The Quilt (7 page)

The rain was falling in miserable cold sheets.  Sean kicked angrily at the puddles in an effort to delay every step of his journey up the drive way towards Shearers Cottage.  Dim lights were barely visible behind the cold black glass.  Damn, Allan was inside.  Sean squinted into the threads of icy water.  Perhaps he could enter unnoticed, get changed into wet weather gear and work outside until Allan fell into an alcohol-induced sleep. 

It had been thr
ee weeks since he had seen his mother.  During this time the cottage had filled with the stench of unclean skin and vomit.  Bottles had accumulated on the grimy surfaces and fist-sized holes had appeared in the woodwork and walls. It was only a matter of time.

Allan was sitting at the table on his normal chair.  His face was a mask of rage, saliva dripped down his chin and his eyes bulged in their sunken sockets.  Red splotches stood out on his yellowing skin. 

Revolted, Sean turned away. He had communicated with Allan only when absolutely necessary after Anne had left.  There was something more threatening today, Allan appeared sober.  He needed to get out. Stay safe, stay alert, do not underestimate this man.  His hold on reality is fragile.

“I will get changed and move the stock away from the river
.”

Allan
brought his fist down on the table.

“
Are you listening?  The bloody police arrived today.  They fronted right up to the damned door!  Who the hell do they think they are, asking questions about your idiot mother’s whereabouts?”

Allan rubbed at the raw skin around his eyes. 

“The bitch left me, is what I told them.  Because they wear a uniform they think it gives them the right to enter private property.  They had no right to come here, no right to search and I told them so.  Are you listening?  You are not to talk about your mother to anyone.  Do you understand? Never talk about that bitch to anyone!”

“Who the hell told them she wasn’t here?  People are talking about me.  Did you say something?  Tell one of your stupid
, spoilt, friends that your mother was away?  Do you hear me?  I am talking to you turn and look at me!”

What was this Sean, his son had turned his back? 
He swatted at the people running around the corners of his eyes.  Go away, go away now!

“Listen
!” he commanded, a bruised swollen hand reached for Sean’s neck. He must have brought the police here, he must have been talking about family business, he had no right to do that, he had been warned.  Sean needed to leave school; he needed to stay on Twin Pines away from prying eyes and eager ears.

Sean felt the grimy hand
, damp and filthy on his throat.   He unfolded his six foot two inch frame and towered a few inches away from the bloated face.  He didn’t say a word.  He didn’t have to. 

The eyes that had held so much terror to a growing child stared back
battling to focus.  For a second – just a split second - Sean saw fear in Allan, a shell of a man gutted by his own greed, addictions and hatred.  They never spoke again.

Sean was eighteen
when Allan fed his demons their last drink.  He died alone in his filthy bedroom littered with empty bottles and soaked in vomit and urine.  

It was a small funeral held on a dismal cold autumn day, somehow fitting weather to see such a toxic man laid to rest.  The few people that bothered to turn up did so as a mark of respect for Sean. Most had assumed Allan had passed years before, many could not even recall his face.

Locals
rallied to help with the farm and offer condolences for a loss Sean did not feel. In reality Sean had been running the property for years by himself. Allan had only been present in ruined body; his mind had left Twin Pines much earlier.

Sean’s thoughts were interrupted as Jean shuffled and put down her pen with a clatter.

“Do you ever think of her?” 

Sean looked up, dragging himself back to the present.

“Yes
, of course I do.  Every day I wonder, not what happened to her but how it happened and where she is.”

“So you are sure she is dead
?”

“Oh yes
, I am positive she is dead and so are the police.  I guess the rain destroyed any trace of evidence but I am sure Allan had a hand in her death.  If she was alive she would have been in contact.  She would never have left me to wonder, it just wasn’t her way to put herself before others.”

Jean hesitated before continuing cautiously.  This was the first time Sean had shared his memories of the past and she knew it had been difficult.

“How did you stay in the cottage with the man you thought had murdered your mother?  Didn’t you want to kill him?” 

She saw an unfamiliar hardness travel over Sean’s face and instantly regretted her question.

“Yes, I wanted to kill him.  But he was doing that job for himself.  I never really communicated with him after Anne went missing.  I wondered, I hoped that as he got close to the end he would respect my mother enough to tell me where she was.  Of course, that never happened.”  Sean shook his head.

“
He went to his grave holding the last piece of control he had.”

Jean looked up
sadly.  If she could have been granted one wish at that moment she would have asked that Anne’s remains would be found and the poor woman and her son could be let rest.

She reached for Sean’s hand.  “Thank
you.” 

There is always a lesson left by those that went before.  An example left to follow or a warning of where not to go.  Be wise enough to know the difference and humble enough to listen.

Chapter 5 

“
Sean Clarke”

Sean’s first priority was to clean up the foul odour of Allan Clarke that hung like a mouldy blanket in every corner of Shearers Cottage.  He scrubbed and bleached the surfaces and walls that oozed the foul stale smell of sweat, urine and liquor, he repaired the surfaces broken in fits of rage, and he burnt not only the bedding but the bed itself, collected the bottles and opened the windows to blow the memory of Allan out of the tiny building.

Larger changes were
in the air for Twin Pines.

“So you want to convert your
cattle farm to lamb and wool?”

