Splintered Heart: Book 1 in the #1 bestselling Red Dust Novel Series

By Linda Dowling

Splintered Heart is the #1 bestselling and award-winning book one in Linda Dowling's Red Dust Novel Series, being developed for screen by acclaimed Australian filmmaker Jayden Cummins.

BETRAYED. ABANDONED. SPLINTERED 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Linda Dowling
• Release date: Jan 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9780648714811

Linda Dowling

Linda Dowling grew up in the Western suburbs of Sydney, Australia. During her childhood, she spent most of her time in rural areas and has continued to enjoy life in the bush or in areas with natural surrounds. Her aunt, a wonderful horsewoman, lived in Carinda, New South Wales and taught her a great deal about horses, riding and the outback. It was during her vacations with her aunt that Linda herself fell in love with the vast outback plains and the Aboriginal culture, their stories and their unique but simple way of living. Linda has a natural affinity with Indigenous peoples and was the only white girl selected to play for the Papua New Guinea softball teams at the Pan Pacific Masters. In her professional life, Linda has established and managed four medico-legal firms, including her own. During the course of her career, she has been involved in reporting on coronal matters and inquests. She has also worked with the NSW Police State Crime Command Centre and in various Royal Commissions where she was exposed to the worst of human nature. Linda has drawn upon her professional and personal experiences while writing her Red Dust novel series, but the stories are a work of fiction and do not depict any person, living or dead.

Book preview

SPLINTERED

ONE

THE FIBRO MAJESTIC

The summers in the western suburbs of Sydney were stifling. It was 1968 and a particularly fierce summer, where the heat bounced off the walls in the tiny two-bedroom fibro cottage in Fairfield, and the heat haze on the tar roads shimmered in the distance, distorting the road. Lisa O’Connor’s father called their cottage the Fibro Majestic, where the cicadas screeched and the mosquitoes were out in full force, all welcoming the approaching night air. The summer seemed to go on forever. Hot days turned into hot nights until relief came with the southerly winds.

The cottage sat on a long and dusty road. When the cars travelled past, the dust clouds would settle over the cottage and then penetrate every crack in the Fibro Majestic’s doors and windows. The dust would cover everything in the home. It was choking. Lisa’s mother never stopped dusting. Her mother never stopped complaining. Misery was like a river that flowed through their home.

Lisa O’Connor entered the world kicking and screaming in 1955, premature at six weeks. The first born, she was thin as a rake, her father would say. She was followed three years later in 1958 by her brother, Mark, who was chubby but with skin that glowed golden. He won every baby competition their mother entered him in.

Lisa’s father, Desmond O’Connor, had decided to settle in Fairfield, in the western suburbs of Sydney, although he had been a farrier since the age of thirteen in the rural area of Mittagong, in the southern highlands of New South Wales. Fairfield, however, was more affordable and quiet. As a returned soldier after World War Two, he was given the choice of Fairfield or inner city Glebe by the War Service Homes Commission, which provided opportunities for the soldiers to settle into civilian life. The commission was first established in 1918 to enable ex-members of the forces who saw active service outside Australia to secure loans for the provision of homes.

Glebe had looked grim and was full of cramped terraces, being an inner city suburb of Sydney, and there was not a blade of grass to be seen. Desmond had recoiled with distaste. ‘I’m not bringing my kids up here, Agnes,’ he had complained to his wife. ‘Where would they play? There’s nothing but tar and cement. It’s like a bloody rabbit warren. Nothing but burrow after burrow. Even a ferret wouldn’t live here!’

When he drove out to look at Fairfield, the other suburb recommended by the War Service Homes, he smiled when he saw small- to medium-sized farms. Market gardens, vineyards and orchards flourished in the low-lying area, benefiting from the alluvial soil near the five creeks that ran through the Fairfield area. There were also dairy and poultry farms.

Desmond had heard that an Aboriginal tribe known as the Cabrogal people wandered the area. In the last quarter of the nineteenth century and the first part of the twentieth century, significant numbers of migrants from Germany, Italy and the Baltic states had also established farms in the area. They were all hard workers.

‘This is it,’ he had exclaimed to Agnes. ‘I can’t be a farrier here as there’s not much work, but I’ll start in the boilermaker trade.’ Because of the rural feel, Fairfield felt like home. This is where he would raise his children.

Agnes was the homemaker and Desmond the breadwinner. Like all Irish, he was a hard worker, but he loved a drink. He had married an unhappy lady who never let up with complaints. She would repeat things over and over like a budgie that had learned a new phrase, until her nagging made him leave for the pub. He drank too much but it eased the sound of her voice and the painful memories of war. Abuse was ever-present in the family, physically and verbally, always alcohol driven. He would bellow like a bull when he was on the drink, his behaviour often violent and erratic, turning him into a different person.

