‘Destroy? You mean he wanted to destroy Churinga?’ Jenny leaned forward and stroked back the wisps of hair from the old forehead and wiped away his tears.
‘No.’ The priest’s voice was bitter. ‘He wanted to keep it for you. He destroyed himself. Destroyed your life and any hope he might have had of making a home for you.’
‘How did he do that, Father?’ she whispered, already suspecting the answer.
‘He decided to take you to Waluna. To the orphanage of the Sisters of Mercy where your identity would be concealed by a new name. The only link with Churinga was your mother’s locket which he gave to the nuns for safe-keeping until you came into your inheritance. I tried to stop him but no words could reach him by this time. I had to watch him drive away with you in a basket on the seat beside him.’ Father Ryan sniffed and blew his nose. ‘If only I’d known what he was planning to do, maybe I could have stopped him. But hindsight makes fools of us all.’ He faded into silence.
So that was how Peter had come by the locket. His research had taken him to Waluna and the orphanage. Jenny looked at the priest through fresh tears. He was old and tired and the burden he’d carried for so long had exhausted him. She sat back in the chair, his frail hand still cradled in her own as she tried to imagine that last journey with her father. What terrible things had been going through his mind? How had he been able to hand her over, knowing he might never see her again?
The priest’s voice startled her from her thoughts, bringing her back to the cheerless room.
‘I went back to Wallaby Flats. My conscience was bothering me, and for the first time in my adult life, my faith deserted me. What good was I as a priest when I couldn’t find the right words to help a man in torment? What good was I as a man when I’d never known what it was to love a woman – or have to make a decision about my child? I had failed on both counts. I spent many hours on my knees but the peace I had always found in prayer seemed to elude me.’
Jenny felt a sickening plunge in her stomach as she waited for the old priest to put into words what she dreaded hearing.
‘I wrote to Waluna and they told me you’d arrived, and that your father had arranged for money to be paid regularly into their account for your keep and well-being. I asked after you but all they would say was you were thriving. I kept up a regular correspondence with them over the years but they never told me much. You see, my child, I felt responsible for you. If I’d been strong enough in my faith, I could have stopped your father from committing the greatest sin of all.’
Here it comes, she thought. I don’t want to hear. I don’t want to believe it – yet it’s inevitable.
‘Finn went missing shortly after you were left at Waluna. I thought perhaps he’d gone walkabout to try and recapture some sense of peace in isolation. In a way it was a relief because I’d feared something far worse…’
The spark of hope died in the cold reality of his next words.
‘A couple of drovers found him out in the bush and called the police. Luckily I had some influence. After they’d established his identity, I managed to persuade the police to keep it hushed up. It wasn’t difficult. The drovers were only passing through, and the police didn’t care one way or the other – they weren’t local, you see.’
He patted her hand, his old face creased with concern. ‘I knew you’d come back one day, Jennifer, and I didn’t want your future tainted by what happened. But I suppose you’ve already guessed, haven’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she said softly. ‘But I’d like you to tell me anyway. It’s better to know it all, then there’s no room for doubt.’
He rolled his head against the pillow. ‘’Twas a terrible thing that he did, Jennifer. A mortal sin in the eyes of the church – and yet, as a man, I could understand why he did it. He had driven into the bush and turned his own gun on himself. The coroner said he must have been there for six months or more before the drovers found him. But I knew when he’d done it. It must have been the day he left you at Waluna. He’d planned it all along.’
Jenny thought about the loneliness of her father’s death. Of the torment and pain such a gentle, religious man must have gone through to drive out into the middle of nowhere and put a gun to his own head. She dropped her face into her hands and gave in to the anguish.
Yet the tears weren’t for herself alone, but for her parents who’d paid such a terrible price for falling in love, and for the priest who’d carried the burden of his loss of faith to this cheerless place where he would end his days, never knowing what he could have done to prevent such a tragedy.
