Yes, Francy Spinetti was coming along just fine. The woman had more business acumen than she realised. He grinned to himself. She was surprising him all the time.
Francey had made the cubbyhole office she worked in her own during her time at Murrundi. Working on the preliminary design for the Cooktown project she had several enlarged photos of the site plus an aerial view pinned up on one wall where she could easily see it. There were rolls and rolls of prepared drawings standing upright in a corner and a conglomeration of other materials, computer, books, files and vinyl folders, all neatly marked, spread over the tiny desk.
She hummed as she worked on a detailed section of the plan: the foyer and mezzanine floor, and was thrilled because she had just learned that Meredith had given birth to a baby boy, Mitchell Adam. Mother and baby were doing well, according to Brett, who’d been so excited he’d hardly been able to get the words out. Perhaps, if CJ agreed, she’d take some time off and go down to Sydney to visit her … and her family, of course.
Mamma and Papà were getting used to her not being around and she’d even bravely broached the possibility of settling in Mt Isa. She’d also hinted that she’d met someone. Her father had plied her with questions as usual, and yes, she’d said it was serious and he had been delighted about that but not too thrilled about the possibility of her being so far away from them permanently. Oh well, it was hard, no, impossible to please everyone.
Looking up and out the window, to get the kink out of her neck, she could partially see the progress of the mini conference centre. The ground level cement slab had been poured, the steel strengthened vertical columns which would hold the first floor level had been bricked and the formwork for the first level was almost complete. She shook her head, silently marvelling at how quickly the construction was going ahead. The local council had rubber-stamped the project, just as CJ had said they would. Pierre had organised a crack team of sub-contractors and the project was ahead of schedule thanks to him. Pierre knew his stuff, which was a great relief. She could trust him and knew that if there were problems he would come directly to her.
Her gaze moved to the swimming pool and the garden in the foreground. Spring was evident in the new sprouting of leaves on many of the perennials, the jasmine which trailed around one of the side verandahs was in full bloom and its heady scent permeated the air once one stepped beyond the homestead.
“How’s it going?” CJ’s gruff voice asked from the doorway.
“Come see.”
She showed him what she’d been doing and the pile of finished drawings. “Another week should see it done.”
“Great. Right on time. I’ll be meeting the Yakismoto consortium in Cooktown in two weeks to finalise details. I’d like you to sit in on it, maybe answer any questions from the design point of view.”
“Of course.”
“I was just going over to the building site. Want to stretch your legs for twenty minutes?”
“Sure.” Francey slid off her stool and picked up the hard hat sitting on the corner of the desk.
As they walked down the back verandah steps CJ threaded Francey’s arm proprietorially through his own. She smiled. Of late, CJ showed signs of being quite possessive of her. He often sought her out to ask questions, not only about business, but about her past, her parents, what she’d done as a child. It was as if he was extraordinarily curious about such things. His attention was sweet and surprising because she hadn’t expected him to be interested in her on a personal level, but then she put it down to his nature; he was voraciously inquisitive about everything.
At the site, they peered at the ground level where brickies were working on the kitchen and staff accommodation rooms. “There’s so much to think of in building this, building anything, I guess. Didn’t realise, up until now,” CJ stated.
“You’re right. It’s critical not to forget anything important otherwise it can cost a fortune to rectify.”
“Francey.” One of the workers came up to her. Bill Davis was the master plumber sub-contracted to the site. His team had been working for days, putting in trenches, pipes and preliminary plumbing.
“Hi, Bill, got a problem?”
“Maybe. I don’t think enough allowance has been made for floodwater run off.”
“Flooding!” Francey’s blue-green eyes glanced around the homestead and the stockyards. “Here?”
“It’s been known to happen,” CJ put in. “I know we’re a good way from the creek but at times, when the plains flood down from the Leichhardt River, the water can come up to the stockyards.”
“What do you suggest Bill?”
