by John Marsden
He broke the silence.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’d better be going. I’ve got three essays due Wednesday and I haven’t started any of them. But listen, Winter. I know I played you along a bit the other day, and I’m sorry about that, but you’ve got to admit, you did ask for it.’
He was laughing again, something he seemed physically unable to avoid. Laughing at me, anyway.
He went on: ‘Anyway it’d be good to get to know you a bit better. I mean, the average age in this district is about ninety-three, and you’ve just lowered that a bit, thank God. So if you want to meet a few people, well, give me a call maybe? Or even, there’s a whole bunch of us going into Exley next Friday to see Night of the Long Knives. You’d be welcome. I could give you a lift. Have you got a car?’
‘I don’t even have a licence,’ I said.
‘Oh, OK. What are you, sixteen?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, are you interested in the movie? Friday night?’
‘I’ll give you a call, maybe.’
‘OK, that’s cool.’
He lifted up in the saddle to get the horse moving again, but just as he did, I said: ‘It’d help if I knew your name.’
‘What? Oh yeah!’ He laughed and laughed at that. ‘Oh, what a pisser. My name’s Matthew. Matt Kennedy. The best way to get the phone number is in the Yellow Pages, under Horse Studs. It’s easier than trying to remember it now. Or else, take Ralph and Sylvia’s number and add three. Theirs ends in five; ours ends in eight.’
‘OK, thanks,’ I said.
He gave a casual wave and stirred the horse into a canter. He did that pretty well too. No kicking, nothing dramatic. I don’t ride, but I know a bit about it, and I know a good rider from a bad one.
When I saw riders like Matthew I kind of thought I should have a go, wished I could become that good. I knew exactly why I’d never tried of course. I wasn’t going to risk being compared to the great Phyllis De Salis. It’s hard to beat a legend, especially when the person’s dead. Especially when she’s your mother.
And yet from out of my collection of dim memories were some definite images of me on a horse. It seemed like it had been an enormous horse, but it probably wasn’t. To a four-year-old I bet any horse would look enormous.
As I walked back towards Warriewood I couldn’t help thinking about Matthew. Matthew Kennedy. Nice name. It was so annoying, I’d met him twice now and both times he hadn’t put a foot wrong. Hadn’t said anything sarcastic or aggressive or mean. I was the one who’d taken care of those categories for both of us. He’d been good humoured, friendly, good looking. The last one he couldn’t take any credit for, but I guess the others he could. He hadn’t even minded when I’d been so casual about his invitation for next Friday. The trouble was, he had an unfair advantage being on a horse all the time. It meant he could look down on me too easily. The next time we met, if there was a next time, it would have to be on an equal footing.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Saturday morning there was no sign of Mr Carruthers and no message from him, which annoyed me. I felt restless, with nothing specific or definite to do, so I decided to take another walk. At this rate I’d never need to go to the gym again.
I knew where I wanted to go, but I also knew it would be an unusual walk; I’d do ninety-nine per cent of it and then come home without finishing it off.
Funny how already I was calling Warriewood ‘home’ in my mind, so easily, so comfortably. I’d never called the Robinsons’ place home, except as an occasional slip of the tongue.
It was a cold morning. Each day seemed shorter than the one before, with daylight savings ended, and the leaves starting to turn. There was a Japanese maple near the homestead that had gone from green to a rich purpley red. I loved looking at its deep beautiful colours against the grey of the autumn sky.
I walked at a pretty good rate, head down most of the time, not noticing much. To be honest, I have to admit I was half listening for the busy brisk sound of a horse’s hoofs coming up behind me, but that didn’t happen. A few cars went past, and a truck, and I had the feeling I was stared at by some of the drivers. I guessed by now the word had gone around that the De Salis girl was back. Ralph was probably entertaining them at the pub every night with stories of my strange behaviour.
