Morgan's Law (3 page)

‘Not too sure about that. You almost gave me a bloody heart attack earlier. I didn't know they'd put anyone in that room.'

‘Sorry about that.'

‘No worries. I'll be more careful where I have my early coffee from now on.'

‘You had coffee?' said Sarah, thinking how much she'd kill for a coffee right now. ‘Where did you get it from so early?'

‘Made my own. I brought my coffee machine with me.'

‘Oh wow.'

‘You like coffee?' he said.

‘I
love
coffee,' she replied, not caring how desperate she sounded. ‘But I've been surviving on instant for the last few days.'

‘That's just not right,' he said, shaking his head sympathetically. He had a wild beard to go with his tattoos.

‘Tell me about it. I almost had to resort to decaf yesterday,' she said, smiling.

‘Good grief.'

‘Tiny! Hurry up, we're leavin',' came a shout from the bottom of the staircase.

‘I have to work with beer and coke drinkers . . . no refinement at all. See you later,' grinned Tiny—who was anything but.

Sarah watched him walk away before she headed into a shower stall. Maybe they'd make a decent coffee downstairs, she thought hopefully, smothering a yawn as she turned on the shower.

With the delicious aroma of fried bacon floating through the air, Sarah tried to concentrate on the cereal she'd ordered. The woman who'd served her the previous evening was back on the cash register today and had once again given Sarah a bemused look as she'd enquired about granola before opting for cornflakes instead.

After most of the other diners had exited, Sarah picked up her bowl and carried it over to the counter, mustering a smile for the cash register woman whose name, she'd overheard, was Edith.

‘Have you been in Negallan very long?' asked Sarah, trying to sound friendly.

‘Most of my life. Why?' Edith asked suspiciously.

‘I'm wondering if you knew someone named Eliza Jones? She would have lived here, say, sixty years ago.'

Edith shook her head after a few moments. ‘Can't say I remember anyone with that name,' she said, picking up a cloth and beginning to wipe down one of the tables.

Sarah sighed. She'd searched through the phone book the previous night and there appeared to be no Joneses in the district, not a one.

‘Do you know of any Joneses who might have lived here but have maybe moved somewhere else?'

‘I can't remember any Joneses ever living out here,' said Edith.

‘What about old Alfie Jones?' a voice called out from the kitchen, causing Edith to frown and cluck her tongue in mild annoyance.

‘Who?' she bellowed.

‘Alfie. You know, he married a Lovejoy . . . the one with the limp.'

‘Heather?'

‘No, not Heather, the other one. You know, the one who used to work for O'Malley and Brothers.'

‘I don't know who you're talking about, Don. Have you been drinking again?'

‘You do know who I'm talking about . . .'

‘Just ignore him—half the time he's off the planet,' said Edith. ‘Good thing he can cook, it's the only thing he can do that's useful.'

‘Do you think anyone else might know of this Alfie guy?'

‘I wouldn't hold your breath,' said Edith before bustling away to clean another table.

Sarah pondered what to do next as she left the dining room and made her way out to the main bar. It was still early but maybe she could catch someone and follow up the lead on Alfie Jones, who may or may not have married someone called Heather who had a limp.

The bar area was empty of customers; there was just a cleaner vacuuming the far side of the room.

‘Hi there, how'd you sleep?' came a voice from behind the bar.

Startled, Sarah spun around to find Tash, the young woman who'd booked her in.

‘Fine thanks. The rooms are lovely.'

‘Yeah, we've been giving the old girl a facelift over the last year or so. Things have been picking up a bit with the railway work going on.'

‘Seems to be plenty happening,' Sarah agreed, sliding onto a bar stool.

‘The railway's had workers resleepering tracks in the area and they've based themselves here. It's been good for business. Just how long the work will go for is anyone's guess, though.'

Sarah nodded, wondering how towns like Negallan managed to scrape together a living when major works weren't in progress. Judging by the number of slouch-hatted, dusty-shirt-wearing patrons in the bar the previous night, she surmised that the town's economy probably depended largely on local agriculture. But even with all the recent rains, surely that could only take a community so far?

‘So what brings you out here anyway?' Tash asked, flattening a box and moving on to unload clean glasses from the dishwasher.

‘I'm looking for a place my grandmother used to go when she was young. I don't suppose you know of a Jones family around here, do you? The cook mentioned there might have been an Alfie Jones who lived here.'

Reaching for a glass, Tash looked thoughtful. ‘No. I don't know of any Joneses,' she said after a while, shaking her head.

Sarah sighed. ‘Yeah, I didn't think so.'

‘So who are these people?'

‘Well, I'm not sure. I think my grandmother grew up out here. Her name was Eliza Jones.'

‘Are you sure it was Negallan?'

‘That's what my gran's instructions said,' said Sarah, pulling the envelope with her grandmother's letter and map out of her pocket and smoothing it out carefully on the bar. ‘It definitely says Negallan, and it's here in Central Queensland. She even mentions the Negallan River.'

Tash read the letter and her eyes widened in surprise. ‘You're here to scatter your grandmother's ashes?'

