What Lies Buried Page 11

PART EIGHT

  GROWING PAINS

  A Recurring Problem

  Anzac Days

  At some stage in her childhood it started to bother Caroline that she did not know what her father had done during the war. One of her early recollections was going to the station with him the day the troops came home in 1945. At an older age, when she became curious, she wondered if the reason she didn’t know about her father’s war service was that the topic was a family taboo. As Anzac Day approached in 1950, the problem escalated when her grown-up cousin, Stephen Johnson, said something to one of his cronies as she passed them on her way home from school. She’d never had much to do with the Johnsons, and caught only part of the comment, but it was something like: ‘You should ask the little Blake sheila what daddy did during the war.’ What made her concern acute was a suspicion the comment she overheard was not ‘what daddy did?’ but ‘who daddy did?’

  When farm incomes picked up after the war, many girls were sent away to be educated at private boarding schools. Although Banabrook was in New South Wales, the Blake family had long-standing ties to Melbourne schools. In January 1951, Caroline arrived at Spencer Street Railway Station. She was met by Miss Marion Elsworthy, who wore a tweed suit and an encouraging smile and held a notice bearing a coat-of-arms and the words Harwood Hall. This was the familiar name of the more illustriously designated Harwood Church of England Girls’ Grammar School. Two other new-girls emerged from the same train. Miss Elsworthy welcomed them all, waved down a passing porter, and organised the group and its luggage to a small bus bearing the school emblem. To Caroline’s surprise, Miss Elsworthy settled herself into the driver’s seat and gave them a riotous running commentary as she drove them to the school. ‘On your right the famous clocks of Flinders Street Station. “Meet you under the clocks!” On the left Young and Jackson’s Hotel, home to notorious naughty painting—Chloe—nude! St Paul’s and the statue of Matthew Flinders. Princes Bridge. Yarra River, said by Sydneysiders to be the only river in the world with its bottom flowing on the top. Floral clock. Botanic Gardens. Boys’ school—look the other way!’

  Coming from New South Wales classed Caroline as different, even among boarders, most of whom were from rural Victoria. All girls who entered the senior school from institutions other than Harwood’s own primary classes were potentially different. Cliques forged in primary school appraised the newcomers, the opinion-leaders determining which girls might be allowed to belong, and which left to fend for themselves. New-girls who came to Harwood on scholarships from government schools probably had the hardest task making friends. There was a tendency for boarders and daygirls to maintain a degree of separation; although some boarders, particularly those who made the sporting teams, found it easier to assimilate into the broader school community. Having inherited her mother’s aptitude for sport, Caroline at least had that advantage.

  When she first arrived, she was too ingenuous not to talk openly about her family, and it was not long before her coming from New South Wales was only one of many elements making her different. That the whereabouts of her mother was unknown, came out in a social studies class. That her stepmother was a foreigner and a Jew, was revealed when the French teacher commented on Caroline’s tendency to use the colloquial rather than the textbook forms for questions. She’d not noticed how the few Jewish girls at the school kept to themselves. Like most church schools, Harwood’s policy was to be accepting of other religions. Many of the students and some of the teachers clearly didn’t embrace this part of the school philosophy. There were no Jewish boarders.

  But it was a chance remark in the dormitory that scandalised some of her fellow boarders, when she mentioned playing with Aboriginal children. ‘You play with boongs?’ said one incredulous girl. ‘That is pathetic!’

  By the time Caroline realised the nature of the upbringing of most other girls in the boarding house, it was too late to be less frank about her own background. A secret embarrassment, later in life, was her certain knowledge that, had she realised in time, she would have kept the existence of her Aboriginal friends, and Rachel’s ethnicity, to herself—in order to gain a greater degree of acceptance.

  ‘How’s the young madam?’ Olive put a cup of tea in front of Walter.

  ‘Frankly, I’ll be glad when she goes back to school.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘I was looking forward to having her home for a couple of weeks, but she barely talks to me—except to complain.’

  ‘I think they’re all little monsters at this age. Brian was. He called me a fat old bitch one day. That didn’t sit too well I can tell you.’

  ‘She talks to Rachel a bit. Since their run-in last year, they’ve been getting on pretty well. When I come into the room, she clams up and goes off to do something else. I thought it might be because I was interrupting girl talk, but Rachel says there’s not much of that.’

  ‘It’ll pass, pal. Just ride the punches. Teens are a mystery to everybody—including themselves, I think.’

  ‘I can’t help wondering if she resents being sent away to boarding school?’

  ‘If that’s bothering you, why don’t you ring up the house-mistress she talks about?’

  ‘Miss Elsworthy? Maybe I will. But not until I’ve put Caroline on the train to go back. If she caught me on the telephone to Harwood, I reckon there’d be hell to pay.’

  Marion Elsworthy was an unusual teacher. It was in the context of whispered sedition after lights-out that Caroline added the word lesbian to her vocabulary. Many girls giggled and condemned. Some chose to disbelieve, some to accept without judgement—particularly those, like Caroline, who had already been taken into Miss Elsworthy’s circle, and not experienced anything untoward. If anything had worried the headmistress or school council, they would have had to invent some circumstance to precipitate an enquiry, for there had never been any allegation of impropriety. Although some girls who had developed special friendships among themselves would happily have extended their liaisons to a like-minded teacher, Miss Elsworthy never provided the opportunity. Her ability to forge Platonic links with lost and rejected souls was respected by most who came into contact with her.

