“We’re lucky with our children,” said Greg. “All theirs live in Brisbane.”
Eleanor wondered what he thought of the house with its worn linoleum and shabby furniture. The blue check tablecloth hid the broken leg of the table that was held together with fencing wire.
“Did you know the people who used to own Acacia?” he asked.
She looked down to hide her unease. “Slightly.”
“Is it true that their father cut them out of his will?”
Greg jumped up and pointed into the garden. “Snake! Brown one!”
June, Neil and Tom shoved back their chairs, ran to the verandah rail stamping their feet and yelling. Knowing there was no snake and that Greg was getting the conversation away from Acacia, Eleanor shook with laughter at the reporter’s expression. Greg picked up a broom and hurled it into the bushes. In the back garden Red started barking. Toddles raced through the house.
June grabbed her collar. “Stay!”
“Well spotted, Dad,” said Tom.
“I just saw it disappearing into the bushes.”
“Has it gone?” asked the reporter.
Eleanor tried to speak, but was laughing too much.
“Yes,” said June.
“Is that all you do? You don’t kill them?”
“No,” said Greg. “Most people who get bitten by snakes are trying to kill them.”
“And they control rats and mice,” said Tom.
“What about shooting them and getting a couple of cats?”
Greg shook his head. “We don’t have a gun. The last owner of the property over the creek was climbing over a fence when he fell. His gun went off and he was killed.”
Eleanor wiped her eyes. “Cats ...” She started laughing again and couldn’t continue.
“I’m sure pleased I’ve entertained you, Mrs Mitchell,” he said with a grin.
“Cats scare the birds away and birds eat aphids. Our garden is pest free,” said Tom.
“Come and have a look,” said Greg, leading him down the steps.
“Don’t birds eat your fruit?”
“No.” June uncoiled the hose and began to fill the bird baths. They’re too busy eating the grubs and aphids.”
Greg picked an apple. “Have one.”
The reporter looked into the laden tree and grinned. “Sure you can spare it? The people over the creek said something about a barter system ... is that right?”
“Yes,” said Eleanor. “In return for vegetables, fruit and eggs, they give us milk, butter and cream. They’ve got a few dairy cows and when they got electricity they began making butter – just for the locals. We all barter round here. The people at the property to our west keep bees and give us honey.”
“The Acacia lot really miss out, don’t they?”
Greg nodded. “I hate talking about them.”
The reporter chewed the apple. “Well if it’s any consolation I’m going to attack them in my article. Before I started on about greed I took plenty of photos.” He laughed. “They thought I was impressed.”
Tom smiled. “I’m looking forward to reading it.”
Greg picked a bunch of grapes and gave them to him.
“Gosh, thanks.”
“Do you like passion fruit?” asked Neil.
“Sure do.”
Greg found a cardboard box and filled it with fruit and vegetables. “Just so you can sample our stuff.”
They showed him the flowers that they planted among the vegetables to attract bees.
“I’ve got a heading for my article: ‘Natural Snake Deterrents, Natural Everything’ – how does that sound?”
To Eleanor’s relief, when they returned to the verandah, the reporter went back to the discussion about water tanks. He looked into the distance. “Where are they? I didn’t see any on my way in.”
“You wouldn’t,” said Tom. “They’re ugly things so we surrounded them with trees.”
“Cheap and effective,” said the reporter.
“Not cheap,” objected Eleanor.
He gestured dismissively. “In the end it must have saved you money. No dead animals during a drought.” He looked at Tom when he asked his next question about crop rotation.
Eleanor resisted the temptation to tell him that she was the owner of Eumeralla. Greg didn’t deserve to have his pride hurt. Resignedly she gestured to June and they went into the kitchen.
“Bloody man,” said June. “Flash car, flash clothes. Thinks – ”
“Sh, Juju,” she said, searching the cupboards for plates that were not chipped.
June sliced the loaf of bread Neil had made that morning. “I don’t care if he hears.”
Eleanor took the lemonade out of the icebox. “I do. We want him to write a good article about us.” She was disappointed that yet another affluent man had failed to impress June. ‘Damn it, Juju, why couldn’t you be interested in him?’ she thought, as she put the glasses on a tray. ‘He’d pour money into Eumeralla.’
Their arrival back on the verandah was ignored. June dumped the slices of bread, butter and a jar of apricot jam on the table.
Eleanor handed the reporter a glass of lemonade. “We made this with our own lemons,” she said, interrupting Tom’s explanation about how the compost heaps worked.
He drank half the glass in thirsty gulps. “Best lemonade I’ve ever tasted.”
“Ask Neil for the recipe,” said June, ignoring his glower. “We water the compost heaps with our urine – much better than using chemical fertilizers. It all goes into a bucket – ”
“I’ve just told him all that,” said Tom impatiently.
“When the bucket’s full we pour it on the compost heaps and we work the compost into the soil in the fallow sections,” continued June. “Neil did it this morning, but I bet he forgot to wash his hands before he made the bread.”
The reporter clicked his fingers. “That must be why it’s got such a great flavour. The jam’s good too. Did you make that?”
“Yes,” said Eleanor. “From our own apricots.”
