The Last Mile Home (18 page)

The car pulled up and the nanny — a plain-looking lady in her thirties — and a man in a dark suit got out of the car. Gwen was standing by the gate holding Richie in her arms. Bob walked forward, handed over the small cardboard suitcase that held Richie's clothes and few toys. He signed the papers and beckoned Gwen. The nanny smiled and reached for Richie who turned away and clung to Gwen, hiding his face in her shoulder. Gwen was crying, unable to release her grip on Abby's baby.

Bob took Richie from her. ‘Don't make this harder on yourself, luv.' He kissed Richie and handed him to the nanny. ‘Be a good boy, matey,' he said brokenly.

The nanny swallowed. ‘He'll be well cared for, please don't worry.'

She got in the car and Richie began to scream and squirm, holding out his chubby arms to Gwen when he realised she wasn't coming with them.

Bob held Gwen's hand as the car began to pull away.

‘Richie . . .' screamed Gwen at the sight of Richie's crying face inside the car.

Bob wrapped his arms about her and held her to him as she struggled, trying to run after the car. Finally, when the fight had left her and she stood quietly sobbing, Bob led her into the house, sat her in the kitchen and set about making tea.

It wasn't till much later that day that Gwen found they'd left behind the wooden train Mr Richards had made for Richie.

Bob put it up on the mantelpiece. ‘We'll send it over. Abby cherished that train . . .'

It was too much for him. He rested his head against the mantelpiece and his shoulders heaved as he was overcome by his feelings of grief, frustration and loss.

T
HREE
C
HRISTMASES PASSED. EACH YEAR WHEN
the ruby-tipped Christmas Bush blossomed, the McBrides gathered it along with wild flowers to put on the graves of Abby and Barney. Time had eased some of the pain but their sadness surfaced again every time they thought of Richie alone at Amba, and that was often.

They had had no contact with him since the day he was taken from Gwen's arms. But Gwen and Bob kept telling the children, and themselves, that Richie was being given a great opportunity for the future. And, after all, they had each other, and Phillip Holten was all alone. Yet, despite the
rationalising, Gwen ached to hold her daughter's child again.

Time had dragged so slowly and Gwen felt older than her years. She noticed, too, how sadness had deepened the lines on Bob's face. They had made repeated attempts to see Richie over the years but were always rebuffed by Phillip Holten. Richie was kept at Amba most of the time and if it hadn't been for Mrs Anderson's visits bringing news of him, Richie would have been totally lost to them.

Once, about a year ago, Gwen had been crossing the main street in town when Phillip Holten's car, driven by a man she didn't recognise, went past. She glimpsed the wistful face of the young boy in the back, and as she stood in the middle of the road she knew that it was Richie. It took all her will to stop running after the car. She wanted to catch it, hurl her shopping basket at the window, to wrench open the door and free her small grandson.

A driver tooted politely at her still standing in the road, breaking her trance. Gwen trudged across the road and sank on to a chair in the cafe. The agony of knowing he was so near yet forbidden to see his family was devastating. Gwen had had several meetings with Mrs Anderson who told her what a bright and lively boy Richie was,
how he delighted the station hands with his antics, and that he had already been enrolled in boarding school which he'd start when he was eight. If Phillip Holten knew of these meetings he ignored them. For the Andersons, Richie was the light of their lives. But Phillip Holten refused to see joy in the company of the boy, continuing to agonise over the loss of his son and wife.

Phillip suffered alone. He spoke to the Andersons, the nanny and the men around the property only when necessary. He spent long lonely hours in his library during the evenings. As Richie grew older he had tried to make the evening meal his time with the boy, but although it had become habit for both of them, neither enjoyed the experience. Phillip was awkward, unable to relate to the tiny figure at the end of the formal dining table. Attempts at conversation were strained and more like a polite inquisition — Phillip asked questions and the boy responded briefly.

Richie felt awkward with the authoritarian figure who seemed devoid of warmth and humour. Phillip usually turned the occasion into an educational opportunity for instruction on manners. Richie, however, resorted to an observation game based on one Jim Anderson liked to play. He set about memorising every item in the room, each night adding another to the list.
The next day, in his favourite hideaway in the barn, he would try to recite them all. Sometimes he'd select an object he didn't have a name for and would quietly ask his grandfather. ‘ What glass thing, Richard?' Phillip would ask in surprise, turning in his chair to look at the sideboard. ‘Oh, that's called a decanter. You put port wine in it. When you are an adult you can have some port wine.' The boy wondered what port wine was but saved up the question for another day. For Phillip such brief exchanges were the highlight of the meal and would hearten him enormously.

