 
## What Lies Buried

### by

### John Bishop

Published by John Bishop at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 John Bishop

Cover by Joleene Naylor

Cover photo by John Bishop

ISBN for DG ebook 978-0-9872983-0-0

Smashwords Edition License notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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### CONTENTS

Part One: Inheritance

Part Two: Secrets

Part Three: Exile

Part Four: Probing the Past

Part Five: Life Goes On

Part Six: Aunt May, Old Men, and Sunbury Races

Part Seven: Eve of a Funeral

Part Eight: Growing Pains

Part Nine: Reaching Bedrock

Epilogue: Escape from Dachau

BLAKE FAMILY TREE

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PART ONE

INHERITANCE

Caroline

Saturday 8th September 1990

Caroline Blake had lived with an expectation of the day the call would come to say her father was dead. She had imagined herself hearing the news with equanimity, thanking the caller, saying she would not be attending the funeral and that her stepmother, Rachel, and half-sister, Judith, were free to make whatever arrangements they wished. Instead, she found herself asking the solicitor for details and agreeing to Judith's plans. She hadn't realised she was still a beneficiary of the estate until the solicitor, Gilbert Ross, told her so. He said he would fax to her a copy of the will and a personal letter written by her father. Given her long-standing resistance to family contact, it would be possible for her to believe the sole purpose of planning a five hour trip to Arajinna was to start negotiations for an early sale of the family property. The unexpected but much needed inheritance and a feeling of release from the past were insufficient reasons to expose herself to the uncertainties of such a visit. Face to face consultation with Judith was not legally required. Nevertheless, she felt an urge to go. Perhaps it was her parliamentary conditioning, the advice of her first political mentor: if you think there might be trouble, be there.

It took her considerable discipline to switch her mind back to immediate commitments. She was to be guest speaker at a dinner that evening. Fortunately, she'd decided not to take a companion, and nobody there need be told about Walter Blake's death. As usual, she was well prepared. She would not require notes.

She had barely finished showering when she heard the fax machine come to life in her study. It would be better to ignore it for now, but her curiosity was compelling.

FAX TO: SENATOR CAROLINE BLAKE

FROM: DUNCAN ROSS AND SONS

DATE: 8TH SEPTEMBER 1990

Dear Senator Blake,

As requested during our telephone discussion, I am faxing you a copy of the document I believe to be your father's Last Will and Testament. I am also faxing the letter he deposited with me at the time he executed the will. Other parties have the legal right to challenge the provisions, particularly if in possession of later documentation. I have no reason to believe this is likely and recommend that the executors specified in the attached will, namely you and Judith Blake, should proceed to apply for probate. In the meantime, it is entirely proper for you to agree the details of the funeral and, in this regard, I acknowledge your instructions confirming the suggested arrangements.

I will hold myself ready to meet with you and answer any legal queries about the will.

I look forward to seeing you on Wednesday and conveying, in person, my sympathy on your loss.

Yours sincerely

Gilbert Ross

Banabrook

18th December 1978

Dear Caroline,

I pray you will never read this letter because it will not be put into your hands unless I am dead and you never returned to Banabrook. Realistically, after more than 20 years, I should accept the inevitable. But I still have hope; even though you have made it clear I should not.

Because you have led a public life over the last decade, I have been able to appreciate some of your doings and to be proud of your achievements. Knowing you have made a success of your life, and that you are independently well off, has made me comfortable about making changes to my will.

Our ancestor, Alfred, who built Banabrook in 1840, tried to provide that the property would never be split and would pass through the line of eldest sons or, where no son existed, the eldest daughter. The family solicitor, Gilbert Ross, has informed me that Alfred's long-term wishes have no legal significance, although his son, Alured, did tie up the ownership of an art collection by a neat legal device. Alfred and Alured, as creators of our family's wealth, obviously believed in trying to control its use by succeeding generations. I do not, but I share Alfred's hope that the property will stay in the family undivided. Until now, I had provided for the estate to devolve to you as the oldest daughter, after the payment of legacies to Rachel and Judith. I now feel this is unfair to Judith and, in any case, Gilbert believes she could mount a successful challenge if she had a mind to. So, whilst not constraining you legally, I have revised the provisions. Subject to Rachel being cared for and supported, you and Judith will inherit my entire estate in equal shares. This means the two of you will have to decide the future of Banabrook. Gilbert says the way we have framed the will makes almost anything possible, including selling the property and splitting the proceeds, which he says would be the simplest course if the beneficiaries cannot agree on a plan to keep it in the family. I pray it won't come to that.

It is clear your anger has not abated. I trust my death will render it of no further consequence and that you and Judith will be reunited. She was in nappies when you left us and, as I write this, she is not yet twenty-one. What you tell her about the past will be entirely up to you. Whatever happens, however, I hope you will decide to keep Banabrook in the family.

You are often in my thoughts.

Your loving father,

W.M.Blake.

She did not have time to read the will, but the letter told her all she needed to know. After thirty years, her father's handwriting had an unexpected effect—a niggling reminder of emotions she had long suppressed. Perhaps going to Banabrook was not a good idea; there would be other reminders of the past. As for sharing the estate with Judith, she had no concerns. Half of very big would be big enough to solve her pressing financial worries. But Banabrook must be sold, and quickly.

'Please welcome Senator Caroline Blake.'

She rose to enthusiastic applause. A political opponent had once suggested that her practice of standing beside the lectern when she spoke was to ensure nothing obscured her latest outfit. That this former businesswoman-of-the-year continued designing clothes as her main relaxation had been well established by the leading women's magazines, as was her insistence on wearing only her own creations. That she was no longer a director of Caroline Blake Fashions was widely known because of a Sunday tabloid's witch-hunt over share disclosures by politicians. That she was still personal guarantor of a sizeable bank loan for the company she had founded was mentioned frequently by the financial press.

During the prolonged applause, she used smiles and gestures to acknowledge the president, a few dignitaries, and the entire audience—her elegant mime ensuring the first words of her speech would not be banal formalities. She never used the lists of introductory acknowledgments sent to her office before a public appearance. Should she consider anybody in the audience worthy of mention, she would name them during her address.

Judging the moment she could be heard by all, she projected her first words into the subsiding applause: 'The reform of family law must be the first priority of the party.' The room went quiet. Senator Blake was speaking on one of the key subjects of her political crusade—a crusade some believed would lead to her becoming the nation's first woman prime minister. She was already acknowledged as the driving force behind much important legislation. But what attracted many members of the general public was her obvious feeling for issues the electorate valued—in this case, as she was now saying: 'the need for stressed families to embrace compromise as a virtue, where compromise between the parties in conflict might ease the burden on the innocents—the children.'

Arrangements

Monday 10th September 1990

'And hire me a car,' Caroline called as an afterthought. Her secretary turned in the doorway but had not drawn breath when Caroline continued. 'It's only a week since that batch of prickly ministerials. We don't want any more finger-pointing over personal use of vehicles.'

'For crying out loud; that wasn't about you! You came in yesterday to finish these bloody reports, and now you're all coy about taking your entitlements. It's not reasonable.'

'The press isn't interested in what's reasonable.'

'You've lost your dad!'

'Don't give me a hard time, Bet. It's not negotiable, and we've a lot of calls to make.'

'You should be using one of the pool drivers as well. And putting him up at the motel. All right, I know, not negotiable.'

Except for the Prime Minister, she did not tell her parliamentary colleagues why she was to be out of town. Each would have felt the social imperative to commiserate and engage in caring small talk. Apart from using precious minutes of a week she must now condense into a day, this would confront her with questions she couldn't handle. Even Bet, a confidant on most subjects, knew nothing about her family.

Throughout this hectic Monday, ambivalent feelings about the remainder of the week disturbed Caroline's concentration. At 1pm, Bet brought in a sandwich and coffee, and stood over her until she started to eat.

At home that evening she made her last calls for the day. For a while she wondered whether her recently acquired mobile telephone removed the necessity to tell her solicitor where she'd be. But she'd been warned some country areas had poor reception and, having requested urgent attention to her financial problems, she could hardly make herself difficult to find. She caught him just finishing dinner. As soon as he began the commiserations, she cut him short. 'Thanks, Sean, but I'd like to skip the formalities. My father and I fell out a long while ago. When this is all over, I'll buy you a drink and tell you a bit more. For now, the only consideration is an inheritance that will end the nightmare. I'm not even telling the board until I get back. I called the chief accounting officer this morning and he's spoken to the bank. He thinks they'll hold off while I get things moving.'

Her second call was to her cousin Tony. Yes, the solicitor had telephoned. Yes, he would be at the funeral. No, he didn't feel she'd been neglecting him.

'For heaven's sake, dear Cous, you're a senator. I'm not that important.'

'You are to me.'

'I warn you. I'll cry.'

'I might need you to lean on, Tony. I don't know these people.'

'Chin up old chap—as my dad used to say. I've booked a nostalgic trip on the train. Max will meet me at Calway Junction. End of the line these days.'

'Who's Max?'

'The Reverend Maxwell Kingsley. Incumbent Vicar of St Mark's, a teeny bit eccentric—which, of course, I like—and friend of Judith. Big, big friend, if you catch my drift.'

'You've met him?'

'Came to interview me for the family history.'

'Our family?'

'Yes. I'm taking him some stuff I've had stored away. There'll be a bit of a surprise for all of you. Now then; deep breath Caroline. Everything will be all right. Trust old Tony.'

Years of practice made packing a suitcase almost automatic. She did so and climbed into bed, her mind now exercised by a new concern. She had not wanted to worry Tony. Having lived in Sydney through the seventies and eighties, he would have needed little prompting to remember the case of the Reverend Maxwell Kingsley.

PART TWO

SECRETS

Discovery

Friday 7th September 1990

Walter Blake's body lay beside the stables, like a discarded scraggy effigy, on the rubble where the builders had been digging the new foundations.

Max heard Judith race across the verandah and down the steps. Later, he would wonder if the wail that brought him running from the homestead was an element of her heritage. By the time he reached her she was sitting on the ground, arms clasped around her legs. He knelt and held her, aware of the salty tinge to an aroma he cherished.

'Why there? It makes no sense! No bloody sense.' Judith sipped the tea she'd let go cold. She'd not eaten but had settled herself on the end of Walter's bed, as had been her wont after dinner most evenings, to chat to him about the events of the day.

It was Friday. She'd been delayed leaving school; one of the parents had wanted to discuss a child's progress. Entering the room with her bright face on, she found her father's bed empty. She called for his nurse, Ginny, but there was no reply. It had been Judith's idea to move him into the family room so he could look through the picture window towards the forest. As she turned from the empty bed, something had drawn her to that view. She'd seen something down by the stables—indistinct, but she knew.

'No bloody sense!' she repeated now, putting her cup down with a clatter and sloshing tea onto the bedside table.

Max turned from the window where he'd been staring in the direction of the stables even though the sun had long since set behind the trees. 'Perhaps he foresaw the end and wanted to be outside when it came. Out in the fresh air and—what did he call it?—the good rich earth of Banabrook.'

Doc Smithers had come and gone. It was a two-hour round trip from Calway Junction, but death makes its demands. 'Nothing we didn't expect,' he said, 'other than it happening this way and him being out there. A last grasp at life, maybe. Do you need anything, Judith? To sleep, I mean?'

'I'll be all right.' She walked him to his car. 'We've been prepared for it to happen, but...'

'Not quite like this.'

'Thanks for coming so quickly.'

He hesitated, stepped forward, and kissed her on the cheek. She blinked a few tears and waved as the car disappeared down the dusty drive into the night. She was still there when lights coming over the hill signalled the arrival of the undertaker.

Aftermath

Saturday 8th September 1990

After a disturbed night, Max was up before the kookaburras. Two weeks earlier, he'd moved to Banabrook to help Judith care for her father. Concerned about the propriety of living, unmarried, in the same house as another teacher, he occupied a spare room in the farm manager's cottage. He pulled on a jumper and track pants, and left quietly to avoid waking his housemates. Standing by the stables at first light, he considered the spot where the body had lain. He tried to tell himself his imagination was over-active. Nevertheless, as he headed for the homestead, the conviction grew: Walter's visit to the stables had been more than a last grasp at life.

Judith was already up and making tea. Before he had time to ask she said, 'I'm fine, but I need to be busy. Ginny's coming over early. She wants to take the linen away to launder. I was going to say no but I think she wants to be involved. I'll telephone Mr Ross and ask what legal things need doing. He'll have to inform Caroline.'

'I thought you might call her yourself.'

'No! And don't tell me why I should. I won't, and that's it.'

'Hey, it's me, remember.'

'Do you want breakfast?'

'I'll make myself some toast.'

'If it's all right with you, I'm suggesting Wednesday for the funeral. Caroline will have to approve but I don't expect she'll want to come.'

'You're happy for me to officiate?'

'Of course.'

'I needed to be sure.'

'I'll call Rabbi Levi when it's Mama's turn. Daddy's a job for you.'

'Who's Rabbi Levi?'

'He runs the Jewish Boarding School outside Calway. Used to visit Mama sometimes.' She paused and sighed. 'I'll go and see her today.' A slight crack in the voice as she added, 'Oh Max, she won't understand.'

'I know, darling. But talk to her as though she does. Just in case.'

Soon after nine o'clock, Max helped Ginny carry Walter's bedding to her ageing Kombi-van.

'It's something I like to do when a patient goes,' she said. 'We're both pros so you know what I mean. For me, doing this... well it sort of wraps up the case.'

'Rites of passage come in many forms.'

Ginny waved an arm towards the homestead. 'It's a brave face she wears but you'll have to look after her. She's worried about her mum, Max. Been a bugger of a few months for her. Absolute bugger.'

'Have you any idea why he went down to the stables? Did he say anything?'

'I've been thinking about it since she phoned last night. I went in after lunch to make sure the racket from the backhoe wasn't too much for him. He was standing in the window. He said something about them wasting time digging up the old barbecue slab. I told him he wasn't the bloody supervisor and shooed him back to bed. I came in again when the crew was leaving. That'd be a bit after four, I reckon. He said it was nice the noise had stopped 'cause now he'd be able to have a nap, and since you two would be home soon I might as well go.'

'Was that unusual?'

'It had happened before. Days when he knew I wanted to get to the shops to avoid coming into town on Saturday.'

'Did you suggest that yesterday?'

'No. But he seemed fine or I wouldn't have left him.'

'I know, Ginny. We all thought he'd been having a good week.'

'In my business there are no surprises. You can have a ward full of people, and when the alert goes up it's the one least likely who's having the heart attack. And that's something else I don't need to tell a minister. God's mysterious ways.'

'Let's not start that again.'

'I shouldn't rib you. Not now.' She touched his arm, squeezed it gently, an unaccustomed intimacy he understood and appreciated. 'Take care, mate. I'll see you at the funeral.'

Max waved at the back of the departing vehicle, closed his eyes against a passing waft of dust, and tried to dredge up a memory. Somewhere in the oral history tapes there was reference to laying a concrete slab.

As is the way in rural communities, the Kalawonta grapevine traversed vast distances at great speed. News of Walter's death reached the hospice before Judith arrived; carers emerged from corridors and doorways to say appropriate things and frown, smile or touch.

She sat beside her mother's bed and explained why she'd come, choosing words with care but sparing no detail in case something was registering. She stroked the pale cheek and felt the helplessness shared with all whose loved ones come to this.

The task over, she sat in silence for a while. Then, as always, she began telling her mother what had happened in the days since her last visit: Josephine Little's drawing of a honeyeater, Martin Blunk's tantrum, the progress Max was making with the history project, Tom's battle with the old windmill.

Suddenly Rachel turned her head and mumbled something. Judith leant closer. With unexpected clarity Rachel said, 'Walter is gone.'

'Yes, Mama.'

The frail brow wrinkled with the effort. 'They tell it to me. Walter is gone.'

'That's right, Mama.'

Reaching out, Rachel pulled her daughter closer and whispered. 'Nobody must find it.'

Judith looked into the watery eyes—felt the grip tighten. The bony fingers were strong enough to hurt, but to pull away might suggest rejection.

'It's all right, Mama.'

'Nobody must find it,' Rachel whispered.

The grip relaxed and it seemed the elusive thought had again passed into the jumble of memories. Then, as if remembering anew, Rachel added, 'Near the stables.' The troubled eyes closed, screwed tight, and Judith waited, hoping for something more. Instead, her mother rolled over on the bed, pulled her knees to her chest, emitted a drawn-out cry, and started to rock from side to side.

One of the carers hurried in. She sat on the edge of the bed, stroking Rachel's arm, muttering there-theres and it's-all-rights, until the moaning subsided. Soon, steady breathing gave way to gentle snoring. The nurse motioned Judith to follow her into the corridor.

'It's happening more frequently, I'm afraid. We try not to use too much medication because it gives her hallucinations. Fortunately she sleeps a lot without anything to help her.'

'Do my visits set her off?'

'I don't think so, dear. Even if they do, you must come. She still has lucid moments. She still knows you care.'

'Something I said about daddy's death seemed to register.'

'We never really know. Things sometimes surface, but there's no obvious pattern.'

'Does she talk to you... about the past?'

'Only about you. Did you run away some time?'

Judith felt her cheeks flush. 'When I was a teenager. I got lost in the forest and they had to come searching for me.'

'Dementia's a strange condition. Over and over she's told me you ran away. Nothing else; just that. Somewhere in her mind the memory seems to have become a fear that she'll lose you again, that you won't come.'

A short time later Judith pulled onto the highway and headed for home. Something buried near the stables. Something nobody must find. On one level, it was a fascinating mystery. On another, it had the makings of a horror story. If something had been buried, it preyed dreadfully on her mother's mind. Memories can be hurtful, even memories of trivial things, like the time she'd run away. Again she felt her cheeks burn. Why must we relive our embarrassments, she thought.

'I've called you for dinner twice!' Judith's tone suggested resignation rather than anger.

'Sorry, darling. Carried away.'

'If you're like this before we're married...'

'Unfair!'

'Is that so?'

'Okay. Point taken.'

At the table in the kitchen, Max devoured spaghetti marinara and praised it enthusiastically. Loyalty to his departed mother, and fear of misinterpretation, prevented him telling Judith how wonderful it was to live with a good cook for the first time in his life.

'So what were you looking for?' Judith asked.

'On one of the tapes he says something about building the barbecue area. It might provide a clue.'

'To the buried something?'

'I know it's bizarre.'

'I am getting used to it.'

'To what?'

'Max the historian has been replaced by Max the sleuth.'

'It's actually the same thing.'

Dinner over and the washing-up done, Max resumed his search of the oral history tapes. It was some time before he found the segment he'd been looking for. He called Judith. They listened to Walter and Max in conversation.

We had a lot of fun down there over the years. I built the barbecue myself. Even mixed the concrete and poured the slab.

When was that?

Good question. It was [A SHORT PAUSE] well... Emily had been at me to do something about the end of the stables. It wasn't a good area to grow anything. In the shade all day, and the horses churned it up a bit. But the shade made it ideal for a barbecue once I'd paved it. [A LONG PAUSE]. By the time I'd finished, Emily had gone. [A LONG PAUSE] So I guess that answers your question. It must have been 1945.

'Any help?' Judith asked.

Max shrugged and mimed "iffy".

'If daddy knew something was buried there, why would he let them dig it up?'

'I think I've worked that out. He told Ginny they weren't meant to dig up the slab. I've looked at the architect's specifications. The original plans were for perimeter footings, but the shire council required a new concrete slab foundation. Walter must have thought the old slab would be permanently covered by the new building. Maybe that was his intention from the start. But he hadn't expected any digging other than the perimeter.'

'So he told Ginny to leave before we came home, and then got himself down there to look?'

'Most of the area had already been compacted. If the buried something hadn't already been dug up, all might be well. He must have collapsed examining the pile of rubble.'

'He knew we'd be home soon.'

'Stranger things have happened than finding something in the first few minutes of looking.'

'Do you think we should tell the builder to stop work, so we can go looking?'

'Only you can decide that. I'm still a comparative new boy in town.'

'Not any more Max. I'm afraid you're part of this now. Unless you're planning to opt out.'

'You know I won't do that.'

Arrival of a New Boy

1987

Shortly after 4pm on Monday 19th January 1987, Max Kingsley stepped off the train at Arajinna Station. He was the sole arrival and it was not difficult to identify the teacher there to meet him. She and a brown kelpie were the only signs of life.

'Hi! You must be Max. I'm Judith Blake.' Slender hand, firm grip. She looked at his small suitcase. 'Do you travel light or is there something in the guard's van?'

'I have a trunk coming by road.'

'Good. I'd hate to think you weren't staying. We're very short handed.'

'Were you able to find a room for me?'

She laughed and put a hand to her mouth. He was already captivated.

'I'm afraid Arajinna doesn't run to boarding houses, but there are several empty cottages close to the school. We've rented you one for a month. You can make your own choice when you're ready. We also borrowed a small car from someone who hopes you'll buy it. You can pick it up tomorrow.'

'Great.'

Judith led him to a dusty ute and lifted a canvas tarpaulin. 'Put your case under there; otherwise Barney might mark it for reference.' She whistled once and the kelpie leapt aboard. 'It's hardly elegant transport, but I was expecting you'd have more gear.'

'I'll remember who to call when the trunk arrives.'

'I thought I'd get you settled in; then take you home for dinner with my parents.'

'That's kind. Thank you.'

'I need to warn you my mother is a little vague. She has Alzheimer's. Early stages.'

'I'm so sorry.'

'We'd better pick up some milk and anything else you'll want for breakfast. There's a staff meeting at ten to kick the year off.'

Later that evening, when Judith dropped him back at the cottage, Max was already dealing with unexpected emotions. Apart from her driving an old ute, he was uncertain why he'd assumed dinner with her parents would be taken around the table of a more modest abode. Banabrook Homestead had come as a shock. For somebody brought up to radical socialism on a crowded housing commission estate, this was foreign territory. Six months later, he still had moments when his conscience insisted he was subjugating his political principles to personal enjoyment, but he chose to ignore them. Few weekends passed without his driving his second-hand Mazda hatchback to Banabrook for lunch with the Blakes and lessons in the pursuits of country gentlefolk.

'How do you feel?'

'Not as though I was born in the saddle, but I'm over the stiffness.'

'You're doing well.' Judith took the makings for lunch from the saddlebags.

'Do we need to tie them up?'

'Not with Polkadot in charge.'

'I've been meaning to ask where she gets her name.'

'It's a bit like calling a redhead bluey. That grey coat is so far removed from a bright primary colour.'

'Which is why you call the other grey Carmine!'

'You've got it.' She spread a rug and laid out the food.

They ate in silence until she said, 'Penny for a thought.'

'Is it so obvious?'

'Oh yes.'

'There's something I need to tell you. About me. I'd been hoping to avoid it but it might become an issue.'

'How fascinating.'

'What would you say if I told you I was an Anglican minister?'

'I would say "good heavens!" followed by "go on." '

Encouraged by Judith's nods, he found himself telling her many of the details of his early life: his joining a church choir as an excuse for keeping away from a drunken father, his path to the priesthood, and the crisis that precipitated his resignation. The story ended and there was silence until he said, 'That's it. Potted history of my life.'

'I can't wait for the unabridged version.'

He glanced at her and could tell she was mulling over the story. It was a while before she spoke.

'If I ask you a question will you promise me an honest answer?'

'I don't want to leave any other skeletons to uncover.'

'The business at the Kings Cross shelter; were you completely innocent?'

'I'm sure I would have been found guilty of the assault. I was lucky the police dropped the whole case.'

'And the victim?'

'I think there was some sort of trade-off. In those situations, police are sometimes a bit...creative.'

'Ends justify means?'

'Apart from the El Alamein fountain at night, the Cross is not a pretty place.'

'If you were innocent—well at least not convicted of anything—why did you leave the ministry?'

'Partly because I was an embarrassment to the diocese. But mainly because it drove home to me that I'd escaped the housing commission environment to plunge into something even worse. I knew I'd become a minister for all the wrong reasons, and I'd proved I wasn't up to it.'

'That was five years ago.'

'Yes.'

'And the media didn't continue to hound you?'

'They'd thoroughly milked my involvement in the early months. When the charges were dropped they lost interest.'

'You said it might become an issue here. Why?'

'Well, for one thing, I've been living a lie.'

'By not disclosing your past?'

'And letting people think I've been teaching for yonks.'

'Did you say that?'

'It's been assumed, and I haven't denied it.'

'Oh how naughty!'

'My classroom experience is quite limited.'

'You're a bloody good teacher, Max. Arajinna is lucky to have you, and you know it. So what's brought this on now?'

'I'm thinking of blowing my cover.'

'How exciting. Do tell!'

'Your father believes Olive Sampson is pining because she can't take regular communion.'

'I could believe that.'

'He takes a special interest in her.'

'She's an old family friend. I call her Aunty.'

'I'm still ordained, and St Mark's is still a church. It occurred to me I might be able to get the Bishop's approval to consecrate bread and wine, and administer the sacraments to her.'

'Oh Max, she'd be so grateful.'

'You don't think it would be hypocritical?'

'It would be a kindness. I'm sure God would approve.' She looked to the sky and appeared to be listening, then smiled and gave a thumbs-up.

'I've always thought it's what the communicant believes that matters, not what the priest mumbles. But I can't help wondering how the town might take to finding it has a minister teaching at its decidedly sectarian high school—a minister who hadn't disclosed the fact.'

The response was an outbreak of the laughter he found so captivating. 'Forgive me, but it's such a ludicrous thing to worry about—well considering the bits of your past they won't be told. A crisis of faith will explain anything, and the town will have something new to talk about.'

'And if the rest of the story does come out?'

'Olive is one of the most loved citizens in the whole of Kalawonta. Everybody knows how much her faith has meant to her since Brian's death. They'll think it wonderful if you can help her. There are lots of crime-neutralising brownie points for you there.'

'Do you think your father will approve?'

'I'm quite positive.' She rose and stretched. 'Let's pack up. Mama will be resting, so you'll have Daddy to yourself. Then you can put your collar on back-to-front and get on the telephone to the Bishop or whoever.'

As they organised the horses, Judith said, 'Tell Daddy the whole story but don't try to explain it all to Mama. She'd try to follow but...'

'I know. She has to keep checking with you or Walter to remember who I am. It's sad.'

'She remembers she likes you. That's clear.'

'It's your opinion I care about.'

'I like a man with a colourful past.' She swung herself effortlessly into the saddle. 'Is it an uppercut I should be looking out for, or a left cross?'

He took breath to respond; but she'd touched the stallion lightly on the flank and taken off, her characteristic giggle audible above the beat of hooves.

The revelation that there was a minister in their midst did not unsettle the community of Arajinna. Within a month, Max received written permission from the Bishop to provide limited pastoral care as an associate to the vicar of All Saints church, Calway Junction. On the first Sunday of each month, he went alone to St Mark's to prepare the sacraments; then to Olive Sampson's property, which her Cornish forebears had named Land's End. Through Olive he learnt much of the history of the Kalawonta district, although he sensed she had some local knowledge she considered inappropriate for the ears of a newcomer.

As the end of his first year at Arajinna High School approached, he felt a contentment that had been missing from his life. It was to be short lived. In the week before Christmas, he came home to his rented accommodation to find a police constable sitting on the doorstep.

'Reverend Maxwell Kingsley?' The constable asked with solemn formality.

'Yes.'

'I've been asked to give you a message from a Detective Inspector Brody in Sydney.'

'Really?'

'He says why the hell don't you have a telephone and would you call him on this number.'

Max walked the short distance to the post office to use a public telephone. Justin Brody did not take long to come to the point. 'I thought you should know Lenny d'Aratzio has been paroled.'

'So soon?'

'Overcrowded gaols, and a parole board of idealists who believe a mind as twisted as Lenny's gets straightened out in rehab. I'm sorry Max, but that's the system. And if I can track you down, so can he. Might take him a bit longer. He might not even try.'

'Thanks for the warning. At least, in a place like this, strangers get noticed.'

'Good. Happy Christmas!'

Max returned to his rented cottage, poured himself a beer, and thought how quickly five years had passed since a previous conversation with Justin Brody.

A Day in Court

Thursday 19th August 1982

It was a warm Thursday morning in 1982. No longer employed at the shelter in Kings Cross, Max was free to attend Court and watch Lenny d'Aratzio led away to begin a lengthy gaol term. Lenny was not the man Max had assaulted, but a higher link in the drug trafficking chain of command. Although Max did not to rise with others in the gallery to cheer the sentence, he did contribute to the applause—and felt justifiably included in the Judge's low-key ticking off. His feelings about the event did nothing to change his belief that he'd been miscast as a minister. He had no inclination to forgive. On the contrary, he felt like Nemesis delighting in justice and retribution. As he left the courtroom, a voice behind him called, 'Reverend Kingsley. Have you a moment?'

Detective Inspector Brody had handled the allegations about the Kings Cross shelter and ordered Max's arrest. Subsequently, the charges had been withdrawn without explanation.

'Good result,' Brody said.

'I've been chastising myself for being so pleased.'

'I'm off duty for the rest of the day. I wondered if I could buy you a drink.'

'Well–'

'I know it must seem unusual; but I thought we might chat.'

Whether from curiosity or because the idea of a drink and some company was welcome, Max said, 'Why not? I'm... "off duty" too.'

'You've not been reinstated?'

'My resignation was voluntary. And I think there are some in the synod who'd be happy if I just disappeared.'

'I guess a synod is like any other committee. There's always at least one voice raised in righteous indignation.' He nodded in the direction he intended them to walk. 'We'll skip the pub. Hotbed of lawyers and reporters. Nearly got my nose punched one day by a bloke who'd just been acquitted. There's a restaurant up this way. Closed right now, but if I knock three times and ask for Pete...'

'Insider knowledge, eh?'

'In a way. Pete's my brother.'

Ten minutes later they were lifting their first glasses of Crown Lager, and Max was waiting to find out why they were there. Fortunately, Justin Brody was not an oblique person.

'Can I call you Max?'

'It's your round, you can call me what you like.'

Brody laughed. 'I'm Justin.' He held out his hand as though they'd just been introduced. 'The main reason I wanted to talk to you was to say how sorry I am you copped so much shit. I know what it's like when charges get dropped. Your name's been spread all over the front pages, but the public never gets to hear the other side. We're not meant to apologise, the police commissioner would have my guts for garters if he knew, but too bad—too bloody bad! I hate these cases. I have kids myself, so it's hard not to get emotionally involved. These evil bastards ruin life for all of us. I'll deny it if I'm asked, but my solution would be to cut their balls off. Anyway, we had our reasons, and I appreciate how readily you accepted the decision to let it drop.'

'You've got somebody under cover.'

Justin took a swig of beer and looked away.

Max said, 'Don't worry. I know you can't confirm it. His name's Vince. I won't do anything to put him in danger. I wish I had his guts.'

'They're bastards, these dealers. One of my colleagues says he has a grudging admiration for their evil inventiveness. He's with me though, he'd cut their balls off if he had the chance.'

'I was surprised you dropped the assault charge.'

'For some strange reason the miscreant decided not to lodge a complaint. Which made things easy. And you did us a favour.'

'How?'

'One of these days the broken nose will help identify him.' He finished his drink and banged the table. 'More beer Pete. What sort of bloody establishment are you running here?'

'My round,' Max said.

'Thanks, but forget it. It's a clip joint. I can only afford it because he doesn't charge me.'

Pete, an amiable character who'd said nothing after the initial introductions, brought them two more Crown Lagers. Max wondered how many informal interviews had been conducted in this room, how many had been apologies with obscure sub-text, and how many had been designed to winkle out vital snippets of evidence. He said, 'I'd really be more comfortable if you'd let me pay.'

'Okay,' Pete said. 'Put five bucks in the box on the counter. It's St Vinnies but I'm sure that won't upset you.'

Justin pushed his chair back and stretched. 'So, Max, where to from here? Any family ties?'

'None. My mother passed away a couple of years ago. My father was a war veteran— Korea. We had to move him back to the Repat, and he died in January.'

'Plans?'

'I think I'll go back to university. I'm thirty but I need a fresh start.'

'Sounds good.'

'Now I have a question.'

'Fire away.'

'Was the real reason for this meeting to see if I raised the little matter of d'Aratzio's threats?'

'It might have been at the back of my mind. Most threats to get back at witnesses don't lead to anything. But they should never be forgotten. I have a list of creepy crims up here.' He tapped his temple. 'Blokes I'll keep an eye on for the rest of time. I want you to get on with your life. I'm paid to do the worrying.'

Max returned that evening to his rented bed sitting room, watched by the woman opposite, who, like a character from a crime novel, peered constantly between the slats of her venetian blinds, gathering information for the weekly game of rummy. In an action he would later describe as a moment of inner-suburban madness he saluted her. He laughed as he saw the slats of the blind drop back into place. Yes, he thought, time for a change. On the table near the window, he'd laid out brochures and application forms. All it needed to commit himself to a new career as a teacher was his signature. And he now had an additional referee—a detective inspector no less.

Part of the Family

1988

For a few weeks after Justin Brody had tracked him to Arajinna, Max found himself thinking often about Lenny d'Aratzio. Despite a stretch of hot weather from Christmas into the new year, he slept with the windows closed and locked. As the months passed, however, he thought less about the threats. Brody's advice was right. He should get on with his life. Increasingly, this involved the Blake family, which seemed to have adopted him.

'It's all wrong!' Max pulled Polkadot up so fast the mare snorted and lifted her head sharply in annoyance. Judith galloped her chestnut stallion in a gentle circle and headed back. Max had already dismounted and was making peace with the grey.

'Problem?' Judith asked.

'It's me, not Polka.'

'Want to talk about it?'

'I think we have to.'

'I'll meet you at the trough.' She turned the stallion down the slope towards the dam.

The horses drank and started to graze. Judith chose a grassy patch under a tree and stretched out. 'So?' she asked.

'I've tried to get used to it but I can't.'

'Used to...?'

'You. Banabrook. Your family.'

Judith sat up. 'What's wrong with my family?'

'Nothing. Which is part of the problem. It would be easier if they were arrogant bastards.'

'You're losing me Max.'

'My upbringing is so far away from yours. I tell myself it shouldn't matter, but it does. I grew up hating rich people for being rich. Do I have a chip on my shoulder? Yes! Where I lived everybody was poor. Being bolshie and angry helped.'

'So you became the angry bolshie priest.'

'And having proved I wasn't any good at dealing with suburban poverty, I came to Arajinna to find space. I thought I could help with the crisis in rural schooling. But I didn't count on meeting you and spending my days on a property like this... and wanting this life so much... wanting you.'

'Max?'

'You are never out of my mind. It's wrong and it terrifies me, but I love you.'

'You love me?'

'Yes.'

'Not Banabrook? Not the money I stand to inherit? Me.'

'You.'

'So everything's all right, isn't it?'

'All right?'

'If this is a proposal, Max, it will go down in history as the most oblique ever devised.'

'It was a confession rather than a proposal, although... I'm making a complete ass of myself aren't I?'

'You are the strangest man I've ever known.'

'Yes, well–'

'If you did propose, I wouldn't say no.'

'Seriously?'

'What I would say is "let's wait".'

'You are serious!'

'Of course. I've watched you working with the kids at school and thought: this could be the man for me. You're the best friend I've ever had. No, I mean it! But my life is too confused to know whether I'm in love. I've got baggage too.'

'Such as?'

My unfathomable Mama, a half-sister I know only from news reports, a family history I don't understand.'

'And now I've made things worse.'

'Not worse. More complicated. But as long as you're sure it's me you love, our backgrounds and our worldly goods shouldn't matter. The rest we can work through. I like having you here. I expect you at weekends. I'd miss it dreadfully if you didn't come.'

She knelt beside him and turned his face so she could kiss him. It was the first time.

'You don't have to do the full guilt thing. You're only Church of England, Max. Or must I call it Anglican these days?'

'Thank you for your understanding.'

She rolled towards him, threw an arm over his bare shoulder and nuzzled his neck.

'Not that a good Jewish girl has licence to make free love—I mean "to make love freely"—the connotations of "free love" are too much even for me.' She pulled herself closer. 'But it is good to know in advance that we fit well.' She kissed his shoulder and he knew she meant it. He could feel her nipples pressed against him. Despite the cold, he'd kicked the blankets away from his side of the single bed to accommodate the warmth of bodies pressed together. He was in love—with her, and with a level of sexual gratification he had not imagined possible.

For many minutes they lay together in her bed. Walter and Rachel had stayed overnight in the Calway pub after the first day of the wool sales. Max and Judith had eaten well and come together at the sink—where the untouched washing-up still waited attention.

'Oh dear,' Judith said.

'What?'

'Can a minister tell a fib?'

'No comment.'

'Where have you been all night?'

'Who wants to know?'

'Tom and Fred.'

'They are souls of discretion.'

'Well bugger me. You're going to boast about your conquest are you?'

'Judith? No! Of course not.'

'I'd prefer they didn't know.'

'Unless they've been looking through the window, they won't!'

'I'd prefer they didn't suspect.'

'Thanks.'

'For what?'

'I didn't have the full guilt thing until now.'

'Do you think they will? Suspect, I mean.'

'Honestly no.'

'Do they think we're not up to it?'

'Would that worry you?'

'I do feel a little guilty. Your car's been outside all night.'

'Oh golly gosh, there's a give-away! For heaven's sake Judith, it's not the first time I've slept here. They know I enjoy a glass of wine.'

'First time when my parents aren't home.'

'Tom and Fred are your biblical toilers. They're already somewhere down the back paddocks, or trying to best the famous south windmill. For all we know, they think we're in bed together all the time. They mind their own business. And if it will make you feel better, if asked my whereabouts during the critical hours, I'll tell the bloody lie and do the penance or whatever!'

'That's why I love you.'

'Dear God in heaven please protect us from paranoid, irrational women, amen!'

'From the Latin, Greek and Hebrew!'

'What?'

'Mama always insisted on my knowing the roots.'

'No comment.'

'The linguistic roots, you idiot.'

'Of every damned word?'

'Of a number of interesting or significant words. "Amen" happened to be one.'

'Making love to you is much easier and more pleasurable than debating with you.'

Her peal of laughter was so energising that he stepped out of bed saying, 'I'll make us some breakfast!' He was as quick to return adding, 'God but it's cold out there!'

Later, Max looked up from the sink to see Fred on a tractor heading for the gate to the homestead road.

'Prepare to prevaricate!'

Judith made a sound he found impossible to interpret, and went out onto the verandah. When she returned the sound was clearly a sigh. 'They want me to ring the manager at Adderley's. His bloody bull has broken the fence again; half our milkers are out. Tom's sick of doing the repairs.'

'I wonder if the bull had as good a time as I did.'

This time there was no laughter. When he looked at her, she was unusually solemn.

'Problem?' he said.

'I suppose it's as well Daddy's away. He hates dealing with Adderley Farm even though the old boy's gone.'

'Do you want me to handle it?'

'I can do it Max! When Daddy's away, I deal with things.'

The tone was angry. Max was about to remind her they were lovers, but stopped himself in time. It wasn't him she was angry at—unless he'd sounded patronising. 'It's time for me to go,' he said. 'I'm on early yard duty. Do you have a nine o'clock?'

'Yes. But I'll be there.'

'I love you.' He gave her a quick hug.

'I'm glad you stayed the night.'

'So am I.'

As he reached the doorway she said, 'Bloody Adderleys! Why couldn't we have human beings for neighbours?'

Max left without attempting a response.

Although being adopted by the Blake family had been a welcome development for Max, the signs that he had also been adopted by the community came as a shock to him.

'I can't believe they did it behind my back!'

'Max dear, what is it?' Judith half turned from the stove but kept her eyes on the frying pan.

'You don't know about this?'

'About what?'

'They petitioned the Bishop.'

'Who did?'

'Heaven knows!'

'Well for what? Are you excommunicated or something?'

'You didn't know?'

'Please tell me what you're talking about!'

'I stopped at the cottage for my mail. One letter. Church letterhead. "The petition"— get that? "the petition!" for me to reopen St Mark's for general services has been approved. "Given the circumstances of the petition, the Diocese cannot provide a stipend; but will contribute to expenses when the level of attendances at services is established. Naturally, all services will be in accordance with the notes and schedules issued by the Diocese from time to time, and conform to the calendar in the Book of Common Prayer." Can you believe this?'

There was a pause while Judith added stock and stirred the contents of the pan before replying, 'Yes. I can believe it.'

'I don't understand.'

'You started using the church to consecrate bread and wine for Olive. People thought: Oh goody, let's get him permission to conduct services.'

'And didn't tell me?'

'They probably thought they were doing something for you.'

'Oh. I see.'

'I don't know Max. Things happen.'

'I resigned from the ministry. Permanently!'

'Got that wrong didn't you. My guess is you resigned from a post and lost seniority or whatever. Now you've surfaced in Arajinna and, for a measly contribution to expenses, the Diocese will be able to add numbers to their statistics. Active ministers—add one. Attendances—add whatever. Christenings–'

'Christenings?'

'–not many. Marriages—not many. Funerals—possibilities abound.'

'It's not a joke.'

'Bizarre though. You're in Kalawonta Max, my love.' She put the frying pan to one side and peered into a saucepan. 'This'll be ready soon. Set the table will you. Just us. Mama and Dad are having dinner at Olive's.'

Max opened his mouth to continue, but couldn't. He put the letter on the table and nothing more was said while he got out plates and cutlery, and Judith shuffled saucepans.

They were well into dinner before Judith spoke.

'You're sulking.'

'I'm bloody stunned!'

'Poor Max.'

'What do I do?'

'Start conducting services I hope.'

'Why?'

'Think of the alternative. You'll alienate all those signatories who must have thought this a good idea.'

'Bloody hell!'

'Sorry. Telling it like it is.'

On Sunday 4th September 1988, Max conducted his first service at St Mark's. The small Anglican communion was joined for Morning Prayer at 11am by several other Protestant groups, a dozen Catholics, two Buddhists, and a good number of individuals of unknown faith. The church was packed. To Max's surprise, the town had an ageing but competent organist who accompanied the hymns with music from the ancient bellows-operated instrument. Rachel attended, mainly because she could not be left alone. She sat, smiling vaguely, in the front pew, with eighty-seven year old Olive, whose health had continued to deteriorate but who insisted on being brought from Land's End for this momentous event. Olive was to return to St Mark's one month to the day later, in her coffin. Again the church was packed. She was interred beside her beloved husband Eddie in the family plot.

Beasties in the Blood

Friday 7th October 1988

A few days after Olive's funeral Walter mentioned he was feeling weak and slightly nauseous. Judith was all for taking him at once to the doctor in Calway Junction, but he resisted and she didn't push him.

'Olive was a good mate. It's knocked me a bit. I'll be fine. I'll skip dinner though. You can bring me some tea in bed if you like.'

Next day he announced he was much better, but Judith told Max he'd eaten little and she thought he was cracking hardy. When the symptoms returned the following week, she was taking no excuses.

'She's a bully Max!' Walter called as he followed her to the car.

'Beasties in the blood!' was Walter's own description of the condition ultimately diagnosed. 'They say it's not too bad yet, but there's no real cure. If you ask me it's a "get your affairs in order" sort of illness.'

Judith was more forthcoming. 'They've given him six to twelve months. I told Mama. She nods and makes noises as though she understands; but I'm not sure she does—which might be for the best.' She went to Max and put her head on his shoulder. 'At least now I have you to lean on. If this had happened last year I'd have been all alone.'

'Caroline?'

'He says it wouldn't be fair to tell her.'

'Why, for heaven's sake?'

'Death-bed pressure he calls it.'

'So what happens next?'

'Apparently its a bit like leukaemia. Doc Smithers will send a nurse to give him weekly injections. I've got her name here somewhere... Virginia Underwood.'

'What are the injections meant to do?'

' "Juice him up" was Doc's expression. But it's all downhill really, the question is how steep and how fast.'

'We'll need to find some things to keep him occupied.'

'He likes your idea about compiling the history of the shire.'

'So does Trudy; she's approved it as a school project. She wants us to work it into the assignments for Year 11 History. Year 10 English will use it for essay topics. We're also setting up a club as an extra-curricular activity so other students will be able to participate. I was thinking of asking Walter to be the Club Patron.'

'Then go and tell him. He wouldn't admit it but he could use a bit of juicing right now.'

A Conversation with Judith's Mama

Wednesday 9th November 1988

'Max.' Rachel said his name as though savouring the sound. 'Max.'

'Yes, Mrs Blake.'

'I was making sure I remembered. Max is right, yes?'

'It is.'

'I heard Judith on the telephone. She told someone I am sometimes lucid. The doctor says it also. En français: lucide, bright like a star. But a fading star I think. Fading, n'est-ce pas?'

'Not if you can still make observations like that.'

'I don't want to embarrass you with this.'

'Have no fear of that.'

'I have no fear of you, Max. But I am frightened a little. When I am lucide I am aware I am not always so. Judith likes you.'

The non sequitur left him momentarily unable to respond.

'Poor Max; I do embarrass. I wanted to tell you it makes me happy—while I could remember it is what I wanted to say... to Max. You love her I think.'

'Very much. And if she decides to marry me, Mrs Blake, I will cherish her always. I promise.'

'You guess well... Max.'

'About what?'

'What the mama wants to hear.'

'She is fortunate to have a mama like you.'

'It was so long ago... so far away. I thought sometimes to talk to her, but what good would it do? What good? There was an old man...'

Rachel's strange outpouring stopped and she looked at him blankly. When it seemed she might not speak again he said, 'An old man?'

She looked puzzled. 'How did you know?'

'You said—.'

'I told you about him? I don't recall this.'

'You only mentioned him... in passing.'

'He said we must remember. Remember Dachau. People must be told. So I spoke to the young man in charge... Walter it was. He came to the railway. See how I remember. But I did not tell Judith. It was so long ago... so far away. She is too precious. Don't tell her about the old man, Max. Please?'

'If that's what you want.'

'It is frightening to be only sometimes lucide.' There was a pause before she smiled and said, 'Walter approves.'

'Of my courting Judith?'

'Courting. Courting. It is very English the word courting—in the context of paying attention with intent to marry—very English. But "court" is originally from the French I think. He's a good man.'

'Your husband?'

'He's a good man.'

'I think he's an extraordinary man.'

'Extraordinary. Yes, extraordinary. I think this too' Again the smile. Max had seen the likeness of mother and daughter, but never more pronounced.

The smile faded. The brow wrinkled. 'He's not well.'

Impulsively he took her hands in his. 'Hold to the good memories, Mrs Blake. You are much loved here.'

'The mind has no eraser. We try to hold good memories. We try.' She frowned for a moment and then added, 'It is Max isn't it?'

'Yes Mrs Blake. It is Max.'

From the kitchen a cry of: 'Max, where are you?'

He turned his head and called, 'In here with your mother'.

Judith came to the door. 'I need to know if you're staying for dinner.'

'I'd better not. I've a stack of papers to mark.'

'Papers,' Rachel said vaguely.

'Essays, Mrs Blake. That's the problem with teaching history. You set essays. Then you have to mark them.'

'You teach history?' Rachel said. 'We must remember. We must... remember. There was an old man.'

He looked helplessly at Judith. She jerked her head towards the door and said, 'I'll see Max to his car, Mama. We'll have dinner when Daddy's finished his bath.'

Rachel frowned and held out her hand for Max to shake. 'I'm glad you came. Goodbye.'

At the car, Max held Judith to him. She said, 'The poor darling is really struggling. Her short-term memory's very erratic. And she keeps mentioning an old man. I don't know where that comes from.'

'I think it's from a long way back. From places she's trying not to go.'

'Like Dachau?'

'How much do you know?'

'Almost nothing. Until recently she hadn't even mentioned the name. I'm sure even that was unintended. She's so confused.'

'Do you think Walter knows what happened to her?'

'A little perhaps. Enough to warn me not to probe too much. He says it's bricked up in her mind.'

Blake Tape One

Recorded Saturday 3rd December 1988

First Discussions with Walter Blake

If it's all right with you, I'll leave the machine running while we chat.

It won't make interesting listening.

Anything we decide to use will be transcribed anyway. The main thing is to pick your brains and get it down.

Before I croak.

I'll ignore that.

There's no point us bullshitting each other Max.

Where do you want to begin?

Why not Land's End?

Olive's place? Fine.

You could never understand how much she appreciated what you did for her.

It was little enough and more than repaid.

How so?

People don't actually say it but any newcomer to a community like this one is a threat—someone who might take away more than they give. Olive was my seal of approval.

She'd be pleased.

And it wasn't until well after we'd re-opened St Mark's I realised something else.

What?

How symbolic it was. For everybody; not just a handful of Protestants with a petition. There are shops closing down, farms under threat. But one establishment re-opened. I think it brought a touch of hope.

Let's pray you're right.

Tell me about Land's End.

I'm worried young Adrian might have to sell up.

Why does everybody call him young Adrian? I'm sure he's older than me.

It's what Olive called him all his life. His dad ran the Arajinna Ice Works. When it closed—must have been the sixties—his folks moved to Queensland. Adrian was still at school and he didn't want to leave Arajinna. Olive pretty much adopted him. Treated him like a son and left him everything. But mixed farming got harder and harder. The dairy herd was too small to keep going, and Olive made the switch to crops the year before a run of bad seasons.

So you think Arajinna's got another forced sale on the way?

After what happened to Weatherlee and Adderley Farm, you start to wonder who'll be next. We're lucky. Banabrook's big and we've no debt to carry. But even our cash flow is drying up. It's happened before but solutions are getting harder to find. Your generation will need some bold new thinking.

A Break for the Holidays

Friday 16th December 1988

'Don't go in; he's asleep.' Judith proffered a cheek for Max to kiss.

'Not juiced up?'

'Ginny can't come until tomorrow.'

Max savoured complex aromas, the precursors of a wonderful dinner, and sat at his now accustomed place.

Judith took a quick look at him before saying, 'He's been a bit low since your session last Sunday.'

'Why?'

'I don't want you pushing him.'

'I didn't think I was.'

'Olive and stuff? Worries about young Adrian?'

'It was his choice of topic.'

'Too many issues.'

'Better than starting with Emily and Caroline. When he suggested Land's End, I thought–'

'At this stage, I think he'd be better talking about his youth.'

'Like the premature death of his mum?'

'Don't get prickly. He quite likes the opportunity to talk about her.'

'And I'm supposed to guess?'

'Don't get prickly.'

'Have you a positive contribution to make?'

'Max!'

'The Vestry met tonight!' His sigh came out as a guttural harrumph.

'Well it's not much of an excuse but I'll take it. Hang on! Aren't they all lovey dovey with a week to Christmas?'

'Mrs Whittle is an escapee from a Patrick White novel!'

'They dote on you.'

'Who?'

'Mrs Whittle and the lamington gang.'

'My penance is I haven't resigned.'

'On bad days take comfort that one of our own was able to care for Olive and lay her to rest.'

'One of our own? Now I'm going to cry.'

Judith waved the seductively aromatic casserole under his nose, put it on the table, and kissed the top of his head.

Max said, 'How do I know what subject to talk to him about?'

'Stick to pre-war stuff. Before Mama came.'

This time the sigh was gentle.

Judith said, 'I'm not saying the war years are off limits permanently. But wait a while. Please?'

'I'll have to give the taping a rest until after Christmas anyway. The bloody vestry committee notices for Sunday will take longer than the sermon, and I haven't even begun that.'

Blake Tape Two

Recorded January 1989

Life at Banabrook

After Mum died, I spent a lot of time with my grandparents.

Simeon and Alice, right?

Dad was the first of the Blakes to work at something other than running the farm. Grandad was getting on but he was as sharp as the proverbial tack. Grandma Alice was a darling. Anyway, my brothers had gone back to school, and Dad wasn't here, so it was just me and the oldies, and... Max, I'm a complete idiot, I haven't shown you Grandad's memoirs.

