2
The Road To Lallapinda
Karen Manning rarely criticised her grown-up daughters’ choice of clothes but when she came into the kitchen of the beach house that New Year’s Eve and saw Kitten standing at the sink putting ice-blocks in a glass of milk she felt herself forced to say: “Really, Kitten, do you think that dress is suitable for a country hop?”
“Or at all,” noted Kitten mildly. “Probably not.”
Karen looked grimly at her second daughter’s well-curved form encased—encased was the only word for it—in palest pink satin. Very low-cut, and those shoe-string straps were never holding it up, she’d bet the Porsche. “Just don’t bend over.”
“Hah, hah.”
Looking at the way it got in under the bum Karen was visited by a vivid vision of herself and her sister Ingrid, aged sixteen and seventeen, about to go to a school dance, and Mum’s remarks on the thing Ingrid had seen fit to sheathe herself in. She sighed. “Dear, why are you drinking milk with ice-blocks in it?” she asked feebly.
“Lines ya stomach. This is that long-life muck, the ice-blocks take away the taste.”
Karen winced. “I see.” She looked at her dully, swallowed another sigh, and went out.
… “Is this the way?” said Ingrid quite some time later, peering ahead of her through her Mitsubishi’s windscreen.
“Think so,” replied Kitten cheerfully. She twisted round and peered through the clouds of dust behind them. “I can’t see the others.”
“Can you see a dust storm in a shape like the others heading off in a different direction entirely?”
“Nope. Can’t see a thing. The sun’s behind us,” she noted.
“It would be, we’re heading east.” Ingrid kept on. There was only the one road. Unless they’d missed the turnoff somewhere.
They drove on...
Nikki peered through the clouds of billowing red-brown dust. “I suppose they are up ahead somewhere.”
“I think that’s still their dust, but I can’t see them for dust!” replied Melodie with a giggle.
“Hah, hah. Well, are Kym and Andy still behind us? Have a look, Sloane.”
Sloane was in the back seat of Nikki’s very shiny new four-wheel-drive. She obligingly looked, but reported: “Dust.”
“This must be right, there’s no other road,” said Melodie cheerfully.
“Yeah.”
They drove on...
“It’s so dry!” gasped Nikki.
They had reached an elaborate gateway: huge stone posts and cream-painted, high wrought-iron gates which stood open under a wrought-iron arch into which was worked the name “Lallapinda.” They’d arrived, all right. Ingrid and Kitten had pulled up and were waiting for them.
“It is the outback, Nikki,” Sloane reminded her.
“Yes,” she said weakly. “It’s just, when I came for that big corporate orientation conference, everything was green.”
“That was winter, wasn’t it?” said Melodie.
“Um... No: spring. October.”
“There you are, then,” said Sloane.
“Yeah.” She looked at the arid plain that was the Lallapinda property and grimaced.
“Come ON!” shouted Kitten, sticking her head out of Ingrid’s Mitsubishi.
“We’re waiting for the others!” cried Melodie.
Kitten made a face and withdrew her head.
“That better be them,” said Sloane, glaring at the approaching dust cloud.
It was, to everybody’s relief, and the three vehicles proceeded up the long drive, if that was the word for the dusty track that led to Lallapinda homestead.
The sun was not quite set but the elaborate stone front porch of the homestead was twinkling with coloured lights. Music proceeded from the house. There were quite a few cars already parked in what might once have been a horse paddock.
“I’d forgotten how fancy it was,” admitted Kym, getting out of the ute and stretching.
“Yeah: beats me what your sisters see in it,” agreed his mate. “Is that an actual bell tower?”
“Eh? Aw: no. Grandpa reckoned it was stuck on the front of the original house to make it look fancy. There’s nothing in it, it’s just a staircase, eh, Sloane?”
“Yes. Tie your tie,” she said grimly.
Kym’s father, sniggering, had forced a blue silk bow-tie on him. Probably been carrying it round in his pocket on the off-chance for years: Dad was like that. Kym was wearing it, but it looked bloody silly with his ordinary white shirt and grey slacks. He made a face, and tied it clumsily.
“Let me!” Impatiently Sloane retied it for him.
Andy had tried to wriggle out of the whole do on the excuse of having nothing to wear, but Kym’s dad, sniggering, had forced old Mr Manning’s dinner suit on him. As it was an exact fit Andy hadn’t been able to say he wouldn’t wear it. It and its buttoned fly. It smelled strongly of mothballs. He was wearing an ordinary shirt with it, but Kym’s Dad had found a bow-tie for him. The trouble with Dick Manning was, he thought he was funny.
“Probably half the blokes here’ll be in dinner suits, Andy,” said Kitten consolingly.
“Either that or you’ll be the belle of the ball,” noted his old mate kindly.
“You’ll look bloody silly if they’re all in bloody dinner suits!” he retorted swiftly.
“There’s one white tux, at least,” reported Kitten, as a man in a tux wandered out and leaned on the heavy stone balustrade that was a feature of Lallapinda’s version of the Aussie verandah. Misguided, in Kym’s opinion. Though after the tower, you barely noticed it.
“Well, are we going in?” he said mildly, ignoring the white tux bit.
“Yes,” said Sloane through her teeth. “Let’s go up and knock at the front door of what should by rights be our own house, and then go in and dance at a public ball in what should by rights be our own ballroom!”
Kym sighed. “Give it a rest, Sloane. Come on.”
They came on. Kym duly knocked at the front door of his grandfather’s house and they were admitted by a white-coated waiter. That augured well. But Kym just swallowed a sigh, and didn’t say so.
“Gidday, Sloane,” said Cal Wainwright on a cautious note.
“How are you, Cal?” replied Sloane, equally cautious.
“Oh, good, thanks.”
Sloane and her sister’s ex-lover shook hands, eyeing each other cautiously.
Sloane was as elegant as ever, in an off-the-shoulder cotton frock: large white polka-dots on a soft greeny-yellow background. It was sleeveless, with a tight bodice, a lowered waist and a full skirt to mid-calf. Cal Wainwright, who was used to the South Australian style, instinctively felt, though without verbalising the impression, that it was a bit plain for a dance, though he did think she looked pretty good. He eyed the high-heeled sandals in a darker greeny-yellow shade that toned beautifully with the dress, the restrained elegance of the single creamy pearl in each earlobe, and the graceful line of her neck with the hair up in a French roll, and decided that “ladylike” ’ud be the word.
