‘Why quick?’
‘Myxomatosis. The disease is spreading fast since it was introduced last year. Wiping the buggers out it is. And none too soon for the grassland. Rabbits nearly had this country eaten out. ’Course it’s the end of a living for some. In my day I could earn a pretty penny from the skins. Something on your mind, love? Is it the old problem?’
Rex was perceptive, and having been employed on the property for nearly forty years, he knew the intricacies of Eleanor’s extended family.
‘Humour an old man, Miss Eleanor. Every time you come home you get that look about you and it has been a while now. Time to move on, eh?’
The scenery sped past. Rex was right, but it didn’t make things any less uncomfortable. ‘It’s just difficult sometimes.’
‘Aha.’
No-one ever talked about her mother’s second marriage eleven years ago. Even for Eleanor and her more avant-garde Sydney friends, it was still just a bit too tacky. Eleanor had been fourteen at the time and still reeling over her father’s death, but she was not immune to the innuendo that circulated. Her mother walked down the aisle for the second time within a year of her father’s death.
‘Now there’s a sight for sore eyes,’ Rex said brightly, as they rounded a bend in the road and the vehicle climbed a slight rise.
Ahead the iron roof of the homestead appeared above the treetops only to disappear again as the car descended to a one-lane wooden bridge.
Ten minutes later the homestead reappeared, ringed by an oasis of trees and bounded by ancient bougainvillea bushes which had been planted when the house was built. The stark two-storey building with its sandstone base and the timber upper floor girded by a wrought-iron balustrade was softened by the surrounding garden. The grounds encompassed a series of interconnecting ponds, shrubberies, paved entertaining areas and an expanse of lawn. Such an area required the digging of a large dam, ensuring a plentiful supply of water whether from the heavens above or the river from which it could be pumped. Her great-grandfather Frederick Barnaby River and his brother, Montague, had been intent on creating a semblance of the great Irish estates, a seat worthy of two self-made gentlemen determined to build a pastoral empire. It was a powerful heritage to have been born into but Eleanor would have been far more comfortable with less.
‘The bougainvilleas are beautiful, Rex.’ A profusion of reds and pinks, the plants were clearly enjoying the weather.
‘We’ve been lucky. There were some hot winds last month that would have ruined these flowers, but we weren’t so lucky with the roses.’
The River Run rose garden, planted in the late autumn of 1914, was a brave attempt to introduce a centrepiece for the circular gravel drive, while creating an everlasting gift of love for an adored wife. Over the years the area was replanted with many different varieties. It was Eleanor’s father who’d initiated the project. At age twenty-six, two years before he volunteered for the Great War, he began experimenting with some of the most beautiful flowers available, intrigued with the idea of selecting ornamentals originating from all over the world centuries prior. And so River Run enjoyed the fleeting life of China roses from East Asia, Bourbon roses from off the coast of Madagascar in the Indian Ocean, and a sub-class of the Noisette, the first of which was raised as a hybrid seedling by a South Carolina rice planter in the early 1800s. These striking specimens lived and died among sturdier types, such as tea roses, small insignificant wild roses and the rambling type. Eleanor imagined her father choosing these plants based on the exotic countries of origin, waiting with anticipation for the arrival of each seedling, each one of which was documented in a notebook. Most lasted a season or two before succumbing to the cold of winter or the harshness of summer.
The sixty rose bushes were mostly bare, except for the late summer flowering species that trailed over a central wall displaying the remnants of sun-withered heads. Carefully tendered to by Rex, the wild roses were still a leafy green, the mass planting intersected by a low hedge and made formal by a central water fountain. The fountain in question was covered with bird poop and held a handful of peewees and topknot pigeons, all trying to cool off in the heat.
‘Rode straight through the middle, the little bugger did,’ Rex explained, referring to Robbie, the youngest of the Webber clan. ‘Clipped three or four bushes and damaged the hedge and then took off smart as you like.’
‘I didn’t think Garnet had that much lift left in him,’ Eleanor replied as the vehicle stopped outside the house. She peeled her body uncomfortably from the sweaty car seat as Rex carried her suitcase to the veranda.
