Secrets of the Springs Page 12

  The sour thought came to me that it would very likely prove a drawcard but I only said, ‘If the tractor hadn’t broken down where and when it did, do you think he might not have done it? Was it just too good a chance to pass up? Dad would still have hit the trees – anybody would swerve away from headlights speeding towards them – but there’s a difference between slamming into solid metal and a springy mulga trunk.’

  Marty placed her hand over mine where it rested by my cup. ‘It’s done, Orla. Going over and over it won’t change anything. However much you want it to. Look, why don’t I give Ben a ring, get his viewpoint? I know it’s Sunday but I’m sure he won’t mind the drive.’

  ‘No.’ I got up. ‘Don’t drag him out here. I’ll go in, maybe this afternoon. I have to anyway, to get the house ready for the man coming to value the furniture.’ And, I admitted, I needed to get away from the homestead and the constant stream of memories it generated. Which was worse: to stay where my father’s crime was constantly in my face, or spend a night or two in a murderer’s home? Talk about the horns of a dilemma.

  Marty said doubtfully, ‘Do you want company? I could . . .’

  ‘It’s fine. Besides, the men will want their meals, and there’s the cat.’ As if on cue the tabby appeared silently at my feet and in one fluid bound was purring in my lap, kneading my thighs as he turned about, tail brushing my face. I’d christened him No Name. ‘He can feed himself, I know, but he’s accustomed to company now.’ I ran a hand through his fur, the action oddly soothing. His purring increased and for a while I just sat there stroking him, listening to the ticking of the clock, the burble of the simmering kettle, and Marty’s quiet breathing, in a room filled with the ghosts of the past.

  Chapter Twelve

  I made the short drive into town after lunch. I had packed enough for an overnight stay at Palmer’s and had a small casserole wrapped in foil for my dinner that evening. Marty had also insisted on including a packet of butter, a loaf of bread and a six-pack of eggs.

  ‘I can go to the supermarket,’ I had protested.

  ‘Not on a Sunday. You could make an omelette for your lunch tomorrow, and there’s tinned stuff still in the cupboards. You might clear them out when you come back. We may as well use it.’

  ‘Yes, all right.’ I was desperate to get away, to find space in which to think.

  ‘And you will talk to Ben?’ she asked coaxingly.

  ‘Yes.’ I suppressed a sigh. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Take care then.’

  The trip took no time. I parked the Nissan in the garage, carted my stuff into the cold and silent house and dropped everything on the laundry floor. Then I wandered through the dim hallway to the front room, warmer than the rest of the house because the bricks caught the afternoon sun. Sitting myself down, I started blankly at the wall, trying to analyse what is was that I felt. It wasn’t exactly loss; I had had my share of that, and Palmer’s confession, shocking though it was, seemed somehow lessened by the fact of his death. What I mainly felt, I thought, was fury for my father’s crime, and a sort of grief for my mother and myself. He had deceived her, practised on her innocence, making the perfect marriage, which theirs had seemed to be, a hollow sham, without honour. Was I being too judgemental? Had there truly been some insurmountable problem that prevented divorce, or had his desire for my mother outweighed all other considerations, including the baseness of his actions? And, after Mark, what right had I to sit in judgement on him, anyway?

  According to the copy of the Registrar’s records Palmer had procured, my father’s divorce had finally come through in 1954, the year before I started school. For the first time I wondered if that marriage had produced children. Perhaps I had half-siblings somewhere – brothers or sisters who spelled their names the way their uncle and grandfather had.

  The sudden ringing of the phone startled me. Rising to answer it I remembered that I had meant to have it disconnected. It would be Ben, I thought, sighing. Marty would have rung him to tell him the news. I wished that I’d asked her not to. The last thing I felt like right now was talking about it.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, Orla? It’s Fee. I wasn’t sure if you’d be there or out at the Park, but here is better. I just rang on the off chance to see if you’re doing anything tonight? If you’ve nothing on would you like to come round for dinner? Roger’s parents are in the Hill for the weekend and I just thought – a night to ourselves, a chance to catch up. What do you say?’

  I thought of the chilly kitchen and Marty’s casserole and knew immediately that the company of an old friend was exactly what I needed.