Cal himself was one of the several men present who were in white tuxes. One or two of the younger ones were wearing them with smart, new-looking jeans but Cal, who, as Kitten had recently explained to the girls, was about forty-five, was wearing his with plain black trousers. And a neat, narrow, dark green bow-tie which matched the silk handkerchief peeping from his breast-pocket. Sloane had already noticed that he was with a group of people, probably guests staying at Muwullupirri: they couldn’t be his rellies or Cal wouldn’t have bothered to get gussied up. But the ladies in the party were very fancy and the other men were also in dinner clothes, so no doubt he’d felt he had to. Sloane, in fact, had never seen Cal Wainwright look so good, in fact she hadn’t known he could; and she was just a bit surprised that Kitten had so readily dumped him.
Cal was one of those tall, rangy, long-legged Australian males: in figure rather like Sloane’s own brother, Kym, in fact. The legs were still good and so were the shoulders but, though you couldn’t have said he had run to seed, he was noticeably thickening round the middle. Came of using the ute to get to the more accessible parts of the property and the plane to get to the less accessible parts, rather than riding a horse as his grandfather and great-grandfather and great-great-grandfather had done. His face was very tanned, of course, and very amiable and a bit irregular, but quite good-looking, in its way: he was by no means in the William Holden class but Kitten would probably have classed him as “manly”. Well, he was that, all right, but like all his type far too fond, not of getting his own way, precisely, reflected Sloane, automatically smiling and asking after his elderly parents, but of assuming that (a) he’d have his own way, (b) his decision was the right one in the first place, and (c) women’s opinions weren’t worth listening to. Not to mention, when you came right down to it, that women did not exist for the purpose of having opinions. What they existed for was for the purpose of producing, rearing and educating offspring, cooking vast meals for the male section of the household, and keeping the house tidy. In the odd emergency they’d also be expected to set a broken leg, drive the ute five hundred K to the nearest town for help, if necessary through a flood, and fly the Cessna. Yeah. There was still plenty of it about.
Sloane listened politely as Cal gave her a detailed and literal account of his parents’ state of health and reflected that Kitten was well out of that one. Since he asked, she then responded with a detailed and literal account of Karen’s and Dick’s state of health. –True, Karen was only fifty-one and fitter than any member of her family and Dick was fifty-three and only had the occasional twinge of arthritis in one ankle, but what the Hell.
Cal then remarked that there was a good crowd present. Sloane agreed, and asked if these New Year’s Eve dances were going to be a regular thing. Cal thought vaguely they were: Lallapinda was being run more as a hotel, these days. Sloane had already realised this: she nodded, but didn’t say she’d already realised it.
“I suppose this is a dance,” he then said, grinning, as the band struck up. “You wannoo?”
Sloane didn’t have a clue what they were playing: so far it had mostly been olde-time; and she had a fair idea that Cal wouldn’t, either; but she said mildly: “Might as well, thanks.” All she had to do was follow him, after all.
Sure enough, he did a slow something or other that might have been a sort of two-step if you weren’t being too particular about your definitions. Sloane followed him obediently. Might as well try to look as if she was enjoying herself, or Nikki might twig that Kym wasn’t the only Manning wishing they were elsewhere.
… “Who’s that?” said Nikki as a dark-haired young man who looked exactly like Mel Gibson in that first movie, not that dumb thing where he played that retardo, the first Mad Max one, led Kitten onto the dance floor.
“Dunno,” replied Melodie with a sigh.
“Not a local?”
“No. I don’t think hardly any of them are. Well, that’s Cal Wainwright with Sloane, and those people over there, they’re with him, they must be staying at Muwullupirri; and see that lady over there in the bright blue dress, that’s Mrs Keating from Nearby Bay, her husband’s the mayor.”
There was a short silence.
“No relation to the former Prime Minister!” said Melodie with a loud giggle.
“No,” said Nikki feebly.
“Mind you, if he was, and he came here, Guess Who ’ud be dancing with him before the cat could lick her ear?”
Nikki nodded glumly, as the Mel Gibson lookalike clutched Kitten to his chest.
“Trouble is, most of them have come in couples,” noted Melodie.
“Yeah, well, they always do.”
This was true: Melodie sighed.
“Only somehow it doesn’t seem to stop her,” noted Nikki, glaring.
“No. Well, one good thing: Mel Gibson’s right out of her period!”
Nikki smiled reluctantly. “Hah, hah.”
Ingrid had accompanied the two young men to the bar. To make sure they didn’t remain there. She now returned with them. “Andy’ll dance with you,” she said firmly to their guest.
Sheepishly Andy asked Nikki to dance. Nikki brightened, and they went off. Andy couldn’t dance at all well, they were only doing a sort of shuffle, but she didn’t seem to mind.
Ingrid sat down. “You can dance the next one with her,” she said grimly to her brother.
“All right,” agreed Kym placidly.
After quite some time she noted: “There’s a man over there that looks a bit like Sean Connery.”
“Ooh, where?” gasped her twin.
Kym had opened his mouth to say “Ooh, where?” in a silly voice, but too late. He grinned a bit, and drank fizzy white local stuff that was pretending to be champagne. He’d rather of had beer, but Ingrid hadn’t let him.
Ingrid nodded. “Over there.”
Melodie looked. Her face fell.
“He has got a beard, these days,” pointed out Ingrid.
“Yes, but...” She took another look. Her face brightened. “It isn’t him, is it?” she gasped.
“No.”
Melodie’s face fell again.
“Not that that’ll stop her,” noted Ingrid airily.
“No. Shall we have a bet on it?”
“No point,” replied her twin.
“No,” agreed Kym. He belched faintly.
“Don’t start that macho crap, thank you,” said Ingrid in an iron voice.
Kym replied mildly: “This muck’s bloody fizzy.”
“What I mean is,” said Melodie, “not a bet, more like a sweepstake!”
“I’ll be up for that,” said Kym.
“Um—well, what?” asked Ingrid feebly.
“Ten dollars. I’ll bet she dances the next one with him!” said Melodie eagerly.
“That isn’t a sweepstake,” noted Kym mildly.
