‘Timed to perfection as always, Mrs Howell.’
The woman twitched her nose and sat down for a brief rest. It was as close to a smile as one could expect. ‘And what brings you back here, Eleanor? It’s not like you to up and leave Sydney without letting us know in advance. You certainly gave Rex a surprise, appearing in the village the way you did.’
‘I needed a break.’ Normally she would be grateful to talk things over with Mrs Howell. In the past they’d shared tea and cake whenever she came home from boarding school for holidays. But her meeting with Mrs Winslow had left Eleanor feeling more than fragile, and there was a definite line that couldn’t be crossed when it came to confiding in the older woman.
Mrs Howell folded a damp tea towel. ‘Is it this writing of yours?’
‘Yes and no.’ Having revealed her hobby some years ago, proudly announcing that her work had been published and sold in newsagents and railway station bookstands, Eleanor had found a surprising ally.
‘I, for one, would rather see people handing over their money to buy stories written by our own kind, rather than paying for rubbish penned by the Yanks. I remember visiting my aunt in Sydney during the war. Americans everywhere there were. The dance halls were full and our young things were queuing to be seen on the arms of those boys. The stories I heard from my niece of money and chocolates and fancy hosiery.’
The older woman waited for a response. Eleanor guessed that Mrs Howell knew that she wasn’t dabbling in literature but she didn’t judge, loyalty keeping her confidence. But things were different this time. ‘I don’t really want to talk about it,’ Eleanor finally stated.
Mrs Howell rose to place the kettle on the stove top.
Eleanor valued the older woman’s friendship, however, she couldn’t talk about the reason for her unannounced visit home without mentioning Dante and once she started talking about him she knew it would be impossible to stop. She respected Mrs Howell. The two of them had forged a friendship over the years but the housekeeper was strictly old school. Eleanor didn’t doubt that the woman would have a conniption if she heard the truth, and the truth was that Eleanor had been unbelievably stupid and naive.
‘It’s my view that a woman born of the country can never live in the city,’ Mrs Howell said matter-of-factly as she began to clear a space on the table for the laying out of the soup bowls. ‘You young things rush to the bright lights and, just like a moth, stray too close and get burned.’
Eleanor yearned to disagree but it felt as if the housekeeper had seen straight through her. A respectable young woman would never tarnish her reputation, or that of her family, by sleeping with an Italian immigrant out of wedlock.
‘How’s that sister of yours?’ asked Mrs Howell.
‘A lot better. She still gets melancholy at times, but she’s making herself useful, tending the convent garden and she’s nursing in the hospice when needed,’ replied Eleanor, grateful for the change of topic. ‘I still wonder how I would have coped had I been Lesley. Finding Marcus the way she did.’ She broke off, trying not to think of the day her mother telephoned her in Sydney to say that Marcus had hanged himself on River Run. A week later, Lesley slit her wrists and would have followed her fiancé had Georgia not found her eldest child in time.
‘I still think the girl would have been better off in the care of professionals instead of that convent.’
‘It was Mum’s decision.’ Eleanor also wondered whether a private facility would have been more appropriate for her sister. The melancholia engulfing Lesley was beyond severe. She’d literally withdrawn from the world in the first year following Marcus’s death and even stopped speaking for six months. Then, of course, she’d been hidden from the world in a place where visitors were restricted.
‘That lovely girl closed up within those walls.’
She thought of Mrs Winslow’s comment, such a waste. ‘They say she’s improved a lot over the past year.’
‘She was never like you, Eleanor. Lesley was always a shy, fragile young thing and she doted on your father. When he died I wondered if your sister would ever be able to stem her grief, to go on as you did, then she met Marcus when she was training to be a nurse. Those two were made for each other and we all know that he became the centre of Lesley’s universe.’ Mrs Howell coughed and made a fuss of pouring hot water into the soup bowls to warm them. ‘Had we known what the future held, it would have been better if those two had never met.’
‘But they adored each other,’ Eleanor replied.
