Clancy of the Overflow, page 23
He had not even tried. She had not even known enough of life to realise such simplicity might be tolerable, even enjoyable, and demand that he give them to her. Possibly, probably, she would have refused to live in a cottage with a clerk for a husband. But he should at least have offered her the choice.
Once the bodies were laid in the earth, one small, one even smaller, each wrapped in a silk quilt, a little moth-eaten now, the edges nibbled by mice; once the soil, so hard to dig he had needed a crowbar to fashion the hole, had been replaced, he dug six post holes; cut six posts; then laid four poles on them, wired securely to make a fence. The fence would not stop the sheep or roos from nibbling at whatever grew there — nor did he want it to, otherwise the grave would be a patch of weeds in the dust of Overflow.
No funeral. No investigation either, for which he was grateful. Old Drinkwater was the local magistrate. He would understand only too well what had happened. Clancy would send him a letter, and another to send to the church at Gibber’s Creek, asking that someone might travel to Overflow to give a memorial service. Flora was an Anglican. He suspected that a Catholic priest would more likely be a visitor to the debris of a gold-mining town like Gibber’s Creek. But words were words and God was God and if there were a God and mercy and heaven, Flora and Clementine were in His arms now.
He prayed they were. He prayed that God existed, that something existed in which someone could have faith, could trust. But he did not have the right prayers to create them.
Nor could he fully articulate even what he felt, except loss and guilt and anger. Anger at Ezekiel, who might have made his daughter-in-law’s lot so much easier, who had promised her family so much, but not delivered it. Yet even as he thought it, Clancy knew that was unfair. Ezekiel Clancy had no true idea of the cost of a gentleman’s life. Even before the flood, Overflow had been stretched to support the gracious life of Rosemere. Ezekiel had made a fortune from breeding sheep with good wool, but it had taken his son decades to realise that despite this, the ex-convict with no formal education was not a good businessman, or even a competent one.
He was angry at God, for giving rain and then withdrawing it; angry at Flora, who had closed her eyes not just for the minute it must have taken Clementine to drown, but to all the possibilities of a good life at Overflow. But mostly, of course, the anger was directed at himself.
Flora had trusted him. Clementine had trusted him. He had let them die.
It was dusk — an hour early, the dust prematurely dimming the setting sun, as he trudged back into the house. Dust, faintly splodged, floured leaves and fence posts. Even the cow and calf wore a coat of it.
Mrs Taylor glanced at him from the stove, subtly triumphant. See, she was saying, this is what you get from importing a lady from England, who naturally withered like those rose bushes she tried to grow. But all she said was, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Clancy. I’ll bring dinner in now.’
He should not have been hungry. But he suddenly realised he hadn’t eaten since some time the day before. ‘Thank you, Mrs Taylor.’ He walked into the dining room, where the table still sat with its legs in cans of water. How Flora had hated those cans. No one had removed the cushions Clementine had sat on. He did not touch them now.
Ezekiel was already chewing mutton steak. Clancy felt sudden anger that they should eat mutton now — and the best part of it — when Flora’s last dinner had been pumpkin and kangaroo. ‘Well,’ said the old man. ‘What now?’
‘I must write to her family in England, to Maria. Arrange a service.’
‘And then?’
‘We killed her, you know, Father.’
‘I know.’ Ezekiel took another mouthful of steak, spat out a bit of bone, or maybe it was a tooth. ‘I’m sorry for it.’ For the first time Clancy saw the bruised swellings under Ezekiel’s eyes and knew his father was also suffering.
‘We could have helped her.’
‘Only thing we did wrong was not hire a nursemaid for Clementine. That girl was the treasure of me life.’ Tears trickled into Ezekiel’s beard, but he kept chewing anyway. He reached for the salt. ‘Should never have bought a girl unseen for you. Wouldn’t buy a ram unseen, but that’s how I bought your wife.’
‘But it wasn’t —’ began Clancy, then stopped, for of course it was exactly like that, despite the dozen letters between Flora and himself before both had agreed to the marriage.
