The Painted Sky Read online

  Black, white and brown kids splashed in the river, their squeals ignored by a group of teenagers huddling under the wharf for a cigarette. The older kids reminded her of herself at that age – too cool for school but secretly longing to join in. Even now she had an urge to pull off her boots and jump in to the water.

  A plaque next to the wharf informed her that Wandalla had once been a thriving wool town, a port for steamers working the Darling River all the way down to the coast. That explained the fancy pubs and courthouse, built when there was money in wool.

  Nina put Bach’s bowl into the car and checked her phone. It was almost time for her appointment with Harrison Grey – a man who might have known her father. A flutter of excitement caused her to take out a mirror and touch up her lippy. But as she headed down the street, a curious Bach by her side, she felt nervous. The solicitor had not sounded pleased she was coming out here. Grumpy old man syndrome? Or was there some other reason?

  The smell of pepper trees and dust pervaded the air. As Nina walked, she felt the eyes of the locals upon her. In particular, she noticed a wiry, middle-aged farmer perched on the back of a street bench like a bird of prey. He lifted his hat and peered over his specs for a better look as she passed. Maybe he looked this scary to everyone, she hoped. A sun-lined matronly woman, probably younger than herself, lounged frowning against a wall in the shade. Arms crossed under her huge bosom, she tracked Nina for a good block or two. Nina shook off her uneasiness and decided they were just curious.

  Further along the main street, Nina was relieved to be greeted with occasional nods and hellos. She noticed about half the locals were Aboriginal and half Anglo, very different from multicultural Sydney.

  Nina wasn’t used to being greeted by strangers. She tried to smile back and be cool, like them, but the outfit she’d chosen as appropriate for business now felt like fancy dress. The cowgirl boots were okay, but nobody else was even wearing a skirt, let alone a red and white polka-dotted rockabilly frock with a matching red belt. Nina took off her cat’s eye sunglasses and dragged the hairtie out of her high ponytail in an effort to be less conspicuous. Rise above it, she told herself.

  The solicitor’s office was in a converted nineteenth century wool warehouse. A plain entrance concealed an old-fashioned solid wooden staircase with an impressive banister curving up to double glass doors. She climbed the stairs and once inside, found a receptionist’s desk, but no receptionist. Nina crossed the waiting room, Bach’s claws clicking on the floorboards. Gilt lettering on frosted glass announced the office of Harrison Grey, Solicitor. She knocked on the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  A man wearing a beautifully cut grey linen suit was closing a window with a guilty smile. As he came towards her, hand outstretched, Nina smelled cigar smoke. ‘My receptionist Suzie’s popped out,’ he said.

  Harrison Grey was a handsome man in his 50s, with salt and pepper hair, a deep tan and blue eyes. A ‘silver fox’, Olivia would have said.

  ‘So, I see you made it,’ he said, shaking her hand. ‘Well I hope you don’t mind wasting your time. As I explained to you on the phone I could have handled everything quite easily from this end, and I … and I …’ The older man seemed to have lost his poise, and stood staring, still holding Nina’s hand.

  ‘Mr Grey?’

  ‘Ah. So sorry,’ he said, but he now also took hold of her other hand, which was gripping Bach’s leash, and smiled.

  ‘It’s just that you are so like Jim, so like him. So good to see you. The last time we met you were only eight or nine.’ He seemed hesitant, shy even. ‘You have your father’s eyes. It’s uncanny.’

  Harrison stood looking into her face for too long.

  Nina stepped back, withdrawing her hands. His intensity was unnerving. ‘It’s good to meet you,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Grey, I don’t remember –’

  ‘Never mind, my dear. So long ago. Call me Harrison, please.’ He indicated a leather chair and waited till she took her seat.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me bringing the dog,’ Nina said, trying to match his lighter tone. ‘It’s just so hot outside.’

  ‘Hot? Oh, I suppose it is. Would you like a drink? Gin and tonic? Cold water?’

  ‘Umm …’

  ‘Tea, then?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Harrison plugged in a kettle on the sideboard.

  Nina noticed an inky painting hanging opposite the desk. A storm rolled in across Sydney Harbour with Fort Denison in the foreground, the view from her balcony. The fort looked like a cork bobbing on rough seas.

