Barra Creek Read online

  Kate stood up. ‘I’ll try to find where she is. No promises beyond that.’

  Lorna’s face softened and her body relaxed slightly. ‘That’s a start. Thank you.’

  Kate left the room knowing she’d have to make good on her offer. Lorna might have periodic lapses but she wouldn’t forget what Kate had promised her – to find her governess from the 1960s, Sally Mitchell. She must have been a special young woman. And what had she and Lorna shared that was now so important?

  ‘Got your handbag, dearie?’

  The woman shepherding the group onto the minibus patted Lorna’s arm as the driver helped his elderly passengers aboard. Lorna nodded, thinking she needn’t have bothered taking her good lizard-skin bag as they only allowed them five dollars each in cash. They weren’t considered responsible with money, matches, valuables or sharp instruments like nail scissors. But the women clutched their empty, bulky handbags as if they were life preservers.

  Lorna hadn’t wanted to go on this enforced outing. Most of her companions were only vaguely aware of where they were, though the lure of ice-creams penetrated some foggy minds.

  ‘This’ll be good for you,’ said Mrs Jackson. But Lorna felt it was Mrs Jackson who was looking forward to it. Even with six women and three men in her charge, going for a ‘scenic’ drive around the suburbs then stopping for ice-cream and drinks at the Park Cafe was preferable to looking after them in the home.

  Lorna sat at the rear of the bus, distancing herself from the excited childlike chatter of the two women in front of her. She paid little attention to the ‘sights’ – manicured lawns and gardens, homes like the ones they may have lived in once – followed by a slow twirl through a big park until they stopped outside the Park Cafe, a simple tea room with tables outside. Across the road was a squat square bank building.

  ‘I’d like to sit outside, please.’ Lorna put her handbag on a table.

  The waitress assisting Mrs Jackson frowned. ‘You’re not going to smoke, are you?’

  ‘This is outdoors,’ snapped Lorna.

  ‘Don’t worry, dear,’ said Mrs Jackson to the waitress. ‘They’re not allowed ciggies.’

  Lorna sat down. She’d asked a friendly nursing assistant with a smoking habit to bring her a packet of cigarettes, but then realised she was jeopardising her job by asking her to break the rules. She almost smiled to herself. It’d probably be easier for the young woman to slip her excess medication than cigarettes.

  Mr Thompson sat beside her. He was a gruff, withdrawn chap. Half the time Lorna wasn’t sure if he was unaware of his surroundings or just being sulky.

  ‘Better out here. You can hear the birds,’ he said.

  ‘Fresh air, sunshine. I miss that. Being able to wander outside whenever you want,’ Lorna replied.

  ‘It’s bloody dreadful being told what to do all the time. Bossy bloody women.’ He fell silent, looking morose.

  A glass of orange juice with a straw was put in front of him; a cup of tea with a biscuit for Lorna.

  ‘You can manage all right, Mr T? Don’t spill any on that nice jumper.’

  He didn’t answer, but held his shaking hand with his good one, guiding it to the glass as he leaned over and took a sip.

  Lorna stirred her tea, gazing across the road. ‘There’s a bank over there. I have an account with them.’

  ‘Rare species these days, a regular bank. My kids closed my account. Buggered if I know how they got control of my cheque book.’

  Lorna stared at him. He’d never talked so much in all the time she’d seen him around the home. ‘Would you mind waiting here for a bit longer? I have to go to the ladies room.’

  ‘I’m not going to run away. Nowhere to go.’ He looked morose again.

  ‘I am.’ Lorna was flushed. She pushed her cup away and tucked her handbag under her arm and got to her feet.

  ‘Run away? You won’t get far. But good luck to you. I’ll tell ’em you’re in the loo.’ He was not surprised at her impulsive decision.

  He watched her walk steadily and quite quickly across the grass towards the block of public toilets, veer around it and head to the pedestrian crossing and push the button to change the lights.

  ‘Want a sandwich, Mr T? Now where’s Lorna?’

  ‘She’s allowed to go to the blessed lavatory, isn’t she?’ he said, shifting his weight in his chair to block the view of the street.

