Secrets of the Springs

by Kerry McGinnis

  Back at the house there was still no answer from the Buchans’ phone. Frustrated, I paced about the rooms, opening cupboards and drawers to check their contents. If the furniture was to be sold they would all need emptying, and what was I to do with piles of sheets and towels and chequebook stubs, and years of Reader’s Digests, and fondue forks, for God’s sake! The forks were in the formal dining room, a gloomy place where we had always eaten our Christmas dinners. There was also, I realised with dismay, a full Crown Derby dining set and enough crystal glasses to stock a flash hotel, along with the napery and silverware.

  ‘He was a bachelor,’ I said in bewilderment to Marty, who’d come in. ‘What did he want with all this? Did it ever get used – apart from those Christmas dinners, I mean?’

  ‘Not often once you came,’ Marty reflected. ‘He changed then – of course he was much busier, what with the station to run, as well as the agency, and he was grieving too.’

  I snorted at that, but intent upon her words she didn’t notice.

  ‘After your parents died,’ she said, ‘well, he just never seemed to get back to his old habit of entertaining. Before that the station people would call round here if he wasn’t at the agency; quite a few of them lunched or dined with him, too. It was a regular thing. He was their agent after all. “Why go to the Shamrock?” he used to say. “The food is better here.”’ She smiled. ‘I made sure it always was. It was business for him, but I think, in a few cases, there was a bit of shock factor involved too. There were – are – still people, those who’d heard the talk, who looked down on him, and having them to dine with all the trimmings was his way of shaking them up. See, I set a better table and I know my way around the cutlery too. He could be devious, Palmer; and I don’t think he ever forgot an insult. Of course there were other guests, those he genuinely liked. He enjoyed treating them. He was a – a complex person, your uncle. Though I suppose,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘that’s true of us all.’

  ‘You make him sound so different.’ I was doubtful, the man I thought I knew seemed the opposite of Marty’s cultivated boss. ‘What talk was that?’

  ‘About his half-caste mother. Surely you knew that, Orla? Your grandfather lived with an Aboriginal woman before he married your grandmother – well, she was part white but back then it wasn’t socially acceptable to cross the colour line. He took up with her somewhere else, and either they parted company or she died . . . at any rate she wasn’t with them when Palmer and your grandfather first turned up at the Park. But things like that have a way of following you around. It was one of those open secrets but Palmer’s skin was light enough that you could overlook it – if you wanted to. Some, those who were envious or mean spirited, or who felt themselves superior, didn’t.’

  ‘A boy at school said something once, but I didn’t really believe him then,’ I admitted. ‘But I saw it in him the other day. It was his age and sickness perhaps, because I could see the shape of his bones. Dad never breathed a word about it.’ That must have been what Sandra meant about people making choices or having them forced upon them. I wondered if it was why he had never married. When Palmer was young, a part-Aboriginal man would have had few prospects among respectable white girls and he couldn’t have married a coloured girl and kept his standing, or his business. Not in a bush town back in the forties.

  ‘I suppose that helps explain —’ I waved a hand rather hopelessly at the dresser full of china, ‘but what am I supposed to do with all this stuff? Furniture’s one thing, easily sold but this! The cost of carting it back to the island . . .’

  ‘Maybe auction it too?’ Marty suggested. ‘Look in the Yellow Pages – if you find a place to ring in Broken Hill they might send someone up to value it. You’d need to settle on a reserve before it was sold. That dinner set is worth hundreds; the silver too.’

  Something else to delay my return. ‘I’ll have to start a list,’ I sighed. ‘Why did I ever think this was going to be simple?’

  In late afternoon I pulled on ankle boots, the ones I wore to tramp about the foreshore of the island, and hiked to the eastern edge of town where Brigson’s Garage (‘Tyres Changed. Lube. All Your Motoring Needs’) sat beside the branch road from the main highway. An older man was working the pump out front, fuelling a car, and I wondered if it was Roger’s dad. The sign, formerly Brigson’s, now read & Son. The workshop was still open and a vehicle was on the hoist with an overalled figure beneath it. I took the rutted side lane that led to a fibro house with a neat lawn and a healthy vegetable garden. My feet momentarily faltered as my gaze was snagged by the plump-tyred trike overturned on the lawn. Normal enough but something I hadn’t considered.

