The Shifting Light

by Alice Campion

  What were they talking to Kathryn about? Nina looked so pretty, so animated, despite that dull dress. She was obviously excited about something. Hilary felt that now-familiar sense of disorientation wash over her as it always did when she studied her new-found daughter. She was so familiar. Not just like Jim, but like herself as well. She was always catching stray expressions that belonged to her own mother, or marvelling at the hands that were so like Deborah’s. Nina would probably die rather than admit it, she thought, but maybe she had inherited some of her mother’s business acumen and determination along with her father’s artistic talent. She couldn’t have built a business without it.

  ‘We made a beautiful baby, Jim,’ she murmured. If only she and Nina could be closer, but too much had happened. It was as if they were both at a loss as to how to fix this awkwardness between them.

  Some noisy revellers in costume rounded the corner. Ben Blackett. But there was something – or someone – attached to the front of his wheelchair. It was a figure in a horse suit walking upright. Typical. Hilary smiled in spite of herself.

  ‘Oh, that’s brilliant!’ chuckled Kathryn. Nina and Izzy turned to see what was creating a stir behind them. It was Ben, making his way up the ramp. His chair had a couple of painted cardboard ‘wagon wheels’ positioned over its own and he was wearing a tatty straw hat and braces. He was holding the reins of a ‘horse’, a rather laconic looking beast that had seemed to have discovered how to walk upright while balancing a beer in one hoof. Its coat was a rusty velveteen, threadbare in parts, and its clumpy mane and tail had also seen better days. ‘Trust Ben to come up with that,’ said Kathryn as they made way for the pair.

  Izzy doubled over in laughter as she watched Ben and his costumed steed ham it up by the doorway, Ben wielding a whip and the horse cowering in fear between sips of beer. Other guests in long skirts, various bonnets and hats clapped their appreciation as they passed.

  ‘Tis Izz,’ Ben said, tapping his hat. ‘You’ve scrubbed up well. Didn’t recognise you without the tyre tracks.’

  ‘Very funny,’ she replied dryly.

  ‘Now we can’t have you standing around like a wallflower in that dress – sacrilege!’ said Ben. ‘Later you and I will have to show Neens here and the dance-challenged Heath how to hit the floor. I just need to get my horse watered first.’

  Nina smiled and hit him on the head with her fan.

  ‘You’re on,’ Izzy laughed as she waved Ben inside.

  Finally, Heath appeared; dashing in redcoat, navy breeches and high black boots. He tipped the visor of his tall shako in military style. ‘Hello, Kathryn,’ he said, kissing his aunt. ‘Feeling a touch overdressed. This hat’s going to fall off all night. Maybe we can use it for tips at the bar.’

  ‘It’s the best outfit so far, except for Ben and his horse,’ she smiled.

  ‘Kegs are organised,’ continued Heath. ‘Think I’ve prevented Nev from having a heart attack. Biggest thing to happen in Wandalla since – well probably since last year’s Show,’ he smiled. ‘Now if I can just round Lobby up from wherever he’s hiding I’ll be one happy barman. Time to go in?’

  ‘You go ahead,’ said Kathryn. ‘Mac will be here in a moment.’

  Heath offered Nina and Izzy his arms and they walked through the door just as the band struck up an Irish jig.

  Izzy looked left, right. No sign of Lachlan. What had he been up to all afternoon? The hall was almost full as they headed towards the bar where Heath ensconced himself as the first barman of the night.

  ‘God, don’t tell me he’s not coming,’ Izzy muttered as she waited to be served.

  ‘No, we don’t make those but I can get you a beer or a wine or a sparkling.’

  ‘Huh? Oh, sorry, Heath. A dry white wine, thanks,’ said Izzy.

  Was Lachlan avoiding her? They had last slept together almost a month ago – the night before she had left for Sydney. It felt like forever. He had been tender. A shiver of pleasure went through her as she recalled him telling her over and over how beautiful she was, her hair, her skin, her curves … But she had not seen him at all since she arrived back yesterday. There was that phone call but … he could at least have left her a note … or … something.

  ‘What was that, Heath?’ she asked. ‘You say something?’

  ‘Shoot me now.’

  She followed Heath’s gaze. The din dropped to a low murmur, then silence. The bush band stopped playing ‘The Wild Rover’ and there was a ‘drum’ roll from the washboard player.