  ‘Now don’t be like that, Mr T, or you won’t come out on these nice trips.’ Mrs Jackson hurried back inside to the group of women who were busy stuffing muffins, pepper, salt and sugar sachets along with plastic cutlery and paper napkins into their cavernous handbags.

  He glanced up again and saw that Lorna was across the road and going into the bank.

  ‘Morning. How can I help you?’ The teller gave her a bright smile.

  ‘I’d like you to call Mr Stephen Benson at the head office, please.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ The smile grew tighter.

  ‘I want to take money out of my account. He can arrange it.’

  ‘Oh dear. Don’t you have your card? Your passbook, cheque book?’

  ‘No, it’s been taken away from me. Please telephone him. He knows me.’

  ‘Sorry, madam, I can’t help you if you haven’t got identification or means to make a withdrawal.’ The smile disappeared.

  ‘Could I see your manager, please?’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s busy at the moment.’

  ‘Then I’ll wait. Tell him Mrs Lorna Monroe is here to see him.’

  ‘Do you have an account with us?’

  ‘Not with this branch, but Mr Benson knows me.’

  ‘Is there a problem?’ The supervisor appeared at the teller’s shoulder.

  ‘This lady has no documents and wants to withdraw money. She says some Mr Benson knows her. She wants to see our manager but I explained he was busy.’ She was signalling with her eyes that she wanted the supervisor to help her move on this troublesome customer. There were others in line.

  ‘Did you say you know Mr Benson?’ asked the supervisor.

  ‘That’s right. Mr Stephen Benson. He looked after my account.’

  ‘He’s the Managing Director in head office.’

  ‘That’s right. Would you please tell him Mrs Lorna Monroe needs to speak to him. It’s quite urgent.’

  The supervisor asked Lorna to step through the swing door and ushered her into a small office. She returned a short time later and Lorna detected a change in her manner. She picked up the phone on the desk and handed it to Lorna.

  The call was brief, the expression on the supervisor’s face showing surprise, slight shock, then sympathy as she listened to Lorna’s side of the conversation.

  Lorna hung up. ‘He says I can have five hundred dollars in cash until he sorts matters out for me.’

  She left the bank, holding onto her handbag more tightly. The teller had told her there was a taxi rank just down the road.

  The car pulled up outside 28 Kavanagh Street, in a neat, respectable Sydney suburb. Lorna sat looking at the overgrown front garden, annoyance, happiness, relief and trepidation welling up in her. The driver turned around and repeated the fare.

  ‘Oh, sorry. Here you are.’ She handed him the cash.

  He looked at her and back at the house. ‘You’ll be all right, lady? Doesn’t look like there’s anyone home.’

  ‘It’s all right. It’s my home.’

  The taxi turned around in the street then stopped as the driver watched the woman walk slowly to the front door and fumble in her handbag. He wanted to be sure she was safe. She had no luggage, the blinds were drawn and the place looked like it had been empty a long time.

  Lorna unzipped the small compartment in her bag and took out a front door key. No one knew she’d kept it. She’d also written her address on a piece of paper. Praying her son hadn’t changed the locks, she slipped the key into the deadlock and sighed as it clicked. She opened the door and stepped inside.

  As she wa
lked through the house, anger slowly replaced her initial trepidation at returning to her home of twenty years. It had been stripped of everything she’d owned and loved. Only a shell with basic furniture remained. In every room she imagined how it once looked – the pictures, the cushions, the furniture, the curtains, the knick-knacks, the lovely rugs. All gone.

  Why had they done this? She wasn’t in her grave and she wasn’t an imbecile. Yet.

  Her growing fury fuelled her energy. She began to plan. There was electricity, the fridge and stove were still there, as was a bare bed, and table and chairs in the family room. The phone was still connected. She would call a taxi and go to the shops, stock up on some necessities and telephone Kate. She’d kept Kate’s card in her bag too.

  ‘Lorna! What are you saying? I don’t believe this.’

  ‘Kate, I don’t want to get you into trouble. Please don’t tell my family or the home where I am. Just ring them and tell them you know I’m all right, I’m with friends. Not to worry about me.’

  ‘My God, the staff at the home have probably got the police searching the streets around the park right now. Okay, I’ll ring them. Give me your address and I’ll be right over. Do you need anything?’