‘In some cases you can love someone too much. That’s what happened to your sister. She loved Marcus and lost him and decided that she couldn’t live without him. Life’s hard enough without over-sentimentalising.’ The housekeeper lifted a chastening finger. ‘Don’t make the same mistake, Eleanor. Still,’ she reflected, ‘he was a fine young man, that fiancé of hers, but not without faults. What man shares the horrors of war with his fiancée and then kills himself?’
All the family knew that Marcus would be forever altered after his time as a prisoner of war working on the infamous Burma railway. But no-one ever imagined that he would take his own life having survived such a terrible ordeal.
‘If your father was still alive, Lesley would be here in this house.’
‘If my father was still alive,’ Eleanor replied carefully, ‘a lot of things would be different.’
Mrs Howell nodded. ‘Indeed.’
The kitchen door swung open and Alice appeared. ‘Mrs Webber says she wants the soup served directly, and the sherry. They can’t find the sherry.’
‘Fine, fine,’ Mrs Howell replied as Miss Hastings appeared. The housekeeper gave the governess a firm dressing down for her tardiness but Eleanor knew she’d be secretly pleased by her appearance. She wore a neat grey dress and a crisp white apron, stockings and black heels. The governess and Eleanor acknowledged each other with a brief greeting. She had to agree that Robbie’s moniker for the woman was rather apt.
‘I am sorry, Mrs Howell, but I’ve had no end of trouble with young Robbie today. He’s missed half his lessons, damaged Mrs Webber’s garden and placed tadpoles in my satchel.’ She gave a sniff. ‘I fear he’s become quite uncontrollable.’
‘A firm hand is what’s needed,’ the housekeeper answered dismissively as she poured the warming water from each bowl and wiped them dry. ‘After you’ve served, you’ll find the sherry decanted on the sideboard. Pass it to Mr Webber.’
‘Yes, Mrs Howell.’ Opening a drawer, the governess retrieved a clean tea towel. ‘It was Mr Goward that held me up. A jackeroo has made a formal complaint against the lad. Apparently Robbie attacked one of the boys late this afternoon. Shot him in the chest with a shanghai.’
The soup Mrs Howell was ladling into one of the bowls splashed onto the table. Eleanor knew she shouldn’t laugh, not when Miss Hastings had the look of someone who’d swallowed something sour. The woman frowned as Eleanor stifled a giggle.
‘Stop chattering,’ Mrs Howell reprimanded, continuing to spoon soup into the bowls. Alice added a dollop of sour cream while Miss Hastings ensured the edges of the dishes were clean of any spillage. The housekeeper gave the servings a final check. ‘Right then. Off you go.’ When the women left the kitchen, Mrs Howell cleaned up the soup puddle. ‘You might have a talk to Robbie while you’re home, Eleanor. Miss Hastings is right. The boy’s been running wild this past year.’
‘He’s just having a bit of fun,’ she replied, ‘and we all know the jackeroos can get a bit peeved at times.’
The housekeeper turned her attention to the stove, fiddling with the temperature control. Clearly, speaking to Robbie was not a suggestion. ‘We might be employees, Eleanor, but we are still human beings.’
Was it her imagination or did everyone seem very uptight? ‘Yes, Mrs Howell.’
‘Well, we don’t have to worry about Robbie.’ Miss Hastings reappeared in the kitchen with a self-righteous expression. ‘Mr Webber’s just marched him up to the bedroom and locked him
inside.’
‘Oh.’ Eleanor had a vision of her stepfather thrashing Robbie with his belt. It would not be the first time.
‘Best place for him.’ The governess met Eleanor’s gaze, as if the remark was made to provoke. ‘It’s ridiculous letting Robbie behave the way he does. My father believed in a firm hand and it certainly never did my brothers any harm.’
She barely knew Miss Hastings, however, Eleanor sensed the woman’s dislike for her half-brother. ‘Boarding school is the answer, of course, if Robbie’s that much trouble.’ Now it was Eleanor’s turn to await a response. It didn’t come. ‘Oh dear, but if Robbie goes to boarding school,’ she said sweetly, ‘you’ll be out of a job.’
‘Miss Hastings,’ Mrs Howell intervened, ‘I do hope the soup isn’t sitting on the sideboard cooling?’
‘No, Alice is in the dining room –’
‘Off you go then.’ The housekeeper shooed the governess out of the kitchen. ‘Eleanor.’