When the tears finally ran dry and Jenny felt more in control, she looked once again at the old priest. He seemed very grey against the whiteness of the sheets and pillows – as if his life-force had been spent in the effort of relieving his burden.
‘Father Ryan, I want you to believe you couldn’t have done more. I’ve returned to Churinga strong and healthy, and because of my mother’s diaries I now know my parents wanted only the best for me. I’ve come to love them through you, and the diaries, and to understand why my life began as it did. You have nothing to feel guilty about and I’m sure your God is waiting to welcome you with open arms. You’re a good, kind man. I wish there were more like you. God bless you, and thank you.’
She leaned over the bed and kissed his cheek before cradling him in her arms. Their tears intermingled as their heads rested together on the pillows. He was so frail and she wanted to find the right words to comfort him, but she knew his redemption could come only from the restoration of his faith.
‘Is there anything I can do for you, Father? Anything you need?’ she said finally.
‘No, my child,’ he whispered painfully. ‘I can die peacefully now in the knowledge some good has come out of the tragedy. On your way out, would you ask Sister if Father Patrick could come and see me? I think it’s time I made my last confession.’
Jennifer gripped his hand. ‘Father, don’t let go now. I’ll stay here in Broken Hill and visit you every day. I’ll bring you fruit and little treats, keep Sister off your back. Anything.’
The priest smiled. It was a gentle, sweet smile. ‘’Tis time, my child. Life is a circle and you have returned where you belong. As we all return eventually. Now go and get on with your life and leave an old man to his confessor.’
Jenny kissed the gnarled hand. ‘Goodbye then, Father. God bless you.’
‘God bless you, child,’ he whispered as he lay back against the pillows. Then his eyes closed and his face became serene.
‘He hasn’t…?’
‘No, Diane. He’s just sleeping,’ said Jenny softly.
‘Come on, you two, let’s get out of here,’ hissed Helen. ‘I’ll look for the dragon lady, you wait for me in the ute.’
Jenny took the keys and she and Diane began the long walk down the silent corridors. She could hear their footsteps on the polished wood. They made a lonely sound, echoing the emptiness in her heart.
As they stepped out into the fragile sunlight, she looked up at the lowering sky. How she wished she could turn the clock back to the time of ignorance. What good was her inheritance when it had been forged in deception and betrayal? How was she supposed to live now, with the knowledge that her father had died by his own hand and her mother of a broken heart?
Sister Michael had been right all along. She was a freak. A bastard born from an unholy union, with the Devil’s mark on her foot to prove it.
Blindly she clambered into the utility. ‘It’s all so unfair,’ she choked. ‘Why, Diane? Why did it have to happen to them – to me?’
‘I don’t know, darling. For once in my life I can’t find the words you need me to say. I’m so sorry.’
‘I need to be alone, Diane. Please try and understand.’
Jenny stared out of the window as her friend went back into the rest home but saw nothing through the tears. John Wainwright had lied – he’d known all about the trust fund, known about her real identity. He just didn’t have
the balls to tell her. Peter must have known too. That was why Churinga had been kept such a secret. Why she hadn’t been able to inherit until her birthday. Secrets and lies. What a tangled web they’d woven.
Pain turned to rage, then sorrow. She lost all sense of time and place as she stared through her tears out of the window. Then the faint, distant chords of an orchestra drifted back to her and she thought she could see a woman in a green dress, waltzing with her handsome husband. They were smiling at each other, lost in happiness.
Just before they faded into the great stretch of the outback, they turned towards her and Matilda whispered: ‘This is my last waltz, darling. Just for you.’
Jenny collapsed over the steering wheel as her redemption came. It cleaned deep and began to heal the wounds.
When she finally dragged herself back to reality, she realised she’d been given a choice. Matilda and Finn had died in the hope the past would be buried so that she could take over the running of Churinga and bring new life and a brighter future to the land they had worked with such love. She could either fulfil their dream or turn her back and run away to Sydney.
