Sundown Crossing (9 page)

After tipping his hat and ruffling Sam’s spiky ginger hair he strode back to his vehicle.

Carla stared after him for a second or two, but as another roll of thunder and more lightning followed, she pulled her thoughts back to the situation and ordered her small retinue forward. ‘Come on, let’s go.’ She took Sam’s hand and with Angie bringing up the rear they walked quickly down the barely definable track.

The agent’s statement about Krugerhoff being derelict was no exaggeration. Carla had seen some rough places, cottage hideaways in New Zealand’s South Island, but none wilder or more unkempt than her father’s vineyard. The light was fading with the approaching storm but they managed to reach the front porch of the cottage and open the front door before the first drops of rain began to fall.

The door opened straight into the living room and once inside their entry disturbed thirty years of dust. They sneezed, repeatedly. There were several broken windows in the room and down the hallway came the scurrying sound of some small animal who’d been disturbed and was making a rapid exit. Carla flicked the light switch on. Light from the old globe flickered on then the glass shattered, throwing the room into
semi-darkness again. She took Sam with her and tried the light in the kitchen and had better luck—it didn’t explode. Her hand reached for the tap at the sink to check the water supply. An awful shuddering erupted through the walls as water dribbled then rushed through the pipes for the first time in many years. The rusty trickle sluiced layers of dust from the bottom of the stainless steel sink and down the drain, then the water slowly cleared until it looked clean. She turned the tap off.

‘One of the bedrooms is an office,’ Angie told Carla as she joined her in the kitchen.

Suddenly the full force of where she was hit Carla. Why she was here and that once her father had flicked the light switches on, turned on the tap as she had just done, made coffee on the stove and sat on the sofa facing the fireplace. He had given succinct descriptions of the rooms in his journal and over the last two weeks, having read the words so often, she knew much of it off by heart. One room she didn’t care to go into was the bedroom where he and Marta had made love but she thought Angie and Sam would think it strange if she didn’t.

Outside, the storm was providing them with a wonderful light and sound performance. Sheets of heavy rain thundered down onto the cottage’s roof. So far there were no leaks! For a while they stood by the broken front window in the living room, looking out. Lightning flashes illuminated the other buildings and where the vines had once
grown. The stark white-blue lightning made everything glow eerily. Carla shivered, not because it was cold but because of the memories. Once, so long ago, Krugerhoff had been her father’s pride and joy and, according to his journal, he’d had such hopes…

‘What a dump,’ Sam muttered.

‘It…it’s not a dump, Sam, it’s just that the cottage hasn’t been lived in for a very long time. Not since before your mother was born,’ Angie told him. She glanced at Carla and saw her reaction, the sadness in her eyes. ‘I reckon that with a good scrub, some fresh paint, and new furniture, it could all look very nice.’

‘Mmm, maybe,’ Sam was unconvinced, but he added after further consideration, ‘It’s way bigger than our flat in Christchurch. Can we look at the other buildings when the rain stops?’

Carla put her arm around him. ‘No, it’ll be dark soon. We’ll do that tomorrow. Let’s just go through the cottage tonight and tomorrow, after breakfast, we’ll come back for a better look, really explore the place.’

‘Okay. You know, Mum,’ Sam looked up at Carla. ‘It gives me a funny kind of feeling inside,’ he touched the area over his heart, ‘knowing Grandpa once lived here.’

Carla smiled down at her son. When she spoke, the words came out softly. ‘Me too, Sam. Me too.’

A
s the storm raged, through a rusted hole in the galvanised cladding of the winery wall, three pairs of eyes watched lights come on in the cottage for the first time.

‘Bloody squatters,’ the youth muttered. Tall for a Vietnamese, and muscled from working in the vineyards, he spat his disgust on the earth floor.

‘Not squatters, Tran. Squatters couldn’t get electricity on,’ countered the older female. Taller than the child by thirty centimetres, and older than the youth by five years, Kim Loong answered her brother.

‘Are not we squa…squatters?’ the child asked in hesitant English.

