About Three Authors

by Patti Roberts

  Polly ran a hand lovingly on the bonnet of the vehicle. “Our four-wheel-drive has a flat tire, so rather than replace it and be late, Gary came to the rescue with his work Ute. It may not be much to look at, but I can guarantee you that it runs as smoothly as the day it came off the assembly line. It belonged to his father, and he just refuses to part with it. He’s doing it up, you know.”

  Not much to look at? No shit it’s not much to look at! Becky cursed silently to herself.

  “This is one of the reasons why Elise couldn’t come down with us to pick you up – not enough room. Plus, she has a meeting with a new client that couldn’t be rescheduled,” Mallory added. “Elise edits for other authors when she isn’t writing.”

  Becky nodded, still glaring wearily at the Ute. I don’t blame her, she thought miserably, peering through the dirty window at a bench seat covered with an old blue blanket matted with dog hair and wondered what horrors might lie beneath it. Food wrappers and empty drink cartons littered the floor.

  Mallory continued. “Polly likes to design book covers when she’s not writing. She’s awfully good, too. She designs all of our book covers.”

  Becky frowned, her thoughts still on the blue vehicle before her, mocking her. “Who’s this Gary?” she asked, cringing, already disliking Gary immensely while imagining him to be some kind of Paul Hogan character. A true blue Aussie guy standing beside a barbie, and throwing shrimps on the hotplate. She’d thought the ads on television she’d seen years ago hilarious, but she certainly wasn’t laughing now. Now, all she wanted to do was cry and stamp her feet. Tell them that the only way they were going to get her in that piece of shit of a car was in a casket, and even then they would be pushing it.

  “My son,” Polly said, unlocking the driver door. “You’ll meet him up at the retreat. He does a little handyman work around the place. He has his own building business and did the renovations on the retreat to get it up to scratch. It was quite a mess when we first bought it. His business is doing quite well, too, even if I do say so myself, although he’d never admit it.”

  “Oh,” Becky said, trying to regain some composure. This was not how she’d seen the day playing out. So far nothing was as she had imagined it would be, but what the hell, this was character-building stuff. That was what her mother would have said in the same situation. It’ll put some hairs on your chest, is what Uncle Steve would have said, and with the amount of moisture seeping between her breasts, she could tell it would be a healthy crop, too.

  “Gary is what we call a quiet achiever,” Mallory said with a look of triumph as she pulled the wayward trolley up to the rear of the vehicle. “When we discovered the flat tyre, we were so worried that we’d be late picking you up, and we didn’t want you thinking that you’d been forgotten. Thankfully Gary came to the rescue… and with everything that’s happened-”

  Polly gave Mallory a sharp elbow in the ribs, silencing her. “Stop your confounded chattering, old woman, and help me get these bags in the back, will you.”

  “Thank you. I really do appreciate you both being here. I think I would have been quite beside myself if no one had been here to pick me up. Uncle Steve never gave me an address. He assured me no end that someone would be here to pick me up when I arrived.” And she really was appreciative in more ways than one. She couldn’t imagine what she would have done if no one had been there to pick her up. Already, she was regretting her holier-than-thou attitude. She relaxed back into the seat with a smile lifting the corners of her lips. Things could only get better from here on in.

  Mallory smiled. “It’s our pleasure, dear.”

  “So what do you do when you’re not writing, Mallory?”

  “She drives us all to drink,” Polly said, hopping in behind the steering wheel. She leaned across the front seat to unlock the passenger door. “Climb in. We should arrive up at the lake well before the sun sets. We’ll have an early dinner by the lake. Elise is a marvellous cook and has a real treat planned for dinner.”

  Mallory patted her stomach. “Hence the expanding waistline.”

  “Hence the reason you should come running with me in the mornings,” Polly retorted.

  “Phff. In your dreams,” Mallory quipped, sliding along the bench seat and taking most of the dog-haired blanket with her.

  The bomb of a car was at least air-conditioned, Becky was pleased to discover, as Polly pulled out of the airport and headed south along the Bruce Highway.

  “How long is the trip?” Becky asked, fighting with the seatbelt.

