Secrets of the Springs Page 2

  It had been enough, in the end, to get me back aboard the ferry to the mainland, and then onto a plane out of Melbourne. At Mildura I caught a northbound bus and watched numbly as the green miles of citrus and grapes gave way to the dryer, dustier country of the saltbush plains. The smudge of the Barrier Range loomed like a promise on the far horizon, and beyond Broken Hill the familiarity of the country caught at my heart. I had thought that I never wanted to see it again but, oh, I had missed this desolation of red earth and silver-grey growth, and the purple line of the range.

  Emu Springs was off the main highway. It should have vanished when the smattering of silver gave out, but an Irishman called Patrick Ryan had set up a shanty beside the spring after which the town was named. Once the brief life of the mine ended his establishment had struggled on, serving grog to the stream of hopefuls heading south to the larger field where, it was claimed, the silver ran like a shining river beneath the surface of the barren earth . . . The sudden memory of my father’s rich, persuasive voice caused my breath to catch. He was a cattleman but had always felt the pull of silver. Imagine it, colleen, the words whispered in my mind, hidden in the dark, just waiting for man to find. All the riches you could dream of tucked away down under this hard old rock . . . I shook the memory away; this was difficult enough without wallowing in what the years had stolen from me.

  After the miners came the settlers: men who saw a living to be made from the saltbush plains and the miles of red mulga sand. They brought stock into the area and settled the harsh dry land, using Ryan’s shanty as a depot for the carriers’ wagons that supplied them from Broken Hill. Bores were punched down through the thirsty soil to reach the water below; tin huts, which in time grew into homesteads, were raised; and the hardy pioneers learned to deal with the intolerable heat, and the dust storms and the freezing winds that swept across the land beyond the Barrier Range.

  The Irishman died (not, however, before giving his name to the town’s main street) but his pub had become almost respectable by then – a hotel providing meals and rooms and stabling for the mail coach that ran through the tiny settlement. No longer Ryan’s or the Paddy’s place, it was renamed the Shamrock Hotel. During the first world war, as I had learned while researching a school project, patriotic rallies were held in its spacious forecourt where team horses had once been led out to waiting coaches. It wore bunting again in ’39, the small library records had shown. And in the wool boom of the fifties during my childhood when the whole town prospered, the Shamrock was given a makeover, sprouting columns and marble floors, gilt-edged mirrors and heavy, velveteen-covered couches. Its imposing foyer had, for years, been my yardstick for grandeur.

  And now here I was. The glitter of distant roofs resolved into buildings, the open verges of the bitumen into gutters and pavements. Lights, camera, action! I thought sardonically while peering out at the passing houses, and then suddenly we were traversing Ryan Street, going past the cenotaph, and there were the stone facades of the big three – the clock tower, the School of Arts and the Shamrock – the latter still exuding a weary sort of glamour as we rolled past. There was no depot for bus travellers – they had to book in a tiny office and alight at journey’s end onto the pavement outside it, down a side street a block back from the main road. I waited until my fellow passengers had disembarked, then rose to collect my coat and backpack from the overhead rack, donned and belted the former, and trod slowly down the steps. Wishing to avoid recognition by one particular man, my glance flinched away from the two talking in the office doorway, but both were strangers. It had taken me two days to get this far; another two for the return journey left only three more to get through. It already seemed a week too long.

  My luggage (I had only a small case) was quickly collected and I turned automatically back up the street, heading for Palmer’s house where, if he really wanted to see me, I presumed I would be – if not welcome – at least given a room. I certainly didn’t have the money to spend on accommodation.

  I had made only two strides into the street, head bent before the biting July wind, when a cream-coloured car stopped behind me and a man called my name. ‘Miss Macrae! Orla!’

  My hair was all over my face. Putting my case down, I clawed it away from my eyes in time to see him come bustling round from the back of the car, where the boot now stood open. He reached for my luggage.

  ‘Sorry, wait! Who —?’ I began and he set down my case, which he had seized, to offer me his hand instead.

