by Helene Young
‘And you believed him. Bet he has another bank account you don’t know about.’
‘He promised he wouldn’t do that again. We’ve just drifted apart, I guess.’ Felicity swallowed a mouthful of wine, grateful to finally feel its blurring effect on her pain. ‘It’s not only his fault.’
‘And it’s not your fault because you work such long hours to pay for this place. Nor is it your fault that your mum needs you.’ Steph was always the voice of measured reason. Felicity remembered them in their darkened dormitory making their pinky-swear ‘to always be there’.
‘But maybe Mum’s always been able to pull my strings too.’
‘That’s Todd talking, not you. Sure, your mum’s imperious, a bit demanding, but hey, she’s in her nineties. She’s entitled to have her family at her beck and call.’ Paula waved her glass around then, realising it was empty, reached for the bottle to top up all the glasses.
‘Ivy’s living alone, rattling around in that great big house, and Ken’s as useful as an ashtray on a motorbike,’ she continued. ‘If your brother pulled his weight you wouldn’t need to spend a day getting there and back to sort things out.’
Steph nodded. ‘Paula’s right about Ken and if Todd was a little more supportive he could have gone with you. You’re not to take the blame for this, Lissie. I know you care so much – it’s what makes you a great nurse – but Todd is responsible for his own actions. He’s an adult. It’s time for you to get your life back.’
Felicity couldn’t stop the tears this time, but she waved her friends away as she fumbled for the tissues in her pocket. Get her life back? She’d turned her back on that life when she moved to Brisbane and married Todd. It was too late for fairytale endings.
Ivy hung up the phone and sat for a moment. Disappointment settled heavy in her heart. She understood a cancelled flight was out of anyone’s control, but she’d been counting on her youngest child’s cheerfulness, which always drove away the dark clouds. Still, Ivy consoled herself, at least she had something to look forward to next week.
And now she had longer to prevaricate about whether to tell her girls about Ken’s deal. Esmay’s words from the other day replayed in her mind, but perhaps she should fix this herself. She pursed her lips. She was old, not senile, and she’d always been good with numbers.
When she first joined the Limestone Hill CWA committee the finances had been in a terrible mess. It had taken her two terms as treasurer to get their heads above water and she’d trodden on more than a few toes. But there’d been no time for finesse, just a job to do. Forty years later, several local women still turned their backs on her, but that was their loss. The CWA branch was strong and vibrant. Those that counted knew why.
She was still the secretary, although she’d decided she would give that up at the next election. Time for the new generation to step up. Just like it was time for Ken to give up his political ambitions. Pass the baton, son. Quit while they still remember you fondly.
He’d called this morning to say the line of credit from the mortgage was available in the business account already. She’d check on that as soon as she could convince her knees to work.
The phone rang again.
‘Hiya, Mrs D. How’re you doing?’
‘Mitch!’ Smiling, she sat a little straighter. ‘I’m doing just fine, thank you.’
‘Good to hear. Felicity still coming up today?’
‘Ah, no. She’s just phoned.’ Ivy kept her tone light. ‘There’s been a problem with her flight. She couldn’t get another one until late tonight so she’ll be up next week instead.’
‘That’s a shame. You were looking forward to it.’
‘Nothing to be done. She sounded upset, but I told her not to fret.’
‘She’s been a worrier since we were in little school. Remember that orphaned joey she brought home? Mr D was not amused.’
‘Not too many cattlemen encourage competition for their stock’s feed, Mitch. Charlie came around eventually.’
‘Kind of,’ he said with a short laugh. ‘Listen, I’m ringing to let you know I’ve found some fences down on the boundary with Arran Downs. I can ring Ken if you think that’s best or I can just fix it.’
‘When you say some, do you mean a few yards or a few miles?’ Mitch was the master of understatement.
He laughed. ‘Somewhere in the middle. Looks like some of my young steers have gone for a wander. God knows why. There’s less feed on Arran Downs than there is on my place, or Roseglen.’
‘I see. Have you got your stock back? And are they branded?’