  Soon Caroline became a regular at the Saturday evening tea, toast and talk evenings Miss Elsworthy hosted in the modest quarters she occupied as deputy matron. Everybody was welcome at these gatherings; even some of the older daygirls were regular visitors. Occasionally, the self-righteous forces of hopeful doubt would delegate one of their number to attend, charged with uncovering dubious activities or relationships. Usually, after an evening discussing Paradise Lost with girls who seemed weird, stupid or boring, the delegate would leave, stuffed with over-buttered toast and swashing with an excess of weak tea, never again to volunteer her services as spy. To the credit of the inner sanctum of regulars, nobody ever suggested there was somebody present who should be given a particularly friendly and intellectually stimulating evening—it just happened, and became the focus and interest for those in the know.

  Years later, Caroline would marvel at Miss Elsworthy’s ability to engage the group in discussions pushing the limits of subjects proper for schoolgirls, without ever exposing them to possible accusations of impropriety. Here, also, Caroline developed some of her political values, the resounding “no” vote in the referendum to ban communism sparking a number of discussions about the meaning of freedom in a democratic society. Saturday was the one day of the week when the older boarders were allowed to stay up until eleven-thirty, and breakfast late on Sunday, provided they were in chapel for Morning Prayer. Miss Elsworthy’s evenings finished at eleven sharp, by which time the washing-up had been done by willing helpers, and the crumbs swept away using the tiny hand sweeper kept in the broom cupboard.

  On the mantelpiece over the open fireplace was a picture of Miss Elsworthy’s brother wearing the uniform of a squadron leader. In 1953, Anzac Day fell on a Saturday. That evening, Miss Elsworthy chose to talk about the dawn service some of them had attended
at the Shrine of Remembrance in St Kilda Road. Then she told the group about her brother who survived the Battle of Britain but took his own life when he returned to Australia and discovered that his business partner had embezzled most of their assets to support a gambling habit. The group discussion was unusually subdued as the girls struggled with their thoughts about human weakness, business ethics, and the difficulties faced by young men and women returning from war.

  ‘It would be hard to forgive,’ one girl observed. ‘Fancy ratting on other people when they’re off defending the country and can’t defend themselves.’

  The discussion affected Caroline deeply. Next morning, in chapel, during the customary break for private prayer, her request was for God to reveal to her what her father had done during the war. It was four years before her question was answered, and the response came not from God but, once again, from her cousin, Stephen Johnson, whose comment years earlier had fuelled her curiosity.

  Three Extraordinary Years

  1956

  For Caroline, 1956 was a special year—her first free from the discipline of boarding school. As a rite of passage she signed the Register of Matriculants, but she had no wish for university qualifications. She relished the prospect of becoming the first woman to manage Banabrook, an expectation fostered by her father. On her return to Arajinna she enrolled for correspondence studies in farm management and animal husbandry. As an afterthought, she added dressmaking—for the fun of it.

  Her desire to know what her father had done during the war had diminished after a discussion with Marion Elsworthy, one Sunday, in her final year. They had sat in the sun together after Morning Prayer waiting for the gong to sound for mid-day dinner.

  ‘War does strange things,’ Miss Elsworthy said. ‘Some cope with their emotions by talking incessantly about what happened. Often they’re the ones who were affected least. Some lock bad memories away and hope nobody makes them recall what they’ve tried to push out of their minds. I knew a woman who first learnt of her father’s heroic deeds, and the bravery medals he’d won, when a member of his regiment delivered the eulogy at his funeral. The father had never discussed his time in the forces. If your stepmother and your father don’t talk about their experiences it might be best to assume they have good reasons, and to respect them.’

  ‘But Anzac Day means something to him. I know it.’

  ‘He lost his father and brothers. He might need to mourn alone.’

  ‘I’m his daughter. I should be allowed to comfort him and share his grief.’

  ‘Perhaps he feels the need to spare you his pain.’

  Unbeknown to Caroline or Rachel, Walter had spent several years planning to take them to Melbourne for the first Olympic Games on Australian soil. He revealed this over Christmas dinner in 1955, giving them nearly a year to savour the prospect. He’d already booked and paid deposits for travel and accommodation. He’d even applied for an additional seat for some events, including the opening and closing ceremonies, so Caroline would be able to invite old school friends to join them. When Caroline asked what would happen if she didn’t have anybody to take up a ticket, he winked and said, ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll manage to scalp some poor bloke for double the price.’

  She laughed and said, ‘No really?’

  ‘Leave it to your old dad.’ He winked again and tapped the side of his nose—a gesture she recognised from some old film. She gave him a gentle slap to chastise him for teasing, and thought nothing more of the incident until years later when other things caused her to recall seemingly innocuous comments and interpret them in a new light.

  They arrived in Melbourne early in November 1956, and stayed at the prestigious, albeit conservative, Hotel Windsor in Spring Street. From there it was an easy walk to the main games venue, the Melbourne Cricket Ground, and short tram rides to a number of other venues and places of interest. Caroline’s guest for the opening ceremony was Ruth Mazel, one of the Jewish girls she’d befriended at Harwood. For the remainder of the games, instead of inviting friends from her own year, Caroline telephoned Miss Elsworthy and asked her to nominate some of the more isolated students currently in the boarding house. For the closing ceremony, Miss Elsworthy herself was the guest. She insisted Caroline should now call her Marion, and told Walter and Rachel their hospitality had enriched the lives of some solitary girls.

