The Shifting Light

by Alice Campion

  ‘Leave it,’ Heath whispered as he pulled at her underwear.

  She froze. ‘Oh, sorry, sorry sorry,’ she said, kissing him lightly on the lips before jumping off the table. ‘But I have to get this. I think it’s Ted, about the plumbing, and I’ve been trying to reach him all morning.’ She got to the phone just as it stopped ringing. She started back to Heath when it erupted again.

  ‘Hello?’ Then followed a five-minute conversation about art supplies, tank water and the availability of unwooded chardonnay. Finally, Nina put the receiver down.

  ‘Shit, sorry,’ she said, turning back to Heath, who was now leaning on the table smiling ruefully.

  ‘That’ll teach you,’ he said, ‘choosing a phone call over a quickie but a goodie.’

  ‘There’s still time – I’ll make time,’ said Nina. But she watched with dismay as Heath left the table and began searching for his keys.

  ‘You’re not heading off again, are you? You just got here,’ she asked as he reached behind her and took his wallet from the kitchen bench.

  ‘Well, sorry. But look at you. You’re flat out and I need to take Lobby into Wandalla and show him which parts we need for the tank repairs. Been meaning to do it for ages. I can’t help it if you distract me with that bod of yours.’

  Nina smiled and buried her head in his chest.

  ‘Can I get your people to talk to my people?’ she said, sighing.

  Heath laughed. ‘Now that sort of talk scares the shit out of me – particularly if by “my people” you’re talking about Lobs. How did he and Hilary come from the same parents?’

  Nina nodded, smiling, as she mentally compared cool, crisp Hilary with her brother – the gormless station-hand with his red troll-doll hair, his permanently confused expression and aimless lope.

  Heath bent down and kissed her on the lips. ‘Tonight, okay?’ he said.

  ‘Yep, but remember, I’m at The Springs till at least nine.’

  There was a silence. ‘Yeah, well, I guess this is something we’ll just have to figure out.’

  She nodded into his chest. He stroked her hair and cupped her face in his hands.

  ‘And we will.’

  He grabbed his hat and left.

  Nina turned back to the piles of papers with a heavy heart. The kitchen at Kurrabar was messy, cluttered.

  Yet the house felt empty.

  The white immensity of the Paramour homestead always came as a shock to Nina, even though she had been a regular enough visitor over the past couple of years. The porticos, bay windows and grand sweeping front steps would be better suited to Las Vegas than the dry Wandalla plains. The house was a testament to Hilary’s desperate need to show off, but also to her steely determination. After a hand-to-mouth childhood and, at just 18, having to give up Nina, that determination had lifted Hilary to become one of the most influential women in the district. At least it had until that disgrace over The Springs.

  Though she had thought about little else than the man in the portrait these past few days, Nina had decided she wouldn’t share the news with Hilary, who had always been way too obsessed with Jim.

  She felt the usual apprehension as she climbed out of her car. What reception would her mother give her today? Her summons had been abrupt, as usual. Something about this ball they’d heard about. Heath had warned she would be roped in. The ball would be Hilary’s big moment and, predictably, she was grasping every opportunity to take things way over the top. Until now, other than being press-ganged into booking tickets, Nina had managed to avoid the whole affair.

  As she closed the car door, Hilary’s two Jack Russell terriers tore towards her in a barking cacophony. Dolce, as usual, led the attack, while Gabbana, so old he had no teeth, hobbled behind.

  ‘Settle, you two.’ They were all talk and soon obeyed.

  ‘Nina! Hang on a moment.’ Hilary, riding one of her thoroughbreds appeared from behind the stables. Dressed in cream jodhpurs, her blonde hair drawn back with a silk scarf, she slid from her mount, tied the reins to a fence and strode towards her. Nina was still getting used to this woman actually being her mother. She was so young – only 47.

  The two hesitated then went through their usual awkward routine, swaying from side to side a little like wrestlers sizing each other up. Should they hug? Shake hands? Kiss on both cheeks? After a moment, Nina took the initiative and gave her mother a brief hug.

  ‘Well. Alright then.’ Hilary stepped backwards, clearly relieved. ‘That’s a very nice dress,’ she added, with mild surprise.

