the chutes, the board, the wool press. Joe can tell you all that. Get the wool prices off pat – what it was worth in its heyday, what it had sunk to when your father switched to beef. Show them the old tools and your grandfather’s buggy. Tell them about bores – very few city folk understand how they work.’
‘I’m not sure I do either. How the mill actually gets the water up, I mean.’
‘Well, ask Mark. It’ll be fine, Orla, you’ll see. Tell them you were born here and just talk about what you know.’
Joe grinned, showing gappy lower teeth. ‘And make up what yer don’t. Works every time.’
When the meal was over I pushed my chair back saying, ‘That was delicious, Marty. I want to ring Kevin before it gets past his bedtime so if you let the dishes wait a bit I’ll give you a hand later.’
‘Take your time.’ Ben turned his head to give me a wink. ‘I’ll deputise for you.’
I took my cue. ‘Thanks. I’ll make the coffee after, then.’
The connection was good; Kevin sounded as if he were in the room with me. I settled down to listen to an account of their new lives – the convenience of living on one level, the progress of Rose’s healing, ‘Still on pain-killers but slowly pulling round’, and the kindness of the nurse who came in twice a day to tend her. He asked what I was doing and because he and Rose were as dear to me as my real parents had been, I found myself telling him about my father’s bigamy. I wouldn’t mention the murders – that was a burden they didn’t need – but the hurt and betrayal I felt at Dad’s treachery poured out willy-nilly. I finished on a gulp and sniff. ‘I know it’s silly, Kevin. It’s just timing and a bit of paper. It shouldn’t matter to me but it does!’
‘Of course it does, Orla. It’s natural it should. This has shown you that your father was a man rather than a figure on a pedestal. He was your dad and you adored him. If you’d been older when he died you’d have been more critical of him. You’d have seen he was human and capable of making mistakes like any other man.’
I said heatedly, ‘Kevin, I can’t believe you’re going to say what he did was okay. A criminal offence is more than a mistake!’
‘All right, don’t eat me.’ The bluff voice was mild; I could almost see the understanding twinkle in his eyes. ‘No, I’m not saying it makes it right, but understanding how a thing could happen makes it easier to forgive – and that’s the root of it, isn’t it, girl? All these years you’ve believed in the memories you had of him, but now they’ve been overturned, and you’ve lost the solace they gave you. Is that about right?’
I swallowed a lump in my throat, anger draining to leave me feeling suddenly weepy. ‘How did you know?’
His chuckle was comforting. ‘I’m nearly eighty-five, Orla, and life’s a great teacher. I lived through a couple of world wars and the Great Depression. And the thing about serving in a war is that it changes you. You see the rules all swept away; you see terrible things done – and maybe do some of them yourself . . . It’s a complete disruption of everything that’s supposed to matter, and if you survive it, well, maybe you can see how a m
an might come to believe that a bit of paper isn’t so important after all.’
‘It still isn’t right,’ I said stubbornly, ‘but yes – I can see how you might look at it that way.’ He was silent. I held the phone comforted by the knowledge of his presence. ‘Thank you, Kevin. He – Dad – used to say, “What the eye doesn’t see . . .” Just about little things, you know. Sort of winking when we broke minor rules, because Mum was pretty strict.’
‘Keeping the balance,’ he agreed. ‘Rose was the same with ours. You should remember too, my dear that nobody comes back unchanged from war. However deep they bury it, the suffering’s still there, and that can excuse a lot in a man’s own mind.’
‘I’ll try,’ I promised and sniffed. ‘I’m glad I told you. It’s not the sort of thing you want to broadcast. Only my solicitor knows here, and Marty. You’d like her. I wish you could meet.’ We talked a little longer before saying goodbye. A glance at the clock showed I had been on the phone a little over half an hour but I lingered beside it, my hand still on the hand-piece, thinking over what Kevin had said.