  It was Hilary, magnificent in scarlet velvet, the rich fabric of the dress ruched around her hips and thighs. She stood perfectly still in the doorway, flanked by Kathryn and Mac Blackett. Her blonde hair was parted in the middle and straightened to ear level, where a garland of blossoms perched above ringlets that dropped to her shoulders. A jet necklace fanned out from her throat.

  Stunning, thought Izzy. Around her, the guests stood inanimate as though waiting for a spell to release them. Then Hilary glided alone into the room, her two-metre train flowing behind. Low chatter broke the silence and there was some applause.

  With a flourish, Hilary held out her black-gloved arms. ‘Wandalla, I welcome you,’ she trilled.

  Heath grabbed a bottle. ‘I think I’ll have to join you, Izzy.’

  ‘Hilary, you’ve outdone yourself,’ said Kathryn afterwards.

  ‘Thank you. That means a lot to me,’ said Hilary. She had hoped that walking in with the Blacketts would help win over any doubters, and she was right. The applause had seemed genuine. If these two, the most highly-respected farming couple in the far west, were willing to stand by her, then the others might follow. She looked at Kathryn and Mac’s smiling, open faces. Why they had chosen to take such an interest in her during high school she’d never fully understand. But if they hadn’t taken her under their wing and given her an education, god only knows where she’d be now.

  Surely, deep down, it must grate on them that their nephew was doing his utmost to turn his back on the farming traditions his own family had helped pioneer. Relatives, she mused. Why was it you could never get them to do as you wanted? Yet the Blacketts still seemed so close to Heath.

  Hilary thanked her many well-wishers. No-one must know how much she had worried about this event.

  ‘Are Deborah and Matty coming?’ asked Kathryn.

  ‘I wish they were, but one of the twins has an ear infection. Bad timing.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’ Kathryn patted her arm. ‘Your first grand children! Now, I remember one is named Mo, for Moira, and the other is …?’

  ‘Bonny.’

  ‘Of course.’ Kathryn smiled.

  ‘Phillip would have been so proud,’ said Mac.

  As the band started up again, Hilary ventured further into the hall. The dance floor was a swirl of colour. Most of the guests had at least tried to meet the dress code, though she noted with disapproval that some of the younger women were wearing modern maxis.

  And then there was that Indian couple. The pair who worked at the community health centre. They were both wearing period outfits; he in a waistcoat and riding boots and the woman in a bonnet and long skirt. Not quite right, tutted Hilary. Maybe she should have tactfully suggested they dress as Afghan camel herders – there were a few of those around back in the day. But then again, it was probably better she never said anything, Hilary sighed to herself. She always seemed to put someone’s nose out of joint when she pointed out the obvious.

  In the milling throng, she spotted Dorothy Crane from the Argus having a beer with Hamish Campbell. The woman wasn’t even taking photographs, just standing there like a lump.

  Hilary shouldered her way towards her, but found herself instead face to face with Moira Inchboard who was dressed in a colonial maid’s outfit.

  ‘Moira! Glad you made it.’ Hilary felt uneasy. They hadn’t spoken properly in years. The truth was this woman made her uncomfortable – too many reminders of her miserable childhood when Moira used to bring over
some of their catch, Hilary’s parents too drunk to thank them or even register. She still hated taking anything from anyone. Then, there was that awful business over Nina’s bore. And tonight, there was something in the woman’s eyes.

  ‘These settlers couldn’t have survived without people like me to mop up their mess,’ said Moira pointedly, but not without humour.

  ‘Well, of course, everyone had a role to play.’ Hilary smiled and patted her shoulder.

  Moira waved across the crowded room. Hilary looked up. It was Lachlan Wright, standing in the entranceway.

  Despite herself, her heart skipped a beat. It was as though Jim had come back – older, more distinguished looking, but with the same mischievous gleam in his eye.

  ‘Believe you’ve met Hilary Flint,’ said Moira as he joined them.

  ‘I have had the pleasure.’ Lachlan removed his top hat and bowed. ‘Would you care to join me on the floor, Hilary?’ he asked, looking straight into her eyes.

  Hilary and Lachlan dancing – the picture was unsettling somehow, thought Nina. Just wrong.