It took about thirty-five minutes to get to Great-aunt Rita’s front gate. By then I was in a different kind of country. Most of this land was cleared, and every second property seemed to be a horse stud. It was flatter, drier. Just that small drop in altitude must make a big difference in rainfall. I didn’t like it down here nearly as much as where I was living.
Bannockburn looked very grand. If I hadn’t been put off already by the way people spoke about Aunt Rita, and if I hadn’t been put off by my own nervousness of meeting her, then her gates would have done the job quite nicely thank you very much. There were two big white pillars, and a high white log fence, and a long gravel drive lined with pine trees. I couldn’t see the house at the end of the drive, but if it was as impressive as the entrance it must have looked like something out of Gone with the Wind.
I snuck inside a few metres and peered further down the driveway. Still couldn’t see anything. Damn it, I thought. I’ll go up the drive as far as it takes to get a view of the place.
It took about three-quarters of a kilometre. I couldn’t believe it. Great-aunt Rita should have been called Grand-aunt Rita. When I finally did get a glimpse of the house, Gone with the Wind seemed pretty close. Only, this looked more British than American. More grey than white. It was a two-storey mansion from a century or so ago, built of granite, with a circular driveway around a huge horse chestnut tree.
Everything looked so neat. It was as though the drive had been swept with a nailbrush. Made quite a contrast to Warriewood.
Yet something about it was strangely unappealing. You’d think it’d be everyone’s dream home, being so grand and old. And it was beautiful. The trouble was, it seemed lifeless. It lacked heart or soul or something. The doors were all closed, the windows were closed, and the ones on the top floor had shutters over them, so they were well and truly sealed up. Matthew said the average age of people in the district was ninety-three; you got the feeling that Great-aunt Rita had done her bit to keep it so high.
I didn’t feel any desire to go further up the drive. A relative had been restored to me one day, and I’d lost her the next. Everything I’d heard, and now seen, about Great-aunt Rita convinced me that she was more like one of my dead relatives than my living ones.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I got back to Warriewood just as Mr Carruthers was leaving. The big brown Landcruiser was coming down the driveway. I leaned against the stone pillar on the left-hand side of the gateway and waited for him. He pulled up beside me and jumped out of the car. It was still a cool day, but the walking had warmed me. I was pretty tired, and a bit lonely and depressed, so even though I never knew whether to trust Mr Carruthers, I was genuinely pleased to see him. He was always so positive, and always seemed happy to see me; even if it was fake, this time at least I accepted it without question.
‘Well, well, well,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d missed you.’
‘You nearly did,’ I said. ‘I didn’t get any message back from your secretary. So I didn’t think you were coming.’
‘She tried to ring you, but you must have been out. And I was going to Exley anyway, so I thought I’d call in on the off chance. Have you got a few minutes spare?’
He always treated me like that, as though I were dashing between the Oscar presentations and an urgent appointment with the Prime Minister.
‘Sure. You want to come up to the homestead? I’ve got some good coffee.’
‘Sounds perfect, Winter. I’ll give you a lift.’
When we were sitting around the Laminex kitchen table with its bent leg, and Mr Carruthers had his cup of coffee and I had a Diet Coke, we got down to business.
‘Mr Carruthers, how did my mother di
e?’
He put his cup down carefully. Without looking at me he said, ‘I thought you knew that.’
‘The Robinsons said she’d died in the same accident as my father. In the Sydney–Hobart.’
‘Yes, they told me they’d said that. But it’s not actually correct. She died six months later.’
He gazed out the window, at the magpies on the lawn. ‘I was sorry the Robinsons told you such a story. I did say to them that I couldn’t see the point, but once they’d done it, it seemed better to leave things as they were rather than confuse you any further.’
‘So why didn’t they tell me the truth?’
‘I honestly don’t know. I think they are people who like things neat and tidy, and it seemed to them the neatest and tidiest solution. Maybe they thought it would avoid having to deal with a lot of questions, questions they didn’t want to answer. Of course, all it meant was that sooner or later you’d ask the questions anyway, and it would be messier because of the wrong information they’d given you. Which is exactly what’s happening now, I suppose.’
