Where the River Runs Page 8

  ‘It’s dinnertime,’ she answered. ‘We should have this discussion when Aria is asleep.’ She pushed past him and went into the kitchen. Quickly she washed the potatoes and started to slice them, before peeling the apple and carrot and slicing the cabbage to make a coleslaw.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ Aria said, coming into the kitchen. Her wet hair wasn’t brushed but she held her brush out to Chelsea.

  ‘That’s lucky, there are chops and salad tonight.’ She started brushing her daughter’s tangled hair.

  ‘Where’s Papa?’

  ‘Probably in his office. Here you go. Take that back to your bedroom, honey.’

  Aria grabbed the brush and headed out of the kitchen, but she stopped and came back. ‘Mummy, you’re being funny.’

  ‘About what?’ she answered distractedly. The words suddenly hit Chelsea and she looked up. ‘I’m not being funny. Well, I’m not laughing. What do you mean?’

  ‘Like that time when Tori’s goldfish died. You were funny.’

  Chelsea had to think about that and she realised that she hadn’t wanted to tell Aria about the death, so she’d probably acted ‘funny’ in the bathroom …

  ‘Oh! Sometimes talking about my brother makes me sad, so I probably acted a bit strange, and being here reminds me of him and my mum.’ The pot on the stove was boiling and she quickly scooped the pile of potatoes into it and threw in a heavy pinch of salt.

  ‘Are you feeling sad, Mummy? Like when the goldfish died?’

  Chelsea stopped and looked at her, her stomach constricting. ‘I guess I am.’

  The solemn little face looked up at her. ‘Do you need a hug?’

  Chelsea gave a little laugh. ‘Yes, please.’ She held out her arms and said, ‘It is “funny” being back here. It’s been a long time since I’ve been home.’

  ‘When are we going home?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Not until after Christmas at least.’ Now wasn’t the time to tell her there was nothing to go back to Sydney for, and the casual job playing in a bar in Adelaide had fizzled out. She hadn’t even admitted to herself that she wasn’t sure what she was going to do now.

  ‘Okay.’ Aria skipped out of the room.

  ‘You can set the table when you’ve finished doing that!’ Chelsea called after her. She stopped as the words came out of her mouth; she sounded just like her mum. She’d heard her friends say sometimes they just opened their mouths and their mothers came out, but it had never happened to her before.

  Suddenly she was four again, running behind her mum with the knives and forks while Dale followed with the plates. ‘The fork to the left and the knife to the right,’ her mother would chant. Chelsea wanted to clap her hands in time to the memory. That’s what she’d done when she was a kid. ‘The fork to the left and the knife to the right …’ One, two full beats then three short, sharp semiquavers, before going back to the whole beat. She’d never sung it to Aria and she wasn’t sure if she should with her dad within hearing.

  It seemed as if they were tiptoeing around a great big elephant in the room, not talking about Pip. The counsellor she’d been to see after she’d got off the cruise ship had told her it was good to talk about the person who’d died. Mention their name and speak about them. But she was treading on eggshells wondering how her dad would react.

  As if she’d summoned him, her father walked in. ‘I don’t like mashed potatoes,’ he said as he saw the boiled potatoes she was about to mash sitting on the bench.

  ‘What?’ Chelsea looked at him blankly. ‘Yes, you do.’ She knew her mum had always made up extra helpings of mash when she cooked it, so he could have it for lunch the next day.

  ‘No, I don’t. I don’t like the texture.’

  ‘But … Mum used to … Is this a new thing?’

  ‘New? No. Never liked them.’

  Stifling the annoyance that rose within her, she asked, ‘How would you like me to cook them for you?’

  ‘In the oven.’

  Chelsea found another potato and wiped oil over it in preparation. ‘What did the detective say when he phoned?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing much.’ Her father turned to leave.

  ‘Did he show you the brooch?’

  ‘Couldn’t show me over the phone. He described it.’ Tom sounded noncommittal and it made Chelsea think he wasn’t being truthful.

  ‘Have you seen it before?’

  ‘No.’

  Chelsea’s head snapped up. ‘You don’t sound sure.’

