‘We thought we’d get an early start in the morning,’ Mr Winslow announced. ‘Good mechanic you’ve got in the village, Colin. The man seems to know his way around an engine. And Margaret and I want to thank you and Georgia for having us. I feel we’ve really out-stayed ourselves.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Georgia answered, ‘we’ve enjoyed having you both. We’re only sorry it’s been a little dramatic here over the last few days.’
‘To say the least,’ Mrs Winslow agreed. ‘But on the positive side, to date, we personally haven’t had a mention in any of the papers and in comparison to what’s been going on here, we really can’t complain about you purchasing a portion of your ram requirements from Sinclair. In fact, I’m sure it will be a very good move for your stud.’
To Eleanor, this rather sounded like an attempt by Margaret to distance herself from River Run and recent events.
‘Well, I’m not quite as generous as my wife. Obviously I hate seeing a client, especially when that client is a close friend, moving elsewhere.’ Her husband blew his nose in a flowery handkerchief. ‘But I must say that I like the way that overseer of yours thinks. Hardy, big-framed animals with bright wool, and he’s a visual man. There’s a lot to be said for classing outside the confines of the drafting race.’
‘A few years ago I wondered why he continually had the knees out of his trousers,’ Georgia countered. ‘Then I saw him down in the yards one day. Hands-on like my father was. Dyed-in-the-wool sheepmen. It’s good to see it in the next generation.’
‘If it wasn’t for us,’ Colin retaliated, ‘he’d have the arse out of his trousers.’
‘I doubt it,’ Keith argued. ‘You may have given him a position here, but clearly he’s had a very solid start. Besides which, ability always outs. The lad was telling me that he left the Territory to pursue his interest in sheep. He’s certainly worked on some big runs in Queensland. Surely you’d like to be freed up to do other things, Colin. Have you considered appointing him Stud Master?’
Robbie’s father’s cutlery clattered.
‘It was offered a couple of years ago,’ his mother replied. ‘Turned it down flat. I was surprised actually, but then he’s had other issues to deal with.’
‘Such as?’ Mr Winslow enquired.
Georgia gave the slightest of hesitations. ‘His wife contracted polio in the early forties. She spent the last four years of her life in an iron lung. Vivien died in the winter of ’46. Shocking disease.’
There were murmurs about the severity of the last outbreak of polio. Robbie wanted to ask what an iron lung was but his mother was already talking about how pretty Vivien was.
Now Eleanor understood Hugh’s maturity. He’d lost a wife and in the doing, lost his world. She knew, in a much more limited form, how that felt. ‘You should offer the Stud Master position to Hugh again, Mum,’ Eleanor spoke up. ‘I think he’d say yes this time around.’
‘Interesting, I may just do that. I’d like to see him in the role.’
‘Canvassing for votes, is he?’ Colin stated, as if it were fact.
‘Heavens, Colin darling,’ Margaret blew smoke from her mouth and nostrils, ‘what is it? A need for control? Not wanting the competition? Younger man syndrome? If Ambrose Park was fortunate enough to have Goward on staff, we’d give the man what he wanted. I may not have the industry acumen that Georgia has, but I can recognise ability as well as the next person. Give him the job, Georgia.’
‘Hugh won’t let us down, Mum. I’m sure of it.’
‘The man is an employee, Eleanor. Best you remember that. This first-name basis is far too familiar for my liking.’ Colin pushed back his chair. ‘I think I’ll check on that sauce. Robbie, eat your dinner.’
Robbie put his head down and did just that.
Chapter Thirty
Despite Eleanor’s persistence that they catch up in her room immediately after dinner, Lesley pleaded exhaustion. The idea of sharing their news, as if they were schoolgirls again, as if nothing had altered over the past years, had made Lesley feel awkward. Tomorrow would be soon enough. Besides, she doubted her daily regimen at the convent, which consisted of prayers, the hospice, tending the vegetable garden and more prayers, would prove interesting to anyone. It wasn’t a stimulating existence compared to Eleanor’s life, which was exactly why it suited Lesley. There was something soothing in the monotony of her days and the strict regime that was a part of convent life. Little was demanded of her and it was a world that had, over time, become increasingly important to her. Just how much was evident the moment that she had stepped into the taxi that morning, having finally let go of Sister Anna’s hand.
