Kitabı oku: «Olivia's Awakening», sayfa 3

“I did fly Qantas from Singapore,” she said, finding herself caught up in the story.

“At the time of our worst cyclone ever—Cyclone Tracy which devastated Darwin—Qantas established a world record when six hundred and seventy-three people were evacuated on a single Boeing 747. I was just three at the time but I vividly remember it.”

“The cyclone or the flight?” She shaded her eyes to look up at him. It was surprisingly good to have to look up at a man. Even if it was McAlpine.

“Both. My family has always had a keen interest in aviation. My grandfather, Roscoe McAlpine, established McAlpine Aviation. General air charter, jet charter, helicopter, freight. Supporting government agencies with fire and flood operations. That kind of thing. We’ve grown exponentially since Granddad’s day. He would have been so proud. The irony is he was killed in a light aircraft crash when he was a very experienced pilot who had flown hundreds of hours in very hazardous conditions.” He shrugged fatalistically, but Olivia could see the hidden grief.

“Am I the only passenger?” she asked, looking uncertainly towards the waiting men.

“Do you need reassurance? They’re not cattle rustlers. All three are company employees. They’re coming with us,” he supplied briefly.

And pray tell exactly where?

She had the sense not to ask.

Words simply could not describe her feelings as Olivia looked down at the primeval wilderness that was to be her home for the next five months. It would be fair to say she was shocked out of her mind.

Dear God! she prayed fervently. How am I going to be able to withstand it?

God answered very promptly. Buck up!

The famous early explorers of this continent— splendid, intrepid men of British stock—would have quailed at the prospect of having to transverse such a place, which looked to her distraught eyes like no other kind on earth. What lay beneath her had to be one of the last remaining great wilderness areas on the planet.

There was no sign of human intervention, let alone habitation, apart from the lonely cluster of white buildings that looked like an outback version of Stone-henge. Extraordinary as it may appear, she couldn’t think she would enjoy her stay at all. This vast landscape glowed as fiery as Mars, the red soil held together by what looked like giant pincushions in the most amazing shades of burnt gold and burnt orange. And she with the English-rose complexion! She would probably shrivel up in a matter of days.

Don’t allow yourself to get fazed.

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

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

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

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

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

What are you scared of? McAlpine?

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

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

He’s having me on!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re on Naroo Waters.”

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

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

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

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

“While I think you were testing me out.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why was that?

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing on par with this, Heather! I wasn’t prepared for this!”

“You sound like you’re a wee bit scared of the place?”

“I’d like to say no, but actually it is daunting,” Olivia confessed. “The vastness, the isolation, the lack of human habitation and the floods of light! Nature is supreme here.”

“That it is,” Heather agreed.

“You must get lonely from time to time?” Olivia asked, even though she could see Heather was a strong spirit.

“Sometimes I do!” Heather freely admitted. “Especially since we sent our boys off to boarding school. That’s a couple of years back. They’re twelve. Twins! They’ll be home soon for the June vacation. If it gets a bit much for me or if Wes is away on a long muster, I take a trip into Darwin. I’ve got friends there.”

“So you’ll be looking forward to having your sons home.” Olivia didn’t doubt it.

“Alex and Ewan.” Heather’s green eyes lit up. “I adore them.”

“I’m a twin,” Olivia confided, feeling an instant of crushing loneliness for Bella and home. “My sister’s name is Bella. She’s very beautiful.”

“Well, she would be.” Heather laughed, still looking at Olivia with unfeigned admiration. “Like you.”

“Goodness, no!” Olivia shook her head. “We’re fraternal twins, not identical. Bella takes after our mother. She was a recognised beauty. We lost our mother when we were toddlers.”

“Now that’s sad!” Heather’s expression sobered.

“One is shaped by it, I always think. At any rate one develops very finely tuned emotional antennae.”

“But you have your dad?” Heather was regarding her visitor keenly.

“Not as much as we would have liked,” Olivia found herself revealing. Her inner person as opposed to her outer person appeared to be emerging at a rate of knots. “My father is an important man and a workaholic.”

“Well, it does go with the territory, love,” Heather said consolingly. “I’m sure he’s very proud of you and Bella.”

Olivia further surprised herself. “Well, we hope to make him proud, Heather. We live to please him because we love him.”

Heather made a little face. “I can see I’m talking to a very modest young woman.”

They had slipped into conversation so easily it was obvious Heather was starved of female company and ready for a chat, if not a good gossip. What struck Olivia as out of the ordinary was that Heather appeared to have taken to her on sight, when she knew scores of people who called her standoffish and a lot worse behind her back. It would have shocked them to know how shy she really was when the layers of cool polished veneer were stripped off. The trouble was, as the years went by she got better and better at playing cool. But it was all a facade. All the people who loved her knew that.

