‘Well, these Americans are the consummate pork-barrellers.’
‘But isn’t it a win-win situation for Millbrooke?’
‘I believe it was Tacitus who said: “Gold will be slave or master.”’
‘Actually it was Horace,’ she replied, pleased she was able to trump Richard Scott. His schoolmaster demeanour was beginning to grate on her. ‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘if a mine does go ahead, there’ll be extra jobs for Millbrookers.’
‘Sure, but not in the numbers people anticipate. Mining is a specialised business. How many locals will be employed? They’ll just fly people in and out. And we’ll find ourselves with a bunch of outsiders who don’t pay council rates.’
‘Like me.’
‘No, I didn’t mean you.’ Looking embarrassed, he promptly changed the subject. ‘See that bloke in the grey suit.’
Angie turned her gaze towards the stage. Was Richard referring to the good-looking man dressed in beige linen? Trust an Aussie bloke not to know the difference between grey and beige.
‘He’s the Songbird equipment expert – diamond head drills and so on – and doubles as their PR guy. He’s likely to do all the talking tonight. The fellow on the left is the money man and the other one is the project manager. The three of them answer directly to the big bosses back in the States.’
‘How do you know this stuff?’
‘I have a mate at the pub who works as a security guard for Songbird.’
‘Oh.’
The mayor was tapping the microphone.
‘Good evening, Millbrookers. Thank you for coming out on this chilly evening. We have some exciting news for you.’ He pointed to a table covered by a white bedsheet. ‘Believe me when I say it’s something which will be the making of our town. This initiative will increase jobs and tourist numbers and produce much-needed income to supplement the council’s budget. As you know, the problem for Millbrooke, like so many country towns, is our dwindling population.’
Richard leaned over and whispered in Angie’s ear, ‘If the rates weren’t so high, maybe we’d attract more tree-changers.’
‘We simply don’t have enough people to sustain the services we need,’ continued the mayor. ‘If this project goes ahead, we should be able to maintain our rates at the existing level for several years to come.’ The mayor paused, waiting for applause. A few people clapped.
‘Pull the other one,’ whispered Richard.
‘And now I would like to introduce our guest speaker for the evening. Many of you know him already. He first came to Millbrooke two years ago and he’s visited us so often since then that he’s almost become one of us. Please welcome Jack Parker.’
‘Listen to the mayor currying favour with him,’ growled Richard as the broad-shouldered man in the beige suit moved to the microphone amid a round of polite applause.
‘Hi, everyone. Thanks for giving up your evening by the fire to come to our information night.’
Angie was surprised at the mild American accent – she’d been expecting a Texan drawl.
‘It’s great to see such a big turnout. I trust you’ll find it worth the effort.’
‘He’s a real charmer,’ whispered Richard. ‘As flash as a rat with a gold tooth.’
Angie laughed despite herself. She hadn’t heard that expression in years.
‘Shhh,’ someone hissed behind them.
‘Songbird has a proposal to make to the citizens of Millbrooke,’ Jack Parker continued. ‘It’s exciting and innovative and will deliver a boost to the town which will assure its prosperity for years to come. You might even say it’s the best thing to happen to Millbrooke since the Gold Rush. The federal and state tourism departments, as well as your own council, have examined the project and given it a positive assessment. In addition, it’s been costed by an independent accounting company.’
There was a buzz of conversation among the audience. Jack Parker waited until the chatter subsided and then the lights were dimmed.
‘Unlike some other historic towns across the country, Millbrooke has never tapped into the tourism potential of its Gold Rush past, not on a large scale anyway. Now we’re rectifying that situation.’ He paused dramatically. ‘Let me welcome you to Millbrooke’s Golden Days.’ Behind him the words appeared on a screen as if they were glittering yellow metal. ‘It’s a multimedia journey through boom-time Millbrooke. Not just a fun park ride, but a virtual trip into the past, during which visitors will see miners at work on the diggings, hear voices from many lands, and experience the sounds and scenes of the main street, bustling with merchants and customers. All by way of projected images and robotic figures.’
