Heart of the Outback (32 page)

Francey and another man, Hans, the designated safety officer for the building site were kneeling by Pierre, checking his breathing.

“All right,” Francey, despite the shock she felt inside, made her tone confident and decisive. “The best we can do is make Pierre comfortable.” She glanced around at the concerned faces. “There’s nothing you can do. Some of you go have a smoko, the rest, back to work.” She glanced at Alan Trent, the assistant foreman. “Take your orders from Alan until further notice.”

She stared at Pierre again noting that he’d landed with the top half of his body on his side. His airways were probably okay but she didn’t like the fact that he hadn’t come round. Hans had put smelling salts under his nose but the odour had no effect. “Could someone find a blanket? he’ll be going into shock. Try the stockmen’s bunkhouse.”

Lisa Dupre was remarkably calm when she saw what had happened to her husband. She came and sat beside him, held his hand and stroked his head until the ambulance arrived. Five minutes later both Lisa and Pierre were on their way to hospital.

“Here, drink this,” CJ handed her a small glass.

“What is it?” Francey asked.

They had stayed at the building site long enough to confirm that Alan Trent should act as temporary supervisor then returned to the homestead. Both sat on the part of the verandah that overlooked the pool.

“Brandy. You need it,” he said gruffly. “That was nasty, what happened to Pierre. Poor bloke.”

Francey nodded. “Accidents happen on building sites all the time. I’ve seen a few. Supervising architects are required to inspect sites on a regular basis.”

“You handled it well, but it’s still a shock. Drink up now, sip it if you want to. That’s an order, Francey.”

At any other time Francey may have taken offence at his authoritative tone but not now. She was upset. She’d come to know Lisa well and Pierre too, to a certain degree, and liked them both. Wrinkling her nose at the odour she took a couple of small swallows and coughed. “Ugh, I don’t like this stuff.”

“It’s only Napoleon, the best money can buy, and the woman doesn’t like it,” CJ commented to no-one in particular.

Francey persevered with the alcohol, feeling it warm her insides, slowly doing its work and calming her.

“Pierre’s accident could slow the building down a lot,” CJ muttered. “With him controlling the tradesmen I’d hoped to get the building to lock up stage in case the wet comes our way.”

“We’ll find someone else. We’ll just have to look a little further afield.” The brandy was taking effect, mellowing her, easing the internal distress she felt. She knew an efficient work site needed a sound project supervisor who could organise the diversity of skills that were needed on the site. Pierre had been good at his job and finding an equally good replacement wouldn’t be easy.

“Hmmm, that’ll take time.” CJ stroked his jaw thoughtfully, the germ of an idea sprouting inside his head. “Of course, there is someone …”

Quirking an eyebrow up at him, she asked. “Who?”

“Someone who knows the site intimately, has one hundred per cent understanding of the design and who lives practically on site.”

She frowned, and then it hit her. “Me!”

“Yes. You.”

“But I’m … an architect, I’m still working on the Cooktown plans. I —”

“Which, according to you, are almost finished,” he put in succinctly. “Why not, Francey? You could do it, I know you could. Or,” he paused, “would you be nervous about being on a work site with a bunch of guys? Perhaps you don’t think you could control them?”

She looked directly at him. “There are lots of reasons. It’s not my field of expertise, but of course I could control them. I get along with men, tradesmen, very well. It’s just, mostly a conflict of interests …”

“Explain that?”

“Aden Nicholson pays my salary. I don’t think he’d take too kindly to paying my wages and me working for you.”

The phone on the glass-topped coffee table rang and Francey leant across to answer it. “Yes, Lisa, how …”

CJ watched her expressive face as Lisa Dupre brought her up-to-date on Pierre’s condition. So much vivacity and a quick intellect too. He found their verbal battling, on the odd occasion, quite stimulating. She had breathed new life into Murrundi, and him.

“Yes, all right. I’ll tell CJ straightaway,” and then she replaced the receiver.

“Well?”

“Poor Pierre. A broken femur, two cracked ribs and a fractured skull. They’re going to airlift him to Cairns hospital — it’s closest — so a neurologist can look at him. Lisa said they’re a little worried about the skull fracture, something about compression.”