‘I am,' said Sarah despondently. ‘That's if I can find anyone who knew her and can give me some idea of where this wishing tree is.'

‘So you don't have anything other than your grandmother's name and this letter to work with?'

‘Well, there's a hand-drawn map of the location, but there are no place names on it, they've all faded away. I do have an old photo of Gran when she was young. I'm assuming it was taken out here. It was in the letter the solicitor sent me.' Sarah withdrew the yellowing picture and handed it across to Tash.

‘Wow, she was beautiful,' said Tash, lifting her gaze from the photo to Sarah. ‘And you look so alike.'

‘You think so?' said Sarah. The photo was in sepia tones, but it was true, there was definitely a resemblance between herself and her grandmother—the girl in the photo had dark hair like hers, only it was incredibly long, hanging down to her waist, whereas Sarah's hair only just brushed her shoulders. They also had the same heart-shaped face and wide brown eyes.

If only she'd thought to ask Gran what was going on behind those loving brown eyes of hers, thought Sarah. To discover her grandmother had secrets in her past, a life she'd never told anyone about, was unsettling. She had always been such a straightforward, steady, unflappable presence in her life.

Gran had been her rock. Sarah couldn't recall anything ever fazing her grandmother. Not even the countless occasions when Sarah's mother, Jocelyn, had made unannounced appearances to drop off Sarah when a last-minute invitation arose to go away with a new boyfriend. Not once had Gran ever protested, at least not in front of Sarah. She'd act as though there was nothing else she'd rather be doing, and Sarah would always treasure those childhood memories.

Sarah had never imagined Gran having a mysterious past and, growing up, she'd never really asked about her life. Now that she'd passed away, Sarah felt a terrible grief for the lost opportunity of knowing Eliza as an adult.

She'd been so obsessed with her career and life in London that she'd barely spared any time to come back to Australia. It had always seemed so easy to justify—she was living on the doorstep to some of the most amazing travel destinations in the world. Everything was so close, it was nothing to catch a ferry and spend the weekend in France with friends, or take a quick trip to Spain, Italy or Switzerland, things she always told herself she needed to do while she had the chance. Besides, her mother and stepfather, Frederick, spent the majority of their time travelling overseas now that Frederick had retired, and it was just as easy to meet up with them in London or Paris than face the marathon flight back to Australia each year.

When her mother had called to tell her that Gran had passed away Sarah had hardly been able to believe it: she'd always assumed they'd have plenty of time left together; took it for granted Gran would always be there like she always had been.

During the long flight and the week she spent in Sydney for the funeral, Sarah had plenty of time to think, and found herself assessing her life and the person she'd become. She was thirty years old and had nothing but a career and a fancy flat full of expensive furniture she never got the time to enjoy, and the thing that hurt the most was that she'd missed the chance to tell Gran how much she'd meant to her.

Within days of arriving back in London after the funeral she'd come down with the flu. She was rundown and stressed; on top of that, there was the whole Giles business that only added to her long list of bad decisions.

Sarah swallowed the hard lump of regret and tried to fight off the threat of tears.

‘If you show the photo of your grandmother to some of the oldies I bet someone will remember her,' said Tash.

‘Thanks, I was thinking that might be a good idea. Any suggestions as to who I might ask first?'

‘Well, judging by her looks, you might want to start with some of the men,' said Tash, smiling.

After leaving the Royal and walking down the street, Sarah turned in to the strangest little store she'd ever seen. A table and chairs sat in the centre of the store and shelves jam-packed with groceries lined the walls. There was a stand of newspapers and magazines in a corner and a few racks of clothing. Down the back, a sign above a narrow doorway invited customers to walk through to the agricultural supplies. Out of curiosity, Sarah decided to do just that.

The smell of chemicals, fertiliser and leather products hit Sarah as she walked through the door. Rows of shelving held what seemed like every farming product imaginable. Looking out through a wide set of doors that opened onto the street she saw two men throwing large bags into the back of a ute. The younger of the two men, a dark-haired, stocky guy, glanced in her direction, giving her a nod before continuing with the loading.

Heading back to the front of the store, Sarah walked towards the women's magazines. Her grandmother had loved the
Women's Weekly
and always had copies of it lying around, usually with a set of knitting needles and wool in various stages of progress sitting on top of them. Sarah smiled when she remembered her gran's lounge room. She could almost smell the fresh flowers, cut from the garden where she'd lovingly tended to her beloved roses, chrysanthemums, vegies and herbs. Placing the magazine back in the rack, Sarah turned away and let her gaze wander the rest of the store.

A rack of postcards caught her eye and for a moment she considered sending one to her mother with a humorous explanation of Aussie Sheila Slang on the front, but she knew it probably wouldn't go down overly well. There were a lot of things Sarah and her mother didn't share—a sense of humour was one. They were very different, the two of them, and her mother had been horrified by Sarah's decision to come all the way out here on what she called a whim.

Sarah's mobile rang, breaking into her thoughts. As she retrieved the phone from her bag she frowned at the caller ID on the small screen and decided to ignore it. She didn't want to talk to Giles at the moment. The memory of inadvertently catching him with another woman sent yet another shot of anger and pain through her gut.