Written in the Stars (14 page)

Chapter Seventeen

Vince snapped on the radio as he drove away from the airport. The newsreader was just about to launch into the sports results when he paused to announce a news flash.

‘A vehicle being pursued by police has been involved in a fatal accident. Both occupants were killed when the car crashed into a shaft on a building site. Police have not released the names of the occupants, but they are believed to be either Maoris or Cook Islanders. We’ll give you more details as they come to hand.’

The newsreader’s words went around and around in Vince’s mind as he drove home. Police pursuit, a crashed car, both Maori, both dead. He tried to shrug it off, but something deep inside made him cringe.

Norah looked up as he walked in the door and gasped when she saw the expression on his face. ‘Oh my God, you look awful. What’s happened?’

‘I don’t know… it’s just that I have this terrible feeling that something’s happened to Kirsty.’ Vince’s voice was tinged with emotion. ‘I hope I’m wrong, but it feel like some sort of intuition.’ At Norah’s insistence he repeated the newscaster’s words and shook his head sadly. ‘I’m afraid…’ He stopped as Norah reached his side and grasped his hand. ‘We’ll know soon enough, I suppose.’

It was two hours before a police inspector knocked on the front door. He introduced himself and the young policewoman who accompanied him, and asked if they could come inside. He had some difficulty making eye contact, and his colleague seemed equally distressed.

Norah clung to Vince as the policeman spoke of the accident that had killed their foster daughter. When he finished speaking, she began to weep softly. Vince continued to stare stony-faced at the officer as he tried to come to grips with the hurt that tore at his insides. He would have given anything to blot out the words the man had spoken.

After he had agreed to identify the body, Vince saw the two officers to the door, and walked slowly back into the lounge. He found Norah closeted in the corner of the room, weeping silently to herself. Vince sat down beside her, placed an arm around her and drew her close. There was nothing to say, and even if there were, it was better left unsaid at this time. He bit back his desire to blame Joey, but it was a natural reaction to blame someone, anyone, whether it was warranted or not. However, he knew the man was at fault.

It was a long time before he could calm the anger he felt. He continued to sit with an arm around his wife until his eyes slowly filled with tears. He had just reached for a handkerchief when the phone rang.

‘Leave it,’ he said, in a choked voice as Norah moved to pick it up. Then he remembered Steve had promised to ring. ‘It’s all right, I’ll get it.’

*

Steve hung up the phone and shook his head in disbelief. Kirsty dead? He had difficulty believing it. His father had repeated the police officer’s horrific description of the circumstances surrounding her death, and that seemed to make it worse. When Vince’s words had finally sunk in, he made his way to the bar and ordered a drink. He sat there staring into the glass as he tried to make sense of it all.

He was deep in thought when a person sitting next to him nudged his elbow and called his attention to the tannoy. It was making a last call to board the flight to Townsville. Steve placed his glass back on the bar and headed for the boarding gate. As he made his way onto the plane, he wondered how his parents were coping with the tragedy. When he had suggested returning to Auckland, Vince had been adamant that he should continue on his journey.

‘We’ll be okay,’ he had said. ‘There’s nothing you can do. I’ll look after things this end.’

And now, as the plane prepared to land at the northern capital he wondered what preparations were being made for the funeral. The police officer had told Vince that they would probably carry out an autopsy on the bodies. So it was no good going back until that was settled. Maybe it would be better for him to remain out of the way in case his presence added to everyone’s grief.

The hire car company had reserved a Toyota for him. When he explained he wanted to visit some of the resort areas before he returned to New Zealand they agreed to his request to return the vehicle to Brisbane airport. It was a relatively short drive to the hotel, and the receptionist gave him a quizzical look when he complained about the heat. Then she reminded him that he was in north Queensland, that it was summer, and Townsville was always a hot place.

‘Your room is air-conditioned,’ she said, handing him the key, ‘if that’s any consolation.’

After he had finished breakfast the next morning, Steve rang the sugar mill to check with the second engineer. The man assured him that the pumping equipment had arrived safely and that he would be available for the rest of the day.

Kirsty’s death hung over him like a cloud as he drove north out of the city. He recalled their life together over the years and in particular their recent visit to Rotorua. They had shared some good times together, and until recently they had both expected those good times to continue. Despite her battle to come to terms with herself, Kirsty had maintained an excellent relationship with them all. Her enthusiasm for life had always seemed to sustain her, even as she began to question her origins and her role in the European culture of her foster parents.