  “You sound just like my son when he was a little boy,” Polly laughed. “Always asking how much farther to go. It’ll take just under 2 hours to drive to the retreat from here.”

  Becky’s eyes widened. Her mind boggled. Two effing hours in this piece of shit! She laughed, which was the best alternative to tears. “Oh, okay.” She squirmed on the seat, the scratchy blanket sliding this way and that beneath the right cheek of her bottom, and feeling grateful that she was wearing jeans. Character-building, she reminded herself, staring out of the window to take in her new surroundings. “What an odd-shaped mountain,” Becky said after a while, pointing at a tree-covered peek through the windscreen.

  Polly dipped her head to look under the visor. “Oh, yes. That’s Walsh’s Pyramid Mountain. It’s the highest freestanding natural pyramid in the world. If you have a spare five hours or so while you’re here, you might like to climb it. It truly is a marvellous view from the top. It’s very popular for hikers and bushwalkers, and every year in August, they have a race to the top. A five thousand dollar prize is up for grabs for the winner, I believe.”

  “It’s over 3000 feet tall, so you have to be really fit to reach the summit,” Mallory added.

  “Have you climbed it?” Becky asked, sounding impressed.

  “Bloody hell, no,” Mallory retorted. “The view is just fine from down here, thank you, but I did research it just recently for one of the books that I’m currently writing.”

  “Oh, really? You’re writing a book about bushwalking?”

  Polly chuckled.

  “Not exactly,” Mallory laughed. “I write murder mysteries. Perhaps I’ll have the contestants stumbling across the decomposing body of one very rude taxi driver…” She pulled a notepad and pen out of her shoulder bag and quickly jotted down a few notes. “Never leave home without pen and paper,” she murmured. “Yes, that has possibilities.” She sat in silence for a moment, tapping the pen on her notepad, and Becky could almost see a plot already germinating in her mind.

  “Elise writes romance, so if she was writing a scene for one of her stories, the heroine would find the body, save his life, and on their way to the hospital, they would fall in love in the back of the ambulance.”

  “And what about you, Polly? What is your genre?” Becky asked.

  “I write about vampires and witches, so the said dead body would come back to life after being fed the blood from a vampire, and then fall in love with the witch who had cursed him.”

  “You don’t get motion sickness, do you?” Mallory asked, changing the subject as she popped her pen and notepad back into her bag, then glancing up at Becky, who was admiring rows of rustic old Queenslander homes through the passenger window.

  A group of children on pushbikes waved enthusiastically as they pedalled along wide, grassed footpaths shaded by tall trees ablaze with masses of red blooms.

  “What an amazing tree,” Becky said. “It almost looks like it’s on fire.”

  “They actually call them flame trees for that very reason,” Mallory said. “They are Illawarra flame trees. Queensland’s biblical incarnation of the burning bush, if you like.”

  “This is Gordonvale,” Polly said, waving back to the children. “Gordonvale, as you can see, is surrounded by cane farms and is the home of the Mulgrave Central Mill, a sugar cane crushing facility.”

  Becky turned away from the window to look at Mallory, who was sandwiched between Polly and herself. “I don’t think
I get motion sickness. Why?”

  “Well, it’s just that…” She paused for a moment to consider her words. “Well, the Gillies Highway is quite well known for making even those with cast-iron stomachs feel a little queasy, that’s all.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine. I’ve never been car-sick in my life, and I’ve taken lots of long trips by car.” Becky smiled to herself, feeling the stress of the last few days dissipate and float away as the car began its gradual, twisting climb up the Gillies Highway.

  “Wow, the view is truly remarkable from up here,” she said, grabbing hold of the handle above the passenger door to brace herself as the road and the car took a sharp turn to the left, then another sharp turn to the right within moments. “The road isn’t very wide is it,” she murmured nervously, peering over the edge of the road to the dense, wooded rainforest valley far below. “It’s not really a highway at all, is it? It’s just like a really narrow road…

  Becky shook her head. “Oh God, oh God, oh God. I really don’t think I can hold on any longer. Are you sure there’s nowhere you can pull the car over?” she asked in a pleading, muffled voice, her eyes wide, a hand clamped across her mouth, the other holding onto the handle above the door for dear life.

