What Lies Buried

What Lies Buried Page 3

by John Bishop

  Part of the Family

  1988

  For a few weeks after Justin Brody had tracked him to Arajinna, Max found himself thinking often about Lenny d’Aratzio. Despite a stretch of hot weather from Christmas into the new year, he slept with the windows closed and locked. As the months passed, however, he thought less about the threats. Brody’s advice was right. He should get on with his life. Increasingly, this involved the Blake family, which seemed to have adopted him.

  ‘It’s all wrong!’ Max pulled Polkadot up so fast the mare snorted and lifted her head sharply in annoyance. Judith galloped her chestnut stallion in a gentle circle and headed back. Max had already dismounted and was making peace with the grey.

  ‘Problem?’ Judith asked.

  ‘It’s me, not Polka.’

  ‘Want to talk about it?’

  ‘I think we have to.’

  ‘I’ll meet you at the trough.’ She turned the stallion down the slope towards the dam.

  The horses drank and started to graze. Judith chose a grassy patch under a tree and stretched out. ‘So?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve tried to get used to it but I can’t.’

  ‘Used to...?’

  ‘You. Banabrook. Your family.’

  Judith sat up. ‘What’s wrong with my family?’

  ‘Nothing. Which is part of the problem. It would be easier if they were arrogant bastards.’

  ‘You’re losing me Max.’

  ‘My upbringing is so far away from yours. I tell myself it shouldn’t matter, but it does. I grew up hating rich people for being rich. Do I have a chip on my shoulder? Yes! Where I lived everybody was poor. Being bolshie and angry helped.’

  ‘So you became the angry bolshie priest.’

  ‘And having proved I wasn’t any good at dealing with suburban poverty, I came to Arajinna to find space. I thought I could help with the crisis in rural schooling. But I didn’t count on meeting you and spending my days on a property like this... and wanting this life so much... wanting you.’

  ‘Max?’

  ‘You are never out of my mind. It’s wrong and it terrifies me, but I love you.’

  ‘You love me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not Banabrook? Not the money I stand to inherit? Me.’

  ‘You.’

  ‘So everything’s all right, isn’t it?’

  ‘All right?’

  ‘If this is a proposal, Max, it will go down in history as the most oblique ever devised.’

  ‘It was a confession rather than a proposal, although... I’m making a complete ass of myself aren’t I?’

  ‘You are the strangest man I’ve ever known.’

  ‘Yes, well–’

  ‘If you did propose, I wouldn’t say no.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘What I would say is “let’s wait”.’

  ‘You are serious!’

  ‘Of course. I’ve watched you working with the kids at school and thought: this could be the man for me. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. No, I mean it! But my life is too confused to know whether I’m in love. I’ve got baggage too.’

  ‘Such as?’

  My unfathomable Mama, a half-sister I know only from news reports, a family history I don’t understand.’

  ‘And now I’ve made things worse.’

  ‘Not worse. More complicated. But as long as you’re sure it’s me you love, our backgrounds and our worldly goods shouldn’t matter. The rest we can work through. I like having you here. I expect you at weekends. I’d miss it dreadfully if you didn’t come.’

  She knelt beside him and turned his face so she could kiss him. It was the first time.

  ‘You don’t have to do the full guilt thing. You’re only Church of England, Max. Or must I call it Anglican these days?’

  ‘Thank you for your understanding.’

  She rolled towards him, threw an arm over his bare shoulder and nuzzled his neck.

  ‘Not that a good Jewish girl has licence to make free love—I mean “to make love freely”—the connotations of “free love” are too much even for me.’ She pulled herself closer. ‘But it is good to know in advance that we fit well.’ She kissed his shoulder and he knew she meant it. He could feel her nipples pressed against him. Despite the cold, he’d kicked the blankets away from his side of the single bed to accommodate the warmth of bodies pressed together. He was in love—with her, and with a level of sexual gratification he had not imagined possible.

  For many minutes they lay together in her bed. Walter and Rachel had stayed overnight in the Calway pub after the first day of the wool sales. Max and Judith had eaten well and come together at the sink—where the untouched washing-up still waited attention.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Judith said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can a minister tell a fib?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Where have you been all night?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘Tom and Fred.’

  ‘They are souls of discretion.’

  ‘Well bugger me. You’re going to boast about your conquest are you?’

  ‘Judith? No! Of course not.’

  ‘I’d prefer they didn’t know.’

  ‘Unless they’ve been looking through the window, they won’t!’

  ‘I’d prefer they didn’t suspect.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I didn’t have the full guilt thing until now.’

  ‘Do you think they will? Suspect, I mean.’

  ‘Honestly no.’

  ‘Do they think we’re not up to it?’

  ‘Would that worry you?’

  ‘I do feel a little guilty. Your car’s been outside all night.’

  ‘Oh golly gosh, there’s a give-away! For heaven’s sake Judith, it’s not the first time I’ve slept here. They know I enjoy a glass of wine.’

  ‘First time when my parents aren’t home.’

  ‘Tom and Fred are your biblical toilers. They’re already somewhere down the back paddocks, or trying to best the famous south windmill. For all we know, they think we’re in bed together all the time. They mind their own business. And if it will make you feel better, if asked my whereabouts during the critical hours, I’ll tell the bloody lie and do the penance or whatever!’

  ‘That’s why I love you.’

  ‘Dear God in heaven please protect us from paranoid, irrational women, amen!’

  ‘From the Latin, Greek and Hebrew!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mama always insisted on my knowing the roots.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘The linguistic roots, you idiot.’

  ‘Of every damned word?’

  ‘Of a number of interesting or significant words. “Amen” happened to be one.’

  ‘Making love to you is much easier and more pleasurable than debating with you.’

  Her peal of laughter was so energising that he stepped out of bed saying, ‘I’ll make us some breakfast!’ He was as quick to return adding, ‘God but it’s cold out there!’

  Later, Max looked up from the sink to see Fred on a tractor heading for the gate to the homestead road.

  ‘Prepare to prevaricate!’

  Judith made a sound he found impossible to interpret, and went out onto the verandah. When she returned the sound was clearly a sigh. ‘They want me to ring the manager at Adderley’s. His bloody bull has broken the fence again; half our milkers are out. Tom’s sick of doing the repairs.’

  ‘I wonder if the bull had as good a time as I did.’

  This time there was no laughter. When he looked at her, she was unusually solemn.

  ‘Problem?’ he said.

  ‘I suppose it’s as well Daddy’s away. He hates dealing with Adderley Farm even though the old boy’s gone.’

  ‘Do you want me to handle it?’

  ‘I can do it Max! When Daddy’s away, I deal with things.’

  The tone was angr
y. Max was about to remind her they were lovers, but stopped himself in time. It wasn’t him she was angry at—unless he’d sounded patronising. ‘It’s time for me to go,’ he said. ‘I’m on early yard duty. Do you have a nine o’clock?’

  ‘Yes. But I’ll be there.’

  ‘I love you.’ He gave her a quick hug.

  ‘I’m glad you stayed the night.’

  ‘So am I.’

  As he reached the doorway she said, ‘Bloody Adderleys! Why couldn’t we have human beings for neighbours?’

  Max left without attempting a response.

  Although being adopted by the Blake family had been a welcome development for Max, the signs that he had also been adopted by the community came as a shock to him.

  ‘I can’t believe they did it behind my back!’

  ‘Max dear, what is it?’ Judith half turned from the stove but kept her eyes on the frying pan.

  ‘You don’t know about this?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘They petitioned the Bishop.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Heaven knows!’

  ‘Well for what? Are you excommunicated or something?’

  ‘You didn’t know?’

  ‘Please tell me what you’re talking about!’

  ‘I stopped at the cottage for my mail. One letter. Church letterhead. “The petition”— get that? “the petition!” for me to reopen St Mark’s for general services has been approved. “Given the circumstances of the petition, the Diocese cannot provide a stipend; but will contribute to expenses when the level of attendances at services is established. Naturally, all services will be in accordance with the notes and schedules issued by the Diocese from time to time, and conform to the calendar in the Book of Common Prayer.” Can you believe this?’

  There was a pause while Judith added stock and stirred the contents of the pan before replying, ‘Yes. I can believe it.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You started using the church to consecrate bread and wine for Olive. People thought: Oh goody, let’s get him permission to conduct services.’

  ‘And didn’t tell me?’

  ‘They probably thought they were doing something for you.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’

  ‘I don’t know Max. Things happen.’

  ‘I resigned from the ministry. Permanently!’

  ‘Got that wrong didn’t you. My guess is you resigned from a post and lost seniority or whatever. Now you’ve surfaced in Arajinna and, for a measly contribution to expenses, the Diocese will be able to add numbers to their statistics. Active ministers—add one. Attendances—add whatever. Christenings–’

  ‘Christenings?’

  ‘–not many. Marriages—not many. Funerals—possibilities abound.’

  ‘It’s not a joke.’

  ‘Bizarre though. You’re in Kalawonta Max, my love.’ She put the frying pan to one side and peered into a saucepan. ‘This’ll be ready soon. Set the table will you. Just us. Mama and Dad are having dinner at Olive’s.’

  Max opened his mouth to continue, but couldn’t. He put the letter on the table and nothing more was said while he got out plates and cutlery, and Judith shuffled saucepans.

  They were well into dinner before Judith spoke.

  ‘You’re sulking.’

  ‘I’m bloody stunned!’

  ‘Poor Max.’

  ‘What do I do?’

  ‘Start conducting services I hope.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Think of the alternative. You’ll alienate all those signatories who must have thought this a good idea.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘Sorry. Telling it like it is.’

  On Sunday 4th September 1988, Max conducted his first service at St Mark’s. The small Anglican communion was joined for Morning Prayer at 11am by several other Protestant groups, a dozen Catholics, two Buddhists, and a good number of individuals of unknown faith. The church was packed. To Max’s surprise, the town had an ageing but competent organist who accompanied the hymns with music from the ancient bellows-operated instrument. Rachel attended, mainly because she could not be left alone. She sat, smiling vaguely, in the front pew, with eighty-seven year old Olive, whose health had continued to deteriorate but who insisted on being brought from Land’s End for this momentous event. Olive was to return to St Mark’s one month to the day later, in her coffin. Again the church was packed. She was interred beside her beloved husband Eddie in the family plot.

  Beasties in the Blood

  Friday 7th October 1988

  A few days after Olive’s funeral Walter mentioned he was feeling weak and slightly nauseous. Judith was all for taking him at once to the doctor in Calway Junction, but he resisted and she didn’t push him.

  ‘Olive was a good mate. It’s knocked me a bit. I’ll be fine. I’ll skip dinner though. You can bring me some tea in bed if you like.’

  Next day he announced he was much better, but Judith told Max he’d eaten little and she thought he was cracking hardy. When the symptoms returned the following week, she was taking no excuses.

  ‘She’s a bully Max!’ Walter called as he followed her to the car.