“No: if we’re gonna do it, it’s gotta be fair.” Ingrid opened her handbag. She produced this year’s—very soon to be last year’s—pocket diary. She tore pages out of it and wrote on them. Carefully she folded the pages and shuffled them round on the table.
Kym reshuffled them to his satisfaction and drew one. “Next dance.”
“What? Blow!” cried Melodie enviously. She drew one. “Third dance. Well, blow!”
Ingrid drew one. “Shit.”
Melodie peered over her shoulder. “Hah, hah!” Ingrid’s slip was a blank. Well, it said “5.30, Meet Penny, Mr Snips, HAIR”, but for sweepstake purposes it was a blank.
The dance was ending: Cal and Sloane came to a halt just nearby. Sloane came up to the table. “What’s this?”
Airily Melodie explained, avoiding Cal’s eye. Ingrid looked unconcerned, but also avoided Cal’s eye. Kym had gone very red: he stared at his feet.
Sloane drew a slip. “Next dance but one.”
“Blow!” cried Melodie.
“Can I?” asked Cal.
“Go on,” said Sloane weakly.
Cal drew a slip. It was blank.
“How many blanks did you put IN it?” cried Melodie crossly.
“Enough.”
Andy and Nikki returned. Andy drew a slip. “Before supper.”
“That doesn’t MEAN anything!” cried Melodie.
Nikki drew a slip. Blank. Grossly she discarded it and took the remaining one. “After supper. Huh!”
Briskly Ingrid collected two-dollar coins from everybody. “Now: watch.
They all watched, even Cal, who should by rights have returned to his own party. And who possibly should by rights have been more embarrassed about it than he appeared to be. Though with his type, you never knew.
Kitten allowed the Mel Gibson lookalike to go off to the bar. He must have thought he was getting her a drink, because on his way—though this was far from typical Australian male behaviour when a bar was in sight, as they all tacitly recognised—he turned round and waved at her three times. Kitten waved back coyly. When he’d disappeared into the scrum round the bar she wandered off in the direction of the Sean Connery (older version) lookalike. Kym’s slip won but nobody had really been in much doubt about it. He collected up his winnings, capably extracting an actual coin from Andy in the place of the cunningly flattened beer-bottle top he’d tried to slip into the kitty.
Cal rubbed his chin slowly, eyeing this product of the dinkum Outback art. “They got pokies in the pub in town, now,” he drawled. “Doesn’t work in them, either.”
The younger girls collapsed in giggles, Andy grinned sheepishly, and Kym grinned tolerantly. Cal smiled mildly, said he’d see them, and strolled off.
Sloane collapsed onto a dinky small folding chair that the Lallapinda Management Corp seemed to think was the right style for the little tables adorning the fringes of the vast Lallapinda ballroom, and drank off the remains of Ingrid’s champagne.
“Well?” said Ingrid on a weak note.
“Don’t ask me!” she replied feelingly.
“Did he mention Kitten?” croaked Melodie.
“Nope.”
“Help.”
“P’r’aps he’s got over her,” said Nikki feebly.
“Who knows?” returned Sloane, rolling her eyes madly.
The Lallapinda New Year’s Eve dance proceeded on its expectable course. Periodically Kym and Andy fetched more drinks. They only came back with beer once: Ingrid made them take it straight back. Kitten danced with the mature Sean Connery. Then she danced with a guy who looked ex-act-ly like Cameron Daddo and in fact Nikki was positive it was him. Then she danced with the guy who was with him, who looked ex-act-ly like Andrew Daddo—so it must be them! Then she chatted up the local mayor, Mr Keating, and danced with him. Keeping her hand in with the older type. Then she danced with a handsome older man who reminded them all of somebody, only they couldn’t think who, who was with Cal’s party. Then she danced with a younger man who looked ex-act-ly like Gary Sweet in his younger days. Twice. It was undeniable that the younger Gary Sweet lookalike—or possibly an actual close relation of the actual Mr Sweet if you accepted the word of attractive Nikki West (22), accounts clerk, as Gospel—was more than impressed by Kitten Manning, judging by the way he clutched her to his hard-on for both dances, one of which was nominally something like the Twist. But the lady who had apparently come with him wasn’t and after the two dances she retrieved him. Apparently his mate, who didn’t look like anyone, had just been waiting for the opportunity, because he leapt up and grabbed her for the next one. Amiably Kitten allowed him to clutch her to his hard-on and stagger away with her, to the accompaniment of scowls from the lady who had come with him—who ninety to one was his actual wife, given his age and given that actual marriage, never mind if it was second or third time round, was still the norm for ninety percent of the population.
The rest of the Manning party sat and brooded on these and other points and occasionally danced, more or less taking Andy and Kym in turns, and very occasionally being asked by someone else.
They thus had plenty of time to look around them and observe that the Lallapinda Management Corp had done the ballroom up very nicely indeed. In fact the whole house had been done up in the most exquisite taste. Federation colours, y’know? Soft yellowy creams and subfusc blues and terracottas with touches of off-bright yellow, or subfusc greens and terracottas with touches of lighter green and orange. No-one remarked on the fact that the house pre-dated Federation and so the front hall, for instance, charming in yellowy cream with touches of blue and terracotta and filled with great bowls of blue, white and yellow flowers, might actually have been more appropriately decked in dark puce flocked wallpaper and dark crimson Turkey carpets with an aspidistra or two. The ballroom itself was a pale cream, the decoration on its wrought-iron pillars picked out in soft greens and terracotta, with touches of gilding. Ditto the little wrought-iron musicians’ balcony that for reasons known only to the organisers of the dance the musicians weren’t in: instead a couple of small tables and two potted palms had been placed there. The pale cream ceiling was composed of long, narrow boards interrupted at intervals by ceiling roses from which depended reproduction antique glass chandeliers, replacing several generations of light fittings that had never included chandeliers, but only Sloane was inclined to carp at this touch. And even Sloane had to admit that the floor looked wonderful! She remembered the room as dim, dark and dusty, a vast space where vague draped shapes loomed in corners: the floor had been almost black and she and Derek and Kym used to play marbles on it.
“What about Kitten?” asked Nikki with interest.
“Huh! She’d be sitting on Grandpa’s knee, letting him tell her what a pretty girl she was and stuff her face with bloody lollies!”
