Retribution: Who would you kill to escape your past?

by Diane Demetre

  The mountainous terrain to their left and right looked like a giant hand had clutched the earth’s crust, leaving it crumpled in soaring ridges and folds. Further down, uninterrupted green pastures carpeted every hillside, broken only by the intricate tracing of meandering sheep tracks and family homesteads. Noisy ducks fought for dominance in the brackish water on the dams below, only to be usurped by other visiting birdlife. Amid this endless display of nature’s beauty, massive electricity and telecommunication towers dotted the landscape—incongruent giants buzzing the verdant landscape of Wee Jasper Valley.

  “Everything is so green here,” he said, quietly awed.

  “Normally it’s dry this time of year, but Mum said they had unusually heavy rain over the past month, so everything’s come alive again. I love the valley when it looks like this.”

  As the Jeep crested the next hill, a flock of low-flying yellow-crested white cockatoos lifted in a cloud of wings, squawking their irritation at being disturbed.

  Jessie pointed out to the right. “That’s the Murrumbidgee River.”

  He gazed down at one of Australia’s best-known rivers, cutting its course through the valley as it had done for millions of years.

  “And above the river are the Brindabella Ranges.”

  The ranges slid down from their great heights to the river’s banks, where clusters of trees sipped the icy waters from the Snowy Mountains. Nourishing each other, every aspect of the landscape worked in harmony. That’s what he felt—the harmony of the land. He loved this country. That’s why he fought for it. That’s why he killed for it. Great southern land.

  “What’s with all the rocks?” He pointed to thousands of craggy outcrops forcing their way through the lush green pastures like nasty acne on a teenager’s face.

  “This valley was once a vast inland sea. Those rocks are limestone formed over four hundred million years ago. The whole place is full of marine fossils and limestone caves. It’s quite a famous geological site, you know. When Richard and I were little, Dad taught us all about caving. It’s like an alien world under there, filled with spectacular flowstone, rock shawls, stalagmites, stalactites and lots of other spectacular rock formations.”

  He whistled a high-pitched note. “Wow. You certainly know your stuff. You sound like a geologist.”

  “Not really,” she jibed. “But Dad taught us well. Hopefully, if we get time, I’ll take you to Carey’s Cave. It’s open to the public.”

  “That’d be great.” He steered the Jeep across the Teamas Bridge under which the mighty Murrumbidgee River flowed.

  “Watch out.” She pointed to the furry grey face of a kangaroo, poking up from behind a roadside rock. BJ slowed, waiting for the ’roo to decide whether to move or not. “You can never tell what they’ll do. That’s why we don’t drive through here at night. The head lights attract them, and they dart out in front of the car.”

  “Yeah, I noticed a few of them as road-kill along the way.”

  Deciding to remain behind the boulder, the kangaroo bobbed down to hide, and they drove on. With the light fading fast, Jessie indicated to drive onto the dirt road ahead, ignoring the quaint white-washed Wee Jasper Bridge to his right. “We’re nearly there. Coodravale is just down here.”

  Dirty pools of evaporating water splashed up mud on the Jeep as he navigated around them as best he could. Every time a thud of red clay hit his wheel arch, he winced. He’d be spending serious time blasting this stuff off.

  “This is the driveway. Turn here.” She pointed to an almost concealed white gate about thirty metres off the road to their right. A crooked sign proclaimed they’d reached their destination…Coodravale Homestead.

  The Jeep’s wheels rumbled as they drove across the cattle grate. With no driveway lighting, BJ steered down the double dirt tracks, careful to stay on the well-worn grooves. Oversteering into the brimming gardens on either side would seriously scratch the paintwork. Rounding the driveway bend, he slowed the Jeep and gave a low, long whistle.

  Set back on an expansive green lawn and rebuilt in early nineteenth century architectural style, the single-storey homestead sprawled in historic splendour. Flanked by an assortment of other smaller buildings and sheds, the red brick farmhouse was wrapped in a wide veranda of white-painted timber railings and bullnose tin roof. In front of the sweeping side veranda, an enormous oak tree towered upward from the front lawn. Its vast canopy of countless leaves counterbalanced the property’s proportions as if drawn by a master artist’s brush. The whole scene reminded BJ of those immortalised on any number of famous Australian paintings.