‘No and no. But I’ll collect them before I fix it. You know how it is with Ken.’ She pictured him shrugging one of his brawny shoulders under a faded blue shirt.
‘I do, dear. Why don’t you get your cattle, fix it and deduct the cost from the agistment fees for the month.’ It all came out of the same pot now anyway.
‘If you’re sure. I know you run on the smell of an oily rag, Mrs D, and it’s none of my business, but the income from my cattle eating your grass wouldn’t keep a budgie in seed.’
‘It is none of your business, but you’re a dear boy for caring. It’s not like I need new dancing shoes now, is it?’
‘Dad always said you were a hell of a dancer, Mrs D,’ he said. ‘And Deb’s been baking this week and filled the freezer. How about I bring around a pie tonight and teach you a thing or two about Scrabble?’
She laughed. Deb Masters, recently widowed, was housekeeping for him. She used to give Ivy a run for her money at the CWA bake-offs, but then she was thirty years younger, with strong wrists for kneading; her pastry was feather light. ‘How could I refuse such an offer? I’ll hunt down a bottle of red wine. And we can talk about your little proposal again. See you at six for a thrashing?’
‘Okay.’ He rang off with another chuckle.
Her Charlie had been a stickler for boundary maintenance and so was Mitch. He’d always done his fair share, like his father. Being flanked by a Dunmore spread either side wasn’t easy. At least Roseglen’s fences were secure.
What state was Arran Downs really in? Ivy couldn’t help but wonder if it was more than the drought. Although Charlie had been gone six years, a long time without a decent grazier at the helm. They’d agreed to hand Arran Downs over to Ken when he turned twenty-one, but when it was obvious Ken had bigger fish to fry in politics Charlie stepped back in again. He couldn’t bear to see good country go to waste, so he set up a family company to manage them both while their son served in parliament. Charlie kept Arran Downs viable.
It had been Felicity who’d convinced her to destock Roseglen when Ivy had her fall from the quad bike three years ago.
‘You can’t manage it alone, Mum,’ her daughter had said, as she took her through her physio routine on the homestead verandah. ‘You’ve made a remarkable recovery but it’s too much for you. We either sell off the herd for now or we hire a manager.’
Ivy had given in reluctantly, but they’d made good money on the cattle.
When the drought continued it was Felicity’s suggestion to spend that money on installing irrigation from the limestone cave system that ran between Roseglen and Trethowans. It made sense to irrigate closest to the source and that meant Roseglen would have feed to spare and no cattle to eat it.
‘Your father would never allow irrigation from the Venus and Angel Caves,’ Ivy had snapped, fear and guilt raising their heads, when Felicity had outlined her proposal. ‘He hated those caves after Ernie and Dottie and Albert were swept away in that terrible storm.’ There was not a day went by that Ivy didn’t think about that tragedy. How could she ever forget it? Poor Dottie deserved a champion.
‘But that was almost sixty years ago, Mum.’ Felicity had held her composure. ‘We’re talking about keeping the property viable, not having a picnic in them.’
Mollified, Ivy had eventually capitulated. She’d always privately maintained they should use the water. Hadn’t she argued with Charlie about this v
ery issue? ‘Well, go on. Ask Mitch if he wants to pasture his cattle here while we still have feed. It’s a shame you didn’t think of this irrigation idea earlier.’
‘I didn’t think I’d be able to convince you,’ Felicity had admitted. ‘But Mitch’s live export deal is the talk of the district. I bet he jumps at the chance of accessing more pasture.’ And he had.
Ken had been most displeased but the deal was done before he found out. Had Felicity made sure of that? Ivy would never have thought of her youngest as scheming, but perhaps she knew her brother too well.
Ivy’s chest tightened as she stood and made her way to the kitchen. The film of dust on the floorboards alongside the hall runner offended her, but she didn’t feel strong enough today to wield a vacuum cleaner. She used to have a cleaner, but the woman developed light fingers. A beautiful antique travelling clock that belonged to Old Mrs Dunmore went missing. Then Charlie’s shaving kit, presented to him by his men at the end of that final peacekeeping mission in Japan, vanished. Ivy was sure one of the handcrafted rifles disappeared, but Ken convinced her she must have been mistaken. Who knew what else she’d missed? Besides, she couldn’t really afford a cleaner anymore.
