heard the irony Sir Frank had missed.
‘Fantastic, Sir Francis!’ Bryn had added his own comment weakly, not wanting to offend the great Sir Francis Forsyth, his grandad’s lifelong friend and partner. Anyway the new homestead was fantastic—like a super-modern research station.
It faced him now. A massive one-storey building of steel, poured concrete and glass, four times as big as the original homestead, its only nod to tradition the broad covered verandahs that surrounded the structure on three sides. No use calling it a house or a home. It was a structure. Another monument to Sir Frank. The right kind of landscaping might have helped to soften the severity of the façade, but the approach was kept scrupulously clear. One was obviously entering a New Age Outback homestead.
Jili Dawson, the housekeeper, a strikingly attractive woman in her early fifties, greeted him with a dazzling smile and a light punch in the arm.
‘Long time, no see!’
‘Been busy, Jili.’ He smiled into liquid black eyes that were alight with affection. Jili’s eyes clearly showed her aboriginal blood, which came from her mother’s side. Her father had been a white stockman, but Jili identified far more with her mother’s family. Her skin was completely unlined, a polished amber, and her soft voice carried the familiar lullaby rhythms of her mother’s people. ‘I don’t suppose I’m lucky enough to find Francey at home?’ he asked, casting a glance into an entrance hall as big as a car park.
‘No way!’ Jili gave an open-handed expansive wave that took in the horizon. ‘She with the group, paintin’ out near Wungulla way. Hasn’t bin home for coupla days. She’s okay, though. Francey knows her way around. Besides, all our people look after her.’
‘Wasn’t that always the way, Jili?’ he said, thinking how close contact with the tribal people had enriched his own and Francey’s childhood. Carina had never been a part of any of that, holding herself aloof. ‘Listen, Jili, I’ve come with serious news. We didn’t let you know yesterday because I was coming to fetch Francey and tell her in person.’
‘The man’s dead.’ Jili spoke very calmly, as though the event had already cast its shadow—or as if it was written on his forehead.
‘Who told you?’ He frowned. ‘Did one of the other stations contact you?’ News got around, even in the remote Inland. On the other hand Jili had the uncanny occult gift of tribal people in foretelling the future.
Jili rocked back and forth slowly. ‘Just knew what you were gunna say before you said it. That was one helluva man. Good and evil. Plagued by devils, but devils of his own makin’. We know that, both of us. I honoured your fine, wise grandad, and your dear dad. A great tragedy when he bin killed in that rock fall. But they’re with their ancestors now. They look down from the stars that shine on us at night. I have strong feelings for your family. You bin very kind to me. Treat me right. Lot rests on your shoulders, Bryn, now Humpty Dumpty has gone and fallen off the wall. What I want to know is this—is it gunna change things for Jacob and me? Are we gunna lose our jobs?’
Jacob Dawson, Jili’s husband, also part aboriginal, was a long-time leading hand on the station—one of the best. In Bryn’s opinion Daramba couldn’t do without either of them. And Jacob would make a far better overseer than the present one, Roy Forster, who relied far too heavily on Jacob and his diverse skills.
‘It all has to be decided, Jili,’ he said, with a heartfelt sigh. ‘Charles will inherit. I can’t speak for him. He can’t even speak for himself at the moment. He’s in deep shock.’
Jili looked away, unseeing. ‘Thought his dad was gunna live for ever,’ she grunted. ‘Seems he was as human as the rest of us. How have the rest of ’em reacted?’ She turned to stare into Bryn’s brilliant dark eyes. They were almost as black as her own, yet different because of their diamond glitter.
‘Some are in shock,’ he said. ‘Some are in surprisingly good cheer,’ he added dryly.
‘Well, wait on the will,’ Jili advised. ‘See if he try to put things to rights. There’s an accounting, ya know.’
Bryn didn’t answer. In any case, it was much too late now. His grandfather and his father were gone. He came to stand beside her, both of them looking out at the quicksilver mirage. They both knew it was the end of something. The end of an era, certainly. But the fight was still on.
Jili was watching him. She thought of Bryn Macallan as a prince, grave and beautiful; a prince who acknowledged all his subjects. A prince who was ready to come into his rightful inheritance. She laid a gentle, respectful hand on his shoulder. ‘I promise you it be right in the end, Bryn. But a warning you must heed. There’s a bad spell ahead. Mind Francey. That cousin of hers is just waitin’ to swoop like a hawk on a little fairy wren. Bad blood there.’
Wasn’t that his own fear?
He changed up a gear as he came on a great sweep of tall grasses that covered the flat, fiery red earth. Their tips were like golden feathers blowing in the wind. It put him in mind of the open savannahs of the tropical North. That was the effect of all the miraculous rain. The four-wheel drive cut its way through the towering grasses like a bulldozer, flattening them and creating a path before they sprang up again, full of sap and resilience. A lone emu ducked away on long grey legs. It had all but been hidden in its luxuriant camouflage as it fed on shoots and seeds. The beautiful ghost gums, regarded by most as the quintessential eucalypt but not a eucalypt at all, stood sentinel to the silky blue sky, glittering grasses at their feet. It was their opal-white boles that made them instantly recognisable.
A string of billabongs lay to his right. He caught the glorious flashy wings of parrots diving in and out of the Red River gums. Australia—the land of parrots! Such a brilliant range of colours: scarlet, turquoise, emerald, violet, an intense orange and a bright yellow. Francey, when six, had nearly drowned in one of those lagoons—the middle one, Koopali. It was the deepest and the longest, with permanent water even in drought. In that year the station had been blessed with good spring rains, so Koopali, which could in flood become a raging monster, had been running a bumper. On that day it had been Carina who had stood by, a terrified witness, unable to move to go to her cousin’s assistance, as though all strength had been drained out of her nine-year-old body.
It was a miracle Bryn had come upon them so quickly. Magic was as good an answer as any. A sobbing, inconsolable Carina had told them much later on that they had wandered away from the main group and, despite her warnings, Francey had insisted on getting too close to the deep lagoon. With its heavy load of waterlilies a child could get enmeshed in the root system of all the aquatic plants and be sucked under. Both girls could swim, but Francey at that time had been very vulnerable, being only a beginner and scarcely a year orphaned.
Could she really have disobeyed her older cousin’s warnings? Francey as a child had never been known to be naughty.
When it had been realised the two girls had wandered off, the party had split up in a panic. He had never seen people move so fast. Danger went hand in hand with the savage grandeur of the Outback. He had run and run, his heartbeats almost jammed with fear, heading for Koopali. Why had he done that? Because that was where one of the itinerant aboriginal women, frail and of a great age, had pointed with her message stick. He had acted immediately on her mysterious command. Yet how could she have known? She’d been almost blind.
‘Koopali,’ she had muttered, nodding and gesturing, marking the word with an emphatic down beat of her stick.
To this day he didn’t know why he had put such trust in her. But he had, arriving in time