  ‘Oh, Fee – I’d love to. Tell me what time and I’ll be there.’

  It was just on seven when, having failed to elicit a response from the front door, I tapped on the kitchen window where I could see Fiona, an apron over her dress, doing something at the sink. She looked up, caught my eye and nodded, hands moving behind her as she crossed rapidly from view.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ she apologised, opening the door and leaning forward to kiss me. The apron was bunched in one hand and I smelled something flowery on her skin. ‘The boys have the telly on for the news, so if you rang I didn’t hear. Oh, you’ve brought a bottle. Lovely.’ She ushered me in. ‘Come through and I’ll introduce you.’

  ‘I thought it was just the three of us.’ I relinquished the wine. ‘Have Roger’s folks returned?’

  ‘No, it’s just us and Alec – Alec Forster, a friend of Derek’s. He turned up after I’d spoken to you so I asked him round as well. Home cooking’s got to be better than a takeaway, which is all he’ll get on a Sunday night.’

  ‘Derek? Oh, your brother! I’d forgotten.’ Derek was older by some years and had left town before I was of an age to be interested in him as a person. I looked around. ‘Where’s Sophia?’

  ‘I fed her and put her down early so we could have some peace. Come through.’

  In the cluttered lounge, Fiona turned off the television then indicated the stranger who had risen, along with Roger, at our entrance. ‘Sorry, boys. You can catch it again later. Alec, this is my friend Orla Macrae. Orla, Alec Forster. Rog, why don’t you bring in the drinks? Dinner’s almost ready, but we can chat a bit first.’

  I returned Roger’s nod of greeting with a smile and shook Alec’s hand. He was tall, but awkwardly so, as if he hadn’t yet come to terms with the space he occupied. He’d bumped a small table as he rose, and stumbled against its leg when he leaned forward to shake hands. ‘Hello.’ He had an engaging smile, deep brown eyes and longish fair hair with a slight wave in it.

  ‘Fiona said you’ve just arrived,’ I responded. ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Oh, nowhere exciting. Just the Hill. Came up for a job but a couple of days should do it. And you – do you live here?’

  It seemed simplest to say yes. ‘I’m on my family’s property. They pioneered country here about the time they found silver at the Hill.’

  He grinned. ‘So you’d know all the history and gossip then. There’s probably lots you can tell me that Derek hasn’t. Though I don’t remember him ever mentioning you.’

  ‘Why would he? Back then Fee and I would have been just a couple of pesky kids in his eyes. So how did you meet him?’

  ‘Tech college. We did a welding course together when I thought my future lay in the mines.’ Before I could ask what he did instead, Roger arrived with the drinks and a plate of nibbles, and the conversation became general.

  It was an enjoyable evening of banter and reminiscence as we remembered the past and the things we had got up to. I described the island for them, with its history of shipwreck and wild storms, and the underground house in which I had lived in Coober Pedy. Fiona sighed enviously.

  ‘We went to the coast for our honeymoon. That’s the only other place I’ve ever been – apart from Broken Hill.’

  ‘Did you enjoy it? The coast I meant, obviously,’ I said to quell the response my question evoked.

  Fio
na laughed. ‘Except for the fishing. That’s all Roger wanted to do.’

  ‘Not quite all,’ he rumbled quietly. ‘Just seemed a shame to waste the opportunity.’

  ‘Not much chance out here, I guess,’ Alec said innocently. ‘For fishing, I mean.’

  Sophia woke up after we’d finished our dessert and Fee went off to check on her. The grizzles continued until she reappeared with the little girl and dumped her in my lap.

  ‘Just rock her till she nods off, while I make the coffee. You don’t mind?’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’ I held her warm body close, raising a plump little hand to kiss. Sophia regarded me with wide eyes as I smoothed her silky hair; she settled deeper against me, her gaze focused on my face as she ignored the burr of masculine voices to either side. Her lids gradually drooped until they rested like petalled crescents against her cheeks and I felt such a pang of loss and longing that I was almost glad when Fiona came to scoop her up.

  ‘You’ve got the touch,’ she said. ‘She’s out like a light.’

  I laughed shakily. ‘She’s tired, that’s all. Would you like me to pour the coffee?’