Lisa, at thirteen years old in 1968, was scrawny for her height and on the verge of saying goodbye to her childhood. Her thick jet black hair fell to her waist, and her long brown legs drew many stares in her shorts, drawing a natural curiosity from the male population. Although shy, her smile was engaging and there was a twinkle in her green eyes, which glowed like emeralds under her thick lashes. She was very athletic at school, and her passion was sports. This was her outlet.

Lisa’s mother Agnes had been previously married to a much older man and had needed to marry because of falling pregnant at sixteen. Janine, Lisa’s half-sister, was the product of that brief and disastrous marriage, due to Agnes’ ex-husband’s drinking and gambling. He died in a car accident when Janine was only two years old, but by that stage, Agnes had moved back in with her mother. Agnes never discussed or made mention of him. It seemed taboo.

Agnes later remarried the tall, handsome Irishman, Desmond O’Connor. She had met him in the local pub when working part-time as a barmaid.

Janine, a secretary, was twenty-five and recently engaged. She was their mother’s favourite daughter and physically resembled Agnes, whereas Lisa took after her father. Janine was always worrying about her appearance. Her unruly hair was the bane of her life. It sprung out of her head like a coir mat, just like their mother’s. Janine would often stare intensely at Lisa’ long jet black mane, which did not go unnoticed.

Janine had met her future husband Lenny Wilkinson at a party. Janine said Lenny was instantly attracted to her because she resembled his own mother. When Janine mentioned this to Agnes, she thought it odd but dismissed it when she met him. Agnes thought Lenny was charming. He was a surveyor by day and a boxer by night. He continually trained and boasted that he had won twelve amateur fights. Lenny came from a very comfortable family—as Agnes put it, ‘My girl has hit the jackpot.’

Everyone seemed to like Lenny. Everyone except Lisa. His eyes never left her and followed her every movement. ‘He creeps me out,’ she would say to Mark. ‘I don’t trust him, but I don’t care, I’m not marrying him.’ Lenny’s personality took over the room, and he would ooze with charm. He had an army crewcut and always wore shirts that emphasised his muscle development. He was aware of his physical presence. Even Agnes was flirty when he was around.

So wedding plans were in the air for Janine as well as Lisa’s favourite aunt, Zena, who was her father’s only sister. The family had seen numerous boyfriends of Zena’s come and go over the years, but her latest, Alan, a wealthy grazier, would make it to the altar.

Lisa’s mother had scoffed and ridiculed when Zena had broken off her two previous engagements. ‘That tart is gathering a collection of rings; she could open her own jewellery store,’ Agnes would say, never bothering to hide her hostility towards her sister-in-law. ‘She is a middle-aged floozy who just flaunts herself amongst the men, and always has done. Her third engagement. Probably offers them things . . . physically. That’s how she draws them in,’ Agnes would snarl to her husband. ‘I only welcome her in our house for you, Des; otherwise, I wouldn’t bother. She’s a promiscuous cow.’

On those days, Des really took an ear battering and Agnes would whinge long after Zena had left. Des had stopped trying years ago to make the relationship with Agnes and his sister work. They were poles apart. Maybe that was the difference. Agnes pregnant at sixteen, her life changed forever. She never spoke of regret and never let on any dreams she had lost because of the pregnancy. However, her bitterness seemed to escalate over the years.

Zena was the total opposite. She was formally educated and well-travelled. She somehow knew life in suburbia was not the right fit for her. After completing her Teacher’s Certificate, Zena saved and then packed her bags. She headed overseas and travelled through London and Europe. Full of life, a raven-haired beauty and almost Rubenesque in her curvy shape, she loved the company of men. Her legs were long and well-muscled from dancing and riding horses all her life. The men were drawn to her like bees to the honey pot.

Lisa adored her Aunt Zena, who was in her early thirties. Zena was an engaging and vivacious woman who laughed easily. Lisa couldn’t understand why Agnes didn’t like her aunt, and she never wanted her aunt to leave when she came to visit. Zena just seemed oblivious to her mother’s cruel mouth and penetrating eyes.

Lisa’s half-sister Janine was visiting this weekend. Lisa had never warmed to her and the air had a frostiness when they were together. Janine had the same iciness as their mother and wished her aunt was visiting instead.

