The Roadhouse Page 8

  Chapter Nine

  The Wilders left while we were still at breakfast.

  ‘Interestin’ bloke,’ Bob commented, watching their Land Rover drive past. ‘Not wasting any time, is he? Don’t suppose you thought to pick up the paint while you were in town, Charlie?’

  ‘Sunday,’ I said briefly. ‘The shops were shut.’

  ‘Yeah. Forgot. I’ll get the timber scraped down, then, so it’s ready.’

  ‘Okay,’ I glanced out at the garden. ‘The new fence looks great. I might get in a bit more weeding this evening. Those oleanders could benefit from a trim too. I thought, driving in yesterday, that the place already looks better.’

  He bristled instantly. ‘Well, don’t go blaming Molly for it needin’ the work.’

  ‘Actually I was complimenting you,’ I said, but got only a grunt in return as he went out.

  ‘He likes to be the bear,’ Ute observed as she rose to clear the table, then frowned. ‘The bear – the one that has the bad head. That is right?’

  I laughed. ‘More or less. Bob’s always grumpy. It’s mostly an act.’

  Tuesday morning I had two visitors. The first was Constable Cleary from Harts Range, who came to deliver the bundle of clothing Annabelle had left behind on the beach. It was in a sealed bag of toughened paper and had been forwarded via the Alice police.

  ‘Just tidying up,’ he explained. ‘It means the local police are satisfied there’s nothing further to investigate. So they return the deceased’s effects to the family.’

  ‘Right.’ I took the bag and, stowing it below the counter for the time being, asked again about the inquest.

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve heard nothing but it’s usually a matter of months, rather than weeks. Longer sometimes if there are a lot of witnesses. Don’t worry, you’ll get plenty of notice, but you know there’d be no reason for you to attend, unless you want to. It’s not like you were there when it happened.’

  ‘Right,’ I said again. ‘Thanks Tom.’ And he went on his way.

  My next caller was more rewarding – a big bluff man in an orange visibility shirt overlaid with red dust. He wore boots and shorts and a felt hat and was, he said, the boss of a Main Roads crew and was looking for a convenient camp around the soak. The old bloke out front, he said, had told him to speak to me.

  ‘You Mrs Carver?’

  ‘Her daughter, actually. I’m Charlie Carver. What exactly is it that that you want, Mr —?’

  ‘Rob – Rob Wyper. See, the thing is we’re doing a couple of causeways back up the main road, one across the Garnet, and the big ’un on the Penny Creek crossing. So we need water. I’m looking for permission to use your supply for our tanker, and I’d like to set up the camp round here too, to save on travelling time. If you’re agreeable, we’d grade us a clearing, say, half a kay down the road, for the vans and machinery, and maybe take our meals here if that’d suit you? Cooking ain’t popular with the boys.’

  Any custom was welcome so it would certainly suit, I thought. ‘For how long would you stay?’

  He shrugged, grinning with dust-coated teeth. ‘How long’s that bit of string? Depends on breakdowns, accidents, foul-ups with supplies and equipment, and sheer bloody stupidity in the workforce. A month, say, allowing for stoppages.’

  ‘And how many men?

  ‘Ten, and you’ll have the engineer coming and going. He never stops. No camping for him.’

  ‘I think our cook will manage that okay.’

  ‘And the water?’

  ‘That’ll be fine. Just ask your driver to spray around here when he’s filling up. I don’t want the dust becoming a problem, and it might if you’re running a truck back and forth.’

  ‘Great, thank you.’ He shook my hand vigorously and left, heavy boots booming on the verandah timbers.

  Pleased, I went to tell Ute and found her frowning over a tin of yeast unearthed from the back of the fridge. ‘Is too old,’ she said forthrightly. ‘You order more, yes? And I make the sweet buns and a bread we have in my country – not so bland as this you buy.’

  ‘It’s just for emergencies, in case we ever ran out of bread or the mail doesn’t come.’ I said. ‘Mum didn’t have time to bake. Besides, buns would go stale before they were sold.’

  ‘You freeze them, of course, Charlie. In business,’ she explained, ‘one must grip the opportunity that comes to knock at the door. This I have learned.’