‘I saw something like this in Oxford years ago,’ whispered Angie to Richard. ‘The Oxford Story. It was good.’
‘Quiet!’ came a reprimand from the row behind.
‘Millbrooke’s Golden Days will become a top tourist destination, attracting an estimated one hundred thousand visitors a year. While they’re in town, it’s likely they’ll buy a meal at a local restaurant or café, browse in your specialty shops and stay in your places of accommodation. In fact, every business in town will benefit. We anticipate the Golden Days initiative will require six full-time and ten part-time staff. All locals, of course. And fifty percent of the profits will go directly to your council to improve the hospital, repair roads, replenish the library and keep your rates at an acceptable level.
‘You’re probably wondering where the Golden Days will be located. Songbird has purchased two acres of land at the eastern end of town, right behind the Millbrooke museum and opposite the supermarket. We’re about to submit a DA to council for a building to house the audiovisual ride and an adjoining parking area. Will it interfere with Millbrooke’s historic streetscape? Not at all. It won’t even be visible from the main street. Let me show you.’
A computer drawing appeared on the screen, rotating in space.
Then Jack Parker and the mayor took opposite ends of the bedsheet and, on a count of three, removed it as if they were magicians. Underneath was a model of Millbrooke’s Golden Days.
‘I invite you all to enjoy some refreshments and then come up on stage to take a closer look. Together with the rest of the Songbird staff, I’ll be delighted to assist you with any queries you may have concerning the project.’
‘Do you want to take a look at the model?’ Angie asked Richard as the stage filled with enthusiastic Millbrookers.
‘No, but you go ahead.’
‘Don’t you like it, Richard?’
‘It’s okay.’
‘Well, I love the design,’ said Angie. ‘It’s so restrained and compact. It could easily have been a mini theme park, but whoever designed it didn’t go overboard with the gold and glitter. And it’s a great way to introduce people to the past.’
He squinted at her from below his cap. ‘Yeah, I suppose it’s not bad for a tourist attraction.’
The next morning Angie was at the pottery café, drinking tea and about to open the Millbrooke Gazette when she felt the presence of a tall figure on the other side of the table. She looked up, expecting to see Richard. Instead, there was a man in a beige corduroy jacket, a white open-necked shirt, jeans and cowboy boots.
‘Do you mind if I share your table? There don’t seem to be any other seats.’ He spoke in a soft American accent. It was Jack Parker, Mr Songbird.
‘No problem,’ said Angie.
He sat down and ordered breakfast and a cappuccino from the passing waitress.
‘I saw you last night at the meeting, didn’t I?’ he said. ‘With your husband.’
Angie almost choked on her tea. ‘My landlord, I think you mean.’
Jack Parker’s eyes darted to her ring finger and back to her face with the deftness of a conjurer performing a sleight of hand.
‘I’m Angie Wallace, by the way.’
‘Jack Parker.’ He extended his hand. ‘But you already know that.’
Up close, Angie decided Mr Songbird was very attra
ctive. Not perfect though. There was an asymmetry to his face which was a tad disconcerting. Being a Libran, Angie hankered after symmetry and balance.
‘So you’ve been in Millbrooke for two years,’ she said.
‘On and off. I go home every few months to see my family.’
He produced a wallet with a collection of photos. Two boys with round, cheeky faces and pudding-basin haircuts and a wife with a blonde bob.
Angie felt she should reciprocate. In her wallet were baby photos of the boys. What kind of mother didn’t update her wallet photos?
‘They’re in their twenties now,’ she explained. ‘I have some recent pictures on my phone. Blake is doing his Master’s in Psychology and Tim’s studying medicine and working part-time as a musician.’
‘Wow. It must be nice to know they’re on the right path.’
‘Yes, it is. And I’m glad their father was able to see them succeed at their studies.’ As soon as she mentioned Phil, she knew she had to explain. Twisting the ring on her finger, she said, ‘My husband passed away last year.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Thank you.’ She blinked away the tears before they could take hold. ‘I moved to Millbrooke last autumn.’