  ‘You don’t recognise me? I’m Ben Casselot. I’m so glad you’ve come. I hope you’ve had a good trip?’

  I stood there gaping at him as memory kicked in. He looked vaguely familiar but it had been five years, and he had only ever been a face I’d passed in the street. ‘How did you know that I would be on the bus?’ I asked blankly.

  ‘I didn’t. I’ve been meeting them all. Just hoping. You didn’t send any word . . .’

  It was an observation only, made without accusation, but I flushed, saying uncomfortably, ‘I’m sorry. I thought it was enough that I’ve come.’ It was hard to keep resentment from my tone and to make up for it I said, ‘I hadn’t ever intended to return.’

  He looked taken aback, his glance meeting mine then flicking aside. ‘Look, we can’t stay here.’ He took my case again, ushered me to the car and opened the passenger door. Moments later we were moving along Landon Street to the crossroads, where the shops huddled together as if sheltering from the wind. He took a right into Donal and rolled the short way to the imposing two-storeyed house, with its stone walls, gravelled drive and gloomy athel pines. With their thick, grey foliage I used to think they looked like jailers, as grim and unbending as my uncle himself.

  While Ben pulled into the drive, I spoke over the crunch of tyres on the weed-grown gravel as the car came to a stop. ‘My uncle . . . he’s still alive?’

  ‘Yes. But his strength’s almost gone, Orla – is it all right if I call you Orla?’

  I nodded, eyeing the house. ‘So what is it that he has to say to me that he couldn’t have written down, or told you?’

  He turned the key and the purr of the motor died. ‘Apparently it’s private – something he wants to tell you himself. Perhaps he meant to write, or he may have thought he had more time . . . The cancer was very sudden. He was diagnosed only three months back, Ellen said, and he’s gone downhill so fast. I may be wrong of course, but, well, I wouldn’t swear that he’ll still be round next week.’

  My attention was diverted. ‘Ellen Martin’s still here?’ I was surprised. Palmer’s housekeeper had been in her early thirties when we first met – too young, I would have thought, to continue to waste her life in a backwater like Emu Springs.

  ‘Yes.’ Something in the way he said it caught my attention and for the first time since arriving, I really looked at him. He was a shortish, solidly built man somewhere in his forties with darkish receding hair and pale steady eyes. ‘I don’t know how Palmer would have managed without her, and I don’t mean just now he’s ill. There’s a nurse who comes in daily, of course, but Ellen’s there at night. It’s a big job caring for the dying, you know.’ His tone was clipped.

  I felt myself bristle at what I thought was an implication of blame. ‘Perhaps he should have gone into hospital, then. But Palmer always liked things his own way. It’s why he’s dragged me back. Well, I’m not staying. I’ll hear what he has to say and, if the end is as close as you think, see him buried. And that’s it,’ I said forcefully. ‘I never wanted to come back. I’ll sign whatever is needed and you can sell the property once probate’s been granted. How long does that usually take?’

  ‘Sell?’ The crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes deepened in surprise. ‘You’d sell Malvern Park? Why, your family has owned it for —’

  ‘Three generations,’ I said impatiently, ‘but that’s no reason not to sell. So, how long?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Till probate is granted.’

  ‘
Oh.’ He tipped his head down, reaching to remove the keys, and I saw that an incipient bald patch was starting on his crown. ‘It varies. A month, two perhaps.’

  ‘Plenty of time to advertise the sale then.’ I opened the door and stepped out into the buffeting wind.

  The front door was timber, with a heavy brass knocker that Ben reached past me to tap. The knocker was symptomatic of the whole house, I thought; there was nothing of grace or lightness within the structure of brick and slate. The rooms were dim, the narrow windows blocked by heavy drapes, and the bedrooms ran to solid Victorian furniture in depressing shades of brown. Ben shifted his feet and tapped the knocker again. ‘She might be out the back.’

  ‘Yes.’ I looked critically about me. ‘Nothing’s changed I see. No electric door chimes yet.’

