Out of Alice (30 page)

Clemmy grinned. ‘Very much. You look a proper bushie now, or you would if you weren't so pale. I suppose with your colouring you never tan?'

‘I can do red but that's all.' Sara removed the bone-coloured Akubra to examine it afresh. ‘At least it stays on. With the straw one I was fighting every bit of breeze. The kids are keen on it anyway.'

Jack would have approved too, she thought, sighing. Clemmy heard and her focus sharpened.

‘Are you okay?'

‘Yes. Just a bit sad to be leaving, that's all. I've got fond of the kids and I think of you all as my friends – you and Helen and Beth, Len and Jack. I'll miss you all. What about young Nick? Has he finished up too?'

‘Yes. He'd be happy to stay on but it's not up to us of course. You know the paper used that pic he took of you? He's really chuffed. Sees it as the start of his new life, apparently.'

‘I live but to serve,' Sara quipped dryly, standing up. ‘Maybe he should come to the concert and photograph it? Becky's waving. I'd better go see what she wants.'

Sara was frankly amazed at how well the concert turned out. The children had managed only two complete rehearsals in the time available. All had learned their parts separately but when the curtain went up on the show, the production came together easily.

‘They're good,' she remarked to Beth who, like her, was clapping wholeheartedly as the cast crowded onto the stage at the end.

‘Yes, they really throw themselves into it.' Beth's gaze was on her son, whose thin frame and bald head made him easy to spot. He bent at the waist, one arm before and the other behind him, awkward as the rest of them as they bowed to their audience. ‘I'm so glad Sam was able to take part. He's missed so much through his illness. I'm taking him home now – no sense pushing our luck. Will you stay? Santa's coming later. You could collect Sam's present for him. Mum and Dad'll wait for Becky so you could ride back with them after the barbecue.'

‘Okay. Tell Sam his present's safe with me. This will give me a chance to say goodbye to everyone.'

Beth got up. ‘Horrible word! I don't like to think about you leaving.'

It was going to happen though, and soon. Tomorrow Sara would book her flight to Sydney and find accommodation there. She couldn't just rock up at her father's house and expect to be taken in, particularly if he was away and his wife came to the door. Of course it wouldn't happen like that. She would ring first, tell them she was coming. Would the second Mrs Randall welcome her or see her as a threat to her own children? She found herself wishing yet again that her father was just an ordinary man, with a wage and a mortgage like everyone else. It would make things so much simpler for all concerned.

After Santa's visit – he had arrived, fittingly, in the prime mover of a road train – and the mayhem of cheering and present-opening that followed, Sara joined Becky, Helen, and Jim and Rinky Hazlitt at one of the long tables set up on the school lawn for the evening meal.

‘Bit different?' Jim asked. He was a lean slab of a man who normally had little to say for himself, perhaps because Rinky talked enough for two.

‘Very,' Sara agreed. ‘Wonderful though. Whose idea was the road train?'

‘They try for something different each year,' he said. ‘Snow and sleighs don't cut it much with our kids.'

‘I guess not.' Neither, she imagined, would formal meals in a hall – not that a school without classrooms would have any use for such a gathering point. The stars were paler here above the town's lights but many were still visible and, glancing upwards, Sara thought that however her life turned out, she would always remember this night – Becky's joyful face and the aroma of roasting meat and the chatter of friends. The town was fairly quiet, the traffic noises muted by distance. A child with a Native American headdress whooped in circles brandishing a plastic tomahawk, and there was a faint wild tang on the breeze, from fires burning on the ranges surrounding the Alice.

Later, back at the house, Sara delivered Sam's gift to him in bed and she and his parents watched him rip it open. His eyes lit up at the sight of the chemistry set. ‘Wow!' he cried, ‘Thanks, Mum, Dad. Mrs Murray told me about some crazy experiments you can do with this stuff.'

‘Just show some sense with it,' Len warned. ‘No blowing things up. That apart, we're glad you like it, son.'

Sara winked at him. ‘There's Christmas cake too. It's in the fridge.'

