Hope's Road (2 page)

Chapter 2

Joe McCauley was downright pleased with himself. He'd beaten that bloody Travis Hunter this morning. It had taken a lot of cunning and more than a little bit of luck, but he'd done it. He'd got his fire going and smoke pouring from his chimney before that bastard. Finally.

Of course, it was largely thanks to a bladder that didn't seem to be able to hold its quota, sending him out for a piss long before sunrise, but he had a good fire going as the sun hit the horizon. In fact by the looks of the girly curl of smoke coming from his chimney, Hunter's wood was wet.

Joe chuckled to himself and downed another gulp of hot black tea. The man wasn't living up to his name at all. Some
Hunter
he was if he couldn't get a good piece of dry wood up here. The bush around them was jammed with yellow stringybarks, black box and red gums, all just waiting for a chainsaw to bite into their deep rich bark. (Although Joe would have been the first man to have a go at anyone who tried it on a living tree. There were plenty of fallen pickings for a man's fire.)

To be fair to the other bloke, this spell of cold nights and mornings had come on them pretty quick, and Hunter spent a lot of time trapping wild dogs to earn a crust for him and his boy. Probably hadn't had time to put in a store of wood for the winter.

Sitting in his rocking chair on the verandah of his miner's shack perched high on his mountain, Joe felt good. Which was a bit different from how he'd been feeling the night before. What he'd seen through the scope of his rifle hadn't sat well with his conscience. Oh, he hadn't thought anything much about it at the time, just sent his gun sight in another direction. But the scene had played on his mind for most of the evening, not letting him sleep. He had bloody Nellie to thank for that one. The woman was six years in her grave but he still heard her. By God he did. Rabbiting away in his ear as though she was still there at his side.

Even back then, it had been: ‘Joey, you really should make it up with that poor girl. She's done nothing wrong by you and she's the only family we've got left. You're nothing but a stubborn old fool! For goodness sake, Joey, go see her. She's so sad with her family all gone!'

But he wouldn't listen. Did nothin'. And Nellie would sigh, ruffle what remained of his hair and walk away shaking her head. She'd never go against his decision though, and had gone to her grave not knowing Tammy either.

Regardless, he knew what she would have said about last night's action down on the flats.

Shon Murphy, the prick, had the girl on the ground. And he'd swung a fist. Joe had quickly shifted the rifle to the north, not wanting to see or think about what was taking place on Montmorency Downs. The place that, by rights, should have been half his. Not this rock-laden, bush-encrusted hill.

There'd never been any good outcome from tangling with the Murphys, of whom Shon was one of the worst. Shades of his father, but with a meaner streak, hidden under all that palaver. A charmer who gave with one hand while seeing what he could flog from behind your back with the other. That bloody Tammy had got tangled up with him years back.

There was a time when he'd pondered that maybe Nellie was right. That the sins of the parents – or in this case the grandparents – shouldn't be foisted onto a child, and that he should acknowledge he
did
have family in the Narree Valley. But the installation of a
fucking Murphy
at Montmorency had sorted that one out. Be buggered if he was going down that drive, the fifth-generation homestead of the McCauley family, and have a Murphy greet him as host.

Things might have been different if he and Nellie had been able to have kids. If their children had needed cousins to play with. If he'd been able to meet his brother's eye and say, well I've got what you've got, regardless – a wife, kids, a farm. But his farm wasn't a good one and they hadn't been able to have children, much to the eternal grief of his wife. She would have made a beautiful mother. The best. Always picking up stray or injured animals in the bush, bringing them home and lavishing her nurturing side on them. It was with regret and no small amount of tears that she let them go back into the wild once they were well enough. A bit like the flood of tears that came with her two miscarriages and thereafter each month when, yet again, she would bleed.

Joe sighed. Yes, his Nellie was a good 'un. One of the best. She didn't deserve the hand God had dealt her. No kids, little money and a grumpy old bastard of a husband. But she had endured it all with the good grace and nature of a bloody saint. And now she was gone, leaving him rocking up here on his hill all alone. It had taken him a long while to get used to not having her around.

‘Ahhh . . . Joey, my love, you do go on.'
And she'd have that soft look in her eyes which meant he might get lucky later on when the lights were turned down and the lavender-scented bed sheets were whispering softly around them.