  ‘You have to live in a community like Harwood to know how lonely it can be in a crowd. Caroline understands. Not that she was lonely. She was popular, but she was unfailingly sensitive to the needs of others.’

  That night they all dined at the Windsor, choosing from a selection of two soups, three joints, and three puddings, followed by the obligatory “demi-tasse”. When her cab arrived, Marion Elsworthy shook Rachel’s hand, and Walter’s. She turned and extended a hand to Caroline, but then stepped to her and kissed her on the cheek. ‘You were always special, Caroline Blake,’ she said. As the cab drew away Caroline saw her take out a handkerchief and blow her nose.

  Two days later, they were back at Banabrook preparing for Christmas. In the years to come, Caroline often wished time had frozen at that point in her life.

  1957

  ‘Ripper of a car the Series Two.’

  The man stood in the doorway of Jeff’s Real Estate Agency, smoking a cigarette. He grinned. Caroline wondered if he was trying to pick her up.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say hello to your cousin?’

  ‘Stephen?’

  ‘Have I changed that much?’

  She flushed. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  ‘I recognised you but!’ He threw the remains of his cigarette onto the pavement and stepped on it before approaching her. ‘Your first car?’

  ‘Yes. Meet Maisie.’

  ‘Maisie the Morris Minor, eh? Looks in good nick.’

  ‘I got it from Mickey Dodd.’

  ‘Good move. Takes care of his cars does Mick. Spends his life polishing the FJ.’

  ‘I’d noticed.’

  ‘So how’s things in Blake land?’

  ‘Fine, thank you.’

  ‘I was going across to the Garden of Roses.’ He jerked his head in that direction. ‘They’ve put in an espresso machine. I’ll shout you one.’

  Caroline had never ventured inside the famous Garden of Roses Café. As a schoolgirl she’d bought milk shakes and ice creams from the counter facing the street, but that was the closest she came to Arajinna’s den of sophistication, romance and liaison. Her decision was spur of the moment. ‘All right. Why not?’ She put her purchases in the car.

  They ordered coffee and chose cakes from the display. Stephen led her to a table in the angle formed by the window and the wall.

  Caroline said, ‘Dad told me you and Graham were running the office for Jeff.’

  ‘So, the old sod’s keeping an eye on us is he?’

  She felt a prickle of annoyance. ‘What’s that meant to mean?’

  ‘Oh nothing. Thanks for the warning but.’ Stephen looked out of the window.

  Still slightly annoyed, Caroline said, ‘When I was a kid, you were mean to me.’

  ‘Go on with you. I don’t remember being mean. What did I do?’

  ‘You dropped hints.’

  ‘Hints?’

  ‘About my father.’

  Stephen continued to look out into the street. Caroline said, ‘About the war.’

  ‘Oh, about the war.’ There was a long pause. ‘Didn’t see any service your dad. Not like others. Of course you’d know that.’ The coffee and cakes were brought by a waitress in a black dress with a white collar and cuffs, and a white starched cap. Stephen said, ‘Thanks love.’ He put two heaped teaspoons of sugar into his coffee and stirred it. As an afterthought he said, ‘Oh, sugar?’ and pushed the chromed sugar-bowl across the table.

  Frustrated, Caroline asked, ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’ Another infuriating pause. ‘Oh, about the war? You don’t want to know.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have
asked if I didn’t.’

  A long look and a sigh before he said, ‘Okay, if you insist, you insist.’ He drank half his coffee in one noisy gulp. There was another delay; he continued to seem reluctant. ‘It’s the whole story or nothing, okay?’ His stare demanded a response. She nodded. ‘Ever wondered why your mum left home?’ Another pause. Another nod. ‘My dad croaked last year. Never got over what happened. Don’t take this personal, but some folk have it made from the day they’re born. Our lot had to work for what we had. The fuel agency was our big break—until it got ripped off of us. A Justice of the Peace, who shouldn’t have got the job to start with, was on the take.’ Stephen looked away. When he turned back, his expression was solemn. ‘There’s no easy way to say this young Caroline. Your father dudded my old man. A whiff of power does wonders for some. Guess what name appeared on the agency, in place of Johnson? There wasn’t even a tender process. My dad was off advising the Army Supply Corps. We never stood a chance. And it wasn’t the first time Walter Blake done the Johnsons over. Your mum had already copped her share. When she heard the bastard had been at it again, she went right off her head. You do funny things when you’re totally pissed off. She should have stuck around and blew the whistle. But she didn’t. She took off to get away from it all.’

  ‘What do you mean “copped her share”? My dad’s not violent.’

  ‘You don’t need fists to bash the shit out of someone.’

  ‘What are you saying, Stephen?’

  ‘You really sure you want to know?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Be it on your head, okay?’ He sighed and, for a brief time, the show of reluctance returned. ‘When your mum’s parents passed away, and left Weatherlee to her, your dad heard a cash register go “chingity ching”. I don’t know all the detail, but he talked your mum into mortgaging the property to buy a prize mob of sheep. Problem was—none of those sheep ever made it to Weatherlee. Not a one. It turned out wily old Walt was pretty darned good at sleight-of-hand. Nothing up my sleeve—poof!—and it’s gone. There was some bullshit about Weatherlee having to repair fences and get paddocks ready before sheep could be run there. So, the whole mob was delivered to Banabrook. I’m talking about two or three truck-loads of prime stock, and—cop this—a special van with a couple of stud rams worth a bloody fortune.’

