Chapter Sixteen
Margaret Winslow dabbed a napkin to her lips. She wore a floral day-dress and her make-up accentuated large eyes, drawing attention away from her more equine features. ‘It must be a wonderful view, looking out at that rose garden during spring. Although it’s brave of you to have made a feature of them right where one drives in, Georgia. They’re not the prettiest of bushes for most of the year. Still, I do admire your gardener’s skills. I’m inclined to make him an offer he can’t refuse.’
‘You couldn’t budge Rex with a forked stick, Margaret,’ Colin replied, crossing his legs and leaning back in the wicker chair. ‘The man’s part of the furniture.’
‘And I’m sure he wouldn’t be worth his salt without you directing him, Georgia,’ said Margaret approvingly. ‘I must say, no-one in your family does anything by halves, do they, Colin?’
They were sitting on the front porch finishing an early lunch hastily prepared by Mrs Howell. Margaret Winslow lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and blew out a smoke ring. Everyone at the table watched the circle as it gradually disintegrated.
Eleanor fiddled with the linen napkin on her lap. Georgia, red around her nostrils and eyes, had done her best to put the events of the morning and previous night aside, at least while they ate, and Mrs Winslow assisted. She was chatty and engaging during the luncheon. She could never, Eleanor decided, be accused of not being full of conversation. She’d overheard Mr Winslow comment to Uncle Colin that Margaret was adept at running diversions, a tactic that had come to the fore over the last hour. The cream of tomato soup and mutton sandwiches, however, were now devoured. And still the doctor had not completed his examination of the injured stranger.
At the end of the table, Georgia sat stiffly in a peacock chair. The high-backed flattened spindles fanning out above her shoulders evoked a bird’s tail plumage. Her mother appeared older and there was an emptiness to her usually mobile face. She’d spent the lunch hour dabbing at the perspiration on her face and neck, oblivious to the thick beads of moisture that rolled down her cleavage, almost drowning Jesus on his silver cross.
It was the first time in many years that church was foregone. For as long as Eleanor could remember, mass came first in their household and the services formed the centrepiece of her childhood memories. The white gloves and matching straw hats. The smell of incense, of clothes sticking to wooden pews in the summer and a cold draught in winter, of Lesley pinching her or pulling a plait as their mother took her usual place, reading from the Old Testament. Afterwards there’d been scones with jam and cream, sweet cakes and tea. That was the best part.
‘Well, I mean to say,’ Mrs Winslow drew long and hard on the cigarette, and took a sip of her gin fizz, ‘there’s never a dull moment at River Run. That’s the worst of marrying into the establishment,’ she directed this observation to her husband, ‘our boys are positively boring, aren’t they, Keith? Although I thank heavens for my youngest, Henry. He’s always at the centre of everything and knows exactly what’s going on. Doesn’t he, Eleanor?’ she said pointedly, pausing for effect. ‘Heavens, it’s hot. I know you warned me, Keith, but I could melt at the moment.’
Mrs Winslow’s husband turned the wicker chair slightly away from his wife, subtly engaging Eleanor’s mother in conversation. The man had the uncanny ability of acting as if Margaret wasn’t present, while simultaneously smoothing the critical innuendos that his wife couldn’t help but drop as she prattled on. If Eleanor could have ignored Mrs Winslow without appearing obvious, she would have. There was little chance of doing so, however, having been seated opposite the woman. Instead she gave a forced smile, replying that Henry was the life of every party in Sydney.
‘They tell me that the Artists and Models Ball at the Trocadero in George Street was fabulous last year,’ Mrs Winslow began. ‘My Henry tells me you were a most fetching Cleopatra.’
Eleanor glanced awkwardly to the far end of the table. The expression on her mother’s face grew more strained. ‘Well, I –’
‘Hair piled atop, oodles of bare skin,’ Mrs Winslow gave a theatrical pause, ‘and a gold beaded, hip-hugging girdle of a belt.’
‘You didn’t really attend that event, did you, Eleanor? Why, those balls are infamous.’ Georgia leant forward, her nostrils widening and narrowing with each breath. ‘They’re a magnet for bohemians.’
Margaret let out a snort of derision. ‘For heaven’s sake, Georgia, it’s just a party. You were young once too you know.’