So apparently did Heather. And Bessie, her Good Samaritan. She hoped to see Bessie again.

Heather spoke gently. “You’ll be a good mother when the time comes. I take it you’re not married?” She had taken note of Olivia’s elegant ringless hands.

Olivia sighed. “It would be fantastic to meet the right man.”

“But you must have heaps of admirers.” Heather wasn’t trying to flatter. She thought her visitor very beautiful and refined. Also, her upper-class English voice fell entrancingly on the ear. Heather was impressed.

“Bella is the one with the admirers.” Olivia’s smile held pride and affection. “She’s very quirky. Funny as well as being stunningly beautiful. I missed out on the quirkiness. I tend to keep a much lower profile. Bella is very much at ease with herself. I’m a bit on the bland side, I’m afraid.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” said Heather, thinking her visitor anything but bland. Obviously the sister had a strong sense of her own beauty, whereas Olivia, for some unfathomable reason, did not. “Anyway, outback life instead of big-city life is guaranteed to bring anyone out of their shell. I know you’re going to love Kalla Koori. It’s one of the outback’s great showplaces.”

Of course it was, as befitting outback royalty.

“I’m looking forward to staying there.”

Heather leaned forward confidentially. “Just between you, me and the gatepost, which incidentally is a good few miles away, I should tell you Marigole still likes to pop in from time to time. Unannounced. As you don’t know her and you’ll be staying on the station, I feel a little word of warning mightn’t go astray. Marigole is very territorial, divorced or not. We’re all convinced she wants him back.”

“Really?” It wasn’t the discreet thing to do but Olivia decided to follow up Heather’s lead. Listening carefully, one always learned something interesting, or potentially useful. Just think of the journalist who had spilt the beans on her family. “How did they come to split up in the first place?” She knew her questioning Heather wasn’t the done thing but she really wanted to know. McAlpine wasn’t about to tell her a thing.

Heather leaned in. “Marigole put it about she was totally fed up with the lifestyle, the fact Clint was never there for her when goodness knows he has a huge job on his hands, but it was the other way around, I be thinking. You know they have a daughter?”

Olivia nodded and waited for Heather to continue.

“Georgina. Used to be a little honey but the divorce upset her terribly plus puberty hit her hard, as they say. Marigole pretty well abandoned her when this new guy came along. Lucas something, a merchant banker. Last year Clint’s aunt Buffy acted as his hostess and did a marvellous job of it but sadly her health has declined of recent times. It was a terrible grief and shock to her—to us all—when Mr McAlpine was killed. Lady Venetia—that’s Buffy—lost her brother and Clint lost his father.”

Olivia of the tender heart bowed her head. She had learned from her own father that Kyle McAlpine had been killed in a freak accident on a mining site. Clint McAlpine’s mother lived in Melbourne; one sister, Alison, had married a wealthy American business man and lived in New York. The other sister, Catriona, was a lawyer in London. Something to do with international law. She thought she had that right.

“Remember that character Joan Collins used to play on Dynasty?” Heather asked.

“I know of Joan Collins, of course. A beautiful ageless woman, but the series was before my time.”

“You should catch the reruns,” Heather advised. “Joan played a marvellous bitch, Alexis, the divorced wife, but I have to tell you, Marigole could give her lessons.”

Confidences were abruptly cut short.

“Hell, it’s Clint!” Heather turned in her chair so her eye was on the front door. “Not a word of this to him, love.”

“Goodness, no!” Olivia was aghast. “Mum’s the word.”

“It’s really not like me to gossip, especially not about the boss, but I spotted you for an innocent right off.” Heather hastily demolished what was left of her raisin cake. “In my experience—and I used to be a nurse for the Flying Doctors Service—a timely warning never goes astray.” She spoke as though her confidences were strategic manoeuvres Olivia should have at the ready. “As soon as Marigole hears you’re on Kalla Koori, she’ll descend like a bat out of hell.”

Olivia, blessed and sometimes cursed with a highly visual imagination, half covered her face. She had visions of a Caribbean fruit bat sinking its teeth into her like a ripe mango.

CHAPTER THREE

FROM the air she looked down on a great many deep pools of water that glittered an unearthly blue-green. Crocodile lagoons, she wondered with a shudder. Prehistoric monsters existing in such beauty. In the distance to either side were more pools of emerald green and a long winding river that cut through fiery low ridges and endless giant fingers of sand dunes.

A jagged cliff with sheer rock walls that glowed a range of dry ochres—pinks, reds, yellows, creams and blacks, with deep purple slashed into the narrow ravines—served as the most dramatic backdrop possible for Kalla Koori’s massive homestead. She had been expecting colonial architecture and the quintessential verandas. This was something completely different. More in keeping with a desert environment with a touch of Morocco. The house from the air had an endless expanse of roof line with a central two-maybe three-storey tower. It stood in the very centre of what looked like a fortified desert village.

