by Cathryn Hein
He looked at Jack. ‘Please tell me you didn’t choose this.’
‘Anne.’
‘Ah.’ He shook his head. ‘Says it all.’
Jack listened, trying to identify the tune but it wasn’t anything he was familiar with.
‘“Time To Say Goodbye,”’ said Angus. ‘Made famous by Andrea Bocelli and Sarah Brightman. Played ad nauseam on local radio back in,’ he scrunched his nose as he thought, ‘the late nineties I think.’
‘Right.’ He brooded. This was too slow and sad for Kate. ‘I’ll get them to play something different.’
A few minutes later the chapel was filled with Frank Sinatra’s “My Way,” a song far more suited to a woman who’d lived life by her own rules.
Anne made no comment as Jack passed her on his way to check the car park again for Jesse, but she wore the martyred look of someone whose great efforts were going unappreciated. They would stay that way too. No one had asked her to organise Kate’s funeral, and judging by the cheap casket and lack of flowers, Anne had done the bare minimum anyway.
The car park remained quiet, the road the same. Jack stepped out into the sunshine, grateful for the clean air after the thick atmosphere in the chapel, and rang his brother.
He was too angry and upset when it went straight to voicemail to leave more than a gritted out ‘Where the hell are you?’ message.
Angry, upset and now worried. Surely Jesse wouldn’t miss their mum’s funeral deliberately?
‘Jack?’ It was Angus. ‘The officiant wants to know if you’re ready.’
Jack stared at the sky. What to do?
‘We’re already twenty minutes over schedule.’
‘A couple more minutes?’
Angus gripped his shoulder and squeezed. He was a good man, always had been, one of the few Kate had trusted with her secrets, and one of the few locals Jack liked. ‘I’ll tell them.’
But Jesse never showed. The service went ahead. The officiant’s speech made Kate sound like a stranger and nothing like the woman Jack had known and loved, her words clearly dictated by Anne. Jack and Angus exchanged sad smiles that said they just wanted this over.
Jack refused the officiant’s offer to speak. He’d said all he needed to, and he was stuffed if he was going to share his feelings and memories with this miserable showing of virtual strangers. He expected Angus to rise but the solicitor shook his head. Perhaps he felt the same.
Jesse’s absence was made even more acute when it came time to carry Kate’s coffin. Jack stood a good foot taller than the other men. Tony was roped in to help Angus and Jack, along with the director and Charles, but they were still a man short. A purse-mouthed Anne took the final corner opposite Jack, her presence only for show with Jack taking all the weight, forced to keep his body bent to keep the coffin level.
The graveside service was mercifully brief, and Jack was grateful to be finally left alone with Angus.
‘She was coming to see me,’ the older man said, using a hanky to wipe his eyes.
‘She told me.’ At Angus’s questioning look Jack went on. ‘She phoned the day she died. Left a message.’ He stared at the dirt-scattered coffin. As soon as he walked away the backhoe would be brought in and Kate would be submerged forever. For a person who’d spent her life digging in dirt, it was fitting in a way. He held Angus’s gaze. ‘She found the sapphires, Angus. After all those years, all that hope, she found them. And then …’
Angus answered for him as Jack tried to breathe through his loss. ‘Then she died.’
‘Yeah.’ He rubbed his mouth. ‘How shit is that?’
‘Pretty shit.’
‘Christ,’ said Jack, feeling lost.
Angus gripped his shoulder, like he had out the front of the chapel. Fatherly.
They stood in companionable silence until Angus sighed and let his hand fall away. ‘We’d better let these men get to work.’
‘Yeah.’ Jack sniffed and stared again at the coffin. ‘Bye, Mum. Sleep in peace.’
‘What will you do?’ asked Angus as they trudged to the car park.
‘I guess that depends on the will.’
Kate had always said Strathroy would be his, but she could have easily changed her mind. He hoped not. He felt no real love for the property, and definitely none for Wirralong, nor did he need the money. But no Strathroy would make it hard for him to search for the sapphires.
