Secrets of the Springs

by Kerry McGinnis

  ‘Well, I pity his parents! He —’ I stared at her. ‘You’re not talking about me, Marty?’

  She cocked an eyebrow, saying soothingly, ‘You grew out of it; I expect this unhappy young lad will too. Now about dinner . . .’

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  It was a long evening and I was glad to see it end. Individually the Culvettis weren’t so bad, though Reg was inclined to like the last word on everything. He was a bombastic husband and father, but seemed able to leave the habit behind when conversing with outsiders. He and Hilary maintained a low-grade sniping that passed for communication between them and that, I saw, made Matt anxious and doubtless contributed to Darren’s antisocial behaviour. They were the complete antithesis of my former guests and my heart sank at the thought of two more days in their company. Darren himself was aghast at the lack of television, sneered at the idea of books and games, and took himself off to his room. I wondered frantically how I was going to entertain him. Matt, bless him, made instant friends with No Name and was content to lie on the floor and roll a ball for him to chase. I made a mental note that if children were to form a regular part of the PGs I needed a friendly dog and a pony – preferably one too old and staid to be prodded out of a trot. For ten years and under only. There was no way, I thought, that I would ever give Darren control of an animal.

  At six o’clock the following morning I was in the garden, moving hoses around when Mark and Joe turned up for breakfast. Les Wingate was with them. I wished them all good morning, keeping my voice down, for Reg had said the family would breakfast at eight and I had no desire to see them any sooner.

  ‘Have you driven out this morning, Les? There was no hurry, you know. They won’t be out of bed for a couple of hours yet.’

  He tilted his chin up to meet my gaze. ‘Got ’ere last night. Wanna get set up and ready, don’t I? Takes a while to heat a forge, you know.’

  ‘Of course,’ I agreed, and because I couldn’t ignore him, asked Mark. ‘So you got Saltbelly fixed okay?’ My voice sounded cool and he flicked a look at me, blue eyes unreadable.

  ‘Yeah. How’d it go with the tour?’

  ‘Very well,’ I said stiffly. ‘Joe, will you be here, today? If so, can you do your demo in the shed – maybe after smoko? I thought we could fill in the day round the station and then tomorrow morning do the tour with them. And then maybe after lunch they could be persuaded to take a drive under their own steam. If that suits your plans, Mark? I have to meet someone in town tomorrow afternoon, so it would be best if they were busy.’

  ‘Out of your hair, you mean,’ Mark said helping himself to chops. ‘It’s the big sale at the agency this morning so I’ll have to be in town, but Joe’ll be here. I can do the tour tomorrow. How long are they staying?’

  ‘Thank you. They leave Thursday morning. The older boy’s a pain,’ I said frankly. ‘He’d rather not be here. I’m afraid I’ve already lost my temper with him.’

  ‘Not hard for you to do,’ he commented unfairly. I glared and made no answer.

  ‘Ah, well, happens there’s always a fly in the ointment,’ Joe said sagely. ‘Maybe the shearing’ll get ’im in.’

  However, when I finally shepherded my guests down to the shed, no spark of interest lit up Darren’s sullen countenance. With Hilary stepping daintily round the grease-encrusted beams, Joe went into his spiel. He dragged the woolly wether out of the pen and sat it on its hind quarters between his legs, explaining the holds that kept it there, before yanking on the cord that engaged the overhead gear. He worked methodically, the hand-piece peeling the fleece cleanly away, and Matt clapped his hands to see the now-white animal, much smaller without its wool, gradually emerge. Joe turned and rolled the heavy wether, his corded arms making the task seem easy.

  ‘Will he be cold now, Orla?’ Matt asked anxiously. ‘He looks so different. How will his friends know who he is?’

  ‘No, he won’t be cold. He’s quite fat under that heavy coat. And the other sheep know what he smells like. They use their noses more than us, you see. We look at somebody to see if we recognise them, they just smell them.’

  Joe had left the topknot, the woolly tuft on the sheep’s head, untouched. He pulled the cord to stop the machinery and looked across at Darren. ‘So that’s how she’s done,’ he said. ‘Wanna have a go, mate? I’ve left the top of his head for you.’

