The Last McAdam

by Holly Ford

  ‘If I run into him,’ Nate said, ‘I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Tess nodded, scanning the hills herself. ‘I guess I’ll see him tomorrow, anyway. I can talk to him then.’

  Nate looked startled. ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘After-work drinks at the homestead,’ she told him. ‘Remember?’

  ‘Right.’ His face told a different story. ‘That’s tomorrow night?’

  ‘As soon as everybody’s done.’ Tess smiled. ‘We may as well make it early.’ She turned away. ‘See you then.’

  ‘Yeah.’ There was a rattle of tools. ‘See you.’

  She glanced over her shoulder. Nate had his back to her, packing away his gear. Tess walked on, feeling pleased with herself. And with him. That had hardly been awkward at all. It was getting so they could have a normal conversation, like two normal adults, without anyone losing their temper. Or their shirt. As water spattered over the soil in front of her, she turned, circumnavigating the renewed arc of spray and the struggling crop beneath it.

  There being little to trouble a pivot line in a paddock that had clearly been under cultivation for years, it wasn’t long before she was back in the ‘office’. Apart from the hulking twenty-year-old desktop computer endangering the cheap student desk, the room looked like a small-town vintage brica-brac shop. Right down to the chipped enamel ewer and basin on the water-damaged nightstand, a seriously dead floral wreath on the back of the door and a 1950s tricycle on top of the wardrobe. Not exactly a place where anyone would want to spend any time. And, pretty obviously, nobody had.

  Inside the wardrobe, a wide variety of boxes – nail, biscuit, toilet paper, and even some file – stored the unordered invoices and receipts that Tess strongly suspected told only half the story of what had come into and out of Broken Creek Station these last seven years. It was hard to file handshakes and a man’s word. What she really needed was the contents of Bob Whittaker’s head.

  She jumped as a swallow dived in through the open sash window. There was a soft thud as it glanced the mirror on the wardrobe door. Before she could move, the bird picked itself up and flew out again, swiping a cranefly from the curtain on its way. Wishing she could follow it out into the invitingly dappled shade of the garden, Tess opened the wardrobe and took out a box. A tin, to be precise.

  One a day, that was the rule. Then she could retreat to whatever more comfortable part of the house Stan wasn’t in and run the figures for her new plan. She put the tin down on the faded candlewick of the one single bed.

  The only label on it read Griffins Assortment. A pair of beagle puppies regarded her from the lid. Reluctantly, Tess lifted it. The first thing she saw was a photograph of a girl dressed as some sort of snow queen dipped, at an ambitious angle, over the arm of a smiling man in a tuxedo. She picked it up to reveal a similar picture. Same girl, same man, different dress, different pose. This one showing the number on the guy’s back. Tess couldn’t help a grin. Ballroom dancing pictures? What the hell?

  She studied the woman. The smile was forced, but the eyes, the cheekbones, the breadth of forehead, were unmistakeable. So that was where Nate got his pretty face. And the man – number seventy-eight – was that Nate’s father? She couldn’t really see much of him. Resisting the urge to go through the rest of the photographs, Tess gave the tin a gentle shake. Not a single receipt slithered out. And she had no right to be looking at family pictures. Getting up, she put the tin back in the wardrobe.

  That counted for a box, right? It was one fewer to go through, anyway. Her eyes wandered to the window again. Outside, a crabapple thudded softly into the grass. Tess walked out and closed the door.

  •

  The following evening, Harry arrived at the homestead at five-thirty sharp. Tess expected Nate or Mitch to be right behind him, but for once Harry was unchaperoned, and looking nervous to find himself so.

  ‘Go on through and grab yourself a drink,’ Tess told him, closing the kitchen door behind him. ‘Stan’s out front on the veranda.’

  The wind that had been barrelling down the valley all day was yet to wear itself out, the sky still an angry grey, and the house, its windows shut against the gusts, felt like the inside of a pressure cooker. It was the sort of day that made easy jobs hard, and Tess hadn’t been sorry to spend it inside. Even tireless Harry looked battered.

  She watched Nate’s ute pull up outside, a puff of dust swirling around it. Without hurry, he got out and made his way over to the back door, chin down, one hand to the brim of his hat, the wind ballooning his shirt back off his shoulders. Opening the kitchen door for him as he gained the shelter of the porch, Tess watched him take off his hat and run a slow hand over his face. He looked exhausted.

