Return to Moondilla (23 page)

‘Good to meet you, Pat,’ said Baxter. ‘You know, you’re the first female ringer I’ve met. Although as a matter of fact, you’re the first ringer I’ve met!’ They all laughed and that made the atmosphere more amenable.

‘There’s more of us than there used to be,’ Pat said. ‘Women ringers, I mean. Mind you, a lot of the old diehard cattlemen wouldn’t employ a woman to save their lives. Not them. But things are changing.’

‘That’s good to hear,’ said Frances.

Pat gave her a smile. ‘Well, Liz should be back for lunch as she left early. In the meantime, would you like a cuppa? I’ve got my own cottage.’

‘A cup of tea would be great,’ Baxter said, and his mother—who was almost wilting—agreed. ‘But I’ve got my dog with me. All right if we get him?’

‘That would be Chief, right? I’ve heard all about him too. Liz says he’s some dog. Of course you can bring him. All our dogs are tied up right now.’

Pat walked back with them into the big shed and showed a lot of interest in the German Shepherd. Then Baxter, Chief and Frances followed the ringer across the square and around the corner of another big shed, which was partly filled with bales of hay.

Just beyond this shed was a neat cottage. The Baxters stood aside to allow Pat to mount the front steps, then followed her in. It was a three-bedroom place and larger than Baxter had imagined from the front view. A large horse yard lay perhaps fifty metres from the cottage. It was attached to a stable that, from what he could see, was divided in two. A nice bay horse was feeding from a trough in the yard.

‘Been out looking things over,’ the ringer said. ‘Got away early.’

Baxter nodded. ‘I take it you know a lot about cattle, Pat?’

‘I reckon I know a fair bit. I was just about born on a cattle camp. Won my share of campdrafts too.’

‘This would be a good place for a boy to grow up,’ Baxter suggested, thinking of his son. ‘He’d have his own pony and plenty of riding.’

‘He’ll have all that, but there’s not much money in cattle right now. You need to have a connection with a food outlet or maybe have a small feedlot where you can finish cattle, except that these cattle don’t lend themselves to that sort of thing. You need a fair splash of British breed in them if you’re going to feed cattle. Liz is looking into it.’

Baxter nodded; he remembered Liz telling him about this enthusiastically before she left Moondilla. He hoped the reality of station ownership hadn’t hit her too hard.

‘Would you like a wash?’ Pat asked.

‘That would be great,’ said Baxter. ‘This heat is a bit tough on Mum.’

‘Yes, I’m used to being in air-conditioned surroundings!’ said Frances, fanning her flushed and sweat-beaded face.

After their wash, Pat handed them mugs of tea that were about three times the size of a normal cup and slabs of fruitcake large enough for at least two people. Frances did her best to eat and drink, then asked Pat if she could please have a lie down. The ringer set her up in one of the bedrooms.

‘Liz has started talking about selling this place, on and off,’ Pat told Baxter, sitting back down. ‘But her old man loved it and would never have thought of selling up. He reckoned if he ever had grandkids, it would be just the shot for them. So I think it’s partly sentiment that keeps Liz here. That and the hope that beef prices will improve. Then there’s the young fella—if he takes after Liz’s father, he’ll be a fair dinkum bushie and want his own property.’

‘Then perhaps keeping the property is the best plan for the future?’ said Baxter. It sounded like a terrific life for his son.

‘Well, Liz says if she sells up and invests the money, she’d be better off than she is now with all the worry of the place. But then she loves it here.’

‘Does she ride much?’

‘Oh, yes. Liz is no mug on a horse. She rode from when she could walk. She doesn’t ride in drafts like me, but she’s pretty keen on horses. So they’re one reason she always decides against selling up.’

Baxter had other questions he wanted to ask, but reckoned it would be bad taste to pry and would also place the ringer in an invidious position. Liz would probably tell him all he wanted to know.

‘It’s a bit different here to Kings Cross,’ he said with the memory of that place still clear in his mind after all the writing he’d been doing.

‘I suppose so,’ Pat said. ‘I’ve never been there but I’ve read about it. You know the place well?’

‘Well enough. I did some research there for a book.’

‘Ah. It’s a bad place for drugs, isn’t it?’

‘Bad enough,’ he said—but then Moondilla had been too, until recently. He wondered what Pat the Ringer would make of Alan the Pimp or Campanelli the King Pin. She’d probably use her stockwhip on them.

‘Bad women too?’ she suggested.

Rosa’s memory still haunted him. ‘Not bad, Pat, just unfortunate.’ He decided to change the subject. ‘Is Liz well?’

