Switchback Stories (20 page)

They fell into a pattern of daily life, keeping busy in their separate ways, but sharing their grief. Cameron insisted Diana couldn’t blame herself for bringing her husband to the mountains.

In the evenings they ate in front of the log fireplace and remembered the good times with Joel.

‘I really don’t expect you to hang around here forever keeping me company,’ she said to him on the third week. ‘You’ve got a business to run.’

‘I was due for some extended annual leave, and I really needed to get away from everything for a while, anyway. The solitude here is actually doing me wonders. I’m just sorry for the circumstances that brought it about.’

‘What about your business?’

‘I’ll get back in a couple of weeks. But Helen is more than capable of running things, probably making an even greater success of it without me around.’

It was during the fifth week after Joel’s death, that Cameron surprised her by kissing her lightly on the fingers.

‘One day,’ he whispered, ‘I hope I’ll mean some of the same things to you that Joel meant.’

This wasn’t the time or the place for romance, and she felt confused and annoyed by his action. She pulled away.

‘I’m tired, Cameron. Think I’ll turn in.’

In her room she listened to the sigh of the wind as it roamed the peaks and valleys. Was the soul of the man she’d loved riding the wind, trying to speak to her through its chilled breath?

She heard his words about Cameron from the night of their wedding. ‘I saw him watching you, Diana. He likes you. He probably wishes he’d met you first.’

‘You’re imagining things,’ she had said, and then added with a laugh, ‘even though I am irresistible.’

But now she wondered about Cameron and she felt a shiver. He’d spent time at the cabin last year. He knew about the gorge…

Was she mad, allowing such a suspicion?

Joel had jumped.

Cameron hadn’t even been here.

The two of them had been best buddies forever.

She imagined Joel outside her window now, a ghostly silhouette, with sad eyes pleading for justice. She tried to shake the image free.

Her imagination had always had a life of its own, one of the traits, she supposed, of being a writer. Sometimes it was a blessing. Sometimes it was a curse.

But her imagination had always driven her. The following morning, while Cameron was out, Diana went to his room and found the stub of his airline ticket, stuffed into a section of his suitcase.

He’d flown up on the day
before
Joel’s death, not the day after as he’d told her.

She recalled that Joel had received a handwritten letter from Cameron, which he’d picked up from the post office down in the township, a couple of days before the tragedy. What had it said?

She hadn’t seen it at any time amongst Joel’s belongings.

She didn’t want to go rifling through Cameron’s personal effects. There was no reason he would have found and taken back his own letter. But once a suspicion has taken hold, its hold can be rock solid.

• • •

She found the letter folded in half, pushed in deep to the recesses of Cameron’s case. Why did he have it?

She read it with growing disbelief and distress.

A few minutes later she was standing at the edge of the cliff, crying fresh tears, the words in the letter seemingly embedded in her mind. A strong wind pushed and pulled at her.

Dear Joel, I know about you and Helen. She told me everything. We need to discuss this. Get in touch to arrange a time and place. Cameron.

After receiving the letter, Joel must have gone down to the town’s general store, to phone his friend. He must have suggested meeting late in the night, so as to be certain Diana wouldn’t know about it.

That’s why Cameron had actually flown to the region the day before Joel’s death. For a meeting. But why choose a cliff top late at night? So that they could be certain she wouldn’t know of it?

Had Joel intended to push Cameron off, to keep the secret of his affair with Cameron’s business partner?

Why had Joel cheated on her? She’d stood by him through everything…

Every now and then, Joel had spent a couple of days away, visiting his brother back in the city. She’d stayed at the cabin. Now Diana knew what he’d really been doing.

She heard the four wheel drive pull up at the cabin, the slam of the car door and Cameron’s shout, ‘Diana. No!’ as he approached the cliff and saw the letter in her hand…

‘He swung his cane at me but lost his balance,’ Cameron explained. ‘Joel seemed to think I planned to use his secret against him somehow but I would never have done that. I told him he needed to end the thing with Helen.’

Tears welled in his eyes and Diana knew he was genuine.

‘I didn’t want you to know what happened out here, or about his affair,’ he added, ‘I only wanted you to remember his good side.’

