Preparing for the day ahead, she’d wielded the iron determinedly, making bold smooth steaming strokes across her jacket, and begun to ‘count her blessings’. Then, in the midst of her counting, she’d spotted her lucky jeans, peeking insolently out at her from among the pile of tangled garments waiting to be pressed. She’d dug them out, folded them roughly and taken them to her room, where she’d shoved them to the very back of her wardrobe. Smiling grimly at herself in the mirror, she’d dressed carefully, put on some big earrings and bright lipstick, and set off to meet the two bubbly buddies with whom she’d been so close during her teenage years.
But catching up with the girls had proved to be a strange experience. Their lives and hers had diverged so starkly since leaving school. The pair had been travelling and working overseas, mainly in the UK, and they were so light-hearted and full of plans for future adventures that Lucy, after the troubled months she’d weathered, felt like another species.
On the way home she’d stopped at the supermarket to buy some ingredients for dinner. Her parents were due home later that evening from a weekend away in the Blue Mountains, and there wasn’t much food in the house. She’d paused in front of the vegetables, looking at the perfect heads of broccoli and flawless zucchinis with a new respect. The perfect pearly gold kernels of corn peeping from between crisp green husks seemed to wink at her.
‘Eighty cents!’ she exclaimed under her breath. ‘If I’d grown those, I wouldn’t take anything less than ten dollars a cob! And how much did the farmer get?’
She’d meandered home then, trying, for the hundredth time that week, to prevent her thoughts from straying northwards. For Lucy, the news that Lloyd had exchanged contracts with Noel West for the purchase of Charlotte’s Creek had been bittersweet. It was now a fortnight since she’d limped over the border into New South Wales in her little white car. Arriving home in Sydney, she’d tumbled into her father’s strong arms, soaked up her mother’s kisses and tried not to feel like a failure.
‘They’ve lost everything,’ she’d told her father quietly. ‘My being there made no difference.’
But Graham had responded a little sternly. ‘It’s not like you to look only at the surface of things, Lucia. Their lives have changed dramatically, but from what I gather, it was long overdue. You were with them in their most difficult hour, and may have just helped to ensure that they came out of it unharmed.’
Lucy, unable to speak, only nodded miserably.
‘At the very least,’ Graham continued, ‘the children will be able to cope in a mainstream school.’ He smiled tenderly. ‘That was a difficult situation you put yourself in, Lucy, and you handled everything that was thrown at you with aplomb.’
‘Thank you, Dad.’ Lucy smiled back, but in her mind’s eye, all she could see was Cooper’s lifeless expression.
‘And now,’ Graham concluded, ‘there is one person whose life I know for a fact you have changed dramatically. Young Golder has been phoning and I think you need to contact him.’
‘Oh!’ Lucy flushed with surprise. ‘Well, that’s impossible. I have no idea where he is. On a stock route somewhere with cattle.’ Composing herself, she’d added severely, ‘He can call me again if he’s so keen to talk, and that I very much doubt. Talking is one thing he doesn’t feel the need to do very often.’
Graham had raised his eyebrows at Lucy, but refrained from any further comment.
Now, exactly two weeks later, Lucy pulled the front door open, then closed and locked it behind her. All was silent, apart from the ticking of the clock in the hall, and the drone of traffic two blocks away. She hung up her handbag and glanced at the answering machine, which was flashing with messages as usual. When she pressed play she tried to stop her heart from beating a little faster, tried not to hope that one of them was from Ted, just as she did every day now. Her heart sank a little lower with each bright, cheery voice. Only the last one was for her, and it wasn’t Ted. Mrs Bolton’s mellow forthright voice came over the machine, loud and clear.
‘Lucy, I’ve heard you’re back in town. Wonderful news, as I have a special needs position for you to fill. I look forward to hearing from you! Bye now.’
There were no further messages, so Lucy was left standing with Mrs Bolton’s voice ringing in her ears.