  Fiona answered my knock, still dressed for work and holding a chubby toddler whose straight brown hair and wide eyes echoed her mother’s face.

  ‘Orla, come in.’ Her easy smile made me feel welcome. ‘I’ve not long got home. How are you? You look,’ her gaze swept over me and she cocked her head, a mannerism I remembered well, ‘amazing. So slim.’ She glanced ruefully down at her own waist, a trifle thicker than I remembered it. ‘Where have you been all this time?’ She darted a quick look at my hands. ‘No ring? I’d expected you to be long married.’ She ushered me into a crowded living room. ‘Do sit down. Coffee, cuppa – what would you like?’

  ‘Coffee would be lovely, thanks, but enough about me – who’s this?’

  ‘Ah,’ a proud smile lit her face and she nuzzled the petal-soft cheeks of the little girl. ‘This is Sophia. She’s three years old. Say hello to Orla, sweetie.’

  The toddler regarded me gravely. ‘’Ello,’ she said, and her chubby features curved into a smile.

  ‘She’s beautiful, Fee.’ I touched the little face, my fingers remembering. ‘But how on earth do you manage work?’

  ‘That’s down to Roger’s mum. She’s our treasure isn’t she, Soph? I’ve only been back at the bank six months. Mum,’ she called, ‘come and see who’s here. Roger and me, we’re saving for a place of our own, you see, so we live with Mum and Dad Brigson. We couldn’t manage without them – not the rent or the childcare.’

  I had vague memories of Mrs Brigson from Parent Days at primary school, and later as the exasperated mother of an acned, long haired son. We were re-introduced, then she left the room again to make the coffee while Fiona sat Sophia on her lap and, between sketching in the details of her own life, bombarded me with questions about mine.

  ‘I thought,’ she said, as we sipped our coffee and Mrs Brigson distracted the little girl away from the hot liquid, ‘that when you left you might have told me. We were best friends, Orla. But you never breathed a word.’

  ‘I know.’ I bit my lip. ‘I’m sorry. It seems inexcusable now, but back then I was so unhappy – you have no idea. And when you’re that young . . .’ My voice died away. Looking back over the arid years, it seemed closer to twenty than a mere five. I shook my head contritely. ‘Well, there’s no compromising, is there? The most drastic solution is the only possible one. So I took it.’

  ‘Well,’ she said forgivingly, ‘it’ll be like old times to have you back. Will you live here in town or out at the station?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not staying. This is just a quick visit. I only came for the funeral. And my uncle left me his business and his house, so there’s stuff to sort out . . . Anyway, you said you’re saving for a place. I don’t suppose you want to buy Palmer’s? I’ll have to get rid of it.’

  Fiona laughed. ‘I wish! It’ll be a few years yet before we can even buy the land, let alone anything on it.’ She kissed her daughter. ‘It’ll be worth it though, won’t it poppet?’

  ‘Of course it will.’ Her mother-in-law clapped her hands at the child. ‘Shall I give her her bath? What about Malvern Park then, Orla? Will you sell it, too?’

  I huffed a regretful sigh, vexed again at the unfairness of it, as Fiona handed the child over. ‘If only it were that simple! Apparently I can’t. Ben – the solicitor – broke the bad news. I had no idea the bee
f industry was in such straits. So, no sale there.’ I stood up. ‘Look I need to be going. It’s been lovely meeting up again, Fee. Say hello to Roger for me, won’t you? I’m not sure yet what day I’m leaving but this time I’ll let you know. Promise!’

  ‘You do that.’ We kissed cheeks, I pressed Sophia’s chubby hand to my lips and said goodbye to Mrs Brigson as she carried her granddaughter off to the bathroom. ‘You’re very lucky,’ I told my friend as we walked to the door. ‘Did you name her for Sophia Loren? You were a big fan, I remember.’

  She nodded. ‘Plus Roger liked it. So, you don’t have anyone yet, Orla? I never imagined I’d be married before you, I mean, with your looks . . .’