‘She kept it simple. Strathroy’s yours, along with a few other things. Jesse gets the house in Wirralong. There’s some cash for him too. The rest is to be divided equally. She was quite wealthy, you know. Shares, more property.’
‘I know.’ Jack squinted north, thinking of the Ridge, where you could brush shoulders with a millionaire and never know it.
Kate had been the same. Most thought her too eccentric, too scatterbrained to be rich, but she was. A little was inherited money, the rest she’d made when she was around Jack’s age, digging herself to prosperity touring the gemstone fields of Australia, then turning prosperity into wealth through shrewd investments.
If not for Fraser she might have made even more money from mining, but then Jack and Jesse wouldn’t exist, and Kate might not have ever returned home. Jack at least had to be grateful to his father for that, and for coming to his mum’s aid that night in Tomahawk Creek, when a drunk fellow prospector fixed on her as an easy target.
Kate had never explained the situation in detail, but as Jack grew older he pieced most of it together. Fraser had been in hiding in outback Queensland. From what, Jack had never asked and didn’t want to know, but he supposed it didn’t matter. The main thing was that Fraser had, for once in his life, done the decent thing and protected Kate. Then hung around long enough to father two children.
Jack still couldn’t get his head around that latter part. He likely never would.
‘New career as a farmer?’ the solicitor suggested.
Jack smiled at that. ‘Maybe.’ He sobered. ‘I might end up in jail yet.’
The look Angus speared him was priceless. ‘Jail?’
‘Yeah, for murdering my brother.’
*
Jack stood at the gate to Strathroy jangling the keys Angus had given him. He breathed in the scented air and scanned the hills. Except for the mullock heaps that rose like termite mounds around the diggings, the opal fields of Lightning Ridge were dead flat. The trees were short, tough and scrubby, the air dusty. Here, the trees were tall and strong, a symbol of the richness of the place.
Even neglected Strathroy was beautiful, so why couldn’t he love it?
He removed the padlock and forced the gate past the rank grass tangling its rusted steel bars, and left it open. If someone was curious enough to drive in while he was here they’d soon discover their mistake. Daisy might look friendly, but she had a growl that could chill the stiffest of spines and Jack wasn’t exactly unintimidating himself.
Besides, Jesse might yet turn up.
Jack travelled the potholed drive carefully, Daisy cantering alongside with her pink tongue flapping. Having spent most of the morning tied to the ute she needed a run. He alighted and crouched to give her a cuddle, using her innate doggy goodness to soothe his sadness, before unlocking the back door.
The house was tidy but, like everything else at Strathroy, in desperate need of attention. Angus had tidied a little when he’d come to lock up, removed rubbish and cleaned out the fridge, but there were a couple of dishes in the sink and a mouldy loaf in the breadbin. The remnants of Kate’s last meal.
Jack stalked the house, needy for more traces of his mum. Her bed was neatly made, the few items on her dresser organised. A couple of hairbrushes, some hair ties. A perfume bottle that looked like it hadn’t been touched in years. A framed photo of the three of them, grinning and happy, Jack and Jesse giant-sized in comparison to their mother. Her jewellery box was missing but he’d expected that. Angus had gathered up anything of value and taken them to his office for safekeeping.
One door of he
r old timber robe hung ajar. Jack opened it fully and scanned the hangers. Hardy, drill cotton workwear mostly, but a few dresses protected by plastic sheets hung in the corner. He ran fingers across the clothes and experienced yet another breath-stealing stab of pain.
Jack slammed the door and walked out. He couldn’t do this today and sorting her things was a job for both Kate’s sons, not just him.
He used the landline in the kitchen to try Jesse again, not expecting any result.
‘Mum?’
His brother’s voice was agonisingly hopeful, but that only reignited Jack’s anger. If Jesse had really loved her, he’d be here.
‘Jesus, Jesse. Where the fuck’ve you been?’
‘Jack? Shit. For a tick there …’ He breathed loudly.
‘Well?’ When Jesse didn’t answer, he exploded. ‘Mum’s fucking funeral and you couldn’t bring yourself to come? What sort of man are you?’
‘I couldn’t.’