  ‘Beasties in the blood!’ was Walter’s own description of the condition ultimately diagnosed. ‘They say it’s not too bad yet, but there’s no real cure. If you ask me it’s a “get your affairs in order” sort of illness.’

  Judith was more forthcoming. ‘They’ve given him six to twelve months. I told Mama. She nods and makes noises as though she understands; but I’m not sure she does—which might be for the best.’ She went to Max and put her head on his shoulder. ‘At least now I have you to lean on. If this had happened last year I’d have been all alone.’

  ‘Caroline?’

  ‘He says it wouldn’t be fair to tell her.’

  ‘Why, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘Death-bed pressure he calls it.’

  ‘So what happens next?’

  ‘Apparently its a bit like leukaemia. Doc Smithers will send a nurse to give him weekly injections. I’ve got her name here somewhere... Virginia Underwood.’

  ‘What are the injections meant to do?’

  ‘ “Juice him up” was Doc’s expression. But it’s all downhill really, the question is how steep and how fast.’

  ‘We’ll need to find some things to keep him occupied.’

  ‘He likes your idea about compiling the history of the shire.’

  ‘So does Trudy; she’s approved it as a school project. She wants us to work it into the assignments for Year 11 History. Year 10 English will use it for essay topics. We’re also setting up a club as an extra-curricular activity so other students will be able to participate. I was thinking of asking Walter to be the Club Patron.’

  ‘Then go and tell him. He wouldn’t admit it but he could use a bit of juicing right now.’

  A Conversation with Judith’s Mama

  Wednesday 9th November 1988

  ‘Max.’ Rachel said his name as though savouring the sound. ‘Max.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Blake.’

  ‘I was making sure I remembered. Max is right, yes?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I heard Judith on the telephone. She told someone I am sometimes lucid. The doctor says it also. En français: lucide, bright like a star. But a fading star I think. Fading, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘Not if you can still make observations like that.’

  ‘I don’t want to embarrass you with this.’

  ‘Have no fear of that.’

  ‘I have no fear of you, Max. But I am frightened a little. When I am lucide I am aware I am not always so. Judith likes you.’

  The non sequitur left him momentarily unable to respond.

  ‘Poor Max; I do embarrass. I wanted to tell you it makes me happy—while I could remember it is what I wanted to say... to Max. You love her I think.’

  ‘Very much. And if she decides to marry me, Mrs Blake, I will cherish her always. I pr
omise.’

  ‘You guess well... Max.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘What the mama wants to hear.’

  ‘She is fortunate to have a mama like you.’

  'It was so long ago... so far away. I thought sometimes to talk to her, but what good would it do? What good? There was an old man...’

  Rachel’s strange outpouring stopped and she looked at him blankly. When it seemed she might not speak again he said, ‘An old man?’

  She looked puzzled. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘You said—.’

  ‘I told you about him? I don’t recall this.’

  ‘You only mentioned him... in passing.’

  ‘He said we must remember. Remember Dachau. People must be told. So I spoke to the young man in charge... Walter it was. He came to the railway. See how I remember. But I did not tell Judith. It was so long ago... so far away. She is too precious. Don’t tell her about the old man, Max. Please?’

  ‘If that’s what you want.’

  ‘It is frightening to be only sometimes lucide.’ There was a pause before she smiled and said, ‘Walter approves.’

  ‘Of my courting Judith?’

  ‘Courting. Courting. It is very English the word courting—in the context of paying attention with intent to marry—very English. But “court” is originally from the French I think. He’s a good man.’

  ‘Your husband?’

  ‘He’s a good man.’

  ‘I think he’s an extraordinary man.’

  ‘Extraordinary. Yes, extraordinary. I think this too’ Again the smile. Max had seen the likeness of mother and daughter, but never more pronounced.

  The smile faded. The brow wrinkled. ‘He’s not well.’

  Impulsively he took her hands in his. ‘Hold to the good memories, Mrs Blake. You are much loved here.’

  ‘The mind has no eraser. We try to hold good memories. We try.’ She frowned for a moment and then added, ‘It is Max isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes Mrs Blake. It is Max.’

  From the kitchen a cry of: ‘Max, where are you?’

  He turned his head and called, ‘In here with your mother’.

  Judith came to the door. ‘I need to know if you’re staying for dinner.’

  ‘I’d better not. I’ve a stack of papers to mark.’

  ‘Papers,’ Rachel said vaguely.

  ‘Essays, Mrs Blake. That’s the problem with teaching history. You set essays. Then you have to mark them.’

  ‘You teach history?’ Rachel said. ‘We must remember. We must... remember. There was an old man.’

  He looked helplessly at Judith. She jerked her head towards the door and said, ‘I’ll see Max to his car, Mama. We’ll have dinner when Daddy’s finished his bath.’

  Rachel frowned and held out her hand for Max to shake. ‘I’m glad you came. Goodbye.’

  At the car, Max held Judith to him. She said, ‘The poor darling is really struggling. Her short-term memory’s very erratic. And she keeps mentioning an old man. I don’t know where that comes from.’

  ‘I think it’s from a long way back. From places she’s trying not to go.’

  ‘Like Dachau?’

  ‘How much do you know?’

  ‘Almost nothing. Until recently she hadn’t even mentioned the name. I’m sure even that was unintended. She’s so confused.’

  ‘Do you think Walter knows what happened to her?’

  ‘A little perhaps. Enough to warn me not to probe too much. He says it’s bricked up in her mind.’

  Blake Tape One

  Recorded Saturday 3rd December 1988

  First Discussions with Walter Blake

  If it’s all right with you, I’ll leave the machine running while we chat.

  It won’t make interesting listening.

  Anything we decide to use will be transcribed anyway. The main thing is to pick your brains and get it down.

  Before I croak.

  I’ll ignore that.

  There’s no point us bullshitting each other Max.

  Where do you want to begin?

  Why not Land’s End?

  Olive’s place? Fine.

  You could never understand how much she appreciated what you did for her.

  It was little enough and more than repaid.

  How so?

  People don’t actually say it but any newcomer to a community like this one is a threat—someone who might take away more than they give. Olive was my seal of approval.

  She’d be pleased.

  And it wasn’t until well after we’d re-opened St Mark’s I realised something else.

  What?

  How symbolic it was. For everybody; not just a handful of Protestants with a petition. There are shops closing down, farms under threat. But one establishment re-opened. I think it brought a touch of hope.

  Let’s pray you're right.

  Tell me about Land’s End.

  I’m worried young Adrian might have to sell up.

  Why does everybody call him young Adrian? I’m sure he’s older than me.

  It’s what Olive called him all his life. His dad ran the Arajinna Ice Works. When it closed—must have been the sixties—his folks moved to Queensland. Adrian was still at school and he didn’t want to leave Arajinna. Olive pretty much adopted him. Treated him like a son and left him everything. But mixed farming got harder and harder. The dairy herd was too small to keep going, and Olive made the switch to crops the year before a run of bad seasons.

  So you think Arajinna’s got another forced sale on the way?

  After what happened to Weatherlee and Adderley Farm, you start to wonder who’ll be next. We’re lucky. Banabrook’s big and we’ve no debt to carry. But even our cash flow is drying up. It’s happened before but solutions are getting harder to find. Your generation will need some bold new thinking.

  A Break for the Holidays

  Friday 16th December 1988

  ‘Don’t go in; he’s asleep.’ Judith proffered a cheek for Max to kiss.

  ‘Not juiced up?’

  ‘Ginny can’t come until tomorrow.’

  Max savoured complex aromas, the precursors of a wonderful dinner, and sat at his now accustomed place.

  Judith took a quick look at him before saying, ‘He’s been a bit low since your session last Sunday.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t want you pushing him.’

  ‘I didn’t think I was.’

  ‘Olive and stuff? Worries about young Adrian?’

  ‘It was his choice of topic.’

  ‘Too many issues.’

  ‘Better than starting with Emily and Caroline. When he suggested Land’s End, I thought–’

  ‘At this stage, I think he’d be better talking about his youth.’

  ‘Like the premature death of his mum?’

  ‘Don’t get prickly. He quite likes the opportunity to talk about her.’

  ‘And I’m supposed to guess?’

  ‘Don’t get prickly.’

  ‘Have you a positive contribution to make?’

  ‘Max!’

  ‘The Vestry met tonight!’ His sigh came out as a guttural harrumph.

  ‘Well it’s not much of an excuse but I’ll take it. Hang on! Aren’t they all lovey dovey with a week to Christmas?’

  ‘Mrs Whittle is an escapee from a Patrick White novel!’

  ‘They dote on you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mrs Whittle and the lamington gang.’

  ‘My penance is I haven’t resigned.’

  ‘On bad days take comfort that one of our own was able to care for Olive and lay her to rest.’

  ‘One of our own? Now I’m going to cry.’

  Judith waved the seductively aromatic casserole under his nose, put it on the table, and kissed the top of his head.

  Max said, ‘How do I know what subject to talk to him about?’

  ‘Stick to pre-war stuff. Before Mama came.’

  This time the s
igh was gentle.

  Judith said, ‘I’m not saying the war years are off limits permanently. But wait a while. Please?’

  ‘I’ll have to give the taping a rest until after Christmas anyway. The bloody vestry committee notices for Sunday will take longer than the sermon, and I haven’t even begun that.’

  Blake Tape Two

  Recorded January 1989

  Life at Banabrook

  After Mum died, I spent a lot of time with my grandparents.

  Simeon and Alice, right?

  Dad was the first of the Blakes to work at something other than running the farm. Grandad was getting on but he was as sharp as the proverbial tack. Grandma Alice was a darling. Anyway, my brothers had gone back to school, and Dad wasn’t here, so it was just me and the oldies, and... Max, I’m a complete idiot, I haven’t shown you Grandad’s memoirs.

  Memoirs?

  They’ll be around somewhere. Judith might know. They’re personal anecdotes mainly. You might find something of use.

  Soon afterwards Judith brought tea and was met by an onslaught of unexpected questions. Max later admitted his “obnoxious insistence” (Judith’s expression) on an immediate search for the memoirs was aberrant behaviour for which he was abjectly apologetic. He was forgiven after calling on Walter to testify that the laughter had done him good.

  The memoirs, handwritten and never previously considered for publication, were unearthed in a storeroom in an outbuilding originally constructed as servants’ quarters. They were in a sagging cardboard box, which Max took home for a quick browse. This was a mistake for a historian; his light was still on at dawn.

  Max had been unaware of the existence of the storeroom, and it became a new source of historical information. With Judith’s approval, he began systematically browsing the filing cabinets and archive boxes. It helped to have a reasonably comprehensive handwritten index; Judith thought the writing was Caroline’s. To avoid opening old wounds they decided not to ask Walter for verification of the handwriting; although Max did mention what he was doing—and was surprised at the response.

  ‘I’ve been extracting some documents from the Banabrook archives. I need your approval to use them as sources for the manuscripts.’ He handed Walter a folder. ‘I’ve put markers in the original files so they can all be put back.’