‘Freethinkers and crossdressers.’ Georgia glowered at her guest, before her features rearranged themselves more pleasantly. ‘Not the type of people I want my daughter mixing with. She should be finding a suitable man and settling down. Elly is already on the older side of marriageable age.’
The lemonade Eleanor sipped caught in her throat. ‘Mum, for heaven’s sake, I’m only twenty-six.’
‘You should be settled by now, with a child and husband to care for and a house to run.’
‘Domestic bliss,’ Eleanor muttered.
Margaret gave a chuckle, twirling her glass so that the ice crackled within. ‘Ah yes, our Prime Minister would wholeheartedly agree with you, Georgia. Isn’t that his line at the moment, that hearth and home are the bedrock of a stable society?’
‘Menzies is adept at placing himself above politics and policies at times,’ Colin agreed.
Eleanor was grateful when the conversation changed. It had been a difficult morning and everyone was on edge. The police had interviewed all those concerned regarding the shooting and then visited and photographed the wounded man.
‘One of the many things to come out of that terrible war,’ said Margaret, ‘apart from Menzies, indeed most western countries, urging their womenfolk to move out of the workplace and to become homemakers again, is the end of austerity. The return to feminine, flowery fashion.’
‘Dior.’ Eleanor nodded, having studied their guest’s simple Sunday house-dress. She knew that like Mrs Winslow’s luggage, all her clothes were quite simply top-drawer.
Georgia poured another glass of homemade lemonade, added a splash of gin from the decanter and took a sip. ‘What time are you leaving, Keith?’
‘Well, we’re not, are we, Keith?’ Margaret answered on his behalf. ‘I mean, firstly, we couldn’t leave you with all this …’ she waved her hands around, coloured rings sparkling, as if searching for the right word, ‘drama.’ She said the word slowly and with some relish. ‘And besides, if we stay then Keith and Colin can work out the details of the rams that River Run is purchasing.’
Keith patted his coat pockets. ‘I have photographs.’
‘We are always more than happy with the selection your Stud Master makes on our behalf, you know that, Keith,’ said Georgia.
‘Mum?’ Eleanor quickly interrupted. ‘I think that should be left to another time, don’t you?’
‘Heavens, Colin,’ Margaret tittered, ‘you do have it all in front of you. Keith would just murder me, wouldn’t you, darling, if I tried to run his life, let alone interfere with his business transactions.’
‘Of course you must stay,’ said Georgia graciously, although her invitation was directed to Mr Winslow. ‘But one night. If that suits you, Keith.’
‘Probably easier what with shearing commencing,’ Colin finally spoke. ‘And we’re looking at our bloodline, considering making some changes. I was going to bring it up last night, however, the evening just flew. Too many western wobblers I’m afraid, among other things.’
‘Well, as long as we’re not putting you out, Georgia,’ Keith responded, his expression softening. ‘I’d rather like to have the car checked at that garage I saw in the village first thing in the morning. It’s got a bit of an oil leak and I wouldn’t like to get caught somewhere on the road, halfway home.’
‘You and that Studebaker,’ Margaret interrupted. ‘Obsessed with the Yank-mobile he is. We even have two Studebaker trucks for the stud. Forget the war quotas, when it comes to imports, Keith m
ust have his Studebakers, and when I think of those sleek sporty Jaguars. God, if I can’t see myself behind the steering wheel in one of my Dior dresses.’
Thankfully, Eleanor thought, the as-new cream vehicle was locked away in the timber garage, safe from both Robbie and the interest of the younger jackeroos.
‘Put a man near a new automobile and it’s like a child with ice-cream,’ Keith agreed with a grin.
‘I’ll call the mechanic and let him know that you’re coming.’
‘I’d appreciate that, Colin, but I have to say that you’ve piqued my interest with regards to River Run’s bloodline. I suppose we can have our chat this afternoon when you and Georgia are free.’ Keith’s voice was flat.
‘I’m sure the ladies can amuse themselves while we talk shop.’ Colin caught his wife staring at him.
‘Our overseer, Goward, has some excellent ideas,’ Georgia poured more lemonade, ‘with regards to improving frame size and wool quality. He’s certainly done his homework and on that basis I’ve decided to make some changes, but Colin can fill you in on the details later, Keith. For now, though, I want you to know that our stud’s relationship will of course continue with Ambrose Park.’