While waiting for Janine to arrive, Lisa watched her two best friends in the lounge room: Mark her younger brother and Cassius the blue heeler. Her father boasted again how he had gotten the dog for free. ‘You never get cattle dog pups for free,’ he said. ‘But this one had a broken tail as a pup, which made it look like the letter ‘L’ sticking out, and he had battered ears that had a curly appearance at their tips, making them look like cauliflowers. That’s why I called him Cassius . . . you know, after the famous boxer Cassius Clay, who changed his name that bloke to Mohammad Ali. Queer if you ask me.’ Lisa spent hours with the dog. She had a special affinity with animals, more so than with people.

Agnes spotted Cassius inside and snarled, ‘Get that dog out of here, Lisa! I don’t want him in here, especially when we have food around. I have told you this before. We’ll all end up with fleas.’ Mark opened the door and let Cassius out, and Lisa followed. It was more peaceful outside with the dog anyway.

It was late afternoon when Janine arrived. Agnes and Janine quickly got under way discussing finances and the pending nuptials. ‘Thanks, Mum,’ said Janine. ‘You know, as soon as you mention the word marriage, everything doubles in price.’ Agnes began taking notes on Janine’s wishes like a meticulous bookkeeper. Money was not in abundance, so they were working out the ‘can afford’ and ‘cannot afford’ details.

Two hours later, Agnes shuffled her notes together. ‘We’re done now. It was good to clear this and know exactly where we stand, Janine. Do you want to stay for Sunday dinner?’

‘No, Mum, I’ll be on my way. Where are Lisa and Mark?’

‘Outside . . . with the dog. They never stop talking that pair, and they seem to think the bloody dog is human.’

Agnes went to the back door and hollered their names. Mark was the first to appear, shortly followed by Lisa. Cassius was right on her heels.

‘Come inside, please. Janine is about to leave.’

Agnes opened the door, and Mark and Lisa trooped in. ‘Not you.’ Agnes kicked out at the dog.

Janine smiled and hugged Mark, but as Lisa approached, a coolness clipped her voice. ‘Hi Lisa,’ she said. Her expression soured and an awkwardness settled in the room. Janine fidgeted and her words came out in a rush. ‘I should leave now.’ She kissed her mother, and they walked to her car.

Lisa looked at Mark and shrugged. ‘Boy, that was odd,’ she murmured. ‘Janine is so weird.’ Leaving her brother to fill up with cookies, she went to the bedroom they shared and lay down on her top bunk. Late afternoon sun filtered through the house, and she tried to keep cool until the fierceness of the sun disappeared into the night. She had the top bunk as Mark was not as nimble due to his weight. He just loved food. His little rolls of belly fat cascaded over his shorts. As he grew, her mother was horrified when people would state the obvious. She would frequently tell them off publicly for criticising her son. Agnes was never afraid to speak her mind.

Later in the day, after Janine left, Lisa could hear her parents discussing the costs of the marriage. Zena’s name was also mentioned. Her mother was being critical, and her harsh comments flew through the air.

‘Honestly, Des, here we are budgeting for our daughter’s wedding and making every penny squeak, while your sister seems to be flouting her fortunes and her future husband’s wealth. All that talk of getting married abroad and honeymooning in Europe last week when she was here. Then I hear my own daughter trying to meet the cost of a simple wedding.’ Lisa could hear her scoffing and clucking throughout the conversation.

Des remained silent. Agnes was on a bender. On days like these she was relentless in her criticism.

‘Des, don’t ignore me. I’m talking to you! Zena said they’re travelling to Europe for their honeymoon,’ Agnes snorted. ‘She’s just marrying Alan for his money. The ring on her finger looks almost fake it’s so big. What a bloody show off! She must think she’s marrying Rockefeller. Well, their marriage is not going to last; she hates isolation. She likes all the bright lights, your sister.’

‘It’s just the way it works, Agnes. Alan is a wealthy grazier. Zena has just been fortunate that he has the finances to do as he pleases. Stop nagging. I’m sick of listening to you harp on about this.’ Des went back to reading his newspaper.

‘It’s not fair. The cow has had three cracks and she ends up with a bloke who’s loaded.’

Lisa did not hear her father speak. Sometimes Lisa thought he just tuned out. Selective hearing. There was no doubt he could hear his wife’s continual venomous spray against his own sister, but sometimes he didn’t bother to retaliate. However, his responses were quicker off the mark and sharper when he was on the grog. Lisa knew her mother and Zena had never had a good relationship right from the outset. After Zena’s visits, her mother would always bicker, no matter how hard Zena tried. But then her mother never seemed to have a kind word for anyone.

Des finally spoke, his voice raised. Here we go, Lisa thought, listening intently.

