Secrets of the Springs Read online

  ‘Definitely,’ Marty said. ‘That kitchen will have to be scrubbed before I boil so much as an egg in it.’

  There was nobody about when we arrived. I parked by the front gate and pulled the house key from my pocket, glancing around at the silent buildings. Corellas wheeled above the bore where the mill was spinning, and a crow sat on the ridge capping of the history shed, glossy black against the pink-tinged sky. The wind was cold, laden with the scents of dust and distance, and I shivered and rubbed my hands.

  ‘Let’s take a look first. Pick out where to start. The kitchen obviously, and whichever bedroom you fancy. I’ll keep my old one, and there’ll be a bathroom to do as well. Oh! And remind me to light the heater or we’ll have no hot water for showers.’

  ‘That would be a disaster,’ Marty agreed, seizing broom, mop and bucket. ‘I’ll just grab these for starters.’

  This second inspection of the house showed just how large a task we had taken on. Spiderwebs filled the corners, the grime on the walls was echoed on the ceilings and the rooms smelled stuffy and sour. The tabby cat that had no name appeared and wound himself about my feet and I stooped to pet him, cocking an eye at the smeary glass droplets on the chandelier in the big front room that housed my mother’s piano. It was always called the summer lounge, as distinct from the smaller room with the fireplace that was the winter parlour.

  ‘Even the light bulbs are filthy! I know it’s been shut up but you’d think somebody could have swept the place just once every couple of years.’

  ‘Who was there to do it?’ Marty asked practically. ‘The lights can wait. There’s no power anyway. I’ll start with the stove, I think. If that works we’ll have hot water for cleaning. Where do you suppose the wood would be?’

  ‘I’ll show you.’ I preceded her through the kitchen to the back door, and down the shallow steps to the old laundry where the station men had washed themselves before meals. ‘There may not be any cut but the wood was always – ah! There’s a barrow load, and look, some kindling too. Have we got matches?’

  ‘Yes, I put some in.’ Marty collected an armful of wood. ‘You bring the kindling, and the ash bucket. Now, let’s just hope the chimney still draws . . .’

  Once the stove was burning I left the kitchen to Marty and moved onto the first bedroom. Two of them had to be habitable by nightfall, along with a bathroom, so I set to work. My every action caused the little key around my neck to move against my breastbone but there was no time for that now. The lack of power that Marty had mentioned could only be remedied by starting the lighting plant motor, something I was not qualified to do. I had overlooked this important fact and unless Mark returned from wherever he was before night-fall we would literally be in the dark. Which meant that our tasks needed to be completed before then – unless there were candles? Hauling another bucket of hot water from the kitchen I put the question to Marty.

  ‘Yes, I found some under the sink. Your friend there,’ she indicated the cat busy washing his paws by the door, ‘is earning his keep. No mice.’

  ‘Good to know,’ I said, lugging the bucket from the room. At least the mattresses and upholstery should be intact and free from mouse droppings.

  We toiled until the light went. When the bathroom was too dim to make further cleaning possible, I pulled the plug on the last sinkful of dirty water and returned to the kitchen, lit now by the soft glow of candles. The room was warm and filled with an enticing smell; light winked off a shelf of sparkling canisters and the scrubbed pine table had been set for two. I picked up the salt and pepper set with a little cry.

  ‘Ma and Pa Kettle! I remember them.’ I looked around at the clean walls and shining bench tops. ‘You’ve done an amazing job, Marty! You could eat off the floor!’ Every facet of the linoleum’s pattern was plain and the curtain-less window showed neither smears nor dust.

  ‘I prefer the table.’ Marty glanced around with satisfaction. ‘Of course there’s still the cupboards, but it’s a start. How did you go?’

  ‘Well, our beds are fine – I wouldn’t open any drawers in the rooms though. And the shower and basin and floor are done in the first bathroom. A good thing we brought our linen, everything here needs putting through the wash. I’ll do that as soon as we get power. Which reminds me, how’s the fridge?’

  She glanced at the chair-back tilted against it. ‘Working – in a fashion. There’s half a cylinder of gas, but the door rubbers are shot. That’s why the chair’s there.’