So she hadn’t lost Joel at the foot of this gorge, he’d left her long ago. And Cameron cared for her; and he’d cared for Joel.

A storm was blowing in from the south, venting its anger at the intrusion of the devil’s influence in this white Eden.

Diana took a moment to compose herself. She looked out over the gorge and beyond. She threw the letter into the abyss.

She said a quiet goodbye to the man she’d once loved and then, with Cameron, began the long drive down out of the cold mountains, leaving the cabin and her old life behind.

I
t may be some time before I pass this way again. I’m like that. There’s something deep inside me that just won’t set down roots, an urge to run for the hills whenever my surroundings become too familiar, too routine. A restless spirit.

In twenty years of wandering I’ve never felt bad about moving on, never felt the tug of the ol’ heartstrings about saying goodbye.

Until now, that is.

There’s something about this small town that’s got to me, brought forth an emotion like nothing I can recall feeling before. And I don’t mind telling you it scares the hell outta me.

I guess it goes back to the day I first came here, four weeks before. I walked down the main street of Warnerdale, population 1,467 and a wave of déjà vu swept over me. Been here before, I thought.

Now, I don’t have an exceptional memory or anything like that. But for some reason I remember the name of every town I’ve ever been to. Don’t ask me why. Just one ‘o’ those curious human quirks. I’ve got plenty of those.

One thing I was certain of that day. I’d never been to a place called Warnerdale. Or Warner anything else for that matter. Absolutely dead certain. Yet I could’ve sworn I knew the rustic charm of this place, the sweet scent of the jasmine in the morning air and the lazy drift of the dust along the edges of the road.

It was a bad start for me, that kind of familiarity. Perhaps I should’ve turned and left back then.

In the local pub I ordered a schooner of beer and the impression of routine was unmistakable, as was the amiable grin of a barman named Andy who chatted to me about local affairs as if he’d known me for years.

‘I’m looking for a spot of work, mate,’ I remarked to Andy as I raised my second schooner. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve heard of anything going ‘round these parts?’

‘Never much ‘round here,’ shrugged Andy. ‘But it’s worth trying the ol’ Maddison farm. Beverley Maddison lives there with her little ‘un. Helluva business for a young widow to raise a boy and run a farm. She employs casuals from time to time.’

‘The Maddison place, eh? Is that up on the high ground to the north of town?’

‘That’s right. You know it?’

‘Maybe,’ I said. I must be getting psychic in my old age, I thought. It was a curious sensation.

I made my way out to the farm after that. I liked the look of the old style stone and timber homestead and the erratic line of willow trees along the southern aspect of the property.

Beverley Maddison came out to greet me. She looked to be in her late twenties, a slender woman with large brown eyes and a soft mane of auburn hair that shone like spun gold in the sunlight. ‘How can I help you, mister?’ There was a brief flash in her eyes when she spoke and her tone was matter-of-fact. I had no doubt this was a strong-willed and determined young lady.

‘Just passing this way and looking for a bit of work. Man at the hotel suggested I try here.’ No frills, no eloquence. That’s my style.

‘Either you’re psychic or you’ve got a lucky sense of timing,’ she said. ‘I was thinking of hiring a handyman in the next couple of weeks. I can’t pay much but I got several fences need mending and the chicken coops and cow sheds need repairs.’

‘Just lucky I guess. I could sure help you with those things.’

‘There’s some living quarters in the barn beside the house. I’d be able to offer you your food and forty dollars a week.’

‘Slave labour.’

She fixed me with a hard stare.

‘Just joking. That’s all fine with me.’

‘I’m Bev Maddison.’ She held out her hand.

A boy appeared beside her. About eight years old, I figured. A tiny, tawny ball of energy, chewin’ gum. A face full of freckles and eyes like his mother’s, big, brown, determined. ‘Hi, mister. Welcome to our place. We work hard here, real hard.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ I replied.

I settled in too easily. I hadn’t done handyman work for a while but it was the kind of thing that always came naturally to me. The hammer and nails felt good in my hands. The sweat that broke out along my forehead and shoulder blades was kind of comforting, a soft river of virility that hugged the body like a second skin.