  ‘Why would I have seen it? I don’t know anything about a brooch.’ His voice became loud and before Chelsea had a chance to respond, he turned and stormed out of the kitchen.

  ‘What?’ She stood staring after him incredulously, her hands half raised. There was something wrong with her dad. Sure, she’d expected him to be bitter towards her, and perhaps even angry. But not secretive and petulant.

  The water pump outside came on, indicating Tom was in the shower. Quickly, Chelsea went into her father’s office and looked for the book he always used for taking notes of phone calls. Since she was small it had been his habit to take notes so he could refer back to them later, especially if he was on a business phone call. ‘You can never trust your memory,’ he used to say. ‘Even if you’re one hundred percent positive you remember a conversation one way, you can be guaranteed someone else will remember it another way.’

  Tom’s desk was covered in papers, a far cry from the neat desk that Chelsea remembered. Maybe it was her mum who had always tidied it and this state was normal for him. Somehow she didn’t think so.

  Seeing the foolscap book next to the phone, she flipped it open to read what notes he’d written. The pages were blank save for a few doodles and a phone number. She cast around for another book, thinking the one on the desk must be new. There didn’t seem to be any others.

  The niggling feeling that something wasn’t right with her dad hit her more strongly now. There were a lot of small incidents, but they added up to something troubling.

  Frowning, she went back into the kitchen to check the dinner, wondering if she had time to go over to the overseer’s house to talk to Cal. Maybe he’d know something. If he’d talk to her.

  Cal had been stand-offish with her the whole time she’d been here. Probably with good reason. He would’ve known she hadn’t returned for her mother’s funeral and, in most people’s estimation, that was unforgivable. Still, he didn’t know the full story. No one in Barker did.

  It was clear, however, he liked and respected her dad, so maybe that would help.

  Closing the door quietly behind her, she ducked out into the heat and walked swiftly across the yard. It didn’t take long for the heat to bring out sweat on her brow, even with the sun about to sink below the horizon. She stopped and looked to the west, where the sun was throwing its final rays onto the ranges. The tips were purple and pink, while the bases were a deep blue. The moon was above the hills; even with the sun still showing itself, she was casting an eerie glow. Chelsea’s skin prickled at the sight and she wished she had a camera to capture the beauty of the landscape.

  ‘Pretty, isn’t it?’

  Cal’s voice came from behind her and she jumped.

  ‘I didn’t hear you there,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’ Turning, she realised he must be coming back from a run; she’d never seen him dressed in anything but jeans and a blue work shirt. In fact, if her girlfriend Tori had been here, they would’ve joked that he must own at least seven blue work shirts or else he washed the same one every night.

  Tonight he was wearing shorts and a singlet and she could see he had the physique of a runner.

  ‘I didn’t know you ran,’ she said, then felt like a twit. Why would she? She’d had nothing to do with him!

  ‘Yep, every night. Helps clear the mind.’

  ‘Good habit.’ She tried to remember the last time she’d done any form of exercise. Probably before Aria was born. Her pelvic floor wouldn’t hold up to anything bouncy or strenuous, she was sure.
A fly buzzed around her sweaty brow and she flicked it away.

  ‘Are you going for a walk?’ Cal asked. ‘Better stick to the roads since it’s almost dark. You might get lost otherwise.’

  Chelsea frowned. Was that a dig that she hadn’t been here for a long time? ‘Actually,’ she said, sticking her chin in the air, ‘I was coming to talk to you.’

  ‘Really?’ Cal crossed his arms. ‘What about?’

  ‘Dad.’

  Cal didn’t answer, instead he lunged into a calf stretch and didn’t look at her.

  ‘I think there’s something wrong with him.’ Chelsea averted her eyes; she didn’t want him thinking she was admiring his physique.

  Still silence.

  ‘He’s acting strangely,’ Chelsea pressed on. ‘He told me tonight he didn’t like mashed potatoes.’

  Cal looked up at her and raised his eyebrows. She realised how stupid that comment sounded without the back story.

  ‘I mean …’ Trying again, she said, ‘He’s always loved mashed potatoes. Mum used to make them all the time for him.’