Memoirs?

They'll be around somewhere. Judith might know. They're personal anecdotes mainly. You might find something of use.

Soon afterwards Judith brought tea and was met by an onslaught of unexpected questions. Max later admitted his "obnoxious insistence" (Judith's expression) on an immediate search for the memoirs was aberrant behaviour for which he was abjectly apologetic. He was forgiven after calling on Walter to testify that the laughter had done him good.

The memoirs, handwritten and never previously considered for publication, were unearthed in a storeroom in an outbuilding originally constructed as servants' quarters. They were in a sagging cardboard box, which Max took home for a quick browse. This was a mistake for a historian; his light was still on at dawn.

Max had been unaware of the existence of the storeroom, and it became a new source of historical information. With Judith's approval, he began systematically browsing the filing cabinets and archive boxes. It helped to have a reasonably comprehensive handwritten index; Judith thought the writing was Caroline's. To avoid opening old wounds they decided not to ask Walter for verification of the handwriting; although Max did mention what he was doing—and was surprised at the response.

'I've been extracting some documents from the Banabrook archives. I need your approval to use them as sources for the manuscripts.' He handed Walter a folder. 'I've put markers in the original files so they can all be put back.'

'I didn't know you'd been rummaging in the storeroom.'

'I'm sorry. I should have sought your permission.'

'Does Judith know what you're doing?'

'Yes.'

'Then I've no objection. All the skeletons become hers when I pop off. I'm not about to go destroying anything.'

'Skeletons?'

'Doesn't every family have them?'

Difference of Opinion

Friday 13th October 1989

Judith turned the car into the gravelled driveway of the hospice and stopped at the main entrance. From the back, Ginny leant between the seats and said to Walter, 'Okay buster, you sit tight and I'll get you a wheelchair.'

'Afraid I'll slow down the party?'

'It's not that, matey, its–'

'I'm super-juiced. You said so yourself. I'll use my stick, and Max can take my arm.'

'Anyone would think you were the boss,' Ginny said. 'Okay. But no cracking hardy. It's my job to get you home in one piece.'

'You and Judith go ahead. Max can help me. I don't want any fussing.'

'God, you're a hard case sometimes.'

'I could still take you over ten rounds.'

'Not if I kicked your stick away.'

'You wouldn't! Would you?'

It was the sort of exchange the others were used to, part of Ginny's unconventional approach to nursing.

By the time Max had helped Walter up the three broad sandstone steps and into the foyer, Judith and Ginny were waiting with the matron. Introductions over, the party began its inspection tour. Walter walked beside the matron, his grip on Max's arm tight and determined.

At each doorway, Walter stopped and took in the activity—whether for a detailed examination, or simply to catch his breath, Max could not decide. The rooms were clean and bright, the decor colourful. There was no hint of the antiseptic smell associated with hospitals. Carers smiled greetings, their cream uniforms with light blue trims making them look more like a well-sponsored sporting team than like nursing staff. Several greeted Ginny by name.

The patients, many obviously in some stage of dementia, appeared contented enough, although an outbreak of anguished cries had staff sprinting up the corridor.

Leading them through a doorway the matron said, 'Doctor Smithers said he thought Mrs Blake would like this room.'

'The purple bougainvillea,' Judith pointed out of the window. 'He remembered.' It was the first thing she had said for more than an hour.

'This was Mildred's room.' The comment was accompanied by a wheezing cough and they turned to find an elderly patient in a wheelchair.

'That's right, Mr Staines,' the matron said.

'One of the Staines from Bullermark?' Walter asked, shaking hands with the man.

'Spot on. Name's Joe. You're Arajinna aren't you? Banabrook.'

'Yes.'

'See Matron, there's a few of us here still got our marbles. Lost some other bits though.' He started to laugh, which caused him to wheeze again.

Max was pleased that the matron had placed the feelings of the resident above her possible urge to tell Mr Staines to buzz off and mind his own business. Perhaps she thought a new occupant for Mildred's room was his business. Nevertheless, Max caught her quick nod to a passing carer who stopped, assessed the situation, and said, 'There you are Stainsey. You'll miss M.A.S.H if you don't hurry.'

'Give us a push then love. See yuz later.' He waved and was gone.

As they returned to the foyer the matron said, 'Is there anything else you'd like to see?'

'You've been quite thorough,' Walter said. 'I'll tell Doctor Smithers to finish the paper work.'

Judith turned abruptly and left the building.

'It's what I expected,' Walter said. 'Go after her Max. Ginny can manage me from here.'

'I was going to offer you some tea,' the matron said.

'Thanks, but we'd better make tracks I think,' Walter said.

'Would you like us to come and meet Mrs Blake at Banabrook before she comes in?'

'Well, I...' Walter turned to Ginny.

'She might not remember the visit,' Ginny explained 'But there's no telling what she registers at this stage. My advice is have them come for lunch in the kitchen one day—like family. There's just a chance it will make them familiar to her when she arrives here.'

'Then, yes. And thank you.' Walter said to the matron.

'Just me and one of the carers. Would Wednesday suit? We can take her in on Thursday or Friday.'

Max found Judith standing by the driver's door of the car, grim but not crying. In his best matter-of-fact voice he said, 'Would you like me to drive?'

'Do you think I can't?'

'It's not good to drive when you're upset.'

'Angry, Max. Angry!'

'Even worse.'

She thrust the keys at him, marched around the car, and got into the back seat. Walter and Ginny emerged slowly from the main entrance with a male carer holding Walter's arm. Max met them at the bottom of the steps and took over. The carer went back inside. Suddenly, Judith got out of the car.

'You didn't even ask my opinion! You didn't even ask!' She stood in front of her father, blocking his path.

'Darling it's everything Doc and Ginny said. We couldn't do better.'

'It's not Banabrook. It's not her home.'

'Don't start this again Judith. We've been over it, and over it.'

'And I've never agreed. Never!'

'You can't care for her any longer.'

'I can. With Ginny's help, I can.'

Ginny said, 'No sweetie. We can't. Not the way they can here.' She stepped forward with her arms open but Judith twisted free and ran down the driveway.

'You'll have to get me into the car, Ginny.' Walter's breathing had become laboured. 'Take your time with her Max. We've got all day once I've sat down.'

Max found Judith sitting on the sandstone fence weeping silently. He sat beside her.

'Don't say it; I know you agree with them. You've all been against me, all along.'

Max decided against a response and sat quietly.

'We look after him. We can look after her too.'

'We aren't going to find him drowned in the bath because he forgot to turn the tap off.'

'She needs me. I know she needs me.'

'Of course she does. But she also needs the very best care, and it's reached the stage where she needs it every minute of the day. Even if you gave up teaching completely, even if Ginny moved in permanently, we don't have the resources. You've seen what this place has to offer. I didn't realise we had such a high quality hospice in the shire. And an hour might be a long way to drive angry, but some people commute further for daily work.'

'Dad won't be able to.'

'And it's breaking his heart. But he knows this has to be.'

For a minute or more they continued to sit. Then Judith reached out and took his hand. Still they sat. Max had no idea what else he might say. Another minute of silence, two. He felt her head rest on his shoulder.

'Oh Max. Some days she doesn't even know who I am.'

When they walked slowly up the driveway, arm in arm, Ginny was standing at the driver's door. She looked at Max and held out her hand, palm upwards. 'Keys, buster!' He handed them over.

Nothing more was said until half way to Banabrook.

'Dad?' Judith said.

'Darling?'

'I love you.'

'I know.'

There was silence until they reached a drivers' rest where Ginny pulled over and stopped. She fumbled in her pocket, produced a handkerchief, blew her nose and wiped her eyes.

'Bastards. I couldn't see. We might have had an accident!'

Bleak Day

Saturday 20th October 1989

Max wondered whether any of the provisions for Rachel's move registered with her. Nothing she said or did suggested awareness of anything unusual, but the family had agreed on a principle: they would forever assume the possibility of understanding, and behave accordingly. The periods of lucidity were now rare, although occasionally she would comment on something from the past. She no longer remembered Max's name, but usually acknowledged his presence with a troubled smile. Sometimes she could be heard saying "Walter and Judith", to herself, as though clinging to the most important of her memories.

Lunch on Wednesday, with the matron and the leader of the team of carers, had passed as lunches at Banabrook often did these days—Rachel staring into space, occasionally taking a drink of water, eating only when Judith fed her, sometimes seeming to return briefly from somewhere out in space. When the meal was over she allowed the carer to take her into the family room, but a vague glance over her shoulder suggested confusion that this was not Judith. When tea was ready, it was the matron who wheeled in the trolley and poured, asking Rachel how she liked hers, receiving the answer from Judith.

On Friday morning Judith bathed and dressed her mother, chatting constantly about the move to her new home, withholding nothing, wondering what might be going on in Rachel's head. Outside, the sun shone and a light spring breeze brought the trees alive. Inside, the feeling was bleak. Max noticed Walter sitting by the window, head lowered. When he approached, the head lifted.

'Just conserving my strength, Max. I'll be fine.'

Hours of debate had led to an agreed scenario. At 10 o'clock, Max took the wheel of the car, Ginny beside him mainly to be on hand for Walter who sat in the back holding Rachel's hand. Judith would follow after lunch, bringing her mother's clothes and familiar things from her dressing table. She would also bring Barney, Rachel's favourite dog. The kelpie could not stay at the hospice but would be a frequent visitor. Judith's arrival was to take place some hours after the others had left—an effort to show Rachel she had not been abandoned, to sow the seed that there would be comings and goings.

Doc Smithers was on hand to greet Rachel and take her to her room, crowing enthusiastically about the purple bougainvillea as they stood in the bay window.

Walter had planned his leave-taking in consultation with Ginny, wanting to make it as natural as possible and not telegraph a change in the relationship. When the time came, he nodded to Ginny who said, 'Okay, Mrs B. Time to take this old reprobate for his rest. See you soon sweetie.'

Walter took Rachel in his arms and hugged her gently before lifting her chin and kissing her on the lips, a ritual he'd followed for as long as Max had known them. Perhaps the hug was a touch longer, the kiss a touch stronger, Max couldn't tell.

A Public Meeting

Saturday 3rd March 1990

Early in 1990 the Kalawonta Shire Council called a public meeting to decide the terms of a petition to keep the rail depot open. Shire President, Grant Hughes, commenced proceedings. 'We have to learn from what happened with the institute. We did too much whingeing about what we stood to lose and too little rubbing their noses in what we'd been contributing. I'm as much to blame as anybody. Sack me if you like. We were way too slow off the mark. The federal minister hadn't the slightest clue what we'd been putting in—in cash and in kind! I'll wager London to a brick it's costing them more to run now. But it's "Game over and stiff shit Kalawonta!" That's why we asked you to think up some real meaty arguments for keeping the depot. Heritage listing of the station isn't the way to go, because they'd do it in a flash, and send a junior minister to give us a plaque and say: "There's the pay-off! No bloody trains!" or words to that effect.'

Judith and Max listened to the discussion and stayed for tea and scones, but their only contribution was when Judith rose to say she was there to represent her father who was passionately committed to do his bit if a path could be found.

As they drove towards Banabrook in silence, Judith sighed and said, 'Could I have sounded any more platitudinous?'

'What if your father was to give Banabrook to the shire?'

'What?'

'Make it public property.'

'You're kidding!'

'Everybody thinks the solution is to make Arajinna a tourist destination. Lots of good suggestions, but they're not convinced it can be done. Banabrook is put forward as the centrepiece, but Banabrook is private property and there's no easy way for others to invest in it. So–'

'You aren't kidding!'

'I'm deadly serious!'

'Give away the whole estate?'

'With strings attached.'

'Of course. Now I see it all. You've been—what do they call them?—a sleeper.'

'A sleeper?'

'The bolshie from the slums inveigles his way into the establishment, gains their confidence, and appropriates their property for the good of the people.'

'Now you're kidding!'

'I'm not sure I am.'

'It's not what I meant at all!'

'I can't remember your exact words but I do recall being down by the dam with a guilt-ridden Max confessing a dislike of rich people.'

'I recall the day too. I told you I loved you.'

'And this is the next step in the plan? You disinherit me and I become a suitable partner for you. Then you go down on one knee and offer a life of honourable poverty or something? It's not the way of history, Max. Bolshie leaders are meant to espouse the cause of the proletariat but live the life of the rich. I think you've got it wrong.'

'I wasn't thinking of you being disinherited—well not entirely—I mean...'

'Yes I think you'd better spell out exactly what you do mean.'

Max couldn't remember her so clipped in speech. It was disconcerting.

'Okay, let's back up a bit.'

'Yes, let's!'

'There's a rural crisis. Some owners have simply walked off their properties and filed for bankruptcy. Arajinna, which we love—and don't deny me that right; I've only been here three years but I feel part of this place—.'

'Okay. Go on! Arajinna which we love...?'

'...is in decline. We're looking for ways to keep the dream alive. Your father told me it would need bold new thinking. I agree with those folk back there who believe Banabrook holds the key. Historically Banabrook is Arajinna—is Kalawonta. But we—Banabrook— can't go it alone. We need community participation. I'm not talking socialist doctrine. I'm not even talking seventies communes—"peace and love man; bring out the lentils"—I'm talking about a stricken community trying to save itself.'

'The Blakes have owned Banabrook for a hundred and fifty years!'

'All I'm saying is–'

'You're asking us to give away the family heritage!'

'I'm not, I'm–'

'You are.'

'No.'

'I bloody well heard you!'

'It's not what I meant. Hear me out. Please.'

'This had better be good.'

'I put it badly when I said give it to the shire. What I had in mind was some sort of vesting, on strict conditions. Things like the shire raising funds to return some capital to the family. You could also build in things like rights for the Blakes to continue living here, rights to manage... whatever it is Banabrook becomes.'

He glanced away from the road long enough to see that she was looking directly at him, her expression unusually stern.

'Let's face it,' he said, 'the way things are going you'll soon be holding a wonderful asset and very little cash.'

'We know that!' The tone matched the expression. She turned abruptly to look out the side window.

Max was conscious of having precipitated their first real argument. Unable to think of any way to ameliorate the tension, he concentrated on driving. After they'd maintained their silence for too long he said, quietly, 'I really did put it badly. It was just–'

She raised a hand, cutting him off. To his surprise, she said, 'It's actually an interesting idea.' The terseness was gone.

'You really think so?'

'Daddy's been concerned about "our heritage" for quite a while. He keeps discussing his contingency plans with me; I'm not sure he realises how often he does, but it must be on his mind constantly. Some of the plans involve closing off marginal paddocks to avoid maintaining fences and dams. In better times, the south windmill would have been replaced long since. Tom had to climb it in a high wind when the brake failed. Otherwise the whole damned thing might have come down.'

'So you think the idea might be worth examining?'

'I do.' After a while she added, 'Still friends, comrade?'

He glanced at her. Her face remained serious but she put out her hand and gently rubbed his shoulder.

'What's this? A symbolic massage of my left wing?'

She laughed and finished the massage with a gentle slap. 'Sorry for flying off like that. I am Mama's daughter after all.' There was another silence and her head swayed from side to side as the car rocked gently over a patch of uneven road. Then she said, 'I'm already starting to see possibilities. The manager's cottage is plenty big enough for us to raise a family.' He looked at her quickly; she was staring through the windscreen. She continued, 'We could turn the old servants' quarters into an apartment which could be for Caroline if she ever came back. Is there such a thing as rights in perpetuity—or for life, or somesuch?'

'I don't know. But that's the sort of approach I was grasping for.'

'Then let's do the research. It won't surprise me if Daddy's quite keen, particularly if Caroline's a part of it. He still hopes she will be.'

'Yes, I'm afraid he does.'

'But we won't give Banabrook away Max. Not completely!'

'I did put it very badly.'

Prelude to a Funeral

Tuesday 11th September 1990

Caroline pulled the hired Commodore into the rest area and stopped in a patch of shade. Peering at the control panel, she located a button to open the windows. It was good to breathe again the springtime scents of Kalawonta: new grass, cowpats, early brush flowers, eucalypts—none individually defined—a heady holistic aroma.

Stretching to remove some of the kinks, she walked slowly to the lookout. The structure was new since last she stopped here, but already in disrepair. Notice boards and logos attested to its construction in 1968 by the local chapters of the Lions and Apex Clubs. The peeling paint and other signs of wear made her wonder whether those worthy organisations were still meeting at The Criterion Hotel at 7pm on Tuesdays and Thursdays respectively—visitors welcome.

From the centre of the lookout she could see the entire length of the broad main street. Once it had been the highway. Far below, a single vehicle turned out of the only side street and angle-parked in one of the many vacant spots. A lone pedestrian crossed from one side of the main street to the other, taking a long diagonal route. He was in no danger; nothing else moved.

She read the inscriptions on the boards attached to the railing, their fading text and arrows indicating the direction and distance to unseen destinations beyond the ranges, and identifying some visible features. To the right she had glimpses of the highway she'd come in by from the city, five hours away. Before the construction of bypasses and stretches of dual carriageway, the drive had taken six hours in Maisie, her much loved Morris Minor. To the left lay the district of her childhood and the road through the last of the lush grazing country, leading to areas where farmers spoke of acres per sheep rather than sheep per acre.

The spire of St Mark's church evoked mixed memories. The last time she'd seen it from this vantage she still had enough faith to whisper a prayer. She couldn't recall the words, but knew they carried the weighty seriousness of a twenty-year-old's plea for deliverance. She could even recall what she'd been wearing—a tough khaki serge shirt, brown corduroy pants, and elastic-sided boots. Today the shirt was Armani, the pants Versace, and the footwear Sandler, her favourite low heels for driving. Tomorrow, she would return to St Mark's dressed in simple black, one of her own designs.

Her immediate destination was out of sight but important enough to have its own arrow and the notation: Banabrook Historic Homestead.

September was early for cicadas, but it had been a dry winter and she listened as they droned their song of welcome to warmer days. Stretching again, she returned to the car. Behind the line of trees that formed a windbreak, a cow with its neck thrust through the post and rail fence fixed her with a bored expression and chewed rhythmically. Beyond it, down the long slope into the valley, less adventurous members of the herd grazed in post-milking content. She thought about the tasks ahead. It would not be an easy day.

She knocked a second time. Still nobody answered. She tried the handle, opened the door, and called 'Hello'—her voice echoing gently along the hallway. She thought it comforting that Banabrook had not acquired the city compulsion to lock and bar. This was no forbidding fortress, not like her inner-city apartment with its deadlocks and monitored alarms. Knowing the conventions of rural life, she wondered why she felt so circumspect about entering. The nearest person might be half a mile down the back paddock.

She looked along the broad front verandah—still the original boards, their deep natural colour maintained by an annual application of preserving emulsion. Leaves swirled as a tiny willy-willy caught them, teased them, and dumped them carelessly in a small heap. She saw an image of a paper flag, an Australian flag, its handle poked through the bottom of a shoebox placed at the corner of the verandah, the nearest point to the driveway. It was an eerie sensation.

The white climbing rose now completely enveloped the verandah post and extended the full length of the roofline. Imported English stock carefully grafted onto roots from a native briar by her great grandfather Simeon, it had, like roses the world over, thrived in foreign soil. At the other end, beneath its haze of violet blooms, the wisteria was gnarled and tangled. She pushed the door open and entered.

'Anybody home?'

She moved down the hallway, the sound of her footfalls lost in the lush carpet runner. The polished boards, a reminder of childhood chores, triggered a release of adrenalin into an already over-loaded system. She paused, conscious of the beat of her heart. In the doorway of the family room, she stopped. The open coffin was not what she'd expected. The face was older, and gaunt; even so he was still handsome. After a moment of indecision, she gave the coffin a gentle pat and moved away. One question had been answered. Now she was face to face with it, she didn't know how to deal with his death.

'Hello? Anyone?'

There'd been little change to the room since she last saw it thirty years ago—the enormous bookcase, the cabinet devoted to livestock and equestrian trophies, the photographs, the blue and white Chinese vase that held the riding crops, the roll-top desk, the antique sideboard, the solid upright-piano at which she'd learnt the rudiments of music, even a hopscotch layout chalked on the carpet as so often in her childhood. The carpet itself was new; grandfather's lounge suite had been re-covered. But she recognised the hooky board, the quoits set, and a partly completed wooden jigsaw puzzle—all solidly constructed in an era when things were made to last. A Monopoly game left as it finished—had time stopped when she left? Maybe not; she couldn't recall ever managing to put a hotel on Park Lane.

Through the picture window, which stretched almost the length of the west wall, she looked into the house-garden and beyond it to familiar paddocks, the stables, and the edge of the forest. The wattle she'd planted in memory of a favourite puppy was now too tall for her to see the top above the eaves of the verandah. The easel still stood at the window, a nearly finished painting attesting to her father's persistence with that special scene. This was no _Golden Summers_ , but his technique had improved greatly over the years. As she approached, she smelled the pungent aroma of gum turpentine and linseed oil. Memories flooded. She closed her eyes.

From the vase containing riding crops she took one and read the inscription on the silver band. 'Good Lord! Was I ever fifteen?' Still holding the crop, she positioned herself at one end of the hopscotch layout. This must be a strange sight, she thought, a middle-aged woman jumping, hopping, turning, and coming back to the starting point. But there was nobody to see her. Still agile at the age of fifty-two, she accomplished the feat easily without ending in disarray.

The roll-top desk, her great-grandfather's, was strewn with papers, in the midst of which there was a half finished glass of red wine.

Returning to the coffin, she reached in to retrieve the broad-brimmed brown hat that had been placed on her father's chest. Putting it on, she contemplated her reflection in the mirrored back of the sideboard. 'Daddy can I wear your hat, Daddy can I please.' This was one of her earliest memories, riding on his shoulders, wearing that big brown hat, her fingers tangled in his hair, calling to her mother, 'Daddy's a horsey, Daddy's a horsey'. She put the hat back into the coffin. More uncertainty. She put her fingers to her lips and reached in to touch the cold cheek.

She had not heard footsteps, but became aware somebody was standing in the doorway. She put the riding crop down, thinking how foolishly guilty her action must look. The man was tall and slender. He crossed to the sideboard to put down a tray of glasses. Grey trousers, black shirt, ecclesiastical collar; he turned, smiled, extended his hand. There was no doubt that this was the man whose face had made the front page of the Sydney tabloids.

'Caroline Blake'. It was a statement not a question.

'That's right'.

'My condolences on your loss.'

'It's kind of you to be concerned.' This was the response she'd been working on in the hope she could be civil, without being hypocritical.

For some time he gripped her hand, scanning her face. Then he realised his omission. 'Oh, I'm sorry, Max Kingsley.' His handshake was strong and the slight roughness of the fingers suggested he wasn't afraid to join his rural parishioners in their fields. 'I'm a friend of Judith's. We work together at the high school.'

'So Judith's a teacher?'

'English and languages mainly.'

'And you?'

'History. Well, history, social studies, geography, politics, economics... You know what country schools are like.'

'Which is the sideline? Teaching or the ministry?'

'The ministry. It's a tiny congregation. I meant to change back into civvies. Had a christening this morning. First for ages.'

'And tomorrow a funeral. Alpha and omega.'

'Apt. I might use that tomorrow. Can I get you anything?'

'I'm fine for now, thank you.' Caroline waved an arm in the general direction of the coffin. 'Was this Judith's idea?'

'Well, you weren't here to consult!'

'It wasn't a criticism. It's just that wakes and open coffins weren't customs I grew up with.'

'Judith thought he should be here, so you and your cousin Tony could see him. There's no funeral parlour in Arajinna any more.'

'I didn't realise it was so easy. I thought... well embalming is such a complex process.'

'It's not a full embalming. There's a lot of improvising in the country these days. The farm manager got the old cool-room working and the funeral director obtained some sort of approvals.'

'You mean you put him away last night and wheeled him out again this morning?'

'That's right.'

'I see.' She turned from the coffin.

'Judith will be here in a minute I'm sure.' Max nodded towards the picture window. 'She's out there somewhere. Picking flowers. Yes. There she is.'

'Good god!' Caroline closed her eyes, then looked again. It was Rachel. Rachel as she had been thirty years ago.

'The likeness is uncanny, I'm told. Of course I didn't know her mother at the same age, but it's what everyone says.'

Caroline felt the need to sit down and did so in the nearest straight-backed chair. Bad choice; it faced at an angle away from the window. She turned her head to look again, to confirm what she'd seen. When she turned back, Max was busying himself with the glasses. She stood again, conscious that she must appear agitated, but unable to be still. She resumed strolling around the room, feigning renewed interest in furniture and ornaments, resisting the temptation to look again and again at the disconcerting image.

'How is Rachel?' she asked, trying to sound casual.

'We had to move her to a hospice.'

'That much I knew.' Seeing the surprised look, she added, 'Mr Ross, the solicitor.'

'I'm afraid you'll be shocked if you go to visit. She's sedated much of the time. When she's not, she seems tormented by awful memories.'

'You don't expect it so early. She's still in her sixties.'

'I sometimes think the war years count double. For some anyway.'

'Does she understand? About Walter?'

'She's long past that.'

'Sad. Did you know her well?'

'She was already losing her faculties when I came here. But I feel I know you all one way or another.'

'Really?'

'I've been working on a local history. We've made it a school project. I'm sure some of the boys would have preferred it if you were a man, but they think it's "so cool" the district produced a senator. Some of the oral history assignments have been riveting.'

'How interesting.' Caroline hoped her unease didn't show.

'The students who contribute will all be acknowledged in the book, which gives them extra motivation. It's hard finding ways to make learning of interest for them, especially in a decaying town. No museum, no art gallery, no theatre, not even a wide-screen cinema; kids busing in and out daily. It's hard to organise clubs and extra-curricular things. Anyway, with your father dying we were losing a valuable source, so I started seeing him as often as he was up to it. We recorded about twenty tapes; you might like to listen to some. No? Well, you know, what I meant was... sometime.'

'Obviously my father will be one of many sources. It must be a challenge, sorting the... er, the wheat from the chaff.' She smiled briefly, and added, 'The rural play on words was not intended.'

'The need to crosscheck and validate information is one of the research techniques I emphasise with the students. It's an important lesson for any budding historian.'

She indicated the roll-top desk. 'So this is you, is it?'

'Roll-top desks are made for messy workers. If you remember to roll the top down, of course.'

Caroline turned again to the window. 'What are they doing to the stables?'

'Extensions. The builders had begun excavations to put in the new foundations. I'll show you the plans.'

'No!' The reply had an abruptness she regretted at once. 'Maybe later,' she added to soften the refusal.

The figure from the garden, the disconcerting image of Rachel, had disappeared.

In the kitchen, Judith worked on an arrangement of banksias with long white feathery fronds of native grass. She'd seen the figure in the window. By taking a detour around the south side of the house, she'd avoided eye contact. A nervous smile and a wave from a distance seemed inappropriate for the half-sister she barely knew. For years she'd rehearsed the various possibilities: reconciliation, confrontation, recrimination. But the imagined scene had never included her father in his coffin, nor had it been influenced by a vision for the future of Banabrook. Caution was necessary—negotiation not confrontation. Perhaps the past could be explained.

She turned her attention to a second vase.

In the family room, Max wondered when Judith would arrive. Avoidance-behaviour was not her style—not usually.

'So, who came to the wake?' Caroline's gesture appeared to encompass the hopscotch layout and unfinished games.

'School colleagues mainly. Tom, the farm manager, and his assistant. A few of your dad's old mates. The rest probably share your reservations about wakes and open coffins. They'll be out in force tomorrow though, and back here for tea and scones. The trestles are already set up. The CWA, bless their hearts.'

'The Country Women's Association,' Caroline said. Her tone made Max wonder what the organisation meant to her. He was about to ask when she added, 'What do you think they'll make of me?'

'The CWA?'

'The "they" who'll be out in force!'

'Somebody might have a go at you about rural policy. There was a lot of anger when the institute went.'

'The institute was an anachronism. Heaven knows why it was set up here in the first place.'

'Surely you know the story.'

'The CSIRO is the place for that sort of research.'

'If the rail depot closes, we're completely stuffed.' The comment was sharper than he'd intended.

'The rail depot's a State issue.'

'And the State is saying the Federal Government has reneged on agreements to provide funds for track maintenance. The line this side of Calway Junction looks like being a casualty. They've already stopped bringing passenger trains this far.'

'It's a State issue!'

Max felt another flush of annoyance but kept a measured tone. 'You asked what I think people will make of you. All I can tell you is they're proud you became a senator, but disappointed you haven't been more vocal as an advocate for country interests.'

'Country folk always think that what's good for the country is good for the nation. Sometimes it works the other way.'

'And Caroline Blake Fashions is too up-market to have country stores!' It was out before he could stop himself. He saw the blow strike home and regretted it immediately. Caroline turned away.

Max said, 'Forgive me. That was completely uncalled for.'

'Politicians are soft targets. We get used to it.'

High in a gum tree at the edge of the forest, a dozen sulphur-crested parrots started their own argument. Max was furious with himself. After warning Judith about the need to play it gently, he'd taken the first opportunity to be aggressive. For heaven's sake, he thought, this is a daughter arriving for her father's funeral and I'm the priest. To his surprise Caroline said, 'We've made a bad start, haven't we? I'm sorry to be so edgy.'

'For you, it's understandable. I've no excuse.' He cast around for a different subject. Inspiration came. Brightly he said, 'We're writing your father's biography as well as the history. I thought you might care to–'

'A biography? A biography of Walter Blake?' The interruption was sudden, sharp.

'Why not? It's a fascinating life. He was, well, a visionary I suppose.'

'You think he was that important?'

'He shaped the district!'

'There must be no biography! And the history must not be revisionist.'

'Why would you think it might be?'

'I don't think you've lived here for long have you?'

'You can help us get it right.'

'Max, the press gallery already gives me enough stick. I don't want them prying into my family history.'

His surprised 'Why?' was forestalled by the arrival of Judith carrying a vase of banksias and native grass, which he recognised as being from beside the billabong near the private graveyard. He wondered if the symbolism was deliberate, a hook she might use to bring the family heritage into the conversation. The vegetation around the billabong had associations dating back to Alfred Blake's arrival at this place he named Banabrook.

The Refugee

Friday 13th October 1944

For five years, war had been devastating Europe. In 1942 it had touched Darwin. On Friday 13th October 1944, it came to Banabrook in the form of a refugee.

Walter stood at the window watching as the late afternoon sun, reflecting from the billabong through the trees, created the complex pattern he'd tried so often to capture on canvas. Down there, in a small area bounded by banksias, lay the remains of the early Blakes. Although new interments were no longer permitted, memorials to his father and brothers had been constructed a few weeks earlier. Chris Hepworth, Vicar of St Mark's, officiated at the dedication. But it was another ceremony, carried out by the Aboriginal Elders, that had moved him most—a ceremony he heard but didn't see. They'd sung for the return of friendly spirits lost in far off lands. He would remember the resonance of that sound forever.

Now, the Blake demesne, as Grandad Simeon had always called it, was his. He was not yet twenty-five.

According to the Title Deeds, he also owned a large area of the forest, though its use was restricted by Alfred's pact with the Aborigines to leave it untouched. This was the route used by the people in the south to move north for the winter.

Richard Matheson Blake M.D, F.R.A.C.S

1888-1942

Interred in Surrey, England, with other victims of war

Loving husband to Elspeth Lorna (decd)

Father of Michael (decd), Jonathan (decd) and Walter

On a visit to England at the outbreak of war, his father had stayed to help with the massive surgical load. His body, with those of two other doctors and their patients and nurses, was recovered from the rubble of a temporary operating theatre during the blitz.

Michael Matheson Blake

1914-1941

Lost at Tobruk

Jonathan Matheson Blake

1915-1941

Lost at Tobruk

Meanwhile, at home, Walter survives and inherits.

His daughter Caroline, a six-year-old packet of energy, emerged from behind the stables and came running up the paddock with her ever present entourage of bounding puppies and their harassed mother. It was time to start treating them as working dogs rather than as pets. He should tell Caroline, and give her some lessons in dog handling. That's if he ever found the time to get back to managing the property. The dogs slid under the gate into the house-garden. Caroline climbed the gate—obviously more fun than opening it. She saw him at the window and waved before haring off around the house.

Emily's footsteps in the hallway brought him back to the central issue of an extraordinary day. 'Well?' she asked.

'Apart from the name, Rachel, I know almost nothing about her. She says she's twenty-one. But she had no passport. No papers at all.'

'And they found her at the siding?'

'Don't ask me the hows or whys of it, I haven't a clue. She told me some bizarre story about Jews being exterminated in Europe. She says she was in a prison camp at a place called Dachau.'

'And she turns up here?'

'In a sheep truck.'

'That much I could smell. I've found her some clothes and put her in the bath.'

'Darling, I'm sorry but what was I to do?'

'Leave it to somebody else for a change?'

It wasn't that he hadn't tried. The police at Calway Junction had told him they had no authority to investigate the matter unless the railways lodged a formal complaint. He thought they were mistaken, but didn't argue. Before the war a mysterious refugee would have been a welcome diversion for a country police station. Now, with so many stations closed, dodging paperwork had become necessary to survival.

'They've interned the Italians,' Emily said. 'Even the ones who'd lived here for years.'

'We're not at war with Poland.'

'Ah-ha so she's Polish? No passport, no papers, but she's Polish.'

'That's what she says. She's Polish and she escaped from a prison camp.'

'On the other side of the world.'

'Like I said, I haven't a clue.'

'A Polish Jew eh?' She paused. 'Well if she's been in a prison camp she can't have been there long. She looks in pretty good shape. She's very attractive under all the grime, if you hadn't noticed. Oooh, you had, hadn't you. Want a naughty?'

Walter saw the return of Emily's notorious mischievous twinkle, fleeting but unmistakable.

Since his appointment as Justice of the Peace, in the absence of older and more qualified citizens who'd gone to war, he'd been burdened by endless demands on his time, and by accusations of impropriety. As the sole JP in Arajinna, he couldn't see how conflicts of interest could be avoided. He was particularly uneasy about an application he'd signed the day before. If its intention became known there would be more pointing of fingers. Now, when concocting a credible story should be his priority, he had to deal with the mysterious arrival of a young woman.

'I'll have to inform the authorities,' he said. 'If I can work out who the bloody authorities are.'

'She has a cloth bag hanging from a cord around her neck. Took it into the bathroom. Wouldn't let me touch it.'

'What could I do but bring her home?'

'Don't worry. I'll cope.' In an action evoking the early days of their marriage, she gave him a quick hug before turning to leave. 'I'd better see how she's going.' At the doorway she stopped. 'A Polish Jew, eh? It's just as well Dad's dead.'

'Montagues and Capulets,' he admonished.

He watched her reflection in the glass as she went into the hallway, hoping that, when she heard what he'd done, she would continue to play Juliet to his Romeo. He should warn her, but would need to pick his time. His tilt for the fuel agency wasn't something to bring up while she was adjusting to an unexpected visitor. There'd been bad blood between the Blakes and the Johnsons through several generations. Emily's marriage to Walter hadn't changed that. Now her Uncle Bert and her cousins, Stephen and Graham, would be raising new questions about the integrity of the Blakes. He could only pray that Emily would side with him but, for the first time in their marriage, he was not sure of her support.

House Guest

Saturday 20th October 1944

'You ask me to be here now?' Rachel stood in the doorway to the family room.

'Yes. Please come and sit down.' Walter turned from the window and gestured toward the couch. Emily straightened herself in one of the lounge chairs.

'We need to talk about some things,' Walter said.

Their young visitor perched on the edge of the couch, knees tightly together, hands clasped at her waist. She lifted her chin and looked, expressionless, directly at Walter. When he went to speak, he was surprised to find a need to clear his throat. 'You've been here a week.' Rachel nodded. He was aware of the unblinking focus of disconcertingly dark eyes.

'Don't worry.' Emily said. 'This isn't to tell you you have to leave or anything like that.' She gave Walter her get-on-with-it look.

'On the contrary,' Walter said. 'I haven't found anybody who wants to know anything about you. So, you might be here for some time.'

'What Walter is saying, Rachel, is we need to work out how to live together until something else comes up.'

Rachel's gaze shifted to Emily. 'I think the English idiom is "you are stuck with me", is it not?'

Emily's spontaneous laugh was brief. 'Something like that,' she said.

'I am intruder. I will go if you say. Could I be servant somewhere... maid? These are big houses.'

'Listen, sweetheart,' Emily said. ' "Cards on the table" is idiom too, I think. The houses aren't all as big as this one, and nobody's looking for a maid— there's a war on. Yes, you are an intruder. That isn't your fault. But, let's be frank about it, you're not like any houseguest I ever expected. The room we've put you in wasn't being used, so no worries there. You eat like a bloody sparrow, so you're no trouble to feed. You can help with the housework, but you can't keep living in my old clothes, and we'll have to find you some things to do other than work your way through the bookcase.'

'You are kind.'

'We also wondered about religious things,' Walter said. He could tell that Rachel's open-handed gesture meant incomprehension. 'Things you eat. Other things. We know nothing about... Jewish practices.'

Rachel looked at her hands. 'Just to feel safe, is enough. I can do in my heart all a god should ever ask.'

'It wasn't safe, where you came from?' Emily asked.

'In Europe it is danger to be Jew. Even before the Nazis...' Again, the open-handed gesture.

'I don't think you'll find it dangerous here,' Walter said. 'There are some–'

'We won't bullshit you, Rachel,' Emily interjected. 'It might not be physically dangerous here—nobody gets beaten up or anything—but that doesn't mean you'll be made welcome. There's lots of people have reservations about Jews. I grew up with a father who hated the lot of you. Not that my dad didn't hate so many things I couldn't keep track. But my family had it tough for being different in other ways, so I know what it's like to be on the outer. Walter still gets flak from folk who reckon I'm not good enough for him. What I'm saying is, for everybody's sake—yours and ours—it's best you don't show yourself as being too different. Does that make any sense?'

'I think I am understanding. You want me to be... phrase is...soul of discretion.'

'What we say in these parts is: keep your head down.'

'This idiom is clear.'

The conversation was terminated abruptly by the rowdy arrival at the verandah door of Caroline and dog, both breathing heavily. Emily rose and went to get milk and biscuits. Rachel also stood up, looking at Walter for guidance.

'Emily plans to take you into town tomorrow. Clothes and things.'

'You are both kind. I shall be head down.'

As Walter and Emily got into bed that night, Emily said, 'I can't pretend I'm happy to be... "stuck with her"—this is idiom, yes? If it gets too much she can go and live at Weatherlee.'

'Maybe Olive will take her for a while. She's always been a soft touch for hard cases. With Brian gone she needs things to keep her occupied.'

'I can't believe there isn't a government department that should be taking an interest.'

'There probably is.'

'You should send them her picture. That might stir some bloke up. But I guess—like in the song—they're either too young or too old.'

Walter considered making a response. Instead, he rolled over so his back was toward her, turned off the bedside light, and stared into the blackness.

Half-Sisters

Tuesday 11th September 1990

'It's uncanny. You're Rachel all over again.'

'So everyone says.' Judith crossed to the sideboard and put down the vase.

'Even the way you move. If you had the accent I couldn't tell the difference.'

'I hope it's not too disturbing.'

'Forgive me; it must be tedious for you. Like people saying "my how you've grown." And you have!'

The joke eased the tension a little. Judith turned from the sideboard to greet her visitor. They embraced awkwardly, each thinking it was called for in the circumstances.

Caroline said, 'I was sorry to hear about Rachel.'

Judith wondered if this half-sister realised how much of their father she carried with her, the eyes in particular, and facial expressions—ephemeral but unmistakably him. She was about to comment, but stopped herself in time. Talking about family likenesses might lead to topics better left until later.

'I wasn't expecting you so early. I've made up your old room.'

'I should have asked my secretary to tell you; she's booked me in at the motel back along the highway.'

'This is your home.'

The shake of Caroline's head left no scope for misinterpretation.

'Would you like some tea or coffee?'

'I would now. Strong black coffee please.'

'Let me do it.' Max held up the wine glass. 'I have to take this out.'

'I thought we'd cleared everything away last night.'

'Sorry darling, I left it in the desk. I was making a few notes. There were some good sources here last night.'

So it's "darling", Caroline thought. He can't wait to get out of the room and leave us to it, but he's dropped a "darling" as a warning—a message that he might be going but Judith is not alone.

The inevitable awkward pause. Where to begin? The hopscotch layout would be common ground. Caroline looked down at the chalk squares. 'Some things don't change.'

'When I was little, he used to play in here with me when it was too wet to go out.'

'Well that's something we have in common.'

'That and horses.'

They both looked towards the trophy cabinet.

'So I see. And neither of us married, at least I assume so.'

'No,' Judith said. She's wondering about Max, she thought. She's wondering whether her Jewish sister is planning to marry the gentile preacher.

'This biography Max is talking about. He's not serious is he?'

'Oh yes. He became very close to Daddy at the end. It started with interviews for the history. I suppose he told you about that.'

'Somewhat aggressively, which surprised me from a minister. Is he always so blunt?'

'He is quite passionate about the project.'

'I can see I will have to listen to his tapes.'

'He was hoping you would.' She indicated the sideboard. 'I've made transcripts of the early ones if you'd prefer.'

Caroline went to the sideboard. Beside a tape recorder there were cassettes, some family photograph albums, and a stack of documents. 'There's hours of listening here.' There was nothing for it but to check the tapes. First, however, she would have to deal with issues she'd hoped to leave until later. She turned to face Judith. 'I want my share of the estate in cash, and soon. That means a quick sale.'

A kick in the shins could hardly have hurt Judith more. The topic she'd been going to raise when the time seemed right was now not merely broached but with Caroline's position declared emphatically as though a fait accompli.

Caroline felt the penetrating gaze of dark eyes, an uncanny reversion to her childhood and Rachel angry. 'Father's death came just in time for me. Caroline Blake Fashions is being pulled under by interest payments. I need my share of the estate to put in extra capital.'

'I thought, as a senator...'

'I resigned as a director and declared my shareholding. But I'd given personal guarantees for substantial borrowings, which are now overdue.'

'The recession was hardly your fault.'

'Do you think that matters to the press gallery? Senator Caroline Blake, one time businesswoman of the year, bankrupt after the failure of the company that carries her name. They'd have a field day.'

'Would they really?'

'There's a low bastard at the Financial Times who calls me "Vogue's answer to Germaine Greer!" He knows what days the interest payments are due, and waits in the lobby—recorder at the ready in gleeful anticipation.'

'How long do you have?'

'A few months at most.'

'A few months? There's no way we could arrange a sale so quickly.'

'The bank will hold off once the property is on the market.'

'What if I refuse to commit my share of the estate?'

'I'd have to give them a lien over mine and you'd find yourself dealing with corporate lawyers. I hate to think what costs that would run up.'

'You've checked this all since Saturday.'

'We were on the verge of receivership.'

'So daddy's death was a nice surprise.'

'No! That's not–' the denial petered out, interrupted by the muffled warble of her mobile telephone. 'Damn! I'm sorry.' Feeling slightly foolish she went to her handbag. Her first instinct was to switch the telephone off; but, recognising the source of the incoming call, she felt she shouldn't. 'Do you mind if I take it?'

Judith turned abruptly and headed for the door.

'Please don't go. It's your home.'

Judith left, nearly knocking Max over.

'I was eavesdropping,' he confessed as they retreated to the kitchen.

Judith thumped her fists on the table. 'It makes me so bloody angry. Waltzing in here after thirty years and announcing we're selling up. She might be the firstborn but I've lived here longer than she did! And I didn't turn my back on my father!'

'She doesn't know the full story yet.'

'I'm going to show her the codicil and Daddy's second letter.'

'We've been through this Judith. Mr Ross told you his opinion.'

'He should have raised it when he telephoned her. He hasn't even shown us the letter he faxed.'

'It was addressed to Caroline. He probably shouldn't have told us it existed.'

'I can't help wondering if he disapproved of Daddy's second marriage. He's always been decidedly formal with me.' She made an unnecessary adjustment to the arrangement in the second vase.

'He's a solicitor, and he's old school.'

'You weren't much help. She says you were aggressive.'

'I was. It was a mistake.'

'Bloody hell! So when do we produce the codicil?'

'When there's a chance she'll go along with the plans. In her present frame of mind, that's unlikely. We have to pave the way.'

'And meanwhile Banabrook is put up for sale?'

'There are legal steps to go through. It can't happen overnight.'

'She hated him. I can feel it. You don't ignore your father for thirty years unless you're irredeemably pissed off.'

'I can't believe she's come all this way to set up a sale. She could have done that by writing to Mr Ross. Instead, she's here. And regardless of what happened in there, she must have felt the need to face you.'

'Or to check the condition of the property.'

'I think we'll find it's more complex. Something drew her back here today, and it wasn't simply the formality of attending the funeral. There was a time she loved him. You can tell she loved Banabrook. We have to find a way to take her back to that place in her mind. That's when we'll produce the codicil.'

'And how do you propose we do it? You can see how edgy she is.'

'We all are. There's so much at stake. I'm sorry I lost control before. Ironically, it's probably what we have to do.'

'Lose control?'

'Not quite, but I think we have to keep niggling at her.'

'How?'

'When she left here you were only a baby. You have a right to know why she went away.'

'Do I? No, honestly, do I?'

'I think it's how we have to play it.'

Judith took a deep breath, sighed, and picked up the vase a little too abruptly, knocking the arrangement askew. 'Shit!' she said, putting it down to rectify the damage.

Stabbing her finger on the keypad to end the call, Caroline tried to control her anger. She checked her speed-dial list and found Sean's number. 'Sean? Caroline! The bank's solicitors have been on to me. They're insisting on serving notice today. Something to do with crystallising the terms of the guarantees. I've told them you have my instructions. Christ, I could do without this!' She listened while Sean made professional soothing noises and promised to keep the dogs at bay. 'And I'm switching this damned thing off,' she said, 'It's already embarrassed me once. I'll check for messages every hour or so.' Again the soothing noises. Leave it to Sean; has he ever let you down? No, Sean had never let her down, but trust was not her strong point. Turning the mobile off she stood at the window, seeing nothing, wondering again why she'd felt compelled to return here and expose herself to predictable conflict after avoiding it so long.

'Oh, I'm sorry.'

She hadn't heard footsteps and turned in surprise. A man had entered from the side verandah. The blue serge shirt and khaki dungarees were dusty, and the reason she hadn't heard him was thick woollen socks without shoes. She could imagine the brown elastic-sided boots left at the top of the steps while he ventured inside.

'I was looking for Judith. You must be Caroline—I mean Senator Blake.'

'Caroline, please.'

'I'm Tom McLintock. I manage the farm.'

'Any relation to Jeremy?'

'My dad.'

'I went through primary school with him.'

'It's sad about your father. I'm so sorry.'

'It's kind of you to be concerned.' She held out her hand.

'A bit dusty,' he said, brushing his hand on his shirt before taking hers. 'I was on my way to tell Judith we'll make our own way to the church tomorrow—young Fred and me. She's included us in one of the limos, but I've had to re-schedule some work and I wouldn't want to hold things up. We've been dragging the chain a bit this morning. Got the tractor bogged down near the windmill.'

'Life on a farm.'

'Yeah. Yeah. Never know what's going to happen next.'

'Is your father still at Ravencall?'

'Sold up ten years back. We helped at Olive's place for a bit, until he got a job doing crop inspections for insurance. That's when your father took me on here. I'm afraid Dad can't be at the funeral. He's up country somewhere. No way he'd miss it otherwise. Anyway, not to be rude but I'd better keep moving. I'll see you tomorrow. Is Judith around?'

'I think she's in the kitchen. Good to meet you Tom.'

A nod, a smile, and he padded off.

Caroline felt almost as though she'd passed a test. She'd met a local and survived. She'd heard names from her past. Lightning hadn't struck. Then it came to her that this friendly local, the son of her school friend Jeremy, could be facing an uncertain future. The purchaser of Banabrook might keep him on as manager but there'd be no guarantee. If Jeremy was doing insurance assessments, the McLintocks had already lost much to the rural decline.

She returned to the sideboard. In addition to transcripts, Judith had prepared brief synopses of about half of the tapes. These had been ticked off on a handwritten index. In places, yellow adhesive notes had been stuck to the typed documents. The notation "alb3 p5" caught her attention. She opened the photograph album marked 3 and turned to page 5. It was a snapshot taken in Melbourne on the day of Great-aunt May's funeral. Her father, Great-uncle Christopher, Great-aunt Genevieve, Cousin Tony and herself. She'd still been in primary school and the trip had been a big adventure. It was fascinating, now, to see Uncle Christopher nearly thirty years younger than he was when she last saw him a few months before his death. And Cousin Tony; no wonder the girls cursed when they learnt his secret.

What possible relevance could this photograph have to a history of Kalawonta? Or was it destined for the biography? She scanned the marked passage of transcript.

WALTER: The idea of taking Caroline to Melbourne was definitely spur of the moment stuff. She was barely more than a kid; she must have been...

MAX: Eleven I think.

WALTER: Sounds right. Anyway, dealing with death is part of a child's education. And the opportunity for time alone with her... well, it was a chance to practise being a father, unaided.

MAX: Something you could do yourself without feeling the need to ask advice.

WALTER: Rachel was good with Caroline... but...

MAX: I'm sure any parent would understand.

The passage seemed innocuous enough. Looking again at the photograph she thought of her later meetings with some of those people, meetings her father knew nothing about. There were many pieces she could contribute to the jigsaw—pieces Max could not even imagine. Most of them she wasn't keen to share, but she might be able to use them as bargaining chips—things she would reveal if other things were suppressed. Genetic quirks in the bloodline of a senator might be a powerful chip to hold.

She was becoming increasingly anxious about the Reverend Max Kingsley. He seemed out of place in Arajinna and as Vicar. Might his pointed comments about Caroline Blake Fashions be more than the momentary aberration his apology suggested? Could a man with his background have ulterior motives for probing the Blake family history?

Too Young or Too Old

Tuesday 5th December 1944

In the last weeks of 1944, Olive Sampson crumpled under the strain. For three months, since the news that her only son was missing in action, she'd been "soldiering on". Those were the very words she used: "I'm soldiering on like his mates over there." The town had marvelled at her resilience all those years ago when she'd watched through the kitchen window as her husband's tractor tipped over the embankment. They'd marvelled again at her determination to keep going after learning she'd lost young Brian. Last night something must have happened to shatter the resilience. Today she was another casualty of war.

'She'll be in overnight,' Walter said into the telephone. 'Margy's going to collect her in the morning and keep her at Nurramar for a spell. Any chance you can do the late milking tomorrow?'

The voice at the other end of the line said, 'For Olive, anything.'

'Good man. I'm working on a roster to spread it around.... No mate, Emily's keeping an eye on the other stock. You're a champion. We owe you.' Walter put the telephone down. "For Olive, anything", summed up the responses.

Barely 5ft 6ins in riding boots, Olive Sampson had once been described as having the gait of a weight-lifter, her body swinging on a vertical axis as she strode purposefully around Land's End. She was twenty-one when she dragged Eddie from under the tractor and gently carried her crumpled "Jack Sprat" to the homestead. In the ensuing years she'd had many suitors and sometimes ventured out to the Garden of Roses Café or the Arajinna Odeon. She'd reward her escort with a quick kiss and go inside before anything more happened, even though, as she once told Walter, "I'm built cuddly". After her parents died, she and Brian—"apple of me eye young Bri"—ran the property largely unaided except for casual itinerants and "poor buggers in need of a feed"—which referred to any hopeful with a swag who trudged up her driveway. Now, apart from a few loyal farmhands, she was alone.

From the hallway, the sounds of Emily dusting and singing registered vaguely.

' _They're either too young or too old,_

They're either too grey or too grassy green.'

