Nina stared at Moira, her mouth open. After a moment, she managed to say, ‘That’s terrible. How do you ever get over something like that?’
‘Don’t believe you ever really do,’ mused Moira.
Nina touched the doll’s red scarf, remembering Scott Blackett. He’d offered to loop-the-loop for her and then kept it a secret that she’d thrown up on the floor of the plane just before landing.
‘Just horrible,’ Nina repeated.
‘Yeah, hard on the boys,’ agreed Moira, her face sombre. ‘Well, my dear, I’ll love you and leave you. I’m going to get started on the icing for Heath and Deborah’s engagement cake for the big shindig next Saturday. Seems her mum’s got this thing about tulips and she wants me to run them all the way around …’
Nina heard no more. Her heart sank. So, that’s that then. They’re engaged. Should’ve known.
‘You right, love?’
‘Thanks so much for coming, Moira. I …’ Nina found herself speechless again.
‘No worries, love. Must be off. Early start tomorrow as well. I’ve got a tour for a mob of shiny-bums from Canberra, starting with the fish traps at Bree.’
A tour, wondered Nina.
Moira dug around in her handbag and found a business card. ‘Here.’ On the front was a design incorporating Aboriginal motifs. Underneath it said, Darling Dreaming Consultancy. Bush Tucker and Bush Medicine Tours, Cultural Awareness for Workers in Aboriginal Health and Education. Moira and Roy Inchboard.
‘You come out camping with us one day. Bring your city mates,’ Moira said. ‘Show you some fair dinkum blackfella sites and plenty of rock art. Get into the real outback. Took your mum, way back when. You know she changed my life?’
‘How?’
‘Well, when she came out here all those years ago doing her university thesis she stayed with Kathryn and Mac Blackett. She was researching the contact between the early settlers and the Murrawarri people. Right up to the Hospital Creek massacre and all that. Anyway, they asked me and Roy to take her around our country; show her some of the important blackfella places and such. You know, explain to her our ways, at least those that we were able to. That was what got us thinking about setting up our cultural tours business. And look at us now. Busy as one-armed jugglers.’
‘She’d have been pleased to know that, I reckon, Moira.’
Moira squeezed her arm. ‘You’ll find whatever it is you need to know.’ She banged the screen door behind her. ‘See you Friday!’ she called.
‘Moira,’ managed Nina. ‘How do I pay you?’
‘No hurry, love – next time.’
Nina smiled when she turned Moira’s business card over. The list went on: cleaning, dressmaking, cake decorating and water divining.
CHAPTER 4
It was Monday again, exactly one week since the gate incident, Nina remembered as she clambered out of her car to close that same gate behind her. The rituals of country life – like this one – made her feel secure. They were connected by livelihood, care for stock, things like that. Important things.
But country life involved a lot of driving. She was glad to have Bach’s company on the long road to Wandalla. It was becoming familiar, soothing, to recognise the sparse turnoffs to other properties, the glimpses of the river and the occasional carcass of a pre-war truck. As she drove south-west in the early morning light, the land looked peaceful and promising with its blanket of silver grasses.
The search through the house was going slower than she’d expected. She’d found no actual clues to Jim’s disappearance, but she’d unearthed family treasures galore. Nina had spent a long time leafing through her grandmother’s handwritten recipe book. Pages of careful copperplate entries for things like ‘Vera’s Never-Fail Sponge’ and ‘My Lemon Marmalade’ told her so much about the solidarity and inventiveness of country women. Inspired, she wanted to try out those recipes for herself.
In another drawer she’d discovered all Jim’s school reports tied together. Every one of them echoed Moira’s stories – variations on ‘talented but lazy’. In the same drawer lay a stash of letters her great-grandfather had written to Vera, his sweetheart, from the front in World War I. That meant more hours on the verandah step, trying to decipher the onion-skin sheets, even blinking away tears when she detected notes of fake cheerfulness for the womenfolk.
All these things, and many others, brought her family alive to her. The ghosts inhabiting The Springs were no longer terrifying phantoms but real people.