‘Where Robbie wants to go, that old gelding follows. He’ll get a shock the young fellow will when they bundle him off to boarding school in a year or so.’
‘By his age I was already there.’ But then Eleanor hadn’t been the only child of a second marriage and it was pretty obvious neither parent was willing to let him go too soon.
‘I hope you stay for a while, Miss Eleanor.’ Rex smiled his hang-dog smile. ‘It’s been right quiet here this past year. And young Robbie,’ he scratched his neck, ‘well, he’s a loner he is. Sometimes I think the lad’s the only one with any spirit.’
‘Thanks, Rex.’
As the blue truck drove around the side of the homestead to the kitchen entrance, Eleanor put her hat back on and retrieved a balled-up pair of gloves from a near-empty handbag. Holding the gloves for propriety’s sake, she plucked at the material of her blouse where it stuck to her skin, lifting her hand to knock on the front door.
Chapter Five
‘It was only Rex returning from the village.’ The sitting-room curtains were drawn against the day’s heat, however her mother’s voice carried quite clearly to where Eleanor dallied outside. ‘Did you hear me, Colin?’
Slow, drawn-out footsteps preceded a response. ‘Yes. With shearing about to commence, I have other things on my mind.’
‘We have a station overseer to handle the logistics of mustering and dipping and a shed overseer for everything else.’ Georgia Webber sounded impatient. ‘It’s always best to leave the men in charge of their respective areas and just check on proceedings on a daily basis. Really, I don’t know why you get uptight at shearing. I can only assume it’s a control thing. Alan rarely got so worked up.’
Eleanor was about to enter the house unannounced when her father’s name was mentioned.
‘Yes, well that worked for you, my dear,’ Colin retaliated. ‘It gave you a free rein to run the property your way and my brother, may he rest in peace, appeared happy with that. I, on the other hand, intend to keep being hands-on, even if my managerial input remains curtailed. Don’t worry, I’ll be at my best over the weekend’ – the sarcasm in Colin’s tone was evident – ‘but don’t come complaining to me about Margaret Winslow.’
Eleanor’s mouth gaped. Margaret Winslow was coming? The woman had danced bra-less in a sheer blouse at a party following the Sydney Royal Easter Show last year. Every adult child of every couple who’d attended the Eastern suburbs bash eventually learnt of the scandal. Her mother was especially outraged by the episode. Margaret was married to Georgia’s oldest friend, Keith, owner of the famed Ambrose Park merino stud, the two families’ association going back to the 1870s. While such behaviour was quickly forgotten by some, such a blatant breach of propriety had shocked many within the upper echelons of the wool industry. Eleanor could only be grateful that their polo-playing son Henry was ensconced down south with his brothers. Henry made it his mission in life to know everybody’s business, including hers, and he’d been most outspoken when it came to his opinion of Eleanor and Dante’s relationship.
‘Anyway, Keith is your friend,’ Colin stated, ‘and there’s business to discuss. But he will be surprised at the change in direction after all these years. We can only hope Goward knows what he’s doing.’
‘Hugh has some excellent ideas, Colin. Ideas that have been thoroughly researched,’ his wife replied.
‘God’s gift to t
he wool industry, eh? And him the offspring of white trash from the Territory.’
‘You really do have a problem with staff that have ability, don’t you?’
Eleanor inched closer to the front door, knowing that she should knock and announce herself immediately, and yet … She waited for a retort from her stepfather, which wasn’t forthcoming.
‘I know Keith will be surprised and disappointed.’ Georgia’s tone was smooth. ‘And I have no doubt that the conversation will be quite awkward after all the years we’ve been purchasing from Ambrose stud, but I do agree with Hugh, it won’t hurt to introduce some new blood into the flock. I’ll tell Keith over the weekend that we’ll only be purchasing five rams and that the rest will be coming from a competitor.’
‘Who will be telling Keith, Georgia? I may not have hold of River Run’s reins, but we agreed that for appearance’s sake –’
Eleanor knocked on the front door, entering the long flagstone hallway. The sheer size of the homestead with its eighteen-foot ceilings and airy rooms brought a smile to her face. The dimensions of her family home made her Paddington terrace look like a shoebox. ‘Hello, anyone home?’ Placing her suitcase on the carpet runner, she waited expectantly. The house smelt earthy, the air thick with heat. On one of the hall tables sat a large bowl of bell-shaped Agapanthus in varying shades of purple, blue and white.
