The Valley Read online

  ‘It’s not all old world around here. Angela and Tony asked me to let you know that they’re off to an informal drinks buffet thing at a friend’s house later tonight. Would you like to go? Barney and I are babysitting.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so . . .’ responded Dani with hesitation.

  ‘Why not? You should meet some younger people, get a different perspective on life in the valley,’ insisted Helen. ‘Go over and chat to them about it, they’re doing the kids’ dinner.’

  Helen’s daughter Angela and husband Tony were so pleasant and easy going and the sort of people she could relate to that Dani quickly accepted the invitation to go with them, if it was all right with the hosts.

  ‘We told them we’d try to bring you along. It’s quite a mix, some visitors, but mostly locals who are doing interesting things. No one over forty.’ Tony grinned.

  The gathering was at a magnificent house, elegant and expensive, on the river closer to Riverwood. The couple who lived there had fled Sydney’s eastern suburbs and created a home that would be worth several million dollars in their former neighbourhood. The original nineteenth-century sandstone mansion, Riverview, had been restored and extended. It had a long verandah facing the river with lawns sweeping down to the banks lined with weeping willows. Fairy lights were strung in a huge Moreton Bay Fig tree. Around the formal facade of the entrance long glass windows had undisturbed rural views and the interior was ultra modern and chic. For Dani’s taste it was a little too minimalist with contemporary sculptures, abstract art, and retro Italian furniture of the 1970s.

  The elegant setting, the bright young guests wandering between the candlelit dining room where a buffet was set to the courtyard with a bar and barbecue, and the comfortable seating along the verandah – it was scarcely what Dani thought of as the casual party described by Tony and Angela. But she was quickly introduced and everyone was relaxed, friendly and unpretentious. Several young couples had farms, or ran small or large business ventures – furniture making, luxury boat building, alpaca and angora wool production, glass blowing.

  Then she saw Jason Moore in very smart-casual city gear lounging on the verandah in an old-fashioned settler’s chair, his legs rather incongruously flung over the extendable arms. He saw her coming through the doorway, waved and got up. Dani had been enjoying the social mixing, relishing the bright conversation. Now, as Jason came towards her with a smile, she felt herself bristling.

  They exchanged greetings, he asked what she’d been doing and she was surprised that he remembered some of the details of their brief conversation at the art show, outside of their sparring over his new town project.

  ‘So what are your plans?’ he asked.

  ‘Plans? I don’t have any to speak of . . . just dabbling in a bit of painting, relaxing, talking to people.’

  ‘No more exploring?’

  ‘Not the kind you’d relate to. More internal stuff.’ Dani didn’t want the conversation to continue in this direction.

  ‘Head stuff.’

  She gave him a quizzical look. ‘And how do you interpret that?’

  ‘You paint, I design. I’m no artist on the page, but we both draw inspiration from a particular place, wouldn’t you say?’

  Dani was trying to fathom if he was having a dig at her, or if he was genuine, or if he had no understanding of what she did, or wanted to do. ‘I’m not sure what you mean. As someone once said, “Please explain.”’

  He chuckled. ‘I have to walk over the land – or, up here, ride. Get to know every bit of it, before I go away and sit down and draw the designs.’

  ‘All on your own?’ Dani was shocked.

  ‘I modestly confess the initial concepts are mine,’ he said. Then added, as if trying to change the subject, ‘So what do you think of this house? Surprises a lot of people.’

  Dani was glad to move into more general conversational territory. ‘It’s stunning. On the way here Tony told me a bit about Riverview. I think it’s really clever how they’ve restored a nineteenth-century house and incorporated modern design and practical, elegant living, without destroying the ambiance of the original place.’

  ‘I’ve always wondered what the first owner would think, coming back here tonight, for example,’ said Jason.

  Dani was immediately effusive. ‘How could you not love it! There’s just enough olde worlde charm inside, in the original facade and a subtle blending of modern extensions that marry really well with the old forms. Of course, sandstone is timeless.’ She’d loved the beautiful sandstone exterior of the main building while in the formal living room one old sandstone wall was exposed and the massive fireplace still intact.

  Jason looked pleased then uncomfortable. Dani couldn’t read his expression for a moment. ‘I’m glad you think so. Our hosts are very happy with how it all turned out.’

