by John Bishop
PART SEVEN
EVE OF A FUNERAL
Train to Calway Junction
Tuesday 11th September 1990
‘Here mate, let me.’
‘You’re very kind.’ Tony surrendered his overnight bags, and the conductor lifted them onto the overhead luggage rack.
‘Crikey. You could use this one as an anchor.’
‘It’s full of old diaries. Books are heavy when you pack them together.’
‘How far are you going?’
‘Calway.’
‘I’ll come back and fetch ’em down for you.’
‘I have a friend meeting me.’
‘It’s no trouble, mate. Most are getting off at Garron Farm.’
‘Races on a Tuesday?’
‘Tomorrow. There’s a mob of early birds going up today for a dinner at the pub.’
Tony settled by the window. When the train pulled out he was still alone in the compartment. Along the corridor, the chatter of the early birds stirred memories. He’d been to Garron Farm twice with his father and Aunt May. Their horse Last Chance ran second in the Garron Plate both times. More recently, he and Timothy had made the trip. But he’d buried the people he loved most, Timothy less than a year ago—the heart attack unheralded and shattering. Now he was as alone in life as in this dilapidated compartment. If Timothy were still alive, the two of them would have retired permanently to their lakeside retreat. Instead, unable to face going there again, Tony had sold the cottage they’d renovated together, and stayed on as a consultant with his old firm. It was something to do.
Going to Walter’s funeral was also something to do. He was the elder statesman of the family, and intended to discharge the role with panache. The contents of the heavy overnight bag would, after his confession of guilt, be a diversion for the bereaved cousins, and for Max the historian. Funerals need diversions.
Plans for the Estate
Tuesday 11th September 1990
Max returned to the family room to find Caroline seated on the floor surrounded by batches and folders.
‘Sorting,’ she volunteered.
‘Wheat from chaff?’
‘Subject and chronology.’
‘Fact from fiction wouldn’t hurt. Although it might be depressing.’
‘I did sense some frustration in places.’
‘I’ve come to realise why many histories are little more than unsubstantiated speculation. Even things people tell you as eyewitnesses get qualified. The interviewer asks, “What did he say?” and the answer is, “Oh. I think it was something like...” ... or something like that!’
‘At least you’ve kept a sense of humour.’
‘We teach history students to develop hypotheses and test their veracity. When you find what you’re writing sounds more like a novel, or notes for a playscript, you realise you’re in trouble. But I rather enjoy wondering how it might have been, which is why, in some chapters, I’ve gone as far as inventing dialogue.’
‘I noticed. You do it well. And you’ve made the nature of the speculation clear, so I think it’s all right.’
‘What I’d prefer is supported facts, elaborate footnotes, endnotes, cross-references, ibids, qvs. Nothing that might be called revisionist.’
He saw Caroline look away, ignoring the jibe. ‘Is there anything I can do to help Judith?’ she asked.
‘Thanks, but I think she’s on top of things. The orders of service hadn’t been delivered—she had to find someone to drive to Bullermark to pick them up. Amazing what country people will do for each other. Now she’s chatting to the organist. Lovely man, but a bit of a worry. I should warn you he’s just as likely to play the wedding march. He’s becoming increasingly vague. And there’s a few stops missing from the organ. Metaphor for the district if you like.’
‘Was father a churchgoer?’
‘Not really.’
‘Christmas, Easter, births, deaths and marriages? We always were more ritual than belief.’
‘I think your father exhibited more of the virtues taught by the great religions than you’ll see in many pious individuals who go to church on Sundays, or wail at the wall, or say the five daily prayers.’
‘Memorandum to Senator Blake: “The missing stops are a metaphor for the district— feel guilty! Your father exhibited many virtues—please note!” You miss no opportunity, Max. You should be the politician, not me.’
‘I’d be a disaster. I answer questions. Sometimes with a simple yes or no.’
She laughed despite herself. ‘You were quite attached to him weren’t you?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘The tone of some of this stuff.’
‘I was attached to him, and to a vision of the future of Banabrook.’
‘The extensions?’
‘This property is the showpiece of a district experiencing economic difficulties. Recently it became the focus of plans to halt the rot. Then your father dies, and you return after thirty years and announce you want a quick sale. For us that means the end of the dream.’
‘And what were the plans?’
‘Initially to set the place up to offer city folk a country experience.’
‘Hardly original, surely?’
‘We thought we could build the better mouse-trap. We’ve a lot more to offer than most. The building itself is of historical interest. It could become a museum and community arts centre. If we can keep the rail line open, the Historic Railway Society will run excursions from the city. There’s scope for canoeing in the basin, caves within an hour’s drive, walking tracks in the forest. And we’ve been talking with the Aboriginal community; they’ve got some challenging ideas. Arajinna could well become a focus for cross-cultural activities. The meetings have been inspiring.’
‘And of course you know my feelings about reconciliation.’
‘There’s resistance from diehards on both sides, and a long way to go, but we’ve found a real willingness to co-operate. Wasn’t there a senator who said, “What reconciliation requires is not rhetoric, but real examples of working together for mutual gain”?’
‘Who was paying for the development?’
‘The shire council’s keen. And there are other possibilities: sponsorship, pledges, bequests—you know the sort of thing.’
‘I thought you said the town was dying.’
‘It will if we don’t do something. A lot of residents left when the institute closed. We’re already borderline on student numbers to keep the school open. If the rail depot goes the remaining businesses will fold and we’ll all be out of work—all except the few still employed on farms, and their numbers have dwindled.’
‘And Judith and I would be what? Sponsors? Benefactors?’ Caroline shook her head. ‘It’s a splendid dream, Max. If my company wasn’t on the verge of collapse, I’d be happy to consider the proposition. But you must know the reality. Farms like this barely cover costs. Even with paying visitors you’d be struggling. And the alternative is to realise the property for enough to get me out of trouble and make Judith a very rich lady.’
‘So to hell with everything this family used to stand for.’
‘If Judith wants to be the town saviour, she’ll be far better placed to do it with a stack of ready cash.’
‘And who do you think will buy the place in the present climate?’
‘People rich enough to indulge themselves. Properties like this aren’t an investment proposition—they’re prestige. My guess is it will end up as a horse stud or something. That sort of money is always around.’
Max turned away and looked out of the window. It wasn’t hard to picture Banabrook as a trophy for somebody: a chief executive who’d taken an obscene golden handshake, an insider who’d defrauded small shareholders, the Mr Big of some crime syndicate.
‘Stunning isn’t it?’ he observed.