  ‘I didn’t know you’d been rummaging in the storeroom.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I should have sought your permission.’

  ‘Does Judith know what you’re doing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I’ve no objection. All the skeletons become hers when I pop off. I’m not about to go destroying anything.’

  ‘Skeletons?’

  ‘Doesn’t every family have them?’

  Difference of Opinion

  Friday 13th October 1989

  Judith turned the car into the gravelled driveway of the hospice and stopped at the main entrance. From the back, Ginny leant between the seats and said to Walter, ‘Okay buster, you sit tight and I’ll get you a wheelchair.’

  ‘Afraid I’ll slow down the party?’

  ‘It’s not that, matey, its–’

  ‘I’m super-juiced. You said so yourself. I’ll use my stick, and Max can take my arm.’

  ‘Anyone would think you were the boss,’ Ginny said. ‘Okay. But no cracking hardy. It’s my job to get you home in one piece.’

  ‘You and Judith go ahead. Max can help me. I don’t want any fussing.’

  ‘God, you’re a hard case sometimes.’

  ‘I could still take you over ten rounds.’

  ‘Not if I kicked your stick away.’

  ‘You wouldn’t! Would you?’

  It was the sort of exchange the others were used to, part of Ginny’s unconventional approach to nursing.

  By the time Max had helped Walter up the three broad sandstone steps and into the foyer, Judith and Ginny were waiting with the matron. Introductions over, the party began its inspection tour. Walter walked beside the matron, his grip on Max’s arm tight and determined.

  At each doorway, Walter stopped and took in the activity—whether for a detailed examination, or simply to catch his breath, Max could not decide. The rooms were clean and bright, the decor colourful. There was no hint of the antiseptic smell associated with hospitals. Carers smiled greetings, their cream uniforms with light blue trims making them look more like a well-sponsored sporting team than like nursing staff. Several greeted Ginny by name.

  The patients, many obviously in some stage of dementia, appeared contented enough, although an outbreak of anguished cries had staff sprinting up the corridor.

  Leading them through a doorway the matron said, ‘Doctor Smithers said he thought Mrs Blake would like this room.’

  ‘The purple bougainvillea,’ Judith pointed out of the window. ‘He remembered.’ It was the first thing she had said for more than an hour.

  ‘This was Mildred’s room.’ The comment was accompanied by a wheezing cough and they turned to find an elderly patient in a wheelchair.

  ‘That’s right, Mr Staines,’ the matron said.

  ‘One of the Staines from Bullermark?’ Walter asked, shaking hands with the man.

  ‘Spot on. Name’s Joe. You’re Arajinna aren’t you? Banabrook.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘See Matron, there’s a few of us here still got our marbles. Lost some other bits though.’ He started to laugh, which caused him to wheeze again.

  Max was pleased that the matron had placed the feelings of the resident above her possible urge to tell Mr Staines to buzz off and mind his own business. Perhaps she thought a new occupant for Mildred’s room was his business. Nevertheless, Max caught her quick nod to a passing carer who stopped, assessed the situation, and said, ‘There you are Stainsey. You’ll miss M.A.S.H if you don’t hurry.’

  ‘Give us a push then love. See yuz later.’ He waved and was gone.

  As they returned to the foyer the matron said, ‘Is there anything else you’d like to see?’

  ‘You’ve been quite thorough,’ Walter said. ‘I’ll tell Doctor Smithers to finish the paper work.’

  Judith turned abruptly and left the building.

  ‘It’s what I expected,’ Walter said. ‘Go after her Max. Ginny can manage me from here.’

  ‘I was going to offer you some tea,’ the matron said.

  ‘Thanks, but we’d better make tracks I think,’ Walter said.

  ‘Would you like us to come and meet Mrs Blake at Banabrook before she comes in?’

  ‘Well, I...’ Walter turned to Ginny.

  ‘She might not remember the visit,’ Ginny explained ‘But there’s no telling what she registers at this stage. My advice is have them come for lunch in the kitchen one day—like family. There’s just a chance it will make them familiar to her when she arrives here.’

  ‘Then, yes. And thank you.’ Walter said to the matron.

  ‘Just me and one of the carers. Would Wednesday suit? We can take her in on Thursday or Friday.’

  Max found Judith standing by the driver’s door of the car, grim but not crying. In his best matter-of-fact voice he said, ‘Would you like me to drive?’

  ‘Do you think I can’t?’

  ‘It’s not good to drive when you’re upset.’

  ‘Angry, Max. Angry!’

  ‘Even worse.’

  She thrust the keys at him, marched around the car, and got into the back seat. Walter and Ginny emerged slowly from the main entrance with a male carer holding Walter’s arm. Max met them at the bottom of the steps and took over. The carer went back inside. Suddenly, Judith got out of the car.

  ‘You didn’t even ask my opinion! You didn’t even ask!’ She stood in front of her father, blocking his path.

  ‘Darling it’s everything Doc and Ginny said. We couldn’t do better.’

  ‘It’s not Banabrook. It’s not her home.’

  ‘Don’t start this again Judith. We’ve been over it, and over it.’

  �
��And I’ve never agreed. Never!’

  ‘You can’t care for her any longer.’

  ‘I can. With Ginny’s help, I can.’

  Ginny said, ‘No sweetie. We can’t. Not the way they can here.’ She stepped forward with her arms open but Judith twisted free and ran down the driveway.

  ‘You’ll have to get me into the car, Ginny.’ Walter’s breathing had become laboured. ‘Take your time with her Max. We’ve got all day once I’ve sat down.’

  Max found Judith sitting on the sandstone fence weeping silently. He sat beside her.

  ‘Don’t say it; I know you agree with them. You’ve all been against me, all along.’

  Max decided against a response and sat quietly.

  ‘We look after him. We can look after her too.’

  ‘We aren’t going to find him drowned in the bath because he forgot to turn the tap off.’

  ‘She needs me. I know she needs me.’

  ‘Of course she does. But she also needs the very best care, and it’s reached the stage where she needs it every minute of the day. Even if you gave up teaching completely, even if Ginny moved in permanently, we don’t have the resources. You’ve seen what this place has to offer. I didn’t realise we had such a high quality hospice in the shire. And an hour might be a long way to drive angry, but some people commute further for daily work.’

  ‘Dad won’t be able to.’

  ‘And it’s breaking his heart. But he knows this has to be.’

  For a minute or more they continued to sit. Then Judith reached out and took his hand. Still they sat. Max had no idea what else he might say. Another minute of silence, two. He felt her head rest on his shoulder.

  ‘Oh Max. Some days she doesn’t even know who I am.’

  When they walked slowly up the driveway, arm in arm, Ginny was standing at the driver’s door. She looked at Max and held out her hand, palm upwards. ‘Keys, buster!’ He handed them over.

  Nothing more was said until half way to Banabrook.

  ‘Dad?’ Judith said.

  ‘Darling?’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘I know.’

  There was silence until they reached a drivers’ rest where Ginny pulled over and stopped. She fumbled in her pocket, produced a handkerchief, blew her nose and wiped her eyes.

  ‘Bastards. I couldn’t see. We might have had an accident!’

  Bleak Day

  Saturday 20th October 1989

  Max wondered whether any of the provisions for Rachel’s move registered with her. Nothing she said or did suggested awareness of anything unusual, but the family had agreed on a principle: they would forever assume the possibility of understanding, and behave accordingly. The periods of lucidity were now rare, although occasionally she would comment on something from the past. She no longer remembered Max’s name, but usually acknowledged his presence with a troubled smile. Sometimes she could be heard saying “Walter and Judith”, to herself, as though clinging to the most important of her memories.

  Lunch on Wednesday, with the matron and the leader of the team of carers, had passed as lunches at Banabrook often did these days—Rachel staring into space, occasionally taking a drink of water, eating only when Judith fed her, sometimes seeming to return briefly from somewhere out in space. When the meal was over she allowed the carer to take her into the family room, but a vague glance over her shoulder suggested confusion that this was not Judith. When tea was ready, it was the matron who wheeled in the trolley and poured, asking Rachel how she liked hers, receiving the answer from Judith.

  On Friday morning Judith bathed and dressed her mother, chatting constantly about the move to her new home, withholding nothing, wondering what might be going on in Rachel’s head. Outside, the sun shone and a light spring breeze brought the trees alive. Inside, the feeling was bleak. Max noticed Walter sitting by the window, head lowered. When he approached, the head lifted.

  ‘Just conserving my strength, Max. I’ll be fine.’

  Hours of debate had led to an agreed scenario. At 10 o’clock, Max took the wheel of the car, Ginny beside him mainly to be on hand for Walter who sat in the back holding Rachel’s hand. Judith would follow after lunch, bringing her mother’s clothes and familiar things from her dressing table. She would also bring Barney, Rachel’s favourite dog. The kelpie could not stay at the hospice but would be a frequent visitor. Judith’s arrival was to take place some hours after the others had left—an effort to show Rachel she had not been abandoned, to sow the seed that there would be comings and goings.

  Doc Smithers was on hand to greet Rachel and take her to her room, crowing enthusiastically about the purple bougainvillea as they stood in the bay window.

  Walter had planned his leave-taking in consultation with Ginny, wanting to make it as natural as possible and not telegraph a change in the relationship. When the time came, he nodded to Ginny who said, ‘Okay, Mrs B. Time to take this old reprobate for his rest. See you soon sweetie.’

  Walter took Rachel in his arms and hugged her gently before lifting her chin and kissing her on the lips, a ritual he’d followed for as long as Max had known them. Perhaps the hug was a touch longer, the kiss a touch stronger, Max couldn’t tell.

  A Public Meeting

  Saturday 3rd March 1990

  Early in 1990 the Kalawonta Shire Council called a public meeting to decide the terms of a petition to keep the rail depot open. Shire President, Grant Hughes, commenced proceedings. ‘We have to learn from what happened with the institute. We did too much whingeing about what we stood to lose and too little rubbing their noses in what we’d been contributing. I’m as much to blame as anybody. Sack me if you like. We were way too slow off the mark. The federal minister hadn’t the slightest clue what we’d been putting in—in cash and in kind! I’ll wager London to a brick it’s costing them more to run now. But it’s “Game over and stiff shit Kalawonta!” That’s why we asked you to think up some real meaty arguments for keeping the depot. Heritage listing of the station isn’t the way to go, because they’d do it in a flash, and send a junior minister to give us a plaque and say: “There’s the pay-off! No bloody trains!” or words to that effect.’

  Judith and Max listened to the discussion and stayed for tea and scones, but their only contribution was when Judith rose to say she was there to represent her father who was passionately committed to do his bit if a path could be found.

  As they drove towards Banabrook in silence, Judith sighed and said, ‘Could I have sounded any more platitudinous?’

  ‘What if your father was to give Banabrook to the shire?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Make it public property.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘Everybody thinks the solution is to make Arajinna a tourist destination. Lots of good suggestions, but they’re not convinced it can be done. Banabrook is put forward as the centrepiece, but Banabrook is private property and there’s no easy way for others to invest in it. So–’

  ‘You aren’t kidding!’