  ‘Not really. I’ve been out and bought a few things. I caught a taxi home. It was just a few blocks away. Promise me you won’t tell them anything. Don’t break a confidence, you know what I mean.’

  Kate sighed. ‘I shouldn’t do this. I’ll tell them I’m dealing with your case and I’ll bring you back.’

  ‘We have to talk about that. I’m not going back there.’

  ‘We definitely need to talk. Put the kettle on and make yourself a cup of tea, I’ll be there within an hour. I have a bit of re-scheduling to do.’

  ‘Thank you, Kate.’

  ‘Don’t thank me, Lorna. I’m not agreeing to any of this. I’m just buying you a little time.’

  Lorna smiled as she hung up. Time. That’s what she needed. Time to find, and talk to, the governess. Eventually time would run out . . . for all of them.

  The small blue car travelled out of the town through light rain showers, past farm gates into a lush valley with thickly wooded ranges on either side. They passed a tea room and some shops before seeing the white gate with its sign saying ‘Art Gallery’.

  ‘Very rustic. Pretty. She must have quite a big acreage,’ said Kate as she turned into the gravel driveway lined with Japanese maples.

  ‘Horses too, I’m sure,’ Lorna said, looking across at the white-fenced paddocks.

  ‘That must be the gallery at the side there. Where it’s glassed in, with the lights on,’ said Kate. ‘This is the address on the Christmas card.’

  They sat in silence staring at the house. Lorna twisted her hands as she did when she was agitated.

  ‘Are you sure about this, Lorna?’

  ‘I’d better be after all the drama getting here.’

  ‘You’re not wrong.’ Kate didn’t want to think about the machinations involved in getting Lorna temporarily released from the home into her care. They said it was an urgent family matter that had driven Lorna to rush away. If Kate hadn’t been a qualified geriatric nurse the managers at the home would never have agreed to it. And she still had to face the return, even though Lorna was adamant she wasn’t going back. But there was no way she could stay in her old home, her oldest son had arranged its sale. It was going up for auction in a month’s time. Lorna was lucky that she had made her escape from the nursing home when she did. Kate undid her seatbelt. ‘Do you want me to go in first?’

  ‘No. I’d rather go in alone. Would you mind waiting here?’

  Kate was surprised. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘It’s probably best. Just for a bit. I’ll see how she reacts. If she offers me some tea and has the time to talk, or rather listen, then come in.’ Lorna wondered how Sally would react to this surprise visit.

  ‘All right. I’d like to meet her and then I’ll go into the town and get a coffee or something. If you’re sure you’ll be okay?’ Kate was curious.

  Lorna nodded and opened the car door, then she stepped into the damp air, pulling her coat around her.

  She rang the bell beside the door with the coloured leadlight inserts and through the wavy pink and blue glass saw a melting figure coming up the hall.

  The door was opened by a smiling young man in his twenties. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘The gallery . . . I was wondering if Mrs –’

  ‘The gallery is only open on weekends, but as you’re here and it’s so miserable in the rain, come on in.’ He glanced out at the car. ‘Does your friend want to come in too?’

  ‘No. Thank you. Actually, I was wondering if Sally still ran this place?’

  ‘Yes, she does. Are you a friend of hers? Would you like to see her?’

  ‘Yes. If she’s not busy. We knew each other once.’

  ‘I’ll go and get her. Are you interested in art?’

  ‘A little.’ Lorna’s eyes darted around the hallway and her attention was caught by a series of framed family photographs. She recognised one large shot in particular. It was of a young woman on a stunning white Arabian horse galloping over a paddock. She sat well in the saddle, her hair flying, the horse’s plumed tail arched.

  The young man followed her gaze. ‘Great photo, isn’t it? That’s Sally when she was young, in New Zealand. She loves horses.’

  ‘You’re related?’

  ‘Oh no, I just help out in the studio and I’m teaching her how to use her computer. My name’s Julian. I’ll go and get her.’

  Lorna heard a muted conversation, shoes tapping on the polished floorboards, then silence as the woman walked onto the Persian runner and came down the hall. Lorna turned back to the photograph.