  ‘That looks like Sydney sandstone in the wall. How did it get here?’

  ‘In the old days practically everything sent to market from these parts went down the coast in Sydney-based ships. They often came up near empty and used sandstone as ballast. Dumped it over the side into the river before loading here.’

  ‘Who designed this place?’ asked Dani looking down the verandah and back into the softly lit comfortable rooms with walls of glass, soaring ceilings and wonderful display areas for the fine art pieces.

  ‘I did.’

  She blinked. Jason was staring at her, waiting for a reaction. She burst into laughter. ‘Okay, you win. I’m surprised. And impressed.’

  ‘I’m hurt you’re surprised but happy you’re impressed. Would you like to see how this place looked late last century? There are some pictures.’

  She followed him inside as he led her to the intimate study where bookcases lined a wall. On a coffee table were several leather-bound books. He seemed very at home and opened one of the books to show her reproductions of old photos, drawings, plans and etchings.

  Jason flipped through pages with some reverence, pointing out details on the original plan and building, comparing them with his own sketches and photos in the second book. ‘It’s a delicate marriage between the old and the new as you say. Just because it’s old it’s not necessarily good, tasteful or worthwhile keeping. Fortunately this house was well designed and thought out and, thankfully, survived.’

  ‘So who was the clever person who created this originally? Not to detract from your work,’ said Dani lightly. She had to admit though, she was knocked out by what he’d done.

  ‘Ah, no one knows the real story,’ he said.

  Dani cocked her head. ‘You know more than you’re telling.’ A thought struck her as she recalled his family connection with the area. ‘Don’t tell me it belonged to your family!’

  ‘No, unfortunately. It was owned by the infamous Isabella Kelly. She built the first mansion in the valley above Kelly’s Crossing before building this house here on the river.’

  That name again, thought Dani. ‘She sounds a cultured lady, not the rough, wild woman I’ve heard described.’

  ‘Just rich. Money doesn’t buy culture,’ said Jason with a wry twist to his mouth. ‘Well, there are rumours of course. We’ll never know will we? And, besides, it’s over and past.’

  ‘But Kelly’s Crossing is on your land. You owe her something!’ said Dani with some heat. ‘Aren’t you curious?’ She couldn’t explain to him, or to herself, why she felt so strongly about the pioneer woman whose history drifted so tantalisingly around this valley.

  ‘Now don’t start earbashing me about sacred sites or something,’ said Jason with a smile. But there was a withdrawn look in his eye.

  They were both relieved when a couple joined them and they all headed to the buffet table. Dani didn’t speak to him again but agreed with Angela and Tony on the way home that it had been an interesting evening.

  4

  Cedartown, 1932

  ‘SO WHAT’RE WE DOING then? Clem spun the handlebars of his bike.

  ‘Race ya down to the river?�
� suggested Thommo.

  ‘Nah, we did that.’ Clem didn’t feel that secure on his hand-me-down bike. Thommo’s newer bike, which Clem cared for, was oiled and polished so that it was in peak running order. ‘Let’s go up to the showground, see if there’s any cattle in the yards.’

  ‘Can we go and see your dad’s friend at the bacon factory?’ asked Clem. He’d been impressed at how a while back Thommo had scored some free saveloys and bacon bits from his dad’s butcher mate at the abattoir.

  ‘They’ll be closed now. Let’s go to the showground, ride round the show ring.’

  The boys climbed through the cattleyards and sat on the slab railings, regaling each other with anecdotes, real and imagined, of the antics and risks taken by the stockmen, ringers and blacks riding wild bulls in shows they’d seen. Thommo harboured a dream to go up north one day and work on a station as a jackeroo and have real outback adventures.

  ‘You won’t make any money, you’ll break a leg or something,’ said the practical Clem. Being a farm boy he held no illusions about the romance of cattle and horses. ‘I’d like to fix up cars like your dad’s.’ Frank Thompson had bought a 1932 Vauxhall sedan. Not like the old Bedford farm truck owned by Clem’s father. ‘I reckon one day everyone will own a motor car.’

  ‘What about aeroplanes? Be mighty to go up in one, wouldn’t it?’ said Thommo wistfully.

  They returned to their bikes and wheeled them across the grass, sliding them under the railing of the show ring where they proceeded to race around the dirt ring until exhausted.

