The White Earth (30 page)

All John knew was that, at long last, Kuran Station was within his sights. So let his neighbours sneer. They would still be digging away at their little blocks long after he was gone. Harriet, however, did not find things so simple. She had hoped that Dudley’s passing would allow her to engage with the world again, but the rumours and innuendo that spread about town, and amongst her neighbours, humiliated her profoundly. It wasn’t just the inference that they had exploited Dudley, or robbed him, or perhaps (who knew?) even hastened his end with neglect and alcohol. What was worse were the old stories that emerged about the three of them, from long ago, before the war. There were whispered speculations — exactly what had happened between the two men and Harriet? Exactly who had been whose lover? Did something scandalous lie at the root of it all?

In the years following Dudley’s death, she abandoned her old pastimes. Her friends discovered a distance and distrust in her, and gradually they dropped away. John was no support. Her sorrows were an irrelevance to him. He expected nothing from her any more, beyond running the house and cooking his meals. (Not even physical contact — that had ceased, once and for all, the moment Dudley crept into their daughter’s bed.) Indeed, Harriet was becoming the strange, reclusive wife of an even stranger man, her life hidden in his shadow. And looming over both of them was a darkness from the distant past — the name McIvor itself. The memory of John’s father still lived in older minds, and so did the odium that went along with it. This sentiment was resurgent, now that John was becoming a large landowner in his own right. It was too much like history repeating itself.

In late 1968, after yet another splendid wheat harvest, and with a sense of momentous fulfilment, John began making discreet inquiries about purchasing Kuran Station. The owner was open to discussion. Maybe next year, the agent said, maybe the year after. But he had a warning. John knew, didn’t he, that the old mansion on the property was a wreck? That it was abandoned, in fact, apart from an old caretaker woman, and should probably be demolished? He didn’t expect to live in it, did he? John suppressed his impatience, and said nothing. The House would keep. And a small delay meant nothing when the great goal was so very close, after so many years.

But then, intruding on his satisfaction and anticipation, the dreams returned. The same burning figure, standing watchful and silent. What was it?
Who
was it? Oliver Fisher? A phantom, that was all. But John found, even after waking from the nightmares, that a fear still lingered. Often he was compelled to get out of bed and search the house, or to stand on the back verandah and stare into the night, looking for something or someone that might be there. One day, while he was in Brisbane on business, he saw a telescope in the window of a nautical antique shop. Almost without volition, he walked in and bought the instrument. He took it home and set it up on his back verandah. Late at night he would use it to sweep the plains, straining at the eyepiece. And every time he found a light, he waited breathlessly to see if it shimmered and moved and took shape. It was madness, he knew. There was nothing to see out there but the lights of cars and houses. And yet he felt helpless to stop himself.

Then there was Ruth. She had completed her studies, and was working in Brisbane, and that should have been pleasing. And yet it wasn’t. With every visit home she seemed stranger, her ideas more alien, the distance between father and daughter more unbridgeable. For years John had ignored the warning signs as best he could, trusting that time, and the culmination of his own plans, would set everything right between them. But then in 1969, just as the negotiations for Kuran Station were firming up, Ruth returned for what would be her last visit.

She brought a man with her, and announced that he was her husband.

Chapter Thirty-one

O
N THE DAY OF RUTH’S ARRIVAL, WILLIAM AWOKE LATE TO FIND that the House had ceased to run before the weather. There were no more creaks or groans from the timbers, no shudder in the floorboards — everything seemed hushed. He rose and ventured out onto the porch. A baleful sun glared through smoke that hung motionless over the mountains, and across the plains the haze lay like a flat sheet. Some time during the night, the westerly must have frittered away and died. Now nothing moved anywhere. Heat prickled on William’s neck, and he felt a quiet thrill of dismay. They were becalmed. It was as if the House had passed through the outer gales of some great barren cyclone, and finally reached the eye, a place of deathly stillness.

In William’s ear, the ache pulsed anew.