‘What?’ Eleanor countered with a wicked smile.
Saturday
Down by the River
Chapter Eleven
Robbie had been awake since first light, pacing around the bedroom desperate to escape. He rattled the doorknob and then crossed the carpet to try the French doors on the balcony again. Anyone would think he’d done something really bad instead of breaking some silly rose bushes and attacking Archie. But at least Alice had brought him dinner last night. Two soft-boiled eggs with toast soldiers and a glass of milk. That seemed like days ago now. His stomach was rumbling and the round bedside clock confirmed it was past mid-morning.
Pressing his nose against the warm glass door, Robbie could see half of the tennis court. He watched as one of the men raced across the ant-bed surface. The ball went high and wide and a woman lunged for it, batting the ball awkwardly as if she were playing cricket. It flew towards the net, lodging in the middle of the mesh. Everyone was dressed in white, making it impossible to tell who was who, not that he cared.
Frustrated, he returned to studying the balcony door. ‘Eureka!’ he said loudly, before dragging a chair forward, standing on it and sliding the bolt open at the top. With this extra security gone, the old door gave way just a little. On the gravel drive below, Miss Hastings was making her way to the tennis court carrying a tray of glasses and a pitcher of something cool to drink. Robbie licked his lips and then fell on the bed, bashing the pillows. It just wasn’t fair. He was nearly twelve and he was sure that no-one else locked nearly twelve-year-old boys in their room. He lay there for some minutes wondering about Garnet and why Eleanor hadn’t come looking for him.
On the dresser sat silver-framed photographs of his father and Eleanor’s father, Alan. Both men were in uniform. Both men had been wounded in the Great War. His father still had shrapnel in his leg, while his Uncle Alan had survived his war wounds but had then got sick and died from cancer. The two brothers looked almost exactly the same. They had moustaches and wore their AIF hats at an angle and staring at them made Robbie wish that he could go to war as well. His father once told him he’d be a good fighter. And Rex assured him it had to be true, after all it was in his blood and Robbie was a crack shot. Shoot the arse out of a black duck at two hundred yards, that’s what Rex said.
Robbie reckoned that was how he knew about the communists coming. A soldier just understood these things. Yikes. He’d missed the morning news on the wireless downstairs and who knew what the communists had done in the meantime. Jiminy Cricket, they could be in their boats already, coming this way. Everyone would be really sorry if the reds attacked and he wasn’t on sentry duty to warn them. And what about the stolen cray-bobs? He should be out baiting the traps, fixing the broken one and then stalking the area to see if the robber returned. He stared impatiently at the mobile hanging from the ceiling. Four Spitfire fighter planes stayed motionless in the stuffy room.
Jumping on the bed, Robbie tugged at one of the metal planes in the mobile until the wire suspending it broke. He hesitated for just a moment and then began to wiggle one of the plane’s wings up and down until it snapped off. On hands and knees, he wedged the metal beside the balcony lock and began to wiggle the handle. Maybe, just maybe, he could slide the metal between the lock and the door.
Tap, tap.
Robbie fell on his backside in fright. Eleanor was standing on the balcony, knocking on the glass to get his attention and, having caught him trying to break the lock, was now laughing. Robbie frowned and told her to go away.
‘I’m sorry, Robbie,’ she told him apologetically, ‘I didn’t realise you were still locked in.’
‘Where have you been?’ He shoved his hands in his pockets.
‘I got up early to go for a long walk before the heat of the day.’ She held a lit cigarette in her fingers.
‘Mum will kill you,’ he called to his sister through the glass door as she took a puff.
‘Well, you’d know all about that. Wait a minute, I’ll be back.’
Eleanor walked along the balcony until she was out of sight. Robbie’s eyes followed her retreat, not expecting her to return, but she did a few minutes later, clutching a small key.
‘I’m sure it’ll fit,’ she told him, glancing towards the tennis court. ‘I know it fits Lesley’s old room.’ The players were grouped around the governess, finishing their drinks. ‘I finally asked Mrs Howell where you were.’
‘Bloody old Mrs Howell.’
