Yesterday's Dust (29 page)

None had questioned his performance. And why should they? These two faces of Jack were opposite sides of the same coin. It was as if he had become Sam as he'd donned his clothing. His voice, his mannerisms had altered. He was Sam, her husband, and a better man.

The city had been an easy place for one man to become two. A month of fear, of lies and tears,
then Jack, and the now silent Ann, had returned to Mallawindy, and May had returned to Narrawee; the double bed she had never shared was suddenly cold and wide.

She learned to lie so well that first year. Sam could not live with his guilt, she said. He could not stand to be at Narrawee at the moment so he'd gone away for a few months.

In the years after his father had died, he'd spent months
away from Narrawee. May and the manager had managed. ‘Sam is looking at properties in Queensland, or in Tasmania. Sam has flown over to New Zealand.' What fine stories she had concocted; what a fine lie she had lived.

But when she'd needed Sam in the flesh, she'd sent a letter to Jack:

Dear Jack, Ellie and family,
I hope you are all keeping well, and that Ann has improved. The weather here has
been delightful these last weeks. Sam has been spending his days in the garden. It is looking a picture. He said to tell you that he would like to see you on the 14th, Jack. He has some business he wishes to discuss with you.
Love, May and Sam

The world so much larger in the sixties, Mallawindy so far away. For years she and Jack had kept up the charade while making plans that would see Jack's
name on the title to Narrawee. Perhaps Sam would go overseas and disappear. But how would Jack get home?

Perhaps Sam should drive into the desert, lose himself forever in the immensity of this land. May would follow, a day behind. She'd drive Jack home.

Too many cars on the road, or not enough. Too much fear of discovery.

Or a motorbike, perhaps. Yes, buy a motorbike and Sam could
carry it
on a covered trailer, then Sam disappears and a leatherclad helmeted rider returns. Who would know?

Bike licence. What if there was an accident? What if the rider began drinking? What if the police stopped the rider? And who buys the bike? And who registers it?

So get a fake licence. Set up a fake address.

Desperation had given them nerve enough to hide the deaths of Liza and Sam. Years on,
neither one had sufficient nerve to apply for a dead man's birth certificate, to approach a police station and apply for a bike licence.

So many plans had been made, spoken of in great detail, but always a problem emerged, with no way across it to a solution. All too difficult.

‘Let it slide, May. Let it slide,' he'd said. ‘Give it another twelve months.'

So they'd let it slide while the years
had slid on by – until Ann had taken their fate into her hands that night and Jack had been the one who had to die.

Now it was too late. He was destined to sign Sam's name forever.

‘Forty-odd kilometres from Albury,' he said.

‘We might stop for a coffee, or an early lunch, then drive straight through.'

‘Did you tell them about your will?'

‘No need for them to know,' she said. ‘They get on
well, Jack. You have two beautiful daughters and I envy them their closeness. We made the right decision.'

They'd made a new will, a joint will, leaving May's property to Bronwyn and Narrawee to Ann. May had given the instructions and Jack had signed on the dotted line.

‘Poor bloody Jack,' he said. ‘Couldn't even sign his own will, have a say in where his money, which isn't his money, will go
to when he croaks.'

‘Who else would we have left it to?'

‘Your cousin,' he said, and he smiled that same old boyish smile that could once have charmed the drawers off a nun.

‘Him! He'd sell it for hobby farms as quick as look at it.' They drove on in silence, May's mind again wandering, but this time to Ann's children.

‘Bethany was smiling today. She's barely two months old and tiny, but
a bright little button if ever I saw one. Her big black eyes followed everything. Matthew, the second oldest, has got the blond curls. He's a little like Mandy. Just a little. I took some photographs.'

‘She was the image of Liza, you know.'

‘There was a definite similarity. Certainly the hair.'

‘I saw her once. “Is you a bad man?” she said. She was her mother's daughter. She could pick 'em,
May.'

‘A delightful little girl with a beautiful nature. Fate is cruel, Jack. She'd be going on ten now. Young Benjamin is six years old already, and growing into a fine looking boy. He's very tall for his age. He has the dark hair and the Burtons' dark eyes, but oddly enough they wear David's expression, and he's definitely David around the mouth. A very interesting mixture, that little boy.'

‘Benjamin. After Ellie's old man. I notice she didn't name one of them Jack.'

She knew how to divert his moods. ‘Oh, and I meant to tell you, Ellie's sister and her daughter-in-law called in for a cup of tea. They'd been shopping in Warran.'

