Secrets of the Springs Page 23

  I had barely riddled the stove and laid fresh wood upon the slumbering coals before another vehicle arrived. It was Marty, emerging from the Falcon composed, if a trifle self-conscious, and intent upon feeding her escort.

  ‘You didn’t have to rush home,’ I protested. ‘How are you, Ben? Mark’s just left. He came back for the bike.’ I suddenly wondered if the decision to stay over was made once he found I was there alone, then dismissed the notion as ridiculous.

  ‘Never better,’ Ben said. ‘By the way, I’ve some news on the house front, Orla. There hasn’t been a chance to let you know before now but I’ve had an enquiry about Palmer’s place.’

  ‘Really? Who is it?’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s just a preliminary enquiry so we mustn’t get our hopes up, but the very fact that they have been casting around for likely places means something. At least I think so.’

  ‘Ben,’ I said sternly, ‘stop waffling! What are you talking about?’

  ‘Sorry.’ He shook his head. ‘Everything’s sort of come at once like a cornucopia emptied at one’s feet. Takes some getting used to.’ His smiling gaze strayed to Marty. ‘It’s a mining company. The long and short of it is they’re thinking of reworking the old Emu mine – well, the general area really, which would change the entire local economy. It would mean they’d need water, power, roads . . . It’s not widely known yet, but the company has approached the council with their plans – they’d hire their road plant, you see. I got onto the mayor and checked. It was he who tipped them off about the house being up for sale.’

  ‘The mayor being . . .?’

  ‘Jerry Rankin. Licensee of the Shamrock. It’s going to be a great boost for the Springs, Orla. Of course the workers will live out on site. In these cases the company ships in those portable cabins – they call them dongas – for the workforce, which they rotate through the camp, but the head blokes, the manager, and the geologists stay put, and they’re the ones the house would be for.’

  ‘Really? That’s wonderful – for everyone! But . . . I mean, there was never supposed to be more than a barrowload of silver there in the first place. What makes them think differently now?’

  ‘From what I can gather it’s not the silver they’re after so much as the zinc. And mining methods must have come a long way since the 1800s. I daresay the modern miners can go deeper and wider and see further into solid ground than when it was all dug out by hand with a pick and shovel. Not that it matters to you. If they’re willing to buy the place, my advice is to sell with all expediency.’

  ‘Well, of course.’ I turned to Marty. ‘Think of all the people it’ll bring to the Springs. And everyone a potential customer!’

  She laughed. ‘I think we’ve started something here, Ben. Let’s get inside. I want breakfast.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why,’ I murmured mischievously and watched her blush.

  Over the meal I told them about the new bookings, adding, ‘I found your note about old Les, Ben. If the equipment’s okay we could use him this time. And the items he makes – pokers, horseshoes, whatever – he could sell to the PGs. They might be interested in owning something they’ve seen made. What do you think?’

  ‘It’s a strong possibility. We’ll get him out here, make sure he’s got everything he needs and that it all works.’

  ‘Mmm. So,’ I said, ‘if it’s all right now to sell the house, can we go ahead with auctioning the contents, too?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Probate’s finalised, so that will be no problem. We can organise the truck to collect the stuff anytime you’re ready.’

  ‘Leave it to me, then. I’ll be seeing Alec Forster next week; we’ll work it out between us.’

  ‘Okay.’ He polished off the last slice of toast and sat back, replete. ‘That was very enjoyable, my dear. And now,’ he sighed, ‘I’d better go. Orla, can you tell Mark that I’ve organised the truck? It’ll be here, ready to load Wednesday morning. The driver will have the permit and waybill with him.’

  ‘All right. Are we selling some cattle?’

  ‘Yes, a couple of truckloads of fats for the butchers in the Hill. It’s been a useful contract to have – one that’s helped keep the Park afloat. The money’s not great but it’s regular, and dealing direct with the client cuts out yard fees and agent’s commissions.’ He rose and went round the table to drop a kiss on Marty’s hair. ‘Every bit helps. Do you want to walk me out?’

