Secrets of the Springs

by Kerry McGinnis

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘For marking the wool bales, I suppose. But how on earth did you know that?’

  ‘Roger made some in the workshop when we were painting Sophia’s room. She’s got a frieze of pixies and mushrooms running round it. He’s clever with his hands, Rog. It’s dead simple but I suppose someone had to think of it first.’

  ‘Like all inventions,’ Alec nodded. ‘You’ve made it very interesting, Orla.’ He gazed around at the cavernous, dusty interior and stamped a foot on the boards. ‘It all seems very solid – how old is it?’

  ‘That I don’t know, but it has to be seventy or eighty years at the least. It was built in my grandfather’s time.’

  ‘Well preserved then.’ He rapped a knuckle against the timber of the nearest pen. ‘You’d think the climate would’ve dried it out more.’

  ‘That’s the lanolin in the wool. It gets into everything. See how the floor’s darker round each stand? They roll the sheep around while they’re shearing. Right, history shed next.’

  ‘Lead on.’ He sprang forward to sweep aside the dusty folds of a woolsack hooked to a post and instead pulled it down on top of himself. He rose, coughing, covered in dust and brushing spiderwebs from his face and hair. Fiona made a brief effort not to laugh then collapsed into giggles.

  ‘Oh, Alec – here, bend down.’ He obeyed and she smacked cobwebby dirt from his shoulders. ‘You’re not safe to be let out. What was that, Orla?’

  I peered into the collapsed sack. ‘Some very dirty bits of fleece. I’ll have to ask Joe why they aren’t in the press.’

  ‘You’ve mentioned him a lot,’ Alec said. ‘He seems a good bloke, if a bit hidebound.’

  ‘He’s very practical,’ I agreed. ‘He’s been a great help.’

  ‘I’m sure. Been here long?’

  ‘Off and on, for years. When he was young he worked for my grandfather, so he really knows the Park.’

  ‘And the crippled chap – Mark? He seemed a bit on the surly side. What happened to him?’

  ‘Car accident,’ I said curtly. ‘Now we really must keep moving or the baby will wake before we’re back.’

  Sophia was just rousing when we returned. She was crumpled and heavy-eyed, inclined to cry as she burrowed into her mother’s arms. Fee carried her off to the bathroom while I took Alec through to the display cabinet in the lounge.

  ‘Marty’s making tea,’ I said, ‘but there’s time for a quick look.’ I knelt on the rug to open the glass-fronted cabinet and he dropped down easily beside me.

  ‘You have a beautiful home,’ he said appreciatively. ‘So different to that mausoleum in town. Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to criticise —’

  ‘It’s perfectly all right. I can’t wait to be shot of it,’ I said. ‘Palmer wasn’t my favourite relative, though he was my only one, and no loss at all, I assure you.’

  Alec made a vague noise in his throat, then leaned forward to reach for my mother’s vase. ‘Is this what you were talking about?’

  ‘Yes, and the fruit bowl on the lower shelf, next to the candlesticks.’

  ‘Extraordinary!’ he murmured, turning the long-necked vase with its rounded base in suddenly careful hands. ‘Your mother was right, Orla! This is extremely valuable.’

  ‘Is it really? It’s just a bit of china.’

  ‘On the contrary. It’s hard-paste porcelain that was fired soon after the process was discovered. The pattern is one called Flowers of the Indies, in imitation of the Japanese style of Arita porcelain.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I asked doubtfully. ‘How can you possibly tell all that from a ten-second look? Especially where it came from? There’s no name on it, just a squiggle on the bottom.’

  ‘Porcelain is like great paintings, Orla. You come to recognise an artistic style. This was made at a Meissan factory in Germany about 1730.’ He turned it up, tracing a finger over the blue mark on the base. ‘And there are the crossed swords, Meissan’s famous mark, to prove it.’

  ‘1730! But that’s . . . that’s —’

  ‘Amazing, yes. It’s in perfect condition, too.’ He tapped a nail against it and a clear bell-like note resulted.

  ‘I was going to say: before Captain Cook. So old! I’m almost afraid to touch it. I wonder how on earth my grandmother came to have it?’

