Margaret Way - Olivia's Awakening

Don’t allow yourself to get fazed.

She knew it was extremely important to maintain order of the mind. Order, after all, was the bedrock of her being. She was a Balfour and a Capricorn to boot.

The two men McAlpine had taken on board were fortyish, lean outback characters in cowboy regalia. Both looked as if they could easily wrestle a bullock to the ground, but they were most courteous and soft spoken when introduced. They sat up close to McAlpine, the boss, often exchanging remarks in unison. The “great minds think alike” syndrome, she thought.

She had been allotted a seat in the farthest row, deciding there and then she wouldn’t let McAlpine see how the sight of his ancestral home was affecting her. She realised everyone couldn’t live in a stately home but this rather beggared belief.

She wouldn’t have need of any of the nice things she had brought with her. They would be as out of place in these surroundings as one of Bella’s outlandish sequinned party dresses.

Bella, oh, Bella, what did we do? She hoped her twin—she was missing her dreadfully—didn’t feel as scared as she did.

What are you scared of? McAlpine?

Minutes later they landed, smooth as a bird, on the front lawn of the homestead, a green oasis in the fiery red wilderness that went on and on and on, so it seemed to fill the known world. Towering palms, graceful unfamiliar trees and a riot of prodigally blossoming shrubs offered all-round protection to the building which looked hardly bigger than a cottage. She could see a silver stream snaking away into the distance. She wondered if crocodiles, flourishing as a protected species, sunned themselves on the banks, using them for slipways.

Safely on the ground now, she looked around her with stoicism. Eventually it came to her.

He’s having me on!

Well, she could take a joke as well as the next woman. Even with her sunglasses on she had to shade her eyes from the fierce, glittering sun. She tried to focus on the homestead and its square white facade. It was a genuinely small timber construction set on very high concrete piers, probably for ventilation and to keep the building above possible flooding. Latticework closed the space in, acting as a trellis for a magnificent flowering vine with huge bell-like golden-yellow flowers. And such a fragrance! One could get drunk on it.

The roof of the homestead was corrugated iron painted green, as were the shutters on the French doors that opened out onto the broad covered veranda. Planter-style chairs were set at intervals along with huge pots of rather wonderful tropical plants. More astonishing plants with great curling fernlike waves grew profusely out of hanging baskets. Hot or not, with a little TLC and a drop of precious water one could maintain a dream of an indoor garden. A vision of Balfour Manor’s splendid English gardens—especially the rose gardens—broke before her eyes.

Home! Oh, God! More than ever she felt like a fish out of water.

On the thick springy grass, she soon discovered she was wobbly on her feet. “OK?” McAlpine broke away from his men to take her by the arm with what seemed genuine concern.

“I’m perfectly fine, thank you,” she said stiffly, somewhat intimidated by the vibrant male sexuality.

“That’s strange. I could have sworn you were thinking, Where the hell am I? “

“Then never distrust your intuitions, Mr McAlpine,” she returned coolly. “Where exactly are we?” Two could play at a joke.

“You’re on Naroo Waters.”

“And it’s charming.” She gave him a bright social smile, clearly feigned.

“I’m very fond of it too.” His eyes glittered pure gold as he looked at her. “I’ve visited it over and over since I was a boy. This is one of our outstations, Ms Balfour, as I’m sure you’ve guessed. I’ve stopped to offload Wes and Bernie and a few supplies. Wes manages the place. Bernie is his leading hand.”

“You weren’t willing to tell me before?” she asked sweetly.

“I operate on a need-to-know basis, Ms Balfour.”

“While I think you were testing me out.”

He laughed. Far too attractive a sound. “OK, you passed. Totally unexpected, I have to say. Now, while I have a talk to Wes, you might like to go into the house. Heather will make you a cup of tea. Heather is his wife. I’ll be along presently.”

“And who shall I say I am?” she asked haughtily. He did bring out the worst in her.

“Let’s pretend you’re a friend,” he said and walked away.

As she approached the homestead a small woman with a mop of orange curls wearing a green tank top and cream shorts to the knee ran out onto the veranda to wave.

“You must be Olivia,” she called in such a way Olivia felt a most welcome visitor, not a total stranger who had just landed very noisily on the lawn. “Please come in.” Again not in the polite meaningless way Olivia had often been guilty of in the past, but as though she really meant it. “I’ve got a nice cup of tea for you and a slice of my raisin cake. Just baked it.”

The cake was excellent, with a delicious walnut crunch. The tea was just the way she liked it. Added to that the sheer niceness of Heather Finlay—a good Scottish name—and it all went a long way towards calming Olivia’s nerves.

They sat in the homestead’s small living room which was as comfortable and attractive as anyone could make the postage-stamp space. Large white ceiling fans whirred overhead. The furnishings were cane, the two sofas and the armchairs upholstered in emerald-green cotton patterned in white, maintaining the tropical look. The feature wall held four huge blown-up photographs of different tropical flowers set in a frame. It was cost effective as well as striking.

Close to Heather, Olivia could see that she was older than she first appeared. At a guess early forties, with a trim figure, a redhead’s freckled skin and green eyes with dancing lights.

“I take it you’re on holiday?” Heather’s eyes lingered on Olivia as though she were a creature from a fairy tale with fairy-tale clouds of golden blonde hair.

Olivia decided to tell the truth. Shame the devil. She almost—not quite—believed in him. “I’m here to help out Mr McAlpine in any way I can, Heather. A business arrangement, really. My father is a shareholder in the McAlpine Pastoral Company. I’m very interested in learning as much as I can about it and of course being helpful while I’m at it.”

Heather’s face lit up with what looked like a triumphant smile.

Why was that?

“You’ll be perfect to help with the big end-of-the-year functions Clint hosts,” Heather supplied the answer. “I suppose Clint had that in mind. You’ll have met Marigole, his ex-wife?”

“Actually, no!” Marigole? Ah, the unusual name. Olivia set down her pretty teacup. Royal Doulton’s Regalia. She suspected Heather had used her best, which was nice. “I don’t know Mr McAlpine all that well. We’ve met at a couple of functions in London and once at a wedding we both attended in Scotland. There’s some family connection between the Balfours and the McAlpines from way back. But his wife—his ex-wife, I should say—wasn’t with him at the time.”

Heather gave an eye roll. “Well, I suppose it’s getting pretty close on two years ago the divorce came through.” Heather poured them a second cup of tea. “Good Scottish names. Balfour and McAlpine. Balfour means pasture land, doesn’t it?”

“You’re very well informed, Heather.” Olivia was taken by surprise.

“Scottish background me ain self.” Heather laid on an accent. “Same as Wes. I daresay your family retain a good many pastures?” She flashed a teasing smile.