Kym had been given a momentary reprieve from dancing. He handed out more glasses of champagne and said mildly: “She did love the old boy, Sloane.”
“She loved being told what a pretty girl she was and being stuffed with sweets: yeah,” she said heavily.
“I think that more or less was love, to her, at that age,” said Kym on an uneasy note, sitting down. He drank some champagne. “Floor looks great, eh?”
“I just said that!” snapped Sloane.
“Didja? Musta missed it,” he said peaceably. “It does, though, eh?“
The floor was now a gleaming mahogany shade: polished jarrah. “Wonderful,” said Ingrid with a sigh.
Kym told Nikki all about how Grandpa’s grandfather had had the jarrah shipped in from Western Australia: the ship had sailed to South Australia from WA and dropped anchor down at the beach near where the beach house was now. They’d loaded the timber onto lighters, and then taken it the rest of the way overland by bullock cart.
“I’d like to see the place done in period,” said Ingrid thoughtfully.
“It is done in period!” objected Nikki in amazement.
“No, it isn’t,” she and Sloane both replied.
“Grandpa never did anything to it at all: at least the house is—is alive again!” said Melodie, very flushed.
Sloane sighed. “You’re right. Oh, well: dream on, I suppose.”
“They musta put hundreds of thou’ into the place,” said Kym. “Come on, Sloane, have a dance.” He carted her off forthwith.
“Oh, dear,” said Nikki on a guilty note. “Poor Sloane, she is upset.”
Andy got up, looking resigned. “Come on, Nikki, want to dance?”
Nikki dimpled and got up immediately.
The twins sat on glumly…
KRP Management in Sydney had given Nev Bailey two—exactly two—days’ notice that these nobs from Head Office were coming out to inspect Lallapinda. Well, all the Group’s Aussie properties, but Nev didn’t care about them, they weren’t his responsibility. He only cared about Lallapinda, which was. All that the birks in Sydney had said when he’d duly let out a howl was: “Well? You’ve got the New Year’s Eve dance organised okay, haven’t you?”
Certainly Nev had the New Year’s Eve dance organised, he was only too thrilled that the Lallapinda Management Corp in its wisdom had at last decreed the place was to be used for something in between the bloody conferences that were bloody boring both to arrange and supervise: same menus every time, same hassles with conference drunks and all-night parties that the one percent that were there for the stated purpose of the conference complained about, and same endless towers of extra towels needed because of all the bedroom-hopping and extra-marital showering that went on at conferences. The Management Corp in its wisdom had originally decreed that all the laundry should be done locally (i.e. two hundred K up the coast) but the laundry bill had got so astronomical that Nev had had a row of washing machines and a couple of dryers installed in one of the big stone sheds out the back that were restored and done up, but empty. Then the problem had been finding someone to supervise them. Two local Aboriginal girls had volunteered, but they were about as reliable as you might expect. Eventually he’d advertised in Adelaide and found a couple of girls who were keen to help out with the horseback treks that Lallapinda offered its conference delegates, and had given them the laundry responsibility as ostensibly part of the “other duties” that had been vaguely mentioned in the ad. It was obvious to everybody, even Wendy and Venita themselves, that the laundry was the main part of the job, but as they also got to ride the horses as much they liked in their off-duty periods, and as of course all meals were included, and as there was nothing to spend their money on locally and they were both saving up for overseas trips (Wendy to Europe and Venita to Japan), they had so far stayed on.
The New Year’s Eve dance and the new venture into hotelling were both well in hand: they’d only had a couple of Yanks and a pair of puzzled Japanese newlyweds for the “Real Aussie Family Christmas”, but two of the suites, half the double rooms in the house, and half the bunkhouse accommodation were taken for New Year’s: bloody good for their first year. Wendy and Venita had had to borrow half a dozen horses from Muwullupirri, there was such a heavy demand for the “treks”. And Chris, Nev’s wife, had had to fall back on the frozen New Zealand lamb Nev had got that time there’d been a glut of it on the market and it had been selling for about five dollars a kilo, even though she’d sworn she wouldn’t touch the bloody stuff, what about our rural economy? Nev didn’t point out her anomalous position in regard to our rural economy when she came home from a trip to Adelaide with an esky full of New Zealand kiwifruit. Nor did he ask what it might have cost her to fly it up with her as extra luggage to the nearest little airport: he was a man who knew when to keep his mouth shut. He just let her slice them up and serve them to the conference attendees on their pavlova. Not even commenting on the fact that she had to make jam out of the surplus before it went soft. Though he had been heard to say, when Wendy, who curiously enough had never tasted this Antipodean delicacy, asked him what it was like: “Bloody peculiar.”
Nevertheless, organised or not, Nev was still pretty pissed off with those birks in Sydney. He’d given the chief Head Office nob the bridal suite but he didn’t think he was particularly impressed with it. Nor was he impressed with the fact that, though Lallapinda did have a fax machine, it was in Nev’s office and not in his suite. Nor was he impressed with the fact that there was no private telephone line provided to the suite. If he hadn’t been such a nob Nev would have taken him gently out the back and shown him the fucking Telstra mast that they’d had to get down on hands and knees and beg fucking Telstra to install for them in time for their Grand Opening, explaining gently as he did so that you didn’t have lines, as such, in the outback. But what the fuck, he was such a nob that he didn’t notice little people like Nev: let him think what he liked.
The party had arrived yesterday morning: Qantas to Adelaide, then a private jet to the Port Augusta airport. Complaining like buggery about the time it had taken; well, up theirs, where did they think they were? Woulda taken a damn sight longer if Cal Wainwright hadn’t given them a lift to Lallapinda from the airport in his Cessna. First thing, they’d had to have a shower, that was reasonable enough. Then His Holiness the Lord High Chief Nob had had to have black coffee and a croissant. Fortunately Chris was wised up to that one, since she’d done that catering course. Croissants? Lallapinda could do you toasted croissants, it could do you croissants with ham and cheese, it could do you chocolate croissants, it could do you bagels, it could do you wholemeal bagels, it could do you bagels with poppyseed or sesame seed, never mind your simple croissants per se. It could even, should you opt for it, do you good old Aussie damper, not to mention even more dinkum good old Aussie Kellogg’s cornflakes.
