by Helene Young
The doorbell chimed, jolting her back to the present. Oh joy. Here we go.
An hour later the inspection was over and the agent had gone. Felicity stood in front of the open fridge, eyeing off the bottle of wine. Surely a large glass of wine was appropriate at 3 p.m. if the circumstances called for it. And right now they did: Felicity had just been told the possible sale price of their family home would cover the mortgage with only about $100 000 left over to split between her and Todd. She’d accumulated a mere $1000 for every year of life. She picked up the bottle. So much for Todd’s ‘massive capital gains’.
Apparently the ‘best street’ wasn’t quite so in demand as it had been five years ago. Planning approvals had changed. People wanted more village-like housing, whatever the hell that meant.
She slammed the wine back into the shelf. The bottles rattled as she shoved the door closed. She had nothing to show for all those years of hard work.
Then she opened the fridge again. Bugger the house. She needed a drink. Turning fifty in three weeks was bad enough, but now she’d be hitting her half-century divorced and broke. Her birthday was officially cancelled. To hell with growing old.
‘So those buildings there would be little cabins for people to stay the night?’ Ivy adjusted her glasses to get a clearer look at the architect’s sketches. After their discussion last week Mitch had brought the plans around. They covered the kitchen table.
‘Yep. Starting very small with just the four. See how it goes. They can always be used for something else if this doesn’t work.’
‘And this new cave you found?’
‘A work in progress. Best guess? Cyclone Marcia unleashed so much water with the last decent wet that it literally blew the rubble out of the passageway. I was in the Angel Cave. Old Zeus went sniffing and I found him in a passageway that made me think of hobbits. The cavern and lake are ten times the size of the first pool. The cave divers reckon it’s the deepest they’ve ever been in. No one’s got to the bottom yet.’
‘So the potential is enormous.’
‘Yeah. Caving, movies, tourism, research, even.’
‘Movies?’ Her ears pricked at that. Moviemakers could bring a lot of money into the community. All those little demountable villages they build for them and someone has to feed them, water them. Her old mustering cook would be a shoo-in. Perhaps they could house them in the old bunkhouse.
‘Well now, that’s a distinct possibility.’
She smiled. She hadn’t meant to speak out loud. ‘On your place of course, dear.’ It was his idea after all.
‘If we go in as partners, we’ll work that stuff out between us, Mrs D.’
‘Partners?’ Ken wouldn’t like that. Their enmity had grown worse recently. She had a vague memory of Mitch attacking Ken one summer holiday years ago, but the memory was hazy. It fell into that bank of memory – not distant enough, but not yesterday’s news either.
‘Happy to make it formal. We can get a lawyer to draw it all up.’
‘I see.’
He looked quizzical. ‘It would be for your protection too, Mrs D. It’s all above board, just like the agistment agreement Lissie drew up.’
‘Yes, yes. I understand. It’s just . . .’ It wouldn’t be right to tell her neighbour about the new mortgage before she told the girls, no matter how much she trusted him. ‘Let me think about it.’
‘No rush. Talk to Lissie. We don’t need funding just yet.’ He hesitated. ‘And even if we did, we could work something out. You haven’t had a good season in a few years.’
And she wouldn’t be likely to again. She could hear what he wasn’t saying. Ivy Dunmore was no longer the driving force she once was. Nor did she want to be shuffled off to a cell in a urine-soaked nursing home while some dreadful international company raped her land.
Mitch reached over and clasped her hand in his. ‘I thought you’d like the idea, but if it upsets you too much, I’ll find another way.’
His sympathy was almost her undoing, but Ivy Dunmore did not cry. She raised her chin. ‘No, dear boy, I’m not upset by your plans. I’m just remembering Charlie and how he resisted doing anything with the caves or the lake. He hated the place.’
‘Dad told me about that,’ Mitch said, letting go of her hand.
She blinked. ‘Of course. Your father was part of the search party. He was with Charlie when they found them.’
‘He was,’ he said, his gaze direct and unwavering.