  Pouring fresh tea, I watched them go, my head full of Ben’s amazing news. What a difference it would make to the area if the mining company made a substantial find at the old field. And how very quiet they had kept their interest in it! Of course, a visit or two from the odd geologist would have gone unnoticed and they’d scarcely be moving in equipment until the die was cast. Everybody would know then. It was pure luck for me; probably the only chance I’d have to make any sort of profit on the sale of Palmer’s house. And the town must benefit too, certainly the pub would. I thought of Roger and Fiona – wherever machinery was involved there were bound to be spin-offs for a mechanical business. Maybe the prospect of buying their own home was not as far off as they imagined.

  The following days passed in a blur of activity. The fuel truck, which I had known nothing about, arrived to fill the station fuel tanks, followed by a couple of tourist vehicles that had come for morning tea but whose men, at least, seemed more interested in the tanker than the kitchen.

  ‘Christ!’ I heard one of them mutter to the other, as they watched the pump transferring the load, ‘Imagine paying for that lot.’

  ‘Shouldn’t worry, mate, they can afford it,’ his companion responded. ‘These stations are all rolling in it. Where’d the sheila go? Go on, ask her how big the joint is.’

  ‘A hundred and twenty-eight thousand acres,’ I said sweetly from just behind him. ‘That’s because we’re fortunate enough to have mainly saltbush country. If it was mulga, which is lighter carrying, we’d need to at least double that area to make a living.’

  ‘No kidding? Christ!’ he repeated, ‘That’s big. I suppose you run your own plane to get around it?’

  ‘Good heavens, no!’ It was my turn to be startled. ‘The Park’s just a family property and we struggle to keep our heads above water, like everybody else. Now, I think your wives are waiting for you in the kitchen.’

  The cattle transport was next, the driver stopping for breakfast before heading out to the loading yards at Saltbelly bore.

  ‘Never a dull moment,’ Marty observed while clearing the table. ‘Station cooking is certainly interesting. It beats hotels where you rarely get to see who you’re feeding.’

  ‘I expect soon enough you’ll just be cooking for two,’ I said picking up the tea towel. ‘Have you and Ben settled on a wedding date yet?’

  She smiled, face softened by happiness. ‘We’re in no hurry. It’s not like we’re planning on starting a family.’ Suds glistened on her hands as she pulled dishes from the sink and the grey threads in her brown hair shone in the soft light falling through the net curtains. ‘Anyway, you need me here for the PGs.’

  ‘Of course I do, but that can’t matter now – not enough to stop you and Ben getting together, anyway.’

  She blushed and laughed. ‘It hasn’t. As well you know. But I’ve been thinking – when we do get married I can still come out and cook on days you have bookings. It’s never going to be every night of the week, so it shouldn’t be too hard to do.’

  ‘Oh, Marty, that would be so wonderful! Would you? I can do the smoko stuff but even if I had your skill I can’t be in two places at once.’

  ‘Of course you can’t. And when Malvern Park becomes the place for holiday-makers and you’re booked solid, you’ll be able to afford full-time staff. I’ve been thinking about that too. You can house them in the shearing quarters. Or you might do the rooms up a bit and use them as bunk-house accommodation for school parties or scout groups . . .’

  ‘God!’ I said devoutly. ‘What sort of an entrepreneur lives i
nside your skin? We’d be a forty-room hotel in no time if you were in charge. Does Ben know he’s marrying a business dynamo?’

  She smiled. ‘I think I’ll keep him guessing a while yet. And on that subject, what about you, Orla? Did I hear you say that you were seeing Alec again?’

  ‘On business.’ I was suddenly reluctant to reveal more, then relented. ‘We might have dinner too.’

  ‘Well, he seems very nice. And it’s time you were looking, you know – you do want a family, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m twenty-five, Marty,’ I protested, ‘not thirty-five!’

  ‘All the same. Most girls with your looks would be long married. And you’d make a wonderful mother, Orla. I’ve watched you with Fiona’s child. All I’m saying . . .’

  ‘I know,’ I said hastily, hiding the stab of pain her words brought. ‘The newly affianced all want to share their happy state. And speaking of which,’ I cocked my head, ‘that sounds awfully like Ben’s car. Unless it’s a customer.’