‘You can do this, Lesley,’ Sister Anna had said with conviction.
‘I know,’ came her reply. But Lesley wasn’t convinced and she wondered whether Sister Anna realised how difficult it was for her to simply step outside the convent walls.
‘You need only stay for as long as your services are required, Lesley. We talked about this day, how important it was for you to go beyond our life here and confront the world again. It will be a challenge. I understand that, my dear. We know how you have suffered, but this is your family that you’re visiting and they love you. Take strength from that and God will guide you.’
‘God will guide me,’ Lesley whispered now as she made her way to the sickroom. It had taken all her strength to get through the afternoon and evening, to say the things that everyone expected her to say, to behave like an ordinary girl who had simply come home after a long absence. She had not been untruthful when she’d told Eleanor she was exhausted. She was. But nor could she go to bed. It was far too hot to sleep. Not that she would be capable of sleep. This first night, and each one after, would be a nightmare for her while she remained on River Run.
A telephone call to Sister Anna prior to dinner, assuring the nun of her safe passage to the property, was the anchor Lesley needed to persevere. If not for the nun’s comfort and guidance, Lesley doubted her strength to do what was expected of her. Sister Anna reminded her of why she’d made the decision to return, for despite her mother’s command, the choice was Lesley’s. She’d come home out of a sense of duty, and part of that duty lay in the sickroom.
Unlocking the door, Lesley entered the stranger’s domain. The bedside light flickered with the varying charge of electricity produced by the generator as she sat in the chair by the patient. Although all the lights were still on in the house – the Winslows were enjoying night-caps with her mother and uncle – Lesley had a large torch, which she sat on the floor by the chair. When the generator was turned off for the evening, she would not be alone in the dark.
The patient was sleeping quite soundly, his injured arm resting across a bare torso. The man’s skin colour appeared nearly normal and Lesley knew that the stranger was indeed on the mend. As she studied the long eyelashes and gentle rise and fall of his chest, the patient woke. They stared at each other, Lesley unflinching under the directness of his gaze. Rising, she lay a hand on his brow, gave a practised smile of comfort, before returning to her seat. His eyelids fluttered and closed again.
She could do this, Lesley decided. If she kept to the house and garden. If she didn’t allow herself to dwell on the past. If she kept so busy that she fell into an exhausted sleep, then the dreams wouldn’t come and if the dreams didn’t come, then she only had to worry about thinking. Controlling her thoughts was a discipline Lesley was yet to master. Sister Anna assured her that with time and practice, prayer and meditation would still the memories that haunted her. Certainly there had been progress. The bouts of shaking which struck her unawares were decreasing in frequency. The night-sweats were all but gone and she could now sit quietly without a single thought entering her mind for nearly ten minutes. Most of all, the overpowering sadness that so often in the past led to crying seemed to have reduced as well. What hadn’t altered was the strength of Lesley’s anxiety. These attacks arose unbidden, resulting in breathlessness and a tightness acro
ss her chest which was frightening.
Don’t, Lesley chided herself. Don’t think of your problems. Don’t think of the past. She sat in the chair opposite the injured stranger and imagined a drawer in her mind. Into this compartment she mentally folded and stacked everything that caused her pain; the sadness, the love, the loss, the loneliness and the guilt. It was the guilt that most shadowed her. A sense of blame for Marcus’s death that Lesley couldn’t speak about and had, to this day, never shared with anyone.
A knock sounded on the door and Mrs Howell appeared. ‘Lesley, you’re here. Will you join me for tea? I’ve just made a pot.’
Glad of the interruption, Lesley nodded. ‘That would be lovely, Mrs Howell.’ Locking the sickroom, she followed the housekeeper to the kitchen, sitting the torch on the table.
