‘So it seems.’ I lifted my cup for another sip. ‘Are you having a coffee?’
‘It’s what I came for.’ He went into the cafe to order and returned, sitting down and leaning his forearms on the table. I told him about the signs.
‘Good idea. Add a phone number to them; people will often ring up where they won’t bother writing.’ He tapped the letter. ‘You’ve got a good mix of ages in your guests. Mind you, they probably chose them for that reason. You’ll be able to experiment – see what the kid likes most, how tiring the granddad finds a day out on the run, that sort of thing. Then you can tailor the entertainment for your next group. Thanks.’ His coffee had come; he shook sugar into it and stirred the froth. ‘How’s Ellen?’
I said cautiously, ‘She’s fine, Ben. And she’s come up with a new idea – day visitors. So I’ve been wondering about getting some flyers printed for around town, encouraging travellers to come out to the Park for a tour of the shearing shed and stuff, and a cuppa in the kitchen. Do you think there’d be any takers?’
‘It could work,’ he nodded, ‘and no outlay to speak of if it doesn’t. Providing you’ve got time for it on top of your other guests.’
‘Marty’s not worried about the extra cooking, says it won’t amount to much. And it’s not like we’ll be dealing with dozens a day – not at first, anyway. One or two cars a week, I expect, if we’re lucky.’
‘Mmm.’ He laid aside the spoon and said abruptly, ‘Can I ask your advice?’
‘Well, yes —?’
‘As a woman,’ he clarified. He folded the letter and fitted it back into its envelope. ‘It’s Ellen. She’s not – I mean, I don’t . . .’ He stopped, took a breath and tried again. ‘I can’t make her out,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve known her for ages, and I really like her. No, I’m crazy about her, but every time I try to get closer, to move things on, she . . .’ He shook his head, baffled. ‘Damn it, Orla, I want to marry her, but the moment I get too close she shuts me down.’
‘Like the other night?’
He nodded, a picture of misery. ‘It’s neither a yes nor a no. More like, “don’t go there”, but if a platonic relationship suits her, it’s not what I had in mind.’
‘No.’ I watched an obese old man waddle past, leading a fat pug dog on a leash. A car horn sounded up the street, a short beep, as if to gain someone’s attention. ‘Marty’s always been a very private person. Perhaps . . . is she a widow, Ben? I’ve never asked but could it simply be she’s not free to marry?’
‘I’ve always understood he died.’
‘Did she tell you that?’
He frowned. ‘I think it was Palmer – he said, or implied anyway, that her husband was dead. If he’s not then he can’t matter to her. She’s been alone since she came to the Springs.’ His shoulders slumped. ‘Maybe she just doesn’t want to marry again. Not me, at any rate.’
‘But I know she likes you.’ I bit my lip, wishing I hadn’t let that slip but the quickness with which his head came up and the sudden brightening of his face decided me and I threw caution aside. ‘I teased her once about you being gone on her and she got quite upset, forbade me to say anything to you. “He’s a good man and I won’t have him upset.” That’s what she said, as near as I can remember. And you know how she fusses about feeding you. If that doesn’t show she cares for you, what does?’
He sighed, his coffee still untasted before him. I touched his wrist. ‘I’m sorry. I wish I could help. Unrequited love is hell, isn’t it?’
He looked searchingly at me. ‘Is that what happened to you? Because there’s something . . . you look so sad at times, Orla, as if you’ve the weight of the world on your shoulders. You’re too young for that.’
I laughed shakily. ‘No, no – this is the agony aunt’s column, not True Confessions. My advice, Ben? Give it a week before you see her again. Let her miss you a bit and see what happens.’
‘Thanks.’ He dredged up a smile. ‘I’ll try it. I don’t know anybody else, any women I mean, whom I could ask. She and Palmer both – they were always outsiders in this town, despite all the years they lived here.’ I had never previously thought of this but it was true. Marty had run my uncle’s house, cooking his dinners and attending to the shopping and other chores, but she had never been one for going out, except to school functions. Nor, to my knowledge, had other women dropped in on her for coffee and gossip, the way Fee’s mother’s friends did.
I rose, tucking the paper napkin under my empty cup. ‘I have to go. But if the chance arises with Marty, be sure I’ll put in a word for you.’