“I see. Lisa’s going with them?”

“Of course. She’ll call from Cairns when she knows more.”

“Now, we were saying, as to your conflict of interests,” he gave her a conspiratorial grin, “that’s easily fixed. Come work for me. Leave Nicholson, Drew and Carlyle. I think you’ve just about outgrown them anyhow.”

F
rancey’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?” A bushy eyebrow rose. “I’m always serious when I offer someone a job.”

“But…” She stopped, thinking. CJ was right. She had outgrown Aden and his architectural firm. Her life had begun to head along a different path, partially due to CJ and the things she’d learned through him, and partially due to Steve and the changes that had been wrought within herself since she had come to Mt Isa. But then she recalled what she’d said about loyalty the day she’d met him. Did she still owe Aden? The answer came quickly, no! He’d got a nice fat fee for her designing the mini conference centre and he’d get another for the Cooktown project. She was doing the work and he and his partners were raking in the profits. Funny, she’d never seen it that way before. If she worked for CJ she’d be better off financially and probably better
off career-wise too. Who knew where it could eventually lead?

“Sleep on the offer. Just remember it’s a serious one.”

“What would I do after the mini conference centre’s finished?”

“You know me, Francey, I’ve always got something on the boil.” He appeared to contemplate for a minute. “Such as you designing an art museum for Mt Isa. The mayor, Darren Turk, cornered me at Pierre’s party and got me to agree to doing it. I’ve been promising to for years, ever since Brenda died. Have no fear, my dear, you’ll earn your salary, which will be a damned sight more generous than what Nicholson paid you.” He wrote a figure on a piece of paper and handed it to her. “This is for starters and I’ll make allowances for you to see your family. I know you’re close to them. How about, say, five to six all expenses paid visits to Sydney per year to see them?”

Oh, it was tempting. Very. “All right, CJ, I’ll think about it.”

CJ had said to sleep on the idea but that was exactly what Francey didn’t do. If she accepted his offer her life would change, really change. Up until now she had thought of her time at Murrundi Downs station as an extended working holiday, one that would end in the not too distant future. She had been able to put off making any career decisions until then. But now, with Pierre’s accident, decision time was being thrust upon her.

There were pluses about staying around the Isa. She loved the country, the people and she was deeply
in love with Steve Parrish. Her lips curved in a smile as she remembered the last time they’d made love. It had been extraordinary. She even thought that she had come to understand “the man with the golden touch” pretty well. He wasn’t the monster most people thought him to be — granted though he was difficult to handle, but he certainly wasn’t impossible. Working for him in a variety of capacities would be a challenge. How he ran his empire, how he thought and operated. She immediately thought of the things she could learn and the structures she would design.

But there were minuses. Not seeing her parents very often, or her friends — Brett and Meredith and baby Mitchell — in particular. And … the problem with Natalie. For no good reason she appeared to dislike her intensely. Why else had she planned that stunt in the ravine? Oh, yes, she had worked out that her being stranded had been a deliberate act on Natalie’s part.

She turned on her side and plumped up the pillow. Perhaps she should talk it over with Steve. No. The decision had to be hers and by morning she knew her answer would be yes.

Trish Pentano jogged along Four Mile Beach at Port Douglas towards the small village. The weather hadn’t heated up yet, the humidity was still low, but that would soon change as the monsoon period approached in at the end of the year. She changed direction and trotted away from the beach and along the back streets heading in the direction of Natalie’s art gallery, where a shower and a change of clothes would be waiting prior to them strolling down to one of the sidewalk cafes for brunch.

She loved the laid-back lifestyle of this resort village and wished she could afford to live here permanently and somehow make a living. Turning into MacCrossan Street she had a thought — perhaps she should offer to run Natalie’s business interests here. Since she and Natalie had been together she had gleaned considerable knowledge about the art world, artists and selling works to tourists, enough to do as good a job as the next person. She could supplement the wage with the occasional tourist or environmental article and manage quite nicely.

The gallery didn’t open till 10 a.m. so she jogged around to the back door and let herself in.