  ‘How could you possibly know that?’

  ‘You don’t put two bloody sheep in a thing like a horse-float unless they’re worth a squillion!’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. I meant how could you know it wasn’t all above board?’

  ‘Caroline, Caroline, sweetie—your mum told me herself. You see, I’d already got served the order to hand over the keys to the fuel depot, so I knew my dad had been dudded and Walter Blake was up to no bloody good. He had to give me a receipt for the unsold stock and stuff—a receipt in his name—so it was pretty obvious who’d done what to who. I was pretty mad, so I went to have a beer, or two, or three, at the club. Who should be there but Emily? I got real cranky with her. Who could blame me? I thought she’d know all about the fuel business, and have some unlikely story down pat. But she just looked blank. When I showed her the receipt, you’d reckon I’d kicked her in the guts. Boy did she spew. Of course, I didn’t know about the other stuff then. I thought she was just coming on side to support her uncle Bert. Next thing she’s telling Jeff she’s had it “up to here” and he can sell Weatherlee for her. Then she fronts me and says she wants to come back to Sydney. She knew I was about to piss off. There was stuff-all left for me in Arajinna. I picked her up from Weatherlee next morning. On the trip she spilt her guts about Walt’s other doings. She had a few choice words for Rachel too. That’s when I realised the receipt I’d shown her was the last of a whole heap of straws breaking the poor old camel’s back. I think what really finished it for her was knowing Bert had been doing his bit for his country while Walt was making hay—and bloody whoopee, too, most likely! The war was a godsend to the likes of your dad. Most blokes went away and fought. Some stayed home and lined their pockets.’

  ‘You stayed home!’

  ‘I was in a reserved occupation.’

  ‘What’s a reserved occupation?’

  ‘There were laws to keep things going. Until the agency got stole from us, Bert Johnson & Sons was supplying fuel to the whole of Kalawonta. Graham and me weren’t allowed to join up. We were doing our bit back here. That’s how it was for some blokes. Not Walt though. Farmers could join... if they had a mind to. You ever see one of them movies where they deliver a white feather?’

  ‘None of it sounds like my dad.’

  ‘Truth hurts.’

  ‘I’ve only got your say so.’

  'There’s plenty of others you could ask.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Old man Adderley for a start.’

  ‘Why him?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘I do,’ she almost shouted.

  Stephen sighed as though oppressed by the weight of knowledge. ‘We came here for a cup of coffee.’

  ‘Why Adderley?’ she insisted.

  ‘He used to come over and have a few beers at our joint. He knew all about your dad’s sneaky schemes. We weren’t the first to be dudded. Adderley was the one who should have been appointed JP. But he wasn’t part of the silvertail network. And he had other stories to curl your hair.’

  ‘What sort of stories?’

  ‘The old burial ground on Banabrook, for one thing. According to Adderley, there’s more bodies there than there are headstones. Reckons he’s seen lights, and smelt smoke, down near his boundary fence. He used to say Satan was around when those lights appeared. Look, Caroline, I didn’t bring you here to say this—you asked. There are stories the Blakes produce babies that disappear.’ Without warning, he got to his feet, nearly knocking over the table. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘I asked you to have a cup of coffee for chrissake. I didn’t want this. We’d better go.’

  He made for the door without waiting, but stopped and turned to wave to the waitress. ‘Thanks love,’ he said. ‘Put it on my tab.’

  Caroline found herself stumbling after him. When he got to her car, he turned. ‘Forget it, okay? I need to give Graham a break. See you some time.’

  In a daze, she got into Maisie, and backed out of her angle parking space, nearly colliding with a truck. By the time she reached the turn-off to Banabrook her mind was awash with confused thoughts, so she stayed on the highway until she could pull onto a side road and stop. Her father cheating her mother and other Johnsons would explain a number of mysteries. But buried babies? Surely not. She knew Adderley by sight, although she had never spoken to him. There was a night he’d come to Banabrook and shouted at her father. She’d heard him from her room. That was also about money. He’d made accusations then. And earlier, when she was much younger, she’d seen unexplained lights too.

  For the next few weeks Caroline tried to act as though nothing had happened. Everything she said to Rachel or her father sounded forced and artificial when she replayed it in her mind. Fortunately, they seemed not to notice anything amiss.

  Several months later, by chance, she found herself alone with Mr Adderley. At a social function at the golf club, she became bored and stepped outside to enjoy the clear night air. She thought she was alone until somebody coughed. She turned to see a man standing on the top step lighting a cigar.

  ‘I came out to get away from the noise,’ she said.

  ‘Modern music.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Ridiculous stuff.’

  ‘It’s Mr Adderley isn’t it? I know who you are but I don’t think we’ve ever been introduced.’

  ‘Not surprising, Miss Blake. Your father and I have never got along.’

  ‘That’s a pity in a small community.’

  ‘Don’t get smart with me missy!’

  ‘That wasn’t my intention.’

  ‘I believe Stephen had to tell you some facts of life.’

  She f
elt her face flush. ‘I’d thought our conversation was private.’