He was conscious of her joining him at the window, and a long pause before a quiet reply.
‘Yes.’
Max sighed audibly. ‘The olde
r I get, the less I understand about life.’
‘Then at least we have one thing in common.’
They glanced at each other’s reflections. Both smiled briefly. Max said, ‘For a minister—of the priestly kind—it’s a worry. Particularly for a minister who can’t bring himself to embrace the pious rationale that God works in mysterious ways. A decade ago I could never have imagined myself living in Arajinna and becoming passionate about a rural environment. One thing led to another and here I am.’
‘Most of us live lives dominated by co-incidence. I never planned a career in politics; somehow the road led me there. Did you choose the priesthood or did it choose you?’
‘In some ways I’m remarkably like you. I found myself on a road—running away.’ He saw the reflection move as she turned to look at him directly. Meeting her gaze, he added, ‘You see it’s not that I don’t know what it’s like to feel the need to escape from a father. But I can’t imagine anyone running from Walter, or from Banabrook.’ She’s curious, he thought, I wonder how much of her story I can bargain for mine! ‘You and your mum ran away from Arajinna. I ran towards it.’
Trouble
Saturday 8th September 1945
News that the surrender of Japan had brought an end to the war was only a week old when life at Banabrook took an unexpected turn. Walter’s first inkling of trouble was the slamming of the front door followed by something falling in the hallway and an expletive. Emily entered unsteadily.
‘Hello there.’ She waved an arm in his direction. ‘Are you Walter Blake? Or is it Joe Blake?’
‘Emily darling, you’re tipsy.’
‘I’ve had quite a night. Quite a night.’ Suddenly she burst into a snatch of song, ‘You and the night and the music...’
‘You won!’
‘I lost spec-tac-u-lar-ly! We were square at the eighteenth tee; I stuffed my drive into the creek. First time this year. And the last. Now there’s a thought. And the last.’
‘It’s not like you to drown your sorrows.’
‘How would you know what’s like me Joe Blake?’
‘Is something wrong?’
‘Very per-cep-tive with your beady little snake eyes. I’ve been talking to Graham and Stephen.’
‘Here? At the club?’
‘Here. At the club.’ She nodded deliberately, emphasising her response, as though knowing how uneasy this revelation would make him.
‘I thought they’d left for good.’
Emily weaved her way towards the drinks cabinet. ‘They had unfinished business.’ Walter would have liked to ask what this meant. Given the reputations of her cousins, unfinished business could be a euphemism for anything. Emily poured herself a drink. ‘Bert and the boys are setting up in the city.’
‘Well at least Arajinna will be rid of the Johnsons.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
‘You’re a Blake.’
‘Because you rescued me by giving me your name? How gallant.’ She took a large gulp of whisky. ‘I’ve got to hand it to you, Joe Blake, you’ve been a bloody good actor. Bloody good! No I haven’t had enough! Call it one for the road. Cheers!’
‘Fortunately you only have the hallway to negotiate. God knows how you drove home.’
‘One for the road, Walter. Cheers!’
‘Sweetheart, you aren’t making much sense.’
She grinned, and mimicked him, ‘Sweetheart, you aren’t making much sense.’ In a didactic tone, she added, ‘One for the road is what people do before they leave. Before they start singing...’ again she burst into song, ‘Now is the hour when we must say goodbye...’ She pointed a finger at him. ‘I’m going back with the boys and I’m going for good.’
‘Are you saying you’re leaving me?’
‘Bingo! The steel trap opens.’
‘What on earth happened today? Apart from stuffing your drive into the creek.’
‘Shhhh! Fuel contracts are confidential.’
So it was out. The Johnsons’ unfinished business did involve him. He wondered exactly what had been said, and who, other than Emily, might have been present.
‘You wouldn’t tell me? I asked, remember? But shhhh... Confidential! Don’t tell Emily. Emily’s a Johnson. I should have put my faith in my own kind. But I trusted a Blake. I trusted you Walter. I trusted you.’
He was finding it hard to maintain eye contact. His decision not to seek her agreement to taking over the contract had been deliberate, but he should have said something. The fuel agency meant cash flow. Taking it from the Johnsons bordered on recklessness. Standing up from the desk, he said, ‘I’ll make some tea, and you can tell me the whole story.’
‘I won’t be here that long. I’m just finishing my drink. Cheers! Then I’ll throw a few things into a bag. I’m staying at Weatherlee tonight.’
‘For heaven’s sake! Emily... darling.’
‘Don’t darling me!’
‘You have to tell me what they said.’
‘You already know. It’s about lies and money. About the way some bastards shaft others to solve their cash flow problems. It was all too bloody easy wasn’t it? The honourable JP was on the take. I’ve put Weatherlee on the market.’
‘When did that happen?’
‘Jeff was at the club. I told him he can list Weatherlee on Monday.’
‘You shouldn’t make a decision like that in your condition. It’s the drink talking.’
‘I’ll make any decision I want to. I’m through with you making my mind up for me.’
‘Well make sure he doesn’t shaft you. The property’s worth a lot more with the changes we’ve made.’
‘Thanks for the tip. I’ll watch out for any bastard who might shaft me. So if you’re planning to fight me, I’ll sue for half of this place. It’s up to you.’
‘I’ve never wanted any Johnson property.’
‘Snap! I don’t want any Blake property. But watch out for the boys. Stephen reckons the Johnsons should go for all they can get, after what you did to them.’
‘I did nothing illegal.’
‘But you shat on ‘em Walter. If it wasn’t for you we’d never have dug up the gully.’
‘People applauded you for that.’
‘They applauded Emily the Blake, not the Emily the Johnson. Being a good little Blake is what it was all about. I didn’t pick it then; but I can smell it now. It’s all been piling up. Like shit under a shearing shed.’ The unintended alliteration caused her to dribble. She giggled and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘The troops are coming home. There’s a new world opening up out there. Johnsons might not be uni-versity educated; Johnsons might not wiggle their arses and parlee voo or whatever. But Johnsons have got... gumption. Johnsons have guts.’ Again she sang, ‘It’s a lovely day tomorrow, tomorrow is a lovely day... I’ll send for Caroline when I’m settled.’
‘You’re not going to rip a kid out of school and cart her off to the city on some stupid whim. Not to live with scum like Bert Johnson and sons. She belongs here.’
‘We’ll let the Court decide.’
‘You’re the one walking out.’
‘You’re the adulterer.’
‘Hey! Back up a minute.’