  ‘Is Mitch still out there?’ She peered down the drive as Nate sat down to unlace his boots. Through the rickety glass that enclosed the porch, she could hear the wind roaring in the hedge. It was hardly a night for overtime. She hoped Mitch hadn’t found trouble.

  ‘Mitch is away for a couple of days.’ Nonchalantly, Nate tucked his boots under the long bench. ‘Sorry, I forgot all about it when I ran into you yesterday.’

  Tess looked down at him. ‘What do you mean “away”?’

  ‘He’s on leave.’

  ‘You forgot,’ she repeated, ‘that Mitch was on leave.’

  ‘I know.’ Nate broke into a particularly dazzling smile. ‘It was stupid. Sorry.’

  ‘It’s not down on the roster.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘Who approved it?’

  ‘I did.’ He held her gaze, his voice firm. ‘He asked for it a while back. Before you got here.’

  Tess continued to watch his face. ‘I don’t have a form on file.’

  Nate looked puzzled. ‘A form?’

  ‘A leave request form,’ she told him calmly, wondering just how stupid he thought she was. ‘I don’t have one.’

  At last, a little guilt crept into his eyes. ‘I guess we didn’t really bother too much with forms before now.’

  ‘Then why do I have three for Harry and one for you?’

  Nate looked down. Tess saw his shoulders drop as he let out his breath. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Okay, you’ve got me.’ He looked up at her again, his face serious now. ‘I signed off Mitch’s leave and then I forgot all about it. He gave me the form, I don’t know, months ago, and I guess I just never got round to putting it in the file.’

  ‘Or the roster,’ Tess pointed out.

  He sighed. ‘There was a lot going on around here,’ he said. ‘It just slipped my mind.’

  ‘Right.’ She tilted her head thoughtfully. ‘So, let me see if I’ve got this straight. Mitch put a leave request in to you, and you approved it, but you forgot to roster him off, and yesterday, when I asked you, you said you had no idea where he was?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Nate said, ‘that about covers it.’

  ‘And Mitch just left for this holiday of his without saying goodbye to you, or Harry, or anyone else?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Nate’s eyes blazed up at her. ‘He did.’

  ‘And there’s no record of any of this,’ she said, ‘because you lost the request form?’

  Nate paused to consider. ‘I’ve probably got it up at the cottage somewhere,’ he said. ‘I can go have a look for it now if you want.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure,’ Tess said slowly, ‘this is the story you want to go with?’

  ‘Yes.’ There was no hesitation this time. Hands on his knees, Nate stretched his shoulders as he eased himself to his feet. ‘That’s what happened.’

  ‘And if I see Mitch before you do, he’s going to tell me the same thing?’

  Nate’s pupils flared. Turning away from her, he rubbed the back of his neck. As she waited for him to speak, Tess bit the inside of her cheek. What was she doing? She hadn’t the slightest doubt that he was covering for Mitch, and there was no way that Mitch – when he did turn up – would let Nate take the fall for whatever the hell was going on he
re. A rostering blunder might get Nate a written warning, but dishonesty was one of the few things she could actually fire them for. All she had to do was let Nate go home and forge Mitch’s leave request form and she’d have grounds to dismiss at least one of them, if not both, instantly. So why was she standing here arguing?

  ‘Do you know where he is?’ she asked, gently.

  A few more seconds of silence ticked by.

  ‘No,’ Nate admitted at last. There was genuine defeat in his voice as he turned. ‘He’s on the station somewhere. One of the huts, probably. I tried a few today, but I couldn’t find him.’

  Tess nodded. ‘This has happened before,’ she guessed.

  Nate was silent again.

  ‘How often?’ she asked.

  ‘Mitch needs to get away every now and then, that’s all.’

  ‘And so he just goes? Just like that?’

  ‘Only in the downtimes,’ Nate said. ‘Never when we’re busy.’ He stared out through the glass. ‘It’s a few days a year. It doesn’t hurt anybody.’

  ‘But if he just disappears,’ Tess realised, ‘how do we know that he’s gone on purpose? What if he’s had an accident? He could be lying out there with a broken neck.’