Esmay, bless her, had badgered her into enquiring about the pension. The bright young woman from Centrelink, who Ivy spoke to on the phone, droned on about asset tests and business accounts. It seemed Ivy would have to sell Roseglen to qualify and then she’d have too much money and nowhere to live. How absurd. The Dunmores had paid taxes all their working lives and never asked for a brass razoo. Surely that counted for something?
She peered out the kitchen window, waiting for the kettle to boil. The dogs were lying under the patchy shade of the gums. Maybe Mitch could take them for a quick walk before dinner tonight. The frustration of her forced inaction made Ivy’s fingers curl. She used to walk for miles before that dratted quad bike overturned. It took all her efforts to shake off the gloominess. What was wrong with her? She was still standing, albeit with the aid of the walker. Her mind still worked. ‘Get over yourself, Ivy Dunmore,’ she muttered.
She balanced her cup of tea on her walker and pushed herself to the office. At least this damn contraption had its uses.
The room was all Charlie: brown timber panels, sombre carpet, muted paint. Just as he’d left it. Except she’d had to tidy the desk and buy a filing cabinet to store the teetering piles of folders. But the same paintings hung on the wall, the same stock charts, the same advertisements for produce, tick dip and Kubota tractors were pinned to the calendar. She closed her eyes and breathed in, hearing him again snoring at the end of a long day, head thrown back, legs outstretched in his buttoned leather chair.
Felicity was always the one most likely to sneak in here and plonk herself down in the chair. Charlie thought it was charming. Ken looked like he was in for a hiding whenever he came to the door, yet he rarely was, and Georgina only wanted to be in the office if her father was working here.
Ivy manoeuvred into the chair and her toes stretched to reach the floor. She must remember to ask Felicity to lower it.
She logged onto the internet and waited for the bank’s website to load. Call me old fashioned, she thought, but I want to be sure the money from the bank really has gone into the business account. She typed in the password and an error message came back.
She checked the username. ROSEGLEN. Correct. Password. Charlie0602. Correct. She positioned the mouse carefully and clicked enter again.
Another error message: incorrect password. How could that be? She rubbed her fingers together. Maybe she’d missed the capital letter or something. She pulled her little diary from the top drawer and retyped the entries from there. Same result. The back of her neck prickled.
She made one more try. This time a pop-up message announced that she’d have to wait six hours to try again. She could call Ken, but then he’d tell her she was forgetting things.
She slumped in the chair. She’d hate for him to be right. Was dementia going to claim her as well?
The disappointment of not seeing Lissie was manageable, but this was too much. The sob caught in her throat. She wanted her girls, needed them here now. Wanted Felicity to hug her tight, tell her she was being a silly goose.
And Georgina? Tears flowed now, dripping off her chin. With each passing year the need to make peace with her eldest girl grew stronger. It was time to tell the truth, before it was too late.
But why would Georgina come home to a mother who’d never shown her any love?
Stop, Ivy, pull yourself together, she chided, drawing a shaky breath and searching for a hanky. She dabbed her cheeks and blew her nose. You can fix this.
The bank helpline was so convoluted Ivy hung up three times without actually talking to a real person. Her cup of tea had gone cold and she grimaced as she finished it. Waste not, want not.
The message on the computer screen mocked her. She was a silly old woman who couldn’t even access her account. But wait! Maybe she could access her personal account.
Taking great care, she entered IVYDUNMORE, then the password. Success! Perhaps she had simply forgotten the password for the business account. She checked the balance. The regular deposit from the business account was there. What little was left each month she withdrew and squirrelled away. The tin in her wardrobe had been quite full until last year when she decided she needed to right at least one of the wrongs. She leaned closer. The credit card account was higher than expected. A feed bill? She frowned. Roseglen had no cattle to feed.