  ‘Gee, wonder if we can get some water. Let’s try the kitchen behind the hall,’ said Thommo.

  They rode over to a cluster of timber buildings, one with a chimney, and Clem rattled its double wooden doors. ‘Nope, locked. There might be a tap by the pavilion.’

  ‘Just a tick, I’ll go round the back,’ said Thommo.

  Clem waited, noticing it was getting late. They were under instructions to be back at Thommo’s house before dark. A sudden rattling from inside the doors made him jump as Thommo flung back the bolt and pushed open a door.

  ‘There’s a broken window in the kitchen. No trouble getting in. Come an’ look, it’s full of stuff.’

  ‘Do you reckon it’s all right to be in here?’ said Clem cautiously, but curiosity got the better of him. ‘What kind of stuff?’

  Thommo pulled out a chair to reach the shelf above the old sink where a large hot water urn and big teapot sat next to dozens of thick china cups. He handed Clem a metal canister. ‘Biscuits. Are they any good? There’s sugar and tea too.’

  Clem tasted one of the broken biscuits in the bottom of the tin. ‘All right. Just plain though.’ He turned the tap on at the sink. ‘Hope there aren’t any frogs in it.’ He held a cup under it and drank quickly.

  Thommo was opening drawers and cupboards. ‘Whacko, look at this!’ He held out a leather pouch of tobacco and papers. ‘Any matches? Need a match for a smoke, mate.’

  ‘I know how to roll fags,’ boasted Clem.

  ‘Me too,’ said Thommo, now poking around shelves by the stove and triumphantly holding up a box of matches.

  They were inexperienced smokers and didn’t know much about how to roll your own like their fathers did. But quickly enough they stuffed the stringy tobacco into the delicate paper, licked the side with gusto, stuck it down and lit up, puffing with bravado.

  ‘What about a cup of tea, mate?’ said Thommo with a sweeping gesture.

  They found some candles and lit one, sticking it on a saucer while they boiled water in a saucepan and brewed black tea, toasting each other while brandishing their cigarettes like they’d seen in the picture shows. They dunked the biscuits in their tea and were chattering away when Clem glanced out the window.

  ‘It’s getting dark. We’d better go.’

  Thommo took the tobacco packet and shoved it in his shorts pocket. ‘Know just the place to hide this. We’d better go out the window.’ He tossed his cigarette butt in the rubbish bin under the sink and climbed through the window.

  Clem followed. ‘Beaut idea comin’ up here, Thommo.’

  They grabbed their bikes but as they were about to ride off Thommo issued a challenge. ‘Dare you to ride through the graveyard.’

  ‘What for?’ asked Clem, glancing across to the cemetery adjoining the showground.

  ‘Give you the tobacco and papers. And my silver American dollar.’

  ‘What about you? I dare you back.’

  ‘Nah, then it’s not a dare. I’ll ride round to the front gates and wait, you go through the cemetery from the back paddock. I’ll watch you come down the middle bit near the Catholics.’

  Clem didn’t like the idea at all. He had a strong dislike of cemeteries, for some reason they scared him. And Thommo knew it. But he liked that fancy silver dollar someone had used to pay for a film ticket at the Town Hall. Thommo’d be watching out and if he rode really fast it’d be all right he told himself.

  But as Clem pushed his bike under the sagging wire fence he almost turned back. Dark trees ringed sections of the cemetery. Further up the rise he could see the white headstones with urns and statuettes atop, the resting places of affluent Anglicans. As he rode he tried to feel bold and brave but there were too many shadows, rabbit and bandicoot holes, and scars of neglected graves that roughened the ride. Now the tiny squares around him, modestly marked, showed scattered beer bottles and mounds of ashes from after-dark binges. This area was known as the bottom-of-the-hill mob – where paupers and those of unknown faith and family were buried. He rode over twigs that had fallen off shade trees and the sound of them snapping set his mind whirling. He imagined he heard someone moaning, but it could have just been an owl hooting.

  Clem put his head down and, feet jammed on the pedals, pumped as hard and fast as he could, the bike slithering and bumping over the ground, until he reached the gates near the gravel pathway between the Presbyterians and the Catholics.

  He raced through the gates but Thommo wasn’t there. Clem’s fright turned to anger. He’d completed the dare and Thommo wasn’t there to check. He started riding slowly down the road to town, catching his breath when he spotted, through the near darkness, Thommo racing towards him, stopping so suddenly he was thrown off balance.