‘Robbie,’ Eleanor exclaimed, fitting the key in the lock, ‘you shouldn’t swear like that. You’ve been hanging around with the men too much.’
The key gave a click as it turned in the lock and the door opened.
‘You’re the best.’ Robbie beamed.
‘I know,’ Eleanor replied with a look of satisfaction. ‘Now what?’
Robbie bustled past her. ‘Food. I’m starving! Then I want you to come with me.’
‘Come where?’
Lowering his voice, Robbie grew serious. ‘We have to make sure that there’s no sign of them.’
‘Them?’ Eleanor repeated. ‘Who or what is them?’
‘Communists, sis,’ Robbie revealed. ‘The reds.’
Chapter Twelve
It was after one by the time they’d thieved some leftover sandwiches. Robbie packed a spare one in his saddlebag and checked the number of bullets in the ammunition belt that belonged to his father during the war. He could tell by Eleanor’s expression that she didn’t see the need for a .22, let alone so many bullets, but he ignored her querying look, flinging himself up into the saddle as Garnet gave a complaining whine.
‘You could use the stirrup,’ Eleanor suggested, attempting to quiet her mount, an aged mare called Hilda.
‘It’s faster my way.’
With one foot in the stirrup and the other on the ground, she hopped awkwardly alongside Hilda as the horse walked forward. ‘Faster for what?’ Her words were breathy. ‘For heaven’s sake, Hilda, will you please stand still?’
Robbie shrugged. He wasn’t keen on explaining his rush to get to the river and the probability of the communists attacking, until the time was right. Besides, he knew what adults were like. They needed to see everything before they believed a person. They couldn’t just take your word for it. Which intrigued Robbie, especially when Miss Hastings said everything that she read out of his lesson books was right and that he shouldn’t argue or ask so many questions because fact was fact.
‘Where are we going? Not far I hope, it’s a bit too hot.’
‘To the river,’ Robbie explained impatiently, waiting as Eleanor did a couple more leg hops before finally swinging into the saddle. Normally he’d never ride out in the middle of the day during summer, however Robbie wanted to be away from the house and his parents and out in the bush. Most importantly, he wanted to make sure his supplies were safe and that there was no sign of anyone strange. The theft of his crays and the breaking of the trap made him more cautious than usual.
Hilda needed a few swift kicks
to her flanks before she started to move. ‘Okay, you lead the way.’
Leaving the stables, they cut diagonally across the road, riding clear of the overseer’s cottage. Bluey whined, straining on the chain where he was tied under a tree. Robbie wanted to take the pup along but it was darn hot and until Bluey trusted Garnet enough to sit in front of him on horseback, he couldn’t take the little fella out in the hottest part of the day. It wasn’t fair. The dog was more likely to drop dead from the heat rather than turn back and be left behind.
‘I heard you hit one of the jackeroos with your shanghai,’ said Eleanor.
‘Archie doesn’t like me and I don’t like him,’ Robbie answered. ‘He’s always trying to pick a fight.’ Behind them the roofs of the station outbuildings sat like silver squares among the trees.
‘Did your dad give you the strap?’
‘Sort of.’
‘How many this time?’
Robbie held up three fingers and gave a sneaky smile.
The heat rose up from the ground and spun at them from a too-hot sky. The air was thick, sullen, deadening the countryside so that it seemed as if the grasses wilted and the trees faded before their eyes. The horses plodded. Robbie wiped at the sweat on his face while Eleanor complained of the scorch of sun on skin. He couldn’t blame her. It was hotter than yesterday. He told her that she didn’t have to come, that she could turn back. That he’d rather she didn’t come if she was only going to whinge. Yet Eleanor continued on, noting they were already halfway to the river. So they rode quietly side by side, growing used to the sun’s burn, eyes squinting, foreheads creased.
‘What’s that?’ asked Eleanor. The structure sat in the middle of the paddock. A square box of netting, inside which a mass of blackness moved.
‘A crow trap,’ answered Robbie. ‘Remember? Usually we set it up a month or so before lambing, but if I find something dead I bait it myself. Rex says it’s a good idea.’ He led her across the grass to where half a dozen crows began flinging themselves against the wire, desperate to escape. ‘They can get in, but they can’t remember how to get out.’
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