It was only when she had become more involved with her Maori friends that things had changed. But she was still acutely aware of her role in the family, and Steve believed that even though she rebelled against her lifestyle, she still loved them all dearly. And now she was gone forever. He choked back a sob as a vision of her pretty face came to mind. It was such a tragedy.

Steve pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind as he drove into the sugar mill and parked outside the engineer’s office. Tony Randall was a typical northerner, and bore the marks of his years in the Queensland sun without adequate skin protection.

‘G’day, mate,’ he said, stretching out his hand. ‘Did ya have a good trip? Where ya staying?’ When Steve replied that he had booked into a hotel in town, Tony suggested he book out again. ‘Come and stay with me and the missus,’ he said. ‘There’s plenty of room.’

‘That’s a kind gesture, Tony, but I’ve already been billed for today so I’ll leave it until tomorrow. It won’t cause your wife any inconvenience will it?’

‘Nah, it’ll do her good to have someone to look after,’ he joked. ‘Smarten her up a bit.’ Then he became more serious. ‘So you reckon this pump of yours will do the trick, eh? Without waiting for a reply, he continued. ‘Is this your first visit to a sugar mill?’ When Steven nodded, Tony jammed a hat on his head. ‘Come on, I’ll take you on a guided tour of the place.’

The engineer pointed out the rows of cane trucks lined up on the narrow gauge railway line, and explained that they were being checked over and repaired in readiness for the crushing season. Then he led the way to the locomotive shed to show him the small trams that provided the power to pull the long line of wagons bearing the harvested cane from the farms to the mill.

‘Do those trams collect all the sugar cane?’ Steve asked.

‘No. The tramline only services the older farms. Those on the outskirts have to bring the cane in by road.’ He led the way to a machine that emptied the cane trucks. ‘This where it all starts. The cane drops onto a conveyer belt that carries it up to a staging station, where its directed towards two banks of crushers.’ He pointed out the huge rollers that pulverised the cane. ‘Okay, that’s where things get serious,’ he said. ‘It goes through four of those, so by the time it’s finished there’s absolutely no sugar left in the cane.’

‘What happens to the residue?’

‘The bagasse? It’s conveyed up to that tall building. It’s dried there and then fed back down to fire the boilers.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Nothing’s wasted.’ Then they followed the pipes that led to the centrifugal pumps that separated the remaining fluid to produce a dark brown, viscous, malt like substance. Tony pointed to some storage tanks. ‘From there it’s taken to the refinery, but I’ll show you that another time.’ Then he looked at his watch. ‘Come on, it’s time for lunch.’

Steve followed the man to a modest three-bedroom cottage on the far side of the property.

‘This Stella, my wife,’ Tony said, proudly.

Stella was as small and lean as Tony was large and stocky. Her wispy brown hair had been pulled back into a chignon that highlighted the pair of large colourful earrings that seemed to sprout from the bottom of her earlobes. They seemed make her pinched face seem even smaller. Tony gave her a playful pat on the backside as she was about to sit down.

‘Now just you behave yourself,’ she said, brushing his hand away, ‘or you’ll give our guest the wrong impression.’

Steve could see that she was secretly pleased with the attention, and their bantering talk throughout the meal added to his feeling that they were well matched and enjoyed each other’s company.

‘How long will the job take, Steve?’ Stella asked.

‘It depends,’ he replied. ‘If there are no problems it should be only a few days, a week at the most.’

‘We’ll get onto it first thing in the morning,’ Tony said, as they stood up. ‘Nick should have been here today, but he didn’t show.’ He gave a hearty laugh. ‘His daughter rang up to say he’d eaten something that hadn’t agreed with him, but truth be known he’s been on the piss all weekend and can’t keep his head up.’

Steve made an appropriate noise as he recalled his own lost weekends.

‘He’s a Kiwi, too.’ The man laughed again. ‘Your mob might be able to beat us at rugby, but you don’t know how to drink.’

They spent the early part of the afternoon checking the equipment, and then Steve insisted that they drive into the nearby town to have a couple of beers. After dinner that evening, Tony took him for a run into the countryside to a place where they hunted wild pigs. They both carried rifles, just in case, but there were no animals to be seen. He left the engineer just after nine o’clock and drove back to town. He had just enough time for one beer in the garden lounge before the barman called time.

When he turned up at the sugar mill the next morning, Steve was surprised to learn that the man who was to install the pumping equipment had worked for his father. Nick Bolte had moved to Australia to be near his only daughter when his wife died unexpectedly, and it was like greeting an old friend.

