Stony Creek: Red Dust Series, #1

By Christine Gardner

Laura Prescott is a city girl. She lives in Melbourne and enjoys the life of a single girl in 1970, with no intention of marrying any time soon, if at all. She has no desire to live the life she sees her mother has, with a house full of children. Things change suddenly after she loses her job and she finds herself faced with very different choices. She finds a new life in the outback, with a new kind of love and a new kind of pain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christine Gardner
• Release date: Sep 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386577256

Christine Gardner

Christine has had a fascination for history most of her life. When the youngest of her five sons started school Christine went back to school as well. After several years at TAFE, studying both visual arts and writing, she went to university and eventually graduated with a BA in History/Philosophy of Religion, with Honours. She's written all kinds of books since then, most with at least some history included.

Book preview

STONY CREEK

CHAPTER ONE

Melbourne 1970

I SAT AT THE WINDOW of the tram, watching the city go past. It was drizzling rain and most people huddled under umbrellas as they rushed along the street on their way home from work, or wherever else they might be going. The theatre? The cinema? Maybe that middle-aged blond woman tottering on her high heels was going to meet her lover for an intimate dinner somewhere. I enjoyed concocting scenarios on that awful tram trip. The tram was crowded, as always, and I was lucky to have a seat, but I knew I’d have to fight my way out past the mass of bodies jammed together hanging on grimly to the overhead straps.

I clutched a large brown paper carry-bag, jammed, not with groceries, but with the contents of my desk. Redundant. I was redundant. Superfluous. Unnecessary. Surplus. Uncalled-for and unwanted. Terminated.

It wasn’t as if I’d particularly liked the job. That had been one of the reasons Jones had given for choosing me as the lucky one to go in the latest effort to save the company a few dollars.

You don’t seem very enthusiastic in your work here, Miss Prescott. I think perhaps you may be happier somewhere else. Perhaps this is not your calling? He’d smiled his sickly smile at me. Pasty-white, he looked as if he spent all his time underground, which is where the office was, after all. The staff all called it the dungeon; all except Thaddeus Jones, who had a measly number of shares in the accounting company and liked to think of himself as a part-owner.

My calling? What does he think—I’m a nun? Who on earth would be called to work in a dungeon, shuffling papers and typing account cards? Thaddeus Jones, that’s who! I couldn’t help giggling at that image and the tiny Chinese woman sitting beside me moved away as far as she possibly could on the narrow seat, smiling nervously. I giggled again and put my hand over my mouth, trying my best to disguise it as a cough. Would my fellow passenger prefer to be exposed to cold germs or laughter, I wondered.

The tram was approaching my stop and I squeezed my way through the other passengers to stand near the exit. With my umbrella in one hand and my bags in the other, I stepped down from the tram with the sigh of relief I always gave. Just to be out of the hustle and bustle that was city life. Soon I’d be in my little flat, which was cosy in real estate terms. Tiny, but I liked it. The only think I didn’t like was the walk from the tram in the dark. I dropped a couple of coins into the waiting hat of an old man who sat on the footpath, propped against a shopfront and protected by a grubby sheet of tarpaulin from the vagaries of Melbourne weather, asking passers-by by for a few cents for a cup of coffee. Of course I was well aware the money was not for coffee but it made me feel better to give him something and what business of mine was it, if he chose to spend it on cheap plonk? I was not one to talk since I was going home to a nice bottle of red myself, after which I was going out with the girls from the dungeon for farewell drinks.

They all said they’d stay in touch but I’d been there before. It never worked. You moved on and made new friends in a new office somewhere. I didn’t know what I’d do next. Maybe I should try something different. I’d once applied for a job in Toorak, as an au pair.

It was a two-storey house, not flashy like some of them, but discreetly tucked away behind beautiful old English shade trees—oaks and elms, I thought. The white carpet was thick and luxurious and I longed to take my shoes off and feel it with my toes. Instead I sat politely on the leather couch as the woman of the house, Mrs Smythe-Burrows, explained the position to me. It would include looking after two pre-school children, helping with the cooking and the housework and would mean occasionally going away with the family for trips abroad.  

They were old money, that was clear, and the woman seemed nice enough, but I didn’t like the way Mr Smythe-Burrows looked at me. He looked . . . hungry. They showed me where I’d be expected to spend my leisure time, in a small sitting room which was also the children’s playroom. The bedroom was adequate but there was something about the whole arrangement that made me uncomfortable. I wouldn’t be allowed guests in my room, but I’d be free to go out one night a week and would have a weekend off once a month.

