She eyed his wry smile. ‘And they need better medical care. I made Sam tell me the position here, and he finally admitted the nearest doctor was miles away and didn’t appreciate being called out for a native.’
Giles took a long drink before replying. ‘I get the feeling you’ve got a plan,’ he said with weary acceptance. ‘Might have known you couldn’t sit still for long.’
She gave him a playful swipe around his ear. ‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘I do have a plan. But it will mean staying here for much longer than we first anticipated.’
He raised an eyebrow as he stroked his moustache. ‘How much longer?’
‘For as long as it takes to set up a medical centre. One that will cater for black and white.’
*
Irene Stanford didn’t appreciate being thwarted. The inheritance she’d received when Eva left for England all those years ago had been generous, but she had hoped for a chance to get her hands on even more once Eva died. Clause fifteen had put an end to that – stating clearly that Irene’s share of the inheritance had already been paid and there would be nothing else to come but the jewellery. Irene’s hope of circumventing the clause had been dashed by her solicitor, who’d been adamant there was nothing she could do. Probate had been granted, the clause firmly in place, and after getting a second opinion, she realised she had to accept the fact Eva and Olivia had bested her.
She stood on the verandah of her little house in Cairns and stared out to sea. It was a pretty town, she acknowledged, sheltered by a horseshoe of mountains and edged by a sweep of yellow sand. There were a few hundred houses scattered around the surprisingly good main shopping area and palm trees dipped and swayed in the tropical breeze that blew off the sea, but on the whole it was just another seaside town with pretensions of grandeur.
It was frustrating to think there was no more money to come, but the trip to Cairns had not altogether been wasted, she thought with grim satisfaction. Mother’s jewellery had been sold for a healthy sum and once the money was banked, she could afford to buy another property. Her smile was satisfied as she thought of William’s ignorance. He had no idea of how wealthy she was. Had no idea she’d formed a series of companies so intertwined and varied that it would take an expert to discover the driving force behind them. From these companies, Irene managed a vast portfolio of shares and numerous rental properties down in Sydney. They were her safety net for when she’d had enough of living in the sticks, and that time was fast approaching.
She ran her hands over her slim hips and took in a deep breath. No wonder her son, Justin, had left for Sydney, and decided to make his future there. The outback was stifling despite the vast miles between the stations, and the constant pressure of living with a man who was neither exciting, nor particularly intelligent, was wearing Irene down. She used these trips to the coast to escape – to remind her there was another life outside Deloraine – even if it did take three days in a ute to get here.
She had friends in Cairns, a good hairdresser and manicurist, and a reasonable dressmaker. The pampering and shopping made her feel good, and it was pleasant to sit in one of the seaside restaurants with a glass of wine and good company.
Not that Cairns was up to much, she thought disdainfully. It was too parochial and set in its ways. A shabby seaside town that slumbered its way through the seasons and closed down entirely during the Wet. Sydney was the place for real shopping. For dinners with interesting men, dancing and theatres, a chance to catch up with Justin and his new girl, and all the things she missed so much being stuck out on Deloraine.
She left the verandah. Sydney and Justin would have to wait, she realised. And so would Arthur. There were more important things to do than meet her lover and spend hours in bed. She had plans, and until they were finalised, nothing must divert her. Grabbing her handbag, she left the wooden house.
Her car was a new, pale–green and white Holden. With whitewall tyres, rear fins and a tinted sun visor, it was top of the range and far too good to keep out at Deloraine. Irene loved the feeling of power as she raced down the main street and headed north – for there was nothing quite like pulling strings and making people dance to her tune.
11
Olivia was restless. The heat was awful and sleep eluded her even though the day had been exhausting. She climbed back out of bed and pulled on shorts and a cotton shirt, and with her shoes in her hand, left the bedroom and made her way downstairs.