Ben’s tap on the door had me starting guiltily to my feet. ‘I haven’t forgotten. I’ll get the coffee going this instant.’
‘Not on my account, Orla. I’m off. I just came to say goodnight.’
He sounded tired, his usual cheerful manner in abeyance.
‘Oh but —’ I floundered. ‘Where’s Marty?’
‘Gone to bed. Thanks for the meal, Orla. I’ll be in touch.’ He turned, leaving before I could frame a suitable question.
I hurried after him, calling, ‘Thanks for helping with the verandah, Ben. I’ll let you know, shall I, when the letter comes about the guests?’
‘If you want.’ He was on the steps. Belatedly I switched on the outside light and stood beneath it until he reached his car, watching bemused as he vanished behind his headlights along the road to town.
Wondering what had happened, I returned to the empty kitchen where everything had been washed and tidied away. The tea towels were on their racks, the saucepans in their cupboards, the meat board and knives set on the table ready to carve the chops for the men’s breakfast. Marty’s door was firmly shut. I hovered indecisively then braved the chill of the verandah to check her window, but no light shone through the curtains. What had happened in that brief interval over the washing up? I couldn’t imagine. Well, it was none of my business and I shouldn’t interfere.
Sighing for the problems besetting us all I switched off the lights and, trailing back through the silent house, sought my own bed.
Chapter Seventeen
In the morning Marty rebuffed my tentative questioning.
‘I don’t want to discuss it, Orla.’
‘Okay.’ I knew not to push her. The men’s boots sounded outside, Joe’s purposeful tread and Mark’s halting one. Joe parked his hat as usual on the hook behind the door. ‘Mornin’ Missus, Orla.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Bit parky out there.’
Mark, coming in behind him, nodded a quieter greeting. ‘Morning all.’ He dropped his hat on the corner of the ladder-back chair where he normally sat.
‘Did you manage to get the part you wanted?’ I asked stiffly. I could hear the artificialness in my voice – it was there every time I addressed him – but it was less noticeable, I thought, than ignoring him would be.
‘Yep.’ He spoke over his shoulder, forking chops onto his plate at the range. ‘I’ll get it fitted today. When are your guests turning up?’
‘In eight – no, seven days’ time.’ I felt a moment’s panic at the reminder.
‘Right. Not a problem then.’
‘A week.’ Joe scratched his chin with a horny thumb. ‘Jeez! It’s fifteen years since I had me hands in wool, ’n’ that was only daggin’. Be a miracle if a man still remembers how to shear.’
‘It’ll come back to you,’ Mark said dryly. ‘I won’t need your help this morning so you can give Orla a hand with her painting.’
‘Right yer are.’ He turned to me, ‘Dunno why I never thought of it before but I done a bit o’ sign-painting once, for an old bloke who used to do them fiddly bits o’ squiggles you see on vehicles, you know?’ I frowned, trying to follow what he meant, but didn’t interrupt as he continued, ‘Anyways, I was thinking if you was wantin’ some signs . . .’
‘Joe, you’re a genius! Yes, we should certainly have one beside the road – at the boundary gate perhaps? Welcome to Malvern Park and maybe something about the attractions? I’ll think about the wording.’ I looked at Mark. ‘Is there anything lying around we could use for a sign? I imagine it would cost a fair bit to buy but on the other hand it shouldn’t look too amateurish either . . .’
‘I’ll take a look. There’s steel enough to weld a frame for it, and pipe for the legs. Depends on the size.’
‘Not too small,’ Marty put in suddenly, adding, ‘If there’s room, we could advertise morning teas. After all, why confine yourself to Station Stays, Orla? You could have day trippers too. People could drive out from town, tour the shearing shed, say, and be served a morning tea on the verandah. What do you think?’
‘That you’re brilliant too,’ I said fervently. ‘So we should have a second sign, Joe, for the Springs end of the road, on the turn-off from town, showing them where to come. And I’d better brush up on my cooking – you can’t do all this yourself, Marty.’
