Matilda's Last Waltz (8 page)

She followed him into his gloomy office and sat down in a highly polished leather chair. Her pulse was racing and she had the strongest urge to get up again and walk out. She didn't want to hear, didn't want to believe Peter's secrecy, but knew that if she was to understand it, she must stay.

‘I regret being so insistent, my dear. All this must be most distressing for you.' He polished his glasses on a very white handkerchief, myopic grey eyes soulful.

Jenny eyed the grey pinstripe suit, the stiff collar and discreet tie. Only a pom would wear such clothes in the height of an Australian summer. She forced a polite smile and clasped her hands in her lap. Her cotton dress was already clinging to her back. There was no air conditioning, no open windows, and a fly was buzzing overhead. She felt trapped. Suffocated.

‘This shouldn't take very long, Jennifer,' he said as he selected a legal file and undid the red ribbon. ‘But I have to be sure you understand the full implications of Peter's will.'

He eyed her over his glasses. ‘I don't expect you took it all in before, and there are other matters which have to be discussed now you've reached twenty-five.'

Jenny shifted in the uncomfortable leather chair and eyed the jug of water on his desk. ‘Could I have a drink, please? It's very hot in here.'

He laughed, a tight, brittle sound that held nervous humour. ‘I thought you Australians were immune to the heat?'

Pompous ass, she thought as she drank. ‘Thank you.' She put the glass on the desk. Her hand was shaking so much, she almost dropped it. ‘Can we get on?'

‘Certainly, my dear,' he murmured. The spectacles were pushed up on the bridge of his nose and he steepled his fingers under his chin as he scanned the document. ‘As I told you before, your husband drew up his will two years ago when your son was born. There are several later codicils which are affected by your recent tragedy, but the gist of the will remains the same.'

He looked up at her then, took off his glasses and gave them another polish. ‘How are you coping, my dear? Such a tragic business, losing both of them like that.'

Jenny thought of the policeman at the door on that terrible morning. Thought of the embolism that had struck Peter so swiftly, and with such deadly accuracy. It had wiped out her family in one cruel blow, leaving only the mangled remains of the car they'd pulled from the gully at the base of the coast road leading towards home.

They'd been twenty minutes away – and she hadn't known, hadn't felt anything until the police arrived. How could that be? she wondered for the hundredth time. How could a mother not feel the death of a child – a wife not experience some inner knowledge that all was not well?

She twisted the engagement ring on her finger and watched the diamond spark in the sunlight. ‘I'll be right,' she said softly.

He eyed her solemnly then nodded and returned to his papers. ‘As you already know, Peter was an astute investor. He took great care to protect his estate for his next-of-kin, and set up a series of trusts and insurances.'

‘That's what I find hard to understand,' she interrupted. ‘Peter worked in a bank and had a few shares, but apart from the house which is mortgaged, and the partnership in the gallery, we had very few assets – let alone spare cash to gamble on the stock market. Where did all this money come from?'

‘The insurance has wiped out the mortgage, the partnership reverts to you and Diane, and as for where he found the capital to play the markets, that can be explained by the properties he bought and sold so astutely.'

Jenny thought of the long list of properties she'd been given. Apparently Peter had bought property all along the northern coast during the plunge in market values. Done them up and sold them on as the price index rose – and she'd had no idea. ‘But he had to have had money to do that in the first place,' she protested.

Wainwright nodded and returned to the folder. ‘He took out a substantial loan on your house at Palm Beach to buy the first few properties, then when he sold them, he used the profit to buy the rest.'

She thought of the large sum in her bank account, the years of scraping and penny pinching to pay the bills. ‘He never told me any of this,' she murmured.

‘I expect he didn't want to worry you with the financial side of things,' said the lawyer with a patronising smile.

She eyed him coldly and changed the subject. ‘What's all this about my birthday?'

John Wainwright shuffled through the papers on his desk and picked up another folder. ‘This was Peter's special bequest – just for you. He wanted to present it on your birthday but…'

She leaned forward. Impatience and dread were a strange cocktail. ‘What is it?'

