Fish made a sandwich of Velveeta cheese, squishy tomato and red lettuce, cut it neatly, then took a bite. ‘Did Clancy of the Overflow really live here? The Clancy I mean.’
‘The old man with his hair as white as snow,’ Michael quoted. ‘That was Harrison in the poem, but it’s how Nancy always talks of her grandfather. And yep. He died when I was a kid though. But Rose — that’s Nancy’s gran, his wife — lived with us for the first years of our marriage. Incredible woman. No formal schooling, of course — Aboriginal kids weren’t allowed in schools back then — but she could tell you when the river would flood six months ahead of the rain or that there would be a bushfire in two years.’
‘And now I’m the weather forecaster. Hi, I’m Nancy. You must be Fish.’ Nancy hauled off her boots and went to wash her hands in the sink, drying them on her moleskins. ‘Drought for the next three years, and a bad one at that. Which is why the price of sheep will begin to head down in a few months.’
Fish stared. Old Roger must be a racehorse to have got Nancy here so fast. Nancy grinned. ‘I took a shortcut through the paddocks and over the ford. The road follows the river and the river winds.’
Nancy began to pile meat on her own bread and covered it with chutney. They ate in silence for a while. Even standing by a gate is enough to make you hungry, thought Fish as she reached for more bread. ‘What did the police ask you?’ She crossed her fingers, hoping Nancy wouldn’t mind the question.
But Nancy just nodded, her mouth full. She swallowed. ‘Couldn’t tell them much. We were here all day. I’ve never seen a fire like it or heard of one. The wind kept changing direction and there was burning debris floating down from twenty kilometres away or more. We’d burned good firebreaks, but we had to keep patrolling the house for spot fires from the debris.’ She shook her head. ‘The whole lawn was covered with birds that afternoon, every one of them grey with smoke.’
‘I wondered who the other bodies in the church might be. The detective doesn’t seem to be interested in them.’
Nancy shrugged. ‘One murder is enough for them to investigate,’ she said casually. Too casually, noted Fish. ‘The other bodies have probably been there for yonks.’
‘The other day at Drinkwater, Constable Ryan said there were more than two,’ she said cautiously.
Nancy stopped eating for five seconds. ‘Did he now?’ She took another bite.
‘So lots of people must have disappeared,’ Fish persisted. ‘Did your grandmother ever tell you about missing people? Or do you know of other people who’ve disappeared and no one ever knew where they had gone?’
‘No,’ said Nancy flatly. She put her sandwich down and looked at Fish. ‘This is Gibber’s Creek, love. Nothing happens in Gibber’s Creek on Monday that the entire CWA, Lions Club, Rotary, Lodge of Truth, tennis club, Historical Society, swimming club and football team don’t know by Friday. Trust me, when people disappear around here, someone knows where they are and after a while the whole town knows.’
‘If everyone knows everything, then they must know who killed Merv too.’
‘Okay,’ said Nancy, her voice tight. ‘Maybe not quite everything.’
‘My bet is that Merv made enemies,’ said Michael. ‘Someone followed him and killed him. Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ he added. He shrugged at Fish’s expression. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. No one has a right to murder. I might have had a go at Merv if I’d come across him harassing Jed. So would a dozen blokes around here. But none of us would have killed him.’ He reached for the can of sliced beetroot.
‘I’m sorry about Sam,’ said Fish. She should have said it earlier. Should have remembered that questions could hurt.
Nancy relaxed. ‘Me too. He’s one of the good ones. I just hope that somehow . . .’ She left the hope unexpressed.
‘Jed and Scarlett are like daughters to us,’ said Michael. ‘One of the happiest days of my life was when I walked Jed down the aisle. She had flowers on her bare feet, remember?’ he said to Nancy.
Nancy smiled. ‘And a dress made of antique lace tablecloths. It’s funny the way life twists and turns . . .’
Michael took her hand and held it. Her smile deepened, though her eyes glistened with tears. She brushed them away. ‘I’d better get dinner on before the horde gets home.’ She stood and began gathering dishes. ‘Like a cuppa?’
‘Yes, please.’ Though she’d rather have had cordial. ‘I thought you only had two sons?’
‘Twin boys. Quite enough to make a horde,’ said Nancy, clicking on the electric jug. ‘Chocolate cake? It’s from the CWA stall,’ she added to Michael.
