by Di Morrissey
‘We didn’t mean to disturb you; we’ve got a flat tyre. It won’t take me long to change it,’ said Chris.
The woman glanced at their car. ‘So you have. Where are you headed?’
‘My friend is showing me this scenic route,’ said Georgia with a smile. ‘I’ve never been here before. You’ve obviously been here a long time.’
‘I have. Where are you from? You a local?’ she said to Chris.
‘I live in Neverend. I’m Chris Baxter and this is Georgia McPhee,’ said Chris, offering the woman his hand.
‘Jean Hay,’ said the woman, shaking Chris’s hand. ‘Baxter, yes . . .’ she paused thoughtfully. ‘Were your parents teachers at the high school?’ When Chris nodded, Jean continued. ‘I remember them. I used to be very active in the town, once. Popped in for Red Cross and CWA meetings all the time, and I’m sure your parents taught a couple of my children and maybe even my grandchildren.’
‘Seems like the locals know everyone in Neverend,’ said Chris with a smile.
‘Living in Neverend doesn’t necessarily make you a local,’ Jean pointed out.
‘I was born there,’ Chris explained. ‘And I’ve come back to live here for a while.’
‘Good decision. After you’ve changed your tyre, would you both like a cup of tea?’ asked Jean, gesturing to the house.
‘We don’t want to put you to any trouble,’ said Georgia.
‘It’s that time of day,’ Jean said with a slight smile. ‘I’ll just fetch my kindling.’
‘Please, can I help?’ said Chris quickly as they followed the woman around the house to the rear garden. In the tangle of undergrowth and fruit trees they saw a patch of vegetable garden. Near it was a chicken run, where several large brown hens pecked about beside a water tank. An old outside toilet was almost buried under a choko vine. Jean headed towards the woodshed and Chris could see that she’d been splitting pieces of wood into kindling chips. With a sudden swing she slammed the small axe into the chopping block where it bit into the wood, leaving it standing upright.
‘We’ll carry the kindling for you,’ said Georgia.
‘Would you like me to split any big pieces?’ asked Chris.
‘I have enough to be going on with, thank you. Soon as you’ve changed your tyre, come inside.’
With Georgia’s help it took Chris only a short time to change the tyre, and then they made their way to the front door. As they stepped onto the solid boards of the partially latticed verandah, Georgia said softly, ‘Aren’t these rose and green leadlight windows beautiful?’
Chris nodded, then tapped on the door and called out.
‘Let yourselves in. I’m in the kitchen.’
‘I hope we’re not intruding,’ called Georgia as they made their way down a hallway to the back of the house, where they entered a large country kitchen that looked as original as the day it had been built. Jean was sitting at the kitchen table, pulling off her gumboots.
‘Not at all. No problem changing your tyre? That’s good. You look a nice couple, and I’m generally a good judge of people.’ Jean smiled. ‘Now, I’m going to make some tea and toast, I’m a bit peckish. Would you care to join me?’
Using a metal hook, Jean opened the heavy enamel door of the old stove and threw in a piece of wood. She left the door open as the fire in the small box blazed, and, filling a large aluminium kettle with water, she put it on top of the stove.
‘Can I help?’ asked Georgia as the woman took down a brown china teapot and spooned tea leaves into it.
‘Cups are on the shelf over there.’ Jean pointed to some open shelves which were lined with paper, the edges cut in a lacy frill.
‘How long have you lived here?’ asked Georgia as she looked around the kitchen.
There was a single, elderly tap over the sink, suggesting that Jean had no running hot water. The china Georgia took down from the shelf was old and crazed and neither Chris nor Georgia could miss noticing the old rabbit traps that were hanging on the back wall.
‘I was born here,’ said Jean. ‘My parents built this house for themselves as soon as they got married. They were among the first settlers this far along the river. After my parents died, my husband and I lived here. But Ernie’s gone now as well.’
‘So you live alone?’
‘I’m used to my own company. I don’t go to Neverend much anymore, but I have grandchildren who come to see me regularly. And I have the radio and TV for company.’