‘For God’s sake, Agnes, leave it alone! She’s my sister, and I only wish her happiness. Yes, I agree, she may not like the isolation; however, Alan seems like a fairly decent bloke, a hard-working grazier. An honest man. We should only want their happiness going into the future. Third time lucky. And she is older now at thirty-three.’

‘Age doesn’t make anyone smarter,’ retorted Agnes sharply. Des looked at his wife and spoke heatedly. ‘That’s for bloody sure! She should know her own mind by now, Agnes. Anyway, there will be no wedding in Australia; they want a very quiet wedding overseas. Zena made a lot of friends while living in London, so that’s what they plan to do. She’ll be Mrs Smith when she gets back home.’

Lisa could hear the dishes and pots clanging loudly as her mother washed up. Agnes did not like a difference of opinion, especially one involving her aunt. She clearly thought this engagement would not last, just like the others. ‘That Alan must be a twit not to see through her vanity. Bloody gold digger.’

Lisa had only met Alan on two occasions. Zena had introduced him to Agnes and Desmond when it was clear they were serious about each other.

Alan Smith, her aunt’s future husband, had a huge sheep station in western New South Wales, not far from a town called Walgett. It wasn’t just a few paddocks; it really was the outback—red dust and wide plains. The station and homestead were called ‘Woori’. It was fascinating for Lisa to hear the stories about the place, as well as about her aunt’s earlier years.

Aunt Zena had finished her Primary School Teacher’s Certificate and travelled abroad, obtaining teaching positions mostly at private schools in London. Zena was intelligent and articulate. When she returned to Sydney, she worked for private schools but then accepted a post to Walgett Primary School after reading an article about the lack of teachers in rural areas. She had a yearning, she had told her brother Des, to get back to the bush. It was there that she met Alan, the tall laconic grazier with piercing blue eyes, at a fund raiser for the Royal Flying Doctor Service. Zena said it was love at first sight. When they first came to the house when Zena announced her engagement, Alan’s blue eyes danced when she spoke. He seemed to hang on to every word she said with an amused expression. Smitten. Love was written all over his face. He was awed.

Lisa liked Alan. He was comfortable in his own skin and had a relaxed confidence that people were drawn to. He loved Lisa’s curious nature, especially all her questions about the bush.

‘What does the name Woori mean?’ she had asked him.

‘Hey, you got the pronunciation right, kid. It rhymes with eye. Most people don’t have a clue how to say it right! I recall my father told me that Woori means Gift from God.’

On their last visit, Zena had asked Lisa to come and stay with them at Woori during the next Christmas holidays once they were married and settled. Lisa was thrilled with this suggestion.

Having no children, Zena regarded her niece Lisa as a daughter. She knew of the problems and turbulence in the family, as well as the strained relationship Lisa had with her mother. She had also told Alan of the fiery relationship her brother had with Agnes.

‘They will keep fighting until they can’t fight anymore. It’s an Irish thing . . . and the grog doesn’t help,’ she would lament.

Lisa couldn’t wait for the opportunity to escape the fibro cottage. She had her bag packed under the bottom bunk, ready to go when they were ready to have her. Zena had mentioned the following Christmas, when their renovations to the old homestead were complete. The old home had belonged to Alan’s parents, and being an only child, it was on the small side. Lisa’s mind was brought abruptly back to the present by her parents’ raised voices.

‘Well, mark my words, I’ll bet that no wedding invitations are sent out. She’ll change her mind at the last minute.’ Agnes just had to get in the last word.

Fist clenched, Des barked. ‘Cut it out, Agnes. We did grow up in Mittagong, remember. The southern highlands of New South Wales.’

‘So,’ Agnes smirked. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Lisa thought she was just asking for a beating. Mum, you are really pushing your luck.

‘So . . . So! What a stupid thing to say,’ Des shouted. ‘Let me refresh your memory as the usual fog seems to have settled in your mind. It was bloody cold in winter and stinking hot in summer, and there were acres and acres of land. No bright lights and yes, only a couple of hours from Sydney, but Zena loved the lifestyle there. And she was the only girl in the family, growing up with five brothers. She loved the horses and the animals that Pop had. You’re too harsh; you always are. You’re being a right bitch. I’ve had a gutful of your moaning. You are always moaning.’ Des stood up and advanced on Agnes, lifting a fist as though to strike her but then stormed out the front door, slamming the door so hard the windows in the kitchen shook.

Later that afternoon, Lisa was still dreaming about Woori and trying to keep cool in the bedroom when she heard her mother’s unmistakable yell, ‘Dinner’s ready.’ Her mother was just like a general. Dinner was always early on a Sunday. The whole neighbourhood would always know when it was time for dinner at the O’Connor residence. Lisa heard her father’s Holden pull into the driveway. She wondered how many schooners he’d managed to tuck away.

