Dark Oasis

by Dulcie M. Stone

  “We’re going to the pictures.”

  “Won’t do you no good, love. They’re full. The wife and kids were lucky to make it.”

  “Come on.” She urged Millie away from the stranger

  “It’s a bad night to be out, girls.” He turned back up the steps.

  “Take care.”

  “Do you know him?” She was curious. “What is that place?”

  “He’s not a picker. I know that much. He’s a local.”

  “You don’t even know him!”

  “He’s okay. It’s the Farmer’s Club.”

  The Belleville Farmer’s Club. Known for its record consumption of Australian beer, its reputation was legendary. Yet they’d stood at the bottom of its steps and heard no untoward sounds and smelt no stench of stale beer. It seemed as bland and as lifeless as the stone soldier guarding it.

  There was no choice but to return to the Sunview. Crossing the plantation, passing the shopping centre at its outer rim, they entered the over-heated back streets. The street lamps seemed dimmer, the pools of light less frequent and the dark houses more menacing. Fear returned, without reason. Her pace quickened.

  Stumbling to keep up, Millie begged. “Slow down!”

  “Hurry … hurry …”

  Millie balked. “I’m out of breath. Wait. Please wait.”

  She stopped.

  Millie caught up. “What’s the hurry?”

  “Sh!”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Sh!” She warned. “Someone’s been following us.”

  They peered back along the street, but could see no one.

  “There’s no one there,” Millie whispered.

  “There is. Listen …”

  “What? I can’t hear anything.”

  “Listen!”

  Close by, they heard a dry cough and soft voices.

  “I told you,” she urged Millie. “We have to hurry. We’re being followed.”

  “Oh that!” Millie giggled.

  “Sh …!”

  “It’s nothing. They’re sleeping out.”

  “What do you mean? Sleeping out? What’s sleeping out?”

  “No one sleeps inside on nights like this. Well, no one in this part of town. They sleep outside.”

  “On the front lawn!”

  “Sometimes. They sleep anywhere, anywhere cooler than inside.”

  At last the Sunview loomed, faintly lit and silent. After circling the main building they were starting across the quadrangle towards their separate bungalows, when the back light, suddenly turned on, cut a bright swathe across their path.

  “Are you two all right?” Else, wearing dressing gown and hair curlers, was peering through the kitchen’s screen door.

  “We’re home early. The dance was …”

  “Come in! Come in!”

  “I have to talk to Gran.” Millie continued on her way.

  “She’s in here. Hurry! Come in!”

  Opting out, she told Millie, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Both of you!” Careless of sleeping guests, Else’s urgent screech sounded a belated alarm. “They’re here, Jean!”

  Reluctantly, she followed Millie.

  Millie’s grandmother, with Curly, was sitting at the kitchen table. “Thank goodness! We’ve been worried out of our wits! Grandad found you!”

  Else’s curlers shook. “He’s not with them, Jean.”

  “But he found you. He did find you.”

  “No Gran,” Millie insisted. “He didn’t find us. We didn’t see him.”

  “What do you mean? You should have seen him! You should have! Are you sure you didn’t …?”

  Alarmed, she interrupted, “We didn’t see him. Why? What’s wrong?”

  “We heard about the riot at the Town Hall,” Else frowned. “On the wireless. He was so worried. You shouldn’t of been out alone. He took off. Reckoned he’d bring you two home.”

  “It’s not safe.” The grandmother clung to Millie. “I told you, love.

  It’s not.”

  “We left the dance. We were coming home. We haven’t even seen him.”

  “Half an hour? Was it half an hour ago, Else?”

  “Half an hour,” Curly confirmed. “You should have met him on the way.”

  “It’s pitch black out there. You can hardly see a thing.”

  “He should be with you. He should be with you.” The grandmother was becoming hysterical.

  “Don’t worry, Jean,” Else comforted. “He’ll be back soon. Give him time. They’ll have passed him on the way. It’ll take a while. He’ll have to see they’re not at the dance. Don’t worry.”