She was busy preparing dinner when her parents arrived home. Over the simple meal, her mother was full of news of the beautiful gardens they’d visited at Mount Wilson, and Lucy was pleased to be able to sit quietly and listen. She took herself off to bed as soon as they’d tidied away the dishes, and chose not to notice her father’s concerned gaze following her from the room. Curled up in bed, she listened to the babbling hum of the television through the wall and thought of little Henry. How she would have loved to curl up next to his chubby little body and fall asleep against his soft skin.
Then the phone was ringing. Lucy sat bolt upright, her heart racing. Somehow, she knew it was Ted.
‘She’s in bed, but I can check . . .’ her father’s voice was saying in the hallway.
A moment later the phone was in her hands.
‘Ted.’ Lucy tried to slow her breathing.
‘Yeah, mate. How’d you be?’
‘I’m back in Sydney.’
‘I reckoned so.’
‘Where are you ringing from?’ Lucy pictured him sitting beside a campfire out on the run. But his answer shattered the image immediately.
‘The phone in Mel’s place.’
‘At Charlotte’s Creek?’ Lucy asked, confused. ‘Why are you still there?’
‘Haven’t you been talking to your family?’ Ted asked. ‘That’s not like you at all, not to talk.’ He gave a low chuckle and Lucy realised how much she’d missed the sound.
‘Well, are you going to fill me in?’ she said shortly, trying to hide her pleasure.
‘Looks like your brother-in-law has taken a shine to me. Wants me to stay on here when the place changes hands. Manager.’
‘Oh Ted, that’s wonderful! If that’s what you truly want . . . ?’ she added hastily.
‘Not exactly.’ He hesitated and cleared his throat. ‘What I mean to say is, if you’re not too tied up, would you consider coming back here to be my offsider?’
‘Why?’ Lucy asked simply.
‘Why?’ Ted repeated. ‘Well, ’cause I like having you around. And I think, maybe—your dad’s convinced me—that you like it here too.’
‘Is that it?’ Lucy snapped.
‘Heck, Lucy.’ Ted paused, and Lucy suspected he was waiting helplessly on the end of the line for her to form the words for him, but she remained silent. Finally, and almost inaudibly, he said, ‘Please say yes.’
‘Ted,’ Lucy said firmly, ‘I know it’s hard for you to express yourself. But I can’t read your mind. I need to know what you want from me. I’d be giving up my family, everything I’ve ever known, to go and be there with you.’ She waited. After a moment’s silence she added, ‘So you like having me around. But that’s not enough for me. Maybe you need to think about it—’
‘No,’ he interrupted. ‘I’ve thought about it, trust me. That’s one thing I got, is plenty of thinking time.’ He took another breath, as though bracing himself. ‘Righto. It’s more than liking, what I feel for you. I reckon, if I lose you again, it’ll be like all the light’s gone out. I’ll lose my reason for getting up in the morning. Dunno why I did anything before you blew in, but since I met you, you’ve become my reason, the first thing that pops into me head the minute I open me eyes. Makes me jump out of bed, it does, keen to start the day.’ He paused again, and Lucy could tell he was scrabbling around for more words. ‘Maybe I’m just being selfish, wanting you to come back out here. It’s a tougher life than you’d have with some townie fella.’
Tears were running down Lucy’s face.
‘Before you came along,’ Ted said softly, ‘I couldn’t even love my own dogs.’
‘All right, all right, that’ll do, Ted.’ Lucy laughed through her
tears. ‘I believe you now.’
‘I love you, Lucia Francis,’ said Ted.
‘I love you, too, Tristan Edward Golder,’ whispered Lucy.
Chapter 45
Lucy filed down the stairs of the bus in Ingham in the wake of some sweaty-smelling German backpackers whose conversation she’d been doing her best to follow for a large part of the long trip up from Brisbane, where she’d changed coaches. Their usually European-pale limbs had been burned bronze by the Queensland winter sunshine. The bus driver was carelessly slinging luggage out of the cavity under the bus and onto the pavement, and Lucy had a vivid moment of déjà vu.