  “This is it,” she declared. “This is Coodravale.”

  Chapter 15

  What a bastard of a day. My butt’s sore and my back’s stiff. I hate driving. Tailing them along that highway all afternoon and trying not to be seen wasn’t easy work. It got even harder when they stopped at that bloody hospital. I had to park far enough away not to be seen, but close enough to know when they left. And that bloody dog. What’s that all about? I hate dogs. There was that little black poodle that used to yap at me every time I passed its house on my way to school. It belonged to Mrs Springfield. Muffin she called it. Stupid, bloody thing. But I fixed it. When no one was watching, I took Muffin and put her where she belonged. In. The. Oven. That fixed it. Mrs Springfield never knew where Muffin went. Now I’m going to have to work out a way to get rid of the hero’s damn dog as well as him. Why couldn’t he just mind his own business?

  Then they hightailed it out of Yass as if on some sort of bloody car rally. I hate driving. That’s what I wanted to yell at them as they headed off. But I had to turn back otherwise he would have spotted me. I drove back to town, grabbed a coffee and came up with a new plan. As my mother used to say, be thankful for each new challenge, because it will build your strength and character. Well, I built lots more strength and character today.

  These country people think they’re so smart, with their trendy little cafés and friendly welcomes. But they’re stupid. It took me all of two minutes to find out where my dancer lives and how to get there. All I had to do was say I was a friend of the family. People are stupid. Why didn’t the waitress ask that if I was a friend of the family, why I just didn’t call them for directions? Stupid bitch.

  It doesn’t matter. I know where my dancer lives now. Some place called Coodravale Homestead. I’ll drive out there later tonight. Have a look around. Work out what I’m going to do. There’s no rush. The hero and his dog aren’t going to get away from me with my precious dancer.

  Planning is something I’m good at. I’ll work it out. There’s plenty of time.

  Chapter 16

  Once more, mixed emotions flooded Jessie’s body. The excitement of coming home to the sights, smells and sounds she enjoyed as a child growing up in the country were swamped by anxiety and disappointment. Previously, her mother’s seeming displeasure and her father’s brusque, indifferent attitude tainted her happy home-coming. But this time, with her father ill in hospital and his admission of love and pride for her, she hoped the relationship with her mother would equally soften. Despite the tension between them, she longed to be closer to her, to have a mother she could confide in and share her deepest feelings. She prayed this trip would turn out better than expected, just like BJ foretold.

  Standing at the front door, with Richard propped behind her, Joanna motioned BJ to park the car under the port cochère. With the Hilton family cars parked in front of the garages on the far side of the homestead, the vacant undercover space waited for the Jeep.

  “That’s Mum, and behind her is Richard,” said Jessie, her apprehension rising.

  “And who am I?”

  “Oh, God, you’re right, we didn’t discuss that, did we?” Jessie braced herself as she caught the puzzled expression on her mother’s face. She hoped her animated smile would assuage some of her mother’s obvious confusion. With her rich brown hair twirled in a top knot and dressed in pale blue Capri pants, matching short sle
eve knit sweater and navy blue ballet flats, Joanna Hilton wore her fifty years well. Elegant, tall and slim, she’d bestowed good genes on her only daughter, for which Jessie was grateful.

  As BJ switched off the engine, she sprang out of the car, dashing to her mother. “Mum. How are you holding up?” She hugged her tight, receiving a limp squeeze in return.

  “Pretty good.” But her mother’s puffy face and red eyes conveyed a different story. “Richard told me you had a friend with you, but he didn’t mention it was a man.” Even though bloodshot, her cool grey eyes scrutinised BJ as he lowered himself from the cabin. It never failed to amaze Jessie how her mother could ignore what was in front of her to pursue what interested her more. In this case, finding out who the strange man was she had brought home without her prior knowledge.

  “Hello, Mrs Hilton. I’m Brad Jordan, but everyone calls me BJ.” In two long strides, he greeted her with an outstretched hand and charming smile.