‘Bloody Bessy? I bet she had a rare old time running me down.'

‘Not at all. Not a bad word was spoken about you, except to tell me that Ellie is having
Jack's . . . your name added to the children's tombstone after Christmas.'

Since the birth of Bethany, May had been telephoning weekly, and three times now they'd driven up. Jack drove no further than Daree, remaining in the motel room, watching daytime television until May returned. He didn't go near Mallawindy.

This time they'd slept one night at the motel, and with the trip up too fresh
in his mind, the return journey seemed long. He knew every curve, every tree, every hill. Too many years spent travelling this road. But he drove easily, keeping to the limit. May didn't like speed. Didn't like a lot of things he liked.

So come Christmas, he'd have a tombstone. Maybe he'd feel better for it. Give it another two months and the seven years would be up. The courts would declare
him dead. Dead and buried.

He'd be Sam then, and Sam could have his hair cut. It wasn't much to look forward to, but it was something.

They stopped for coffee and a light meal in Albury, then May took the wheel for the last lap home. Jack sat back, pleased to be going home. He was growing accustomed to being dead, and the closer December came the fitter he got.

He hadn't had a drink since April.
It had been a bloody torment anyway. When he'd had it, he always wanted more. It wasn't worth the brawls it caused, and a bottle of Diet Coke felt much the same in his head as a stubby of VB. He drank a lot of Diet Coke.

Never a walker if he could drive, May had got him walking again. Each night now, she dragged him out for their constitutional, and though he might complain out of habit, he walked
with her, walked for kilometres. He felt fitter than he had ten years ago, and today his sixty-seven years were not weighing on him so heavily. They'd shared a water bed at the motel last night and one thing had led to another. Sex had been pretty much a once-a-month exercise these last few years, but it always left him feeling younger, stronger, and it was bloody good exercise for the heart,
better than wearing out shoe leather, he'd told May last night.

‘I asked Ann and Bronwyn to come down and visit us, to let their children run wild in Narrawee. I want them to know the land while they're young, fall in love with it. It has missed children, my dear,' she said. ‘In our youth, the old house was such a noisy, happy place, and it can be again. Bronwyn's baby is due around Christmas.'

‘She's only been married a couple of months.'

‘At least she got married. Half of them don't bother to these days.'

‘The breed won't die, May.'

‘She's proud of the Burton name. Calls herself Burton-Smith. She was saying today that she refused to marry Nick unless he added the Burton name. Still working – she says she'll take a few days off when the baby comes, then take it to work on her back.
An interesting daughter, very you – and quite a character. She said she'd come down one weekend, after the baby is born.'

‘I move into the cellar, do I?'

‘You can go to Toorak – but I doubt she'd recognise you if you worked at it.'

He held up his wrist. ‘She'd know that bloody scar in ten seconds.'

‘Yes. Yes. You could wear a bandage, or one of those splints Barbara Dean wears. She's got arthritis,
wears them on both wrists now. I was talking to her the other day.'

‘Little blue-eyed Barbara Dean. I cringe every time I hear her name.'

‘I'll swear she doesn't even remember. She must have been only a tiny thing – she was six years behind me through school.'

‘I remember. I remember her little face and I remember that perverted bastard's face.' His anger rose quickly.

May knew how to cool
it. ‘I know, Jack. I do understand, but to get back to our previous conversation – '

‘Jack?' he said. ‘You always were a devious little bugger, May, a determined little bugger too. Refused to believe that there were things you couldn't fix.'

‘We'll see.'

She liked to dream, but he knew what he knew, and he knew that that black-headed little bitch and her kids wouldn't set foot in Narrawee while
he was alive. His kids had inherited his memory, his inability to forgive.

‘The bad times will soon be over. Wonderful times lie ahead for us and for Narrawee. One day there will be children there again and they'll run wild in the rooms, and they'll use the old oak table as a slide. Just as we did. Remember?'

‘I remember. And I remember being thumped on the bum for doing it.'

‘I missed out
on the thump, so my memories are more fond.' She reached across and quickly kissed his cheek.

‘What brought that on?'

‘The water bed. As you say, wonderful exercise for the heart. And your refusal of the wine list at dinner last night. Thank you, Jack. Do you know that today I am at peace with life? For the first time in far too long I am at peace with life. Do you feel it too?'

‘No.'

‘How
I'd love you to see, to know, Ann's children. That little girl. And Tristan. He's so wickedly adorable. You could not help but love him. He reminds me of that old photograph of you.'