‘We are. So what, Su Lee?’ Tran stared at Kim and spoke softly as if he were imparting secrets. ‘Been a lot of people here lately. Something about to happen,’ he prophesied glumly. ‘We should clear out before we’re found. Been here three
months, saved some money.’ He looked at Kim. ‘Go to a big town, maybe Adelaide. Find plenty work there.’

Kim shook her head in disagreement. ‘Work is easy to get in Valley, even after harvest, because people move on, leave jobs for us. We stay is better. Roof over our head, enough to eat. Must save much more before go to big town.’ She sighed. ‘Everything ’spensive in Australia.’

‘Better than streets of Saigon, hey!’ Tran said with a giggle, digging Kim in the ribs and receiving a quelling look for his comment.

‘Look, they leave now. Lights turned off,’ Su Lee advised. ‘Maybe no come back.’

‘Come, let’s make dinner,’ Kim ordered.

In single file they walked, making no sound on the winery’s dirt floor which was littered with pieces of wood, metal pipes and rusting machinery parts, to the rough accommodation Tran had built for them inside the cavern-like winery. Using rusted sheets of galvanised iron and pieces of timber, he had screened off a section about six metres square. They entered their one-room squat by lifting back one of the sheets of metal, ducking low and crawling inside.

Kim and Su Lee kept their ‘home’ immaculate. The dirt floor was swept daily and the mats and blankets they slept on were rolled up and put in a corner during the day to stop curious animals and insects from taking up residence. Home comforts were minimal. A spirit stove, several vari-sized saucepans and a wok for cooking, a
metal kettle to boil water, old fruit boxes with secure wire doors to keep their non-perishable food in, and a small shrine to Buddha which was always adorned with flowers and perfumed candles. Clothes were washed on the banks of the nearby creek, where it meandered through the vineyard, and were then strung up on rope lines to dry, high enough not to hit the young people’s heads on.

As Tran lit the two Tilley lamps, their only source of light at night, Kim took out a wooden board and began to chop vegetables and slice pieces of chicken bought in Nuriootpa that afternoon, to make a stir-fry with noodles. Su Lee had already fetched three buckets of water from the creek: one for cooking and two for personal washing.

‘I think we should look for someplace else,’ Tran continued to expound his idea. ‘Can’t stay in winter, our arses will freeze off. And not as much work around Valley then, with vines all dead.’

‘Don’t be vulgar, Tran Loong,’ Kim reprimanded, her dark, slanted eyes glancing meaningfully towards Su Lee. Their young sister’s English wasn’t as good as hers—she’d been taught by Sister Dinah in Saigon—or even Tran’s but like most children Su Lee picked up ‘bad’ words very easily. ‘It will be cold, and we may have to find a new home before winter. You been tinkering on that motorbike,’ Kim threw him a cross look. ‘Get working you go around Valley, find somewhere better.’

Tran shrugged. ‘Need money for a new part. Can get it second-hand, it won’t cost much.’

One of Kim’s eyebrows lifted. ‘How much?’

‘Forty dollars.’

Almost a week’s part-time wage in some vineyards she reasoned. Experience told her he’d probably added five to ten dollars to the cost to have something left over for himself. Kim swallowed a sigh. Tran was like that, and had a tendency to be sly when it came to money. She reached inside her shirt for the moneybelt she wore around her hips under her skirt, took out the two twenty dollar bills and gave them to him, asking, ‘Will new part get bike to work?’

‘Should do,’ Tran said confidently.

Since she had discovered her brother’s weakness for the TAB and other forms of gambling—he was so like their father—she kept their money on her person, rather than hiding it somewhere, in case he discovered their savings and gambled it away as he had done, once before. Apart from that Tran was trustworthy enough and most of the time he worked hard. Good with his hands, he could build just about anything. His only other flaw was that, being eighteen, he tended to be impatient.

Kim understood his impatience. She had been eighteen once, though it seemed…a lifetime ago. At that age she’d been living rough on the streets of Saigon, after being sold to a brothel owner at the age of nine. She had run away from
the brothel several times only to be found, beaten and returned to the brothel until, at seventeen and having saved a handful of dongs, she’d escaped and successfully made her way to Saigon. But remembering the past made her shudder and she chopped the carrot into pieces more vigorously than she needed to.