  It was close to midnight when the party broke up. Fiona kissed my cheek. ‘Oh, it’s late, but never mind – it’s been lovely, Orla.’ She yawned. ‘Oh dear, work tomorrow.’

  ‘I kept you up.’ I was remorseful. ‘But I have enjoyed myself.’ I stepped through the door Roger opened. ‘Thank you both. I’ll be in touch, Fee.’

  ‘Are you staying in town?’

  ‘For a day, maybe two. Whoo!’ I pulled my collar up. ‘It’s chilly out.’

  ‘You’re not walking?’ Alec said, more statement than question. ‘Come on, I’ve got my car. I’ll drive if you’ll direct me.’

  ‘Thanks.’ The lane was as black as pitch. I had been counting on the street lights, forgetting there were none in the back parts of town. ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘My pleasure.’ We got into his sturdy four-wheel drive and drove slowly along the lane. ‘Left here?’

  ‘Yes. It’s not far; down the main street and I’ll tell you where to turn.’

  ‘That reminds me,’ he said, indicating for the corner. ‘Where will I find the solicitor’s office? I take it there’s only the one?’

  ‘Well, yes, but why do you —? Sorry, not my business. It’s two streets over from here. Left at the post office and you’ll find them on the right. Are you booked into the pub?’

  ‘Roadside Motel. And it’s okay, it’s not a personal matter, Orla. I work for an auction house; the solicitor here booked me to value a possible client’s property. Ben Caster . . . Casser . . .’

  ‘Casselot. It’s just here, thanks,’ I said hurriedly as he almost drove past. ‘Left, big house with the gate-posts. Thanks very much, Alec, it would have been a cold walk.’ He turned the car in, the headlights sweeping across the lower branches of the gloomy pines. ‘You didn’t mention your job, but now you have I expect I’ll see you tomorrow then.’

  He turned his head. ‘You’re the client.’

  I nodded. ‘My uncle died.’ I had avoided thinking of Palmer for some hours but now it all came rushing back – the murders, my father’s bigamy. Whatever Alec heard in my tone, he must have taken for grief for he reached briefly to touch my arm.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it, Orla. My condolences.’

  ‘They’d be wasted.’ I pushed the door open, my voice brittle. ‘I had no time for him. Thanks again, Alec. Goodnight.’ I was at the entrance before he’d got out of the car, banging his knee as he did so. I heard him swear softly, but by then I had the door open and was entering the house.

  ‘Goodnight then,’ he called, folding himself back into the seat. I shut the door and stood silent in the chilly hall listening to him drive off, then took myself wearily upstairs to bed.

  I slept poorly, disturbed by disjointed dreams from which I woke with a gasp of fright, my heart pounding. I couldn’t remember anything of the dream save darkness and a sense of impending doom but it wasn’t a good start to the day. Beyond the window the sun was already up, the sky streaked with high wind clouds and edged with dust. Against the side fence the athel pines thrashed wildly and a magpie fled across my vision, helpless before the blast. One for sorrow . . . For a moment I wished only to crawl back under the blankets and sleep the next few months away. Without dreams.

  Alec arrived at ten, by which time Ben had rung me to tell me to expect him.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I met him last night. You’ve seen him then?’

  ‘He’s just left the office.’ He coughed. ‘Orla, Marty rang last evening. I couldn’t contact you or I’d have come round . . .’

  ‘I went out to dinner,’ I interrupted. ‘Look, can we talk about it later? I’m still getting my head around it and if there are legal aspects – well surely they can wait? Anyway, Alec will be here, so can we just leave it for now?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ I hung up and ten minutes later the knocker sounded on the front door.

  ‘Morning, Orla. I hope I’m not too early?’ Alec banged his shoulder against the door frame as I let him in. ‘It’s blowing like blazes out there.’

  ‘I noticed. Come through to the kitchen; I’ve lit the stove so it’s warmer, and I’ve just made a pot of tea if you’d like a cup?’

  ‘Thanks.’ He laid his briefcase down on the table near the foot of the stairs, nearly upsetting the standard lamp beside the telephone as he did so. He made a wild grab for it and set it gingerly back in place. ‘Sorry. I’m always bumping things.’ His gaze roamed over the room. ‘It’s a big place, isn’t it? That’s solid-looking furniture – no flat-packs here. Will you be listing the carpets, too?’