  Polly and Mallory both looked at her, alarm etched on their faces.

  “Oh, dear,” Mallory said, patting Becky’s knee. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone looking quite so green before. Try not to think about it, dear. Look. Look at that wonderful view. Isn’t it just beautiful?”

  “Yes. No. Oh God…” Becky nodded then shook her head again. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again. “Oh God, no. That only makes it worse. I’m so sorry, but I’m going to be sick.”

  “There has to be something here,” Polly began, her eyes searching the floor of the vehicle.

  “You keep your eyes on the road, Poll,” Mallory said. “I’ll find something.” A moment later she pulled out an old, partially empty leather tool bag that had been jammed under the seat.

  “That will have to do,” Becky said, snatching it out of Mallory’s hands, then promptly heaving into it.

  “Oh, you poor dear,” Mallory said, quickly turning away with her hand planted over her mouth with the fear she might vomit, too.

  Becky looked up from the tool bag she had grasped in her hands, and peered out of the window. Pulling a handkerchief out of her pocket, she wiped it with a shaking hand across her forehead which was leaking perspiration. She could not remember ever feeling so sick, not even after a huge night out with Mandy. If she were to describe herself as a colour, it would have to be green - the kind of green that that is akin to the slimy moss growing in a stagnant pond. Outside, the winding, narrow highway began to give way to pastures, valleys, and roads covered by arched, rainforest canopies.

  “I think I’m done,” Becky murmured, slowly lifting the tool bag off her lap and placing it on the floor between her feet.

  Mallory patted her hand again. “You’ll feel better soon, love. No more twisting roads to upset your stomach.”

  Becky pocketed her handkerchief and smiled weakly. “Even if I wanted to, I don’t think there is anything left inside me to throw up.” She looked at the tool bag between her feet. “I’m so sorry about that.”

  Mallory offered a weak smile. “Better in there than on me,” she said. She looked down at the bag wedged between Becky’s feet. “It looks like Gary could do with a new one, if you ask me. That one sure looks like it’s been around the block a few times.”

  “Yes,” Polly said. “Don’t give it a second’s thought. Accidents happen.”

  True to Mallory’s word, as soon as the road levelled out and became less winding, Becky did begin to feel a little better.

  A short time later, Polly turned onto another road. “And this is us,” she said, driving through an open gate and along a gravel driveway bordered by tall native trees. Up ahead, the road turned gradually into a clearing, and in the middle of the clearing, a sprawling two-story homestead overlooked a tranquil lake surrounded by mountains and bushland.

  To one side of the homestead, and situated closer to the lake, sat a timber pergola entwined with a passion fruit vine heavy with glossy, fist sized fruit. Suspended from the centre of the structure on a length of chain swung an old, wrought iron candelabrum. Nestled beneath the pergola sat a long timber table decorated with plates, glasses, candlesticks, bowls of fruit, and vases crammed with bright, tropical flowers. Fourteen wicker chairs with floral cushions sat neatly around it, waiting to be occupied. Hooked onto one of the back of the chairs, a straw hat fluttered gently in the breeze. Somewhere, from the far side of the homestead, a chainsaw buzzed relentlessly, disturbing the otherwise perfectly peaceful surroundings.

  Beams of sunshine sparkled off the flat surface of the water, and it took all of Becky’s resolve not to push open the car door, rip her clothes off, run down the grassy slope, along the little jetty, and dive into the cool water. “Are there any crocodiles?” she asked.

  “There has been the odd sighting of freshwater crocodiles in the lake, but don’t worry about them, they are very timid creatures, and will take off as fast as they can when they get a whiff of a human.”

  “Good to know,” Becky said, not entirely convinced. A crocodile was a crocodile, after all.

  On the other side of the house, the sound of the chainsaw ceased, then started up again.

  “Last minute renovations,” Polly explained, pulling the car up slowly alongside a silver Nissan x-trail four-wheel drive. She cocked her head in the direction of the buzzing noise.

  “Last minute? I don’t think so,” Mallory quipped. “That is unless you’re calling the last 2 years last minute.”