  ‘That painting,’ Nina said.

  ‘You know it?’

  ‘Yes. Sort of. Dad did a series of them,’ Nina said.

  ‘That’s right. In his time with the Stir crowd. Were there 17 in the series?’

  Nina shrugged.

  ‘No, I’m not sure, either. Who is? I know there’s one at The Springs. He wasn’t one to log everything. Same amazing light in all of them, of course. Well, the ones I’ve seen anyway. I’m always on the lookout to buy another.’

  Nina couldn’t see Harrison’s face as he set out tea things on a low table.

  ‘So much bloody talent. I was always telling him that,’ he said.

  Hope flared inside Nina. Here was an opportunity.

  But Harrison jumped in. ‘So sorry to hear about your mother,’ he went on. ‘I … everyone used to look forward to seeing the three of you up here for Christmas.’

  He handed her an elegant teacup and saucer and sat opposite her.

  ‘I see you inherited your mother’s fabulous dress sense, if not her red hair,’ said Harrison, smiling broadly.

  ‘Well of course, she wasn’t my birth mother, so …’

  Harrison suspended his teaspoon midair.

  ‘Your birth –’

  ‘Mum adopted me as a baby,’ said Nina.

  ‘But Jim was surely your father?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  Harrison stared at her, his mouth open in what looked like astonishment. Nina felt a trickle of annoyance. What was wrong with him?

  Bach pawed at her knee, seemingly aware of his mistress’s growing tension.

  ‘Sit,’ she murmured. ‘Please, Bach.’

  Harrison Grey sat lost in thought, his cup and saucer abandoned on the coffee table.

  ‘Did you know Dad well?’ she asked.

  ‘Ah, yes … and do you know anything about your birth mother?’ His intense gaze was way too uncomfortable.

  ‘She was a foreign student,’ Nina said shortly. This was not what she’d come to talk about. And none of his business, either.

  ‘Oh. I mean … I never knew that,’ Harrison said.

  ‘Well, I guess you can understand that while I’m here I want to find out as much as I can about Dad, about his life here and what happened to him,’ Nina said.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. I understand completely. I didn’t mean to … but I’m not sure how much I can help.’ Harrison sipped his tea cautiously.

  ‘Did you grow up here too? With Dad and Uncle Russell?’

  ‘No, no, no. I grew up in Melbourne. When I moved to Wandalla your dad hadn’t yet decided to go to art school in Sydney. The Springs was a thriving cattle station then.’

  ‘So what was Dad like when you knew him?’

  Harrison hesitated. ‘Well, we knew he would do well as a painter. His work was extraordinary, even then. And all that summer – oh when was it? – it must have been the mid-80s; a group of us camped out in the riverbeds. Like a lot of young guys out here, Jim wanted to see the world, so I used to yarn with him about living in Melbourne. My family was in the theatre, so I told him about the famous people I’d met. He loved that.’ Harrison’s smile was soft, and sad. He placed his cup gently on its saucer.

  ‘But what was he like then? As a person?’

  ‘Heavens. It must be almost 30 years … Do you mind?’ he asked, opening a case of small cigars.

  Nina shook her head and sipped her Ea
rl Grey.

  ‘Trying to give up,’ he smiled. He looked at her under his eyebrows. ‘I must say, I’m surprised you made the trip,’ he said, more formally. ‘As I told you, it’s not necessary. Russell died with no debts and no assets, except The Springs itself. A miracle, really.’ He puffed on the cigar to light it. ‘The house is virtually derelict though, so that makes it very simple. You’ve got a buyer so you can sell it and be on your way.’

  Harrison had beautiful manners, Nina thought, but he hadn’t answered her question. She settled into her chair. ‘Is the buyer in a hurry?’ she asked.

  ‘Not particularly. It’s a local landowner, Hilary Flint. But it’s the only offer that’s been made. And it’s a very fair one, because, other than the tanks, there’s no water at The Springs. You probably remember the bore?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Yes, well, it dried up not long before Russell died. It happens sometimes. Still, Mrs Flint can use it for agistment when the pasture’s good. Let it out to graze stock,’ he explained.

  It was the first eye contact he’d made since he started talking about The Springs.

