Eumeralla - Secrets, Tragedy and Love

by Joanna Stephen-Ward

I’m so upset to hear about your father, Eleanor. We arrived home from our honeymoon today and have just read Dad’s letter. He told me that you’ll be moving to Eumeralla now, but just in case you’re not there yet I’ll address this to Acacia.

  We look forward to seeing you both soon.

  Lots and lots of love and sympathy,

  Virginia and Alex.

  “They were married,” Gabriella said excitedly.

  “Why didn’t Dad tell us? He talked about Johnny a lot, but he never once said he was married or mentioned Eumeralla.” He picked up the snapshot of the toddlers. “Were these his children?”

  “They must have been. Twins. Did they die in the same fire?”

  Keith shook his head. “Dad said Johnny died trying to rescue a boy and his mother.” He jumped up. “A bloke named Greg Mitchell owns Eumeralla now. Hang on, I’ll get the magazine.” He went into his bedroom and came back flicking through the pages. “Here it is.”

  Farmers should return to more traditional and less wasteful and greedy methods, Greg Mitchell of Eumeralla advises.

  Keith read the whole article, but there was no reference to Eleanor. “Eumeralla must have been sold. Eleanor might be dead.”

  “Let’s keep looking.”

  Two hours later when they had almost given up, Gabriella found a letter.

  12/12/1946

  Laurence,

  Why do you resent me marrying Greg? Jonathan left me and only came back when he found out about the twins. If you want to see May and June, treat me and Greg with courtesy or you are not welcome at Eumeralla.

  Eleanor.

  Gabriella gave a whoop of triumph. “This is it – the connection! She married Greg Mitchell. That means she’s still on Eumeralla.”

  “If that other letter of hers is anything to go by, they were friends again six months later so Dad must have apologized,” said Keith.

  “Let’s go to Eumeralla next weekend,” she said.

  Her animation reminded him of Gabriella as she had been before Brett’s death.

  “Shall we go in the car?” asked Gabriella when she arrived at Keith’s on Saturday.

  He picked up his leather jacket. “The bike.”

  She took her jumper from the front seat and pulled it over her head. “Do I look all right? Respectable, I mean.”

  “You look fine,” he said, looking approvingly at her shining bronze hair that she had tied back with a brown ribbon that matched her trousers. Her cotton shirt was white and her yellow jumper was new. A few days ago, when she had gone into Brisbane and bought new clothes, he felt that her recovery was complete. Among her purchases were suits and dresses suitable for wearing to interviews.

  They got on the bike. Although Keith never wore a crash helmet when he was in the bush because it spoilt the feel of the wind on his face and in his hair, he always made his passenger wear one. It was not until he was steering his bike through the gates of Eumeralla that apprehension gripped him. “Should we be doing this?” he asked when Gabriella had closed the gates.

  “Yes,” she said, prodding him. “Come on, we’re nearly there.”

  Following the track for a mile, he stopped when he saw a white weatherboard house set on stilts. He propped his bike against a tree, took off his jacket and draped it over the seat. Gabriella balanced her helmet on it and they went up the flight of wooden steps onto the shaded verandah.

  Before they could knock a woman came down the hall. “You’ve beaten Hazel – she’s late as usual,” she said, opening the door. She had dark hair that was turning grey, brown eyes and a tanned skin. Tall and thin, she wore jeans and a blue shirt. “I’m her mum. Come in.”

  “Mrs Mitchell, there’s a bit of a misunderstanding,” said Gabriella. “We’re Laurence’s children. Jonathan was our uncle.”

  Keith saw her welcoming expression change to shock. “Are you Eleanor?” he asked.

  “You’ve got to go!”

  He was startled by her fear. “I’m not going to hurt you. I read about Eumeralla in a farming magazine – then when our mum died we found some letters – ”

  “You’ve got to go!” She looked at her watch.

  Keith could hear her panicky breathing.

  She banged the fly-screen door shut. “Please, leave,” she begged. “Please.”

  Gabriella touched his arm. “Come on, Keith.” She ran down the steps.