He grinned. ‘Thanks, Sara. You're the best.'

‘There's the phone.' Beth was rising from the bed. ‘Okay, champ. Time you were asleep.' She kissed him and left. Sam lay back on his pillows, looking thin and spent.

‘You were brilliant tonight,' Sara said softly. ‘You all were. I never enjoyed a concert more. I'll see you in the morning. Goodnight, Sam.'

‘'Night,' he said and yawned tremendously ‘So tired,' he murmured as Len switched off the light.

‘Big day for him,' he said gruffly, then Beth was calling her name.

‘Jack.' Beth thrust the phone at Sara. ‘He wants to speak to you.'

Joy surged through her and she took the handpiece. ‘Jack, hello.' She could hear the sudden lilt in her voice and hastily turned her back on Beth to hide her face. ‘How are things out there?'

‘Pretty much the same. Kids having a good time?'

‘Yes. I'm sorry you weren't here tonight. It was great. Everyone seems to be in town. What about you? What are you doing?'

His tone sounded flat and weary. ‘All the usual stuff. Look, the reason I'm calling. Somebody from Randall's office phoned me earlier. Apparently they'd been trying to get me all day but I wasn't in. Your father's flying into the Alice tomorrow. He'll be at the Hilton anytime after midday, she said. Are you there, Sara?'

‘I – yes.' She was suddenly breathless. ‘Tomorrow, the Hilton. Who was it who rang?'

‘His PA. Lillian Somebody. I didn't catch it. She said – here, hang on, I wrote it down.
Mr Randall will be pleased to meet his daughter if she cares to come to the Hilton. He expects to arrive in Alice Springs at noon, providing his flight suffers no delays.
That's it. The DNA test must have decided him.
His daughter
, she said. So, you've finally got your life sorted out.'

‘Yes,' she whispered. Only she hadn't. She had complicated it disastrously by falling in love with a man who didn't want her. The words were out before she thought. ‘I'm scared, Jack. I wish you were here.'

‘You'll be fine,' he said bracingly. ‘Why would he even come, if he wasn't going to accept you? This time tomorrow night you'll wonder at yourself. This time next week you'll be living a fairytale. I've got to go now, Sara. Say hi to Mum and Dad for me, and take care of yourself. Bye.'

‘Goodbye, Jack,' she said gently. She heard him hang up but continued to stand there, the silent phone pressed to her ear, picturing him leaving the office for the kitchen to wash up after his lonely meal. Or possibly to eat it, depending on what time he'd finished the many chores that would await him when he got in from the run.

‘Everything all right, Sara?' Helen, passing, gave her an odd look.

‘Yes.' She replaced the handset, concentrating on setting it straight before looking up to meet the woman's gaze. ‘That is – I feel a bit – that was Jack with a message from my father. He's flying in tomorrow to meet me.' She lifted a hand to her face. ‘I didn't – I'm —'

‘Hornswoggled?' Helen suggested with a smile. ‘That's marvellous, Sara!'

‘And scary, and I don't feel ready,' she burst out.

‘But come tomorrow you will be. It's a big thing, for you and for him. Trust me, he'll be every bit as hornswoggled himself! I would if, God forbid, I'd lost Beth the way he lost you. And believe this, no matter how long it had been, Frank and I would run barefoot over broken glass if we'd been given the chance he has, of finding a lost daughter.'

‘I do.' Sara laughed tremulously, trying to calm her chaotic thoughts. ‘Where did you get a word like that, anyway? What does it even mean?'

‘Hornswoggled? I've no idea, but it sounds fitting. Come on. Frank's made tea. Let's have a cup before we sleep on the day. And tomorrow? Well, tomorrow you'll have your own family again.'

In the morning Sara woke foggy-headed, having lain wakeful for hours until she fell asleep, exhausted, some time after three a.m. The family was already at breakfast; Len had a list of businesses to visit, his bank manager among them, and Beth and her son were dressed for the day. Sam's appointment at the hospital was for nine. The station grocery order was ready. Frank had volunteered to pick it up, and would drop them both off before attending to his errands.