Looking from the kitchen through the hallway to the living room, Chris could see that probably little had changed since Jean’s parents had lived here.
‘Your house has so many interesting things in it. Did they belong to your parents?’ asked Georgia, who seemed eager to have a look around the quaint house.
‘The house is pretty much as my mother left it. She did the embroidery you can see on the cloths on those little tables and the crochet and needlepoint cushions. Don’t know how her eyes held up with the old lamps. My husband and I added a few personal things. Of course my family think most of it is junk and the lot should go to the tip. I should get around to having a sort-out one day and see if the Historical Society is interested in some of my bits and pieces.’
‘Oh my goodness, I’m sure they would be. May I look at the photos hanging in the hallway there? I’m keen on photography,’ said Georgia.
‘Certainly, I’ll show you. Chris, would you mind doing the toast? Butter’s on the table.’ Jean handed him a long-handled fork with a slice of thick bread on the end. ‘Pull up that chair if you like, and put the bread in front of the fire. I’ve got a toaster, but I always think toast tastes best done over a wood fire. Don’t you?’
‘Always reminds me of camping,’ agreed Chris, looking rather amused by the situation as Jean led Georgia down the hallway.
Later, seated around the kitchen table with the earthenware pot of tea snug under its woolly tea-cosy and their toast slathered in Jean’s homemade marmalade, the three chatted like old friends. Georgia talked about being a literary agent and Chris told Jean about his time as a foreign correspondent. When the teapot was empty and nothing remained of the toast but crumbs, Georgia asked, ‘Could we look around the garden? And would you mind if I took some photos of it, Jean?’
‘I’m not sure the place is very photogenic, but I’m happy for you to do that.’ Jean drained her cup of tea.
‘Are there any jobs you’d like me to do for you?’ asked Chris. ‘Though you seem remarkably capable,’ he added.
‘Thank you. I’m fine. The gutters have been done. I have enough chopped wood, and my neighbours keep an eye on me. Mind you, now I’m pushing ninety, I do have to accept that I have a few limitations. Come along out the front.’
Chris and Georgia exchanged astonished glances as they walked through the well-loved old house crammed with family memorabilia.
‘Just look at the sunlight coming through those glass panels. May I take this picture?’ asked Georgia.
Jean nodded, so Georgia used her wide-angle lens to capture the front sitting room with its solid cedar furniture, small side tables, bookcase and a large old-fashioned radiogram. The neat open fireplace had a mantelpiece on which photos in old-fashioned silver frames and glass ornaments were lined up in profusion on either side of an old mantelpiece clock. Above a well-worn but comfortable-looking settee with its embroidered cushions, the casement windows allowed the light to flood in through the rose-coloured stained glass panels, transforming the room with a rosy hue.
‘I think your whole house should be photographed, just as it is,’ said Georgia. ‘It’s so very evocative. I would love to do it.’
‘You are welcome any time, dear girl, provided I’m allowed to dust and put out some flowers beforehand,’ said Jean.
After they had finished their tour of the house and garden, and Georgia had taken more photos, they reluctantly said their goodbyes.
‘We have to be on our way, Jean. I’ve a plane to catch and Chris’s mother is expect
ing us for an early dinner – not that we’ll have all that much room for it, now,’ said Georgia.
Jean and the old dog, which had been lying on the verandah in the sun, walked Chris and Georgia to the car. Chris looked across the road towards the dark flowing river.
‘This is a truly lovely spot your parents chose to settle in, but it must have been hard work for them to clear the land,’ he said. ‘Do you still own all of their original acreage?’
‘No, over time we’ve had to sell bits of it off. Can’t be more than seventy acres left, and I don’t use that for anything at all now. Bit of a shame, really. It’s beautiful soil going to waste. Still, that won’t be my problem much longer.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Chris. ‘You look as fit as a flea. You’ll be around for a long time yet.’
‘I hope that you meant what you said about my photographing your place properly. This visit has been so short, I have not had a chance to do the place justice,’ said Georgia.