  ‘He was real upset. Had to get it off his chest. Reckons he should have bit his tongue, but you asked him things point blank. Makes good people sick. Nice girl like you with a father like that. Mother driven away and replaced by... foreign trash. My son still has nightmares. If your dad has any wartime dreams it’s about being in a bank-vault counting his ill-gotten gains. I need a drink.’ He spat, conspicuously, into the garden, and went back inside. She was about to call after him, but the idea of enquiring about buried babies was too repugnant, and he’d called Rachel foreign trash, which stirred her conscience, bringing again to the surface the horrible occasion when she’d resorted to name calling.

  She didn’t see her father and Rachel until dinner the following day. She tried to make bright conversation, but found herself observing them—wondering whether such normality could mask evil. That night, in bed, she tried to weigh the issues. She wasn’t sure if the result was entirely objective, but she did reach a conclusion. She would keep faith with her father. He was her family. He had been her rock for too long.

  Months passed, and when Rachel came home one day and announced she was pregnant, life became positively good. After years of marriage to Walter, there’d been an assumption Rachel would not conceive. The subject had been discussed openly in Caroline’s presence. Rachel seemed content and said having children was not an essential part of life for her. But when the pregnancy was confirmed, she developed a permanent glow. Books on parenting were purchased. Caroline produced an old celluloid doll from the bottom of a toy chest, so they could all practise changing nappies. Warmth and laughter banished silly rumour.

  1958

  Despite the doctor’s concern that, for a first confinement at the age of 35, she should be in the maternity ward of the Kalawonta hospital, Rachel insisted on a home birth. As the time neared, a midwife took up residence. Judith arrived two days before the estimated full term, with the entire family gathered around the bed. Caroline thought it the most amazing experience of her life and was thrilled to be included. It was three weeks before her 20th birthday. Champagne was opened. Even the proud mother had a few sips before falling into a contented sleep.

  A period of happiness ensued until a day Caroline overheard something. She was passing the nursery, where Rachel was engaging in baby talk as she changed Judith’s nappy. Quite distinctly, Caroline heard her say: ‘Oh my precious, precious baby. Nothing will happen to you. No more babies will be lost. When the time comes, you will bury me.’

  Hastening to her room, Caroline sat on her bed. She was not mistaken. The words had been clear. Adderley’s dreadful accusations insinuated their way back into her consciousness. She had managed not to think about them for many weeks. Now the discussion with Stephen started to niggle afresh. She clenched her teeth. Somewhere she’d read that mad people scream to drown out the voices that haunt them. She could think of no way to check the stories about buried babies. About her father cheating her mother, however, there was something she could do. A few months earlier, she had helped him re-organise a storeroom in one of the outbuildings. They’d come across the memoirs of Simeon Blake, and she’d spent many hours reading tales of an earlier generation. All the old farm records were there too, including the details of Banabrook livestock, mostly in handwritten journals and ledgers. She would wait for an opportunity, and she would look for evidence to prove Stephen wrong.

  Despite her endeavours to appear unconcerned, she realised she was not succeeding when her father took her aside to ask if she was all right.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, a little too emphatically.

  ‘You’ve been absolutely great with the baby. But if you think we’re neglecting you, you have to tell me.’

  ‘I’m twenty, for heaven’s sake,’ she said.

  ‘Nearly “of age”. How time flies.’

  A few weeks later, her father went away to the wool sales. Patiently, she let a day go by before carrying out her plan. Time passed slowly, but an assignment for her farm management course kept her occupied. On the second day, after helping Rachel put Judith down for a sleep, she made lunch for them in the kitchen.

  ‘If you need me this afternoon, I’ll be in the storeroom,’ she said as she put away their few dishes.

  ‘I thought you’d finished out there.’

  ‘We have. I was telling a friend the story about Eddie Sampson and the organ bellows. I want to show it to her. I’ll have to look through the box of memoirs. Might take a while to find.’ She went to the rack of keys on the wall.

  The ledgers for the war years were sparse, sometimes two or three entries summarising the growth or decline in stock numbers from breeding, natural causes, and sales. In 1943, an unusual entry recorded a large intake of new stock. Two rams had been individually listed, with reference numbers. She was encouraged when she saw, in her father’s handwriting, the notation: “Weatherlee agistment stock”. No values were shown, so these animals would not have been included as Banabrook assets. It would be comforting if there were some way to establish that a matching entry, with values, had been made in Weatherlee’s books. That was not something she would be able to check, but she could write a note to her farm management tutor asking how agistment accounts were handled. That might add credibility to the entry she had found.

  Mulling over things, as she lay in bed that night, she realised there was something else she should have looked for. If the arrival of the Weatherlee stock had been clearly identified, so should its departure from Banabrook—otherwise the muster records would have shown a large discrepancy. Over the years, she had often gone out with the mustering teams, and helped with reconciling the tallies to the stock books. That the discrepancies were usually small was a matter of pride to the management team at Banabrook. She remembered a year when a large discrepancy had led to the discovery of a break in a fence. She’d taken part in the search that found a large mob of stray sheep in the forest.

  Next afternoon, she made another excuse to spend time in the storeroom. She began by checking the ledgers from the time of arrival of the Weatherlee stock in 1943. When she got to the last entry for 1947, she realised she was well past the date when Weatherlee had been sold. Although she understood not finding anything didn’t prove it wasn’t there, she was unhappy not to have uncovered real evidence of a transfer. Rather than taking a second look through the ledgers, she went to the cabinet in which correspondence and miscellaneous records were filed. After half and hour of searching, she was surprised to find a carbon copy of a letter on Weatherlee letterhead.

