A Distant Journey Page 15

  But today she had no such inclination. Once the pots and pans were done, Cindy set about sweeping the kitchen floor and wiping down the countertop and kitchen table. She felt nothing but frustration at the never-ending repetitiveness of her tasks.

  ‘It’s only going to get dirty again,’ she sighed. Suddenly she felt the urgent need to get out into some sort of civilisation.

  Is it too late to drive into Deni? she wondered to herself.

  Glancing at the clock, she decided that if she left right away, there was plenty of time to drive all the way into Deniliquin.

  If I go now, I’ll have time for a late lunch and a bit of a look around, she told herself.

  *

  Not long after her arrival, after having to drive Cindy into Yamboola when she’d forgotten things on her shopping list more than once, Murray had decided that she should learn to drive a manual car. So he had taken her out along the dirt road that connected the two houses until she’d got the hang of changing gears and using the clutch.

  ‘Not bad, Cindy,’ Murray had said, smiling with pleasure as she drove smoothly down the road. ‘Next time we drive into Yamboola, I’ll let you take the wheel. Once you’ve driven in there once, you’ll be able to go in and out of town as you like.’

  Now Cindy loved being able to drive. She felt less trapped and she had an escape route from the house when she became fed up with her solitary confinement.

  Feeling confident about driving into Deniliquin alone, although she had not done it before, she quickly changed into a pencil skirt and a silk blouse. Gazing at herself in the mottled bathroom mirror, she swiftly applied some make-up and her favourite red lipstick. She hastily scribbled a note to Murray to tell him what she was doing, just in case he came past to see her, and propped it on the kitchen table under the Worcestershire sauce bottle he kept handy for each meal.

  Climbing into the car, she started the engine and drove carefully along the dirt track that connected the two houses, then along the two-mile driveway until she came to the gate and the main road into town.

  Cindy wound down the window and felt the breeze on her face. It was a warm day and smelled of eucalyptus leaves. She felt a sense of freedom as she drove along the empty road and her spirits lifted even further when she arrived in Deniliquin. It was not a big town, but it was a regional hub and it bustled. There were always people about, in the streets and the shops. Cindy parked the car and got out, smoothing her skirt and feeling rather pleased with herself.

  She browsed through one or two shops and then stopped for a light lunch at a small café. She found the shops a great deal less exciting than those she was used to in Palm Springs and Santa Barbara, but she was pleased to be able to look at any merchandise at all. It was certainly preferable to doing housework.

  Cindy decided there was just enough time for a quick visit to a nearby women’s fashion boutique called Wattle I Wear before heading back home. Rifling through the clothes jammed onto the racks, she smiled to herself. What on earth would Alice think of this? she wondered, lifting up a heavy knit olive cardigan. It was practical, but certainly not glamorous. Cindy had noticed that everyone who came to town made an effort to be well dressed. The styles were conservative, but Deniliquin gave Cindy a reason to leave her boots and plaid shirt at home and put on some of the fashionable clothes she had worn in Palm Springs. Some of her very pointed shoes, especially the pink ones, and her tapered slacks, were not entirely appropriate for a country town and attracted a few stares, but at least she had the chance to wear them.

  Putting the cardigan back onto the rack, Cindy called her thanks to the shopkeeper and left the shop. As she stepped outside, she saw her nearest neighbour, Shirley Jackson, crossing the road towards her, a bulky shopping basket looped over her arm, her purse sitting on top. For a moment Cindy considered turning back into the shop, but Shirley had spotted her and was sailing purposefully towards her.

  ‘Good afternoon, Cindy!’ Shirley chirped. ‘And what are you up to in Deni? Murray with you?’ Not bothering to wait for an answer, Shirley lowered her basket to the pavement and launched into a description of a series of harrowing events involving an accident Mr Jackson had had while fencing and how the bull had taken off when someone hadn’t fastened the gate properly and they’d had the devil’s own job getting him back into the paddock. ‘And all the while we’re after that damned bull, Perce is holding on to his finger that was hanging off by a thread. Doc Forde had to sew it back on. Perce is in the pub consoling himself and telling his mates what happened. The way he’s going on, though, you’d think he’d hacked his arm off at the elbow. Men, they’re sooks, aren’t they?’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear about that. Poor man. Do give him my best wishes,’ said Cindy, relieved to see Shirley stoop and collect her basket.