Jean impulsively gave Georgia a light hug. ‘I certainly meant it.’
‘Then we’ll be seeing you again,’ said Georgia.
‘Thank you so much for being so kind,’ said Chris.
They got in the car, and as Chris started the engine and turned back onto the road, Jean waved them goodbye before she and the old dog slowly walked back to the weatherboard house.
*
‘You two have been chattering non-stop ever since you got back. You said you had afternoon tea, so I’m only making a pizza and salad for you before you have to catch that plane, Georgia. It’s almost ready,’ said Susan, coming into the front room where Georgia was positioned to get the best view across the river and the paddocks where the cattle, dark silhouettes against the emerald paddock, were grazing lazily.
‘Oh, that’s perfect. Thanks, Susan, everyone’s been very good to me.’
‘That’s just the local country hospitality,’ said Chris with a smile.
‘Hello everyone,’ said Megan, bursting into the room.
Chris introduced Georgia to his daughter.
‘So,’ said Megan, bluntly, ‘do you reckon Dad’s on to a good thing with his book?’
‘I think he could be. He just needs to do a bit more research and I’m sure I’ll be able to find a publisher interested in what he has to say.’
‘Awesome.’
‘How was band practice?’ asked Susan.
‘Megan’s in a jazz band with a group of her friends,’ Chris explained to Georgia.
‘What instrument do you play?’ asked Georgia.
‘The clarinet, but I’m thinking of learning the sax,’ Megan replied.
‘That’s the first I’ve heard of it,’ said Chris.
‘I used to play the flute. I wasn’t much good, but the best thing about a flute is that it’s portable, not like a piano or double bass,’ said Georgia.
Megan laughed. ‘Absolutely.’
Susan served up the pizzas and the four of them sat around the kitchen table, laughing and talking.
‘I’m sorry everyone,’ said Georgia at last, ‘but if I don’t get going right now, I’ll miss my plane. It was so nice to meet both of you, Susan and Megan. I hope that next time you come to Sydney, you’ll let me know so that I can return your hospitality.’
While Megan and Susan cleaned up the kitchen, Chris had a last word with Georgia as he walked her out to her car.
‘It’s been such a nice day. I can’t thank you enough,’ said Georgia warmly. ‘I think your mother and Megan are lovely.’
‘They are. It’s been a bit of a challenge getting to this point. Leaving Sydney was a big wrench for Megan, but she has settled into the school really well, which is a relief.’
Georgia reached out and touched his arm. ‘Listen, Chris, I know the past few months have been hard on you, but I’m sure that things will come good. Mind you, I don’t want you to get the idea that becoming an author will be the answer to your prayers. That’s a tough life, too. But I think giving it a try is worthwhile.’
‘I appreciate all your help, Georgia,’ said Chris, trying to stifle a slight feeling of panic. He had been putting all his eggs and hopes into the book basket. Perhaps he was being over-optimistic and unrealistic about where this idea would take him.
Georgia hadn’t quite finished, though. ‘Something else occurred to me today. Now that I’ve met your mother, I’m having a bit of a re-evaluation about your approach. What I’m trying to say is that while you are focusing on four very successful men, there was actually a group of six who went to Indonesia. I know you tried to find the midwife, but I think you should try again. After all, she stayed in Indonesia longer than your mother. See what she has to say. Women can be more observant and sensitive to things than men, and she might be able to provide you with some new information that could be pertinent. She’s been a nurse, so try the nursing associations. I’m sure with some more digging you can find her. You’re a journalist, you’re used to finding people.’
Chris was pleased that Georgia had suggested another thread to pursue for his story.
‘You’re right. I’ll make some more effort to track Norma down and I’ll keep trying with Alan Carmichael. I really need to crack that nut. I’ll be in touch when I have anything new. Thanks again for making the time to come to Neverend.’
‘It’s been a day of riches for me and very enjoyable. Thanks, Chris.’
‘Come back soon. Come for a weekend.’ As Georgia climbed into her hire car, Chris leaned over and kissed her cheek. It seemed a very natural thing to do.