  ‘Bloke can change his mind.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Look Chelsea, I don’t know what you expected when you turned up back here, but have a think about it from Tom’s perspective. You haven’t been back home for who knows how long. You didn’t come to your mother’s funeral. It was me who got your dad through that—sat and listened to him talk or cry. Me who made all the excuses under the sun for you, a woman I didn’t even know, when you didn’t bother to phone him and tell him you weren’t coming or ask what happened. There was total silence from you until about a month afterwards. And even then it was just a phone call. Not a visit.’ He stood up straight, a look of disgust on his face.

  Chelsea wanted to take a step back; she felt as if she’d been slapped. Instead she stood her ground as he continued to admonish her.

  Cal continued. ‘I think you’ve got to expect some things have changed and if he doesn’t like potatoes anymore, then who cares? Maybe you don’t cook them like Pip did. Cook him something else.’

  ‘Right.’ Hearing her mum’s name tumble so effortlessly out of his mouth made her remember Cal had known her. He knew more about her parents than she did, and it left her feeling empty.

  The sun had gone now and the beauty of the evening with it. Chelsea started to walk back to the house, but she could feel Cal watching her, so she stopped and turned to face him. ‘Do you know why I didn’t come back?’ she asked.

  ‘No. There isn’t an excuse that would wash with me. There won’t be an excuse that washes with your father. Not being at your mother’s funeral is unforgivable.’

  The anger that bubbled up inside her was almost at boiling point. How she managed to keep her tone calm, she wasn’t sure. ‘I didn’t come back because I didn’t find out about my mother’s death until everything was all over and done with.’

  Chelsea walked away to the sound of his stony silence.

  Chapter 9

  The dinner table was quiet. Chelsea was still smarting from her run-in with Cal, and Tom seemed to have nothing he wanted to talk about. Aria was watching both of them with wide eyes but seemed to know not to chatter.

  Finally, Chelsea put down her knife and fork and looked at her daughter. ‘You know how I said there was something I wanted to talk to you about, Aria? I hear there’s a Christmas pageant in Barker on Sunday. Would you like to go?’

  ‘What’s a pageant?’

  ‘A parade of all things Christmassy. Decorated cars, dancers, that sort of thing. And you know what the best bit is?’

  Aria shook her head.

  ‘Father Christmas always comes and you get to sit on his knee and tell him what you want for Christmas.’ Aria gave a squeal of delight and Tom looked up from his meal.

  ‘Is it that close to Christmas already?’ Tom glanced around the kitchen as if seeing it for the first time. ‘Would you like me to get a pine tree to decorate for Christmas?’ he asked Aria.

  ‘A real tree? In the house? Wow!’ Aria’s excitement was contagious.

  ‘That’s what we used to do all the time. I’ll take a trip to Barker and see if we can get some decorations.’

  ‘There’ll be some in the cellar.’ Tom looked over at the cellar door. ‘That’s where Pip always kept them.’

  There was silence at the mention of her mum’s name, then Chelsea said, ‘Great, I’ll look for them tomorrow.’

  ‘And, Aria,’ said Tom, ‘I think you and I might have a little job to do. We have to go to the shed tonight and check something out, okay?’

  ‘Okay, Papa. What is it?’

  ‘A secret!’ He touched his finger to his lips and smiled at her.

  Aria’s eyes couldn’t get any wider, Chelsea was sure.

  ‘Were there pageants when you were little, Mummy?’

  ‘Uh-huh. One Christmas my friend Lily and I rode our horses in it.’

  ‘Really?’

  Chelsea laughed at her daughter’s face. ‘We did. Pinto, that was my horse, he had tinsel around his bridle and woven into his mane and tail. Lily’s horse didn’t like the shininess, so we just tied baubles on her tail so she couldn’t see them and get frightened. Pinto was bombproof, so he just plodded down the main street like he was walking through a paddock. The yelling and cheering didn’t bother him at all. Didn’t bother either of the horses, actually. Then another year, I was on a float.’

  ‘Were you dressed up like a fairy?’ Aria got the question in before Chelsea could say anything more.