The words of the old Aborigine came back to her.
‘The first man said to the first woman, “Do you travel alone?”
‘And the first woman replied, “Yes.”
‘The first man took her hand. “Then you will be my wife and we will travel together.”’
Jenny sat very still. She finally understood what her decision must be. She loved Brett and couldn’t imagine Churinga without him. Despite all that had happened between them, she would tell him how she felt. If he really didn’t care for her, she would have to travel alone for a while. But if he did. Then …
‘What’s the matter, Jen? You’ve gone a very strange colour.’
Diane’s voice brought her back. ‘Get in, Di, We’re going home. Going back to Churinga.’
Chapter Twenty-One
Brett snatched up the mike. Nulla Nulla was only a couple of hundred miles south of Wilga.
‘Churinga here. I’m sending over my men. Should be there in about five hours, Smokey. Can you hang on till then?’
Smokey Joe Longhorn’s weary voice came back down the wire. ‘Don’t know, Brett. Already lost half me mob. It’s a bastard. Moving faster than a freight train. Get out here as soon as. You’ll be next if we don’t stop it. Over.’
Brett slammed the receiver down and ran out the door. Ripper chased at his heels, ears flat, eyes wide. The heat was intense and lightning had begun to flash in the southernmost corner of Churinga. Thunder rolled and crashed overhead and the sky darkened with the threat of more to come as he pressed the fire bell.
Men poured out of the barns and buildings and in from the fields. They ran into the yard and milled around expectantly. Brett looked at each face and saw the same mixture of dread and excitement. There was nothing like fighting the elements. Nothing which pushed a man closer to the limits of his strength than a bush fire. ‘There’s fire at Nulla Nulla. I need volunteers.’
Hands went up and he chose the youngest and fittest to go with him. He put the others to work digging a wide trench on the southern side of the home paddock. Trees would have to be cut down and scrub cleared. The stock moved as far north as possible. Churinga had to be saved at all cost.
The men raced for axes and spades, picks and shovels. Brett shut Ripper in the house then drove the old four by four out of the shed. The jeep could travel fast over the rocky ground and the quickest way to Nulla Nulla was over the paddocks, through Wilga and then south. But it was a bloody nuisance not to have the utility. He’d give Mrs high and mighty Jenny Sanders a piece of his mind when she got back, that was for sure.
And if he was really pissed off, he’d put her over his bloody knee and give her a good thrashing.
The ten volunteers clambered into the back with sacking and spades, water bags and rifles. Their voices were high with excitement as they laughed and joked about what was ahead, but Brett knew that beneath the veneer of bravery, each man was terrified. He slammed his foot onto the accelerator and they tore out of the yard in a cloud of dust.
Lightning lit up the landscape in the gloom of the thunder clouds. As they careered over the paddocks, he saw it lick the tips of the ghost gums and jump from hill to valley, cloud to cloud.
Smokey Joe was right, he thought. It was a bastard. And as this was only the edge of it, it was sure to get worse the further south they travelled.
There was a two-way radio in the jeep and Brett kept in touch with the fire’s progress.
‘Turned nasty, mate,’ Smokey Joe gasped. ‘Split into two forks heading your way south and east. Nulla Nulla’s surrounded.’
‘You all right, Smokey?’ Brett yelled above the roar of the engine.
‘Family okay but me mob’s gone. Lost a coupla good men too. On our way to Wilga. See you there.’
Brett stared grimly out of the window. He could see the great pall of smoke in the distance and the lick of bright orange where the fire was tearing through the stand of trees on the far side of Wilga. Kangaroos, wallabies, goannas and wombats were teeming out of the bush, heedless of the jeep’s wheels in their desperate flight from the flames. Birds filled the air with their beating wings and frantic cries, koalas loped through the brittle grass, disorientated by the noise and the smoke, their babies clinging to their backs. It was as if every living thing was on the move.
Brett finally brought the jeep to a skidding halt outside Wilga homestead.