‘I was never adorable, May.'

‘Oh, yes you were.' She smiled at his expression, then spoke again of the children. ‘He wanders around with his dressing gown over his head, saying he's Darth Vadar.'

‘Who?'

‘Darth
Vadar. Space anti-hero. A neighbour was looking after him one night and he refused to go to bed. She let him watch one of those old movies with her eldest boy. Now he goes to bed with his light sabre instead of his teddy. Don't underestimate the power of the dark force, he says, and it's so clear – when you know what he's saying. He's barely two years old and he can talk the leg off an iron pot.'

She was back on the kids again. They should be good for a hundred kilometres. He closed his eyes, his head back.

‘What a handful for her. I don't know how she manages. But she does. And she's looking so well on it. She asked how you were.'

‘Hoping you'd tell her I died in the night, eh?'

‘Not at all.' She adjusted her sunglasses and drove on for minutes. ‘She still cares for you. She gets
a . . . a look on her face when she speaks about you. A look of sadness. God I wish I could get you two – '

‘Stay away from that one, May. Stay well away from it.'

‘Yes. Yes. You're right. I'm sorry, Jack, but I feel so good today, I want everyone else to feel it. It's over. It's finally over. Ann is fine. We're fine. Come Christmas and we can move on.'

‘Can I have a haircut for Christmas,
boss, and a large bottle of louse shampoo?'

‘If you're good.'

‘And a water bed?'

May laughed.

Ann had been out all morning. At one p.m. she dropped Matthew off at the playgroup before meeting Bronwyn for lunch. So much to talk about these days. Bronwyn could now talk babies without throwing up. She was bottling Beth while Ann shovelled space food into Darth Vadar, complete with his hooded dressing gown. He refused to leave the house
without it. Maybe he had a leaning towards the dark side of the Burton breed.

The conversation moved from babies to Mallawindy and to the old kitchen, finally having an overdue renovation. ‘They're doing it properly, getting it lined, and they're putting in one of those modern kitchens. Some firm in Daree is doing it, Annie, and it's costing a fortune.'

‘I like the old one,' Ann said.

‘Yeah?
A happy memory in every dent. You know I've got the feeling that Johnny is planning to move over there. He's paying for it.'

‘Still teaching at the school?'

‘And trying to make it permanent. He's like a different person these days.'

‘He's certainly easier to talk to,' Ann said.

‘But?'

‘I don't know, Bron. Sometimes it's as if the last of the old Johnny is gone. He's reinvented himself so
many times he's lost the real one.'

‘About time too, the moody bugger.' She straightened, stretched her shoulders and eased her back away from the chair. ‘You know, I can see him and Kerrie Fogarty getting together.'

Ann shrugged. ‘Ben's rapt in Kerrie.'

‘I know. He has been for twelve months. That's why I invited her to my wedding. Thought I might give them a nudge. But he's so bloody frustrating,
Annie. Look at him with Judy Watson. I nudged and she chased – chased him up hill and down dale, and what did Ben do? Put his head down and ran faster.'

‘Judy Watson is a fake. Kerrie . . . Kerrie is different. She came down to the house when I was there on Sunday. Ben was talking to her.'

‘Yeah, but who did she come to see?'

‘Johnny.'

‘They're together every day. Proximity, opportunity, common
interest. You see if I'm wrong, Annie.'

‘The priest who came in from the cold,' Ann said and she bit into a sandwich. The conversation swung away then to May Burton.

‘She's quite nice once you get past the plum in her mouth. What say we take her up on her offer, go down for a week?'

‘I don't think so.'

‘I might. When this one's out and bawling.' She patted the bulge beneath her maternity overall.
‘Nick is all for it. He wants to meet Sam. He wasn't there the day we called in, and Nick can't believe in old Jack's sane identical twin. I mean, Annie, it is a bit hard to swallow. Jack's twin, into the restoration of antique furniture? Can you imagine Jack getting his hands dirty?'

‘No.'

‘I wasn't going to go in that day. I just wanted to see what the place looked like, but Nick's got the
cheek of his namesake. Anyway, May treated us like long-lost relatives.'

‘She always loved visitors.'

‘You know, she said that Sam was in Toorak that day, but the dame at the supermarket – where we asked directions on how to get
there – said Sam and May had been in only an hour earlier, said they'd just got back from Toorak. What's with him, Annie?'