‘You’ll marry again.’ Was that hope or comfort in his father’s voice? Clancy was not sure he could bear either.
And, yes, he could marry again, one day. Men did, after all. And, after all, one day it would, probably, possibly, rain again, and Overflow would be a property worth bringing a bride to, one with fewer expectations than poor Flora. Even now the house was better than most in the colonies, or could be, if it received what the magazines called ‘a woman’s touch’. A solid house, paddocks that still grew vegetables, an orchard, a cow and calf, a man and his wife employed full time, plus four hundred and sixty-eight extremely hardy sheep, and there would be more come lambing. A woman would marry for security like that, and bear the children Ezekiel longed for. But Clancy would not — could not — marry her. He’d never be a stud ram for Overflow.
He looked at Ezekiel, still chomping. With half his teeth gone, a mouthful took him a while to masticate. Many graziers had walked off their acres in the past three years, men who had lost less than Ezekiel. But his father was as tough as the mutton. Ezekiel stayed: stayed for the potential Overflow might still fulfil. Stayed because he was as stubborn as an old ewe at shearing. Stayed because he had dreamed of handing down an empire, and still hoped that it might at least be a small kingdom . . .
Clancy said abruptly, ‘I need to leave for a while.’
He had expected protest. Instead Ezekiel said, ‘Can you wait till after shearing?’
He would be needed to yard the sheep, to shear. ‘Yes.’
‘Where will you go?’
He wanted friends about him. Horatio Clancy had two kinds of friends: those he had been at school with, had socialised with in Sydney. His only other friends were the mutter of the river and the whisper of the stars. He knew which he needed now.
‘Shearing, if I can find a crew who’ll take me.’ He had become a competent shearer by now, even if he’d never make a gun.
‘You’ll be earning money.’
‘I’ll be banking it too.’ Did his father expect him to send it to him?
But Ezekiel just shook his head. ‘Just as long as you don’t drink your cheque.’ The old man fixed his gaze on his plate. ‘One day this place will be yours. Money in the bank’ll make a difference.’
Clancy pushed his plate away. Money, shearing, Overflow, a future wife, even the days, weeks, years to come. None of them were real tonight.
He said, ‘Good night, Father.’
Chapter 34
The Simplest and Best Lemon Tart
Line a pie tin with baking paper, then shortcrust pastry. Bake at 200°C for 10 minutes. Beat well 300mL cream, 5 eggs, 225g caster sugar, 185mL lemon or lime juice. Pour into pie shell. Bake at 200°C till set: about 30 minutes. Serve hot or cold with ice cream.
SYDNEY, 1983
SCARLETT
‘See you next weekend then. Love you.’ Scarlett put the phone down, then stared at it as if she could see William on the other end, calling as he did every morning before he headed off for the factory. His STD phone bill must be enormous, but the Whole Australia Factory was finally making good money, thanks to his pre-fab house designs, and so was William. He still lived with his mother in the old manager’s cottage at Drinkwater, spending the weekends with her at Dribble when she came down once a month or so, coming up to Sydney to stay with her once a month too.
She missed him fiercely for days after each time she saw him, just as she missed the taste of tank water, the buzz of bees in the blue salvias Sam had planted under the bedroom windows before his accident — salvias didn’t need much water and the blue native bees loved them. Those salvias might have kept the bees going through the drought, when so many of the small native shrubs they had fed on had been lost to stock, probably forever.
She didn’t like to think of a world without big blue native bees. She looked up at the familiar knock on the door. ‘It isn’t locked!’ she called.
Alex appeared. He looked strangely excited. ‘How many times have I told you this isn’t Gibber’s Creek?’ he demanded. ‘People lock their doors in Sydney.’
‘Given you’ve told me maybe twice a week since I’ve been here, about five hundred times. But no one would expect my door to be unlocked,’ she said reasonably, ‘because everyone in Sydney locks their doors. So no one will try to open it unless I say come in.’