  She felt a sudden need to escape the crowds, so followed Ben and his horse into the adjoining room that housed the historical displays. They were having an argument – Ben wanting to go one way, his horse the other.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ smiled Nina. ‘Saddle sores? Chaff too dry?’ The horse nodded enthusiastically and Nina burst into laughter.

  ‘So, who’s your trusty steed anyway, Ben?’ she asked.

  ‘Between you, me and the gatepost? It’s Lobby,’ he laughed. ‘Hilary’ll be furious if she finds out it’s her brother. How are you adjusting to the fact that Lob’s your uncle?’

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ Nina chortled.

  There came a muffled noise from the horse.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Nina asked Ben, who shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘What’s that?’ She bent down to the horse.

  ‘It’s fucking hot in here,’ came a voice. Then the horse’s cardboard mask was suddenly thrown backwards to reveal Lobby’s flushed face.

  ‘It’s bloody hard to drink in this thing – think I’ll have a breather,’ he grinned.

  ‘Good idea, Lobs,’ said Ben, slapping the horse’s rear end. ‘And don’t lose your head.’ The pair watched as Lobby stood and ambled off in his equine onesie, beer in hand, out a side door.

  ‘Oh. My. God,’ laughed Nina. ‘Come on, Ben, let’s get a drink.’

  ‘Nah, you go,’ he replied. ‘I’m sick of hearing a whole bunch of so-called farming pioneers lecture me about what a crackpot my brother is.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘Nah, don’t worry about it, Neens, truly. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. You know how it is. The minute you mention the early settlers, everyone gets misty-eyed. They hate change. You go ahead – I want to hang here a while anyway and get a look at this stuff.’

  The anteroom had been set up with cabinets full of old relics, letters, photographs and newspapers that Hilary and the Historical Society had arranged along its walls. But the room was deserted – they were the only ones who seemed interested, thought Nina.

  ‘I know exactly what you’re looking for – that letter of Hilary’s that’s supposed to mention the other locket,’ said Nina. ‘It’s not here. I checked this afternoon when we were setting up the tables.’

  ‘So why wouldn’t Hilary have it on display if it’s so amazing?’

  ‘You should know better than to ask why my mother does anything.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t mind looking at the rest anyway before it gets too crazy in here,’ said Ben.

  ‘Sure,’ said Nina. ‘But, be warned, there are heaps of clippings about prize-winning pumpkins at the Show and every pic of the local debutante ball since about 1934, if that takes your fancy.’

  ‘Sounds thrilling – I’ll take my chances anyway,’ smiled Ben.

  ‘Remind you of anything?’ Half an hour later, Nina was in Heath’s arms and being steered slowly around the dance floor, which now showed no sign of her mother and Lachlan.

  ‘How could I forget? You were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, standing there in that flimsy white dress. That dance changed my life.’

  ‘Not so glamorous tonight,’ Nina laughed up at him.

  ‘What do you mean? I’d love you in sackcloth.’ She hit him playfully and he whispered in her ear, ‘I’d love you in anything. Or nothing for that matter.’

  He dipped her so far back that her curls almost brushed the floor. From her upside-down position Nina caught a frown from one of the members of the Historical Society, six of whom who were dancing a lively set of Strip the Willow. Slow dancing was clearly not a Victorian thing.

  ‘You do realise,’ said Nina when she was upright again, ‘that we’re causing a scandal by not following the correct steps.’

  ‘Probably. But I’m used to being out of step with this lot.’

  ‘I don’t know how you stand it sometimes,’ she said.

  ‘Stand what?’

  ‘People bitching. Having an opinion on you just because you’re doing something different. Always wanting to tear you down, saying your ideas will never work …’

  Heath smiled at her. ‘You know I don’t give a shit.’

  ‘I know that. It’s just …’

  ‘It really bothers you, doesn’t it?’ Heath frowned.

  Nina nestled her head deeper into his shoulder. ‘By the way – Kathryn’s been hinting again in that subtle-as-a-sledgehammer way of hers.’

  ‘Hinting?’

  ‘About us setting a wedding date of course.’

  Heath smiled ruefully. ‘I can’t control what people say.’ He pulled her closer.

  ‘I love you,’ she said, then looked straight up at him. ‘I do.’

  ‘Mmmm.’ He stroked her cheek.

