Dark Oasis Read online

  “North of the Ranges.” Frank Petersen, having heard of the location of the old family friend and the possibility of a solution to the problem, had refused to consider objections. “The sun. Wherever you can get it. Or face the consequences.”

  Therefore, fragility and absence of carer notwithstanding, the nightmare journey to Belleville had to be endured. Terrified, disoriented, accustomed to heeding authority – in whatever guise – she’d allowed Barbara to make the arrangements.

  “You sure you’re all right?” The fat woman pressed even closer.

  Again, she nodded. Barbara had warned, “Don’t to talk to strangers. Be careful of strangers.” Easily said for Barbara, who was healthy and strong-willed and capable and forthright and all the things she was not. Curse the weak lungs, curse the family’s legacy of ill health, curse the city smog. Curse her sister’s strength and her own debilitating guilt because of the debt she owed her, and would never ever be strong enough to repay.

  But right this minute, this five a.m. nightmare morning, curse the sun and the desert and the fat woman who’d sprawled over her all night and the loud, crude, brutish farmers and their sloppy wives and mewling kids. Curse the burning air and the stench of sweat and baby vomit and the terror of aloneness.

  Nauseous, she felt faint. Nothing had prepared her for this. Family trips, though rare, had been out of the city and into the luscious green sweet-smelling foothills or to the mountains – snow-capped and cloud-misted and storm-tossed in winter, wattle gold and eucalypt green and shimmering in a burnished heat-haze in summer, dressed in richly heart-stopping reds and golds and bronzes in autumn. Both her father and her mother had adored the mountains and the foothills. As for Barbara – who knew?

  Burning head pressed against the raging heat from the train window, she let the frustrated tears fall.

  “You shouldn’t do that, love.” The fat woman missed nothing. “You’ll only make it worse.”

  Pretending not to hear, she surreptitiously felt for a handkerchief to dry the tears. She didn’t need it. The intense heat on the hot glass had already dried them.

  “I’ll get you a drink.” The woman waddled from her seat.

  The vacant space at her side was already cooler.

  From across the worn leather, a farmer grunted, “You should know better, Miss. You’ll burn your face.”

  Though he was right, she protested. “It’s so hot.”

  “Someone should of told you last night,” he clucked disapproval. “You shouldn’t of taken your shoes off.”

  She looked down at her stockinged feet. Overnight they’d ballooned to twice their normal size.

  “What a shame we didn’t notice.” Opposite, the young mother who’d routinely breast fed her screaming infant into slobbering silence for most of the crowded night, gloomily warned, “Now you’ll never get your shoes on, dear.”

  Blushing, she scrabbled under the seat for the high-heeled shoes she’d discarded last night.

  “See what I mean.” The farmer was confirming what didn’t need confirmation. “City people ain’t got a clue on these long hauls. Not a clue.”

  “We should’ve told you.” The young mother was helpful. “What about slippers? They’re in your case. The swelling won’t go down for hours.”

  “Here we are.” The fat woman was back, the tumbler of water sloshing to the rattling rhythm of the train.

  Squeezing back against the window, she sipped the tepid water.

  The passengers exchanged knowing glances.

  “You’ll be right, love.” The fat woman comforted.

  Together they lifted the case from the luggage rack, located the blue satin slippers, a present from Barbara, and returned the case to the rack.

  “So pretty, love.” Calloused fingers stroked the blue satin. “Somebody loves you.”

  She bent to put them on. The train lurched. Falling forward, she frantically scrambled for support, and woke the sleeping baby. The wailing started up again. The mother stuffed her naked breast into its open mouth.

  She’d known worse moments; too many. Her father’s death, her mother’s, the legacy of bills and mortgage and uncertainty and, finally, the fear of following her parents into early death. She didn’t want to die young. She wanted to be fit and healthy. She wanted to marry, to be healthy and have healthy children. She wanted to be happy.