  ‘I’m deadly serious!’

  ‘Give away the whole estate?’

  ‘With strings attached.’

  ‘Of course. Now I see it all. You’ve been—what do they call them?—a sleeper.’

  ‘A sleeper?’

  ‘The bolshie from the slums inveigles his way into the establishment, gains their confidence, and appropriates their property for the good of the people.’

  ‘Now you’re kidding!’

  ‘I’m not sure I am.’

  ‘It’s not what I meant at all!’

  ‘I can’t remember your exact words but I do recall being down by the dam with a guilt-ridden Max confessing a dislike of rich people.’

  ‘I recall the day too. I told you I loved you.’

  ‘And this is the next step in the plan? You disinherit me and I become a suitable partner for you. Then you go down on one knee and offer a life of honourable poverty or something? It’s not the way of history, Max. Bolshie le
aders are meant to espouse the cause of the proletariat but live the life of the rich. I think you’ve got it wrong.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of you being disinherited—well not entirely—I mean...’

  ‘Yes I think you’d better spell out exactly what you do mean.’

  Max couldn’t remember her so clipped in speech. It was disconcerting.

  ‘Okay, let’s back up a bit.’

  ‘Yes, let’s!’

  ‘There’s a rural crisis. Some owners have simply walked off their properties and filed for bankruptcy. Arajinna, which we love—and don’t deny me that right; I’ve only been here three years but I feel part of this place—.’

  ‘Okay. Go on! Arajinna which we love...?’

  ‘...is in decline. We’re looking for ways to keep the dream alive. Your father told me it would need bold new thinking. I agree with those folk back there who believe Banabrook holds the key. Historically Banabrook is Arajinna—is Kalawonta. But we—Banabrook— can’t go it alone. We need community participation. I’m not talking socialist doctrine. I’m not even talking seventies communes—“peace and love man; bring out the lentils”—I’m talking about a stricken community trying to save itself.’

  ‘The Blakes have owned Banabrook for a hundred and fifty years!’

  ‘All I’m saying is–’

  ‘You’re asking us to give away the family heritage!’

  ‘I’m not, I’m–’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I bloody well heard you!’

  ‘It’s not what I meant. Hear me out. Please.’

  ‘This had better be good.’

  ‘I put it badly when I said give it to the shire. What I had in mind was some sort of vesting, on strict conditions. Things like the shire raising funds to return some capital to the family. You could also build in things like rights for the Blakes to continue living here, rights to manage... whatever it is Banabrook becomes.’

  He glanced away from the road long enough to see that she was looking directly at him, her expression unusually stern.

  ‘Let’s face it,’ he said, ‘the way things are going you’ll soon be holding a wonderful asset and very little cash.’

  ‘We know that!’ The tone matched the expression. She turned abruptly to look out the side window.

  Max was conscious of having precipitated their first real argument. Unable to think of any way to ameliorate the tension, he concentrated on driving. After they’d maintained their silence for too long he said, quietly, ‘I really did put it badly. It was just–’

  She raised a hand, cutting him off. To his surprise, she said, ‘It’s actually an interesting idea.’ The terseness was gone.

  ‘You really think so?’

  ‘Daddy’s been concerned about “our heritage” for quite a while. He keeps discussing his contingency plans with me; I’m not sure he realises how often he does, but it must be on his mind constantly. Some of the plans involve closing off marginal paddocks to avoid maintaining fences and dams. In better times, the south windmill would have been replaced long since. Tom had to climb it in a high wind when the brake failed. Otherwise the whole damned thing might have come down.’

  ‘So you think the idea might be worth examining?’

  ‘I do.’ After a while she added, ‘Still friends, comrade?’

  He glanced at her. Her face remained serious but she put out her hand and gently rubbed his shoulder.

  ‘What’s this? A symbolic massage of my left wing?’

  She laughed and finished the massage with a gentle slap. ‘Sorry for flying off like that. I am Mama’s daughter after all.’ There was another silence and her head swayed from side to side as the car rocked gently over a patch of uneven road. Then she said, ‘I’m already starting to see possibilities. The manager’s cottage is plenty big enough for us to raise a family.’ He looked at her quickly; she was staring through the windscreen. She continued, ‘We could turn the old servants’ quarters into an apartment which could be for Caroline if she ever came back. Is there such a thing as rights in perpetuity—or for life, or somesuch?’

  ‘I don’t know. But that’s the sort of approach I was grasping for.’

  ‘Then let’s do the research. It won’t surprise me if Daddy’s quite keen, particularly if Caroline’s a part of it. He still hopes she will be.’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid he does.’

  ‘But we won’t give Banabrook away Max. Not completely!’

  ‘I did put it very badly.’

  Prelude to a Funeral

  Tuesday 11th September 1990

  Caroline pulled the hired Commodore into the rest area and stopped in a patch of shade. Peering at the control panel, she located a button to open the windows. It was good to breathe again the springtime scents of Kalawonta: new grass, cowpats, early brush flowers, eucalypts—none individually defined—a heady holistic aroma.

  Stretching to remove some of the kinks, she walked slowly to the lookout. The structure was new since last she stopped here, but already in disrepair. Notice boards and logos attested to its construction in 1968 by the local chapters of the Lions and Apex Clubs. The peeling paint and other signs of wear made her wonder whether those worthy organisations were still meeting at The Criterion Hotel at 7pm on Tuesdays and Thursdays respectively—visitors welcome.

  From the centre of the lookout she could see the entire length of the broad main street. Once it had been the highway. Far below, a single vehicle turned out of the only side street and angle-parked in one of the many vacant spots. A lone pedestrian crossed from one side of the main street to the other, taking a long diagonal route. He was in no danger; nothing else moved.

  She read the inscriptions on the boards attached to the railing, their fading text and arrows indicating the direction and distance to unseen destinations beyond the ranges, and identifying some visible features. To the right she had glimpses of the highway she’d come in by from the city, five hours away. Before the construction of bypasses and stretches of dual carriageway, the drive had taken six hours in Maisie, her much loved Morris Minor. To the left lay the district of her childhood and the road through the last of the lush grazing country, leading to areas where farmers spoke of acres per sheep rather than sheep per acre.

  The spire of St Mark’s church evoked mixed memories. The last time she’d seen it from this vantage she still had enough faith to whisper a prayer. She couldn’t recall the words, but knew they carried the weighty seriousness of a twenty-year-old’s plea for deliverance. She could even recall what she’d been wearing—a tough khaki serge shirt, brown corduroy pants, and elastic-sided boots. Today the shirt was Armani, the pants Versace, and the footwear Sandler, her favourite low heels for driving. Tomorrow, she would return to St Mark’s dressed in simple black, one of her own designs.

  Her immediate destination was out of sight but important enough to have its own arrow and the notation: Banabrook Historic Homestead.

  September was early for cicadas, but it had been a dry winter and she listened as they droned their song of welcome to warmer days. Stretching again, she returned to the car. Behind the line of trees that formed a windbreak, a cow with its neck thrust through the post and rail fence fixed her with a bored expression and chewed rhythmically. Beyond it, down the long slope into the valley, less adventurous members of the herd grazed in post-milking content. She thought about the tasks ahead. It would not be an easy day.

  She knocked a second time. Still nobody answered. She tried the handle, opened the door, and called ‘Hello’—her voice echoing gently along the hallway. She thought it comforting that Banabrook had not acquired the city compulsion to lock and bar. This was no forbidding fortress, not like her inner-city apartment with its deadlocks and monitored alarms. Knowing the conventions of rural life, she wondered why she felt so circumspect about entering. The nearest person might be half a mile down the back paddock.

  She looked along the broad front verandah—still the original boar
ds, their deep natural colour maintained by an annual application of preserving emulsion. Leaves swirled as a tiny willy-willy caught them, teased them, and dumped them carelessly in a small heap. She saw an image of a paper flag, an Australian flag, its handle poked through the bottom of a shoebox placed at the corner of the verandah, the nearest point to the driveway. It was an eerie sensation.

  The white climbing rose now completely enveloped the verandah post and extended the full length of the roofline. Imported English stock carefully grafted onto roots from a native briar by her great grandfather Simeon, it had, like roses the world over, thrived in foreign soil. At the other end, beneath its haze of violet blooms, the wisteria was gnarled and tangled. She pushed the door open and entered.

  ‘Anybody home?’

  She moved down the hallway, the sound of her footfalls lost in the lush carpet runner. The polished boards, a reminder of childhood chores, triggered a release of adrenalin into an already over-loaded system. She paused, conscious of the beat of her heart. In the doorway of the family room, she stopped. The open coffin was not what she’d expected. The face was older, and gaunt; even so he was still handsome. After a moment of indecision, she gave the coffin a gentle pat and moved away. One question had been answered. Now she was face to face with it, she didn’t know how to deal with his death.

  ‘Hello? Anyone?’

  There’d been little change to the room since she last saw it thirty years ago—the enormous bookcase, the cabinet devoted to livestock and equestrian trophies, the photographs, the blue and white Chinese vase that held the riding crops, the roll-top desk, the antique sideboard, the solid upright-piano at which she'd learnt the rudiments of music, even a hopscotch layout chalked on the carpet as so often in her childhood. The carpet itself was new; grandfather’s lounge suite had been re-covered. But she recognised the hooky board, the quoits set, and a partly completed wooden jigsaw puzzle—all solidly constructed in an era when things were made to last. A Monopoly game left as it finished—had time stopped when she left? Maybe not; she couldn’t recall ever managing to put a hotel on Park Lane.

  Through the picture window, which stretched almost the length of the west wall, she looked into the house-garden and beyond it to familiar paddocks, the stables, and the edge of the forest. The wattle she’d planted in memory of a favourite puppy was now too tall for her to see the top above the eaves of the verandah. The easel still stood at the window, a nearly finished painting attesting to her father’s persistence with that special scene. This was no Golden Summers, but his technique had improved greatly over the years. As she approached, she smelled the pungent aroma of gum turpentine and linseed oil. Memories flooded. She closed her eyes.

  From the vase containing riding crops she took one and read the inscription on the silver band. ‘Good Lord! Was I ever fifteen?’ Still holding the crop, she positioned herself at one end of the hopscotch layout. This must be a strange sight, she thought, a middle-aged woman jumping, hopping, turning, and coming back to the starting point. But there was nobody to see her. Still agile at the age of fifty-two, she accomplished the feat easily without ending in disarray.

  The roll-top desk, her great-grandfather’s, was strewn with papers, in the midst of which there was a half finished glass of red wine.

  Returning to the coffin, she reached in to retrieve the broad-brimmed brown hat that had been placed on her father’s chest. Putting it on, she contemplated her reflection in the mirrored back of the sideboard. ‘Daddy can I wear your hat, Daddy can I please.’ This was one of her earliest memories, riding on his shoulders, wearing that big brown hat, her fingers tangled in his hair, calling to her mother, ‘Daddy’s a horsey, Daddy’s a horsey’. She put the hat back into the coffin. More uncertainty. She put her fingers to her lips and reached in to touch the cold cheek.