  ‘Nina! Ben wants you.’ It was Izzy. Nina followed where her friend was pointing and saw Ben waving frantically.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Nina.

  ‘He wants to talk to you,’ said Izzy.

  ‘It’s alright – you go,’ said Heath. ‘Fill me in later. I’d better go and jump back behind the bar. Poor Neville’s looking a bit freaked out there by himself.’

  ‘Okay. Catch you later,’ she said, giving him a quick kiss. She turned to Izzy but her friend seemed lost in her own thoughts. ‘You right?’

  ‘Yeah fine, you go.’ Izzy wandered off through the crowd.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Nina when she reached Ben. ‘I see you are sans horse’s arse.’

  ‘Yeah, whatever,’ he said, distracted. He had not moved from the display cases and his eyes were focused on a newspaper cutting.

  ‘Far out, Neens,’ he said, turning to her and shaking his head in disbelief. ‘I think I’ve bloody discovered something fucking amazing.’

  Nina looked at him puzzled.

  ‘Check this out.’

  It was a yellowed page from the Wandalla Argus.

  ‘How old is that?’ asked Nina.

  ‘Just read it,’ implored Ben.

  Her eyes scanned the headlines and photos. It was a report on a wedding in 1897 of Mr. James M. Blackett, ‘only son of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas M. Blackett of Wandalla to Miss Sarah K. Rawlings, younger daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Harold J. Rawlings of Scone’.

  ‘Wow! You found a rellie?’ said Nina.

  ‘Keep going,’ said Ben.

  Nina read aloud: ‘“The bride wore a trained gown of cream surah, trimmed with chiffon, a wreath of orange blossoms and a veil of embroidered Brussels net. The breakfast was held in the ballroom at Durham House. Illustrious attendants and guests included local families the Hills, Campbells, McNallys and Rosses.”’

  ‘Notice no Larkins appear to have been invited?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Only now you mention it,’ replied Nina slowly.

  ‘There’s a good reason for that. Keep reading.’ He pointed to another article.

  Her eye fell on a headline. ‘DURHAM HOUSE RAZ
ED – Child Dies.’

  ‘The fire at Durham! How awful,’ Nina whispered, as she took in the grainy picture of the blackened remains of the once grand home. The stone fountain was there in the foreground but its familiar shape looked ghostly amid the blackness and rubble around it. She shivered.

  ‘Keep reading,’ urged Ben.

  Thursday, November 16th, 1905. Wandalla townsfolk and local graziers joined the Blackett family at the funeral of four-year-old Lewis Mackenzie Blackett, who died in the recent fire that tore through Durham House, the homestead on their grazing property, 61 miles north-east of Wandalla. Despite valiant efforts, the family and workers were unable to bring the fire under control. Mr. James Blackett, Mrs. Sarah Blackett, and their surviving daughter, Annie (seven years), intend to re-build on a site nearby. A neighbour, Mr. Barnaby Larkin, said of this most disturbing occurrence: ‘It is a tragedy. A terrible tragedy.’

  ‘The boy in the game, remember?’ said Ben.

  ‘Of course,’ said Nina. As children when they’d played among the fallen stones at Durham House, they had made this story into a game. ‘We should show Izzy. She’ll want to know all of this too.’

  ‘For sure,’ agreed Ben.

  ‘That poor little boy. And the girl, Annie – that’s Grace Morphett’s mother.’

  ‘So let’s get this straight. This same Sarah Blackett’s supposed to have written the mystery letter about the other locket,’ said Ben.

  ‘I’m going to ask Hilary as soon as I can get to her.’

  ‘You do that, Neens, but, truth is, I’ve been saving the best till last,’ he said.

  ‘What now?’ asked Nina.

  ‘Explains why there were no Larkins at the wedding. Maybe you and Heath shouldn’t be together.’ He pointed and read to her.

  ‘“November 24th, 1906. One of Wandalla Shire’s most prestigious properties, Durham Station, has been sub-divided. Property owner Mr. James Blackett has sold 130,000 acres to Mr. Barnaby Larkin. The pair have heretofore been considered staunch enemies following a series of legal disputes in recent years. Mr. Larkin claims squatter’s rights as the first man to occupy the area and Mr. Blackett has contested this claim with vigour. The reason for the recent entente is unknown.”’