  Right this minute she wanted to be back home. Because this had to be just about one of the worst times ever. This time, she was really alone. This time there was to be no rescue. There would be no loving mother, no caring sister, no attentive doctor, no familiar warm bed. There was no one and nothing to ease the pain. Tears waited and these simpletons were not going to see them.

  Returning to the burning window, she watched the merciless desert slide past – flat, grey, empty, dead. Lonely.

  The sun climbed, the heat soared and the carriage was a seething oven.

  “Pull the blind down, girlie.” The farmer begged.

  “Better do it, love.” The fat woman agreed. “The baby’s feeling the heat even if you aren’t.”

  About to reach for the blind, her attention was caught by a cloud of birds in flight. Pink cockatoos. Beauty on wings, they wheeled across the dust, circled, climbed, dived and climbed again and dived again and settled on a carcass – the desiccated bones of a dead kangaroo.

  Sick, she jerked the blind down. There was no escape, none. She let the tears fall unchecked.

  “Don’t cry, love.” Hot fat pawed her. “I know. It’s your first trip away from home. I saw you last night. When you left. Your friend.

  What a nice kid. She.”

  “She’s not my friend.”

  “Not your? I get it,” the fat mouth bared yellow teeth. “The way she looked out for you. Carrying your case and all. She’s got to be your sister! I’d never have guessed. What a pretty kid. I’d never have guessed. She’s not a bit like you.”

  “Leave off,” the young mother chided. “That’s not nice!”

  “Oh God!” The fat woman yelped. “Me and my big mouth. I’m sorry, girl. How awful! I didn’t mean it like that!”

  “It’s all right.” It wasn’t all right. Even though she’d learned to live with it, she hated being the ugly sister.

  Not that being the pretty one had done Barbara any good. She’d given up everything, career advancement, boy friends, social life – everything – for family. No wonder she was planning to escape, to travel overseas. She’d earned a life of her own.

  “You’re pretty, too.” The woman tried to make amends. “In a different way.” The nasal voice droned on, dreary accompaniment to the metallic thunder of the train.

  No one had ever told her she was pretty, not even her father. The mirror didn’t lie. The mirror reflected brown eyes, gold flecked, too intense, too sharp, too penetrating; eyes which too often discomforted others. The mirror also reflected pale lips too full-blown in an ashen face, thick straight brown hair, a strong jaw line, a high broad forehead and a body that looked thinner than it was because of its above average height.

  The mirror was unable to perceive the potential for beauty, a beauty that waited. It waited in the high cheekbones and the rare symmetry of the oval face, in the tawny magnificence of the watchful eyes, and in the repressed passion of the full lips. As though awaiting the imprint of youth’s reaction to life’s influence, this face seemed to be asking – what kind of beauty will I be? The bare bones of beauty were there. How would they be fleshed out? Would they soften? Or harden?

  Whatever the product of life’s imprint on that perfectly formed face, one thing was certain – Gail Mitchell would never be merely pretty.

  But, on the searing morning train, the unsophisticated tongue of the country woman at her side could only manage, “You’re pretty in a different way, love. You been sick? I can tell. You need some of our sun. You get out and around up here, you’ll be a new woman. You’ll …”

  “It’s after six.” A farmer interrupted. “Do you
mind putting the blind up again?”

  The raising of the blind re-fuelled the furnace. And still, in all directions, there was only desert to look at. She turned from it.

  “Wait a while, love. There’s better things to look at soon.” Her neighbour promised. “You’ll be surprised.”

  The passengers stirred. The carriage came to life. Each – farmer, housewife, child, fat lady, nursing mother – sat on the edge of their cramped scrap of leather. Every eye was on the searing window.

  What were they expecting?

  Nothing. Nothing but endless flat land blanketed in miles and miles and more miles of depressing dead-grey scrub. Again she turned away, and closed her eyes. Why had she let them persuade her? Barbara should not have.

  Disturbed by a collective sigh, she returned to the window. The desert had disappeared! The dispiriting scrub had gone. Totally. Passing by the window was only vivid green. Clear to the horizon was only green. Turning her head, she looked back along a cloud of steam that sat thickly on the gentle curve of the retreating train track. There, was desert. Here, running alongside the hot window, was green.

