Secrets of the Springs Read online

  ‘You were great. Ray was hanging on your words and even Adam was asking questions. Both of them told me they really enjoyed the demonstration.’ I looked at the empty chair beside him. ‘Where’s Mark got to?’

  ‘He took the Land Rover out somewhere.’ Joe had unfolded his stock knife and was scraping at his blackened nails. ‘I’ve been doin’ a service on the Toyota. Bloody old heap o’ junk it is. Could do with a whole new transmission, ’n’ that’s just fer starters.’

  ‘There’s probably not much likelihood of that,’ I said regretfully. ‘It was an old vehicle when I left.’

  Joe snapped his knife shut and reached for his tea, saying darkly, ‘It’s a damn sight older now. Clapped out don’t begin ter cover it. If it was a horse it’d be pure kindness to shoot it.’

  Chapter Twenty-two

  By nine o’clock the following morning my guests had gone. Kitty had kissed my cheek, her daughter had hugged me tearfully, and both men had warmly shaken my hand, all expressing the fervent desire to return. In the absence of a visitors’ book (something I would have to remedy) they had insisted on writing little flattering notes about their visit on a sheet of paper that I must, Kitty said, paste into a proper book when I acquired it.

  ‘’Cause we were the first,’ Heather reminded me. She had written in a large round hand. I loved the little chickies. And I loved being here. Heather Mary Jameson, 9.

  Pleased, I glanced again at the sheet as I returned inside to the stillness of an empty house.

  A real home from home and true country hospitality, was Adam’s contribution. A fabulous visit; enjoyed every moment, was Kitty’s, and Hoping we can return. A wonderful hostess and I can’t say enough about the food, had been written by Ray.

  ‘One lot of satisfied customers,’ I reported to Marty, who was seated in the kitchen making notes on a pad. ‘I think your cooking made the biggest impression though – well, that and the chickens. Maybe we should get an incubator so we’ll always have a supply?’

  ‘It’s an idea. We could eat the surplus, I expect. So, what now?’

  ‘I’ll put the linen through the machine this morning and the towels, and make the rooms up again. Best to be prepared . . . And this afternoon I thought I might go into town and get my hair cut. I’ve an appointment at the Hair Place for two-thirty. I can pick up the mail and – is that a list? Okay, I’ll get the shopping, maybe see Fiona after work and probably stay in town till the morning, so don’t worry about me – I’ll either eat at the Brigsons’, or go to the pub.’ I paused, having run out of words then braced myself to bring the subject up. ‘So, if you wanted to invite Ben for dinner, say, you’d have the place to yourself.’

  She coloured a little as she met my gaze. ‘I don’t know, Orla.’

  ‘You owe him an explanation, Marty. The poor man doesn’t know what to think and he’s desperately unhappy. So tell him. At least he’ll know then – and I doubt he can be more upset than he already is. And if your record should frighten him off marrying you, how is that worse than the way things are now?’

  ‘It’s not that I’m worried about – I told you, marrying me will ruin his professional life!’

  ‘Isn’t that for him to decide? Besides, it will never get out. Only he and you, and I, will ever know. I hope you’re not suggesting I’d ever tell?’

  ‘Of course I’m not! But somebody from out of town could recognise me at any time.’

  ‘You could be hit by a car and killed, too,’ I said reasonably. ‘Does that mean you can’t cross a road ever again? Think of him, Marty. You love him, you say, so prove it. Give him a call.’

  She’d clasped her hands and was staring fixedly down at them, biting her lip as she struggled to decide. At length she drew a long breath and her eyes rose to meet mine. ‘All right,’ she said with sudden decision. ‘I will.’

  ‘Good.’ I slid off the table where I had perched and felt the cat’s fur brush against my leg. ‘Oh, so you’re back are you, you faithless creature? Well, you’ll have to try smarming up to Marty, unless you want to help with the laundry.’