Mark waddled through the back door as Lisa took her place at the table. Her father was already seated, and the smell of beer was obvious. ‘By the way, keep that bloody dog out of your bedroom,’ her mother snapped. ‘I was vacuuming this morning and found dog hair all over the floor. Did you hear what I said, Lisa?’ Agnes’ voice rose in anger.

Lisa remained silent and her eyes were downcast. She always seemed to be subjected to her mother’s tirades. Agnes used her unpleasantness as a tool to force her children to live their life how she wanted it. Lisa longed to break free of her mother’s dictatorship.

‘Answer me when I speak to you. The dog has to stay outside. I don’t want that dog in here. And while you’re at it, clean your room up. You live like a pig in there. I don’t know how Mark tolerates it.’

Lisa’s silence only infuriated Agnes, so she jabbed Lisa in the arm. ‘Did you hear me? Answer me!’

‘Oh, I wish you would just leave me alone,’ Lisa muttered under her breath.

Mark rolled his eyes. He had heard it and knew his mother would have too. He knew Lisa should not have said that. Answering back was a cardinal sin.

‘What did you say?’ Her mother glared at her. ‘Des, don’t just sit there. Do something! Didn’t you hear her answer back?’

‘I didn’t say anything,’ Lisa said softly, shrinking deeper into her into her chair. For a moment, her mind went blank with fear.

‘Des, I said do something!’ Her mother’s eyes were bulging, her voice shrill.

‘Don’t let her answer back, Des!’ Agnes’ hysterical symptoms were often successful in driving Des to strike out at Lisa.

Agnes grabbed Lisa’s arm and started to drag her to the laundry tubs. Lisa tried to pull away.

‘Help me, Des! I’m going to wash her mouth out. She is not going answer me back and think she can get away with it.’

Des finally exploded, a combination of alcohol and the constant nagging voice. Lisa’s father strode forward and grabbed Lisa by the arms. ‘Don’t fight me,’ he ordered as he and Agnes forced her head down and rammed the soap in her mouth.

‘How do you like this, then?’ Agnes yelled as she dragged the bar of soap in and out of her daughter’s mouth like she was scrubbing a pot. ‘Answer back and you’ll get another dose. This behaviour won’t be tolerated. My nerves cannot take this. You are never to speak back to me. You think I can’t hear you? You can leave this house and go to a Girls Home. They take girls like you there.’ For a heartbeat, Lisa thought it might be a better option, but she’d heard the stories about those ‘homes’ so she soon dismissed that idea.

Agnes stomped off, and Des followed, shaking his head. Lisa stood alone in the laundry. So much for a quiet Sunday dinner. She wiped her mouth and spat the soap out over the tubs, wondering if she would one day enjoy the taste of soap. And they were always threatening to send her that ‘Girls Home’. More emotional blackmail.

‘Come out here, Lisa. We haven’t got all night.’ Lisa drew a long breath. If she didn’t move, there would be more trouble, but sitting down to an evening meal made her stomach churn. She sheepishly took her seat at the table. Mark looked terrified. The atmosphere was particularly tense and not conducive to eating.

Lisa hated the days like this. It felt like the house would erupt, like a snake uncoiling, ready to strike. Dinner was always a chore for her to eat. She would push her food away, and many arguments were had at the table. ‘Why do you always have to be so bloody difficult, Lisa? Eat your food for God’s sake,’ Agnes, would snap. ‘You can’t leave the table until everything is finished.’ Some nights, Lisa would sit for an hour at the table after everyone left. Her mother would say she was deliberately disruptive. But Lisa just did not like food, especially her mother’s cooking. It tasted like cardboard.

A rubber cord from an old electric frying pan lay over the back of her father’s chair as a reminder that poor behaviour or poor manners would not be tolerated. The cord stung more than a cane or ruler, and it had a permanent position at the table. Lisa almost preferred it to having her mouth washed out with soap.

As she ate, she pondered on how there were such double standards in their house. Lisa and Mark had to be good and not speak at the dinner table, and yet her father, when he had been drinking, used the worst language. This time, she kept her thoughts to herself, Imagine if we washed his mouth out with soap! Lisa also knew she would never be loved in her mother’s eyes. She always appeared to be in the wrong. Her mother was always disapproving of anything she did. I am worthless, stupid and ugly. Only Aunt Zena seems to care for me, she thought miserably.

TWO

THE UNION STRIKE

The Christmas holidays were coming to an end, and the new school term was pending. Money was needed to purchase books and new uniforms. Lisa’s