  ‘There’s a code,’ Nate admitted, gruffly. ‘A pair of boots he leaves by the door.’

  ‘A pair of boots,’ Tess repeated, dubiously.

  ‘His old RAF boots.’

  Closing her eyes briefly, Tess pressed her fingertips to the bridge of her nose. ‘He needs help.’ She looked up at Nate. ‘Professional help. Counselling. Therapy.’

  ‘He needs his mates around him.’ Nate gave her a withering stare. ‘And the rest of the world to back off.’

  ‘Who needs to back off?’ Harry wandered into the kitchen.

  ‘You, mate.’ Nate didn’t miss a beat. ‘You’re standing between me and the beer.’

  Tess hung back, letting him lead the way through the house he knew so much better than she did. As he walked out onto the veranda, Stan and Peg, both of whom appeared to have nodded off, roused themselves.

  ‘Gidday, Nate,’ Stan said. ‘You ready for your tea?’

  ‘No, Stan.’ Nate dropped to his haunches beside him, his elbow on the arm of Stan’s chair, speaking close to his ear. ‘I’m just here for the staff meeting. Remember? With Tess.’

  ‘Oh.’ Stan nodded. ‘Right you are.’

  Tess settled carefully into one of the dust-grey wicker chairs, hoping this wouldn’t be the moment it chose to give way. Sheltered on three sides by the house and the fourth by a close, thick wall of hedge, the veranda was a small pocket of calm in the blustering wind. Looking through the bay window, across the unused formal sitting room, she watched a flying tuft of macrocarpa spatter against the opposite pane.

  ‘Where’s Mitch?’ Stan asked. ‘Still on his way?’

  Harry, blushing furiously, stared down at his beer.

  ‘Mitch can’t make it tonight,’ Nate said. He’d taken a seat on the veranda rail, his back to the upright, one work-socked foot resting on the turned ridge of the palings. He looked relaxed enough, but Tess could sense the tension lingering below that easy drape of his body. Unsure whether his act was slipping or she was getting better at reading it, she averted her eyes as he raised the bottle of beer from his braced thigh.

  In the uncomfortable silence that followed, she racked her brain for a new topic of conversation.

  ‘Do any of you guys fish?’ she tried.

  ‘Nate does,’ Harry said.

  ‘Fly fish, I mean,’ Tess explained. ‘For trout.’

  Nate gave her an even look. ‘I’m familiar with the concept.’

  ‘Great,’ she nodded, choosing to ignore the sarcasm in his tone. ‘We’ve got a VIP coming in a couple of weeks.’ Tess paused. ‘Two of them, actually,’ she remembered. ‘Mark Holland – he’s our CEO – is showing C.J. Mackersey around a few of Carnarvon’s properties, and he wants to bring him here to Broken Creek.’

  Harry took a thoughtful swig. ‘C.J. what?’

  ‘Mackersey,’ Tess repeated. ‘The chairman of Carnarvon International. He founded the whole company back in the day.’ She tried to concentrate on Harry, who was looking insufficiently impressed. ‘Him coming here’s a pretty big deal,’ she told him. She hesitated, suspecting more sarcasm might be headed her way, but this time Nate was silent.

  ‘Mark’s asked us to show Mr Mackersey a good time,’ Tess went on, steeling herself to look over at Nate. ‘It says on his profile he’s a keen fisherman. You think you could take him up the river, point him at some trout?’

  ‘I could.’ Nate met her eyes. ‘If I’m here.’

  Harry’s head flew up. ‘You going somewhere?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Nate’s voice was easy, his eyes, still locked to Tess’s, calm. ‘I’m not sure what I’ll be doing two weeks from now.’

  She nodded, acknowledging the unspoken question. He was asking if she was going to fire him. ‘I’ll make a note on the roster,’ she said, pointedly, ‘that you’re playing tour guide that day. So neither of us forgets.’

  Nate’s smile flashed. As he raised his beer to her slightly, conceding the hit, Tess felt unreasonably needled. They weren’t playing a game. And he hadn’t won. He just wasn’t the one she wanted to fire first. It had nothing to do with liking him. Nothing to do with feeling anything about him at all. He was carrying more information about Broken Creek in his head than she was ever going to get out of Bob Whittaker’s boxes, and she needed him on the place for a month or two more, that was it, pure and simple.