The housekeeper poured tea into two china cups, humming as she set the table with milk, sugar and blue cake plates with matching silver cake forks. She noticed the torch and raised an eyebrow, before placing the housekeeping ledger to one side. ‘We’re quite out of stores, what with our visitors. Considering the weather, they certainly have healthy appetites. Milk?’
‘I drink it black now,’ Lesley replied.
‘But you’ll have some of my teacake?’ The older woman cut a slice from the cake she’d sat in the middle of the table and passed it to Lesley. ‘I know how much you like cinnamon.’
Lesley smiled her thanks and sipped the steaming drink, using both hands to stem the shaking that had suddenly manifested itself. Not now, she thought, please.
‘It’s good to have you home, Lesley,’ Mrs Howell said with feeling, choosing not to notice the young woman’s tremors. ‘It’s been quite frightful here this past week, what with the shooting, the injured stranger and the Winslows staying.’ She leant across the table. ‘I don’t go much on that Margaret Winslow. We had the police here and everything.’ She took a sip of tea, and bit into the moist slice of cake. ‘And of course right when shearing is on. A fractious time of the year for everyone, as you well know. And in this heat.’
‘It is very hot.’ Lesley picked at the cake.
‘Would you like a dash of something in your tea, to help steady your nerves? We all know it must be hard on you coming back to River Run, after everything.’
‘No, Mrs Howell. I’ll be alright.’
‘Well, there is a bottle of brandy in the pantry if you need it.’ She continued eating the cake and drinking her tea. ‘With luck we’ll know who the patient is in a day or so. His picture’s in the paper.’
‘It must be an inconvenience having him here, even if Robbie is responsible.’
‘A total stranger is one thing, but with all this talk of communism, let’s just say I’ll be pleased when he’s gone. Of course Eleanor was with Robbie when the shooting occurred. I must say I was surprised. She used to be so level-headed. I had to give her a talking to about gallivanting around the property with the overseer.’ Mrs Howell pointed at Lesley’s plate. ‘Aren’t you hungry?’
‘Not really,’ she replied apologetically.
Mrs Howell pushed her cup and saucer to one side. ‘You will come and talk to me when you’re ready, Lesley? You know I’m always here for you.’
‘I know, Mrs Howell.’ Her being on River Run was awkward for everyone. Even Mrs Howell seemed a little ill at ease in her company although Lesley knew how pleased they both were to see each other again.
‘Right, well I best let you go to bed then.’ The housekeeper began clearing the table.
‘I’m going to sit with the patient for just a little longer,’ Lesley told her.
‘Not too long,’ Mrs Howell fussed, ‘you look tired.’
‘No, not too long,’ Lesley lied.
Chapter Thirty-one
It was far too hot for sleep and little better outdoors, however, beyond the confines of walls and ceiling, the air was a little fresher, a touch kinder. Eleanor sat on the balcony, a kerosene lamp by her side, protected from the unknown by the solidness of the homestead, the wrought-iron railings and a wing of stars, which glinted peacefully. In her youth, she and Lesley had dragged mattresses onto the terrace during the claustrophobic summer months, revelling in the sense of freedom their makeshift beds provided. How distant those years seemed now.
Lesley. They’d spoken little since her arrival, although Eleanor intended to rectify that in the morning once her sister was refreshed. With the patient no longer needing fulltime care and Nurse Pappas leaving instructions that the man didn’t require a night-time babysitter, she had to agree that Lesley looked like she could do with an early night. With rest, Eleanor hoped her sister would benefit from the return home. Nonetheless, Athena Pappas’s words left an element of doubt.
For the moment though, there were other things to think on. Shearing was over for another day and tomorrow the Winslows would depart. Hugh Goward would be appointed Stud Master and things would go on, as best as possible, until Robbie left for boarding-school and she too returned to Sydney. Eleanor decided to make the most of her time while she was on River Run. She was enjoying sketching the property and recording some of the stories and phrases she heard. And, more importantly, she felt stronger and quite confident and capable when she was out and about on the run.
