Gabe pulled on leather gloves and hefted a roll of barbed wire from the back of the ute, then collected star pickets and a post driver, pulled his hat low against the already hot sun and set to work.
Most times he used fencing contractors, but this job was a small repair job of a few hundred metres. Even so, it would take him all day on his own.
He should have asked Roy to help him, instead of making that awkward hasty exit and leaving the old ringer with Bella.
Then again, if Roy had been here, he’d probably be jawing on about Bella’s return and that was one conversation Gabe was happy to miss. Not that his own thoughts were much better.
His head was filled with images of Bella striding across the paddock last evening and playing with that damn pup this morning. Everything about her looks, her movements, her smile was as familiar and as much a part of Gabe as his own two hands. Yet now . . . she was a stranger.
There was a distance and wariness in her eyes that the impetuous young Bella had never shown.
An unbridgeable gap?
Or a challenge?
Liz stood in the middle of Mullinjim’s lounge room eyeing the baby grand that had held pride of place in the homestead for as long as she could remember.
It was amazing that after all this time the room still looked much the same. Virginia had introduced only the smallest of decorating changes via cushions and pot plants and paintings. The old-fashioned, Victorian-era furniture still graced the room, along with faded oriental carpets and uncurtained, deep, breeze-catching casement windows.
It was here that Liz’s mother, having first checked that her daughter’s hands were super-clean, had invited her to sit on an embroidered stool at the piano. Here Liz had touched the magical keys for the very first time, had played her first note, her first little song. And it was here she’d gradually been seduced by the mystery and power of music, falling under its spell as she discovered the heart-lifting exhilaration and the surprising solace it could bring.
So long ago . . .
Now Liz looked down at her hands and flexed her fingers, and she counted how many days it had been since she’d last played. Only four. But very soon, she would probably begin to feel twitchy. It always happened when she took a break.
She supposed that some people would think she’d developed an unhealthy dependence on her piano, but she wasn’t about to give it up. She wondered what her chances were that this instrument would still be in tune. Virginia didn’t play and Peter rarely touched the keys, although their mother had taught him, too, and he had a good ear. She’d gained the impression from chance comments he’d made over the years that he’d been conscientious about keeping their mother’s precious piano in good repair.
Unable to resist, Liz crossed the room, brushed her fingertips over the shiny black lacquer, remembering the many hours she’d sat here practising. She’d been lucky. Her mother was an excellent teacher, able to help her to achieve a very high standard, even before she left for boarding school.
Tentatively she lifted the lid. The keys were a little yellowed, but at least they were clean and dust-free. She tested a few notes and was pleasantly surprised. She played chords, major and minor and then an arpeggio or two.
The elderly piano wasn’t too out of tune, after all. Liz supposed this was one advantage of a prolonged drought. Piano strings hated humidity.
But I shouldn’t start playing now.
There was plenty of housework waiting to be done and outside there were hens to be fed and eggs to collect, a dying garden to be watered.
Maybe just one piece – a little Chopin nocturne to properly test the old girl while I have the place to myself.
Liz sat, placed her hands on the keys and the lush notes rippled forth, billowing until the music filled the sunlit room and satisfied a needy little corner of her soul.
The familiar, beautiful piece was short, but when it was finished she sat there, stirred by surprisingly happy memories of her love affair with the piano . . . all the years of practice . . . here, and at school, and at the Conservatorium . . . then London . . .
She remembered the growing determination that had built into a burning, fierce ambition . . .
She’d sacrificed everything to feed that ambition. It had taken ferocious will for a girl from an isolated outback cattle property to make it to the concert stages of Europe. But by God it had been worth it.
It had most definitely been worth it.
Liz had loved the fame and adulation, loved the house in Chelsea she’d been able to buy, loved her friendships with brilliant musicians.
If she’d stayed here in Australia she’d probably have married, sidelining her career and burying herself beneath a fair-to-middling husband and children. No doubt, she would have ended up teaching or doing something equally unsatisfying. It could, quite easily, have been a disaster.
She’d decided long ago she wasn’t cut out for that life.
She’d been right, hadn’t she?
When a painful memory speared her contented mood, Liz jumped on it quickly as she always did. She’d been doing so well since she’d arrived here. She didn’t want to succumb to angst from her past.
The phone rang in the kitchen and she hurried to answer it, grateful for the distraction.
‘Hello? Liz Fairburn speaking.’
‘Liz, it’s Zoe.’
‘Zoe, darling, how are you? Bella and I were planning to ring you today. Sorry, we should have rung last night, but we were stonkered. Still adjusting to time zones. We wanted to thank you for that delicious dinner you left for us. It was wonderful. Thank you so much.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘Bella’s not here at the moment, but I’m sure she’ll want to call you, too. You’ll have to come over some time and bring that handsome new husband of yours.’
‘Thanks, Liz. Mac and I would love to see you.’
‘I should warn you, though – our cooking’s nowhere near your standard.’
‘Well, I can’t play the piano.’ Zoe’s voice bubbled with laughter.
‘You sound very happy, dear.’
‘I am, Liz. Happier than I could ever believe.’
Liz suppressed a wry smile.
‘By the way,’ Zoe said. ‘Mac asked me to let you know he’s seen to the firebreaks along your boundary and ours.’
‘Oh, that’s very good of him. Please pass on our thanks. I’ll tell Bella when she gets back. She’s focusing on firebreaks first off as well. We’re praying for rain, of course.’
‘I don’t like our chances. There’s no sign of a wet season yet in the forecasts.’
They chatted a little more about Peter’s health and about Zoe’s parents, who were old friends of Liz’s, and eventually, they said goodbye. Liz hung up and went outside to let the chooks out and found herself marvelling again at Zoe’s unmistakable happiness.
She’d known Zoe’s mother, Claire, since their days at the Con and she’d seen young Zoe often during her visits to Brisbane over the years. She’d watched the girl grow from a bright toddler into a bubbly teenager and then into a lovely, determined young woman. Zoe had always been lively and fun.
But there was definitely something extra now. Without even seeing her, Liz could hear it in her voice.
True love?
Liz had long ago given up any belief in lasting romantic love. It was a phenomenon she’d certainly never experienced, beyond her music.
Her lovers had been charming, even passionate men, but conveniently temporary. It was the way she wanted her life. Her sense of real happiness, of self-worth, came not from lovers but from the concert stage and the affection and admiration she drew from her audiences.
Now, however, she only had to hear the warm certainty in Zoe’s voice and the tiniest sting of envy entered her heart. She shrugged it aside. She’d known from the start that coming home was dangerous. Her perspective was bound to be warped by an overdose of nostalgia.