Walter couldn't lose the image of Olive curled up on her bed at ten o'clock in the morning, her unmilked herd grumbling urgently at the gate to the yards. By pure chance he'd chosen today to check if she needed anything.

Emily didn't know all the words of the song.

' _Da da da da da da da da da daaa.'_

She entered the family room in full voice. This was the part she did know.

' _What's good is in the army,_

What's left will never harm me,

What's good is in the navy,

The navy gets the gravy,

I'm finding it easy to stay good as gold,

They're–'

'Shut up Emily! Will you please shut up!'

'I was simply trying to keep myself going.'

'I hate that song! The women are safe you fighting-men. There's no man worth a crumpet left at home.'

'Well, aren't we the moody one? I thought being the family grump was my job.'

He could feel the mounting tension in his muscles. No doubt his blood pressure was up as well. He'd still not brought himself to tell Emily his plans to wrest the fuel agency from the Johnsons; her own mood swings made him wonder whether to do so at all. He was increasingly anxious about having heard nothing from the government department he'd been lobbying to give him the contract. Olive's collapse was a crisis too many.

Emily crossed to the desk and started to massage his neck and shoulders.

'Come on matey. Relax up here for chrissake. It's like bloody rope.' She kneaded his neck with her thumbs, and looked over his shoulder at the roster. 'Adderley?'

'I'm not even going to ask.'

'I will. It could have been his dopey son who copped it.'

'All you'd get is his lecture about fit young men who didn't go to war.'

'So I'll remind him the Blakes have already given three lives.'

'Forget him! All right? We don't need the bloody Adderleys.'

The blaring of a truck-horn terminated the discussion. Emily frowned and looked out the window. 'Oh shit, not Reg again! You said you'd finished.'

Walter stood and turned to kiss Emily's cheek. 'Duffy's hayshed is still leaking. We ran out of roofing iron.'

From the hallway, Rachel called, 'Walter, it's Reg.' She came to the door.

'Thanks Rachel. I'm on my way.'

The two women watched as he hurried from the room. Both turned to look through the window as he joined Reg in the truck. The men waved and were gone.

Rachel said, 'He works too hard.'

'And what do you suggest I do about it?'

Rachel shrugged and opened her arms in one of the expansive gestures Emily found so annoying. 'There's nothing to do but care.'

'Do you think I don't?'

'Of course not.'

'Because I do, Rachel! I do!' She wiped the desk aggressively. It did little to ease her agitation. 'You might think our lives have been easy, but they've been hard enough.'

'Can I do that for you?'

'No thank you.' She dusted some more to emphasise the rejection; it was a petty gesture, but she didn't care. 'Walter's doing his best to cope. So am I. But it's no bed of roses.'

'I know. I think you lose family, yes?'

'Yes.'

'He feels guilty for being alive. I know this feeling.'

'Guilty for being alive, yes. And he feels he has a responsibility to maintain the family heritage. And he's strapped for cash to do it.'

'Strapped for cash? I don't know this expression.'

'We have properties worth... God knows what. But, with everyone away at the war, it's difficult to run them. We'd hardly come to grips with this place when I inherited Weatherlee.'

'In Bavaria we lived at the University. The whole apartment would have fitted into this room.'

'Why a University?'

'My father was the Professor of Music. My mother was a tutor.'

'And what did you do?'

'I studied. Languages mainly. There was no prospect for me of work. Being Jewish closes doors in much of Europe.'

'Here too, you'll find.'

'You are brave to shelter me.'

'You can thank Walter for that.'

'I think you also are brave.'

'I'm a good wife, that's all. One who tries to care.' Again she felt the pettiness of her response.

'I don't think you are one who does unthinking what her husband asks.'

'Was it your idea to give Walter French lessons?'

'He said he'd learnt a bit at school. I thought it might take his mind off other things.'

'I'd been trying to get him to start painting again.'

'I wasn't meaning to interfere. He tried saying something in French, as a joke. It wasn't so bad.'

'He would have liked to travel.'

'I know.'

You know, Emily thought. It occurred to her that she resented everything about Rachel's presence in her house, particularly anything she knew about Walter. All she could think to say was, 'War changes so much.' She felt another wave of irritation. War did change so much. War brought strangers into your house, strangers who learnt intimate things about your family, but kept their own secrets. 'How did you get to Australia?' There was no response. 'Don't you think we have a right to know about you?'

'There are some things best forgotten.'

'Don't you mean conveniently forgotten?' She saw Rachel frown slightly, and look away. 'We have another idiom in this country. We call people users.'

'I think I understand this one. But you could not know what it is to be used... to be like... I think your word is chattel...somebody's possession... to be used, to be discarded perhaps. To cease to care what you do to survive. I know these things.'

'That's pretty scary Rachel. We only have your word for who you are.'

'How good it must be to have... papers... photographs.'

Despite her mood, Emily felt a pang of sympathy. Of course it must be dreadful to lose everything. She said, 'You realise you've become Walter's cause? His war effort?'

'I hear Caroline. Would you like me to look after her?'

'I'll go, thank you.' That was something else she resented: Rachel had time on her hands, time to play with Caroline. She must take her daughter with her when she went to feed Olive's stock later in the day.

Then Rachel said, 'I do not try to take your husband.'

The shock left Emily tingling. 'What do you mean?'

'I think it worries you. He is attractive. I am alone.'

'Are you trying to tell me something?'

'No. I am clumsy with this. I should not have spoken. Your customs are different.'

'Why? In Bavaria, or Poland, or wherever you come from, is somebody else's husband fair game?'

'This was not my meaning.'

'I'd better go to Caroline.' Emily fled from the room. In the hallway she caught sight of herself in the mirror, hair tied up in a scarf, a skirt which once fitted elegantly now stretched over pudgy hips. Time was she might have stopped to admire her own reflection. Not these days.

Rachel remained in the doorway. There was no denying her envy of Emily's possessions, and of her family. And, yes, Walter was an attractive man and she sensed his desires. Emily was a continuation of the only life he'd ever known, the life of rural Australia. Rachel was the excitement of exotic far away places he'd never visited. He had said so, almost in as many words. He had said so, and hurriedly left the room, prematurely terminating one of their French lessons.

She was about to turn and leave, but realised she had an opportunity. Satisfied that Emily had gone to Caroline, she approached the desk. Soon, from a pigeonhole, she withdrew a document. Quickly, she read it. Slowly, she replaced it and left the room.

Fire Sale

Tuesday 11th September 1990

Caroline closed the photograph album and returned it to the sideboard. Damned mobile! She'd barely introduced the subject of the sale when the telephone's warbling drove her sister from the room. She was about to go in search when Judith returned, with a second vase, and stopped near the door—looking around to decide where to place it. Caroline started to look around too, as though a partner in the search. When Judith moved towards the small table near the hallway, Caroline thought: yes, that's a good spot. She watched as Judith put the vase down and touched up the arrangement. Then the inevitable return to reality. Caroline said, 'The call was from the bank's solicitors. They're serving notice for repayment of the loans.'

'A fire sale they call it don't they?'

'It's a massive inheritance; a quick sale means only a bit less for each of us.'

'You think it's the money? Of course, I'm doing the Jewish thing aren't I?' The eyes flashed.

'You know that's not–'

'Do I? Do I know anything at all about you?'

'I would have hoped you'd–'

'This goes much deeper than saving your company, doesn't it?'

'What on earth do you mean?'

'Why did you leave Banabrook? I have a right to know! You walked out on us.'

'You were a baby.'

'Why did you leave?'

Again the uncanny likeness of mother and daughter. Caroline felt herself transported back to a day when she'd angered Rachel and seen the wrath in those dark eyes. Now, as then, she fumbled for an answer. 'I left to make a new start—a life in the city—lots of country girls do.'

'You were studying farm management. I found your notes.'

'I've only been frank about my financial problems so you can understand my need for a quick sale. What happened thirty years ago is long past.'

'This isn't the conversation I'd imagined.' Judith's fire had all but gone.

'You may take whatever contents you like; there's nothing I want.'

'Not even your trophies?'

'Nothing.'

'There are some things I'd like to keep. Mr Ross can get them valued.'

'There's no need for valuations.'

'There's a painting in the dining room. It's Rachel's favourite. It might be quite valuable.'

'It is, but that won't be an issue. Our ancestor, Alured, tied up the art collection by a conditional gift to the State Gallery. You can arrange to have the painting on permanent loan but you can't sell it.'

'You've done your homework.'

And so it must seem, Caroline thought. The cold and calculating eldest daughter has read the fine print and done her arithmetic.

'Did you really hate him so much?' Judith asked.

'Hate's an ugly word.'

'Was it because he married a Jew?'

'It had nothing to do with Rachel or with you.'

'There's something Daddy says on one of the tapes, something about–'

'I don't care what Daddy says! It's done!'

'I knew almost nothing about you until your first election. After that, you were all over the papers. He cut out the articles.' Opening the deep drawer in the pedestal of the desk, Judith took out a large scrapbook and thrust it into Caroline's hands.

'My Year 11 history teacher asked me in class what it was like to be related to a senator. It was embarrassing. I said something inane. "It's exciting" or something. I couldn't bring myself to admit I'd never met you.'

Glancing at the first page, Caroline saw the date, 1974, the year of her first election. The book bulged with articles. She'd been news in those heady early days, heralded as the great hope—destined, many said, to be the first woman prime minister.

'Judith, these are about a middle-aged woman; they're not about the confused girl who left here.'

'Why confused?'

'I'd lost my mother.'

'But you continued living with him for years.'

'What options are there for a seven year old?'

'You left in 1958. What would that be? Twelve or thirteen years later. Something must have happened.'

'Can't you accept it's none of your business?' Caroline dumped the scrapbook on the sideboard with such force that some of the tapes slid off the stack. The vehemence of her own anger surprised and frightened her. Embarrassed, she fumbled with the tapes, replacing them neatly. In the mirror her eyes met Judith's. Without turning she said, 'I asked Rachel something about her past one day. She told me some people cope with painful things by talking about them, but she found it better not to. She said we all have secrets. And we're entitled to them.'

'I'm sorry. It's just... after sitting with him these past weeks while he talked about you—always with love—I would have liked to make sense of it all.' Judith stepped forward and retrieved the scrapbook. 'Of course people are entitled to their secrets.'

PART THREE

EXILE

A Boarding House in South Yarra

18th July 1958

Banabrook

13th July 1958

My dearest Caroline,

This is my third attempt to write. I love you so much and I am desperate to explain myself, but cannot find the words.

I have searched for you only to satisfy myself you are all right. Now I know where you are, I will not interfere with your life, but I live in hope you will come home, or at least keep in touch. If you are in need of anything, now or ever, just ask. There will be no conditions to any support I provide.

After you left, I came home to find Rachel very upset. She is convinced everything is her fault, but I know it is mine. She is not to blame for my falling in love with her. In fact, she warned me about the consequences.

I want you to know how hard I tried to resist my feelings for her. I was simply not strong enough. Perhaps you already understand these things or will in time. I tried to tell myself your mother suspected nothing, but I realise now my feelings for Rachel must have been obvious.

Your going so unexpectedly took me by surprise. In the early days, after your mother left, I had planned to talk to you about certain events in our past. I thought you were too young at first and, over the years, I suppose I developed a false sense that you had accepted things as they were and it might be a mistake for me to dig over old ground. These decisions are never clear-cut. Now, I realise I should have at least tried to talk to you.

As you grew up, Rachel did her best to give you guidance in women's things, but I know you missed your mother very much.

We had our arguments, you and I, but we always ended up friends again. It is obvious that I failed to discern your true feelings.

I am sure something special must have happened to make you leave. Rachel says you mentioned seeing your Cousin Stephen. The Johnsons never came to terms with my marriage to your mother. I would expect them to feel I betrayed her by bringing Rachel into the house and falling in love with her.

Once before, you and I overcame differences that threatened our relationship. I pray we may again find the love we drew on to reconcile with each other.

Take care, my darling daughter.

Your loving father.

Caroline put the letter down. It was a stunning surprise. His assumption about her motivation for leaving was wrong. She'd never suspected infidelity. She'd imagined his liaison with Rachel had developed later. It was a shock to learn it had happened while her mother was still there. How awful that must have been. And how could he think it was mere infidelity Stephen had told her about? Could he imagine she hadn't learnt the real reason her mother left him?

This extraordinary confession served only to provide new reasons to despise him. How dare he betray his family in so many ways. Whatever he thought of the Johnsons he could never justify cheating them.

And his final paragraph: "Once before, you and I overcame differences". The police had wiped the record clean. Why hadn't he? Even now, the recollection was accompanied by cringing embarrassment. She'd only wanted to prove she could charm the guard dog. The other kids were spooked by a passing car, and ran off while she was still in the yard. She'd been grounded for a month and missed a school social. In retaliation she took the caps off her father's paint tubes. Rachel caught her and there was an angry exchange. She'd called Rachel names. Something she'd heard in the schoolyard. "Greasy Yid!" She could still see the shock on her stepmother's face. At Christmas, she spent all her savings to buy Rachel a brooch and Walter an expensive paintbrush. It was an unspoken apology.

With renewed anger, she screwed up the letter and hurled it at the wastebasket. It was time to go down to dinner. She checked herself in the mirror and gave her hair a quick brush. At the door she paused, then returned and retrieved the crumpled letter. The day might come when she would want to produce it. She flattened the page as best she could, put it a drawer, and went down to make small talk with Mrs Weston and the other occupants of the boarding house. It was Friday. There would be chatter about plans for the weekend. Jennifer would know what was on at the local cinemas and some of them might decide to go. Caroline usually didn't if she was working on Saturday morning. Tonight it might be a good way to try and forget. How dare he track her down. How dare he, of all people, make her relive her adolescent misdeeds.

Blake Tape Seventeen

Recorded Friday 25th August 1990

A Trip to Melbourne - Thursday 18th December 1958

When the investigator located her in Melbourne, I didn't know what to do. After he'd observed her for a few days, he said he didn't think she was in any danger. I decided it might be better to leave her to herself. But I also felt a need to apologise for anything I'd done, and to assure her she still had a home here. So I wrote her a letter. Hardest thing I'd ever done. Took me days. Each morning I'd read what I'd written the night before. Then I'd tear it up and start again. That would have been about the middle of 1958.

Getting on for Christmas, there'd been no reply and I had this sudden impulse to go to Melbourne. I knew Rachel thought it was a mistake but she didn't say so. When I got there, I began to have second thoughts. I'd booked into the Hotel Australia in Collins Street. It was the week before Christmas and the city was pretty crowded. Next thing I knew I was standing on the pavement outside Georges.

Walter paused. Max decided to leave the machine running.

I thought, with crowds of shoppers to lose myself in, I might be able to catch a glimpse of her. The investigator had said she worked in the Women's Fashions Department.

Another pause.

It hadn't occurred to me that a man with a pork pie hat and elastic-sided boots would look out of place poking around Women's Fashions, so I stopped in the luggage department. After a minute or two, I saw her. She was there Max. Can you imagine how I felt? She was there. Animated, smiling, dealing with a customer.

A longer pause had Max reaching for the button, but he hadn't touched it before Walter continued.

I think the lady in the luggage department must have imagined I was some sort of pervert—standing behind a display of expensive cases staring into Women's Fashions. I wanted to say to her: that's my daughter, my little girl.

Max hit the stop button. 'Enough for today. Let's have some tea.' He was heading for the kitchen when Walter spoke again.

'Sorry Max.'

'You mustn't ever be sorry for being human. Nor for loving your daughter.'

'Of course not. Just embarrassed.'

'Are you okay?'

Walter beckoned him back to the side of the bed. 'It's possible she'd simply decided she wasn't going to compete with a baby sister. But the birth might have driven home that Judith's mother was not her mother. Whatever the reason I'd gained one daughter and lost the other.'

'I wish you'd let us call her.'

'There's been thirty years for her to make a move. Telling her I'm dying would be putting unfair pressure on her. I betrayed her mother. I asked Emily to help me care for Rachel and betrayed her with the woman she'd taken in. Caroline has a right to judge me harshly.'

'Well it's your decision.'

'No tea for me Max. I'll have a sleep.'

'I tried but there's no way he'll approve our getting in touch with her.' Max poured a cup of tea, and sat down at the kitchen table, which was strewn with photocopied extracts from Hansard.

Judith settled into a chair opposite. 'Do you think we should call Caroline anyway? If she knew he was ill...'

'He's not prepared to put emotional pressure on her. Besides, I think if he allowed himself hope, it would increase his distress—he'd be on edge every time the telephone rang, or when we took in the mail.'

'He's still convinced she left because he betrayed her mother and married mine.'

'No; the timing is all wrong. And, it doesn't sit well with Caroline's public pronouncements. Even allowing for her to have a blind spot about her own family, I can't believe she could be so two faced.'

'Why? What else have you come across?'

'Her speech in a debate on family-law reform. It relates to those news clippings you found. It's no wonder she upset church leaders. There's a passage where she gets almost evangelical about the need for families to... where is it?... here... "tolerate human fallibility to the extent of forgiving adulterous behaviour to defuse situations that might otherwise become violent." She calls for women to set the example by... "finding ways to negotiate divorce separations acknowledging marital breakdown without creating explosive enmities." '

Judith picked up a scrapbook. 'There's another report—about her taking part in a radio documentary.' She searched for the place. 'Yes, a documentary about couples who maintained relationships with divorced partners to help others in the family cope with the consequences of the marriage breakdown.'

'This is not a woman you'd expect to completely reject her father because of adulterous behaviour. If you put all these reports together there's real passion for a cause.'

'For a couple of causes. Both controversial.'

'Something else?'

Judith tapped another extract with her finger. 'Teenagers are allowed to make mistakes. For most, their own remorse is punishment enough.'

'So?'

'She always contributes to debates on juvenile justice. When I saw the bit about teenagers being allowed to make mistakes, I realised it wasn't the first time I'd come across it in her speeches.'

'If we ever get to meet this half-sister of yours, we won't be short of questions.'

Lilydale Station

Wednesday 25th February 1959

Caroline's memories of the return of the troops in 1945 had transported her to Arajinna Railway Station many times. On her twenty-first birthday, which fell on a Wednesday in 1959, she went to the Dandenongs, where she occasionally taught show jumping at a riding school in return for an afternoon on the trails. Uneasy at the thought of fielding questions about how she would celebrate her majority, she'd taken a week's leave. There were times she felt like a fugitive, hiding her background from her colleagues. Fortunately, she'd been able to keep her birth date a secret at the boarding house. It was recorded somewhere in the files, but residents came and went and birthdays were rarely celebrated.

She'd been worried her father might send a gift or try to get in touch. This brought back memories of previous birthdays. Riding one of the bush tracks also evoked a forgotten image—her tenth birthday party, which took place in a grove in the forest and had a Robin Hood theme. Rachel had made a piñata filled with sweets. None of the children had ever seen one. Now, sitting on the platform at Lilydale, looking down the track, which curved out of sight into an avenue of trees, she was revisited by other images: people waving, shouting, and crying, as a steam engine puffed into view around a similar bend at Arajinna. She'd been seven years old. From early in the day, there'd been a sense of excitement. On the way to the station, Aunty Olive held Caroline on her knee even though there was a spare seat. Caroline didn't mind because she could see better out of the window, and Aunty Olive kept giving her "squeezees". At the station, a woman gave her a paper flag to wave, but she kept getting lost among the legs of the adults. Every now and then somebody lifted her up to see what was happening. That's how she saw the train come into view and soldiers leaning out of the windows. As the soldiers tumbled out of the carriage, Aunty Olive started grabbing them and hugging them. She cried a lot, and some of them did too. Other people were yelling and waving and hugging and crying. There was a soldier with wooden crutches. She'd never seen crutches before. One of his legs was much shorter than the other, and his trouser-leg was pinned up with a safety pin. People were moving aside to let him pass; but Caroline was immobile, curious, staring at the crutches and the short leg. The soldier stopped in front of her. "My goodness. This can't be Caroline. Not Caroline Blake." She looked up, squinting into the sun, but she didn't know him. Then somebody lifted her out of the way. There were women in uniforms. She thought the red cross on the sleeve of one of them was pretty. Eventually, to get out of the crowd, she went and sat on a bench behind some women who were serving tea and scones from card tables at the entrance to the waiting room. They gave her a scone to eat, with lots of jam, and she got quite sticky. After a while, Rachel arrived and said, "So there you are, I lost you." She wet a handkerchief at a tap and sat down to wipe the jam off Caroline's face and hands. Rachel wanted to throw away the paper flag because it was sticky too, but Caroline insisted on keeping it. After that, they just sat together out of the crowd. On the way home, her father had been angry with her, and made her cry. Later, she stuck the handle of the paper flag through a hole in the bottom of a shoebox, and put it on the front verandah. The flags on some of the shops in the town had given her the idea.

The modern electric train pulling into Lilydale Station broke Caroline's reverie. She picked up her gear and returned to 1959.

Women's Fashions Department

Georges Department Store - Melbourne

27th January 1960

'Super wants to see you.'

What can I have done? Caroline thought. 'Now?' she asked.

'I'd reckon.'

Caroline checked herself in one of the mirrors. The black dress worn by Georges staff suited her.

'You look beautiful dearie, now buzz off, it's nearly opening time.'

'You'll manage.' The first hour of business in Women's Fashions was invariably slow. Theirs was an up-market clientele, not known for making it to the city before morning tea.

'You wanted to see me, Mrs Kingston?'

Caroline stood in the doorway for the critical appraisal of her appearance. Apparently satisfied, Mrs Kingston motioned for her to sit down. Suddenly the stern face beamed.

'Good work, Blake, good work. You're excellent with the customers. You're actually in demand with Mrs Cranston. There's a feather in your cap. My word, my very word. That's a lady who is not easily pleased. Well done. How do you feel about a change?'

'Well, I'm happy with my job, Mrs Kingston. But if you think–'

'Of course you want a change. Ambitious?'

'Well I...'

'Of course you are. And should be. You'll go a lot further than I have.'

'Oh I don't–'

'Of course you will. You have flair. Me. I can organise things. But I'm a follower, and that's the way I like it. Given a competent briefing I can sell anything they put on the floor, but I'd be hopeless as a buyer. You have flair. It's been noticed. The chief buyer has a vacancy for a trainee. Job's yours. Small raise, big opportunity. I'll release you as soon as I can get a replacement. Pleased?'

'I'm thrilled.'

'Of course you are? But keep it to yourself for now. I want to speak to the other girls first. Sarah's been here longer than you have, but I've got something in mind to keep her happy in the service.'

'Whatever you say.'

'They'll be all over you, as soon as you hit the floor, wanting to know why I called you in. We need the proverbial herring, and I have the very thing. Those skirts on the second rack. Advance samples. New style. Double pleats. Fuller skirt. Tell the girls I want everyone to try one on and get familiar with the cut. Helps when you start to sell them. That's all.'

'Thank you, Mrs Kingston. Thank you very much.' Caroline took the skirts and made for the door.

'I'll miss you Blake. There's something about country girls. No false airs and graces. Something for parents to be proud of. I'm sure yours are.'

It was beyond her expectations to get a promotion so soon, and to work with the chief buyer! Wow!

In her lunch breaks she'd been exploring Melbourne's streets and arcades. A big department store was a good place to learn the fashion business, but it was a couple of speciality boutiques that had kindled thoughts for the future. Having started her study of dressmaking by correspondence while she was still at Banabrook, she'd now enrolled in an evening course to get some direct teaching. Already she had a feeling for the way patterns emerged, not merely how to follow them but how the designers converted their concepts into shapes for cutting out and sewing together.

She no longer missed equestrian competition, which had once been the focus of her life. She had new aspirations, and an opportunity she would not let slip.

Shared Talents

Wednesday 2nd May 1962

'Does it run in your family?'

Caroline looked up from her notebook, uncertain what the question meant. She'd recently started a new unit of the design course. Waiting for the session to begin, she'd opened her book and commenced sketching an idea for a summer frock.

'You draw so easily. I wondered if it was a family trait.'

'My father paints a bit. Actually he's not bad.'

'What you've done there is stunning. I usually have to drape fabrics over a dummy to give me something as a basis to start. You've managed to create the image straight out of your head, and with such an economy of strokes. What's more, I can see at once how I'd go about making the dress. Sketch me a side view. When I've got the other girls started we can talk about how you might convert your image into a pattern.'

That night Caroline lay awake, buoyed by the events of the evening. She'd been praised by a teacher whose own designs she admired. But something else had happened. She'd discussed the possibility of having a trait inherited from her father without experiencing an onset of painful memories. Both events were significant.

Something in the Genes

Friday 6th July 1962

'The first thing to be clear about is it's not considered potentially fatal.' Diana Godfrey stabbed her index finger at a passage in a medical journal.

'Does it have a name?' Caroline asked.

'Rhol's Syndrome. I assume you don't want the Latin!'

Dr Godfrey consulted her case notes. 'I've asked you before about your immediate family but not about aunts or female cousins. Do you have any?'

'The only one I can think of was my Aunt May... well, she was a great-aunt... my grandfather's sister.'

'On your father's side?'

'Yes.'

'Did she have any children?'

'I don't think so. She died when I was quite young. I don't think she was married.'

'You wouldn't know anything about her medical history then.'

'She was a bit of a legend in the family, but mainly because of her drinking I'm afraid.'

'I'd like to say we know a lot about this condition, but we don't. I found two papers on the subject, both written by gynaecologists in England. One of them speculates that, although the syndrome doesn't affect men, its origin is probably genetic and might pass through the male line. Neither paper suggests a need to avoid pregnancy but they recommend close monitoring and early confinement. Both the births described in the papers had complications, but both the mothers and their babies survived in good health.'

'I believe my own birth was difficult. I know my mother couldn't have other children.'

'There can be many reasons for difficult births. If this article is right, whatever problem your mother had producing you isn't connected with what you've got now. The author had an interest in genealogy as well as gynaecology. He helped his patient trace her ancestry, and they unearthed some evidence to support his hypothesis.'

'So my father might have been the carrier.'

'It's a complex field and this is speculation. But it's all we've got to go on, which is why I'm telling you what little I've been able to find out.'

'What about my half-sister. She must be at risk too.'

'According to the notes I made at your last visit, her mother is Jewish.'

'That's right.'

'Well there's no such thing as always or never in medicine, but the blood profile you've got would be sure to make the journals if it turned up in somebody with a Jewish or Asian mother. It's the same with some other conditions. I like to think we're all equal, but that doesn't mean we're all the same.'

'So Judith should be in the clear.'

'What you tell her is your business. My inclination would be not to worry her about something she's unlikely to have, and which wouldn't kill her anyway. If she did marry and get pregnant, and if she did have the condition, it would show up then and could be managed.'

'Well I've no plans to marry just yet. It would be useful to know about Aunt May though, wouldn't it?'

'Anything that helps us to understand these things can benefit you and others. One rare genetic illness has been traced back through every reported case in the world to a single remote village in Scandinavia. They haven't found a cure yet, but the information is helping drive the research.'

'My great-uncle Christopher might still be alive but...' She stopped and thought, then shook her head. 'I'll have to think about it.'

'Apart from this, you're as robust as a girl your age should be. My advice is to take life as it comes. If that means marriage and children, don't deny yourself the experience because of fears of the unknown. Just be aware of the possibilities, and consult your GP if you're uneasy about anything. Gallaway's a good man. I want you to have blood tests every month. He can organise those. I'll be dropping him a line of course. If your iron count and thyroid indicators are stable, we can make the tests six monthly. But see Doctor Galloway if you notice any bodily changes, particularly if you feel unusually lethargic for any length of time.'

Dusk was fast approaching, it had turned cold, and there was light drizzle as Caroline left the building. It was the sort of Melbourne weather a Sydneysider would say was typical. She pulled her coat around her and walked up Spring Street to Collins Street. It was unusual to find a woman specialist in this illustrious medical precinct, but she'd been lucky with her GP's referral. Diana Godfrey gave her confidence. She'd intended to take a tram but had barely reached the safety zone when a cab turned the corner. On an impulse she hailed it; she slid into the back seat pulling her coat even tighter. A rare illness was not necessarily the end of the world. She would heed Dr Godfrey's advice and take life as it came. And it might be interesting to make enquiries about Great-Uncle Christopher. After all, they did have something in common.

Apartment of Christopher Blake

Wednesday 12th September 1962

'Good Lord. Could you really be young Caroline?' The grey-whiskered, unkempt figure stood back to let her in.

'It's been a long time Uncle.'

Despite his untidy appearance, he looked well scrubbed and smelt of Palmolive soap. He also had extraordinarily bright eyes. Caroline kissed him on the cheek. He closed the door and led the way down a short hall into an enormous living room, talking as he went.

'I was so glad when you rang. I haven't seen you since May's funeral. How old are you?'

'Twenty-four, Uncle.'

'You were just a kid then. Let's see. You'd have been eleven.'

His quick and accurate mental arithmetic might have surprised Caroline had she not seen the Sporting Globe open on the table and heard the frantic last stages of a broadcast race call. He turned the radio off and rolled his eyes like a guilty schoolboy.

'Tea. Coffee. Bonox?'

'If you were going to make something.'

'We'll talk in the kitchen.'

'Don't let me stop you listening to the races.'

'It's no matter. I don't get many visitors these days and listening won't make me lose my money any slower. May and I owned a couple of thoroughbreds at one stage. Didn't win much. Great fun. Genevieve never took a shine to racing.' He broke off before continuing. 'Been missing Gen a lot lately. Miss them both. May lived with us at the end. Needed looking after, poor dear. It was about May you wanted to ask me wasn't it?'

'Yes.'

'Well, fire away!'

His directness surprised her. She hadn't expected to get to the subject of her visit so soon. He was constantly in motion: filling the kettle, finding a biscuit jar and the sugar bowl, flashing glances at her.

'I've been diagnosed with an illness, a woman's illness, an extremely rare one.'

'That's no good.'

'It won't kill me.'

'That is good.'

'It's to do with my reproductive system and it's said to pass down the generations through the male line. Aunt May's the only Blake I know of who might have had the same problem. I wondered if it might be the reason she never married or had children. That is right isn't it.'

'Yes.' He paused, at first nodding slightly. 'I'm afraid I won't be of much help. May didn't marry or have children, but it wasn't because of any illness. Of course that doesn't mean she didn't have one. She never mentioned anything. It's not the sort of thing sisters would tell brothers in our day, even though we were close.'

Caroline tried not to show her disappointment. 'Well it was a long shot. I thought it was worth asking.'

'Of course. I'm sorry.'

For a moment it was obvious neither of them could decide where to take the conversation next. Caroline broke the silence.

'How's Cousin Tony?'

'He's fine. Forty-seven this year. Hard to come to grips with having a son that old. Architect. Lives in Sydney. What about you? What do you do with yourself?'

'I work at Georges and I'm studying dress design.'

'Bit of a change from jodhpurs.'

'Yes.'

'How's independence working out?'

Something about the way he asked the question suggested he knew more about her than she'd expected. She looked into the luminous old eyes.

He said, 'Oh, I know you caused a bit of a fuss by leaving home. It's none of my business, and I'm not going to ask what it was all about. I had a visit from the private detective your dad hired to look for you. I suppose you knew about that.'

'Yes.'

'Do you know the work of Tennessee Williams?'

'The Glass Menagerie, right?'

'Good girl.'

'I had a teacher at Harwood who was a great fan.'

'That particular play is said to be autobiographical. Williams once said something about not having to go outside the family to find drama. I guess you and I could both identify with that.'

'Yes. I'm sure we could.'

'So you knew about me too. What did they tell you?'

'Nothing much. I was lectured before we came to Aunt May's funeral about not asking too many questions. How old did you say I was? Eleven?'

'Yes. She died in forty-nine. And if you're twenty-four now, you were born in thirty-eight, the year before the war.'

'Eleven year olds don't remember everything they're told. But I know my father was keen to be there.'

'You'd have to know about May to understand. Their last conversation involved a difference of opinion. I think he was sorry the opportunity for reconciliation had gone. Common story, unfortunately. Would you be interested to see her room? With just Genevieve and me here, we never needed to clear it out.'

Even if she hadn't been curious, Caroline could see he wanted to show her. 'I'd like that.'

'Drink your tea first. You do have time don't you?'

'It's my day off.'

'Why not join me for lunch. There's a good café a few doors up. One of the advantages of inner-city life.'

'I'd love to.' Caroline was fast developing a liking for her twinkle-eyed relative.

'My father, your great-grandfather Simeon, wasn't a bad man. But I was a disappointment to him. My older brother Richard was good at everything. Somehow I didn't shape up. I was a bit of a weak kid and when I was packed off to boarding school it was hell. Hated every minute. You went to Harwood you said.'

'Yes. And I didn't like boarding much either.'

'Your grandad Richard thrived. Some do; some don't. He and I were definitely not like peas in a pod. Oh I loved him all right. He was straight out of Chums' Annual. School Prefect, academically gifted, 1st Eleven, 1st Eighteen. A real Blake. May and I weren't. I used to get caught smoking behind the toilet block and that sort of thing. Drove Dad mad. Richard was always being held up as the example. I didn't blame him. It wasn't his fault. In fact, to give him credit, he got me out of a number of scrapes. Until I got expelled.'

'Expelled?'

'Ask me what for?'

'Do I want to know?'

'I nicked a bottle of communion wine from the vestry of the School Chapel and got drunk.'

Caroline laughed. He joined in.

'Not a bad port, actually. No expense spared at Stoddart. Not by that chaplain anyway.' Their eyes met; they both laughed anew. Recovering, Christopher added, 'These days, I fear, I would have been suspended briefly, and quickly reinstated because of the value of the Blake family donations to the school building fund. Those were different times. My father wouldn't have dreamed of protesting against my expulsion.'

'And May was a disappointment to him as well?'

'I think she was more of a mystery to him. Dad had strong ideas about how a son should behave, but I think he was uncertain how to deal with a girl. Her leaving home to start a career wouldn't have been a big surprise, but I think he felt I was a bad influence— you know: urging her to be independent, seize the moment, that sort of thing. They kept in touch though and he obviously had a soft spot for her. She'd often admired an antique dressing table that had been at Banabrook since the days of her great grandmother, Maud. Dad gave it to her for her twenty-first birthday. There were no gifts for me. I think I was lucky not to be struck out of his will, otherwise I'd never have ended up with this.' He swept his arm to encompass the spacious apartment. 'May and I both worked and earned money, of course. But we also went to war, which tends to set the finances back a bit.'

'What was your occupation?'

'I went to Tech School and became a book-binder. I'd always loved the feel of good books. Now I just bet with the book-makers.' He grinned.

'And Aunt May?' Caroline put her now empty cup on its saucer.

'Before succumbing to the demon drink?' He looked at her, apparently seeking confirmation that she knew. 'She went to Harwood too. Later she studied nursing. I was twenty-five when the war started; she was twenty-four. Bad times.'

Before Caroline could ask anything else, her uncle stood and beckoned her to follow. As they went along a hallway he said, 'Bathroom there if you need it.' He stopped at a closed door. 'May's room.' He opened the door, and led the way in.

The first thing Caroline noticed was the framed picture on the dressing table, a sepia-toned photograph of a young man in military uniform. Although clearly dating from the Great War, something about the pose reminded her of another photograph.

'At Harwood. Miss Elsworthy had a picture of her brother. He was in the Air Force in the Second World War.'

'It kills some. Others die inside. For every dead son there is a devastated mother, or father, or lover, or friend, or all of the above.'

A pause. Caroline took out a handkerchief and wiped her nose. 'Poor Aunt May.' She put the handkerchief away. 'Sorry about that.'

'Not at all.'

'The photograph... it got to me somehow.'

'You hear of families keeping the room of a departed loved one untouched, like a shrine. It's not what we intended here. We didn't need the space.'

'So there was a reason for her drinking. Poor dear. All those awful stories about her.'

'Oh they're true enough. And you can't excuse that sort of thing even if there is a reason. They called her racing's greatest lush. She could be a bit of a menace. But she was never a mean drunk, so she was always being forgiven for some incident or other. A committee member of the racing club told her she was almost a permanent item on the agenda for disciplinary hearings but they had a rubber stamp that said "last chance". He was joking, of course, but that's what she called one of our horses.'

Next to the framed picture was a carved wooden jewellery box and a set of hairbrushes with silver backs. Propped up to one side there was an electroplated salver engraved with words that Caroline read aloud, 'May Blake Handicap 1947.'

'Funny story. She donated the trophy and our horse won. A simple country race meeting, but May loved those. It was the last horse we owned and the last time we had a winner.'

'Last Chance?'

'No, he was long gone.'

On the wall opposite the bed hung a watercolour painting of horses racing. Caroline moved across to examine it more closely.

'Part of your heritage. An item from the Blake Collection. Called _Sunbury Races_.'

She was still absorbed in the painting when he said, 'I was thinking there's something you might do for me.'

'If I can I'd be happy to.'

'May's property and money got disbursed according to her will. Most of it went to fund scholarships in veterinary science and nursing. Tony got the furniture. The remainder came to me. Most of it was personal effects. There's what's in this room, and there's some other stuff Tony put into storage when we shifted her from Sydney—papers mainly. I wondered if you might help me go through what's here and, since you're the only female descendant she knew, I'd like you to have anything of value. May wasn't a great one for jewellery but there are a few pieces, and the backs of those hairbrushes are real silver.'

He opened the jewellery box and handed it to her. May mightn't have been a great one for jewellery, but what she did own was breathtaking. The top item was a single string of plump matched pearls. Caroline felt her hand tremble slightly as she lifted it gently. Underneath was a ruby brooch.

'They're beautiful. I don't know what to say.'

'Yes Uncle, would do for a start.'

'I'd be delighted to help you sort her things. As for having these. Oh, I couldn't. Surely not.'

'Somebody should have them. May would have liked you.'

'Thank you.'

'Now let's go and have some lunch. All this has given me an appetite. I'm afraid I've let myself drift a bit since Gen died. Needed a bit of a shake up. Like one of those little dome things with snow scenes. Bit of a shake needed now and then.'

She returned the jewellery box to the dressing table and followed her Uncle back along the passage, still somewhat in a daze.

Darkness at Noon

A few weeks after her promotion in 1960, Caroline had a disquieting experience. It was a Thursday. She had started her rostered day off with a productive morning of dressmaking and finished a new summer frock. Delighted with the result, she strolled to the corner delicatessen. She chatted happily with the jovial Greek proprietor while he made her favourite sandwich, a creation he called "The American Dream"—Philadelphia cream cheese and Californian walnuts. Savouring the sweetly scented day, she took her lunch into the Botanic Gardens to a bench overlooking the lake. Life was treating her well. The American Dream was delicious. Her career was about to take an exciting change of direction.

Quite without warning, she became edgy and unhappy. Unable to sit still, she rose and began walking. Almost without registering what she was doing, she threw the half-finished sandwich into a rubbish bin. The sound of her shoes on the bitumen path seemed to emphasise her apprehension, the rhythmic clack clack clack of the heels a source of irrational annoyance. She took off the offending footwear and stepped onto one of the lawns. The pleasant feel of grass under her feet improved her mood and the intensity of her anxiety abated, but she was uneasy for the remainder of the day, and slept poorly that night. The end of each week at Georges was invariably busy and never boring, but she found work on the Friday unusually tedious. When she left the store at lunchtime on Saturday, she went home and slept all afternoon. By dinner she felt better. A few of the others were going to the cinema and she decided to join them. By Sunday she felt normal again.

Over the next couple of years she experienced intermittent episodes, always at times when the world seemed rosy. She'd not mentioned these events to her GP but, in 1964, another bout of edginess happened a few days before an appointment with Dr Diana Godfrey for a routine review of blood tests. At the end of the consultation she mentioned the periods of unexplained anxiety.

'Any family history of similar events?'

'Not that I know of.'

'You certainly keep my case-book close to the frontiers of medical knowledge.' Dr Godfrey moved to a shelf, and rummaged through some magazines. 'Fortunately, your symptoms are at the mild end of the scale. Churchill had a depressive state he called "the black dog"—but his symptoms went further than anxiety.' She found the journal she was looking for and examined the index. 'Here we go. Three papers delivered by psychiatrists at a seminar last year; all refer to unexplained states of mind characterised as depression. Unlike your other condition, there are enough reported cases for researchers to be making some progress, but they still don't know a great deal. The suspicion is it's been around forever, but not well recognised because people are reluctant to report it. There are a couple of medications available but most practitioners consider them a last resort. I'll mention our discussion in my notes to Dr Galloway. Make sure you see him if the episodes get worse.'

Fortunately, Caroline's episodes didn't get worse but her sensors had been primed and, as the years passed, her turning the pages of newspapers was frequently arrested by references to depression. There appeared to be an increasing number of reports. Two well-known entertainers and an eminent writer were mentioned as sufferers campaigning for more research. When she entered parliament she wondered if she should make some public announcement, but she didn't want to seem self-serving or in search of sympathy. Nevertheless, an increasing fascination with unusual medical conditions was one of the reasons she put herself forward for a senate committee on health.

Café Quirk

Friday 3rd March 1978

'It's had a facelift,' Caroline observed.

'And the quirky name change,' Tony said, directing her towards Christopher's accustomed table in the corner by the window.

Caroline stopped. 'Oh! There's a reserved sign.'

'For us. I spoke to Mr Quirk this morning before I left.'

They sat, and the proprietor bustled over with menus. 'Senator. Mr Blake. Such a sadness. I am barely get to know him. Lovely old man.'

'Do you still do the asparagus quiche?' Caroline asked.

'Put it back at his request. Favourite he tell me.'

'I'll have it, please.' She smiled and handed back the menu. 'And an espresso.'

'Twice,' Tony said.

As the proprietor bustled off Tony lent forward and whispered, 'I agree the quiche is good, but I think mine might win.'

'You cook?'

'Do I cook?' He patted his ample abdomen. 'This waistline is no accident. I simply adore cooking. I hope one day you'll let me entertain you in Sydney.'

'Well, I adore eating, so I'll definitely look for an opportunity.'

Caroline watched the pedestrians passing by. The street was much busier than it had been when Uncle Christopher first treated her to lunch all those years ago. Inner city living was becoming increasingly popular. She turned back to her cousin.

'I have a question.'

'Yes?'

'The private funeral. The very private funeral.'

'I was under instructions. He said he'd outlived anybody he really cared about except you and me. He was afraid that if we ran a funeral notice you might not come in case your father turned up. Not that they were on bad terms. I think it shows how fond he was of you. I'll write a note to Walter this afternoon. I won't mention your being here of course.'

'You've been briefed.'

'And I'm good at minding my own business.'

'I wonder if my father would have come. He made quite a thing about being at Aunt May's funeral.'

'I think that was different. I suspect my dad knew the reason, but he never said. Like he never explained Aunt May's failed love affair, but one sensed he knew.'

'I wish I hadn't been so busy these past few years. I've missed the Sunday lunches.'

'He understood. He was touched when you turned up before Christmas. He spoke of little else when I telephoned that week. Said you'd insisted on time off from your committee hearings. I haven't seen you since Aunt May's funeral. You were an engaging child. I can't believe you're a senator. You're far too nice. He was forever talking about you, you know. Like a daughter.'

'It's funny how these things happen. I'd never have got to know him if I hadn't been trying to trace the origins of a medical condition. It was pure self-interest that brought me here to start with.'

'Is there anything you'd like as a memento? Something from the apartment? I looked through his drawers but didn't get any inspiration. It's mainly men's stuff—you know, cuff links, studs...'

'I have Aunt May's things. That's enough. I never wear anything of hers without remembering his kindness in giving them to me.'

'What about the photo? The mystery lover? I'm a dreadful bowerbird and I could never bring myself to throw out something like that. I still have her box of receipts and cheque stubs. It was as well you and Dad went through her other belongings or I'd have them salted away too. Would you believe I've accumulated so much junk I have to rent one of those lock-it-yourself storage areas in an old warehouse. I don't mind the thought of everything going to the tip after I'm dead, but whenever I wonder about doing it now I can't bring myself. I think: oh dear, what if I need to refer back to something, or what if there's something somebody wants.'

'I'd be happy to have the photo.'

'Looking through Dad's things made me realise I should probably make a decision about what happens when I go. I'm the last of my line, and will be I can assure you. Dealing with money and property isn't difficult. The furniture and books can be sold. I'm sure the antique pieces will find somebody to love them. The racing trophies should be snapped up by some collector. But there must be communities crying out for old stuff to display. Even financial records tell a story. May's Bank was ES&A—English, Scottish and Australasian, what a wonderful name. It doesn't exist any more. The cheque butts are all in pounds, shillings and pence. There must be educational value in those things.'

'Why not ring the State Library, or the archives.'

'Most of us aren't that important. No senators on our branch of the tree.'

'They might give you some advice though.'

'Good thought. Ah, here's the celebrated asparagus quiche. Thank you Mr Quirk. Thank you so much.'

True to his word, Tony sat down that afternoon and wrote to Walter.

3rd March 1978

Dear Walter

I thought you would want to know my father passed away on Monday. At his express request, no funeral notice was published. He had also asked that only one close friend accompany me to see him put to rest. As you will recall, it was much the same when my mother died.

He did ask me to write to you and say how much he valued your kindness to Grandma Alice, and your understanding during my aunt May's last years. He was always a shy man, and reticent, but he did tell me, on several occasions, he thought you had something in common with him and with me—that each of us was a departure from the Blake mould, and each uniquely so.

I do hope you are well and that Banabrook prospers. I really must visit you one of these days.

My best regards,

Tony

Less than two weeks later, he received a reply.

10th March 1978

Dear Tony,

Thank you for the note about your father. My condolences on your loss.

I too had noted similarities between myself and your side of the family. I had heard Uncle Chris called a black sheep, and I sometimes thought of myself in those terms. I think all three of us owe much to Grandma Alice who had an extraordinary capacity to see the good in people. I still miss her very much.

Do follow through with your idea of coming to visit. I know Rachel and Judith would love to meet you.

Warm regards,

Walter.

PART FOUR

PROBING THE PAST

Fantasy and Nostalgia

Tuesday 11th September 1990

Making the coffee and preparing a trolley left Max no scope for further eavesdropping. At one stage he heard raised voices; when he returned to the family room, he could sense the relief at his arrival. Caroline commented on the wonderful aroma. Judith acted the good hostess, pouring the coffee and offering biscuits. All of them made small talk, obviously keen to establish some semblance of civilised harmony. Max felt it an inappropriate time to resume his niggling behaviour, but he did draw Caroline's attention to a stack of folders on the desk. 'There's nothing confidential; feel free to browse. Some of it's a bit messy; draft chapters and stuff. I need to do some sorting. The best of the assignments from school are in there somewhere—they're definitely sources for the history. And some of your grandfather's memoirs—bits we might use.'

Caroline nodded. 'I spent one winter working my way through Grandad's stories.'

'I did the same,' Judith said. She returned to the desk with her coffee, and opened a folder.

After more small talk, Max retired to the kitchen, leaving the women alone again. Silence descended. Caroline peered into the trophy cabinet, searching for a topic to keep them away from dangerous ground.

'I see you won the show jumping. The best I could do was third.'

Judith remained seated, elbows on the desk, chin resting on clasped hands. There was the hint of a sigh. 'I grew up surrounded by your trophies and photos. I used to have this fantasy; I'd go somewhere to a competition and tie for first place with an older woman. After the presentation, somebody would tell me the other winner was my sister; and I'd run after you and catch you as you were leaving the show ground.'

'A tearful reunion, you brought home the prodigal daughter, and we all lived happily ever after.'

'Something like that.'

'I started riding the year my mother left. I had a Shetland pony. That's her.' Judith did not turn to look. Caroline pressed on. 'I groomed her so often it's a wonder all her hair didn't fall out. Then I'd ride her, and pretend I was at the Show. I had a fantasy too. We were good at fantasy. I'd name the subject and my mother would make up a story. Sometimes she'd act out the parts... I'm sorry, I'm rambling.'

'So what was your fantasy?' Judith swivelled around and rose from the chair.

'It doesn't matter.'

'Please. I told you mine.'

Now they were side by side, gazing into the cabinet, which contained so much of their lives. Caroline was fiddling with the brooch pinned to her dress—a large, distinctive piece, a broad cut garnet set in some sort of filigree, no longer fashionable but very beautiful. 'I would be riding in the Grand Parade, and I'd see a lady in the stand waving and smiling. She'd be looking straight at me, and she'd nod to confirm I was the one she was waving to. And I'd know who she was.'

'Was that hers?'

Unaware she'd been touching the brooch, Caroline glanced down. 'I found it after she left. It had fallen behind her dressing table. I kept it hidden for thirteen years.'

'Why?'

'Who knows? There's nothing else I want from this house.'

'Did you ever try to find her?'

'Of course. I employed a private investigator. He didn't unearth much. Mother inherited Weatherlee in 1943 after her parents were killed in a car accident. In 1945 she sold up and left; late in the year, a passport was issued in her name. End of trail!'

'I know the feeling. I tried to trace Mama's family.'

'I still wake in the night and find myself wondering where my mother is. If she's still alive she's 72.'

From the moment she'd started fiddling with the brooch, Caroline's mood had changed. Minutes ago, Judith was feeling anger and frustration; there'd been a sharp edge to every exchange. Now she felt sympathy. A woman lying awake wondering about her mother was an image of loneliness. The door hadn't fully opened, but the possibility was there.

'Do you live alone?'

'Yes. A nice gay man comes with me to functions. It avoids complications. I've learnt self sufficiency.'

'Like Rachel.'

'In what way?'

'She used to say, "Value people but don't need them!" '

'What do you think she meant?'

'I think she meant you mustn't become too dependent, because people... go away.'

Their eyes met. Caroline felt a need to change tack before Judith began probing again.

'If there are things you need to do, I can browse through the folders.'

A Stirring of the Senses

Sunday 7th January 1945

Walter rinsed his brush in gum turpentine, wiped it on a rag, and put it to soak in a jar of soapy water. He found it impossible to concentrate while distracted by the activity in the house-garden. Emily, Caroline and Rachel had created a production line to wash some of the dogs. Wet cotton dresses clinging to the two adult women emphasised a problem. Try though he might to convince himself his feelings for Rachel were like those he might have for a sister, he knew it was a lie. There was a time when Emily's figure was equally slim. Even now her movements had the elegance that went with her natural aptitude for sport, but since Caroline's birth little else had remained unchanged.

Like other country kids, Walter had grown up knowing families living an hour's drive down the back road to nowhere. There was probably nobody in the district he didn't know something about from personal experience or family conversations.

I hear the Crawleys have done so well with those porkers they're getting out of sheep altogether.

Yeah, well it's the trend isn't it.

What, pigs?

No, specialising.

Oh? Yeah. Yeah, there's not many left who could call themselves mixed farmers.

If you ask me, some aren't farming at all. Weatherlee's starting to look like a used truck yard.

How's young Emily doing? I feel for that poor kid. Too nice to be a Johnson.

Takes all kinds.

More's the pity.

Walter and Emily had been born within a few months of each other, so it was inevitable they would meet at school and at social functions as they grew up. Even before the age when the differences between girls and boys became of interest, they'd developed a rapport neither family understood. As they progressed through their teenage years it became common knowledge that they were "going steady". It was good to have a friend to share the trials of adolescence: the first gauche attempts at ballroom dancing, and other activities that, for the less fortunate, gave rise to agonies of embarrassment from disasters such as stepping on the treasured satin shoes of a dance partner, or being told the girl you'd worked up the courage to ask to the school ball had already agreed to go with your worst enemy. They made an attractive couple—he the handsome comic-strip heart-throb, she the bright-eyed brunette from an advertisement for permanent waving. When they became engaged at the school graduation, and married at the age of nineteen, nobody expressed surprise. They remained content to be together, to share a bed, and to become parents. After the difficulties of Caroline's birth, they'd joined battle with Emily's demons, holding them at bay, until the day an olive-skinned European beauty was found in a sheep truck and handed over to the local JP.