  ‘To be expected I suppose.’ Marty served the meal and after the first mouthful I gave a murmur of appreciation. ‘This is delicious, Marty. Have you ever thought of cooking professionally?’

  ‘If you mean earning my living with a stove, I’ve done station cooking,’ she said. ‘Just not around here. Which reminds me – while we’re here I might as well do meals for the men as well. There’re only the two I understand, Mark and his off-sider, so it will be no trouble.’

  ‘Oh, but they’ll have their own arrangements,’ I said swiftly. ‘Really, there’s no need, and we’ve heaps to do as it is.’

  ‘It’s a matter of efficiency – and self-interest,’ she contradicted. ‘Who’s going to chop the wood, hmm? You, me, or a grateful man? No, no, a few breakfasts and dinners are worth the odd barrowload of firewood. Besides it frees them up for the real work on the property. And I fancy a well-fed man might, for instance, be cajoled into putting a few screws into the front steps, which I notice are coming loose. That won’t be the only little task that comes up either. You know what this climate does to buildings.’

  She was right of course. I had hoped to avoid Mark but if that wasn’t possible I could still ignore him. I said, ‘Not just buildings. I suppose nobody has ever given the piano a thought. Mum always kept a bowl of water in the cabinet to humidify the wood. It’s probably cracked or warped by now.’ A memory came to me then of lying on the rug watching her play, her fingers arching above the keys as her feet pressed the pedals. I could tell she was humming because the smile she turned on me was only in her eyes. She had been fond of plaintive melodies in minor keys. I knew that because I had asked her once why the piano was sad. She had looked startled but had tried to explain; that day had been the start of my lessons.

  ‘It would need tuning at the very least,’ Marty agreed. ‘Do you play?’

  ‘No.’ Mum had been teaching me but I had not touched the keys since her death.

  ‘Ben,’ she said unexpectedly, ‘loves opera. He’s got a great collection of records. Carmen’s his favourite.’

  ‘Really? Where did that come from?’

  ‘I suppose the arts are more accessible in Melbourne. That’s where he grew up.’ She poured tea for us both. ‘Orla, if you could sell up, what would you do with the money?’

  Elbows on the table I cradled the cup in my hands and sighed. ‘I’d planned on starting a bed and breakfast business on the island. Tourism’s picking up down there and the pub in Currie is very small. Most visitors have to bring their own tent or stick to day trips. It would’ve worked – I know it. I couldn’t have known it was going to become available, but now that it has, Kevin’s place would have been perfect for me. It’s got everyth—’

  A diesel motor suddenly shattered the silence. Startled, our eyes met across the table then Marty’s shoulders relaxed. ‘The men must be back.’

  A moment later a harsh glare washed out the soft glow as the kitchen light came on. I wondered if Mark would come over and see who was here and manufactured a yawn as I rose to blow out the candles. ‘Well, that makes everything simpler. Let’s wash up and then I think I’ll call it a day. The water should be hot enough by now for showers, I lit the donkey hours ago. And who knows how long he runs the plant?’

  ‘The donkey?’

  ‘Bathroom heater,’ I said briefly. ‘I’ll show you tomorrow.’

  The following day was equally busy. Mark’s offsider was an older man called Joe; skinny and in his mid-sixties at a guess, with thin grey hair and blo
odshot grey eyes. Marty explained her catering theory to them and Joe at least needed no second invitation to breakfast.

  ‘I been doing the cooking, Missus,’ he explained. ‘Be a treat not to have to eat any more of it.’

  He was a heavy smoker and tucked the one he was rolling hastily behind his ear in order to shake my hand. ‘You won’t remember me,’ he said, seamed, tanned face wreathed in smiles. ‘Knew you when you were a slip of a thing and rode that li’l brown mare.’

  ‘Bessie,’ I said. ‘So you’ve worked here before, Joe?’

  ‘For your dad – yep. Times have changed a bit since, eh?’

  ‘Not just the times,’ I agreed, nodding stiffly at Mark.