  He made an indeterminate sound that might have signalled agreement, then the door opened suddenly to show the trim form and reserved features of Ellen Martin. Her dark hair, still worn in a bun, was touched here and there with fine threads of grey; her hazel eyes, usually so reserved, widened in surprise at the sight of me.

  ‘Orla! Well, you’re a welcome sight. How are you?’ She had never been demonstrative and, though we had first met when I was twelve, neither had I been a clingy child, so we shook hands instead of hugging because it would have felt awkward to me, and I suspected to her, too, to have done so.

  ‘Marty.’ The old name sprang unbidden to my tongue. ‘It’s good to see you looking well.’

  ‘You look tired,’ she said forthrightly, ‘but as pretty as ever. Well, don’t stand there, Ben. Bring her stuff in. Come through to the kitchen, Orla, it’s warm there. You’ll want tea and something to eat. How was your journey? Was it a long one? I have no idea where you’ve come from, of course.’

  ‘Far enough.’ The clip of my heels echoed on the slate tiles as I followed her down the chilly hall that ran the length of the house. The living area was in the front; the kitchen, pantry and laundry occupied the back with my uncle’s office next to the drawing room; and the staircase with its dull red runner covering the risers was situated in the middle of it all.

  The kitchen was as I remembered. Despite the dark green paint on the walls, it was still the homiest room in the house. The slow combustion stove filled it with pleasant warmth and the little bright touches of canisters and a woolly tea-cosy covering the china teapot helped lift the dark timber of the table and chairs. A brass-cased pendulum clock ticked on the wall and the calendar showed the last Melbourne Cup winner, jockey up, in a sea of roses. Nice, I thought, admiring the photo taken on the day at Flemington, after the race. Then I realised that it bore the name of my uncle’s stock and station agency and looked away.

  ‘He’s been advertising for you for ages, and he told me he’d written,’ Marty was saying, as she rinsed the teapot at the sink, ‘so your room’s been ready for weeks. We didn’t know if you’d even get the letter, or see the papers. My dear, where have you been all these years?’

  ‘Many places,’ I said, ‘but King Island’s my home.’ I didn’t feel up to further explanations, so I grabbed the handle of my case instead from Ben, who had returned from the car while I’d been lost in thought. ‘Look, I’ll take this up and have a wash if that’s okay?’

  ‘Yes, of course, but Ben can carry —’

  ‘No, it’s fine thanks. No – really, Ben. I’ve got it.’ I escaped up the familiar rise of the dark stairway to my old room at the top. It too was just as I remembered it. The same serviceable quilt on the bed, the same books on the shelf, the same hideous dark green wallpaper. Only the posters of Elvis, The Beatles and The Easybeats were gone. Uncle Palmer’s work, without a doubt; probably the moment he realised I’d decamped. I dumped my bag, heaved the long floor drapes along their rails to let in the light and opened the wardrobe. The clothes I had left behind still hung there, the fashions of 1970 subtly dated five years on. Stuffed in the bottom, below them, was Mr Bill, the oversized teddy I had been given when I was four.

  Abruptly I shut the wardrobe door, locking away the past. Just gazing around the room brought it all back – the stifling weight of remembered misery from my unhappy adolescence. I felt a brief fierce longing then for the pine and cane furniture and the light-filled ambience of Rose and Kevin’s home. Well, it would still be there when I got back. The thought was comforting. I went to the bathroom to wash, tidied my hair and returned downstairs where, by now, the tea must be made and the inevitable discussion about me completed.

  In the kitchen, the two heads turned expectantly towards me. Marty lifted the pot. ‘How do you take your tea now, Orla?’

  ‘Milk, no sugar, thanks. So – how is my uncle?’

  ‘Sleeping at present. The drugs keep him under for much of the day. He’s very ill, Orla . . . he’s dying. Sandra – she’s the nurse that comes in twice daily – is amazed that he’s still with us. His speech rambles a lot and he tends to drift in and out of consciousness. Sometimes he talks coherently, but not always.’ She hesitated. ‘He may not even know you.’