“You’ll miss your children when they leave home.”
“We’re never leaving,” said Tom.
“What about when you get married?” asked the reporter.
“Our wives will come and live here.”
“What if they don’t want to?”
“The girl I marry will have to want to live here.”
“What about you, June?”
“I’d only leave here for another property in the Darling Downs.”
“Have you got a boyfriend?”
“Sort of. He’s doing a grand tour of the world. He wanted to travel before he settled down.”
“Will you get married when he comes back?”
“I doubt it. He doesn’t like Eumeralla much,” said June.
“And we don’t like him,” said Tom. “He kept telling us how we could make more money. He’s like the Acacia – ”
“He’s right about a lot of things,” Eleanor interrupted. “He’d be happy to live here. I hope June does marry him when he gets back.”
Tom looked angry. “He’ll want us to make vast profits!”
Seeing the reporter was worried about a row breaking out, Eleanor stopped herself from saying ‘good.’ Adopting a conciliatory tone, she said, “Things can’t stay the same for ever. If they did we’d still be cutting wheat by hand.”
The reporter reached down and picked up a camera from the floor. “Let’s have some photos of you all.”
Eleanor controlled her impulse to shriek. She saw Greg looking at the camera as if it was a death adder. “Shall we … ” she began, trying to think of the best way to stop him photographing June.
“Let’s take you round the property first – we’ll get you a horse. Save the photos till then,” said Greg.
Eleanor, conscious that her face was bright red, was puzzled that the reporter, instead of being suspicious, looked guarded.
“It would be better if we went by car. I’d ge
t to see more,” he said. “I’ve got to be back in Dalby soon.”
“Can’t you ride?” asked June bluntly.
“No,” he admitted.
“Right, come on, Neil, Tom, get the truck out,” said Greg.
As June walked towards the back steps, Eleanor grabbed her arm. “Stay here with me.”
“No. Why?”
“We must get these things washed up.”
“Neil’s on home rota, not us.”
Greg turned on her. “You’re staying here, June!”
Eleanor saw June’s bewilderment as she watched them walk to the sheds to get the truck. Greg rarely snapped at her. That he’d called her June and not Juju indicated how angry he was. “What’s up with him?” she asked.
“You were antagonizing the reporter. If you’d needled him any more he might have labelled us as cranks.”
June tipped the bread crumbs into a bowl for the chickens. “He thinks women are stupid.”
“He would – he’s a man.”
“Dad’s not like that – neither are Neil and Tom.”
“Of course, Juju. They flew to our defence today, didn’t they?”
“They thought they might look unmanly, I suppose.”
Eleanor sighed. While June collected the glasses and plates and took them into the kitchen, she leant on the verandah rail as the men disappeared into the shed. Minutes later they drove off towards the wheat fields in the open truck, a trail of dust billowing behind them.
June joined her. “You’re always strange after you’ve been to the cemetery.”
“Am I? How?”
“Far away. Like now. Where are you?”
“Nowhere, Juju,” she said, thinking how cathartic it would be to be able to talk about Jonathan, Laurence and Virginia. How they had all played as children and grown up together. She wished she could describe her joy when the boys returned from their boarding school in Sydney for the holidays. ‘What a release to be able to tell someone,’ she thought.
When she and Jonathan were married Eumeralla and Acacia had shared their domestic help and Eleanor only cooked when she felt like it. She and Virginia preferred riding round the properties with the men. Only when there was a possibility that she might be pregnant did she stay in the house. Then Jonathan would come home early. The image of him running up the steps and kissing her before picking her up and carrying her into their bedroom was strong.
“Mum?”
“What?”
“What are you thinking about?”
Imagining June’s reaction if she said, ‘sex,’ she smiled.
“Tell me, Mum.”
“For heavens sake, Juju, stop nagging. Get those things washed up.”
“Can’t they wait till Neil gets back?”
“No! Do you want us to be invaded by ants?”
“You’re so crabby these days, Mum.”
Eleanor, seeing June’s dejection, sighed. “I’m fed up with scrimping and worrying about money.”
“It’s Hazel’s fault,” said June, filling the kettle with water. “Continually going on about her flat. She criticizes Eumeralla every time she visits. I’m fed up with her moaning about how uncivilized we are.”
“She’s right.”
“Come on, Mum. Her friends are enchanted when they come.”
Eleanor grunted. “It’s the novelty. They don’t have to live here.”
“Why didn’t you sell it when your dad died?”
“I loved it then.” She knew she sounded wistful.
“Did you? What’s changed you?”
“It’s my age,” she said wearily.
June squeezed a tiny amount of washing-up liquid into the sink. “You haven’t forgotten it’s Neil’s birthday on Sunday, have you?”
Eleanor had forgotten. “Do you think I’m senile?”
“No, just vague and forgetful. Funny to think he’s twenty-three.”
“You can’t catch me out that easily,” said Eleanor, who had seen June’s sly smile. “He’ll be twenty-two.” She laughed to cover her guilt. ‘I didn’t really forget,’ she thought. ‘I bought him a present and card last time I went to Brisbane to see Hazel.’ She tried to remember where she had put them.