With Moira, she’d finished cleaning the kitchen, cleared the sitting room, part of Russell’s bedroom and a corner of the dining room. Matty had already repaired the hole in the floor and taken away six more trailer-loads of rubbish. Letting go had been a wrench sometimes, like when she’d sorted Jim and Russell’s childhood toys. Precious old board games like Mousetrap, countless Matchbox cars and a complete Scalextric slot-car set. She’d had to restrict herself to a small box, otherwise her flat in Sydney would become a mirror of this place. She sighed. At least someone might rediscover these treasures at the op-shop.
But as Moira and she worked away, the meeting with Harrison haunted her. He knew something. She was waking early and ruminating over questions she wanted to ask him. It was time to get back into town and find some answers.
An hour later, Nina parked under a tree in the main street and called him.
‘Come up anytime,’ he’d said over the phone. ‘No DUIs or joy-riders over the weekend, it’s very quiet.’
But Nina decided to do her shopping first.
In the supermarket once more, she headed for the fruit and veg. They wanted six dollars for a limp iceberg lettuce and ten dollars a kilo for some squishy tomatoes. So much for country-fresh produce. Even a simple straw broom was 25 dollars. Her money was running out.
She put everything into her tiny hatchback, with the broom handle sticking jauntily out the window. A dried pig’s ear would keep Bach happy.
The street was deserted. An ugly brick building declared itself the Wandalla Bowling Club, and offered counter meals and trivia. It looked deserted too, except for the same old codger smoking his rollie in the shade of the verandah. No cinema, one ‘milk bar’ with no customers. The supermarket she’d just left was the liveliest place in town. Well, at least Wandalla was connected to cyberspace, she thought. She pulled out her phone and called Olivia.
May there be champagne for my real friends and real pain for my sham friends. Let me know which you are when you leave your message after the beep. Nina’s friend’s voice sent a wave of loneliness through her.
‘Hey, Liv, it’s me, calling from the one-and-a-half horse town. Give me a call when you can. Love you.’
Now for Harrison.
As she pushed open the glass doors, the instrumental break from Led Zeppelin’s ‘Baby I’m Gonna Leave You’ sounded faintly from the inner office. Nina knew it as a favourite of her father’s.
A dog-eared copy of Crime and Punishment lay face down on the reception desk. No Suzie again. And no response to Nina’s knock, either, so she pushed Harrison’s door open. Harrison stood facing away, nodding along and punching the air.
Nina hesitated. Should she go out again and wait till it finished? No, that’s silly, she thought. When the song died away to its melancholy end, Nina cleared her throat.
‘Ah! Nina! Caught me again!’ He smiled and clicked off the music. ‘Sorry, an old favourite. Us boomers, you know. Decided to sell, have you?’
‘Not yet,’ she answered. ‘Just wanted to thank you for getting the power connected.’
‘My pleasure,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t have you out there in the dark. How about a sneaky Cinzano and ice? An aperitif, we could say.’ His handsome face lit up.
‘Sure,’ said Nina, raising her eyebrows – not yet midday. Then again, a drink might make Harrison less guarded. He seemed happy enough to have company, and she needed answers. As she sank into the Chesterfield, she tried to think of a way to ask him about Jim’s disapp
earance. And there on the coffee table, like a sign, lay the newspaper story about the Sydney Stir, folded so that Jim was front and centre.
Harrison caught her gaze as he handed her a drink.
‘Great photo, isn’t it?’ he said. Nina could hear the affection in his voice.
They both looked at Jim, grinning from his position on the floor.
‘Only a small mention of Dad,’ said Nina. ‘I expected more.’
‘He was the most gifted of that lot, you know,’ Harrison said. ‘But after the Harbour Series he seemed to lose his way; he just played with his talent. The others were consumed by their work. They either burned out like Jenny and Damien or hit the jackpot like Martin Whit.’ Harrison took a seat opposite and crossed his legs. ‘I think when the critics and collectors saw Jim didn’t take his work seriously, they discounted him. You have to play the game, be an “Artist”. Jim wasn’t good at that so he was marginalised.’
