Jackie looked helplessly to Flora. ‘Do you think he might be on drugs? Having a trip?’
Flora looked equally perplexed. ‘Maybe. He smells like he smokes cigarettes not generally available to the public. And his pupils are dilated.’
‘That’s what I thought. He must be seeing things, surely?’
‘It certainly sounds weird.’
They could hear Xavier’s and Deborah’s voices now, coming from within the house.
‘What’s the matter?’ Deborah demanded. ‘What paintings? What are you talking about??’
‘In the shed. Mum, a heap of your favourites. You gotta come and see.’
Then Hugh joined in. ‘What’s going on? What’s the problem?’
‘Xavier seems to think he’s found some of my paintings in one of your sheds.’
An ominous silence followed.
Jackie glanced Flora’s way again and this time they exchanged anxious shrugs. Jackie hadn’t a clue about the contents of the sheds. The buildings were rather ancient and shabby, made of corrugated iron. They were Hugh and Seth’s domain. Mostly they housed machinery and stock feed, tins of petrol or cattle dip. In one shed, as far as she could remember, there were bits of old vehicles, saved for spare parts, but she hardly ever went near them and couldn’t remember the last time she’d been inside one.
She was still puzzling through this when Deborah appeared on the verandah, followed closely by Xavier. Then Hugh came some paces behind them. Jackie could see straight away that he looked distressed.
Alarm shot through her. Why wasn’t her husband his usual placid self, calming everyone else down? What on earth was this about? Surely Xavier was mistaken.
But Hugh’s nephew was absolutely determined as he set off, back down the steps and across the lawn, his mother hurrying close behind him, her rubber thongs flip-flopping over the grass.
Frowning, shaking her head in confusion, Jackie turned to Hugh. ‘What’s this about? Is Xavier off his rocker?’
Hugh’s face contorted in a pained grimace. ‘Unfortunately, no he’s not,’ he said unhappily.
Goosebumps broke out on Jackie’s arms. ‘But –’
‘I never thought he’d start nosing about in the sheds,’ Hugh added tightly.
‘You mean –?’
Her husband didn’t wait to answer any more of her questions. For the briefest moment, impatience and despair warred in his usually gentle dark eyes, but then he took off after his sister and his nephew, his long legs striding to catch up.
With a helpless shrug, Jackie followed him. Flora, looking equally puzzled and worried, was close behind her.
Xavier was right. There were paintings in one of the sheds.
They were at the back of the least used shed, behind a pile of old broken furniture that should have been burned or taken to the dump years ago. Carefully stacked, the paintings had obviously been covered with tarpaulins and packaged in thick cardboard, but Xavier had stripped these away. Now the tarps were heaped haphazardly in a corner, and the jagged and torn pieces of cardboard lay curling on the concrete floor like tresses fallen from a hairdresser’s scissors.
Exposed, the framed canvases glowed with the bright hues of oil paint.
Deborah took a step towards them, before a terrible wail broke from her and she crumpled at the waist, covering her appalled mouth with a trembling hand.
Hugh, standing nearby, closed his eyes, his face a picture of pain.
Jackie felt ice water pool in her stomach. None of this made sense.
‘It’s unbelievable, Mum,’ Xavier cried, as he pulled one of the paintings out to show the vivid blue head of a cassowary poking through the lush green fronds of a licuala palm. ‘I recognised the first package as soon as I saw the name of the Cairns Gallery stamped on the cardboard. So many of your favourites are here.’
His wild glare took in Jackie and Hugh and Flora, who remained near the door.
‘To think I was feeling guilty about hunting for somewhere to keep my stash,’ he said. ‘I knew you lot were sniffing me like drug dogs at the airport, but you’re the ones who’ve been exposed now.’ Again Xavier gestured to the paintings. ‘This is the crime. Not me smoking a bit of ganja.’