  The line of demarcation was as sharp and as uncompromising as a single pen stroke on a map. Comprehending that they were at the rim of the oasis that encircled Belleville, she turned to look ahead. As far as she could see was green. At last. They were entering the centre of the desert.

  Millions of rich green vines in hundreds of vineyards were interrupted only by islands of tall shade trees dwarfing secret homes. Mysterious and intriguing, the almost unseen houses and the unseen people in them challenged the imagination. Who lived in those houses? What kind of people were they? How did they live? Where had they come from? Why?

  Within the carriage even the locals were mesmerised. Even the fat woman was finally silent.

  “You can just about see mine from here.” Eventually breaking the spell, the friendly farmer collected his bag from the over-head rack. “I get out at Barclay.”

  She started up.

  “Not yet, love.” He cautioned. “Another twenty minutes to Belleville. If you’re ever out our way, look us up. We’re in the phone book. Jessup’s. Tom Jessup. The wife loves visitors. She cooks up a mean cream sponge.”

  The train stopped. A sun-leathered woman embraced Tom Jessup, a small family welcomed an elderly woman, a lone man carrying a heavy case limped to the distant exit, a yapping terrier raced unchecked along the narrow platform. Sun-scorched white sand glittered, hard-muscled men collected milk cans, uniformed postmen unloaded bulging mailbags and the frenetic station manager shouted directions above the combined clatter of metal and the rhythmic clacking of the impatient engine.

  The whistle shrieked its familiar warning, the shouts peaked to their familiar hysteria and doors slammed shut with the sharp finality peculiar to train doors. Childhood memories of stations and trains and trips to the mountains, and the utterly irrational terror that the doors might slam before her parents could board the train with her, escalated panic. She would never manage so far from home – alone and sick and knowing no one.

  The train, shuddering as each carriage along its long length responded to the engine, quickly picked up speed.

  “Next stop Belleville.” The nursing mother tucked her breast into her dress.

  The fat woman located Gail’s shoes. “Have another go at these, love.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  1948 FEBRUARY

  The whistle screamed its inbound warning. Bells rang, red lights glared, and impatient traffic queued at level crossings. Lumbering doggedly through the last half mile, the carriages finally shuddered to a lurching halt. Gail Mitchell had arrived in Belleville.

  Passengers waiting at doorways, momentarily caught off balance, fought for equilibrium. In the cramped cabin, baggage was heaved from over-laden overhead racks, the demanding baby howled, the youngsters yawned, the fat woman hefted her case in her strong arms; and still Gail refused to surrender to shoes that had shrunk two sizes overnight.

  A thoughtful passenger advised. “Give it up, Girlie. It’s a lost cause.”

  The carriage emptied.

  Left alone in the searing oven, listening to the engine clacking and willing it not to move on, she stubbornly persisted with the high heels. It wasn’t a lost cause. Twisting and turning and pushing, she fought until the bulk of her swollen feet went into the shoes while the remainder oozed painfully over the edges. Exhausted, she tried to lift the heavy case. It wouldn’t budge.

  Frustrated and angry, she saw her overnight companions rapidly disappear down the sun-drenched platform outside the passageway window. Through the opposite window was sun-dried grass, a fringe of spindly willows, and the Murray River, broad, brown, sluggish and without visible life. There was no sign of a single car, or even a bicycle, on the latticed metal bridge that crossed the river down stream.

  There was also not a sign of the treacherous under-tow that lay in wait for the unsuspecting novice. Yet, intuitively, she recoiled. Exhausted and desperate and bitterly alone, she had sensed what some know, and what most never suspect. Belleville is not simply a desert haven, the river not simply a stretch of sluggish water. Both city and river conceal a treacherous under-tow that casts a hypnotic net.

  Though she shrugged off the eerie moment, a remnant remained; sight of the beautiful desert birds tearing at the animal carcass was already imprinted. This was a confusing place. She did not belong here.