I felt a stab of triumph with each metre of fencing that I repaired. And I had this kid beside me a lot of the time, with the curiosity and the mischief of an eight year old, tempered by the occasional flash of full grown maturity. An odd combination. Or maybe it’s not so odd in these parts, I thought. Maybe I’m just not used to country boys who’ve had their fair share of responsibility.

The kid was good. He could drive a nail into timber as well as I could. I saw the same sense of triumph in the glow that brightened his face. And then the cheeky I-did-it, I-did-it smile.

‘Good work, Jamie,’ I complimented him.

‘Good work yourself, Mac.’

No fleas on you, kid.

I hadn’t been here more than a few days when I started looking forward to the boy getting home from school and joining me on the paddocks. His mother didn’t seem to mind. She never said too much but she was easy enough to get along with. Every evening she cooked a meal as good as any I ever tasted and invited me to join her and the boy at the kitchen table.

Somewhere deep inside me a voice was saying it was time to move on. Things were getting far too comfortable. That voice was never wrong.

‘You been travelling around the country long?’ Bev asked me over our meal toward the end of my first week there.

‘Long as I care to remember.’

‘Ever thought of settling down?’

‘I suppose I should be thinking about it at my age, but then I’m probably past settling down, probably past everything. Getting on a bit.’

‘You’ve always been on your own, then?’

‘Yeah. Well, there was a fella used to travel with me. We were pretty close mates for a while. But that was twenty or so years ago.’

‘Did
he
settle down, Mac?’ asked Jamie.

‘No. He died.’ The memories came flooding back all of a sudden. It was a long time since I’d thought about ‘ol Nugget. ‘Stupid accident. We were trying to jump aboard a freight train that was pulling out of an outback station. He fell under the wheels.’

‘Did he die straight away, Mac?’

‘Jamie!’ The mother cut in quickly. ‘That really is quite enough. I’m sure Mac would rather talk about more pleasant things.’

I winked at the boy. ‘Your mother’s right, mate. No use dwelling on the bad things in this life.’

‘You know, in some ways you remind me of my grandfather,’ Bev said.

‘He still around?’

‘No, we lost him a few years back.’

‘Sorry to hear that. As for me I should be turning in early. There’s still a lot of work out there that needs tending to tomorrow.’

When it came to Saturday night I excused myself early from our dinner and headed into the township. I’ve always believed that after a hard week’s work a man needs a few beers and some good male company.

Andy was pleased to see me, but then I’m sure he was always glad to see his customers. ‘How’s the job going?’ He placed a schooner on the bar and I settled down onto the stool in front of it.

‘Plenty to be done around the place. Just what I needed.’

‘She’s a good woman, our Bev,’ Andy commented. It always intrigued me how these bar owners could pull beers, give change, wipe their bar down and keep talking to you as if they didn’t have a care in the world. ‘Her husband was a good bloke too. I couldn’t believe it when he got pinned under that runaway tractor. Tragedy. Absolute tragedy.’

‘Must be hard on the boy. An independent little cuss. But underneath he’s pining for a father figure. Follows me ‘round like a little puppy.’

‘What gets me is how some families have all the bad luck.’ Andy was getting philosophical now but there’s nothing strange about that. They all do it, these bartenders. Have these constant flashes of perception. I kind of like it, actually. ‘She was only a little girl of eight herself when she lost her mother. Fire. She ended up being raised by her aunt. Her grandparents lived interstate and they visited from time to time, helped out a bit with money, but she was real close with her aunt.’

‘Where’s the aunt now?’

‘Retirement home in the city last I heard.’

‘What about her father?’

Andy shrugged. ‘We don’t talk about him ‘round here,’ he said. And then he was called away to answer a complaint about a broken jukebox.

I walked back to the farm that night. It took an hour but I’m used to walking and I like being out on crisp, clear nights. Peace reigns supreme across the country landscape at times like that.

I have always been able to think best while walking. That night the sense of déjà vu came back to haunt me, interrupting my thoughts. I felt sure I knew this road, just as I knew the friendly, familiar chaos of the Warnerdale pub and the main street of the town with its turn of the century post office.