But most nights after dinner, alone in his study, Phillip found it more and more difficult to fight off suffocating black moods. He knew his attitude to the boy should be different but could not bring himself to get too close for fear of opening the wounds that scarred his heart. The pain was easier to bear when he blamed the McBrides for the deaths of Barney and Enid. Increasingly though, the terrible thought seeped into his consciousness that he was responsible for killing both of them . . . that he had turned his back on his son and sent him to his death . . . that he had refused his wife's dearest wish and she had simply given up and died. Atonement had not been achieved by bringing Richie to Amba as he had hoped. There was no release, no peace, no easing of pain.

He thought of the stern grim father he had scarcely known, how little he had known his own son, and now his grandson. History was repeating itself and he felt powerless to stop it.

The Sunday before Christmas, Sarah Pemberton dropped into the McBrides for morning tea after church. How much a part of Anglesea they'd become. She couldn't imagine how they'd managed without them. She hoped they'd always be part of the place.

‘How are the Christmas preparations coming along, Gwen? I suppose you're baking cakes for half the district again.'

Before Gwen could reply, Bob responded with more than the start of a smile, ‘Yep, got another truck-load of raisins coming this afternoon.' They laughed and Bob went on with mock seriousness, ‘We've decided to go into business in the city . . . a cake shop. Gwen can be the breadwinner for a change.'

‘Don't you dare,' said Sarah shaking a finger at him. ‘And that was a lousy pun, Bob. By the way, this Christmas will be a bit different. The CWA ladies out our way are organising Christmas Eve carols by candlelight down on the common. I think it's a great idea.'

‘So long as the weather holds, it will work,'
said Gwen flatly. ‘There's no way everyone would fit into the community hall if it rained.' Bob fiddled with the makings of a smoke and Sarah knew what they were both thinking.

‘You will come, won't you?' she said softly. ‘It will be a lovely family night. The kids love lighting the candles and singing the carols.'

Bob and Gwen looked at each other briefly. ‘O f course we'll be there,' said Bob with strength in his voice . ‘The whole McBride clan will be there in fine voice.'

Gwen smiled, relieved that the decision had not been for her to make.

It was a typical Australian December morning of promised warmth, burning blue sky, birds warbling and mottled sunlight beneath the scribbly gums — the kind of day that makes all good things seem possible.

Mr Richards was humming as he drove up the track to Anglesea. It was only a dirt track but it led to a home filled with love. The thought pleased him, even though it was his first visit since the deaths of Abby and Barney and he knew that it wouldn't be the same without them.

He parked, stepped onto the verandah and was instantly ambushed by Brian and the twins who had been hiding behind the Malacca cane furniture.
They led him down the hall as he called out, ‘Anybody home?'

Gwen was delighted to see him and came out of the kitchen wiping floured hands on her apron. ‘Why didn't you tell us you were coming? Brian, go and find Dad and Kevin and tell them Mr Richards is here. Oh, it's so good to see you again.'

Brian, with the twins in tow, bolted off. Mr Richards looked at Gwen. The delight of seeing him had given way to other feelings. Her eyes said it all and as she crumpled, he wrapped his arms around her. He let her cry, then led her to the kitchen where they sat at the table littered with the ingredients of mince pies.

Gwen wiped her eyes with the bottom of her apron. ‘Thanks for your letter,' she said between sniffs, referring to the note he had written to them shortly after the news of Abby's death had reached him. ‘ It was a great comfort. I still take it out and read it from time to time.'

‘I'm sorry I haven't been back before this, but I've been outback working at a bit of this and a bit of that, looking up friends and so forth.' He took his pipe from his waistcoat pocket and went about tapping and lighting it . ‘Bumped into Brother John from time to time. Funny bloke that fella. Still stirring up dust storms along the Birdsville track and back of Cloncurry with his motorbike.
He asked me to give you all his love.' He paused for a puff on the pipe, then asked quietly, ‘How's the boy going?'

Gwen had to fight to keep control of her emotions as she told the story and tried to paint a positive picture of care and opportunities Richie had at Amba. Mr Richards listened, saying nothing, but nodding occasionally in acknowledgement of some detail. When she had finished, he took his pipe out and leaned towards her. ‘ But it still hurts, doesn't it? Particularly at this time of year.'