  ‘Thanks.’ Wow. This simple green dress with pearl-beaded cardigan was the first to pass muster. In an attempt to fill the silence, Nina asked, ‘How’s the show jumping coming along?’

  ‘It’s like I never stopped. I’m surprised how much I’ve enjoyed getting back into it. I’m entering this year’s Show, you know.’

  ‘Really?’

  They walked up the steps together, followed by the panting dogs, and into the all-white lounge. The room was dominated by the nude portrait of Hilary painted by Nina’s father 30 years ago. Nina had to admit Hilary hadn’t changed much since then. Still striking.

  A folder of notes and sketches lay open on the coffee table.

  ‘Now, to business,’ said Hilary. ‘We only have two months until we reach a major milestone in the district’s history. It will be 150 years since the first official land grant was given.’

  So, that’s what it was all about. ‘Oh. Well, that’s interesting,’ Nina managed.

  ‘It’s more than that. The land grants marked the change from this area being occupied by a pack of scruffy settlers to the era of grand pastoral runs like Durham Station. This is an opportunity to celebrate what those great pioneers achieved out here.’

  Nina smiled but felt a rising dread. Hilary had always had a fixation on Durham House.

  ‘Now, this is what I’ve planned.’ Hilary picked up a piece of paper and handed it to Nina. ‘There are three parts. First, the exhibition charting the lives of the pastoral families. We’re gathering newspaper cuttings, letters and articles, some of their furniture and household items. Esme from the Historical Society’s helping me with that.’

  The drawing was an artist’s impression of how the Wandalla School of Arts would look when the exhibition was set up. Two huge murals depicting the farming pioneers in heroic poses were loosely sketched in.

  ‘What are these?’ asked Nina, pointing.

  ‘Of course, I had to give you an opportunity to show off your talents.’ Hilary’s tone was magnanimous.

  ‘Mine?’ Nina’s heart sank.

  ‘There’ll be plenty of time for you to get them done. It’s eight weeks until the ball. I’ve found some people who can pose for you.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll have the time.’ What little time she had, she badly needed to spend getting her exhibition ready.

  ‘Of course you’ll have time. Just let me know what you need – paints, brushes and whatnot. You won’t be left out of pocket.’

  ‘There won’t be …’ Nina began, but Hilary was already reaching for the next sketch.

  ‘This is the second part. A pageant! We’ll be re-enacting the great moments of the settlement period,’ she said excitedly.

  The drawings showed a series of scenes – a pioneer receiving a rolled document from a man in a top hat, a woman in a hooped skirt holding a baby, and a group of Aboriginal men in loincloths and body paint apparently rejoicing at the arrival of a white family in a horse-drawn cart.

  Nina wasn’t sure whether to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it or be horrified at this blatant rewriting of a dark episode in the country’s history. The thought of Moira or Alfie seeing something like this made her squirm. She would have to find a way to talk Hilary out of it.

  ‘And finally, the pièce de résistance, the Settlers’ Ball!’ crowed Hilary. ‘It will be authentic period costume only. And we’ll have a band playing music of the time. It’ll put Wandalla back on the map again.’
<
br />   ‘I’m sure it will. But don’t you think this is a bit much to cope with all at once? You don’t want to tire yourself out,’ said Nina cautiously. She recalled the image of Hilary in the hospital bed – eyes vacant, voice flat. At that time, Hilary could have tipped either way and the last thing Nina wanted for her now was another breakdown.

  ‘Rubbish!’ snorted Hilary. ‘This is exactly the kind of creative project I thrive on. I’ve got a good organising committee which you will have to join. All the original families will be represented. And Esme’s already gathered the props and costumes for the pageant. She and Peg Myers need a lot of micromanaging, but they’re getting there …’

  As Hilary babbled, Nina felt increasingly helpless. But, she knew by now, resistance was futile.

  CHAPTER 5

  The sign reading ‘pläce’ was cut out of rusty corrugated iron nailed to a bark background. No doubt hand-rusted artisanal corrugated iron on organic bark from a Tibetan mountain, thought Izzy. What would they make of it in Wandalla? Suppressing a smile, she pushed open the door of the café in inner-city Surry Hills. There was more weathered timber and iron inside strangely juxtaposed with strains of Ella Fitzgerald.