‘A nice Jewish girl. Good choice. Someone to help you with the money making.’
‘Emily, you don’t mean that.’ He felt the chemicals flooding into his bloodstream.
Mimicking Rachel’s accent, Emily said, ‘I do not try to take your husband.’ Again the accusing finger. ‘She didn’t have to try did she.’
‘When you left here this morning everything was normal.’
‘Absolutely! Emily playing golf; Walter screwing his Jew.’
‘What an awful accusation.’
‘Are you telling me she doesn’t stir your cock?’
‘I’m telling you I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘I call your wrong, and raise a stuff.’ She giggled again. ‘I made a joke.’
‘All I ever wanted is for us to look af
ter a refugee. To set an example.’
Emily frowned and wagged her head. ‘I would like to ree-tract... there’s a good word ... I would like to ree-tract my suggestion you only brought the Jew-lady here to root her. There was something else in the devious bloody Blakey mind. Walter Blake wanted the whole world to say what a wonderful man that Blakey blokey is–’. Again she giggled. ‘You wanted to be the big man in town. The wonderful Mr Blake who looks after poor people. What a good man he is. Isn’t he wun-der-ful.’
‘I don’t believe this. After all we’ve been through together.’
‘Believe it! You’re a bully Walter. A bully and a cheat.’ Putting down her glass, Emily approached him, talking as she came. ‘The last year’s been a nightmare. You should go to the club sometimes and hear what they say about us—about Walter and his Jewish slut. And poor stupid Emily. “Oh here’s Emily, everybody. Hi Emily we were talking about... about the card night Emily, yes about the card night.” Jesus, Walter, can you imagine how that makes me feel? Like this small.’ She held her thumb and forefinger together and thrust her hand in front of his face. ‘This small.’
‘They disgust me.’
‘Jews aren’t allowed in the club. Jews aren’t allowed in any golf club in this country.’
‘They’re barred from some clubs, but not all.’
‘Well they should be! Dad was right. How do you think I feel with her living in our house? Oh, and when she does leave, don’t forget to check her bags.’
Walter was thoroughly unsettled. He knew Emily had never warmed to Rachel, but she’d never brought race into it. Was this a reversion to her father’s hatreds? In vino veritas? Emily unveiled?
‘You’re right, this is a nightmare.’
‘No! The nightmare’s over. This is real. I’ve learnt a lot of things tonight. Uncle Bert had you worked out.’ Walter felt his shoulders sag. He’d expected trouble some time, but not like this. ‘The trade-off for not going to war! Hold the fort while the troops are at the front.’ She sang, ‘Keep the home fires burning while...’ Now her face was close to his and her breath turned his stomach. ‘While all the time you were secretly feathering your nest. Our nest! That’s what craps me. You were ripping off our neighbours and rooting a Jew. That’s why I’d rather sell Weatherlee than fight for a share of this place. And I’m not leaving Caroline to grow up with you.’ She turned away, dropped the now empty glass into a wastebasket, and weaved towards the door.
‘You shouldn’t be driving. At least wait until tomorrow.’
‘Get stuffed!’
For ten minutes or more he could hear her thumping around in their bedroom; then the front door slammed. Tomorrow, he would have to face Rachel and Caroline, wondering what they’d overheard. Then he’d have to find out what the Johnsons had said at the club, and how much damage it might have done to his ability to continue down the path he’d planned. He’d known the risks, but he’d set his heart on getting control of the fuel contract and its cash flow. For some time he sat at the desk wondering how he might defend what he had done against the accusations he was sure to face. Then the realisation struck him. This was no passing tiff. Emily had left him—she’d really left him!
Manoeuvring
Tuesday 11th September 1990
‘There!’ Caroline returned the last of the batches to a folder. ‘Order restored as far as possible. Now all I need is time to read them.’
‘I thought you were going to start on the tapes,’ Max said.
‘I got sidetracked.’
‘It’s fascinating stuff, isn’t it?’
‘You’re right about the assignments. They are good.’
‘Most of the kids are doing better in their other subjects as well. There’s been a real lift in attitude.’
‘When I was at Harwood, I had the impression it was rare for ministers of the good old C of E to teach... well... the range of secular subjects you teach. Our chaplain took divinity classes, but that was about it.’
‘Moneyed schools like Harwood can afford chaplains who do nothing but provide pastoral care.’
‘Do I detect disapproval?’
‘Arajinna doesn’t even have a careers counsellor!’ Max immediately regretted the sharpness of his response. Mentally chastising himself for this bolshie reversion, he made a show of looking at his watch, and changed the subject. ‘Tony should be well on his way by now. How long since you last saw him?’
‘Not since Uncle Christopher’s funeral—must be ten years.’
‘I think, somewhere on the tapes, Walter says he was disappointed he wasn’t able to be there. I thought he said it was a private funeral.’
‘I’ve sorted Simeon’s memoirs. I was about to refresh my memory about Eddie and the organ bellows.’
It was obvious to Max that Caroline, also, had made a deliberate change of subject. He said, ‘Go ahead. I’ve got notes to make.’ Something had again taken her into unwelcome territory. If only he knew what!
Ties of Blood and Friendship
From Simeon Blake’s Memoirs - 1932
It is ten years since Eddie Sampson’s untimely passing, but I am pleased to record he is still with us. I see him in the face of his son, and in the lad’s creative mischief. There is always fun when Olive brings young Brian to Banabrook.
I think it is now possible to reveal that it was Eddie who drilled the hole in the bellows of the church organ. I know because I caught him, although at the time I didn’t realise what he’d done. It was during hymn 165 I twigged to the crime. That’s when the hole ripped open, dropping us an octave or so and sending Quentin, the organist, into an unaccustomed frenzy of wall thumping. In those days, two boys were rostered to work the seesaw lever to power the bellows. It was common for them to read comics to relieve the boredom. This had sometimes led to inattention, causing fluctuations in pressure and pitch, but never before a full octave. The designers of the church did not have access to modern systems of communication, and it had become the practice for the organist to tap gently on the wall to signal the need for air-pressure. On this particular day, Quentin quite lost his head. We had to finish the hymn unaccompanied.
After the service, I took Eddie for a walk in the graveyard, where I bargained my silence for his good behaviour and his promise to work off the debt if I paid for the repairs. He was somewhat chastened by the extent of the damage, which he had not foreseen. His plan, far more subtle than what eventuated, was for the hole to cause small fluctuations in pitch leading to confusion amongst those with a good ear. Remarkable for a youth whose sole musical education was to have taught himself to play a mouth organ.