She went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. It still seemed a miracle to have legs that didn’t need instructions like, ‘Lift your left foot, now put it down,’ or even calculations about how much she needed to use them that day and how much they could manage. ‘Lemon tart?’
‘Leafsong’s?’
She looked at him indulgently. Alex knew very well she hadn’t been to Gibber’s Creek for three weeks. But, being Alex, it didn’t occur to him that a three-week-old tart would be stale. ‘No, made by my very own hands.’
‘I’ll risk it.’
She cut a slice for herself too, added ice cream to them both, poured coffee, then sat at the table opposite him. ‘What’s up?’
‘How do you know something is up?’
‘Because I know you well, Alex Romanov, and you didn’t just come here to mooch coffee and lemon tart.’
‘Okay, then. The dean called me in to his office. They’re doing a trial three-year post-grad exchange: residency and research, at New York, the California Institute of Technology, or Edinburgh. The New York one is in cardiology.’
‘Cardiology has always been your dream.’ She grinned. ‘And New York. Film stars, penthouses, pastrami sandwiches, cheesecake. All you’ve ever wanted.’
‘I’ll be a broke post-grad living in a dorm and doing tutoring to keep myself in pastrami sandwiches.’
‘Congratulations,’ she said sincerely. ‘I’ll miss you,’ she added, which was true too. Alex was still the friend of intellectual adventures. And unless she won the lottery, she couldn’t speculate with him for three hours on an international phone call about the potential role of various herpes viruses. And even then, it wouldn’t be the same. Alex would have others to speculate with . . . ‘Will Kate go with you?’ she added.
‘Kate and I broke up last week.’ He made it sound as if it didn’t matter, which it probably didn’t to Alex, or he’d have mentioned it earlier. Scarlett hoped Kate felt the same. Possibly she did, for the relationship had only lasted a few weeks, which was a record for Alex. But he knew how to be steadfast as a friend. Yes, she would miss him terribly . . .
Alex swallowed his third bite of tart. ‘That isn’t what I came to tell you.’
‘What then?’
‘The Edinburgh fellowship involves working with a research team on paediatric muscular disorders. The dean hopes you’ll apply.’
And if I apply, I’ll get it, she thought. Her marks were even higher than Alex’s. Plus the dean — the entire staff — had shown a complete lack of tact in trying to steer their most brilliant student away from GP work in a country town and into something more challenging and prestigious.
Six years back, still permanently partnered with her wheelchair, her professional future seemed limited to a residency at the Gibber’s Creek Hospital. She had not even thought to dream beyond it. Now, suddenly, Scarlett Kelly-O’Hara, the girl who had not even been able to steer her own wheelchair till adolescence, had a chance to soar across the world, even if she would need to pack her wheelchair too.
To a land with no blue bees. No William. No extended family, and a community that was family too. No Sunday afternoons with Leafsong, washing up at the Blue Belle just to enjoy the companionship of the first real friend she’d had, no breakfasts with Jed and Sam and Mattie, no bicycling with Mattie down to Moura, no dusk swims with William or nights held in his arms.
Scotland. Her own life, not supported by Jed’s money, living in the flat Jed had bought for her, carefully modified for the wheelchair she so rarely needed these days, just as others had so carefully arranged a fulfilled life for her ever since she was a baby.
Scarlett Kelly-O’Hara, independent, working with the top researchers in the field . . .
She was going to take the fellowship, she realised. And she’d make the Edinburgh interview panel accept that a woman in a wheelchair could do brilliant things, just as the dean expected she would. She saw in Alex’s face that he knew she’d take it too. And Jed would encourage her, and hide that she’d be terrified for her, as would Nancy and Michael.
And William? She could not ask William to wait three years to be with her. Suddenly realised she didn’t want William to wait three years. Because the Scarlett Kelly-O’Hara who returned in three years’ time — who might even decide not to return, though she still could not imagine a life without blue bees and the land they belonged to — would not be the person she was now.
William had chosen Gibber’s Creek, after all, instead of staying in Sydney with her. She’d accepted that decision, even supported it, though she could admit now it had hurt, just a little, that he should choose work over living full time with her. And now she would choose her own career and make unimaginable discoveries in Edinburgh.