As he waved Georgia goodbye, he thought about how much he’d enjoyed the afternoon with her, and he realised that he hadn’t spent time with a woman as smart and charming as Georgia in a long time. He suddenly felt lonely.
*
Chris took up Georgia’s suggestion and decided to contact the various nursing associations to try to track down Norma. Initially they were unable to find any trace of her, but he pushed them to keep looking.
Once again Chris approached Alan through his PA, who again fobbed him off. So Chris wrote Alan a letter as he had done for the article, explaining that he was going to expand his original story into a book about the careers of the four men. He hadn’t really expected anything to come of it, so he was surprised when Alan called him personally a few days later.
‘So, tell me about this book you’re doing,’ he said.
Chris explained what he wanted to write.
‘You’re not including your mother and the midwife?’
‘I certainly hope to use their experiences to fill in background detail about that time in Indonesia, if I can, but my mother is not at all interested in my telling her story, and I haven’t yet been able to track down Norma. To be truthful, I think it’s the high-profile names which will garner a publisher’s enthusiasm.’
‘Who is going to buy and read this book?’ asked Alan crisply.
‘Good question. I think Australians like to read about other Australians, especially successful ones, and you have been very successful. So I’d like to explore your career path. I know, for instance, that you started your company from scratch. I hope your story will give inspiration to other Australians.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Alan Carmichael. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
Chris felt elated. While Alan’s tone had been curt and Chris hadn’t had a chance to pin him down for an interview, the billionaire had at least called, so Chris felt hopeful that Alan would agree to further questions.
Chris now started to delve into the background of all his subjects in earnest, their schools, their universities, their old friends. He managed to work out what had become of the Neighbourhood Aid project, and found that it had merged with a couple of other aid organisations, and so he requested information about their Indonesian operation and its volunteers. He received some documents in the mail, but was told any personal files would have to be accessed under Freedom of Information procedures.
Chris was beginning to enjoy himself.
He relished the familiar feelings that digging for information brought him; mainly frustration, but also elation as small pieces of a puzzle began to emerge.
But one morning there was a letter in the mail that chilled him. Chris read it twice, absorbing its contents.
Susan noticed the expression on his face and asked, ‘Have you hit a snag? You look concerned.’
‘A snag is putting it mildly. This is a letter from Alan Carmichael’s personal lawyers notifying me that if my book defames Alan in anyway, they will be taking legal action. Apparently they’re going to be watching me very closely.’
‘What?!’ Susan looked stunned. ‘Why would Alan do this?’
‘He’s famous for being a private person,’ sighed Chris. ‘And he’s got his professional reputation to protect. Mum, what does he think I’m going to write about him that would cause him to act in such a heavy-handed way?’
‘Wealthy people are known for being litigious,’ said Susan.
Chris’s shoulders drooped. ‘How can I fight this? This book is going to be very hard to do without Alan Carmichael’s cooperation.’
‘Would it help if I spoke to Alan?’ asked Susan, distressed on her son’s behalf at this turn of events.
‘I don’t know, Mum. Maybe I should speak to Georgia first.’
Georgia was businesslike. ‘These things happen, Chris. Legal wrangling is part and parcel of publishing. I suggest you get a lawyer to respond to Alan’s letter on your behalf. Don’t worry, though. With some good legal advice, you can work around defamation and still do the book.’
‘I don’t know, Georgia. Alan’s a billionaire. He’s probably got a dozen lawyers. I don’t have the sort of money to take on someone like him! Maybe I should drop the whole idea,’ said Chris.
‘Well, I don’t think that you should give up so quickly. For the time being my advice is just to get on with researching the other three. They’re interesting enough for a book, even without Alan, but I still think that you need to protect yourself by responding to that letter,’ replied Georgia. ‘You really should approach a lawyer.’
Chris thought for a moment. ‘My friend Duncan’s brother is a solicitor in Coffs Harbour. I could get him to reply to the letter. Maybe he would only charge me mate’s rates,’ said Chris.