‘Hello, Nick,’ Steve said, shaking the man’s hand vigorously. ‘If I’d known you were to oversee the installation I could have saved myself the trip.’ He turned to the second engineer. ‘Nick is the best man you could have picked for the job; he can probably still teach me a few tricks.’

By the middle of the afternoon, Steve realised that there was no reason for him to stay any longer. He briefed Nick on some of the finer points of the new design and then let him get on with the job. That evening he rang Vince and gave him the news. ‘There’s not much use my hanging around here so I’ll pack it in and come home.’

‘You don’t have to rush back unless you want to,’ Vince said, a trifle quickly. ‘Stay there for a while and take a look around the place. If you come home now it’ll only upset Norah again. There’s enough tears around this place as it is, she’ll start crying all over if you turn up on the doorstep unexpectedly.’

Steve drove out to the mill first thing after breakfast next day just to assure himself that everything was all right. When he said goodbye to Tony and his wife, they seemed genuinely disappointed that he was going.

‘Now don’t leave the area until you’ve seen Cairns; it’s the new gateway to Australia,’ he boasted. ‘And take a trip in the hinterland while you’re there. The rain forest is unbelievable’

Stella brought out some photos they had taken on their recent holiday to the area. She enthused about its natural beauty, and enthused about the little train that carried sightseers up the mountain range. When she drew breath, Tony said he should warn Steve about the snakes.

‘It’s a bad time for snakes, I’m afraid,’ he said, in a serious tone. ‘There are thousands out there in the undergrowth. You’ll have to watch yourself every time you step out of the car.’ He tried hard to suppress a grin. ‘Some of them are lightening quick and for some reason or other they’ll give the locals a miss and sink their fangs into a passing Kiwi. Must taste better, or something.’

‘Stop teasing the man,’ Stella said, thumping her husband on the back. ‘Tony yells snake at every New Zealander he meets just to see them jump.’ She thumped him again. ‘Silly old thing, always trying to take the mickey.’

Steve was still chuckling when he turned out of the sugar mill and headed north towards Cairns. By the time he was half way to Mackay he began to wonder if he was doing the right thing, or whether he should go home.

He had the distinct feeling that he should have been heading in the other direction, but he had no idea why he felt this way. He was tempted to turn around, but then he shrugged off the idea.

‘It’s silly not to see a bit of the country while I’m here,’ he murmured. Like Vince had said—there might no other chance.

Chapter Eighteen

Mark took Suzi out to dinner the evening before she and Charlize were due to fly out to Australia, but it did not turn out the way he had planned. The candlelit interior looked inviting and the soft lilting melodies issuing from the baby grand piano seemed to add a romantic touch to the atmosphere. He looked apologetically at Suzi.

‘I’m sorry the service here is so slow.’ He glanced at the other diners’ tables. ‘And this food is no way as good as The Stow Restaurant’s. Chose the wrong place, didn’t I? Or maybe the chef is new.’

Suzi picked disconsolately at her Dover sole, but rather than spoil the evening by adding to Mark’s complaints, she just agreed it could have been better. Mark looked even further irritated when he had to send the wine back because the waiter had brought the wrong bottle, and to cap it all, by the end of the meal they had become completely disenchanted with the pianist. The silver-haired man tonked out ancient melodies, and finished every piece with a trilling crescendo, which was not only irritating, but impossible to ignore.

She had not intended to ask Mark in for coffee when they returned to her house, but he looked so miserable that she relented at the last moment. They tried not to talk about the disappointing evening, but when she produced a freshly brewed pot of Moroccan coffee, Mark made another snide remark about the restaurant they had just left. A coffee laced with a shot of brandy liqueur had the desire effect of putting him in a more mellow frame of mind, and he was soon his usual self. When he hinted that it was a pity to break the mood and go home, Suzi pulled a little face.

‘It’s not a good time, Mark,’ she said, softly, ‘if you know what I mean. Besides, I have to be up early in the morning, don’t forget.’ When she saw the look of disappointment on his face, Suzi kissed his cheek. ‘There’ll be plenty of opportunities when I get back.’

‘So you’re not saying there’s no hope for me?

‘I don’t really know what you mean.’

‘I was hoping that we might think about becoming engaged soon.’ Mark grasped her hand and gazed earnestly into her eyes. ‘You know I love you Suzi, and I really believe you could love me the same way… in time. I think we could make just as much a success of our marriage as we have of our business partnership. We could be good for each other.’

Suzi hesitated for a minute.

‘We’ll talk about it when I come back, okay?’ Then she stood up, and yawned, looking pointedly at the clock. ‘You don’t want another cup of coffee before you go, do you?’