‘Best of luck.' Beth touched Sara's shoulder. ‘I'll hear all about it this afternoon. Be good, Becky.'

‘I always am, aren't I?' The child appealed to Sara, who smiled and wrinkled her nose.

‘Always?' said Sara.

‘Mostly. Can I come with you to see your dad?'

‘Maybe another time,' she said. ‘You can help me pack though, if you like.' She bent to whisper in her ear. ‘Can you keep a secret?'

‘'Course!' Becky's eyes widened and she shot a careful look at her grandmother, her own whisper sibilant. ‘What sorta secret?'

‘You'll see. Come on.'

Once in her room with her bag on her bed, Sara produced two small parcels tied with ribbon. ‘Can you hide these in your clothes and smuggle them home? They're gifts for your mum and dad. You might give them to your uncle to keep for you till Christmas. You can tell him,' she cautioned, ‘but nobody else. Okay?'

‘Cross my heart and hope to die,' Becky agreed seriously. ‘What did you get them?'

‘That's another secret, and one I can't tell you. Right, you bring me the stuff in the drawers and I'll pack it. How's that sound?'

‘Okay. Then what'll we do?'

‘I'm going to do some washing. After that who knows?'

The morning crawled by. The washed clothes dried almost immediately in the hot sun and were duly ironed and folded away. Sara and Helen drank tea in the kitchen, both women preoccupied with their own thoughts. Helen's were of her grandson, Sara's a chaotic whirl of expectation and anxiety over the coming meeting. Frank, who'd taken Becky with him, arrived home carrying the morning's flight schedules and offered to drive Sara to the airport, but she declined.

‘Thanks, Frank, but no. He mightn't be prepared. I mean, he made a place for our meeting, I think I'd rather just stick to it.'

She helped prepare lunch, then pushed the salad around her plate smiling weakly when Helen remonstrated, ‘My dear, you have to eat.'

‘I can't. I'm too nervous. Maybe later.'

Then finally it was time. Frank said, ‘I'll get the car out.' The moment was upon her, and for all the time she'd had to prepare, she wasn't ready. Her fingers gripping the lipstick shook and she stared at her reflection, appalled. What had made her choose that skirt? And the top was wrong. It should have been the blue . . . She was rum­maging in her carefully packed bag when Helen came in to get her.

‘For heaven's sake, Sara, stop it! Nothing could matter less than your clothes. You look quite lovely in any case, so just get in the car and go.'

‘You're right.' Pulling herself together, Sara swallowed, then hugged her friend and hurried out to where Frank was waiting with the engine already running.

The hotel was tucked discreetly behind a band of spreading shade trees and immaculate lawns. The wide sweep of gravelled driveway crunched under the little car's wheels.

‘Flashest pub in town,' Frank said, and the matter-of-fact comment helped break the nervous trance that had fallen on Sara. She gave herself a mental shake and gripped the doorhandle, drawing in a fortifying breath as they stopped before the darkened glass entrance.

‘Want me to come in with you? I could wait if you like,' Frank offered.

‘No, I'll be fine.' She was pale but composed. ‘Thanks for bringing me,' she added and turned towards the entrance. Glancing back from the tinted glass doors she saw that Frank was still there watching her. He waved and, drawing a deep breath, she lifted her hand in return and went in.

Inside, the lobby was a vast atrium. The air was refreshingly cold. Palms in large pots stood about the tiled space that was divided by pillars and sectioned with seating. A slate-fronted reception desk was set to one side with three stations along it, and some sort of attendant in a well-cut suit rested – it was the only word for it, Sara thought – like an automaton awaiting use in a little area beside a low chest where refreshments were laid out for the hotel guests. There to answer questions or to pour the cold drinks? The query bobbed into Sara's mind and vanished as she oriented herself and began the hike across the marble floor to reception.

Then a voice behind her said, ‘Chrissy?'