‘But in a more limited form?’ asked Keith.
‘Yes,’ replied Georgia, ‘I’m afraid we won’t be purchasing our usual quantity from Ambrose this year.’
Colin thrust his chair back from the table and crossed his legs. ‘Well, there’s not much left for you and me to discuss, Keith.’
‘So you’re still firmly in charge, Georgia?’ Margaret’s voice, having lost its earlier playfulness, grew serious. ‘Of course the industry talk points to you at the helm, although I did wonder if it was just gossip. I would have thought that considering the length of time that you two have been married –’
‘That what? I would take a back seat?’ Georgia gave a little smile. ‘Alan and I were partners. It’s the same with Colin.’ She glanced at her husband. ‘And he quite understands the way things work here at River Run. Besides which, he has made invaluable contributions to the stud,’ she said magnanimously. ‘No-one can deny that.’
‘And it is your property.’ Margaret said what everyone thought. ‘You acre-chaser, you, Colin,’ she teased. The table went quiet.
Eleanor decided that being blunt did have some benefits.
‘So here we all are.’ Margaret raised a glass, toasting the table. ‘We should be celebrating. Wool’s fetching a pound a pound.’ She took a mouthful and swallowed. ‘All that money. Isn’t it marvellous?’
Keith lifted his glass. ‘And you’ve always been so good at spending it.’
Margaret gave a satisfied smile. ‘New cars, new tractors, fertiliser, holidays and David Jones department store. It makes a girl all tingly with anticipation. So what’s on your wish list, Georgia? Car? House? A trip abroad?’
‘A plane,’ she replied. ‘Planes are the future out here. Just imagine how the workload would be cut if you could check paddocks by air?’
‘Aerial mustering,’ Keith added. ‘I spoke to a chap in Sydney about the possibility last year.’
‘How marvellous,’ Georgia enthused. ‘You see, Colin, I said the idea had merit and Keith agrees.’
Colin lit a cigarette. ‘Here’s to Keith.’
‘So, at the risk of raising the elephant in the room,’ said Keith slowly, ‘what will you do with that young boy of yours, Colin? He’s obviously a handful.’
‘Not usually,’ replied Colin smoothly. ‘The police will confirm that the shooting was an accident. I mean, what else can they do? Robbie’s not yet twelve.’
‘Quite officious, our law enforcers.’ Mr Winslow lit a cigarette, took a couple of quick puffs and then tossed it over his shoulder onto the gravel drive.
‘What can you expect?’ replied Colin. ‘You can’t tell me that they wouldn’t be quietly rubbing their hands together if there was a scandal associated with River Run. The economy is riding high thanks to the wool boom. Why, at the last Sinclair stud sale in the Riverina, politicians and dignitaries from Sydney made up three carloads. There are some out there who’d love to cut one of us down a peg or two.’
‘The common people,’ declared Georgia, ‘understand that there will always be others more successful and wealthier than them. It’s the assumption that one considers yourself to be better than another that riles them.’
Colin made a fuss of clearing his throat. ‘As you can see, they’d love to see us as front page news.’
Georgia’s brow knitted.
‘How extraordinary.’ Margaret was studying her hosts with renewed interest. ‘Usually it’s those of us who marry up, myself included, who put the dog on, so to speak.’
Eleanor wondered if anyone would notice if she slipped from the chair, under the table and then crawled away. Georgia’s mouth compressed together so tightly her lips almost disappeared.
‘Well, I suppose we should all be prepared.’ Mr Winslow tapped his fingers slowly on the arm of the chair.
‘It is quite a story.’ A little of Margaret’s gaiety dissipated. ‘I hadn’t really given much thought to the repercussions, but you’re right, of course, Colin. Two well-known rural families, a shooting and the scent of communism in the air.’
‘I am sorry,’ Georgia said to the table.
‘None of us are responsible for what’s happened,’ Colin placated. ‘It’s simply a case of a young boy letting his imagination get the better of him.’
‘Of course.’ Mr Winslow lit another cigarette, studying the glowing tip thoughtfully. Although a large, ungainly man, his warm brown eyes and quiet voice held much appeal.
