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.’