by JH Fletcher
‘Roberta phoned, too,’ she told him. Sally kept her voice impersonal. She had little time for Boyd’s half-sister but Roberta was family, after all, hard though it was to believe.
‘What did she want?’
‘She didn’t say.’ She never did. Sally managed not to show resentment but felt it, aggravated by Roberta’s failure to acknowledge her as anyone but her brother’s wife. ‘She wants you to phone her at home after nine.’
‘Any other messages?’
‘Peter Conlan said could you give him a ring in the morning.’
The bank manager. The latest letter from the bank was in a file among the papers on his cluttered desk. He had put it there deliberately, hiding it not from Sally — who knew their situation as well as he did, probably better — but from himself. It was something he had always done. By hiding trouble where he couldn’t see it he had sometimes been able to shut his mind to its existence but this time it hadn’t worked. All day the bank’s letter had been burning holes in his mind.
After months of increasingly acrimonious discussions, telephone calls, arguments, the bank expected to be told when he was planning to resume the loan repayments that were now many months in arrears. For the first time the word foreclosure had been mentioned. Boyd knew the bank was not bluffing. There was plenty of evidence of that. For months now, slap bang in the middle of the recession that that damn-fool Treasurer had assured Australia it had to have, the banks had been mowing a clean swathe through farms and farmers across the length and breadth of the country. Foreclosures were at an all-time high. Having been in the same family for a hundred and thirty years, it now looked as though only a miracle would save Mindowie from joining the list.
He had already tried everything he could think of. He had approached other institutions, even some of the iffy ones that only four years earlier had been eager to lend him as much as he liked. They had not been interested. He had spoken to friends, chatted with his accountant, his solicitor. He had asked for time to pay. Nothing had worked. There was nothing more he could do.
Or nothing more he was willing to do. Sally wanted him to borrow the money from his mother — the farm was still in her name, after all — but he wouldn’t. He knew where he stood in her estimation. He wanted to do nothing that would make matters worse.
Had been foolish enough to say so.
Sally had been scornful. ‘You think she’ll think any more of you if you lose her farm for her? She’ll have to know eventually, in any case. She owns it, for heaven’s sake.’
But still he would not. If their troubles had not been caused by his own idiocy it would not have been so bad. I would have been willing to go to her then, he thought. As it was …
‘Just leave it, all right?’
And Sally had left it. Unhappily, it seemed the bank was not prepared to be so obliging.
He looked at his watch. Just on nine. ‘I’ll have a shower. Then I’ll give Roberta a ring, see what she wants.’
It rang twice before his sister picked it up. Even in that, her unrelenting efficiency seemed intrusive, another trial to be borne.
‘You see Mother’s been making a name for herself?’ Exasperation crackled down the wires. In Roberta’s world no one else had any business making names for themselves.
‘I’ve been reaping,’ he said to put her in her place but relented, as he always did. ‘I heard about it,’ he offered.
‘She’s flying home tomorrow.’
‘You’ve spoken to her?’
‘Of course.’ To pay him back for his comment about reaping.
‘How is she?’
‘I would say shaken. But well,’ she added. ‘I thought it would be nice if we were both there to meet her.’
It would mean cutting short tomorrow’s reaping but to refuse would seem churlish. In the circumstances.
‘What time’s she getting in?’
‘She hasn’t confirmed the time but I’ve had my secretary check the flights. It’ll be the one that’s due at seven, if she can get a seat. I thought we could perhaps have a bite to eat here before we go to the airport.’
‘Or I could meet you there?’
She rejected that, as Boyd had known she would. From principle and, it seemed, for another reason. ‘We really do need to talk.’
‘About what?’
‘Several things. Shall we say quarter to six, in my office?’
It would mean stopping work by four at the latest. He hesitated, on the brink of refusal, then remembered the bank’s letter lying in ambush in a thicket of other papers. Harvest could wait.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll be there.’
‘We,’ Sally told him when he explained. ‘I want to welcome her home, too.’
Roberta had not mentioned Sally but she was his wife, after all. ‘I’m sure that won’t be a problem.’
‘Too bad if it is.’ She was not letting him go unescorted. From past experience Sally had no reason to trust her sister-in-law’s motives or Boyd’s ability to stand up to her.
‘I wonder why she suggested it,’ Boyd puzzled. ‘It’s not like her to share the limelight.’
‘She wants something,’ Sally told him.
The next evening in the Members’ dining room Roberta leant forward across a table opulent with white napery, silver and fine crystal. ‘What are we going to do about Mother?’
The question, like her eyes, was focused only on Boyd. She had said nothing about Sally’s presence. Indeed, had made much of her in a way, had offered her a cool cheek, but Sally was not family and had to know her place.
Boyd picked at a white roll. ‘Why do we need to do anything?’
‘She’s too old for these episodes.’ As though there had been something indelicate about what had happened.
‘She’s as fit as a flea,’ Sally said.
Roberta dissected fish. ‘Don’t you think so?’ she said to Boyd.
Boyd would have preferred not to think about it at all. Would have preferred not to be here, either, caught between the two of them. ‘From what I heard she managed everything all right.’