‘Thanks,’ he said again. ‘Don’t forget this.’ He handed me the letter from the Tourism Board, which I placed into my bag, remembering as my fingers touched it that I hadn’t yet got round to opening the package. Well, I could do it in the car. I smiled at him and left, but glancing behind me as I crossed the street, saw him still sitting there unmoving, in front of his cooling coffee.
Back in the Nissan I belted myself in then pulled the packet from my bag. It was a magazine on antiques, glossy paper with detailed pictures and a note stuck to the cover. Orla, thought you might find this interesting. Page seven. Hope to see you again soon. Alec. The word ‘soon’ had been crammed in as an afterthought. I found page seven, which dealt with bronzes in all shapes and sizes and one in particular in the form of a lamp stand, not unlike the one from Palmer’s place. He had circled it, together with the information that a similar item had sold recently in Britain for 1500 pounds. Underneath was a pencilled message: Same artist as yours. A.
It was heartening news. I reversed out of my park and drove home, planning which bedrooms to prepare and trying out different messages for my signs. Something simple and uncluttered, I thought. It had to be easy for Joe to set out but not too small for a motorist to read, which meant keeping it short. Name, distance and purpose, with maybe a welcome thrown in somewhere. If Mark didn’t have other duties for Joe, he might even start on the task tomorrow, so I had better work it out tonight.
The days ticked steadily down towards Monday when the guests would arrive. Joe finished the first of the signs and when the paint dried he and Mark erected it at the boundary gate, cementing the pipe posts in place. I had chosen cream paint for the background with the lettering picked out in black and red. The signage looked quite professional. Joe had used a paper tape that peeled off easily to block out the words.
WELCOME TO MALVERN PARK, it read, then in slightly smaller lettering: Station Stays. Bookings essential followed by a phone number and below that: Day visitors: morning teas and station tours available.
‘You’re a man of many talents,’ I remarked, viewing the finished work. ‘It looks absolutely splendid, Joe.’
‘Ah well, you wanna eat, pays to be handy. How’s the fact swottin’ going?’
I grimaced. ‘I know more about wool than I did, that’s for sure. Apparently the Park took out a prize for a fleece at the Royal Easter Show back in ’47 and again in ’48. And I’ve learned what was the most and the least that our wool clip ever made. I’ve got all that off pat, it’s the dates I have difficulty with. I only need somebody to ask about – oh, the shearers’ strike, say, or when they switched from blades to machines, and I’ve had it.’
‘You’ll muddle through,’ he said. ‘You could always write down the main points ’n’ read ’em off. No law says yer gotta know everythin’, is there?’
‘You’re brilliant,’ I told him fervently and he winked.
‘’Andsome is as ’andsome does. It’s brains what counts.’
Saturday morning Fiona rang. ‘It’s Fee, Orla. Have you anything on? I just wondered if you could handle a visit from us about lunchtime? Sophia too, of course. Don’t fuss because we’d bring the eats with us, and if you’re frantically busy or anything, feel free to say so. I just thought it would be fun – I’ve never seen the homestead out there, and this time we wouldn’t have to rush our lunch.’
‘I couldn’t think of anything ni
cer,’ I said sincerely, ‘and don’t you dare bring anything. Marty would be mortally offended! It’s a wonderful idea, Fee! I should have thought of it myself. And you couldn’t have timed it better for Roger because the men are home today. He can join them in the shed when he gets bored. What time were you thinking?’
‘Half eleven – is that too early?’
‘Perfect.’
‘Great. We’ll see you then. Bye.’
However when the little red Mazda pulled up before the homestead, the man who climbed out of the front passenger’s seat was not Roger. He banged his elbow on the door, swearing mildly as he straightened up to beam at me. ‘Orla! How lovely to see you again. You’re looking very blooming if I may say so.’
‘Alec. I wasn’t expecting you.’ I threw an accusing glance at Fee, who immediately ducked back into the car to free Sophia from her seat.
‘Roger had another call out.’ She emerged, slightly flushed, with the child in her arms. ‘And Alec had turned up – I knew you wouldn’t mind. Look, sweetie, it’s Aunty Orla.’