  Even if she could lift the case, she could not step out onto that baked platform. She’d sit here until the train turned around for its trip back to Melbourne, however much it stank and however long it took.

  “Time to go, love.” The benevolent fat woman had come back for her. “You want a hand with your things?”

  “I can’t …”

  “Of course you can’t.” Misunderstanding, the woman hefted her upright. “You’re plain tuckered out.”

  “I can’t stay here. Really I can’t.”

  “That’s tiredness talking, love. Nothin’ a good sleep won’t fix. Mark my words. A good sleep and you’ll be a new woman. Let’s go.” Hoisting the heavy case, the woman pushed her onto the scalding platform.

  A wall of fire robbed her of breath.

  “Someone meeting you?” The case was dumped at her feet.

  “Yes, thank you.” An easy lie.

  “Right, then. I’ll be off. Have a good sleep. You’ll feel like a new woman.” Without even a backward glance, the Good Samaritan waddled the length of the platform to a sheltered section that had to lead to the exit. And the ticket box.

  “Thank you!”

  There was no response. The only sound was the shallow labouring of her starving lungs. Summoning strength, she began to drag the heavy case towards the sheltered section. Alerted by the sound of approaching feet, she squinted into the dazzling light ahead.

  “Are you all right, Miss?” A Station attendant, sweating in a heavy uniform, was hurrying from the shelter.

  “I can’t …”

  “Hang on, Miss!” He took the case. “Follow me.”

  Limping after him, she crossed through the covered area to the Station entrance. The wall of hot air struck with renewed force. Faint, she turned back inside.

  “You should be on your way, Miss.” The attendant was sympathetic. “Where are you staying?”

  “The Sunview. But …”

  “You’ll want a taxi.” Setting down the case, he scanned the narrow driveway. “I reckon you’ll have to wait. Sometimes they come back. There’s a hell of a rush when the train pulls in.”

  “The ticket office. Is it still open?”

  He tugged his pocket watch from his waistcoat. “You might just make it.”

  A shadowed face behind the office’s wire grill window was about to close the shutter. “You just made it, Miss. How can I help?”

  “My return ticket.” She fished the return ticket from her purse and shoved it under the grill.

  “No problem.” The clerk inspected
it. “You’re booked back on the night train … four weeks from today. 8 pm. Okay?”

  “I have to change it.”

  “Sure thing,” he nodded. “That far ahead, it should be okay. When do you want to travel?”

  “Tonight. Change it to tonight.”

  “Tonight!”

  “That’s right. Tonight.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss. It’s …”

  “I have to get back to my family. I have to! It’s urgent!”

  The noncommittal face was waiting for an explanation.

  “I have to get back. I have to. I’ve just found out. My sister. I have to get back to my sister! She needs me! It’s an emergency!”

  Clicking a sympathetic tongue, he left the window to consult timetables.

  Behind him, the hands on the bald-faced Station clock seemed to stand still. The telephone rang. “Excuse me.” He disappeared into a hidden interior.

  In the small reception area, the heat intensified.

  “Sorry, Miss Mitchell.” The clerk returned. “I’m afraid it’s not too promising.”

  “But I have to get back!”

  “The problem is you did book for four weeks.”

  “I know it’s a busy time, but please. There’s got to be one seat! One seat! Please!”

  “Look, Miss.” He leaned closer. “I really am sorry. Even if it is an emergency. You did say it was an emergency?”

  “I told you … why?”

  “There’s a regular plane. You could try them.”

  “It’s not that sort of emergency.” There was no money for a plane.

  “In that case …”

  “I can’t fly. It’s a medical condition.” Not quite a lie, but close.

  “I really am sorry, Miss Mitchell. There’s nothing I can do. It’s the holidays. Everyone’s on the move.”

  “I’ll take anything!”

  “I’m sorry,” he pointedly looked to the clock. “I’m supposed to have locked up ten minutes ago. Tell you what. Why don’t you try again? Try again tonight. Maybe there’ll be a cancellation.”