  Darren sniffed disdainfully but went self-consciously across to him, pleased, I think, to have an audience but determined not to show it. Joe meanwhile was holding the wether by the forelegs, the way in which it had been dragged from the pen.

  ‘Here,’ he said, ‘get ahold of it like I showed yer. Closer, snug him into yer legs. Put some muscle into it, lad, these buggers are strong.’

  As if to prove the truth of his words the sheep began to struggle, twisting and kicking. The sole of Darren’s trainer skidded on the lanolin-soaked boards and he lost his grip on the struggling sheep; he went down with the wether on top of him. Matt gave a shriek of laughter, the sheep bolted to its feet and headed for the nearest light, which happened to be the chute down into the outside pens.

  Joe reached a hand down to the youth. ‘You right, mate? Stroppy bloody animals, sheep, ’n’ strong, like I said. Still, no harm done, even if he’s short a haircut.’

  Darren rose, quivering with rage. ‘You did that on purpose!’ he yelled. ‘Well, you can take your bloody stupid demo and stick it where it’ll do most good.’ And kicking the hand-piece violently aside, he stormed from the shed. Neither parent remonstrated with him.

  ‘Let him go,’ Reg snapped when Hilary made to follow her son out. ‘I’m sick of that boy’s behaviour.’

  Joe sucked his teeth, picked up the hand-piece, then bent to gather up the fleece, which he threw onto the wool table before ploughing doggedly on with his talk.

  The day continued without further participation from Darren. He turned up for lunch, made an enormous sandwich from the food on the table then carried it into his room.

  ‘You should say something, Reg,’ Hilary whined. ‘He takes no notice of me.’

  Her husband shrugged. ‘Why would you want to share a meal with a lout like that? So what’s the go this afternoon, Orla?’

  ‘The History Tour,’ I said brightly. ‘The Park has the distinction of being the oldest station in the district. Actually officially it’s Gem Hole, but my great-grandfather took up Malvern Park before that, though he only held it for three years. Drought finished him, but his son, my grandfather, returned some twenty-odd years later and stayed. And I think every tool and contraption ever used on the place by him is still here. I’ll walk you round the sheds and down to the bore – it’s not far, Hilary – and tell you the story. We still have my grandfather’s buggy in the shed; he drove his bride home in that, so the tale goes. But it will all make more sense if you first see the things I’m talking about. After that, Les will show you some blacksmithing at the forge.’

  ‘Can I see the hens?’ Matt asked.

  ‘You certainly can. And you can feed them for me, if you like.’

  ‘Oh, yes please! I wish you had a dog though. The cat’s nice,’ he added hastily, as if No Name, ensconced on his lap, might be offended, ‘but a dog would be fun.’

  ‘I’ll have to get one, Matt. What sort do you like most?’

  He launched happily into a not very scientific description of neighbours’ dogs that lasted for the rest of the meal.

  Darren didn’t turn up for Les’s demonstration which enthralled us all. Hilary fixed her hands firmly about Matt’s shoulders to restrain him as the smith, trademark scarf about his head, hammered and worked the steel bars, rendered almost plastic by the heat, into different shapes. Urged on by the huge bellows, the fire roared in the forge, sending showers of golden sparks shooting into the comparative gloom of the shed. Les’s hammer clanged a counterpoint and it was fascinating to watch the white-hot metal change to crimson then dull to orange, overlaid with grey, at which point it was plunged
sizzling into the water bucket, before being thrust anew in to the heart of the furnace. It looked effortless, but the sweat patches on Les’s shirt showed that it wasn’t. He belted a pair of pokers into being, holding the long pincers in a gloved hand as he shaped and rolled the steel, then with hardly a pause twisted a large pair of matching horseshoes into shape, chiselling the grooves and punching the holes with measured bangs of his hammer. He finished the task with supporting bars bent back horizontally from the open heel of the shoes allowing them to stand upright on the bench. Once they had cooled, he studied them critically and, satisfied, sat them facing each other.

  ‘Bookends,’ he said. ‘I guarantee ain’t much gonna knock them over.’

  ‘They’re marvellous,’ Hilary cried. ‘That’s so wonderful! It was just a piece of metal and now! What are the holes for?’

  ‘To nail them on, of course. If they were real shoes,’ Reg said. ‘They for sale – er, Les?’