In the end I left, agreeing to ring them two days later; they had other girls to interview and Mrs Smythe-Burrows admitted she had a preference for country girls. She did say that she thought I seemed promising though and that I was currently on the top of her list. She said this with a smile which she probably thought looked genuine, but to me it looked like—we really want a country girl who will do our bidding without question and who has no friends in the city and therefore will never go out but be at our beck and call day and night, but just in case we don’t find such a treasure and we are desperate, see how nice I am?

I rang two days later out of curiosity more than politeness and felt a great deal of satisfaction when Mr Smythe-Burrows answered and with great alacrity told me I was the lucky girl—that he and his wife were both pleased to offer me the place in their home. With a twinge of fake regret in my voice I told him I had decided to take a position that had been offered to me in the city. I hoped, I said politely, that he would be equally pleased with one of the country girls. He was shocked, I could tell, and said he was disappointed I’d let them down.  I’ll bet you were, you dirty old man.

BEFORE I TURNED THE corner and left the brightly-lit main street, I transferred my bags to my left hand with the umbrella and fumbled in my coat pocket for my keys. I manoeuvred the keys into the position I wanted, with the largest one protruding between the fingers of my clenched fist. It was probably pointless but a lot of my friends admitted to doing the same thing. The idea was, if I were attacked, I could hit out at the attacker, punching him, not with a naked fist, but with the key protruding like a knife. Right in the eye, preferably. The fact that I’m five feet four and any likely attacker would undoubtedly have eyes way out of my reach I preferred not to think about.  

I reached the safety of my little flat once again and trudged up the uncovered cement steps. At last I slipped the key in the lock and stepped inside. I sighed gratefully and dropped the paper bag and my oversized handbag on to the red vinyl couch. I went to the kitchenette and poured myself a generous glass of red then plonked myself on the couch next to my bags and turned on the little television.

The grainy black and white image told of the day’s news, but I wasn’t paying much attention. I didn’t watch a lot of television but there was a strange comfort in having a window to the world. Coming from a large family I was still not used to the silence of being alone, although of course I told myself and my friends how much I enjoyed the peace and quiet.

I’d arranged to meet the girls at a pub in the city we often frequented; being a Friday night there would be a band of some sort and no-one had to get up early for work the next morning—least of all me.

I debated whether to cook dinner or grab something later and then, thinking of my slim finances, decided I’d better cook. I’m not a bad cook if I do say so myself—as the only girl it had always been my job to help Mum look after the ‘men’ in the family, while my brothers took turns to mow the lawn. On this night though, I made do with scrambled eggs, which I ate on the couch, watching more news of the day. A young Melbourne man had been rescued from an icy mountain in Tasmania. A home in North Fitzroy had been broken into. That made me sit up and take notice. Automatically I looked towards the front door. The locks in these flats were flimsy and the landlord refused to do anything about them. I might consider moving, I thought, not for the first time; maybe to one of those old houses converted into flats. I went to a party, in St Kilda, at a place like that. New Year’s Eve last year—the end of the sixties. Large rooms and heavy doors—proper locks, as my father would say. My lease was nearly up and now I had no job—of course it takes money to move, but if I found a job—when I found a job, I told myself . . .

I put my dirty plate in the sink and went to get ready. Thirty minutes later I glanced in the mirror on the way out the door—I was wearing a jade green dress which just barely covered my bottom and black platform shoes. My hair was long with a slight wave and naturally a light mousey brown, which my mother insisted was chestnut, but at the moment it was bright red and the green dress complemented it perfectly, I thought. With my hair red and wearing a green dress I was quite sure my eyes looked green, rather than the greenish-brown they usually were. I left most of my final pay under my mattress but left enough in my purse for a good night out. It might be the last one for a while, I thought, and I intended to make the most of it. I pulled my midi trench coat on over the dress and headed out to catch a tram back to the city.

The tram was less crowded than the earlier peak hour one and I was relieved to find there were plenty of empty seats. The less time I spent standing on those platform heels the better. I could already feel the excitement in the air—Friday night in Melbourne—everyone out to enjoy themselves—the work week over for most. The city lights and the masses dressed in their best, happy, laughing, made it seem a different place to the workday city—as if Melbourne herself was dressed for a party.

I got off the tram and walked a block to the pub where the girls had agreed to meet me and found them already inside, yelling at each other over the noise of the band and the other drinkers out for an early start.

Laura! You made it! Meg shouted. I thought you chickened out.

I squeezed into the booth beside Meg and smiled at Sally and Carol sitting opposite. Good band? I asked.

Fantastic! said Sally. Would you just take a look at the singer?

The singer was tall, with those almost black eyes that looked so dramatic with his shoulder length blond hair. I had to agree he was gorgeous. I wasn’t interested though—I’d been involved with musicians before. One I actually thought had been the one and I’d followed him around, helped him pack up his gear, scraped him off the floor after numerous parties and finally realized I was just one of many. One of many girls who were happy to pick up after him and do his bidding just so they could be seen with him. He certainly was exquisite, I remembered with a slight regret. If only I could find a man who looked like that but without the ego!