  At the end of his third beer, Harry called it a night.

  Stan rose with him. ‘I’ll walk you out.’ He made his way, with his usual certainty, across the boards to the open front door. ‘I need to get the carrots into the stew.’ Peg tottered after him as far as the sill.

  ‘I should go too.’ Nate lowered his head.

  Not arguing, Tess waited for him to move.

  Seeming to reach a decision, he looked up at her. ‘What’s going to happen with Mitch?’

  His seriousness caught her off guard. For a second, Tess faltered. ‘Work out how many days he’s had off in the last five years,’ she said brusquely. ‘They need to come out of his leave. He’ll have to fill in the forms. All of them.’ She frowned at Nate. ‘Can he do that? Will he, I mean?’

  ‘Yes.’ Nate’s tone admitted no doubt.

  ‘And from now on, he fills one in before he leaves. Make sure he understands that.’

  ‘I will.’

  Tess looked away, watching the wind harry a sparrow across the garden. ‘Tell him to leave it with his boots,’ she said, ‘if that’s the best he can manage.’

  Nate was silent.

  ‘Carrots are in,’ Stan announced, re-emerging to take his chair. ‘You staying for tea, Nate?’

  ‘No, mate.’ Nate heaved himself off the rail. ‘I’m heading home.’

  A brief look of confusion crossed Stan’s face. ‘Right you are.’

  Escorting Nate back to the porch, Tess found herself admiring the unsentimental way he walked through the rooms, never lingering as he passed the things he must have grown up with, things that must hold so many memories for him. The discarded belongings of his missing family. Her mind went back to the box of photographs. She should tell him about that – but not right now. It didn’t exactly go with the rest of the speech she needed to make.

  Until they’d cleared the range of Stan’s bat-like hearing, neither of them spoke. Out in the porch, Tess closed the kitchen door behind her and leaned against it, the pressure of the silence between them growing.

  ‘Thank you,’ Nate said.

  Tess nodded. His gaze was naked and direct, and as he dropped it, reaching under the bench for his boots, she felt a stab of double-edged guilt. He had nothing to thank her for. She was just doing what was right for the business. Wasn’t she? What was right for Broken Creek, and Carnarvon, and Mark, and everybody up the food chain, all the way to C.J.
Mackersey. In a couple of months, she’d have two thousand–odd sheep to find, and Nate and Mitch – whatever their faults – were the men who knew where to look. It was in nobody’s interests to get rid of either of them yet.

  She watched Nate’s hands as he tied his boots. ‘I understand,’ she said, ‘that you were trying to protect your friend. But don’t lie to me again. You’re no use here if I can’t trust you. Next time I ask you a question, tell me the truth. Okay?’

  Slowly, Nate raised his eyes to look at her. His face was impassive as he got to his feet. He was standing barely half a metre from her, and suddenly, Tess was conscious all over again of the mass of his body.

  ‘Fair enough,’ he said.

  Turning away, he put his hand to the back door. Quietly, Tess let out the breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. Nate pressed down on the door handle, and she braced herself for the gale about to rush in. He glanced over his shoulder, an infuriating sparkle back in his eyes. ‘Was that a formal warning?’

  Tess didn’t hesitate. ‘It wouldn’t hurt,’ she said, ‘for you to think of it that way.’

  Seven

  Cautiously, Tess slid the bedroom’s sash window up. Nothing blew in. The house, the garden, the morning beyond them, was absolutely quiet. After four days of high wind, the stillness felt like a gift. With no veil of flying dust and debris lying over it, the view had come back into focus, every motionless leaf in the garden newly solid and sharp. Leaning out through the window, she took in a lungful of calm air. How easy breathing was when a hundred-and-forty-k gale wasn’t trying to rip the oxygen out of your throat. Across the lawn, a lone tree rustled, and a smooth-feathered wood pigeon threw down a plum.

  By the time Tess got out of the shower, the front door had been thrown open to the morning, and strains of ‘The Irish Rover’ were drifting down the hall. In the kitchen, the old brown teapot was already tucked into its crocheted jacket. Sitting down, Tess poured herself a cup. She was getting used to the taste. After three weeks of telling Stan that she didn’t like tea, it was simpler just to drink it.