Seeing him at the window, Caroline held up a wet puppy. Emily and Rachel turned and, almost as one, struck a pose to display their soaked condition. It was a rare moment. He smiled and adopted a scandalised posture. He wished he could share the laughter.

Lunch was taken on the verandah to save the dog-washing team from having to strip off and shower. In the heat of January, they had agreed to forgo the usual Sunday roast. Walter had given himself the rare luxury of a day off, and devoted some of his morning to preparing salads. While they ate, Emily announced she and Caroline would go to Weatherlee for the afternoon. 'I want to check how far they've got with the fences— while the contractor isn't there to look surly.'

'Then I will do washing up,' Rachel said. 'Walter has done enough, I think. He is good with the salads, yes?'

'With the salads, he's an absolute marvel,' Emily said.

Walter spent the next couple of hours on a tractor, making his routine Sunday check of the back paddocks and perimeter fences. When he returned to his painting, Rachel was sitting on the couch listening to the wireless. As he entered, she quickly switched it off. He thought the look she gave him suggested she felt guilty. 'It is helping my English,' she said.

'Good idea. What were you listening to?'

'A news broadcast.'

'How goes the war?'

'Better it sounds. I am still learning things from last year. Paris was recovered.'

'That was months ago. Must have been about the time you got here.'

'I had no wireless. Only sometimes saw a newspaper.'

'Paris was important to you?'

She became fidgety and stood up. 'There were good people in France.'

'It must have been as well you spoke the language.'

'Please. These are things too soon to talk about.'

'That's all right by me. But if somebody in authority starts to get nosy–'

'I thought you were authority here.'

'I'm the very lowest level of authority in this country. A Justice of the Peace. I'm only that because there's nobody older and better qualified who hasn't gone to war.'

'They kept you here for this, I think.'

'No. And this is something _I'd_ prefer not to talk about.'

'It was not to pry.'

'Forget it.'

Walter returned to his painting. For a minute or more, Rachel said nothing. Then she moved closer to him. Standing at his shoulder she looked out at the scene and at his canvas.

'I've barely started,' he said.

'Already, though, there is balance in the composition. It begins well. I am happy you decide to leave out that tree.'

'Thank you.'

She watched him at work before she spoke again. 'There is no way to forget. I think maybe I should try to talk a little. To you only at first. When I am ready. Is this all right?'

'Of course.'

She turned and left the room. The aroma of her stayed with him. His heart was beating uncomfortably.

Sources of History

Friday 7th April 1989

EDITED TRANSCRIPT OF INTERVIEW CONDUCTED FOR YEAR 11 ORAL HISTORY ASSIGNMENT BY NORMAN BRYSON ON 7.4.1989

THE INTERVIEWER'S QUESTIONS AND SOME EXTRANEOUS DISCUSSION AND REPETITION HAVE BEEN EDITED OUT OF THIS TRANSCRIPT, WHICH IS OTHERWISE VERBATIM AND HAS BEEN APPROVED BY THE INTERVIEWEE.

ASSIGNMENT: Conduct an interview to obtain information about the change of ownership of a property in the Shire of Kalawonta.

INTERVIEWEE: Mr Stanley John Fleming. DATE OF BIRTH: 22.7.1900

SCOPE OF INTERVIEW: Sale of Weatherlee - Charlesworth to Johnson - 1917

'1917 it was. I was 17. I still remember the sale because it was a real big event. On the day of the auction, all the locals turned out to see what happened. There were plenty of onlookers, but only two bidders. My dad said if it hadn't been a mortgagee sale the property would've been withdrawn instead of getting knocked down cheap. Barry Johnson was a city-based haulage contractor with no experience on the land. Within a month, he'd moved into Weatherlee with his two sons and their families.

'The Johnsons were city people. Newcomers. And the way of their coming didn't help. Jerry Charlesworth was Arajinna's first loss in the Great War. I was 15 at the time. It gets to you when a bloke you still remember as a "big boy" at school stops a bullet somewhere in France. They said the death unbalanced his father. I remember my old man saying Jerry's dad had been a pretty level-headed bloke. Next we hear he's borrowed a lot of money and started some crazy new farming ventures. Within two years he was bankrupt and the Bank was selling Weatherlee.

'It wasn't long before the gossips came up with stories about Barry Johnson's financial success being based on standover tactics and sabotaging his competitors' vehicles. It was exciting stuff for a teenager. There were some pretty colourful rumours about his reasons for buying a country property away from prying city eyes—suggestions some of the vehicles arriving in the dead of night weren't his, stories about perfectly good rigs being dumped in the big gully running through Weatherlee's back paddock. Of course, at night out here, a big truck changing down to come up Two View could be heard for miles.

'One thing I'm sure wasn't rumour was that Barry Johnson got drunk when he went into town, and was real bad news. Picked fights with anybody in sight and had a thing about foreigners. If anybody a bit different came into a bar he'd start shouting, "Jews, Chinks and Abos". He was a real scary bugger, and his sons were chips off the old block. The oldest, Bert, had a wife and two young sons. He managed the haulage business, and spent a lot of time away from Arajinna, which made the rest of us real happy. The other boy, Maurie, had a young wife who turned out to be pregnant. Emily was the second new baby in the district that spring. Walter Blake had been born a couple of months earlier.

'Both the Johnson boys were in their twenties, which caused a bit of flak as well. Lads from Kalawonta had signed up in droves. It became a local thing; you know, "one in all in!" Their regiment had a pretty bad war. Jerry Charlesworth is one of the Arajinna boys whose names you'll find on the Cenotaph. The word was Barry Johnson had said his sons couldn't go because they were operating a reserved business*. One of them being exempted might have been okay. Two exemptions didn't sit well. But when one of the locals made a comment in earshot of Barry Johnson the big bloke got stroppy and went on about "one rule for battlers and another rule for silvertails". Everyone knew he was having a dig at Richard Blake. Young Dick was a promising surgeon and he'd stayed home to continue his training. The locals had no argument about Richard, and they would have gone along with one of Barry's boys staying at home to help with the trucking business, but not both of them.

'Surprisingly, the Johnsons developed into competent farmers. One thing Barry did right was to employ young Pat Charlesworth to teach Maurie the ropes and get him started. For about six months Pat lived in the quarters his dad had built for the itinerants—shearers and the like. Bit of a comedown for a Charlesworth, but these things happen.

'When Pat finished at Weatherlee and made the rounds of the farms to say good-bye, you couldn't get him to talk much about the Johnsons. But years later, well away from Arajinna, he told a drinking mate that Barry Johnson was the scariest bloke he'd ever met, and he'd never want to cross the bugger!

'So there you have it. History of the Johnsons... well, how they came to own Weatherlee, anyway.'

* The government had declared that key employees of some businesses essential to the war effort were not to be accepted for service in the armed forces. The origin of the term "reserved" is not covered by this assignment.

Note: This interview will be cross-referenced to other transcripts including Mr Edward Vaughan's account of the sale of Weatherlee by Emily Blake (née Johnson) in 1945.

Norman Bryson's assignment had been separated from others, and placed in a file marked: Weatherlee. Caroline leafed through the other papers in the file. To her dismay, among them was a carbon copy of a letter she had seen before. Thirty years on, its effect was still disturbing. Unless Max and his researchers already knew its origins, her fears about misleading sources were confirmed. Closing the file, she contemplated a confrontation; it seemed increasingly unavoidable. For the time being, she would say nothing. At some stage, she would have to raise the matter. Now, however, she needed to go to the bathroom. She took a deep breath and put the file down.

Searching for Closure

Tuesday 11th September 1990

When Max returned to the family room he was pleased to see the evidence that Caroline had started reading. If they could immerse her in snippets from the history, they might weaken the defences she'd erected. After a quick peek at the folder on the couch, he sat at the desk, took out a notebook, and began to write:

CB 11.9.90 (1st meeting)

Reacted as soon as I mentioned biography. Blunt "There must be no..."

Concerned hist might be rev'st.

Worried about father as source of info.

Doesn't like being touched?? Stiff with Judith. This was tactile family.

Check tape—Emily's big warm cuggles.

Did something happen to C?

Max leant back and contemplated the possibilities. In the thirteen years from the time her mother disappeared until she, herself, left Banabrook, Caroline had made all the hardest of life's transitions—none more difficult than adolescence. Had Rachel been a confusing role model? Perhaps there had been traumatic events other than Emily's disappearance. Hearing somebody coming, he closed his notebook and returned it to the drawer. Judith entered and plonked herself down on an arm of the couch.

'Where is she?' Max asked.

'In the loo, I think. Probably washing her hands of anything to do with Daddy except his money. It's unnatural. She ignored him for thirty years. Now she's here, lusting for loot and determined to sell. We have to know what happened between them. But when you think she's about to open up—she retreats again.'

'At least we've got her reading some of the history. I was hoping to prompt some sort of revelation by getting her to listen to some of the tapes. Total rejection!'

'I think she might have changed her mind.'

'Truly?'

'She seems to feel a need to check on what he's told us.'

'Then let's encourage her to start listening. First, you have calls to make. If Jim's not up to it, we'll have to sing unaccompanied again. He won't deal with anybody but you on this one.'

Emitting an angry grunt, Judith got up and left. A brief exchange of words from the hallway alerted Max to Caroline's return. As she entered, he rose and crossed to the sideboard.

'How are you holding up? You must have left home early.'

'Four-thirty, I think. I did stop at a roadhouse for breakfast. And don't tell me I was lucky to find one. I noticed they got more dilapidated the closer I came to Arajinna.'

'I believe you've decided to listen to the tapes.'

'That news travelled fast!' The momentary flash of irritation was unmistakable. 'I'd like to know what ground they cover. Time is a problem though. When does Tony arrive?'

'We're planning to have lunch early so I can collect him from Calway Junction at two. I guess we'll be back here about half past three. I'm sure Judith's got plenty to keep her busy, so you could do some listening while I'm away.'

'Sounds fine.'

'Meanwhile you might help me with something. I've been thinking of playing an extract at the end of the eulogy. Usually, I ask the congregation to spend a while with their private thoughts, and I've noticed people looking intently at the coffin as though trying to conjure the departed in their imagination. Playing a tape of his voice might give them something more evocative to work on.'

'Are you asking if I approve?'

'I thought something to bring his family into the picture. Perhaps this.' Without waiting for her agreement, he started the recording.

This room was the hub of our family life. Sometimes Caroline would lie over there in front of the fire and I'd read to her until she fell asleep. Then I'd carry her to bed. Emily would have put a hot water bottle between the sheets and I'd make sure Caroline's feet were in the warm patch before I tucked her in. They fill your heart at times like that. I was particular about what I read because I remembered being scared silly by Grimm's Fairy Tales myself. I've never understood why parents read that stuff to kids. I read her things like Winnie the Pooh and–

At first Caroline seemed mesmerised by the voice, then she crossed to the recorder and stabbed the button with her finger. She and Max were uncomfortably close, but her question was quiet and controlled.

'Why are you doing this?'

'I thought I'd explained.'

'That's not an extract you'd play at a funeral. And don't tell me the real bit was coming up soon, because I won't believe you.'

'Okay. The truth is I'd hoped when you heard him talking about you—about good times—it might prompt you to tell us why you left.'

'Why are you so obsessed about my past? Daddy's biography is one thing, but my past is mine. It's not your business.'

'Isn't it? Judith has spent her entire life wondering what happened to her half-sister. Wondering why you didn't communicate with your father—her father.'

'Did she love him?'

'Of course.'

'Why would she want to jeopardise her memory of him now?'

'Do you think it likely?'

'Why can't you just accept that it's my business?'

'For a start, because you want to sell her heritage.'

'I've told her why.'

'All you've told her is your interests come first.'

'It would have to be sold some time. You can't take a saw and cut it down the middle.'

'That wouldn't be a problem in some families.'

'But it is. It's why eldest sons used to inherit the lot; bloody unfair but a way of keeping it all together. It wasn't a problem for my parents. Mother had no siblings to fight over Weatherlee. Father was the sole survivor of the Blakes. It's different for Judith and me.'

'At least you could tell her why Banabrook doesn't matter to you.'

'Even if that were true, it wouldn't be the issue. I didn't come here to open old sores. I need—what's the trendy word these days—closure? I have to bury the past.'

'You can't. Sooner or later the earth gives up its secrets.'

'What the earth gives up is evidence. Historians speculate about what it means.'

Her look left him in no doubt which historian she had in mind. She turned away as if to end the discussion but Max was not ready to let go.

'Earlier you suggested the history we're compiling might be revisionist.'

'I didn't mean intentionally.'

'But you hint we should be careful about our sources, and you have doubts about what's on the tapes. I'm sure you can understand what a problem that is for me. There's no possibility of this project petering out. It has a life of its own. The kids at school tell me they're "turned on". So, if you want it to be accurate, you'll have to help.'

'It's the biography I'm bothered about.'

'Why?'

'I can't stop you writing a history. I can probably even help you with some aspects of it. So can Tony.'

'You've kept in touch with him?'

'Tony? Yes, intermittently. His father turned his back on Banabrook and the Blake heritage long before I did.'

'Truly?'

'Oh yes. Interested?'

'I should tell you I have met Tony. I made a trip to Sydney when I realised he was the oldest surviving Blake.'

'How much do you know about Alfred's arrival here? Maud? Alured? The origins of the art collection?'

'Not as much as we'd like. There are lots of gaps. We do have the story of Alfred and the large black beetle.'

'Now that I haven't heard. But, with the help of Tony and his father, I was able to find out some things about the early years.'

'You researched the genealogy? Blake genealogy?'

'There were reasons. Not sentimental ones.'

'More mysteries?'

'I'm not trying to be provocative. But I'd happily swap my information for an agreement to drop the biography.'

'A trade off?'

'Call it what you will.'

'You do realise your being a senator has nothing to do with it.'

'I would hope not.'

'That his daughter has been touted as the first woman prime minister would obviously be mentioned—but this is not about you.'

'I hadn't suggested it was.'

'What if I were to tell you I felt an obligation to write the biography.'

'Why?'

'When I first floated the idea, your father was reluctant to give the nod to an authorised work.' He saw Caroline's head tilt; he could almost hear an ah-ha! 'I didn't think it was because he had anything to hide. I thought it was humility.'

Caroline appeared to be on the verge of a response, but shook her head as though at a loss to understand.

Max said, 'I convinced him of the value of the biography to the community.'

'Value to the community?'

'Oh yes.'

'How so?'

'There are some matters I'd rather not talk about without Judith present. But it was me who got him to embrace the project and to see hope in it. To shelve it now, when he can't have any further input, would be unthinkable.'

'So where's that leave me?'

'I can only use information from sources willing to provide it. You keep hinting you know things. But you won't reveal anything, so I have to work with what I've got. Where facts can't be verified I will say so. But it is fact that Walter had a wife Emily and a daughter Caroline. Histories and biographies often contain unanswered questions. Sometimes they prompt others to undertake further research. There's always somebody out there looking for a topic for a Ph.D thesis.'

'Or some young piranha in the press gallery who sees the possibility of making a name as an investigative journalist.'

'No matter how I frame the passages about Walter's daughter, it will be obvious the two of you had become alienated. You've already acknowledged how closely politicians are watched. All I can offer you is the opportunity to provide input that might pre-empt some of the questions.'

'My god Max, you should have been the politician. What you've said is totally defendable, but carries all the force of blackmail.'

'I wish I felt flattered.'

'Now I have no option but to tell you where I stand.'

'I should get Judith.'

'I wouldn't if I were you! At least not until you've heard what I have to say.'

Max hesitated, uncertain, then nodded his agreement.

In The Glow Of A Lantern

Saturday 20th January 1945

Walter strode up the slope—spade in one hand, lantern in the other—leaning against the strong northerly, which had blown all day. He entered the family room from the verandah. Rachel was at the window. She did not turn.

'It's done,' he said. 'At the end of the stables.'

'I could see the glow of the lamp. For some, it is a symbol of life.' She continued to stare into the darkness.

'You wanted to be the one to fill it in.'

'Yes.' She turned, and he could see she was holding something.

'What's that?'

'The necklace.' She looked at the object in her hands. 'Anna. I always liked the name.' Looking up, she reached out to touch his cheek. 'Don't worry, dear Walter. It will be buried too. I felt a need to look at it. Now, the box.'

Walter went to the desk. He picked up a small cash box and took it to her. She put the necklace inside. Slowly she removed the scarf from around her neck and draped it over the back of a chair—her movements slow and deliberate, like a strange strip tease. It added to this illusion when she pulled her dress aside revealing the cleavage where the cloth bag nestled between her breasts. She took the cord and slipped the bag from her neck, showing it to him before dropping it into the box.

'That makes the set complete.'

'Yes.'

'You can't bury memories.'

'But you can make a new start.'

'By disposing of the evidence? So simple, yes?'

'I think you owe this much to me.'

'You want me to be your cause. But first you have to clean me up.'

'I took you as you were. When you arrived here I took you as you were.'

A smile. A nod. She moved to the desk and retrieved a document.

'And this is what? Insurance?'

'How did you–?'

'I... what is the word?... rifled?'

'You went through my desk?'

'I thought "rifled" was the word, but "went though" is a sufficient betrayal, yes? Like a report to the Immigration Department?' She threw the document onto the desk.

'It was only a draft. It was never sent. I wrote it before...'

'Before what?'

'Before I was sure.'

'Before you looked into my soul and saw the glow of goodness that excuses everything.'

'I knew you were no danger to others—to Kalawonta. That was my only responsibility. Everything else is between us.'

'It is dangerous to think you know anybody. The heart tells the eyes to ignore what they see.'

He stepped to the desk, picked up the document, and tore it to pieces. 'I never wanted to be a Justice of the Peace. I started a report when you arrived because I thought I might need to cover myself. I thought Adderley or some other bastard might try to stir up trouble.'

'Nothing has changed. They still might.'

'I no longer care.'

He felt her arms slide around his waist and the gentle weight of her head as she rested it on his back.

'Dear Walter,' she said. 'You were not brought up to this. You were born to privilege and riches. Thoreau's quietly desperate have a different morality. I'm a survivor who takes what she can when she can. Where did you leave the spade?'

She released her hold on him; he turned to face her. 'On the porch. The hurricane lamp is there too.'

'What is the English? Out of sight out of mind? It is a lie Walter. Only from the minds of madmen are memories or guilt ever erased.'

She put her fingers to her lips and touched them to his. Then she took the cash box and left the room. Walter watched as she appeared around the side of the house and started down the slope, dress blowing in the wind. Soon the light from the lamp was all he could see. His hand dropped to the back of the chair. He picked the scarf up, held it to his face, breathed her scents.

A reflection appeared in the window. Emily was coming along the hallway. Quickly replacing the scarf, he turned to face her. 'I thought you were staying for the card night.'

'We were late finishing our round. The wind was murder. I'm knackered.'

'I was about to make some tea.'

'There's a light out there.'

'It's Rachel. She went to look at the stars I think.'

'You're kidding? In this wind? Well I'm going to soak in a bath. You can bring me my tea.'

As she turned she looked at the scarf, then at Walter.

'Jeff says it's rumoured you're after the fuel agency.'

'Where'd he get that idea?'

'Stephen, I think.'

'There was talk some months ago that the agency might change hands.' Even as he said it, he knew the comment sounded contrived and evasive.

'I thought Uncle Bert had it sewn up for the duration.'

'Who can guess the duration of a war?'

'A licence to print money, Jeff says. And it wasn't advertised for tender.'

'It's a long story.'

'I'm sure I've got time after my bath. Jeff seems to think it's important.'

'Jeff is on a fishing expedition.'

'Meaning?'

'Government contracts are confidential and he knows it.'

Emily's hand dropped to the back of the chair and Rachel's scarf. She looked out of the window again. 'It's not the vantage point I'd have chosen to view the stars.' Frowning, she swung around and said, 'Me bath. You tea.' She headed for the doorway, where she stopped. Without turning, she added, 'Stephen's been putting it out that you're misusing your position as a JP. I need to know what's going on. And don't say Montagues and Capulets; I have a feeling this is different.' Then she was gone.

Down by the stables he could see the lamp but no movement. It would have taken Rachel only a minute or two to finish the burial and fill in the hole. Later he'd rake leaves over it—as a temporary measure, until he could do something more permanent. He imagined Rachel sitting on the bench in the dark. What would she be thinking? And Emily wanted to know about the fuel agency. What lie would he tell her about that? There was still no confirmation. What if the authorities hadn't bought the story? He'd been warned there might be consequences. The Johnsons were bad men to cross.

A Hint of Blackmail

Tuesday 11th September 1990

Max was finding it hard not to break the silence. Nevertheless, having brought Caroline to the brink of a disclosure, he was determined to be quiet until she was ready to begin. He was relieved when he heard her gently clear her throat.

'When I was seven, my mother disappeared. I'm sure my father must have given me some explanation, but I'd become used to being a good girl when mummy wasn't feeling well, so I probably assumed it was one of those times. After a week or two I must have sensed she wasn't coming back. As time passed, my father became increasingly important to me. I adjusted to having only one parent, as children do if they're lucky... if they're loved.' A reflective pause. 'Rachel could be a bit scary when she thought I'd been naughty, but she never lifted a hand against me, and I knew I was safe with her. I can't tell you exactly what I felt when she married my father, certainly not anger.' Another pause. Max sensed a reluctance to continue. When she did, the tone was clipped and tense. 'It was thirteen years before I learnt why my mother had left home. There'd been things I'd wondered about, but nothing to make me suspect the truth. When all the pieces came together, they showed my father in a sinister light. It was devastating. For so many years he'd been my rock. Now I could no longer trust him.' Another pause. 'I felt I had three choices: I could continue living at Banabrook and pretend nothing had changed; I could confront him—God knows where that would have led; or I could leave home. He was away at the wool sales. One day Rachel had to take Judith for a medical check. It was the opportunity I needed; I cleared out.'

'Without leaving a note.'

'I didn't think until too late. It all just happened. I telephoned Rachel from Calway Junction.'

'I didn't know that.'

'I told her not to come looking for me—that father would know why.'

'He didn't.'

'It wasn't something he'd be likely to disclose. Now, do you want me to finish my story?'

'Please. I shouldn't have interrupted.'

'When I got to Sydney I sold my car and took the train south. After all those years at Harwood, I thought I'd feel more at home in Melbourne. On the first Sunday I walked to the Botanic Gardens, a favourite place for quiet times and thinking. I decided not to dwell on the past, but to focus on the future. My father's behaviour was for him to live with. I saw no benefit in trying to expose him. That still holds. I can live with my own knowledge of events but I couldn't live with a false biography. If you publish, I'll break my silence. I imagine it might be shattering for Judith and possibly for others. A history of the early years of Kalawonta could omit any reference to what he did. A biography of Walter Blake would be a sham without it.'

'Do you intend to tell me the nature of this sinister information?'

'Only if you force my hand. And I wouldn't tell you anything before telling Judith.'

'I've read some of your views on freedom of speech.'

'You've researched me quite thoroughly haven't you.'

'What you said earlier, about blackmail, makes me wonder how to reconcile your public position on freedom of speech with this emotional pressure to prevent my exercising it.'

'I haven't suggested you aren't free to say or write what you like. And I haven't suggested my response to a false biography would be legal action. All I've said is I'll put the record straight, whatever the consequences. The real point is that you have no right to demand information. This isn't a political issue. It's not something I'm representing in parliament after offering myself for election. It's personal. It's private.'

Max was surprised how clear he felt about his response. 'I doubt whether there's anything Judith knows that she would feel must be kept a secret from you, in the long run. On the other hand, you harbour secrets you won't reveal unless the biography displeases you. You won't tell us what false information you think we have, but you hint at something bad about your father. If I know Judith, I think she'd rather hear any dirty secrets, and come to terms with them, than wonder what it is she doesn't know. That said, what happens will be her call. You and I will have to wait and see.'

There was a pause as both took stock. It was Caroline who broke the silence. 'So what do we do now? Sit here and glare at each other.'

Max's spontaneous smile must have affected Caroline because she put a hand quickly to her mouth. He looked at the coffin and it occurred to him to tell her he thought Walter would have approved their laughing together. Instead, he turned back to her and said, 'I wish we could have met in different circumstances. I think we might have got along very well.'

'Tell me about Alfred and the large black beetle.'

'We're using the story at the beginning of the history. It's here somewhere.' He went to the desk and picked up the thickest of the folders. 'The drafts aren't in order but we've decided on black beetle for chapter one so it should be near the top. I'll go and see what's keeping Judith.'

'And prime her for what's to come?'

'No! We'll have to get back to this discussion sometime. But there are other things we need to attend to first.' This time they both looked at the coffin. Then Max added, 'Make yourself at home. You could do some tape browsing.'

Working title: Kalawonta - A History of the Shire

First Draft

by

Maxwell Kingsley

and

students of Arajinna High School

Copyright 1990 - Shire of Kalawonta

Introduction - An Absence Of Collisions

Whilst many areas of New South Wales have names marking the massacre of Aboriginal people, no evidence has been found in the Kalawonta district of what the colonial powers euphemistically called collisions.1

We know much about areas such as Waterloo Creek and Myall Creek, often from documents originally prepared for trials or enquiries. Happily, Kalawonta appears to have had no mass deaths, no visits by gung-ho mounted police, and no gruesome reports. As a result, we know less about this district and must frequently qualify our statements to indicate they are guesses or suppositions rather than established facts. Our research team keeps digging, however, and we hope this publication might cause new sources to come forward and fill in some of the gaps.

To honour the traditions and wishes of the Aboriginal people who lived or moved through Kalawonta Shire before the arrival of the first Europeans, we have not presumed to tell their story. Perhaps one day they will do so. They have a rich store of wonderful Dreamtime legends, which are not as well known as those of some other language groups. We have talked much with the elders who speak for the indigenous community hereabouts. They have approved what we say about the relations of their forebears with the enigmatic Alfred Blake and his descendants. They have strong oral traditions and the stories passed down to them support what facts we have been able to establish from written sources.2

1. The term collisions, as a euphemism for conflicts between European settlers and indigenous people, appears frequently in correspondence between British Government authorities and the Colonial Secretary's Office. In a letter dated 10 December 1839 James Stephen, Under-Secretary for Colonies, wrote: 'The tendency of these collisions with the Blacks is unhappily too clear for doubt.' (See bibliography, Colonial Secretary, Correspondence Received.)

2. Amble, Some Early Europeans, pp 24-31. Stinson, The Good And The Bad, pp 95-101. Uber, We Came We Saw p 52. Alfred Blake is referred to by all of these authors. Stinson, in particular, suggests an unusual bond between Blake and the Aborigines in the Kalawonta area.

Chapter 1 - Alfred Blake And The Large Black Beetle

This is a story the Kalawonta elders have passed on to us and authorised us to tell.

There is a large black beetle still found in the forests of Kalawonta Shire. For centuries, local Aborigines have known the bite of this beetle is agonisingly painful but, as with many species of bee and wasp, it seems the insect has a means of sensing fear in humans and responding to it. Thus it appears those who fear they will be bitten are most likely to be so. Those without fear usually go unharmed, and this is of much practical value because the beetle makes its home at the base of a bush that has nutritious edible roots.1

Legend has it that, long before the arrival of the ghost people2, a band of Aboriginal hunters arrived near the forest and negotiated with the locals to pass through peacefully. In truth, the hunters had come to attack the locals and wanted first to assess their numbers. When the hunters retreated into the forest to prepare for the attack, they were set upon by beetles. Their screams brought the locals running, and the plot was uncovered. Subsequently, an old man in the tribe suggested a smell, causing the beetles to attack, must be exuded not only by those in fear of the beetle but also by others who sweat in nervous anticipation. Thereafter, the beetle became a test for anybody suspected of plotting mischief.

Before the arrival of Alfred Blake, stories had reached the tribe about strange light-skinned people who had appeared in neighbouring areas. It was said that some of these people were friendly, but others were treacherous. Alfred Blake's party arrived with animals unknown to most of the indigenes, though some local men said they had seen such creatures when moving through lands to the south.3 The locals decided to use the beetle to test Alfred Blake. He was invited to meet with the elders who spoke to him through an Aboriginal guide the visitors had brought with them. Blake was told it was customary to introduce newcomers to a special food, which they must gather under supervision of locals. He was taken to a place where there was a large colony of beetles. There he gathered roots without being attacked and, instead of squashing the beetles, asked through his interpreter how he should deal with them. This was taken as proof he was friendly and cared for the land. The bond between Blake and the Aborigines was to grow with time and continue through the succeeding generations.

1. Wotherspoon, The Edible Plants of Early Australia, p172.

2. Niley, Languages of Kalawonta, p17. Niley identifies a word 'gooba', which she translates as 'ghost', as the local equivalent of similar words identified in indigenous languages in most areas of Australia. The notion that white humans were the spirits of Aboriginal ancestors is widespread in the literature about indigenous people.

3. It is known that Alfred Blake arrived with sheep. Domestic cattle were introduced to the district much later.

Caroline sat back and thought. She liked the beetle story and the simple style of its telling. If she could believe that the rest of the history would be as engaging and innocuous, she would support the project wholeheartedly. The remainder of the folder contained batches of material held together by paper-clips and staples. Typed drafts, extracts from transcripts, handwritten notes, and other documents, had been grouped behind facing sheets and identified by brief titles. As she turned over the batches the words EMILY'S DEMONS on a facing sheet caught her eye. The first item was a letter. It was dated the day after she was born.

Emily's Demons

Tuesday 11th September 1990

The First and Last Hotel

Circular Quay

Sydney.

26th February 1938

Dear Walter,

The Calway exchange is out, so I'm writing in case I can't get through before I leave.

Don't ask me how I came to be staying at this place. Long story. Wonderful name for a pub, though. It's where dockworkers can get a drink (legally) at odd hours when they come off shift. I board my ship late today.

Congratulations Dad! I saw baby Caroline yesterday and gave her a cuddle for you. She was only a few hours old. I had to pull some strings. Babies don't come with timepieces, but a week premmie is no worry and I'm glad I was still here.

Emily's GP was right to suspect a difficult birth. If he hadn't insisted on sending her to Sydney, I think we might have lost them both. Caroline is fine and Emily will get the best of care at Royal North Shore. She's already been told she can't have any more children. For ethical reasons you'll have to get most of your info from the attending physicians, but there are some observations I can make as a grandfather who knows a bit of medicine.

There's a condition, which isn't well understood, that researchers are calling postnatal depression. I don't think it's normally evident so soon after the birth but I suspect you should be prepared for something of the kind. Emily is very low. When I went to hand the baby back to her she shook her head and pointed towards the nursery.

Obviously she's tired and sore after the ordeal, but I know her well enough to think it might be something deeper. I tried to jolly her along but her usual spark wasn't there. It's probably just as well I'm going overseas; otherwise, I'd find it hard not to get involved. I don't want to be alarmist but look after her.

I'll leave this for you at the hospital.

In haste.

Love

Dad

Next came a short passage clipped from one of the transcripts.

WALTER: I don't think Dad realised how much he meant to Emily. His concerns about her having some sort of depression proved to be right. But he'd also told her he was going away to a conference. It took weeks to get to England by ship. She wanted him here.

MAX: They seem to have been very close.

WALTER: She adored him. Life with her own parents had been pretty awful. When I started bringing her home, Dad made her feel wanted. He taught her to hit golf balls into the south paddock. When he realised she was a natural, he paid for her to have lessons from a professional, and sponsored her membership of the golf club. Things have changed Max. In those days, applications were rejected for reasons that wouldn't stand up today. The Johnsons weren't liked. Without Dad's backing, she'd have been rejected.

MAX: So his departure exacerbated the postnatal depression.

WALTER: It's a strange condition. Emily was a wonderful mother but I think the complications of the birth must have upset her hormones in some way. She'd play happily with Caroline until it was time to put her down for a rest. Then things would go quiet and I'd find her sitting there, with a cold cup of tea, staring into space.

MAX: I know you've declared some things off limits, but do you think the depression was a factor in her leaving?

WALTER: In a way it would be comforting to think so, but I'm not even going to speculate. Let's move on.

MAX: You said you wanted to come back to your mother's death.

WALTER: Her story I do want told. This time I'll try not to get emotional.

Caroline put the folder down. It contained a lot of new information—snippets about her mother she would love to have explored with Max and Judith were it not for her desire to keep other aspects of the past to herself. And other things: references to her grandmother Elspeth, history she'd never discussed with her father but which now aroused her curiosity.

PART FIVE

LIFE GOES ON

Losing a Mother

Friday 18th December 1931

Cancer, term used loosely to cover tumours that develop in the body for reasons as yet undiscovered, and spread through the normal tissues in a slow but progressive manner until, usually by the invasion of some important blood vessel, they produce a weakness in its wall, leading to fatal internal haemorrhage.

Walter wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and glanced over his shoulder. Twelve-year-old boys are meant to be tough. Fortunately, it was recess; he was alone in the classroom that doubled as a library. He closed the encyclopaedia, and returned it to the shelf. It was his last day of primary school, the week before Christmas.

Sunday 9th January 1932

Conferences were a Blake tradition, though nobody could tell Walter which of their forebears had been the first to call the family together to discuss some important subject. Even Grandad Simeon could only say the practice must have started before he was born.

It was less than a month since a conference had changed their lives. In accordance with the tradition, everybody at home had been included on that occasion. Grandad Simeon and Grandma Alice had sat side by side in straight-backed chairs, holding hands. Walter was in the middle of the couch, sandwiched in the airless space between his two bulky brothers, feeling insignificant. His mother had settled herself on the arm of his father's chair, smiling as always. A few days earlier, she'd returned from a trip to Sydney. Walter had seen her in earnest conversation with his father and grandparents. He was not taken immediately into their confidence because, as his mother now told them, she wanted to wait until Michael and Jonathan returned from Melbourne where they were boarders at the prestigious Stoddart Grammar School.

'We must all get on with our lives,' she said. 'Doctors have no way of knowing how fast these tumours spread. Sometimes people survive for a year or two. But even if it's only a month, or a day, I don't want us wasting it. Do you understand?'

'Will you have to go back to the hospital?' Jonathan asked.

'Possibly, darling. We'll have to wait and see. I'd rather be here than in a hospital where they can't cure me anyway.' She looked at Richard for support.

Richard cleared his throat. 'The district hospital can provide for any urgent needs.'

Now another conference had been called, this time breaking tradition because one family member was missing. This had not been the usual joyous Christmas break. Today was Sunday. Elspeth Blake had accompanied the family to church, picked at her small serving of the mid-day roast cooked by Richard and Jonathan, and, after kissing each of them, retired for her afternoon rest.

'Right!' Richard said. 'We're all agreed. Michael and Jonathan go back to Melbourne. We'll call you home if things deteriorate, but your mother would be devastated if her illness caused you to break your studies prematurely. Walter will start his secondary studies at Arajinna. The Headmaster at Stoddart is prepared to take him at any time until the end of Intermediate, which keeps the options open for another year. You're quite sure Walter?'

'Yes Dad.'

Walter was more than sure. He hated the prospect of living away from home. Now he would start secondary school with his current crop of friends, and not be parted from his mother. At least not yet.

So it was that he went to the local high school and renewed his friendship with "Emily from over the tracks" as Mikey had always called her.

Having expected Walter to join his brothers at Stoddart, Emily Johnson had trouble concealing her delight when he turned up on Orientation Day for the new intake of the high school year.

Another Family Conference

Friday 29th July 1932

A few days after the funeral of Elspeth Blake, Richard asked the family to gather around the fire when dinner was over. The main business was an affirmation of the long held view that Michael, who would complete his secondary schooling at the end of the year, was ready to take over management of the farm. His Grandfather gave his imprimatur to the decision. 'You realise I've been the only Blake since Alfred not to have a son working the property. Not that I minded your dad becoming a surgeon. I was happy to stay in harness. But now it's time for me to hand over, so I'm glad you're ready to step up. With any luck I'll stay active long enough to get you established.'

'You're as fit as a Mallee bull and twice as dangerous, Grandad,' Jonathan interjected, using one of Simeon's own expressions.

'And I thought you were a realist,' Simeon glared at him.

There was laughter but, like everything recently, it was subdued.

Richard said, 'Now we need to hear from Jonathan.'

'I'm still keen to study law. My teachers think my marks are good enough to get a scholarship to one of the residential colleges.'

'A second Blake in the professions?' Simeon said. 'It's your fault Alice. They're all becoming intellectuals.'

There was more laughter and Alice said, 'He'll do well.'

'I don't think I'm cut out for a profession,' Walter said.

He was aware of the family focussing its attention on him, and he realised he had to explain himself.

'I pass each year, but not without a struggle. I don't like most of the subjects we do. They say I'm good with my hands and I have an aptitude for drawing, but we don't have an art teacher. I don't know what I want to do.'

'Then why not stay at Banabrook and help me?' Michael asked. 'You know the farm as well as I do.'

'Seriously?'

'Blood oath!'

Walter glanced at his grandfather who nodded. 'Mikey has already canvassed the idea with me and your father, but we wanted to hear if you had any other plans.'

'None as good as that!'

Grandad Simeon nodded again. 'We'll be short handed when Vic retires, but he's prepared to stay on for a bit; between us we'll get by without an assistant manager until you finish school.'

And so it was decided.

Changing Relationships

Easter 1937

When Barry Johnson died in 1935, his will provided for Emily's father, Maurie, to inherit Weatherlee, and for her Uncle Bert to inherit the trucking business run from premises near the railway depot. The Arajinna community acknowledged this as a good move, because it left each set of assets under the control of the son who had played the largest role in their management. Although neither of the brothers was well disposed towards the founding families of the district, they were less overtly antagonistic than their father had been. Nevertheless, Walter and Emily were relieved when Maurie raised no objection to their becoming engaged, and they were surprised when he insisted on a traditional wedding paid for by the parents of the bride.

The wedding, held at Easter in 1937, was straight from the textbook. But there was tension at Banabrook in the days before the ceremony, and an incident soon after the honeymoon was to stay with Walter for the rest of his life.

The catalyst was houseguest, Penelope Kransley, who came to the wedding as Michael's partner. Walter had already moved into the farm manager's cottage, which was to be his home with Emily. For relaxation, he had been copying a landscape hung in the hall of Banabrook—a project he was finishing late on Thursday when Penelope arrived.

'I'd heard you were different,' she said, examining his work, 'but I didn't know you painted.'

'Different?'

'Your father's a surgeon, and your brothers are such practical chaps. You seem to be from a totally different mould.'

'Liking to paint doesn't mean I'm not practical.'

'Mikey's the big cheese though. Is there enough of a career for two of you?'

'I hope so.'

'If he marries, you'd be living in each others' pockets a bit.'

'I'm quite happy in the cottage.'

'No big ambitions?'

'Not really.'

'Why are you making a copy of this painting?'

'It helps develop technique. I've always liked the way the light falls on those trees. I'm trying for a similar effect.'

'Did they teach art at Arajinna High?'

'No.'

'You would have been a contemporary of my brother if you'd gone to Stoddart. He's studying medicine.'

'What do you do?'

'I'm in the same law firm as Jonathan. Now there's a success story.'

'Yes, he has done well.'

'You can already mark him down as a future King's Counsel, and I'd back him for a position on the bench in time.'

'He's only twenty-two.'

'You can tell with special people. Take my word for it.'

'Then I'm proud of him.'

'Your Emily? Is she artistic too?'

'Emily's more a sporting type.'

'The opposite that attracts, eh?'

'Maybe. I don't know.'

'I believe I'm to meet her at dinner. I'd better go and unpack.'

On Friday morning, Walter made early rounds to check whether the farmhands had any requests for supplies to be ordered before he left on the honeymoon. Later, he made himself a pot of coffee, which he took into the office at the end of the verandah. He was nearly finished his paper work when he heard Michael and Penelope taking their breakfast to a garden table under the office window. At first, he was only vaguely conscious of their conversation. By the time it became obvious they were unaware of his presence, he felt unable to do anything but listen.

'You're quite sure he isn't adopted?'

'Who?'

'Your strange little brother. I can't reconcile him with the rest of your family.'

'Whyever not?'

'The painting thing is part of it but, frankly Mickey, compared with the rest of you, where does he fit? And his choice of a wife is extraordinary.'

'There's nothing wrong with Emily from over the tracks.'

'There you are. You've just said it. Golly, she's straight out of a comic strip. A veritable Daisy Mae—except Emily's a brunette.'

'Walter and Emily go well together. They always have.'

'That's the point. The Blakes have pedigree at Stoddart, yet he was content to hang around the local High School, and take up with someone from over the tracks.'

'It's his life.'

'I couldn't believe the carry-on about my picture in the Women's Weekly. I was worried she'd run home and get it for me to autograph.'

'I'm sure she was simply trying to make you feel good.'

'Well, I know it's not my business, but I think you could be saddling yourself with problems.'

'Why?'

'Having a brother as your assistant is fraught with hazards. A manager you can sack. Family tends to stick.'

'I'll keep it in mind. Now do you want more toast?'

'I'll help you make it.'

Hearing them return to the kitchen, Walter left the office, undetected. The discussion had been unnerving, but what really nagged was the suspicion that Penelope Kransley had ideas of becoming his sister-in-law.

On return from his honeymoon, Walter was horrified to learn that, despite his careful planning, Banabrook had suffered a major crisis, for which Michael seemed to hold him responsible. Whilst most deliveries to the farm were received into unlocked sheds, there were strict rules about storage of hazardous chemicals. Before leaving, Walter had entrusted his keys to one of the farmhands who mislaid them at a critical time. Unable to provide access for delivery, the farmhand had a 44-gallon drum of inflammable liquid temporarily stored in the open. His subsequent attempt to move it into the storage facility, without assistance or the proper equipment, led to rupture and leakage. By the time Michael was informed, the shed was filled with an explosive mixture of fumes—heavier than air, and unlikely to disperse quickly in the hot, still conditions. Michael immediately ordered everybody out of the area, and called the fire brigade. No vehicle was started. No match was struck. No meals were cooked. The farm was at virtual standstill. Nevertheless, something happened to spark an initial explosion and a chain of secondaries, which blew apart the storage facility and ignited several grass-fires. Had the brigade not already been on site, the damage to Banabrook and surrounding properties might have been horrendous. The only good to come from the incident was the fire chief's observation that the storage facility had been well located to minimise risks to other buildings and livestock. A few of the farmhands suffered minor injuries while helping the brigade to contain the fires.

Two days later, the honeymooners returned.

Whether Penelope's nagging comments had affected Michael's judgement could not be known, but Walter found himself defending his choice of back-up against suggestions the farmhand should be dismissed.

'It was sheer rotten luck,' Michael. 'It could have happened to anybody.'

'He should never have tried to move the drum without consulting me.'

'He made a bad decision. But he was trying to rectify a problem.'

'Which he created because you let him.'

'I let him? How?'

'He was the wrong choice. He's dim.'

'What's got into you?'

'Nothing's got into me. But I can't double check everything you do.'

'I see. I suppose I'll find pea-brain Penny's been getting in your ear again.'

'What do you mean?'

'Penny the pea-brain from the pedestal. She's poison, Michael. Poisonous Penelope Kransley. She's got you imagining yourself as Lord of the Manor, and she's lining herself up to be Lady Muck.'

'I don't know what–'

'You bloody well do. I heard her bad-mouthing me and Emily before the wedding. She's taking an unnatural interest in Banabrook. Bloody socialite gold-digger if you ask me. And you haven't the sense to see what she's about.'

Michael hit him just once, the only time in their adult lives either of them ever used violence on a sibling. Walter registered the distress in his brother's expression before leaving the office without another word.

He heard Michael's subdued 'I'm so sorry, Walter.' But he kept walking.

Wednesday Funerals

The history of the private cemetery at the edge of the forest was only vaguely known, but an engraved stone at the entrance attested to its being consecrated ground. At some stage in the past, changes in the laws governing burials had caused the family to alter its practices, and the plot at St Mark's was purchased.

The enclosure at Banabrook had received the remains of Alfred in 1863, his wife Maud in 1869, Alured's wife Cecelia in 1892, and Alured in 1893. Simeon had expected to be the first Blake interred at St Mark's. Tragically, his daughter-in-law, Elspeth, was put to rest before him, at the age of 43.

Everything about his mother's funeral remained vivid to Walter, including that it was a Wednesday and his entire class was excused school after lunchtime. He missed her a lot, but had already cried his immediate quota of tears and found himself a somewhat numbed observer. Others wept by the graveside, and laughed at stories told around the trestle tables on the verandah throughout the afternoon. He was old enough to understand this is the way people celebrate a life—that some emotions are simply a shield. He observed his father's energetic attention to the needs of the assembled company: pouring drinks, offering plates, occasionally falling into conversations that ended with him being hugged. He watched Grandad Simeon's attempts to smile at stories lovingly told about Elspeth. He noticed Grandma Alice's concerned surveillance of Aunt May's erratic behaviour, and long conversations with her son, Christopher, whose hand she patted frequently and who sat with her throughout the day. Walter had no previous recollection of meeting Uncle Christopher, but had heard him referred to as "a bit of a reprobate".

It was a day when Walter felt surrounded by familiar faces rather than by friends. Even his schoolmates were distant, uncertain at the age of fourteen what to say to a contemporary whose mum has just been buried. His special friend Emily would have been a comfort, but Johnsons did not come to Blake funerals. His older brothers had been asked by their father to see that "Tubby" (Cousin Tony), who was the same age as Jonathan, was made to feel welcome. This they were doing by mercilessly beating him at darts, but he seemed not to mind. Throughout the afternoon, Aunt May had been an enthusiastic contributor both to the tears and to the laughter until she rushed for the railing of the verandah and vomited into the flowerbed. The last of the guests decided this was a good time to leave, and when Aunt May, now reeking of stale alcohol and fresh bile, tried to hug Walter, he decided it was time to go to bed.

Two years later the family gathered for Simeon's funeral. Again it was a Wednesday. In the interim, Walter's attachment to his grandparents had grown even stronger but, although he and Grandma Alice hugged a lot in the lead up to the funeral, there were few tears. 'We become almost inured to death,' Alice observed from her chair at the kitchen table while Walter washed the plates after dinner on the eve of the Simeon's funeral. 'I should have been the first to go. I'm 79 this year. Sims was a mere 76. You know Walter, I've often thought a child is lucky if they lose a much-loved pet before losing a parent. At one level there's no comparison, but somehow the tears and mourning for the dog or the pony help prepare us for greater loss. Am I being a silly old woman, do you think?'

'No Grandma.'

'I hope your Aunty May behaves herself tomorrow. She was a lovely girl you know, until the war got to her.'

'How did it do that?'

'She said it was the horror of the Western Front—the blood, the smell, the pain. But mothers sense when there's something else at work. Sims thought I was imagining it, and we both agreed you mustn't pry. The mind has defences, just as the body does. Sometimes it locks unpleasant memories away.'

The day of Simeon's funeral, dark clouds menaced throughout the morning. Then, torrents of timely rain on freshly ploughed paddocks brought the certainty that every farm for miles around would start sowing new crops. At the beginning of the eulogy, Shire President, Marcus Quinlan said, 'Simeon Blake was one of the most reliable sons of Kalawonta, and he's not let us down today. Can't you just see him up there negotiating with Saint Peter? Telling him—you get Hughie to send her down to my mates or I'm not presenting myself for judgement.'

Back at the homestead, the ladies of the newly formed branch of the Country Women's Association, led by their President Olive Sampson, laid out scones and jam and fresh cream. Later, one of them sat at the piano and played Simeon's favourite songs while enthusiastic singers harmonised, or at least tried. Muddy shoes and dripping umbrellas lined the verandah, and visitors padded around in their stockinged feet. In years to come, Walter would remember this day and think it was the way a funeral should be. A man who, in his own words, "had a bloody good innings" was buried on the day the life-giving rains arrived.

By the time Grandma Alice died, most of her contemporaries were long gone. With many family friends away at the war, St Mark's was barely half-filled for the funeral, which was held on a Wednesday in June 1940. Walter stood at the main door with his Uncle Christopher and Aunt May, introducing them to Arajinna locals.

As Walter took his place in the front pew, he wondered if Wednesday funerals were an element of Blake destiny. The service was simple and, in place of a eulogy, Christopher and May stood on the step of the nave and staged an unrehearsed "remember when?" Walter thought it significant that his aunt presented herself sober, the first time he could recall her not being at least slightly unsteady. As with Simeon's funeral, the congregation laughed and felt warmed by the anecdotes; though Walter, flanked on one side by Emily nursing two-year-old Caroline, and on the other by Olive who'd always been considered family, felt the burden of being left in charge.

Excavating Weatherlee

1943

The police car arriving at Banabrook with news of her parents' death in a road accident reminded Emily of the day, less than a year earlier, when officers had brought the telegram about her father-in-law. She had taken that news hard, wandered aimlessly around the house, curled up on the end of the couch, and wept. She had still been there, the crumpled telegram beside her, when Walter returned from the Bullermark stock sales. In contrast, the loss of her own parents affected her little. She declined the policeman's offer to drive her into town to identify the bodies; she said she would get her husband to bring her in when he'd finished his rounds of the farm. 'Yes, Constable, I am perfectly all right alone until then. My daughter is having a sleep. I'd rather not wake her yet. It was kind of you to come. I realise how rotten this sort of thing is for you. I'll ring when we're leaving, and we'll meet you at the funeral parlour.' She escorted the uncomfortable young officer to his car. As she went inside, her only feeling was the realisation she didn't give a damn. She had not even asked where and when the accident occurred. It was left to Walter to establish that her parents' car had failed to take a bend on the way back from Calway Junction. She was happy to hear no other vehicle was involved.

When her father's solicitor telephoned next day, she was astonished to learn she had inherited Weatherlee. 'Shit, Walter. I can't manage a farm. I don't know where to start. I thought Bert would get it.'

'Then, regardless of his neglect in the past, you'll have to credit your dad with doing something right for a change.'

'If you say so.'

'Don't you feel anything for them?'

'I'm sorry if it bothers you, but no. If it wasn't for the worry of what to do with Weatherlee, I'd be glad.'

'When you identified them–'

'Nothing. I felt bloody nothing. Okay?'

'What about the funeral?'

'I told the solicitor to set something up at the funeral parlour. Johnsons aren't church people. The bodies can go to Calway for cremation.'

'If that's what you want.'

'Quick is what I want. Quick, and over. You don't need to come.'

'Of course I'll come.'

'I don't want Caroline there. Somebody will have to mind her.'

'I'm sure I can arrange that. Olive loves playing Aunt.'

Two days later, one of the farmhands at Weatherlee telephoned. Emily refused to take the call. Walter told the man he'd go over and meet with them. When he did, he made excuses for Emily, which they took to mean she was grieving for her parents. There were only two permanent employees. Walter sorted out a schedule for the week and left the older man in charge. Neither man could give him any idea what tasks would be necessary beyond the immediate future. A quick drive around the inner paddocks told Walter much. There were no crops, no cattle, and few sheep. But there was a large piggery in reasonable condition. He sighed and shook his head. Neither he nor Emily knew much about pigs.

'We'll have to find somebody to advise you about the piggery. That looks to be the main source of income; it should be enough to get the bank to give you mortgage finance.'

'What do I need finance for?'

'There are fences to be repaired before you can run any more sheep. You'll have to re-stock to get a saleable wool clip, and you'll have to give some thought to preparing to sow crops next year. But I really think the first thing you need to do is examine the big gully, and put to rest the folklore about dumped vehicles.' Walter took a mouthful of stew, and waited for Emily's response.

'Surely the farmhands can tell you that.'

'Tell you, you mean. It's your property.'

'Well, they can; can't they? Did you ask?'