  ‘Looks aren’t everything,’ I said dryly, pulling my coat around my ears. ‘Thanks for the coffee, Fee. I’ll be in touch.’ I waved, then on my way back up the lane remembered I needed a new battery for the Nissan, and called in to the garage where Roger was still working. He promised to deliver one in the morning and to check over the vehicle, though I doubted that was necessary. He asked few questions of me but then he had simply been a face in the schoolyard and we had known each other only in the most cursory way. The gangly, spotty youth I remembered had grown into an acceptable, tow-headed man with an engaging grin. Well worth ditching an unlikely acting career for, I mused, as my boots carried me back through town. Who would have thought it? My scatty friend with the Hollywood stars in her eyes had built an ordinary happy life for herself. Trudging back to Palmer’s house, I envied her success.

  I tried the phone again that evening. It rang and rang and finally, when I was about to replace the hand-piece, Kevin answered. ‘Yes, yes. Who is it?’ He sounded old and breathless. I thought I might have woken him from a nap though a quick glance at the hall clock showed it wasn’t much past eight o’clock.

  ‘It’s Orla, Kevin. Sorry if I’ve disturbed you – I’ve been calling for days. Is everything okay?’

  ‘Orla. I wish you had left us a number; I’ve been wanting to talk to you. When are you coming back?’

  I hesitated. ‘I’m not sure. Soon. How’s Rose?’

  He ignored the question. ‘I’m so glad you rang, because the thing is,’ he said with the maddening slowness of the elderly, ‘this phone’ll be disconnected from tomorrow. I did write to you but Broken Hill Post Office is a bit vague as an address, isn’t it? So it’s good to hear from you. I can explain it better over the phone —’

  ‘Kevin,’ I broke in. ‘Please, just tell me. Has something happened to Rose?’

  ‘Oh, she’s going to be all right, the doctors say. But she isn’t, really. What they mean is she won’t die but it’s a wheelchair and permanent care from now on. It’s her hip – it smashed like a glass when she fell. They flew her to Melbourne for the surgery and I’ve just come back today to tidy up. I’m selling the house you see; we need the funds. My son’s found a place for us – one of those care homes with twenty-four hour nursing and —’

  ‘Wait! Wait,’ I cried. ‘Where did she fall and when did it happen?’

  ‘The day after you went. There was a bit of a scud came across and I suppose the steps were wet. She fell right to the bottom – a miracle it wasn’t her back, or her neck.’

  ‘Oh, Kevin, I’m so sorry! And now you have to leave the island?’ He would hate it – they both would. Rose confined to a chair and their beloved home lost to them. ‘And I’m stuck here and not the slightest bit of help to you.’

  ‘We’ll manage,’ he said gruffly, ‘but we’ll miss you, girl. I’ve had all your stuff boxed up and Mandy offered her spare room to house it. She said you’re welcome to stay for a bit when you get back – just till you can sort something else out. But, I haven’t even asked how things are with you – too taken up with my own troubles. How’s it going over there?’

  ‘What? Oh,’ I wrenched my mind back from a suddenly uncertain future. ‘He – my uncle – died. He was pretty far gone when I got here, so we’ve had the funeral, but sorting things out is proving difficult. His business is going bust, and I’m sure you’ll get a buyer for your house sooner than I will for his. None of that matters though. I’m just so sorry to hear your news. I thought we’d all grow old together on the island.’ I sniffed back a tear and heard his thin chuckle.

  ‘Bless you, we’ve already done that, Rose and I. Well, we can’t always choose the roads we find ourselves on, can we? And there’s damn all we can do about the direction they take. There’re no U-turns at our age. Give us a proper address, girl. Rose’ll skelp me if I hang up without one. And you take care of yourself. Come and see us when you get back, won’t you? I’ll send a letter telling you how to find us.’

  I promised to do so, then recited the Park’s mailing address, and chatted a little longer before hanging up. I stood there then, overwhelmed by their news, staring blankly at the long case clock, knowing that life on the island without them could never be the same. The rambling old house and the warmth of their generous spirits had kept me going when death had seemed an easier option. They had been there for me in my wildest grief, their home a haven of comfort against the blasts of weather and life, alike. What could I go back to without them? I couldn’t afford to buy or lease my own place, so it would come down to a temporary rented room in another person’s house. For the second time in my life I had lost a home that time and love had made dear to me.

