A Daughter’s Choice

by Lee Christine

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The daughter of the most powerful man in Mindalby as it turns out.’ The only woman who could get under his skin with one word—‘lube’.

  Sid stroked his Ned Kelly beard with grubby fingers. ‘Where was this?’

  ‘Near the Mindalby turnoff. Do you remember passing a dark blue Camry?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Julian shook his head and straightened up. ‘You’re too much of a risk, Sid. You were late renewing your licence and you picked up hitchhikers for cash when you know that’s against the rules. This is your third and final offence.’ Julian held out the envelope. ‘I’ve given you four weeks wages in lieu of notice as well as holiday and severance pay. You can leave immediately.’

  ‘Ah, this is bullshit.’ Sid snatched the envelope from Julian’s hand. ‘You’re firing me because some sheila reckons I was driving too fast.’

  ‘It’s not just the speed,’ Julian said, his stomach turning as he inhaled a lungful of the truckie’s body odour. ‘You were too close to the centre line. Sounds like you almost ran the Camry off the road.’

  One side of Sid’s face lifted in a sneer. ‘I remember that bitch now. She was nattering on her mobile phone.’

  Liar.

  Julian knew Willow too well to fall for that one.

  Longing to wipe the obnoxious sneer off Sid Aker’s face, Julian had to physically restrain himself from clenching his fists. ‘I believe what I’ve been told,’ he said in a low voice as he came out from behind his desk. ‘Now take your money, Sid, and get out of my office.’

  ***

  After downing a cup of coffee and making sure Sid Akers had left the premises, Julian walked over to the mill. Warren Leadbeater was in the carpark, working his arse off as usual, his bulky figure moving among the crowd, cooling the hotheads with calm words and lifting the flagging spirits of others.

  Julian studied the faces of those gathered, searching for his best mate, James Chaplin, known to everyone in town as Chappy. As he watched, the workers at the far end of the carpark began gathering around Warren Leadbeater, like a basketball team surrounding their coach at quarter time.

  ‘So, what’s going on?’ he asked a bloke standing near him.

  ‘Warren’s laying down the law. Everyone’s going stir crazy sitting around here—that’s the trouble.’

  ‘Have you seen James Chaplin around this morning?’

  The bloke frowned. ‘James Chaplin.’

  ‘He’s a buddy of mine. Works as a quality control assistant. Smokes one of those e-cigarettes, you know, when people are trying to give up.’ Chappy had been a packet a day smoker since they’d first tried it behind the school toilets when they were sixteen.

  ‘I know who you mean.’ He pointed a finger at the huddle of people. ‘I’m sure he’s down there somewhere.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Julian sauntered off, searching for Chappy among the sea of faces. He recognised Burton Sims, the serious guy who’d come to the depot last night, and that prick, Cody Nossiter, a pack animal if ever there was one, and growing in self-importance by the day. What the fuck was with the GoPro camera strapped around his head?

  ‘Juls!’

  A stocky figure broke away from the crowd and came trotting towards him. It was Chappy, brown curly hair obscured by the beanie he’d bought on their last snowboarding trip. ‘What are you doing here, amigo?’

  ‘Looking for you.’ Julian grasped his friend’s hand in a firm handshake. ‘Got a minute?’

  ‘Mate, I’ve got all day.’ Chappy clapped a hand on his shoulder as they began walking away from the others. ‘What’s happening? I can do with a distraction right now.’

  ‘Christ, it’s cold.’ Julian shoved his hands in his jeans pockets, wishing he’d worn his jacket.

  ‘You can borrow my jumper if you like.’

  ‘I’ll pass—this time.’ Julian laughed as he remembered wearing Chappy’s school jumper one freezing day in primary school. Thinner, and a head taller than Chappy, the jumper was two sizes too small for Julian, the sleeves barely covering his elbows, the hem sitting on his waist. ‘I’ll always remember how horrified Mum was when I got off the bus. She made sure I didn’t forget my jumper after that.’

  ‘And here you are freezing your balls off again. You always were a slow learner, mate.’