  Jessie watched her mother tilt her head up to meet his piercing blue eyes with a steely gaze. “BJ’s a friend of mine from yoga. He offered to drive me here…”

  “…And help out with the homestead until Mr Hilton gets out of hospital. My uncle has a farm on the Mornington Peninsula, and I know how much work goes into a property. With your husband so sick, I thought a couple of extra hands might come in handy.” With Joanna’s small hand now firmly in his grasp and a hesitant smile replacing her suspicious scrutiny, Jessie began to relax.

  “Well that’s very kind of you. But if your mother wanted you to be called BJ, she would have written it on your birth certificate. Nice to meet you, Brad.” Joanna’s sculptured eyebrow arched in obvious disdain for nicknames. “This is Jessica’s brother, Richard.” She stepped aside to present her son who lounged against the door frame. Compared to his mother, he looked like a vagabond. Jeans scrubbed with dirt on both thighs from persistent hand rubbing, mud-caked boots and a threadbare T-shirt missing the sleeves, torn not cut from their seams; all embellished his look of overworked and underpaid. A look Jessie knew to be unwarranted. Joanna would never have allowed her to look so grimy with company about to arrive. Jessie stewed in silence. Richard had obviously just stubbed out another cigarette because she could smell it from where she stood. Her nostrils flared, trying to expel the odour.

  “Hi.” Richard tipped his hand in a half-hearted salute.

  BJ reached over and received a limp hand shake in return. With the same cool gaze as their mother’s, Richard scanned him from head to foot accompanied by a slight twitch of his lips.

  “Well, I think we’ll settle in and then we can catch up? Is that okay, Mum?” Jessie desperately wanted to get moving.

  “Mrs Hilton, I had to bring my dog, Whiskey. Jessie said it would be okay. Whiskey’s trained, so she’s very obedient.” He motioned to the back passenger window of the Jeep where Whiskey’s effusive face blinked behind the glass.

  “Well, as long as she doesn’t tear around causing trouble, I suppose it’s all right.” Joanna cast a not-so-subtle reproachful glance at Jessie. “You can leave your car here. Jessica will show you to the Garden Wing. I’ve made up both beds.” She swivelled her head from Jessie to BJ as if searching for any tell-tale signs of a sexual liaison.

  “That’s great, Mum. Thank you. We’ll unpack then.” Blowing out a breath, she rushed to the back of the Jeep where BJ helped her grab the bags.

  As soon as the passenger door was opened, Whiskey sprang to the ground, clearly thrilled to be released. “Heel, Whiskey.” She halted at BJ’s feet. “Thanks very much, Mrs Hilton. I promise Whiskey will behave, and if I can be of any help you just let me know.”

  “Thank you, Brad. I will. Come on, Richard. You can help me with dinner.”

  Jessie waited while her straight-backed mother turned and herded Richard into the house, closing the door behind them. With a feeble smile, she upturned her face to BJ. “Welcome to Coodravale, one of the unhappiest places on earth.”

  Heaving up both bags, he gave a humourless chuckle. “She’s certainly a tough woman. Now I know where you get it from.”

  Struggling to reclaim her duffel bag, Jessie bristled. “I am nothing like her.”

  “You’re a lot like your mother.” He relinquished Jessie’s bag and stepped in time beside her. “Come on, Whiskey. Heel. With me.” Frantic to explore the property, Whiskey’s feet danced on the spot, but she obeyed her master and remained close. “You’re both similar in looks, posture, strength of will, and you’re both tough.”

  “Well, maybe you’re right with a couple of things, but I’m not aloof or self-absorbed like Mum is.” She stopped and frowned at him in demand of agreement.

  “Mmm, maybe it’s just a matter of semantics. Some might say you’re reserved and overly-focused on your ballet career? Could be misconstrued as being aloof or self-absorbed?” A taunting smile tugged at his lips.

  “Now you’re just being smart. I can’t be bothered debating this right now. But you’re wrong. Joanna Hilton is a difficult woman to please, or to love for that matter. She alienates people with obsessive expectations…” She clamped her lips shut. Oh God, am I really that much like Mum? This was not the time for a deep and meaningful, either with BJ or herself about the similarities between her and her mother. She was tired. She needed a hot shower, something to eat and, if she was lucky, a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow, when she had more time, she might reflect on what BJ had just said. Not now. “Doesn’t Whiskey need a toilet break?”