  ‘Is the bogeyman chasing you?’ taunted Clem. ‘You should go in there, it’s really scary.’

  ‘Aw, cripes, we’re in trouble,’ said Thommo breathlessly.

  ‘For going in the hall? Who saw us? We didn’t do anythin’. Just had a cuppa, and a smoke.’

  ‘Shit, Clem, the fag end I threw in the bin must’ve still been alight. There’s a bloody fire – ’

  ‘Fire! Where?’ Clem felt a fist twist his guts.

  Thommo turned and pointed. Shining through the darkness was an orange glow.

  ‘Is that . . . the hall? Oh, strewth, what do we do?’

  ‘Let’s go. Get home and say nothing.’ Thommo pulled the tobacco from his pocket and tossed it away.

  ‘Wait. We’re already late.’ Clem remembered clearly Thommo tossing his butt under the sink. There must have been paper in the bin. ‘Let’s go up there, try to help put out the fire, or do something to help. The neighbours will have raised the alarm, that’s for sure. We say we were messing around up here and saw the fire and came up for a look. I mean we would, wouldn’t we?’

  Thommo thought for a second, nodded and got back on his bike. ‘Let’s hope no one saw us at the showground.’

  The hall was ablaze and a small crowd had gathered as some men wheeled out the water cart with pump and fire hoses that was stored at the showground. They soon had a futile spray of water disappearing in the flames.

  Thommo began to relax, even feel a bit cocky. ‘This is better than a bonfire, eh?’ They moved closer but were waved back by the police constable who had arrived on his motorbike.

  ‘Out of here, boys. Get along home now. This could get dangerous. The hall’s a goner.’

  The boys were
quiet for a moment. ‘How’d it start then?’ asked Clem.

  ‘Not too sure but we’ll find out,’ said the constable, giving them a hard look.

  ‘We’d better get home for tea,’ said Clem turning his bike around.

  They passed more people on bikes and cars heading towards the fire as they rode back into town. They stowed their bikes in the shed and as they made their way into the house Thommo pulled at Clem’s arm. ‘You won’t tell? I didn’t mean it,’ he said anxiously.

  Clem wanted to tell Thommo that he should have been more careful. He had made very sure his butt was out, real dead. Thommo had been bloody careless, but instead he punched his friend affectionately. ‘Don’t worry, Thommo. We’re mates. Mates stick together.’

  ‘Promise, Clem. If my dad knew I’d been smoking he’d kill me.’

  Vera Thompson called from the verandah. ‘Come on, you boys, get inside. We’ve been worried about where you were, what you were up to. Now get in and wash for dinner.’

  ‘I promise,’ said Clem. ‘Besides, if Mum and Dad knew, I’d never be allowed to stay with you again,’ he whispered.

  As the food was laid out on the table, Thommo excitedly told his parents about spotting the fire and going to see what was happening. ‘And the policeman said the hall’s a goner,’ he added, now in the swing of the story.

  ‘Tsk, tsk, what a shame,’ said Vera Thompson. ‘Sounds like it was started deliberately.’

  ‘Probably one of the Abo kids,’ said Frank Thompson as he loosened his braces and settled in his chair. ‘They’re a damned nuisance hanging around town. I watch ’em very carefully when they try to sneak into the films. What’s for tea, love?’

  That night in Thommo’s bedroom the boys again agreed in whispers to keep quiet about the incident. ‘We’re mates,’ reiterated Thommo fiercely. ‘And mates don’t snitch.’

  It was the rule. And Clem never forgot it.

  Dani

  It was twilight and Dani had been looking for the back roads and shortcuts Helen had described but she wished she had a topographical map as her directions were confusing. She’d spent the day exploring and wasn’t lost but realised she’d made a long circuit around the base of Bluey’s Hill. So she wound back up through the patches of rainforest into lightly timbered country where the last of the daylight turned the gums to silver and the dirt road to muted rust pink. She hoped she’d be back at Chesterfield before nightfall as she veered past a fallen log partly obstructing the road. This was unfamiliar terrain and it seemed deserted and a little eerie. She hadn’t passed any farmhouses or signs of habitation. The country was too rugged for grazing.