  ‘Good morning, Orla.’ He chose a chair for himself and sat. I moved away to the end of the table and pulled out my own, leaving it to Marty to carry the conversation.

  The two of us cleaned all morning. The men had cut their lunches and gone but not before Joe showed me how to turn off the diesel.

  ‘Could I start it myself?’ I asked, doubtfully eyeing the crank and the huge flywheel.

  ‘Better not. Might bust yer thumb,’ he said cheerfully. ‘She can be a bit colicky. Just hold this down till she dies but don’t forget to pull that lever first. Shuts off the alternator before it loses power, see?’

  ‘Okay, Joe. I can manage that. How long can I run it for?’

  ‘Mark don’t waste fuel but I reckon you could get your washing done,’ he decided.

  ‘Right.’ I returned to the homestead and loaded the machine, reflecting that he had no idea how much there was to do. All the dust sheets, as many curtains as were salvageable, the contents of the linen chest . . . Perhaps if I ran it for two hours each morning I’d be through by the end of the week.

  ‘Mark said he’ll be bringing meat home tonight.’ Marty pulled her head out of a cupboard. ‘And I rang Ben about the fridge rubbers – is that okay?’

  ‘Yes, of course, particularly if we’re getting meat. He and Joe might be late though, so what about dinner tonight?’

  ‘All sorted.’ She dived back into the cupboard, which muffled her words. ‘He’s got some pickled brisket left at his place. I’ll cook that.’

  I finished cleaning our two rooms and scrubbed the bathroom walls before lunch. Afterwards, leaving Marty rolling pastry, I stretched my legs with a walk around the station complex. The neglected garden cried out to me and I paused long enough to uncoil a stiff hose and fix a rusted sprinkler to the end. Nearly as much water jetted from holes in the plastic as came through the sprinkler but it was still doing the job of wetting stuff so I left it turned on. Maybe it wasn’t the season to grow things but everything had to benefit from a good drink.

  The sheds looked much the same as I remembered them, with tools and cable and great mounds of poly-pipe hung, stacked, and depending from boards affixed to the walls. Weeds had grown and died in brown tangles through the rusty equipment parked in the open but I was glad to see that nobody had interfered with the history shed. The old sulky was still there, its squabbed leather seat a little more perished, its wheel rims shrunken away from their spokes. Local legend had it that Grandfather had driven his bride home to the Park in it behind a pair of matched bays – in advance of the loaded wagons that had carried their household goods, and the lumber necessary for the homestead he was planning. If Ben’s account was correct it must have been his second arrival – unless my great-grandfather’s occupancy of the hut at the boundary had occurred before Grandfather Charles’ birth? I wondered if Palmer had travelled with the bridal couple or come later. At any rate my grandparents had reportedly lived on site in a tent until the house was built, which would have been a lengthy business given the state of transport back then, I thought.

  It had seemed a tremendously exciting story when I was young. I remembered playing in the sulky, clambering up onto the steel step then hoisting myself onto the seat via the brake handle. I had imagined driving the fabulous bays at breakneck pace across the saltbush plains. According to Dad they had been a perfect match for height and colour, with thin identical blazes and white hind feet. I wondered then if he had actually seen them for himself or had simply repeated his own father’s description. History was so easily twisted, especially the oral kind. And hadn’t he once added the rider about the bays, ‘Though I wouldn’t swear the old man mightn’t have touched up either of ’em so they did match.’

  Mum had scoffed at the idea but standing there staring at the sulky, I wondered. Yes, it was silly, but hadn’t Palmer done much the same thing? Building that ugly grandiose house in Emu Springs – wasn’t that just another way of being different, of standing out from the rest? He had stayed and worked the property while Dad was away at the war. Had he thought it unfair when Grandfather left the place to his younger son who had taken himself off at the age of eighteen, heading out, Dad had once told me, to see the world. ‘Just like you will one day, colleen.’ But the difference was, I thought, staring at the old side-saddle on its peg above the sulky, that I hadn’t had a choice.