‘But his work is so powerful. They should have judged him on that,’ cried Nina.
‘Certainly. It’s not fair. And he got depressed when the reviews turned negative.’
‘I don’t remember Dad being depressed. He was always so …’
‘High-voltage?’ suggested Harrison.
She nodded.
He continued. ‘He was at his best with you. He wanted to be your hero. But there were times when he was very low.’ Harrison frowned into his glass. ‘What the journo in the article said about “bi-polar” … Jim wasn’t that extreme, but he was … mercurial. Up and down.’
‘You were good friends then?’ asked Nina. ‘How did Dad get on with Russell?’
‘Oh fine, fine. They were the best of mates, in some ways. You could see that. Well, there was trouble one time, only one time that I saw. Trouble over a girl when they were young, barely 20. But that’s ancient history.’ Harrison smiled.
‘Interesting.’ Nina raised her eyebrows.
‘Not really. Russell was sweet on her but she was more keen on getting an entrée into Wandalla’s “arty” set, or what there was of one. She used to hang around Jim when she could and try to talk about painting and whatnot. Way out of her depth.’ Harrison chuckled. ‘Not that I blame her. He had more interesting things to talk about than most of the young blokes here back then. Russell, as I said, was put out. Jealous, as always. That’s all.’
Now was the time. Nina leaned forward, almost pleading. ‘I want to find out as much as I can while I’m here. I really – I’ve come to a point where I have to find out what happened to him. I need to start with the people he knew.’
Harrison nodded. In that moment, he looked like a kindly uncle, a confessor. Someone she could trust.
‘When was the last time you saw him?’ she asked.
Harrison sat back and sipped his drink. He looked away. ‘That would be the Christmas before he disappeared,’ he said, as formally as if he were giving evidence in court.
Nina tried not to show her frustration.
‘I went out to The Springs on Christmas night. Jim had a painting for me – that one,’ he said, nodding to the Fort Denison scene.
Okay, thought Nina. And?
‘Everyone else had gone over to Kurrabar. We were … having a quiet beer together near the … on the verandah,’ Harrison said, sipping his drink again and still not meeting her eye.
‘At The Springs? You and Dad?’ Nina persisted.
‘Yes,’ said Harrison, finally looking at Nina.
I don’t think so, thought Nina. Harrison’s a bad liar for someone who works in the law.
‘What did you talk about?’ she asked.
‘Oh, nothing. Just the usual.’ Harrison put his glass on the table so carelessly that he slopped his drink. He pushed himself up from his chair, crossed the room to the air-conditioning unit and tapped the thermostat.
Liar, liar, pants on fire, thought Nina. She’d have to push him. ‘Was he seeing someone else, someone apart from Mum? Please, Harrison, I really need to know.’ Nina’s voice sounded harsh to her own ears.
Harrison ran his hand swiftly through his hair. ‘What on earth made you ask that?’
‘Mum said something about him living a double life. I’ve often wondered if he might have come up here to see a girlfriend. Maybe that girl he fought with Russell about?’
‘Oh no, I can assure you. There were no other women after he married your mother. I know that for a fact.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘You can’t keep a secret in this town,’ Harrison said, with the air of closing the discussion.
But Nina wasn’t ready to give up. ‘Do you think he came back here after he disappeared from Sydney?’ she asked.
‘Is there any evidence that he did?’ Harrison was in lawyer mode again.
‘Not really,’ admitted Nina.
Harrison folded his arms. ‘If he’d been here, someone would have told the police at the time. I want to know what happened to Jim as much as you do, but I’ve been over it a thousand times in my mind and have always drawn a blank. Like I said, the last time I saw him was months before. You could talk to Possum Brody.’
‘Possum what?’
‘Brody. Possum Brody. Jim never failed to visit him when he was in town. He’s a Koori painter, lives out near Mount Cubba.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
‘Top-up?’
Nina shook her head.
Harrison walked back to his desk and sat in the swivel chair as if he was getting down to business. ‘Look, Nina, we really should agree on the sale. Aren’t you going home in a few days?’