  Neither of the men turned up for lunch. Checking before I left that the chickens had access to shallow water they wouldn’t drown in, I saw that both the farm bike and the Land Rover were missing from the vehicle shed and deduced that the two of them were out somewhere in the paddocks moving stock. Mark would answer questions if I asked but he didn’t volunteer information about his schedule – and why would he? While I might own Malvern Park, and Palmer would have made the financial decisions, it was Mark who actually ran the place. He had been faithful, in that respect at least. I wondered how much he missed riding, then wrenched my thoughts away from him, reflecting that I hadn’t seen a horse since I’d returned. But they must still be on the station; Dad had bred and broken in horses and been proud of the brand. I would have to ask about it. Perhaps trail rides would be an idea for future PGs? Only the horses would have to be very quiet and completely dependable, and given what I knew of station mounts that seemed more than a trifle unlikely.

  Emu Springs basked placidly in the afternoon sun, half a dozen vehicles nose-in outside the Shamrock, little traffic to contend with in the streets, and people dotted sparsely between the shops. There were two old men on the bench outside the supermarket, a couple of young women pushing strollers, several shoppers intent on their business, and a conclave of grey-haired women sitting about a pavement table outside the cafe. I found a park near the post office, collected the contents of the Malvern Park box and set off for the Hair Place. I was early, but it would give me a chance to check through the letters. Kevin had said he would write; I had sent a brief account of my doings a while back and was looking forward to his reply. It would be good to get news of Rose, about whose health I intermittently worried.

  There were five chairs in the salon, four of them occupied. I settled into the waiting area and pulled the rubber-banded bundle from my bag. The letters were mostly station related. There was one envelope, card sized, addressed in a childish hand to Mark, and I remembered with a pang that his birthday was in August. Next week in fact. To my disappointment there was nothing from Kevin, but the last envelope I turned over was addressed to me, postmarked Broken Hill. There was no return address. I slit it open, and glanced down at the signature to find it was from Alec. It was less than half a page long. Then footsteps approached my seat and, glancing up, I saw that a fat young woman was waddling towards me smiling.

  ‘We’re ready for you now.’

  ‘Right, thank you.’ I skimmed the page as I rose and moved towards the chair. He was writing to say that he had good news about the wine, which he would pass on next time he saw me. I thrust the letter into my bag and took the padded swivel seat the woman was holding. Our eyes met in the mirror, hers expectant.

  She said, ‘You don’t remember me, Orla?’

  I stared. ‘You’re a local? I’m sorry, I . . . Wait!’ Then more tentatively, ‘Is it – are you Bethany? Bethany Brucci?’

  ‘That was me.’ Her chins wobbled as she laughed. ‘I s’pose I’ve changed a bit, but you look just the same. I heard you were back. So what are you doing with yourself? Have you seen any of the old gang yet?’

  ‘Only Fiona. I don’t even know who else is left in town. Most – the ones I’ve asked about – seem to have moved on.’ Bethany had been in my year through high school, more acquaintance than friend and certainly not a member of our group. She had been a skinny girl so her unexpected size appalled me; she wasn’t simply fat, but wildly obese. ‘How about you, Bethany? I see you wear a ring – any kids?’

  ‘Four. I was three months gone when me and Charlie married and they’ve just kept coming since.’ She laughed again, but her tone was defensive. ‘Try keeping slim when you’re always eating for two. Come across to the basin and we’ll get started. Who’d you marry?’

  ‘Still single,’ I said briefly. ‘Tell me about your kids.’ The diversion worked, leaving me free to ponder Alec’s note while Bet
hany washed and cut my hair. He seemed determined to pursue and having lectured Marty on the same problem, I should decide now whether or not I wanted to stop him. He was an easy companion (however clumsy) and I had enjoyed his company. But was that because I was attracted to him or simply lonely? That was a question I couldn’t answer. Mark was history, so shouldn’t I give myself licence to find someone else? I wanted love, didn’t I? Every woman did, but I wouldn’t find it without some effort. That meant I couldn’t turn away from every man I met. Perhaps I should let him find excuses to call – after all, he could perfectly well have written whatever it was he had to tell me – and see how things developed? It had been a long time, I reflected, since I had been romanced, or felt the rush of white heat that came with a lover’s possessive kiss.

