42

I fired up the car; drove along that avenue of spectacular autumn trees. Then past Muddy Soak Animal Supplies, the Regional Livestock Exchange—a collection of corrugated iron sheds and races, and Walker & Son, Grain Agent; three huge grain mounds under blue tarps. I put my foot down as we passed the derestricted sign.

That photo of Natalie’s—there were two men in it. I screwed up my eyes a moment, trying to remember it. Their faces hadn’t been clear. Could it have been Fitzgerald and Rory Quayle? Had Natalie spoken to them at that party?

We passed a mirage lake shimmering over a burnt black paddock. A road train thundered by.

I followed the signs for Rhapsody Downs, turning off onto a gravel road. Dry scruffy forest on our left, paddocks of bleached grass on the right. A strange rasping noise. From the engine? No, it was just Ernie snoring.

I headed past a crumbling old weatherboard church: squashed-looking, leaning to one side. It looked like it might blow away in the next storm, although the dunny was still standing straight, a lonely sentinel, at the far end of the yard. Two eastern rosellas rose from the road.

I hit a section of corrugations in the gravel and the reverberations set my teeth rattling.

‘Bastard stole my watch!’ Ernie shouted, jolting awake.

An ornate, gold-edged sign came into view. Rhapsody Downs. A vineyard: a rectangle of yellow-green in a sea of faded grass. Behind the vineyard, rounded hills studded with eucalypts.

‘Ernie, have you ever asked any of the Bamfields about your watch?’ Surely he’d have asked them once in the last eighty years?

‘No.’ A watery-eyed glare.

‘Why not?’

‘No point. Bunch of bloody crooks sold it.’

‘Well, we might not get time to look for it today, so… hey, I know, let’s put an ad in the paper. Did it have any distinguishing features?’

‘Yep. Black strap. White face. Roman numerals. And we’re gunna find it today. It’s my birthday present.’ He folded his arms.

I turned left onto the track leading to the station. A long avenue, lined with copper beech—an orange-yellow procession of stately trees.

The curving lines of the Bamfield house came into view. The huge white house looked like an ocean liner, marooned on a sea of pale yellow grass. A gust of wind blew across the grass, forming ripples like foamy waves across the hill.

Beyond the paddocks was a row of old-man gnarled cypress trees, a white truck parked beside them. A heavy blanket of brown-grey smoke rising into the air, a scatter of flames. Looked like someone was burning off. There was a nasty smell in the air.

‘Ernie, where’s their gravel pit? There’s no sign of any gravel business here.’

‘Fella doesn’t live near the pit, for God’s sake. Who’d do that?’

I supposed he had a point. I remembered an article I saw in the paper, back when that coal mine in Gippsland was on fire for months, saying none of the managers of the mine lived anywhere near it. They might have been slightly more motivated to prevent the fire if they had.

We arrived at a big white gate across the tree-lined avenue. Behind the gate was the house, its white curves reflected in a reed-edged pond below. A pond that had been carefully positioned, presumably, to catch those reflections and thus impress arriving guests.

I parked under an old cypress to one side of the house.

‘We’re just here to ask Bamfield a few Fitzgerald-Showbag-Natalie-related questions. Nothing about your watch—is that understood?’

His yellowed moustache quivered.

I groaned. ‘OK, but only if we get time. And you’re under strict instructions to hit the bloke if he starts up on any comfort-specialist crap.’

The door knocker was a fancy enamelled parrot.

After a short delay, a pale-faced woman in a black velour tracksuit opened the door. Long blonde hair. Red-rimmed eyes. A walkie-talkie clipped to her waistband. She held a book in her hand: This House of Grief.

‘Yes?’

‘Could I talk to Peter Bamfield, please?’

‘I’m sorry, he’s not available.’

‘Oh. When will he be?’

‘He’s…in a meeting. I’m not sure how long he’ll be. Can I take a message?’

Ernie cleared his throat. Nudged me with his foot.

I looked over at him. He gave me a tiny, but significant nod.

‘Last flaming wish,’ he hissed.

‘Err, yes. Look, this probably sounds like a rather strange request, but my great uncle, Ernest,’ I waved at Ernie, ‘well, I promised him. You see, poor Uncle Ernest isn’t well.’

‘Dying,’ he said.

I took out my hanky and dabbed at my eyes. Cleared my throat.

‘I said we would at least try…’ I paused.

‘Oh?’ Her voice was whispery.

‘Really, I was in two minds about coming. But Uncle Ernest raised me—my parents died when I was a little kid—I won’t go into all the details—I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than be subjected to somebody’s sob story.’ I gave her a brave little lopsided smile. ‘Anyway, he remembers coming to a party here, years ago, don’t you, Uncle?’ I glanced at Ernie, who was nodding.

‘Eighty years ago, would you believe. It was in an underground room, I think? Or a cave. Oh, you loved it, didn’t you, Uncle Ernest! And lately, he talks of nothing else. Finally, he said to me this morning, Cassie, I’d love to see that room again. Just once, before I die. Will you take me there?’

‘Yep. Just one last time,’ said Ernie in his best sad-old-dying-bloke tone. He wrung his work-worn hands.

‘Oh.’ Her hand fluttered to her throat. ‘Well, of course, he must see it. Although,’ she peered at him, ‘can your uncle walk?’

‘I’ll manage,’ he said.

She stood back from the door to let us inside. We stepped into the black and white checked hallway.

‘My name’s Anne.’ A perfectly normal name and her demeanour seemed normal, too. But for some reason, my skin prickled.

She moved at a brisk clip along the wood-panelled hallway, past a lounge room—soft grey curtains, hard-looking white armchairs, a blue velvet couch, huge chandelier. Then past a dining room—black and white chairs, a black and white striped vase containing red roses. A life-sized silver statue of a bulldog stood in the centre of the dining table; quite possibly a hindrance to dinner conversation.

She marched us under an ornate arch, moving towards the back of the house. Through a window, I caught a glimpse of the garden outside: a multitude of roses. There was a car parked in the garden bed. Strange place to park, I thought.

Then I realised: it was a brown Fairlane.