It was late and the hotel was in darkness as she slipped the lock on the side door and stepped out into the yard. Shoving her feet into the comfortable loafers, she took a deep breath of the sultry night air and looked up at the moon. It was glowing, full–faced and almost benevolent, and just for a moment she thought she could discern a smiling face. Grinning at her own stupidity, she shoved her hands into the pockets of her shorts and began to walk.
As always, her steps took her to the beach and she slowly ambled along the sand, her thoughts drifting in tune with the soft slap of the gentle waves. Eva had called her ‘An Ocean Child’, and when she was small she’d imagined she was a beautiful mermaid, stranded like the one in the fairy tale in this land of mortals. She grinned at the memory. How simple life was then. How easy to believe in magic and mermaids when you had fireflies dancing in the surrounding scrub and this wonderful beach as your playground.
She stopped walking and looked up at the sky. In London during the Blitz they would have called such a moon a ‘bombers’ moon’, and the silence would have been rent by the thunder of hundreds of enemy planes – torn to shreds by the deadly whine of buzz bombs and the shattering boom of yet another part of the city going up in flames. But here, in Northern Queensland, the silence was enhanced by the silky rustle of palm leaves, the saw of crickets and the sibilant hiss of waves on wet sand.
Olivia felt the magic of this place begin to work again as it always did, and she stared out to sea. The island was a silhouette between the night sky and the sparkling water, unchanged since she was the little girl looking out of the window. She turned, knowing where she was, where her footsteps would always lead her.
The house was in darkness, huddled with the others on the gentle rise above the sand. All was still, all silent, and this time there was no child at the window. The child was now a woman. A woman with questions that had so far not been answered. A woman that no longer believed in mermaids and fairies – for the magic had died – had been torn away by the revelation that nothing she had believed in was real.
Olivia tramped up the slope and stood for a long while in front of the house that had once been her home. It looked abandoned and rather sad, she thought. Just like me, really. I wonder if houses really do have a spirit in them – if they really do know when they weren’t loved?
‘Bloody silly nonsense,’ she muttered. ‘Your brains are addled, woman.’ She hitched up her shorts and sat cross–legged in the sand, her shoulder resting against the white paling fence as she studied the house more intently. Despite her words, she couldn’t help but feel the house was welcoming her back. And as she sat there in the still of a tropical Australian night, her memories came alive.
The house had seemed so much bigger then – with airy rooms leading off the hall and a kitchen running along the back. Her own room was at the front of the house, with a view of the sea and the endless sky. Mother’s room was next to it, with Irene’s across the hall. The sitting room was square and Olivia remembered the battered couch and chairs and the aspidistra in the ugly china pot that always stood in the corner. In winter there would be a fire in the hearth, and she remembered having to dress for school in front of it to keep warm, for the temperatures could drop swiftly during the night.
Olivia sat by the fence, her cheek resting on the paling as she trawled the familiar lines of this house that had once been home. The memories were like snapshots from an album – momentary glimpses of the past that were almost too fleeting to capt
ure – yet real enough to make her shiver.
*
Olivia knew she wasn’t supposed to be in Irene’s room, but the door was open, Irene was out and the temptation had just been too much. She clambered up on to the dressing stool and found she had to kneel to see herself in the mirror. She patted her hair the way she’d seen Irene do it, and pulled a few faces before she got bored with this game and began to explore the clutter of interesting things on the dressing table.
There were earrings which pinched her ears and made her grimace. Necklaces which looked pretty against the blue cotton dress, and clips and brooches which sparkled in the sunlight pouring through the window. With great care she draped herself in the necklaces and hooked some of the brooches on her lace collar, then looked in the mirror to admire the effect. Deciding she needed something more, she reached for the box of powder she’d seen Irene dust over her shoulders before she went out during the evening.
Her chubby, baby hands were clumsy, the box too tightly fastened, and she gasped in horror when it slid from her grip and bounced across the floor, shedding the powder everywhere.