  Bethany was skilled at her trade and I was pleased with the finished result. I turned my head, murmuring approval as she held the mirror for the back view. So where was Alec when there was something to admire? But there was no conviction behind the passing wish, if you could even call it that. Nice as he was, I doubted that he would prove to be the one to end my days as a single woman. Dismissing the notion I thanked Bethany and left. The supermarket was next. I pushed a trolley about the aisles, leaving only the perishables for tomorrow as Palmer’s house had no fridge, nor, I suddenly remembered, electricity. I added a box of candles to my purchases, reflecting that I would have to eat out, then ferried everything back to the house. It was still half an hour to four but Mrs Brigson would probably be home and it was her I mostly wanted to see. Picking up my bag and the plastic duck I had bought, I relocked the door and got back in the Nissan.

  This time I parked in the lane, which left just enough room for Fiona’s car to squeeze past. Mrs Brigson was in the tiny backyard with Sophia, building sandcastles in a boxed-in sandpit, or at least helping the child fill a little plastic bucket, which she promptly tipped out.

  ‘Orla – how nice! But I’m afraid Fiona’s not home yet.’

  ‘That’s all right, Mrs Brigson. I’m in town for the day and I thought I’d pop round. Please say if it’s inconvenient. I would’ve rung to ask, only I had the phone disconnected last time I was in.’

  ‘No, it’s fine, truly. Drop in any time. Would you like a cuppa while you wait?’

  ‘I’d love one,’ I said frankly, ‘if it’s no trouble. There’s no power in the house either, but I’m just sleeping there overnight so it doesn’t matter. I bought some candles in town. Hello sweetie.’

  ‘Say hello to Orla, poppet.’ Sophia gave her enchanting smile as her grandmother stooped to hoist her up. ‘Let’s go in and I’ll put the kettle on. So how are you finding the station? I heard you had tourists staying?’

  ‘That didn’t take long,’ I said admiringly. ‘They only left this morning.’

  Her weather-beaten face bore a knowing grin. ‘Ah, but they stopped in at Gracie’s yesterday, didn’t they, to buy souvenirs? That woman would get news out of a brick, then spread it faster than the flu. Apparently they had a wonderful time.’

  ‘They were nice people,’ I said, holding the door for her and fishing the duck from my bag. ‘Here, Sophia, I’ve brought you something for your bath tonight.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have, you spoil her. What do you say, poppet?’

  I got another smile and a ‘Tank you, Orlee’.

  ‘Good girl.’ Mrs Brigson put her down and went to make the tea.

  Sitting in the crowded little kitchen with an ironing board set up in one corner and a basket of toddler’s clothes stacked on a chair, I sipped my tea and said, ‘It’s a lot of extra work for you.’

  ‘It is.’ Mrs Brigson’s gaze followed Sophia’s progress to a kitchen cupboard, the knobs of which had been tied together. ‘But she’s worth it. She’s our only grandchild and Roger’s working so hard to get a start – well, Fiona does her bit too . . . It’s the least I can do.’ She turned shrewd eyes on me. ‘So what about you, Orla? You haven’t found anyone yet, or you’ve not been tempted? Most girls marry too young, of course, so you’re probably wise to wait. Not too long though, mind.’

  ‘Finding the right one – that’s the difficulty,’ I said. ‘Fee was lucky with Roger.’ Abruptly, I took the plunge. ‘Mrs Brigson, did you know my parents well? I found out that – well – that my father had a mistress here in town back before Fee and I started high school. Did you ever hear anything about that?’

  She hesitated and I said, ‘Please, if it’s true I’d rather know.’

  She sighed and dropped her gaze to fiddle with a teaspoon. Following the movement I noticed how worn her hands looked with their knobby joints and prominent veins, despite the fact that she couldn’t have been much past fifty. ‘The short answer is yes, Orla, I did know. It was a fairly open secret. You can’t hide those sorts of goings on in a small town. At least they were married women, not young girls. Not that that makes it any better, of course – except that the women knew what they were doing.’

  So it was true, I thought numbly. I hadn’t doubted Marty’s word, but some part of me had still hoped to have the charge refuted. ‘Did – do you think my mother knew?’