  ‘Passed down through the family, perhaps? That’s often the story. Now.’ He set it down and took up the bowl, turning it in his long fingers. ‘Unfortunate. There’s a hairline crack near the lip. Hard to see, but there. Hear the difference.’ This time the tap produced a dull note, more akin to a thud.

  ‘I can’t see a crack. Don’t tell me it’s two hundred years old as well!’

  ‘It’s there all the same. But it matters less because this one’s not as old.’ He scrutinised the base. ‘Yes, as I thought. See the mark? It’s slightly different. Meissen refined their symbol as time went on, which is a good thing as it helps with the dating. I’d say this bowl is up to a century younger than your beautiful vase. The same hard-paste porcelain, and the painting is exquisite, too, which makes it still quite saleable despite the crack. They’re plenty of collectors who’d love it. Well, if you’re ever down to your last buck, Orla, these two items will fetch you quite a tidy amount.’

  ‘How tidy?’

  ‘I’ll have to check the market and get back to you, but think in terms of thousands.’ Alec replaced the bowl carefully on its shelf, his arm not so much as brushing the candlesticks. He unfolded his length while I shut the cabinet door, then reached a hand down to me. I took it and was pulled to my feet beside him, uncomfortably close. I would have stepped back but he didn’t immediately let go of me.

  ‘It’s been a super day, Orla. Thank you for having me. A wonderful lunch, then your most interesting tour, and now this.’ He nodded at the cabinet. ‘I can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed myself more. I do love beauty.’

  It was impossible to miss his secondary meaning and I felt a blush mantle my throat as I removed my hand from his. ‘It was all Fee’s idea, so the credit is entirely hers. But thank you for the appraisal, Alec. It’s a bit scary to think they’re so valuable and that they’ve been sitting out here for years in an empty house with only a flimsy lock to keep them safe. I guess ignorance helped . . .’ I cut short the flood of words that embarrassment had unleashed. ‘Look, the bell’s gone, we’d better get back to the kitchen. To quote Joe: don’t let’s keep a good cook waiting.’

  Later, having watched the red Mazda drive off I went thoughtfully back to the kitchen where Marty was wiping down the sink. ‘They’ve gone?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Thanks, Marty. They were most appreciative of the lunch.’ I began putting away the dried cups and plates.

  ‘That’s good. How did the tour go?’

  ‘It was easier than I thought. I could answer most of their questions. And Alec, who’s travelled a fair bit, said he’d rate the homestead accommodation at three and a half to four stars. To be honest I’d expected more, but he said you need ensuites and a licensed dining room to make five stars.’

  ‘Hmm, well he seems like he might know. Your friend Fiona has turned into a sensible young woman. As I remember she had her head full of rubbish as a girl.’

  ‘Didn’t we all?’ I murmured. ‘Oh, Marty – those two pieces of china? It seems they’re something quite special. Meissan, Alec said, and one of them dates back to the early seventeen hundreds, if you can believe it.’

  ‘Dear God!’ she said devoutly. ‘It’s only china – think how easily it breaks! Imagine it surviving that long.’

  ‘I know. Maybe luck had a hand in it, or ignorance. I wonder if Mum had any idea of their value? I wish I knew a bit more about her family.’ An idea struck me. ‘Did you know my parents, Marty? I’ve never thought to ask. You must’ve at least seen them around town when they went in. When did you actually move to the Barrier country?’

  ‘Years back,’ she said briefly. ‘And I didn’t know your mother but I knew who she was. Your fa
ther too. Of course I saw him in town more often.’

  ‘Did you? I wouldn’t have thought —’ I wrinkled my brow. ‘Mum drove me to school and picked me up every single day. Every school day, anyway. Dad would have had to live there to outdo that.’

  ‘Well,’ she bent for a billet of firewood and fed it to the stove, ‘that was just the school run, wasn’t it? A one-stop job.’

  Something about the faintly critical way she spoke caught my attention. I said, ‘So where did he stop on his trips? It can’t have been at Palmer’s place!’

  ‘I don’t know, Orla. Look, maybe it’s that he was more memorable as a person than your mother. She was a very quiet woman. He just seemed to be in town a lot, and as you say, not to visit his brother.’ But her gaze was evasive and I gave voice to my sudden suspicion.

  ‘You didn’t like him.’