  ‘Too right,’ he rumbled.

  ‘Can I work the squeezy thing?’ Matt asked eagerly.

  ‘If you don’t touch nothin’ hot,’ Les agreed.

  ‘We’ll take them,’ Reg announced. ‘What’s the damage?’

  I left them to it in favour of helping Marty with the afternoon tea, which would shortly be due. As I was passing the vehicle shed I saw Darren mooching about inside, bored and no doubt angry. He was, I reflected, his own worst enemy at present. If he’d let himself he would probably have enjoyed Les’s show. I certainly had.

  The following morning my careful plans were upset again when Reg appeared at the kitchen door to ask if they could have breakfast at seven instead of eight. I looked at Marty.

  ‘No problem,’ she said.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’ I asked, buttering toast. Marty was preparing cut lunches for the tour. The dining table was already set and a glance at the wall clock showed it was twenty minutes short of seven o’clock. Joe was finishing his tea, and Mark had gone off to fuel up and ready the Toyota for the PGs.

  ‘Yes, fine thanks. Matt had a nightmare, but he often does. Look Orla, the wife and I have had a chat and we’ve decided to forego the tour around the station. We’re going home through White Cliffs – Hilary wants to look at opals – so on our return trip we’ll just head south from there till we pick up the Barrier Highway, which means we miss out on seeing Broken Hill. So I thought we’d take the opportunity to run over that way today and have a look.’

  ‘Of course. It’s about four hours driving there and back again, which’ll still leave you with plenty of time to sightsee. Might even get a mine tour if you strike the right day. Marty’s just making your lunches now. We’ll expect you back – when?’

  ‘Latish – hopefully before dark.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘I hope you have a great time.’

  When he had gone to rouse his family I stretched luxuriously. ‘All day to ourselves. Oh, did I mention that Alec’s coming to dinner, Marty? I’m meeting him in town this afternoon. He can help me leaven the weight at table tonight.’

  ‘Is he?’ There was a world of meaning in the look she gave me.

  ‘Yes, I’ve a business matter to see him about.’ I’d decided to sell the Meissan bowl. It was the less valuable of the two pieces, which would still leave me with the vase as a keepsake of my mother’s family and insurance against future hard times. The money, which I could not in all conscience expect the station to provide, would pay for my trip to Melbourne to see Rose. The knowledge that she could be gone by Christmas, or even sooner, lay like a constant shadow on my heart. Of course she might live another five years, but despite his efforts to disguise it, I could tell that Kevin was worried about her . . . I couldn’t prolong her life but neither could I let her slip away without making an effort to be with her once again. I had fretted silently since making the decision, knowing that waiting for the right auction could take weeks or even months. I just hoped that Alec really knew his stuff, and that the bowl (hairline crack notwithstanding) would realise somewhere near the value of his estimate. I also hoped that a second look at it this afternoon would not cause him to revise his earlier opinion of its worth.

  It was a quarter to eight by the time Hilary came to the kitchen to collect the lunches. They were ready to leave, she announced, save for Darren, who had decided not to accompany them. He had elected instead to spend the day at the station. I hid my dismay as best I could.

  ‘What will he do with himself?’

  ‘Sulk, probably.’ She sounded exasperated. ‘Honestly, that boy! I don’t know what gets into him. He can’t be in the same room with his father for five minutes without a row, and he’s so unkind to Matt . . . Well, if he’s bored that’s his lookout, and so I’ve told him.’ She picked up the lunches. ‘See you all this evening then. Bye.’

  ‘Great!’ I muttered to Marty, hanging up the tea towel. ‘I think in future we might stipulate no teenagers accepted. I don’t see why we shouldn’t. Motels ban pets. Well, I’d better get on.’

  I began by setting the PGs’ rooms to rights first. I wasn’t going looking for Darren but if he was there it might be possible to find out what he wanted to do with himself. Could I, in good conscience, I wondered, foist him off on Joe? If he was working on routine chores, perhaps that would interest Darren – if there was an engine to strip, or a fence to mend? He obviously couldn’t talk to his family but Joe’s non-judgemental presence might loosen his tongue. The man was a good listener and wasn’t that the usual burden of teenage complaints – that nobody ever listened to them?