‘Fit as a fiddle. Looks well too. She fed the baby and all.’ Pat grinned and her grey eyes softened. ‘Liz thinks he’s Christmas. Probably spoil him something terrible.’

‘I hope not,’ Baxter said quickly. He was still wondering if Pat knew he was the father, but he didn’t want to ask—especially because Frances might overhear. ‘Are you keen on country and western music?’ he asked instead.

‘I can take it or leave it,’ Pat said with a laugh. ‘Liz likes it a lot. She used to be in a country and western troupe.’

‘So she told me. That’s how she came to be in Moondilla.’

‘What did you think of her husband?’ Pat asked. ‘I never met Jack.’

‘Not much. He was an ex-pug and a boozer.’ He wondered how much Pat knew about the marriage. ‘It beats me why a woman who stood to inherit all this would marry a fellow like Jack Drew. Liz told me it was because she’d got sick of travelling all over the country, but it seems she didn’t have to do that. She could have come home here.’

Shaking her head, Pat sighed. ‘Liz was too proud to do that. She had a big row with her mother and left. She wouldn’t come back while her mum was here. And then she lost her parents, one after the other.’

‘Poor Liz.’ Whenever he heard stories like this, Baxter felt immensely grateful for his own mother. ‘So they never mended their fences?’

Pat’s eyes were sad. ‘No, unfortunately.’ She got up and cleared away the dishes. ‘You want to have a look around the property? I’ll leave the homestead tour to Liz.’

‘I’ll let Mum rest a bit longer, and I don’t want her out in the heat. We might wait until the sun goes down. How many acres is this place, anyway?’

‘About a hundred and twenty thousand. Of course, that doesn’t mean a lot in terms of what it can carry. You need a lot more acres to run a beast than down south.’

‘It must take a bit of getting around,’ Baxter said.

‘That and all,’ she said.

This seemed a strange expression, but then he remembered that many northerners often added the ‘all’ to their sentences. It set them apart.

‘We’ve got bikes and a couple of four-wheelers,’ Pat said, ‘but you can’t work cattle on them. They’re okay if you just want to keep to the tracks and check out the watering points, but you can’t use them for mustering in some of our country. You need horses there. You ride at all?’

‘Afraid not. I was always too busy doing other things,’ he said. He told Pat a little about himself—the writing, martial arts and cooking.

‘Liz is busting to see you,’ Pat said. ‘She thinks you’re the ant’s pants.’ Pat was looking out the window. ‘She won’t be long now. See that dust?’

The ringer pointed to where a long caterpillar of pinky-white dust was snaking its way through the olive-green scrub.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The Toyota Land Cruiser came to a stop beneath a massive eucalypt beside the homestead’s wire fence. Baxter watched as the driver got out and walked to its offside. She looked up and waved to Pat Collins—and right at that moment Baxter, followed by his mother, walked out from behind the big shed into the bright sunlight. Chief was at his knee.

Liz ran full-tilt towards them. There was no swaying provocative walk in evidence now. ‘Greg,’ she cried as she fell on him, and then, ‘Chief!’, as she fell to her knees and hugged the dog. ‘Lordy, it’s good to see you.’

Baxter looked across to where the ringer had been standing, curious about her reaction, but she’d discreetly exited the scene.

‘This is my Mum, Liz. Frances Baxter.’

‘I know,’ she said, a little nervously. ‘I mean, I recognise you, of course. Greg thinks you’re the world on wheels, Mrs Baxter.’

Frances smiled and gave her a big hug.

‘Shouldn’t you extricate the baby?’ Baxter asked.

Liz leaned into the Land Cruiser to remove the boy from his seat. ‘There, did you ever see anything like him?’

‘Him’ was thrust into Baxter’s arms, where he immediately began to cry very loudly. ‘Whoa, fella, I’m not going to eat you. Probably not used to a man, eh? Too many women around.’ Despite the baby’s tears, Baxter was pleased to see he was a handsome, hearty fellow. ‘Well, he certainly looks healthy, Liz. Here, you take the scamp and I’ll carry your bags in.’

They followed her into the monolithic homestead and were staggered by the dimensions of the rooms. Air flowed along breezeways from the verandahs that surrounded the building.

Then they entered a huge kitchen, with massive cupboards and a large walk-in pantry. ‘There’s a coolroom outside,’ Liz explained. ‘We keep veggies and other stuff in it. They’ll keep for ages—saves going to town all the time. And of course, we have our own meat. You can put today’s veggies there. I’ll put his nibs down with a bottle and get these other things stored away, and then we can have lunch.’