  Chappy’s innocent words were like a punch that forced the wind from Julian’s lungs. While he didn’t speak he curved his lips into a smile, regaining his equilibrium as he’d trained himself to do over the years.

  A slow learner?

  Chappy would be mortified if he knew how much his words wounded Julian. But it was his problem, not Chappy’s. He’d experienced it all his life, before he’d been identified as dyslexic, before doctors told him he learned differently from other people and the condition had nothing to do with intelligence—before he’d worked out how to use his ‘big picture’ ability to his advantage.

  ‘So, what’s up?’ Chappy asked when they reached a quiet corner of the carpark.

  ‘Do you still have your truck licence?’

  ‘I haven’t let it lapse. Why?’

  ‘I had to put a driver off.’ Julian glanced towards the depot where his full-time mechanic was parking the tanker in the maintenance shed. ‘I’ve put the truck in for servicing but I’ll be looking for a driver come tomorrow.’ He brought his gaze back to Chappy. ‘I thought you could do with the work.’

  ‘Hell yeah!’ Chappy’s face lit up and there was relief in his eyes as he clapped Julian on the shoulder again. ‘When do I start?’

  Julian smiled. Despite his concern for the future, he was looking forward to working with Chappy again. His mate had driven for him in the early days while he’d studied for his quality control certificate. He already knew the ropes.

  ‘How about I text you this afternoon when our orders are in?’

  ‘I’ll be waiting.’ Chappy’s shoulders appeared to sag with relief. ‘Frankly, it’s depressing being stuck in this carpark day after day. The uncertainty, especially for the ones with families …’ He shook his head and stared at the ground for a few moments as if composing himself. When he raised his head, Julian could see the gratitude shining in his friend’s eyes. ‘You’re a legend, man. Thanks.’

  ‘Bullshit. You’d do the same for me, Chappy.’ He reached over and plucked Chappy’s beanie from his head, holding it high so his shorter friend had to jump for it. After two failed attempts and some light-hearted jostling, Julian tossed it back to him.

  ‘I’ll catch you later. You need to get back to the meeting.’

  ‘You need to get back to work, amigo.’

  Julian turned towards the depot, hand raised in farewell, worry gnawing at the lining of his stomach.

  What he needed to do more than anything was make an appointment at the bank.

  Chapter Five

  Lynsey pulled into the kerb outside Bonnie’s Country Threads and looked ahead to the quieter end of the town. A lone shopkeeper was hosing down the footpath near the post office and bank. By contrast, the passing trade from the hardware shop and from Bread, Buns and Treats—the bakery opposite her mother’s shop—ensured this end of the street was a hive of activity. Over the years, her mother’s colour-coordinated window displays had tempted many a customer inside after picking up their bread and pies.

  ‘I intended to call Dad today,’ Lynsey said as her mother unclipped her seatbelt. ‘I’ve changed my mind though. I’ll wait until I’ve gone through the storage unit. You haven’t remembered any more about what might be in there, have you?’

  ‘No, darling. It was all just reams of paperwork your father had brought home from the mill. The important documents for the house, the guarantees and insurances, I kept in your grandfather’s old rolltop desk in the bedroom.’

  ‘I hope it’s just a whole lot of useless junk, Mum.’ Lynsey turned up the heater while her mother gathered together the bags at her feet. ‘I don’t like the thought of finding s
omething that could be of interest to David Gresham. I know it has to be done but it would be like dobbing Dad in.’

  Her mother straightened up and turned to look at her. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you, does your father ever ring you, or is it always up to you to call him?’

  Lynsey sighed. ‘Mum, please don’t feel hurt on my behalf.’

  ‘I’ll always be hurt on your behalf. He has a beautiful daughter and he rarely sees you. I can’t understand it. It’s not like he has a younger family with Yasmin to distract him.’

  ‘I wish you’d stop worrying about my relationship with Dad. Just let it go, Mum. It is what it is.’ And it had never been good, not since Grandad Carter had died, and Yasmin had elbowed her way into a job at the mill.

  Her mother gave a snort. ‘It would be a whole lot better if he just put in some effort. And I have to talk to someone about it. I refuse to bore my friends. Anyway, it’s a private matter.’

