Out of Alice (32 page)

‘They break up in a week's time,' Frances said as they watched the two dark heads file in past a staff member standing by the tall wrought-iron gates. ‘There'll be a concert – Sophie's in it – and an awards night. The girls would love it if you'll come. Mandy's in line for a prize. I think she'll be as bright, academically, as her brother. Were you a good student, Christine?'

‘I worked hard,' Sara said. ‘I did well enough.' For a perpetual outsider who had received no encouragement at home. This should have been her life, she thought, as the uniformed girls loitered and chatted their way through the school gates. Some, she saw, carried musical instrument cases. In high school she had earned her own money and there had been none to spare for extras. Studying for a career at university had been beyond her reach so she had settled for office work, then marriage. Her half-sisters would have very different futures and she felt a flicker of envy that passed when she remembered that Benny's had been lost, and Sam's hung in the balance. Viewed that way, she hadn't fared so badly after all.

Frances engaged the gear and swung the Volvo back into the traffic. ‘I'll show you the coastline and the village; I have a couple of errands to run, then we might have some coffee before going back. Sound okay to you?'

‘Lovely.' Vaucluse was a leafy suburb and Sara looked with appreciation at the greenery around her. ‘It's so lush, so green! There's a drought where I was working; you cannot imagine how desolate the country is out there.'

‘You're right about that, I can't imagine it. I'm city-bred. Your father was the country boy. I'm afraid I've no desire to step beyond the bright lights.'

‘Where did you meet then, you and Dad?'

‘Oh, I've known him from childhood. My father was his professor at Sydney University and he initially took pity on him because he knew nobody in the city. He used to invite him to tea. I was, I don't know, five, six? He'd play with us, my sister and I. It was certainly a first, in our experience. Most of the students my father brought home were far too grand to notice little girls.'

‘So where did he live, then?'

‘Your grandfather had a merino stud somewhere in the north of the state. John inherited it and that's where he met his first wife. I never knew your mother. He and I didn't meet again until after the tragedy. I was in my mid-twenties and he was forty-something but the age difference didn't matter to either of us. It never has. He's a strong man, your father. What happened would have broken most men and I can't tell you how happy I am that you've been found,' Frances said, turning in to park on a headland lookout. ‘He deserves it. I'm sure you do too. I don't mean to make light of your suffering, Christine. It must have been awful, but it scarred your father in ways only I can see. So for that reason alone you'll always be welcome in my home.'

‘Thank you,' Sara said inadequately. ‘It's – just thank you.'

‘That's okay.' Frances gave a crooked smile. He says you're the spit of Mary. She must've been very lovely. I hope we'll be friends. What do you think of the view?'

‘Oh.' The sudden change of topic made Sara blink and for the first time she took in the sweep of ocean, blue and silver in the morning sun, with the dark bay curving around to the right. ‘It's beautiful. What is it that they say up here, something about things being lovely one day and beautiful the next?'

‘That's Queensland.
Beautiful one day, perfect the next.
It's not bad here either. If you look way round to the left where that tower is, that's Gibsons Beach. The kids practically live there in summer. So, back to the shops, and coffee?'

‘Suits me.'

‘Good. Your turn now. Tell me about this job you had in the desert. How on earth did you end up there?'

Sara moved carefully through the day, exploring the environs of her father's life, so radically different to the Calshots' own lot. They would be on their way home now, driving through the stark dry country, the bitumen swimming with the mirages that constantly retreated before them. Pulling in at Emu Creek for a breather, then taking the narrow track through the mulga. Back to Redhill, to Jack, and the daily grind of the drought, while she was here in this city of glass and steel, cossetted with every luxury. For a moment her treacherous heart longed only to be travelling with them but she reminded herself, marvelling at her contrariness, she also wanted to be with her father.

John Randall had an office in the city with branches in Melbourne and Perth from which his transport empire was overseen. He frequently travelled to Asia and the United States, and he owned a second property in the Hunter Valley, where an employee managed a small horse stud for him.

‘It's his one link with the past,' Frances said. ‘He's a country boy at heart still and he loves his horses, not that he has any time to spend with them these days.
When he retires
, that's his mantra, but I can't see it happening anytime soon.'

‘Is his health good?'

‘Yes, thankfully. And despite how often his work takes him away, he does enjoy it still.'

‘That's important,' Sara agreed, her thoughts winging to Frank and his son.

‘Yes, well, I'm off to pick up the girls. Will you come?'

‘I'll stay, if that's okay, and just enjoy the garden.'

It was certainly worth the pleasure it gave, Sara thought as Frances left. A jacaranda tree had layered the grass with a blue skirt of fallen blossom, and a profusion of coloured hibiscus bloomed against the sandstone wall. The back garden was terraced with broad timber steps leading through islands of low flowering shrubs, none of which she could name. A bed of annuals was bordered by the blue of agapanthus, and in a green bower by a clipped hedge a fountain played, creating rainbows in the sunlight. She should write her impressions down while it was all fresh, Sara thought. She had promised Beth to keep in touch and right now a letter seemed a safer bet than a phone call. It would allow her to censor the thoughts that her tongue might otherwise betray. And it would give her something to occupy her time and soothe her longing for the life she had left.