Shouldering her heavy backpack, she looked around expectantly, but as her colourful travelling companions dispersed, she found herself standing alone, and eventually moved towards the vacant bench seat.
‘Oi!’
Lucy turned. An extremely battered, once-white four-wheel-drive ute was pulling up nearby. The door popped open as it rolled to a stop, and a tall, lean young man leapt out. Lucy marvelled at the length of his legs and even more so at the size of his boot-clad feet. She quickly lifted her gaze to his face and saw the tanned, heavily weathered countenance, further furrowed by a frown, and partly obscured by sandy stubble and the shadow from his wide-brimmed felt hat. But contrasting with his rugged features was the warm amber light in his eyes. And the dimple.
Without a word, Ted strode towards her, unhooked the backpack from her shoulder and carried it effortlessly back to the ute. He placed it carefully in the tray, up against the grille behind the cabin, then hopped back into the driver’s seat. Without hesitation, Lucy climbed in on the passenger side, hiding a smile. Almost before her door was shut, Ted was driving away.
They drove in silence until they reached the first cane field on the outskirts of town, where Ted pulled over abruptly into the lush grass of the road verge. Still gripping the steering wheel, he gave Lucy a sidelong glance. ‘So how did you feel about getting in the ute with me this time? You reckon I can be trusted?’
Lucy gave a single decisive nod. ‘I reckon so.’
Abandoning the steering wheel, Ted leaned across suddenly. ‘That’s a bloody relief.’ And wrapping his arms around Lucy, he drew her to him.
Lucy pulled off her boots near the open front door and brushed off some of the winter hair Pagan had shed on her new pair of jeans. The sky had been overcast all day, and now a welcome spattering of rain sounded on the veranda roof above. She patted Bear absent-mindedly as she picked up the bundle of letters the mail lady had left on the veranda table. She flicked through them as she walked inside and a gold envelope caught her eye. Lucy felt a little tingle run up and down her spine when she read the address: Mrs Lucy Golder, Charlotte’s Creek, via Ingham. The name was still new to her, even though it had been hers for more than three months, and seeing it written there, looking so official, made her smile. She turned over the envelope; the return address was unfamiliar, a property name from near Mataranka in the Northern Territory. But Lucy immediately recognised the messy handwriting.
Lucy heard Ted outside, scolding Snoz who was trying to follow him up onto the veranda. ‘Ted!’ she called. ‘There’s a letter from Mel! It looks like they’ve left Brisbane!’
Ted tramped in. Putting his arms around her waist from behind, he bent to rest his chin on her shoulder while she tore open the envelope. Inside was a gaudy contratulations card; as Lucy opened it, a note dropped out.
Dear Lucy,
Sorry this is so late, I’m a shocker. Heard from old Gwenny that your wedding was ‘divine’. (Yes, we had a phone conversation!) Sorry we didn’t make it—long story. Missed my chance to see Ted in a suit—kicking myself for that. Did you find a skinny one with long enough legs?
Anyway, just wanted to drop you a line to say—HERE WE ARE! We’ve found a place to pull up, in the Territory of all places. Another cattle property, can you believe it? Big place. Belongs to a bloke with a road construction company in Darwin, Lackey’s cousin Elise’s other half. He knows nothing about cattle and they live in town, so he’s more than happy to let Den do things his way. Plus he’s got the money to throw at it. Going to pay for the kids’ schooling, the lot. Den can’t do too much yet, but he’s making plenty of plans, driving me crazy, and we have three full-time ringers to do the grunt work. They eat a lot but they’re worth it.
To cut a long story short, we’re happy. When we shot through, we thought we’d lost everything we needed. Turns out we’ve found everything we needed. Hope you two are going really good as well. Nice to know you buggers ended up with the place.
Mel.