  ‘No, not a fairy. A cowgirl. Think it was the float for school and we had to dress up as our favourite character out of a book. I can remember Kelly, another school friend, went as George from the Famous Five.’

  ‘Who did you go as?’

  ‘Norah, from the Billabong series. Oh! I should read them to you while we’re here, Aria. They were my favourite books when I was just a bit older than you, but I still think you’d like them. The books should be here somewhere, shouldn’t they, Dad?’

  ‘Probably in the cellar too,’ he muttered before taking another mouthful.

  ‘I’ll see if I can find them.’ There was a pause before Chelsea continued her story. ‘The pageant would finish at the old folks’ home and Father Christmas would be there. We’d get to sit on his knee and tell him what we wanted for Christmas. Then the whole town would sing Christmas carols by candlelight. That’s when you used to arrive, Dad. Just in time for the singing. Do they still do that?’ she asked, looking over at him then quickly looking away as she saw a glistening in his eyes.

  ‘Uh …’ muttered Tom.

  Chelsea didn’t know which way to look. He wasn’t crying but he was close to it. She felt the urge to apologise for upsetting him. For talking about the past.

  She heard a movement and looked up to see Aria get off her chair and go to her grandfather. She put her hand on his arm and looked up at him. ‘Are you sad?’ she asked. ‘Mummy’s always told me it’s okay to cry.’

  Tom patted her hand and cleared his throat. ‘Do you want to go to the shed and find the secret?’

  Aria nodded and slipped her hand into his.

  Opening her mouth, Chelsea tried to say something, but her voice wouldn’t work. Her chest was so full, it felt like her heart was about to explode. Aria had said the exact words she had always said to her … The ones Chelsea’s mum had said to her when she’d been little. ‘It’s okay to cry.’

  Tom ran his spare hand roughly over his face and when he looked over at Chelsea he was smiling. ‘Come on then,’ he said gruffly, and he pushed his chair back, disappearing out the door before Aria could catch him.

  Later that night, Chelsea opened the door into the cellar and cautiously took the first step down into the darkness. She held the torch in front of her, knowing that when she got to the bottom, the light switch would be on the left-hand side of the door frame. She was still grappling with the way that everything on Shandona was still so familiar, even after a
ll these years.

  The stone and wooden steps were uneven and she knew she had to be careful. Her Great-Grandfather Baxter, who used to live on Shandona, would say every time someone went down these stairs: ‘You’ll fall to your death going down there …’

  Chelsea remembered Baxter quite well, even though she was six when he died. They’d both loved music. Baxter was her father’s grandfather and outlived his wife, Adelia, by twelve months. In the time he’d lived in the family homestead, he’d shouted words of wisdom from the old faded armchair in the sitting room while Chelsea’s grandmother cared for him. When people complained about the lack of rain, his favourite response was always: ‘A farmer has to be a gambler. There’s no way he could do what he does otherwise.’

  The steps down into the cellar reminded her of the treasure hunt her parents had organised for her birthday one year. There’d been a lively discussion over whether the girls from school should be allowed to search in the cellar, but her mum had won out and one of the clues had been: Where the sunlight never reaches, and it is always cool.

  The girls had followed the clues down, down, with a few squeals of fear and excitement, only to find Dale waiting for them at the bottom, wearing a gremlin mask, making horrible noises! Dale had been a trickster, a practical joker. Like the time Pip had asked him to mow the lawn. Dale had mustered the closest mob of sheep and put them on the lawn. That joke had backfired badly after the ewes ate part of Pip’s garden and trampled the rest. Chelsea remembered her mum’s reaction: a few short choice words and a punishment of community service—her own as Dale had to work for free and restore the garden to its former glory.

  Her thoughts drifted to her mum’s death. She felt so guilty over not being here. Not knowing. Not supporting her dad. Her counsellor had told her that guilt was a wasted emotion—there was no point in beating herself up about it. Her work hadn’t allowed her to return once she’d found out. Or maybe she’d thought that if she stayed away, then it wouldn’t be real, and she’d used her work as an excuse.