Seated with pad and pen in the gazebo she had discovered behind the fountain, Sara wrote the address and date, then hesitated, lost for words. How could she describe the temperate fecundity of her surroundings to a woman trapped in the pitiless heat of central Australia? Or describe the luxurious home and lifestyle her family enjoyed when Beth's was struggling for survival? It was none of Sara's making and certainly Beth would not begrudge her situation, but after the comparatively spartan conditions of Redhill, might it not seem like the difference was being rubbed in? She tried sketching a letter in her head to Jack.

Dear Jack,

I think you would like my father. He has no pastoral interests now but he does keep a horse stud. Maybe I will see it one day. He has a nice home. It is cool here . . .

The words dried up. None of it mattered but she couldn't just write
I love you
. In the end she wrote:

Dear Becky,

I am writing from the garden here in Sydney. It's very pretty, all the flowers are out and the weather is lovely. I went for a drive this morning and saw the sea – all silvery blue with little white caps on the waves, but I haven't been swimming yet.

I think you would like my sisters, Mandy and Sophie. Sophie is nearly as old as you. They are both still at school and I am going to their concert next week. I wonder if it will be as good as yours and Sam's? My brother is away but he's coming home tonight.

I miss you all lots, and Redhill too. I will write again soon. Heaps of love and kisses for you all (and for Nan and Pop when you talk to them next).

Love from your best friend,

Sara

P.S. I'll send photos next time.

Justin arrived home shortly after his sisters, riding a pushbike across the lawn and dumping it at the laundry entrance. He entered the kitchen, backpack over one shoulder, and went straight to the fridge to pull out a carton of juice. Sophie, tidily eating a quartered slice of bread and honey at the breakfast bar, let out a squeal at his appearance.

‘Justin, guess what? Chrissy's come, and Mandy and me saw her first, before she even woke up this morning!'

‘No kidding,' he said flatly just as Frances and Sara walked into the room.

‘There you are, Jus,' Frances said. ‘
Don't
drink out of the carton, please! How many times must I tell you? Here's Christine. She and Dad got in late last night after you'd rung.'

‘Hello, Justin.' Sara smiled, wondering whether she should offer her hand. He was a handsome boy, tall, his hair brown rather than black. He had eyes of a misty grey with a darker line around the iris, and was as gangly as adolescent boys tended to be. ‘You look like your father,' she observed.

‘Hi.' He didn't return her smile and the grey eyes were hostile. ‘You don't.'

‘No. I understand I take after my mother,' she offered.

‘Yeah. Well, I've got to study.' He replaced the carton in the fridge and shouldered past the two women heading across the hall for the stairs.

Frances said, ‘Justin!' but he was taking the steps three at a time and ignored her. ‘Christine – I'm so sorry. It's not like Jus to be rude. He will apologise. I —'

‘No, please, let it go.' Sara bit her lip. ‘See it from his side. Nobody asked him if he wanted an interloper brought into his family to usurp his place. That's how it must seem to him. I'm sure he'll come round in time, but not if it's made into a big issue now.'

‘You're not an interloper!'

Sara said wryly, ‘And we're not seventeen. He's got enough problems, poor kid. I don't want to turn into another one.'

Frances sighed. ‘You're probably right, though whether John will be as understanding I don't know.'

John Randall was home in time to sit down with his family at the big table in the alcove off the kitchen. He kissed his wife and smiled at his eldest daughter. ‘I'm sorry I had to leave before you were up this morning. Did you have a good day?'

‘Yes, thank you. Frances showed me round. We had a coffee and looked at the coast. It's very beautiful. I can't get used to the greenness after being so long with the drought.'

‘Yeah, they're doing it tough out there, poor beggars.' He turned his attention to Justin and the girls, enquiring after their activities. Justin, who was still to directly address Sara, said, ‘Stu's folks are taking the boat out for the weekend. I'm thinking of going with them.'

His father shook his head. ‘Another weekend, perhaps. Your sister has just come and I'd like for us all to spend time with her. God knows we've missed enough of it already.'

‘Why?' Justin's brows creased in a scowl. ‘I bet she's not planning to move out anytime soon. Anyway, Mandy and Sophie are my sisters. She's only half – if that.'

‘Justin!' thundered John Randall. ‘How dare you speak of Chrissy like that! She has every bit as much right in this house as you have. She's just as much my child. She was my child before you were born and I won't allow —'

‘Oh, yes. Your sainted first family!' Justin leapt to his feet, face white and grey eyes blazing. ‘The prodigy twins so tragically dead. Only it turns out she's not dead
or
a prodigy, after all. Just a scheming governess who saw a chance to screw money out of a rich man. Wake up to yourself, Dad. You're pathetic!'

Randall's fists had clenched and the veins stood out on his neck as he half rose from his chair. ‘That's enough!' he roared. Frances looked appalled and Sophie burst into tears, while Justin wore an air of both defiance and fear.