  She had not heard footsteps, but became aware somebody was standing in the doorway. She put the riding crop down, thinking how foolishly guilty her action must look. The man was tall and slender. He crossed to the sideboard to put down a tray of glasses. Grey trousers, black shirt, ecclesiastical collar; he turned, smiled, extended his hand. There was no doubt that this was the man whose face had made the front page of the Sydney tabloids.

  ‘Caroline Blake’. It was a statement not a question.

  ‘That’s right’.

  ‘My condolences on your loss.’

  ‘It’s kind of you to be concerned.’ This was the response she’d been working on in the hope she could be civil, without being hypocritical.

  For some time he gripped her hand, scanning her face. Then he realised his omission. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Max Kingsley.’ His handshake was strong and the slight roughness of the fingers suggested he wasn’t afraid to join his rural parishioners in their fields. ‘I’m a friend of Judith’s. We work together at the high school.’

  ‘So Judith’s a teacher?’

  ‘English and languages mainly.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘History. Well, history, social studies, geography, politics, economics... You know what country schools are like.’

  ‘Which is the sideline? Teaching or the ministry?’

  ‘The ministry. It’s a tiny congregation. I meant to change back into civvies. Had a christening this morning. First for ages.’

  ‘And tomorrow a funeral. Alpha and omega.’

  ‘Apt. I might use that tomorrow. Can I get you anything?’

  ‘I’m fine for now, thank you.’ Caroline waved an arm in the general direction of the coffin. ‘Was this Judith’s idea?’

  ‘Well, you weren’t here to consult!’

  ‘It wasn’t a criticism. It’s just that wakes and open coffins weren’t customs I grew up with.’

  ‘Judith thought he should be here, so you and your cousin Tony could see him. There’s no funeral parlour in Arajinna any more.’

  ‘I didn’t realise it was so easy. I thought... well embalming is such a complex process.’

  ‘It’s not a full embalming. There’s a lot of improvising in the country these days. The farm manager got the old cool-room working and the funeral director obtained some sort of approvals.’

  ‘You mean you put him away last night and wheeled him out again this morning?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I see.’ She turned from the coffin.

  ‘Judith will be here in a minute I’m sure.’ Max nodded towards the picture window. ‘She’s out there somewhere. Picking flowers. Yes. There she is.’

  ‘Good god!’ Caroline closed her eyes, then looked again. It was Rachel. Rachel as she had been thirty years ago.

  ‘The likeness is uncanny, I’m told. Of course I didn’t know her mother at the same age, but it’s what everyone says.’

  Caroline felt the need to sit down and did so in the nearest straight-backed chair. Bad choice; it faced at an angle away from the window. She turned her head to look again, to confirm what she’d seen. When she turned back, Max was busying himself with the glasses. She stood again, conscious that she must appear agitated, but unable to be still. She resumed strolling around the room, feigning renewed interest in furniture and ornaments, resisting the temptation to look again and again at the disconcerting image.

  ‘How is Rachel?’ she asked, trying to sound casual.

  ‘We had to move her to a hospice.’

  ‘That much I knew.’ Seeing the surprised look, she added, ‘Mr Ross, the solicitor.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll be shocked if you go to visit. She’s sedated much of the time. When she’s not, she seems tormented by awful memories.’

  ‘You don’t expect it so early. She’s still in her sixties.’

  ‘I sometimes think the war years count double. For some anyway.’

  ‘Does she understand? About Walter?’

  ‘She’s long past that.’

  ‘Sad. Did you know her well?’

  ‘She was already losing her faculties when I came here. But I feel I know you all one way or another.�
��

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’ve been working on a local history. We’ve made it a school project. I’m sure some of the boys would have preferred it if you were a man, but they think it’s “so cool” the district produced a senator. Some of the oral history assignments have been riveting.’

  ‘How interesting.’ Caroline hoped her unease didn’t show.

  ‘The students who contribute will all be acknowledged in the book, which gives them extra motivation. It’s hard finding ways to make learning of interest for them, especially in a decaying town. No museum, no art gallery, no theatre, not even a wide-screen cinema; kids busing in and out daily. It’s hard to organise clubs and extra-curricular things. Anyway, with your father dying we were losing a valuable source, so I started seeing him as often as he was up to it. We recorded about twenty tapes; you might like to listen to some. No? Well, you know, what I meant was... sometime.’

  ‘Obviously my father will be one of many sources. It must be a challenge, sorting the... er, the wheat from the chaff.’ She smiled briefly, and added, ‘The rural play on words was not intended.’

  ‘The need to crosscheck and validate information is one of the research techniques I emphasise with the students. It’s an important lesson for any budding historian.’

  She indicated the roll-top desk. ‘So this is you, is it?’

  ‘Roll-top desks are made for messy workers. If you remember to roll the top down, of course.’

  Caroline turned again to the window. ‘What are they doing to the stables?’

  ‘Extensions. The builders had begun excavations to put in the new foundations. I’ll show you the plans.’

  ‘No!’ The reply had an abruptness she regretted at once. ‘Maybe later,’ she added to soften the refusal.

  The figure from the garden, the disconcerting image of Rachel, had disappeared.

  In the kitchen, Judith worked on an arrangement of banksias with long white feathery fronds of native grass. She’d seen the figure in the window. By taking a detour around the south side of the house, she’d avoided eye contact. A nervous smile and a wave from a distance seemed inappropriate for the half-sister she barely knew. For years she’d rehearsed the various possibilities: reconciliation, confrontation, recrimination. But the imagined scene had never included her father in his coffin, nor had it been influenced by a vision for the future of Banabrook. Caution was necessary—negotiation not confrontation. Perhaps the past could be explained.

  She turned her attention to a second vase.

  In the family room, Max wondered when Judith would arrive. Avoidance-behaviour was not her style—not usually.

  ‘So, who came to the wake?’ Caroline’s gesture appeared to encompass the hopscotch layout and unfinished games.

  ‘School colleagues mainly. Tom, the farm manager, and his assistant. A few of your dad’s old mates. The rest probably share your reservations about wakes and open coffins. They’ll be out in force tomorrow though, and back here for tea and scones. The trestles are already set up. The CWA, bless their hearts.’

  ‘The Country Women’s Association,’ Caroline said. Her tone made Max wonder what the organisation meant to her. He was about to ask when she added, ‘What do you think they’ll make of me?’

  ‘The CWA?’

  ‘The “they” who’ll be out in force!’

  ‘Somebody might have a go at you about rural policy. There was a lot of anger when the institute went.’

  ‘The institute was an anachronism. Heaven knows why it was set up here in the first place.’

  ‘Surely you know the story.’

  ‘The CSIRO is the place for that sort of research.’

  ‘If the rail depot closes, we’re completely stuffed.’ The comment was sharper than he’d intended.

  ‘The rail depot’s a State issue.’

  ‘And the State is saying the Federal Government has reneged on agreements to provide funds for track maintenance. The line this side of Calway Junction looks like being a casualty. They’ve already stopped bringing passenger trains this far.’

  ‘It’s a State issue!’

  Max felt another flush of annoyance but kept a measured tone. ‘You asked what I think people will make of you. All I can tell you is they’re proud you became a senator, but disappointed you haven’t been more vocal as an advocate for country interests.’

  ‘Country folk always think that what’s good for the country is good for the nation. Sometimes it works the other way.’

  ‘And Caroline Blake Fashions is too up-market to have country stores!’ It was out before he could stop himself. He saw the blow strike home and regretted it immediately. Caroline turned away.

  Max said, ‘Forgive me. That was completely uncalled for.’

  ‘Politicians are soft targets. We get used to it.’

  High in a gum tree at the edge of the forest, a dozen sulphur-crested parrots started their own argument. Max was furious with himself. After warning Judith about the need to play it gently, he’d taken the first opportunity to be aggressive. For heaven’s sake, he thought, this is a daughter arriving for her father’s funeral and I’m the priest. To his surprise Caroline said, ‘We’ve made a bad start, haven’t we? I’m sorry to be so edgy.’

  ‘For you, it’s understandable. I’ve no excuse.’ He cast around for a different subject. Inspiration came. Brightly he said, ‘We’re writing your father’s biography as well as the history. I thought you might care to–’

  ‘A biography? A biography of Walter Blake?’ The interruption was sudden, sharp.

  ‘Why not? It’s a fascinating life. He was, well, a visionary I suppose.’

  ‘You think he was that important?’

  ‘He shaped the district!’

  ‘There must be no biography! And the history must not be revisionist.’

  ‘Why would you think it might be?’

  ‘I don’t think you’ve lived here for long have you?’

  ‘You can help us get it right.’

  ‘Max, the press gallery already gives me enough stick. I don’t want them prying into my family history.’

  His surprised ‘Why?’ was forestalled by the arrival of Judith carrying a vase of banksias and native grass, which he recognised as being from beside the billabong near the private graveyard. He wondered if the symbolism was deliberate, a hook she might use to bring the family heritage into the conversation. The vegetation around the billabong had associations dating back to Alfred Blake’s arrival at this place he named Banabrook.

  The Refugee

  Friday 13th October 1944

  For five years, war had been devastating Europe. In 1942 it had touched Darwin. On Friday 13th October 1944, it came to Banabrook in the form of a refugee.

  Walter stood at the window watching as the late afternoon sun, reflecting from the billabong through the trees, created the complex pattern he’d tried so often to capture on canvas. Down there, in a small area bounded by banksias, lay the remains of the early Blakes. Although new interments were no longer permitted, memorials to his father and brothers had been constructed a few weeks earlier. Chris Hepworth, Vicar of St Mark’s, officiated at the dedication. But it was another ceremony, carried out by the Aboriginal Elders, that had moved him most—a ceremony he heard but didn’t see. They’d sung for the return of friendly spirits lost in far off lands. He would remember the resonance of that sound forever.

  Now, the Blake demesne, as Grandad Simeon had always called it, was his. He was not yet twenty-five.

  According to the Title Deeds, he also owned a large area of the forest, though its use was restricted by Alfred’s pact with the Aborigines to leave it untouched. This was the route used by the people in the south to move north for the winter.

  Richard Matheson Blake M.D, F.R.A.C.S

  1888-1942

  Interred in Surrey, England, with other victims of war

  Loving husband to Elspeth Lorna (decd)

  Father of Michael (decd), Jonathan (decd)
and Walter

  On a visit to England at the outbreak of war, his father had stayed to help with the massive surgical load. His body, with those of two other doctors and their patients and nurses, was recovered from the rubble of a temporary operating theatre during the blitz.

  Michael Matheson Blake

  1914-1941

  Lost at Tobruk

  Jonathan Matheson Blake

  1915-1941

  Lost at Tobruk

  Meanwhile, at home, Walter survives and inherits.