  The woman was slim, wiry almost, her burnished auburn hair cut stylishly short, glasses on the tip of her nose, a welcoming smile.

  ‘Good afternoon. Julian told me I had an old friend visiting.’

  Lorna turned around and pointed at the photo. ‘You always rode well. Though the horses at Barra Creek weren’t as nice as that one.’

  Sally’s smile changed to shock, surprise, then pleasure. ‘My God, Lorna. Is it you?’

  ‘Hello, Sally. I hope you don’t mind me dropping in unannounced?’

  ‘Of course not, though it is a bolt out of the blue.’ She was trying to add up the years since they’d last seen each other. ‘Come into the sitting room, thank goodness I was here. You should have let me know. Are you passing through . . .’ Sally knew she was babbling and Julian was looking at her with an amused expression. ‘Jules, put the tea on, would you?’ Her mind was racing and she was surprised at how rattled she felt. How unusual of Lorna, who was always so terribly correct and polite, to drop in unannounced. ‘My goodness, after all these years. I sent you a card a couple of Christmases ago, I wasn’t sure if you got it.’ She didn’t need to add she’d never received a reply.

  ‘Is your friend joining us?’ asked Julian.

  ‘You have someone with you? One of the boys?’

  ‘No. A . . . friend, Kate. She kindly drove me here. She’ll just say hello, then she wanted to go into town. Do you have a few minutes, Sally?’

  ‘After all these years? I should say so.’

  After Julian left the women studied each other.

  ‘I needed to talk to you. There’s something I have to tell you before I slip off the perch.’ Lorna tried a small laugh.

  ‘You look like you’re going to be around for a long time yet,’ said Sally, leading the way into a small sunroom. ‘We won’t be disturbed in here. Sit there, in the comfy chair.’ She sat at one end of the sofa and watched Lorna ease herself into the armchair. ‘I suppose this has something to do with the old days?’ Sally said in a quiet voice.

  Lorna adjusted the folds of her skirt, avoiding Sally’s eyes. ‘I often wondered if you thought about . . . what happened. If you ever had any concerns, any conclusions about anything that happened at Barra
Creek.’

  ‘Why would I want to rehash unhappy memories? It was so long ago. We’ve moved on. I like to remember the happy times.’

  Lorna’s lip trembled. ‘I haven’t. The older I get the more I relive it all. I’m tired of carrying it around inside myself.’

  Sally didn’t answer but she was thinking, You haven’t changed, have you? Always needing someone else to deal with the uncomfortable stuff, despite being so capable yourself.

  Involuntarily Sally straightened in her chair then sighed. ‘I’m not sure how I can help you. But I’m prepared to listen. Let’s wait till we’ve got our tea. Oh, this must be your friend, Kate.’ She rose in some relief as Julian ushered Kate through the door.

  They introduced themselves and Sally was startled to see how young Kate was and she suddenly saw herself again – bright-eyed, eager, energetic, sympathetic. Sally had to hand it to Lorna, the old devil, she hadn’t lost her touch. She could frighten a bunch of rough stockmen, berate the Aboriginal house girls to re-do a task for the fifth time, and charm the birds from the trees. Everyone did Lorna’s bidding.

  They chatted over their tea, filling Sally in on Lorna’s circumstances and Kate’s role in her temporary ‘escape’.

  ‘Lorna,’ said Kate, ‘do you mind if I tell Sally a little about why we came here and how you are feeling?’

  ‘No, that’s fine. She should know.’

  ‘I hope this is not an imposition,’ said Kate politely. ‘I suggested to Lorna that she could call or write to you, but she insisted she had to tell you – whatever it is – face to face.’

  Sally nodded but didn’t say anything.

  ‘She can lose the thread of what she’s saying, but she’s been good lately, very focused. Seeing you means a lot to her,’ Kate explained.

  ‘We shared a lot, even though it was over forty years ago,’ said Sally.

  ‘After this visit, I think Lorna will feel more settled. Then we can tackle the problem of her future,’ said Kate with more assurance than she felt.

  Sally couldn’t see Lorna feeling settled. She may be frailer and older, but Sally knew that behind the pale and wan face, the wringing hands and mournful eyes, Lorna was as fiercely determined as a buffalo.