  It was my grandmother’s saddle. Kathleen Orla McRae had ridden across this country, had seen the camel trains and their turbaned drivers turn up with the six monthly ration orders, and experienced the loneliness that had been a bush woman’s portion back then for those living beyond the Barrier Range. She had died before the war and like Grandfather was buried in the Emu Springs cemetery, with a marble angel above her grave.

  There was so much history here of those who had passed before me, their modes of transport, the tools that had shaped the roof beams of the homestead, even their dreams. Nobody, I thought with a twinge of guilt, would build as solidly as Grandfather had done without the expectation that he was doing so for his posterity. He would turn in his grave if he knew I meant to sell the Park. He would probably not be too happy about the changed spelling of his name either. But surely a slavish obedience wasn’t owed to the dead by their descendants? His life had ended a year or two after the war; what could I owe in the way of filial duty, to a man I had never even known?

  A bell clanged at the house. Quickening my steps I moved into the open and saw Marty standing on the verandah, little finger and thumb extended near one ear in the classic phone call sign. ‘Coming!’ I cried and broke into a run.

  Chapter Nine

  It was Ben calling to tell me that he had found a place in the Hill – Cobbetts’ Auctioneers – who had agreed to handle the contents of Palmer’s house. ‘The actual auction is a way off,’ he said. ‘But they’ll send up a man to do an appraisal for you. He’ll advise you on current prices and whether some of the more valuable items would do better in a specialist sale rather than selling it all off in a job lot.’

  ‘It sounds good,’ I said cautiously. ‘Did they give you a date – only I’m a bit tied up here. We’ve hardly started on the place.’

  ‘Next week. They’ll give me a bell the day before.’

  ‘That’s fine then. Thanks for letting me know, Ben.’

  ‘My pleasure. So, how’s it going?’

  ‘Slowly, with an immense amount of elbow grease. You should see what Marty’s already done with the kitchen. In fact, why don’t you come out tomorrow night for dinner?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ he said promptly. ‘I’ll see you then.’

  I replaced the receiver with a smile. Marty liked him, whatever her hang-up about the relationship was, and proximity could only help. Meanwhile more rooms awaited me.

  When we stopped for a cuppa I passed on the gist of my conversation with Ben, repeating my earlier offer. ‘Now’s the time if you would like to keep something back from the sale.’

  ‘I don’t think so, but perhaps you should.’ She brushed crumbs off the board into the palm of her hand. ‘I’m thinking of the fridge and other electrical stuff. Palmer’s washing machine is almost new, you know, and honestly the one here sounds as though it’s on its last legs. There’s a good vacuum cleaner too. They’ll all probably be worth more to you he
re than in a sale room. People don’t pay much for secondhand electrical goods.’

  ‘You’re brilliant, Marty,’ I said fervently. ‘I’ve been crossing my fingers every time I start that old machine wondering if it’ll finish the load. Unfortunately Palmer’s fridge is electric. If it were gas . . .’

  ‘They can be converted, I believe. I’ll bet young Brigson could handle it. He does all sorts – even sewing machines.’

  ‘I’ll get Ben onto it then. By the way he’s coming to dinner tomorrow night. Is that okay?’

  ‘It’s your house.’

  ‘Ah, but you’re cooking the meal. It’ll give him a chance to catch up with Mark. I suppose they must meet to discuss work matters? After all, Ben has the final say on the money, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Until you appoint someone else. By the way, I’ve got dough rising – would you mind nipping over and getting the brisket for tonight? Mark said it’s in the fridge. The place isn’t locked.’

  ‘Okay.’ I hoped my momentary hesitation hadn’t been noticeable. ‘You want it now?’

  ‘If you don’t mind. I’ll need to soak it before it’s cooked.’

  ‘Right, then.’

  I went quickly, throwing an apprehensive glance up the track although there was no reason to suppose the men would return before dark. His house, a cottage at the far end of the homestead complex, had always been off limits by mutual consent, though I remembered four-year-old Celia begging me once to come to her tea party in the garden. I had made some craven excuse and seen the relief in her father’s eyes, both of us guiltily aware of the secret we carried. Even before the affair started I had never liked Gail, whose febrile energy and biting tongue created a jangling personality with sharp edges and razor points.