  He followed slowly.

  “Hurry. She’s probably watching us.”

  “Tough,” he said. He mounted the bike, then turned and waved.

  Gabriella slapped his back. “Stop it! Obviously her children don’t know about Jonathan.”

  “But they were married. Why all the flaming secrecy? It’s not as if he was a criminal or some uneducated lout.”

  “Get going.”

  He turned on the engine and drove down the track. Half a mile away he slowed down. The house was out of sight. He stopped the bike. “This is ridiculous. Why was she frightened of us?”

  “I don’t think it was us,” Gabriella said thoughtfully.

  “Who was it? There was no one else there.”

  She got off the bike and leant against a tree. “It was more that she was scared about someone coming and seeing us. She looked at her watch.”

  “She was expecting Hazel’s friends and Hazel. Gabby, something’s weird. Aunty Virginia and Uncle Alex were frightened of me coming here, and look at the reception we got. Three frightened people. For God’s sake, what’s frightening them?”

  “Let’s go, Keith, I can hear a horse.”

  “So what? I’m fed up with this.”

  She jumped back on the bike. “Quick. We don’t want to be done for trespassing – they might shoot us.”

  He turned round and to his astonishment saw Fiona riding towards them.

  “Hi!” she called as she reigned in the horse. She waved her hand. “The house is that way.”

  Keith got off his bike. “What are you doing here?”

  She looked at them blankly. “Are you ... Hazel’s friends?”

  “Stop mucking about, Fiona,” said Gabriella. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  She appeared baffled, and her horse tossed his head.

  Realization flashed through Keith’s mind. Apart from her beauty, Fiona had two distinctive features. Her vivid turquoise eyes were one. The other was her dark eyebrows and lashes that were in dramatic contrast to her fair skin and platinum-blonde hair. Although the rider was identical to Fiona, there were two discrepancies. The girl on the horse was an expert rider. Unless she had lied to him, Fiona was scared of horses. Fiona spoke quickly almost in staccato. This girl spoke in a typical country drawl.

  “June,” he said. “You’re June, aren’t you?”

  She nodded. “Who are you?”

  “Keith, and this is my sister Gabby. We’re your cousins.”

  She shook her head. “We haven’t got any cousins.”

  “Look,” he said, “I don’t know how to tell you this – ”

  Gabriella grasped his arm. “Don’t!”

  “What’s going on?” asked June.

  They all stared at each other until the sound of a car diverted them. It came into view and stopped. A girl with dark curly hair got out. She was a young version of the woman up at the house. “Juju!” she called.

  “Hi, Hazel,” said June.

  Hazel walked over to Keith and Gabriella. “Are you lost?”

  “No, we thought you were someone else,” said Keith.

  “He thought they were our cousins,” said June.

  “I made a mistake.”

  Hazel gazed at him admiringly.

  Keith did not notice. His memory jolted, he remembered the word Fiona had cried repeatedly, sixteen years ago.

  ‘Juju.’

  CHAPTER 8

  Keith drove straight back to his house. He and Gabriella got off the bike and looked at each other, still awed by their discovery.

  “We’re stupid,” he said. “It was
so obvious. I can’t believe we didn’t guess when we saw the photo of the twins.”

  “We would have if Fiona’s name had still been May,” said Gabriella. “Fiona’s birthday’s the thirty-first of May. The date on the photo was the first of June. What are we going to do?”

  He wheeled the bike to the side of the house. “Haven’t got a clue.”

  “Who’s Fiona’s real mother?” she asked as they went inside.

  “Eleanor must be.”

  “But she looks like Virginia.”

  He grinned. “Drongo. She’s Uncle Johnny’s daughter.”

  Gabriella frowned. “What are we going to do?”

  “I still haven’t got a clue.” He took a bottle of beer out of the fridge. “Do you want anything?”

  “Tea.” She put the kettle on. “Have you got any biscuits or cake?”

  “Both.” he said, putting a packet of chocolate biscuits and a slab of banana cake on the table. “We’ve got to tell Fiona.”