‘So we have something in common; we’re both blow-ins.’
‘Yes, I guess that’s true. But you seem to have won favour with the mayor.’
‘That’s because he can see the benefits a mining project would bring to Millbrooke.’
‘You mean River Cove? How’s it going?’
‘We’re awaiting the results from the latest assay tests. It’s always one step at a time in the mining game. What do you do for a living, Angie?’
He was good. He remembered names. What was the word the Americans used? A schmoozer.
‘I’m an artist,’ she replied. ‘And I’m considering opening a B&B.’
‘Where?’
‘Church Lane. The Old Manse across the road from St Aidan’s Church. It’s the two-storey house with the tall gable and the picket fence.’
‘Oh, I love that house. It reminds me of home.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘San Francisco.’
‘You must really miss your wife and kids.’
‘All the time. But we talk on the internet and the boys email me every day.’
‘I do the same with my boys. They worry about me being here on my own.’
‘Yeah, my wife worries about me too. She thinks I’m working too hard and not eating right.’
‘Would you ever consider bringing your family out to Australia?’
‘Not really. My job’s an itinerant one. A few years in one place, then on to the next. It wouldn’t be fair to uproot my wife and kids.’
‘So where do you live when you’re in Millbrooke?’
‘At the motel with the other guys from Songbird.’
‘No wonder you come here for breakfast. You must be sick of greasy eggs, fatty bacon, cold toast and tinned baked beans.’
‘How did you know that? Have you stayed there too?’
‘No,’ she laughed. ‘That’s just a typical motel breakfast. Although sometimes they add grilled tomatoes for variety.’
At that moment Jack’s order arrived – poached eggs on potato rosti with wilted spinach and a generous smear of hollandaise sauce.
‘Now this is more like it,’ he said, sinking his knife into a perfectly cooked egg and watching the yolk ooze out. For a few minutes there was silence as he devoured his breakfast. Then he said, ‘Angie, did you say you’re running a B&B?’
‘Not yet. I’ve only done up the bedrooms so far.’
‘I just had an idea, but you’ll probably think it’s crazy.’ He flashed a toothpaste commercial smile. ‘I really hate going back to that bland motel room every night, but there’s nowhere else to stay. I’ve contacted the Schoolhouse B&B, but the proprietor doesn’t take long-term lodgers. And the pub’s too noisy.’
Was he asking to stay at Angie’s place? Mr Songbird certainly had a hide.
‘I don’t suppose you’d like a guest? I’m paying nine hundred dollars a week at the motel. I’d be glad to match it for a real home.’
Angie had been preparing to say no, but the words ‘nine hundred dollars a week’ were echoing in her head. She could afford to have the exterior of the house painted by a professional. She might even be able to buy that stunning sideboard she’d seen in the antiques shop. It would be perfect in the dining room.
‘It’s very basic,’ she said. ‘The bathroom has a gas hot water heater, circa 1920. And there’s only one power point in the guest bedroom.’
‘I don’t mind. You have a garden, don’t you? And a view of the creek. That’s all I need.’
Angie started to laugh. ‘What about a trial period? For both of us. One month.’
‘It’s a deal,’ he said and reached over to shake her hand.
‘I have a friend coming to stay this weekend, so you couldn’t move in until after that.’
‘Fine,’ he said, placing his knife and fork on the plate to indicate he’d finished.
Angie noticed that he’d pushed the pile of wilted spinach to the side of the plate like a naughty toddler refusing to eat his greens.
‘Here’s my card. I had better get your number too, Angie.’
She wrote it on the back of another of his business cards. Next thing he was standing, ready to leave.
‘Must go. I’ll give you a call to confirm everything.’ He shook her hand again. ‘Have a good day. Bye.’
While Mr Songbird was at the counter paying for his breakfast, the implications of what she’d just agreed to do started to hit home. She considered going over to him before he left the café to say it was all a mistake. But Jack Parker was already heading out the door, giving her a wave and a dazzling smile.