  At the till, a pale young woman seemed to have melted onto the counter, whether from vegan-related exhaustion or boredom, it was hard to tell. Her head was semi-shaved and a pair of loose pants clung desperately to her pointy hipbones. As Izzy approached, she admired the arsenal of metal attached to the woman’s various mucous membranes. Perhaps it was the weight of them that had dragged her head to counter level.

  ‘A cappuccino, thanks,’ she ventured.

  ‘Skim, soy, almond, or regular? Chocolate or cocoa – shaved or powdered? Here or take away? Large or small?’

  ‘Just regular, here, small please. And no chocolate.’

  Izzy considered showing the sketch to her but instead perched at a table in the corner. She scanned the scattering of customers. None of the men could conceivably be mistaken for Jim Larkin.

  At Ground Zero. Awaiting developments, she texted Nina. She thought of her friend sitting in the beer garden of the pub. The Commercial Hotel had the best reception in Wandalla.

  So excited! The reply was instantaneous.

  A man stepped out from the Gents. Izzy’s heart jumped. He turned to face her and she saw his bushy beard and sank back down. No, false alarm.

  The place is crawling with hipsters. I fear infection. Can’t think of a better way to spend a Saturday. Ha ha, Izzy typed.

  Tell me the second you see him.

  Izzy was browsing the café’s copy of Experimental Dance Review for the third time when the door swung open and a man entered. She put her cup down and craned her neck to see his face. Clearly he was a regular, judging from the limp smile the barista managed to summon. Izzy unrolled the sketch one last time, committed it to memory, then looked up just as the man turned to take a seat. The dimples floated away as his smile faded … it was him!

  He was average height, lightly built, but with a bit of a tummy under his leather jacket. Like Nina’s, his hair was dark and wavy. It fell forward on his face, with just a tiny hint of silver at the temples. He took a seat at a nearby table.

  With shaking hands, she switched her phone to camera. Shit, why was it so dark in here? She scuffled her chair to get a better angle and raised the phone casually as though taking a selfie.

  Izzy pressed the button and muttered a curse as the camera clicked loudly. The man looked up quizzically. For his age, he was pretty cute, she thought, even allowing for the dim light. She looked down quickly, avoiding his glance, and sent the picture to Nina.

  Is this him? Looks too young. Def not 50. Probs not even 40, she texted.

  Can you get in closer?

  I’m practically giving him a lap dance as it is.

  Izzy!! I need to see his face.

  She glanced up. The man surveyed her over the brim of his mug with warm, amused eyes. Moss green – again, so like Nina’s.

  There was nothing for it. ‘Umm, hi,’ she said hesitantly. ‘This is going to sound really stupid, but can I take your picture?’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ the man replied, lifting a hand. ‘You’re a photography student who’s taking poignant pictures of lonely old desperates for some exhibition about urban alienation.’

  ‘Mmmm … not so much,’ laughed Izzy. ‘I know this sounds like the worst pick-up line in history, but you look like someone a friend of mine knows. Let me take a shot and then I’ll explain.’

  ‘Well … okay then, since you asked so nicely. It’s funny, I must be irresistible. Just a few weeks ago an old woman sketched me in this very seat.’

  ‘I know.’ Izzy unrolled the battered sketch on the table. The man looked at the portrait and then up at her, startled. Then he smiled. ‘She ironed out the crows’ feet a bit, which was pretty decent of her.’

  ‘Yes, Maggie. She showed this to a friend of mine and it sort of freaked her out.’

  Izzy’s phone pinged. Nina: What? What?

  ‘Freaked out? Now, this is taking a strange turn. Who are you again?’ asked the man cautiously.

  ‘Isobel Rainbow. Izzy.’

  ‘Lachlan Wright. What’s this about?’

  ‘My friend thinks she may know you.’

  ‘I’ve got one of those faces.’ He seemed uncertain. ‘Can’t say I really understand, but go ahead and shoot me if you like. I probably deserve it.’

  Lachlan slid off his jacket revealing a t-shirt with a picture of a corgi’s backside and the words ‘Adopt a rescue dog: no ifs or butts’.

  ‘Cute!’ said Izzy, indicating the dog’s stumpy tail.

  Her phone buzzed. Nina: Answer! Did he say anything?