  My face must have been plain to read; when I returned to the kitchen’s warmth Marty took one look and said, ‘Something wrong, Orla?’

  ‘Bad news about a friend.’ I sat and drummed my fingers on the table looking despairingly around at cupboards stocked with crockery, saucepans, glassware, cutlery, my mind on Rose. ‘What am I going to do with all this stuff? Would you like to take some of it – kitchenware, crockery, furniture . . . Is there anything at all you’d like? Because you’re very welcome to it.’

  ‘And what would I do with it? Keep it in my suitcase? Why not pack the best of it and ship it back to the island?’

  ‘Because now I have nowhere for it either.’ I told her about Rose’s accident. ‘Kevin’s selling the house, which effectively makes me homeless.’

  ‘Hardly,’ she said mildly. ‘There’s this place and the Park’s homestead, both fully furnished and neither exactly hovels. Myself, I’d say you were very nicely fixed for accommodation.’

  I remembered then that she had none once her last wage was paid and flushed. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Of course I have. Anyway it’s Kevin and Rose I should be worrying about.’

  Mere worrying wasn’t going to help though. Reluctant to put into words what now seemed inevitable I bade Marty goodnight and went upstairs, telling myself I needn’t make any decision until I had found whatever my uncle had secured in his mystery box. Despite the unlikeliness that whatever it was could change my mind about leaving. Why, I wondered, hadn’t he simply left the missive in his desk or given it to Ben?

  I wracked my brain for further ideas as to its whereabouts. Clearly it wasn’t in the house – unless a wardrobe, say, held a false back in which it was hidden, or somewhere there was an incredibly well-camouflaged safe. Both notions were too silly for consideration. Which left only the homestead at Malvern Park, but if it was there . . . I remembered the filthy state of the place and sighed. Well, it would have to be cleaned, that was all. A bit of soap and elbow grease – I would make a start tomorrow, and Marty, I suddenly thought, might help. It would be a way of prolonging her employment. I yawned, feeling more settled now the decision was made. So there, first thing tomorrow, was where I would look. The plan formed. I expected to drop off to sleep, but my mind was too busy replaying images of Kevin’s house shuttered and empty, and Rose’s fragile form helpless in a wheelchair. When I did finally fall into a restless sleep I dreamed of rain beating against empty walls, all but drowning out the sound of a child’s crying, and woke to sadness and the dampness of tears on my pillow.

  Chapter Eight

  In the morning, Marty readily agreed
to help clean the homestead.

  ‘It certainly needs it.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘The state of it! Were you thinking of living out there? I mean, after what you told me about your friends selling up . . . Or will you still go back?’

  ‘I don’t know, Marty.’ I looked helplessly at her. ‘It’s like everything’s conspiring against me leaving. There’s no money, and now no home to return to. It’s not so easy to get any sort of accommodation on the island. I suppose I could rent a room somewhere, but it’s not how I want to live. And I certainly can’t afford to buy – not that there’s ever much available.’

  ‘Well,’ she said sensibly, ‘there’s no need to rush a decision. Let’s get the homestead habitable first. One thing at a time I always say.’

  We left after lunch, having loaded the Nissan up with food, cleaning agents and such household goods as we deemed necessary. This included linen and the doonas from our beds (‘Because the moths might have got into the blankets and in any case they’ll need washing,’ Marty said). She was stacking groceries into a carton, brow wrinkled in concentration. ‘What about keeping stuff cold? I wonder if the fridge still works, and the washing machine?’ She added a tin of powdered milk and held up another of Dribarm yeast. ‘I should think it’ll take us a week, at least, so I’ll need to bake. I suppose Mark can supply us with meat?’

  ‘I imagine so.’ He was the only flaw in the plan but after all, I reasoned, there would be little chance of our meeting. He had his work to occupy him and the property was surely large enough to make avoiding him easy. One hundred and twenty-eight thousand acres allowed for a lot of evasion. ‘I’ll ring Ben,’ I decided. ‘He should know where we’ll be. Then we can load up. Should we eat first, do you think?’