Eddie had arrived in Arajinna as an itinerant worker. He never moved on because he and young Olive Carver took a liking to each other. The Carver ancestors had originally come from Cornwall, which is why the property is called Land’s End. There was something about the Carvers and Eddie, an affinity I still feel, even though I’m more than twice Olive’s age. It is strange how the lives of two families can become so entwined. Brian and Walter have become friends, and Walter, being a year older and physically more robust, has frequently acted the big brother. Sad that slightly built boys are sometimes targets for bullies; particularly boys like Brian, without fathers.
How well I remember Olive as a small child. In 1913 when Richard married Elspeth, and Christopher married Genevieve, May was a bridesmaid, and Olive a flower girl, for both weddings. May would have been 23 and Olive still in primary school. Great celebrations and much fun. None of us could foresee that twelve months later we would be entering a dark period of history, and sending our children to fight a war on the other side of the world.
When the Great War started, Christopher and May joined up. Richard agonised over whether to volunteer, but I never had the slightest doubt his continuing his medical studies was the best contribution he could make to the nation’s long-term interests. Elspeth was pregnant with Michael. We had a family conference, and agreed she and the baby should stay at Banabrook. Richard a
cquired a private pilot’s licence, and a small aeroplane, so he could visit. Soon hailed as a brilliant surgeon he became part of a team pioneering new techniques. He had an old one-ton truck, which he’d leave in the shed that served as a hangar. Often the first the family would know of his return was the distinctive roar of the truck’s engine as he changed gears to negotiate the driveway’s steep rise from the road.
Suspension of Hostilities
Tuesday 11th September 1990
When Judith entered the room, she saw no evidence of the underlying tension. Max was at the desk, making notes; Caroline was sitting on the couch, reading. They both looked up.
‘I think we’re organised. I can’t believe, after doing a rush job for us, the printer left the orders of service at the Bullermark bus depot for delivery. They might have arrived tomorrow morning on the school bus, but I didn’t want the worry.’
‘Jim?’ asked Max.
‘I think he’ll be all right. He talks about starting the first hymn in the wrong key at Alice’s funeral. He was quite a young man then, but the embarrassment seems to have come back to haunt him. I think what actually happened was he started the wrong hymn, and didn’t realise until he saw everybody frantically turning pages to find the words. He’s worried he’ll make a mistake again today. I told him, if he did, Dad would be the first to laugh. I think I might have confused him even more.’
Max turned to Caroline. ‘In any other community Jim would have been quietly moved aside. Fortunately, people know the problem and make allowances. If there’s a hitch tomorrow, I’ll calm him down and we’ll begin again. There was no way we could have used anybody else for such an occasion. He would have been so upset.’
‘I understand about small communities, Max. Everything seems to be exaggerated—the good and the bad. I think it’s wonderful that people care as much about Jim, who’s still alive, as about Walter, who isn’t.’
There was a pause while they all appeared to contemplate this thought. Then Judith said, ‘I’ve laid out some things for lunch in the kitchen. We’d better make a move. Max will have to go soon. I telephoned Calway Station. The train was running on time last they heard.’
Caroline stood. ‘I’ve been reading about Alfred and the large black beetle. What a wonderful story.’
‘We had some amazing ancestors.’
Max put away his notebook. ‘Caroline has agreed to help with the early part of the history. She obviously has some interesting contributions. That ring belonged to her Great-Aunt May.’
Judith stepped forward; Caroline held out her hand for inspection.
‘It’s lovely. Lunch in a few minutes; I’ll give you a call. I need Max to lift something for me.’ Judith returned to the kitchen. Max followed her.
‘So what needs lifting?’
‘Nothing. You two seem chummy, all of a sudden. What’s happening?’
‘I’ve been thawing the ice, that’s all.’
‘She’s got a way with people hasn’t she? You can see how she became a senator.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t forget whose side you’re on is what I mean.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘I’m feeling left out.’
‘I’ve been trying to avoid discussions you should be there for. But I can’t sit around mute. You have to trust me.’
‘I do.’
‘You have a strange way of showing it.’
‘I’m all for keeping the peace until after the funeral. Just don’t lose sight of the objective.’
‘I haven’t.’
‘Go and call her for lunch.’
At one end of the enormous kitchen table, Judith had set three places, and a large bowl of salad protected from stray insects by a beaded gauze cover. Max poured water from a jug; Judith donned heavy gloves, and opened the oven.
‘There’s cannelloni, and spinach pies. Please serve yourself.’
‘They look superb.’
‘Now you understand the fatal attraction,’ Max said.
Judith removed the oven gloves and sat down.
For the first time since her arrival, Caroline felt almost able to relax. Nevertheless, as she served herself some cannelloni and savoured the aroma of the herbs, she took the initiative to continue the discussion about Blake ancestors, in the hope she could stave off further confrontation about more current issues.
When lunch finished and Max started clearing away the dishes, Caroline found herself drawn into a familiar Banabrook routine in which everybody not committed to an immediate return to the fields pitched in to help with the washing up.
‘I’ll wash,’ Judith said. ‘If the tea towel over the stove isn’t dry, the clean ones are in the second drawer. Everything goes in the dresser.’
‘But there’s no dixie boiling water to wash the nappies when we’re finished!’
‘Is that what you did?’
‘It saved stoking up the copper all the time. Nappies are a constant job.’
‘Well I’m sorry.’ Judith pulled a face, then laughed.
‘And I’m sorry to leave you both at the sink,’ Max interjected. ‘But I’d better get going. If the train’s on time I’ll be back with Tony by half three. The tapes are all marked, so if you want to do some listening...’
‘We’re big girls, darling!’ Judith said. ‘We’ll manage.’ She proffered a cheek for him to kiss, their easy intimacy making Caroline realise she was still isolated and alone. The large window behind the sink gave them a view to the north. Judith identified a truck, bumping across their line of vision, as Tom and Fred on their way to check the windmill on the other side of the hill. This provided an opportunity for Caroline to talk about her friendship with Tom’s father. They chatted amiably and finished the small amount of washing-up in quick time. ‘I’ll leave you to the tapes,’ Judith said. ‘Call me if you need anything.’
Caroline studied the index, and formed her plan of attack. With experience developed over years of wading through parliamentary papers, she would focus first on particular dates and subjects of possible concern. She was diverted, however, by seeing her own name identifying a topic: Caroline and the special room. Soon she was listening to her father’s voice. It was disconcerting; she had to steel herself to stop thinking about him, and listen to what he was saying.