  ‘Probably not.’ I led him into the kitchen. ‘Carpets and hangings might help sell the house. Sit down. How do you like your tea?’

  ‘Black, no sugar, thanks.’ His eyes were busy again, frankly cataloguing the room. ‘Contents as well as furniture in here?’

  ‘Mostly. I might keep the cooking gear back and whatever else could prove useful.’ I passed him his tea and sat down with my own cup. ‘Sorry, no biscuits. I’m just camping here really, till you’ve finished with the house. Originally everything was going to go – not that I imagine a boxful of pots and pans would bring much. But things have changed.’ I told him then about the plan to host Station Stays at Malvern Park.

  ‘What a great idea! I know things have been very tough in your industry for a few years now. We’ve done a few station auctions – forced sales.’ He grimaced. ‘I don’t like them. Too much misery involved, you don’t get a good vibe from the crowd.’

  ‘You mean you do the spiel as well? Like . . . fiftywho’llgivemefiftydoIseefiftyin- andsixtynowsellingatsixty . . .’

  He grinned, skin crinkling at the corner of his brown eyes. ‘You should be in the game yourself.’

  ‘I couldn’t think fast enough.’

  ‘Ah, it’s not that hard. You develop a rhythm – a good set of lungs helps and you need quick eyes to keep track of your spotters. And of course you have to know your valuations so customers don’t have unreal expectations. Basically your buyer wants a bargain but the seller’s always hoping for an extraordinary price, so anything can happen.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, putting my cup aside, ‘I’ll be glad of whatever money we can make. There’s a cellar under the stairs full of wine – I haven’t decided whether to sell it or hang onto it; it depends whether we can get some sort of limited licence for the Park. I’m leaving that to Ben – the solicitor. So where do you want to start?’

  He stood awkwardly, sending the chair clattering backwards. ‘Oops, sorry. Why don’t you walk me through the place, maybe indicate what you think you’ll keep?’

  I suppressed a smile. ‘Okay. And Alec, be careful, won’t you? I want the stuff sold, not wrecked.’

  He sighed resignedly. ‘I’m a clumsy fool, but gotcha.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Marty’s casserole served us both for lunch. I w
as grateful for the bread and butter too, as I hadn’t had a chance to shop. Alec evidently knew his stuff and had given what I considered generous valuations on the upstairs furniture.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I had asked doubtfully. ‘It all looks so ugly to me.’

  He tapped a chest with his knuckles. ‘It’s quality, well built, solid, and there’s a demand for that right now. It needn’t be local buyers, you know. City fellows come out, scrounging for finds from conservative old places where they’ve kept the original furniture. They snap up this sort of stuff. In a sale last year we sold a spinet from a sheep station. It was damn near a hundred years old, been sent out from England on a sailing ship. Well, the bidding was fantastic! It went for thousands in the end.’

  ‘A hundred years? Would it even be playable? I know what dry heat does to pianos because my mother had one.’

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t for use,’ Alec said. ‘They’d have sold it on to a collector. So, a piano – do you play?’

  ‘No. Are you musical?’

  ‘I can do a tin whistle, the sort coaches use.’ He gave his attractive grin. ‘So, this uncle that died – if you weren’t fond of him, why are you seeing to all this,’ his hand swept around, almost flattening the sauce bottle, ‘instead of your parents?’ He caught the bottle almost by reflex as if his congenital clumsiness had sharpened his reflexes.

  ‘They’re both dead,’ I said shortly. ‘Tell me about the auctioneering business. Do you own it, or just work there? Do I need to attend the actual sale?’

  ‘It’s a family business. Dad’s the boss, I’m the junior partner and I do the travelling now too. He’s no longer up to it. He’s got emphysema, which isn’t good. You need your lungs to run an auction. As to attending, no, not unless you want to, but I hope you will. That’s the clumsy oaf speaking, not the businessman.’

  ‘It’s too early for me to be making plans,’ I said evasively. ‘When it’s held will depend when probate’s granted and on how the tourist thing goes. I’ve rather a lot on my plate for the foreseeable future.’