Still, the memories insisted on surfacing…

As the fourth child and second daughter in an impoverished rural family, she had been the daughter her parents considered disposable when drought caused the rice crop to fail and her parents needed money to buy food for the family.
Don’t think about those bad days, about how bad they had really been
she told herself. Doing so made the nightmares return.

The past is just that, past. Tran, Su Lee and Kim were in Australia now, legally, and here there was the opportunity to be whatever they wanted to be. With a sense of purpose she turned her thoughts to the two women and the boy who’d come to the cottage. Would they be back? She wasn’t scheduled to work tomorrow so she and Su Lee would keep watch and see if they did.

‘Everything looks worse in the daylight than it did last night.’ Carla’s tone was despondent as they walked around the perimeter of the cottage and moved towards a large tin building. Angie thought that was most likely where the grapes had been crushed, the juice fermented and eventually bottled—the winemaking area.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Angie tried to sound positive. ‘The buildings have stood up to thirty years of wear and tear pretty well, considering there’s been little maintenance on them.’

‘The agent told me that one of Dad’s workers—Otto—used to caretake the place until his death about three years ago. Said the old chap would trim the vines in winter and so on, and expected Dad to return one day. He wanted things to be ready for him when he did.’

‘Aahhh. That’s why the vines don’t look too wild and the winery seems to be in good shape. Let’s go inside,’ Angie suggested. She unlocked the wide door and pulled it back. Sunlight flooded the interior adding to the light which came from glass skylights in the roof. She walked around, studying everything with great interest, inspecting the crushers, the vats, and other pieces of equipment. ‘This would have been state-of-the-art equipment thirty years ago. And there’s little deterioration. Otto must have run the machinery, kept things oiled and working until he was no longer able to.’

‘So,’ Carla mused, half to herself, ‘there wouldn’t be the expense of having to replace too much if…I mean, if someone wanted to start the winery up again, doing the processing wouldn’t be too difficult?’

Angie thought about Carla’s statement for a little while before answering. ‘I wouldn’t think so, but an expert, a viticulture engineer would have to check everything out, make sure all the equipment is in working order.’

‘Hey, Mum, look over here,’ Sam called out from down the other end of the cavernous shed.

He’d found a cache of bottles on racks in a corner, and several small oak barrels.

‘Rolfe’s first vintage, I reckon,’ Angie said.

‘Wouldn’t be any good now, would it?’ Carla queried. She picked up one of the green bottles; there were several hundred of them. The label read:
‘Krugerhoff, Chardonnay, 1962.’
So long ago. After a wan smile she put the bottle back with the others.

Angie pulled a face. ‘White wine. Don’t think so, not even as vinegar.’ She began to inspect the barrels. ‘Looks as if Rolfe put down several casks of port. If that hasn’t soured, the blend was good, and old Otto maintained the turning, the port could be very smooth indeed.’ She pointed to some small timber packing cases. ‘He probably intended to put out a commemorative port, in honour of the first vintage.’

Sam pulled at Carla’s arm. ‘Come on, Mum, let’s look at the vines. I want to see the creek too. My teacher told me you can catch yabbies in Australian creeks.’

‘What’s a yabby?’ Carla smiled at her son’s enthusiasm. He was such a bundle of energy.

‘It’s a freshwater crayfish. A relative of prawns, I think,’ Angie informed her.

Carla’s smile widened. Sam seemed to be taking to Australia, and that was good if…Last night she had been overtired due to the travelling, the anticipation of seeing Krugerhoff, and the
storm, and hadn’t been able to fall sleep because so many thoughts, questions, possibilities tumbled around inside her head. Sad thoughts about her father and yes, other more optimistic thoughts that maybe, just
maybe
Krugerhoff could be turned into a going concern. Carla knew it would take a lot of hard work and money, and added to that was the element of risk. What if she couldn’t make it work? Not one to overestimate her capabilities, she considered herself middle-of-the-road when it came to risking what she had for…the unknown.