  She sighed sharply. ‘Now you’re being foolish. I didn’t know the man well enough to form an opinion, except that, well . . .’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, don’t you see that of course I was predisposed to take your uncle’s part in their quarrel, whatever it was? Loyalty is a funny thing. He was my boss and good to me, so of course I took his side for years, and yes I know he’s since admitted to murder, but you can’t just switch off engrained feelings, can you? Your father was a bit – well, flashy for my taste. Probably,’ she said rapidly to forestall the protest on my lips, ‘only when measured against Palmer. He was dignified, reserved. Your father was . . . different, that’s all.’

  ‘He was human,’ I said hotly. ‘Not made of stone. I doubt Palmer ever felt an emotion in his life.’

  What about jealousy – or love to have been what made him kill. Look, don’t let’s argue about it. What counts is that he was your dad and he loved you.’ She shut the stove door and reached to untie her apron strings, but her gaze again avoided mine and I felt a tiny tingle of unease. It vanished when she said. ‘Would you care to show me this special vase of yours? I’d better know what to grab first should the house ever catch fire.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  The hours ticked quickly away to Guest Day until finally it was here. A clear blue day, with a nippy breeze and a view all the way to the distant range tinged lavender in the morning light. The lawn sparkled from an overnight watering and the sound of magpies carolling from the trees followed me into breakfast.

  The homestead was polished to a fine gleam with fresh towels in the bedrooms and half a dozen soaps to choose from in both bathrooms. There wasn’t much choice in flowers but I had arranged a large vase of leaves on a low table in the lounge, and a living tableau of small succulents on a flat stoneware platter in the little nook beside the front door. Each bedroom had a carafe of water topped with a glass and a fire had been laid but not lit in the winter parlour. We might all sit in the kitchen after dinner but I couldn’t expect the guests to do so. As I mentally checked off the rooms, I suddenly choked on a mouthful of toast.

  ‘Oh my god!’

  ‘What? What’s wrong?’ Marty cried in alarm.

  ‘The parlour chimney! I never checked it. I meant to, then I forgot. It’s years since it was used – what if it doesn’t draw?’

  ‘The PGs will get smoked,’ Mark said laconically. ‘Don’t panic – Joe can take a look after breakfast; it’ll make a mess though, if there is a blockage.’

  ‘Would you, Joe?’

  He nodded. ‘No worries.’

  I glanced across at Mark. ‘What’s a PG?’

  His grin was small, scarcely there. ‘Paying Guest. They’ve got you in a right uproar, haven’t they?’

  ‘I see.’ Defensively I added. ‘I’m trying to make this work, Mark. I can’t just live here with no other purpose.’

  ‘I understand that,’ he said, adding unexpectedly, ‘it’s the sort of scheme your father would’ve come up with. So, when do I get to drive ’em around?’

  ‘It depends on them but I thought maybe tomorrow afternoon? But could you —’ I hesitated; it was incredibly difficult to ask a favour of him. ‘Originally Ben was going to meet them in town but he’s got something else on, so could you do it? Wait at the post office and just lead them out? I could go myself but I feel it would look better – be more professional – to be here when they arrive.’

  ‘Okay. I’ve got an errand anyway, and I can pick up the mail as well.’ He turned back to his breakfast.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said with relief. I had been steeling myself since dawn to ask him. And I hadn’t missed the way Marty had stilled at Ben’s name, so perhaps my advice to him was bearing fruit.

  I spent the day wandering nervously between largely manufactured tasks until Marty, in exasperation, chased me from the kitchen. ‘For heaven’s sake, Orla! Go read a book, or dig the garden. Anyone would think the PM was coming.’

  ‘The Jamesons are a lot more important to me than the Prime Minister,’ I said. ‘Do you think it’s too early to set the dining room table?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ she declared firmly. ‘It has only just gone eleven.’ She eyed the world beyond the kitchen window. ‘Look, it’s nice out, no wind for a change. Why don’t you go for a walk, settle yourself down?’

  I laughed ruefully at the sudden memory her words brought. ‘That’s what you used to tell me whenever I got in a paddy over something. “Walk it off, you’ll feel better.” Do you remember?’

  ‘I do. And it worked, well, as far as stopping tantrums went.’