  Sipping tepid cups of muddy tea, they waited. Occasionally voices from one of the bungalows or the sounds of a returning guest alerted them. Once, the distant screech of the police siren, followed by the spine-tingling ululation of a racing ambulance, instilled a deeper fear. Still Millie’s grandfather did not come back. It was time for action. Curly changed into street wear and went looking.

  Else pulled a chair into the passageway and ordered, “You three wait in the lounge. I’ll keep watch by the phone. I’ll let you know the minute I hear anything.”

  “You don’t need me.” She attempted escape.

  “Not so fast, girl,” Else objected. “You can make fresh tea for all of us.”

  “I’m exhausted,” she protested. “I’m supposed to be resting. I’m not …”

  “Not well? Your friend’s grandfather is missing!”

  “You can’t think something’s happened to him. He knows his way around.”

  “This much is sure, girl,” Else snapped. “Something’s very wrong. Your friends need your help.”

  “Something’s got to be wrong,” Millie wailed. “It’s not like Grandad.”

  “He could just be lost,” she soothed. “He’ll be back any minute. I wish you wouldn’t …”

  “Are you going to make that tea?” Else roared.

  “I’m on my way.”

  She was serving tea when the telephone rang.

  “Hullo! Curl!” Else was yelling. “Is that you Curl? Curl …?”

  Dropping their cups, they crowded into the narrow passage.

  Else replaced the receiver. “He’s in intensive care. I’ll call a taxi.”

  “What happened?”

  “Intensive care?”

  “Else … what …?”

  “Please! Let me phone first.”

  The taxi ordered, Else reported, “Curly was at the Station when the call came in. He’s been beaten up. The police found him. He’d passed out. They got his wallet. Everything. Curly identified him. Thank God Curly went looking.”

  “How bad is he? How bad …”

  “It’s a good hospital, Jean,” Else consoled. “Go get ready for the taxi.”

  “He’s bad! I knew it! I knew it!”

  “He’s in good hands, Gran,” Millie soothed. “I’ll get your things.”

  “I don’t want anything! I’m right as I am.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” she asked.

  “You can telephone the family.” Millie took the bungalow key from her purse. “The address book is beside my bed.”

  When she returned, Millie and her grandmother had already left.

  Else was setting the tables for breakfast. “That Millie’s address book?”

  “There’s only a couple of names.” She hurried through to the passageway.

  “It’s on the house.”

  Confronted by the alien long-distance telephone, she was helpless. “It’s after one in the morning,” she suggested. “Maybe we’d better do this tomorrow.”

  “They need to know, girl. Just do it!”

  “How do you get long distance?”

  “Turn the bloody handle and ask for it!”

  She reached for the handle. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t break bad news to strangers in the middle of the night.

  “You get through yet?” Else was impatien
t.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “What in the name of God aren’t you sure of?” Else flounced to her side. “Millie wants them told. You said you’d do it. Do it!”

  Still, she hesitated.

  “For God’s sake! What’s the matter with you?”

  “I can’t! I’ve never done anything like this. I don’t know what to tell them.”

  “For God’s sake!” Else snatched the address book. “Give us the bloody thing!”

  The old man’s recovery would be long and slow, the outcome unsure. Irreversible brain damage could not be ruled out. Millie and her grandmother spent every day and more than half of every night at his bedside. She saw them at the evening meal only, when they scarcely spoke. Further excursions with Millie were not an option. There was no one else.

  The Train Station remained un-cooperative. She phoned Amy Campbell to beg for help. Maybe she knew of a vacancy at another guest house or a small bed and breakfast? Anything rather than the vulnerable bungalow at the Sunview. She was desperate, afraid to go out, afraid to stay in, afraid of the pickers, afraid of being alone. The heat was intolerable, the loneliness unbearable.

  Amy’s response was immediate. “You must stay with us.”

  It was not what she wanted to hear.