Curly Matthews the manager came to meet them. He was unshaven, his face blackened by smoke and streaked with sweat, his eyes red-rimmed.
‘Got the men working the line in the far paddocks.’ He took off his hat and smeared a filthy handkerchief across his brow. ‘I don’t know if we can hold it, Brett,’ he said wearily. ‘It’s pretty much out of control.’
‘Have you dug a trench?’ He eyed the broiling cloud of smoke that seemed to be drawing closer every second.
Curly nodded. ‘We got a trench, but the fire’s jumping through the tree tops quicker than we can cut the bastards down. Get your men to make a start on that stand over there. If we can get it down and back-burn it, then it might slow things down. It’s our last line of defence.’
Brett followed his pointing finger. Chopping down a few trees wasn’t going to help much, he realised. The fire was spreading like snakes in the tinder dry grass, dragging the main body of its voracious appetite after it.
‘You heard the man,’ he yelled to the men clambering from the jeep. ‘Go.’
He turned to grip Curly’s shoulder. ‘Good on yer, mate. But we’d all better get ready to move out of here fast.’ Then armed with an axe, he took one of the stock horses and rode out towards the fire.
It was a great boiling tidal wave of red and orange, grey and blue. As high as the sky and roaring like a great beast in agony. The smoke was dense and he pulled a neckerchief over his mouth to stop himself from choking. If they could get the trees down on this side of the property, back-burn it and widen the trench, then maybe – if they had time – they might save Wilga.
He leaped from the horse and hobbled it. He didn’t want it panicking and running straight into the path of the fire – he might need it to escape.
Brett joined the long line of men wielding an axe. He could just make out the other line working on widening the trench. He felt the satisfying bite of axe in timber and swung with greater speed and force until the tree collapsed.
Then on to the next. Cut. Clear. Move on. Cut. Clear. Move on.
The sweat stung his eyes. The smoke filtered through his makeshift mask and made him cough. But there was no stopping now.
They moved in a silence as grim and unrelenting as the fire until the stand of trees had been felled and cleared. It was too risky to back-burn now. The fire was too near. Then, with shovels and picks and bare hands, they helped with the trench.
Brett looked up and found Smokey Joe working beside him. Their eyes
met for a telling instant, then they bent their backs and carried on digging. Words wouldn’t save them or bring back the dead – only brute strength and determination.
A fork of lightning licked the dry branch of a gum tree several hundred feet away. The flame ran in a hot, hungry blue line down the white bark to the grass at its roots and within seconds the tree was engulfed. It exploded in a shower of sparks which caught and flared in the eucalyptus haze then grew taller than a man. The flames spread into the grass, and built a wall of flame that grew higher and higher as it raced towards them.
Brett and the others leaped out of the trench and beat at it with their shovels. Smoke stung their eyes and burned their throats. The heat dried the sweat as it trickled down them, scorched eyebrows and crisped the hair on their arms and chests.
‘Get out of there! It’s turning!’
Brett looked up and saw the fire had almost surrounded them. The horse was wild-eyed, pulling at its hobble, ears flat to its head. Smokey Joe was still pounding his shovel against the flames. ‘Come on,’ Brett yelled above the roar of the flames.
The old man froze, and Brett could see the blank stare of terror in his eyes. He grabbed Smokey’s arm and began to run towards the horse, the flames licking at his boot heels, the heat searing his back.
Smokey Joe stumbled, then fell. He lay still, his chest heaving, his hair shrivelling in the heat.
Brett yanked him up and slung him over his shoulder. He reached the horse and released the hobble. Dumping Smokey unceremoniously across the saddle, he climbed up behind him and turned the horse’s head towards the gap in the flames.
It skittered and danced and pawed the air, eyes rolling, ears flat to its head.
Brett pulled on the reins and dug in his heels. Then, reacting to his solid slap on its rump, the animal plunged headlong towards the flames.