Gwen nodded in agreement, afraid to say anything in fear of breaking down in tears. Then she found some strength. ‘Richie still has your train. Loves it. Mrs Anderson has told him about you.'

Mr Richards was delighted. ‘Well fancy that now. I reckon I ought to call in and say hello to the boy before I move on.'

‘You're not stopping for Christmas?'

‘Well, I've got to see a few people up the track. A job for Brother John. But I could be back at Christmas if there's room at the table.'

‘Of course there is,' replied Gwen, brightening at the thought. ‘We're having carols on the common on Christmas Eve. Just the local folk from properties but it should be lovely.'

‘Carols on the common. I like the sound of that. Sure, I'll be there.'

It was late in the afternoon when Mrs Anderson announced to Phillip that Mr Richards was wanting to see him. He had just come in from helping move some sheep to another paddock and was taking his boots off on the back verandah.

Phillip was surprised at how delighted he was at the news. ‘Thank you, Mrs Anderson,' he said. ‘Thank you.' And to her amazement he padded off in his socks to meet the visitor. ‘We'll take tea in the library please,' he called over his shoulder.

He greeted Mr Richards with warmth and escorted him inside, suddenly becoming self-conscious about the socks. ‘Been doing a little work with the sheep,' he explained and Mr Richards smiled.

‘Honest toil, Mr Holten. And how have you been keeping?'

‘Please sit down. Light up if you want to. Well, I've been keeping all right, all things considered. No coughs or colds,' said Phillip, trying to mask his evasiveness. ‘And you?'

‘Oh, for an old codger who can't sit still, I'm making out all right.' He raised an eyebrow.

‘Reckon someone up there keeps an eye on me.'

They exchanged views on the price of wool and
livestock, the need for good summer rains to boost the pastures, and the prosperity the country as a whole was enjoying. Phillip was feeling more relaxed than he had been for ages when Mrs Anderson arrived with tea and Christmas cake.

‘I took the liberty of cutting the Christmas cake a little early, Mr Holten. Seeing as how Mr Richards is such a special visitor,' explained Mrs Anderson. ‘I've just called out to young Richie to come in and join you for a piece of cake and to say hello. He's just had another birthday, you know. He's grown into such a lovely little boy, Mr Richards.'

Before Phillip had time to come to terms with the slight panic that swelled up inside him, the telephone rang in the hall. He leapt to his feet. ‘I'll take it, Mrs Anderson.'

As he hurried from the room, Richie appeared at the French doors that opened from the library onto the verandah and stood there looking in, clutching his wooden toy train.

‘C'mon, luvy. My, look at you, been driving your train in the dirt again. Come here quick and I'll dust you down and wipe your hands on my apron.'

Richie glanced at Mr Richards out of the corner of his eye as Mrs Anderson fussed. He caught a wink and a half-smile from Mr Richards.

‘There now,' said Mrs Anderson. ‘Cleaned up for meeting Mr Richards and a piece of Christmas cake.'

Richie turned to face the old man and looked directly at him, taking in the weathered face, shock of grey hair, beard and clear blue eyes. He gave a quick grin.

‘Well, young fella, last time I saw you you were a little bundle in a blanket. Now you're almost a jackeroo,' said Mr Richards lightly, looking the lad over. ‘ A h . . . he has Abby's eyes and mouth but he's got Barney's strong forehead and jaw.'

‘Thank you very much,' said Richie politely as Mrs Anderson handed him a piece of cake, then he went and sat on the settee beside Mr Richards, his legs swinging. Between bites, he looked up at him. ‘You made my train, didn't you?'

‘Yes, and I'm mighty pleased to see it's still choofing along.'

‘It's my favourite toy.'

‘Well I'd better choof along too and take Jim his cuppa and a bit of cake,' chuckled Mrs Anderson. ‘You two can have a good old yarn together.'

‘When did you make it?' asked Richie, running his hand over the train.

‘Before you were born. I gave it to your mum.'

‘She got killed you know. My daddy too.'

Mr Richards took his hand. ‘ Yes , I know,' he said softly, then b rightened. ‘Now, what other favourite things do you have?'

The boy hesitated, then looked up into the old man's eyes. In them he saw something that gave him courage, despite the trouble he'd been in for taking down the forbidden books in the library. He let go of the comforting hand and walked over to the bookcase, unlocked it and carefully selected a book. He stood holding it, a hand running slowly over the illustrated cover, then turned and walked back to the settee. ‘This.'