  “I know how much you want to go home, dear,” Amy sympathised. “If it wasn’t that we are so busy, I’d drive you down the line myself. It can’t be helped, I’m afraid. We can give you a bed and food. No entertainment, I’m sorry to say. It’ll be a short stay after all.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Most of the family and friends had left; the youngsters to school or university, the adults to city-based businesses. The remaining locals, like Gus and Amy and their sons, were totally engrossed in the picking or preparations for it.

  Because the Campbell picking was due to start in a week, Amy rose at dawn and spent long extra hours preparing for it; cooking, cleaning, gardening, preserving food and catching up on chores that would be necessarily neglected during the busy weeks ahead.

  As forewarned, there was no entertainment, no amusement of any kind. Dinner was always late, as late as ten, even eleven, when their day’s work finally ended. Invariably, no matter how late the hour, the Campbell men shaved, showered and changed into fresh clothes before sitting down to eat their hot meal and drink their cold beer.

  She idly wondered when they slept, and where. It didn’t matter; she wouldn’t be here long enough for it to matter. What did matter was that she was sleeping in comfortable room in a comfortable house. Still recovering from the combination of the poverty-stricken state of the Sunview, the unrelieved heat of the cramped bungalow, and the terror of the violent night in Belleville, she slept late and went to bed while the men were still at work.

  Loneliness remained. The only consolation was that, by any standard she had previously experienced, she was living in luxury. Her bedroom, which overlooked the broad back lawn, appeared to be just as Phoebe had left it. The quilted cornflower-blue cover of the single bed exactly matched the floor-length curtains; the thin horizontal wooden slats of the Venetian blinds exactly matched the timbers of the shelves and cupboards that lined the pale blue wall-papered walls. Thick blue-grey carpet covered the floor and from the ceiling hung a gloriously incongruous crystal chandelier.

  On the shelves were the books Phoebe must have read as a child; Peter Pan and Wendy, Alice in Wonderland, Wind in the Willows. And a small section of books she must have read as a teenager; romances, mysteries, adventures – the books her invalid mother had loved. In the cupboards were the records she must have played; Bing Crosby was predominant. On a silver tray on the dressing table were an ornate silver-backed brush, comb and mirror, apparently unused. The only evident innovation was the new electric fan Amy had placed by the window.

  When she’d first arrived, after thanking her hostess for the fan, she’d commented, “I love the chandelier.”

  “That’s Phoebe,” Amy had smiled. “All those books. Her tastes are eclectic. Witness the chandelier and the silver toilet set. They’re not very practical at all, but that’s what she wanted.”

  “I love them.”

  “I love them, too. I’m happy she left them. They’re part of her. Though they do take a lot of cleaning. Nothing stops the dust, no matter how well sealed the windows.”

  “She likes the same books as Mum. I haven’t read them all.”

  “Then, by all means … make yourself at home. Phoebe will be pleased to know someone is enjoying them.”

  “I’m surprised she didn’t take them with her.”

  “Phoebe married for love. There isn’t too much money in their house. When they were first married they could afford only a small flat. One day she’ll come back for them.”

  Later, revisiting the Rogue’s Gallery in the lounge room, she found a photo of teenage Phoebe. Dark-haired, even-featured, brown-eyed, tall, athletic and tanned, she was holding a tennis racket and wearing shorts and shirt. Though differing in colour, the photo showed a young woman very like the young Rick; both were heartily cheerful. Would the married woman Amy described have changed as much as her brother? An idle question, its answer yet another irrelevance.

  She had the run of the house, all day every day. She had the books and the fan, all day every day. She had the luxurious bedroom. She didn’t have to work or think. She couldn’t visit the shops or the movies or even the scary Town Hall dance. Though she was happy to be away from them, she missed the freedom of choice. She had boxed herself in. Here there was nothing to do except read or listen to old records, and she was tiring of both. She was bored.

  She therefore rationalised. If she wanted company and conversation, there was Amy and there was work. She owed Amy. Without her help there’d no fine bedroom, no luxurious house to wander in and no cooling fan to sleep by. She began to repay the help by offering help. Getting up earlier, she cleaned, dusted, vacuumed, washed and even hung washing on the line in the scorching sun that dried it almost before it was hung.