  15th December 1943

  Noel Clarke Accounting

  Dear Noel

  As requested confirming my wishes re stock as discussed. Please off set agistment exps against interest. Rams to service ewes at Nurramar and Simpson Flats arranged by Walter. Ewes will be brought here at no exps to us. Credit all fees to Weatherlee. Services to Banabrook no charge. Off set as manager fee. Walter has my authority all dealings. Banabrook pays our fences and keeps proceeds any sales. All questions to Walter.

  Thanks.

  Yours always

  E. Blake

  A letter typed and signed by her mother, complete with characteristic spelling errors and typos. It should have been conclusive. But already Caroline was clammy with sweat. She had seen this letter before. A child remembers when she finds her father at her mother’s typewriter after her mother has left home for good. A seven-year-old remembers with some pride being able to point to a date and say, “Daddy that’s wrong.” But a good seven-year-old runs along now, and goes out to groom her pony, when Daddy says he’s very busy.

  The letter had been signed with the carbon still in place. Good quality carbon at Banabrook—a clear copy. Now, with mounting disquiet, Caroline searched for something in Banabrook records signed by her mother. It took nearly an hour to find a batch of file-notes and orders written while her father was away. Again the occasional spelling error. Caroline was no
expert in handwriting, and the forgery was not bad. But she had no doubt. The letter to the accountant was forgery.

  As she lay awake that night, she felt an inevitability about the action she must take. She’d enjoyed the prospect of being the first woman to manage Banabrook, but she could not live in a climate of distrust. Rumours about buried babies could be rationalised. As an act of faith, she could believe there were explanations for those silly stories. But proven greed and dishonesty were different matters. The forging of her mother’s signature, after she had left Arajinna, could have no acceptable explanation. She could never forgive deceit of that kind. The suitcases she had packed so often at the beginning of school terms were on top of her wardrobe. Maisie had been serviced the previous week. All she needed was for Rachel to go out for a few hours.

  The Cenotaph

  Anzac Day

  Saturday 25th April 1958

  The regulars at the dawn service knew the rolls of the fallen by heart.

  Nine lost from the small population of one rural district was not a long list for the Great War. Other areas of the country had fared worse. In a slow monotone, the Reverend Chris Hepworth read the names. Young Matty Rogers moved his lips, silently reading from the side of the Cenotaph, waiting for the eerie moment when his name, his grandfather’s name, would be spoken.

  Jeremy Charlesworth

  Nathan Fletcher

  Jamie McTae

  Timothy O’Ryan

  Sun Quee

  John Quinlan

  Matthew Rogers

  Simon Upworth

  Terence Wilson

  Walter felt Olive’s grip on his hand tighten. The list for the second war comprised four names.

  Jonathan Blake

  Michael Blake

  Richard Blake

  Brian Sampson

  ‘They shall grow not old as we that are left grow old.’ Walter and Olive no longer heard the words. They held hands until the final mournful note of the Last Post faded, the sun topped the eastern rim of the hill, and Reveille was blown. There was a time when recorded bugle calls had been played, but since the McTae boy finished his national service that hadn’t been necessary. Nobody spoke much at the dawn service. Over the years, without ever discussing it, the members of the small group of regulars seemed to have agreed this was a time for private thoughts. Time enough later in the day to talk in the street while gathering for the march and, afterwards, to reminisce in the garden behind the pub where, once a year, two-up was played and the local cop pretended not to know. It was also common knowledge that Olive couldn’t cope with meeting others on Anzac Day. Most of Brian’s contemporaries simply hugged her quickly when they gathered in the pre-dawn darkness. Afterwards, Walter took her home where she would cook them breakfast.

  Through the kitchen window they could see the last of the cows queued for milking, a few habitual stragglers still meandering up the paddock, and the bulk of the herd wandering off to graze. It was the only day Olive didn’t take part in the early activities of the farm. This year, the project she planned to honour her lost son was a new holding yard for the sheep. After breakfast, she and Walter sat on the front verandah with their cups of tea. They discussed the proposed location of the loading ramp, debating how much further from the road it should be to allow for the larger articulated trucks now used by the transport companies.

  After a while they fell silent until Olive said, ‘You want to talk, pal?’

  ‘Has there been much gossip?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘What’s the verdict?’

  ‘I think most people reckon it was a simple matter of Caroline getting it into her head she didn’t want to play second fiddle to a baby sister. Which is not to say there aren’t more theories than you can poke a stick at. Even suggestions the Johnsons kidnapped her to get even with you. I tried to put a stop to that by telling people you’re in touch with Caroline and she’s alive and well. Fortunately they reckon I know everything because I’ve been mates with the Blakes for so long. It gave my conscience a bit of a tweak, but I thought it wasn’t stretching the truth too far, and I wasn’t about to tell them it took a private investigator to find her.’ She stopped and looked at him. ‘I suppose I am the only one who knows about that.’

  Walter nodded, ‘You and Rachel.’

  ‘I don’t want silly ideas floating around or next thing you know kids are having nightmares about Caroline being murdered and buried in the forest. It’s a crazy world, pal. I guess the good thing is it’s the first time Rachel isn’t being blamed. People are funny. There was a time Caroline would have been capable of no wrong and Rachel of no right. But twenty year olds don’t get the locals clucky, babies do, even Rachel’s baby, which must mean some things have changed for the better.’