She knelt there for a long while, deep in thought, wondering if perhaps she should clean it up immediately, or do it later. Her gaze moved back to the make–up and the allure of lipstick and eye–shadow won her over. Irene wouldn’t be back for ages. She’d clean up later.
The lipstick was bright red and felt sticky on her lips and she pouted just like Irene did when she eyed her reflection in the mirror. The black pencil made lovely lines on her brows, and the blue eye–shadow looked bonzer and matched her dress. It had been tricky to get it just right, but Olivia thought she looked marvellous.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Olivia froze, her eyes wide with terror as she looked in the mirror at her older sister.
‘You little bitch,’ spat Irene as she looked at the painted face, the talcum powder on the floor and the mess on her dressing table. She strode into the room and ripped off the necklaces and earrings, catching her long red nails on Olivia’s baby cheeks as she tore the brooches from the lace collar.
Then she yanked Olivia off the stool and gave her a resounding slap around the face. ‘Get out,’ she screamed. ‘Get out and don’t you dare come in here again.’
Olivia was shoved out of the room with such force she went sprawling on the hall floor. The shock of the fall coupled with the terror of Irene combined in a fearsome scream.
‘What on earth’s going on?’ Eva appeared from the kitchen and scooped her up with floury hands.
‘That brat has been in my things.’ Irene stood in the doorway, her expression thunderous. ‘Look at the mess. Just look at what she’s done.’
‘It’s only a little powder and paint,’ murmured Eva as she consoled Olivia. ‘It’ll clean up.’
‘I might have known you’d take her side,’ snapped Irene. ‘Spoilt little bitch.’ She turned a furious glare on Olivia. ‘Shut up!’ she screamed. ‘You aren’t hurt.’
Olivia cringed in Eva’s arms. ‘I sorry,’ she sobbed. ‘Not bitch.’
Eva kissed her and smoothed back her hair before setting her back on her feet. ‘Go and get a biscuit, darling,’ she said softly. ‘Irene and I need to talk.’
Olivia fetched the biscuit and hovered just inside the kitchen door, listening to the furious row going on in Irene’s room. She could hear Eva’s harsh, tightly clipped retorts to Irene’s sniping, but the words were incomprehensible. She gave a sigh and thought perhaps it would be better if she left home, then there would be no more fighting.
Emily and the pram had been a Christmas present and she loved Emily with a passion. She had a shiny, pretty face and eyes that closed when you put her to bed, and lovely curly blonde hair. Her dress was yellow with a bow around the waist. Frothy petticoats, lacy knickers and tiny white shoes completed the outfit. She could even say ‘mama,’ just like a real baby – but then Emily was real to Olivia.
Emily was her friend, so she couldn’t leave her behind with Irene, because her sister had made it plain she hated Emily by throwing her across the room the other day.
Olivia tucked Emily firmly between the tiny sheet and blanket and trundled the pram out through the kitchen and into the back garden. She stopped on the way to collect another biscuit in case they got hungry and was soon proudly pushing the pram along the sandy track which would take them into town. She would show Emily the shops, and perhaps they could catch the bus to Cairns just like she did with mummy sometimes.
She and Emily had a lovely time. Lots of people stopped and talked to them and asked where they were going, and one kind lady even gave her a piece of cake and a glass of lemonade and let her sit in the shade of a great big umbrella.
Her spirits fell as Irene came through the gate.
‘Thank you for looking after her,’ she said. ‘Mother and I have been frantic with worry.’
‘Looks like the little darling’s been experimenting with your make–up, bless her. I tried to wash it off, but she wasn’t having any.’
Irene’s smile was bright. ‘Little girls have got to start somewhere,’ she said. ‘Come on, Olivia. Time for home.’
Olivia slid from the chair and wiped the crumbs from her mouth. Irene didn’t seem cross. In fact she looked quite nice in that red dress, with the sun glinting in her hair. Yet she was wary of the long red nails, and of the strange look in her sister’s eyes as she collected Emily and pushed her out of the gate. The sting of that earlier slap was clearly remembered, and she didn’t trust this smiling, nice Irene.