  At night she stayed up later to help Amy prepare and serve the dinner. Even though the dining room annex had been designed for the use of farmers fresh from rigorous physical labour, the table was set with an immaculate white linen cloth, gleaming silver and fine china. The overhead low-hanging lantern shone discreet light on carved high-backed softly-cushioned walnut chairs. To one side was a carved walnut dresser. Both the furniture and lantern, imported by long-dead ancestors, were antiques. The floor was parquetry, the walls cream and the drawn curtains a soft floral chintz. Yet again she marvelled. Could this actually be a farm?

  By the end of the week, when the picking began, she was carrying food baskets to the work shed. Even so, Gus and Ryan and Rick and the regular farm hands, all busy with the harvest, remained all but strangers. Sometimes Jake, who lived and worked in Belleville, visited for half an hour in the early evening. Though he was charming and friendly, she didn’t trust him.

  Yet, unexpectedly, there was no general sense of discomfort. A surprise after the uncomfortable night of the party. Maybe the busy picking time was the measure of what this family was about. Or maybe the intense pressure of unrelenting labour was temporarily suppressing the unexplained undercurrent.

  Either way, there wasn’t much talk. Except for Jake, the family men were quiet men. Whether preoccupied, tired, or naturally uncommunicative, at dinner each night there was little conversation. While they ate and Amy waited on them and she washed, dried and stacked mountains of dishes, the radio told the day’s news – and predicted the weather.

  The weather ruled. Whenever the workers talked, whenever Amy found breath, whenever Gus or his sons exchanged goodnights, whenever a word was spoken, it inevitably included the weather. Greetings consisted, not of ‘hello’ or ‘how are you?’ or even ‘good day’, but of specific weather commentaries.

  Why, she couldn’t imagine. Since the end of the terrifying dust storm, the weather had been consistent. Days of searing sun and
cloudless skies, nights of brilliant stars and dry heat, and no faint whisper of air. No respite for the workers. No respite for her except for the fans which, in the end, merely redistributed the hot air.

  The calendar tolled the interminable days. The Train Station was on the other end of the telephone line, its answer always the same. No available seats. Yet the nightmare was creeping towards its end.

  Half a week to go. It was after nine p.m. Ryan, who was rarely absent, had gone into Belleville to dine with Jake. Unusually, after serving the meal, Amy joined Gus and Rick at the dining table. The talk was as always when they talked; the weather, the picking, the markets, transport, wages, insurance – business talk. She wasn’t interested. Until her attention was caught by sudden sounds of disagreement.

  “So long as the cottage is part of my block,” Rick’s voice was raised.

  “The rest doesn’t bother me. Jake’s not to get his hands on the cottage.”

  Gus was unhappy. “You’re too hard on him, son. Jake’s okay.”

  “Watch him, Dad.”

  “Please, Rick,” Amy intervened. “It’ll be fine. Do try not to spoil it for us.”

  “You need to be clear about this, Mother.”

  “I know to watch him, son,” Gus conceded.

  “He’s still family.”

  “I’m serious, Dad.”

  “Sure you’re serious. He’s still flesh and blood. He won’t hurt family.”

  “All the same, Ryan’s on the lookout.”

  “Sure.”

  There was the sound of cutlery on china, a cough, a rustle of paper, Blue barking under the open window; the dog was never far from its owner.

  “Well, then …” Amy’s lilting voice sharpened with an edge of doubt. “At least you can rest easy, Gus. The boys will be okay.”

  “And Phoebe,” Gus agreed. “Don’t forget she’s going to be better off.”

  “That’s right, dear. Thanks to Jake.”

  “Don’t be so sure, Mother,” Rick again warned.

  “I do trust him that far, Rick. Whatever else he may or may not do, Jake will always see that Phoebe’s looked after. She’s his favourite, remember.”

  “He’s got her land, Mother.”