Caroline called this the special room. I became quite good at hopscotch. I wasn’t in her class of course. She had her mother’s genes. On the sports field they both had the grace of gazelles. There were days we’d be in here, the three of us, grumbling about the weather but loving it for giving us the excuse to be together. Of course, there were also times, after a long dry period, when we’d stand at the window watching the rain and yelling, ‘Send her down Hughie; send her down’. Caroline loved that expression. ‘Send her down Hughie’.
Involuntarily, Caroline stopped the machine and looked towards the window. Although today was fine, she was conscious of quietly mouthing the words: ‘Send her down Hughie, send her down!’ She could almost smell the rain. If memories so evocative were spread throughout the recordings, this was not going to be an easy task. Discipline was necessary. She must focus on the war years. She moved Walter’s painting stool to the sideboard; it was a perfect height for her to manipulate the recorder.
Shortly after two o’clock, Judith came to the door and said, ‘Is there anything I can bring you? I’ll be making tea for Max and Tony when they get here.’
‘I can wait.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘Slowly. Your transcripts are a great help, but the conversations ramble a bit.’
‘Max thought it best to just let Daddy talk. He’s hoping the school will be able to afford the equipment for the students to edit the results. Another useful skill.’
‘He’s full of ideas, your Max.’
Judith left, and Caroline re-started the tape. So far she’d found nothing of concern, but she felt certain the critical issues would surface; and if, as she suspected, h
er father had been less than frank, she would have to decide how to break the news to the others.
The crunch of tyres on gravel, voices, car doors banging. Caroline had hardly switched off the tape deck when her cousin, still boisterous at the age of 75, burst into the room. He tilted his head to acknowledge the coffin, but his words of greeting barely faltered as he approached Caroline, kissed her on both cheeks, and enveloped her in his formidable arms.
‘My dear Caroline. We must stop meeting at funerals.’ Turning from her, he approached the coffin, grasped the side with both hands, and looked intently at the body. ‘I suppose one advantage of growing old is we come to expect and accept death. It also becomes more obvious when one of us goes out of sequence. I’m three years his senior. It was actually my turn.’
Any further philosophising was put on hold as Judith entered from the kitchen.
Caroline said, ‘You haven’t met my half-sister.’
‘But I’ve heard about you over the years. All good, I assure you.’ He sandwiched Judith’s hand between his. Her slender fingers were lost in his unusually large palms, but his grip was gentle, and she warmed to him immediately. ‘My condolences on the loss of your father.’
‘Thank you. I put on the kettle when I heard you arrive.’
‘An angel. The very thing I’d heard.’
At that stage, Max entered with the heavy overnight bag. ‘I’ve put the other one in your room,’ he said, handing the bag to Tony who took it and emitted a long, dramatic sigh.
Turning back to Caroline, Tony said, ‘Now, dearest cous, I have to embarrass myself, and make some abject apologies. I come bearing diaries of considerable interest, which, because of my stupidity, I had not previously discovered. Also, having chatted with Max over the past hour, I realise how remiss I’ve been about another aspect of our family history—Aunt May and the mystery lover. Max told me ages ago he’d discovered the identity of the chap in the photograph. He telephoned on a day I was flying out to a convention in Canada. I had every intention of getting back to him when I returned but... Well, no excuses. I’m already well on the way to paving my personal pathway to Hell. But I now learn that, until Max spoke to you earlier today, he was completely unaware how interested you are in Aunt May and the handsome soldier. Max is blameless in the matter. I am the one in need of a quick ticking off and lasting forgiveness. Subconsciously, I was probably embarrassed. Fancy sitting on May’s papers all these years without ever realising what they contained.’
‘I am totally lost,’ Caroline said.
‘Yes, you would be. When the kettle has boiled, and this angel has armed me with a cup of tea—black, no sugar—it will be time to spill the beans. Dear god!—if you’ll pardon the expression Max—we have so much to tell.’
‘Tea everybody?’ Judith asked.
‘I’ll help,’ Caroline said. It was fast dawning on her that historical issues, which on arrival had been the source of conflict, were starting to glue her to this long lost family. Unfortunately, she was not at all sure the glue would resist the forces still pulling them apart.
A noise on the verandah heralded the arrival of Tom who entered, tentatively. Judith was quickest to react; Cousin Tony was introduced and Tom’s arrival explained. ‘Tom promised the funeral director he would look after the coffin. He’ll bring it back in the morning.’
Caroline was conscious that Judith was the one most bereft by the loss of Walter, and admired the way she put Tom at ease, helping him gently replace the lid on the coffin before he wheeled it away.
‘Well,’ Judith said, turning back to the others. ‘Let’s make tea and listen to stories.’
‘A deal’s a deal,’ Tony said, putting down his cup. ‘I hope the tale is as good as the tea.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘We begin with my angst-ridden decision to sell May’s furniture.’
‘Why angst-ridden?’ Caroline asked.
‘Only another compulsive hoarder would understand.’ He made an open-handed gesture by which he managed to convey guilt, embarrassment, and self-mockery. ‘It was towards the end of last year. My companion Timothy had died suddenly and, while I was dealing with his things, I put myself in disposal-mode and rang several antique dealers. The first, a woman with hard eyes and no visible emotions, made copious notes and promised a written appraisal after checking the latest catalogues. She had a genuine Gucci handbag—bad sign. The second, an untidy man, came later the same day. His favourite phrase appeared to be “this piece is all right, but...” I suspected he was more impressed than he showed, and I crossed him off the list when I saw him drive away in a recent model Jaguar. The third man was openly overwhelmed. “We dream of this sort of collection,” he said, “thank you for the opportunity to appraise it. Whatever you do, don’t sell except through a top auctioneer. I’d be happy to manage the process for a modest fee. Being involved will be enough for me.” He moved among the pieces, touching gently, eyeing critically, occasionally using his own favourite phrase: “Oh, I do like this.” His passion nearly brought tears to my eyes. I am a bit of a sook, actually. One item took particular attention. He examined it from every angle.’
At this point, Tony jumped to his feet and became the dealer, circling an imaginary object. ‘This dressing-table must have been damaged at some time in the past. It’s been exquisitely restored, but I suspect a split has been glued at the side. It won’t affect the value. Would you care to see something of interest?’