  His daughter Caroline, a six-year-old packet of energy, emerged from behind the stables and came running up the paddock with her ever present entourage of bounding puppies and their harassed mother. It was time to start treating them as working dogs rather than as pets. He should tell Caroline, and give her some lessons in dog handling. That’s if he ever found the time to get back to managing the property. The dogs slid under the gate into the house-garden. Caroline climbed the gate—obviously more fun than opening it. She saw him at the window and waved before haring off around the house.

  Emily’s footsteps in the hallway brought him back to the central issue of an extraordinary day. ‘Well?’ she asked.

  ‘Apart from the name, Rachel, I know almost nothing about her. She says she’s twenty-one. But she had no passport. No papers at all.’

  ‘And they found her at the siding?’

  ‘Don’t ask me the hows or whys of it, I haven’t a clue. She told me some bizarre story about Jews being exterminated in Europe. She says she was in a prison camp at a place called Dachau.’

  ‘And she turns up here?’

  ‘In a sheep truck.’

  ‘That much I could smell. I’ve found her some clothes and put her in the bath.’

  ‘Darling, I’m sorry but what was I to do?’

  ‘Leave it to somebody else for a change?’

  It wasn’t that he hadn’t tried. The police at Calway Junction had told him they had no authority to investigate the matter unless the railways lodged a formal complaint. He thought they were mistaken, but didn’t argue. Before the war a mysterious refugee would have been a welcome diversion for a country police station. Now, with so many stations closed, dodging paperwork had become necessary to survival.

  ‘They’ve interned the Italians,’ Emily said. ‘Even the ones who’d lived here for years.’

  ‘We’re not at war with Poland.’

  ‘Ah-ha so she’s Polish? No passport, no papers, but she’s Polish.’

  ‘That’s what she says. She’s Polish and she escaped from a prison camp.’

  ‘On the other side of the world.’

  ‘Like I said, I haven’t a clue.’

  ‘A Polish Jew eh?’ She paused. ‘Well if she’s been in a prison camp she can’t have been there long. She looks in pretty good shape. She’s very attractive under all the grime, if you hadn’t noticed. Oooh, you had, hadn’t you. Want a naughty?’

  Walter saw the return of Emily’s notorious mischievous twinkle, fleeting but unmistakable.

  Since his appointment as Justice of the Peace, in the absence of older and more qualified citizens who’d gone to war, he’d been burdened by endless demands on his time, and by accusations of impropriety. As the sole JP in Arajinna, he couldn’t see how conflicts of interest could be avoided. He was particularly uneasy about an application he’d signed the day before. If its intention became known there would be more pointing of fingers. Now, when concocting a credible story should be his priority, he had to deal with the mysterious arrival of a young woman.

  ‘I’ll have to inform the authorities,’ he said. ‘If I can work out who the bloody authorities are.’

  ‘She has a cloth bag hanging from a cord around her neck. Took it into the bathroom. Wouldn’t let me touch it.’

  ‘What could I do but bring her home?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll cope.’ In an action evoking the early days of their marriage, she gave him a quick hug before turning to leave. ‘I’d better see how she’s going.’ At the doorway she stopped. ‘A Polish Jew, eh? It’s just as well Dad’s dead.’

  ‘Montagues and Capulets,’ he admonished.

  He watched her reflection in the glass as she went into the hallway, hoping that, when she heard what he’d done, she would continue to play Juliet to his Romeo. He should warn her, but would need to pick his time. His tilt for the fuel agency wasn’t something to bring up while she was adjusting to an unexpected visitor. There’d been bad blood between the Blakes and the Johnsons through several generations. Emily’s marriage to Walter hadn’t changed that. Now her Uncle Bert and her cousins, Stephen and Graham, would be raising new questions about the integrity of the Blakes. He could only pray that Emily would side with him but, for the first time in their marriage, he was not sure of her support.

  House Guest

  Saturday 20th October 1944

  ‘You ask me to be here now?’ Rachel stood in the doorway to the family room.

  ‘Yes. Please come and sit down.’ Walter turned from the window and gestured toward the couch. Emily straightened herself in one of the lounge chairs.

  ‘We need to talk about some things,’ Walter said.

  Their young visitor perched on the edge of the couch, knees tightly together, hands clasped at her waist. She lifted her chin and looked, expressionless, directly at Walter. When he went to speak, he was surprised to find a need to clear his throat. ‘You’ve been here a week.’ Rachel nodded. He was aware of the unblinking focus of disconcertingly dark eyes.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Emily said. ‘This isn’t to tell you you have to leave or anything like that.’ She gave Walter her get-on-with-it look.

  ‘On the contrary,’ Walter said. ‘I haven’t found anybody who wants to know anything about you. So, you might be here for some time.’

  ‘What Walter is saying, Rachel, is we need to work out how to live together until something else comes up.’

  Rachel’s gaze shifted to Emily. ‘I think the English idiom is “you are stuck with me”, is it not?’

  Emily’s spontaneous laugh was brief. ‘Something like that,’ she said.

  ‘I am intruder. I will go if you say. Could I be servant somewhere... maid? These are big houses.’

  ‘Listen, sweetheart,’ Emily said. ‘ “Cards on the table” is idiom too, I think. The houses aren’t all as big as this one, and nobody’s looking for a maid— there’s a war on. Yes, you are an intruder. That isn’t your fault. But, let’s be frank about it, you’re not like any houseguest I ever expected. The room we’ve put you in wasn’t being used, so no worries there. You eat like a bloody sparrow, so you’re no trouble to feed. You can help with the housework, but you can’t keep living in my old clothes, and we’ll have to find you some things to do other than work your way through the bookcase.’

  ‘You are kind.’

  ‘We also wondered about religious things,’ Walter said. He could tell that Rachel’s open-handed gesture meant incomprehension. ‘Things you eat. Other things. We know nothing about... Jewish practices.’

  Rachel looked at her hands. ‘Just to feel safe, is enough. I can do in my heart all a god should ever ask.’

  ‘It wasn’t safe, where you came from?’ Emily asked.

  ‘In Europe it is danger to be Jew. Even before the Nazis...’ Again, the open-handed gesture.

  ‘I don’t think you’ll find it dangerous here,’ Walter said. ‘There are some–‘

  ‘We won’t bullshit you, Rachel,’ Emily interjected. ‘It might not be physically dangerous here—nobody gets beaten up or anything—but that doesn’t mean you’ll be made welcome. There’s lots of people have reservations about Jews. I grew up with a father who hated the lot of you. Not that my dad didn’t hate so many things I couldn’t keep track. But my family had it tough for being different in other ways, so I know what it’s like to be on the outer. Walter still gets flak from folk who reckon I’m not good enough for him. What I’m saying is, for everybody’s sake—yours and o
urs—it’s best you don’t show yourself as being too different. Does that make any sense?’

  ‘I think I am understanding. You want me to be... phrase is...soul of discretion.’

  ‘What we say in these parts is: keep your head down.’

  ‘This idiom is clear.’

  The conversation was terminated abruptly by the rowdy arrival at the verandah door of Caroline and dog, both breathing heavily. Emily rose and went to get milk and biscuits. Rachel also stood up, looking at Walter for guidance.

  ‘Emily plans to take you into town tomorrow. Clothes and things.’

  ‘You are both kind. I shall be head down.’

  As Walter and Emily got into bed that night, Emily said, ‘I can’t pretend I’m happy to be... “stuck with her”—this is idiom, yes? If it gets too much she can go and live at Weatherlee.’

  ‘Maybe Olive will take her for a while. She’s always been a soft touch for hard cases. With Brian gone she needs things to keep her occupied.’

  ‘I can’t believe there isn’t a government department that should be taking an interest.’

  ‘There probably is.’

  ‘You should send them her picture. That might stir some bloke up. But I guess—like in the song—they’re either too young or too old.’

  Walter considered making a response. Instead, he rolled over so his back was toward her, turned off the bedside light, and stared into the blackness.

  Half-Sisters

  Tuesday 11th September 1990

  ‘It’s uncanny. You’re Rachel all over again.’

  ‘So everyone says.’ Judith crossed to the sideboard and put down the vase.

  ‘Even the way you move. If you had the accent I couldn’t tell the difference.’

  ‘I hope it’s not too disturbing.’

  ‘Forgive me; it must be tedious for you. Like people saying “my how you’ve grown.” And you have!’

  The joke eased the tension a little. Judith turned from the sideboard to greet her visitor. They embraced awkwardly, each thinking it was called for in the circumstances.

  Caroline said, ‘I was sorry to hear about Rachel.’

  Judith wondered if this half-sister realised how much of their father she carried with her, the eyes in particular, and facial expressions—ephemeral but unmistakably him. She was about to comment, but stopped herself in time. Talking about family likenesses might lead to topics better left until later.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you so early. I’ve made up your old room.’

  ‘I should have asked my secretary to tell you; she’s booked me in at the motel back along the highway.’

  ‘This is your home.’

  The shake of Caroline’s head left no scope for misinterpretation.

  ‘Would you like some tea or coffee?’

  ‘I would now. Strong black coffee please.’

  ‘Let me do it.’ Max held up the wine glass. ‘I have to take this out.’

  ‘I thought we’d cleared everything away last night.’

  ‘Sorry darling, I left it in the desk. I was making a few notes. There were some good sources here last night.’

  So it’s “darling”, Caroline thought. He can’t wait to get out of the room and leave us to it, but he’s dropped a “darling” as a warning—a message that he might be going but Judith is not alone.

  The inevitable awkward pause. Where to begin? The hopscotch layout would be common ground. Caroline looked down at the chalk squares. ‘Some things don’t change.’

  ‘When I was little, he used to play in here with me when it was too wet to go out.’

  ‘Well that’s something we have in common.’

  ‘That and horses.’

  They both looked towards the trophy cabinet.

  ‘So I see. And neither of us married, at least I assume so.’

  ‘No,’ Judith said. She’s wondering about Max, she thought. She’s wondering whether her Jewish sister is planning to marry the gentile preacher.

  ‘This biography Max is talking about. He’s not serious is he?’

  ‘Oh yes. He became very close to Daddy at the end. It started with interviews for the history. I suppose he told you about that.’

  ‘Somewhat aggressively, which surprised me from a minister. Is he always so blunt?’

  ‘He is quite passionate about the project.’

  ‘I can see I will have to listen to his tapes.’

  ‘He was hoping you would.’ She indicated the sideboard. ‘I’ve made transcripts of the early ones if you’d prefer.’

  Caroline went to the sideboard. Beside a tape recorder there were cassettes, some family photograph albums, and a stack of documents. ‘There’s hours of listening here.’ There was nothing for it but to check the tapes. First, however, she would have to deal with issues she’d hoped to leave until later. She turned to face Judith. ‘I want my share of the estate in cash, and soon. That means a quick sale.’

  A kick in the shins could hardly have hurt Judith more. The topic she’d been going to raise when the time seemed right was now not merely broached but with Caroline’s position declared emphatically as though a fait accompli.