So now it was just down to him. Besides that do-gooding chit of a girl who married a fucking Murphy and thus reneged her right to call herself a real McCauley!

He didn't need no one. He rang in his shopping list to the Narree supermarket and that hippy nurse Lucy Granger picked it up for him and dropped it at the drum down at the gate in return for some firewood. A wary stock agent appeared every once in a while to organise the sale of his animals. Travis Hunter had taken to silently dropping a fresh hindquarter of deer off to him whenever he made a kill. It gave him a bit of variation from the odd sheep he slaughtered. And then there were the rainbow trout he sometimes caught, fresh from the Grace River, a half-day round trip on foot.

Life was grand and he didn't want no other bugger disturbing him. He got all the entertainment he required through the scope on his rifle and didn't need any prick within a bull's roar of his place. And if they came, well, he was ready. He had his gun, his dogs and his temper. That usually got rid of even the most persistent of bastards.

Chapter 3

‘Yoo-hoo! Anybody home?' A sponge cake clasped in an arthritic hand appeared around the doorway. ‘Ahhh . . . there you are! Just thought I'd bake a wee little sponge to welcome you as the newest member of staff.' A vision in crocheted red cardigan, cream Peter Pan collared shirt and tweed skirt stood before him.

The vision moved closer, too close, causing him to scoot his chair back towards the filing cabinet.
Clunk!
His head hit a protruding drawer. Damn.

In the small radio room of the shared offices of the Department of Conservation and Lake Grace Ambulance Station there was barely room to stand up.

‘Don't go causing yourself injury now. We've lobbied those blessed politicians long and hard to get you here. Last thing we need is a WorkCover claim in your first few months! Oh, I'm forgetting my manners. Beatrice Parker is my name, and baking this cake is my game.' She chuckled, her beady little blackcurrant eyes twinkling. ‘I love a good rhyme, don't you? Mmm . . . anyway, best keep tracking. Can't waste time yakking.' She chuckled again. ‘Enjoy your day, Mr . . . ?'

‘Hunter. Travis Hunter.' He finally found his voice, and tried to scramble to his feet, putting out a hand as he did so. ‘Nice to meet you too, Mrs Parker,' and promptly tripped over the four-pronged walking stick standing to attention in front of its tiny owner.

‘Goodness, boy! You're the best they had to send us? Your balance is atrocious. I'm hoping your kiss of life is better – I'd reckon you'd give a good one, eh?' Squinting black eyes swept from the tips of his size-12 workboots to the top of his brown hair.

Trav didn't know what to say, but he now knew what it must feel like to be a helpless moth tacked to a pin-board. She must have him confused with the new ambulance officer. He was a wild-dog trapper. He opened his mouth to correct the woman but took another glance at the sponge. It was a beauty and looked just like the ones his mother used to make. Sweet icing smothered the top while cream and jam spilled from its middle. And he hadn't had his breakfast. ‘Ah . . . I'm not sure, Mrs Parker, but I've never had any complaints in the past.'

‘I'll bet you haven't. Can't say I'd be avoiding those lips of yours if I were a generation or two younger. Anyhow, best be away and on with today!'

He could have sworn she winked before placing the sponge in his hands, grabbing the walking stick and clumping out the door. He stood there looking down at the cake, feeling guilty. He should have owned up.

He normally steered clear of town, which explained Mrs Parker's mistake – how could she know which of the strange men in the offices was him and which was the new ambo? He kept himself to himself. But he had had a backlog of reports to complete for the Department of Conservation and he didn't have or
want
to have a computer at home.

‘And by the way . . .' The blackcurrants were back. ‘Have you a family, Mr Hunter?'

Trav winced. ‘One boy, Mrs Parker.'

‘A wife?'

‘No, Mrs Parker.'

‘She leave you?'

‘Yes.'

‘Why?'

Christ, she was persistent. Best just say it, once and for all. ‘Couldn't handle responsibility.' Yeah, like he could? What a farce.

‘Just like my Donald. He left too.' A wrinkled hand swept along her temple in momentary agitation, lifting a tendril of elegantly styled, blue-rinsed hair.