  ‘So you’re saying this ill wind has brought its bit of good?’

  ‘I know it won’t bring Caroline back. But there’s time.’

  Walter knew what she was thinking. He reached out and put his hand on hers. ‘You okay?’

  ‘When Eddie went, I got to hold him and say goodbye. He’s still here in a way. Every Sunday I check in with him and I don’t feel sad any more, just happy to remember he was mine for a time. I pay young Adrian Simcock sixpence a week to weed the plot. We have this little ritual. I pretend to inspect his work and then I give him the sixpence. I tell him: if Eddie had a grandson he’d have liked him exactly like you. But it’s fifteen years since the telegram came about Brian, and I still wonder about him. “Missing in action” doesn’t finish anything. “Presumed dead” is exactly what it says—a presumption. You know the film Random Harvest? Greer Garson and Ronald Coleman? About the bloke with amnesia? Well it’s bloody ridiculous, I know, but I can never get out of my head those things do happen, that I might look up one day and see my Brian coming down the driveway.’

  ‘It’s not ridiculous at all. And you’re right about Caroline. I know where she is and I know she’s okay.’

  ‘I wasn’t meaning to lecture you.’

  ‘Do you think I should get in touch with her?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘But some time?’

  ‘I think it would be good for her to know you know where she is and you’re not pursuing her. Unless you intend to of course.’

  ‘No.’

  An engine started. Olive got up and wandered to the corner of the verandah. She waved to the farm hand driving her battered Ford utility up the driveway to deposit the cans of fresh milk at the roadside in time for the morning pick-up. The Kalawonta Dairy was one business that couldn’t stop for Anzac Day.

  Walter said, ‘I heard the Johnson boys are making another bid for the sheep cartage contract.’

  Olive turned around and leant on the verandah rail. ‘They’ve got Buckley’s chance now Bert’s gone. They’ll be lucky if Jeff doesn’t sue them for running down the Estate Agency.’

  ‘Is that why they left again?’

  ‘Bert was the only one with any nous. Graham and Stephen couldn’t manage a chook raffle. You found that out years ago.’

  ‘And I’m still jumpy when they’re around.’

  ‘They wouldn’t dare touch you now. What you did took a lot of people by surprise at the time. If the Johnsons hadn’t been so unpopular you might not have got away with it.’

  ‘If they hadn’t been unpopular I wouldn’t have even tried.’

  ‘Lord, look at the time. I’ll squeeze the pot for a second cuppa, and then we’d both better strike a blow.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Walter gathered the cups. As Olive passed the back of his chair she stopped and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘There are no Johnsons or Adderleys listed on the Cenotaph. But there are three Blakes and a Sampson. You wouldn’t want it to be the only reason folk support you. But it does help.’

  A School for Judith

  Friday 26th June 1969

  ‘Ahhhhhh!’ Walter wailed.

  ‘Mayfair. Two houses. Three hundred pounds.’ Judith held out her hand.
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  ‘Pounds are not legal currency.’

  ‘And we don’t live in England, it’s a game!’

  ‘Then, I’m done for!’

  ‘You can mortgage your stations.’

  ‘For the grand sum of one hundred and fifty.’

  ‘Piccadilly!’

  ‘Seventy.’

  ‘Poor Daddy!’

  Rachel shrugged. ‘Don’t look at me for help. I can’t afford even to get out of gaol.’

  ‘Shall I count my loot?’

  ‘I don’t think you need to. But you will. Just to rub it in.’ Walter pushed himself up from the floor, stretched his legs, and poked the fire.

  ‘You can count your winnings later,’ Rachel said. ‘First we have our conference.’

  ‘What are we conferencing about?’ Judith asked, going to the couch and bouncing herself into a comfortable position.

  ‘Conferring,’ Rachel corrected her.

  ‘I know Mama. I was jockularising you.’

  Rachel rolled her eyes, and perched herself on the arm of the couch.

  ‘We need to talk about your schooling,’ said Walter.

  Judith pulled her knees up to her chest in an action Walter knew meant she was defensive. She fixed him with wide solemn eyes.

  ‘Caroline went to Harwood Hall. So did your Great-aunt May. We put your name down when you were born. Now they’ve written to offer you a place in the 1971 intake. That means we have to accept and pay the deposit, or relinquish the spot. There’s also Rabbi Levi’s school, the other side of Calway. You could board there. He’d be glad to take you.’

  ‘You went to Arajinna High.’

  ‘I had the option of going to boarding school, but my mum was very sick.’

  Judith put her head on her knees. ‘I don’t want to go away. I’m happy here with you.’

  Rachel touched her gently on the shoulder. ‘We’re happy for it to be your decision. Arajinna is a good high school. But there are advantages at city schools. Better facilities, a wider choice of subjects, better teachers in some of them.’

  ‘Better than you for languages?’

  ‘You’ll have no problem with languages wherever you are.’

  ‘Better than Mr Tidybum for English Lit?’

  ‘Probably not. And his name is Tidyman. Don’t be rude.’

  ‘Would you have gone away?’

  Rachel paused before answering. ‘It is hard for me even to contemplate having such a choice.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to a religious school.’

  ‘You don’t have to choose right now,’ Walter said.

  ‘If it really is my choice, I’ll stay at Arajinna.’

  ‘You don’t need to think it through?’

  ‘I already have.’

  ‘I’ll write to Harwood on Monday.’