‘It's the deeds to a sheep station,' he said, opening the folder.

His words stunned her and she sank back into the chair. ‘I think you'd better explain,' she said finally.

‘The station was abandoned by the owners several years ago. Your husband saw his chance to fulfil a dream I believe you both shared, and took it.' He smiled. ‘Peter was very excited about it. It was to be a surprise for your twenty-fifth birthday. I helped with the paperwork and so on, and worked out an agreement for the manager to remain on the property and look after it until you and Peter took possession.'

Jenny was lost in speculation as her mind struggled to take it all in. The ticking of the clock filled the silence as she marshalled her thoughts into some kind of order. Things were beginning to fall into place. Peter had told her her next birthday would be one she'd never forget. He had presented her with the locket she always wore on their last Christmas together and hinted it was connected to the forthcoming surprise but he had refused to divulge the secret of the locket, or the plans he'd obviously been making. But this? This was beyond her wildest dreams. Almost impossible to digest.

‘Why didn't you tell me about it when you first read the will?'

‘Because your husband's express instructions were not to reveal anything until your twenty-fifth birthday,' he said soberly. ‘And Wainwright, Dobbs and Steel take a pride in maintaining our clients' wishes.'

Jenny lapsed into silence. It had all come too late. There was no way she could live out their dream – not on her own. But her curiosity was piqued.

‘Tell me about this place, John. Where is it?'

‘It's in the north-west corner of New South Wales. Or “back of Bourke”, as you Australians put it. About as far into the outback as one can get. The name of the property is Churinga, which I'm reliably informed is Aboriginal for “sacred charm or amulet”.'

‘So how did he find this place? What was it that made him buy it? How come this Churinga was so special?'

He eyed her for a long moment, and when he finally spoke, Jenny had the impression he wasn't telling her everything. ‘Churinga happened to be in our firm's portfolio of properties. The original owners left it to us to keep it going until we deemed it proper to pass it on. Peter happened to be in the right place at the right time.' He smiled. ‘He knew a bargain when he saw one. Churinga's a good property.'

The silence weighed heavy, the ticking of a clock marking the passing of time as she waited for him to tell her more.

‘I realise this has come as something of a shock, Jennifer, and I apologise for not having told you before. But I had a duty to Peter to carry out his wishes.'

Jenny recognised the apology was genuine and nodded. He was obviously not able to tell her anything more, but it left her feeling unsatisfied and curious.

‘I suggest you think about it for a while, then come and see me in a few weeks' time to discuss what you wish to do with your inheritance.' He smiled his cold little smile. ‘We can of course help dispose of the property should you decide not to take it over. I know several investors who would snap it up if it came on to the market. Wool prices are high at the moment, and Churinga is a profitable station.'

Jenny was still having trouble taking it all in – but the thought of getting rid of the sheep station before she'd even seen it didn't sit well. But she wasn't yet ready to voice her concern. John was right, she needed time to think.

He drew out the pocket watch from his waistcoat. ‘I would advise you to sell Churinga, Jennifer. The outback is no place for a young woman, and I'm told the station is very isolated. Women don't easily survive out there, especially those who are used to the city.'

He eyed her delicate stiletto-heeled sandals and expensive cotton dress. ‘It's still a man's world when it comes to sheep farming in Australia – but then I suppose you already know that?'

She almost smiled. The years of living in Dajarra and Waluna had obviously not left their mark. ‘I'll think about it,' she muttered.

‘If you could just sign these papers to confirm you have been given notice of this latest inheritance? We will need them for our files.'

She skimmed the legal jargon but couldn't make much sense of it. The signature was still wet on the paper when another folder was placed before her.

‘This is a copy of your late husband's share portfolio, and I've made arrangements with the bank for you to draw the income. If you could just sign this, here, here, and here I'll set up the accounts.'

Jenny did as she was told. She was on automatic, out of control of the situation and almost at breaking point. She needed to get out of this claustrophobic office and into the sunshine. Needed time to think and digest the outcome of this extraordinary afternoon.