However, what you and I and the rest of the country thought of as black coffee and croissants did not go down at all well with His Holiness the Lord High Chief Nob. Apparently—not that he had communicated this to a mere Nev or Chris Bailey in person, one of the corporate minions came running with a message for Chris—apparently Lallapinda black coffee was not black enough for His Holiness the Lord High Chief Nob and Lallapinda croissants with butter were not what His Holiness the Lord High Chief Nob meant by croissants with butter. What His Holiness the Lord High Chief Nob meant, see, was “croissants au beurre”.
It was hardly surprising that a shouting match had ensued between Chris and the corporate minion. Especially since, while he was at it, he had considerately given her the message that His Holiness the Lord High Chief Nob would like to see the dinner menu. Now.
Chris might have been said to have won that round, in that the corporate minion returned to his master with the message that that was what the coffee was and those were the only plain croissants they had but if he didn’t like the Australian butter they might find him some of the European-style muck that tasted sour, plus one of the commercially printed menus from the dining room. However, neither Nev nor Chris kidded themselves that their jobs weren’t very much on the line.
It had got worse, though after that little episode they hadn’t really expected it wouldn’t. The message had come down that His Holiness the Lord High Chief Nob didn’t fancy anything that was on the dinner menu. What he would like for his dinner tonight was some crudités to start with, but only if the vegetables were very fresh. Then, as Chris had écrevisses on her menu, he would like those, but served very simply, please: Scandinave. But only if they were very fresh. After that a steak, and the meat should be, preferably, a very tender rump steak. To be followed merely by a tossed green salad in a vinaigrette sauce. Here was the recipe for the sauce. After that, he would have a soft goat’s cheese with French bread. And some fresh fruit to finish. And he would like to see the wine list.
Chris had been driven to shout: “We’re miles up the boo-eye and the menu’s FIXED, is the man blind and deaf or just plain STUPID?”
Nev had pointed out that Lallapinda didn’t have a veggie garden, mate. The corporate minion had replied that that had been taken note of.
“Mate,” Nev had said, taking his trendy corporate zoot-suit’s lapel in a friendly hand: “unless your boss is God Himself, which mind you I stand ready to be convinced of, even he can’t supply water to the veggie garden when we’re in the middle of a drought. Now PUSH OFF, and tell him the bloody menu’s FIXED!”
“Wait on,” Chris had said in a trembling voice. “If he means the yabbies, I can do them, Nev. And the steak, I’ll defrost a bit now. And the French bread.”
“Yeah, all right,” Nev had said to the corporate minion in a very friendly voice indeed: “tell him that. And PUSH OFF!”
He had pushed off.
The message had come down from on high via a different corporate minion, this one keeping a wary distance from Nev, that Mrs Bailey was just to do her best. If no fresh vegetables were available, he would have avocado for a starter, since it was on the menu. But no shrimp or mayonnaise with it, please. And any good local cheese would do.
“What does that mean?” Chris had said in despair. “This isn’t dairying country!”
“Give him some of that lumpy blue-vein Victorian muck ya got down in Adelaide to try before Christmas, love. The sort that costs over eight dollars for a sliver. Well, lumpy sliver. Take it out of its plastic, it’ll look all right. And is that bloody salad-dressing recipe gonna take sixteen hours to do? Because if so, he can forget it.”
“No,” she said in a bewildered voice: “It’s really simple. Vinegar and salt and mustard and olive oil.”
Nev shrugged but admitted: “Good. Uh—what was all that about French bread?”
Chris brightened. “That was really easy! I had some dough rising for tonight’s dinner rolls, so I’ve just shaped a bit of it into a French stick!”
Nev broke down in sniggers.
“It’s all very well to laugh, but what if he goes on like this, Nev?”
“He’ll starve. that’s what,” he said sourly, walking out of the kitchen.
He had continued to go on like that but by now Nev was past caring. He had pre-empted him this morning by sending a message up that tonight’s dinner was a buffet. And no, the air conditioning could not be turned up in the suite, because the Lallapinda Management Corp had costed it out very carefully, and ducted air-con had been installed throughout the main house, all on one switch controlled by Nev, in order to stop guests losing the company a fortune by turning it up too high. And that was a generator out there in that big shed, and it ATE FUEL, but if His Holiness the Lord High Chief Nob thought it might be cheaper to buy a set of miniature push-bikes and hire a flock of galahs or some small but agile goannas locally to pedal ’em, he was welcome to try it. The silly galah. –Somehow Nev doubted that any of that message had percolated back to His Holiness the Lord High Chief Nob, because by now it was obvious that the corporate minions were all shit-scared of him. But by now Nev was well past caring if it had.
The buffet was just about ready in the big dining-room, which was in the main part of the house and had probably once been the formal drawing-room: the ballroom had been built onto the back at some later period in the house’s history (which Nev was officially supposed to know about as part of his duties as “Your Friendly Lallapinda Host”) and was linked to the room that had become the dining-room by a short passage and two sets of elegant sliding doors. That slid back into walls, Nev had only ever seen that in American TV shows about rich people before coming to manage Lallapinda. Chris reckoned she’d seen it a million times but was unable to specify exactly where. Fortunately the passage was very wide, because without any doubt at all there would be a scrimmage when dinner was announced: most of the Australian and American guests had expressed shock, horror and surprise on hearing that the New Year’s Eve buffet dinner would not be served until ten o’clock. Privately Nev and Chris thought of it as supper but what the heck, if the Lallapinda Management Corp wanted to call it dinner, let them.
Since the dining-room was well under control, Nev emerged from it and wandered into the ballroom to see how the dance was going. And if those nongs Fred and Tony at the bar needed any help, or more crates of fizz brought in, or anything.
Jesus. He watched limply as the actual Lord High Chief Nob in person came onto the balcony and sat down with the corporate minions. The younger corporate minions looked sadly down at the girls on the dance floor. Bloody Hell, wasn’t the sod gonna let the poor little tykes come down and dance on New Year’s Eve?
After a few moments there was a cautious cough near Nev’s ear.
Nev eyed Pete Dawkins from Muwullupirri station warily. “You coughed, sir?”
“That him, is it?”
“The bald one: yep. The one they’re all kow-towing to. His Holiness the Lord High Chief Nob in person.”
“Mm.” Pete eyed the party in the balcony drily.
After this had gone on for a while Nev was driven to say: “Bloody Hell, I reckon the sod isn’t even gonna let the poor little tykes come down and dance on New Year’s Eve!”