Ann shovelled space food into Darth Vadar's
small mouth and set to wiping up the spillage with a coiled pink serviette cum light sabre. She couldn't lie to Bronwyn.

‘I mean, is he man or myth?'

‘I suppose he's real enough, Bron.'

‘She's always by herself when she comes up here. He never comes with her. How many times have you seen him? I mean, you spent a fair bit of time in Narrawee when you worked in Melbourne. How many times did you
actually see Sam in the flesh?'

‘Just the once. At the open day.'

‘Yeah?' Bronwyn nodded and gently removed the teat. Bethany was sleeping. ‘Am I supposed to shake her up and burp her or something?'

‘She'll burp herself. One way or the other.'

‘Do you use disposables?'

‘Most of the time.'

‘Nick's mother gave me two dozen of those towelling things. I told her they'd make great tea towels.'
The bottle placed on the table, Bronwyn settled Bethany on one arm and emptied her coffee cup. ‘It's cold,' she said.

‘Cold coffee. One of the joys of motherhood. Unfinished sentences is another. Interrupted sleep.'

‘Interrupted sex.'

‘What's that?' Ann asked.

The waitress cleared the table and the sisters waited until she was done, then Bronwyn returned to a former conversation.

‘Maybe he's
a lunatic, Annie, and she has to keep him locked up in the cellar.'

‘Who?'

‘Sam. And May only lets him out on his good days. Or . . . or she hires an actor for special occasions.' She stopped short and stared at Ann, her eyes growing huge. ‘That's it. That's it. That is it,
Annie. I've solved the mystery.'

‘What mystery?'

‘Old Jack. That's where he went to.'

‘When?'

‘All the time. That's
where he is now.' Bronwyn sat forward, her thighs spread, her eyes flashing. ‘You just think about it for a minute. Think about June. You went there in June for their open day, and Sam was there. Right?'

‘Right.'

‘Well he was always away in June. Remember? I loved the June school holidays; rain, mud and all – because old Jack was never around.'

‘He was never around, period, Bron.'

‘Yeah, but
that's what I mean. And that's what's wrong with Johnny too. That's the answer to everything, Annie. That's why Johnny ran. That's why he refuses to talk about Jack. He knows. Somehow or other he found out that the old man was a bigamist and he couldn't break Mum's heart, or something, so he took off.'

‘Pregnancy isn't supposed to affect the brain, just the result of pregnancies. You've seen
the photographs of Dad and Sam when they were small.'

‘He had them done on a computer. They can do anything these days.'

‘Ask Ben. He's met Sam.' She glanced at her watch. ‘You're going to be late back to work.' Ann reclaimed Beth, placing her in the rear of the twin stroller.

‘But can't you see what I'm getting at? That's where Jack has been going, all of these years. That's where he's been
disappearing to. Remember how the letters would come – and always from May, never from Sam? Jack would pick up his briefcase and go. He's a bloody bigamist, pretending that he's twins. The first wife knew, but the second one didn't.'

‘May and Sam were married in '53.'

‘So . . . so reverse what I said. I'll bet you any money you like that he's down there now calling himself Sam.' Bronwyn stood,
staring hard at her sister.

‘Say bye-bye to Aunty Bron, Tristan, and tell her she'll feel worse when the baby comes.'

‘Done unna ettimate da power ob da dark porse,' he said.

‘And don't you underestimate me either, Darth.' Bronwyn replied. ‘And tell your mother not to either. I'm inviting myself around tonight, Annie. Nick's going to see his parents and I think I might get a headache earlier
rather than later.' She kissed Tristan. ‘You know who he takes after, don't you?'

‘May said it yesterday. Everyone says it. Even David, God help us.' Bronwyn laughed. ‘And I wouldn't laugh about it either. You look as if you're having quads. Imagine four little Jacks.'

‘I'd drown them at birth. See you tonight, Annie. We'll work out how we're going to expose him.'

‘Come for dinner.'

Bronwyn
nodded, waved, walked away. Ann sat on.

‘So here we go again, Darth.'

‘Done uner ettimate da power ob da dark porse.'

‘I never did, my handsome one.' She sipped her coffee as she watched her sister's rounded form cross over the road, knowing that Bronwyn wasn't going to give up on this theory easily. And if she told Nick, he'd make it his one goal in life. Jack had pulled the gun on him once,
and given him a two-barrel salute as he ran.

I'll have to tell her, she thought.

Tell her how much?