‘Why do you always have to cause trouble?’ hissed Irene as they walked down the street.
‘I sorry,’ Olivia mumbled. ‘Emily want a walk.’
Irene’s jaw hardened as she snatched up the pram and dragged Olivia across the road to the sand track.
Olivia watched in horror as Emily fell from the pram and was dashed against the concrete surrounding the telegraph pole. Tears welled and the sobs turned into wails as she struggled to break free from Irene’s ferocious grip. ‘Emily,’ she wailed. ‘Emily all broke.’
Irene picked up the doll by her feet and slammed it repeatedly against the telegraph pole until Emily’s face was obliterated.
Olivia’s horror silenced the wails as her darling Emily was murdered. She stood in fixed terror as Irene waved the precious doll in her face, making her see the insides of Emily’s head and the awful pin that stabbed her beautiful blue eyes. Dumb with shock, Olivia stared up at Irene.
‘That’s what I’ll do to you one day if you don’t behave,’ said Irene. ‘Understand?’
Olivia nodded.
‘And if you tell mum anything about this, I’ll do it tonight,’ she threatened.
Olivia had no doubt she would. And that was the start of Irene’s regime of terror that lasted almost up to the moment Olivia and Eva sailed for England.
*
Maggie was also restless. It was hot in the cabin and she tossed and turned until the sheets were mangled and damp with sweat. Without bothering to light the kerosene lamp, she climbed out of bed and padded across the floor to the door. The air was heavy with heat as she stood there in her nightshirt, and she lifted her hair from the back of her neck in an attempt to garner the faint relief of a mild breeze.
The silence was profound in that tropical night, and as she stood there in the glow of the full moon she breathed in the scent of warm earth and exotic flowers and watched the fireflies dance in the bushes. Their tiny, flickering pinpricks of light never ceased to enthral her, for they brought magic to the night – a magic linked to the childhood belief in fairies – a magic that even the most hardened of hearts couldn’t fail to appreciate.
The click of a key turning and the soft complaint of rusting hinges made her start. Peering into the darkness cast by the hotel, she thought she saw something move. Then
she heard the crunch of feet on the gravel and knew someone was leaving by the side door.
She edged back from the moon’s glow and stood in the deeper shadows of her own doorway. The steps were too light to be Sam’s, but who else would be out there in the middle of the night?
Maggie breathed a sigh of relief as Olivia emerged from the shadows and headed out of the yard. She obviously couldn’t sleep either, and Maggie was tempted to join her in the moonlit stroll. Yet there was something in the other woman’s demeanour that stilled her. For Olivia had the air of someone who needed only the solitary night as company.
Maggie watched her leave the yard and head for the beach. Her instincts had been right, for the beach was a place of contemplation – a beautiful, welcoming place, which brought some relief from the heat – especially on such a night as this.
She stood in the doorway for a while before turning back into the room. The sea had been a revelation after all the years in the dry, sepia world of the outback, and Maggie had spent hours on the beach at Manley during her years in Sydney. Now, after living here in Trinity, she knew she could never return to those thousands of dusty, dry miles that stretched endlessly across the centre of Australia.
For the sea held a fascination for her in the mysterious, changing facets of its nature. Calm, cool and welcoming in the heat of summer, it gave no hint of the mighty power that could be unleashed. When it was raging, thundering against the rocks, hissing over the sand, the riptides boiling beneath the surface, Maggie would exult in the sheer drama of it all.
Having made a cup of tea, she sat at the table and flicked through the pages of a magazine she’d read a dozen times before. With the tea finished and the magazine pushed aside, she eyed the rumpled bed and knew she was still far from sleep. Olivia, or no Olivia, she needed to get out of here. Needed to walk, to feel the sand between her toes and the welcome coolness of the water.
Undercurrents Page 15