  Again the hesitation. ‘I’m not sure. You tell yourself you’d know if your man was playing away, but really, unless he’s behaving differently or you find something, why would the thought even cross your mind?’

  ‘Like “Lipstick On Your Collar”, you mean?’ It had been a major hit about the time of the accident. I remembered Fee and me trilling it at thirteen.

  ‘Exactly. I suppose if you went looking you’d know, but that pre-supposes you already suspect, doesn’t it? So I have no idea. She was a very dignified lady, your mum. If she knew she didn’t let on, but I can tell you the town’s sympathy – the female half anyway – was with her.’

  ‘You mean everyone knew?’

  She reached to pat my arm consolingly and took another sip of tea. ‘Very hard to hide anything in a place this small, Orla. You can’t expect to, though Harry Macrae obviously did. Brazen as they come. But every business needs station accounts to keep them afloat so the town kept it between themselves. And,’ she added with dry relish, ‘there were always a few willing to let the latest one know about their predecessor.’

  ‘Good God!’ I said faintly. ‘How many mistresses did he have?’

  ‘Two I know of, but I suppose it’s possible there were more. There was the doctor’s wife, and a waitress from the Bluebird Cafe – before it was sold. Her husband was a real no-hoper, drank like a fish . . . Blow-ins, they were,’ she added with the scorn of the long established. Her attention suddenly shifted and she cried, ‘No, no, poppet, don’t touch!’ Lunging from her seat she grabbed Sophia’s small form clear of the plant stand she was trying to topple.

  ‘Let me.’ I held out my arms and, receiving the squirming child, smoothed the dark hair back from her brow. ‘Hello, precious. What about a story, hmm, while we wait for your mum?’

  ‘Good idea,’ her grandmother said. ‘Take her into the lounge and I’ll find you her favourite book. You don’t mind?’

  ‘Never.’ I blew a raspberry on the child’s hand and incipient tears were replaced with a giggle of delight.

  We had a lovely time on the sofa and then the rug with the painted blocks. When Fee arrived I was raising towers for Sophia to demolish but the sound of her mother’s voice brought her to her feet with cries of ‘Mumma!’

  ‘Darling!’ Laughing, Fee lifted her, the gamine smile flashing at me. ‘I saw your monstrous thug of a car in the lane. How are you, Orla?’

  ‘Great.’ We kissed cheeks and I ran an eye over her outfit. ‘Very smart. I feel a bit underdressed but you look like you own the bank.’

  ‘I wish. Can you hang on for a tic while I get out of them?’

  Later, both of us now in jeans, we caught up on our separate lives. I told her about the Jameson family and mentioned that I’d had another letter from Alec.

  ‘Oh?’ She cocked her head, eyes bright with interest.
‘Are you going to see him again?’

  ‘Maybe – well, obviously at least once. I want to know what the cellar contents are worth. He could’ve just put it in the letter but he didn’t. After that,’ I shrugged, ‘we’ll see. It’s possible. I do like him, but that’s not to say . . .’

  ‘But it’s a start. Honestly, Orla, what’s not to like? Be realistic – you aren’t going to find a nicer bloke. Not round here.’

  I could’ve said that nice was not enough, that settling for a candle’s glow when you’d had the sun and the moon and the stars to light your world was so far below second best it was unmeasurable, but I didn’t. I lifted my hands instead in the age-old manner of the unsure. ‘“Que Sera”.’ It seemed the day for songs. ‘Do you remember that Connie Francis hit, “Lipstick On Your Collar”?’

  ‘God, yes! We sang it as a duet at the school concert, remember? We thought we were so hip! Mum made us those circular skirts to wear. Whatever made you think of that?’

  ‘I don’t know – I’ve been remembering all sorts of stuff. I guess coming home has done it – what?’ She’d cocked her head, giving me a slow smile.

  ‘That’s the first time I’ve heard you say you’ve come home. Before it’s always been come back, or returned. So you’re going to stay?’

  ‘Probably,’ and then a shade crossly, ‘Well, yes. Why do you always want to nail things down, Fee?’

  She grinned and slipped an arm about my waist. ‘’Cause I like certainty, even if you don’t.’