  A blue heeler dog came bounding up towards the car in welcome, its body and tail wagging equally as frantically.

  “Are you feeling better now, dear?” Mallory asked, studying Becky’s glistening forehead, and her hair, limp and damp with perspiration.

  “I’m much better now, thank you. Better out than in,” Becky replied with a weak smile as she rubbed her stomach. “That’s what my mother always used to say, anyhow.” She pushed the groaning car door open, then pulled it quickly closed again. “The dog, it doesn’t bite, does it?” She peered at the dog trough the car window.

  “Ha,” Polly said. “I bite harder than he does.” Turning off the engine, she climbed out and slapped her knees. “Here, boy. Come on, Monty,” she called, summoning the dog. “Looks like Gary has fixed the flat tyre,” Polly said more to Monty rather than anyone else. Monty nuzzled her cheek in response.

  Becky eyed the dog with caution. “It’s just that the way my life has been going lately, a dog bite would top everything off just nicely.” She eased herself out of the car, followed closely by Mallory. Her thoughts were to drop down and kiss the solid ground beneath her feet. “Bloody hell… It’s so gorgeous here,” she said instead, turning one way then the other to take in the scenery unfolding before her. “Just lovely. It’s as if someone has uprooted a Tuscan villa and plonked it right here into the middle of a tropical paradise. Still a little hotter than I anticipated, but beautiful, just the same.”

  Mallory nodded. “That is exactly what I thought when I first saw the place. There’s a huge Italian community here on the Tablelands. In 1891, several hundred immigrants from Piedmont, Veneto and Sicily arrived in North Queensland to work in the sugar cane industry. With their rural backgrounds in farming and wine growing, they had the necessary skills and knowledge for cane farming. Others found work in factories, mining and retail, and a time later, the tobacco industry.”

  “I had no idea. But I can certainly see the Italian influence here in the architecture,” Becky said, noting the arched brickwork, the blue shutters on the windows, and the eye-catching, wrought iron railings on the upper floor balconies.

  Mallory closed the car door. “Farming is still the major industry up this way. Sugar cane, corn, maize, bananas, strawberries, avocado, mangoes,
macadamia nuts, and lettuce have replaced most of the tobacco farms as primary industries. Cattle grazing and chicken rearing are also major industries. Then there is tourism, of course, with Tinaroo being a very popular destination. That is how we found this place,” she said waving her hand towards the house.

  Polly leaned up against the car, reminiscing. “I had moved from Darwin and was living permanently in Cairns when I eventually managed to talk Mallory and Elise into coming over for a holiday. I had separated from my husband and was single again at the time. I always loved taking a trip up to the Tablelands, being surrounded by the lush, sprawling fields bordered by bushland and mountains, and always dreamed about living up here one day. It was just a dream, though, to actually open up a writers’ retreat. I never thought it would ever really happen.” She shrugged, “Just goes to show, I guess, that some dreams really do come true, hey?”

  Not all dreams come true, Becky thought solemnly. All her dreams had crashed and burned. “I really need a drink… to get this horrid taste of vomit out of my mouth.”

  “Of course you do,” Polly said, walking toward Becky, Monty the blue healer bounding up energetically behind her. “Elise will have the jug on. She’s so nervous about meeting you… she didn’t sleep a wink at all last night. She was pacing the floorboards all night like a crazy woman.”

  Mallory shot her a steely glare. “What Polly really means is that Elise is nervous about the grand opening of the retreat and being interviewed. Not nervous about meeting you, per se.”

  “Well, she really shouldn’t be nervous about the interview or me. I only work for a small English publication that is owned by my uncle…” Becky kneeled down gingerly and patted Monty on the head, who promptly licked the side of her face, making her laugh, which was something she had not done very much of in the last twenty-four hours. Hell, the last twelve months, if she wanted to be completely honest with herself. The dog rolled over at her feet, and she rubbed his belly enthusiastically. She had read an article in a magazine at the hairdresser’s just recently about the therapeutic effect of animals. She thought about that now, and could easily believe that to be the case. It was amazing to her that something as simple as patting a dog could make her feel more alive than she had been in a long while. “I think you and I are going to be very good friends, Monty.”