As Deborah whimpered and the others stood stiffly in stunned silence, Xavier, like some kind of crazed art dealer trying to impress potential buyers, pulled out painting after painting, all in Deborah’s typically vibrant style. First, a still life of a timber bowl filled with brightly coloured exotic fruit. Next, a scene of intricately twisted mangrove roots reflected in the surface of a glass-smooth creek. A delicate painting of native orchids followed, then another of rainforest pigeons, and a beautiful scene of a forest-fringed tropical beach.
The paintings were good; even Jackie, who knew almost nothing about art, could see how beautiful, original and skilfully executed they were. And Deborah’s love of her subject matter came shining through, capturing the true essence of the tropical north.
With so much evidence before them, Jackie had to speak, to ask the obvious question. ‘What on earth are these paintings doing here?’
Xavier and Deborah stared at her as if she was stupid, then they turned to Hugh.
With an unhappy shrug, he said simply, ‘I bought them.’
‘You?’ There was so much emotion in Deborah’s crestfallen cry. ‘You bought them? For God’s sake, Hugh, why?’
‘You were struggling, but you wouldn’t let me help you. You wouldn’t accept any money.’ Hugh lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘This was the only way I could think of to help.’
For a long moment, Deborah stared at her brother, her eyes wide and doubtful and glistening. Then, as she assimilated what he’d told her, her expression grew despairing, her mouth sagged.
She gave an agitated shake of her head. ‘So how did it work? You had an arrangement with the gallery in Cairns?’
‘With – a few places,’ Hugh admitted.
‘And as soon as my work arrived in their galleries, they were to be earmarked for you?’
‘No, not straight away –’ Hugh stopped, as if he realised he was making this worse.
Deborah blinked. Her mouth worked as she fixed him with a wild-eyed stare. ‘So you only took the paintings if they didn’t sell within a certain time frame?’
Silence fell until, reluctantly, Hugh nodded.
Tears shimmered in Deborah’s eyes. ‘Oh, God, Hugh, how could you?’ A sob broke from her. ‘Have you any idea what you’ve done? What this means?’
It meant you had bread on your table, Jackie wanted to tell her. She was desperate to defend her husband, even though she was angry with him, and shocked that he could do this without confiding in her. He must have paid for the paintings out of his personal account and he must have also had an arrangement with the post office in Mareeba. This was hardly the right moment to voice her own questions, though, so she kept her mouth firmly shut.
Hugh didn’t speak either. And Flora – poor Flora, who’d only just arrived home – was still standing near the door, with her arms folded across her chest, looking as if she’d have given anything to jump on the next plane back to Melbourne.
Then, cutting through the silence, Deborah let fly. ‘I’ve always believed that my paintings were sold to genuine art lovers. All these years, I’ve imagined them in people’s homes, hanging on their walls, becoming part of their lives, and –’
Her mouth turned square, but somehow she managed to finish what she wanted to say. ‘And all this time they’ve been hidden away in your bloody shed, like – like a dirty fucking secret.’
Deborah’s tears fell now, streaming down her face, but instead of looking old and ugly, Jackie thought her sister-in-law looked rather like a courageous child as she swiped at the tears with the heels of her hands.
Poor Hugh looked pale and distraught. Tentatively, he touched Deborah on the shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Deb. I should have talked to you about this – I should have found a better way to help.’
‘I didn’t need any help.’
‘I know that’s what you always said, but there were times when you struggled. I – I couldn’t bear to see how hard your life was – going without, while I had everything.’
‘I’m an artist!’ his sister cried, shrugging away from his hand, so that it fell uselessly to his side. ‘That’s what we artists do. We struggle. Our satisfaction comes from creating, from sharing the work we produce in the hope it will bring pleasure to others. Enrich their lives. Payment is a form of recognition, an unfortunate necessity, but we don’t need all the trappings.’ With this, she shot a venomous glare in Jackie’s direction. ‘I’ve never needed to live the high life.’
Somewhat desperately, Jackie found herself trying not to look guilty. It wasn’t easy, when she knew she hadn’t merely enjoyed the trappings Deborah referred to so scathingly, she’d also relished them. The lovely homestead, the social status of being a successful grazier’s wife, the boarding schools for her children, the luxurious holidays. These things had meant everything to her. Too much.