  ‘Well, I just did – and quite a good one too. We’ll have ten regular customers for all meals, from tomorrow. And they’ll probably need cake or sandwiches for their smokos as well. For maybe a month? I’ll be here, of course, if you get stuck.’

  ‘Stuck, stuck?’ she murmured, cocking her head the better to consider the word.

  ‘I meant if you need help.’

  She dismissed the idea. ‘A problem it will not be, Charlie.’

  I admired her certainty. In her own, much nicer, way, she was very like Annabelle, her confidence a force that gripped (to use her own word) the world and bent it to her will.

  Mum’s operation was scheduled for the next day. After the other two had left for their own quarters that evening, I rang Directory Assistance for the hospital number in Adelaide, then punched it into the phone. When she answered, Mum sounded alert and as close as the next room rather than half a continent away.

  ‘Charlie! Something wrong?’

  ‘Of course not, Mum. I just wanted to check how things are going. You’re okay? How was your flight? There’s been no delay with things?’

  ‘The op’s still happening tomorrow if that’s what you mean, and I’m fine. So was the flight, except they had me lying down all the way. They say I’ll be out in a week. What about your end – how are you going?’

  ‘Oh, we’re jogging along okay. The fuel truck’s due Friday. The boss in charge of a big Main Roads camp on the highway came in today. They’re building causeways over the Garnet and Penny creeks, and he wants to base the camp here, have them take all their meals with us, and cart water from the soak. Best part of a month he thinks. Naturally I agreed.’

  ‘That’s good. And the new cook? Will she be up to that amount of constant work?’

  ‘She will. She’s great.’ I grinned, remembering our earlier conversation. ‘Very keen to grip new opportunities.’ Sobering, I added, ‘I gave Annabelle’s letter to the cops in town, Mum. And Tom Cleary brought her gear back today, the clothes she left on the beach. He also said when I asked about the inquest that we wouldn’t have to attend unless we wanted to.’ I hesitated, then offered, ‘I could go if you think it necessary, but I don’t see what it would achieve.’

  ‘Probably nothing,’ she agreed. ‘Look, every minute costs. Tomorrow will be fine. I’m not worried about the op and you shouldn’t be.’

  ‘Well, I am,’ I said. ‘I love you, Mum. I’ll call tomorrow.’ I hung up before she could object, glad I’d said it, and wondered why it should be so hard. She had always ignored or turned aside from emotion. It wasn’t in her to show more than a brusque affection – a brief peck on the cheek, a one-second embrace – but perhaps, I reflected, that was down to my father’s behaviour, his habitual deceit killing off feelings that should have come easily and naturally to her.

  Sighing, I reached for the TV remote, then my eye fell on the bag of clothing I’d brought back from the roadhouse. Morbidly I opened it. What did one wear – or take off – in order to drown oneself? And what should I do with the items now? It raised again the question of where Annabelle had stayed in Ballina, where (presumably) her handbag and other belongings remained. They would have to be sorted and dealt with once the police found the location. If it had been a rented room, I thought, then its landlord or lady should have reported a missing guest, particularly once her death hit the news, though I supposed it was possible he or she had said nothing about a temporary traveller and simply kept whatever was left behind to cover any money owed. But one paid up front these days, so that would apply only to the dishon
est. At any rate Annabelle could hardly have taken anything with her into the sea, so life’s other essentials – handbag, toiletries, cosmetics – had to be somewhere.

  I upended the bag onto the occasional table beside my chair, revealing a red chiffon top that was very Annabelle with its shoestring straps and a series of soft, draped folds. It was followed by white capri pants, lacy black panties and bra, and a pair of acid green pumps with narrow heels. She’d always liked colour and, due to her small size, was, I remembered, seldom without heels. They seemed an odd choice for a beach but maybe she’d had more on her mind than practical considerations. By feeling the pants pockets I located the watch, placed there, I presumed, for safety. It was one of those fashion watches, its face and band awash with glittering stones; again, very Annabelle. Why take that with her to a rendezvous with death and not the handbag? Did time matter, if life didn’t?

  Sighing again, I swept it all back into the bag, which I eventually deposited in the empty wardrobe in her room. It seemed too final somehow, to just throw it out.