“It’s gonna add to the cost, but twice as much piping and a larger diameter runoff pipe downhill and away from the swimming pool area could stop water from seeping into the homestead’s recreation area.”
“Could we put in holding tanks? You know, those cement tanks I see all over the place,” Francey suggested. “The tanks, together with pumps, could then be used for watering either the gardens or stock.”
“That might work,” Bill agreed, nodding. “We could dig in three or four tanks on the downhill slope and divert run off pipes into them.”
“What do you think, CJ?”
“Sounds good. One has to plan for all sorts of contingencies out here,” he said to Francey. “We haven’t seen a flood for eight or nine years, so according to Murphy’s Law, we could expect one in the next three to four years.”
She looked at Bill. “Want me to amend your drawings?”
Bill shook his head. “I’ll rough the changes in and you can initial them. That’d save time.”
“Have you seen Pierre around, Bill?” CJ asked.
“He’s up top helping the guys put down the formwork for the next slab.”
Francey led the way up the ladder to the formwork level. A mass of timber and steel lengths wired and fixed into place showed the overall floor size of the building. Plumbing connections and electrical wiring conduits stuck out like strange apparitions and at least nine men scrambled over various points, working on the formwork. Francey spied Pierre down the other end manoeuvring a plank into position. Waving to him, and with CJ following, she began to move along a series of boards that zigzagged across the top for the men to walk on.
Almost in slow motion, it happened …
Pierre, standing on the edge of the formwork, overbalanced and lost his footing. In a split second Francey saw him, arms and legs akimbo, toppling over the side of the formwork and the protective railing, his hands scrabbling in mid-air to find something solid to grab onto. Then, above the regular site noises came an awful thud as he hit the ground.
“Oh, God!” she half screamed and turning around by-passed CJ on the way back to the ladder. By the time she and CJ got to where Pierre lay they saw that he’d fallen across a stack of timber. Half-a-dozen men, strangely silent, surrounded Pierre, while one knelt beside him, tentatively checking him over.
“Looks like his leg’s broken,” one said. Which was obvious from the unnatural positioning of the limb.
Senses on full alert, heart beating overtime, Francey stared at a prostrate Pierre Dupre. He had been knocked unconscious by the fall and there could be a skull fracture. “Someone go tell Lisa and call an ambulance.”
“Wouldn’t it be quicker to get Les to helicopter him to the hospital?” CJ queried.
Francey had done first-aid training and she verbalised her doubts. “CJ, he’s unconscious so we can’t tell if he has internal injuries. Moving him could be fatal.”
CJ nodded gravely. “You’re right.” He barked an order at one man. “On the double, over to the homestead. Let them know what’s happened. We want an ambulance and a doctor here in twenty minutes.”
Francey and another man, Hans, the designated safety officer for the building site were kneeling by Pierre, checking his breathing.
“All right,” Francey, despite the shock she felt inside, made her tone confident and decisive. “The best we can do is make Pierre
comfortable.” She glanced around at the concerned faces. “There’s nothing you can do. Some of you go have a smoko, the rest, back to work.” She glanced at Alan Trent, the assistant foreman. “Take your orders from Alan until further notice.”
She stared at Pierre again noting that he’d landed with the top half of his body on his side. His airways were probably okay but she didn’t like the fact that he hadn’t come round. Hans had put smelling salts under his nose but the odour had no effect. “Could someone find a blanket? he’ll be going into shock. Try the stockmen’s bunkhouse.”
Lisa Dupre was remarkably calm when she saw what had happened to her husband. She came and sat beside him, held his hand and stroked his head until the ambulance arrived. Five minutes later both Lisa and Pierre were on their way to hospital.
“Here, drink this,” CJ handed her a small glass.
“What is it?” Francey asked.
They had stayed at the building site long enough to confirm that Alan Trent should act as temporary supervisor then returned to the homestead. Both sat on the part of the verandah that overlooked the pool.
“Brandy. You need it,” he said gruffly. “That was nasty, what happened to Pierre. Poor bloke.”