  ‘Thank you, dear. We must get together for a scone and a cuppa. I’d best go and drive him back home. Hates not being able to drive himself, poor old bloke. Nice to see you’re getting out and about, Cindy. Toodle-loo.’

  The Jacksons had a much smaller place than Kingsley Downs. Murray thought they struggled a bit, but he’d told Cindy they were good, reliable neighbours who were always willing to pitch in. Shirley Jackson, who liked to keep abreast of the local news, had been swift to pop in just a few days after Cindy had arrived, curious to discover just what Murray’s American wife was like and determined to be the first to be able to spread an appraisal of Cindy around the district.

  Cindy had taken no notice of the dust cloud spiralling along the road towards the house, thinking that it was just one of the jackaroos, so she’d been unprepared when a car pulled up in front of the house. She subsequently learned that the dust signal gave her enough time to race inside and tidy herself before having to greet visitors.

  A tall, weather-beaten man and a stout, middle-aged woman had stepped out of the car and chorused hello as Cindy had put down her gardening shears.

  ‘The missus and I thought we’d pop in and say g’day and welcome you to the district, Mrs Parnell,’ said the man, climbing the steps of the verandah. ‘I’m Percy Jackson and this is the missus, Shirley. Murray over with his father?’

  ‘Lovely to meet you,’ Cindy had stammered, desperately hoping she had some biscuits left in the cupboard and wishing that she’d had time to tidy herself up. ‘No, Murray’s in the shed working on a tractor. Do come in.’

  ‘I’ll go and see what he’s up to.’ Mr Jackson seemed to know his way about and Mrs Jackson showed no hesitancy in making her way into Cindy’s house, either.

  ‘So you’re fixing the place up, are you?’ commented Mrs Jackson, glancing about as Cindy led her into the kitchen. ‘Has Murray hired someone, or has he got you working on it?’ Shirley was dressed in a comfortable flannel skirt and a handmade knitted brown jumper and carried a wicker basket.

  ‘I’m just pottering away by myself, brightening it up a bit,’ said Cindy, blushing. She felt embarrassed that the house still looked so shabby. ‘Can I make you some tea?’

  ‘Never say no to a cuppa,’ trilled Mrs Jackson. ‘We’ve been so keen to meet you. Now, I’ve brought a sponge cake.’

  ‘Oh, how kind of you. Shall I call Murray and Mr Jackson in?’

  ‘They’ll toddle in when they’re ready,’ said Shirley cheerfully. She put her large basket on the kitchen table and lifted out a tin cake container, followed by a jar of jam and a fat photo album.

  ‘Some of my peach jam. Had a good crop this year. And I thought you might like to see some pictures of our place and the local sights. Perce got me a camera when we first moved here, twenty years ago now, and I’ve recorded just about everything we’ve done to the property. Really wonderful to look back on it all. It’ll give you a good idea of the country. How it can change, like.’

  Two hours later, Cindy was staring desperately at the door, willing Murray to appear. Shirley Jackson was worse than the Inquisition. Cindy
had never been interrogated with such vigour. Each time Cindy had suggested freshening up the tea and calling in the men, Mrs Jackson had waved a hand and said brightly, ‘Leave them to it, it’s nice for them to have a catch-up and a bit of a yarn. They know where the kitchen is!’

  Helping herself to another piece of cake, she then said, ‘Now, Cindy, when are you thinking of having a baby? You mustn’t leave it too long, you know. I was barely seventeen when I had Glenda! How old was your mother when she had you?’

  When Murray finally brought Mr Jackson into the kitchen, Cindy exchanged a quick glance and saw that her husband looked slightly amused.

  ‘Any cake left?’ asked Mr Jackson. ‘Think we’ve solved the riddle of the carbie on the tractor. Ah, good-o, plenty left. You want a piece, too, Murray?’

  ‘I have never been known to turn down a piece of Shirley’s sponge cake. Cindy, Shirley has won so many prizes for her cakes, she’s a town legend,’ said Murray.