  ‘When you say “derelict”, do you mean The Springs is actually a ruin? I wanted to stay there a few days and look through the house for things of Dad’s,’ she said.

  ‘Oh no, the house is standing all right. But housekeeping was never Russell’s strong point. He was a hoarder. Must be quite a mess. Look,’ said Harrison, ‘you’d be better off staying at the Royal tonight and pop out in the morning. I really don’t think it’d be a good idea to stay out there.’

  ‘I’d rather check it out this afternoon,’ Nina said. ‘Is it far?’

  ‘Almost an hour. Long drive after coming all this way.’ Harrison ground out his cigar and folded his hands.

  Nina waited. ‘Are the keys here?’ she said finally.

  ‘Oh, of course.’ Harrison went to his desk and unlocked a drawer.

  Resignedly, he handed Nina three keys on a ring. ‘This is the gate key and the front door key. I don’t know what this brass one’s for.’

  Nina joined Harrison in front of a large map pinned behind his desk. He pointed to a road heading north-east towards the Queensland border.

  ‘As I said, about an hour out on North Road you’ll see The Springs’ main driveway on the left. But the causeway is dodgy and Russell never fixed it. You can use the neighbours’ entrance, about a kilometre up the road on the same side. It’s called Kurrabar. Marked with a black cockatoo on the mailbox.’

  The map was bare of features. The distance to The Springs, an hour out of town, was represented by the length of her lipstick.

  ‘If you see the gate to Paramour, big white pillars, you’ve gone too far,’ continued Harrison. ‘Turn in to Kurrabar here, take the left fork and drive in about half a kilometre. You’ll see the old side gate on your left. It’s a bit of a bumpy drive to The Springs homestead but it should be okay. I drove in that way about six months ago.’

  Nina nodded, trying to look more confident than she felt.

  ‘The three properties, The Springs, Kurrabar and Paramour, used to be part of Durham Station, the largest station in the district,’ he said, tapping the map. ‘Remember, we talked about the ruins. You’ll see them as you go in.’

  Nina remembered – a corner wall and a chimney standing in the air, blocks of stone lying in the grass and some excellent climbing trees.

  ‘It’s brave of you to go there alone.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Nina. Were there spiders, snakes, pig shooters?

  ‘No power,’ Harrison replied. ‘Not sure about the water.’ He seemed genuinely concerned.

  Nina smiled. ‘Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll get some candles and a torch. Come on, Bach.’

  ‘Here’s my mobile number.’ Harrison handed her a business card. ‘Ring me any time, day or night. If you can get a signal.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He was staring again. ‘I’d really like to talk to you about Dad. Your memories. There are a lot of things I don’t know,’ said Nina.

  ‘Of course, of course. Any time,’ Harrison said. ‘I must say, it’s such a pleasure to see you.’ He was shaking her hand in both of his, as if she were precious, someone he’d longed to meet. ‘Good to have a Larkin back in the district even if it’s only for a short time.’

  Odd, Nina decided. Delighted to meet her on one hand and pushing her away on the other. He obviously knew a lot more about Jim than he was telling, but she’d have to wait for another day. Right now she had the keys, the first step to finding out more about Jim. She held them tight in her hand.

  Just one more try. Nina raised the heavy car jack and brought it down with all her strength on the rusty lock. The heavy lump of metal bounced off, flying out of her sweaty palms and into the long grass on the other side of the fence. She felt a flash of pain in her hand.

  ‘Oh, yeah, just go to the side gate and slip the key in the freakin’ lock. No worries, mate!’ she cursed, pacing in a tight circle. A gash in the heel of her hand was bleeding. She hitched up the edge of her skirt and pressed the wound against her petticoat. Her eyes stung from sweat and the flies were making her crazy.

  Around her lay nothing but dirty flat paddock after dirty flat paddock – part of her inheritance. Harrison Grey was right. It was disappointing. Not what she remembered at all. In her mind, The Springs was a place with a huge garden, trees to climb, ruins to explore and the famous bore for swimming. She remembered sleeping out on the verandah on hot nights, chasing the chickens for fun and playing hide and seek in the long grass. The grass here was barely up to her knees and the trees too spindly to support even a child’s weight.

  Swallowing tears of pain and frustration, Nina slumped into the dust by the gate. Calm down. What to do next. Bach nosed forward, crept into her lap and licked her arm.