  “Yes, but is the homestead fenced all the way around?”

  “Yes. She won’t be able to get out. The gates are closed before dusk.”

  “Whiskey, go pee.” He lifted his arm, pointing into the near distance. Delighted at finally being able to investigate, the dog raced to the fence line, sniffing and burrowing her nose into the earth. After finding a spot, she relieved herself and galloped back to them.

  “Follow me,” said Jessie, picking up the pace. The red gravel pathway leading to the Garden Wing crunched underfoot, shattering the velvety space between day’s finale and night’s prelude. Early evening was Jessie’s favourite time of day in the country. Shading everything in soft greys and purples, it bridged the seen and unseen. Muted light, sounds and energy enveloped Coodravale as the curtain of nocturnal peace descended. The same sort of peace as when I do yoga.

  “Wow. This place goes on forever.” The awe in BJ’s voice drew her attention, and she shot him a proud smile.

  “Yes. Coodravale is pretty special, isn’t it?” I just wish it didn’t come with all the other stuff family brings with it.

  She turned the corner of the homestead and strode up four, uneven, concrete block steps. “This is the Garden Wing.” The timber veranda echoed with their footsteps as they traipsed towards the double French doors at the far end. “It’s where paying guests usually stay, but since Christmas is so close, the bookings are low. It’s got a small kitchen, living room, bathroom and separate bedroom. I’ll take the bedroom and you can have the bed nook. I thought we’d be better here than in the main house. Less tension, if you know what I mean.” She pushed down on the door latch and opened the door. Folding back the floor length damask curtains, she ushered him inside.

  Chapter 17

  “Whiskey. Sit. Stay.” BJ motioned for her to remain on the veranda as he entered the Garden Wing.

  “This is your bed.” Jessie pointed to the queen bed tucked into the bed nook just inside the French doors. The bed was trimmed with white broderie anglasie lace and reminded him of his grandmother’s. A nostalgic smile partnered the sweet memory as he recalled the happy times he’d spent listening to her read bedtime stories in that bed. On top of the shabby chic bedside tables either side of the bed rested Tiffany-style lamps. Against the far wall, a matching shabby chic bureau caught his attention because of the ornate white vintage basin and jug perched on top.

  “You did say there was a bathroom didn’t you?”

  “Yes. And don’t worry, it has
hot running water. Come on. I’ll give you the tour.”

  Dumping his kit on the bed, he followed her.

  “My bedroom’s down there.” She pointed to the opposite end of the living room which separated the space. “Kitchen and bathroom are through here.” On their right, a kitchen and separate bathroom fitted into what he suspected was originally a sun room but was now enclosed for functionality and privacy.

  “This is a terrific layout.” He poked his head into Jessie’s bedroom for a quick reconnaissance. It had one window and a timber-and-glass panelled exterior door, locked with an old fashioned key. One medium-sized sliding window hung in the kitchen and bathroom, while two large windows stretched above his bed. In total, two door exits and five windows. He’d check their locks later when she wasn’t around.

  He didn’t want to alarm her, but he felt sure that the car he saw this afternoon tailing them on the highway stayed with them into Yass. The last thing he did when they left town was check his rear vision mirror, but it was gone. Logic said he was being too suspicious, but his gut told him otherwise. Some may say he was being overly cautious, but he knew better. Being alive, proved that. Many times in combat, his instinct had stopped him from taking a step to the right or left, saving him from being blown up by an unexploded incendiary device. And this afternoon it told him something was off with the car behind them.

  “Check this out. Mum left a bottle of wine in the fridge,” called Jessie from the kitchen, obviously surprised and delighted at her mother’s preparedness. “Let’s unpack, and we’ll have a glass to steel our nerves before we join them for dinner.” Taking her own advice, she headed into her bedroom.

  BJ crossed the cosy living room admiring the stone and mortar fireplace. On the mantle rested the complete works of Banjo Paterson bound in two large leather volumes. Maybe I’ll get time to read one of Banjo’s poems. Except poetry didn’t interest him much. Chuckling to himself, he unpacked his bag and pulled out a change of clothes. “Do you want to use the bathroom first?” he shouted across the living room towards Jessie’s bedroom.