  That was her mother’s old school ‘take it on the chin’ attitude talking right there. ‘This is exactly what’s turned me into a commitment phobe. You feel like you’re tied to Dad forever, even though you’re not.’

  ‘Children will always tie their parents together. There are graduations, twenty-firsts, engagements, weddings, grandchildren.’

  ‘Frankly, Mum, that’s terrifying.’ Lynsey turned her head to look as two Mindalby High School students came out of Bread, Buns and Treats. The boy and girl were holding hands, the girl’s face angled towards the boy’s as she laughed at something he said.

  How many times had she and Julian met at that bakery before school? Too many times to count. They’d buy a sausage roll and a chocolate milk, then lose track of the time and have to run to school to make first period.

  ‘I’m not sure I’d call it terrifying,’ her mother was saying, ‘though many women are terrified of their former partners. It’s the risk we take when we fall in love.’

  ‘Not me.’ Wasn’t her mother aware of the appalling stats? Seven out of ten marriages now ended in divorce. With those odds, who in their right mind would bother?

  ‘I think you’ll change your mind when you meet the right person.’ Her mother leaned across the console and kissed Lynsey on the cheek. ‘Thank you for coming back. I realise all of this is a major disruption to your life.’

  ‘You didn’t cause it, Mum, and of course I’d come back. You, Willow and Atlas are my family.’

  It was only after her mother had alighted from the car and stood waving on the footpath that Lynsey realised she hadn’t included her father in her list of family members.

  ***

  Staying just below the speed limit, Lynsey drove towards the industrial estate, familiarising herself with the feel of her mother’s car again. The early morning frost had all but melted, the cloudless expanse of winter sky holding no promise of badly needed rain.

  She turned right into Burton Park Road, past the police station, the IGA supermarket and the rural fire brigade building. On the green strip in front of the hospital where she’d had her tonsils out as a kid, a flock of pink galahs were pecking at the grass in search of seed.

  Stone’s Transport came up on her right and she tightened her grip on the wheel, resisting the urge to turn her head and look into the depot. Her visit to Mindalby was short-term and she’d be wise to put Julian Stone and his half sleeve of tattoos out of her mind. He might have kept those men in line last night so she and Willow could make their escape, but he would have done the same for anyone in their situation.

  She slowed for a red light, the Mindalby Cotton Company looming in front of her—the bale shed, the cotton gin and office block all enclosed within a wire cyclone fence. As the light changed and she turned into Woodburn Road she could see the gates remained locked and the number of workers in the carpark had swelled. Her hands clammy on the wheel, she pressed her foot down on the accelerator and continued on until she came to Forbes Street. The sooner the administrator sorted things out the better. If the drought was solely responsible for the mill’s financial woes then the rumours circulating around town that it was all her father’s doing could be put to rest.

  In Forbes Street, Lynsey slowed down again, searching for the entrance into the storage units. A horn blasted from behind and she jerked, pins and needles erupting across the back of her neck and shoulders. An aggressive-looking black ute was on her tail, the driver gesticulating for her to get a move on. Wishing she possessed Willow’s driving confidence, Lynsey pulled into the kerb and let the tailgater roar past. Having never made the successful transition from country to city driving, she’d sold her car shortly after moving to Brisbane. As a result, her driving skills were seriously lacking for the want of regular hours behind the wheel.

  Further along she found the entrance and turned into the driveway. Bypassing the admin building she slowed down to the yard’s sign-posted speed limit. From memory, the unit her mother leased was located in the old section at the rear of the property.

  It didn’t take long for Lynsey to find row G and soon she was pulling the car alongside a yellow roller door with number 29 painted above it.

  She stepped out into the frosty air and pulled on the old parka she’d brought from her mother’s place. She popped the boot and took out a roll of paper towelling and a can of WD-40. According to her mother, the lock was partially rusted out and prone to jamming. Taking aim with the can, she gave the lock a good spray. Using a wad of paper, she blotted the excess oil from around the lock then slipped the key inside. It rotated a quarter of a turn, then jammed. Using a little pressure and the smallest of movements, Lynsey manipulated the key back and forth. The teeth clicked into place and turned the full one hundred and eighty degrees.