“Natalie, I’m back,” she called out as she went into the amenities room which held the shower, toilet, several lockers and a couple of storage crates. On a bench seat stood her blue vinyl bag with a change of clothes: underwear, sandals, shorts and singlet top of course, it was too hot for anything more.

She shrugged her shoulders when she failed to hear a response and went into the shower cubicle and stripped off. Thank God, old Nick the perve wasn’t around any more — he’d been doing the occasional touch-up job for weeks — otherwise Natalie would have had to stand guard at the door. Men, they were pathetic really, the way just about all of them thought women couldn’t resist them.

Eight minutes later, smiling at her squeaky clean reflection in the mirror, Trish ran a brush through her hair, applied a bright pink lipstick and went to find Natalie. She wasn’t in the showroom checking out the latest wares: colourful, predominantly tropical paintings set against stark white walls with
overhead spotlights. Neither was she in the storage room where paintings were kept until they could be shown or crated up after they’d been sold. She headed for the office.

Natalie sat behind her free-form, glass-topped desk, staring right through her. No smile of recognition, no flicker of the eyelids. It was as if she were in some kind of trance. The occasional twitch of a muscle in her left cheek was the only sign of life. Trish’s heart sank. Another mood. She sighed and came into the room, her steps tentative. What was the matter with her friend and lover? Over the last two to three months Natalie had moved through one excessive mood to another. It had become wearying, to say the least.

Ignoring the depressed state Natalie allowed herself to sink into might work. “Hi,” Trish said brightly as she sat in the chair opposite. “Natalie, I’m starving after my run, are you ready for brunch?”

No response. No acknowledgement that she’d spoken. Jesus, she was getting creepy.

“Natalie.” Louder this time. “Come on, hon, snap out of it.”

Nothing.

Trish looked at the desk, perhaps she would find a clue there. Natalie’s talon-like fingers lay flat on the glass, half covering a fax. She slipped the paper out from under her fingers and read the brief message.

Oh! That’s why the mood was upon her. Francey again. Natalie had become obsessed with the woman. Trish was no psychiatrist but from a layman’s point of view, Natalie appeared to be exhibiting signs of paranoia regarding the young architect. She personally thought that Francey was a likeable, respectable woman and was undeserving of her lover’s scheming and condemnation. But Trish was far too street-wise to voice such an opinion because she knew what would result. A temper tantrum of gigantic proportions.

“Les, the bastard.” Natalie’s head jerked backwards and she spoke with obvious venom. “Rubbing my nose in Francey’s popularity with CJ. Well, it won’t last.” The fingertips of her right hand began to drum against the glass-topped desk creating a tinging staccato type sound. “She’s city through and through. In a couple of months she’ll get bored with the place, particularly when the wet hits.”

“Of course she will,” Trish soothed, trying to talk her through and out of the mood. “Be patient, love. Don’t fuss with schemes and things trying to get rid of her. You’ll see, it will happen quite naturally. She’ll long for the city, for her friends, for the beach and decent weather and she’ll be off.” Natalie’s unhealthy preoccupation with Francey Spinetti was beginning to concern her and make her lover difficult to live with.

“What if she doesn’t? What if she’s able to wrap CJ around her little finger and get him to propose to her? What then?”

Trish thought for a moment. “Well, if that happens and, mind you, I don’t think it will, but if it does,
then
you move and go all out to get rid of her.”

“Will you help? Maybe you can dig up some dirt
on her. I just know she’s not as pure and wholesome as she makes out.”

Trish forced a smile. The idea of trying to hurt Francey didn’t appeal because she believed that the problem was all in Natalie’s head. But she’d try anything to placate her. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

Natalie thought about what Trish had said for a good moment or two, the corner of her mouth twitching. “You’re right. I’ll ignore her whenever I’m at Murrundi and if we have to find a way to get rid of her then we’ll do it together.”

“Right.” Trish began to relax. Natalie was coming out of her mood. “Now, how about we go get something to eat?”

CJ finished reading the proposal from North West Abattoirs. They had bought the deal thanks to Francey’s sincerity in delivering both the truth and a workable solution. Les had reported that she had done a fine job down there. She had come over as sincere and the workers — some of them pretty hard cases — had responded to her straightaway. He nodded approvingly, he’d known they would.