Pete eyed the party in the balcony drily.
After this had gone on for a while Nev was driven to say: “Well?”
“I reckon you’ve got it all wrong, Nev,” he drawled.
Nev eyed him warily.
“What ya do, see, when you’re dealing with the upper clawsses”—he looked sideways at him: with difficulty Nev refrained from reacting in any way—“is supply bird on a plate.”
“Eh?” he said weakly.
“I’m not saying ’is Lord High Muckamuckship isn’t gonna let ’em dance. What I am saying is, he’ll expect you to round up half a dozen pretty girls and take ’em up there, Nev!”
“Geddoudavit,” he said weakly.
“No: true.”
Since Pete Dawkins had worked on Outback stations all his life, working himself up to the position of assistant manager and right-hand man to Cal Wainwright (who was actually more than capable of managing the station himself), Nev was perhaps justified in snarling: “How the bloody Hell ’ud you know?”
Pete sniffed faintly.
“Don’t bother,” said Nev limply.
Pete replied immediately: “Got it off that bloke with the Grecian Two Thousand job that’s staying at Muwullupirri. ’E’s something high up in yer corporate whatsit, too, Nev.”
“Then what the fuck’s he doing at Muwullupirri?”
Pete shrugged. “Met Cal at the Melbourne Cup. –Don’t ask me any more, that’s all I know. Them giant dangly earrings and skin-tight satin dresses go with the corporate image, or something. Anyway, they came with ’im.”
Nev nodded limply.
Pete clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, snap to it!”
“Very funny.”
“I’m not joking,” he drawled.
After a moment Nev croaked: “Did Cal send you over to tell me that, Pete?”
Pete sniffed faintly and scratched his chin. “Wouldn’t go as far as that, meself. Only Mr Grecian Two Thousand, he said where was the live bird on a plate, and Cal said—”
“I get it,” he said heavily. “Don’t rub it in with a bludgeon, Pete.”
Pete scratched his chin again. “Give the Chief Muckamuck young Kitten Manning,” he suggested.
Nev swallowed. “Cal told ya to tell me that, did he?”
“Nope, I thought of it all on me ownsome!” he said proudly. “Well, just in case she’s got her eye on poor old Cal again,” he explained.
Nev had got that. He looked round warily. “Uh—well, she seems to be pretty busy at the moment, Pete.”
Pete sniffed faintly.
“Uh—well... Look, for God’s sake, I can’t!”
“Thought Our Friendly Lallapinda Host was used to that sort of thing?” he said airily.
“Look, just shut it, Pete! Shit, it’s next-door but one to pimping for the bastard!”
“Mm.”
“I can’t,” said Nev limply.
Pete rubbed his chin. “Want me to?”
Nev’s jaw sagged.
“Oh, it’d be no bother.”
“N— Uh— Look, Pete, just for God’s sake remember he’s my top boss!” he said urgently.
“Oh, I’ll kow-tow to ’is Muckamuckship, don’t you worry. The rest of the Manning girls seem to be available: I’ll round ’em up.” Before Nev could utter he’d gone off to do so.
Nev watched in limp horror. For God’s sake, Pete didn’t even know His Holiness the Lord High Chief Nob’s name! Well, not as far as Nev was aware. Well, he’d never bloody mentioned it to him, that was for sure!
… “Well, who are they, Pete?” asked Sloane feebly.
Pete explained kindly: “Dunno, Sloane. All I know is, they’re nobs from Sydney.”
“From KRP?” quavered Nikki.
Pete eyed her tolerantly. “Gotta be. It owns Lallapinda, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. Help, I think that’s Mr Reardon!” she gasped. as one of the older corporate dinner-suits wandered over to the balcony rail and leaned against it, looking idly down at the madding crowd below him.
“The CEO of the Aussie side?” asked Sloane.
Nikki nodded frantically.
Sloane’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Where’s Mrs Reardon?”
Pete Dawkins coughed.
“Yeah, very funny,” she agreed. “Well, all right, I suppose we can dance with some of those types if they want to. Try anything once. –Coming?” she said to the others.
Melodie was already on her feet, looking eager. “Look, that one with the red flower in his buttonhole, he looks like Martin Sacks in his younger days!”
“Eh?” said Pete weakly.
“You know: Blue Heelers!”
Dogs? Pete shrugged and gave up on her. “Coming?”
They followed him to the balcony more or less eagerly.
“Gidday,” Pete said amiably. “Thought you younger blokes might like to meet some pretty girls.”
The younger blokes were on their feet immediately, beaming. The Lord High Muckamuck also got up, but Pete could see that that was just manners: far from falling instantly for any of Kitten Manning’s sisters. he looked bored out of his skull. There was only one thing for it: he’d have to find the actual Kitten and sic her onto the bloke!
Young Melodie promptly captured the one that looked like Whatsisface. Bit thin on top, wasn’t he, for a film star or whatever the bloke was? Oh, well. Sloane ignored the fact that the older, fatter bloke was looking at her as if she was a juicy young heifer and he was a particularly hungry dingo, talking of dogs, if we were, and agreed to dance with a skinny bloke in specs. Possibly that heavy gold watch on his wrist had influenced the decision. Not to mention the fancy Pommy accent. Ingrid merely had to smile very, very slightly in the general direction of three of the others—already goggling at the long silver-blonde hair that she was wearing loose—and they fell all over themselves to dance with her. Their little mate Nikki got a youngish one in a very draped white dinner-jacket with a pale blue silk shirt under it but if she didn’t mind, why should Pete?
“There is another one, but I couldn’t find her for the moment,” he said to the other blokes.
They grinned sheepishly and looked warily at the Lord High Muckamuck.
“Thank you so much,” he said. “Mr—er?”
La-de-da and kiss-me-hand to you, too! thought Peter Dawkins. “Call me Pete. Whole of Lallapinda and Muwullupirri does,” he said with extra amiability.
The older bloke leaned over and whispered something in the Lord High Muckamuck’s ear.
He nodded, looking at Pete as he did it. “Pete, then,” he said, smiling. “You work at the neighbouring station, do you, Pete?”
Almost giving in, Pete replied: “Muwullupirri: yeah. Be seeing ya—I’m missing out on the dancing.” He went, because he had a feeling it wasn’t gonna get any better.