The men were away so long that June began to worry. “They might have had an accident. Let’s go and look for them.”
“No,” said Eleanor. “You know how they are when they start talking about crops and water and fire breaks.”
She knew Greg was spinning out the tour so the reporter would have to leave straight away and not return to the house. ‘Stupid of us not to realize he’d want photographs of us all,’ she thought.
“He wanted to come back and take photos of you and Juju,” Greg told Eleanor later. “But I delayed him so long at the water tanks he had to rush off.”
“Well done,” said Eleanor. “The last thing we want are photos of Juju circulating round the Darling Downs for Keith and Gabriella to see.”
CHAPTER 2
Keith stood in the doorway of his sister’s bedroom. Making sure Gabriella hadn’t committed suicide while he was asleep was the first thing he did every morning. When he saw the sheet moving with the rhythm of her breathing, he went into the kitchen and put on the kettle. While he waited for his mother to arrive, he read the farming magazine, debating whether to cancel his subscription and give up his dream of buying land and becoming a grazier. He hated being a postman, but his father had not been insured and after his death his mother had become a cleaner for the council so she could buy food and clothes and pay the rent. Having to look after his sister was delaying his plans. He wanted to finish his education at night school. With his Matriculation he could apply for jobs with promotional prospects and save up to buy a block of land. His ultimate dream was to buy Acacia.
The headline, A Tale of Two Properties, captured his attention. The first part of the article was about Acacia. Without using the word, the acquisitiveness of the owners was implied by the description of their lifestyle. There was a photo of the new homestead and one of the old one. Deprived of the trees and bushes that had surrounded it when Keith’s father had lived there, it looked exposed. There were photos of the swimming pool, tennis courts, garages, the Rolls Royce, Ferrari and Porsche.
The piece about Eumeralla was different. The photos were of Greg Mitchell and his two sons, and the reporter wrote generously about their farming methods. ‘Did Dad know them?’ he thought. ‘Greg looks about the same age as Dad would have been now.’
He heard his mother’s car arrive as he was making the tea.
“Did Dad know the family on Eumeralla?” Keith asked as they had their breakfast.
Her agitation, although quickly checked, was unmistakable.
“Mum?”
“He didn’t mention them to me ... or if he did ... I’ve forgotten. It could have been called something different then.”
Keith gave her the magazine. “They’ve been written up in this. And Acacia too.”
Her eyes flicked over the photos and when she turned the page he saw her hand was shaking. Her sigh of relief was spontaneous.
“What is it, Mum?”
“Nothing. Now you’d better get off to work.”
Keith went to the dresser. “I forgot to give you Fiona’s letter yesterday,” he said.
***
Longing to get under a cold shower, Fiona Lancaster waited for a tram outside the Ansett Airline office where she worked in Melbourne. During the half-hour journey to Hawthorn she read the first chapter of the biography of Anne Boleyn that she had bought. She was so engrossed she almost missed her stop. Scrambling off the tram at the last minute, she walked to her unit. The flowers she had brought for her aunt were wilting in the heat.
In her letter box were two bills, a letter from her parents and another from her cousin Keith. As soon as she got inside she put the flowers in a bucket of water. Anxious for news about Gabriella she delayed her shower and opened Keith’s letter.
3rd February 197
2
Dear Fiona,
Mum and I are petrified that Gabby will kill herself .
“Oh, God,” said Fiona. She bit her lip as she looked at Gabriella’s wedding photograph on the bookcase. Tears blurred the picture of the radiant bride, dressed in white chiffon with a pearl headdress holding her veil in place. She read the rest of Keith’s letter, trying to think of something to write that would not sound clichéd. She put his letter back in the envelope and went into the bathroom. ‘I could go to Queensland for a week,’ she thought, as she stepped under the shower. She turned on the cold tap, gasping as the icy water hit her. Gradually she adjusted the temperature to warm. Suddenly she remembered something. Rinsing the herbal-scented conditioner out of her hair and finishing her shower with another icy blast, she dried herself and wrapped her hair in a towel. In the lounge she went to the desk and filled her fountain pen with black ink.
Dear Keith,
This is just a hurried note, because I’m going out. Remind Gabby of the time I saved her when those louts threw her off the pier in Sydney. She couldn’t swim, you couldn’t swim and no one else was about. I saved her life. Tell her there must have been a reason. I didn’t save her to have her killing herself ten years later.
After addressing the envelope she looked in her diary to see when she could conveniently go to Queensland. The tennis club was having a travelling dinner on Saturday and she was hosting the dessert course. There was a competition match the following weekend, but she was free the next week. She pencilled the date in her diary and put it back in her handbag.
She unwrapped the towel from around her head and her platinum blonde hair fell to her waist. While she waited for it to dry she watered her window boxes and cut off the dead flowers from the geraniums. In spite of its length and thickness, her hair dried quickly. Unable to bear it hanging down her back in the heat, she twisted it in a knot on top of her head. Pleased to see that the flowers were recovering, she went into her bedroom and dressed in a white linen sundress and sandals. She walked the long way to her aunt’s house so she could post her letter to Keith.
Eumeralla - Secrets, Tragedy and Love Page 2