PS The kids still miss you and wish you were their mum. Oh well—tough!
PPS Do you know any soft city birds who want a governess job?
Beaming with delight, Lucy turned in Ted’s arms. Looking up at his face she laughed to see the tears there. She wiped them away with the tips of her fingers and kissed his damp cheeks.
‘Turned me bloody soft, you have,’ Ted complained gruffly.
‘My greatest achievement so far,’ Lucy answered softly.
They smiled at each other in silence for a moment, and then suddenly the pattering of rain on the roof intensified to a steady pounding.
‘Listen to that!’ Lucy breathed.
‘Lonely bloody sound that, when you’re all alone,’ Ted remarked.
Reaching up, Lucy put her arms around his neck. ‘Enchanting when you’re not, though.’
Mel’s card slipped from her fingers and dropped to the floor, forgotten for the present, but the letter drifted further afield; half folding itself up again, it fluttered gently to rest on the ground like a fragile, white bird.
Acknowledgements
I would like to acknowledge first of all, the many people who have inspired the characters and events in this story. ‘Remote’ and ‘isolated’ though rural communities might be labelled; they seem to provide an endless source of fascinating, lovable, quirky, resilient and original characters. To the families that I encountered while working for Remote Family Care Services in 2005, especially the Kingston, Donaldson and Carruthers families, I offer my sincere thanks. Living and interacting with you was my introduction to the complexities of family life on isolated properties, and my first encounter with the unique kind of ingenuity and wiry innocence singular to that species called ‘bush kids’. With you I also first witnessed the trials faced by the station mother, often the only woman for a radius of many kilometres, who must toil outdoors and in, caring for her family, for property workers and stock, and wading through the maze of distance education with kids who’d much rather be out in the paddock.
I must also thank the families that welcomed me into their homes and mothered me, when I was a lonely Sydney girl (like Lucy), out of my depth and travelling north on the Bicentennial National Trail. Most especially, I recall with gratitude the support of Jocelyn and John Creed, Darren and Tracey Geissler, Andrew and Roxanne Olive, Peter and Lyn Brady, the Gaudion family, John and Joanne Kasch, Col and Sue Roberts and Tim and Jane Rogers. To the Miles and Penna Families, for the memorable time that you gave me at ‘Kangaroo Hills’, and for allowing me to use your property as inspiration for the setting in Charlotte’s Creek.
To Alan and Curly at Einasleigh Pub, for making me feel so welcome and for allowing me to use your splendid hotel and Easter Races in this novel. To Mary Firth, for accompanying me on the hilarious, crazy and rushed author’s adventure into the wilds near Ingham, in a huge fluorescent striped and beaconed hire ute, with a baby in tow. Thanks to Marianne Hiron and all the other ladies of the Raglan CWA and to Suzannah Baker for her governessing anecdotes. To Kerri Rawlings, for sharing with me the remarkable story of her journey to recovery after her brain injury. Also, to Megan Tribe for allowing me to poach her roadside birthing experience, and to Mick for his blow by blow description of that day from the man’s point of view.
To all the farming families that found the plight of the West’s a little too close to home,
I apologise. The Wests are not based on any individual family that I know, rather on many. At the very least may their story serve to show that you are most definitely not alone. To my parents-in-law, Donald and Ailsa, who like the McCanns, had the courage to deal with the challenge of family succession head on, before it was too late. And to our skilled succession facilitator, Jill Rigney.
To Jude McGee and Clara Finlay for your magnificent, insightful and sensitive editing work on my manuscript, and to Louise Thurtell, Laura Mitchell and Amy Milne for all the time and effort you have invested in Charlotte’s Creek. Finally and most importantly, to my four young boys, for your patience with my writing and my writing-induced absent-mindedness, and for your provision of such great material for use in the conversation of the West’s junior. To my dear husband Cedric for again allowing me to exploit him in creating my main man, and for his unwavering practical and emotional support in my work.
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