‘Naturally I said yes! Who could resist? The man slid out a drawer, and put it down gently. Carefully, he reached into the aperture, and extracted a small length of dowelling. I crouched to watch as he reached in again. To my amazement, he moved aside a panel to reveal another drawer. It had no handle, but contained a slot into which a hand could be slid to pull it out. As he did so, he frowned. “It’s quite heavy,” he said. “There must be something in it.” ’
‘So it was that I came into possession of the diaries of Great-great-grandma Maud. The dealer departed, and I sat at the dressing table to examine the find. It was exciting enough to have discovered the diaries, but I soon found another cause for fascination. Somebody had read them since Maud’s death! Throughout the volumes were bookmarks, most of them paper strips torn from glossy modern magazines. I looked at them trying to find some clue to the nature of the publications. Then, as I opened a volume at one of the markers, I found a note. The handwriting was unmistakable. Aunt May.’
‘And she’d never mentioned them?’ Caroline asked.
‘Strange isn’t it. I have wondered why. I’ve barely started browsing through the diaries, so I can’t help wondering if we’ll come across a reason. A family skeleton or something.’
Diaries Discovered
Monday 10th January 1949
On 10th January 1949, May stumbled on her way to bed. Reaching for something to break her fall, she knocked Aunt Maud’s antique dressing table, which fell to the floor and split apart. May sat on the edge of her bed and wept tears of real anguish. She’d suffered little physical damage, but had broken a treasured possession.
Next morning she found, in the wreckage of the dressing table, a number of diaries, which had spilt from a hidden drawer. She retrieved them, and wandered down the hall to the kitchen. While the percolator gurgled, she drank three glasses of water. Pouring her first cup of strong coffee, she took it to the table, and opened one of the diaries. Hours later she realised she’d spent an entire morning without reaching for the whisky decanter, a rare event unless she got herself out of the apartment. The first volume of the diaries of Maud Osborne was beautifully bound, and embossed on its red leather spine with the words: My Diary. The first entry, in small, elegant but girlish writing, recorded that the book had been a birthday gift from her mother. The subsequent volumes were less ornate, some little more than exercise books, but Maud had apparently caught the diarist bug and, although she did not maintain daily entries throughout her life, she appeared to have recorded her private thoughts on most significant happening
s. The early pages provided some insight into a young woman’s life in the nineteenth century, but the entries were not particularly engaging and May soon found herself skipping and dipping through the volumes until, reflecting the uncanny facility of the brain to spot the familiar, the name Alfred Blake leapt from the page.
How exciting, right out of the blue, to encounter a handsome young man. His name is Alfred Blake, and I suspect we are much of an age. I had gone, as usual on a Monday, to help Mrs Manning with her washing. As I emerged into the clearing where the temporary cottage stands, there he was. I introduced myself. I think I might have seemed a little forward, but what is one to do? He is a carpenter come to assist with building the house. I learnt nothing else about him because Mrs Manning called me and we got down to work.
So Great Grandfather had appealed to his future wife at first sight. The entry was dated 1826, which meant Maud was 26. May wondered how often a woman of that age encountered eligible men in what had clearly been an outlying area. The pages for 1826 were filled with comments about Alfred Blake and the progress of the Manning family house. May learned that her great grandfather arrived in the colony under indenture to Mr Manning, and would be released from his contract when construction was completed. In the meantime he worked for his keep and had little money. About his ancestry he had apparently been reticent, but Maud had established that he lived in Hampshire, fell out with his father, and emigrated to start a new life. Although these entries never expressed the full extent of Maud’s relationship with Alfred, May suspected a growing passion. Realising there was enough reading here to last her many days, she started turning pages rapidly, looking for highlights. There were many, some evidencing high drama.
The signs could no longer be ignored. I am to have a child. Father is furious and has gone to confront Alfred. I was not permitted to accompany him and I must wait in the hope he (father) will not do anything silly.
Later the same day, another entry.
Joy! I could scarce believe the lack of enmity between them. Alfred returned with father and asked for my hand. Whether from relief, or what, I know not, but father positively beamed throughout. Alfred has pledged to care for me and the child when he is able. Father has agreed he should live and work here when his commitment to Mr Manning is discharged. It confirms my feelings for Alfred. His openness and honesty has won my father completely.
May found herself laughing out loud. It must have been hard in that environment to marry off one’s daughters. She flipped through more pages until a gap in entries led to one that was no laughing matter. In 1832 Maud had written:
I have been unable to write anything for weeks. I hope doing so now will help in some small way to close this dreadful chapter. Dan and Larry were not the only victims hereabouts, but losing twins must surely double the pain. I know hearts do not break, but one feels they almost could. I am haunted by those tiny coffins. Alured is confused. What can one tell a four year old about such things? Thank God, he did not contract the illness himself. But he could hear the dreadful noise from which the whooping cough derives its name. Alfred says little, and throws himself into his work.
Heavy of heart, for she was already being drawn into her ancestor’s life, May leafed through more pages until another entry in 1833 brought her to tears.
Am I cursed? Patty my darling daughter. Like the twins, barely into her third year. I can still feel the poor mite's tiny burning body. Nature can be cruel. Will it ever be possible for doctors to save us from these dreadful afflictions, which always take the littlest ones? I have borne four and buried three. We must try to avoid having more.
May took the stopper from the decanter and drowned the sorrows of more than a century ago.
The diaries gave May many hours of pleasure, pain, and contemplation. As with her visits to the art gallery (where Lindsay Fielding, now senior curator and convenor of The Friends of the Gallery, had made her a minor celebrity), her reading led to sober mornings. As the days passed, she found herself following a number of different threads in the story of her ancestors. Bit by bit a picture of the move to Banabrook emerged.
Rufus is in trouble with father again. He grumbles to me, but never heeds my advice. I'm a mere woman of course. I make allowances because I know he misses mother. I have asked Alfred to take him aside but he feels it's not his place. Of course it's his place. Sloth is a sin and the rest of us have to do more because of it.
I love my brother. He is my flesh and blood and on occasion can be amusing. But his cavalier attitude frets father so much it hurts us all. There are few enough of us out here. Passengers cannot be tolerated. I long for Alfred's release from his indenture. The Mannings have been good employers, but building an entire farm will take years.
In 1834, an entry so filled with joy it leaps from the page.
Indenture discharged. We had a little ceremony at Mannings. Mr M allowed the stock hands to attend; even Rufus came along. Mr M signed his half of the indenture and handed it to Alfred. He made a show of reluctance to part with it, but I believe this was to mask his being close to tears. How the life out here binds us together. I had been totally unaware of the form of the document. It fits like a jigsaw; now Alfred has both pieces, and his freedom. Then, a surprise! Mr M said wool has been so good and they've done so well he wants to give us 200 sheep to help us when we start on our own. 200!