‘Shit, shit, shit,’ she said to herself. ‘What have I done?’ She must have spoken out loud because two greying tourists at the next table turned to look at her. She gave them a weak smile. Perhaps they would think she was one of those eccentric country people who always seemed to feature in tree-change TV shows.
She had agreed to sub-let a room in Richard Scott’s property without even asking his permission. And even worse, she would be accepting a weekly rent which was ten times the amount she was paying Richard.
Jack Parker had won her over, not with mere beads and trinkets, but with the lure of three and a half thousand dollars a month.
6
DISCOVERIES AND LOSSES
Then
Margaret Duncan called the baby Peggy, after the nickname her own parents had bestowed upon her as a child. Margaret had barely left her bed since the birth. Every time she stood up, she would begin to haemorrhage. In the mornings Amy washed her mother’s rags in cold water and hung them on the line to dry. Every night she pressed them with a hot iron.
The baby wouldn’t suckle. Sometimes she uttered a tiny cry like a kitten, but mostly she was silent. While her mother slept, Amy nursed little Peggy in her arms and sang softly to her. When her father came to the door and heard the songs, he didn’t tell her to stop. Perhaps he knew Amy had made a pact with God. As long as she continued to sing, the bairn would remain alive.
On the third day her father baptised the baby, his voice so choked with tears that Amy could barely understand the words. But it lightened her heart just a little to know the stain of original sin had been removed from Peggy’s soul and whatever happened now, she would be joined in covenant to God.
On the fourth day, Amy was sitting in the rocker beside her mother’s bed, cradling the baby. She must have fallen asleep, because she dreamed Peggy had grown into a bonnie lassie with rosy cheeks and golden braids. The little girl was playing with a wooden doll in the shade of the elm tree while Amy sat nearby, engrossed in a book. After a while she glanced up and realised her sister was gone. Although she called Peggy’s name, there was no answer. Frantically she searched the garden, the barn and every corner
of the house. She even crossed the lane and scoured the church. Then the panic that had been rising up inside her began to spill out. Her beautiful sister had disappeared. When Amy woke, tears were running down her cheeks and onto the tiny baby in her arms. She touched the baby’s face; it was cold.
Amy had never seen her father cry before. Yet for the past two days he had barely stopped. He sat at his desk with his head buried in his hands, sobbing softly. The boys were out in the garden, chasing chooks. Her mother was upstairs in bed, heavy with the draught of laudanum that Doctor Allen had administered.
Peggy was lying in a tiny, satin-lined coffin in the parlour, wrapped in the christening shawl Margaret Duncan had knitted eighteen years earlier for her first child. The garden was bare of flowers so Amy placed a linen handkerchief dabbed with Eliza’s attar of violets inside the coffin. At least little Peggy would have something pretty to smell as she lay waiting for her funeral.
The Reverend Arthur Brownlow from St John’s was presiding. Amy had gone to see him when she realised her father couldn’t manage it himself. The only words he had said to Amy concerning the funeral were: ‘Sing a lullaby for the bairn.’
Amy was moved that her father would want a secular song over a hymn. It revealed another side to the otherwise dour man. When she asked Reverend Brownlow about the choice, he replied, ‘If your father wants a lullaby, you must sing one.’ So she decided on a sweet old Scottish song she had learned long ago from her mother.
Afterwards Amy went to the church and placed two vases of hawthorn branches, still bearing tiny red berries, on the altar. In spite of her position as a minister’s daughter, she had never been to a funeral. Before the boys were born, she had been deemed too young, and afterwards, she was required to mind her little brothers so that her mother could play the organ. Death had never touched Amy’s life, save for the descriptions in Mr Dickens’s novels. And although she often took a shortcut through the town cemetery, she had never thought about the dead people lying beneath the ground. Not as real beings who once lived and breathed. It was inconceivable to think her own sister, the baby she had held in her arms, would soon be one of them.
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