  ‘We might have to go back and stay in town after all, little guy,’ she sighed. ‘And when we do, you’re going to bite that solicitor as hard as you can. Okay?’

  She felt the hoof beats as a tremor before she actually heard, then saw, the two riders. Bach stood guard in front of her as they pulled up, the brilliant low sun behind them dazzling her.

  ‘Are you okay? What happened?’ asked a young woman’s voice.

  Nina scrambled to her feet, holding her injured hand. ‘The lock’s rusted solid. I was trying to get in.’

  ‘That’s private property, you know,’ said a man, swinging his heel easily over his horse’s rump. He was young and lean, over six feet tall, and he moved with a rider’s confidence. As he came closer, she saw that his face under his countryman’s hat was strong and tanned, his wide-set grey eyes serious and direct, seeming to look straight into her. But it was his voice that scrambled her thoughts. A movie-star voice, resonant and firm.

  ‘I do know. It’s my private property. Well, that bit over there is,’ she stumbled.

  ‘Is that right? What happened here?’ The man took her hand in his. She felt a flush of heat run through her body.

  ‘Toss us the first aid kit, would you?’ he called to his companion. ‘Sorry, I should have guessed by the look of you that you were a grazier,’ he said to Nina, indicating her spotted frock and red boots with a smile. ‘What do you reckon, Deb? Just fades right into the landscape, doesn’t she?’ He grinned.

  The other rider was a stunning blonde, younger than the man. She wore pristine jodhpurs, a sky-blue shirt and riding boots, and looked very much at home on horseback. But her smile was shy.

  ‘Seriously,’ she said to Nina, getting the first aid kit from the saddle bag and throwing it to the man, ‘that is a great dress. Where did you get it?’

  ‘This old thing? This is what I wear when I just don’t care,’ Nina said, echoing Olivia’s words. She was rewarded with a smile. I come in peace, she thought. ‘Vintage fair in Newtown last year,’ Nina added, when she saw Deb still admiring her dress.

  ‘Vintage, really?’ said the girl. ‘Everything I have is new,’ she
went on, indicating her own perfect ensemble with regret.

  ‘So, how did you come by this property, if you don’t mind my asking?’ the man said slowly.

  Actually, he seems to do everything in slow motion, Nina thought. Must be your typical country bloke.

  ‘It belonged to my uncle, Russell Larkin. He left it to me.’

  ‘Really?’ The man looked at her with sharp curiosity. ‘And your name would be?’

  ‘Nina Larkin.’

  His eyebrows lifted. ‘Nina, eh? How about that.’

  ‘Ouch,’ said Deb, tapping her horse closer to peer at Nina’s injured hand, still cradled within the man’s.

  ‘I was trying to break the padlock,’ explained Nina. She felt grubby next to this pair. ‘I guess I’ll have to go back to town and get a hotel room for the night. Thanks for your help.’

  The man looked up. ‘Hang on – I think you did it,’ he said, carefully letting go of her hand. She saw that the gatepost ring had been knocked out, leaving the chain and lock dangling.

  ‘There you go. You don’t know your own strength,’ smiled Deb. She turned to the man. ‘Sorry, darling, I’m already late for my fitting. I’ll see you at home later.’ She leaned down and kissed him.

  ‘I’m Deborah Flint. You’ll probably get to meet my mother soon. She’s your buyer,’ she said to Nina.

  ‘Something to look forward to,’ said the man, and they both smiled.

  ‘Maybe I’ll see you again.’ Deborah offered a wave as she turned the animal around and cantered off.

  ‘This road belongs to Kurrabar, my place. Deborah’s place is on the far side of Kurrabar,’ said the man. ‘So, we’re your neighbours.’ He took Nina’s injured hand once more, with greater gentleness this time.

  Again, Nina felt that uninvited surge of heat inside.

  He dabbed the wound with antiseptic.

  Nina winced. Looking closely at his face for the first time, she noticed a thick, puckered white scar, a burn. It was splashed across his left jaw and the side of his neck, disappearing into his checked shirt. She couldn’t pull her gaze away from such a shocking injury, and even found herself leaning towards the shiny lunar surface. He tucked his head down, frowning. Nina looked away.