The look in his eyes took her breath. ‘We were all so upset,’ she hurried on. ‘To make it home from war only to be taken so tragically. And he’d finally found a good woman.’ She would not speak ill of the dead.
‘Dad reckoned little Dottie was a looker.’
‘Bright as a button. Like a crimson finch with her titian hair and green eyes. We all loved her.’ Her eyes filled. Dottie had been like a favourite sister.
‘I think Dad was sweet on her.’
‘Bill Trethowan’s tongue was tied in knots when Dottie was around. They would have made a bonny couple.’ She looked up at him. ‘But then you wouldn’t have been you.’
He laughed, the intensity in his eyes replaced with humour. ‘Good point. Dad didn’t like Ernie.’
Ivy pondered that. ‘I didn’t know Ernie before the war. What I do know is that none of them came home unchanged. I’m sure your dad was no exception.’
‘He had his moments, but . . .’ There was sadness in the hunch of his big shoulders. It’d only been three years since Bill died. Mitch had not had an easy few years before that with the stubborn man. He’d been eventually forced to move Bill into an aged care home when the elderly man wandered away from the house on a day when the thermometer topped forty degrees. Luckily Mitch found him when he did.
‘You did the right thing by him, Mitch. Don’t ever feel like you let him down.’
‘Thanks, Mrs D.’
She picked up the plans again. ‘Come over for dinner. Lissie and Ella are arriving today.’
‘Both of them? You’ll love that. But I won’t intrude.’
‘No, please do. I wasn’t going to say anything but . . .’ She shouldn’t meddle, she really shouldn’t. ‘Lissie and Todd are getting a divorce. I think she could do with friends right now.’
His head shot up, colour in his cheeks. ‘That’s not good. Divorce is a bloody nightmare.’
‘Yes, well, if people chose a little more wisely they wouldn’t be in that position.’ She couldn’t stop her lips pursing as though she’d tasted lemons.
He quirked an eyebrow. ‘Gee, Mrs D, you’re all heart.’
‘Someone has to say it. You told me yourself you’d made a mistake before you’d even walked down the aisle.’
‘Shelby was pregnant. Bit hard to walk away from that obligation.’
Ivy sniffed. ‘Pregnancy is no mystery to a man born on the land, Mitch.’
‘I was just a randy young buck.’ He was blushing now.
‘With appalling taste.’
He laughed. ‘Because you thought I should have married your daughter.’
‘And you should have,’ she retorted. Then none of this mess would have happened because the two of you would have looked after me.
‘Too late now.’
‘Never. You’ve got another half-century left in you. Why be unhappy?’
‘Because I’m not unhappy.’
‘Who will you talk to when I’m gone?’
‘You’re not dead yet, Mrs D,’ he said, with another hoot of laughter.
‘That’s what I keep telling my doctor. I think he wishes I were sometimes.’
‘You’re no easy patient.’
‘Where would the fun be in that?’
They shared a conspiratorial smile.
‘You give my love to the girls.’ He got to his feet.
‘How can reading a book be more entertaining than dining with three lovely ladies?’
His dimple appeared and she wanted to stroke his dear face. He was like another so
n.
‘What are you cooking? I might not like it.’
‘I haven’t decided.’ Holding a knife in her stiff fingers didn’t make it easy.
‘You want me to bring something from the freezer?’
‘No. Felicity will cook.’
He swallowed. ‘No offence, but if I remember correctly she rides a horse better than she cooks.’
‘You think being married won’t have taught her something?’
There was a fresh flush to his cheeks. Perhaps she should have worded that better. ‘She’s had to feed her family for thirty years.’
‘Plenty of takeaway in the big smoke.’
‘Away with you,’ she said, swiping his hand. He reminded her of Charlie. A single man like him should have been snatched up before the ink was dry on that divorce. It had been at least ten years now.
He rolled up the drawings. ‘Keep it between us for now, eh? Until you decide.’