The sitting-room door opened and her mother appeared, a startled expression on her round face. Behind her came the distinct tap of wood.
‘Eleanor. We weren’t expecting you, dear!’
Lifting the leather satchel from a shoulder, Eleanor gave her mother a kiss on the cheek. ‘Sorry about that. It was a spur of the moment thing.’ Georgia looked exceedingly well. There was barely a line on her face although her appearance came at the expense of her figure. She’d put on quite a few pounds.
Georgia lifted a finely plucked eyebrow. ‘Look at you all wind-blown. I hope you didn’t get off the train looking like that.’
Eleanor’s hand went automatically to her hair. ‘Rex had the window down. It’s boiling out here.’
‘Warmish. Yes. Well, you’re lucky Rex was in the village when you arrived, and it’s good to see you although you look like a suburban postman with that thing over your shoulder.’ Her mother felt the weight of the satchel. ‘Whatever have you got in here?’
‘Nothing.’ For a moment both women held onto the bag. Finally her mother released it.
‘Eleanor. How are you, my girl?’ Her stepfather was leaning heavily on a walking stick. ‘Well, then, we have a full house this weekend. The Winslows are coming later this afternoon.’
‘Rex said you were expecting guests,’ Eleanor replied politely, placing the strap of the bag over a shoulder. Colin looked drawn and the beginnings of a paunch was at odds with his slight figure. She guessed that the injury to his leg was taking its toll.
‘So what brings you back to the family farm?’ Colin asked as he walked into the hallway, the tap-tap of the stick muffled by carpet.
Eleanor noted the line that briefly furrowed her mother’s brow. Georgia hated River Run being called a farm, as did she. It was far more than that.
He continued, ‘Your mother and I thought we’d lost you forever to the secretarial business.’
Sensing the beginning of a cross-examination, Eleanor replied quickly, ‘It’s a bit smoggy in Sydney. I came down with a cough so I thought I’d take some leave.’
‘Summer in Sydney can be delightful but if the winds drop …’ Her mother gave a disapproving shake of her head. ‘I was disappointed you didn’t come home for Christmas, Eleanor. Next year you tell that employer of yours that you’re entitled to Christmas with your family.’
‘I will and I’m sorry, Mum. But I did spend the day with Jillian and her mother at the Queen’s Club, and I went sailing with Henrietta on Boxing Day.’
Her mother nodded approvingly. ‘I know, you did tell me, Eleanor. My one consolation is that your oldest schoolfriends are now your flatmates, and they’re lovely girls.’
The subject was changed to the weather and the imminent arrival of the house guests. Eleanor pleaded a headache and, to her amazement, Georgia agreed she could forego dinner in the dining room and have a tray in her room instead.
‘You do look a bit peaky,’ Georgia turned to her husband, ‘doesn’t she, Colin?’
Eleanor thought of the sleepless nights she’d endured since her break-up with Dante.
‘I’m not surprised after spending a good part of the day cooped up indoors,’ Colin stated. ‘Everyone raves about the class of travel our trains are offering these days, but I’ve rarely got off one feeling rested. Anyway, they’ll soon be taking second place to automobiles. I recently read that car sales have increased.’
Eleanor lifted her suitcase. ‘I think I’ll go and unpack.’
‘Then I want to hear all your news,’ Georgia told her youngest daughter. ‘And your brother’s been up to his antics again. Robbie quite ruined my day by riding through the rose garden so a bit of city news will be just the thing to perk me up.’
Making her excuses, Eleanor carried her suitcase upstairs. At the landing she looked left and right. The dark antique furniture that lined the walls of the long hallway shone with polish, the smell of the cleaning fluid thick in the air. The housemaid Alice had clearly been busy over the last few days. Apart from the scrupulous cleaning of the entire house, one of the many guestrooms would have been dusted, aired and the bed made for the Winslows. Eleanor didn’t have to open the door to know that even in this heat her mother would have managed to scavenge flowers from the garden to grace the dressing table.