Immediately Nina’s resistance returned with full force. ‘Yes, I met Mrs Flint,’ she said, watching for Harrison’s reaction.
His face remained blank.
‘She mentioned Dad too, hinted about stuff I didn’t know. I’ll need to talk to her again.’
Harrison shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t approach Hilary Flint directly. She’s a bit touchy, and you don’t want to jeopardise the sale. I can talk to her for you, if there’s anything you need to know.’
Big fat conflict of interest, thought Nina. He’s Russell’s executor and Hilary’s conveyancer. It’s all right for her – where did Nina stand in all of this?
‘I’m thinking of doing a bit more work on the place. Maybe get a better price,’ Nina said. Where did that come from? she thought. She had no money or time for anything like that.
‘Nina, if you knew how difficult it is to interest even one buyer out here, you’d take the money and run. Hilary Flint’s offer is the best you can hope for by a long shot. I’d be surprised if you could find another buyer within the next ten years.’ Harrison leaned forward, urging her to act.
But then something seemed to change his mind. He lounged back in the chair and held his hands up in surrender. ‘Hey, look, it’s your property. Whenever you’re ready, I’m here to do … whatever. You take your time, do what’s right for you.’
What the hell? Nina couldn’t keep up with him. It was the same as their first meeting, where he pushed her to sell, and then backed away. And she was no closer to knowing what it all meant. You’ll keep, Harrison Grey. I’m not finished with you yet.
‘Now, how about some lunch?’ he said. ‘The Bowling Club has smoky American ribs for the Monday special.’
He laughed at the expression on her face. ‘Vegetarian?’
She shook her head.
‘That’s lucky, you’d never eat out in this town again if you were. Come on, it’s not that bad.’ He offered his arm, and Nina took it, happy that they were still friends. Or friendly, at least.
Nina slowed down as she felt her tyres grip the rough gravel on Blackett Track, the road to Mount Cubba. It was early the next day, which was rapidly turning into another stinker. The cake she’d bought at Wandalla a half hour earlier sweated softly in the sun on the back seat. The air-conditioning blew faintly because she kept the passenger window open for Bach to sniff the exciting smells of his new world. Nina imagined th
e wafts of roo, rabbit or goat he’d be catching as he lifted his nose into the breeze. She loved to see him enjoy doggy pleasures out here.
‘Mount’ Cubba was a flat-topped hill – virtually the only bump on the horizon. Nina pulled up by the side of the road and grabbed her camera from the back seat. The light sky behind made the shadowed face of Mount Cubba menacing, like a painting by Edward Hopper.
Nina’s trip to see Possum was her second errand of the day. On the way through Wandalla, she’d stopped at the police station. But Sergeant Kemp, a man of about 60 and sporting a handle-bar moustache, had nothing to report. Her father’s file consisted of two pieces of paper only – an ancient copy of the missing persons report and a handwritten record of an interview with Russell.
The sergeant had been monosyllabic.
Had he talked to Russell? Yes.
Had he been out to The Springs? Yes.
Had Russell seen Jim? No. It was a long time ago, love. Maybe headquarters in Sydney had something more. You are from Sydney, aren’t you?
Nina left the police station disheartened. Sergeant Kemp had annoyed her from the minute she walked through the door and heard him laugh and mumble ‘here’s trouble’ to a younger officer. She sighed. How could she expect people to know what this search meant to her?
As she drove on, the lonely hill grew steadily larger. She passed an abandoned railway station, the ‘Mount Cubba’ sign barely discernible through the long, dry grass that had invaded the platform. There were so many proud old buildings crumbling away out here.
At least this Possum guy had sounded friendly on the phone. He was looking forward to seeing one of Jim’s mob, as he put it. Ten minutes later she passed through the yellow gate Harrison had described and bumped down the track to a weathered timber cottage.
The face of the hill looming behind the house made it seem cosy, like a fairytale cottage. The tin roof was shaded by tall eucalypts, unusual for the area, and the house was surrounded by a garden of flowering native shrubs in delicate colours. It looked like a happy house.
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