Sean sat opposite Cliff in the Kean
e’s small kitchen that was dominated by a huge square oak table.

“That old Ba….” Cliff trailed off as his wife
, Dorothy cast him a warning glance.

“Your father would be turning in his grave
,” he laughed.

Cliff had a reputation for being gruff and impatient, gained mainly
after he had threatened local youngsters with a pellet gun when they made their annual visit to steal fruit from his orchard. 

Sean had spent the afternoon visiting the
substantial Keane sheep property looking at their implement sheds and studying the efficient shearing shed and yards.

“You would need to invest quite a bit of capital. 
It’s been awhile since I last visited Twin Pines but from memory you have nothing that will be of much use to you in your new venture.”

Cliff hesitated before continuing
.

“I would imagine Allan left you very little by the time he passed away?”

Sean smiled.

“Some of the
money he got from selling the lifestyle blocks went into developing Twin Pines.  Unfortunately, much of it didn’t.”

There was no need for Sean to explain further. 

“I am considering selling off the three thousand acres bordering you.  It is on a separate title and would still leave me with just over five thousand acres.  That would give me enough capital to get set up and enough land to operate with financial viability.”

Cliff nodded and rubbed the stubble on his chin
.

“Well Sean
, I would be very interested in putting an option on that land if you decide to go ahead and sell.  If I can help in anyway or you need to know anything, give me a call.”

Cliff looked thoughtful
.

“I guess you wouldn’t consider selling the ridge
with the views?  The one at the back of Twin Pines.”

Sean smiled before answering.

“James Ridge?  No, that is part of the title I will retain.  It would be wrong to let it go.”

Cliff nodded his understanding.  He continued after he had poured another hot steaming cup of tea for his young visitor.

“We are running the Romney’s here.  They do pretty well on the King Country.  I am sure I can help if you want to purchase some good ewes or I can put you on to someone else when you are further down the track with the conversion.”

Cliff
’s wife put down her knitting needles.  They had kept up a methodical clicking throughout their conversation.

“You know
Sean; it might be time to put a match to that old cottage of yours.  I know it’s none of my business but it would be nice to see you moving forward.  Some memories just aren’t worth keeping.”

Sean looked up at the well-meaning face
, open and friendly, a genuine woman showing genuine concern. It made him miss his own mother and feel the familiar ache of not knowing. 

C
liff pushed a piece of paper into Sean’s hand as he stood up to leave.

“Here is the
telephone number of a local builder.  David is a very nice man with a reasonable charge out rate.  He could design and build you a decent house you know.  He would also be handy to bring on site when you start on that shearing shed of yours.  He is very practical and has a farming background.”

While Sean had been left with very little actual money to spend on the conversion to sheep and wool, Twin Pines itself had benefitted from years of hard work.  The basic development was completed, it was clear of scrub and weed, the fences and access roads were in good repair and the pasture fertilised and well stocked with quality Angus cattle.

The desirable, rolling, three thousand acre block Sean had decided to sell was never listed publically.  Cliff purchased the land after obtaining an independent valuation and set about helping Sean stock Twin Pines with the best quality Romney rams and in-lamb ewes available.

“David Hollingway speaking, how can I help you?” the voice rang out gruffly on the other end of the line.

“Sean Clarke here from Twin Pines Station
.”

“Cliff said you would possibly be ringing.  He said you needed a design and build on a shearing shed, yards, raceways and ramps.  Is that right?”

“And a house.”

“I don’t do much of the farm building work anymore.  But I spent most of my younger years farming sheep
.  What I can’t do, I can at least get organized for you.  There are specialised builders now days, some good some not so good.” He continued, “Cliff said you were pretty handy yourself.”

Sean had always been talented working with timber.  Several of his macrocarpa tables and rustic seats had
been sold locally and commanded very respectable prices.

“I enjoy building tables and chairs, smaller items along those lines
,” Sean replied modestly.

As promised David Hollingway made a brief visit the following day.

He was
a large, efficient and friendly man with a brisk manner, ready smile and was always quick with a good humored but often inappropriate joke. When he laughed it seemed to come from the very pit of his generous belly.

He had already sketched plans for
the new shearing shed designed to minimise stress and time, comfortable shearers quarters that combined an area for workers to prepare and eat meals and a three bedroom brick and tile rectangular farmhouse typical of the structure constructed at the time.  The house had a central hallway, large lounge and farm kitchen with a wet room at the rear entry so that dirty boots and coats could be shed without mess. 

Sean mulled over the plans.  There was little he changed.  David Hollingway was practical
; exactly as he had been described.

David Hollingway arrived in the early summer to supervise the foundations for the new farmhouse.  Sean was busy cutting silage and hay for the winter stock feed.  He had employed several local men to help with the labor-intensive job of picking up the smaller bales from the paddocks and stacking them neatly in the huge, old fashioned hay barn.

Large
, green, plastic wrapped bales, sweet rich piles of silage and massive round bales of hay were picked up by front-end loaders to be trucked away and stacked in neat rows.  They would be used when the stock was low on feed and needed supplementing, or when snow fell heavily and the animals could not scratch out the grass from under the dense cover.

By the middle of the summer the shearing shed was nearing completion and the pasture was dotted with fat spring lambs running evening races through the rolling green pasture.  It was a far cry from the years of turmoil that had once been Twin Pines.