  Dismay filled me and I suppressed the urge to snap. ‘Do you mean,’ I said carefully, ‘that my coming back has been a waste of time?’ I thought of the airfare and the other expenses I’d incurred – accommodation, taxis – and looked reproachfully at Ben. ‘You might have mentioned that in your letter.’

  ‘Of course it isn’t —’ he began before Marty interrupted him.

  ‘Orla! How can you talk like this? Your only living relative is dying and his last wish is to see you.’

  ‘I had a few wishes too, when I lived here,’ I reminded her evenly. ‘I can’t remember them ever being met.’

  She looked taken aback. ‘It’s hardly the same. You were a child and he was doing his best by you. Yes, he was old-fashioned —’

  ‘And bigoted and harsh and tyrannical,’ I said flatly. ‘Let’s not forget that. I suppose I was a handful, but he never realised how desperately unhappy I was. So, he didn’t want me here. Well, I can assure you that made two of us.’ I remembered then that this woman had shown me the only real kindness I’d known in this household and added, ‘I don’t know how I’d have survived it without you, Marty. Anyway I’ve come back, as he wanted. I’ve done my duty. But I’ll leave straight after the funeral. Once I’ve signed whatever is needed so that Ben can get on with selling the Park.’

  ‘You’d sell Malvern Park?’ She looked shocked. I was surprised that Ben hadn’t already told her. They seemed to be good friends and there had been a definite tête-à-tête air about them when I’d returned from upstairs. Perhaps it was a professional thing. He was, I supposed, by default, my solicitor too.

  ‘Well, of course. What do I know about managing a property? Anyway I’ve barely seen the place since I was twelve. It might as well have been Palmer’s all along, and to give him his due, I’ve no doubt he’s run it well. It should fetch a good price.’

  Ben was unconsciously shaking his head. Irritated, I asked, ‘What? He hasn’t?’

  ‘You plainly haven’t kept up with the industry, Orla. Didn’t you hear about the Beef Crash in ’72? Cattle prices have been rock bottom ever since. They’re just starting to climb again now, but they’ve a long way to go yet before the graziers are breaking anywhere near even. I can’t believe you haven’t heard! Don’t you listen to the market reports?’

  ‘Why would I? I had more important things on my mind.’ Like chasing jobs and worrying about the future.

  Ben grimaced. ‘Orla, you couldn’t give station property away right now. Particularly out here. A year ago stock transported to market weren’t even making enough to cover their freight costs. That’s how bad it was, and it’s only marginally better now. If you really intend to sell up, my advice is to wait. If – and it’s a big if – you were to find a buyer now, you’d be lucky to get a fifth of the value of the stock. You should let it ride for the moment: we’re running on the smell of an oily rag but the station’s not in debt. And believe me there’re few enough plac
es that can say that! Please don’t make a hasty decision; you’ll regret it if you do. We can keep things ticking over for you till the market improves.’

  ‘You keep saying we. Do you mean Casselot and Evans is in charge? What happened to the overseer – what was his name?’

  Ben tutted. ‘You don’t seem to have grasped the gravity of the situation, Orla. Overseer jobs are things of the past. Do you remember the Pattersons, Joel and Ada?’

  ‘Of course.’ Automatically I added, ‘They own Gem Hole. Is he still president of the Race Club?’

  ‘He’s gone. Walked off his property three years back with just what he could pack into the station wagon. Him, Ada and young Tom. They shut the boundary gate behind ’em and the bank padlocked it. That’s how serious the situation is. And the Race Club is finished. The local graziers can’t afford the feed and training fees for racing.’

  I felt my eyes widen. ‘But there’ve been Pattersons on Gem Hole since the range was raised! They predate even my grandfather in the district! What about – I mean, they ran racehorses, he drove a Mercedes, and they took holidays every year . . . They were rolling in money!’

  ‘Except that apparently it was all borrowed against the following year’s cattle sales and when the market failed, the system collapsed,’ Ben said bluntly. ‘Most of the station folk in the district are hanging on by their fingernails. Hammond Plains was sold for a song – they didn’t make it. Some investor from Scone got it. Wealthy enough, apparently, to wait the market out.’