It was the tone – doubtful, questioning – that halted Sara more than the name, which she scarcely registered. She swung about and saw a man rising from the lounge where he'd been seated in the shadow of a palm. He was tall, grey-headed and sparely built. He was neatly dressed without jacket or tie, in grey trousers and a short-sleeved shirt of pale blue. When she turned to him, his face suddenly whitened beneath the tan, making the straight line of his big nose loom even larger. ‘Mother of Christ!' Pain, brief and sharp, crossed his features, then was gone again. ‘You're the living spit of your mother,' he said. ‘I'm John Randall. I'm your father.'

Sara stared at the well-groomed stranger, trying frantically to make something familiar out of the man before her. She smiled weakly.

‘Hello, I'm Sara. I . . . '

She had no idea what she wanted to say except that this was not him, not the golden-armed laughing god of her dreams. He was old. Of course he's old, her mind mocked as her gaze moved over him chronicling the evidence. His brow was lined, his eyebrows grey, the column of his neck creased. He must be in his sixties, sixty-five or sixty-eight perhaps. Frank was older but this man had no right to be. She felt a sense of loss and realised as the silence lengthened awkwardly that the moment in which they might have embraced naturally had gone by.

John Randall realised it too. He came towards her, his right hand rising but not to shake hers – it would have been faintly ridiculous given the circumstances – but to take her elbow and lead her back to the lounge. They were close enough for her to smell his cologne, to see the crease in his earlobe, so unlike her own small, lobeless ears. His voice was a pleasant baritone but that too woke no echoes in her mind.

‘My God, I can scarcely believe . . . Chris – or do you prefer Sara? But you
are
Christine Mary Randall. Never mind the scientific nonsense, your looks shout the fact. Seeing you just now gave me quite a shock. You're the image of her, of Mary.'

‘Didn't Paul Markham send a photo?'

‘The journalist? No. The media and I – well, let's say our relationship hasn't always been amicable. Here, sit. Would you like tea, or something stronger?'

‘Tea would be nice, thank you.' Sara sank onto the couch, setting down her handbag and smoothing her skirt. Her mind was a complete blank, or at least speech seemed to have deserted her, for although a thousand questions teemed in her head like a ball of wool whose end had been hidden, she couldn't seem to tease out the strand that would free her tongue to ask them.

The man – no, her father – returned, from speaking to the automaton and seated himself at the opposite end of the couch. He leaned back and folded his hands over one knee, assuming a posture of ease. The pose flexed the muscles of his forearms that were blemished with sunspots. The hair along them was no longer golden. And something in her broke open. She looked at this stranger, all that was left to her of her own blood, and was suddenly six again, locked in that room without her twin, knowing that the night, which she must face alone, was coming, and if they heard her crying either the horrid man or the nasty lady would come in and beat her. The words hurtled from her, accusing and cold.

‘You didn't come! I opened the window and broke the screen and jumped out because Benny was gone and I knew you would come and f-find me and you didn't!' She was horrified by the childish wail that was escaping her, but helpless to control it. Her throat tightened and her chest heaved and she bawled her heart out, blinded by the tears that flooded her cheeks and choked by the breath that caught in her throat. In the midst of it all she was unaware of the besuited young man who appeared with a tray of tea things, then discreetly vanished with it again. She sobbed for all the years of abandonment, and the pain of loss, for Benny and her mother, whom she now knew she resembled, for the father she had lost and, in a muddled way – because she was far past being able to differentiate between her feelings – for Sam's sickness, her heartbreak over Jack and the horrors of the drought as well.

When it ended she was clutching a man's sodden handkerchief and John Randall's arm was around her shoulder holding her firmly against him. She hiccupped a final sob and sniffed, mopping damply at her eyes.

‘Better now?' he asked tenderly, and it was as if a door had suddenly opened in her mind. She saw herself at the foot of the garden wall from which she'd tumbled, sobbing over a grazed elbow, and her father scooping her up in his arms to kiss the sore spot and ask that same question.