‘So how did she die? Is it something awful? Something to be ashamed of?’
‘No no, not at all.’
I watched him suspiciously, not sure whether he was being honest. He still wasn’t looking at me much, but that might have been his nervousness at dealing with my questions.
‘Well?’
‘Ralph tells me you went up to see the graves yesterday.’
Trust Mr Carruthers to know everything I’d done.
‘Yes, that’s how I know she died much later. But I still want to know how.’
‘Well, Winter, it was an accident. It appears she was having some shooting practice. I assume you know she was an outstanding marksman, er, markswoman. She’d left a rifle near a vehicle, I think, and a dog knocked it down or something, and it went off. My memory’s a bit hazy on the details. It was so long ago. But I remember she was killed instantly.’
I sat there dumbfounded. I couldn’t believe it. And soon, as I sat there, it dawned on me that I truly couldn’t believe it. Literally.
‘What was she doing leaving a loaded rifle lying around?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I suppose it’s the kind of thing people do.’
‘But I’ve been living in the city twelve years and even I know you don’t leave a loaded rifle anywhere. It’s like, it’s like . . . ’ I searched my mind for a good comparison. ‘It’s like drunk driving. It’s like going through a red light. It’s like throwing petrol on a fire. And my mother was an expert shot. There’s no way in the world she’d have done something so stupid.’
Mr Carruthers leaned forward earnestly. ‘On the contrary, Winter. That’s exactly how these things happen. They always happen to people like your mother. The people who are overconfident. They’re the ones most at risk. They forget that even they can get hurt.’
He seemed terribly anxious to convince me. He’d just said the same thing about four different times, to drive home the point.
I didn’t know what else to say. I didn’t know whether I was on the right track, or whether I just wanted to believe such an accident couldn’t have happened. I know I was really shocked and upset by the thought of her dying like that. I got the shakes, and had to grip myself to stop the shivering.
After a while I got better self-control. To change the subject completely, I asked Mr Carruthers: ‘How much do Ralph and Sylvia get paid?’
He looked at me in amazement. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘How much are they paid? Out of the estate?’
‘Well, it’s on the statement to the court. The statements I’ve been supplying you with for the last few years. Just give me a minute . . . I’ll see if I’ve got one.’
He rummaged in his briefcase. I’d never seen him so off balance. As he searched, he asked me: ‘May I enquire why you’ve become interested in their wages? You don’t have to answer, of course, but I’m curious.’
‘I was just wondering.’
I knew that answer wouldn’t give him much satisfaction.
He pulled out a red folder with the words ‘Warriewood Estate’ on the cover and opened it briskly.
‘Hmm, let’s have a look . . . last financial year, counting super, $55,914. Say, fifty-six thousand.’
‘Plus the house?’
‘I’m sorry?’
I knew he hated these kinds of questions.
‘Do they pay any rent for the house?’
‘Ah, no, I don’t believe they do.’
‘Any other freebies?’
‘Well, the estate pays their water and electricity. I think that’s partly because all the water comes through one meter, so you can’t divide the manager’s use from the rest of the buildings.’
‘Have you noticed anything about this property?’
‘Er, what exactly did you have in mind?’
Suddenly all the frustration and anger that had been building up in me since I arrived—before I arrived, even—detonated.
‘These people are getting a thousand bucks a week, and then some, and look at the place! Just look at it! There are so many blackberries along the creek you can’t even get to the water. The major crop on this property is blackberries! They’re everywhere. The gardens are full of some disgusting bloody sticky weed that clings so close you need a microsurgeon to get it off. You go for a walk in any direction and if the path isn’t smothered by weeds it’s washed away by erosion. There are gullies up the back that are going to be like the Grand Canyon in a few more years. Half the fences are falling down, the gutters are full of leaves and crap, the drains are blocked so tight that for any water to get through it has to have a passport. And as for my parents’ graves! Jeez! Another couple of years and I wouldn’t have even found them. Then there’s this—’
‘I can understand you being upset about the graves,’ Mr Carruthers interrupted, smooth as ever.