‘I suppose you knew these paintings were here,’ Deborah snapped.
Jackie couldn’t think of an answer. There was so much hostility in the woman’s gaze and voice. If she responded honestly, claiming ignorance, she would leave poor Hugh high and dry.
‘No one else in my family knew anything about it,’ Hugh cut in, gallantly. ‘This was my idea, and mine alone. My foolishly mistaken idea, it seems, and I take full blame.’
For the first time, his jaw stiffened and a hint of annoyance flared in his eyes. ‘Take the paintings back, Deb. Just take the lot of them. You should sell them again.’
‘Of course I should. In fact, I damn well will sell them, and probably for a good deal more than you paid for them.’ She sniffed. ‘My reputation has grown quite a bit in recent years.’
Hugh nodded and let out a heavy sigh, possibly a sigh of relief.
‘But don’t think I’m going to let you off lightly, Hugh.’ Deborah’s head was high now, and her shoulders were back, her eyes fierce, ready for a fight. ‘Have you any idea how much you’ve hurt me? Do you realise how small you’ve made me feel? Can you possibly understand how much it galls me to know that all the work, all the heart and soul I poured into these paintings was pointless?’
‘Deb, you shouldn’t feel –’
‘Don’t tell me how I should or shouldn’t feel.’
Hugh’s eyes narrowed. ‘There’s no need to –’
‘There’s every need.’ She stamped her foot. ‘I can’t believe you’re so one-eyed about this. You haven’t once tried to put yourself in my shoes.’
‘That’s not true.’ Jackie had to jump to Hugh’s defence again. ‘Can’t you see, Hugh only did this because he cared about you?’
‘No, that’s not how I see it at all. Hugh was more worried about his own guilty conscience, because he’s been sitting pretty on this property all these years.’
Triumph gleamed in Deborah’s eyes as she said this and, as she turned back to Hugh, her mouth curled in an unpleasant, almost cruel smile. ‘And you know what? I’m going to help ease your conscience, little brother. I take back what I said at lunchtime. I’ve changed my mind. After this –’ she flung an arm towards the paintings – ‘I do want what’s morally due to me and my son. I’m going to stake my claim on Ruthven Downs.’
34
‘Hey, Charlie, look who’s here.’
Alice tried to ignore the giddy rush of pleasure caused by Seth’s welcoming smile. It was important to stifle her instinctive reaction. Their relationship was all but over. She was only here this evening to help Seth out.
She’d told herself it was the whole Drummond family that she’d come to help. It had seemed the right thing to do, given that she’d become unwittingly involved when she found their documents. But after this evening, and tomorrow night’s face-saving exercise at Hugh Drummond’s party, she and Seth would go their separate ways.
No point in dwelling on that cheerless prospect now, though. This evening Alice had to focus. She couldn’t afford any distractions. She needed to apply total concentration to the task of caring for Charlie, while she faced down her personal demons.
Unfortunately, distractions abounded, starting when Seth’s dog Ralph came rushing to greet her with flattering eagerness and a madly thrashing tail. Then there was Seth himself. An old grey T-shirt and battered jeans should not look so heart-stoppingly masculine. And, despite everything, Seth’s smile could still send her spinning.
Then Charlie, more adorable than ever, with his floppy blond hair and bright blue eyes, already in his pyjamas and radiant with that special toddler after-bath glow. To Alice’s surprise, he ran forward to her with his arms outstretched.
‘Aleeee.’
She had prepared for this babysitting task with the conscientious attention to detail of a Special Forces soldier preparing for a secret mission against Al-Qaeda. During her research, she’d read that the ‘Fake it till you make it’ attitude really did work, so she’d decided to behave as if she was a different woman. This evening she would be someone who was calm and relaxed with small folk, someone sensible and phobia-free.
Psyching herself up to succeed was half the battle. She’d worked hard at it and she felt surprisingly calm as she kneeled to Charlie’s height and held out her arms. ‘Hello there, Charlie.’
Gleefully, the little boy accepted her hug and she caught the scent of strawberries. ‘Oh, you do smell nice.’