‘Then I’ll have two pieces.’ He grinned at Fish. ‘My wife is one of the few women who admits she can’t cook.’
‘I can’t cook much either,’ said Fish. ‘Nor can Mum.’ They’d lived on takeaway chicken and microwaved vegetables, or canned salmon or sardines and salad, till Dad . . .
‘Welcome to the club,’ said Nancy, placing three teabags in three mugs.
‘Mrs Thompson . . .’
‘Call me Nancy.’
‘Nancy then . . . if no one has ever gone missing from Gibber’s Creek, whose bodies were buried under the church?’
Nancy exchanged a glance with Michael. ‘Leave it,’ she said shortly.
‘But don’t you see? The police don’t seem to be investigating the other skeletons at all and the person who killed them probably killed Merv.’
‘Unlikely,’ said Michael.
‘There’s a saying — let the dead bury their dead. Leave it, Fish,’ said Nancy.
‘No,’ said Fish, meeting her eyes. Why couldn’t they see how important this was?
Nancy glanced at Michael again. She gave an almost imperceptible shrug, then poured water into the mugs.
Chapter 19
Letters to the Editor
Dear Madam,
Can it be a coincidence that the mew tarmac on Hawthorne Lane stretches only as far as the Mayor’s front gate? I do not think so!
Yours faithfully,
Edna Evans, Mrs
JED
Jed checked the corn fritters in the fridge, the salad greens Broccoli Bill had delivered, the dressing ready in an old Vegemite jar to pour on just before eating, the apricot crunch that was one of Scarlett’s favourite desserts, its fruit from an old Drinkwater tree, half a century old perhaps, with small, red-freckled fruit that was the best ever eaten.
Blue and Mah were bringing tonight’s dinner, but tomorrow’s lunch was now ready too, proof that she could cook when she wanted to.
‘No, sweetie, we don’t eat Maxi’s dog biscuits.’
‘Urgle ugh book,’ said Mattie, who knew she did.
Jed lifted her daughter away from the anxious dog — Maxi would let the puppy eat her biscuits, but food was the highlight of a dog’s day — and into the living room, where she could play with the cardboard box the groceries had come in.
It was going to be good to see Scarlett. Scarlett should be studying, of course, and dallying with her super-gorgeous boyfriend. But somehow the bond formed when they had both been weak and broken, but in different ways as determined as Boadicea, was strong and real.
They’d matched, she and Scarlett. Sisters chosen, not born, just as Matilda had been mother, grandmother, aunt, mentor, friend — everything except the step-great-grandmother she legally was. She had even worn Matilda’s clothes, the couture garments from the 1920s and 30s, until her pregnancy made her too large for them, and the realities of childcare made her too wary of getting recycled milk on silk or velvet . . .
But she would wear something of Matilda’s tonight, to celebrate Scarlett’s visit. Jed plonked Mattie, box and all, into the playpen — hopefully she wouldn’t eat too much of the cardboard in five minutes, although tomorrow’s nappy would tell — and went down to the room Sam had added after Mattie’s birth, one wall made of glass bottles to give plenty of light for her desk, its typewriter unused for five months, another floor-to-ceiling wall of boo
kshelves, and the third wall hiding a deep built-in wardrobe that held old-fashioned couture dresses, 1930s linen slacks, chiffon wraps and blouses using ingenious swivelling hangers Sam had designed, but not yet added to the factory’s catalogue. Perhaps it was time she showed them to Mack.
Jed had not been to the factory for five months, nor opened the wardrobe. But Matilda too had known loss, of a fiancé then a husband. Her life had gone on. And so must Jed’s.
Linen, she thought. You could sponge milky vomit fairly easily off linen. That green dress, sleeveless. She’d worn it at Joseph’s birthday barbecue the year before, and Sam had said —
Jed stopped, dress in hand, then let the memory come. Sam had said she looked like a field of lucerne, and she had laughed and patted her just-pregnant belly and said, ‘Productive?’ And Sam had said —
‘Huff,’ said Maxi in the doorway, her way of telling Jed the puppy needed attention. Jed draped the dress over the desk. She’d put it on when Mattie went down for a nap.
And somehow, as she walked down the corridor, she felt Matilda smiling with her.