'The back of the property isn't under cultivation, and your dad wasn't running any stock there. The older bloke says that's because of erosion. The only time he's been near the gully is to shoot rabbits, and they can't get ammo for their twenty-twos now.'

'They'd have seen. Dumped trucks, I mean.'

'The gossip has always suggested the trucks taken there in your grandfather's day were bulldozed under. I don't think the area was ever farmed, even in the Charlesworth's time. Whatever spring fed the gully dried up yonks before settlement. You could ask the Aboriginal elders. Sometimes they know stories that give a clue to what happened a long way back.'

'Shit, Walter. I'm not up to this.'

'I'll help. It will give you a new interest, you see if it doesn't.'

News that haulage vehicles had been found buried at Weatherlee became the main topic of debate in pubs and clubs. Emily was widely praised for laying bare the Johnson past. Walter felt vindicated.

Bert Johnson had not been seen in Arajinna for several months, but speculation he might have skipped town to avoid abuse was countered by his sons, Graham and Stephen, who'd been left to run the trucking business and the fuel agency. They said Bert had been seconded to the Army Supply Corps as a civilian adviser on transport.

A writ from the family of a truck-owner who'd committed suicide some years earlier, raised bar-room discussions to a frenzy. The local bush-lawyers debated weighty issues like the Statute of Limitations, and whether legal "cause of action" started anew from the finding of the wrecked trucks.

When Graham and Stephen brought their solicitor to Banabrook to accuse Emily of jeopardising Bert's business, Walter hurriedly sent Caroline outside to play. The brothers convinced Emily their grandfather had left his stamp on all aspects of the estate. The message was clear: if dirty money was being alleged, hers was dirty too. It was the solicitor's suggestion that the issuers of the writ would not want to spend money arguing whether the Statute of Limitations applied, and that, if he made comments about being prepared to take the issue as far as the High Court, the other party might want to settle. He suggested an amount he should be authorised to offer. To Walter's dismay, Emily volunteered to finance a settlement by adding to the funds being raised by mortgaging Weatherlee.

When the visitors left, Walter took breath to comment but was cut short.

'Can it Walter. I don't want to know. You started this. I want it ended. I'm not going to war with the Johnson family, no matter what you think of them.'

'If a settlement is negotiated, the mortgage will have to cover it as well as the maintenance and re-stocking of Weatherlee.'

'Is that a problem?'

'I hope not. The income from the piggery should cover it. Provided there aren't any other truck owners planning to sue.'

'There won't be.'

'How do you know?'

'I had big ears as a kid. My grandad crushed one rival. After that, nobody else ever challenged him. He used to brag about it.'

'So you settle this case and you're home free?'

'With any luck. And no thanks to you.'

'It was the right thing to do.'

'If you say so.'

'Farms get reputations, like people do. Ask any stock and station agent. Ask the bank manager. Weatherlee will have a good name again. That's probably worth more than the settlement will cost. You should be proud of yourself'

'If you say so.'

Memorials

Sunday 4th December 1943

'I've made us a rabbit pie. I feel bad sometimes having lamb and beef when other folk are rationed.' Olive put the pie on the table and sat down. Walter bowed his head while she said grace. He echoed her 'amen', then waited, knowing there would be a pause before she said 'amen' again—her customary silent addendum, a prayer for Eddie and Brian. She looked up and held out her hand 'Okay, pal. Gimme your plate.'

'It smells great.'

'It was Eddie's favourite. My old Jack Spratt was a real sucker for bunny pie.'

'I was destined for cold cuts and salad. Emily's taken Caroline over to Weatherlee.'

'Found a manager?'

'Not even a nibble. She's got one good off-sider who does some of the admin—ordering supplies and stuff. I'm helping her with budgeting and scheduling.'

'Things aren't getting any easier, pal. Not for anybody.'

'Since the Japs joined the scrap, it's got really bad. A lot of the blokes who said they weren't going away to fight the Brit's war have signed on now.'

'Which makes your Kalawonta Crisis Teams all the more valuable.'

'Yeah.'

'And time-consuming to organise.'

'A bit.'

'Which is why I wanted to chew the fat with you.'

'There's no fat in your bunny pie.'

'Har-de-har. You know what I meant.'

'Maybe.'

'This is going to sound more like it's coming from a parent than from a mate, but I am quite a bit older than you are, and now your grandma's not with us–'

'I don't even know how old you are.'

'Mind your business, buster. Suffice to say: compared to me you're just a kid— even though you are the JP hereabouts.'

'They should have found some old fogey—like you.'

'Mind your lip.' She laughed. 'Wouldn't have crossed their minds to appoint a woman.'

'Okay, let's have it.'

'I think you're trying to do too much.'

'You said it isn't getting any easier.'

'That's not the point.' She tapped the table between them with a plump index finger. 'There was a time I could look forward to seeing you at least once a week—Sunday at church. You'd come haring up the driveway at the last minute perhaps, but you'd be there. You wouldn't have been today if I hadn't put the hard word on you to pick me up. True?'

'True.'

'It's not faith I'm trying to ram down your throat. People's beliefs are their own business. But there is a lot to be said for a day of rest.'

'Like what?'

'Like it's simply a bloody good idea. More so when you spend the rest of the week flat out like a lizard drinking. The only thing we do at Land's End on a Sunday is the milking. Never found me a cow who'd take Sunday off.'

Walter took breath to say something about the war never taking a rest, but stopped himself in time. It would be cruel to remind her that Brian might have died fighting on the Sabbath. Instead he said, 'I know what you're getting at, Olive. But I don't have much to show for the past four years. The Kalawonta Crisis Teams are about it. I know pride's a sin. But I don't want the troops coming home saying: That bludger Blake didn't do much.'

'If you ask me, the crisis teams are plenty to show. Meanwhile, you and Emily are trying to run two properties with less than half the labour you need.'

'You've got more to show than I have. Your projects for Brian will change the face of Land's End.'

Her tone softened. 'Do you really think so?'

'I know so.'

'Two Anzac days, two projects. I'm aiming to do something for him every year. It sort of keeps him here.'

'I haven't done anything for my family. I thought I might arrange for some memorial stones to be put in the private cemetery.'

'I think that would be great. Put them with their ancestors.'

'You don't think the government will want to take any of the forest do you?'

'Why would they?'

'There's a lot of talk about land for returning soldiers. It was done after the Great War. 300-acre blocks is the suggestion.'

'The northern stretches of the forest are Crown Land, and they border the main road, so they might fit the bill.'

'I'm all for looking after the fighting blokes. But I'm not sure cutting down forests is the way to go.'

'What else can they do?'

'I don't know. But I think it needs more thought.'

'Not by you, pal. Time enough to worry about it when the damned war's over. Meanwhile, you have to pace yourself or you'll fall apart.'

Again it occurred to him to mention the pressures on the troops. Again he refrained. 'I'd feel a lot better if I could do something to put my personal stamp on Banabrook.'

'Can an old pal be frank?'

'Of course.'

'I think you drive yourself too hard. You don't have anything to prove to anybody.'

'Maybe not. But I'd still like to be able to point to something and say: I did that.'

'And you've had an idea?'

'There are some good stud rams listed for auction soon. Perhaps we could aim to become best fine-wool producer in the nation. It wouldn't happen over night.'

'Good things rarely do.'

'So you think it might be possible?'

'If it doesn't kill you, pal. If it doesn't kill you.'

Stock Development

1943

'The price was too good. I bought the entire flock and two prize stud rams.' Walter kissed Emily's cheek and inspected the soup she was stirring.

'I thought you said I'd have to lodge proof of finance with the auctioneer.'

'I made the bid in my name. Banabrook's credit is good. We can sort out the paper work later.'

'But the new fences will take months. The contractor and his son are working alone most of the time. There are no casuals around.'

'We can run the stock at Banabrook until Weatherlee is ready. There's plenty of feed here. I'll get an agistment agreement drawn up to keep the books straight.'

'I wish I understood this stuff.'

'Just be glad a deceased estate came up at the right time.'

'Pity the poor bloody family.'

'Not at all. They told me they were worried there wouldn't be a bidder with any cash. You've saved them from disaster.'

'You have, you mean.'

'No Emily. You have. Banabrook has credit, but no cash. The mortgage on Weatherlee will give everyone a win.'

'Do I need stud rams?'

'Banabrook will take them off your hands. We'll get an agreement drawn up for that too.'

'Can we? I mean it's legal and stuff?'

'I checked with the accountant. He says there's nobody with a financial interest except you, me, and the tax man. Provided we show it in the books, and the tax returns are right, it's all sweet. Even the bank doesn't care as long as the loan is serviced.'

'So we thank the Lord for pigs?'

'Why not? They're providing the cash flow.'

PART SIX

AUNT MAY, OLD MEN, AND SUNBURY RACES

Hooked on History

Tuesday 11th September 1990

Caroline soon realised Max had understated the need for sorting of the folders. The facing sheets were evidence of some effort to maintain order, but many items had yet to be indexed. Her fear that visiting Banabrook would awaken memories to test her resolve was proving well founded. These documents were her past, and they were an absorbing departure from her accustomed focus on politics. Neither Max nor Judith had returned to the family room. With sudden decision, Caroline took all the folders from the desk and sat herself in the middle of the carpet to start sorting. Her attempt to do this in a disciplined way—not to read more than was necessary to establish a date or subject for each item—was constantly tested. It was not long before the name of her great-aunt May seduced her into reading another draft chapter.

Working title: Kalawonta - A History of the Shire

Draft Chapter - The Blake Collection

The reading of The Last Will and Testament of Alured Blake in 1893 produced a surprise for his son Simeon whose memoirs include the following note, written in 1933.

_My father had often discussed with me his hopes for the future of Banabrook. After my mother's death, in 1892, he told me he had originally named her as tenant-for-life of the estate, but that the property would now devolve to me, unencumbered, as the sole residuary beneficiary. I had never seen his Will but was aware he had made some bequests and legacies, none of which came as a surprise on the day of the reading. In regard to the art works, however, I had no idea he had made provisions for ownership to pass to a Trust for the State Gallery, subject to continuing rights for blood relatives to hold items on loan. Writing now, forty years after the event, I can confess to having been somewhat miffed when I heard the news, particularly so because I had to cope with the surprise in public, albeit a small public—my wife Alice, the solicitor, and the recipients of some legacies. In the intervening years, I have sometimes wondered whether my annoyance was motivated by greed, or merely by disappointment that my father hadn't taken me into his confidence. My mother having already passed away, I had nobody I could ask for an explanation. I knew my father to be of a controlling nature so I like to think he just wanted to dictate the future of the collection and was not implying a lack of confidence in my stewardship. Nevertheless, the old saying about three generations separating shirtsleeves from shirtsleeves might have been in his mind. He might have feared I would become profligate with the family treasures. Whatever the case, I felt no compulsion to challenge the bequest, and set about deciding what pieces I wanted to remain at Banabrook._ 1

The items comprising the Blake Collection are listed in Appendix 3. Apart from five paintings and two Chinese vases, which have remained at Banabrook, the only items not currently held by the gallery are two watercolours attributed to the artist George Rowe. These were held by May Blake from 19th March 1930 until her death on 7th April 1949 and, after a short hiatus, by her brother Christopher, before passing to her nephew Anthony, the current custodian.2

The attribution of the works to George Rowe is not without an element of mystery. On enquiry about a footnote to the list which had been provided by the trustees, the authors were informed that some of the items in the Blake Collection, although considered authentic, do not have documentary provenance of the standard required for purchase of new works by the State Gallery.3 This matter is also raised in notes made by the late May Blake.4

1 .Blake archives. Simeon Blake's unpublished memoirs, 1933

2. Letter from Trustees of the Blake Collection dated 10th April 1990

3. Letter from the Trustees of the Blake Collection dated 17th May 1990

4. Blake archives. May Blake's handwritten note, circa 1930. See also tape, recorded by Maxwell Kingsley, of an interview with Anthony Blake on 25th January 1989

From other papers in the batch, Caroline could tell this draft chapter was far from complete, but it was not obvious where it was headed next. She looked for a draft Appendix 3, but could not find it. She was sure it would confirm what she'd already realised. She had seen one of the paintings referred to. She couldn't recall the title, but it had been on the wall of Aunt May's room at Uncle Christopher's apartment. Horses on a country race track. So, the visit Max made to see Tony had uncovered things of interest. What else had he discovered about the family history? Caroline was acutely aware of her growing curiosity. We turn our back on family, she thought, but it doesn't go away! She looked at the ring she now wore constantly on her middle finger. It had been at the bottom of Aunt May's jewellery box, wrapped in tissue paper—a ring Uncle Christopher had not seen during his sister's lifetime.

A Telephone Call From Aunt May

Tuesday 9th March 1948

At Rachel's request, her wedding to Walter in 1948 was to be a civil ceremony attended only by their closest friends. Few others were told about the arrangements, so Walter was surprised to receive a telephone call from Aunt May whom he had not seen or spoken to since Grandma Alice's funeral in 1940.

'I heard you're getting married, Walter. Don't do it.'

'Why not?'

'Just don't.'

'You haven't even met Rachel.'

'I believe she's Jewish.'

'Does that bother you?'

'It will some. You live in a close community.'

'Who have you been talking to? Not that Archer woman?'

'I'm not saying who called. They did. That's the worry.'

'I can't believe the anti-Semitism in this town!'

'It's not about Jews. They've done it hard for centuries, poor blighters.'

'Then why?'

'I'd say the same if you were marrying a Mormon, or a bloody Druid, or somesuch. Mixed marriages don't work.'

'This one will. I can assure you.'

'It's a mistake. You should stick with what you understand. What would your father say?'

'If he were here, I have no doubt he'd support me totally, as he did when I married Emily.'

'It's a generation out of control. I've said so to Christopher before.'

'What's his view?'

'About your marriage? I haven't told him yet.'

'Well I'm sorry Aunt May, but it's my business and I think you should keep out of it!'

'So you're determined?'

'Of course.'

'Oh well, good luck. You'll need it. It's a mistake Walter. A bloody mistake. And don't let her convert young what's-her-name... Caroline.'

Walter was saved the need to think of any further response by May's abruptly ringing off.

The following day, Uncle Christopher called.

'I know it's a long time since we saw each other. I'm only making this call so I can tell May I did. Forget whatever she said. She means well.'

'But do you actually know what she did say?'

'I've a pretty good idea.'

'Well I wasn't going to pay her any heed anyway.'

'Good lad.'

There was a long pause.

'How are you keeping, Uncle?'

'Oh. Well enough, thank you.'

'Aunt Genevieve?'

'Yes she's well. Plays bridge.'

'And Tony.'

'He's well.'

There was another pause. This time Christopher continued.

'Your lady's name is Rachel I believe.'

'Yes.'

'I hope you'll be happy.'

'It's to be a quiet ceremony, but family would be welcome.'

'Thanks for the thought. But I know May would think it ... inappropriate.'

'Did she have a bad experience or something?'

There was a pause and no answer.

'I appreciate your call, Uncle Chris. Look after yourself.'

'And you. Goodbye.'

Walter could almost feel his uncle's relief at getting through the conversation.

It was a year later he had another call from Christopher to tell him Aunt May had died.

'I don't expect you to come to the funeral. But, I thought you'd want to be informed.'

'I'd like to come.'

'Really? You can stay with us. There's a spare room.'

'I won't put you to that trouble. I'd like to bring Caroline. I think she might like to grow up knowing she was there to see her great-aunt put to rest.'

'A link to her heritage.'

'Yes.'

'I've told you it's on Wednesday, but not the time. Hold the line a moment will you?'

Walter heard his uncle call out, and a prolonged exchange.

'Genevieve suggests you come here at ten, and leave for the funeral with us. There'll be plenty of room. Tony's making his own way. He's not flying in until that morning and has to go back to Sydney the same afternoon.'

The arrangements agreed, Walter went to find Rachel and Caroline. From his own past came the belief that dealing with death was a vital part of a child's education. And the opportunity for time alone with his daughter appealed.

An Interview and An Archive Box

Wednesday 25th January 1989

When Max started work on the history of Kalawonta, Tony, at 73, was the oldest surviving Blake. Walter had not seen his cousin since the funeral of Aunt May nearly forty years earlier, and had not communicated with him since their exchange of notes after Uncle Christopher's death. Nevertheless, when Walter telephoned, Tony readily agreed to be interviewed.

In the last week of the school holidays, Max made the journey to Sydney. He arrived at the luxury penthouse before 10am and was still there early in the evening, having left the recorder turned on for most of the day and captured a running commentary as his host cooked and served a gourmet lunch. Max realised his close scrutiny of the apartment had not gone unnoticed when Tony said, 'I'll be devastated if you don't like it. It's one of mine. I designed the building and fell in love with my own creation. Bit narcissistic I suppose.'

'I like it a lot. And this eclectic collection of furniture and art. Somehow even the old pieces suit the modern setting.'

'You'll make me blush. Oh, and there's a couple of paintings from the Blake Collection. Those two. They're called _Old Men at Bendigo_ , and _Sunbury Races_. No prize for guessing which is which. Aunt May had them. I suppose you know about the collection?' Max nodded. 'Big "to do" when the gallery realised May had died. They were on the case in a flash. Fortunately, the trustees agreed to switch custody of the pieces. Dad and I had grown attached to them.'

It was late in the day when Tony said, 'I hope you won't think I'm taking advantage, but I thought I'd give you a box of papers to take away.' He pulled an archive box from under the table. 'It's been in storage for years. Not under the table of course—I went down to retrieve it when I knew you were coming. The truth is I'm quite unable to throw things out, but if I give these to you I satisfy my compulsion to preserve, and I get rid of them at the same time. Clever, huh?' He lifted the lid to display the contents. 'Aunt May's papers. Financial records mainly. There's a bundle of old race books; horses were her passion. I should ask you to turn that thing off to mention, in passing, that she was overly fond of drink. But, since the whole world knew it, no harm done. Tipsy or not, she maintained her interest in horses—in between nips of cooking sherry. That's a joke actually. She spent a fortune on grog, and got only the best. Delectable Bordeaux reds; a range of French Champagnes; she would have loved Grange. Left the entire cellar to me. Nice thought. Unfortunately she'd already consumed the lot, so it was a bit like inheriting from Old Mother Hubbard. She never married, which was a bit sad; she wasn't a bad looker in her day. Anyway, for what they're worth, you're welcome to her financial archives. Oh, and there's a man's pocket-watch tucked down the side here—something I hadn't noticed—an old Hunter wrapped in tissue paper. Don't know the story, but it might as well stay with the other stuff. I can send it all on if you think it's too much to carry.'

Max felt the weight of the box. 'I'll manage. I'm travelling by train and I'll take a cab from here.'

The sound of a key in the latch signalled the arrival of a younger man weighed down by a large art folio.

Tony beamed. 'My friend Timothy. Meet Max Kingsley. All the way from Arajinna.'

'Well met,' Timothy exclaimed offering his hand. 'I need a stiff drink. Hasn't the old bugger offered you one?'

Max left Tony's apartment well satisfied with the recordings he'd made, but it was not until his train pulled out of Central Station, and he started a preliminary examination of May's archive box, he discovered he was in possession of real treasures. Alone in a compartment of the train, he had room to lift items out of the box onto the seat. A casual look through the top layers revealed nothing of great import, although any historian is interested in ephemera such as a cheque butt marked Buckley & Nunn—blouse £1.1.0. With time on his hands, Max flicked through a couple of the cheque books before turning his attention to some invoices and receipts. He opened a bundle at random. It had the same minor interest as the cheque butts, purchase details handwritten on the stationery of shops that no longer existed. The precursor of excitement to come was when he opened a second bundle and found, among the receipts and invoices, documents of a different kind. These included a letter from the Mitchell Library in response to a query. It listed paintings, owned by the Library's Dixson Gallery, by an artist named George Rowe. There were some letters from solicitors, which appeared to deal mainly with the provenance of art works. In the same bundle, a handwritten note appeared to be May's record of a telephone discussion with her father Simeon Blake. Other papers in the bundle suggested this must have been in 1930.

On the trail of Old Men and Sunbury Races. Dad says Alf.B must have bought them. Dad says Alf.B burnt a lot of papers. Thinks about 1860. Told by Grandad who saw it happen. Grandad told to mind own business but curious. Sifted through ashes. Heidelberg stuff circa 1888 all oils. Bought by Grandad. Dad thinks watercolours circa 1850. Old Men and Sunbury a mystery. Oscar no help. Artist prolific. No known list of works.

Although the note was in a cryptic form, it was not difficult to interpret. Old Men and Sunbury clearly referred to the paintings now held by Tony. Alf.B was the legendary Alfred, founder of Banabrook. Grandad was Alured who'd gifted the Blake Collection to the State Gallery. Presumably, Oscar was somebody May knew to be knowledgeable about art. It was a pity she'd not recorded what Alured might have found sifting through the ashes, or why the paintings were the subject of mystery.

Towards the bottom of the box, he came across a small bundle of papers tied tightly with the pink tape so loved by the legal profession. The only evidence of the nature of these papers was the top item—a receipt from a florist. These too were probably run-of-the-mill financial records, but the elaborate way they were tied posed a challenge. It took Max several minutes to undo the knots and carefully turn over the receipt. The next items in the bundle were letters. The top one was short and brutal.

7th July 1919

Miss Blake,

My family regards your continuing to put flowers on Gerald's grave as trespass. Please desist or I shall ask my solicitor what legal redress I might have.

I have long believed it should be possible to obtain an injunction to prevent a non-believer from entering a Christian burial ground.

Martin Grant.

In places, the light blue paper was discoloured and the writing smudged. Max wondered whether it was too fanciful to imagine tears had fallen on this cruel sheet. Next came three single-page letters on lined sheets torn from an exercise book. Each had its top portion cut off and, when Max realised what he was reading, he guessed the reason. Gerald Grant was dead and his remains buried in Australia before the confronting letter dated July 1919. These poignant messages were written earlier. They were from a soldier at the Great War, and the whereabouts of the sender had been removed by the censor.

My darling May,

I have been told a single page saying very little might be allowed through.

My injuries should be a ticket home at some stage, but there are no resources to transport us at present. I'm not sure if you get news of how the war is going. If so, you know more than we do.

I love you and miss you more than I could ever say.

Forever.

Gerald.

Dearest May,

I've been told they think our last batch of mail was despatched, but we have no way of knowing where it ended up. If you got my last letter I can tell you we are still in the same place, but I'm still unable to tell you where. I hope you think that's as funny as I do.

We have nothing to do but lie around. I fortify myself by thinking of you, and planning our life together. Don't worry though, everything I plan is subject to your approval, and I will require you to seal each agreement with a kiss. It is developing into a very long list.

Did I tell you I love you?

Forever.

Gerald.

Dear Miss Blake,

My friend Gerald asked me to write to you if anything happened to him. I cannot tell you how distressed I am to give you the news that he didn't make it. He wanted to spare you the worry, so he didn't tell you how extensive his wounds were. I am sure he was not in much pain, however, and it was a peaceful end.

I have his watch, which he wanted given to you. I will guard it with my life until I can hand it over. I am assured he will be returned to Australia for burial. That at least is a comfort. So many will never make it home.

I know you are aware we are restricted in what we can say. The less the better if we are to hope our letters might get through.

Yours sincerely,

Monty Adlem.

The remainder of this small bundle might explain the origins of the lawyers' binding tape. There were several short letters from the firm of Bertrand, Smyth and Crawshaw, Barristers and Solicitors. The most significant of these said, among other things:

We confirm our advice that you are under no legal obligation to inform anybody you have the watch. The contention that it has come into your possession legally is backed both by the letter from Mr Adlem and the Statutory Declaration he has given us. We have made searches and have not found any application for probate of a Will for Gerald Grant. In any case, Mr Adlem's statement supports the argument that the watch was a gift properly given by the deceased before his death. There could be circumstances in which you might become obligated to disclose your having the watch, but our advice is to volunteer nothing and consult us again if approached.

Then another letter.

Brisbane

August 1919

Dear May,

A quick note to confirm I saw your solicitor before leaving for home. At his request, I have made a sworn statement about the watch. I also told him I would happily give evidence in person, but he doubts it will come to that. In the circumstances, I understand why you felt concerned.

As you know, I visited Gerald's parents after I saw you. They seemed normal enough although, in retrospect, they did react strangely when I referred to their sharing their loss with Gerald's fiancée. Otherwise I might well have gone on to tell them I'd met you. They had already received Gerald's other personal effects from the army, and gave no indication they were not satisfied.

Their objection to your visiting the grave is something I shall never understand.

I want you to know that, apart from being able to vouch for Gerald's insistence on your having the watch, I can tell you, quite unequivocally, that he loved you very deeply.

God bless,

Monty Adlem.

Max sat back and watched the passing scenery. May Blake's touching personal story was not relevant to the history of Kalawonta, but he was already toying with the idea of writing Walter's biography, and incorporating stories of earlier Blakes. First, however, he should let Tony know what he'd discovered.

A telephone call the next morning caught Tony leaving to travel overseas. Max told him, briefly, about the letters. Obviously pre-occupied, Tony promised to telephone on his return. Had the cab not arrived early, Tony would probably have written himself a note. But it did, and he didn't. The call never came and Max did not feel a need to follow the matter up.

A Visit to the Art Gallery

Tuesday 11th February 1930

May Blake was aware how few memories she had of the decade following the end of the Great War. Her brief, failed flirtation with Alcoholics Anonymous had taught her there was no universal pattern to cravings. Some members told of waking each morning desperate for an immediate drink, others of compulsive desires which arrived with the first cigarette; some likened their problem to a circadian rhythm—an imperative that tapped them on the shoulder at the same time each day. May's cravings usually overcame her late in the day—unless triggered earlier by the well oiled aromas from an Italian restaurant, or finding herself in the proximity of the members' bar of a racing club. She valued sober mornings when she could walk through a nearby park, or take the short bus ride into the city to visit the museum or the art gallery. Early sessions at cinemas were also a diversion.

On one of her visits to the art gallery, she was attracted by a bush landscape she'd not previously seen. She read the brass plate attached to the frame. To her surprise, she discovered the work was on loan from the Blake Trust. She understood the arrangements her grandfather had made for custody of the family art works, and knew many pieces were not on permanent display. To her eye, however, this painting was superior to some on show elsewhere in the gallery. Further along the same wall, the experience was repeated. Her curiosity was now thoroughly aroused. It was still early in the day, and she decided to visit the administrative offices to make some enquiries. The receptionist listened politely, asked her name, made a telephone call, and offered her a seat. Five minutes later, the door burst open, and a pale young man, with a high forehead and blond hair, entered the room and stopped to examine the occupants. Later, May would tell him his arrival had brought to mind the theatrical direction: "enter stage right". Identifying his target, he bounded towards her and grasped the hand she proffered.

'I am thrilled, absolutely thrilled, that anybody has even noticed the changes, let alone call in to ask what we're doing. And to find you're a real live Blake! We're reorganising the reserve collections right now. Would you like to see some of the other pieces?' He gestured to the door with an arm May thought so delicate, exposed as it was by his sleeveless silk top, that it might break from the vigour of its own movement. Assistant Curator Lindsay Fielding led May down several flights of stairs, through doors marked STAFF ONLY, to a dimly lit security desk, where she was required to sign-in under the direction of a uniformed attendant who looked far too old to be still on the government payroll. He handed her a visitor's pass, and she was ushered by Lindsay into the cavernous basement containing countless racks of art works.

'If only!' the enthusiastic young curator stopped and waved his arms expansively. 'If only we could persuade the government to give us the space to display even a quarter of this. It is so frustrating! Each year we buy new contemporary works and we need to display most of them. So, each year some wonderful older pieces have to be banished down here, into the bowels, where we turn their faces to the wall. It is getting harder and harder to make those sorts of judgements. We have a rotation policy, which is all very well, but it takes time and staff to manage, and we're being cut back every year. Apologies! Rally speech!' He grimaced and slapped the back of his own hand in mock chastisement, then led May along several narrow walkways to an area where there was barely enough space to place paintings for inspection. He clapped his hands for attention.

'Boys and girls, you won't believe it, but this lady is a Blake! And!'—dramatic pause—'She likes the pieces we put up at the weekend.'

Each of the members of the small crew acknowledged May with a nod or a smile. Although not as effusive as their spokesman, they were clearly pleased to learn somebody was taking an interest in their work. An hour later, May emerged from the basement, overwhelmed by what she'd seen, not merely from the Blake collection, but other banished favourites of her young guide. 'What an exhilarating experience,' she said. 'Have you ever seen the pieces held by members of my family?'

He shook his head in apparent surprise. She explained what she knew of the custody arrangements adding, 'I'll give you my telephone number and, if you're ever going anywhere near Arajinna, I'd be happy to give you an introduction to my father so you can see what they've got at Banabrook. I'm tempted to apply to hold some of the pieces you haven't room to hang. At least that would mean one or two fewer faces turned to the wall. I have just the spot to put _Old Men at Bendigo_. And _Sunbury Races_ is me.' Few would have registered the slight change in his expression, but she was quick to add, 'It's a secure building, I can assure you.'

'Am I so transparent?' he asked.

'I'm afraid you are.'

'Silly isn't it. Rooms full of un-displayed works, and you'd think we owned them ourselves.'

'I think that's wonderful.'

'I'm shamed by your understanding. If you get the necessary approvals, I'll pack the pieces and transport them myself.'

Intoxicated by elation instead of alcohol, and with images from the depths of the gallery still flooding her mind, May decided on a walk through the Botanic Gardens. _Sunbury Races_ was undistinguished as a work of art, but it reminded her of happy days at country race meetings. _Old Men at Bendigo_ was an evocative piece, which kept running through her brain—like a tune cycling through the mind, refusing to go away. On the verandah of a timber cottage surrounded by gums, two men sit staring intently at something behind the viewer's right shoulder; birds in a tree, perhaps. It was a painting she felt inviting her to wonder what those old lives meant, and what had attracted the attention of the aged subjects.

By the time she finished the first draft of her letter to the trustees of the Blake Collection, her cravings and several glasses of single malt had taken over, and she rolled unsteadily away to bed. For the next few weeks, however, she spent a succession of sober mornings on the quest for custody of _Old Men_ and _Sunbury Races_. Finally, after signing declarations and producing her passport, she received a deed of agreement. The paintings were hers. She had the self-knowledge and foresight to ask Lindsay Fielding to deliver them early one morning, and plied him with strong coffee while he unpacked them and attended to the hanging. His delicate arms belied strength and skill when it came to handling works of art.

'I looked him up,' she said as they stood back and admired the watercolours. 'George Rowe, I mean. He was commissioned by the Brits to capture scenes of the Victorian goldfields.' She laughed and added. 'Amazing what you learn. Not much technical detail except that he used David Cox paper. Nevertheless, I shall be able to sound suitably knowledgeable as I show off my new treasures.'

'David Cox paper,' Lindsay replied. 'Interesting.' He stepped closer to the paintings, and examined them one last time. Shortly afterwards, he left carrying a bottle of aged Bordeaux red with as much care as he'd handled the paintings.

May opened a bottle of vintage French Champagne, toasted the old men, and woke next morning exceedingly hung over.

David Cox Paper

Tuesday 25th March 1930

The following week, May received a telephone call from Lindsay Fielding asking her to drop in and see him next time she was near the gallery.

'I was coming down, tomorrow,' she lied, welcoming the opportunity to spend a morning with some definite purpose. They arranged to meet for coffee at ten o'clock. As she approached the gallery café, she saw her young friend pacing half circles at the entrance. Even for such a naturally ebullient personality, he seemed so energised she wondered whether caffeine might cause him to explode. Seeing her, he took an involuntary step in her direction, nearly knocking over another patron. Oblivious, he grabbed May's arm.

'I've set up some pieces to show you in a private room. We can take our coffee with us.'

'A private viewing? What fun.'

'It will be, I hope. Well it depends on whether you find mystery and intrigue fun, which I do.' In the private room, four watercolours were displayed on easels. 'Four different artists. Two used David Cox paper, and two used something else. I don't expect you to pick which paper is which, but see if you can pair them.'

'Now this really is fun. I feel like a kid with a puzzle. I hope there's a prize!' She examined each painting in turn. Eventually she said, 'I'd pair one with four, and two with three.'

'Why?'

'I'm not sure, but one and four have a sort of roughness and deeper shades. Two and three are clean and pretty. I think all of them are good but, seeing them together, I like the roughies best; two and three suffer a bit from the comparison—a touch insipid perhaps.'

'I'm impressed, May. You've missed your vocation. Your comment about David Cox paper made me go and look it up. In 1836, in England, David Cox started painting on rough Scottish wrapping paper. The results were so vibrant, other painters followed suit. When George Rowe was commissioned to come out to Australia, he must have brought a supply of Cox paper with him. According to some notes I found, one of the features of Cox paper is that areas not painted—like here...' he pointed to an area of blank white on one of the works 'darken slightly over the years. Now, describe the two pieces we hung at your apartment.'

'I don't have to. _Old Men at Bendigo_ is on Cox paper. _Sunbury Races_ isn't.'

'That's what I believe.'

'So either George Rowe didn't work exclusively on Cox paper, or there's something suspect about _Sunbury Races_.'

'There's a collection of Rowe's works in the Dixson Gallery at The Mitchell Library. One of them, painted in 1858, is titled _Victorian Race Meeting near Sunbury_. So, George Rowe must have painted there. And, May, all of their collection is thought to be on Cox paper.'

'You think _Sunbury Races_ might be a fake?'

'I'm afraid it's a possibility.'

'How bloody wonderful.' May threw her head back and laughed. 'Oh I do hope you can prove it!'

She turned to see a bemused expression. 'I thought you might be upset,' he said.

'You're not worried about the whole Blake Collection?'

'Not at all. The Heidelberg work is beyond question. So is a lot of the earlier stuff. But some of the items have come to us without provenance. No receipts or letters; none of the usual paper work.'

'Then finding one or two forgeries is no great tragedy. It's exciting.'

'I will have to report this to my superiors.'

'And what will they do?'

'Add it to the list and forget about it.'

'Oh dear!'

'Don't quote me, but they have far bigger worries than this one.'

'Do you want me to keep mum?'

'I would be grateful if you did. The press loves this sort of thing.'

'Pity. But, for you dear boy, I'll do it. I can still carry-on like an expert and air my knowledge about Cox paper.'

PART SEVEN

EVE OF A FUNERAL

Train to Calway Junction

Tuesday 11th September 1990

'Here mate, let me.'

'You're very kind.' Tony surrendered his overnight bags, and the conductor lifted them onto the overhead luggage rack.

'Crikey. You could use this one as an anchor.'

'It's full of old diaries. Books are heavy when you pack them together.'

'How far are you going?'

'Calway.'

'I'll come back and fetch 'em down for you.'

'I have a friend meeting me.'

'It's no trouble, mate. Most are getting off at Garron Farm.'

'Races on a Tuesday?'

'Tomorrow. There's a mob of early birds going up today for a dinner at the pub.'

Tony settled by the window. When the train pulled out he was still alone in the compartment. Along the corridor, the chatter of the early birds stirred memories. He'd been to Garron Farm twice with his father and Aunt May. Their horse Last Chance ran second in the Garron Plate both times. More recently, he and Timothy had made the trip. But he'd buried the people he loved most, Timothy less than a year ago—the heart attack unheralded and shattering. Now he was as alone in life as in this dilapidated compartment. If Timothy were still alive, the two of them would have retired permanently to their lakeside retreat. Instead, unable to face going there again, Tony had sold the cottage they'd renovated together, and stayed on as a consultant with his old firm. It was something to do.

Going to Walter's funeral was also something to do. He was the elder statesman of the family, and intended to discharge the role with panache. The contents of the heavy overnight bag would, after his confession of guilt, be a diversion for the bereaved cousins, and for Max the historian. Funerals need diversions.

Plans for the Estate

Tuesday 11th September 1990

Max returned to the family room to find Caroline seated on the floor surrounded by batches and folders.

'Sorting,' she volunteered.

'Wheat from chaff?'

'Subject and chronology.'

'Fact from fiction wouldn't hurt. Although it might be depressing.'

'I did sense some frustration in places.'

'I've come to realise why many histories are little more than unsubstantiated speculation. Even things people tell you as eyewitnesses get qualified. The interviewer asks, "What did he say?" and the answer is, "Oh. I think it was something like..." ... or something like that!'

'At least you've kept a sense of humour.'

'We teach history students to develop hypotheses and test their veracity. When you find what you're writing sounds more like a novel, or notes for a playscript, you realise you're in trouble. But I rather enjoy wondering how it might have been, which is why, in some chapters, I've gone as far as inventing dialogue.'

'I noticed. You do it well. And you've made the nature of the speculation clear, so I think it's all right.'

'What I'd prefer is supported facts, elaborate footnotes, endnotes, cross-references, ibids, qvs. Nothing that might be called revisionist.'

He saw Caroline look away, ignoring the jibe. 'Is there anything I can do to help Judith?' she asked.

'Thanks, but I think she's on top of things. The orders of service hadn't been delivered—she had to find someone to drive to Bullermark to pick them up. Amazing what country people will do for each other. Now she's chatting to the organist. Lovely man, but a bit of a worry. I should warn you he's just as likely to play the wedding march. He's becoming increasingly vague. And there's a few stops missing from the organ. Metaphor for the district if you like.'

'Was father a churchgoer?'

'Not really.'

'Christmas, Easter, births, deaths and marriages? We always were more ritual than belief.'

'I think your father exhibited more of the virtues taught by the great religions than you'll see in many pious individuals who go to church on Sundays, or wail at the wall, or say the five daily prayers.'

'Memorandum to Senator Blake: "The missing stops are a metaphor for the district— feel guilty! Your father exhibited many virtues—please note!" You miss no opportunity, Max. You should be the politician, not me.'

'I'd be a disaster. I answer questions. Sometimes with a simple yes or no.'

She laughed despite herself. 'You were quite attached to him weren't you?'

'What makes you say that?'

'The tone of some of this stuff.'

'I was attached to him, and to a vision of the future of Banabrook.'

'The extensions?'

'This property is the showpiece of a district experiencing economic difficulties. Recently it became the focus of plans to halt the rot. Then your father dies, and you return after thirty years and announce you want a quick sale. For us that means the end of the dream.'

'And what were the plans?'

'Initially to set the place up to offer city folk a country experience.'

'Hardly original, surely?'

'We thought we could build the better mouse-trap. We've a lot more to offer than most. The building itself is of historical interest. It could become a museum and community arts centre. If we can keep the rail line open, the Historic Railway Society will run excursions from the city. There's scope for canoeing in the basin, caves within an hour's drive, walking tracks in the forest. And we've been talking with the Aboriginal community; they've got some challenging ideas. Arajinna could well become a focus for cross-cultural activities. The meetings have been inspiring.'

'And of course you know my feelings about reconciliation.'

'There's resistance from diehards on both sides, and a long way to go, but we've found a real willingness to co-operate. Wasn't there a senator who said, "What reconciliation requires is not rhetoric, but real examples of working together for mutual gain"?'

'Who was paying for the development?'

'The shire council's keen. And there are other possibilities: sponsorship, pledges, bequests—you know the sort of thing.'

'I thought you said the town was dying.'

'It will if we don't do something. A lot of residents left when the institute closed. We're already borderline on student numbers to keep the school open. If the rail depot goes the remaining businesses will fold and we'll all be out of work—all except the few still employed on farms, and their numbers have dwindled.'

'And Judith and I would be what? Sponsors? Benefactors?' Caroline shook her head. 'It's a splendid dream, Max. If my company wasn't on the verge of collapse, I'd be happy to consider the proposition. But you must know the reality. Farms like this barely cover costs. Even with paying visitors you'd be struggling. And the alternative is to realise the property for enough to get me out of trouble and make Judith a very rich lady.'

'So to hell with everything this family used to stand for.'

'If Judith wants to be the town saviour, she'll be far better placed to do it with a stack of ready cash.'

'And who do you think will buy the place in the present climate?'

'People rich enough to indulge themselves. Properties like this aren't an investment proposition—they're prestige. My guess is it will end up as a horse stud or something. That sort of money is always around.'

Max turned away and looked out of the window. It wasn't hard to picture Banabrook as a trophy for somebody: a chief executive who'd taken an obscene golden handshake, an insider who'd defrauded small shareholders, the Mr Big of some crime syndicate.

'Stunning isn't it?' he observed.

He was conscious of her joining him at the window, and a long pause before a quiet reply.

'Yes.'

Max sighed audibly. 'The older I get, the less I understand about life.'

'Then at least we have one thing in common.'

They glanced at each other's reflections. Both smiled briefly. Max said, 'For a minister—of the priestly kind—it's a worry. Particularly for a minister who can't bring himself to embrace the pious rationale that God works in mysterious ways. A decade ago I could never have imagined myself living in Arajinna and becoming passionate about a rural environment. One thing led to another and here I am.'

'Most of us live lives dominated by co-incidence. I never planned a career in politics; somehow the road led me there. Did you choose the priesthood or did it choose you?'

'In some ways I'm remarkably like you. I found myself on a road—running away.' He saw the reflection move as she turned to look at him directly. Meeting her gaze, he added, 'You see it's not that I don't know what it's like to feel the need to escape from a father. But I can't imagine anyone running from Walter, or from Banabrook.' She's curious, he thought, I wonder how much of her story I can bargain for mine! 'You and your mum ran away from Arajinna. I ran towards it.'

Trouble

Saturday 8th September 1945

News that the surrender of Japan had brought an end to the war was only a week old when life at Banabrook took an unexpected turn. Walter's first inkling of trouble was the slamming of the front door followed by something falling in the hallway and an expletive. Emily entered unsteadily.

'Hello there.' She waved an arm in his direction. 'Are you Walter Blake? Or is it Joe Blake?'

'Emily darling, you're tipsy.'

'I've had quite a night. Quite a night.' Suddenly she burst into a snatch of song, 'You and the night and the music...'

'You won!'

'I lost spec-tac-u-lar-ly! We were square at the eighteenth tee; I stuffed my drive into the creek. First time this year. And the last. Now there's a thought. And the last.'

'It's not like you to drown your sorrows.'

'How would you know what's like me Joe Blake?'

'Is something wrong?'

'Very per-cep-tive with your beady little snake eyes. I've been talking to Graham and Stephen.'

'Here? At the club?'

'Here. At the club.' She nodded deliberately, emphasising her response, as though knowing how uneasy this revelation would make him.

'I thought they'd left for good.'

Emily weaved her way towards the drinks cabinet. 'They had unfinished business.' Walter would have liked to ask what this meant. Given the reputations of her cousins, unfinished business could be a euphemism for anything. Emily poured herself a drink. 'Bert and the boys are setting up in the city.'

'Well at least Arajinna will be rid of the Johnsons.'

'Thanks a lot.'

'You're a Blake.'

'Because you rescued me by giving me your name? How gallant.' She took a large gulp of whisky. 'I've got to hand it to you, Joe Blake, you've been a bloody good actor. Bloody good! No I haven't had enough! Call it one for the road. Cheers!'

'Fortunately you only have the hallway to negotiate. God knows how you drove home.'

'One for the road, Walter. Cheers!'

'Sweetheart, you aren't making much sense.'

She grinned, and mimicked him, 'Sweetheart, you aren't making much sense.' In a didactic tone, she added, 'One for the road is what people do before they leave. Before they start singing...' again she burst into song, 'Now is the hour when we must say goodbye...' She pointed a finger at him. 'I'm going back with the boys and I'm going for good.'

'Are you saying you're leaving me?'

'Bingo! The steel trap opens.'

'What on earth happened today? Apart from stuffing your drive into the creek.'

'Shhhh! Fuel contracts are confidential.'

So it was out. The Johnsons' unfinished business did involve him. He wondered exactly what had been said, and who, other than Emily, might have been present.

'You wouldn't tell me? I asked, remember? But shhhh... Confidential! Don't tell Emily. Emily's a Johnson. I should have put my faith in my own kind. But I trusted a Blake. I trusted you Walter. I trusted you.'

He was finding it hard to maintain eye contact. His decision not to seek her agreement to taking over the contract had been deliberate, but he should have said something. The fuel agency meant cash flow. Taking it from the Johnsons bordered on recklessness. Standing up from the desk, he said, 'I'll make some tea, and you can tell me the whole story.'

'I won't be here that long. I'm just finishing my drink. Cheers! Then I'll throw a few things into a bag. I'm staying at Weatherlee tonight.'

'For heaven's sake! Emily... darling.'

'Don't darling me!'

'You have to tell me what they said.'

'You already know. It's about lies and money. About the way some bastards shaft others to solve their cash flow problems. It was all too bloody easy wasn't it? The honourable JP was on the take. I've put Weatherlee on the market.'

'When did that happen?'

'Jeff was at the club. I told him he can list Weatherlee on Monday.'

'You shouldn't make a decision like that in your condition. It's the drink talking.'

'I'll make any decision I want to. I'm through with you making my mind up for me.'

'Well make sure he doesn't shaft you. The property's worth a lot more with the changes we've made.'

'Thanks for the tip. I'll watch out for any bastard who might shaft me. So if you're planning to fight me, I'll sue for half of this place. It's up to you.'

'I've never wanted any Johnson property.'

'Snap! I don't want any Blake property. But watch out for the boys. Stephen reckons the Johnsons should go for all they can get, after what you did to them.'

'I did nothing illegal.'

'But you shat on 'em Walter. If it wasn't for you we'd never have dug up the gully.'

'People applauded you for that.'

'They applauded Emily the Blake, not the Emily the Johnson. Being a good little Blake is what it was all about. I didn't pick it then; but I can smell it now. It's all been piling up. Like shit under a shearing shed.' The unintended alliteration caused her to dribble. She giggled and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. 'The troops are coming home. There's a new world opening up out there. Johnsons might not be uni-versity educated; Johnsons might not wiggle their arses and parlee voo or whatever. But Johnsons have got... gumption. Johnsons have guts.' Again she sang, 'It's a lovely day tomorrow, tomorrow is a lovely day... I'll send for Caroline when I'm settled.'

'You're not going to rip a kid out of school and cart her off to the city on some stupid whim. Not to live with scum like Bert Johnson and sons. She belongs here.'

'We'll let the Court decide.'

'You're the one walking out.'

'You're the adulterer.'

'Hey! Back up a minute.'

'A nice Jewish girl. Good choice. Someone to help you with the money making.'

'Emily, you don't mean that.' He felt the chemicals flooding into his bloodstream.

Mimicking Rachel's accent, Emily said, 'I do not try to take your husband.' Again the accusing finger. 'She didn't have to try did she.'

'When you left here this morning everything was normal.'

'Absolutely! Emily playing golf; Walter screwing his Jew.'

'What an awful accusation.'

'Are you telling me she doesn't stir your cock?'

'I'm telling you I've done nothing wrong.'

'I call your wrong, and raise a stuff.' She giggled again. 'I made a joke.'

'All I ever wanted is for us to look after a refugee. To set an example.'

Emily frowned and wagged her head. 'I would like to ree-tract... there's a good word ... I would like to ree-tract my suggestion you only brought the Jew-lady here to root her. There was something else in the devious bloody Blakey mind. Walter Blake wanted the whole world to say what a wonderful man that Blakey blokey is–'. Again she giggled. 'You wanted to be the big man in town. The wonderful Mr Blake who looks after poor people. What a good man he is. Isn't he wun-der-ful.'

'I don't believe this. After all we've been through together.'

'Believe it! You're a bully Walter. A bully and a cheat.' Putting down her glass, Emily approached him, talking as she came. 'The last year's been a nightmare. You should go to the club sometimes and hear what they say about us—about Walter and his Jewish slut. And poor stupid Emily. "Oh here's Emily, everybody. Hi Emily we were talking about... about the card night Emily, yes about the card night." Jesus, Walter, can you imagine how that makes me feel? Like this small.' She held her thumb and forefinger together and thrust her hand in front of his face. 'This small.'

'They disgust me.'

'Jews aren't allowed in the club. Jews aren't allowed in any golf club in this country.'

'They're barred from some clubs, but not all.'

'Well they should be! Dad was right. How do you think I feel with her living in our house? Oh, and when she does leave, don't forget to check her bags.'

Walter was thoroughly unsettled. He knew Emily had never warmed to Rachel, but she'd never brought race into it. Was this a reversion to her father's hatreds? In vino veritas? Emily unveiled?

'You're right, this is a nightmare.'

'No! The nightmare's over. This is real. I've learnt a lot of things tonight. Uncle Bert had you worked out.' Walter felt his shoulders sag. He'd expected trouble some time, but not like this. 'The trade-off for not going to war! Hold the fort while the troops are at the front.' She sang, 'Keep the home fires burning while...' Now her face was close to his and her breath turned his stomach. 'While all the time you were secretly feathering your nest. Our nest! That's what craps me. You were ripping off our neighbours and rooting a Jew. That's why I'd rather sell Weatherlee than fight for a share of this place. And I'm not leaving Caroline to grow up with you.' She turned away, dropped the now empty glass into a wastebasket, and weaved towards the door.

'You shouldn't be driving. At least wait until tomorrow.'

'Get stuffed!'

For ten minutes or more he could hear her thumping around in their bedroom; then the front door slammed. Tomorrow, he would have to face Rachel and Caroline, wondering what they'd overheard. Then he'd have to find out what the Johnsons had said at the club, and how much damage it might have done to his ability to continue down the path he'd planned. He'd known the risks, but he'd set his heart on getting control of the fuel contract and its cash flow. For some time he sat at the desk wondering how he might defend what he had done against the accusations he was sure to face. Then the realisation struck him. This was no passing tiff. Emily had left him—she'd really left him!

Manoeuvring

Tuesday 11th September 1990

'There!' Caroline returned the last of the batches to a folder. 'Order restored as far as possible. Now all I need is time to read them.'

'I thought you were going to start on the tapes,' Max said.

'I got sidetracked.'

'It's fascinating stuff, isn't it?'

'You're right about the assignments. They are good.'

'Most of the kids are doing better in their other subjects as well. There's been a real lift in attitude.'

'When I was at Harwood, I had the impression it was rare for ministers of the good old C of E to teach... well... the range of secular subjects you teach. Our chaplain took divinity classes, but that was about it.'

'Moneyed schools like Harwood can afford chaplains who do nothing but provide pastoral care.'

'Do I detect disapproval?'

'Arajinna doesn't even have a careers counsellor!' Max immediately regretted the sharpness of his response. Mentally chastising himself for this bolshie reversion, he made a show of looking at his watch, and changed the subject. 'Tony should be well on his way by now. How long since you last saw him?'

'Not since Uncle Christopher's funeral—must be ten years.'

'I think, somewhere on the tapes, Walter says he was disappointed he wasn't able to be there. I thought he said it was a private funeral.'

'I've sorted Simeon's memoirs. I was about to refresh my memory about Eddie and the organ bellows.'

It was obvious to Max that Caroline, also, had made a deliberate change of subject. He said, 'Go ahead. I've got notes to make.' Something had again taken her into unwelcome territory. If only he knew what!

Ties of Blood and Friendship

From Simeon Blake's Memoirs - 1932

It is ten years since Eddie Sampson's untimely passing, but I am pleased to record he is still with us. I see him in the face of his son, and in the lad's creative mischief. There is always fun when Olive brings young Brian to Banabrook.

I think it is now possible to reveal that it was Eddie who drilled the hole in the bellows of the church organ. I know because I caught him, although at the time I didn't realise what he'd done. It was during hymn 165 I twigged to the crime. That's when the hole ripped open, dropping us an octave or so and sending Quentin, the organist, into an unaccustomed frenzy of wall thumping. In those days, two boys were rostered to work the seesaw lever to power the bellows. It was common for them to read comics to relieve the boredom. This had sometimes led to inattention, causing fluctuations in pressure and pitch, but never before a full octave. The designers of the church did not have access to modern systems of communication, and it had become the practice for the organist to tap gently on the wall to signal the need for air-pressure. On this particular day, Quentin quite lost his head. We had to finish the hymn unaccompanied.