She scanned further. A fuel bill? She hadn’t filled the car in six months. Last time she drove to church she ended up on the side of the road when a B-double truck roared past. No damage, no harm done, except to her pride. She certainly didn’t tell anyone. That new doctor in town kept suggesting she should give up her driver’s licence. But she wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.
She rang young Joan West at the roadhouse.
‘Now, Joan, I’m sure there’s a perfectly rational explanation, but I don’t remember filling the car recently.’
‘Can you give me the details and I’ll look into it?’
‘Sure.’ She gave her the date and the amount.
‘I’m doing the books tomorrow morning, Mrs D, so I’ll have a look then. You all right out there? Ken said you’ve been out of sorts.’
‘He did? No, no, everything’s fine, dear.’ Why would Ken say that?
‘Righto. Good to hear. Better go, got a queue out front.’
Ivy kept reading the screen. There was another bill from a trading company she didn’t recognise. All three transactions were on the same day. She turned to the wall calendar. It was a Wednesday, the day of the CWA cake stall. She’d baked scones and jam drops. Ken had driven her in. Surely she would remember if she’d gone shopping with him? Did she pay for his fuel that day?
But there was also the question of the feed. As much as she liked Mitch, she wasn’t paying to fatten his cattle.
Ivy made her way to the lounge room at the front of the house, still puzzling over it, and shooed Sinbad off her chair. She sat down and pressed the little button to raise her legs. Maybe she was forgetting things. She turned the television on and selected the recorded shows. She was quite addicted to those Phryne Fisher mysteries.
As the promo for another show ran she glanced across at the family photos. Photos were everywhere in the house. A constant reminder of who they were, where they’d come from. The first Mr Dunmore carved Roseglen out of the savannah forest and named it for his Scottish home.
She reached for her iPad. Ella, that clever young woman, had scanned hundreds of photos for her so she could look at them whenever she liked. Ella was so much like her mother, but there was a spark there that reminded her of Georgina – not surprising considering the way she idolised her aunt. She probably became a pilot because of Georgina’s example. Ella and Felicity on horseback was a sight for sore eyes. Ivy had always had a dream that Felicity would take over the reins of Roseglen. She sh
ould have been running Trethowans with Mitch, living next door, popping around for a chat. Ivy knew Lissie loved this land like she did, like a Dunmore. She wasn’t a city girl and never had been. Lissie was a cattlewoman through and through.
It was ironic that Ken, the one left farming the land, was the one who wanted to get away the most. Sure, Georgina was quick to leave home, but that was largely Ivy’s fault.
The show started and Ivy settled back. The TV guide said Miss Fisher was tracking down the mystery behind an old lady’s will. It could have been written for the Dunmores. She was sure she hadn’t seen this one before, but there were bits that did seem familiar. Was Ken right? Was she starting to forget things? She’d have to ask Lissie when she arrived.
But no. Lissie wasn’t coming. Mitch was. Lissie would be here next week. Ivy’s eyes fluttered closed. Just a small rest, before Mitch arrived. Maybe his little proposal offered her a way out of this mess.
Georgina scanned the room as the chief pilot left the podium. The staff and crew of World Air Aid were a veritable United Nations. Shocked conversations were being conducted in half-a-dozen different languages.
‘Didn’t see that coming,’ the pilot beside her said, his South African accent marked.
‘You’ve clearly not been listening to the grapevine, Jacko,’ Georgina retorted. ‘Or watching the news. Syria’s become too bloody dangerous for anyone. But the poor souls that are trapped there don’t matter apparently.’
‘I concede that there might be a risk at Aleppo, but couldn’t we keep flying to Damascus? And what are they thinking, relocating the aircraft to Athens and sending us all on leave?’
‘So jump on a commercial flight and go somewhere.’
‘What are you going to do?’
Georgina shrugged. Jacko had been pursuing her for the last couple of months, and while she found his lean build and quirky humour attractive, she wasn’t here for sex.