Chapter 20
Jackpot Crockpot Recipes by Celia Proudfoot
Those who know me call me a crockpot crackpot. I can create a delicious one-pit meal in the morning, go about my chores throughout the day and put a delicious hot dinner on the table in minutes when Stan comes through the door after a hard day in the gravel agency. Plus it leaves me extra time to catch an episode of The Sullivans. Some of my biggest culinary crockpat successes have included fancy fare like cock au fun, apricot chicken and even a fondu (or two!) when we have gusts. If you too are a crockpot crackpot, try 1 kg of chuck steak, 1 can of tomato soup, 2 chicken stock cubes, half a packet of frozen peas, 1 cup of rice and 4 cans of water. Place in your croackpot on low and, eight hours later, viola!
SCARLETT
‘I’ll get it!’ yelled Scarlett Kelly-O’Hara as the doorbell sounded. She took three more triumphant steps along the exercise rails in her bedroom, then lowered herself panting into the wheelchair. Two sets of eight steps today and her arms had borne almost none of the weight. Not bad for a girl who couldn’t lift a hand to feed herself till she was ten.
It was a nuisance having to exercise in the bedroom, and with the door locked too, in case Alex poked his head in. He had only seen her on the bars once. The look on his face had made her determined never to let him see her long battle towards normality again.
To Alex she was the brilliant mind matching his in tutorials and arguments at the coffee shop, the Valkyrie who had helped rescue a child from last year’s bushfire, the elf-like beauty he had taken to her first dance, supporting her for two glorious dances as she twirled.
And then as the music got wilder, she’d sat watching as he danced with other women. But it had still been wonderful. Glorious. Scarlett Kelly-O’Hara had gone to the ball, and it was Alex, gorgeous Alex, who had made it possible.
She plopped into her chair, grabbed her handbag and wheeled herself — no need for the electric motor now — out to the front door. A small boy with a large box of groceries stood on the doorstep, which was not a step but a wheelchair-accessible ramp, put in by Jed when Scarlett first came to Sydney to do medicine.
‘Jimmy, you’re wonderful. Put them on the table, will you?’
Theoretically Alex was supposed to buy the groceries, in return for staying here rent free, but he never seemed to get around to it. It had been easier to stick with the old arrangement she’d had with Jimmy from before Alex moved into her spare bedroom. Though not yet — to her disappointment — into hers.
‘How much do I owe you?’
‘Eight dollars and forty-eight cents.’
‘Let’s make it ten.’ She opened her purse. It was empty. ‘I’m terribly sorry.’ She rummaged for her chequebook. ‘Can I give you a cheque?’
‘Sure,’ said Jimmy. He went out whistling as Alex emerged from his own bedroom, towelling his hair.
‘That the groceries? Good, I’m starved.’ He dropped the towel on the sofa. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I was sure I had twenty dollars left in my purse.’
‘Sorry,’ said Alex easily. ‘I borrowed it.’
He lifted the white-paper packet of corned beef, two tomatoes and the tissue-paper-wrapped bread from the grocery box and took them over to the bench. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ he asked as he piled meat onto his sandwich.
Scarlett watched him for a moment. He was Alex and the most wonderful man she had ever known. And maybe a Russian prince or the grandson of a Russian conman, or possibly both, and totally, completely impossible sometimes, and she loved him to bits, which was what she should have thought of first.
‘Actually I do mind. I’ve got to stop for petrol to get home and now I’ll have to stop at the bank, but it shuts at three o’clock.’ Nor did Alex have any idea of the hassle it was to find a parking spot where she could unload her wheelchair, manoeuvre herself into it, wheel into the bank . . .
‘Drive down tomorrow instead. Or someone will cash a cheque for you.’
‘Do you have any of the twenty dollars left?’
He looked surprised, then reached around for his wallet. ‘Seven dollars and fifty — no, sixty-two — cents.’
She held out her hand. ‘Give it here.’ Seven dollars’ worth of petrol was enough to get her to Gibber’s Creek, and Jed had an account at Paul and Brenda’s petrol station there.
‘But that’ll leave me broke for the weekend.’ He bit into his sandwich.
What do you need money for? thought Scarlett. You’ve got a week’s worth of groceries in the fridge and cupboards, my TV set and the rack of bottles of red wine you conned me into buying. She halted her thoughts abruptly at the word ‘conned’. ‘You could come with me.’