  The following day dragged. The roar of diesel motors and the to-ing and fro-ing, as well as the dust raised by the grader clearing the new campground half a kilometre up the road, signalled the arrival of the Main Roads camp. Later, the water truck was driven past the roadhouse and homestead on the narrow track that led down to the soak. There came the distant throb of the pump filling the tanker, then its return. I stepped outside to check but the driver was spraying the track as I’d asked. Satisfied, I returned to my tasks. All ten of the men arrived for lunch and seemed happy with the meal. Rob, the last to go, asked if we’d do cut lunches for them from tomorrow.

  ‘We can’t be driving back from the job every day to eat.’

  ‘No, of course not. If you’ve got any bread in the camp perhaps you could bring it in tonight? We’ve some,’ I said, ‘but ten lots of sandwiches every day … I’ll double the order to the bakery but it won’t get here until Saturday.’

  ‘See what I can do,’ he promised.

  In the afternoon I tackled the vastly overgrown and straggly oleanders that had once been a neat hedge across the front of the homestead garden. With the door and windows open I was close enough to hear the phone and both dreaded and longed for it to ring. Would the surgeon call to tell me the operation had gone well, or only to inform me as next of kin that my mother’s heart had stopped in theatre, or that some hideous complication had occurred? Hardly aware of my task, only of the need to keep busy, I sawed and cut, tossing the discarded branches to one side until I became aware of Bob’s frowning presence beside me.

  ‘What the hell are yer doin’, Charlie?’

  ‘What?’ I looked from him to the shorn shrubbery. ‘Getting it under control again. It’s meant to be a hedge, not a forest, Bob.’

  ‘No gloves,’ he said, ‘no glasses. Yer do know that stuff’s bloody poisonous? The sap, the leaves, the wood. Yer can’t leave it lyin’ round neither. Kill a goat, that will.’

  ‘So we’ll burn it when it dries,’ I said impatiently. ‘Get off my case, Bob. I’d said I’d cut it back and I am.’

  ‘Hmmph,’ he said. ‘Smoke’s poisonous too, yer know. Look at your hands – sap all over ’em, if you had a cut it’d be in it … Why don’t you go wash and find a pair of gloves?’ Gruffly, he added, ‘She’ll be okay, you know. Tough as nails, Molly is. She’ll come through this. Won’t help her to learn you poisoned yerself, but. Do nothin’ for her recovery that would.’

  His kindly tone made my chin quiver and he patted my arm. ‘Go on, girl, wash that stuff off, then come and have a cuppa. Ute was looking for you, too. I’ll finish here later, if you like.’

  I sniffed, went to wipe my damp eyes, then remembered the sap. ‘It’s okay, I’ll do it. But you’re right, it’s a silly risk. Thank you, Bob.’

  A little after five, the phone in the roadhouse, which was on the same line as the house phone, rang. I said, ‘Hello?’ in a breathless gasp and heard a woman’s soft voice reply.

  ‘Is that Charlotte Carver speaking?’

  It had to be the hospital. ‘Yes. What … Is my mother —?’

  ‘She’s fine. She’s come through the op well and she’s stable, Charlotte. I’m Cathy Martin, her nurse. Before she went to theatre she made me promise to ring you once she was out.’

  ‘And she’s okay?’ I broke in. ‘When can I speak to her?’

  ‘Well, perhaps tomorrow. It’s a big op, you know, and the drugs will make her drowsy. She’s sleeping now but everything’s going well so far. She’s out of Recovery and in ICU at present. Try not to worry too much, eh?’

  ‘Thank you. If – when she wakes give her our love, won’t you, mine and Bob’s? Tell her I’ll ring.’

  ‘I’ll do that. Bye now,’ and she was gone.

  Bob watched me replace the phone. ‘Okay?’

  ‘Yes.’ I exhaled a long breath of relief. ‘Everything’s fine, she made it.’

  ‘Told yer,’ he said. He tugged down the brim of his hat and limped out to sweep the apron of concrete before the pumps. Having the road constantly sprayed reduced the dust, but it did mean that vehicles tracked the damp earth onto the cement apron every time they drove in to fuel up.

  What felt like the weight of the building slipped from my shoulders. Bob was right – he usually was. Tough as nails didn’t begin to describe Mum. She’d be out of hospital and home before I knew it, all of today’s worries forgotten.