  Caroline felt the penetrating gaze of dark eyes, an uncanny reversion to her childhood and Rachel angry. ‘Father’s death came just in time for me. Caroline Blake Fashions is being pulled under by interest payments. I need my share of the estate to put in extra capital.’

  ‘I thought, as a senator...’

  ‘I resigned as a director and declared my shareholding. But I’d given personal guarantees for substantial borrowings, which are now overdue.’

  ‘The recession was hardly your fault.’

  ‘Do you think that matters to the press gallery? Senator Caroline Blake, one‑time businesswoman of the year, bankrupt after the failure of the company that carries her name. They’d have a field day.’

  ‘Would they really?’

  ‘There’s a low bastard at the Financial Times who calls me “Vogue’s answer to Germaine Greer!” He knows what days the interest payments are due, and waits in the lobby—recorder at the ready in gleeful anticipation.’

  ‘How long do you have?’

  ‘A few months at most.’

  ‘A few months? There’s no way we could arrange a sale so quickly.’

  ‘The bank will hold off once the property is on the market.’

  ‘What if I refuse to commit my share of the estate?’

  ‘I’d have to give them a lien over mine and you’d find yourself dealing with corporate lawyers. I hate to think what costs that would run up.’

  ‘You’ve checked this all since Saturday.’

  ‘We were on the verge of receivership.’

  ‘So daddy’s death was a nice surprise.’

  ‘No! That’s not–’ the denial petered out, interrupted by the muffled warble of her mobile telephone. ‘Damn! I’m sorry.’ Feeling slightly foolish she went to her handbag. Her first instinct was to switch the telephone off; but, recognising the source of the incoming call, she felt she shouldn’t. ‘Do you mind if I take it?’

  Judith turned abruptly and headed for the door.

  ‘Please don’t go. It’s your home.’

  Judith left, nearly knocking Max over.

  ‘I was eavesdropping,’ he confessed as they retreated to the kitchen.

  Judith thumped her fists on the table. ‘It makes me so bloody angry. Waltzing in here after thirty years and announcing we’re selling up. She might be the firstborn but I’ve lived here longer than she did! And I didn’t turn my back on my father!’

  ‘She doesn’t know the full story yet.’

  ‘I’m going to show her the codicil and Daddy’s second letter.’

  ‘We’ve been through this Judith. Mr Ross told you his opinion.’

  ‘He should have raised it when he telephoned her. He hasn’t even shown us the letter he faxed.’

  ‘It was addressed to Caroline. He probably shouldn’t have told us it existed.’

&
nbsp; ‘I can’t help wondering if he disapproved of Daddy’s second marriage. He’s always been decidedly formal with me.’ She made an unnecessary adjustment to the arrangement in the second vase.

  ‘He’s a solicitor, and he’s old school.’

  ‘You weren’t much help. She says you were aggressive.’

  ‘I was. It was a mistake.’

  ‘Bloody hell! So when do we produce the codicil?’

  ‘When there’s a chance she’ll go along with the plans. In her present frame of mind, that’s unlikely. We have to pave the way.’

  ‘And meanwhile Banabrook is put up for sale?’

  ‘There are legal steps to go through. It can’t happen overnight.’

  ‘She hated him. I can feel it. You don’t ignore your father for thirty years unless you’re irredeemably pissed off.’

  ‘I can’t believe she’s come all this way to set up a sale. She could have done that by writing to Mr Ross. Instead, she’s here. And regardless of what happened in there, she must have felt the need to face you.’

  ‘Or to check the condition of the property.’

  ‘I think we’ll find it’s more complex. Something drew her back here today, and it wasn’t simply the formality of attending the funeral. There was a time she loved him. You can tell she loved Banabrook. We have to find a way to take her back to that place in her mind. That’s when we’ll produce the codicil.’

  ‘And how do you propose we do it? You can see how edgy she is.’

  ‘We all are. There’s so much at stake. I’m sorry I lost control before. Ironically, it’s probably what we have to do.’

  ‘Lose control?’

  ‘Not quite, but I think we have to keep niggling at her.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘When she left here you were only a baby. You have a right to know why she went away.’

  ‘Do I? No, honestly, do I?’

  ‘I think it’s how we have to play it.’

  Judith took a deep breath, sighed, and picked up the vase a little too abruptly, knocking the arrangement askew. ‘Shit!’ she said, putting it down to rectify the damage.

  Stabbing her finger on the keypad to end the call, Caroline tried to control her anger. She checked her speed-dial list and found Sean’s number. ‘Sean? Caroline! The bank’s solicitors have been on to me. They’re insisting on serving notice today. Something to do with crystallising the terms of the guarantees. I’ve told them you have my instructions. Christ, I could do without this!’ She listened while Sean made professional soothing noises and promised to keep the dogs at bay. ‘And I’m switching this damned thing off,’ she said, ‘It’s already embarrassed me once. I’ll check for messages every hour or so.’ Again the soothing noises. Leave it to Sean; has he ever let you down? No, Sean had never let her down, but trust was not her strong point. Turning the mobile off she stood at the window, seeing nothing, wondering again why she’d felt compelled to return here and expose herself to predictable conflict after avoiding it so long.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  She hadn’t heard footsteps and turned in surprise. A man had entered from the side verandah. The blue serge shirt and khaki dungarees were dusty, and the reason she hadn’t heard him was thick woollen socks without shoes. She could imagine the brown elastic-sided boots left at the top of the steps while he ventured inside.

  ‘I was looking for Judith. You must be Caroline—I mean Senator Blake.’

  ‘Caroline, please.’

  ‘I’m Tom McLintock. I manage the farm.’

  ‘Any relation to Jeremy?’

  ‘My dad.’

  ‘I went through primary school with him.’

  ‘It’s sad about your father. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s kind of you to be concerned.’ She held out her hand.

  ‘A bit dusty,’ he said, brushing his hand on his shirt before taking hers. ‘I was on my way to tell Judith we’ll make our own way to the church tomorrow—young Fred and me. She’s included us in one of the limos, but I’ve had to re-schedule some work and I wouldn’t want to hold things up. We’ve been dragging the chain a bit this morning. Got the tractor bogged down near the windmill.’

  ‘Life on a farm.’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah. Never know what’s going to happen next.’

  ‘Is your father still at Ravencall?’

  ‘Sold up ten years back. We helped at Olive’s place for a bit, until he got a job doing crop inspections for insurance. That’s when your father took me on here. I’m afraid Dad can’t be at the funeral. He’s up country somewhere. No way he’d miss it otherwise. Anyway, not to be rude but I’d better keep moving. I’ll see you tomorrow. Is Judith around?’

  ‘I think she’s in the kitchen. Good to meet you Tom.’

  A nod, a smile, and he padded off.

  Caroline felt almost as though she’d passed a test. She’d met a local and survived. She’d heard names from her past. Lightning hadn’t struck. Then it came to her that this friendly local, the son of her school friend Jeremy, could be facing an uncertain future. The purchaser of Banabrook might keep him on as manager but there’d be no guarantee. If Jeremy was doing insurance assessments, the McLintocks had already lost much to the rural decline.

  She returned to the sideboard. In addition to transcripts, Judith had prepared brief synopses of about half of the tapes. These had been ticked off on a handwritten index. In places, yellow adhesive notes had been stuck to the typed documents. The notation “alb3 p5” caught her attention. She opened the photograph album marked 3 and turned to page 5. It was a snapshot taken in Melbourne on the day of Great-aunt May’s funeral. Her father, Great-uncle Christopher, Great-aunt Genevieve, Cousin Tony and herself. She’d still been in primary school and the trip had been a big adventure. It was fascinating, now, to see Uncle Christopher nearly thirty years younger than he was when she last saw him a few months before his death. And Cousin Tony; no wonder the girls cursed when they learnt his secret.

  What possible relevance could this photograph have to a history of Kalawonta? Or was it destined for the biography? She scanned the marked passage of transcript.

  WALTER: The idea of taking Caroline to Melbourne was definitely spur of the moment stuff. She was barely more than a kid; she must have been...

  MAX: Eleven I think.

  WALTER: Sounds right. Anyway, dealing with death is part of a child's education. And the opportunity for time alone with her... well, it was a chance to practise being a father, unaided.

  MAX: Something you could do yourself without feeling the need to ask advice.

  WALTER: Rachel was good with Caroline... but...

  MAX: I'm sure any parent would understand.

  The passage seemed innocuous enough. Looking again at the photograph she thought of her later meetings with some of those people, meetings her father knew nothing about. There were many pieces she could contribute to the jigsaw—pieces Max could not even imagine. Most of them she wasn’t keen to share, but she might be able to use them as bargaining chips—things she would reveal if other things were suppressed. Genetic quirks in the bloodline of a senator might be a powerful chip to hold.

  She was becoming increasingly anxious about the Reverend Max Kingsley. He seemed out of place in Arajinna and as Vicar. Might his pointed comments about Caroline Blake Fashions be more than the momentary aberration his apology suggested? Could a man with his background have ulterior motives for probing the Blake family history?

  Too Young or Too Old

  Tuesday 5th December 1944

  In the last weeks of 1944, Olive Sampson crumpled under the strain. For three months, since the news that her only son was missing in action, she’d been “soldiering on”. Those were the very words she used: “I’m soldiering on like his mates over there.” The town had marvelled at her resilience all those years ago when she’d watched through the kitchen window as her husband’s tractor tipped over the embankment. They’d marvelled again at her determination to keep going after learning
she’d lost young Brian. Last night something must have happened to shatter the resilience. Today she was another casualty of war.

  ‘She’ll be in overnight,’ Walter said into the telephone. ‘Margy’s going to collect her in the morning and keep her at Nurramar for a spell. Any chance you can do the late milking tomorrow?’

  The voice at the other end of the line said, ‘For Olive, anything.’

  ‘Good man. I’m working on a roster to spread it around.... No mate, Emily’s keeping an eye on the other stock. You’re a champion. We owe you.’ Walter put the telephone down. “For Olive, anything”, summed up the responses.

  Barely 5ft 6ins in riding boots, Olive Sampson had once been described as having the gait of a weight-lifter, her body swinging on a vertical axis as she strode purposefully around Land’s End. She was twenty-one when she dragged Eddie from under the tractor and gently carried her crumpled “Jack Sprat” to the homestead. In the ensuing years she’d had many suitors and sometimes ventured out to the Garden of Roses Café or the Arajinna Odeon. She’d reward her escort with a quick kiss and go inside before anything more happened, even though, as she once told Walter, “I’m built cuddly”. After her parents died, she and Brian—“apple of me eye young Bri”—ran the property largely unaided except for casual itinerants and “poor buggers in need of a feed”—which referred to any hopeful with a swag who trudged up her driveway. Now, apart from a few loyal farmhands, she was alone.

  From the hallway, the sounds of Emily dusting and singing registered vaguely.

  ‘They’re either too young or too old,

  They’re either too grey or too grassy green.’