He looks like trouble, I said to Sally.

She grinned wickedly and leered at him. Hmm. I could use some of that kind of trouble!

I smiled. There was no point in lecturing Sally. If she had her way she would spend the night with the delectable singer and hopefully she would then walk away before she could get hurt. Sally was blond and stereotypically beautiful, with blue eyes and a cleavage worth showing off; she liked to keep her relationships short and sweet.

Meg brought me a grasshopper and urged me to drink up. "You have to catch up with us, Laura! This is your farewell!"

I’m not planning on going anywhere, you know, I said, taking hold of the cold glass in both hands.

Yes, but you’ll get another job and we won’t see much of you . . . we’ll keep in touch, of course!

What are you going to do, Laura? Anything in mind? asked Carol. Carol was the quiet one. I always thought of her as The Mouse, although of course I’d never say so. She was a sweet girl but plain next to the other girls; with mousy brown hair and without their exuberance and elaborate makeup she tended to go unnoticed.

No. Honestly I’m feeling sick of it all. I’d quite like to do something different but I have no idea what. I don’t have any experience in anything but office work, so I don’t really have any choice.

Maybe you’ll meet Mr Right and have babies, Meg giggled.

I snorted at that. That is most certainly not on my agenda. Not now. Not anytime soon. Maybe not ever!

Really? asked Sally, immaculately plucked eyebrows raised. I thought you would be longing to get married and have a family. You come from such a large family yourself.

That’s exactly why I don’t want to go there! My mother was so worn out with the boys she was old way before her time. She was, and still is, constantly exhausted. Why would I want to do the same thing? We have choices now—we don’t have to get married!

"Did your mother have to get married? Sally asked. My sister did. She’s such an idiot. She has two kids now, under three, and her husband’s completely useless. She waits on him hand and foot!"

I nodded. I’d seen couples like that too many times. Some who weren’t even married still seemed to slip quickly and seamlessly into the roles their parents played. No, I answered. "Mum wasn’t pregnant and Dad’s not useless, but the boys are. And that’s Mum’s fault—she waits on them hand and foot so they’ll grow up useless too."

Tell your mum to stop it or they’ll be in for a shock if they think they’re going to find a wife these days who does that for them! Sally declared indignantly.

I know. I have told her that but she doesn’t take any notice. I sighed.

Well, now we have the pill, said Carol. No-one needs to have more children than they want.

True, I admitted. That ought to make all the difference, but did it? I wasn’t convinced. "I might get married one day, but not for a very long time yet."

Drink up, Laura, said Meg, handing me a screwdriver. The orange juice and vodka tasted sour at first, after the crème de menthe, but I drank it. And another. And a tequila sunrise.  And several gin and tonics.

I staggered to my feet. Anyone else need the little girl’s room?

Carol held my arm and led me down the hallway to the toilets.

Hi there, Red.

Mr Gorgeous from the band was lounging in the hallway with a cigarette, or maybe it wasn’t a cigarette. I put my hand up as if to fend him off.

I don’t date musicians. Especially ones who look like you.

Then I fell against him and he grabbed me and ran his hands over me. I don’t remember asking for a date. A quickie would be nice though, wouldn’t it? We have a room out here. He began to lead me away and I was going with him, barely able to stand, let alone think about what I was about to do.

No, you don’t, you pervert. Leave her alone!

The Mouse kicked Mr Gorgeous in the shins and pulled me away. I giggled helplessly as she stood, hands on hips, daggers in her eyes. He shrugged and muttered something under his breath as he walked away. There were any number of girls who were willing.

After we lined up for the toilet it was a good twenty minutes by the time Carol and I returned to the booth. Sally and Meg had been joined by a young man from the dungeon, Vince, who was making puppy dog eyes at Sally.

Vince, get the girls a drink, she demanded, and he jumped to his feet.

Sally, you’re awful. You shouldn’t take advantage of the poor boy, said Carol.

Sally laughed. He’s as thick as a brick, isn’t he? But you never know, he might just get lucky tonight, if he behaves himself.

Vince brought more gin and tonics and when he loosened up a bit he was actually quite good company. Sally could do worse, but he wasn’t her type—she would always go for the bad boy.

The band was playing covers and managed a pretty fair rendition of the Kinks’ song, Lola, which had all of us singing along and dancing in our seats.

Come on, let’s get up and dance. Carol, you watch the bags, will you? said Sally.

We squished on to the crowded dance floor and let the music take us away; the band played good covers of all the music we loved—The Beatles, The Rolling Stones—even my favourite Itchykoo Park by the Small faces. It’s possible of course that they sounded better to our