Jenny frowned. ‘Why keep it a secret if the history was that intriguing? I don’t understand.’
There was a long pause. ‘He knew you’d be upset,’ was the quiet reply.
‘Then why did he buy the damn’ place if he knew that?’ She took a deep breath. ‘You’re not making much sense, John. Is there something you’re not telling me?’
Another long silence. ‘How did you find out about the McCauleys?’
Two could play at that game. She returned his question with another. ‘Did Peter ever come out here, John?’
‘Not as far as I know. He was planning to make his first visit with you on your wedding anniversary. That’s when he was going to tell you the history of the place.’
‘But instead of that he died.’
John Wainwright cleared his throat. ‘Peter’s death meant I was to oversee the legal handover of Churinga in a particular way. He wanted you to visit the place, see what it was like and get used to the idea before you were told any more.’
‘Yeah, I can see why he’d have wanted me to fall in love with the place first.’ Jenny looked down at her hand. The locket was coiled in the palm snake-like – waiting to strike. ‘If Peter never came to Churinga, how come he gave me Matilda’s locket?’
‘He came across it during his research into the history of Churinga. But from where, he didn’t say,’ replied the lawyer quickly. ‘But to get on with the question of your inheritance: Peter was the most careful man I’ve ever met. He always took every contingency into account and insisted upon making his will and stipulating the order in which things should be done if the unthinkable happened. That’s why you’ve rather caught me on the hop. How did you find out about the McCauleys?’
‘Peter made a mistake. Missed a vital contingency. He didn’t come out here first.’ Jenny took a deep breath as she thought of the diaries. ‘How much do you know about the McCauleys, John?’
‘Nothing much.’ His tone changed, sharpened, and she had a fleeting suspicion that she’d missed something.
‘They were squatters. Some tragedy occurred and the property was put in trust for their child. The trust was being handled by one of our senior partners who’s since retired but evidently there had been some communication between the orphanage and this firm over the years because of the way the trust had been set up.’
‘So how did Peter get hold of Churinga? And what happened to the child?’
John’s silence stretched for so long Jenny thought the line had been disconnected. ‘John? You still there?’
In a deeply reluctant voice, he answered her. ‘Peter had done a great deal of research before coming to me. I told him all I knew, which wasn’t much. The child had disappeared and the convent was no help. The search was extensive, believe me. Peter was very thorough. But I must stress that everything has been handled according to the best legal practice. The deeds are yours and yours alone.’
‘So the trust was revoked?’
‘Something like that, yes. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help,’ he said lamely. ‘But Peter kept most of the story to himself.’
Jenny thought for a moment. ‘After all his careful planning, I’m surprised he didn’t leave a letter or something to explain,’ she said hopefully.
‘There was a letter originally,’ John Wainwright said slowly. ‘But he destroyed it, saying it was best if the history behind Churinga came from him. I suppose that despite all his carefully laid plans he never believed he wouldn’t be around to tell you.’
Frustration lodged like a lump in her throat and she quickly swallowed it. ‘So you never read this letter or knew its contents?’
‘No. It was a sealed letter he left in my safe-keeping to be opened only in the event of his death and after you had visited Churinga. I’m sorry, Jennifer. I can’t tell you anything more.’
‘Then it’s up to me to find out the rest,’ she said firmly. ‘Thanks, John. I’ll be in touch.’ She put down the receiver, cutting him off in mid-sentence, then turned to Diane. ‘Come on. We’re going to see Helen.’
Diane looked at her with wide eyes. ‘Why? What’s she got to do with all this?’
‘She’ll know where I can find the priest,’ Jenny said excitedly as she pulled on jeans and a shirt. ‘Finn would have turned to him, I’m sure of that.’
She rammed her feet into boots and stood up. ‘I have to know what happened after Matilda died. Where was Finn? And why couldn’t anyone find the child?’
Diane grabbed her arm. ‘Think about this, Jen. I know you. You get an idea in your head and then rush off where angels fear to tread. Do you really want to dig any deeper?’