‘Or-lee.’ Sophia gave her toothy smile. She looked adorable in a stiff little dress edged with lace and I clapped my hands to bridge the awkward moment.
‘Look at you – all dressed up. Want to give me a kiss?’
Fee laughed and brought her over. ‘Be nice,’ she breathed, dropping a kiss near my ear. ‘He’s really keen. Big smooch for Aunty,’ she said and the little girl’s soft lips brushed my cheek.
Alec was carrying wine and held it up. ‘It’s not going to cause a war is it? Fiona said you were very definite about not bringing food.’
‘No, that’s fine. Come on in, then. Did you notice the sign?’
‘You can hardly miss it,’ Fee said. ‘Very swanky. So when do you open?’
‘Our first guests arrive Monday, so you can both earn your lunches. I want your honest impressions of the place – appearance, comfort . . . You don’t have to worry about the food – that’ll be fine – but the rest. Imagine you’ve just got here after a long drive, maybe a bit apprehensive about what you’ll find. Take your time and soak up the ambience. There will be a test later.’
I lifted the latch and held the gate open for them, but Fee had come to a stop in the middle of the path. ‘Ooh, nice entrance – is that fresh paint? And I love the pots just there beside the posts. The plants just need to trail a little more – what are you growing?’
‘Something extremely hardy,’ I said dryly, ‘seeing they were surviving on about a drink a week. They’re doing better since I moved out here.’
Alec passed her and went up the steps. ‘It’s ivy geranium. Good choice.’
‘Do you garden?’ For some reason I was surprised, which I realised was unjustified. I knew nothing about him after all.
‘A bit. I got interested in plants in Italy. The formal gardens there serve as a showcase for the old villas and their statuary.’ He shrugged in a deprecatory manner. ‘All part of my training. If you want antiques then Italy’s the place to go.’
‘I suppose it is. Well, come in.’ I took a breath, smiled at Sophia, who was plucking at her mother’s clothes to get her attention, and began the spiel I’d practised a dozen times in my head. ‘We’re very happy to welcome you to Malvern Park. The homestead was built by my grandfather, Charles McRae, on his return to the property after a failed first attempt by his father, Henry McRae. You would have seen the ruins of his original hut near the boundary when —’
‘Wee-wee, Mummy, wee-wee,’ Sophia burst out, stopping me mid-sentence.
‘Okay, sweetie.’ Fee hoisted her up. ‘Sorry, Orla. Toilet please, and quick as, if I know my daughter.’
‘Right, follow me.’ I led the way at a rapid pace, history and Alec forgotten in the more pressing needs of the moment.
Chapter Eighteen
In the end the visit went well. Marty, of course, had made a wonderful lunch, which Alec’s wine only aided. Joe abstained (‘I’m a beer man myself’) and Mark took no more than half a glass. I wondered then, seeing him cover it with his hand when Alec went round the table with the bottle a second time, if there was truth after all in the tale that he had been drunk when his wife died. Perhaps he just didn’t like wine. I had seen him enjoy the odd beer, and remembered my own first taste of it at a midnight picnic with him at the old hut. Its yeasty tang had been on his breath as we kissed. I tore my thoughts away in time to hear Joe puzzling out the economies of antiques.
‘So how’s that work? Some crappy old bit o’ stone or somethin’, maybe cracked or with bits missin’ and it sells for how much? Can’t be right!’
‘It’s more than age, Joe,’ Alec said, eyes alight with enthusiasm. ‘The item could be rare, even unique – the only one in existence. And then there’s the intrinsic beauty and the history of the piece. Imagine holding in your hand something a master craftsman made five hundred years ago. Wouldn’t you want to own it?’
Joe snorted. ‘Not likely. Not for the money you’re talkin’. Sooner have somethin’ useful. So what else d’yer do?’
Recognising a lost cause, Alec moved onto the simpler answer. ‘I arrange sales for an auction house. Orla’s place in the Springs, for one – we’ll be selling the contents for her. We’ve done a few on stations too. Forced sales when the banks have taken the stock and the plant and equipment’s being sold off.’ He grimaced. ‘Not my favourite – a bit like scavenging over a corpse.’