  ‘Too early for that.’ Marty was pulling her apron strings free. ‘I’ll go and see.’

  It was Ben, accompanied by a broad-shouldered gnomish man with a grey beard framing the lower half of a heavily lined face. Les Wingate at a guess, with the muscular arms acquired from his smithing career. He had green eyes, deeply set in squinty pouches of flesh, and skin the reddish-brown colour of new leather. He was hatless but wore a scarf knotted over his hair and took my hand carefully in his own large, scarred ones.

  ‘G’day,’ he said. ‘You’d be Harry Macrae’s girl, then? Heard you want some smithin’ done?’

  ‘Not immediately,’ I replied and explained, adding, ‘of course it depends on the gear. Could you check it out, Les? See if it all still works and what supplies you’d need. It will come down to how expensive it’ll be to set up because at the moment we have only occasional bookings. So you understand it has to be cost effective?’

  He gave me a fierce look under bushy brows. ‘I’m not a fool, girl. Had me own business, you know. Where’s this forge, then?’

  The blacksmith was a short man coming barely to my shoulder, but age had not touched his strength. Disdaining Ben’s help, he wrestled a rusted chain out of a heap and tossed it over a rafter above the foot-operated bellows, like a boy throwing a rope. He grunted and muttered over the tools, heaving a heavy hammer down to bang experimentally on the anvil before inspecting its handle. He fossicked through a pile of old steel rods in a corner near the forge, tossing some aside. The bellows, the size of a small table, were prodded and examined, and he grunted as he fingered the patch and worked the foot lever, which he’d attached to the chain. The bellows wheezed noisily but he seemed satisfied with the stream of air produced and stepped back to smear dusty hands over his hips.

  ‘A man can’t work with everything jammed up to buggery like this, but, yeah – should be a goer. I’ll make a bit of space, get some sort o’ work-bench in here, organise some charcoal . . .’ He ran a hand through his beard. ‘That bit o’ mild steel’ll do for starters. Anything you had in mind for me to make, girl?’ He had avoided or ignored my name from the start; perhaps it was one he hadn’t come across before.

  ‘Whatever you like, Les. What do people want? How about this? You provide your time and skill and I’ll supply the steel and charcoal. If you make say, pokers, and they buy them you set the price and that’s your wage. If they don’t buy, I pay for your time; then, whatever the object is, it’s displayed for future sale but the money will come to me to offset the cost of future supplies. What do you think?’

  ‘Huh,’ his eyes glinted. ‘You take after your old man, that’s for sure. He could drive a bargain too. It’ll do me. Give us a yell when I’m wanted. Might come out the day before and set ’er up.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I thrust out my hand to seal the deal and he took it carefully, the calluses on his palm like ridges of wood against my fingers.

  ‘That front gate o’ yours,’ he said. ‘I made that for your dad after he come back from the war.’

  ‘Did you really? It’s a nice piece. I shall tell my guests that before I bring them down to you then.’

  He chuckled suddenly. ‘Your dad to the life, you are! He never missed a chance neither.’

  The following day Ben rang. Hearing his voice, I said, ‘Hi, Ben. Hang on and I’ll get Marty for you.’

  ‘No, it’s you I want to speak to. Look, I’ve had the mining mob on the blower about the house. They’ve changed their minds.’

  ‘They’re not buying, then? Damn!’ I said, disappointed.

  ‘No – well, not at present. But they want to lease instead. Makes sense, you know. They have to prove the field yet. Apparently they’ve drilled test holes and the core samples are promising, but until they’re certain the ore’s there in sufficient quantity, they prefer to lease.’ I heard a rustle as if he were shifting papers about. ‘Where did I put —? Ah, here it is, “with an option to buy”, it says – they’ve faxed an agreement through to me – and they’d prefer it furnished, so, if you agree with the terms, maybe call off the auction? What do you think?’

  ‘They’d want everything?’ I thought, absurdly, of the crammed kitchen drawers, of pots and pans and wall clocks.