She snatched her arm away and thrust through the screen door. ‘I can’t leave it unfinished, Diane. My conscience won’t let me. Besides,’ she added as she clambered into the utility and turned the key, ‘don’t you want to know the rest of the story? Aren’t you just a little bit curious?’
Diane was still standing on the verandah in her nightshirt. Uncertainty made her bite her lip, but curiosity shone in her eyes.
‘Are you coming or not?’
‘Give me a minute.’ Diane raced back into the house, slamming the screen door behind her.
Jenny drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as the moments ticked by and her thoughts raced. Father Ryan had to be very old by now. He could be dead or senile or shut away in some monastery where he couldn’t be reached. Helen was probably her only chance of finding him.
Diane yanked the utility door open and clambered in. ‘Ready when you are,’ she said breathlessly. ‘But I still think you’re playing with fire.’
‘Been burned before,’ Jenny said grimly as they went through the first of the automatic gates.
She concentrated hard as she steered around potholes and cracks and manoeuvred through gates. The hot wind was whipping up the dust, making the trees dip and sway, sifting the dry earth across their path, masking the makeshift road. Thoughts came unbidden to be instantly dismissed. Matilda’s child had been brought up in an orphanage, never knowing the truth of its birth. She knew how that felt. Empathised with the child, feeling its pain, knowing how lost and alone it must have been. It made her even more determined to uncover the truth. If her research led to the unknown child of Churinga, she could live the rest of her life in peace.
As they reached Kurrajong land she saw the men out mustering the last of the mob into the home pastures. There was no sign of Andrew or Charles, no wheelchair parked on the verandah, and Jenny breathed a sigh of relief. Ethan was the last person she wanted to see. Although he probably had most of the answers, she knew he wouldn’t tell her.
They wrestled with the utility doors and began to climb the steps to the verandah. With a last glance at Diane, Jenny reached for the bell pull. It seemed an eternity before it was opened.
‘Jennifer? Diane? How lovely to see you.’ Helen, as elegant as always in pressed slacks and crisp shirt, greeted them with a smile.
Jenny had no time for polite conversation. She pushed her way into the hall and grabbed Helen’s arm. ‘I have to find Father Ryan,’ she said fiercely. ‘He has the answers, you see, and you’re the only one I could think of who might know where he is.’
‘Wait on, Jenny. Calm down and tell me what’s happened? You’re not making sense.’
Jenny noticed how startled Helen was before she pulled away from her grip and realised her windswept appearance and wild behaviour were making things worse. Helen had no idea about the diaries or about the terrible secret that had been buried for so long at Churinga. She took a deep breath and swept her tangled hair out of her eyes.
‘I have to find Father Ryan,’ she repeated firmly. ‘And you’re the only one who can help.’
Helen’s troubled gaze dwelt on her face. ‘Why, Jenny? What’s happened?’
She glanced across at Diane, and bit her lip. There just wasn’t time to explain everything now. She was too impatient to get to the truth.
‘It’s complicated,’ sh
e muttered, shifting her feet. ‘But it’s also very important I find the priest.’
Helen regarded her for a long moment, her cool expression masking what Jenny knew were troubled thoughts. ‘Come into my study,’ she said finally with a quick glance at Diane. ‘We can talk in there.’
Jenny turned swiftly at the sound of heavy footsteps and breathed a quick sigh of relief. It was only the station manager.
‘The old man’s sleeping and all the others are out mustering,’ said Helen gently, as if reading her mind. ‘We won’t be disturbed.’
Jenny and Diane followed her into the book-lined office and perched side by side on the edge of a leather couch. A dull pain had begun to pulse behind Jenny’s eyes and the awful events of Matilda’s last few hours were neon bright in her head. She took one of the glasses of neat whisky Helen offered and tossed it back in one. It burned her throat and made her eyes water. She hated whisky but on this occasion it was what she’d needed to clear her head and make her think straight.