‘But you’re an expert in your field, Alec. Don’t be modest.’ Fee turned to me. ‘He lectures, you know, and publishes articles in antique journals all about the finer points of porcelain and bronzes – they’re his particular study.’
‘Really?’ I said. ‘My mother kept a vase and something else, a bowl, in the display cabinet in the lounge. I think they were her mother’s. She always said they were too valuable to use. I thought she meant sentimentally, but —’
‘I could take a look, if you like?’ Alec offered.
‘Would you? They’re quite pretty,’ I said, ‘but I think that’s all they are – sentiment aside. I never knew my grandmother so I don’t feel particularly connected to them the way Mum did. They’re probably just the equivalent of chainstore china.’
He flashed a smile. ‘They could be, but you never know. That’s the exciting thing about my job.’
Mark rose and reached for his hat. He had said very little throughout the meal and not much of it to Alec. ‘Maybe you should check out the history shed too. Of course, it’s only tools – more work than excitement there.’ He spoke curtly enough to make Fee turn her head and I had to damp down my own irritation.
‘I was going to show it to you both later,’ I said, ignoring Mark. ‘It’s part of the tour. That was a lovely meal, Marty. Thanks a lot.’ I began stacking plates but she waved me off.
‘No – leave them. Stay with your guests. It looks like the little one’s dropped off.’
‘She has.’ Fee rose carefully, cradling the sleeping child. ‘If I could just put her down somewhere, Orla? She was restless last night so she’ll probably make up for it now.’
‘Of course. This way.’ Fee followed me out but Alec lingered, his deep voice plain above the clink of crockery.
‘It seems a crime after such a meal to leave you with the dishes, Mrs Martin. Are you sure I can’t help? I know I’m the clumsiest man God made, but I swear to you it doesn’t extend to cups and plates. I handle precious things for a living and you know I’ve never broken one yet.’
‘Ah, and what about chairs?’ I smiled at Marty’s words; clearly I hadn’t been the only one to wince when his foot had connected with the chair leg both sitting and rising.
‘It’s an affliction . . .’ He sounded mournful; the rest was muffled by walls and distance but I heard Marty laugh in response.
Fee chuckled. ‘Alec could talk his way out of an iron lung. He’s got charm to spare.’
‘Um . . .’ I opened a bedroom door. ‘How about this? We might stand a couple of chairs a
long the edge here if you’re worried she’ll roll off.’
‘It’s perfect.’ Fee lowered Sophia to the centre of the single bed against the wall and glanced around her at the white furniture and the brocaded pelmet over the curtain rail. ‘What a pretty room! And those curtains – I love that shade of blue, and the white lace really sets it off. Will your guests use it?’
‘I thought I’d put the girl in here. There’re four of them coming – Mum, Dad, Grandpa and a kid.’ I planted my hands on my hips. ‘So is it truly chance that Alec’s up this weekend, or did you arrange the whole thing, Fee?’
‘Well, yes, I did – if it’s the short answer you’re after.’ She dimpled unrepentantly. ‘Oh, come on, Orla! After last time he was desperate to see you again and I promised I’d try to arrange something. I couldn’t not when he begged me and, to be honest, I thought you’d figure out that Roger works Saturdays.’
‘So you’re not to be trusted any more than you ever were?’ I said severely.
‘Nope.’ She took the chair I had carried across the room and stood it against the bed. ‘Not when it’s a good cause. He’s a great bloke, Orla, so what’s the problem? You haven’t taken a vow of celibacy, have you?’
‘Maybe I’m just not interested.’ I found a second chair and placed it beside the other, feeling my irritation ebb. I should have expected something like this; Fee had always been impossible. ‘Let’s go and finish the tour before she wakes. I’ll ask Marty to keep an ear out in case she stirs.’
‘What about the stuff Alec offered to look at? He really is an expert, you know.’
‘We can do that later,’ I said firmly and led the way out.
The tour of the shearing shed and quarters went smoothly. Alec showed real interest and the only question I faltered at Fiona, surprisingly, knew the answer to.
‘Stencils,’ she exclaimed as I stood racking my memory for the purpose of the sheets of cut-out tin hanging beside the wool press.
Secrets of the Springs Page 17