Eleanor curled up on her side, the boards hard against her hip. Everyone slept or at least tried to. She wondered if Hugh slept or if he dreamt of the wife lost to illness. To think of him, caused agitation. It was these whirring thoughts that kept her awake and Eleanor did her best to forget him. He was River Run’s overseer after all. It was better to think of the man downstairs. The mystery stranger who’d come into their lives with his memory loss and war wound and attractive appearance. He wasn’t like Hugh with his blue-green eyes and calm efficiency. In fact, if Eleanor compared the two men, she’d guess that the stranger was passionate and direct, filled with energy and verve. They didn’t know who he was and he was still personally lost within the ether of injury, but that didn’t make him any less appealing. A stranger riding across a paddock towards River Run. Intriguing, yes, but the very image was captivating. There was a novella there, she mused.
And so she lay quite still and listened to the bush that never slept. Even now, the middle of the night, a bird twittered. In the garden below there was a rustle in the shrubbery and then the familiar pounding of kangaroos. The animals often invaded the homestead grounds. They nibbled the freshly watered lawn and plants, taking advantage of the green feed. There was comfort in these nocturnal wanderings, a contentment that eased through Eleanor’s body bringing the hope of sleep.
The light in the garden shed flicked on. Disturbed, the kangaroos bounded clear of the intrusion. Eleanor moved to the wrought-iron balustrade and, still sitting, clasped the bars, resting her forehead on the metal. She’d not taken Rex to be a night owl, for the man was well known for his seven o’clock bedtime and four am risings. But who could sleep in this weather?
A figure appeared in the doorway of the garden shed. Framed by the brightness of the electric bulb, it took time for Eleanor to become accustomed to the intense glare. Gradually the outline of the individual gained form and features. With a mixture of apprehension and curiosity, Eleanor quickly concluded that the person was not Rex. In fact, it wasn’t a man at all.
A woman stood at the entrance to the shed. The slender form, accentuated by a narrow waist and curvaceous hips and thighs, stood as if posing for an invisible audience. Arms were lifted slowly, indolently, until each hand grasped the side of the doorway in a seductive pose.
Eleanor brought a hand to her mouth in shock. The light from the building framed the person. There was no mistaking the obvious. The woman was naked, quite naked. And even were it not for the build and height and that mane of hair, Eleanor still would have recognised Margaret Winslow. What on earth was she doing? Where were her clothes?
Goodness. Eleanor crossed herself from habit, rather than belief. Was she so naive as to not fathom what was so blatantly laid out bef
ore her? She was undoubtedly and quite unwittingly party to an assignation of some kind. A tryst in the very grounds of which the woman was a guest. As these thoughts percolated in Eleanor’s mind, Mrs Winslow ran languid hands very slowly across her thighs and stomach, before concentrating on her breasts. It was almost as if she were a cat, the way she arched her back, a stretch of indecent proportions and then the display was over. The woman walked back inside the shed and closed the door. A few minutes later the light went out.
Dumbfounded, Eleanor strained to hear footsteps, struggled to decipher a voice, her fingers gripping the balcony railing, but there was nothing. The night was so dark that even if there were another person with the indecent Mrs Winslow, it was impossible to tell who it might be. In frustration, Eleanor crawled back to lean next to the French doors of her bedroom.
Of course, one could make assumptions. While there was no proof that Eleanor’s stepfather was Mrs Winslow’s companion, there wasn’t exactly a potpourri of eligible men on River Run that Margaret Winslow could take her pick from and, most importantly, necessarily depend on for confidentiality. And Eleanor doubted that Keith Winslow was the type of man who’d be interested in sharing an intimate night in the garden shed of one of his closest friends. Nor was it probable that his wife carried a penchant for walking around in the nude in the middle of the night, unless there was an ulterior motive.
Eleanor stayed awake until it was impossible to do so any longer. When sleep finally claimed her, it did so intermittently, leaving her with a heavy heart.
Chapter Thirty-two
‘You’re Lesley.’
Lesley woke with a start. Having fallen asleep in the sickroom chair, she was momentarily disorientated. The room was in darkness and she searched frantically for the torch. She’d not woken when the generator had been turned off and now she was alone, in the dark, with a strange man. ‘Where is the torch, where is the torch?’
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