‘Couldn’t? What do you mean couldn’t? It was our mother’s funeral. Our mum. Remember her? The one who wiped your shitty arse and read you bedtime stories. Or have you forgotten that?’
‘I was arrested, all right!’
‘What?’
Christ on a bicycle. Jack scraped a hand over his head, trying for calm when all he wanted to do was smash his fist into something. He closed his eyes and breathed. Jesse had answered his phone so he had to be out of lockup.
‘Arrested for what?’
‘Suspected dealing,’ he admitted sulkily. ‘Dad’s lawyer sorted it out.’
‘Jesus, Jesse. I thought you were past that.’
‘I am. It was just a few ecstasy tabs, and they only did it to get to Dad. Anyway, it’s cleared up now.’
It had better be. Jesse’s juvenile record was damning enough without him earning an adult one.
‘You need to come here. Pay your respects.’ Get the hell away from Melbourne and its bad influences, including their dad.
‘Yeah, I will.’
‘When?’
‘Soon.’
‘How about now?’
‘Don’t push me, Jack. You don’t have the right. You lost that when you pissed off to chase your precious opals and forgot about the rest of us.’
Jack’s throat went thick. Is that how Jesse felt? That Jack had forgotten them?
‘Big call from the kid who sooked off to Melbourne because he didn’t like Mum’s rules.’
As soon as the words were out, Jack regretted them. This was an old argument, tangled and frayed from years of being unravelled in anger and rewound in regret.
‘Fuck you.’ His brother’s voice sounded soggy. Understandable given he’d been arrested and missed their mum’s funeral because of it.
‘Jesse …’
‘Piss off. I’m through.’
‘Jesse, don’t.’
But his brother had hung up.
Jack eased the phone back into its cradle and sagged against the wall. Then he pushed off it and walked outside.
The afternoon glowed. A crow cawed as it flew past, black wings stark against the azure sky. On the hills, the muted green and greys of eucalypts appeared hazy.
Jack walked to the end of the yard, where the weed-infested lawn sloped heavily towards the dry creek and ended in a rickety fence in dire need of replacement. He stared at the rotting timber then back at the trees, loneliness filling his bones with cold despite the sunshine. He ached with grief and regret and a desperate need to run back to the Ridge and hide until the pain went away.
Except he couldn’t. Because somewhere out there, hidden in a crag or gully or gravelly creek bed, were his mum’s sapphires.
And Jack was going to find them.
Chapter Four
‘You should have seen it,’ said Elsa O’Donoghue. ‘Honestly, it was like something out of a movie.’
She and the girls were lounging around Hair Affair, blinds pulled down over the windows against prying eyes, and a trolley set up in the aisle with wine and nibbles. This was their regular fortnightly Monday night get-together, a time to share successes and challenges—in life as well as business—and nut out solutions, gee each other up or just hold hands.
‘A pretty good movie by the look on your face,’ said Maggie Walker, taking a sip of wine and grinning as she stretched out in the salon chair. Her Moroccan oil treated hair was wrapped in a turban and, as they all were, she was wearing a scarlet towelling robe with ‘Smart Ladies’ Supper Club’ embroidered over the right side of her chest.
Maggie was also the woman behind Wirralong’s turned around fortunes. Thanks to her creative vision, hard work and indefatigable nature, Wirra Station, the property Maggie had unexpectedly inherited, had become the hottest wedding venue in western Victoria. So hot that news had reached Melbourne and now city dwellers were falling over themselves to book country weddings, and more.
Elsa would be forever grateful to her friend for their changed circumstance. Maggie swore it was all Elsa’s doing, thanks to her original wedding destination idea and enthusiasm, but reality was it was Maggie’s never-say-die attitude that saw her through. If it weren’t for the business Wirra Station brought in, Elsa, Serenity Strachan, and the other member of their little gang, Isabella Mortenson, would be struggling. Iz especially, given her celebrant’s business. Hosting the Smart Ladies’ Supper Club sessions was the least Elsa could do.