  Walter couldn’t lose the image of Olive curled up on her bed at ten o’clock in the morning, her unmilked herd grumbling urgently at the gate to the yards. By pure chance he’d chosen today to check if she needed anything.

  Emily didn’t know all the words of the song.

  ‘Da da da da da da da da da daaa.’

  She entered the family room in full voice. This was the part she did know.

  ‘What’s good is in the army,

  What’s left will never harm me,

  What’s good is in the navy,

  The navy gets the gravy,

  I’m finding it easy to stay good as gold,

  They’re–’

  ‘Shut up Emily! Will you please shut up!’

  ‘I was simply trying to keep myself going.’

  ‘I hate that song! The women are safe you fighting-men. There’s no man worth a crumpet left at home.’

  ‘Well, aren’t we the moody one? I thought being the family grump was my job.’

  He could feel the mounting tension in his muscles. No doubt his blood pressure was up as well. He’d still not brought himself to tell Emily his plans to wrest the fuel agency from the Johnsons; her own mood swings made him wonder whether to do so at all. He was increasingly anxious about having heard nothing from the government department he’d been lobbying to give him the contract. Olive’s collapse was a crisis too many.

  Emily crossed to the desk and started to massage his neck and shoulders.

  ‘Come on matey. Relax up here for chrissake. It’s like bloody rope.’ She kneaded his neck with her thumbs, and looked over his shoulder at the roster. ‘Adderley?’

  ‘I’m not even going to ask.’

  ‘I will. It could have been his dopey son who copped it.’

  ‘All you’d get is his lecture about fit young men who didn’t go to war.’

  ‘So I’ll remind him the Blakes have already given three lives.’

  ‘Forget him! All right? We don’t need the bloody Adderleys.’

  The blaring of a truck-horn terminated the discussion. Emily frowned and looked out the window. ‘Oh shit, not Reg again! You said you’d finished.’

  Walter stood and turned to kiss Emily’s cheek. ‘Duffy’s hayshed is still leaking. We ran out of roofing iron.’

  From the hallway, Rachel called, ‘Walter, it’s Reg.’ She came to the door.

  ‘Thanks Rachel. I’m on my way.’

  The two women watched as he hurried from the room. Both turned to look through the window as he joined Reg in the truck. The men waved and were gone.

  Rachel said, ‘He works too hard.’

  ‘And what do you suggest I do about it?’

  Rachel shrugged and opened her arms in one of the expansive gestures Emily found so annoying. ‘There’s nothing to do but care.’

  ‘Do you think I don’t?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Because I do, Rachel! I do!’ She wiped the desk aggressively. It did little to ease her agitation. ‘You might think our lives have been easy, but they’ve been hard enough.’

  ‘Can I do that for you?’

  ‘No thank you.’ She dusted some more to emphasise the rejection; it was a petty gesture, but she didn’t care. ‘Walter’s doing his best to cope. So am I. But it’s no bed of roses.’

  ‘I know. I think you lose family, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He feels guilty for being alive. I know this feeling.’

  ‘Guilty for being alive, yes. And he feels he has a responsibility to maintain the family heritage. And he’s strapped for cash to do it.’

  ‘Strapped for cash? I don’t know this expression.’

  ‘We have properties worth... God knows what. But, with everyone away at the war, it’s difficult to run them. We’d hardly come to grips with this place when I inherited Weatherlee.’

  ‘In Bavaria we lived at the University. The whole apartment would have fitted into this room.’

  ‘Why a University?’

  ‘My father was the Professor of Music. My mother was a tutor.’

  ‘And what did you do?’

  ‘I studied. Languages mainly. There was no prospect for me of work. Being Jewish closes doors in much of Europe.’

  ‘Here too, you’ll find.’

  ‘You are brave to shelter me.’

  ‘You can thank Walter for that.’

  ‘I think you also are brave.’

  ‘I’m a good wife, that’s all. One who tries to care.’ Again she felt the pettiness of her response.

  ‘I don’t think you are one who does unthinking what her husband asks.’

  ‘Was it your idea to give Walter French lessons?’

  ‘He said he’d learnt a bit at school. I thought it might take his mind off other things.’

  ‘I’d been trying to get him to start painting again.’

  ‘I wasn’t meaning to interfere. He tried saying something in French, as a joke. It wasn’t so bad.’

  ‘He would have liked to travel.’

  ‘I know.’

  You know, Emily thought. It occurred to her that she resented everything about Rachel’s presence in her house, particularly anything she knew about Walter. All she could think to say was, ‘War changes so much.’ She felt another wave of irritation. War did change so much. War brought strangers into your house, strangers who learnt intimate things about your family, but kept their own secrets. ‘How did you get to Australia?’ There was no response. ‘Don’t you think we have a right to know about you?’

  ‘There are some things best forgotten.’

  ‘Don’t you mean conveniently forgotten?’ She saw Rachel frown slightly, and look away. ‘We have another idiom in this country. We call people users.’

  ‘I think I understand this one. But you could not know what it is to be used... to be like... I think your word is chattel...somebody’s possession... to be used, to be discarded perhaps. To cease to care what you do to survive. I know these things.’

  ‘That’s pretty scary Rachel. We only have your word for who you are.’

  ‘How good it must be to have... papers... photographs.’

  Despite her mood, Emily felt a pang of sympathy. Of course it must be dreadful to lose everything. She said, ‘You realise you’ve become Walter’s cause? His war effort?’

  ‘
I hear Caroline. Would you like me to look after her?’

  ‘I’ll go, thank you.’ That was something else she resented: Rachel had time on her hands, time to play with Caroline. She must take her daughter with her when she went to feed Olive’s stock later in the day.

  Then Rachel said, ‘I do not try to take your husband.’

  The shock left Emily tingling. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I think it worries you. He is attractive. I am alone.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me something?’

  ‘No. I am clumsy with this. I should not have spoken. Your customs are different.’

  ‘Why? In Bavaria, or Poland, or wherever you come from, is somebody else’s husband fair game?’

  ‘This was not my meaning.’

  ‘I’d better go to Caroline.’ Emily fled from the room. In the hallway she caught sight of herself in the mirror, hair tied up in a scarf, a skirt which once fitted elegantly now stretched over pudgy hips. Time was she might have stopped to admire her own reflection. Not these days.

  Rachel remained in the doorway. There was no denying her envy of Emily’s possessions, and of her family. And, yes, Walter was an attractive man and she sensed his desires. Emily was a continuation of the only life he’d ever known, the life of rural Australia. Rachel was the excitement of exotic far away places he’d never visited. He had said so, almost in as many words. He had said so, and hurriedly left the room, prematurely terminating one of their French lessons.

  She was about to turn and leave, but realised she had an opportunity. Satisfied that Emily had gone to Caroline, she approached the desk. Soon, from a pigeonhole, she withdrew a document. Quickly, she read it. Slowly, she replaced it and left the room.

  Fire Sale

  Tuesday 11th September 1990

  Caroline closed the photograph album and returned it to the sideboard. Damned mobile! She’d barely introduced the subject of the sale when the telephone’s warbling drove her sister from the room. She was about to go in search when Judith returned, with a second vase, and stopped near the door—looking around to decide where to place it. Caroline started to look around too, as though a partner in the search. When Judith moved towards the small table near the hallway, Caroline thought: yes, that’s a good spot. She watched as Judith put the vase down and touched up the arrangement. Then the inevitable return to reality. Caroline said, ‘The call was from the bank’s solicitors. They’re serving notice for repayment of the loans.’

  ‘A fire sale they call it don’t they?’

  ‘It’s a massive inheritance; a quick sale means only a bit less for each of us.’

  ‘You think it’s the money? Of course, I’m doing the Jewish thing aren’t I?’ The eyes flashed.

  ‘You know that’s not–’

  ‘Do I? Do I know anything at all about you?’

  ‘I would have hoped you’d–’

  ‘This goes much deeper than saving your company, doesn’t it?’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘Why did you leave Banabrook? I have a right to know! You walked out on us.’

  ‘You were a baby.’

  ‘Why did you leave?’

  Again the uncanny likeness of mother and daughter. Caroline felt herself transported back to a day when she’d angered Rachel and seen the wrath in those dark eyes. Now, as then, she fumbled for an answer. ‘I left to make a new start—a life in the city—lots of country girls do.’

  ‘You were studying farm management. I found your notes.’

  ‘I’ve only been frank about my financial problems so you can understand my need for a quick sale. What happened thirty years ago is long past.’

  ‘This isn’t the conversation I’d imagined.’ Judith’s fire had all but gone.

  ‘You may take whatever contents you like; there’s nothing I want.’

  ‘Not even your trophies?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘There are some things I’d like to keep. Mr Ross can get them valued.’

  ‘There’s no need for valuations.’

  ‘There’s a painting in the dining room. It’s Rachel’s favourite. It might be quite valuable.’

  ‘It is, but that won’t be an issue. Our ancestor, Alured, tied up the art collection by a conditional gift to the State Gallery. You can arrange to have the painting on permanent loan but you can’t sell it.’

  ‘You’ve done your homework.’

  And so it must seem, Caroline thought. The cold and calculating eldest daughter has read the fine print and done her arithmetic.

  ‘Did you really hate him so much?’ Judith asked.

  ‘Hate’s an ugly word.’

  ‘Was it because he married a Jew?’

  ‘It had nothing to do with Rachel or with you.’

  ‘There’s something Daddy says on one of the tapes, something about–’

  ‘I don’t care what Daddy says! It’s done!’

  ‘I knew almost nothing about you until your first election. After that, you were all over the papers. He cut out the articles.’ Opening the deep drawer in the pedestal of the desk, Judith took out a large scrapbook and thrust it into Caroline’s hands.

  ‘My Year 11 history teacher asked me in class what it was like to be related to a senator. It was embarrassing. I said something inane. “It’s exciting” or something. I couldn’t bring myself to admit I’d never met you.’

  Glancing at the first page, Caroline saw the date, 1974, the year of her first election. The book bulged with articles. She’d been news in those heady early days, heralded as the great hope—destined, many said, to be the first woman prime minister.

  ‘Judith, these are about a middle-aged woman; they’re not about the confused girl who left here.’

  ‘Why confused?’

  ‘I’d lost my mother.’

  ‘But you continued living with him for years.’

  ‘What options are there for a seven year old?’

  ‘You left in 1958. What would that be? Twelve or thirteen years later. Something must have happened.’

  ‘Can’t you accept it’s none of your business?’ Caroline dumped the scrapbook on the sideboard with such force that some of the tapes slid off the stack. The vehemence of her own anger surprised and frightened her. Embarrassed, she fumbled with the tapes, replacing them neatly. In the mirror her eyes met Judith’s. Without turning she said, ‘I asked Rachel something about her past one day. She told me some people cope with painful things by talking about them, but she found it better not to. She said we all have secrets. And we’re entitled to them.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s just... after sitting with him these past weeks while he talked about you—always with love—I would have liked to make sense of it all.’ Judith stepped forward and retrieved the scrapbook. ‘Of course people are entitled to their secrets.’

 

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