  “How?” She leant against the worktop. “This will cause turmoil.”

  “We can’t keep this from her.”

  Gabriella chewed her lip. “I could go down to Melbourne and tell her. But I’ll have to see Uncle Alex and Aunty Virginia first.” She lit a cigarette and paced round the room. “Let’s piece as much of this together as we can. You think Eleanor is Fiona’s mother, but Virginia could be. What would drive a mother to give away a baby?”

  “The twins were identical – maybe she thought one was expendable. Johnny left Eleanor – she had the twins and gave one to Aunty Virginia.”

  “Not straight away,” said Gabriella. “According to that photo she had both twins on Eumeralla in 1947, when they were a year old.”

  ***

  “Mum, he was such a gorgeous hunk, wasn’t he, Juju?” said Hazel as she added vinegar to the chopped mint.

  June cut a potato into quarters. “I suppose so.”

  Eleanor tried to sound amused. “Is there a boy on this earth that you don’t think is gorgeous, Hazel?”

  “He wasn’t a boy, he was a man,” said Hazel. “He looked like a Viking.”

  Eleanor put dripping into the roasting pan. “Was he wearing a horned helmet?”

  “No, he had long blonde hair.”

  “Long blonde hair?” Eleanor tried to keep her hands steady as she put the leg of lamb in the oven. “Are you sure it was a man? Sounds more like a girl.”

  “Mum, it wasn’t that long. Just a bit longer than fashionable. And his eyes ... they were smoky green ... like gum leaves, weren’t they, Juju?”

  June weighed the flour. “I don’t know, I didn’t look into them,” she said drily. “Haven’t you finished that mint sauce yet?”

  Eleanor opened the door to the stove. “We need more wood. This isn’t burning very well.”

  “How can I find out where he lives?”

  June added more flour to the weighing bowl. “You just stand and dream – Mum and I’ll do all the work.”

  Hazel scooped up the vegetable peelings. “Sorry. Did he tell you his name?”

  June smiled. “He did.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Aloysius.”

  “Well that’s the end of that,” said Eleanor, able to joke in spite of her guilt. “I’m not having a son-in-law called Aloysius.”

  “Al,” said Hazel. “I could call him Al.”

  “No you couldn’t,” said June.

  “Why not?”

  June spluttered with laughter. “Because his name’s Keith.”

  “Juju!” said Hazel, flicking a piece of potato peel at her. “Who was that girl? Wasn’t his wife was it?”

  “His sister.”

  Eleanor turned to the cupboard so they wouldn’t see her face. “It sounds as if you asked him for his family tree.”

  “Did you find out his surname?” asked Hazel.

  June giggled. “No.”

  “How remiss of you, Juju,” said Eleanor. “You should have asked him for his address so Hazel could hunt him down.”

  “He thought they were our cousins,” said Hazel. “Maybe we’re distantly related and they’re searching for their family tree. That’ll give me an excuse to get in touch with him.”

  “We might be.” June looked thoughtful. “He knew my name. I thought it was strange, but if we’re related – ”

  “We must be! He looked a lot like you, Juju.”

  Eleanor was thankful she had put the mixing bowl down without dropping it.

  “His hair was a darker blonde than yours ... it was more gold, but your features are the same,” Hazel continued. “You look more like him than his sister does. You must be a throwback.”

  “For goodness sake, Hazel, let’s get on with the dinner. Your friends will be here soon,” said Eleanor, trying to sound exasperated, not unnerved.

  June went to the door. “I’ll go and get the wood.”

  “No I will,” Eleanor said, wanting to get away. ‘She’s no throwback,’ she thought as she went down the steps to the shed. ‘She’s like Johnny.’ As she collected the wood, she remembered Keith and Gabriella’s bewilderment when she told them to go. If Keith’s features had not been dappled by shadows, she would have known who he was immediately. She hadn’t wanted to send them away. Foreboding had fought with regret as she watched them go down the steps. She had wanted to hug them and tell them she was sorry about their mother. She had wished she could invite them in and talk about their father and Jonathan and Virginia. “I upset them for nothing,” she murmured, “They saw Juju anyway.”

