desert. The great Monet himself might have been interested in seeing her huge canvases of waterlilies, Bryn thought. As well as using traditional earth pigments, the familiar ochres, she used vibrant acrylics to express her Dreaming.
‘I thought we might have seen the last of her,’ Francesca confided. ‘Nellie is a real nomad. But she came back. She’d been on a very long walkabout that took her up into the Territory. Imagine walking all that way. And at her age! Goodness knows how old she is. She’s been around for as long as anyone can remember. It’s unbelievable.’
Bryn’s mind was swept back to the day when Francesca had almost drowned, but for miraculous intervention. He vividly remembered the old woman—the way she had vanished from the face of the earth but had in all probability gone walkabout. For him that day had amounted to a religious experience. He could still see Carina’s small straight back, her long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. She had been facing Koopali, fixed to the ground. He would never forget the way she had started screaming…
The little group of painters, gracious and well-mannered, came to their feet, exchanging handshakes with Bryn. Four pairs of eyes fixed themselves on him.
‘Big fella bin gone,’ Nellie announced in a deep quiet voice. Her curly head was snow-white, her eyes remarkably clear and sharp for so old a woman. It was obvious she had been appointed spokeswoman.
Bryn inclined his dark head in salute. ‘Yesterday, Nellie. A massive heart attack. I’m here to take Francesca back with me.’
Nellie reached out and touched his arm. ‘Better here,’ she said, frowning darkly, as though seriously concerned for Francesca’s welfare. She searched Bryn’s face so carefully she might have been seeing him for the first time. Or was she trying to see into his soul? ‘Your job look after her, byamee.’
‘Don’t worry, Nellie, I will,’ he answered gravely. He knew byamee was a term of respect—a name given to someone of high degree. He only hoped he would be worthy of that honour. He recalled with a sharp pang of grief that the tribal people had called his grandfather byamee. He had never in all the long years heard it applied to Sir Frank.
A look of relief settled on Nellie’s wise old face. ‘You remember now. I bin telling ya. Not over.’ All of a sudden her breath began to labour.
Francesca reacted at once. ‘Nellie, dear, you mustn’t worry. Everything is going to be fine.’ She drew the tiny bent frame beneath her arm. ‘Now, why don’t we show Bryn what we’ve been doing?’ she suggested bracingly. ‘You know how much he loves and appreciates indigenous art.’
It sprang to Bryn’s mind how Carina had once passed off her young cousin’s desire to promote the work of indigenous artists as ‘trying to exorcise the fact she’s an heiress by working among the aborigines.’
Carina wasn’t only callous, she could be remarkably blind—especially when it came to perceiving what was good. She was no judge of Francesca’s work. Francesca Forsyth was a multi-gifted young woman. His mind ran back to the many times he and Francey had got into discussions, not only about Titan, but about the various projects handled—or mishandled might be a better word—by the Forsyth Foundation. Francey had a seriously good brain. When he was in a position to do so, he would endeavour to get her elected to the board, no matter her youth. Hell, he was still considered very young himself, though youth wasn’t the issue it once was. It was more about ability. And Francey was ready for it. She had inherited her father Lionel’s formidable head for business. His grandmother had confirmed that with an ironic smile.
‘When it comes right down to it Francey, not Carina, would make the greatest contribution. Only as fate would have it Carina is the apple of Frank’s eye. He never was much of a judge of character.’
It was as they were taking their leave that Nellie found a moment to speak to Bryn alone. She raised her snowy white head a long way, trying to look him squarely in the eye. ‘You bin her family now,’ she said, as though impressing on him his responsibility. ‘Others gunna do all in their power to destroy her.’
‘Nellie—’
She cut him off. ‘You know that well as me. She sees good in everyone. Even those who will turn against her.’
He already knew that. ‘They will seek to destroy me too, Nellie.’ He spoke as if she were not a nomadic tribal woman but a trusted business ally. Moreover he saw nothing incongruous about it. These people had many gifts. Prescience was a part of them.
‘Won’t happen,’ she told him, her weathered face creasing with scorn. ‘You strong. You bin ready. This time you get justice.’
She might have been delivering a speech, and it was one he heard loud and clear.
* * *
They were in the station Jeep, speeding back to the homestead, with the silver-shot mirage pulsing all around them. The native drums had started up, reverberating across the plains to the ancient eroded hills glowing fiery red in the heat. Other drums were joining in, taking up the beat—tharum, tharum—a deeply primitive sound that was extraordinarily thrilling. They were calling back and forth to each other, seemingly from miles away. The sound came from the North, the North-West.
It was a signal, Bryn and Francesca realised. Now that Bryn’s coming had made it official, the message was being sent out over the vast station and the untameable land.
Francis Forsyth’s spirit had passed. Consequences would follow.
‘Nellie fears for me,’ Francesca said. ‘It looked like she was handing on lots of warnings to you?’ Her tone pressed him for information.
‘Your well-being is important to her and her friends.’ Bryn glanced back at her. She had taken off her straw hat, throwing it onto the back seat. Now he could fully appreciate her beautiful fine-boned face, which always seemed to him radiant with sensitivity. She was far more beautiful than her cousin. Her looks were on a different scale. The thick shiny rope of her hair was held by a coloured elastic band at the end and a blue and purple silk scarf at the top. Incredibly, her eyes had taken on a wash of violet. ‘You’ve been wonderfully helpful to them as a patron, and best of all your motives are entirely pure.’
‘Of course they are.’ She dismissed that important point as if it went without saying. ‘It looked like matters of grave importance?’
‘Isn’t your welfare just that?’ he parried.
‘Who is likely to hurt me?’ she appealed to him. ‘I’m not important in anyone’s eyes—least of all poor Grandfather. God rest his troubled soul. I do know he had his bad times.’
Why wouldn’t he? Bryn inwardly raged, but let it go. ‘You’re a Forsyth, Francey,’ he reminded her gravely. ‘It’s to be expected you’ll receive a substantial fortune in your grandfather’s will. It’s not as though there isn’t plenty to go around. He was a billionaire many times over.’
‘A huge responsibility!’ There was a weight of feeling in her voice. ‘Too much money is a curse. Men who build up great fortunes make it extremely difficult for their heirs.’
She was thinking of her uncle Charles. So was Bryn. ‘I think there’s an old proverb, either Chinese or Persian, that says: “The larger a man’s roof, the more snow it collects.” Charles, God help him, has had a bad time of it. I can almost feel sorry for him. Frank treated him very unkindly from his earliest