‘Very well,’ Sally confirmed, with emphasis.
Roberta’s smile was as precise as the blade of her knife, cutting through what remained of her whiting. ‘She is seventy-three. If she continues with these adventures they will be the death of her.’
But Sally was not willing to surrender the field. ‘They’re her nature, these adventures. As you call them.’
‘I wonder how long she should continue to stay out there by herself? All alone in that house?’
‘It is her home.’ Sally was affronted. In her litany of values home was a sacred place. Wherever it might be. ‘She’ll never agree to move.’
Roberta’s dark eyes flashed. For the first time in the conversation she acknowledged Sally’s existence. ‘One of these days she will have to.’
But not yet. Sally did not need to say it. Seventy-three or not, Ruth would never agree to move from her wonderful house, islanded amid air and blowing grass on the dunes overlooking the Spencer Gulf. In Ruth’s place she would not have done so, either.
‘But where would she stay?’ Boyd wondered.
Sally wished he had not asked the question. ‘It makes no difference where. She won’t be doing it.’
‘I had thought with you,’ Roberta said. ‘You’ve got the room and it is her old home, after all. I would of course be willing to contribute towards the cost.’
‘We can’t make her do anything she doesn’t want to,’ Sally said. ‘She isn’t a parcel.’
‘I see the banks have started taking a hard line over loans.’ Roberta had changed the subject — perhaps. With Roberta it was always hard to tell.
‘They are fair weather friends,’ Boyd said sadly.
‘Are you both okay?’
Sally would not put it past Roberta to have found out about the Coonalpyn fiasco. ‘We’ll manage,’ she said.
Now Boyd, when he could have backed her, said nothing
. Men, she thought. Or this man. She loved him but there were times when she could have killed him.
‘Mother has oodles of money,’ Roberta said.
Once again Boyd’s fingers addressed his roll, teasing it into fragments. Crumbs lay across the immaculate cloth. Watching him, Sally knew how much he was hating this twist in the conversation.
‘We like to think we can sort out our own problems,’ she said.
‘If they can be sorted.’ Roberta’s eyes were fixed on Boyd. ‘Mother has far more than she needs.’
‘We don’t know that.’
‘The papers said the film rights for Joshua’s Children went for two million.’
Feeling himself cornered, Boyd took refuge in scorn. ‘The papers …’
‘All I’m saying, if you need help it’s only sensible to ask.’
As Sally herself had been telling him, but it was not like Roberta to show an interest in their well-being.
‘We’re doing fine without that.’
‘That’s all right, then.’ Roberta looked at her watch. ‘The flight’s due in thirty-five minutes,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we should make a move.’
They drove separately to the airport, met up again in the reception area.
‘I’ve arranged for us to wait in the VIP Lounge,’ Roberta said, leading the way. She settled them with drinks and snacks and went to speak to the attendant. He went out, returning in a few minutes with a tall man, checked shirt and jeans, bushy red beard.
‘Everything under control?’
‘Sure.’
‘When do you want us?’
‘Not until the passengers are coming through. There’s quite a crush out there.’
‘People meeting the plane?’
He shook his head. ‘Media.’
‘Oh dear.’ But was pleased, he could tell. ‘The penalty of fame.’ Whose, she did not say.
She glanced at the arrivals board on her way to rejoin Boyd and Sally. ‘Another ten minutes,’ she told them. ‘It’s on time for once.’
Had she been the Federal Transport Minister she could not have said it; it was nice to be unguarded for a change.
It was in fact twelve minutes by Roberta’s watch before the loudspeakers announced that the flight from Brisbane had landed.
Boyd stood. ‘I suppose we’d better get out there.’
Roberta did not move. ‘They’ll tell us when the passengers start coming through.’
Boyd was caught halfway between standing and sitting down again. He hovered, to be released at last when the attendant deferentially approached Roberta’s chair.
‘The passengers are disembarking, Ms Hudson.’
She beamed her best election-winning smile.
‘Thank you.’ She stood, transferring the smile to the others. ‘Shall we …?’
It was a beast of a flight but Ruth had expected nothing else. There were no direct flights from the Whitsundays to Adelaide and the wait in Brisbane seemed interminable.
At least there is no fuss, Ruth consoled herself, and savoured the anonymity that she feared would not be available at journey’s end. Roberta will have arranged something, she promised herself grimly, hating the prospect but resigned to it, knowing her daughter’s ways. There’ll be a full media blitz, I shouldn’t wonder.
There were times when she wished she’d had the sense to let her wretched neighbours sort out their own problems. He would never have killed them, she thought, but could not be sure. Love — or what was called love — could be a dangerous emotion, affecting people in alarming ways.
On board the second leg of the flight she ate sparingly, had two glasses of wine, feeling her nervousness increase as the plane flew south-west. Ruth did what she did so often when her nerves started playing up. She took refuge in sleep.