Next day.
I was silly to be too excited. Alfred says we must help father improve this property before looking for our own land. I try not to be angry with Rufus. He gets so down in the mouth, but the Mannings have prospered with Alfred to help. Father has done less well with my lazy brother.
For long periods following the death of her three youngest children, Maud’s diary entries were sparse. Highlights such as the discharge of the indenture were covered in detail. In the main, however, Maud’s heart seemed as empty as the entries, which were sometimes separated by many months. May understood depression and could feel it even in these brief passages. The one clear thing was that Alfred was making a difference at the Osborne property, and Rufus wasn’t. Even Alured was rarely mentioned although, in 1837, she wrote:
Hard to believe Alured already 9. I am proud how clever he seems for his age. He has no other tutor but me. We have been able to buy, or otherwise acquire, some new books (new to us I mean) from other settlers. I surrendered my treasured Don Quixote, in beautiful condition, in exchange for a dog-eared volume of Swift. I keep telling myself it is the content that matters, and I do enjoy Swift, as I enjoyed Cervantes. Wonderful storytellers, both.
In 1839, the mood changed.
Father has returned. He had given no inkling he was attending an auction of land. The allotment he has purchased for us is far from here, but we will be independent and can take a share of the stock to get started. He wants Rufus to come with us. I wish that made me happy. I suppose my brother is better with us than constantly at war with his father. Alured senses adventure. One of the local men will come with us at the start. He does not speak the same language as the other natives we will encounter, but he says he knows many of their words. He has learnt English well, so we have no reason to doubt his facility with other tongues. Father is lending us a small party of men to journey with us and help us to get started. We will take only a small flock, and return for more later. Mr M says his offer of 200 head still stands.
Later that year.
Alfred amazes me. He has already forged a bond with the Aborigines. Rufus is wary of them, and they of him. There is a strange formality about their behaviour. Communication takes much patience, but they appear to have that in abundance, as does Alfred.
1840
We have chosen to name our place Banabrook. It is a made up word which sounds like something the natives say. They do not write their words down, so we had to make up a spelling. We thought 'brook' appropriate because of the water—though Alfred thinks 'bruk' might be a closer rendition of the sound the natives make (and he is not sure it means water anyway).
May paused in her reading. Her father had told her Banabrook was an Aboriginal word. Had he known about the anglicised approximation he would surely have said so. She might be the only one currently alive with knowledge of its origins.
The entries throughout the next two decades were dense with detail and May took to tearing strips from magazines to mark pages where the comments advanced the main threads of Maud’s story.
1841
Still no word from Rufus. Alfred says he doesn’t care. My own feelings are ambivalent. Rufus turns 40 this year but seems never to have grown up.
1845
Alfred in high spirits after the wool sales. Quite unusually, he talked to me about his youth in England. He's been clearing out his desk and showed me a strange letter written by his father when he announced his intention to emigrate. Vitriolic is too soft a word. It is definitely in the melodramatic “good riddance and never darken my doorstop again” style of language. Alfred said he only kept it to fuel his motivation to make good on his own.
1850
Rufus is back, and with a cart and his belongings. Alfred's mood is bad.
Then, in 1852, reference to the dressing table.
Alfred has returned. In the past, apart from a few trinkets for me and gifts for Alured, everything on the cart has been for the farm. This time he has brought some elegant furniture and some lovely etchings. For me, a beautiful dressing table. It has a secret drawer; what fun! I will keep my diaries there instead of my other hiding places. He promises never to look. Well, we'll see. He would only discover how much I love him.
1852
The success of our ventures overwhelms me. I never expected to be a rich lady, but we have ordered a carriage and stables are to be built.
1852
What a year this has been. Alured has become close to a lovely girl. Cecelia Carter. We like her very much.
1852
Rufus has disappeared again. He said he would be away a week, but it has been more than a month.
1853
I think everybody in the district came. They were a lovely couple, and I refuse to believe I write this simply because I am the mother of the groom. I will put down more detail tomorrow. For now, sleep. What a day!
1858
A grandson. Simeon. A healthy boy. I had not committed my secret thoughts to these pages lest they become a curse. Cecelia has had much trouble conceiving, and I had almost given up hope. How blessed we are.
1860
It beggars belief that Rufus turns up after absences sometimes running into years and seems to feel an entitlement to live in the home we have built with precious little help from him. I am glad he has prospered, though I sometimes think he doesn't deserve his good fortune. I suppose he is not the only one to gain from luck rather than endeavour on the goldfields of Victoria. He says his success comes from being foresighted and patient. He has invested much in paintings he believes will accrue in value.
1860
I have had a win. I insisted Alfred accommodate Rufus no longer unless something was given in return. As a result, he has accepted some paintings as payment for board and keep. They are actually very pretty watercolours. Rufus says the artist is of considerable note. It matters more to me that I like the scenes, and we have at last extracted some contribution.
1862
Deep concern. We have been beset by angry men. Alfred was so upset he became red faced and aggressive. He set the dogs upon them, and demanded Cecelia and I retreat to our rooms. Alured is away. Rufus also. Even the farm hands seem perplexed.
1862
Some of the men returned today. I have never seen Alfred so jittery. I heard threats of legal action, and I think he gave them money or promissory notes. They even entered the house and identified items of interest to them. Dear god, my precious dressing table was mentioned. Tonight he has made a fire near the stables and is burning papers.
1862
I feel dirty, not just from the ashes but also from a feeling of betrayal. Alfred dismissed my enquiries and left Banabrook in the carriage. The fire has done its job, but it is hard to obliterate paper records. What I found is disturbing. It seems mainly to be details of purchases.
Turning the page, May was dismayed to find several leaves torn from the diary. Then came a brief entry.
1863
Alfred departed Monday. Quietly in his sleep. We buried him today in the plot set aside for us near the forest. I begin this on a new page not for any symbolic reason but because I do not want to leave to posterity the bitterness I poured out this past year. He had been a good man for most of his life. That's what I want to remember.
From then until Maud’s own death, the entries were sparse. Those catching May’s attention included.
1864
Alured has added to the Art Collection. Some lovely oils. One I like particularly now hangs in the dining room opposite my chair.
1864
Alured has employed a farm manager and is building him a cottage. The estate continues to prosper.