Francey nodded. “Accidents happen on building sites all the time. I’ve seen a few. Supervising architects are required to inspect sites on a regular basis.”
“You handled it well, but it’s still a shock. Drink up now, sip it if you want to. That’s an order, Francey.”
At any other time Francey may have taken offence at his authoritative tone but not now. She was upset. She’d come to know Lisa well and Pierre too, to a certain degree, and liked them both. Wrinkling her nose at the odour she took a couple of small swallows and coughed. “Ugh, I don’t like this stuff.”
“It’s only Napoleon, the best money can buy, and the woman doesn’t like it,” CJ commented to no-one in particular.
Francey persevered with the alcohol, feeling it warm her insides, slowly doing its work and calming her.
“Pierre’s accident could slow the building down a lot,” CJ muttered. “With him controlling the tradesmen I’d hoped to get the building to lock up stage in case the wet comes our way.”
“We’ll find someone else. We’ll just have to look a little further afield.” The brandy was taking effect, mellowing her, easing the internal distress she felt. She knew an efficient work site needed a sound project supervisor who could organise the diversity of skills that were needed on the site. Pierre had been good at his job and finding an equally good replacement wouldn’t be easy.
“Hmmm, that’ll take time.” CJ stroked his jaw thoughtfully, the germ of an idea sprouting inside his head. “Of course, there is someone …”
Quirking an eyebrow up at him, she asked. “Who?”
“Someone who knows the site intimately, has one hundred per cent understanding of the design and who lives practically on site.”
She frowned, and then it hit her. “Me!”
“Yes. You.”
“But I’m … an architect, I’m still working on the Cooktown plans. I —”
“Which, according to you, are almost finished,” he put in succinctly. “Why not, Francey? You could do it, I know you could. Or,” he paused, “would you be nervous about being on a work site with a bunch of guys? Perhaps you don’t think you could control them?”
She looked directly at him. “There are lots of reasons. It’s not my field of expertise, but of course I could control them. I get along with men, tradesmen, very well. It’s just, mostly a conflict of interests …”
“Explain that?”
“Aden Nicholson pays my salary. I don’t think he’d take too kindly to paying my wages and me working for you.”
The phone on the glass-topped coffee table rang and Francey leant across to answer it. “Yes, Lisa, how …”
CJ watched her expressive face as Lisa Dupre brought her up-to-date on Pierre’s condition. So much vivacity and a quick intellect too. He found their verbal battling, on the odd occasion, quite stimulating. She had breathed new life into Murrundi, and him.
“Yes, all right. I’ll tell CJ straightaway,” and then she replaced the receiver.
“Well?”
“Poor Pierre. A broken femur, two cracked ribs and a fractured skull. They’re going to airlift him to Cairns hospital — it’s closest — so a neurologist can look at him. Lisa said they’re a little worried about the skull fracture, something about compression.”
“I see. Lisa’s going with them?”
“Of course. She’ll call from Cairns when she knows more.”
“Now, we were saying, as to your conflict of interests,” he gave her a conspiratorial grin, “that’s easily fixed. Come work for me. Leave Nicholson, Drew and Carlyle. I think you’ve just about outgrown them anyhow.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Francey’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?” A bushy eyebrow rose. “I’m always serious when I offer someone a job.”
“But…” She stopped, thinking. CJ was right. She had outgrown Aden and his architectural firm. Her life had begun to head along a different path, partially due to CJ and the things she’d learned through him, and partially due to Steve and the changes that had been wrought within herself since she had come to Mt Isa. But then she recalled what she’d said about loyalty the day she’d met him. Did she still owe Aden? The answer came quickly, no! He’d got a nice fat fee for her designing the mini conference centre and he’d get another for the Cooktown project. She was doing the work and he and his partners were raking in the profits. Funny, she’d never seen it that way before. If she worked for CJ she’d be better off financially and probably better off career-wise too. Who knew where it could eventually lead?