Her mind travelled back to yesterday, to Bessy and May. Both tiny ladies, but that was where the similarity ended. May in her pale yellow linen with her pale blonde hair. Bessy in her baggy trousers, legs spread, sitting on the back step, cigarette in hand.

‘Jack told me so much about you,'
May had said.

‘And all bloody bad, I bet.'

‘But he had great respect for your bull, Bessy.'

They'd laughed and for the first time in Ann's life, the two worlds of her childhood had merged. She had almost begun to believe in the impossible – May and Samuel. At Narrawee. The new Samuel mellowing with age.

Now this.

May, so careful with her choice of words, and so happy yesterday. She had told
Ann that Jack had remained in Daree, but she'd dragged out the old virus for Bessy and Bron. Poor Samuel, always down with a virus, or out of town. And that was the major problem. Uncle Sam always there, but never there.

If he had the nerve to face Bronwyn, there was a chance he'd pull it off. Ann hadn't seen her father for eight years when she'd met Uncle Sam that time in Narrawee. She had been
fooled. Fooled by his soft voice and his smile, and by his bandaged arm.

Came off a nag
.

She hadn't guessed. She had not guessed.

But she'd had no memory of the previous Sam at that time, and she'd gone to Narrawee expecting to see Uncle Sam. Bron would go there expecting to see her father. She'd been in Mallawindy through all of the years, seen the letters from May, seen their father pick
up his briefcase and drive away. She'd know him. He couldn't alter the expression in his eyes, couldn't alter old mannerisms. Bron would know him.

Better to tell her. Better to swear her to secrecy. The world was shrinking daily, and though Ann may never again visit Narrawee, Bronwyn and Nick certainly would. Sooner or later they'd come face to face with Jack Burton, then God help everyone.

May had spoken well of Sam yesterday, spoken about his reclaimed antiques, stored for fifty years in the cellar but now gracing the old rooms once again.

‘The boys' great-grandfather brought a few of the pieces with him from Wales, but when the twins' parents moved back from Melbourne, they had their own furniture so they tossed what was considered to be old junk into the cellar. Samuel is quite
the
perfectionist when it comes to wood. I'd love you to see his work. I believe you would be impressed.'

Bridge-builder May, trying so hard to reconstruct that which had never been built, could not be built. No base on which to commence. Just . . . just blood.

It was almost impossible to believe. Jack Burton working with his hands, determined to put the old mansion back the way it had been
in his youth. But people could change. If they wanted to. They could force change. Since Bethany's arrival, Ann had forced many changes. She'd put Mandy's photograph away, realising she'd been worshipping at it daily, as her father had worshipped before Liza's portrait. Life and love were for the living, not for the dead, and seven years had been too long to mourn her first baby.

She recognised
much of her father in her own personality, but she fought it, fought his genes and his influence on her early life. A plant died if it was not given room to grow. Her father had refused to grow, to move on, but Ann had four good reasons now to move forward. Her past would not taint the lives of her children.

Mandy's room had been newly painted, the single bed moved into Benjamin's room, which
was large enough to take the two beds. He was delighted with it. Now he could invite his best friend to a sleep-over. Little Ben, growing tall, developing his own personality. A brand-new person. A melding of the best of two families.

And Matthew, he adored his little sister. Gentle Matthew, so like David. Ann was seeing the boys as individuals these days and loving them more, because of Bethany.
Mandy had not been replaced, but had taken her special place in that other time. Her room now smelt of Bethany, that sweet scent of white laundry and powder, of baby things and baby breath.

And Johnny too, the boy who had left her screaming on the road, had also been placed away in that other time. The brother she spoke to in Mallawindy was the adult Mr Burton, teacher – the sometimes stranger.
Perhaps he would marry Kerrie Fogarty, have his own children.

Ann knew he'd never come to terms with the part he played in their father's great charade, but he was beginning to forgive Ann her part in it. Other things on his mind these days. Was it Kerrie?

Malcolm Fletcher was also playing a role in his new life. Johnny spent most Sunday evenings with the old man.

Ann sighed, shook her head.
She couldn't tell Bron and Nick the truth. Already too many knew. Far better to deny the bigamist theory, to laugh it off. Better if Bron had her baby early. A new baby and full-time job would leave little time for detective work. Better for all concerned to have Aunty May and Uncle Sam living safe at Narrawee, Uncle Sam dabbling in the restoration of antiques. Better for the boys and for Bethany
too. Children were the sum total of those who had gone before them. Negatives created negativity, thus there would only be positives in her children's lives.