Well, I thought, you won’t be smooth much longer. But I kept talking, ignoring his comment.
‘This house, the homestead. Look at it! Look around you! I’ve already told you what I think about that. But what about the furniture? My parents’ furniture. Ralph tells me some bullshit story about borers and water through the ceiling! Does he honestly expect me to believe that? How stupid does he think I am? A whole houseful of furniture disappears! Beds, wardrobes, tables, chairs. I’ve seen the photos. I know what it was like. It was good stuff, beautiful stuff. My parents had taste. They filled this house with antiques. And the whole bloody lot’s gone. They must have—’
‘Wait,’ Mr Carruthers interrupted again. He was getting nervous now. ‘I’m sure that whatever else Ralph and Sylvia are, they’re honest. I don’t think you can accuse them of . . . they wouldn’t . . . ’
‘Oh yeah?’ I said. ‘Tell me this then. How much money has come into this estate in the last few years from the sale of timber?’
‘Timber? Timber? There’s never been any revenue from that. It’s always been a beef operation, as you know, and then there’s the remnant vegetation that your parents wouldn’t—’
‘I’ve got news for you,’ I said, as brutally as I could. ‘Ralph and some mate of his have logged a huge patch of that remnant vegetation up the back there, on the western side. They’re trucking the stuff out. I’ve seen them at work. They had their own semi-trailer and forklift in there yesterday, taking another load. And it’s been going on for years. You only have to look at the stumps.’
Mr Carruthers stared at me. In that moment I thought: Either this guy’s fair dinkum, or he’s a hell of an actor.
He said: ‘I can’t believe what you’re telling me.’ He leaned back in his chair. He took off his glasses and stared at me. ‘Winter, if this has been happening, if this is true, I can only say . . . ’
‘It’s been happening,’ I said. ‘It’s true.’
‘As I think you know, the bush on this property is protected. It’s under a covenant. It would be entirely illegal for anyone, even you, to be logging .
. . ’
‘Ralph gave me some story about a firebreak. More bullshit. This is no firebreak. They’ve wiped out a huge area of bush, where I guess they thought they were safe.’
‘Well, I still don’t know what to say. This is a very serious matter. I shall have to speak to Sylvia and Ralph. And perhaps get some other advice. I’d better . . . ’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I want you to speak to Sylvia and Ralph. And I’ll tell you what to say. They’re fired. Sacked. I want them off this property by five o’clock tonight.’
Now, finally, I had him. His jaw went low and his mouth way out of control. He was like a cow chewing his cud, as though he were rolling something around in his mouth, over and over. His neck jerked away as if he had a chicken bone stuck in his throat.
I just waited. I was extremely terrified doing this, sweating like a pig in a sauna, but kind of enjoying it too, in some strange way.
‘Winter, you just can’t do that,’ he finally gasped.
‘Yes I can.’
‘No no, it’s not like a private matter between you and your relatives or your friends. It’s very different. It’s so different. There are all kinds of legal matters involved. It’d take quite some time. This has been their home for so long. I’d have to talk to our legal people.’
‘Look,’ I said. ‘I don’t care what it takes or what it costs, they’re out of here today.’
‘No no, Winter, you must listen to me.’
‘Mr Carruthers,’ I said, ‘you’re the trustee of this estate. You have been for twelve years. I don’t know how the place can have been so neglected while you were in charge. That’s a big mystery to me. But in two years, when I turn eighteen—in less than two years—I’ll be in charge. In the meantime you can block me on pretty much anything. Or that’s how I understand the way it works. But if you block me on this now, the day I turn eighteen will be last day you have anything to do with Warriewood. If you want to stay on as my financial advisor, you better get those two good-for-nothing crooks out of here by five o’clock.’