He spent the morning roaming restlessly about the halls. It was so silent that there might have been no one else in the building. His mother was hidden away, sunk in gloom, and his uncle was alone in the white room, brooding privately upon the approach of his daughter. Finally, oppressed by this lonely waiting, William resolved to stand guard upon the porch. It seemed that
he
at least should be there when Ruth arrived. To greet her and, if indeed she was a threat, to show that he was ready to defend his territory. He donned his captain’s hat, seeking reassurance from the authority of the metal badge. Then he set up a chair, deep in the shade of the verandah, and watched.

But no one came. Great gleaming black horseflies circled about the garden. The wind had driven them off in previous days, but here in the doldrums they had crawled forth, hungry and clinging. One of them alighted on William’s ear and he batted it away. It kept coming back, crawling about on his lobe as if it wanted to burrow inside the canal. It was disgusting. And it seemed to bring with it the scent of rotting that William remembered from the rally — faintly revolting, but impossible to pinpoint. Time crept by. William sprawled in the chair, staring out at the shimmers of heat on the plains. He felt he was alone in the hot focus of nowhere, a netherworld to which the wind had driven him and then, satisfied with itself, abandoned him. His head sank to his chest.

And thus it was that when Ruth McIvor arrived, all she found amidst the junk on the porch was a thin, barefoot boy wearing a strange hat, fast asleep in the middle of the afternoon.

‘Excuse me.’

William was dreaming of horseflies, giant ones that hummed like bees. When he opened his eyes a black car sat in the drive, and an unknown woman stood upon the steps, frowning at him.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘Captain Bill,’ he said, still half in his dream.

She blinked. ‘I’m here to see my father.’

William fought his way out of sleep. This was the daughter! She had caught him unawares after all.

She said,‘Can you tell me where I’d find Mrs Griffith?’

William continued to stare. She was so old! Older than his mother even, by far. He had expected someone younger. It was because of the word ‘daughter’, he realised belatedly. But this woman looked at least fifty, with a narrow face, deeply lined, and close-cut, greying hair. She was dressed in a dark suit, and radiated a tense severity.

‘Mrs Griffith?’ she repeated. ‘Is she around?’

He spoke finally. ‘I don’t know.’

The frown turned quizzical.‘Do you live here?’

William nodded. ‘With my mother.’ He was puzzled. Didn’t she know who he was? He had assumed that the housekeeper had told the daughter all about him.

‘Your mother? What does she do here?’

He cast about for an answer.‘Uncle John said we could move in.’

‘
Uncle?
’

‘I mean, great uncle.’

‘Oh.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘
Oh
.’ She studied him with full attention finally.‘You must be my cousin’s son. I haven’t seen him in years. And your mother’s name is Veronica, isn’t it?’ But the frown remained.‘I don’t understand. I thought they had a farm.’

‘Dad died.’

‘Died?’ She mused on this. ‘I didn’t know.’ Then she glanced around again. ‘I was really hoping Mrs Griffith would be here.’

No, William thought. The housekeeper had set her plans in motion, and now she would remain in the shadows to watch them unfold. She might be observing them even at this moment, from the corner of some window. But she wouldn’t come forth.

Instead, William’s mother appeared in the doorway, her face pinched unhappily.

‘Ruth,’ she said.

‘Veronica,’ returned the newcomer levelly. ‘I’m sorry. No one told me my father had other people in the House.’

William’s mother nodded, her eyes dropping to the front of her dress, where her hands clutched at the material.‘You’d better come in.’

They passed into the entry hall, and William followed. It was sweltering indoors. He watched as Ruth took in the shabby walls and cluttered passages of her father’s home.

She took a deep breath. ‘So how is he?’

‘He’s better than he was,’ William’s mother answered, wary.

‘Better? Then he isn’t…?’

‘I don’t know what Mrs Griffith told you.’

Ruth’s shoulders stiffened. ‘She said he was dying.’

‘No … not any more.’

‘She said he was asking for me.’

‘I don’t know anything about that either.’

‘I see.’ The daughter flushed. ‘There seems to have been a mistake.’

‘I could find Mrs Griffith if you want.’

‘No … I don’t really know her. She was just supposed to call me if…’ She trailed off and glanced back towards the front door, tight lipped.