‘Us and young Patrick and his mob?’ She had to ask, although she was sure he’d have done the right thing by them. They’d been on the land long before the Dunmores arrived. Old Nev had been the first Aboriginal stockman to work with Charlie’s father, Ken Senior, and was far past retirement age by the time Ivy arrived at Roseglen.
His grandson, Patrick, was a hard worker, too, and was doing his best for his people and the land. And he was a cheeky one. Last time he dropped around with Mitch for a cuppa he’d told her Mitch’s scones were lighter than hers. She’d laughed. Mitch had never baked a scone in his life and Patrick knew it.
‘Yeah, Pat’s keen for it to happen. Since there’s no droving for the lads, there’s not much for them to do. And the dole cheques just get wasted when they aren’t busy.’
‘I hear the sly grogging’s back again.’
‘Pat’s doing his best.’
‘But idle hands?’
‘The devil’s got nothing to do with it, Mrs D.’ He stooped to press a kiss to her cheek. The affection was so welcome. He let himself out and she heard him patting the dogs before he drove away.
It perplexed her, but the older she got, the less people seemed to touch her. Old age wasn’t contagious. It wasn’t a disfiguring virus that ate your body away. It was inevitable.
Charlie was always hugging her, touching her. For a man of his vintage he was very affectionate. Making up after an argument was almost worth the fight in the first place. Except for that last one.
She remembered that day like it was last week, not six years ago. Trays of scones were in the oven, the kitchen full of their aroma, when Charlie clomped up the newly finished back ramp. Usually he stopped to take off his boots, but that day he poked his head around the screen door. She’d smiled. His Jackie Howe singlet was tucked in neatly to shorts that sat a little too high on his waist. He didn’t look like a man close to ninety.
‘Hey, love,’ he’d said. ‘I need to check the paddocks at the base of the escarpment. According to the lads, it’s dry. The windmill’s turning, but nothing’s coming up.’
‘How long will you be gone?’ she’d asked.
‘Dunno, but don’t wait for dinner if I’m not back. I’ll take the ute. Might need to clean some pipes.’
‘More likely the water level’s dropped again.’
‘Maybe. I’ll see.’
‘I don’t see why you won’t just drop a pump in the aquifer. It’s sitting there doing nothing.’
‘We’ve been over this before, Ivy. The water’s there for emergencies, otherwise we don’t go into the caves.’
‘This is an emergency! You’re threatening to drove the cattle down the long paddock if it doesn’t rain soon. You’re too old for that. What’s wrong with you?’
Charlie’s normally cheerful face darkened. ‘There are still other options.’
‘You’re wrong. This is as bad as the last drought in the eighties, except this time we still have stock on the land.’
‘We are not using the water from the caves.’
She’d been so angry, so afraid that the stress of the drought would kill him, that she’d said the unspeakable. ‘You think Ernie and Dottie wouldn’t want us to use the water?’
‘Enough! Don’t you dare bring them into this!’
She’d taken a step backwards. Ivy had never seen such anger from her Charlie; his teeth were bared, fists rigid, eyes blazing. The screen door slammed.
Why should decades-old grief dictate the way they farmed? To her, survival was the most important thing. How could you have stewardship over the land if you just ignored the fact that there was a lake with pure water lying underneath the parched soil on which you grazed your thirsty cattle?
He was being stupid, she’d always thought, allowing guilt and grief to cloud his judgement. Those caves held him prisoner. She was sure he hadn’t been back since that awful day. She had. She paid her respects every anniversary, but she didn’t tell Charlie. And she didn’t try to stop the kids from sneaking down there, nor the grandkids.
She went back to her baking that day. He could jolly well apologise before she’d give him dinner. The scones had cooled by the time the dogs came barking an hour after he stormed out.
She’d frowned, and cocked her head to listen. There was no sound from the shed, but usually he took the dogs with him.
Lady barked again, insistent this time. The first tingle of alarm jolted through her. She’d stripped the apron from her waist and shoved her feet into outdoor shoes. The dogs were headed for the shed and she’d stomped after them.