‘No, I’ll pass on the coffee.’ He drew her to him and kissed her gently. ‘Have a good night’s sleep, and have a wonderful time down under.’ Then he sighed. ‘I’ll miss you.’

As he drove away, Suzi wondered why she had allowed him to get under her guard. She had unwittingly responded to his gentle caress, and he evidently assumed that she was ready to be more intimate. Fortunately, her excuse was genuine, but he seemed convinced that things would be different when she returned. She could see that she should nip that notion in the bud straight away otherwise things might become rather awkward.

She stretched again, but didn’t feel tired enough for sleep yet. I’m probably too excited, she thought. Charlize would be picking her up at about eight o’clock, and that would allow plenty of time to get to Heathrow Airport, barring any hold-ups on the motorway. After she had cleared away the coffee cups she tidied up the room, and then made her way to bed. Within minutes of putting her head on the pillow, she was fast asleep.

*

Mark had not really believed that Suzi would accompany her friend to Australia, and it came as a bit of a shock when he realised that she was determined to go. He reasoned that she would not want to leave the day to day running of the restaurant in someone else’s hands, even though it was the quietest time of the year. Narelle seemed competent enough, but Suzi
was
The Stow Restaurant and people identified the establishment with her.

However, he could not deny her the opportunity to visit the antipodes on an all-expenses paid holiday. Charlize had called into the restaurant the previous afternoon to see Suzi, and it amused him to watch as they giggled and teased each other like a pair of schoolgirls.

And now, as he prepared for the lunchtime trade, he found himself continually glancing at the clock, and mentally counting off the hours until their plane departed from Heathrow. He had to admit that he was already feeling rather sorry for himself.

‘Morning, Mark,’ Narelle’s cheery greeting cut into his thoughts as she walked into the kitchen. She glanced at the wall clock. ‘They’ll be taking off in an hour. Lucky things.’

Lunchtime trade was brisk, but not over-busy, and Narelle handled everything competently, much to Mark’s surprise and delight. As soon as the last guest had departed, he took a coffee to the table by the window and looked at his notes. There seemed to be a strong chance that Silver Chalice could win the second last race of the day. Mark had studied Gary’s notes again and again, until he was sure he had mastered the complex balance of weights, times and distances that affected the right choice, and now he was confident that he could make it work.

The only major setback had been with the betting shop. When he had rung up to place a bet, he had been asked for an account number. He explained that Gary Hyland had placed bets on his behalf and they had been honoured, to which the man had replied.

‘Ah, yes. We know Mr Hyland, but we don’t know you.’

When he called into the premises two days later and asked about establishing an account, he was given a form to fill out. Mark was half way through the questionnaire when he began to wonder if it was a good idea to have everything monitored. He did not want the bank to know anything about his activities.

‘I’ll stick to betting in cash,’ he murmured, screwing up the form. ‘It’ll be less convenient, but safer in the long run.’

The first horse he picked without Gary’s assistance won. It was a case of touch and go, but nevertheless it scrambled home by a short half head. He was overjoyed with the result, and when he pocketed the money he thought about Gary’s remark—that it was easier than working for a living. However, he was also conscious of the man’s advice not to be greedy, but to wait until the right time to back a particular horse.

As he reviewed his figures, Mark was convinced he had picked another winner. He calculated what he could expect to win if he obtained the odds quoted by the morning paper, and decided that it was a substantial amount. If he reinvested all that he had won on the last horse, he would stand to win more than a thousand pounds.

‘Go for it,’ he muttered, putting all his papers back into a folder. He set the alarm, locked up the premises, and drove to the betting shop. Ten minutes later walked into the nearest pub to watch the race on television.

Once again, his horse managed to hold off the opposition and win by a narrow margin. With a sigh of relief, Mark waited until it was officially declared winner, and then returned to the betting shop. When he presented the winning ticket the clerk reached for a blank check and asked for his name.

‘I’ve just bet in cash,’ Mark said, with a touch of aggression in his voice. ‘And I want to be paid in cash.’

The clerk protested that it was company policy to pay by cheque if the amount exceeded a thousand pounds, and when Mark pointed out that it was barely over the limit, the man stated that rules were rules. After a few minutes of heated discussion, Mark asked to see the manager.

‘I don’t want a cheque,’ he stated, emphatically. He gestured to the signs on the walls. ‘There’s nothing about that rule on any of these notices.’