‘I'll make another appointment for you in three weeks' time. By then you should have some idea of what you wish to do with Churinga.'

Her emotions were mixed as she stepped out into the street. Bewilderment, sadness and curiosity were a heady cocktail. As she walked back through the park, she tried to imagine the outback station. It was probably just like a hundred others – but special because Peter had bought it for them.

‘Churinga,' she whispered, testing the feel of it on her tongue and in her mind. It was a lovely name. As old as time, mysterious and magical. She shivered with anticipation as she clasped the locket. Magic didn't exist, not in the real world, but maybe she could find solace in the outback.

*   *   *

Diane knew the minute Jenny walked into the gallery that something was wrong. A casual observer would have noticed only the long brown legs and slender hips, the easy, casual grace of the way she carried herself, and the startling violet eyes. But Diane knew her too well.

She turned to Andy who was nonchalantly flicking a duster over a sculpture. ‘You might as well go. We've done all we can for today.'

His arch gaze drifted over Jenny before returning to Diane. ‘Girl talk, I suppose? Well, I know when I'm not wanted, so I'll say ta-ta.'

Diane watched him flounce into the back room then turned to Jenny and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She was cold to the touch and trembling, but her eyes were fever bright.

‘You'll never guess what's happened,' she stammered breathlessly.

Diane put a warning finger to her lips. ‘Walls have ears, darling.'

They both turned as Andy emerged from the back room, his jacket slung over his shoulders. The pink shirt and flared trousers were as immaculate as ever, the gold medallion glinting against his perfectly tanned chest, but his eyes were narrow with curiosity.

‘Goodbye, Andy,' the two women chorused.

With a disdainful lift of his chin, he slammed the gallery doors and ran down the steps into the street. Diane looked at Jenny and giggled. ‘God, he's irritating! Worse than having a maiden aunt around the place.'

‘As neither of us has a maiden aunt, I wouldn't know,' said Jenny impatiently. ‘Diane, we have to talk. I've got some very big decisions to make.'

Diane frowned as Jenny pulled what looked like a legal document from her shoulder bag. ‘Pete's will? I thought that had all been dealt with?'

‘So did I, but things have changed.'

Diane led her into the back room and poured them both a glass of wine. She lit a cigarette and plumped down on one of the vast floor cushions she'd brought back from Morocco. ‘What's upset you, Jen? He hasn't left you in debt, has he?'

Diane's thoughts raced. Knowing Peter, that was the last thing he would have done. She'd never known a man so organised, but there was no telling what could happen when the solicitors and tax men got hold of things, and she knew things had been very tight financially.

Jenny shook her head and smiled. She took the portfolio, the deeds and the will from her shoulder bag. ‘Read those, Diane. Then we can talk.'

Diane shoved back her long sleeves and skimmed over the first few paragraphs of the will. They were legal mumbo-jumbo and not designed to be understood by anyone. When the full impact of what she was reading began to sink in, she remained open-mouthed until the end.

Jenny silently passed over the portfolio, and Diane, who'd learned a thing or two from an old boyfriend about the stock market, was impressed by the investments. ‘I wish I'd known Pete was into all this – I could have done with a few tips. There's some good stuff here.'

‘I didn't know you played the market. Since when?'

Diane looked up, the cigarette burning away between her fingers. ‘Since I sold my first sculpture. My boyfriend at the time was working in the city. I thought you knew?'

Jenny shook her head. ‘Strange, isn't it? You think you know everything about a person, then something happens and all sorts of things emerge.'

‘I don't tell you the dirty details of my sex life either, but that doesn't mean I don't have one or that I've anything to hide.' Diane was cross with herself, and with Jenny. There was absolutely no reason why she should feel guilty but she did – and it bothered her.

Jenny reached over and took the cigarette from her fingers and stubbed it out. ‘I'm not accusing you of anything, Di. Just stating a fact. I had no idea you and Pete played the markets. No idea we were worth so much. And that's what worries me. How could he have been so secretive when I told him everything? Whey did we live on the breadline when there was money in the bank?'