  “Are you all right, Mum?” asked Hazel when she came back to the kitchen.

  She sighed. “I will be if you stop waffling and get the pastry for the apricot pie made.”

  Eleanor kept up the pretence all afternoon and through dinner. She listened to Hazel’s chatter about life in Brisbane, asked her friends sensible questions and laughed at the right time. Even Greg didn’t notice her strain. Hazel’s friends were not the townies she normally brought to Eumeralla. One of the men was saving up to buy a farm and one of the girls, who said she was fed up with the city, flirted with Tom. Normally Eleanor would have hoped a romance was beginning, instead of longing for the evening to end. It was after midnight before she and Greg were alone.

  As soon as she had shut their bedroom door, Eleanor clutched his arm. “Keith and Gabriella were here today,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “Sh, keep your voice down.”

  “Did they see Juju?”

  “Yes. They told her she was their cousin. When she was telling me I tried not to seem interested. Luckily Hazel kept raving about Keith.” She smiled ruefully. “Not only does she think he’s a gorgeous hunk – he’s the most gorgeous hunk she’s ever met. He looks so much like Laurence.”

  “Bloody hell.” Greg sat on the bed. “Keith and Gabriella are sure to tell Fiona. We’ll have to tell Juju.”

  “I can’t.”

  He put his arm around her. “I will.”

  Eleanor rubbed her throbbing head. “We promised Virginia and Alex – ”

  “We’ll have to warn them.”

  “No, Greg. There must be another way. Go and see Keith and ask him keep quiet.”

  He nodded. “I’ll go tomorrow.”

  It gave Greg a strange feeling to see the house again. Twenty-five years ago he, Laurence and Virginia had stood in the overgrown garden.

  “We must be able to find something better than this,” Virginia had protested, looking at the peeling weatherboard and the corrugated iron roof that had once been red, but which the sun had bleached to pink. All the fire had gone out of her. Until the solicitor had advised them not to contest the will she had been ready to fight.

  Greg shook his head. “If Laurence does all the painting, the owner will pay for the paint. The place belonged to his parents and he wants to keep it. It’s clean inside.” Desperate to cheer them up he latched onto the few good things. “And the garden’s big. Wait till you
go round the back.”

  “It’ll do,” said Laurence. “Anything will do.” Devastated by the deaths of Francesca and Jonathan, his love for Acacia had been the only thing that kept him going. Being disinherited had reduced him to a stupor. The potential heir to ten thousand acres of rich farming land and a beautiful homestead was so impoverished he had to rent a small house in the nearest town. The only things he had taken from Acacia had been his clothes, books, photos, letters and the onyx chess set his parents had given him one Christmas. He had refused to let Virginia buy him anything.

  Until January 1949, when he had married again, the house was sparsely furnished. It had been Keith’s and Gabriella’s mother who had scoured second-hand shops and filled each room with cheap but solid pieces. When Keith was a year old the Clarksons and Mitchells realized they must never see each other again. It had been hard for all of them. Greg missed Laurence’s companionship. He knew that Keith and Gabriella would have been marvellous friends for his children. Instead of being able to visit Eumeralla and learning to ride, Keith and Gabriella had lived a parochial existence. What they knew about agriculture and horses had come second-hand from their father.

  It was twenty two years since Greg had visited the house. The gate was pitted with rust, the white picket fence was sagging, but the garden Laurence had created, with trees, shrubs and winding paths, was as he remembered. The gate squeaked when he opened it. Tins of paint, labelled antique ivory, were on the verandah. Keith, dressed in overalls, came outside with a pile of brown linoleum and dropped it in the skip. His hair was longer and darker, but he looked so much like Laurence that Greg felt he had gone back in time.

  Keith turned round and saw him. “Hello?” he said, sounding puzzled.

  “I’m Greg Mitchell. Can I speak to you?”

  “Oh. Sure.”

  Keith towered over him. He was even taller than Laurence had been.

  “Come in. Do you want a cup of tea?”