  ‘Not tantrums,’ I protested. They had been protests, epic battles against my uncle’s inflexible rules. I had seldom been the victor in the contest of wills, and the simmering discontent of knowing I couldn’t win had only provided fuel for future explosions. With a sudden realisation of Marty’s role of buffer between us, I said apologetically, ‘You must’ve had an absolute gutful of my behaviour when I was a kid. Looking back it’s not something I’m proud of.’

  ‘You weren’t the easiest child,’ she admitted, ‘but I told myself it would pass.’

  ‘I did you a favour then, when I left.’ I spoke flippantly but Marty lowered her stirring spoon and turned to look at me.

  ‘No,’ she said sombrely, the smile leaving her brown eyes. ‘I was worried sick. You were such a headstrong girl – every bit your father’s daughter. There wasn’t a danger I didn’t imagine for you, and I blamed myself for every one of them.’

  ‘Oh, Marty! I’m sorry.’ I was suddenly appalled that I had given so little thought to those I had left behind. Fee’s reproach echoed in my head. ‘I should have got in touch,’ I said, remorseful, ‘but I just wanted to – to get away from everything. It was wrong; I owed you more than that. I’m truly, truly sorry.’

  ‘Well,’ she resumed stirring, ‘it’s history now, but the remedy’s the same. Take a walk, it’ll help you pass the time.’

  I pulled my jacket on but didn’t bother zipping it closed. It was August and the days were milder now, though the nights were just as cold. I settled the old felt hat that had survived all the years in the empty homestead onto my head, and went down the front steps, letting my feet lead me past the sheds and the quarters, with a detour to the fowl house and the old netted enclosure where the working dogs had once kennelled. I should get a dog, I thought, pushing experimentally against a leaning post. Something friendly and pat-able that the PGs would like. I walked on wondering about breeds. Joe’s sheep were camped in a woolly clot in the corner of the holding paddock near the trough, and the thicket of pepper trees was a green screen about the bore.

  Hands in my pockets, I wandered among them remembering days when I had ridden Bessie down here to water her after a ride. The trees were old, older than Joe I thought, and planted by my grandfather, who had been responsible for the bore. The steam engine that had driven the rig for him was still there, beyond the band of foliage, long sunk in decrepitude, the rust flaking from its riveted boiler. I had come here as a teenager, cycling out from the Springs, mostly on a Sunday, since Palmer’s church duties
made it easier for me to get away then than at other times. We had met here, Mark and I, because in the beginning he was the only one I could talk to. Looking back now I pitied that naive young girl, angry at the world, seeking companionship in the place she missed so sorely. You might say that falling for a handsome, older man who shared her passion for the Park was inevitable. The wonder of it was not that I had loved him, but that he had loved me back. Or had seemed to, I silently amended.

  It had changed my life the way first love does. Mark was my everything. Desire was too tame a word to describe how I felt about him. Poetry made sense. Each day was a hopeful gift that carried with it the chance of catching sight of his dear form. There were no clouds, no weather – I lived in a sunny haze and beneath perpetually starry skies, thrusting aside the inconvenient facts of his marriage, his child, and the all too possible consequences of our actions. Of course, we had been discreet; thinking our secret our own – only it rarely is when there’s a wife in the picture.

  Had it salved my conscience that I had never liked Gail Evans with her brittle, complaining nature? Or had I simply chosen to disregard her existence? Perhaps I had just seen her as supplying the tragic flavour to our romance. Remembering my younger self I was suddenly painfully aware that this was likely so. Teenagers can be as egocentric as toddlers. Mark might have fallen out of love with his wife, but he had adored his little daughter; I understood that better now than I had, but that changed nothing, I reflected bleakly. Gail was still dead and Celia gone, while Mark and I had become strangers to each other.

  Sighing, I retraced my steps to the history shed and found a stiff-bristled broom with which to sweep away the years of dust and leaves and the tumbles of roly-poly the wind had blown in. I wiped down the buggy seat and brushed cobwebs and dirt off the old harness. It hung stiff and unyielding from its pegs, dried by heat to the hardness of timber, but I would be able to point out the pieces and their various tasks – supposing the PGs were interested. The closer I got to meeting them the more unsure I felt about providing the experience I had rashly promised. Then the lunch bell rang and, leaving my labours, I returned to the house to share a plate of sandwiches with Marty in the kitchen.