Reluctantly, the manager okayed the payment by cash, but then he intimated that Mark should take his custom elsewhere. ‘We run a law abiding shop,’ he said, sarcastically. ‘We don’t need people who cause trouble.’ When Mark asked him to clarify his statement, the manager turned his back and walked away.

He stuffed the money into his pocket and walked out of the building, vowing never to return. The man’s remarks niggled away at him all afternoon, and overshadowed the excitement of his first major win. However, by the time he closed the restaurant that evening, he had been able to push the incident from his mind, and by now he felt quite pleased with the result of his venture.

In his excitement to repeat the success, Mark eagerly applied his technique to the next meeting, but this time the system didn’t show up a winner. He threw the pen down with a snort of disgust and then reminded himself that Gary often went a whole week before finding something worthy of a bet. Determined to build on his capital, Mark pored over his figures again and again, trying to convince himself that he had not made a mistake. Then three days later, he found another possibility, and he placed his bet in a different establishment.

‘You beauty,’ he cried, excitedly, as the horse careered away from the rest of the field and won, easing down at the post. He nudged the man next to him in the betting shop as he waited for the numbers to come up.

‘How about that, eh? I just wish I’d put a bit more on it.’

A postcard from Suzi, which extolled the virtues of the Sunshine State, arrived the next morning. The semi tropical scene depicted a smiling man sitting under a large, colourful umbrella with a fishing rod in one hand, and a beer in the other. It bore the legend:

‘
A
h
Queensland
,
beautiful one day
;
perfect the next
.
’
He turned it over and read what was on the reverse side.

Dear Mark
,

Well we’re here
.
The trip was long and tiring
,
but uneventful
.
We’re both suffering from jet lag
,
but that’ll soon wear off
.
We’re off to the Gold Coast tomorrow to do some sightseeing
.
Hope you are coping all right
.
Say hello to everyone there
.
I’ll write again soon
.

Love Suzi 

He laid the card aside and thought about their relationship. As business partners he could not wish for more. Suzi was very efficient and knew instinctively how to handle the customers. The riotous ones were firmly reminded that their behaviour was unacceptable, the complainers were placated, and the disappointed diners were promised the table of their choice next time they rang for a booking. And of course, the old dears thought she was a darling.

When she had told him that she might inherit Caxton Manor he did not really appreciate what it meant to her. After he had taken a look at the place he began to understand why she was so keen to turn it into a venue for receptions. Her original idea had been to retain The Stow Restaurant as a diner and use the old house for parties and conventions, but he soon convinced her that it would not be too difficult to utilize and expand the existing kitchen.

By the time they had begun to discuss the matter seriously, Steve Pardoe had arrived on the scene to claim half of the property. Mark had even wondered if he should write to the man himself, and offer to buy his share. But of course he had the same problem as Suzi—not enough money. And he had no collateral to borrow on.

That evening he had a long talk with his father about the situation. Ben was sympathetic, but reminded Mark that the manor had been valued at a high figure, excluding the contents. He said that even if he took out a mortgage on his modest house, it would only be about half of the sum required.

‘Really, the only way is to get this New Zealand fellow to agree to part payment and the balance over a period of time,’ Ben said. ‘But be mindful of the high cost to make the necessary alterations to satisfy the health regulations. They’re tough.’

‘Yes, I know that, but the restaurant is generating a good income now, so we…’

He didn’t have time to finish, before his father interrupted him.

‘You’ve got to service your existing loan first and foremost. It’s no good borrowing from Peter to pay Paul. If you’re not careful you’ll lose everything.’ He paused to emphasis his words. ‘And Suzi will, too.’

His father’s admonition rang in his ears for the remainder of the night. The more he thought about the situation, the more concerned he became, because he needed to succeed, and he wanted Suzi to be a part of that success. Although she had argued against rushing into things, Mark knew she had set her heart on living in that lovely old house and turning it into a show place where she could cater for the up market clientele that were looking for something special. If he could help turn her dream into a reality, he reasoned that then she would be a lot more amenable to marriage.

‘If only I could emulate Gary’s success,’ Mark murmured. His old workmate lived very comfortably, staying at top hotels, flying first class and driving a late model Porsche. He groaned aloud as he reminded himself that Gary had nothing to lose if his system failed. The man was a first class chef and he could probably choose a job anywhere in the world. He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘But his system hasn’t failed, so it has to be good.’

He pulled a large envelope full of banknotes out of his wardrobe and counted them out onto the bed. One thousand, seven hundred and fifty three pounds, and nearly two thirds of that had come from just one bet. If I could up the ante, he mused, start betting in hundreds or even thousands instead of fifties, I could accumulate the money a lot quicker.