‘You’d better start from the beginning,’ said Helen. She had made herself comfortable in the leather chair behind the ledger-strewn desk. ‘This hasn’t anything to do with what I told you the other day, has it?’ Her voice was soothing in the peaceful room.
Jenny twisted her fingers on her knees. Her impatience had gone and in its place had come a composure she’d never felt before. ‘It’s probably the last chapter,’ she said quietly.
Diane squeezed her hand in encouragement. After a hesitant start, she grew more eloquent. As the final words dropped like cold water into the pool of silence, she waited for a reaction.
Helen came from behind her desk and sat beside the two friends. ‘I never realised Matilda had kept a diary or that there was a baby involved.’
Jenny pulled the locket from her jeans. ‘I was given this by my husband, and I always wondered who’d owned it,’ she said. There was a tremor of something akin to excitement in her fingers as she opened it. ‘Do you recognise either of these two people?’
Helen stared down at it. ‘I don’t know who the woman is,’ she said finally. ‘But I would guess by the hairstyle and dress that it’s Mary, Matilda’s mother. The young man is Ethan. I’ve seen similar photographs in the family albums. He must have been about eighteen or nineteen when this was taken.’
Diane and Jenny looked at each other in amazement. ‘I have to find Father Ryan,’ Jenny said breathlessly. ‘Finn felt deeply about his religion, so it’s logical he would have turned to the priest after Matilda died. He’s the only link with the past, Helen. The only one who might know what happened to the child.’
Helen chewed her lip. ‘There’s always Ethan, of course,’ she said doubtfully.
Jenny thought about that evil old man in the wheelchair and shook her head. ‘Only if there’s no one else.’
‘I’ll ring the presbytery,’ Helen said. ‘We give enough to the church, it’s about time they did something for us.’ She smiled at Jenny and Diane. ‘As good Catholics we like to ease our way to the pearly gates, and the church always has its hand out.’
‘Why not try the old bloke, Jen?’ Diane hissed through cigarette smoke. ‘Jeez, he was right in the middle of it all. He must know what happened.’
Helen put her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘I wouldn’t believe him if he told me what time of day it was,’ she said grimly. ‘Let’s try this first.’
Jenny nodded in agreement.
Helen finally got through to someone called Father Duncan but the one-sided conversation shed little light on what was being said at the other end and Jenny and Diane had to wait until she’d finished.
‘I see. Well, thank you, Father. By the way, how’s the new jeep? Bet it’s easier to get about in, eh?’ She smiled as she put down the receiver.
‘Well?’ Jenny stood up.
‘Father Ryan’s still alive and living in a home for retired priests in Broken Hill. Father Duncan says he writes to him regularly to keep him up with local gossip, and although his sight’s failing, most of his other faculties seem to be in good working order.’
She tore off a page from the writing pad. ‘Here’s his address.’
Jenny took the scrap of paper. Although the address meant nothing to her, she began to feel a tremor of excitement. ‘Let’s just hope this isn’t all for nothing,’ she murmured.
Diane came to stand beside her. ‘We won’t know until we get there, Jen. And seeing as how you’re hell-bent on finding out everything all at once, I suppose we’d better make a start. How long will it take to drive to Broken Hill, Helen?’
‘We normally use the plane, but with this wind and a storm brewing, it wouldn’t be wise.’
‘You have a plane?’ Diane sounded suitably impressed.
Helen grinned. ‘Bit over the top, isn’t it? But it gets me out of here in a hurry when the going gets tough.’
She eyed them both, then seemed to come to a decision. ‘It’s a long way to Broken Hill by car, and if you don’t know the roads you could easily get lost if the dust storm gets any worse. Why don’t I drive you?’
Jenny glanced at Diane and they both nodded.
‘No time like the present. I’ll throw a few things in a bag, leave a note for James and we’ll be on our way.’
Minutes later, with a bag packed and a note left on the hall table, the three women were in the vast kitchen which smelled of freshly baked bread and roasting meat.
Helen filled two thermos flasks with coffee and ordered the cook to make a mound of sandwiches. ‘We’ll have to use your ute,’ she said. ‘James has got ours and the spare is in the repair shed. Go fetch it, Diane, and bring it round to the garages at the side of the house.’