The business class attendant watched her sleeping. She had known her share of celebrities. This one seemed nicer than most. Entirely human, which she thought might be unique. This Ms Ballard seemed to think of herself as being like everyone else and the attendant, Aussie to her boots, felt her heart warm at such a democratic attitude. Some kind of writer, it seemed, and a brave one, too, from what they’d said on television. Old, of course, but seemed fit enough. The attendant hoped she would be in half as good shape by the time she was that age.
She felt the plane’s nose tilt downwards, went to her celebrity and gently shook her shoulder. ‘Ms Ballard …’
The grey eyes opened, not rheumy and confused as old people’s eyes so often were but immediately alert, the whites clear. ‘Yes?’
‘We’ve started our descent.’
‘Thank you.’
‘There’s time for another drink,’ she offered, liking her. ‘If you’d like one.’
‘No, thank you.’ But smiled, which was also unusual.
Surreptitiously, the attendant watched her as she tidied herself, her movements precise but not in the least prim. She could believe that the old lady had done something remarkable; the ability to do so was written all over her.
I shall get one of her books, she promised herself. From the library.
She farewelled her as she disembarked. ‘I hope you enjoyed the flight, Ms Ballard.’
‘That’s the name I write under. It’s really Mrs Hudson. But I much prefer Ruth.’
The attendant was pleased to accept the offer which had not been in the least condescending. ‘See you, Ruth.’
Ruth winked. ‘Catch you later.’
THREE
Whatever she had been expecting, the reality was ten times worse.
As Ruth came through the revolving glass door the media contingent erupted in a bombardment of flashlights and out-thrust microphones. Questions beat like flails about her head. Television and other cameras were shoved into her face and over everything were the yelling voices, the artillery flashes of the lights.
‘Ms Ballard, is it true that —’
‘Ms Ballard —’
‘Ms Ballard —’
For a moment she almost recoiled from the violence of their attack. Told herself she would not. Neither would she put her head down and march between them, eyes and mouth tight against their importunings. She had seen other victims do this and, much though she sympathised, remembered how it had looked later on the television screen. So smiled and smiled, trying to charm the black muzzles of the cameras, projecting a good humour that she was far from feeling.
A man, large, bushy-bearded, came close. ‘They’ve set up a room …’
In the confusion she could barely hear him or understand what he was saying. The yelling assault continued, the questions impacting with the force of hammers. A woman, strident-mouthed, merciless eyes, jostled her.
‘What did you say?’ she asked the man, trying not to stumble.
‘A few questions … Photographs … Then they’ll leave you alone.’
‘What about my luggage?’
‘That’ll be taken care of.’
Anything rather than this.
She turned to him, trusting that he was her saviour and not another aspect of the terror. ‘Where is this room?’
‘I’ll show you.’
Miraculously, order returned. A form of order. There were still questions, the cameras still savaged, but at least the worst of the frenzy was gone.
There was a little dais, festooned with microphones upon metal poles. Ruth looked about her at the crammed room. ‘My goodness … I’d sooner go through half a dozen hostage dramas than have to put up with that again.’
Chuckles, as she had intended. Smiles. Tell them the truth, they will laugh for hours.
A stir as another woman pushed through the crowd to greet her. Under the glaring lights it took an instant to recognise her.
‘Mother,’ Roberta proclaimed. ‘Welcome back.’
The embrace before the avid cameras.
‘A few words, Ms Hudson —’
‘What can I say?’ Roberta wondered into the microphones. ‘She’s left me speechless. Again. She alwa
ys does.’ Smile widened for the punchline. ‘Most of you know me. Anything that leaves me speechless has got to be pretty remarkable. But that’s what my mother is. Famous writer. Now famous hero. One of the great people of her generation. I am humble,’ said Roberta, who had never been humble in her life. ‘It has been a privilege to know her all these years, to be near her, to be aware of the enormous difference she has made to my life. Now I’ll hand her over to you. Be gentle with her.’ Again the smile, again the punchline. ‘She might kill you if you’re not.’
Laughter and applause.
It was grotesque, appalling. Roberta had got what she came for, Ruth thought, and for the moment did not like her daughter at all. Roberta stepped back. Ruth faced the mob.
After that beginning, what followed was surprisingly painless. A hatful of questions, mostly inane (How did you feel when you found he had a gun?) but she sensed they were on her side. Which helped, she supposed.
‘Any plans for your next book?’
‘Give me a chance.’ Smiling to make her jaw ache. ‘I’ve only just finished the last one.’
‘What do you plan to do now?’
‘Go home. Have a bath. Go to bed.’
‘What do you think should happen to the man who did it?’
She recognised the face of the man who had asked the question. People said of him he would rip the guts out of your answers and twist them to fit his own political agenda. With which she suspected she did not agree. But at least it was a question with intelligence behind it.
She felt cautiously for her response. ‘First of all they must be sure he did anything at all.’
A murmur gathering, like the grumble of bees.
‘Are you saying there’s some doubt about it?’
She smiled at him across the mob of faces. ‘Surely that’s a basic principle of our system of justice? People have to be found guilty before they can be sentenced. If you do away with that you’re back to lynch law, the Wild West. Mind you,’ looking around her and smiling, ‘after what happened outside, I’m not so sure we’re that far from the Wild West as it is.’