  ‘Great.’ Judith uncurled her legs and jumped to her feet. ‘I’m going to count my loot. I will write the total on the black-board.’

  Teenage Runaway

  Sunday 26th March 1972

  Judith wondered why the kookaburras were directly overhead. She started to uncurl herself, but stopped as the chill air touched the parts of her body that had retained some warmth. She would realise later she was suffering the first hangover of her life. Right now, her befuddled brain was coming to the realisation she was not only hungry and thirsty, but still lost. She had no doubt she could find her way out of the forest when the sun rose. Of greater concern was the knowledge that some time soon she would have to face her mother. Curled up in the darkness at the mouth of the damp cave, she tried to review the facts and formulate her excuses. She vaguely recalled hearing the word ‘outrageous’ before the bedroom door had slammed.

  The first excuse would be that the oldies were largely to blame. The boy who produced cannabis at the party was the son of one of her father’s friends. Had some idiot not tipped gin into her fruit punch she would never have joined the furtive group behind the barn to try the communal joint. That was bad supervision by the birthday girl’s mum. She remembered being behind the barn and being groped by some boy. She wished she could remember who. She had some recollection of being delivered home to an angry mother, and hauled roughly to her bedroom. Somebody must have pulled off her shoes and thrown a blanket over her, because she awoke still dressed but at least warm. Guilty, and a little afraid of her mother’s anger, she decided to clear out for a while. Throwing her party frock in the corner, she pulled on her riding gear, crept from her room, took some food from the kitchen, and managed to get to the stables undetected. There she saddled one of the horses and, using the stables as a shield, reached the forest out of sight of the homestead. She’d intended to hole up in a disused shack on a neighbouring property, but stops to vomit, and to get some drinkable water, had intervened. It was a mistake to lie down and fall asleep by the waterhole. When nightfall overtook her, she was disoriented and realised she would have to stop until morning.

  As the sun rose she felt able to start uncurling again. That’s when she realised she was alone. She pictured the scene at the homestead when the saddled horse returned without its rider. She’d been gone for an entire day. At least the morning sun provided a bearing. Nevertheless, it was past noon before she emerged near the billabong and trudged up the hill to confront her parents. Worry had replaced anger. Uncharacteristically, Rachel burst into tears.

  Olive, who’d been keeping her mother company, looked at Judith pointedly, and said, ‘I’ll call off the search.’

  It was a stupid escapade for which she was ridiculed by other students at school. To call off the search, Olive had to use the stand-down procedure for bush-fire alerts, a message passed from station to station on the emergency volunteers’ circuit. As a result, everybody in the district got to know what had happened. The suggestion that her bush skills were deficient was bad enough. More hurtful was to overhear Molly Hanson’s mother hissing to other parents that such behaviour should be expected from the child of an ill-conceived marriage. This was the secret epilogue to Judith’s day of shame. Later in life, she could not pass Hanson’s Drapery Shop without feeling the piercing eyes of that termagant. As Rachel often said, the mind has no eraser.

  White Lies

  Wednesday 16th July 1975

  ‘Have you time to talk?’ Judith put a mug of tea on the table next to the easel.

  Wiping the paint from his spatula, Walter turned on his stool to demonstrate she had his full attention. ‘What’s the subject?’

  ‘It’s about what I do next year.’

  ‘Then you’ve made a decision?’

  ‘I’d like to be a teacher. The trouble is, to do it properly I’d need to go to university to get a BA, and then do the Diploma of Education. It would mean living away. I’m talking about five years.’

  ‘And you’re concerned about Mama.’

  ‘I know she’ll tell me to go but...’

  ‘But you’re worried because you also know how important you are to her. Right?’

  ‘Actually, it’s the opposite. I don’t know how important my being around is to her, and I never will because she doesn’t talk about those things. I’ve studied the history of the holocaust, and tried to imagine what sort of void it might leave in a life. But the only victims who’ve told us anything are the ones who talk and write about it, which makes them different from Mama because she doesn’t. All I know is she’s had her share of unhappiness and I don’t want to add to it.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay. Two things. No, three. First, if you don’t do what you want to do, and she ever finds out, she’ll be devastated. Second, if you do get a degree and become a teacher, she’ll be so proud it will more than compensate for any sadness at being separated from you. Third, she has me. Oh, and a fourth thing—we aren’t poor; you won’t have to work to keep yourself like a lot of students do, so you can come home for term breaks and Christmas, as you would have if you’d gone to boarding school.’

  ‘Do you
think that will be enough for her?’

  ‘I’m certain of it.’

  ‘Family conference?’

  ‘No. When she comes home, I’ll go for a walk. Make her the first to know—pretend this conversation never happened.’

  ‘You mean lie?’

  ‘White lie. I absolve you.’

  ‘You always said...’

  ‘And I’ll make you a bet. Mama’s main concern will be how the decision will affect me!’

  ‘You always said not to tell fibs, and not to bet.’

  ‘And that ends don’t justify means?’

  ‘Yes. So...’

  ‘Oh dear, what awful lies I tell. But they’re all white!’

  ‘I like the effect you’re getting with the spatula.’

  He put a finger to his cheek indicating she should kiss him. She did.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘For the kiss, and the compliment.’

  As she reached the door on her way out he added, ‘Agree with you mother to call a family conference to tell me about your plans. I’ll look suitably surprised.’

  ‘You are shameless,’ she said as she disappeared into the hall.