Jenny followed Helen out of the house and once Diane had brought the utility to a halt outside the garages, helped them load the four-gallon drums of petrol into the flat-bed. Two drums of water followed a couple of spare tyres, a jack, a rifle and spade, and a first aid kit. A hessian bag of tools and a collection of spare parts were slung in after them.
‘Why do we need to take all this?’ she asked in amazement. ‘Surely Broken Hill isn’t that far away?’
‘Any travelling out here means always taking this lot with you. We could break down, get a puncture or be bogged down in sand – and we could be stuck out there for days before anyone found us. With this storm brewing, it’s more important than ever to be prepared.’ Helen climbed in and took Diane’s place behind the wheel. ‘Come on. Let’s get going.’
Jenny and Diane squeezed in beside her and they set off. ‘You might look as if you were more at home at a garden party,’ asserted Diane thoughtfully. ‘But, Helen, you’re one tough sheila.’
Helen’s polished nails glimmered as she swung the utility from one almost indistinct road to another. ‘This is no place for shrinking violets,’ she said. ‘I learned that pretty damn’ quick when I first came here to live.’
She shot a glance at the two young women beside her and grinned. ‘But it’s fun to pit your wits against the elements and the bloody sheep. They’re not much different from women at cocktail parties, you know. All herding together, bleating brainlessly.’
‘So how far is it exactly to Broken Hill?’ asked Diane after about two hours.
‘About four hundred or so miles. Once we reach Bourke, it’s almost a straight run along the road which follows the Darling River to Wilcannia and Highway 32. The highway runs through Broken Hill and on to Adelaide.’
Jenny stared out of the window. It was almost midday but the sky was dark with fat, heavy clouds. Thunder rolled in the distance and forks of jagged lightning stabbed the pinnacles of the Moriarty Range. It was strange how life was going on around her, the earth still spinning – and she apart from it all, lost in the world of Matilda McCauley where everything was suddenly too real.
‘I wish the storm would break and we could have rain,’ said Helen as they reached the metalled road leading to Wilcannia. ‘The grass. is too dry for an electric storm and there?
??s a real beaut building up over there.’ She nodded towards the distant mountains where the clouds were at their most thunderous.
‘If you’re worried and want to turn back, tell us. We can do this journey another day.’ Jenny hauled her thoughts back to the present. She felt guilty at having dragged Helen off on this wild chase but didn’t relish the thought of having to turn back – not after they’d come so far.
Helen took her eyes off the road and grinned. ‘She’ll be right. We’ve had worse, and goodness knows there’s enough blokes back on Kurrajong to take care of things.’
Yet Jenny heard the note of worry behind the bright declaration. Just because she didn’t care a damn what happened to Churinga, was it fair to expect Helen to leave her beloved Kurrajong with a storm closing in?
‘Are you sure? It’s not too late to turn around.’
‘Positive. I’m too intrigued. I just hope Father Ryan’s got the answers you need. But I wonder if perhaps you should leave it to me to question the old boy?’
Jenny looked at the older woman. Did Helen know more than she was letting on? She decided she was letting her imagination work overtime again and shook her head. ‘I know what questions to ask, Helen. Better that I do it.’
She sounded so calm and in control, she thought with surprise, and yet deep down she was excited and fearful of what she might learn. The last few hours had been crazy, and if she hadn’t been bouncing about in the middle of the outback with Helen and Diane in the middle of the afternoon, she would have thought she was dreaming. But the questions posed by the omissions in Matilda’s diary were clamouring to be answered – and she had no other choice but to pursue them,
They shared the driving and reached Broken Hill as the moon peered through scudding clouds. Realising it was too late to visit the priest, they took rooms in a motel where they had a late meal and fell into bed. All three of them were exhausted.
The next morning was dismal with a weak sun struggling through thick cloud. The wind had dropped but the humidity was high. Before they had finished breakfast, they all felt in need of another shower.