Here at last was the McAlpine stronghold.

Presumably in times of torrential cyclones McAlpine could offer shelter to the entire population of Darwin beneath the homestead roof, Olivia thought, her breath taken by the spectacle beneath her. The base of the stand-alone cliff appeared to be in permanent shadow. It was marked by a border of lush green where water must gather and never entirely dry out. All else was a million square miles of uninhabited desert—a beautiful, savage place unlike anything she had ever seen. She could well imagine the most superbly engineered four-wheel drives sinking into the bottomless red shifting sands, never to be seen again. There was a great deal to be feared about this environment.

But goodness! One could well find passion and romance here.

Astounded by her flight of fancy, she endeavoured to get a grip even though her pulses were jumping wildly. It had to be one of her increasingly mad moments, or alternatively it could be taken as an indicator she had at long last become aware life was shooting by like a falling star. That’s what came of having to play the archetypal earth mother to her siblings. She was starting to imagine herself as a woman standing at the edge of a cliff like the one that towered beneath them. Either she could totter for ever as she had done all her life or take a spectacular dive. Truth be told, she was sick to death of being sensible. Bella was never sensible. Indeed a lot of her escapades had been hare-brained, but at least Bella had fun.

McAlpine landed the helicopter to the right of a giant hangar at least a mile away from the home compound. The interior looked as though it could well hold a fleet of Airbuses. The station insignia—Kalla Koori—was emblazoned in chrome yellow and cobalt blue on the roof. The Australian flag that stood on a tall pole nearby only moments before hanging limp suddenly whipped to attention, unfurling its length. Probably as much honouring McAlpine’s arrival as the buffeting from the chopper’s rotors, Olivia thought a touch sharply.

They were met by a tall bearded man in a check shirt and jeans, a huge white Akubra tilted back on his head. “Boss!” he said, straightening up. He had been leaning nonchalantly against a four-wheel drive, its metallic Duco throwing off iridescent lights. Again, the station insignia in blue and gold was on the door panel.

“Norm.” Briefly McAlpine introduced them. This was Norman Cartwright, who with his wife, Kath, ran the domestic affairs of the station—Kath with her team in the house, Norm with his team in the extensive compound grounds. She liked Norm on sight. She expected the same would go for his wife. Australians with the exception of McAlpine were warm and friendly. She bore in mind she was yet to meet the terrifying ex-wife, Marigole. Not that she hadn’t met her fair share of enormously pretentious women dripping hauteur. It was unsettling to remind herself McAlpine had called her an ice princess. She wasn’t an ice princess at all; she had simply perfected faking it.

McAlpine handed her into the back seat of a Range Rover, big cat eyes glistening, while he sat up front with his man, asking him a series of questions for which Norm very wisely had the answers. From long experience with her father she knew employees had all necessary information to hand or they were out the door.

Splendidly wrought iron gates hung on immense stone piers. They opened inwards as they approached, forming an impressive doorway in the ten-foot-high walls washed in a bright yellow-ochre that mirrored elements in the landscape. These walls surrounded the compound in a most protective manner; not from human invasion mercifully but the power of the elements. The massive height and the vivid desert colour put her in mind of Luis Barragán, the great Mexican architect and garden designer. An extraordinarily beautiful pink-tangerine bougainvillea of great arching sprays and green trailing vines all but covered them. She had never seen that exact colour in a bougainvillea before.

Inside the courtyard was paradise in isolation. Something right out of an Arabian romance.

Olivia looked about her in fascination. As her father’s daughter, she had been surrounded by all the trappings of wealth and power from birth, but she was quickly learning there were all kinds of excellence in architectural design. What confronted her was a far cry from Balfour Manor and its beautiful cool temperate English gardens. Balfour’s garden design had, in fact, been widely copied in Europe. Here the sun reigned supreme, just as it did in Arabia, the Middle East, Mexico, South America. What spread before her had a look of a garden the Arab world might have developed from unsurpassed Persian models.

Water rippled from a great stone central fountain and splashed over the edges of several large basins into a very long but relatively narrow water-lily-strewn pond almost large enough to be called a canal. A broad circular drive led to the desert mansion, allowing for multiple parking. The big house itself washed in a darker ochre than the walls, and could easily be taken for the Moroccan pavilion. A series of colonnaded arches, with beautiful coloured tiles wrapped around the columns, framed a two-storey central portico with the traditional arch that led to the front door.

Given such a large space to work with the designer had offset the broad drive with a series of irrigation channels, or rills, which formed a grid of sparkling water. The grid ran back and forth across much of the length and breadth of the great courtyard. She was aware the grid she was looking at was developed from an ancient tradition. The very sight and sound of the rippling waters was sufficient to cool the atmosphere.