  Shirley glowed at Murray’s compliment.

  ‘Yes,’ said Cindy faintly. ‘It certainly was lovely.’

  ‘Pleased you liked it. Cindy and I have had such a lovely getting-to-know-you chat, haven’t we, dear?’ Shirley beamed. ‘Tell you what, I’ll make another cake soon and bring it over. I’ll bring the photos of my girls’ deb ball, too. Everyone said they looked gorgeous. I’m sure you’ll agree when I show you the piccies. Well, Perce, we can’t hang around all day gasbagging. Time to be on our way.’ With that, Shirley hauled herself to her feet and she and Percy drove off in a cloud of dust.

  Despite her desperation for company, it had been the longest two hours Cindy could remember. When the Jacksons had left, Cindy told Murray that, while Shirley was clearly good-hearted, she had asked rather a lot of personal questions.

  ‘And honestly, Murray, every photo in that album looked like the one before. I hope she won’t inflict her daughters’ deb ball on me, whatever that is. Do all the neighbours just drop in like that?’

  Murray had just smiled and told her she’d get used to it.

  Now, having escaped Shirley and driving triumphantly back from Deniliquin, Cindy slowed as she passed a paddock near the start of their property, hoping to catch a glimpse of Murray. She missed his company, and their long talks together. But these days he was usually gone for most of the day and when he arrived home for dinner he was tired, and either dozed off while they listened to the radio or was asleep even before Cindy came to bed. As much as Cindy would have liked to spend more time with him, she could not deny that her husband was an extremely hard worker. Moreover, she was beginning to realise how much people in the district respected him. She would often hover on the sidelines watching and listening when he dealt with people, and quickly saw that he always seemed to be straight and fair with them. Even when the shearers were difficult or the jackaroos lazy, he was firm, tough, but even-handed, and as she watched him in action she could not help but admire the easy rapport he had with them.

  It was approaching sunset when she pulled up at the old house. Murray was not yet home, so she threw her note away and was about to make herself a cup of tea and organise the evening meal when a spiral of dirt on the horizon announced Murray’s return. Cindy rushed to the bedroom and retouched her hair and lipstick before greeting her husband at the door with a kiss. Murray’s eyes creased as he smiled.

  ‘Now that’s what I call a welcome. How was your day, sweetheart?’

  ‘Great –’ But before she could say more, Murray interrupted her.

  ‘I hope you haven’t started dinner. Dad wants us over at the big house for dinner. I’d better go wash up and change. You can tell me about your day in the car.’

  Cindy was quiet on the drive over to Lawrence’s house, dreading the uncomfortable meal to come. She was doing her best not to complain about the difficulties of the life that she now shared with Murray, but really it was her father-in-law who was her greatest irritant. Lawrence had made it clear to her right from the start that the Parnell family stood for something: they were graziers, landowners who represented not just a lifestyle but a productive part of a valuable industry, one on which the entire country relied. And wool was more than a means of income. It represented the struggle of pioneers, the adaptability and ingenuity of Australian sheep breeders who’d developed their wool to be the finest in the world. Kingsley Downs was modest in comparison to some of the much larger properties both in the Riverina and in other parts of the country, but Cindy was sure there must be wool growers who weren’t as successful as Kingsley Downs, for it could not be denied that the Parnells had a fine reputation for producing quality wool. Unfortunately, Lawrence had also made it crystal clear that he did not want Cindy interfering in this world, his bailiwick. She wasn’t sure why he so disapproved of her, was disdainful even, and Murray could supply no satisfactory

  explanation.

  ‘Why is your father so cold to me? Why doesn’t he like me?’ she’d asked, close to tears after an earlier visit to the homestead when Lawrence had barely spoken to her for the entire evening. ‘Is there someone else he wished you’d married? Someone he thought would have been a better choice? What is so wrong with me?’

  ‘Cindy, stop saying things like that. Don’t be silly. Of course there was no one else. Look, I can’t explain Dad … it’s just how he is,’ Murray had said. ‘I know he’s difficult to get on with, but eventually he’ll grow to accept you, I’m sure he will. Just give it time.’