  Ben made an indeterminate sound, ‘Well, chairs, tables, beds, cupboards. I daresay they wouldn’t expect crockery, cutlery, or magazines. I know we’ve already paid to have the contents of the house assessed, but I think you should write that off and take the deal. If Emu Springs should turn into a second Broken Hill, they’ll eventually buy it from you, and meanwhile it’s earning. Quite a generous amount too.’ He named a sum and I whistled.

  ‘For how long would the lease run?’

  ‘A year initially.’

  ‘Then grab it, Ben. When would they want to take possession?’

  ‘More or less immediately, I gather. The place will be their base while they’re setting up the field.’

  ‘Okay. I expect I can clear it in a couple of days.’ I calculated furiously – all the clothing and unwanted linen had already gone to St Vinnies. The best of the china and tableware I had brought to the Park, along with the tools from the garage. It left the contents of the kitchen, and the cupboards, the bookcases and the various chests and drawers throughout the house to empty. ‘There’s the wine,’ I said, remembering. ‘Alec told me he’d obtained prices for it – apparently it’s worth a bit, but I don’t know about moving it. Don’t you have to avoid shaking it up? Ben, could we, I don’t know, put a padlock on the cellar and tell them we’ll shift it later?’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll have to give them a date for possession – shall we say this coming Friday? Will four days be long enough?’

  ‘Just,’ I said. ‘Thanks, Ben.’ Forgetting all about my offer to fetch his fiancée I hung up, and headed for the kitchen to start a to-do list.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  With my priorities sorted, I asked Marty to hold the fort and headed into town. My decision to undertake the job alone was justified when I passed an incoming tourist near the boundary of the Park. We had rigged up a bell at the front gate for visitors; its brassy tone carried clearly to the kitchen to alert whoever was dispensing teas. Two pairs of hands would have halved my task but with the smoko trade active and the men mustering, I would just have to manage by myself.

  The supermarket provided me with empty cartons. I piled them into the back of the Nissan then carted them into the house, pulled back the heavy curtains to let the light stream in, and set to my task. I started in the kitchen with the cutlery drawers, then paused to go looking for tape and scissors in Palmer’s office. Cutlery was easy, but I hadn’t thought about bringing newspaper in which to wrap the crockery; and sauce-pans, I discovered, when it came to efficient use of carton space, were a pain. There were constant decisions to be made too. The toaster – take it or leave it? Realistically, as an item for sale was it worth the bother of sending it to auction? Ditto the electric jug, the M
ixmaster and the frypan. The fridge, washing machine and vacuum cleaner had already been taken to the Park, but there was still the iron, and fans of various sizes. You couldn’t expect much for secondhand electrical gear but all lumped into one lot, perhaps . . .?

  I sighed but found another carton and put them in. By the end of the day I had cleared the kitchen and my to-do list had grown alarmingly. Among other tasks, I would need to vacuum and mop the house and rehang the curtains I had taken down to wash. I could get them through the machine tonight, I thought. And I would ring Alec after dinner, apprise him of the change of plans and ask him to organise transport before Friday for the cartons I was filling. Four days now seemed a frighteningly small amount time in which to have everything ready.

  Before leaving town I drove to Ben’s office but his receptionist, interrupted at her primping as she prepared to leave for the day, directed me to the stock and station agency.

  ‘He took some chap over there,’ she glanced at her wristwatch, ‘oh, twenty minutes ago. You might catch him. He won’t be coming back here, I’m closing up today.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I drove around and found the Falcon and a Land Rover parked before the building and the two men on the front steps of the closed agency office.

  I was wondering if I should interrupt when Ben hailed me. ‘Orla. Nice timing. Come and meet the man who’s leasing your house.’

  His name was Graham Massey. Dressed in work shorts, boots and a cotton shirt, he was a stocky, blunt-featured man with sun-damaged skin and fair hair verging on grey; in his forties, I judged. He shook hands, saying, ‘Nice to meet you, Miss Macrae. I understand that this is your property too?’

  ‘That’s right. My late uncle’s business. His house will be ready for you by Friday – I’ve just come from it. There’s still some of his possessions in it waiting to be cleared out.’