Sara pushed her seat back and slipped quietly from the table and into the living room, closing her ears to the words her father was saying in a voice gone suddenly hard and cold as steel. She felt sick; she should never have come, she should simply have met with her father in the Alice and then gone her separate way. It had been selfish to want more of him and now she was witnessing the result, discord and resentment where there had been peace. She had broken the harmony of her father's house simply to soothe her own need to belong.

It seemed a long time that she sat huddled into the corner of the squashy leather lounge before Frances appeared with a tray. She set it on a glass-topped table and came to sit beside her.

‘I've brought coffee,' she said. ‘I'm so sorry! And so ashamed of my son, Christine. I —'

‘No.' Sara shook her head. ‘It's me. And my name is Sara. Perhaps I should keep the Blake too. It's still on my licence, after all. I'm sorry; you've been very kind but I see now that I shouldn't have come here.'

‘Don't!' Frances raised her hand. ‘Don't you dare let the words of an angry child drive you away. Your father deserves better than that! So do you. My son is spoilt and he feels lost and insecure at present – as you said, he's seventeen – but he'll get over it. Now please, won't you drink your coffee? John will be in directly and Justin, I can guarantee, will apologise in the morning.'

Sara took the proffered cup, observing dryly, ‘That won't make him feel any better.'

‘It's not supposed to, but that's his problem. I don't believe in rewarding bad behaviour.'

Beth had said something similar once of Becky. The memory brought with it a sudden shaft of longing sharp as a knife for Redhill, which cut through the dull ache of missing Jack that was a constant dirge in her heart. Then her father appeared, his mouth a grim line, and Frances rose to pour coffee for him. He carried a large cardboard box, which he handed to Sara, his face softening as he spoke. ‘This is for you, Chrissy. I remembered it this morning and got it out of the bank. I lodged it there when I lost your mother.'

Justin's words fresh in her mind, Sara received it gingerly, hoping it wasn't jewellery.

‘What is it?'

‘Bits and pieces. I couldn't stand either to throw them out or keep them by me. Open it, that's the easiest way.'

Sara complied, lifting out first a framed head and shoulders studio portrait of a beautiful, red-headed woman, her curls crowned with a nimbus of light. A pale-blue scarf draped her shoulders and her head was tilted a little as she smiled at the camera. Her eyes were as green as moss. Sara gasped and laid a finger on the glass, half-­recognising, half-intuiting the portrait's identity, grief rising afresh as she stared at the woman and that dimly remembered smile.

‘She was lovely!'

‘She was,' John Randall agreed. He looked at Frances, who was also staring at the picture, eyes wide. ‘What do you think, did I exaggerate the likeness?'

‘She couldn't be anyone else's daughter,' Frances declared.

Below it was another photo frame. Sara lifted it out and went very still. Her heart swelled in painful recognition and her eyes grew wet. It showed her and Benny dressed in matching shorts and tops, her shirt yellow, his red, holding hands and grinning at the camera. A section of white latticework was behind them and off to one side, as if it had just rolled there, was a large beach ball. They were hatless and her twin's hair was as red and curly as her own. Their faces were quite dissimilar, she saw. One of his cheeks had a dimple, and his chin was broader than hers, his eyes more hazel than green. They were the same height; she guessed their age to be around five years.

‘Where. . .'

‘The garden at Vinibel. Most of the others – there's a whole lot more – were taken there, or on holidays. We used to tow a caravan to the coast and live at the beach.'

‘I remember. You swung me around above the waves. And we built sandcastles. The hairs on your arms were golden and I had a yellow bucket and spade.'

‘That's right.' His smile was warm. ‘Mary said pink would never suit you.'

‘She was right,' Frances agreed as Sara, forgetting her cooling coffee, worked through the remaining pictures. There were other bits too: a handmade birthday card addressed
To Daddy
with both middle d's back to front. It was signed with a shaky
B & C.
There was a tiny teddy bear and a copy of their birth certificates. One of the photos, taken when she was a toddler, showed John Randall with a twin on either arm, and she caught her breath. ‘That's how I remember you, big and strong. Though I could never call your face to mind.'

Randall sighed. ‘It was another life. As is this one, now you're here.' His grey eyes studied her. ‘You won't let Justin's silliness spoil it, will you? He didn't really mean what he said. And if he did, he knows better now. I told him about the DNA match.'

‘I want to talk to you about that.' Sara packed the last of the photographs back into their box, choosing her words. ‘Don't blame him too much. I don't . . . I mean, I half expected him to resent me. It's understandable in a way. I'm only guessing, but I'll bet you said nothing till you got the test results, then announced my existence and jumped on the plane to Alice. Is that about right?' She caught his nod. ‘He didn't have much time to get over the shock of it. And it must have been a shock, so of course he thought you'd been conned. But what I wanted to say was that I can't stay here – not indefinitely. It's wonderful to have found you all, and I am never going to lose you again, but that doesn't mean moving in. I want to go back to the Alice, you see. I'll come and see you all quite often. And Frances said you have offices in Perth that you visit – so maybe you can fly there via the Alice. I'm sorry. It sounds ungrateful after you've just brought me here. I didn't really want to rush into telling you this but as it's come up, there's no point in not. And it might diffuse things a bit with Justin.'