  Cindy had tried hard to make friends with Lawrence, but her approaches were always rebuffed. Since Murray and his father worked so closely together, she wanted her relationship with her father-in-law to work, but no matter what she did Lawrence remained cold, and even contemptuous. She might have given up on him altogether had it not been for one night when, out of the blue, Murray had turned to her in bed. She’d thought he had been asleep and was startled when he’d reached for her and taken her in his arms, muttering softly into her hair, ‘Please try, Cin. I know Dad can be hard, but just try to be nice to him. For me.’

  It was a small voice, like the pleading of a little boy, and then, as if regretting the words that had tumbled from him, he’d stilled her mouth by kissing her hard and holding her tight, making love to her almost violently, as if to force away the weakness he had momentarily shown.

  There was something about Murray’s actions that had warned Cindy not to question him or mention the incident again. So she did try to swallow her annoyance, her hurt and her outrage at Lawrence’s incessant rudeness and pointed barbs, and be as civil to her father-in-law as she could, for Murray’s sake. For both their sakes. But she hated doing so.

  Entering Lawrence’s house after their silent drive over, Cindy smiled brightly at her father-in-law. ‘Good evening, Lawrence, how was your day?’

  As usual Lawrence barely acknowledged her presence, turning instead to Murray and beckoning him into his study as if she hadn’t spoken. Did he know how rude he was? she wondered. Left standing awkwardly in the hall, Cindy sighed and went to find Mrs Flowers.

  At dinner, she sat quietly as Murray and Lawrence discussed the events of the day and future plans. She fingered the lace edging of the tablecloth and picked at her food. She yawned a couple of times, feigning tiredness and hoping Murray would suggest they leave. Murray gave Cindy several sympathetic glances and smiles, but continued to talk to Lawrence. Cindy took a deep breath and tried to be patient. Murray was caught between a rock and a hard place, between his wife and his father. She wished he was more supportive of her, but she knew he was doing his best. She’d confided to Babs in one of her frequent letters to her aunt that she found Murray’s father to be cold and stand-offish to the point of rudeness and that she had no idea how to handle the situation.

  Babs had written back, Well, at least you only have one in-law and not a whole tribe!

  Cindy didn’t say anything more about Lawrence’s chilly demeanour to Babs, so a
s not to upset her. Darling Babs, so warm, affectionate and outgoing. Always so caring and generous, she would be devastated if she knew how Lawrence was treating her niece.

  As Murray and Lawrence talked on, she looked about the room. How austere it was, old-fashioned and cold-looking. It certainly lacked a woman’s touch, Cindy thought. Indeed, there was nothing really personal in the décor of the house at all; no hint that a woman had ever lived here and made it her home. She had asked Murray once why there were no photos of his mother about and he’d replied tightly, ‘It’s too painful for my father to be reminded of her. Please don’t ever say anything, will you?’ And then he’d swiftly changed the subject, as he did whenever Cindy mentioned his mother.

  Pushing her food around her plate, Cindy chewed over lots of scenarios in her mind, trying to explain Lawrence’s attitude. Was he jealous that his close relationship with his son had been invaded by an outsider? Or did Cindy’s loving presence in Murray’s life remind Lawrence of what he had lost? Was he fearful that she might steal Murray away, back to the States, with emotional blackmail? Or was it that Lawrence thought that she was the wrong wife for Murray, an interloper who would never fit in? If only Lawrence would say how he felt, then there was a chance things could change. But, thought Cindy, maybe Lawrence had so adored his wife Rose that her loss had totally crippled him emotionally. The more she thought about the reasons that might explain Lawrence’s attitude towards her, the more powerless Cindy felt.

  Finally, Mrs Flowers appeared to clear their plates. She smiled at Cindy as she stacked them and Cindy asked after Tom. Cindy had quickly grown to like the Flowerses. She chatted with Tom when he came to the house, but he was a quiet bushman who spoke when spoken to, and never used four or five words when two would suffice. Cindy liked to talk to Mrs Flowers and tried to prise bits of information about the family from the housekeeper when she had the chance, especially about Murray and what he’d been like as a little boy. But, although Mrs Flowers was not as quiet as her husband, neither was she one to gossip, so when an occasional anecdote or small morsel of information was winkled out of her, Cindy savoured it.