1867
I am sad that Simeon is to go away to boarding school. He is only nine. Alured has selected a Melbourne School, Stoddart Grammar. He says distance is not an issue, if the boy is away he is away, and the headmaster is a man of considerable repute.
Aunt May - The Final Days
1949
Each morning, when she awoke, May was conscious of the broken dressing table lying askew against the wall. On an impulse, one day, she opened the Yellow Pages and perused the listings for cabinet-makers. After a couple of telephone calls, she located a man who made the right sort of sympathetic noises. Later in the week, when he called to inspect the damage, the noises he made were not merely sympathetic, but sensuous.
‘Oh, my,’ he said. ‘This is a beautiful, beautiful piece. What’s more, we can bring it back to its former glory. Most of the damage is to the joints. They’re expertly made, but a joint can never be as strong as wood of this quality. One of the side panels is split, but a little glue will fix it, and when we sand-back and re-polish, you won’t notice.’
‘Tell me about the hidden drawer. I would never have known it was there.’
‘Secret drawers have been popular throughout the ages. This is a really cunning design. I guarantee that, when I bring the table back, you won’t be able to find the drawer until I show you how. It’s a bit like a Chinese puzzle.’ He gave a quote for repairs. ‘It won’t be a quick job, mind you. We’re fairly busy right now and this is one piece I’ll be handling myself.’
It was six weeks before May took delivery of the lovingly restored dressing table. As predicted, she failed to find the secret drawer even though she’d thought the location would be obvious. She acknowledged the analogy of the Chinese puzzle. It was not a difficult task, but unless the panels were moved in the correct sequence there was no finding the hidden recess.
When the cabinet-maker had departed with a cheque and his tip—a bottle of Bordeaux wine, which he carried as though it were a baby—May opened the secret drawer and returned Maud’s diaries to their home. Several times she had told Christopher to come and visit her in Sydney. Now she could tell him she had something special to show him; a party-trick to amaze.
A week later, May had a stroke. Although she regained the ability to speak, she had lost large blocks of her memory. Maud’s diaries and their location never came to mind again.
Taking Stock
Tuesday 11th September 1990
From her seat at one end of the long couch, Caroline looked up from the diary she’d been browsing. Cross-legged and straight-backed on the carpet, in what might have been a yoga position, Judith was absorbed in another volume. At the other end of the couch, Tony laughed silently at something in the entry he was reading. Max sat at the roll-top desk copying a passage into his notebook. Caroline considered reading an entry aloud, as each of them had felt moved to do at some stage in the past couple of hours. But Maud’s distress over the death of her children would
introduce a jarring note into the calm that had settled over the group, and Caroline did not want to lead herself into a discussion about buried babies.
There was a gasp from Judith who uncurled from the floor and went to the bookcase. Finding the object of her search, she turned and held it up for the others to see. ‘The dog-eared volume of Swift. Maud brought it with her. I’d often wondered where those old novels came from.’
‘I wish I had a few weeks to spare,’ Caroline said. ‘I still have to finish listening to the tapes; once I go home on Thursday I’ll have no time for anything.’
Judith replaced the worn book almost reverently on the shelf. ‘The diaries are captivating, but I think it’s time to put dinner on.’
‘I’ll help,’ Caroline said.
‘No, let me,’ Tony interjected. ‘I’m never happier than when I’m in the kitchen.’
‘Who’s for another drink?’ Max asked.
Caroline shook her head. ‘It’s a lovely red, but I’ll have to watch myself. And I’d better telephone the motel to report in.’
‘Why not cancel?’ Judith said. ‘Your room here is made up. It will save you driving. And the motel is a bit run down.’
‘That’s kind of you.’ She paused to think. ‘All right I will stay, but I’ll pay for the motel room. I’m sure they need the business.’
‘You keep reading,’ Max said. ‘I’ll make the call. It’s all right Tony; I’ll top up the drinks first.’
‘Did I look that desperate?’ Tony peered into his empty glass. ‘Come Judith, my angel, let’s repair to the kitchen and create sustenance for these poor folk.’
‘This is far more than sustenance,’ Caroline observed as she passed her plate for seconds.
‘We were a wonderful team!’ Tony said, patting Judith’s shoulder. ‘It’s in the blood, I tell you. Looks like an angel. Cooks like an angel. Is an angel.’
‘As are you,’ Caroline laughed.
‘Forget the looking and being. But angelic cooking... well... on behalf of the team, I accept!’
‘I’ve always been fascinated by things that might be in the blood,’ Max said as he re-filled their glasses.
Caroline could not bring herself to look at Max to see whether the comment was directed at her. It had been an extraordinary day—one moment under attack, the next seemingly part of a long lost family. Her insistence on the sale of Banabrook had made an impact, but for much of the day she’d felt welcome. Now she was to stay under the same roof as the people she’d upset. Tomorrow she must face the community and witness the last rites for the father she’d rejected.
‘And what of you, Max?’ Tony asked. ‘You know much about what might be in our blood. Are you the product of a priestly past?’
‘My father was a sergeant-major. I’ve never tried to trace further back, though there was a poster at home showing my Grandfather in one of those travelling boxing troupes.’
‘How fascinating.’
‘Boxing and the military,’ Caroline said. ‘Have you ever suspected those things are in your blood?’
‘I abhor violence,’ he said.
Caroline decided this was not the time to probe his hidden past.
The meal over, Tony and Judith were banished from the kitchen to resume their perusal of the diaries. Max rolled up his sleeves and took over the sink, while Caroline, with a growing feeling of being at home, approved or rejected tea towels, put away the sunbeams, and dried the dishes. Both felt a need to stick to innocuous small talk. The local history of the Country Women’s Association, whose members would provide the refreshments after the funeral, provided fertile ground.
It was past nine-thirty when the party re-gathered in the family room.
‘I think I’m all read out for tonight,’ Judith said. ‘If Max can help Caroline bring her things in from the car, we can get you installed in your rooms; then I’ll be ready for bed. Feel free to stay up as long as you like.’
A shaking of heads confirmed all were of a similar mind and, soon after ten o’clock, when Max left to walk back to the farm manager’s cottage, the others had already said their goodnights and closed their doors.
Sitting, fully dressed, on the edge of the bed, Caroline thought it unlikely any of them would fall easily to sleep. The darkness of the country night made her window a mirror in which she could see her every movement. She got up and turned out the light so she could see the stars; not just the few brightest, which even city lights could not obscure, but the countless millions of an outback sky.
Had it really been thirty years since she left?
Soon her thoughts became a jumbled montage of images from a past increasingly hard to suppress.