… “Strewth!” he said to Nev.
“Yeah, well, you were warned. But thanks anyway, Pete: seems to’ve been the right move.”
“Yeah. –He a bloody Pom?”
“Dunno. Got a plum in ’is mouth, any rate.”
“More like a kilo of ’em. Sounds like ruddy Menzies used to.” He sniffed slightly,
Nev broke down entirely and asked: “What did he say to you?”
“Uh—wait on. ‘Thank you so much, Mr Er; Pete, then. You work at the neighbouring station, do you, Pete?’”
“Don’t go on, ta,” he said, shuddering.
“That was it. But ’e was gracious with it, Nev!”
“I got that.”
“What the bloody Christ’s he doing here?” asked Pete.
“Apart from hating every minute of it, ya mean? I wish I knew,” he said heavily.
Pete patted him on the shoulder and left him. Poor bugger. Ten to one, or so local rumour had it, KRP was planning to give Lallapinda, the Lallapinda Management Corp, and the whole bloody shebang the chop.
Kitten had let Greg Taylor take her out onto the verandah and kiss her. Then she had let him take her back to the ballroom and insouciantly dumped him in order to dance with the silver-haired gentleman who was staying at Muwullupirri. She had caught his eye across the room. It hadn’t been difficult. Their dance had, by a coincidence, ended near one of the French windows onto the verandah. Not open: the air conditioning was on, it was still around thirty-four Celsius outside. He led her out: neither of them was under any illusion it was in quest of fresh air. Kitten let him kiss her. This was partly because he was an attractive man and she wanted him to. It was even more because he’d revealed his name was Kendall Burgoyne and he’d been unable to resist Cal’s invitation to come out to Muwullupirri for New Year’s, because his family used to live out this way. Ages ago: he’d been in his teens when they moved here and of course he’d been sent to boarding school; and then he’d gone to uni and hadn’t seen much of the place. But he’d always remembered it and intended to come back. Mm? Oh: his Dad had moved to Adelaide, it must have been twenty-odd years back.
Kitten hadn’t needed to be told all this: she could have told him most of it: Kendall Burgoyne, who in spite of the silver hair that was very like Richard Gere’s was only forty-seven (as he’d already managed to inform her), was the son of Robert Burgoyne who had been Grandpa’s partner and talked him into mortgaging Lallapinda for the mining venture that had ruined him. Apparently it had not ruined Mr Burgoyne, for Kendall now revealed readily that his dad, who was getting on, he was in his seventies now, had retired to a decent place in the Adelaide Hills. Not a farm: just a small-holding. Hobby stuff. Kitten was aware of the relative prices of real estate in all the sought-after areas in and around every significant city in the country and she knew that property in the Adelaide Hills was at a premium. She asked exactly where Mr Burgoyne’s property was. Kendall explained. Kitten’s lips tightened fractionally but he was now so busy pressing her to his hard-on that he didn’t notice.
After that she let him take her back into the air conditioning and before he could object headed for the Muwullupirri party’s table. Embarrassment all round, as Kendall then had to introduce Mrs Burgoyne and the rest of the party to Kitten. Mrs Burgoyne, an extremely thin lady of about Kendall’s own age, with very short, smart, unnaturally ginger hair, a lot of gold around about the ears, fingers and wrists, and a gold satin low-cut long dress that was not quite as tight as Kitten’s pink one, gave her an acid look and did not even try to smile. “Kitten?” she echoed, raising the plucked eyebrows.
Smiling nicely, Kitten said her name. She had generally spelled it “Katryn” for school but that wasn’t how, at least not to Anglo-Australian ears, it was pronounced. Her middle name was even better so for good measure she included that.
“She’s named for her mother’s mother,” said Cal in some amusement. “They’re a Danish family: her grandparents were immigrants back in the Fifties. –Your other grandfather always used to call you his little kitten, didn’t he, Kitten?”
Kitten nodded artlessly.
“How sweet,” said Mrs Burgoyne acidly.
“Yes; nobody can pronounce my name, so it stuck!” she said artlessly. Also slightly breathlessly: it was one of her best tricks.
“Come and dance,” said Cal, trying not to laugh.
Kitten smiled and nodded and let herself be led away.
“You might have let up in front of the bloke’s wife,” he said limply when they were on the dance floor.
“I might of, if she had,” replied Kitten calmly.
“Mm. Look—uh—I grant you that it may not be the happiest of marriages, but lay off him, will you? –If you can,” he noted heavily.
Kitten looked up at him seriously, eyes wide, and licked her lips. “Why?”
Sighing, Cal replied: “Just because, okay?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Do that,” he muttered.
After a moment Kitten said: “What does he do?”
“He’s not self-employed, that answer your question?”
“That depends.
Cal sighed. “I suppose you can’t help it. And at least you’re honest enough about what you want. Though in case you hadn’t noticed it, whether or not the bottom’s fallen out of the rural sector, Muwullupirri’s still going strong.”
“Yes. And you went to the Melbourne Cup this year as usual. Only thirty years back, your father owned part of the horse that won it.”
“Mm,” said Cal, chewing on his lip.
“And all of the horse that came second.”
“Go on, rub it in.”
“I never tried to pretend.”
“No, Kitten,” he said with a sigh: “you never did.
“I thought you might have found someone else by now,” she said cautiously.
“I haven’t been pining away, if that’s what you’re wondering. But there aren’t that many opportunities, in the back of beyond.”
“No. But there’ll be more, now that Lallapinda’s operating as a hotel.”
“Like the lot that’s here tonight?” said Cal with a sudden laugh. “Thanks!”
Kitten looked up at him seriously. “It’s just as well; you’re too good for me.”
“Eh?” he said in a shaken voice.
She nodded serenely. “Yes. And anyway, I’ve got things to do, before I settle down.”
Cal looked down at her dubiously, but didn’t dare to ask. And on the whole, he decided feebly, he’d rather not know, thanks. He pulled her against him and said a trifle bleakly: “Let’s just enjoy the dance, eh?”
“Yes,” said Kitten contentedly, letting herself melt against his manly chest. Not to say his hard-on. “Lovely.”
... “What?” asked Sloane crossly as her sister dragged her into the Ladies’.
Gravely Kitten checked the two cubicles, which were both empty.