So the housekeeper had lied, and now the daughter knew it. William caught a furtive gleam of hope in his mother’s eyes. ‘I could tell him you called,’ she said carefully, ‘if you don’t think you should stay.’

But at that, Ruth turned her head and studied the younger woman for a long moment. Then, strangely, she smiled, and for the first time William saw the ghost of his uncle in her.

‘So how long have
you
been living here, Veronica?’

The gleam blinked out. ‘Four months now.’

‘And your husband was…?’

‘Killed. In an accident.’

‘And my father was kind enough to take you in.’

William’s mother nodded, curling in on herself.

Ruth was still smiling.‘I’m glad. It must be nice for him, to have some company about.’ She glanced down at William. ‘Especially someone young. What was your name again?’

‘William.’

‘After your dad, of course. You like living in this big house, do you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Shouldn’t you be at school? Or is it holidays?’

‘He’s sick,’ William’s mother broke in.‘He’s got glandular fever.’

‘It’s nothing serious, I hope.’

‘No. He’ll be fine.’

A silence fell. William looked from one woman to the other, sensing an unspoken battle of wills, delicately poised. He was also uncomfortably aware of the contrast the two made, and that his mother came away the poorer. Maybe it was just her old floral dress, faded and drab against the visitor’s more sophisticated clothes, or her wispy mouse-brown hair against the older woman’s striking grey. But whatever it was, his mother looked insubstantial, a wan, weaker woman.

Finally, Ruth spoke.‘So … he’s in his room?’

William’s mother hesitated, then gave a sullen nod of defeat.

‘And where is that?’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know the way. I’ve never been here before.’

‘Oh,’ William’s mother stared in amazement.‘It’s up the stairs. The west wing, last room on the right.’

‘Thank you. I’ll be fine on my own.’

‘You should watch the floors.’

Ruth paused, an eyebrow raised.

‘For holes,’ William’s mother concluded, faint.

‘I will,’ said the daughter, and began climbing.

William watched her until she disappeared through the partition. This wasn’t what he’d been expecting at all. How could it be that Ruth had never even been inside the House before? Her father had lived on the property for over twenty years — had she never visited in all that time?

His mother looked away from the stairs. ‘Come on,’ she said, her voice flat. ‘Let’s leave them to it. They don’t need you or me any more.’

Together they went back out to the front porch. His mother sank into the chair and William sat on the top step. They didn’t speak for some time. The afternoon was lengthening, but the heat remained, stultifying, and still no breath of wind stirred the air. All was silent, a limbo world, miles from anywhere. Ruth’s car crouched in the driveway.

‘Should I get her bags?’ William asked.

‘She can get them herself, if she has any.’

‘Isn’t she going to be staying?’

‘That’s up to her.’ His mother lifted her eyes to the second storey.‘And your uncle, I suppose.’

William thought.‘Do they really hate each other?’

‘That’s what I was always told.’

‘Why?’

‘Christ, I don’t know. It was years ago. There was a falling out — I think she took up with some man your Uncle John didn’t like.’

‘Who?’

‘Just some man. It doesn’t matter. He left her, long ago.’

But there was another question, one William had been wondering about ever since he had learnt of Ruth’s existence. ‘Mum … does Uncle John have a wife?’

‘He did.’

‘Where is she now?’

‘Will, please! I can’t explain everything. Not right his second.’

William subsided. His mother tapped a foot restlessly, her head on an angle. She was listening for noises from the upper floor. William looked towards the ceiling. What was happening up there? What could they possibly be talking about, after so long apart? But the minutes inched by, ten, twenty, thirty, and still Ruth did not come down.

‘She has her father’s eyes,’ his mother said hopelessly, to no one.

In the end it was almost an hour before Ruth came back out to the porch. She was fumbling in her pockets as she emerged, and brought forth a pack of cigarettes. She lit one up and sucked in the smoke with a long, shuddering breath. The time with her father had changed her — or maybe it was the heat of the upstairs rooms. She looked exhausted, her face sheened with sweat, her clothes wilted. She would go now, William thought. She would take out her keys and, without another word, climb into her car and drive off, never to be seen again.