The question of Robbie’s behaviour, of why he’d done what he’d done, was yet to be broached, and yet there was little doubt in Eleanor’s mind that her mother and stepfather would have been pondering that very thing into the wee hours and most of the morning. They all hoped for the incident to be put behind them quickly and cleanly. Although everyone involved had been primed by Colin to speak the truth as he saw it, that the incident was a shocking accident, the morning’s questioning had turned troublesome when Robbie admitted to the police that he’d thought the stranger was a communist.
‘So you meant to shoot him?’ the officer asked.
Robbie replied that he’d only intended to warn the man off their land.
Mrs Winslow flicked the silver lighter repeatedly. ‘I blame Menzies for this communism rubbish.’ She took a puff of a cigarette. ‘I know that you’ll all howl me down, but you can’t run Australia as a police state. I mean, really, imagine trying to declare the Communist Party unlawful. When the referendum is held this year Menzies’ legislation will fail.’
Colin was of the same opinion. ‘I’m a great admirer of Menzies, the coalition with the Country Party remains strong and he has our interests at heart. I do tend to agree with you, though, Margaret. Our Prime Minister has done a poor job of explaining how denying the civil liberties of otherwise law-abiding citizens will protect our basic freedom.’
‘He’s kowtowing to the bloody Yanks and following their lead, if you ask me,’ Keith replied, adding a generous dash of gin to the tonic water in his glass. Georgia passed the ice-bucket and he dropped melting, lemon-flavoured cubes into the drink. ‘I know we had no choice other than to send troops to Korea thanks to the United Nations and their one-in-all-in resolution, but the word from cabinet is that Menzies’ commitment of Australian troops was to secure a strong relationship with the United States.’
‘Well, he’s done that.’ Georgia began stacking plates at the table. ‘The security treaty’s signed.’
‘In our case, although I bemoan our boys being sent off to yet another war, we can thank Russia and North Korea for helping to send the wool price soaring,’ Margaret concluded, grinding her cigarette out in a pretty china ashtray. ‘Here’s to the River Run clip.’
Everyone raised their glasses, except Eleanor. She felt like a warmonger enjoying the spoils when their growing fin
ances came from market expectation of the increasing need for uniforms.
As the pitfalls of communism continued to be dissected, Mrs Howell arrived, escorting the doctor.
‘Mr Webber?’ Dr Headley was a tall man with apple cheeks, a jutting chin and a sprinkling of crumbs on his suit-front, evidence that Mrs Howell had ensured he was fed before he embarked on his return journey.
‘Yes, Doctor, please do sit down.’
‘I won’t, thank you,’ the doctor responded, his gaze lingering on the bottle of gin sitting on the table. ‘I have an expectant mother who may yet need my assistance tonight.’
‘So how is the patient?’ Georgia enquired, as the housekeeper noisily stacked plates and bowls on a large wooden tray.
‘I’ve removed the bullet. The wound should heal nicely, but I’m afraid he’s still unconscious. The constable informed me that you’re willing to lodge the man here in the short term.’
‘Yes,’ Colin answered, the hesitancy obvious in his voice. ‘For a very short time, Doctor. Our home is hardly the place for injured strangers of dubious background.’
The doctor scratched his nose. Dried blood rimmed a fingernail. ‘Be that as it may, here he will have to stay.’
‘For a few days only, Dr Headley.’
Eleanor was pleased her mother was speaking up. The sooner the stranger was gone, the better.
Georgia continued, ‘The door to his room can be locked and –’
‘I doubt the need for that, Mrs Webber,’ the doctor interrupted. ‘The knock to the patient’s head has occurred on the same spot to which he sustained a previous injury. A severe gunshot wound, by the looks of it.’
‘He’s seen service?’ Keith asked.
‘It’s highly likely. He’s unconscious but his vital signs are stable and apart from the shoulder wound, there appears to be no other ailments. I couldn’t countenance him being moved, at least not until he wakes up, and even then I would be hesitant lest we do more damage transporting him to the hospital. Head injuries can be very tricky things and it’s over one hundred and fifty miles to the nearest hospital on roads that, as we all know, leave much to be desired.’
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