‘I'm sorry.' Wasn't much he could say. You never got over them leaving you, just learned to live with it.

‘You a bush or city boy?'

‘I was born here, but we moved to a property north of Yunta when I was a little kid. The old man inherited a station on the road to Arkaroola.'

‘Why're you here then, not there?'

Why indeed? He often asked himself that question. Unfortunately the answer, as always, hurt like hell.

‘My father left the station to my older brother when he died and my mother's family property here became vacant. She's in the little Lake Grace nursing home now. She wanted to come back to the mountains and I wanted to bring the boy up on a farm.'

‘Mmm . . . figures. Show me your hands.'

Trav held out two big paws, palms up, calluses and all. Not sure why he was doing this old lady's bidding, but hell, he may as well humour her. After all, he'd got a sponge, even if it was by default.

‘Looks like you know how to get them dirty.'

There was a flutter of her right eye again. Was it a wink? Surely not. Wearing those pearls she looked as straight as the Virgin Mary.

‘Well, I'd best be off. Another delivery to make this morning. New little girl, a teller at the bank. Tra-la-la.' She waggled her be-ringed fingers and was gone.

Trav let out a deep breath, one he hadn't realised he'd been holding. He was guessing it would take all of . . . oh . . . ten minutes for those snippets of information to spread from one end of Lake Grace to the other. There wasn't too much distance between the newsagents, chemist, bank, bakery, stock agents and corner café, and he reckoned it would take Mrs Nosy Parker less than that to do them over.

He spared a thought for the new teller at the bank. Beatrice Parker would chew her up and spit her out for smoko. He was thirty-nine – a jaded, cynical old fart – and he'd struggled to keep his head.

An orange flag caught his eye as it whizzed past the window. He stood up and took a peek through the fake wood venetian blind. Make that five minutes. Mrs Parker, on a motor scooter, riding flat-knacker up the footpath, was heading for the chemist, the first in the Lake Grace line of shops.

He sat back down in the chair, his six-foot frame folding gracefully, and dropped his head against the backrest. He still didn't know if he'd made the right decision six months earlier to move so far from the red dirt of the South Australian and New South Wales border, where he'd been a boundary rider. The Narree Valley was a lush, green Ireland plonked in the furthermost south-eastern corner of Australia. It was like he'd come to another country. And Lake Grace was a small town which thrived on a daily fodder of gossip. He'd purposely avoided the likes of Mrs Parker until today. He should have known that in doing so he'd probably just encouraged her.

‘I see you've met Mrs Parker?' Rob Sellers, the community ambulance officer, walked in from the ambulance station next door.

‘How'd you guess?'

Rob pointed at the sponge. ‘Legend material, those sponges. The locals nearly kill each other at the Friday Street Stall to get their hands on one. She either likes you or wanted information.'

‘Information,' said Trav as a glob of cream dripped onto the plate. He still felt guilty.

‘Well, it looks like she was happy with what she got,' said Rob leaning over to look out the window, where Mrs Parker's orange flag could be seen flying past the stock and station agent's en route for the corner café. ‘She should make it in time for a morning latte and natter and clatter.'

‘Morning latte and
what
?'

‘Natter and clatter. All the old ducks meet there on a Friday to drink coffee, gossip and do craft. They teach the young mums how to knit and sew and stuff. And because there're so many kids in there, it's natter and clatter. Mind you, we blokes stay clear of the joint. Best to head out to the roadhouse if you want a sausage roll on a Friday.'

‘Right.'

‘And you'll be fair game today.'

‘What?'

‘They've been trying to find out about you for ages. New good-looking single bloke in town? They'll want all the goss.'

‘Right.' Trav revisited in his head what he'd told Mrs Parker. It was enough. ‘I think she was after the new ambo officer, actually, but she found me instead.'

Rob laid a hand on Trav's shoulder. ‘Wouldn't be too sure about that. She's a cagey one, our Beatrice. Anyhow, don't worry, mate. Plenty of nice, nubile young women around here for the both of you, all wanting to snag a husband. You'll be fine. We'll have you married before you can say bloody Lake Grace. Mark my words.' Rob stood back and winked.

‘You don't say,' commented Trav. Marriage? Again?

No way.