  Chapter Ten

  Thursday evening I checked with the hospital again. Mum sounded groggy and tired, complaining that she did nothing but sleep. I kept the call brief. Friday she was brighter, her complaint this time centred on some apparatus they were making her blow into to check her lung function. Tomorrow, she said, she was leaving ICU for the ward where, she hoped, the nights would be a bit quieter. She sounded querulous, which I thought a better sign than her earlier weariness.

  The fuel tanker turned up in the afternoon. I’d finished work on the hedge by then and the Main Roads crew were changing from anonymous workers to known faces. Ute was handling the extra work well. We had developed a system of self-service where the men fetched their own cutlery and food, and delivered the dirty plates back to the hatch.

  Friday night was busier with stockmen from the closer stations turning up, and among them I was absurdly pleased to see Mike Webb. It made for quite a crowd until a few of the older Main Roads men left. I was kept busy serving with no time for more than a greeting but Mike seemed content to sit and wait. He’d commandeered a stool near the bar and when the rush eased, and the volume of noise around the card game at one of the tables gave us privacy, he hitched his elbows onto the counter.

  ‘How’ve you been, Charlie? And Molly – how did the op go?’

  ‘She came through it and is doing well, thanks. Back in the ward tomorrow, which I guess means the worst is over.’

  ‘That’s good. Must’ve been tough on you both, I imagine – being so far away.’

  ‘For me, yes. For her, I really don’t know.’ The honesty of my answer surprised me. He cocked an eyebrow and I said recklessly, ‘We have issues, my mother and I. I’ve never really been close to her. Actually, between her and Annabelle we’re one screwed-up family.’

  ‘That so? What about your dad? Is he still around?’

  ‘He died, eight years ago.’ I shrugged. ‘He was a chronic gambler, and a drinker – not your ideal husband, or father.’

  ‘Ah.’ Mike nodded. ‘That would be the reason he got out of the station?’

  ‘I suppose. It happened before I was born. Three generations’ worth of Carver sweat and toil, but he couldn’t hold it. I suppose Mum could see even then that she’d wind up in a tent if it was left to him, so she got her hands on what cash she could and started this business. It provided a livelihood and paid for Annabelle’s and my schooling. The rest he just frittered away.’

  ‘But she stuck with him.’

  ‘Yes, well, her generation did, however h
opeless the marriage.’ I frowned. ‘Why are we talking about this, anyway? Let’s change the subject to you.’

  ‘Ah well, that’s simple.’ He grinned. ‘I’ve got the weekend off. Doesn’t happen often during a muster, but the chopper’s due its hundred hourly so it went into the Alice this morning. We finished the yardwork this arvo and I’m not due back at the station till Sunday. I chucked my swag on so I could camp here tonight, and I wondered if you’d care to maybe come and hunt rubies with me tomorrow?’

  I felt a tingling pleasure – so I hadn’t been wrong thinking he liked me. I said, affecting puzzlement, ‘Its hundred hourly? What does that mean, exactly?’

  ‘It means that after every hundred hours of flying, helicopters get their innards pulled apart and checked over. It’s a safety measure – the law according to CAA, aviation’s god. Now, I’ve answered your question so it’s my turn to get one from you – that’s how it works. So, will you come, Charlie? Early start, picnic lunch, home by five-ish. What do you say?’

  ‘It sounds enticing, Mike. I’d love to.’ I had a brief moment wondering if it was fair to go off, leaving Bob and Ute to cope, but damnit all, I thought rebelliously, they were being paid to work, but I wasn’t. ‘I’ll bring the lunch,’ I said, ‘if you provide the transport.’

  ‘It’s a date, then.’ He looked pleased with himself. ‘Is old Len still out there?’

  ‘The fossicker and his wife?’ I shrugged. ‘As far as I know. There’s no reason for him to drive back in here if he was leaving the area though.’ The Garnet was five kilometres off the main road. ‘Why?’

  ‘Just gauging the possibilities,’ he said airily. ‘Kevin reckons you could hide a diamond in a sand dune and the old boy’d find it. Knows as much about rocks and gems as any geologist. All self-taught. If he’s still about it raises the odds on your ruby turning up.’