‘Charlie?’ she’d called. ‘Charlie?’
The silence reverberated in her ears like the echoes of a thunderclap. He was always whistling or singing along to that dreadful music he insisted on playing when he worked. Always using some tool or another that rang out through the clear air.
‘Charlie? Where are you?’ The ute was still there. Lady was ahead, casting long glances back. ‘Charlie!’
When the dog darted into the workshop she broke into a run. ‘Charlie!’
He was flat on his back, eyes wide, surrounded by rolls of Polypipe. She knew he was gone. She’d cleaned and dressed old Mrs Dunmore for burial.
Still she’d dropped to the floor, plucking at his shirt, feeling for a pulse. ‘Charlie, no Charlie. Please, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Charlie!’ she pleaded. His hand was still warm, but there was no tension. Lady was whining and Wex set up an unearthly howl.
With tears soaking the neck of her dress, she’d staggered back to the house and phoned for the ambulance before rushing back to his side, trying to force life into his empty lungs, to pump blood through his failed heart. All the while her breath roared in her ears like a raging storm and her hands shook. She would not surrender.
By the time the ambulance arrived she’d been trying to revive him for half an hour, telling Charlie she was sorry for questioning him. How dare she think the water could be used? Who was she to have an opinion?
‘Hey, Mrs D,’ the younger paramedic had said. ‘You want to come with me to the kitchen?’ He phoned Ken for her and made a couple of other calls as well.
Ken arrived as they were loading Charlie into the ambulance. He was ashen, but he didn’t hug her. Too shocked, she supposed.
Another couple of vehicles pulled up. The local policeman came around the corner with Mitch, who headed straight to her.
‘Mrs D,’ he’d said, as he wrapped her up in his arms. She’d turned into his chest and the tears flowed again. She was grateful for the steady beat of his heart against her cheek, as though it affirmed that life would go on. Even without her Charlie.
‘He’s gone, Mitch,’ she’d managed to stutter.
‘Shh,’ he murmured, his arms tightening. ‘You want me to ring Felicity?’
‘No. I should do that.’
‘I’ll come with you. Unless you want to follow the ambulance to Mareeba?’
She’d lost the battle with her sobs. ‘No. I’ve said my goodbyes.’
He rocked her then, as she’d do
ne to him all those years ago.
Ken walked towards them and Mitch stiffened, but released her.
‘I’m going with the ambulance. Do you want to come?’ Ken’s eyes were watering and his chin wobbled.
‘No,’ she’d said, struggling to find her voice. ‘He’s gone, son.’
His nod was abrupt and he looked as though he was going to say more, but instead he spun on his heel and stumbled away.
‘Let’s go call Felicity and Georgina. They need to know,’ Mitch prompted her.
He was right, but knowing wasn’t going to change anything for her girls, or for Ivy. She had a funeral to organise and a cattle property to run. Life was going to go on, no matter that her heart was breaking. All she wanted was curl up in their bed, press his pillow to her face and cry for all that she’d had and all that she’d lost. Being old didn’t make the grief any less. She and Charlie were a team, two halves of one. How could she go on?
Ivy brought her thoughts back to the present. What would Charlie think of this latest scheme Mitch was proposing? Did a new mortgage over Roseglen warrant her breaking a promise? The decision rested heavily on Ivy, but she already knew the answer.
If Mitch knew the truth about Ernie and Dottie, it was only a matter of time before it came out. Best keep him close as a business partner and a friend.
The dotted line up the middle of the faded bitumen drilled a hole in the horizon. The limestone hill on the right, all angles and sharp edges, reared out of the undulating plains with rocks balanced precariously on the summit. A cluster of native bauhinia trees crouched amongst the fallen boulders strewn at its base. No sign of their pretty white flowers yet. They’d need rain for that to happen. A flock of parrots took flight in a flurry of bright wings, interrupting their midmorning conversation. They wheeled over the road and Felicity didn’t need to look behind to know that once the car passed they would settle again and resume their chatter as if nothing had disturbed them.