After the service, I took Eddie for a walk in the graveyard, where I bargained my silence for his good behaviour and his promise to work off the debt if I paid for the repairs. He was somewhat chastened by the extent of the damage, which he had not foreseen. His plan, far more subtle than what eventuated, was for the hole to cause small fluctuations in pitch leading to confusion amongst those with a good ear. Remarkable for a youth whose sole musical education was to have taught himself to play a mouth organ.

Eddie had arrived in Arajinna as an itinerant worker. He never moved on because he and young Olive Carver took a liking to each other. The Carver ancestors had originally come from Cornwall, which is why the property is called Land's End. There was something about the Carvers and Eddie, an affinity I still feel, even though I'm more than twice Olive's age. It is strange how the lives of two families can become so entwined. Brian and Walter have become friends, and Walter, being a year older and physically more robust, has frequently acted the big brother. Sad that slightly built boys are sometimes targets for bullies; particularly boys like Brian, without fathers.

How well I remember Olive as a small child. In 1913 when Richard married Elspeth, and Christopher married Genevieve, May was a bridesmaid, and Olive a flower girl, for both weddings. May would have been 23 and Olive still in primary school. Great celebrations and much fun. None of us could foresee that twelve months later we would be entering a dark period of history, and sending our children to fight a war on the other side of the world.

When the Great War started, Christopher and May joined up. Richard agonised over whether to volunteer, but I never had the slightest doubt his continuing his medical studies was the best contribution he could make to the nation's long-term interests. Elspeth was pregnant with Michael. We had a family conference, and agreed she and the baby should stay at Banabrook. Richard acquired a private pilot's licence, and a small aeroplane, so he could visit. Soon hailed as a brilliant surgeon he became part of a team pioneering new techniques. He had an old one-ton truck, which he'd leave in the shed that served as a hangar. Often the first the family would know of his return was the distinctive roar of the truck's engine as he changed gears to negotiate the driveway's steep rise from the road.

Suspension of Hostilities

Tuesday 11th September 1990

When Judith entered the room, she saw no evidence of the underlying tension. Max was at the desk, making notes; Caroline was sitting on the couch, reading. They both looked up.

'I think we're organised. I can't believe, after doing a rush job for us, the printer left the orders of service at the Bullermark bus depot for delivery. They might have arrived tomorrow morning on the school bus, but I didn't want the worry.'

'Jim?' asked Max.

'I think he'll be all right. He talks about starting the first hymn in the wrong key at Alice's funeral. He was quite a young man then, but the embarrassment seems to have come back to haunt him. I think what actually happened was he started the wrong hymn, and didn't realise until he saw everybody frantically turning pages to find the words. He's worried he'll make a mistake again today. I told him, if he did, Dad would be the first to laugh. I think I might have confused him even more.'

Max turned to Caroline. 'In any other community Jim would have been quietly moved aside. Fortunately, people know the problem and make allowances. If there's a hitch tomorrow, I'll calm him down and we'll begin again. There was no way we could have used anybody else for such an occasion. He would have been so upset.'

'I understand about small communities, Max. Everything seems to be exaggerated—the good and the bad. I think it's wonderful that people care as much about Jim, who's still alive, as about Walter, who isn't.'

There was a pause while they all appeared to contemplate this thought. Then Judith said, 'I've laid out some things for lunch in the kitchen. We'd better make a move. Max will have to go soon. I telephoned Calway Station. The train was running on time last they heard.'

Caroline stood. 'I've been reading about Alfred and the large black beetle. What a wonderful story.'

'We had some amazing ancestors.'

Max put away his notebook. 'Caroline has agreed to help with the early part of the history. She obviously has some interesting contributions. That ring belonged to her Great-Aunt May.'

Judith stepped forward; Caroline held out her hand for inspection.

'It's lovely. Lunch in a few minutes; I'll give you a call. I need Max to lift something for me.' Judith returned to the kitchen. Max followed her.

'So what needs lifting?'

'Nothing. You two seem chummy, all of a sudden. What's happening?'

'I've been thawing the ice, that's all.'

'She's got a way with people hasn't she? You can see how she became a senator.'

'What do you mean?'

'Don't forget whose side you're on is what I mean.'

'You're kidding.'

'I'm feeling left out.'

'I've been trying to avoid discussions you should be there for. But I can't sit around mute. You have to trust me.'

'I do.'

'You have a strange way of showing it.'

'I'm all for keeping the peace until after the funeral. Just don't lose sight of the objective.'

'I haven't.'

'Go and call her for lunch.'

At one end of the enormous kitchen table, Judith had set three places, and a large bowl of salad protected from stray insects by a beaded gauze cover. Max poured water from a jug; Judith donned heavy gloves, and opened the oven.

'There's cannelloni, and spinach pies. Please serve yourself.'

'They look superb.'

'Now you understand the fatal attraction,' Max said.

Judith removed the oven gloves and sat down.

For the first time since her arrival, Caroline felt almost able to relax. Nevertheless, as she served herself some cannelloni and savoured the aroma of the herbs, she took the initiative to continue the discussion about Blake ancestors, in the hope she could stave off further confrontation about more current issues.

When lunch finished and Max started clearing away the dishes, Caroline found herself drawn into a familiar Banabrook routine in which everybody not committed to an immediate return to the fields pitched in to help with the washing up.

'I'll wash,' Judith said. 'If the tea towel over the stove isn't dry, the clean ones are in the second drawer. Everything goes in the dresser.'

'But there's no dixie boiling water to wash the nappies when we're finished!'

'Is that what you did?'

'It saved stoking up the copper all the time. Nappies are a constant job.'

'Well I'm sorry.' Judith pulled a face, then laughed.

'And I'm sorry to leave you both at the sink,' Max interjected. 'But I'd better get going. If the train's on time I'll be back with Tony by half three. The tapes are all marked, so if you want to do some listening...'

'We're big girls, darling!' Judith said. 'We'll manage.' She proffered a cheek for him to kiss, their easy intimacy making Caroline realise she was still isolated and alone. The large window behind the sink gave them a view to the north. Judith identified a truck, bumping across their line of vision, as Tom and Fred on their way to check the windmill on the other side of the hill. This provided an opportunity for Caroline to talk about her friendship with Tom's father. They chatted amiably and finished the small amount of washing-up in quick time. 'I'll leave you to the tapes,' Judith said. 'Call me if you need anything.'

Caroline studied the index, and formed her plan of attack. With experience developed over years of wading through parliamentary papers, she would focus first on particular dates and subjects of possible concern. She was diverted, however, by seeing her own name identifying a topic: Caroline and the special room. Soon she was listening to her father's voice. It was disconcerting; she had to steel herself to stop thinking about him, and listen to what he was saying.

Caroline called this the special room. I became quite good at hopscotch. I wasn't in her class of course. She had her mother's genes. On the sports field they both had the grace of gazelles. There were days we'd be in here, the three of us, grumbling about the weather but loving it for giving us the excuse to be together. Of course, there were also times, after a long dry period, when we'd stand at the window watching the rain and yelling, 'Send her down Hughie; send her down'. Caroline loved that expression. 'Send her down Hughie'.

Involuntarily, Caroline stopped the machine and looked towards the window. Although today was fine, she was conscious of quietly mouthing the words: 'Send her down Hughie, send her down!' She could almost smell the rain. If memories so evocative were spread throughout the recordings, this was not going to be an easy task. Discipline was necessary. She must focus on the war years. She moved Walter's painting stool to the sideboard; it was a perfect height for her to manipulate the recorder.

Shortly after two o'clock, Judith came to the door and said, 'Is there anything I can bring you? I'll be making tea for Max and Tony when they get here.'

'I can wait.'

'How's it going?'

'Slowly. Your transcripts are a great help, but the conversations ramble a bit.'

'Max thought it best to just let Daddy talk. He's hoping the school will be able to afford the equipment for the students to edit the results. Another useful skill.'

'He's full of ideas, your Max.'

Judith left, and Caroline re-started the tape. So far she'd found nothing of concern, but she felt certain the critical issues would surface; and if, as she suspected, her father had been less than frank, she would have to decide how to break the news to the others.

The crunch of tyres on gravel, voices, car doors banging. Caroline had hardly switched off the tape deck when her cousin, still boisterous at the age of 75, burst into the room. He tilted his head to acknowledge the coffin, but his words of greeting barely faltered as he approached Caroline, kissed her on both cheeks, and enveloped her in his formidable arms.

'My dear Caroline. We must stop meeting at funerals.' Turning from her, he approached the coffin, grasped the side with both hands, and looked intently at the body. 'I suppose one advantage of growing old is we come to expect and accept death. It also becomes more obvious when one of us goes out of sequence. I'm three years his senior. It was actually my turn.'

Any further philosophising was put on hold as Judith entered from the kitchen.

Caroline said, 'You haven't met my half-sister.'

'But I've heard about you over the years. All good, I assure you.' He sandwiched Judith's hand between his. Her slender fingers were lost in his unusually large palms, but his grip was gentle, and she warmed to him immediately. 'My condolences on the loss of your father.'

'Thank you. I put on the kettle when I heard you arrive.'

'An angel. The very thing I'd heard.'

At that stage, Max entered with the heavy overnight bag. 'I've put the other one in your room,' he said, handing the bag to Tony who took it and emitted a long, dramatic sigh.

Turning back to Caroline, Tony said, 'Now, dearest cous, I have to embarrass myself, and make some abject apologies. I come bearing diaries of considerable interest, which, because of my stupidity, I had not previously discovered. Also, having chatted with Max over the past hour, I realise how remiss I've been about another aspect of our family history—Aunt May and the mystery lover. Max told me ages ago he'd discovered the identity of the chap in the photograph. He telephoned on a day I was flying out to a convention in Canada. I had every intention of getting back to him when I returned but... Well, no excuses. I'm already well on the way to paving my personal pathway to Hell. But I now learn that, until Max spoke to you earlier today, he was completely unaware how interested you are in Aunt May and the handsome soldier. Max is blameless in the matter. I am the one in need of a quick ticking off and lasting forgiveness. Subconsciously, I was probably embarrassed. Fancy sitting on May's papers all these years without ever realising what they contained.'

'I am totally lost,' Caroline said.

'Yes, you would be. When the kettle has boiled, and this angel has armed me with a cup of tea—black, no sugar—it will be time to spill the beans. Dear god!—if you'll pardon the expression Max—we have so much to tell.'

'Tea everybody?' Judith asked.

'I'll help,' Caroline said. It was fast dawning on her that historical issues, which on arrival had been the source of conflict, were starting to glue her to this long lost family. Unfortunately, she was not at all sure the glue would resist the forces still pulling them apart.

A noise on the verandah heralded the arrival of Tom who entered, tentatively. Judith was quickest to react; Cousin Tony was introduced and Tom's arrival explained. 'Tom promised the funeral director he would look after the coffin. He'll bring it back in the morning.'

Caroline was conscious that Judith was the one most bereft by the loss of Walter, and admired the way she put Tom at ease, helping him gently replace the lid on the coffin before he wheeled it away.

'Well,' Judith said, turning back to the others. 'Let's make tea and listen to stories.'

'A deal's a deal,' Tony said, putting down his cup. 'I hope the tale is as good as the tea.' He rubbed his hands together. 'We begin with my angst-ridden decision to sell May's furniture.'

'Why angst-ridden?' Caroline asked.

'Only another compulsive hoarder would understand.' He made an open-handed gesture by which he managed to convey guilt, embarrassment, and self-mockery. 'It was towards the end of last year. My companion Timothy had died suddenly and, while I was dealing with his things, I put myself in disposal-mode and rang several antique dealers. The first, a woman with hard eyes and no visible emotions, made copious notes and promised a written appraisal after checking the latest catalogues. She had a genuine Gucci handbag—bad sign. The second, an untidy man, came later the same day. His favourite phrase appeared to be "this piece is all right, but..." I suspected he was more impressed than he showed, and I crossed him off the list when I saw him drive away in a recent model Jaguar. The third man was openly overwhelmed. "We dream of this sort of collection," he said, "thank you for the opportunity to appraise it. Whatever you do, don't sell except through a top auctioneer. I'd be happy to manage the process for a modest fee. Being involved will be enough for me." He moved among the pieces, touching gently, eyeing critically, occasionally using his own favourite phrase: "Oh, I do like this." His passion nearly brought tears to my eyes. I am a bit of a sook, actually. One item took particular attention. He examined it from every angle.'

At this point, Tony jumped to his feet and became the dealer, circling an imaginary object. 'This dressing-table must have been damaged at some time in the past. It's been exquisitely restored, but I suspect a split has been glued at the side. It won't affect the value. Would you care to see something of interest?'

'Naturally I said yes! Who could resist? The man slid out a drawer, and put it down gently. Carefully, he reached into the aperture, and extracted a small length of dowelling. I crouched to watch as he reached in again. To my amazement, he moved aside a panel to reveal another drawer. It had no handle, but contained a slot into which a hand could be slid to pull it out. As he did so, he frowned. "It's quite heavy," he said. "There must be something in it." '

'So it was that I came into possession of the diaries of Great-great-grandma Maud. The dealer departed, and I sat at the dressing table to examine the find. It was exciting enough to have discovered the diaries, but I soon found another cause for fascination. Somebody had read them since Maud's death! Throughout the volumes were bookmarks, most of them paper strips torn from glossy modern magazines. I looked at them trying to find some clue to the nature of the publications. Then, as I opened a volume at one of the markers, I found a note. The handwriting was unmistakable. Aunt May.'

'And she'd never mentioned them?' Caroline asked.

'Strange isn't it. I have wondered why. I've barely started browsing through the diaries, so I can't help wondering if we'll come across a reason. A family skeleton or something.'

Diaries Discovered

Monday 10th January 1949

On 10th January 1949, May stumbled on her way to bed. Reaching for something to break her fall, she knocked Aunt Maud's antique dressing table, which fell to the floor and split apart. May sat on the edge of her bed and wept tears of real anguish. She'd suffered little physical damage, but had broken a treasured possession.

Next morning she found, in the wreckage of the dressing table, a number of diaries, which had spilt from a hidden drawer. She retrieved them, and wandered down the hall to the kitchen. While the percolator gurgled, she drank three glasses of water. Pouring her first cup of strong coffee, she took it to the table, and opened one of the diaries. Hours later she realised she'd spent an entire morning without reaching for the whisky decanter, a rare event unless she got herself out of the apartment. The first volume of the diaries of Maud Osborne was beautifully bound, and embossed on its red leather spine with the words: My Diary. The first entry, in small, elegant but girlish writing, recorded that the book had been a birthday gift from her mother. The subsequent volumes were less ornate, some little more than exercise books, but Maud had apparently caught the diarist bug and, although she did not maintain daily entries throughout her life, she appeared to have recorded her private thoughts on most significant happenings. The early pages provided some insight into a young woman's life in the nineteenth century, but the entries were not particularly engaging and May soon found herself skipping and dipping through the volumes until, reflecting the uncanny facility of the brain to spot the familiar, the name Alfred Blake leapt from the page.

How exciting, right out of the blue, to encounter a handsome young man. His name is Alfred Blake, and I suspect we are much of an age. I had gone, as usual on a Monday, to help Mrs Manning with her washing. As I emerged into the clearing where the temporary cottage stands, there he was. I introduced myself. I think I might have seemed a little forward, but what is one to do? He is a carpenter come to assist with building the house. I learnt nothing else about him because Mrs Manning called me and we got down to work.

So Great Grandfather had appealed to his future wife at first sight. The entry was dated 1826, which meant Maud was 26. May wondered how often a woman of that age encountered eligible men in what had clearly been an outlying area. The pages for 1826 were filled with comments about Alfred Blake and the progress of the Manning family house. May learned that her great grandfather arrived in the colony under indenture to Mr Manning, and would be released from his contract when construction was completed. In the meantime he worked for his keep and had little money. About his ancestry he had apparently been reticent, but Maud had established that he lived in Hampshire, fell out with his father, and emigrated to start a new life. Although these entries never expressed the full extent of Maud's relationship with Alfred, May suspected a growing passion. Realising there was enough reading here to last her many days, she started turning pages rapidly, looking for highlights. There were many, some evidencing high drama.

The signs could no longer be ignored. I am to have a child. Father is furious and has gone to confront Alfred. I was not permitted to accompany him and I must wait in the hope he (father) will not do anything silly.

Later the same day, another entry.

Joy! I could scarce believe the lack of enmity between them. Alfred returned with father and asked for my hand. Whether from relief, or what, I know not, but father positively beamed throughout. Alfred has pledged to care for me and the child when he is able. Father has agreed he should live and work here when his commitment to Mr Manning is discharged. It confirms my feelings for Alfred. His openness and honesty has won my father completely.

May found herself laughing out loud. It must have been hard in that environment to marry off one's daughters. She flipped through more pages until a gap in entries led to one that was no laughing matter. In 1832 Maud had written:

I have been unable to write anything for weeks. I hope doing so now will help in some small way to close this dreadful chapter. Dan and Larry were not the only victims hereabouts, but losing twins must surely double the pain. I know hearts do not break, but one feels they almost could. I am haunted by those tiny coffins. Alured is confused. What can one tell a four year old about such things? Thank God, he did not contract the illness himself. But he could hear the dreadful noise from which the whooping cough derives its name. Alfred says little, and throws himself into his work.

Heavy of heart, for she was already being drawn into her ancestor's life, May leafed through more pages until another entry in 1833 brought her to tears.

Am I cursed? Patty my darling daughter. Like the twins, barely into her third year. I can still feel the poor mite's tiny burning body. Nature can be cruel. Will it ever be possible for doctors to save us from these dreadful afflictions, which always take the littlest ones? I have borne four and buried three. We must try to avoid having more.

May took the stopper from the decanter and drowned the sorrows of more than a century ago.

The diaries gave May many hours of pleasure, pain, and contemplation. As with her visits to the art gallery (where Lindsay Fielding, now senior curator and convenor of The Friends of the Gallery, had made her a minor celebrity), her reading led to sober mornings. As the days passed, she found herself following a number of different threads in the story of her ancestors. Bit by bit a picture of the move to Banabrook emerged.

Rufus is in trouble with father again. He grumbles to me, but never heeds my advice. I'm a mere woman of course. I make allowances because I know he misses mother. I have asked Alfred to take him aside but he feels it's not his place. Of course it's his place. Sloth is a sin and the rest of us have to do more because of it.

I love my brother. He is my flesh and blood and on occasion can be amusing. But his cavalier attitude frets father so much it hurts us all. There are few enough of us out here. Passengers cannot be tolerated. I long for Alfred's release from his indenture. The Mannings have been good employers, but building an entire farm will take years.

In 1834, an entry so filled with joy it leaps from the page.

Indenture discharged. We had a little ceremony at Mannings. Mr M allowed the stock hands to attend; even Rufus came along. Mr M signed his half of the indenture and handed it to Alfred. He made a show of reluctance to part with it, but I believe this was to mask his being close to tears. How the life out here binds us together. I had been totally unaware of the form of the document. It fits like a jigsaw; now Alfred has both pieces, and his freedom. Then, a surprise! Mr M said wool has been so good and they've done so well he wants to give us 200 sheep to help us when we start on our own. 200!

Next day.

I was silly to be too excited. Alfred says we must help father improve this property before looking for our own land. I try not to be angry with Rufus. He gets so down in the mouth, but the Mannings have prospered with Alfred to help. Father has done less well with my lazy brother.

For long periods following the death of her three youngest children, Maud's diary entries were sparse. Highlights such as the discharge of the indenture were covered in detail. In the main, however, Maud's heart seemed as empty as the entries, which were sometimes separated by many months. May understood depression and could feel it even in these brief passages. The one clear thing was that Alfred was making a difference at the Osborne property, and Rufus wasn't. Even Alured was rarely mentioned although, in 1837, she wrote:

Hard to believe Alured already 9. I am proud how clever he seems for his age. He has no other tutor but me. We have been able to buy, or otherwise acquire, some new books (new to us I mean) from other settlers. I surrendered my treasured Don Quixote, in beautiful condition, in exchange for a dog-eared volume of Swift. I keep telling myself it is the content that matters, and I do enjoy Swift, as I enjoyed Cervantes. Wonderful storytellers, both.

In 1839, the mood changed.

Father has returned. He had given no inkling he was attending an auction of land. The allotment he has purchased for us is far from here, but we will be independent and can take a share of the stock to get started. He wants Rufus to come with us. I wish that made me happy. I suppose my brother is better with us than constantly at war with his father. Alured senses adventure. One of the local men will come with us at the start. He does not speak the same language as the other natives we will encounter, but he says he knows many of their words. He has learnt English well, so we have no reason to doubt his facility with other tongues. Father is lending us a small party of men to journey with us and help us to get started. We will take only a small flock, and return for more later. Mr M says his offer of 200 head still stands.

Later that year.

Alfred amazes me. He has already forged a bond with the Aborigines. Rufus is wary of them, and they of him. There is a strange formality about their behaviour. Communication takes much patience, but they appear to have that in abundance, as does Alfred.

1840

We have chosen to name our place Banabrook. It is a made up word which sounds like something the natives say. They do not write their words down, so we had to make up a spelling. We thought 'brook' appropriate because of the water—though Alfred thinks 'bruk' might be a closer rendition of the sound the natives make (and he is not sure it means water anyway).

May paused in her reading. Her father had told her Banabrook was an Aboriginal word. Had he known about the anglicised approximation he would surely have said so. She might be the only one currently alive with knowledge of its origins.

The entries throughout the next two decades were dense with detail and May took to tearing strips from magazines to mark pages where the comments advanced the main threads of Maud's story.

1841

Still no word from Rufus. Alfred says he doesn't care. My own feelings are ambivalent. Rufus turns 40 this year but seems never to have grown up.

1845

Alfred in high spirits after the wool sales. Quite unusually, he talked to me about his youth in England. He's been clearing out his desk and showed me a strange letter written by his father when he announced his intention to emigrate. Vitriolic is too soft a word. It is definitely in the melodramatic "good riddance and never darken my doorstop again" style of language. Alfred said he only kept it to fuel his motivation to make good on his own.

1850

Rufus is back, and with a cart and his belongings. Alfred's mood is bad.

Then, in 1852, reference to the dressing table.

Alfred has returned. In the past, apart from a few trinkets for me and gifts for Alured, everything on the cart has been for the farm. This time he has brought some elegant furniture and some lovely etchings. For me, a beautiful dressing table. It has a secret drawer; what fun! I will keep my diaries there instead of my other hiding places. He promises never to look. Well, we'll see. He would only discover how much I love him.

1852

The success of our ventures overwhelms me. I never expected to be a rich lady, but we have ordered a carriage and stables are to be built.

1852

What a year this has been. Alured has become close to a lovely girl. Cecelia Carter. We like her very much.

1852

Rufus has disappeared again. He said he would be away a week, but it has been more than a month.

1853

I think everybody in the district came. They were a lovely couple, and I refuse to believe I write this simply because I am the mother of the groom. I will put down more detail tomorrow. For now, sleep. What a day!

1858

A grandson. Simeon. A healthy boy. I had not committed my secret thoughts to these pages lest they become a curse. Cecelia has had much trouble conceiving, and I had almost given up hope. How blessed we are.

1860

It beggars belief that Rufus turns up after absences sometimes running into years and seems to feel an entitlement to live in the home we have built with precious little help from him. I am glad he has prospered, though I sometimes think he doesn't deserve his good fortune. I suppose he is not the only one to gain from luck rather than endeavour on the goldfields of Victoria. He says his success comes from being foresighted and patient. He has invested much in paintings he believes will accrue in value.

1860

I have had a win. I insisted Alfred accommodate Rufus no longer unless something was given in return. As a result, he has accepted some paintings as payment for board and keep. They are actually very pretty watercolours. Rufus says the artist is of considerable note. It matters more to me that I like the scenes, and we have at last extracted some contribution.

1862

Deep concern. We have been beset by angry men. Alfred was so upset he became red faced and aggressive. He set the dogs upon them, and demanded Cecelia and I retreat to our rooms. Alured is away. Rufus also. Even the farm hands seem perplexed.

1862

Some of the men returned today. I have never seen Alfred so jittery. I heard threats of legal action, and I think he gave them money or promissory notes. They even entered the house and identified items of interest to them. Dear god, my precious dressing table was mentioned. Tonight he has made a fire near the stables and is burning papers.

1862

I feel dirty, not just from the ashes but also from a feeling of betrayal. Alfred dismissed my enquiries and left Banabrook in the carriage. The fire has done its job, but it is hard to obliterate paper records. What I found is disturbing. It seems mainly to be details of purchases.

Turning the page, May was dismayed to find several leaves torn from the diary. Then came a brief entry.

1863

Alfred departed Monday. Quietly in his sleep. We buried him today in the plot set aside for us near the forest. I begin this on a new page not for any symbolic reason but because I do not want to leave to posterity the bitterness I poured out this past year. He had been a good man for most of his life. That's what I want to remember.

From then until Maud's own death, the entries were sparse. Those catching May's attention included.

1864

Alured has added to the Art Collection. Some lovely oils. One I like particularly now hangs in the dining room opposite my chair.

1864

Alured has employed a farm manager and is building him a cottage. The estate continues to prosper.

1867

I am sad that Simeon is to go away to boarding school. He is only nine. Alured has selected a Melbourne School, Stoddart Grammar. He says distance is not an issue, if the boy is away he is away, and the headmaster is a man of considerable repute.

Aunt May - The Final Days

1949

Each morning, when she awoke, May was conscious of the broken dressing table lying askew against the wall. On an impulse, one day, she opened the Yellow Pages and perused the listings for cabinet-makers. After a couple of telephone calls, she located a man who made the right sort of sympathetic noises. Later in the week, when he called to inspect the damage, the noises he made were not merely sympathetic, but sensuous.

'Oh, my,' he said. 'This is a beautiful, beautiful piece. What's more, we can bring it back to its former glory. Most of the damage is to the joints. They're expertly made, but a joint can never be as strong as wood of this quality. One of the side panels is split, but a little glue will fix it, and when we sand-back and re-polish, you won't notice.'

'Tell me about the hidden drawer. I would never have known it was there.'

'Secret drawers have been popular throughout the ages. This is a really cunning design. I guarantee that, when I bring the table back, you won't be able to find the drawer until I show you how. It's a bit like a Chinese puzzle.' He gave a quote for repairs. 'It won't be a quick job, mind you. We're fairly busy right now and this is one piece I'll be handling myself.'

It was six weeks before May took delivery of the lovingly restored dressing table. As predicted, she failed to find the secret drawer even though she'd thought the location would be obvious. She acknowledged the analogy of the Chinese puzzle. It was not a difficult task, but unless the panels were moved in the correct sequence there was no finding the hidden recess.

When the cabinet-maker had departed with a cheque and his tip—a bottle of Bordeaux wine, which he carried as though it were a baby—May opened the secret drawer and returned Maud's diaries to their home. Several times she had told Christopher to come and visit her in Sydney. Now she could tell him she had something special to show him; a party-trick to amaze.

A week later, May had a stroke. Although she regained the ability to speak, she had lost large blocks of her memory. Maud's diaries and their location never came to mind again.

Taking Stock

Tuesday 11th September 1990

From her seat at one end of the long couch, Caroline looked up from the diary she'd been browsing. Cross-legged and straight-backed on the carpet, in what might have been a yoga position, Judith was absorbed in another volume. At the other end of the couch, Tony laughed silently at something in the entry he was reading. Max sat at the roll-top desk copying a passage into his notebook. Caroline considered reading an entry aloud, as each of them had felt moved to do at some stage in the past couple of hours. But Maud's distress over the death of her children would introduce a jarring note into the calm that had settled over the group, and Caroline did not want to lead herself into a discussion about buried babies.

There was a gasp from Judith who uncurled from the floor and went to the bookcase. Finding the object of her search, she turned and held it up for the others to see. 'The dog-eared volume of Swift. Maud brought it with her. I'd often wondered where those old novels came from.'

'I wish I had a few weeks to spare,' Caroline said. 'I still have to finish listening to the tapes; once I go home on Thursday I'll have no time for anything.'

Judith replaced the worn book almost reverently on the shelf. 'The diaries are captivating, but I think it's time to put dinner on.'

'I'll help,' Caroline said.

'No, let me,' Tony interjected. 'I'm never happier than when I'm in the kitchen.'

'Who's for another drink?' Max asked.

Caroline shook her head. 'It's a lovely red, but I'll have to watch myself. And I'd better telephone the motel to report in.'

'Why not cancel?' Judith said. 'Your room here is made up. It will save you driving. And the motel is a bit run down.'

'That's kind of you.' She paused to think. 'All right I will stay, but I'll pay for the motel room. I'm sure they need the business.'

'You keep reading,' Max said. 'I'll make the call. It's all right Tony; I'll top up the drinks first.'

'Did I look that desperate?' Tony peered into his empty glass. 'Come Judith, my angel, let's repair to the kitchen and create sustenance for these poor folk.'

'This is far more than sustenance,' Caroline observed as she passed her plate for seconds.

'We were a wonderful team!' Tony said, patting Judith's shoulder. 'It's in the blood, I tell you. Looks like an angel. Cooks like an angel. Is an angel.'

'As are you,' Caroline laughed.

'Forget the looking and being. But angelic cooking... well... on behalf of the team, I accept!'

'I've always been fascinated by things that might be in the blood,' Max said as he re-filled their glasses.

Caroline could not bring herself to look at Max to see whether the comment was directed at her. It had been an extraordinary day—one moment under attack, the next seemingly part of a long lost family. Her insistence on the sale of Banabrook had made an impact, but for much of the day she'd felt welcome. Now she was to stay under the same roof as the people she'd upset. Tomorrow she must face the community and witness the last rites for the father she'd rejected.

'And what of you, Max?' Tony asked. 'You know much about what might be in our blood. Are you the product of a priestly past?'

'My father was a sergeant-major. I've never tried to trace further back, though there was a poster at home showing my Grandfather in one of those travelling boxing troupes.'

'How fascinating.'

'Boxing and the military,' Caroline said. 'Have you ever suspected those things are in your blood?'

'I abhor violence,' he said.

Caroline decided this was not the time to probe his hidden past.

The meal over, Tony and Judith were banished from the kitchen to resume their perusal of the diaries. Max rolled up his sleeves and took over the sink, while Caroline, with a growing feeling of being at home, approved or rejected tea towels, put away the sunbeams, and dried the dishes. Both felt a need to stick to innocuous small talk. The local history of the Country Women's Association, whose members would provide the refreshments after the funeral, provided fertile ground.

It was past nine-thirty when the party re-gathered in the family room.

'I think I'm all read out for tonight,' Judith said. 'If Max can help Caroline bring her things in from the car, we can get you installed in your rooms; then I'll be ready for bed. Feel free to stay up as long as you like.'

A shaking of heads confirmed all were of a similar mind and, soon after ten o'clock, when Max left to walk back to the farm manager's cottage, the others had already said their goodnights and closed their doors.

Sitting, fully dressed, on the edge of the bed, Caroline thought it unlikely any of them would fall easily to sleep. The darkness of the country night made her window a mirror in which she could see her every movement. She got up and turned out the light so she could see the stars; not just the few brightest, which even city lights could not obscure, but the countless millions of an outback sky.

Had it really been thirty years since she left?

Soon her thoughts became a jumbled montage of images from a past increasingly hard to suppress.

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 felt 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.

'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.

PART NINE

REACHING BEDROCK

Morning of a Funeral

Wednesday 12th September 1990

The pre-dawn kookaburra outburst did not disturb the permanent residents, but Caroline and Tony woke. It was four o'clock. Tony rolled over and went back to sleep. Caroline remained drowsily awake. She was used to long days and disturbed nights during parliamentary sittings, but was under no illusion that lack of sleep became easier to handle with experience. There would be enough on her mind today without becoming irritable from weariness. At first light, she got out of bed and went to sit at the window. At one stage in the past she'd practised simple meditation. She used the techniques now, allowing her mind to empty, gazing vacantly at the paddocks and features of the farm as they slowly emerged from night. As soon as she heard movement elsewhere in the house she padded down the hall to the nearest bathroom, showered, and pulled on the tracksuit she always carried when travelling. Bare feet on polished floorboards—another evocative sensation from her past. She made her way to the kitchen. Nobody was there but a pot of tea was already drawing under a knitted cosy. She went into the family room. The coffin was back in place. Tom must have retrieved it from the cool room before starting his morning rounds.

There was a noise on the verandah. Tony came through the door, bustling as always. 'There's something about the air of a country morning,' he said, taking a deep breath to illustrate the point. 'Care for some tea?'

'Would I what?!'

They took a tray outside and sat at one of the trestle tables that occupied the entire verandah and much of the grassed area beyond.

'We're obviously expecting a crowd,' Tony observed. A brown kelpie, which had been curled up in a corner of the verandah, stirred itself and resettled a short distance from them. Tony smiled down at him. 'You're well trained aren't you my friend.'

'Working dogs have to be. His name's Barney.' The dog's ears pricked and his eyes opened. 'I had one just like him. My father taught me how to... Oh god, Tony. I shouldn't have come. I'm rekindling a love for all the things I learnt to live without.'

'That must be hard.'

She took a sip of her tea. 'Did I overhear Judith telling you about our blow-up yesterday?'

'She suggested I not raise the subject of the future of Banabrook.'

'I was going to do the same.'

'To save me being caught in the crossfire? You're both very kind.'

'You're the only one who has any inkling about my past. Max is desperately trying to fill in the blanks.'

'He's a real terrier... well more of a hound I suppose.'

'There's something else. Do you remember the news reports about a minister who beat up a drug dealer in Kings Cross?'

'My god! It's him isn't it? I thought there was something familiar.'

'Perhaps it's not my business—and I've been trying to keep them out of mine—but I can't help wondering if I should raise the subject.'

'With Judith? You think he might be a danger to her?'

'I saw a documentary, quite recently, about a series of gangland killings. It mentioned three criminals who'd threatened witnesses with payback, and who've finished gaol terms and been released. Lenny d'Aratzio was one of them.'

'Leonard Stanley d'Aratzio, jokingly known as LSD. It's all coming back.'

'I'm afraid if I raise the matter with Judith and Max it will seem as though I'm trying to scare them for some ulterior motive of my own. I won't do anything before the funeral.'

'Would you like me to take it up with them? Tomorrow perhaps, before I leave.'

'It's a kind thought.'

'I know there's a bit of drama going on with you people. I'm retired now. There are no demands on my time. So if there's ever anything I can do to help... Troubles shared and all that guff.'

'Now you're being kind.'

'Actually I'm being selfish.'

'How?'

'I didn't realise until Timothy died how isolated I'd become. I have dozens, nay hundreds of acquaintances, but, with Dad and May gone, Timmy had become my family—the one I went home to.'

'I didn't know.'

'I loved Timmy, but I thought I was a self-sufficient person. Suddenly I realised I was old and alone. Christ, now I'm being the sad old queer.'

'You're not. I don't know what the future holds for me, but don't ever forget where I am. Don't forget I'm short of family too. I know what it's like to come home to nobody. I've two empty bedrooms in my apartment. One can be yours any time you like.'

Tony looked steadily at his hands. 'So kind,' he said softly.

Judith arrived. Barney went to her.

'I am in the presence of angels,' Tony said, rising to greet her.

A cooked breakfast was considered but they all opted for something simpler—toast with marmalade, home made by Judith from cumquats grown in the house garden. They were still at the table when Max came, having already breakfasted with Tom and Fred. In contrast to the previous evening, conversation was sparse and stilted. There was an air of general concern for Judith, unexpressed until Tony brought it into the open.

'Now my angel. We are all at your disposal to do anything to help throughout the day. You need but to ask.'

Judith reached across the table and laid a hand on his. 'Thank you. I think, between us, Max and I have everything covered. I'll cry when the time comes, but I think I did most of my grieving while he was still alive. So, I'm cool. I'm actually ready to tackle another of the diaries. Somehow, having Maud and May with us puts the day into perspective. Daddy's death is part of a continuum and we're all just a few steps away from joining them.'

'Half a step for some!' Tony said.

They drifted into the family room and resumed the places they'd occupied the night before—the territorial imperative drawing each to a particular spot.

On a slip of paper used as a bookmark, May had written:

" **Black days! Mine started before the war. Dad said everybody has them. I wonder."**

Caroline looked at the entries on that page. The one that had prompted May's note was obvious.

Alfred is in one of his black moods. I wish I knew what caused them, although we never lack for sources of frustration out here. I think our bodies sometimes have a delayed response to tribulations. When things are difficult, he is a tower of strength and buoys us with optimism. It is when I think things are going well, his sudden periods of grim countenance and grumbling utterances surprise me. I made his favourite pudding and he hardly looked at it.

'Did Aunt May suffer from depression?'

Tony looked up from his reading. 'What have you found now?'

Caroline handed him the bookmark and the diary, and watched the changing expressions on his face as he studied the entries. Eventually he looked up again.

'Perhaps she did. With all her other problems I'd never noticed. My dad suffered something similar.'

'Uncle Christopher? But he was always so alive.'

'I'm told it's often the way of these things. Happy one moment, inexplicably sad the next.'

'Yes, that's right.'

It must have been her tone that made Tony look at her closely. 'You too?'

'Only mildly. But yes.'

'So Alfred... my father... May... and you.'

'And your grandfather, Simeon, apparently believed everybody experienced that sort of thing, so presumably he did too. Possibly he'd seen it in his own father, maybe even Richard as well.'

'But not me. I have my own hang-ups, but I've never simply had darkness descend out of the blue.'

'I can't tell you how apt that description is. It's exactly what happens. Darkness descends.' Both fell silent. Then Caroline spoke again. 'You're aware I have a genetic condition that affects my reproductive system.'

'I remember you telling me.'

'There's a suspicion it passes through the male line, but the condition I have can emerge only in females. The specialist told me the genetic defect might show itself in some other form in males. I'm wondering if the unexplained depressive periods are a manifestation showing up in both sexes.'

'But not in the homosexual.'

'That might be the way it works. Who knows?'

Realising Max and Judith had both stopped reading, Caroline looked at them and added, 'It was the reason I took some interest in our genealogy, and why I first went to see Tony's father.'

'So. Something else in the blood.' Max looked contemplative.

There was another pause in conversation before Judith said. 'I've found something sad. It appears to be Maud's last diary entry.' Now Judith was the focus of attention. She read them the entry.

How can I live with myself? I have condemned Alfred, thought ill of him, only to find, now, it was my brother who was the rogue. Alured has known it all along. Today, feeling unwell, I sat with Al and, for the first time, spoke of my distress and the judgement I made when angry men arrived and Alfred burnt papers and receipts. I told Al how I'd pleaded with his father to reveal what he was doing, and how I was rebuffed with an uncharacteristic abruptness I took to be a sign of guilt. Now I learn he was trying to protect me from the knowledge of Rufus' dishonesty. To think my own flesh and blood was a thief and a dealer in forged works of art. The angry men were creditors of Rufus not of my darling Alfred, yet I thought ill of him. Had today's conversation not occurred, I would have gone to my grave believing my husband dishonoured himself. This news devastates me. It's as well Rufus is not here. We are blind to things so close to us. Al's solution is to gift the entire Blake Collection to the State so no unwarranted profits can ever accrue to the family. He says the paintings he suspects to be the fakes are probably as good as the real work of the pioneer watercolourist, but the artist's name is what makes a piece valuable. Neither Al nor Alfred could bring themselves to destroy any of the paintings, for they couldn't be absolutely sure which are authentic. Al believes the best course is to make no assumptions and leave it to posterity to discover and wonder, or not to. In the meantime he is adding works with undoubted provenance to ensure the collection is worthy of gifting to the State. I hope it is the right course but who am I to even think of suggesting it isn't? If only I'd pressed Alfred, confessed my doubts, expressed my condemnation. He would surely have revealed the truth when he realised how badly I felt about him. Now it is too late.

Cosy Illusions

Wednesday 12th September 1990

When Judith finished reading Maud's final diary entry, there was silence. Caroline stretched uneasily; she took a stroll around the room ending up, as so often before, at the picture window. Finally she said, 'Maud's distress is understandable, but her decision not to challenge Alured's intentions leaves us with an ethical problem. One of Max's draft chapters already refers to questions about attribution of some of the paintings. Now we have real evidence the Blake Collection contains forgeries, which means we have to decide whether to inform the gallery and the trustees.'

'Is it a problem?' Tony asked. 'We know Alured bolstered the collection with genuine Heidelberg stuff. And it was a gift to the State. It's not as if money changed hands.'

Judith said, 'Caroline has a point though. Here we have evidence that, before it was gifted, the collection was prettied up.'

'Or tarted up,' Caroline said.

'We shouldn't be too quick to judge.' Max got up from his place at the desk. 'Alured's action might be questionable, but it was clearly well intentioned.'

'I'd be happier if this didn't seem to be a Blake trait!' Caroline's glance towards the coffin was involuntary, but it was sufficient to cause three other heads to turn in that direction.

'What do you mean?' Judith asked.

'In my position I have to.... No. I'm sorry. This isn't the time. We can worry about it tomorrow. Let's just drop it for now.'

'I need to know what you're implying.'

'It's not the time or the place to shatter any cosy illusions.'

'Well that definitely requires explanation.'

'I'm choosing words badly. It was a silly comment.'

'It was a cruel comment! Don't you think it's cruel to hint at cosy illusions? I think I'm entitled to an explanation.'

'No. Please. Not before the funeral.'

'Now!' Judith's voice was firm, compelling. 'I'd rather hear it now than sit in church wondering what it is you're keeping from us.'

Caroline looked desperately towards Tony. His simple shrug and a small gesture with his large hands were eloquent. This was not his call. Turning back to Max she said, 'Damned biography. I can't stand by and watch it happen. I can't be a party to lies or myth-making.'

'Heroes make good stories.'

'Heroes? It gets worse!'

Max stepped towards her so unexpectedly she almost retreated. Swords had crossed; Caroline realised there was no way back for either of them.

'If I were designing the dustcover,' Max said, 'I would have Walter on a white horse, with a ploughshare as a shield against despair, and a seed-bag full of hope.'

'Is that really the image you have?' Taking Walter's hat from the coffin Caroline went to the vase, selected a frond of white grass, and put it in the hatband. Handing the hat to Max, she said, 'You forgot the helmet.'

Max considered the object before extracting the grass frond and returning the hat to the coffin. He turned to Caroline waving the frond.

She gave a little shrug. 'It needed a white feather.'

'Oh, I recognised the intention. The white feather of cowardice. It was the specific allusion that escaped me.'

Caroline turned to Judith. 'I've only been trying to protect you. Sometimes it's better not to know the truth.' There was a pause before she continued. 'When Walter was in his twenties, the country went to war. The heroes enlisted and went off to fight. He stayed at home.'

'So?' Max prompted.

'To become a war profiteer, for Christ's sake!' In her frustration at having the admission prized out of her, she'd raised her voice almost to a shout. Now, she repeated quietly, 'To become a war profiteer.'

'A war profiteer?' Tony was incredulous.

'Good god!' said Max.

Caroline sat on the arm of the couch. It was out—a secret she'd harboured for three decades. Looking at Judith she saw the shock, and said, 'I'd never been able to get him to talk about the war years. I'd often suspected there were secrets. I found things niggling at the back of my mind. Like the argument with Mr Adderley over the south paddock.'

'The south paddock?' Max looked to Judith.

Judith said, 'Where the horses are.'

Caroline nodded. 'It used to be part of Adderley Farm. Mr Adderley arrived here one night, and there was a row about the amount father had offered to pay for it. I'd left my bedroom door open; I heard everything. Adderley said the Blakes had a reputation for being robbers, but Banabrook was the farm adjacent to his and he had to sell the paddock because he needed the capital. He made some comment about deprivations of war forcing him to give in after all these years. He said Walter only had the money to buy the land because of his frauds. I remember him shouting about his son fighting for King and country while Walter had contrived to stay at home and make a killing of another kind.'

'What did Walter say?' Max asked.

'Not a word! At the time, that meant nothing to me. But in retrospect, in the light of other things, the silence became significant. Would you have stood there, saying nothing, while somebody made such a dreadful accusation?' She saw Max and Judith exchange glances.

Judith said, 'We have to clear this up.' She nodded towards the desk and watched as Max started rummaging in the drawers before she turned back to Caroline. 'There are lots of confusing things. But, whatever Daddy might have done during the war, it didn't include contriving to stay at home.'

Max retrieved a file which had not been in the sorted stack. 'In 1939, when he was twenty-one, your father was one of the first to try to join up. He was rejected on medical grounds.'

'He was as strong as an ox. People joked about it.'

'Which added to his frustration, and his embarrassment. He had high insteps.'

'And for that they rejected him?'

Max handed her the file. It was marked "Miscellaneous – War Years". On top was a letter embossed with a Commonwealth emblem. In the margin Walter had printed the single word "SHIT!" She read the marked paragraph:

A soldier with high insteps cannot be re-fitted in the field from the quartermaster's standard issue boots. A man without boots is as good as wounded. If a soldier needed replacement boots which could not be supplied he could become a liability to his comrades in arms.

She looked up to see the expectant faces of Judith and Max waiting for her response. She wished she could tell them the letter changed things. She sighed in frustration. 'So he didn't have to contrive to stay at home. Adderley got that bit wrong. It must have been Walter's lucky break. Or perhaps what happened was a reaction to being rejected for service. Bitterness might have made him an opportunist.'

Judith frowned. 'I don't understand.'

Caroline turned to Max. 'What does your research tell you about his behaviour after the rejection?'

'He decided his war effort would be to keep Arajinna on its feet. He arranged for the older men to teach farming skills to volunteers: high school kids, women from the town, people with disabilities. Then he organised teams to work almost every farm in the vicinity. After the big hailstorm in 1944, he and the only builder left in the district repaired eleven damaged roofs in two weeks.'

'Did you check who had the agency for building materials?'

'What do you mean?' Judith was clearly disturbed.

Caroline handed the file back to Max. 'This is a compelling historical source. But only for why he didn't go away. What do you have to support the rest of your story?'

'There are written records to corroborate a number of facts. The main sources are oral. But they're sound.'

'Interviews with Walter?'

'Others too.'

'And what about the interviews with the victims?'

Again Judith and Max exchanged looks.

'Could you possibly have done all this research without talking to the victims? The Johnsons for example?' This time the looks told her something else. 'Good Lord, you haven't even spoken to them have you?'

Max made a gesture suggesting frustration. 'Well... no... but...'

'Often it's what's left out that makes the lie.'

'So what's left out?' Judith asked.

'My mother's Uncle Bert set up a number of businesses. The most lucrative was the Kalawonta fuel agency.'

Max nodded. 'Life blood of the district in a sense. Those contracts were coveted everywhere '

'Uncle Bert returned from the war to find his agency had been appropriated by Walter—stolen!'

'Stolen? Good heavens! Where did you get that?'

'My cousin Stephen, a Johnson!'

Max turned to Judith. 'Things are falling into place. Walter as a war profiteer would explain a lot.'

Judith said, 'You're right. It does.'

Caroline said, 'He'd always been evasive when anything about the war years came up. I didn't want to believe he'd done anything wrong. Even after Mr Adderley confirmed Stephen's story, I went looking for evidence to explain it away. What I found made things even worse. I realised I had to face the truth. Now I'm afraid you do.'

Judith said, 'So that's why you left?'

Caroline nodded—the forged signature, and the rumours about buried babies, would have to wait; she'd already given Judith enough to cope with. She said, 'I couldn't live with the lies.'

From the front of the house, the sound of somebody knocking on the door brought them all back to the present. Judith left the room.

Max said, 'So much now becomes clear to me. History depends on the sources. I've never spoken to Stephen; I'd never heard his version of events. Adderley died long before I came here so he wasn't even on my list.'

'You see now why I've tried to avoid telling Judith.'

'What an extraordinary story,' Tony said. 'We think we know other people, but we don't even understand ourselves.'

Max nodded. 'I did try to find the Johnsons, you know. I traced them to Sydney but never got to speak to them.'

'Well at least you tried.'

They turned as Judith came back accompanied by an older woman. With the ingrained habit of his upbringing, Tony rose from his seat and moved aside, smiling in anticipation of an introduction, ready to offer his place to a lady. Later, he would say that, if he'd been asked to describe Judith's demeanour, he would have used words such as edgy, flustered, even wide-eyed.

'Caroline, this lady is Mrs...' Judith turned to the new arrival. 'I'm so sorry it's...'

'Henderson.' The voice was quiet, but the American accent was obvious. She looked at Caroline. 'Oh my! The newspaper photos don't do you justice.'

'Do I know you?' Caroline thought there was a familiarity; but she couldn't place the woman who, after a moment's hesitation, went to the coffin and looked at the body.

'Hello Walter,' the woman said.

'You knew my father?' Caroline asked.

Mrs Henderson turned to face them. 'I knew it would be hard. I rehearsed what I might say. Now I'm here, it's all gone.' She looked at Judith and added, 'You opened the door and I found myself looking at a ghost. It was unnerving. I guess there's no easy way to do this. Caroline dear, I'm your mother.'

Tony said, 'Emily? Emily Blake?'

'I realise what a shock this must be, but I didn't know how to handle it so I hired a car and drove on up here.'

'My mother?'

'Oh my! Oh my! I can see it... I can see my little girl... in the woman.'

'I can't. I can't see my mother. She'd be waving... She'd be waving and I'd know who she was.'

'I'm sorry, I don't understand.' Mrs Henderson made the barest movement towards her.

'I'd be riding in the Grand Parade, and... I'd see a lady...'

Suddenly Tony moved towards Caroline. 'Are you all right?'

'I will be.'

'Oh my!' said Emily Henderson. 'I have really shocked you, haven't I?'

'It's silly. This shouldn't happen.'

'Honey. Honey. I was worried but... Oh my! I didn't figure on giving you a heart attack.'

'I'm all right. Just... overcome.'

Tony said, 'I think, in the circumstances, it would be amazing if you weren't.'

'Surely you can't be old enough to be my mother.'

'My vanity has made a cosmetic surgeon very happy.'

Further scrutiny. Then Caroline held out her hands to Emily. Realising her mother had noticed the brooch, Caroline said: 'It's the only thing of yours I could find.'

'Well I'm sure glad you did. Now you take it real easy, okay?'

Return of the Prodigal Mother

Wednesday 12th September 1990

Emily Henderson found herself alone and uneasy in a room full of memories.

Caroline had declined Judith's offer to call a doctor. Banabrook might be a long way from the city, but the media was sure to get hold of the story if an overworked country GP was called to drive two hours to tell Senator Blake she was perfectly all right. Nevertheless, under pressure from the others, she had agreed to lie down. Her mother, here. The shock had passed, and she was starting to feel calm. Many questions would now be answered; conclusions and surmises would be confirmed. Unfortunately, there was a downside. Judith had taken the news about Walter's shady past with composure, but the additional detail she would hear from Emily would be hurtful.

Judith hovered near the bedroom door, watching over the half-sister for whom she was starting to feel some affinity. Stephen's disclosure that Walter was a war profiteer would have been shattering for a twenty-year-old. Had Caroline discussed the matter with Rachel? Had she suspected her stepmother of complicity? Some of Caroline's information had clearly been wrong, but there might be other things yet to emerge. There'd been a day at the hospice when Rachel had rambled about bringing troubles into Walter's life. Something about making a good man do bad things. Judith had never shied away from the truth, but establishing it had not been easy. She had long been resigned to having a mystery for a mother. About her father, she wanted to know everything, good or bad. Emily Henderson might light the dim corners of her understanding.