Truly magnificent date palms had been perfectly placed, their enormous shooting heads in themselves resembled fountains. Looking up at them she recalled what the prophet Mahomet was said to have told his followers: Honour the date palm for it is your mother. In the desert fringes of the world that ran across North Africa through the Middle East to Pakistan, the date palm was life. It signalled oases and water beneath the sand, provided food, wine, sugar, oil, shelter, even stock fodder. The date palm obviously thrived in the great desert areas of Australia.

McAlpine broke into her train of thought, his voice as seductive as dark molasses. “I do hope everything is to your liking, Ms Balfour?”

She unbent sufficiently to show her pleasure. “This is a magical place.” She had to push away the thought he possessed more than a dash of magic himself, with his boundless self-confidence, and acute awareness as though he was reading her mind.

“High praise for a woman not easily pleased!” he said very drily. “When we landed on Naroo you kept throwing glances my way, suggesting I might at some stage be tempted to throw you to the crocodiles.”

“What nonsense!” She thought she had hidden her panic rather well.

“Well, don’t get too complacent,” he warned, observing the way her classic blonde head was perched so elegantly on her long swan’s neck. “We do have plenty of crocs on Kalla Koori, but I won’t introduce you to them until you’re ready. Now shall we go inside? You must find it hot standing the sun.”

“Oddly enough I’m getting used to it. That or the fountain and the running water are creating a wonderful illusion of coolness. The design, the massive walls and the vivid colours bring Moroccan architecture to mind. Then maybe the Mexican architect—”

“Luis Barragán?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sure you’ve visited Marrakesh, but have you ever been to Mexico?” It surprised him the odd unexpected pleasure she gave him. At their last meeting he’d as good as told her she was a genuine pain in the neck. She was in a way, but he realised even then he had wanted to know more. What lay behind the arctic mask, for instance? Except back then he was a married man on the verge of divorce.

“Not as yet,” she was saying in her lovely voice. A saving grace even when it was caustic. “But I’d love to go. I know the Caribbean where Daddy has his island. I’ve visited Cuba, stayed at a friend’s villa in Havana. But I do know the architect’s work. He won the equivalent of the Nobel prize for architecture?” She looked up at him for confirmation, surprising him studying her as intently as a scientist might study a rare butterfly.

McAlpine shifted his gaze. Even in strong sunlight she had the most beautiful flawless skin. “The Pritzker Prize. My parents and I were allowed to see his house and garden and one other, Casa Antonio Gálvez. Barragán treated the house and garden as one. My mother, in particular, fell madly in love with the soaring walls, the stunning colours and the marvellous sense of intimacy within the houses. She never did like huge plate-glass windows—'glass boxes’ she called them. Inappropriate for here anyway,” he said. “We have all the nature we need right outside the compound gates. We don’t need it inside the house. My mother thought the vivid blocks of colour would be perfect for Kalla Koori. Colours that could stand up to the brilliant sunlight. When you think about it, Barrigán’s colours are echoed in the striations of the sandstone cliff up there.”

“So they are!” She pressed her hands together in silent applause. “The cliff is a wonderful landmark. It adds enormously to the atmosphere. Spiritual, I feel. Tell me, when was the homestead built?”

He took a moment to answer. “My parents started it,” he answered rather sombrely. “I finished it. My mother finds it too painful to visit often but she does come. The original homestead took a battering with Cyclone Tracy. What we have here has been built to withstand another cyclone of that magnitude.”

“And it’s splendid! I can’t wait to see inside.”

“Well, why don’t we do that now,” he invited smoothly. “You can’t imagine how happy you’ve made me.”

The mocking golden gaze stabbed her through. “Do not try to patronise me, Mr McAlpine, thank you very kindly.” She had the fearful notion he was hypnotising her, because everything else was being shut out.

“I’m not trying to patronise you, Ms Balfour,” he assured her suavely. “How could I when you yourself have developed it to an art form. I’m merely trying to colonise you on the run as it were. Turn you into an impromptu Aussie.”

“It might take longer than five months.” Her tone was back to lofty.

“Oh, my heaven!” Brackets offset the generous, sexy mouth. “I’d all but forgotten you were going to be with us for such a short time. What a pity! You might have blotted your copybook first up but I have to say you’re perking up.” They were moving beneath the tall double-storey portico lined with magnificent clumping palms with slender stems and pinnate-leaf plants in huge terracotta pots. “You ride?”

Near outraged by such a question Olivia lowered her head from inspecting the inlaid domed ceiling. “What do you mean!” she asked shortly. “Of course I ride.”

“I mean seriously?” He was teasing her. Couldn’t help it. She was incredibly starchy.

“Only something very, very quiet,” she returned sarcastically. “Oh, come on! Like you, I was practically born in the saddle. I know you’re only trying to take a rise out of me. Just like the other times we’ve met.”