‘Jed will like it better if she can talk to you alone. You know, girl talk.’
Which was possibly, probably true. But she wanted Alex to want to be with her . . .
‘I’m sorry about Jed,’ he added. ‘It must still be desperately hard for her.’
‘I should have gone home more.’ She’d thought Jed was coping. Just quiet. Brilliant lack of accurate diagnosis, Dr Kelly-O’Hara, she chided herself. You didn’t even realise that your own sister was depressed.
‘Bring Jed to Sydney for a while. She and the baby could share your room.’
And have Jed realise that she and Alex still had separate rooms? And that Scarlett hadn’t had the courage to ask why? Besides . . . ‘What would Jed do in Sydney? Anyway, she visits Sam every day.’
‘Then she should stop. No,’ he added at Scarlett’s exclamation, ‘you know as well as I do that poor man has no idea if anyone is there or not. Jed will find a lot more in Sydney to take her mind off the tragedy than in a one-horse town beyond the black stump.’
Scarlett stared. ‘I thought you liked it!’
‘Of course I like it. It’s quaint. Those two old pubs should be on the Heritage Register. But Jed needs to let her hair down where she’s not surrounded by people expecting her to live her life around a husband in a coma.’
‘Alex!’
‘Honey, I know Sam McAlpine was like a brother to you. But life has to go on. You take her shopping and I’ll take her surfing.’
‘She’s got the whole river to swim in.’ Wheelchairs didn’t cope well with sand. Scarlett would be left at home babysitting. She liked babysitting, but . . .
But. But Gibber’s Creek was her home. Was going to be her home too, when she graduated, working as a registrar at the hospital and then in general practice like Dr McAlpine had done . . .
‘Your work might suffer too if you go down there too often,’ he added seriously. ‘I know you’ll never have to worry about failing any subject, but the best jobs go to the most brilliant.’
‘Best jobs?’
‘Assistants to top surgeons. Or research. That’s where the real money is. Neurosurgery maybe, heading up a research team.’ He grinned. ‘Or dermatology. Dermatologis
ts never get called in on an emergency.’
She grinned back. ‘Oh, doctor, come at once. My athlete’s foot is creeping up my knee . . .’
‘Let Dr Romanov leap to your aid.’ He finished his sandwich, then took his plate to the sink. ‘Any leftovers for dinner?’ Alex always asked about ‘leftovers’. Only an acknowledged male chauvinist would expect a woman to cook for him, but anyone could ask if there were leftovers.
‘I’ve left you beef burgundy in the fridge.’
‘You’re a darling.’ He kissed the top of her head. Which was not where she wanted to be kissed. ‘Travel safely. Ring me when you get there?’
‘Of course.’ She lifted her weekender — Alex knew better than to offer to help — and wheeled out to her car.
She’d left early enough to miss the rush-hour Sydney traffic, and the drive down was easy. She turned into the Dribble driveway seven hours later, bushed, starving and wishing she’d thought to ask Leafsong to drop in something for dinner from the Blue Belle. Jed would have forgotten to cook again . . .
The scent of roast lamb met her as she opened the car door, as well as a joyously barking Maxi. And not just roast lamb but . . . she sniffed again . . . squished-fly biscuits, the real kind, not the packet ones, and just maybe chocolate pudding . . .
The door opened just as she wheeled up the ramp, bag on her lap, Maxi bounding beside her. A strange girl stared at her: fifteen maybe, with Asian eyes and bright pink hair that Scarlett immediately envied, and a build almost as slender as hers. ‘Chocolate pudding?’ Scarlett demanded.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Can I smell chocolate pudding?’
‘Yes.’ The girl stood back so she could wheel inside. ‘I’m Fish.’
‘That’s a name?’
‘Of course.’ The girl sounded affronted.
‘You might have been playing Animal, Vegetable or Mineral. You know — “I’m a ruby.” And I’m Scarlett. The name, not the colour.’
‘I guessed.’
‘Not too many women in wheelchairs who live at Dribble. Jed, I’m home!’ she yelled. ‘Oh, heck,’ she added more quietly. ‘Mattie’s not asleep, is she?’
The Last Dingo Summer Page 11