Alex scooped up the last of his lemon tart. ‘Going to see the dean?’
‘Yes,’ said Scarlett Kelly-O’Hara. And on the weekend she’d drive down to tell everyone the news, and to break her heart, just a little, no, a lot, over all she would miss for three long years, except for a few weeks back each year.
Her family, the river and, yes, the blue bees would still be there for her whenever she returned. But William, possibly, probably, would not.
Chapter 35
Extraordinarily Delicious Chicken with Fresh Grape Juice
Leftover chicken, 300g fresh green grapes, 500mL fresh cream, 1tbsp finely chopped parsley, 1tbsp finely chopped chives
Press the juice out of the grapes. I do this by chopping the grapes and then pressing them through a strainer, but you can use a blender or juicer. Simmer the cream for 5 minutes. Add the grape juice and herbs and simmer for another 5 minutes. Add the chicken. Reheat and serve at once.
GIBBER’S CREEK, 1983
JED
The phone rang as Jed was halfway through a carefully plotted, deeply vital, tragic paragraph. Phones always chose the most impossible moment to ring.
She waited in case Sam answered it. But it seemed he and William — and Mattie, who had to be held up and her hand steadied to drive in a nail which must inevitably be replaced when she wasn’t looking — were still building the flying fox down the back behind what had gloriously become an orchard again since the drought broke, the plums so thick this year the branches had to be propped up.
She picked up the phone in the hall and sat, spreading the skirts of her favourite ‘housedress’, the one that had been Matilda’s favourite too, a loose art-deco cotton shift splodged with olive green, orange and cream, only slightly faded. The past lived as she wrote her books. It seemed right that she should wear the past as she wrote too. ‘Hello.’
‘Jed, it’s me.’
‘Hello, me. You sound happy.’ Or excited, thought Jed. Had William finally proposed?
‘I am. I think. How is everyone?’
‘All good. Clancy and Tom sold their poddy calf for a thousand dollars. Prices are through the roof now the drought is over and everyone’s restocking. Clancy bought a new camera, some special kind, and then took Mattie to have a raspberry spider at the Blue Belle. Extra ice cream.’ Jed laughed and shook her head. ‘Tom rang his Uncle Jim and bought five hundred dollars’ worth of shares.’
‘Surely Tom doesn’t want to be a sharebroker!’ said Scarlett, as one might say, ‘He doesn’t want to eat venomous spiders!’
‘No, Tom just said “every farm needs a diversified income”. His great-grandfather would have been proud of him. Are you still coming down this weekend?’ Usually Scarlett phoned later in the week if she was unable to come.
‘Yes. Jed, something’s happened.’
‘Cut the suspense. What?’ Not engaged to William, Jed thought. He and Scarlett hadn’t been with each other for a fortnight. Surely he’d propose in person.
Or had Scarlett and Alex . . . surely not . . .
‘I’ve been offered a three-year combined residency and research fellowship at the University of Edinburgh,’ said Scarlett in a rush. ‘It’s a new scheme — they haven’t done it before.’
‘That’s brilliant! Congratulations. You . . . you are taking it?’
‘Yes. Of course I am, it would be crazy not to. But I also want to take it.’
‘Of course you do,’ said Jed gently.
‘It isn’t that I don’t love you all. But —’
‘It’s all right. Really. I do understand.’ And she did. Jed Kelly had seen a lot — far too much — before she had come to Gibber’s Creek. The one thing her past had given her was the assurance that the person she was now wanted to be here. Her sister deserved the same chance to choose exactly where she wanted to be.
‘I won’t need an allowance now either. And you can sell the flat as well.’
‘But I’m happy to give you the allowance! And maybe you’ll need the flat when you get back.’
‘Whatever I do after this, I still won’t need the flat. Sell it, or rent it out.’
Rent, thought Jed, for that off-farm income, or ‘diversified’, as young Tom would say. ‘Will you accept plane tickets home every Christmas, at least?’