‘Is there anything more I can do?’ Baxter asked.

‘You could feed His Majesty his bottle, if you don’t mind.’

Baxter looked across at her and smiled. There was less of the old provocative Liz now, and more of the practical station
owner and mother. And she still looked great. She was wearing blue jeans and a cream silk blouse with a string tie, and her wide-brimmed hat was a pearl-coloured Akubra.

‘I could feed him if that would help,’ Frances suggested, holding out her arms.

‘By all means,’ Liz said. She handed over the baby and his bottle. ‘He’s inclined to drink it very fast, so you have to stop now and again.’

Watching his mother hold his son, Baxter grinned. He couldn’t wait to see her face when she learned the truth.

‘He’s a gorgeous baby,’ Frances said. She stroked his peach-fuzz cheek and smiled down at him as he started suckling the bottle.

‘He’s not bad,’ Liz agreed. ‘He’s got nice-looking parents so he ought to turn out all right . . . looks-wise, anyway. There, that’s that,’ she said, putting away three bags of groceries. ‘Will corned beef and salad do, Mrs Baxter? I’m not a fancy cook.’

‘It will do just fine,’ Frances said.

‘Is he drinking?’ Liz asked.

‘Half the bottle has gone. He’s a solid fellow. Must have been reared on a good paddock.’

‘I breastfed him. I wanted to because I reckoned I might not get another chance.’

Frances nodded.

‘He’s not bad, is he?’ Liz asked with obvious pride. ‘What do you think of your first grandchild, Mrs Baxter?’

Shocked, Frances looked at her for affirmation.

‘Yes, he’s Greg’s,’ said Liz. ‘He looks more like Greg than me.’

‘Greg,
how
could you not tell me?’ Frances asked, turning to her son.

‘I didn’t know until quite recently,’ he said, just as Liz said, ‘Greg didn’t know until he was several weeks old.’ They both laughed.

‘Greg wanted to surprise you,’ Liz explained. ‘You fell into his trap when you offered to come up here with him.’

‘Isn’t he the schemer?’

‘I learned from the best, Mum,’ Baxter said with a laugh, remembering that he’d recently accused her of exactly the same thing. She narrowed her eyes at him.

‘But how come,’ she said, addressing Liz, ‘I didn’t get to meet you when I came down to Moondilla? You’ve had a baby together and I hardly know a thing about you. Greg certainly kept you quiet.’

Baxter wasn’t sure how to explain their relationship to his mother, but Liz just smiled and said, ‘We’re good friends and we spent one night together.’

‘Well, I never!’ Frances laughed and cuddled the baby closer. ‘When he’s older you
must
come and stay with me, Liz. What did you call him?’

‘Gregory James,’ Liz said.

‘This is
very
exciting.’ Frances’s eyes were shining. ‘If I’d known, I’d have brought a bottle of champagne!’

‘Oh, that’s all right, I’ve got champagne,’ said Liz. ‘Greg won’t drink it but we can, Mrs Baxter.’

‘Frances! Please call me Frances.’

•

The women drank champagne while Baxter had his usual orange juice, and then they sat down to a wholesome lunch. Afterwards, the three of them settled Gregory James into his nursery for an afternoon nap. Frances headed to bed herself, pleading exhaustion from the heat, and Baxter sat drinking iced tea with Liz on the wide verandah.

‘There’s something I want to tell you about, Liz,’ said Baxter. ‘It concerns his Lordship in a roundabout sort of way.’

‘What is it, Greg?’

‘I want to tell you a story. It’s about a girl who died not so long ago. Her name was Rosa Craig, and she was a prostitute. I knew her when I lived in Sydney.’

Liz laughed, disbelieving. ‘Don’t tell me you were with a prostitute?’

‘Never. I did hold Rosa’s hand, but that was when she was dying.’ His voice roughened. ‘She’d overdosed on heroin.’

‘Oh, Greg.’

‘It wasn’t a very nice way for a nineteen-year-old to die, especially without a single member of her family at her bedside. There was only Mum and me in the room at St Vincent’s Hospital.’

So Baxter told Liz about Rosa and Prue, about the Craig family in Albury, and about Alan the Pimp.

‘What I came to understand,’ he said, ‘is just how important it is to show a child—whether young or a teenager like Rosa—how much you love him or her. I would hate to think that young Greg ever felt that he wasn’t loved.’

‘I couldn’t love him more than I do,’ Liz said passionately. ‘He’s practically my whole life.’