At the far end of the hall, before an arched window, was a round table holding a series of horse-racing trophies belonging to Colin. At the opposite end a similar table held a tall ceramic vase displaying orange-headed bird-of-paradise flowers. It was a long, wide hallway that was just perfect for footraces. The wing-back chairs and marble-topped tables lining the space proved nasty at times when it came to injuries, but the worst of their childhood hurts always happened when she and her older sister Lesley slid down the stairs on large serving trays, ending up in a tangled heap at the bottom.
In the buttercup yellow bedroom, Eleanor flung her hat onto a corner chair and opened the French doors leading out to the balcony. She lingered in the doorway, reluctant to go beyond. There was no breeze and the air hung thickly. To the west the sun breasted the curve of the earth, its rays casting the surrounding plains in a haze of harsh light. Already the thought of a sleepless night taunted. Perspiration dribbled down her neck, between her thighs, patched her blouse and with it came a tugging lethargy. For a moment Eleanor wished she’d not come home.
She thought of Jillian and Henrietta. Her best friends would be rushing home from work, their Friday night already planned. A long bath and then a great deal of fussing in front of the mirror, particularly over hairstyles and lipstick, invariably preceded a night at the flicks. Eleanor hoped they wouldn’t think her a terrible coward for not explaining her absence in person. She’d left a note detailing her break-up with Dante and her need to come home for a few days. It just wasn’t in her to endure the well-intentioned commiserations, peppered with the lovingly given we-told-you-so recriminations. Neither Jillian nor Henrietta had time for the ‘new arrivals’, as they termed immigrants. And they’d been rather askance at Eleanor’s relationship.
Indoors the room was clean but dusty. A light film covered the furniture and Eleanor sneezed as she fell backwards on the bed, sinking into the thick mattress. The contents of the room hadn’t altered over the years. A dark hardwood dresser, the dressing table with its flounced skirt, attached oval mirror and stool, two chairs upholstered in a chintz print and the cavernous wardrobe. Only the paintings suggested that a young girl had once slept here: a doe-eyed child holding a white furry cat and a still-life of a basket of flowers. Eleanor didn’t recall when they’d been given to her, only that her father had been the g
iver.
The white plaster ceiling was spotted with a half dozen water-marks created over the years from errant rain, while a long crack inched its way down the wall to one of the skirting boards. In her childhood Eleanor listened to the contractions and expansions of the great homestead, imagining them to be the groans of a giant. Even now the house seemed more of a living thing than the grass castle her mother’s family forged through sheer determination.
‘I’ve made a bit of a mess of things, Dad.’ Her father stared at her from within the gilt-edged frame on the bedside table. She’d thought Dante was the one, the man she was meant to spend her life with, although she knew their relationship, once out in the open, would have been more than difficult. It was hard recalling his kind words, the way he’d believed in her, the way he’d made her feel, for those wonderful moments were now tempered by a distasteful reality. Dante had used her. He’d stolen her work, yes. But ultimately he’d stolen away her dream of love. And it had been her fault. She’d trusted him.
Eleanor took a breath, refusing to cry anymore, refusing to berate herself. She was blessed to have somewhere else to come to. A home. The land. Although running away from her life in Sydney was only going to provide a brief respite. Eventually Eleanor had to go back. She would have to swallow her pride and admit that her girlfriends had been right. That wouldn’t be so bad once she’d come to terms with things a little better. But the achingly boring secretarial job and a writing career over before it had begun were a totally different matter.
Leaving the photo on the bed, Eleanor opened the suitcase, digging down to the bottom. The diaphragm was in its pink container and she wrapped a scarf around it, secreting it in a drawer of the hardwood dresser. At some stage she would find a way to dispose of it. Above the chest of drawers hung a large wooden crucifix. Eleanor crossed herself automatically. Unknown to her mother, she was no longer practising. The waving of incense and the sprinkling of holy water may well provide comfort to some but as far as Eleanor was concerned, if there was a God he never would have taken her father. Or allowed her sister’s fiancé Marcus to do the unspeakable.
River Run Page 3