Having discovered that Emily had arrived thinking the dilapidated Criterion Hotel would still offer accommodation, Max was making up a bed for her in the old nursery. He was thankful for the opportunity to be alone and to think. Caroline's disclosures had taken him by surprise. In any investigation it was common for each source to add its own colouring, particularly when the source itself might otherwise appear in an unattractive hue. Rarely did anybody know the entire story, and far more rarely did they disclose it. Truth, whole truth, and nothing but, was an elusive commodity even from sources of the highest integrity. He had learnt that people are imperfect witnesses at the best of times, and that the challenge for the historian is to sift away the overburden and uncover what lies beneath.

In the kitchen, Tony was making tea and coffee, and rummaging in the pantry for ingredients to conjure something to go with it. He'd met Emily only once before, at her wedding to Walter. The American now in the family room was an engaging lady, but so far removed from his recollection of Walter's decidedly Aussie bride that he'd found this second meeting quite bizarre. He was also trying to come to terms with Caroline's disclosures, which he found both a worry and a compelling mystery.

Emily wandered around the familiar room. The trophy cabinet took her attention. Photographs of a young Caroline. One snapshot, of a serious child barely as tall as her pony, must have been taken soon after Emily's departure. Another showed an adolescent girl draping a blue ribbon around the neck of a black mare, and fixing the camera with a self-conscious grin. Yet another showed an assured young woman in full riding gear. In another section of the cabinet, she found confirmation of something she'd guessed. From the instant Judith opened the front door, it was obvious she was Rachel's daughter, and the identity of the other parent was implied when she introduced herself as a Blake. This photograph showed Walter and Rachel, on either side of a pony, with a very young Judith in the saddle. Proud parents, Emily thought, but somewhat older than they were when I left—which fits. Judith can't be older than early thirties, so some time must have elapsed before she was born. The question not answered by the photographs was Rachel's current whereabouts.

The rattle of a tea trolley heralded Judith's return.

'Is she all right?' Emily asked.

'She's having a shower and changing.'

'I knew my coming was risky after all this time. But she seemed okay; I mean, after the first surprise, then...'

'Body chemistry.'

'Now there's a Walter Blake expression. Body chemistry fascinated him.'

'I'd never thought about it, but you're right.'

'Every now and then, over the years, something's brought my mind back here. An expression like body chemistry. Somebody talks about adrenalin, and I'm here, right here—Walter at the easel, Caroline doing a jigsaw. I think adrenalin was what got me to Arajinna today. But when you opened the front door...Wow! I'd prepared myself for Caroline, and I'd steeled myself to cope with meeting Rachel again—a much older Rachel of course...'

'She won't remember you.'

'Then she is here?'

'We had to move her to a hospice. It's about an hour's drive, but we couldn't care for her properly any more. She has Alzheimer's. When I told her Walter had died it didn't register. She didn't know who I was talking about.'

Emily reached out and touched Judith's forearm. 'Oh honey. Does she know you?'

'I'm not sure. She doesn't seem to know anybody. But when she's agitated there are only two of us who can calm her. The other one is a nurse who started working with her early after the onset. If we hold her close, something in that poor brain seems to know we're different, special to her in some way. It's a cruel disease.'

'May I ask how old you are?'

'I'm thirty two.'

Emily mentally computed the dates. Yes, it fitted.

Judith asked, 'Did you know?... about the marriage... him and Rachel...?'

'Not that they had a child so like her mother. You're about the age she was when I left. Which makes the likeness... quite disconcerting.' It was obvious Judith found the scrutiny unsettling, but Emily found the likeness of mother and daughter drawing her on. Struggling to find the words, she said, 'I wonder... if I'd returned to find Rachel in good health, but older... I wonder if I'd have felt the urge I feel now to say things to you... to the image I knew as Rachel.'

'You mean to apologise?'

'So he told you.'

'Call it intuition.'

'Do you think Rachel knew?'

'That you said things about her?'

'Cruel things,' Emily said quietly.

'She never said anything to me. Until recently, she never spoke about the past at all.'

'Until recently?'

'They say there are two kinds of victims—those who want to forget, and those who want to rage. Until the onset of her illness, Mama was a controlled and private person, even with me. Any attempt to get her to talk about her early life was... well, suddenly you found you were in another conversation. It was obviously a defence mechanism. Then, some time after her health started to deteriorate, she began telling me about incidents from the past. The change was a shock. Things came tumbling out, as if the barriers she'd erected in her mind had cracked and started to spill her secrets. It was frightening because she seemed not merely to be remembering the events but re-living them. Somewhere along the line I think she must have had an abortion. I suspect she was raped. But the main subject was to do with burials. Max thinks she must have seen the mass graves. She keeps saying: "you can't bury memories, you can't bury memories". It's horrible. What's worst is not knowing if these images have really been locked away until now, or if she's actually been reliving them all her life, secretly, over and over. Alone.'

Judith's sadness was palpable. Emily could think of nothing to say.

When Max entered, they must have presented a strange tableau: Judith's eyes cast down, Emily's hand on her arm, neither of them speaking or moving. They both looked up, acknowledging his arrival.

'There's a bed made up and a towel on the end of it. Caroline will be with us shortly.'

Emily said, 'Thank you, Max.' She saw his glance towards Judith, eyebrows raised—an unspoken question of the kind that flows between intimates who know their thoughts are running parallel.

Judith said, 'I'll be all right. I want it cleared up.'

Max said, 'Caroline has already had a considerable shock, and I'm concerned about what might happen next—concerned for all of us. We're still coming to terms with Walter's death. Mrs Henderson is not aware–'

'For gosh sakes call me Emily! You make me feel positively ancient.'

'Forgive me. You, Emily, would not be aware that Judith and I have been pressing Caroline for information about the past. Obviously, now you're here, we should try to uncover the whole truth, or at least as much of it as we collectively know.'

'You want to pump me for information, right?'

'You must know the truth about some things we've been trying to guess.'

'I suppose I do.'

'I fear some of what we learn will be hurtful. Were I omnipotent, I think I would declare these conversations temporarily off limits, at least until after the funeral. As I'm not, and the revelations probably have to run their course, I merely suggest we all be conscious we might have fears confirmed or learn unwelcome things.' He put an arm around Judith. 'Somehow we have to get through a difficult day.'

Caroline's arrival precluded any response. She was elegant in black. Emily was delighted to see she'd pinned the brooch to the lapel of her jacket. There was a brightness which hadn't been evident earlier. 'Sorry about all that,' she said. 'Taxed the system, a bit.'

Emily grimaced. 'I feel so guilty.'

'I'll forgive you if you stay a while so I can get used to you.'

'You can bet on it. We've got a lot of time to make up, you and me.'

'I've telephoned my secretary to cancel my appointments for the rest of the week. I think she's in a state of shock.'

'Oh Caroline, honey that's great.'

Emily hoped it wasn't too obvious to the others how close she'd been to giving her daughter a massive, uninhibited hug. There was a time they'd called them "big warm cuggles". Now, she held back, fearful, after all these years, of getting things wrong again.

Caroline turned to Max. 'You've been bursting with curiosity since I arrived. Now you have someone of far greater interest to interrogate. You should start a new tape.'

'I think I'll just listen. But we should wait for Tony.'

'Wait no more!' Tony bustled in from the kitchen with a platter of food. 'It's cobbled together: little sandwiches, things on toast, "wolf from the door" stuff. No time to make canapés or anything exotic—although I did see a bottle of anchovies so the thought crossed my mind. Voila! Nibbles Antonio.' He put the platter on a small table next to Emily, and busied himself with cups and plates.

'So mother,' Caroline turned to Emily. 'We've speculated about your departure from Banabrook. Now we can hear it from you.'

Conscious of Max's warning, Emily looked at him. His little shrug confirmed her own feelings. Sooner or later, her story must be told. 'In some ways it starts with being brought up in an anti-Semitic household. If there's such a thing as a fundamentalist bigot, my father was that. He even corresponded with the Ku Klux Klan. When the overseas mail arrived, other folks got four weeks of the Saturday Evening Post; we got racist pamphlets.'

'How extraordinary,' said Max. 'Was he a Nazi sympathiser?'

'Yes and no. He approved of Hitler's attempts to rid the world of Jews. That was goddamn Holy work! But Hitler was a Kraut, and my old man couldn't abide anything foreign. There's a word for that isn't there?'

'Xenophobia?' said Tony.

'He had it like mad dogs have rabies, and some of it rubbed off on me. My guess is folks become bigots the same way we become Christians, or Muslims, or whatever. We're born into families that believe.'

Caroline said, 'I don't remember my grandparents.'

'On my side you didn't miss anything. Walter's dad was an absolute darling. After I started going steady with Walter, you couldn't keep me away from Banabrook. Life at Weatherlee was never much fun. The lucky thing for me was I had a way to connect with the outside world. I was good at sport. I helped the school win athletics competitions, and netball, and hockey. That gave me an entrée into other social activities. Walter's dad used to practise golf down the back there. One day he let me have a go. Next thing I know, he's taking me down to the golf club and paying for lessons from the pro.' Emily paused to relive the warmth of those happy times. Judith's question brought her back to the present.

'Do you still hate Jews?'

'No honey. I don't think I ever did. As I grew up I rejected my father's views. But I lived in his house, so I knew the language of evil. I was not a believer, but I sure knew the Devil's catechism. When I needed to justify myself, the words were all there, ready made.'

'Justify yourself?'

'I wasn't handling things too good. Rachel was sexy. Her accent was... you know... Marlene Dietrich... and she had that way of touching people when she talked to them. Walter's motives when we took her in were noble enough, but he hadn't figured on the effect she'd have.'

'So he just dropped you?'

'Not immediately! It took a long time. But you didn't have to be Einstein to read the signs. I'm sure he'd never even looked at another woman before Rachel. When he realised she had feelings for him, he was probably more confused than anybody. You see, Walter never understood how irresistible he was—not just to me, to most folks he came into contact with, certainly the women. Trouble is, when you live with a guy you start to take him for granted. Years later, when I sat on our porch in Boston, and thought about what I'd left behind, I realised I had to cop some of the blame. We sign up "for better or for worse", but for a long time I hadn't even been making an effort. My Ivan was a good man, a kind man, but there were times I'd sit on the porch, alone, and long for Walter, and you honey, and everything else I'd left behind here.'

'Even after everything he'd done?' Caroline said.

'You can't explain these things. I knew I'd lost him, but I still wanted him.'

'At the time you left, however...' Max prompted her.

'Sorry Max. I got off the point. At the time I left, all I could see was my husband had lost interest in me. It's a shock when you're a wife and you realise another woman arouses his passions. And the three of us were stuck here where we couldn't get away from it. I think I already knew the best place for me was somewhere else. All it needed was the spark to ignite everything. The day I left I'd been drinking with my cousins.'

'Graham and Stephen?' Caroline asked.

'You remember them?'

'Oh yes.'

'In today's parlance they "wound me up". One hundred reasons to hate Walter Blake—the greatest bastard this side of the black stump. They bent my ear about Walter ratting on me. They got me going, and I came right on home and regurgitated it all in one great big spew.'

'You can hardly be blamed for that,' said Caroline, 'When he'd betrayed you with Rachel, on top of everything else.'

'Everything else?'

'Your uncle's fuel contract... the profiteering.'

'Oh yeah, they told me about the fuel contract, and lots of other stuff Walter had done to them. I didn't know it was a lie. Not then. But I was burning the bridges anyway, so what the hell? I gave him the full serve.'

'A lie?'

It was Max who responded. 'A Johnson special! A lie supported by just enough truth to be credible.' Looking at Emily he added, 'When you arrived I was about to tell Caroline of my failed attempt to interview the Johnson brothers. Stephen is in gaol for organising the bombing of a gay bar. Graham skipped bail and disappeared.'

'They're in their seventies for chrissake!' Emily said.

'Once a redneck...,' Tony shrugged.

'They told Caroline that Walter stole their family businesses while Bert was at the war.'

'Now, there's a laugh. Bert was too old for war service, but he did go away in the early forties. The boys told everyone he'd been seconded to advise the Army Supply Corps. You know "special expertise" in transport, and other bullshit. And I believed them. So did everybody else. It had the ring of truth. Walter must have known different. We had this pact not to talk about my family, but when I was told Walter was taking advantage of Bert's absence to get his hands on the fuel contract, I said I wanted to know what was going on. He pretty much told me to butt out.'

'He had reasons,' Max said. 'Reasons in the form of threats. Against him, and you, and a seven year old daughter.' When he turned to Caroline her confusion was palpable. 'I'm sorry Caroline. In 1944 Bert Johnson wasn't advising His Majesty's Army, he was in His Majesty's Prison serving time for black market dealings. Bert was the profiteer, and his sons were bully-boys. But they were also masters of the big lie. The credible lie. The lie repeated again and again until others take it up.'

'But earlier...earlier, you said Walter's being a profiteer explained things. You said it made everything fall into place.'

'What I meant was your behaviour fell into place. For me and Judith. We'd been struggling to understand your attitude. When we realised the extent of the misinformation you'd been fed, things started to become clear.'

'Dear god!'

'When Bert went to gaol, the fuel contract automatically terminated. Walter picked up the pieces. It wasn't easy. There were others who wanted a share of the action. But Walter had a plan. It meant convincing a government minister to let him take over the agency, as a trustee, until the troops got home. Then he assigned the contract, with all the accumulated profits, to a co-operative he set up for returned soldiers, at no cost to them.'

'No cost?'

'One peppercorn, to make it legal.'

Emily looked at him. 'This part I didn't know. I'd left town before the troops returned. I knew Walter had a signed contract, and I'd swallowed the story about his ratting on Bert. So had a lot of others, particularly the ones who disapproved of Rachel. The Adderleys and their ilk.'

Caroline turned towards her mother, shaking her head as though in disbelief. 'The Adderleys?'

'Adderley was as rabid as my dad.'

'Truly?' said Max. 'I hadn't twigged! He was definitely after the agency. Walter suspected the Johnsons had tipped him off, and that they'd suggested some sort of deal to keep them in the game as silent partners. Having been a shire councillor, and with the support of reputed knee-cappers to frighten off the opposition, Adderley would have thought there'd be no contest. Walter made a lot of enemies that year. He used his influence to undermine a pack of greedy thugs. It was a brave act—one he nearly backed away from after some nasty telephone calls. I'm afraid Walter is the only source for that information. But I have no doubt he feared for your lives.' Max paused and looked at Caroline before adding, 'It's awful, but things do fall into place. You were the victim of a massive lie, and a trail of circumstances seeming to confirm its truth.'

'Circumstances like the unexplained disappearance of a mother.'

'Caroline? Honey?' Emily was only now realising how unexpected her revelations had been.

Caroline screwed up her eyes and shook her head as if trying to remove an image. 'It all seemed so clear,' she said. 'Dear god, what have I done?'

'Hang on a minute,' Emily said. 'I'm a bit lost here. Surely Walter told you what happened. You know, all the crap I went on with the night I left.'

'He never said a word against you. I thought it was because he felt guilty.'

'I'd always imagined he would have told you.'

'He told me nothing. But your cousin did. Oh yes! When I was nineteen Stephen took me to the Garden of Roses and explained it all—why my mother felt compelled to walk out and leave me. And I walked out too, without even saying good bye.'

'You left too?'

'This is the first time I've been in this house for thirty years!'

'Sweet Jesus! I didn't know that. All this time I'd imagined you here, or at least keeping in touch from Canberra, or wherever. I'd always thought of you and Walter being together.'

'Stephen told me another story—about Walter taking livestock which really belonged to Weatherlee. Was that a lie too?'

'Maybe not. I do remember him getting me all confused about a mob of sheep and a couple of stud rams. I told you I loved the guy; I never said he was a saint.'

Caroline crossed to the desk, opened the Weatherlee file, and retrieved the carbon copy she had found earlier. Turning to Max, she said. 'You must have found this in the storeroom.'

Max nodded.

'Did you know it was written after mother left?'

Max did not respond. Caroline handed the letter to Emily. 'He forged your signature; to help rig the books.'

Judith gasped and put a hand to her mouth.

Emily examined the letter. 'The sneaky bugger! I'd like to say I was surprised, but I'm not really.'

Tony seemed stunned. 'You don't mind?' he said.

'If I'd known at the time, I probably would have used it to bring him down. That's the sort of mood I was in when I left. I'm glad I didn't know, because I'm sure I'd regret it now.'

'Because of the good things he did?' Judith asked.

'Because the settlement I got for Weatherlee was way more than I'd expected, which was certainly his doing. If it had been left to me, even the piggery would have gotten run down. I wasn't coping. Sure, I resented being bullied. But, because he pushed me, we expanded the pork business, got some good crops in, and spruced up the place no end. Perhaps I did pay for sheep I didn't get. Walter could be as devious as the next bloke, but he did a lot more good than bad. So what if he took me for a buck or two? I'd be less happy if he did it to somebody else. I assume there wasn't any suggestion of that?'

Caroline shook her head. 'Only by the Johnsons, and their accusations seem to have been explained.'

Max said, 'I'm sure Walter would have been the first to agree with Emily that he wasn't a saint. I know he had an uneasy conscience about how he achieved some things. Sometimes, if things didn't fall into place, he took the law into his own hands.'

Judith turned to Caroline. 'So you took everything as proving him evil, and didn't give him a chance to explain.'

'I'd given up asking for explanations. Any mention of the war years and he'd clam up. I thought the reason was... Well it all helped to confirm... Oh my Lord!—the meeting in my office. He must have thought I was talking about his marriage to Rachel.'

'You met with him?' Judith was incredulous.

'He came to see me.'

'He never said.'

'He was in Canberra for a conference—wool marketing, or something. Parliament was sitting. We must have been at cross-purposes from the outset. He said he hoped I'd have got over the hurt—not condone what he'd done, but at least understand. I said things like "How could you do it?", meaning the profiteering; and he said things like "It was beyond my control". I remember being horrified because he didn't show any remorse about defrauding others. The bells started to ring for a division.' Caroline stopped; a tear formed. 'I told him to leave and never try to see me again. He must have thought I was angry about him and Rachel. He'd have known the things I'd said publicly about family law and the need for forgiveness. He must have thought me a dreadful hypocrite.'

There was a pause. Tony handed Caroline a clean paper serviette. She dabbed the corner of her eye.

Turning to Emily, Judith said, 'What brought you back?'

It was a few seconds before Emily registered she'd been asked a question. 'I'm sorry, what did you say?'

'What brought you back to Australia?'

A struggle to focus. 'When Ivan, my partner, died last year, I decided to sell up and return to my roots. As far as Sydney anyway. I bought a home-unit at Neutral Bay. I would have liked to come back here, but I didn't want to upset Walter's life a second time, and I think I was too much of a coward to face Rachel.'

Caroline said, 'And Caroline's life? What about Caroline's life?' Emily's head dropped. Caroline turned away from her. 'It's hard to grasp,' she said. 'At every turn I got it wrong. Canberra wasn't the first time he'd confessed his infidelity hoping I would forgive him. He wrote me a letter when I first went to Melbourne. I missed the point then too. It's dreadfully ironic because I would have forgiven him if I'd known that was the whole story.' She turned back to Emily. 'I'm not saying I wouldn't have been angry he'd betrayed you. I've never argued infidelity is acceptable behaviour, only that avoiding violent outcomes is the overriding consideration. I suppose your anger was justified. You had been faithful to him, hadn't you?'

'To be honest, no!'

'You admit it?'

'Why not? You asked the question. Perhaps I can help you understand a few things. I was unfaithful to Walter, just once. It happened on a weekend trip to a golf tournament at Bullermark. I teamed up with one of the men to win the mixed foursomes event on the first day. We were elated. I went for a drink in his motel room. He was attentive in a way Walter hadn't been for some time. It wasn't even a one-night stand; we had an early night, sleeping in our separate rooms. Driving home the next day I realised I didn't feel any more guilty about what had happened than I did about the simple pecks on the cheek we'd exchanged on the eighteenth green. All of that came back to me when I realised Walter was besotted by Rachel. It might seem like I'm trying to excuse myself, but I thought there was a difference. Walter loved Rachel; he really loved her. That was the betrayal. It wasn't a physical act; it was his emotional commitment to her instead of to me. There was never a moment I didn't love him. I still do.'

'Even knowing now he cheated you in other ways?'

'I'm like the Mafia wife who knows her man's not straight, but can forgive him anything. There was a sort magnetism. I loved the look of him, the smell of him, the feel of him. That's the part we lost later. I'm sure both of us changed. I lost the confidence I'd gained over the years. He became impatient with me. Even so, I hated leaving you both. You were my life. But I wasn't his; not any longer. When I took up with Ivan, I re-gained a lot of the confidence I'd lost, and I re-discovered a gentle supportive partner. But the special thing I'd had with Walter was never there. Ivan's wife had died. It was a second time for both of us. We were both headed for loneliness until we found each other.'

As though sensing her need to move on, Tony asked, 'How did you know about the funeral? How did you know he was dead?'

'Over breakfast yesterday I came across an item in the morning paper.'

Judith frowned. 'I didn't know about that.'

Max said, 'When I faxed off the death notices, I attached a press release in the hope the city papers might publish something.'

'When?'

'Sunday.'

'You might have told me.'

'I hoped it might be seen by one or two of the sources we've been trying to track down. But I didn't count on finding Emily.'

Emily said, 'And I didn't imagine my coming here would cause...' she shrugged and opened her arms '...this.'

Max nodded. 'How much our lives are governed by chance and coincidence. You open the paper one day and the name Blake leaps from the page.'

'I thought it was an omen.'

'You called Mr Henderson your partner. Were you married?'

'He asked me often enough, and we lived as though we were. He was your typical Boston churchgoer, so it bugged him that we weren't proper. But somehow I couldn't take the final step.'

'So what happened after you left here?'

Emily shook her head. 'Please. Not now Max. I've already hurt Caroline enough.'

Caroline said, 'Caroline wants to know! Isn't it time? Hasn't there been enough deceit?' Emily hesitated. Caroline almost shouted, 'Just tell me the truth!'

'I didn't know Bert was fresh out of gaol. When the proceeds from the sale of Weatherlee came through, he and the boys tried to get me to bankroll some new business ventures. Which must have been their plan all along. But I was drowning my sorrows in fancy bars, and missing my family. I met Ivan in a nightclub, followed him back to the US, and I've lived there ever since. What became of the Johnsons I've no idea.'

Max said, 'When Bert died, Graham and Stephen came back here to manage Jeff's Real Estate Agency. Jeff had recently suffered his first heart attack. That must be when they got to Caroline.'

Caroline nodded. 'Half an hour at the Garden of Roses was all it took. But what had we ever done to them?'

'With Emily, it seems they were after the proceeds of Weatherlee. With you, my guess is they wanted to get back at Walter. What better way than to alienate him from his much loved daughter?'

'And I was... expendable?'

'I'm afraid Stephen didn't give a stuff about you.'

'But my meeting with him... the Garden of Roses... it was pure chance.'

'Evil is always alert, and often opportunistic.'

'What happened to the real estate agency?' Emily asked.

'The brothers Johnson left town again a few steps ahead of the law. That wasn't long after Caroline left. Judith was just a baby, the toast of the town.'

'I find that hard to believe,' Judith said.

'In a country town where every birth, death and marriage is an event?'

'But Rachel was... well... a pariah.'

'No, no, no. She was a goddess! Walter had re-established the troops by handing them the co-operative. His brainchild, The Institute for Rural Studies, was creating new employment and bringing money into the district. He was the visionary, creator of all things good, a god. And his partner became a goddess.'

'What do you mean by his brainchild?' Caroline asked.

'The whole nation was preparing to cut down large tracts of forest so returned servicemen could set up as farmers. I'm not saying Walter actually predicted the salinity problem, but he was convinced mass clearing would lead to unwanted consequences. So he founded the country's first and only institute aimed solely at improving our understanding of land use. What you called "an anachronism" was invented, right here. And if politicians had shared his vision in the forties, the government would have far fewer environmental disasters on its hands now.'

'How could I have lived with him for twenty years and not known any of this?'

'You were seven or eight. You were playing on swings and seesaws. By the time you were aware of bigger things, life in the town was back to normal.'

Caroline turned to Emily. 'Stephen wasn't the only one who didn't give a stuff about me, was he mother? Didn't I mean anything to you?'

'If you knew how hard I tried, Caroline. Giving birth to you wrecked me, but I never let it be your fault. I gave you all the love and care a baby demands. But as soon as you were big enough to move around on your own, it was always your dad you ran to, never me. He was the one who got to "kiss it better" and cuddle you. I tried not to resent it. But I did.'

'I loved you, mother.'

'I'm not saying you didn't. You were always my little helper when we went to Weatherlee. You'd bring your grazes to me then. But not if your dad was available. I envied him that relationship. And there was nothing I could do about it. I'd make myself a cup of tea, and go and sit on the verandah.'

'I didn't know.'

'Of course you didn't. You were only four... then five... then six. I couldn't blame you, or him. But when he started looking cow-eyed at Rachel—that I could resent.'

'So you really were going to leave me for good.'

'Oh no. I wasn't going to let you be brought up by the man I thought had cheated my relatives.'

'You wanted me, to spite him?'

'I'd like to think it was because I was still trying to be a good mother. The law thought otherwise. There were no easy divorces in those days. As a deserting spouse, I was the baddie. I had no proof of adultery. The solicitor told me I wouldn't even get the divorce, let alone custody of a child.'

'You didn't even write.'

'I did.'

'But I never...'

'I tore it up.'

'Why?'

'Who was there to read a letter to a seven-year-old and make sense of a story like that? Walter? Rachel? I decided to wait. But the longer you leave it the harder it becomes. You begin excuses. She's probably better off without you. This might be a critical stage of schooling. After a number of years, I guessed Walter would have managed to secure a divorce, but I was afraid to ask. I managed to keep track of your career though. I read about you in a magazine. There was a big article about women in politics. After that I took out a subscription with an Australian clipping service.'

'You left that seven-year-old to grow up wondering where you'd gone, believing in you, learning to hate her father.' Caroline got up from her chair and went to the coffin. 'All the pieces of the jigsaw fitted together. But I had the picture upside down. All these years I've imagined finding my mother would be the discovery of love. I've searched in the wrong places. I've arrived too late.' She put her fingers to her lips, and reached in to touch the cold cheek.

Judith went to her side and slid an arm around her waist. 'You can't change what happened. It's done. Let's put our dad to rest and think of him with love. Then we have to focus on the future.'

'Is that the secret? Is that how Rachel did it? Focussing on the future? What was it you said "valuing people but not needing them"?'

'And valuing herself.'

'I didn't even ask him.'

Max said, 'Judith's right you know. The moving finger and all that. If I'd only. If he'd only. But you didn't, and he didn't. The cynics say: life's a bugger and then you die.'

'I'm sure you're both right. But it's going to take a long time.'

'This is all so wrong,' Emily said. 'I thought finding the newspaper article yesterday was a sign that I should come. Instead, my visit's been a total disaster. Now I'm here I'd like to stick around for the funeral. You won't have to acknowledge my presence. Nobody's likely to recognise me now.'

Reference to the funeral brought Judith back to practicalities. She turned to Max and pointed to her watch. He nodded and became businesslike. 'I'm afraid time is getting away. We must organise some lunch. I'll have to go on ahead when the funeral director arrives.'

'How about I make some more nibbles?' Tony said.

Caroline didn't look up from her father. She shook her head. 'I'm not hungry.'

'I'll bring you something,' Tony insisted. 'We can't have you fainting during the service.'

All but Caroline moved to return cups to the trolley. As Emily passed the coffin, Caroline turned to face her. She unpinned the brooch from her jacket and held it out. 'This is yours!' All other activity in the room stopped. Emily considered refusing, but the thought of further confrontation was too distressing. Sadly, she took the brooch. Caroline said, 'I'm not blaming you for my mistakes. But I guess the romantic notion of finding you was one fantasy I let get out of hand.'

Gathering the last of the tea things, Judith, Max and Tony headed for the kitchen. Emily followed.

Caroline wandered around the room. Nothing had changed, but everything was different. Stopping at the sideboard, she looked at the pile of transcripts. She started reading a page marked Anzac Day.

WALTER: It was our special ritual. I'd collect Olive and take her to the dawn service. Afterwards we'd go back to Land's End. Once Caroline asked me to take her to watch the march. I think I just brushed her off. Sometimes you feel your children are in the way. You use that awful expression "under foot". Until the day you realise they're no longer "under foot" because they're not there any more. It's easy, looking back, to see the things you did wrong.

Caroline remembered the incident. It was one of the many things she'd added up to get the wrong answers. Like a day in primary school when a boy brought his father's medals to show the class. Like the day she stood in the family graveyard reading the memorials to her uncles. She'd wanted to ask her father what he'd done during the war. But what if the answer was better not known? Perhaps family harmony was of more value than knowledge. She'd had to wait until the age of nineteen before Stephen had given her an answer. She turned over the transcripts, reading some of the marginal notes and occasional paragraphs.

WALTER: I tried to explain the divorce procedures, but she was only ten. Even at that age I suspected she felt I was betraying her mother. When she left so soon after Judith's birth, I was sure of it. She must have lived with the hurt all those years and then....

WALTER: I don't know what I would have done without Rachel. There was a limit to how much she could fill in for Emily, but she was good at handling things like women's issues about their bodies. I knew Caroline would learn the facts of life from her in a direct no nonsense way, as she would have from her real mother. It was the timing of Caroline's departure that threw me. She was a well-adjusted young woman. I thought we'd reached the stage of treating each other as adults instead of parent and child. Suddenly she'd gone.

Further down the page somebody had written 'Caroline/Emily' in the margin.

WALTER: Everything I read attested to her having the right sort of values. That gave me the hope I hadn't totally failed her. In the years before she left, I'd often look at her and see her mother. Emily gave her humour, and the precious ability to rise when she fell. And worldliness— earthy, practical, worldliness. Small wonder she survived alone.

The text blurred. Caroline put down the transcript and went to her handbag. I clung to the notion I was self-made, she thought. What an arrogant concept that is! Self-made? After thirty years, a few hours unravels a lifetime.

Homecoming

Wednesday 24th October 1945

Six weeks after Emily left Arajinna, the main contingent of troops came home.

'Penny for a thought.' Rachel stood in the doorway untying her apron.

Walter continued looking out of the window. 'Does she ever stop grooming the pony?'

'When I was her age I discovered jigsaw puzzles. I did nothing else.'

'I suppose we all go through these phases.'

'Without the pony I think she would cling too tightly. You can't give her the love of two people.' Rachel hung the apron on the back of the door, and came into the family room. 'Shouldn't you be getting ready?'

'I'm wearing my uniform.' He turned and struck a pose—tough trousers with a leather belt, elastic sided boots, a high-quality checked shirt.

She joined him at the window and linked her arm in his. Caroline finished brushing out the tail of the tiny Shetland. They watched as she stroked the mane and rummaged in her pocket for a treat. Rachel said, 'You don't have to go.'

'If I don't have the guts to be on the platform when the train comes in, I may as well leave town.'

'Without you they would be coming home to nothing.'

'They're members of an exclusive club now. Not just here, but anywhere they go, they'll be part of a new élite. The men and women who fought the war.'

'You've built them a future. The co-op. The institute.'

'If they get off the ground.'

'If? If? Where is it this "if" is coming from?'

'The co-op is a legal framework. They might not be interested. Who knows what plans they've been making for themselves?'

'Hey! You snap out of the mood. This should be a day for rejoicing.'

'I've lost a father and both my brothers. You've lost everybody. The institute will be bricks and mortar.'

'It's the foundation on which new lives will be built, and you know it, so stop this silly talk. I want it no more.'

Caroline opened the gate to let the pony into the bottom paddock.

Rachel said, 'What phases did you go through?'

'At her age I used to spend entire days racing snails.'

'Did you win?'

'Against each other, you idiot.'

Rachel saw the slight grin, and felt she'd done something to improve his frame of mind. The moment passed; he looked at her seriously.

'Olive wants to come to the station. I said we'd pick her up.'

'We?'

'I want you there.'

'Walter.' She shook her head.

'Nobody in this town has suffered more than you have. Apart from the troops, you're the only one who knows what it is to be in a war zone.'

'You're right of course. I know what they know. Horror. Fear. Cowardice. Shame.'

'For god's sake forgive yourself.'

'I should have left when Emily did.'

'I won't let bigots hound you out of this town. If we can't shelter one casualty of war, the only one to seek refuge here, we're not worth a thing.'

'You are Don Quixote. A man who can't see life for what it is.'

'I see what matters.'

'Emily taught me an expression, Walter. Bullshit!'

'You and Caroline are my life now.'

'I'll get her to wash and make herself ready.'

'You will come?'

'If it's what you want.'

'I want you with me. You know I want you to marry me when it's possible.'

Of course you do, she thought—marriage is the only possible path for the honourable Aussie man brought up in the best British traditions. But the world was changing, and the places she'd escaped were in the vanguard. Honour was re-defined by circumstances and, where she'd been, it no longer rested on old values and institutions like marriage. For some, honour lay in maintaining a fierce determination to survive at all costs.

'You don't have to feel guilty,' she said.

'It's not guilt. I want you to be my wife because I love you.'

'How can you marry a non-person? It would open...what is your colloquial?... the box of worms!'

'I've spoken to one of my contacts in Canberra. The fear of "enemy aliens" is not the issue it was. He thinks if you make an application in a few months, with me as your sponsor, you'll be accepted.'

'No questions?'

'We can answer them.'

'Always you pull the ropes eh?'

'I've also made enquiries about a divorce. It's a bit complicated with Emily's whereabouts unknown, but there are procedures.'

'You think Caroline will understand?'

'Not yet. But I'll try to explain.'

'And you will fret because you won't know what she is thinking.'

'I can't change what happened with her mother. All I can do is love her, and hope it's enough. You survived worse.'

'You can't see scars on the mind.'

'I hope love can help that too.'

'I've taken many things in life without a second thought. You, my dear, naïve, blind, Walter. You I wish I deserved.'

'Whatever you did, it makes no difference. I love you and I want you to be my wife.'

She knew there was no point arguing. His was a generous heart, but he'd led a sheltered rural life. Good and bad were concepts he understood at the level of nice and naughty. The evil she'd known was beyond his imagining. She nodded towards the clock. 'I'll get Caroline,' she said.

For Walter, the knowledge that Rachel felt unwanted was an indictment of the nation he'd been taught to honour. He looked at his painting of gentle rolling plains, and thought: I forgot the wide brown swastika. Taking a brush, he painted the symbol in thick strokes, nearly obliterating his much-loved landscape. For some time he stood and looked at the despoiled canvas. Then he took it down, faced it to the wall, and put a new one on the easel. It would not do to let Caroline see the product of his anger. Anti-Semitism was not one of the subjects he was ready to try to explain to her.

Another Burial

St Mark's Church

Wednesday 12th September 1990

Some drove for two or three hours on unsealed back roads. A chartered bus brought a contingent from Calway Junction. Those who couldn't cram into St Mark's stood in the doorways, or between cars in the gravelled car park, or sat on the grassed areas surrounding the church. Members of the Kalawonta RSL, medals pinned to well-worn suits or tweed jackets, formed a guard of honour. Max's foresight in arranging for his students to set up a public address system allowed those outside to participate.

Emily had refused to join Caroline and Judith in the front pew, and asked Max not to mention her presence during the service. Despite Judith's insistence that she had a right to be with them, Emily was adamant. She'd already caused enough trouble. She would arrive separately, sit at the back, and leave as soon as Walter had been laid to rest in the graveyard behind the church.

Caroline's arrival caused a frisson of excitement, but decorum was maintained and nobody sought to speak to her as the young verger escorted her and Tony to places reserved for the family. Tom McLintock, now clean and suited, was already occupying the next seat, having been placed there by Max to ensure the visiting relatives would not be subjected to further introductions until after the burial. Tom acknowledged them solemnly, and handed them orders of service.

Judith stood at the main entrance, greeting new arrivals, and putting frail or elderly mourners into the care of students who had volunteered to be ushers. Ginny arrived and was directed to the family pew.

Despite his reputation, the elderly organist coaxed suitable background music from the ancient instrument. In the bellows room, two pairs of students took turns on the lever, under strict instructions from Max to ensure no sudden fluctuations. The exploits of Eddie Sampson had passed into Arajinna folklore.

Caroline was conscious of Judith's arrival beside her, and of Max moving to stand next to the coffin. For the first time she opened her copy of the order of service, and saw the photograph. Judith had chosen well—a picture taken at a sheep sale—a casual snapshot of a handsome man with one foot on the bottom rail of a fence, head turned to smile at the camera from beneath the big brown hat. A picture from the missing thirty years. She looked at the now closed coffin positioned before the altar, and mourned for the years of love and friendship she'd denied them both.

She had wondered whether the eulogy would seem like ashes heaped upon her head, but, as she listened to Max's retrospective on her father's life, she felt strangely comforted by his words. He mentioned Judith and herself by name, but only in the context of their being the ones bearing the greatest loss—asking others to remember the bereaved daughters and Rachel in their prayers. Then he led the congregation in the singing of Walter's favourite hymn, his wonderful tenor voice surprising Caroline in its purity, and pushing her to the brink.

When the service concluded, the young verger and a team of senior students ushered the occupants of the family pew into position behind the coffin, and cleared the way for six shire councillors to carry Walter to the plot in which his mother and grandparents already lay. The umbrellas Max had arranged, as a contingency in the event of rain or sun, were not required. It was fine but not too hot, perfect for a wedding, a christening, or a funeral. To a bush symphony underpinned by cicadas in the undergrowth and overlaid by the carolling of currawongs in a nearby tree, the body was committed to the earth.

Now came the time when Caroline must emerge from behind her protective shield of private grief, and speak to the other mourners. Max had announced from the pulpit that everybody was invited to the homestead for refreshments. There was a general move towards the car park and to the long lines of vehicles on either side of the access road. The members of the CWA headed for cars strategically parked at the entrance, making a quick break to beat the mob home, put on the tea, and whip the fresh cream.

Caroline found the young verger at her side, introducing people who approached, ensuring nobody monopolised her, gently keeping her moving towards the car. Max had thought of everything. Then she noticed Emily surrounded by an excited group of women. She approached her mother and said, 'I see you've been recognised. You'd better stay.' Emily touched her lightly on the shoulder—a touch she understood as a thank you. One of the women turned to Caroline and said, 'Senator. Your mother was the best goal-attack who ever ran riot on a netball court in this State!'

As she reached the car, Caroline saw an elderly bearded man in Jewish garb being helped to board a charter bus. Seeing her pause, the verger said, 'That's Rabbi Levi from the school at Calway.'

'I remember him,' she said. 'He came to visit Judith's mother when I was a girl.'

'I think he still visits her at the hospice.'

And so the complex ritual started. Country folk were good at this. Death pays its visits. Relationships need to be re-established and affirmed. Life goes on.

Rabbi Levi

Wednesday 13th October 1954

'Can I help you?'

'I was hoping to find a Rabbi,' Walter said.

'Then coming here was a good move, I think. You have found one.' The man smiled and held out his hand. Walter shook it.

'I wasn't sure.'

'You were right to ask. Not every black-robed bearded man is a Rabbi. Not around here anyway.'

'I was passing through Calway when I saw the turn-off. My coming here was an impulse. Should I be wearing a hat or something?'

'It is thoughtful of you to ask, but don't let it worry you. Something is on your mind, I think.'

'My wife is Jewish, but I know little of your faith. She carries bad memories from the war in Europe. She was at Dachau. I felt if I could talk to someone who understands these things...'

The Rabbi took Walter's arm and squeezed it. 'I have a little office back here. Come and sit a while.'

Having wondered, as he entered the gates of the community, how the gentile husband of a Jewish woman would be received, Walter found Rabbi Levi to be concerned solely with ways to help. Nevertheless, it was some time before he felt able to disclose the purpose of his visit.

'A few years ago, before I married Rachel, I persuaded her to bury some things I thought wrong for her to keep—things that reminded her constantly of a distressing past I know little about. She told me I was silly to think burying the items would change anything. I thought I knew better. Now, I fear she was right. There are times when her dreams are so bad I have to wake her and hold her until she stops moaning. She has never told me what she went through. I thought by now she might have.'

'This is not an uncommon thing. Even where the husband is Jewish, if he did not experience these things himself, it can be hard for him to understand. Many are the conversations I have had on this subject. Here, in Australia even, it would surprise you how many families are affected. She is Polish you say?'

'Yes.'

'Those of us who weren't there might think we can imagine the horrors those people endured. I have come to believe that whatever we imagine probably does not approach the reality. For me, the hardest part is not knowing when something I say or do might unlock a bad memory and cause a hurt—a word I have used or an action I take, so simple I could not guess its effect. I used to be at the Synagogue in Sydney. There was a day I can not forget. I was closing up to go home, when I found a man huddled in an alcove, whimpering. I talked to him; maybe ten minutes I talked, getting no response. Then, slowly, he held out his hand and opened it. The hand was trembling. In it he was holding a metal button—nothing else—a cheap metal button as on a work shirt. What could it mean? I can only assume this metal button had unlocked some dreadful memory, but he never told me what it meant to him. I realised this object, which might be of no consequence to anybody else, was something of enormous importance to him—symbolic perhaps of a suffering, or a loss. Your wife is right. The things she buried are still present. You do right to wake her and hold her. This I am sure about. This is good. I no longer try to cure or banish these special evils I do not comprehend. I no longer feel surprise such a thing as a metal button can make a strong man crumple to the floor and weep. I think only that you my friend, and I, must absorb what we can from them, and give them love. Our efforts to do more sometimes make things worse. I have seen it often.'

'It is hard for me to ask this question but what would it mean to a Jew if she thought her survival had cost the lives others.'

'This also is a question I have heard before. There is no easy answer. Human flesh is fallible. Choices can be difficult, particularly under extreme pressure. God is the only judge.'

'It would be a breach of trust for me to tell you what we buried. Otherwise, I would seek your advice about the religious consequences for Jewish people. If I could persuade my wife to come here, she might disclose something to you, knowing the information would be safe.'

More than an hour had passed when Walter, fearing he might already have imposed too long, thanked the Rabbi for his time and advice. As they were leaving the tiny office, Rabbi Levi stopped. 'I am having a thought,' he said. 'Do you know what a mezuzah is?'

'No, I don't.'

The Rabbi indicated a small metal box attached to the door-jam of his study. 'It contains a small piece of parchment that bears writing sacred to us. Most Jewish families have one in the main entrance to their house; some put one in the doorway of every room, as I have done here. I know of a mixed marriage, such as yours, where the mezuzah is in the entrance to a room where the wife spends much time—her sewing room. If it appealed to you to give your wife a mezuzah as a gift—for a birthday perhaps—I would be happy to help you install it in a suitable place. Having a Rabbi in attendance is not mandatory for the process, but it does need somebody to say the special prayer, and I am good at that, I promise you. You could tell your wife the man who sold the mezuzah to you said Rabbi Levi likes to do this. And it will all be true—if you visit a shop I direct you to in Bullermark, a shop where you will also get the very best bagels. My visit would open the possibility your wife might like to talk to one such as me. If not, it is hard to see her being harmed by your thinking to give her the gift.'

'I think it's a wonderful idea. I have a sixteen-year-old daughter. I'd like her to be a part of it. I'll get her to help me choose the gift.'

'This is good.'

As he turned the car towards Bullermark, Walter felt a lightening of a load—certain now that he should not press Rachel for answers, that he should simply be there when she needed him. If the gift of a mezuzah was welcomed as he hoped, she too might feel the lightening of a load.

Coming to Terms

Wednesday 12th September 1990

It was late in the day when Caroline quietly withdrew from the garden and went inside, leaving a bibulous collection of guests yarning about old times and debating the prospects for the coming season. She'd survived. There had been no questions about where she'd been all these years. Nobody had turned their back in disapproval. For thirty years, Walter had let them all believe a myth. A loving daughter writes, and telephones, and sends photographs. Why would anybody think otherwise, unless a father told them?

Having restricted herself to tea and scones, she now felt the need for something stronger. In the drinks cabinet she found a whisky decanter and poured herself a good measure. She took a sip. High-quality single-malt or she was a poor judge. On the desk, next to the stack of folders, Max had left the one marked "Miscellaneous – War Years." Sipping the whisky, she read some letters on which Max had pencilled brief descriptions.

LETTER FROM WALTER TO HIS FATHER.

RETURNED TO SENDER UNOPENED POST-WAR

Banabrook

via Arajinna

NSW

31st October 1939

Dear Dad

We got your telegram a few days ago. The others know I am writing and have asked me to thank you for keeping us informed of your plans. They send love and wish you luck.

Reports have already reached us that Australian pilots serving with the RAF have been killed. We can understand the need for surgeons to look after the wounded.

Emily and Caroline are well. Mikey and Jono will write after they have been to a briefing where they will be informed about training, and what they may and may not put in correspondence.

My own news is devastating. The army has rejected me for active service. The reason is so embarrassing, I feel unable to tell people other than my family. I have high insteps and can not wear standard issue army boots. The other armed forces have more applicants than they can accommodate. I could go on the reserve list for an army desk job, but I think I am probably more use staying in Arajinna where I will try to find a way to make some contribution.

You must wonder sometimes if I am really a Blake. Olive told me I should apply to be an official war artist. She was joking and I tried to laugh. Brian has been accepted for service, so I will do what I can to help at Land's End. I will also try to do something, worthy of the family, to develop Banabrook.

Look after yourself.

Love

Walter

LETTER FROM WALTER BLAKE TO HIS GRANDMOTHER FOUND AMONG ALICE BLAKE'S PAPERS AFTER HER DEATH.

21st November 1939

Dear Grandma Alice,

I am delighted to know you will be back before Christmas. I wouldn't want you to be on your own. Please wish Uncle Chris all the best from me for his trip.

I have missed not having you to talk things over. Emily is much the same and still struggling. She takes much joy in Caroline, but everything seems an effort for her these days. Caroline has started walking, which brings new challenges. We've had to put breakable things out of her reach.

I made the effort to go to church on Sunday so I could pass on your message to Olive. Brian left with Mikey and Jono to start training with the first contingent from Kalawonta. She's missing him, and she's already stretched managing Land's End. I worry about her.

Do you remember our discussion about taking opportunities? With Dad, Mikey and Jono away, I have been trying to think how I might do something to make a mark. Many local farms are expecting to wave goodbye to their men, sooner or later. Some women are keen to join up, and a lot of the fellows who used to work as casuals have already signed on for army training. Kalawonta has a history of service in times of war; it's no surprise to see the current generation following family traditions.

I've been working on an idea to get the older farmers to train those who are left to form teams to help work the farms. I know a couple of men classed as disabled who are fit enough to do some sorts of work. They've been overlooked for jobs in the past, so this could be a boost for their morale. Then there are young people who aren't old enough for army service but who would love to think they were doing their bit. Anyway, I've floated the idea with the shire council and offered to be the organizer. I suggested the name Kalawonta Crisis Teams which has a ring to it, don't you think?

Now the real surprise. My name has been put up for appointment as a Justice of the Peace. At present there are no JPs close to Arajinna. I think the government has relaxed the criteria because so many men are joining the forces. I believe Mr Adderley has also been nominated. He will probably get the nod because he's older. Nevertheless, it is a great honour to be considered.

I am looking forward to having you to discuss things with.

Lots of love,

Walter.

PS: Don't worry that I'm neglecting Banabrook. I want to make a mark here too. I've been looking at our breeding program and it struck me there's no reason we can't become the top producer of quality wool in the country. How would that be?

LETTER FROM FILES RELATING TO FOUNDING OF THE INSTITUTE

The Trainor Partnership

Agriculture and Livestock Consultants

2 Bridge St

Sydney NSW

10th October 1945

Dear Mr Blake

By now you will have received notification from the Minister that The Trainor Partnership has been appointed to manage the setting up of the Commonwealth Land Institute in Kalawonta Shire. The passing of the necessary legislation must be some sort of record. This is an exciting project, and the writer intends moving to Arajinna to take personal control of Trainor Partnership involvement.

Research of this kind will be a departure from our normal activities, as it would be for anybody, this being an innovative new idea for which there is no existing body of knowledge or professional expertise. We will all be breaking new ground (if you will pardon the pun!). I have examined the plans of the old warehouse, and I am sure it will be adequate for our activities.

I understand that, as the originator of the idea of a land institute, you will be the first chairman, and will work with us to establish a board and employ the first staff. The minister is most particular that we adopt your suggestion to give preference to returning service personnel.

My wife and I are booked into the Criterion Hotel, and will use it as a base until we can find longer-term accommodation. We plan to arrive by car on the afternoon of Wednesday 31st. I will telephone you when we have booked in.

I look forward to meeting you.

Yours faithfully,

Malcolm Trainor

Managing Partner

Caroline closed the folder and returned it to the stack.

The tapes were on the sideboard as she'd left them. Next to them, Maud's last diary. She opened it at the final entry and read again, now with poignant empathy, the words written more than a century ago by someone else who'd misinterpreted signs and leapt to premature judgement: How can I live with myself?

The next tape in the stack was labelled: Rachel, Caroline and Adderley. She put it into the recorder. Her father's voice was not as disconcerting as she'd found it earlier, possibly because she was no longer listening for damaging sub-text which wasn't there. That thought distracted her, and she didn't register what he was saying until she realised he was talking about an occasion she remembered well. She wound back and re-started.

I think parents always remember the circumstances when they treat their children unjustly. One I'll never forget happened the day the troops arrived home. I was very edgy. It was an emotional event for everybody. Unfortunately, nothing could stop Martin Adderley being his normal obnoxious self. There was a crush on the platform. All the Arajinna boys were getting out of the same carriage. Adderley must have found his son, and turned to push through the crowd.

I didn't get the whole story until later. Caroline had disappeared; Rachel was looking for her, peering through the legs of the people at the edge of the platform. When she looked up, Adderley was there, right in front of her. I was some way off but he must have said something that made those around him go quiet. He had a loud voice at any time. Then he turned to his son and... it was awful Max... he said something like, 'Oh, and by the way boy, you'll find new kinds of riff-raff have moved in everywhere while you've been gone. Chinks and greasy Yids as well as the usual Boongs. You'll wonder why you bothered fighting for our way of life!' Rachel turned away, and moved along the platform. He shouted after her, 'One of them's young Blake's bit on the side. One of his benefits for not joining up.' I would've flattened the bugger if I could have got to him, but you could hardly move with people all along the platform. Adderley and his son pushed their way through, and I lost sight of them.

That was bad enough, but later, as we started to drive home, Caroline yells, 'We've left Aunty Olive!' She wasn't to know Olive had gone home with the Muldoons! I snapped something at the poor kid. She went quiet. And, it didn't end there. It was one of those days when one bad thing piles on another. Rachel sits quietly for a while, then says, 'I was afraid I'd lost Caroline. I found her in the waiting room.'

So muggins has to look at his daughter in the rear-view mirror and say, 'Well, Miss, what was that all about?'

She put her head down and whispered something like, 'I couldn't see.'

We get back to Banabrook. Caroline runs off to her room. Rachel goes off without a word. When I went inside I found Rachel in the family room, sitting at the end of the couch, her legs drawn up underneath her. It was the way she sat when she felt under attack. She looks at me, and I know she's thinking: if you hadn't insisted on taking me to the station, all our nightmares wouldn't have been realised quite so publicly.

Later, we sat down to dinner at the kitchen table. Caroline was glum, so I tried to mend the bridges a bit. I think I asked her how she'd liked the steam engine. No answer. When I look up there's tears rolling down her face. Poor bloody kid. All I could do was go around to her side of the table and pick her up. It think it was the one thing I got right the entire day. After cuddles all around, she told us she'd seen flags in the main street and wanted to put her paper flag outside where visitors would see it. We found an old shoebox.