  ‘It’s a campaign against puppy mills. Tiny cages, bred to breed – the whole thing.’

  ‘Do you have a dog of your own?’ asked Izzy.

  Lachlan shrugged. ‘I did have, but when I split with my wife I came to stay with a friend near here … you know – tiny flat – not easy. Anyway, enough about me. Just take the picture.’

  Izzy pointed her phone and got a clear close-up.

  ‘And the side!’ Lachlan turned his profile to her. ‘Hang on while I try to suck in my jowls.’

  ‘Ha ha.’

  ‘Now … go!’

  ‘Thanks – you’re a star. Hang on a sec and I’ll fill you in.’ Izzy quickly sent the two pictures.

  The pierced woman returned with water. ‘Thanks, Gretel. Best service in the city.’ The compliment brought a faint dawn of colour to the woman’s wan face and Izzy realised she was actually quite pretty.

  ‘So, what’s this all about?’ asked Lachlan, as he sipped his coffee.

  ‘It’s like this. My friend’s father went missing years ago. When she saw the drawing, she thought it might be him.’

  ‘Whoa.’ He looked alarmed.

  ‘No, no, it’s not a paternity thing. You’re just a dead ringer. Though he’d be around 50 now.’

  After a beat, he seemed to recover and laughed. ‘Great, so I look like a guy in his 50s?’

  ‘No, no, no. As soon as I saw you I knew it wasn’t you.’

  ‘But of course I’m me!’ he teased.

  ‘No, I meant … you are alike, but …’

  ‘You knew I wasn’t him.’

  ‘Or him, you,’ Izzy added.

  ‘Or should it be you knew you weren’t him?’

  ‘But how could I be him, or you for that matter?’ answered Izzy.

  ‘You win,’ said Lachlan and smiled. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Jim Larkin. The artist – you know, the Sydney Stir and all that.’

  ‘Well, no wonder!’ said Lachlan, shaking his head. ‘This is bizarre. Jim was my cousin, though I never met him. He disappeared when I was in high school.’

  ‘No kidding!’ Izzy felt her heart pound. Nina would be beside herself. ‘So did you ever go to Wandalla, to the property there, The Springs? Where he died?’

  ‘No. But my mot
her grew up there – she was Jim’s father’s sister. Anyway, she moved to Queensland, married my dad, and that’s where I grew up.’

  ‘Hang on!’ Izzy’s fingers were flying across the phone’s keypad.

  ‘This is so strange,’ said Lachlan, leaning back in his chair. ‘I heard they found his body a couple of years back. Why would his daughter think he was still alive?’

  ‘It’s just that you look so much like him. I guess she just wanted to believe it.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about you but I can’t take any more of this without carbs. In fact, banana hotcakes may be called for. Will you join me?’

  Izzy nodded and he signalled to the drooping barista. On the table between them her phone began to play the theme music to Game of Thrones. It was Nina. Izzy handed it, still ringing, to Lachlan.

  ‘It’s for you,’ she said.

  CHAPTER 6

  ‘I almost collapsed when I heard his voice.’ Izzy and Moira leaned in as Nina recounted the first of many phone conversations she’d had with Lachlan over the past three weeks.

  It had taken a while for the air to warm but the verandah at The Springs was now awash with morning sun. The three women crowded their chairs together, eager to catch up on the latest instalment of the Lachlan saga in the few minutes before the onslaught of the latest tour group.

  ‘I never thought that he’d sound like Dad. I didn’t realise I remembered Jim’s voice. I hardly noticed what he was saying – I only wanted to cry.’

  Moira put her teacup on the table and placed her hand on Nina’s shoulder. Brown and bumpy with arthritis, pink nail beds and wide, pale palms – a strong hand and one that Nina had grown to love.

  ‘Stupid, I know,’ Nina continued, stroking Syd, her eyes welling. ‘He could never have really been Jim. But, Izzy, when you sent that text saying he would’ve been around 40, I was gutted. Way too young. What was I thinking? It’s just … stupid.’

  ‘Not at all, love. Spooky if you ask me.’ Moira’s kind face wrinkled with concern. She had seen Nina through many ups and downs since they had become friends nearly three years ago. But this latest turn of events seemed to startle even her.