“Sleep on the offer. Just remember it’s a serious one.”
“What would I do after the mini conference centre’s finished?”
“You know me, Francey, I’ve always got something on the boil.” He appeared to contemplate for a minute. “Such as you designing an art museum for Mt Isa. The mayor, Darren Turk, cornered me at Pierre’s party and got me to agree to doing it. I’ve been promising to for years, ever since Brenda died. Have no fear, my dear, you’ll earn your salary, which will be a damned sight more generous than what Nicholson paid you.” He wrote a figure on a piece of paper and handed it to her. “This is for starters and I’ll make allowances for you to see your family. I know you’re close to them. How about, say, five to six all expenses paid visits to Sydney per year to see them?”
Oh, it was tempting. Very. “All right, CJ, I’ll think about it.”
CJ had said to sleep on the idea but that was exactly what Francey didn’t do. If she accepted his offer her life would change, really change. Up until now she had thought of her time at Murrundi Downs station as an extended working holiday, one that would end in the not too distant future. She had been able to put off making any career decisions until then. But now, with Pierre’s accident, decision time was being thrust upon her.
There were pluses about staying around the Isa. She loved the country, the people and she was deeply in love with Steve Parrish. Her lips curved in a smile as she remembered the last time they’d made love. It had been extraordinary. She even thought that she had come to understand “the man with the golden touch” pretty well. He wasn’t the monster most people thought him to be — granted though he was difficult to handle, but he certainly wasn’t impossible. Working for him in a variety of capacities would be a challenge. How he ran his empire, how he thought and operated. She immediately thought of the things she could learn and the structures she would design.
But there were minuses. Not seeing her parents very often, or her friends — Brett and Meredith and baby Mitchell — in particular. And … the problem with Natalie. For no good reason she appeared to dislike her intensely. Why else had she planned that stunt in the ravine? Oh, yes, she had worked out that her being stranded had been a deliberate act on Natalie’s part.
She turned on her side and plumped up the pillow. Perhaps she should talk it over with Steve. No. The decision had to be hers and by morning she knew her answer would be yes.
Trish Pentano jogged along Four Mile Beach at Port Douglas towards the small village. The weather hadn’t heated up yet, the humidity was still low, but that would soon change as the monsoon period approached in at the end of the year. She changed direction and trotted away from the beach and along the back streets heading in the direction of Natalie’s art gallery, where a shower and a change of clothes would be waiting prior to them strolling down to one of the sidewalk cafes for brunch.
She loved the laid-back lifestyle of this resort village and wished she could afford to live here permanently and somehow make a living. Turning into MacCrossan Street she had a thought — perhaps she should offer to run Natalie’s business interests here. Since she and Natalie had been together she had gleaned considerable knowledge about the art world, artists and selling works to tourists, enough to do as good a job as the next person. She could supplement the wage with the occasional tourist or environmental article and manage quite nicely.
The gallery didn’t open till 10 a.m. so she jogged around to the back door and let herself in.
“Natalie, I’m back,” she called out as she went into the amenities room which held the shower, toilet, several lockers and a couple of storage crates. On a bench seat stood her blue vinyl bag with a change of clothes: underwear, sandals, shorts and singlet top of course, it was too hot for anything more.
She shrugged her shoulders when she failed to hear a response and went into the shower cubicle and stripped off. Thank God, old Nick the perve wasn’t around any more — he’d been doing the occasional touch-up job for weeks — otherwise Natalie would have had to stand guard at the door. Men, they were pathetic really, the way just about all of them thought women couldn’t resist them.
Eight minutes later, smiling at her squeaky clean reflection in the mirror, Trish ran a brush through her hair, applied a bright pink lipstick and went to find Natalie. She wasn’t in the showroom checking out the latest wares: colourful, predominantly tropical paintings set against stark white walls with overhead spotlights. Neither was she in the storage room where paintings were kept until they could be shown or crated up after they’d been sold. She headed for the office.
Heart of the Outback Page 25