Hearing a noise in the hallway, Caroline stopped the machine. She was extracting the tape when Max came to the doorway.

'There's a telephone call for you. Sounds aggressive. Says your mobile's off.' Without waiting for a response, he added, 'Why don't I say you're not available?'

'Do you mind? Unless it's my secretary.'

'A man with a booming voice? I think not.'

Yet another tour of the room. This time she stopped at the easel. She picked up a brush and sniffed it. That aroma again, oil paint and gum turpentine, powerful evocations of the lost past. At the bottom of the house-garden, a young couple was seated on the lawn. Even at this distance, Caroline suspected courtship. Beyond them, down by the stables, she recognised another figure, her mother, alone, sitting on a bench.

Max returned with a glass of red wine in his hand. 'Buzzed him off,' he announced.

'What about the tea and scones brigade?'

'I think we're nearly down to... There's a few left.'

'Nearly down to what?'

'I was about to say family.'

'Have you and Judith set a date?'

'Not yet.'

'How does the church feel about mixed marriages?'

'Uneasy I'd guess. But, these days, loath to say so.'

'You've certainly fitted into the community here.'

'How do you know?'

'I've had to make small talk for the last couple of hours. I made sure the subject wasn't me.'

'Oh.'

'Trudy calls you a principal's dream. She told me she couldn't believe her luck when you arrived.'

'She exaggerates.'

'Why would an MA Honours graduate decide to teach in a country school?'

'You've never lived in a tiny flat on a housing commission estate. The posting to Arajinna was the opportunity to experience something different.'

'And hide from the past?'

He frowned. 'You know something!'

'What was the headline? "Violent Priest Arrested in Drug Raid"?'

'Obviously you've a memory for detail.'

'It was front page.'

'My fifteen minutes of infamy.'

'Fifteen months more like.'

'It did seem to go on forever.'

'I believe in the presumption of innocence, and I know you were never convicted.'

'But you also know the evidence was damning.'

'I must seem like the protective older sister.'

Max sighed. Caroline could tell the conversation was hurting him.

'The case appeared damning because a property developer was trying to get our shelter closed down, and paid the forces of evil to plant drugs on the premises.'

'Was that proved?'

'Not in court. But the police had evidence obtained from under-cover work and withdrew the charges to avoid blowing the operation.'

'And the violence?'

'That part was true.'

'Really?'

'If they hadn't pulled me off the bastard, I might well have killed him.'

'Why?'

'He'd been injecting some of the homeless kids with heroin to get them hooked.'

'So there were extenuating circumstances.'

'Yes. But it was no excuse for what I did.'

'I suppose not in the eyes of the law.'

'Or in my own eyes, unfortunately. You hope you're above raging violent behaviour. Finding you're not, shatters the ego.'

'I think most people would understand.'

'But not approve.'

'So you resigned.'

'My name was never cleared publicly, even of the drug charges. Some members of the synod wanted me out. Being arrested in Kings Cross by the drugs squad isn't good for business. So I went quietly. Ended up going back to university. Did an MA in history, then Dip.Ed, and became a teacher.'

'So how did you re-emerge as a minister?'

'It was because of your dad's friend Olive Sampson.'

'Aunty Olive?'

'A few years ago, when the diocese stopped services at St Mark's, she started driving across to St John's every Sunday. She was already in her eighties, and St John's is more than two hours round trip even by the back road. Eventually she became too ill, and the minister could rarely make the trip over here to see her. I had no real faith any more, but I was still ordained, so I got permission from the Bishop to consecrate bread and wine at St Mark's and give her the pastoral care she craved.'

'And from that you returned to your vocation.'

'I don't think I ever had a vocation. But I was able to fill a void for some of the locals.'

'Does Judith know the full story?'

'Of course. I told her, and Walter, and Trudy. Fortunately none of them saw me as a ticking bomb. If others find out, they can make their own judgements. I'd been hoping it might not happen—at least until I'd been able to establish a reasonable reputation.'

'Are you aware Lenny d'Aratzio is back in circulation?'

'Yes. I've told Judith about that too. And that Vince, the undercover cop, has been murdered.'

'Max! No!'

'Vince was always the one in most danger. It wasn't Lenny I beat up, and my testimony wasn't what convicted him, so he mightn't think me worth the trouble. Judith says she's a bit of a fatalist, and she isn't going to live in fear. She's a remarkable woman, your half-sister.'

'So I'm coming to realise. And if she already knows, I've raked over your past unnecessarily.'

'We raked over your past well enough.'

'This wasn't a payback. It was just–'

'You thought Judith already had enough at stake pairing off with a gentile.'

'Well, yes.'

'I sometimes wonder if I'm living an ends justifies means existence as a minister, but if you could have seen Olive's response to taking communion.'

'When I produced the letter with the forged signature, you were the only one who didn't seem surprised.'

'Was I?'

'The others were clearly taken aback. Mother laughed it off. But you knew, didn't you? And you hadn't told Judith.' Max was looking particularly uncomfortable. Suddenly she realised. 'Oh god! How gauche of me. Max I'm sorry. I forgot you were his confidant, and a minister.'

'Not surprising when you consider how ill I fit the mould.'

'I won't ask why the letter was in your files. Finding it there was almost as shattering as when I came across it in the storeroom all those years ago.'

'If the letter was what prompted you to leave, I begin understand the level of enmity you felt.'

'I thought I could never forgive the forgery. Particularly when it was mother's signature. It seemed such a calculated betrayal. One can be very righteous at twenty. Now, I can at least understand what he was going through. More so since I came close to dishonesty myself.'

'You?'

'Yes. And I've been in denial about it. When I was faced with the prospect of becoming bankrupt, I did wonder whether I would be better doing something dishonest than facing the consequences. It's easy to justify our actions when we believe we are basically good people. When something beyond our control puts us in jeopardy, it doesn't seem fair. After today's events, I can admit to myself how close I came. And I can understand how my father took the next step and tipped over the edge. Mother was the only one to suffer any loss. He knew how much she'd benefited from the things he did to bolster Weatherlee. That doesn't justify the fraud. But it does make me able to understand it, and to forgive it.'

'I'm glad.'

'You said yesterday something about understanding less about life the older you get.'

'Yes.'

'It really is a weird existence, isn't it?'

'I'll drink to that!'

He raised his glass. She did too.

Things Unearthed

Wednesday 12th September 1990

After their toast to the weirdness of existence, Caroline and Max maintained a contemplative silence until she realised she was still clutching the tape. She returned it to the stack. 'I listened to the bit about the troops coming home. I'd always remembered Daddy being angry with me. Now I find it was the ubiquitous Mr Adderley who got him upset.'

'Adderley is certainly a name that keeps cropping up. I suspect he would have scored a mention in Janet Niley's book if she'd found the police records she was looking for.'

'Janet Niley? Why do I know her name?'

'She's mentioned in the footnotes to one of the drafts you read. I suspect Adderley is the man she refers to in a chapter I've been working on.' He went to the desk and found a couple of pages of typing which he handed to her.

Lost Children

In 1935, a bushfire swept through part of the forest. Some Aborigines were trapped and took shelter in a small cave. They were discovered next day by a party of volunteers patrolling the fringes of the fire. The only injuries were to a child, thought to have been about five years old, who had suffered burns and smoke inhalation. Richard Blake, who was on one of his visits to Banabrook, offered to provide medical assistance.1 The trust between the Blake family and the indigenous community, dating back to Alfred Blake's arrival in the area, has been referred to in earlier chapters. Although it has not been possible to reconstruct all the detail, Richard Blake's involvement with the injured child is referred to by two authors whose published works cover aspects of the history of Kalawonta.

In _The Good And The Bad_ , Stinson suggests indigenous people were suspicious of medical treatments other than those used by their own traditional healers.2 His examples of known exceptions include Richard Blake's care for the child injured during the bushfire in 1935. Stinson suggests it was the long-standing special relationship between the Blakes and the Aboriginal community that led to the mother putting the child into a white man's care.3

Niley's _Languages of Kalawonta_ includes an appendix entitled _Incidental Tales_ in which she records stories told to her during her research. The following is reproduced with permission of the Estate of the Late Janet Niley.4

In any community, nothing is more concerning than the death or suffering of a child. The healing of the boy, Barung, by Richard Blake, was the cause of much ceremonial rejoicing. Members of the Blake household, familiar with many of the Aboriginal rituals, participated in a celebration lasting several days. During this time, one of the Blakes, presumably Richard, told of his own ancestors losing young children to illness. The author believes this was a story passed orally to Richard by his father Simeon. Aboriginal elders interviewed by the author referred to these events as being from "white man time". It is presumed this is a reference to the first Blakes—Alfred and Maud. The elders taking part in the ceremony for Barung were greatly troubled when told the children lost by the Blakes were buried far away from their mother. They offered to help ensure the spirits were reunited. If, as we believe, the mother was Maud, this would be consistent with the stories of ceremonies conducted in the burial ground near the billabong. These are said to have included a ritual in which glowing sticks taken from a fire were waved over Maud's grave to show the spirits of the lost children the way to their mother. It has been suggested that an official complaint about activities at the graveyard was lodged by a neighbouring farmer. The police records no longer exist, so verification is not possible.

1. Kalawonta Weekly 4.3.1935

2. Stinson, The Good And The Bad, p175.

3. Ibid, p183

4. Niley, Languages of Kalawonta, p 322, Appendix D, Incidental Tales.

Caroline handed the sheets back to Max. 'I've no doubt it was Adderley,' she said. 'He told Stephen he'd seen lights and smelt smoke down there—something about the Blakes burying more babies than people knew about.' She saw Max's brow furrow and added, 'The footnote would be: Caroline Blake, Misleading Oral History, Garden of Roses Café 1957.'

'Truly?'

'You were right about the Johnsons' stories containing enough truth to make the lies credible. Unfortunately I exacerbated the problem by interpreting other things in the light of my fears.'

'Like what?'

'Something Rachel said one day. My guess, now, is she was referring to children lost in the holocaust but, because I'd been told Adderley's story, I was prepared to believe it was more recent, and closer to home.'

In other circumstances, Max might have pressed for more detail. There were still many mysteries surrounding Rachel. However, the question of other burials would have to wait.

Caroline took another sip of whisky, breathed deeply and exhaled a long quiet sigh. 'The whole district must have turned out. Everybody's been so kind. So... non-judgmental.'

'I know it's hard to adjust to a different view of your father, but–'

'The hard part is adjusting to a different view of myself. Yesterday when I looked in the mirror I saw a tough, successful woman in control of her destiny. Now I see a fool who wasted thirty years of her life.'

'Not entirely wasted, Senator!'

'Somehow, the successes I'd been so proud of have become hollow.'

'I would have thought this was the time to value things like that. You know, is the glass half empty or is it still half full?'

'Perhaps you're right.'

'And don't forget, you were only twenty.'

'I came to see him in his grave. Do you know that sick joke? "I wanted to be sure the bastard didn't talk his way out of it." '

'At least, now, your love for him isn't the burden it's been.'

'He died not knowing.'

'If there is a hereafter, he might already be feeling the warmth of that love.'

'And if there's not?'

'Then nothing matters to him now, and your future is what's important.'

'A funeral is meant to start the healing process. Instead it's opened new wounds. Mother is obviously in her element. So much for nobody recognising her.'

'It didn't take them long did it. She's been surrounded by people talking nostalgia all afternoon. Did you know she played in the all conquering netball team of 1936?'

'Well she's not surrounded by people now. She's down at the stables.'

'Is she?'

'For a while she was sitting on the bench under the big tree. There used to be a paved area and a barbecue. It was our party spot.'

'I thought she was leaving after the funeral.'

'I told her to stay.'

'That was kind.'

'There's something buried there too.'

Max turned. The image of Walter dead on the heap of rubble flashed into his mind. 'Something buried. How interesting. What?'

'I'm sure, as with everything else, there's a simple explanation.'

Max joined her at the window. 'Do you think that's why she's gone down there?'

'I doubt whether she even knows.'

'Then how do you?'

'Sometimes little girls wake up in the night. Sometimes they see things and hear things.'

'Little girls see and hear things? Like what?'

'They don't actually know. If they say anything, they're kissed and told they must have been dreaming. I was only seven, after all. But I'm sure my father buried something out there one night. I could see him digging by the light of a lamp. After my meeting with Stephen, it was one of the things I worried about. Now that I have Maud's mistake, and my own, to ponder, I'll not be so quick to judge others. What he buried is of no consequence. Probably a dead possum.'

Max continued to stand at the window. He had no intention of saying it, but, if Walter had been looking for something when he died, it wasn't the bones of a dead possum.

Caroline said, 'Do you think he was bitter about my mother? About the way she attacked Rachel, I mean.'

'I had the impression he felt he was to blame for whatever happened.'

'And what happened was not a greedy betrayal of the Johnsons, but his love for Rachel.'

'He was totally besotted. You only had to watch him while he talked about her. Even in the last weeks.'

'I liked her you know, despite...' the sentence petered out as she searched for the right words. 'I could never put my finger on it. She exuded a sense of mystery and excitement, danger even. She was, you know, "far away places with strange sounding names". That and her physical beauty must have been a heady mixture for a young farmer. Which is why I could have forgiven him the infidelity, even if I disapproved.'

'Into the isolated life of a simple Aussie boy comes a taste of the old world, something new and exotic. I know how he felt. Judith had the same effect on me.'

'Max, I really do need my share of the estate to keep my business solvent.'

Damn, Max thought. So much had already happened it was cruel to burden Caroline with yet another revelation. But, continuing to dodge the issue might be more damaging in the long run. It was time to play the last card. He said, 'Judith wanted to put it off for today, but I think we have to tell you. Walter had a codicil drafted for the will.'

Trying to appear unfazed she said, 'A codicil? To what effect?'

'Leaving the property to the shire, subject to conditions providing for Rachel's care, and for you and Judith to be paid capital sums up front.' He crossed to the desk to find the document.

'Small capital sums I take it?' She saw his brief nod. 'Is this what you meant by bequests?'

'Yes.' He handed the codicil to her.

She held the document without looking at it. 'Why didn't you produce it when I arrived?'

Max could sense the hurt. It must seem as though they'd deliberately set her up. 'We'd planned to tell you earlier, but your announcement that you wanted to sell the property took us by surprise.'

From the verandah came the noise of the last mourners departing. Somebody must have decided the time had come to leave the family alone. Good-byes were called. Engines rumbled. Through the window, the young couple could be seen walking up the slope, hand in hand, to join the exodus.

Caroline looked at the codicil, a single typed page. She turned it over. There was nothing on the back. 'I assume there's a signed copy.'

'So did we. But Mr Ross says the execution was postponed because Walter wanted to change the wording of one of the clauses. They'd planned to meet again this week.'

'So it has no legal significance?'

'Apparently not.'

'Which is why Mr Ross didn't raise it with me when he was here earlier.'

'The significance of the codicil is it records your father's wishes. Before you arrived, we'd been hoping you might decide to honour them even though he hadn't signed. After you announced your intentions, it seemed a long way back. That's why we've been dancing around the subject. There's a letter as well. It's also undated and unsigned, but you'll recognise the hand. Walter insisted on writing it himself.' He handed Caroline a second sheet of paper.

Caroline glanced at the letter; the familiar handwriting was unnerving, and she tucked it behind the draft codicil. She shook her head—her sadness obvious. 'I signed personal guarantees for the loans. My creditors would have rights to my share.'

'There might be ways around that. There are protections for deceased estates.'

Neither of them noticed Judith arriving in the doorway where, seeing them in earnest conversation, and the codicil in Caroline's hand, she stopped.

Caroline felt a pressure behind her eyes. She knew if she let go now the tears would come, and she would fall apart in angry hurt. Desperately trying to keep herself under control she said, 'So on a day when I've learnt I wronged my father for thirty years, you're asking me to make an emotional decision to waive my rights and let my company go under. Now who's being cruel?'

Max felt decidedly uncomfortable about what he was doing, but there could be no backing off. Cruel or not, he must focus on the bigger issues. He returned her gaze and said, evenly, 'Without Walter, the town would already be dead. We're trying to keep his vision alive. Why don't you read the letter?'

A quiet sigh, another sad shake of her head, then she started to read.

Dear Caroline,

For more than two decades after you left home, I clung to the hope you would return. Age has made me more of a realist. I am not as mobile as I used to be, which gives me added time to think. Unfortunately the decline hereabouts is not just in individuals like me. The entire community is in bad shape. Farm incomes are down; small businesses have been closing. There is no longer a doctor in the town. The institute, once a major employer, has been closed by government. We believe the rail depot is also in jeopardy. Duncan Ross and Sons is the last surviving professional practice, and dear old Gilbert, the end of that dynasty, opens his office only by appointment.

Although you never communicate with me, your public profile shows you to be a successful woman who is financially secure. I am proud of you for achieving that. You have never looked to me for support, nor to Banabrook for income, and, from what I can glean about your personal philosophies (mainly from reports of your speeches in parliament), I think you might approve what I have decided to do with the estate.

I have agonised over the demise not only of rural districts like ours but of historic places like Banabrook. Your mother's old property, Weatherlee, has been sub-divided into six small farms, all owned by city folk who visit infrequently and put little into the community. Three of the allotments are managed by one man, not well paid but grateful to still have work on the land. Although it was not of historical significance, Weatherlee was a good property and its break up is a loss to the community. Adderley Farm is now owned by an American business tycoon none of us has met. It appears he has some idea about emu farming, but we don't think he's done the research. If he does get started, there's hope of some funds dribbling into the local community. So far, in two years, all he's done is sell the previous livestock. The only person he pays is a caretaker.

A run of dry seasons has caused us to cut back our operations and, unless current trends reverse, Banabrook will be increasingly hard to manage. Elsewhere, people have simply walked off their land and left the problem to the banks. Fortunately we are not burdened by mortgage debt, but it's no fun being asset rich and cash poor, and I would hate to see the place fall into the hands of some foreign millionaire.

All this has led to the notion of preserving Banabrook by turning it over to the shire to underpin a community project. I hope to live long enough to see some of the plans bear fruit and, to this end, I have already approved some work, which I shall be able to watch from my favourite vantage point, the window where I painted for so many years.

I am attaching a copy of the codicil putting these changes to my will into effect. Apart from provisions for Rachel's care, there are legacies for you and Judith, rights for both of you to live in private quarters here as long as you wish, and provision for the two of you to be given a management contract to run the place for 20 years. The shire is confident of raising the necessary funds to get the project off the ground and to comply with the conditions I am imposing.

I hope I am right to believe you will approve my actions in this regard.

Your loving father.

Not looking up from the letter, Caroline said, 'You'd make one hell of a negotiator Max. What did Judith think of this?'

From the doorway, Judith said, 'The codicil was my idea. And it's what Daddy wanted.'

Caroline nodded. 'It would be a splendid atonement for the way I treated him wouldn't it?'

'That might be a way to look at it,' Judith said.

'I said you were being cruel, Max, but I understand what you're trying to achieve. It's a splendid dream, one I'd like to support, especially now I realise how appropriate it would be to honour my father with a living memorial. Unfortunately...' she paused.

Judith sat down. Something new was about to be revealed.

'Being a senator means little to me. I was recruited, pushed, groomed, and campaigned for. Women's movements saw my high profile in business as an opportunity. I was swept up in it. By the time I realised this wasn't a career I wanted, it was too late to back out. I'd made commitments, and I was trapped. Hubris played a part. I liked being the centre of attention. But I'd become an instrument for the drives and wishes of others.' A pause for contemplation. 'Blake Fashions, on the other hand, is something I built myself, from nothing. It's my only real achievement in life, and I'll be devastated if it fails. Therefore, ego does come into it. But there's something else. How many people are you trying to save?'

Max and Judith exchanged glances. He did a quick mental assessment. 'It's hard to say. There'd be some direct employment immediately. If it takes off, we'd save a number of shops and small businesses from closing down. Long term, there could be a much larger spin-off for the whole district. Every shop from here to the city might benefit in time.'

'Put a figure on it.'

'People who'd benefit? Initially... at least fifty... a hundred maybe.'

'Blake Fashions has more than five hundred on its payroll. Fathers, mothers, young couples with their first homes and mortgages, juniors with their first jobs. When things got tough a couple of years back it was the employees who suggested a wage freeze to help ensure the business kept going. We deal with more than a dozen suppliers. For most of those, we're more than half their turnover. How many families? I don't know. Another hundred, maybe two. We contract deliveries, and a lot of other services. When it's all totted up there'd be close to a thousand jobs at risk. If the company ceases trading, the business won't be sold as a going concern; one of the big chains will gobble it up, and most of the jobs will disappear. The ego thing I'd get over in time. But so many employees, so many families... I can't live with that!'

'Why couldn't you have told us?' Max asked.

'I wanted to deal with my own problems. I thought it wasn't your business. I can see now, it was.'

There was a pause before Judith said, 'I didn't realise your company was so big.'

'Me neither,' Max said, sinking into a chair.

For a long time, nobody spoke. It was Judith who broke the silence. 'I'm sure, if Daddy had known this, he'd agree we have to sell Banabrook.'

Caroline said, 'I hate to stamp on such a wonderful dream.' She made her way to the sideboard to pour another whisky.

Judith nodded. 'At least I can feel better, knowing the money means so much to so many people. And I can still do a lot for the town with my share.'

None of them had noticed the figure walking up the slope from the stables. There was a sound of footsteps on the verandah, then a clunking as Emily kicked off her dusty shoes. They heard her say, 'Sorry Tony, did I wake you?' and his response, 'I must have dozed off. How embarrassing.' Both appeared in the doorway. Emily was carrying a rusted metal object and a dirty cash-box.

'Well, Mother? What's that you've got?'

'An old horse-shoe, and this. There's something in it but my hands aren't strong enough.' She handed the cash-box to Judith who tried unsuccessfully to open the lid, before passing it to Max who took it to the desk. 'They were on a bench by the stables. There's a heap of old junk the builders have dug up. I'd like to keep the horse-shoe, if nobody minds.'

Finding a paper knife, Max started work on the cash-box. 'A co-incidence, Caroline?' he said. 'Or do we believe in fate?'

Judith looked at Caroline. 'Do you know something about this?'

'When I was a little girl I saw father bury something.'

'Got it!' Max cried. He turned and held the box out to the three women. Nobody reached for it. 'I really think it should be one of you, not me.'

Judith said, 'Caroline saw it being buried.'

Stepping forward, Caroline looked into the box. She extracted a cloth bag, and a gold necklace from which hung a small gold disc. She looked closely at the disc, and read the inscription.

'Anna Wiesman. A+' She frowned and turned to the others. 'A...plus?'

Emily took the necklace, and looked at the disc. 'Don't you remember? You had one during the war. Most kids did, even in Australia. Yours was cheap metal and it said: Caroline Blake O-. Your blood type.'

Max was next to take the necklace. 'Does the name Anna Wiesman mean anything to anyone?'

He went to hand the necklace to Judith, but she shrank from taking it. She said, 'It's a very Jewish name, isn't it?'

'A relative?' Tony queried.

'Rachel's name was Polak.' Something in Judith's tone made Max look at her. When she raised her eyes to his, he thought he saw fear. She looked at Caroline, and nodded at the cloth bag.

Caroline peered into the bag. Frowning, she started to spill its contents into her hand. A number of small objects came out in a rush. Some fell to the floor; Max retrieved them. Tony took one from Caroline's hand. Judith seemed unable to move.

After a long silence Tony said, 'The classic test is to bite it. But, in this case, you might not want to.'

'Gold,' breathed Emily. 'Gold fillings; gold teeth.'

'Any other suggestions?' Max asked.

Judith reached for a chair and sat down. 'We all know what this means don't we!' It was a statement, not a question.

'Do we?' asked Emily.

'You can't bury memories, you can't bury memories. It's what she's been saying. Mama must have brought them with her. This is what's been haunting her. Mama must have... Oh god, who knows what?' She put her hands to either side of her face, her eyes wide.

Caroline went to her. 'Don't imagine anything bad, Judith. She could have come by them any number of ways.'

'Then why did they bury them? Why did father bury them? That's what you saw.'

'Rabbi Levi had told him an object as simple as a metal button could evoke dreadful memories. What better reason could there be to bury these reminders.'

Judith looked at the small object in her hand. 'This is not a metal button,' she said. 'This came from the mouth of a holocaust victim—from the gas chambers. This was her passport, her passage to freedom. Gold speaks all languages doesn't it? She must have bought her escape with teeth and fillings taken from victims of the holocaust.'

'She was a victim herself,' Emily said.

'Would it be so bad?' Max asked. 'The people who owned these fillings were dead. She was still alive.'

Judith looked at them, obviously distraught. 'There was a theory some years ago that the reason there were so many rich Jews around the world in the fifties and sixties was that to survive the holocaust you had to be lucky, or resourceful... or ruthless.'

Caroline said, 'Then Rachel was lucky or resourceful wasn't she!' She knelt in front of Judith and grasped her hands.

Judith looked into her face. 'She said you should try to value people but not need them. Could this be the value of someone? Is that what she meant?'

'Stop Judith! These are dark thoughts.'

'She never spoke about the past.'

'Many people never spoke about the war,' Max said. 'Darling it means nothing, really.'

'You mustn't think the worst,' Caroline pleaded. 'Look what it did to me!'

Emily said, 'When Caroline was little I used to make up stories for her. Can I make one up for you?' There was no reply. She continued, first slowly, but with increasing pace as the threads of the story came together in her mind. 'A beautiful girl in a concentration camp is chosen by an SS Officer to be his housekeeper. It saves her from the gas chambers, at least for a while, but there are favours she has to provide if she wants to retain the position. One night, after using her for his pleasure, he taunts her by showing her a stack of jewellery and gold teeth he has tipped from a bag onto the bureau. Her parents, like many others of their generation, had teeth filled with gold. The parents had arrived at the camp with her, but she'd been separated from them and believes them dead. The pieces of gold are symbols of the things the Nazis have taken from her people—their property, their dignity, their lives, even the goddamn fillings from their mouths. The officer is lying on the bed smiling. Something inside her snaps. Suddenly, she takes a paper knife from the desk and plunges it into the heart of her tormentor. She knows there is little hope of escape, but she must try. Frantically, she sweeps the jewellery and fillings into the bag and flees, terrified, into the night. Early next morning, a truck leaves the area; she is hidden under its load. Months later, she is found in a train unloading at a country siding in Australia. Along the way, she's used the jewellery to bribe border guards and officials. The only things left in the bag are some of the fillings and a necklace belonging to a dead girl she never knew. What's to do with them? She asks Walter to dispose of them, to bury the sad reminders of a dreadful time. "If you bury them", she says, "I can try to forget, and begin life again. Help me Walter. Please help me." '

Judith frowned. 'Could it have been like that?'

Tony said, 'Compared with other tales told by survivors of the death camps, that one wouldn't be particularly extraordinary.'

Emily said, 'To believe your mother was good takes an act of faith. But honey, you have to want to believe.'

In the ensuing silence, Judith rose and went to Max who hugged her to him.

Apart from the formal responses she'd recited at the funeral, Emily could not recall when she had last prayed. Now she realised she was silently petitioning her maker for help. In part, it was a prayer for her story to become Judith's truth; but she was also praying for herself, a selfish request for one last chance.

Caroline's mind was playing tricks. Several times on this extraordinary day her feelings for her mother had changed. Now, transported back in time, she arrived again at this same location, her memory unlocking an image of the same woman, much younger, crossed-legged on the floor, telling a story... inventing a story... about... she struggled to bring it from the fringes of her mind—yes, a story about a wombat who lived by the billabong, her own special wombat, not the famous muddle-headed wombat from the ABC children's session, but hers. From deep within her psyche, she'd retrieved a memory earlier than anything else she had previously recalled.

Eventually Judith turned from the comfort of Max's embrace to speak directly to Emily. 'Thank you for the story. I've never had reason to doubt Mama. I shan't start now.'

Caroline turned to Emily. 'Did you know what was buried out there?'

'I'd no idea. I knew Rachel had the cloth bag, but I'd forgotten about it.'

'Then why did you go down to the stables?'

'To get away from lovely people re-living old netball games. I wanted to think. Families are real funny things. Sometimes they hurt us; sometimes they heal us. I've been damaged goods for most of my life. I came here today not knowing what to expect. For a while, it looked like I'd buggered up Walter's funeral, and made enemies of the lot of you. But, despite everything, you've been kind to me. You've shown me again why I've loved the Blakes from the day I first came here—and what a privilege it's been to be a part of it all.'

Caroline sat on the arm of the couch. 'If anyone nearly buggered up the funeral, it was me. If you hadn't arrived, Max would still be trying to convince me how wrong I've been. What you and Tony don't know is that Banabrook is to be sold.'

'To save Blake Fashions from bankruptcy,' Emily said.

'How did you know?'

'When we were lunching on Nibbles Antonio in the kitchen, Judith showed us the plans for this place. She also mentioned your financial problems.'

Judith said, 'I wanted Tony and your mother to side with me. I didn't realise how things were going to pan out.'

'Well it saves me some of the explaining,' Caroline said.

'What it gave me was food for thought,' Emily said. 'I've failed you as a mother and I'm not about to try and buy your love. But I'm worth a buck or two, and I'd sure be sorry to see Banabrook in other hands.'

'Have you enough to buy my share?'

'At a reasonable price, probably yes; but–'

'I only need enough to pay out the loans. If you support the plans, that might be a solution.'

'This is your heritage. And I think we both owe Walter something. My fantasy was that we'd all become partners in this venture. Build something in his memory. Keep it in the family. His family. That's what I was thinking about down there.'

'It might be presumptuous for either of us to consider ourselves family these days. We opted out Mother. Me thirty years ago, you nearly fifty.'

'I guess you're right. I had this notion I might be able to come back—not to this house, but to the district where I grew up. I could be patron of the netball club, and go for nostalgic walks around the golf course. I was club champion one year. I still remember the speech I made. I waved the cup in the air and said, "You bloody beauty!" The Johnsons were all class. But this is the only place in the world where my name is on an honour board. And when I came over Two View Hill this morning, my body did strange things.'

'The return of the prodigal mother,' Caroline smiled at her. After a pause she added, 'We're like Rachel. The past will never cease to haunt us. But Judith is right. We do have to focus on the future. I already have a new life.'

'Does it satisfy you, this new life? Or is it merely what you've got?' Max surprised them all, not the least himself, with the force of his interruption. 'What did you say earlier? Recruited, pushed, groomed? For what? To achieve other people's goals in the world's dirtiest business. I wonder if it's worth it. You live alone, you work long hours, you get death threats...'

'Death threats!?' Emily's voice went up in pitch.

'Oh yes, she's had those.' Max continued to direct his comments pointedly at Caroline. 'You know, as well as I do, why the press gallery gives you so much attention. You denied them the gung-ho Maggie Thatcher they'd hoped for. Now they just want to be there when you finally crack. And what's the alternative? A town that welcomed you back today with open arms and home made scones.'

Caroline was acutely aware that all of them were now focussed on her. She was still trying to come to grips with some vaguely perceived issues when Emily spoke again.

'For me, it's a last desperate throw. If any one of you says "no", I'll go. Otherwise, I think I'd like to die hereabouts. And I'd sure like to get to know my daughter better.'

There was another pause before Caroline turned to her mother. 'I won't stay. And I won't take your money as a gift. But I do have an idea. How do you feel about investing directly in the future of Arajinna?'

'I'd do it in a flash. Tell me how.'

'Make Caroline Blake Fashions an offer it can't refuse, an offer of new capital tied to a condition that a factory making fabrics for a new in-house label is set up in this town. How does "The Banabrook Collection" sound? Maybe our designers could use some of the tones and patterns from Daddy's paintings. You might even explore ways to give locals a direct interest in the business.'

'Honey, that's brilliant. Get somebody to draw up the offer, and I'll sign.'

'A new co-operative,' Max said. 'How appropriate.'

'There's something else I'd like your agreement to. I'm sure Maud's diaries will be of interest to the state archivist. I think we should donate them, and draw the attention of the State Gallery to the passages about the paintings.'

Tony said, 'I was feeling a bit left out but, as the family's elder statesman—not to mention custodian of a questionable work of art—I'd be happy to handle those things. Might I also suggest we put Maud's dresser on display, with diagrams of the secret drawer and extracts about her arrival here with Alfred.'

'That has marvellous possibilities,' said Max. 'But I thought you'd sold the dressing table.'

'Not after discovering the diaries. I withdrew it from sale. Too precious.'

Judith went to Tony and, in a gesture that mirrored his arrival, took his large hands between hers. 'You will be part of all this, won't you?'

'Oh yes, my angel. Having re-discovered a family I barely knew, I will not be a stranger to Banabrook in the future.'

'Then let's get it straight,' Caroline said. 'We adopt father's plans to sign over Banabrook to the shire, including the provisions for private quarters for Judith, and a management contract. Mother will become a shareholder in Caroline Blake Fashions so she won't be giving her money away. Some of my legacy can be used for legal work to set up a co-operative to run the factory.'

'You have no doubts about your board's approval?' Tony asked.

'They'll be ecstatic. So long as I'm a senator I won't play a direct role, but I could contribute ideas. To start with, I can see this as being far more than a holiday place. It seems every second person you meet is having a go at writing, or painting, or something. We can use our rights under Alured's bequest to get custody of items from the Blake Collection. The gallery has many pieces not on display. You can surround your visitors with art works. Walter's easel and paints would be the centrepiece, left as they are, with a photo of him and a précis of his life story. My old room might be a place where a young artist could be given a residency, for a year at a time say, to have the opportunity to work and develop. You could call it the Walter Blake Scholarship?'

Judith went to Caroline. This time it was no awkward embrace. 'Please stay. It's a big property. There's space to get away from each other. Won't you give it a try?'

'Unfortunately I've made commitments, and I'll feel even worse about myself if I renege on those. I'll pull out at the next election, but not now, not for death threats. If that was the Blake way, father would have caved in to the Johnsons.'

'You're talking three years.' Max said.

'Time for all of us to be sure what we want. Meanwhile, Tony's going to move in with me. Well I hope so.'

Tony appeared to swallow hard. He glanced towards her. 'First meal, asparagus quiche, in memory of Dad and Café Quirk.'

'Three years will go fast enough. There's a lot to do, and I have to rebuild some self esteem.'

'Possibly not as much as you think,' Max suggested.

'That's the problem with self esteem. Nobody else can be the judge. I crashed a long way today.'

'Don't be too hard,' Tony said. 'You founded a successful business. You've been a caring employer. And you've been an honest politician which is a bloody towering achievement.'

The mood was conducive to general laughter.

'I know I should value those things, but somehow a failure of stewardship looms as something of greater import. Five generations of Blakes developed Banabrook and left Kalawonta a better place than they found it. Judith has been doing her utmost to ensure the sixth generation doesn't fail in that regard. I came close to endangering the family record. So far all I've developed is Caroline Blake. When I can see the dream being realised, and feel a small part of it, I'll be happy. That might be the time to think of coming home.'

'Good thought,' said Tony. 'And I will sell my apartment to some lucky person who's been itching to live in a Tony Blake penthouse—I blush. Then I will buy that beautiful but sadly dilapidated old house on the river. Three years should be time enough to get it in good shape, and provide excuses to visit.'

'Your place is here!' Judith insisted. 'We can write it into the conditions.'

'Kind of you, my angel,' Tony said. 'But let's take one step at a time.'

Seeming to remember something, Emily left the room.

Caroline went to the window. The sun was just below the crown of the forest. The shadows interspersed with beams filtering through the canopy made strange patterns in the paddocks and house-garden. This was the time of day her father loved to sit at the easel to paint his favourite scene.

Judith noticed one of the gold fillings caught in the pile of the carpet and bent to retrieve it. She thought of Rachel's tortured past, and of Emily's story. Tomorrow she would visit the hospice. She would go alone, and she would hold the now deranged shell of her mother, and hope for a repeat of the strange communication that brought the periods of calm.

Max removed his starched collar and put it on the desk. It was a long time since he'd believed in the mysterious ways of an omnipotent god, but even a bolshie priest could live with the future they were planning for Banabrook. The history and biography would be honest and forthright without giving hurt, except to those for whom the cap of anti-Semitism or roguery fitted, and most of those were long gone from Arajinna. It had been a day of anger, prevarication, manoeuvring, and sadness; but also one of reconciliation and hope. Perhaps there really was a god working in mysterious ways.

Emily returned and went to Caroline's side. Holding out her hand, she opened it to reveal the brooch. After a brief pause, Caroline took it and pinned it to her jacket. The hug was brief and seemed to say: it is too early for some things, but we have time. They turned back to the window and the last rays filtering through the trees.

Judith said, 'That's the light Daddy always hoped to capture.'

EPILOGUE

Escape from Dachau

July 1944

She has done the impossible. But only a few hours have passed; the chances of remaining at large are slim.

The truck stops and the engine is turned off. She hears the scrunch of boots on gravel, the creak of a door opening, a dull thud as it closes. Cautiously she peeks through a crack where the canvas blind at the back of the truck meets the canopy. Despite heavy cloud-cover, she can make out the shapes of several other trucks. This must be a resting place for drivers.

The Nazi officer whose plaything she had been will wake soon. Tonight he was careless; he drank too much. She had encouraged him, taking swigs of the whisky and dribbling it from her mouth into his as she stroked his erection. He liked that. The foul taste of the spirits had stayed with her, but it had worked its magic on him.

It will not be hard to trace this truck, probably the only one to have left the village in the night. Squeezing out from behind the blind, she looks for another vehicle to hide in. The choice is random: a small pantechnicon, its back secured by canvas curtains buckled together with straps. She loosens the bottom buckle just enough to squeeze underneath. It requires only a narrow gap for an undernourished body. She is wearing thin cotton and, although it is July, the night is uncomfortably chill. The truck's load seems to comprise bundles of padded fabric; she makes herself a nest among them. Despite the cold and the thumping of her heart, weariness overtakes her and she sleeps.

She wakes from a weird dream when the engine starts. As the truck pulls away, she feels a tiny surge of hope. Not long afterwards, she feels the vehicle slow and swing onto a different road. Dare she believe this might be good for her?

As daylight filters into the van, she finds she has made her nest among padded jackets and pants of a kind she knows are worn by people living in the foothills of the alps. With cardboard in scarce supply, the contents of the van has not been packed in containers. She identifies the bundle containing the smallest sizes. Even so, the jacket fits her like an overcoat, and she has to roll up the legs of the trousers.

For a while, the desperation of her plight has been forgotten in her alternating states of adrenalin-fuelled energy and grinding weariness. Now, as she sits in the back of the jolting vehicle, reality floods back. She cries quietly. She has never felt so alone. But she remembers the words of one defiant prisoner, an old man who told them, over and over, they must not give in to despair; some of them must survive to tell the world what happened to the others. This must be her mission. She is no longer a sex slave; she is a person again, a person who will tell the world stories nobody will want to believe. She reaches for the cloth bag hanging around her neck, stolen from the desk of her Nazi master. Perhaps it will convince the world her stories are true.

Her geography is good enough for her to guess at the destination of a cargo of padded clothing. It is also good enough for her to realise how hard it would be to find her way through the high country into Switzerland. On the other hand, the difficult terrain must also mean there are places where the borders are not regularly patrolled. All that, however, is but a vague possibility. The first challenge will be to get out of the truck. At least she is already many miles from Dachau. Now, new problems present themselves. Soon she will need to urinate. Weeks at the camp have accustomed her to having little to eat or drink, but she is starting to feel thirsty.

Eventually the truck pulls off the road. She hears the driver alight. After a while she peeks through a gap in the canvas. Seeing nobody, she slips out and edges around the truck. She is about to run for the cover of some trees when a hand descends on her shoulder and she is wrenched around to face the driver. He appears more surprised than angry.

Like many Austrians, and others throughout German controlled Europe, Karl Seipel hates everything about Hitler's Reich, but feels powerless to oppose it. He has heard rumours about pogroms and unspeakable cruelty, but he has never seen the evidence, never been sure what to believe. Now he finds himself face to face with a terrified girl. He wonders if she sees in his expression the fear he feels for both of them. He asks the obvious questions: who are you? what are you doing in my truck? why do you reek of whisky? She looks at him defiantly and tells him to kill her now because she will do it herself rather than go back. Suddenly, the pressure in his bladder, the reason he had stopped the truck, becomes too insistent to ignore. He releases his grip on her and walks into the trees, hoping she will simply run away. To his surprise she follows. As he relieves himself he realises she has gone behind a tree to do likewise. They both emerge onto the roadside wondering what to do or say. For Karl it becomes a moment of decision. He is a widower with no children, no family whose safety might be compromised. Here is an opportunity to at least try to help a victim of the war.

In the cabin of the truck, he shares his food with her while she tells him a story that makes him want to weep. He asks her age. When she tells him she "celebrated" her twenty-first birthday "in there" he feels like weeping again. He comments on how thin she is. She tells him she had been at the camp only a few weeks—that many others are walking skeletons. He has heard rumours about gas chambers. She shakes her head, surprised, horrified. She had not seen gas chambers—only cruelty, hard labour, starvation, and death. Then he tells her he has heard talk of a network of resistance throughout France and neighbouring countries. There is a man he sometimes drinks with who might know how to make contact. It will be risky to raise the subject. It might be fatal if he has guessed wrongly about the man's sympathies. But he will try.

Simon Saint-Jacques emerges from a cottage in Toulon, satisfied with the results of a clandestine meeting. The route he had been using to move refugees out of France has become too dangerous. Whilst some still make the crossing from Marseilles to Oran and thence to Casablanca, for a chance to bribe their way onto an aeroplane to Portugal, the demands of corrupt officials have increasingly made this an option for only the very wealthy. The chances of capture have also increased. Now, for Jews in particular, Simon is helping to set up another route. It will involve crossing to Alger, then by road to Alexandria where various groups, mainly Jewish families, have plans to make the difficult journey down the east coast. The main participants are wealthy merchants who fear the spread of anti-Semitic fascism. Unlike the small groups trying to reach Portugal, their preference is to travel in sizeable parties for protection against a more common class of criminal whose objectives are not racial or political but simply to plunder loot from any passing stranger. This has led to merchants taking refugees with them—women as servants, men as workers and bodyguards.

Had she been asked to detail her movements, from the time the Austrian, Karl, handed her over to a Swiss named Freiderich, until she arrived at the Côte d'Azur and met the Frenchman called Simon, Rachel would have been at a loss. She could only have spoken of moving at night and sleeping by day, of trucks without lights, bicycles taken from under sheds and left in thickets, walking through forests, wading through streams, arriving at cottages in the dead of night. She might also have spoken about grim-faced people ladling stew and giving bread without asking anything in return, and of many small kindnesses. She remembers, particularly, the quick hug and whispered 'bonne chance' from a woman who seemed to be caring for six or seven children in an old farmhouse. She has not removed the cloth bag from her neck since her meeting with Frederich. Then she had done so to retrieve a diamond ring to offer in exchange for his help. He had refused to take it, telling her the people guiding her through France expected no payment. Ominously, he told her to keep the ring because bribes might be needed later in her travels.

Somewhere along the way, the winter gear she has worn since boarding Karl's truck is exchanged for simple peasant clothes by a woman who keeps a strange array of garments in a trunk hidden in a barn. Rachel thinks of her as a sort of wardrobe mistress for a travelling show. For warmth at night, she is given an old shawl. The wardrobe mistress lends her some sewing gear to stitch up the hem of a skirt. While doing so she secretly takes some pieces of jewellery from her cloth bag and sews them into the hem of the skirt and into a fold in the shawl.

Somewhere on the Côte d'Azur, Simon takes Rachel and a young Frenchman to a small boat, and rows them out to meet a trawler. Huddled together in the bow, they tell each other their reasons for flight. His story is simple. He killed a French policeman who had been collaborating with the enemy. At Alger they are bundled into the back of an ancient truck. They survive exhaust fumes belching from a cracked exhaust during a body-jolting journey to Alexandria. There, they are taken to a rich Jewish merchant who tells them bluntly about the conditions they will have to endure over many months on a trek of more than 5000 miles. The party will stay as close to the coast as possible, but there is desert to cross. He is taking the risk because he fears for Jewish communities as Hitler's influence and ideas spread further into Africa. His objective is to reach Dar Es Salaam where the party will disband leaving each person to their own devices. Rachel and the young man accept the conditions. For them, the only immediate objective is to keep putting more miles between themselves and Europe.

Despite the hardship, Rachel's mood is almost buoyant for the first weeks of the trip. She becomes a favourite with the merchant and his wife. She had learnt from her mother to make tasty dishes from sparse ingredients, a skill she now puts to good use. She becomes the merchant's personal cook, and is treated more like a member of his extended family than like a servant. But the edge is taken off her good fortune by the unwelcome attentions of the pampered son of the family. One night he takes her into the desert and rapes her. During the rape, he discovers her cloth bag. He steals the jewellery and questions her about the other items. When he realises what she is carrying, he threatens to tell his father unless she becomes his willing mistress. Thus begins weeks of horror as the party makes its way south. Apart from the abuse she suffers from the son, she shares the frequent periods of fear experienced by all of the party. Fortunately, the merchant is good at negotiating with bandits and at bribing officials. The advantage of being with a sizeable party has become obvious; they have no doubt that smaller groups would suffer devastating raids in these lonely, inhospitable places.

By the time they reach Mombasa, the nightly sexual abuse has become too much to bear. While helping the merchant's wife to shop for food from stalls near the waterfront, she sees a tramp steamer preparing for departure. Later she slips from the camp and stows away on the ship. She has no idea where it is headed. She has no food or water.

After spending a day in hiding she does the only thing possible; she presents herself to the astonished captain. His surprise quickly turns to anger. The crew is already grumbling about limited rations; another mouth to feed will be an added burden. She offers him the jewellery, which is still sewn into the hem of her skirt. Suddenly he bursts into laughter and asks what makes her think he won't just keep her jewellery and throw her overboard. Her response is a shrug, and her resignation must trouble his conscience because he asks her to forgive him for a stupid joke. He will keep the jewellery, and he will tell the crew all will share in the proceeds provided they leave her alone. She will have to share his cabin. There will be little privacy, but he will treat her with respect. She asks where they are bound; he says she will find out if they get there.

'If?' she queries.

'The sea is always dangerous. Never more so than during war.'

For some time Rachel has known she is pregnant. It is a worry, but fate intervenes. One night, during a violent storm, she falls heavily, and miscarries. Fortunately nobody sees her. She throws the evidence overboard, whispering words she thinks might be appropriate for a burial at sea. It is a secret she determines will go with her to her grave. Others are injured during the storm, so she does not have to explain the blood. Lying, ill, on her bunk she wonders if she has buried the only baby she will ever have. She fingers the cloth bag. Suddenly she is overcome with a feeling of shame. She had stolen the bag as evidence, but she has already used the jewellery for her own survival. The only remaining piece is a gold necklace with an identification disc bearing the name Anna. It is a name she likes. She will think of her lost child as Anna.

Days pass and the captain appears increasingly troubled. One day he sits her down for a serious talk. Tomorrow they will reach a port and she must leave the ship. If he hands her over to the police, there will be enquiries, and things might go badly for all of them. Men often go to sea to get away from their pasts; this is the situation for him and for most of his crew. He says he will give her some local currency, and smuggle her onto a freight train near the docks. She has come half way around the world. If she can put some distance between her and his ship before she is caught, she will be repaying him for protecting her. Her English is good, and that is the language of the country they are approaching. Every city in the world has people who live on the streets. She will have enough money to buy food. There may be refuges for the homeless. Here, at least, she will not encounter armed soldiers. It is the best he can do. When she asks the name of the port, it means nothing to her. He takes her to the map on his wall and points. It is hard to believe she has come so far from home.

Early next morning the ship docks at Fremantle. The Captain gives her some money and says, 'This is the end of the penny section.' She does not know the saying, but his meaning is clear enough. When customs officers come aboard, he conceals her under ropes in a locker. Later she listens to the sounds of cargo being unloaded. After nightfall, she is taken by a member of the crew and helped to board a freight train. Wrapped in her shawl, she clutches some sandwiches and a bottle of soft drink the captain has brought back to the ship from a nearby kiosk. The crew member tells her to avoid getting into railway trucks that can be locked from outside, and to be careful not to get between packing cases or items that might move and injure or trap her. He has selected a wagon, covered with canvas, in the middle of the train. He tells her this will probably mean it will be one of the last to reach its destination, because trucks are usually dropped off the rear or taken from the front. He has a number of other tips for survival; she suspects he has travelled this way himself.

Rachel is amazed how easily she adapts to life as a railway stowaway. She quickly learns the routines of freight train movement; she feels she has almost a sixth sense about when to leave one train and find another. Parks near railway stations are good places to lose herself among the derelict and the homeless, who have a code of minding their own business. She has become used to being dirty, but often manages to clean herself in public toilet blocks. At one stop she finds a place to strip down and wash her clothes in a river. At another, she gets curious glances when she buys toiletries at a chemist shop.

Only once is she stopped and questioned. A young policeman wants to know what she is doing. It is a situation she has expected, and she has concocted a story about being a student of languages who practises declining irregular verbs by walking and reciting. This was, in fact, a method she had used in her student days. She begins rhythmic declining of some French verbs to demonstrate. The policeman accepts the story. She suspects that saying she is a student has helped avoid too close a scrutiny of her strange clothes. Maybe here, as in her own country, students are known to defy dress conventions.

Disaster nearly strikes when she finds herself in Kalgoorlie and boards a train bound for Port Pirie. The heat by day and cold at night are intolerable, and she has run out of water to drink when she leaves the train at Jamestown.

Several trains later her journey ends at a place called Arajinna.

Perhaps she had become blasé from the ease with which she'd evaded detection for so long, or perhaps it is simply inevitable that any journey must end, but she is fast asleep in an empty sheep truck when a surprised railway worker finds her and yells out to his mates.

Curious people come to peer at her. A call is made to somebody to come and take custody of a grubby young woman. It is a threatening word: custody. But, as she sits drinking the tea somebody brings her, she feels she has honoured her undertaking to put distance and time between herself and the ship that brought her to Australia. Nobody else knows how she has made her way from Dachau to this country town on the other side of the world. Even she knows only vaguely the route she has taken and the people who have helped her. It comes to her then that the least said the better. Except that she must say she escaped from Dachau, and she must say that Jews are being exterminated in Europe. This is her bond with a defiant old man who is probably now dead. Something makes her reach for the cloth bag. For the first time for many months, she feels tears that are not anger, hurt, frustration, or fear—but deep regret. What if they take the bag from her? What will they make of its contents and of the tag inscribed Anna Wiesman, the girl she hardly knew, the girl who might have been the one who survived if Rachel hadn't made a seductive play for the officer who was about to choose Anna Wiesman to be a 'special servant' in his house in the village? She had intended to use the items in the bag to support her story, but this might not be a good idea, here, on the other side of the world.

A man arrives. She looks at him in wonder. She'd been expecting a middle-aged official in some sort of uniform. This is a handsome young man with a big brown hat. His expression suggests he carries the cares of the world. But he smiles and says, 'Goodness me, what have we here? I think I'd better take you home. Emily will be surprised.'

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to:

My wife Jan and my family for unfailing support in the things that matter.

Dr Chris McLeod of Wordworks for his helpful assessments and support.

My dear friends Jo and Brian Smith, whose support and pertinent comments at a critical stage put the work back on track.

Lynn Allen and Chris Coggin for encouragement to keep going.

Joleene Naylor for friendly hassle-free design.

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ALSO AVAILABLE FOR DOWNLOAD

FIELD WALKING — A SEQUEL TO WHAT LIES BURIED

A hit-man employed by Lenny d'Aratzio brings new threats to the Blake family at Banabrook.

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BLAKE FAMILY TREE