‘He had a bubble bath tonight as a special treat,’ said Seth.
‘A bubble bath. How lucky are you?’
It was working. Alice felt fine, like a nice, warm and friendly nanny type. As she straightened, Seth stepped closer to speak to her in a low voice. ‘I’m afraid I need to get cracking.’
Alice frowned. ‘I thought I was early.’
‘You are,’ he said. ‘But unfortunately, there’s been a new development on the home front. Things are hotting up and the meeting’s been brought forward.’
‘Is – is everything all right?’
Seth shrugged. ‘Doesn’t sound like it.’
‘Are you worried?’ she couldn’t help asking.
For a moment Seth’s expression was bleak, as if he was indeed very worried, but then he cracked a smile. ‘Not much point in worrying till I know all the facts.’
‘That’s sensible.’ His steady strength was reassuring and she had to fight an urge to lean in to him, to draw a little of that strength for herself. ‘And don’t worry about anything here,’ she said. Tonight she had to stand on her own two feet. ‘Charlie and I will be fine.’
Seth nodded. ‘I’ll have my phone and I’m only a couple of minutes away, so don’t hesitate to call me if you’re worried about anything.’
‘I won’t.’
He showed her where the tea and coffee things were, told her to help herself to anything from the pantry or fridge, showed her the mug Charlie drank from, the pile of Charlie’s favourite bedtime books, the night light in his bedroom, the cupboard where the disposable nappies were kept.
‘I hope he behaves for you,’ he said when the tour was completed. ‘Normally he’s in bed by half past seven at the latest, but don’t panic if he’s not tonight. With any luck, I’ll be back soon after then.’
‘Okay.’ Standing in the middle of the bedroom, Alice could feel Charlie’s small hand linked trustingly with hers. ‘We might take a look at one of these storybooks, hey, Charlie?’
Alice and Seth had already agreed over the phone that it would probably be best not to draw attention to the fact that Charlie’s father was going away. So now, selecting a couple of books, she sat on the edge of the bed and Charlie scrambled up beside up her. She opened the pages of a picture book about a little boy who lived on a farm, and she was aware of Seth leaving quietly.
Charlie was exclaiming over a picture of a shiny red tractor, patting the page and making broom-broom noises, when the faint click of t
he front door sounded. Luckily, he didn’t seem to hear it.
Alice let out a small huff of relief. Seth had slipped away without a problem. Over the first hurdle.
__________
Now to face the family. Or possibly, Armageddon.
Seth was relieved that Alice and Charlie seemed okay, but his gut tightened when he considered his own future. There was every chance that his life would be forever changed during the next hour.
If the frantic text message from his mother was correct, dinner had been postponed and the meeting brought forward. Apparently, Aunt Deborah planned to stake her moral claim on Ruthven Downs after all. And given the way his father had been carrying on lately, Deborah would probably succeed.
Which would narrow Seth’s options considerably – or broaden them, depending on how you looked at it. Right now, he had no idea whether he would end up homeless and penniless, or managing the Ruthven Downs property for his aunt, or, God help him, teaching bloody Xavier how to be a cattleman.
A glance across to the homestead showed his mother on the verandah, beckoning to him frantically, before running back inside. She was in a flap, of course. She loved this place, possibly more than any of them. This was her worst nightmare.
It was only a couple of hundred metres to the house, the only home Seth had ever known, but as he broke into a jog he felt as if he was running clueless into a lethal battle. An ambush?
__________
Halfway through the third storybook Charlie grew restless and climbed down from the bed.
‘Okay,’ Alice said, taking her cue from him and setting the book about frogs and ponds aside. ‘What would you like to do now?’
The little boy looked at her blankly, then headed for the bedroom doorway. Suddenly nervous, Alice hurried after him. Would he realise Seth was missing and begin to cry? Was the peace about to be shattered?
Charlie stopped in the middle of the lounge room, looked about him, looked at the sliding glass door and the bush beyond. Alice held her breath. He looked at the cane basket brimming with his toys.
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