‘I'm sorry, Dad.' Fresh tears sparkled in the green eyes that lifted to meet his. ‘I don't know what came over me. I didn't mean – I shouldn't have said . . .'

‘You did, and you were right. It's a father's job to keep his children safe and I didn't. I failed both you and Benny.' His arm tightened around her and his voice thickened with pain. ‘Everything that happened to you I should have prevented. For that I can never forgive myself, any more than I can for Benny's death. I never dared believe that your body wasn't out there with his – my poor innocent little Bryant and May.'

The names triggered another memory. ‘I remember you calling us that. I never knew what it meant.'

‘Matches.' John Randall blinked something from his eye, and gave the ghost of a chuckle. ‘Bryant and May made Redhead matches.' He nodded at the corner of the room. ‘There's a ladies' behind the screen if you need a moment. I'll order us some fresh tea.'

Staring into the mirror above the handbasin, Sara discovered a face streaked with mascara and eyes almost as red as her hair. There was a container of small hand towels above the basin so she made a cold compress of one to clean and repair the damage, then reapplied makeup, taking her time. She felt shaken to her core, but curiously relieved as well, as if some titanic struggle she had been engaged in was finally resolved. After all, her father must have come here seeking a ghost too. If he was no longer the strong young giant of her dreams, then neither was she a six-year-old child.

They moved from the lobby into a cafe space beyond the lift where the tables were widely separated with banquettes about them. A waitress served them, and over the tea and little cakes they began tentatively to question and learn each other's history.

‘Tell me about my mother.' Sara spoke first. ‘You said I look like her.'

‘You do, even to the way you hold your head. I never noticed it in you as a child. What do you remember of her?'

‘Not much. Her smell: powder and cigarettes. She could stand on her head. And she used to blow fairy kisses. When we were in bed and she was going away, she'd turn and blow them to us from the door.
Blowing us dreams,
she called it. Why did she kill herself?'

Randall sighed, and ran his hands over his cropped grey hair. ‘It happened when they found Benny's body. It took away all hope of ever getting you back. When I told her about Benny and that I thought you were both gone – and you do see, Chrissy, that I couldn't
not
tell her – she screamed like her mind was going, and I really think it did. The news broke something in her. She couldn't conceive of you separately, you see. Well, to be honest, neither did I then. That's why the memorial plaque has both your names on it.'

‘I know,' Sara said. ‘I saw it.'

‘Did you? It was the last straw for Mary. A week later she was dead and I'd lost you all.' His gaze was on the tablecloth, his face so bleak that she was moved to touch his hand.

‘Paul, the journalist who found me, said no ransom demand was ever made. Is that right?'

‘There was nothing.' His hand clenched on the white tablecloth. ‘Nothing! No reason, no demand. If there had only been contact I'd have given anything, everything. But the months went by and when Benny's body turned up, I knew it was over, that neither of you were ever coming back.'

‘And yet here I am.' Sara sipped, put her cup down. ‘You married again.' It came out more abruptly than she intended, like an accusation. ‘What's she like, your wife?'

‘Fran?' He lifted his shoulders. ‘She's good for me. Kind, understanding. We have three children, Chrissy. A son, Justin, and two daughters. Mandy, she's ten, and Sophie the baby, she's eight. No redheads. The kids take after Fran, who's a brunette.' His small rueful smile twisted Sara's heart for something she couldn't share. ‘Well, she colours it now. But you'll see them for yourself. It's why I'm here – not just to meet you, but to take you home, if you'll come.'

‘But —' Sara abandoned the half-uttered protest. There was nothing to keep her here – the job at Redhill was over and Jack had made no attempt to prevent her leaving. The knowledge was bitter.

‘Tonight. I've two seats booked on the evening flight. We've got till six p.m., so there's time enough to pack.'

‘The packing's already done. I've been staying with friends – they're my employers, or they were. My job's over now; I've no immediate plans.'