‘Rubbish – a few extra scones and cakes are nothing. Waitressing skills, that’s what we’ll need if it takes off.’
Joe looked meaningfully at Mark. ‘Let’s hope our bellies don’t get forgotten in the rush.’
‘Yes, you look like you’re suffering,’ Marty responded tartly, but she was smiling, the shadow of last night momentarily banished from her face.
We spent the following morning painting. After lunch, Mark’s task apparently completed, the two men left in the Land Rover for an unspecified destination and I carried on alone. I’d finished by evening and, when the last stroke of the brush had been completed, stood back to admire my work. The difference made by the paint and the now tended garden was heartening. The homestead looked as trim and welcoming as it had when my mother ran it. Abandoning the turpentine-soaked rag with which I had been scrubbing my hands, I located the two large earthenware pots whose contents had been on the point of death when I first watered them. It was a struggle to shift them but I eventually had them positioned on the verandah, flanking the steps, the now healthy plants a robust green against the white railings.
‘What do you think, Marty?’ She had been harvesting mint and its clean distinctive aroma clung to her person like scent as she came to stand beside me.
‘It looks wonderful.’ Putting her head on one side she considered it. ‘Serene and gracious, but with a touch of homey. Exactly the sort of impression you want to give. I’ve been thinking about the teas, Orla. We should serve them in the kitchen rather than the verandah – less likelihood that way of people straying into the rest of the house. Your guests are one thing; you’ll have their details just as a hotel would. But you’ve no recourse against casual callers nicking stuff, or just generally making a mess.’
‘You’re right. Still, let’s hope for more genuine punters than thieves or axe murderers,’ I said lightly. ‘The mail will come tomorrow. I’ll head into the Springs first thing in the morning and see who it is that’s coming to stay. I don’t think I can settle until I at least know their names.’
‘Names won’t make a difference,’ she pointed out. ‘It’s not who, but how many, that matters.’
Emu Springs drowsed in thin winter sunshine when I drove in next day. I went first to the post office and used the station key to collect the mail from the box. There was a note included to tell me a package was awaiting collection. I tapped on the little door labelled Parcels and gave the slip to the thin-faced man in spectacles who answered my knock. He went off, returning with a document-sized parcel. It was addressed to me, and had been posted, according to the frank on the
stamps, in Broken Hill. There was no sender’s address. Intrigued, I dropped it into my bag to join the letters there, and headed for the hardware store to buy bright enamel paints for Joe’s sign-making.
After that I had coffee at the Damson, which had had a makeover from the old Bluebird Cafe that I remembered. They must have gutted the original and started again, for the counter was on the opposite side of the room and plate glass had replaced the louvred windows. Aluminium tables and chairs crowded the pavement below bright umbrellas, presently closed. It was such a nice morning, for once without wind, that I carried my coffee outside to enjoy the warmth of the sun as I drank it and read the mail. There were two letters for Mark but the rest was mostly junk – the station accounts must, I thought, be sent direct to Casselot and Evans. But there was the one I was seeking from Tourism New South Wales. Using the handle of my spoon as a paper-knife, I ripped it open and scanned the contents.
Four members of the one family would, it seemed, be our first station-stayers. A Mr and Mrs Jameson; their nine-year-old daughter, Heather; and a Mr Collins, who was the grandfather. They had no special dietary requirements (that issue, I was dismayed to realise, had never occurred to me) and would be staying for three nights. They were travelling in their own vehicle and would prefer to be met in Emu Springs and guided to the property —
‘Orla,’ Ben said, pulling back the chair opposite. ‘I didn’t expect to see you today. How’s the painting going?’
‘Good morning, Ben. It’s finished. I came in to pick up this.’ I showed him the letter, which he scanned with practised ease.
‘Guided,’ he quoted. ‘They must think we’re in the wilds out here. Well, that’s what they’re buying after all.’
Secrets of the Springs Page 16