  ‘Awesome,’ she muttered, extracting the key and shoving it into the pocket of her jeans. She slid her fingertips under one of the ridges in the door and pushed upwards. The steel track creaked and groaned but offered little in the way of resistance, and she was able to push the door all the way up.

  Daylight flooded into the storage unit, sending cockroaches scurrying in every direction. An oily smell permeating the air made Lynsey cringe. The odour was coming from a dark patch staining the concrete, where a spill from the garage next door had seeped in under the wall.

  She swung around as a crunch of tyres drew her attention back to the road. A green Holden had turned into the same row of sheds. Keeping her head down, she turned her back as the car went by. She didn’t need the unwanted attention from people making use of the storage facility—not today, with tensions running high in the town and so many people watching out for her father.

  Deciding the cold was the lesser of two evils, Lynsey pulled the roller door down, stopping it around knee height. With the car parked outside and the door three-quarters the way closed she would have enough privacy as well as much needed ventilation.

  She turned and surveyed the garage. The right side was stacked with spare fixtures from her mother’s shop. Adjustable shelving. Circular and rectangular clothes racks her mother used to display her stock at the annual Cotton Festival. A few small display tables covered in bubble wrap were stacked on top of each other. On the left side of the garage, cardboard cartons of various sizes were stacked to the roof. Lynsey read the labels: ‘Christmas Lights’, ‘Christmas Decorations’, ‘Melbourne Cup Decorations’, ‘Valentine’s Day Decorations’, ‘Christmas Tree’. Going on what her mother had said, the crates containing the contents of her father’s study were in the back corner behind these boxes.

  Lynsey reached up and grabbed the highest box. Despite its size it was quite light. She put it on the floor and reached for the next one. It too was light. She stacked it on top of the first one then swung around and screamed as a ghostly face stared back at her.

  Heart racing and fighting to breathe, Lynsey groped for the light switch. The single tube choked to life and in the flickering light she could make out two creepy mannequins staring at her from beneath their plastic dust coverings. The one
she’d come face to face with had long blonde hair, black eyes and laughing red lips. The other was bald and wore cat’s-eye glasses.

  Far out. And people thought scientists were eccentric. What about the people who made these weird-looking things?

  Once her heart rate had slowed, Lynsey got on with her work. She dragged the mannequins out of the way and closer to the other furniture. That gave her a clear path to the plastic crates her mother had stacked against the wall. Seven in total. Covered in eleven years of dust and cockroach droppings.

  Chiding herself that she hadn’t thought to bring air freshener, bug spray and a broom, Lynsey took hold of the first plastic crate and opened the lid.

  Chapter Six

  By lunchtime Lynsey had unpacked three of the crates. Anything to do with the mill was sorted into relevant piles and stacked on the upturned lids. So far, she hadn’t discovered anything that would be of interest to David Gresham. Yet sorting through her father’s belonging from eleven years ago made her feel unaccountably weepy, as though she was sorting through the possessions of a loved one after they’d died.

  Lynsey ran her eyes over the files again. One contained a bundle of Qantas Frequent Flyer statements and another her father’s e-tag information for the Sydney motorways. One crate held the contents of the desk drawers, everything from pads, pens and Post-It notes to staplers and rulers and a hole punch. Lynsey’s heart ached as she imagined her mother, so hurt by her father’s betrayal that she’d upended the drawers without bothering to sort through the contents. Only once had Lynsey felt that kind of despair, and she never wanted to experience it again. Alone in a strange city and yet to make friends, she’d deleted every photograph of Julian from her iPhone. The only photo she had of him now was the one from their school yearbook.

  Taking another file from the crate she flipped open the cover and stared at the contents. Bank statements for Mindalby Cotton Company from 2005, held together by a long silver split pin. Lynsey flicked through the pile of statements looking for any notations that might have been made beside the cheque entries. There was nothing. With a sigh she put the file aside. The bank statements could be useful to an administrator’s investigation, but without anything to cross reference the amounts to, they meant nothing to her.