  My tap on the bedroom door, however, brought no response and I entered an empty room. He was probably down among the sheds and machinery and could amuse himself there for a while. Dismissing him from my thoughts I concentrated on housework, stripping beds, tidying and sweeping. I put on a load of washing and when the men walked up for morning smoko my guess was confirmed for Darren was with them, hands and eyes animated as he talked with Joe. The interest died from his face as he entered the kitchen and he retreated once more into silence, but still managed to put away a decent quantity of Marty’s light-as-air apple turnovers. I had by then remembered yesterday’s clearance sale at the agency, and asked Mark how it went.

  ‘Pretty well, considering. There’s a pallet of pump engines to go back to the suppliers, but all the feed stock’s gone, and we’ve got forward orders for most of the dog food, and sheep dip. And the supermarket’s taken the last couple of bags of spuds. Half price is a pretty big incentive. Most blokes’ll stretch the budget to secure a bargain, however broke they are,’ he finished cynically.

  ‘That’s good,’ I said. ‘So the excess stuff will – what? Be locked up in the office until it’s collected?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m taking a few bags over to Pembroke after lunch. Old Bally couldn’t get into the sale – put his shoulder out and can’t drive but he phoned an order through. I said I’d deliver it. He’s been a good customer over the years. I’ll take the Land Rover, battery needs a run.’

  ‘I’m going into town myself,’ I said, ‘so I’ll pick up the mail. What are you up to, Joe?’

  ‘Afternoon off,’ he replied with satisfaction. ‘I’ll wash me duds, have a camp maybe.’

  ‘That just leaves you, Darren.’ I wrestled with myself but made the offer anyway. ‘Would you like to come with me for the drive?’

  ‘No.’ His eyes gleamed; with dislike, I thought. ‘I’ll look after myself. I don’t need driving around. Thanks.’ The thanks was a surly sounding afterthought and I shrugged.

  ‘Suit yourself. Anything you need in town, Marty? Make a list if there is and I’ll take a run at the shops. If I can get Alec in and out of them without wrecking anything.’

  Her eyes twinkled agreement. ‘You might pick up a pumpkin. Even he can’t do much damage to that.’

  ‘You reckon?’ Mark said nastily. ‘Bulls and china shops come to mind.’

  I ignored him. ‘Consider it done.’ I stood and carried my cup to the sink. ‘I won
’t be here to do it later, so I’d best get the watering underway now.’

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Alec was waiting at Palmer’s house when I reached town that afternoon. He had rung from the Emu Springs post office – somewhat earlier than I’d expected – to say he had arrived, but I still had chores to finish and told him so.

  ‘I’ll be along presently. If you want to get started on the loading you could go to Casselot and Evans; Ben’ll give you a key to the office. Or you can wait till I get there. Up to you.’

  ‘I’ll wait,’ he decided. ‘Try not to be long. Every moment outside your presence is a wasted one.’

  ‘Don’t be an ass,’ I said sharply, then to soften it, ‘they’re nimble and sure-footed so you can’t claim kinship. I’ll see you in a while.’

  He was driving a big van with Cobbetts’ Auctioneers scrolled in large letters along the side panels and a smaller notice across the back advising the public to ‘Flog it through Cobbetts’.

  ‘I hope it’s big enough,’ he said, when he’d greeted me. He’d opened his arms somewhat theatrically as he came towards me but I had stopped the intended embrace by shaking his hand instead.

  ‘Thanks for coming, Alec. And yes, I should think so. Why is it Cobbetts? Didn’t you say your father owned the firm?’

  ‘He does, but the name was well known. Cobbetts had been auctioneering for forty years before Dad bought the business. Carrying on the name was easier than establishing our own.’

  ‘Good point. Look, I’ve included a few small pieces of furniture – Palmer’s valet chair for instance, and his shoe racks. The mines fellow said they want the house furnished but I figured those items would be a bit over the top. I think I’ll keep the long case clock too, for the Park, but there’s a magazine rack and a complicated fold-up backgammon table that can go as well. Those items already have your estimate on them. As for the boxes – books, records, cutlery, kitchen gear – whatever they bring will be fine. You want to follow me round now?’