He was pleased, she could see. ‘Good, then. So you're free? I could send a car for your stuff now or we can call in and pick it up on our way to the airport. It'd be a bit early but we could probably get dinner here, or would you rather eat on the plane?'

‘Oh, the plane because I have to see my friends before I go, Dad.' The name came out hesitantly this time and Sara's smile was uncertain. ‘It's so odd to say that. I never called him by that name, you know, or Father – Vic Blake, I mean. I never called him anything.'

He grunted. ‘I've called the murdering bastard a few things. I've killed him so many times and in so many ways – I used to fantasise about what I'd do to whoever took you both . . .' He shook his head. ‘Enough of that. There are so many things I want to know about you, Chrissy. The journalist sent me his paper with the story in it – there was a grainy pic with the article but it gave no real idea. I want to know about your growing up, how those people treated you. And who you are now, what you do, all the things a father should know about his daughter's life. You're twenty-seven, so what about men? Is there someone special?'

‘No,' she lied. ‘But I've been married. It didn't work out.'

‘I'm sorry about that. The paper said you work as a gover­ness?'

‘Yes, but only recently. It's a long story.'

‘I'm listening.'

So she told him everything, re-examining the days of her life, going off on tangents at times as something prompted further memories to emerge. Her father was able to frame her six-year-old recollections with the background of their settings. He placed the garden, the dog and the stone wall at Vinibel Downs, a property outside Winton in Queensland, and the poultry and egg collecting on the sheep stud in New South Wales. Still talking, they moved from the cafe back to the lounge and later to the gardens, walking slowly over the grass in the shade beyond the pool, talking, talking . . . John Randall spoke of Benny and the closeness of the bond her twin had shared with her, of their secret language until the age of four when they suddenly began to speak properly.

‘Mary was worried sick about your brains,' he said. ‘She thought you'd both been damaged at birth. It took a nursing sister in Winton to convince her that it wasn't unusual in twins, though it mostly happened with identical ones.' Sara heard the pain in his voice when he spoke of his first-born son and she wept again, but these were gentler tears for her long-lost companion whose ghost had lived on in her heart.

‘I think some part of me always knew – if not about him, then that
something
was missing,' she said slowly. ‘It was like I was always listening, always waiting.'

‘I can believe it. We marvelled, Mary and I, that as tiny babies each of you was so
aware
of your twin. Even fast asleep you'd reach out to one another. And when you both began to crawl, it was always towards the other. We could put you on opposite ends of the verandah at Vinibel, and you'd both continue moving till you met.'

‘Did you sell the properties?' Sara asked abruptly then.

John Randall stopped his pacing and sighed. ‘Yes, because there was no point in holding them. Land is there to pass on but I had no one left. Nothing mattered. As far as I was concerned it was all finished, the dreams, the planning, everything. Of course you learn in time that pain doesn't kill, and that's the worst bit. Around then I could so easily have ended it all – I thought of it more than once – or I might've drunk myself to death; instead Fran saved me. Made me see there might still be a future.' He scrubbed his hands through the short hair on his nape and looked at her. ‘I'm an entrepreneur, Chrissy. I have a talent for turning a buck, always have – it's part luck, part know-how, part timing. So with Fran's help I put my life back together and success followed. Since losing you all I have had my share of fortune,' he said soberly. ‘Don't think I don't know it. Having Fran and the children, now finding you again. Despite everything, I'm a lucky man.'

‘Your children.' Sara stared at the pool, the surface of the sky-blue water trembling from the breeze that moved across it. ‘Do they know about me yet?'

‘Yes, I rang Justin before I left, and I imagine he's seen the papers by now. He was with his study group when we spoke. This is his senior year; he's a bright boy. He intends to do a degree in business studies at university.'

‘And the girls?'

‘Oh, Fran will have explained it to them. They're madly excited at the thought of a big sister. They were desperate to come along and see you, but Fran thought that we'd manage this first meeting best alone. She's a clever woman, Chrissy, and ready to welcome you. Don't worry about that. And the kids'll love you to death. They can't wait for me to bring you home.'