However, she couldn’t dispute the fact that another attraction was pulling her in the direction of giving Krugerhoff a go—the Stenmark family. If they turned out to be congenial and relationships could be established which would benefit Sam that would, she admitted, tip the balance towards a decision to move to the Barossa.

Once out in the sunshine, Carla blinked as her eyes readjusted to the light. Behind the cottage, through the high grass and low shrubs, the vines, even after several years of neglect were clearly visible but a little wild. No order, no straight rows; the trellises—if there were any left standing—were invisible. It looked an impossible mess to try to sort out.

‘It’s a bit of a tangle,’ Angie conceded as she read the expression on Carla’s face. With hands in the pockets of her jeans she stood next to her friend, at the edge of the vines, overlooking them.

‘I suppose they’d have to be pulled out and one,’ Carla was careful at this point not to say ‘we’, ‘would have to start from scratch.’

‘Not necessarily. It’s hard to tell without getting in amongst them, but from here the vines look healthy enough. Because it’s autumn, they’re losing their leaves quickly now and when they’re dormant one could go along, do a heavy prune back, and re-establish the trellises.’ Angie glanced sideways at Carla. ‘If there was sufficient labour to tidy the vines and re-do the supports, that is. Providing there’s no disease lurking, I’d be optimistic that most of the vines would blossom and bear fruit in the spring.’

Carla’s eyebrows shot up. She stared at Angie. ‘Really? You’re sure?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t want to bet my life on it,’ Angie confessed, ‘but I’m fairly confident that with a lot of hard work, Krugerhoff could produce a harvest by next summer.’

‘Amazing…’

Sam, out of sight, called from the other side of the paddock. ‘Hey, Mum, I’ve found the creek.’

Angie grinned. She and Carla exchanged glances. ‘I’ll go. You stay here and study things.’ She knew Carla well enough to know that Rolfe’s daughter liked to weigh up the pros and cons and in this case, if she decided to keep Krugerhoff she would be making a considerable commitment. Angie, with her experience, could gauge the potential better than Carla and she felt in her bones that Krugerhoff was ripe for rejuvenation.
The timing couldn’t be better either, with business in the Valley booming. Still, as a close friend, she knew she would have to be careful to not appear overenthusiastic. If a decision on what to do with Krugerhoff had to be made, Carla should make it alone.

Walking through the tall, wild grass towards a line of taller, shrubby bushes which bordered the creek, she called to Sam. ‘Where are you, Sam?’

Intent on finding the boy, Angie didn’t see the man stalking through the grass and shrubby bush towards Carla, until she heard a male voice call out peremptorily.

‘This is private property, lady. What the hell are you doing here?’

Angie turned back long enough to see Carla face the interloper, and watched her chin go up defensively, her stance stiffen. She smiled and stayed on course. Whoever the male was—it wasn’t that nice architect who’d come to their aid yesterday—he would get short shrift from Carla Hunter using that arbitrary tone. Grinning, she located the adventurous Sam, who was down on his haunches using a stick to probe the depths of the creek. ‘Looking for yabbies, are you, Sam?’

Carla’s blue eyes turned glacial as she watched the solidly built man in work clothes approach. Something bullish in his overall shape and the aggressive turn of his mouth made her hackles rise. She didn’t answer his question, she just stared at him.

Josh Aldrich stopped almost a metre away from the red-haired woman, as if he’d slammed into an invisible wall. Shit! It was like seeing some weird apparition, or reincarnation. He knew in an instant who she was without having to ask and something more than curiosity, instant attraction, raced through him. He dug his hand into his trouser pocket to control the stirring in his groin. Hell, she was so like her…grandmother! The features, her red hair curling all over the place, but the sharp blue eyes—they were like the old man’s.

Finding he could speak, when he did his tone held a different note, of awe. ‘W-what are
you
doing here?’

Carla countered with her own question, her voice school-teacherish, condescending. ‘And who might you be to ask me such a question? You’re obviously not the police, or a real estate agent.’