Sloane watched this activity in astonishment. “What, for Heaven’s sake?”
“That man with the silvery hair, with the Muwullupirri lot: he’s Kendall Burgoyne.”
Sloane blinked.
“Yes!” said Kitten impatiently. “Kendall Burgoyne! Robert Burgoyne’s son!”
Sloane turned a strange yellow colour and grabbed onto a hand-basin.
“Shit, are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said faintly. “Kitten, he can’t be!”
“What, because he looks like Richard Gere, ya mean?” retorted Kitten scornfully.
“No,” she said faintly. “–He does, a bit. Neater, though: a neater look.”
“Smootho: yeah,” said Kitten, wrinkling her perfect little nose.
“Are you sure?” she said fiercely.
Kitten replied simply: “Yes.”
“My God,” said Sloane in a shaken tone.
Grimly Kitten imparted the facts about Robert Burgoyne’s retirement.
Sloane just goggled at her.
“Well, where did the money come from, Sloane?”
“You’re right. if he’d lost as much as Grandfather did, he couldn’t possibly... Unless this Kendall creep bought the place for him?”
Kitten shook her head. “He’s the type that would’ve managed to tell me, if he had.”
“I see.”
Kitten looked up at her hopefully.
Sloane swallowed loudly.
“We can start the Lallapinda revenge, now!” her sister hissed.
“Yes—no. More than that,” said Sloane, very, very faintly.
“Eh?”
“I—I wasn’t going to tell you: I didn’t think it’d do any good... I mean, I didn’t think you could— Kitten, have you looked up in the balcony?”
“No, why?”
“We’ve been dancing with some of the types from KRP: they were sitting up there. It’s not a conference, they’re on some sort of inspection.” She swallowed hard. “Kitten, Hugo Kent and Ward Reardon are with them.”
Kitten’s cheeks flushed brightly. She stared at her in silence.
“Are you all right?” said Sloane limply.
“Yes. Are you sure?” she said grimly. “Hugo Kent?”
Sloane nodded. “He’s not dancing or anything, just sitting there. Like—like the Mikado or something,” she said with a faint shudder.
Kitten’s nostrils flared. She opened her handbag, took out the little hairbrush she always carried, and brushed out her short silver-blonde curls ruthlessly.
Sloane understood that this activity was not merely cosmetic, but designed to stimulate thought: she watched silently.
“I’ll do it,” said Kitten, the sweet mouth firming to a grim line.
For a moment she had looked exactly like Grandfather Andersen, Mum’s father, with his dander up: ouch! “Kitten,” she faltered: “I know we said—”
“This is too good an opportunity to miss.”
“Ye-es; buh-but you’re right about him never noticing us. We’ve got the wrong voices and the wrong background and—and the wrong dresses,” Sloane ended miserably, eyeing Kitten’s pale pink satin curves.
Kitten frowned. “How many times have you been up there?”
“What? Oh, to the balcony? Only a couple. The boys have mostly come down. They’re quite nice, really. Half of them are Poms, though.”
Kitten nodded. “I geddit: with the right sort of voices?”
“Mm.”
“How’s this? My nemm is Katryn An-der-sen, I yam Scon-din-ah-vian,” she said in an Ingrid Bergman lilt.
“You sounded just like Ingrid Bergman. Worse,” said Sloane limply. “They’ll never fall for that. Besides, everybody here knows you.”
“True,” she said thoughtfully, staring blankly into the mirror. After quite some time she added: “So you only went up there twice?”
“Mm.”
“And Hugo Kent didn’t notice you?”
Sloane sighed. “Apart from the fact that he’s got what Grandma Andersen calls perfect manners, and gets up when a lady comes into the room—or balcony—no. We said he looked like a cold fish, didn’t we? Well, he is!”
She nodded.
“Kitten, whatever you’re plotting, it won’t work,” said Sloane drearily.
“In the cold light of day, you mean?” Kitten smiled. “It isn’t daytime. And this is Lallapinda: it’s meant!”
“It’s just a weird coincidence.”
“Don’t you want to?”
“I—” Sloane bit her lip. “Yes, I want to,” she said in a low voice.
“Okay. Well, Smootho Burgoyne fancies me, so I may fall back on him; I’ll see. It’s a pity Hugo Crap hasn’t noticed you: I really thought you might be his type. I’ll give him a go. If he doesn’t go for me either, we’ll have eliminated two types, won’t we?”
“He never looked at Ingrid, either. Or Melodie.”
“Nothing with money ever looks at Melodie,” said Kitten drily. She looked critically at her eyelashes. “Too much mascara.” She began to remove it. “C’n I borrow yours?”
“It’s only a lightish brown.”
“Mm.” Kitten applied a little, very carefully. “Better?”
“Well, yes.”
“Mm.” She removed the bright pink lipstick. “Whaddaya think?”
“It makes you look awfully young.”
“Too young,” she decided. “Though he may be into Lolitas.” She reapplied lipstick, though with a lighter hand. “Yeah?”
“Well, I think it’s better, but why ask me: I’m a fly on the wall to Hugo Crap, remember?”
“Mm. –Don’t get mixed up with any of those blokes from KRP until you find out how close they are to him,” she ordered.
“No, okay. But how do I stop Melodie?”
“I don’t think you can. But we may need a spy at that level.” Kitten snapped her handbag shut. “I’ll just go to the lav.”
“So will I, I feel as if I need to, after that!” decided Sloane.
They both went. As a precautionary measure, Kitten insisted they return to the ballroom separately. Sloane couldn’t see how it could help, but she did it. Help: so Kitten was serious about the Lallapinda revenge? Not that she wouldn’t like to get everything back, herself; but—
She looked round the ballroom and saw Kendall Burgoyne laughing and talking with the heir to Muwullupirri and her heart filled with rage, and she went straight up to them, smiling, and said: “Hullo again, Cal. I seem to have lost my lot, I think they’ve all gone off with some very young junior execs from Sydney. Could I possibly join you?”
Cal Wainwright’s good manners would not have let him do less than jump up and welcome her warmly. Sloane smiled at everybody, with an extra-warm smile for Kendall Burgoyne, right into his eyes, and sat down with the party from Muwullupirri.
Next chapter:
https://thelallapindarevenge.blogspot.com/2022/11/further-down-road.html
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