Serenity, whose cling-film wrapped hair was in the process of being dyed purple, fanned her face. ‘If the earlier scenes were anything like that little exhibition in the street, then it must have been a hell of a show.’ Serenity rented rooms at the back of Hair Affair, where she ran her beauty therapy business, and had emerged with the bride just in time to witness Jack Hargreaves stripping off in the street. From her wondrous expression at the memory, she still hadn’t recovered.
Elsa wasn’t sure she had either. Jack was seriously built.
He was also seriously sad, which was understandable given the circumstances. Poor man. She hoped he was okay.
‘Was it definitely Jack?’ asked Maggie. ‘There’s a brother, isn’t there?’
‘There is. Jesse, who’s younger, but this was definitely Jack.’ Elsa dipped a carrot stick into a tub of hummus and crunched into it. Jesse Hargreaves was a city boy and closer to her age. Jack was all country man and older. ‘Although it did take me a while to work it out.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Iz managed in a ventriloquist’s voice. Her face was covered in a thick clay mask that was liable to rupture with the slightest expression.
Elsa threw her a ‘very funny’ sneer. As a born-and-bred Wirralong girl from a foundation family, and a hairdresser privy to all sorts of gossip, she had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the town’s history, locals and nature. The girls liked to rib that she either knew everyone or was related to them in some way, but it was good-natured ribbing. More than once, Elsa’s connections had proved a godsend and she knew they appreciated it.
‘Give me a break,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen Jack Hargreaves since he finished school. Anyway, the way he looked, Jack’s own family would have had trouble recognising him. It was like a giant bear had walked in. Hair down to his shoulders, wild-man beard. Mia and Courtney had eyes on stalks.’
‘Yeah, and like you didn’t,’ muttered Serenity loud enough for everyone to hear, causing Maggie to grin and Iz to make a strangled noise as she tried not to.
‘I was too busy wondering who the hell he thought he was, thank you very much.’ At Iz and Maggie’s uncomprehending expressions, Elsa explained. ‘He asked if he could get a haircut and I said no, I had a wedding party to look after. Next thing, he’s across the room and running the clippers straight over the top of his head. Didn’t give me the chance to tell him the guard was set at number one.’
‘Which equates to what?’ asked Maggie.
‘About three millimetres.’
Iz laughed then swore as her mask cracked, earning a tut from Serenity, who’d applied it.
Elsa had thought so too until she worked out who he was and what he was in Wirralong for. Then all she felt was sorry for him. Jack had to be enduring a heart-breaking enough day as it was without adding a bad haircut to it. Although the cut hadn’t turned out that horrendous, in the end. Rather sexy, in fact. And despite her bemusement, Elsa had enjoyed the way every lift of Jack’s arm caused his T-shirt to stretch across his monumental chest and rock-like biceps.
‘I guess he wanted to look tidy for his mum’s funeral. It did look weird with his big beard though. Lucky I caught him in time to stop him from running the clippers through that as well or it could’ve ended up really ugly. He did a commendable job with the beard trimmers. For a novice.’
More than commendable. The stubble he’d left behind had been almost designer scruffy, the sort of trendy, sexy trim some urbanites paid a small fortune for. Elsa bet none of them looked as good afterward. Jack Hargreaves was a babe of the most babelicious magnitude.
It was those eyes. ‘Paul Newman eyes’ her mum, who was a huge fan of the actor, would call them. With their pale hue they should have been cold, instead the surrounding fringe of thick dark lashes made them more intense than icy. When they’d settled on Elsa, it was like being lasered.
Jack’s size only added to his appeal. Elsa hadn’t been joking about describing him as a giant. The man was huge, close to six-feet-six, but that wasn’t what made him seem so enormous. It was the breadth of him, combined with a bearing she couldn’t explain, except it reminded her a bit of American actor John Wayne. Thanks to her classic movie buff mum, Elsa had seen every one of the actor’s westerns, and while this hadn’t endeared Wayne to her—nor her mum for making her suffer through such boredom—she couldn’t help but acknowledge Wayne’s screen presence.
And she bet John Wayne never filled out a pair of suit pants and T-shirt the way Jack Hargreaves did.
