Page 15 of Wings Above the Mallee

‘No, I hadn’t noticed you had him here earlier—I assume I was too busy in thisprofessionalplace of business.’ Faelie was apparently oblivious to their tatty surroundings, whichpaid homage to several decades: the heavy wooden reception desk an import from the sixties, the orange filing cabinets from the seventies. Three dust-covered balls on each of the pendant lights—relic of the eighties—struggled to illuminate the large roses on a carpet that probably dated back to the fifties, and the yellowed walls of the warren of small offices had a patina that defied any attempt at dating. Amelia had learned from the sign outside the building—the original regional district council office, an elegant, high-roofed stone building with an impressive façade and multi-paned windows—that the lawyer’s practice shared space with an MP’s office, the town information and tourist centre, the local library and the historical society. The MP had evidently won the room lottery, as he’d claimed the space fronting the street. The two-roomed solicitor’s office, guarded by Amelia’s reception area, was wedged between the library and the single toilet, whose constantly running cistern often seemed the only noise in the building.

Amelia had learned from Faelie that, although they were employed by the lawyer, James Stokes, the other tenants of the building—and, in fact, all of the clients—believed their daily presence automatically made them front-of-house for all of the businesses. Faelie seemed to have a love–hate relationship with the fact: she treasured the extra measure of control, but loathed the responsibility for which she didn’t receive adequate recognition.

‘He needs feeding every three hours,’ Amelia said firmly. Karmaa would never have less than the care he deserved. Amelia knew what a moment’s inattention, allowing other responsibilities to take her focus, could do. ‘And while I’m rostered on, he is here with me. Or I’m not here at all.’

She didn’t need the job—she worked for the distraction, not the money; her share of the sale of the family propertyhad taken care of that. She’d told her father she didn’t want the money, but he insisted it was an early inheritance. He’d kept only enough to comfortably set him and Mum up in an enormous apartment in the lush Gold Coast hinterland—about as far from the dry interior of South Australia as they could get—and had thrown sufficient into superannuation to see them through retirement. The remainder he’d put into Amelia’s account and said there was to be no more discussion on the matter. It was like he needed to be rid of all ties to the cattle station that had been in the family for generations, and that entailed disposing of the exorbitant sum the overseas investors had paid for the vast tract of land by dumping it in her account. Blood money.

She had told Dad he owed her nothing. What she’d meant was that he owed nothing he could ever repay. But, much as she wanted to, Amelia couldn’t find it in herself to blame him—because she knew where the true fault lay: a mother’s most important job was to protect her child.

‘I’m sure we can replace you,’ Faelie said frostily, although Amelia knew she was lying. The job had been going begging for nine weeks. It barely paid award and the handful of hours seemed rostered to deliberately eliminate anyone with children to care for.

That didn’t exclude Amelia.

‘But in the interim, I expect you to serve out your notice. And I’ll also need you to work late tonight.’

‘I’m aware. Six o’clock finish.’ Amelia matched Faelie’s tone. She could almost guarantee the door from the street into the old council offices wouldn’t open after three. Thursday, which was both pension day and the sole day the library was open, was the only time the small town had seen any action in the week she’d been here. The back streets—of which she’d discovered there were two running parallel either sideof the main drag—never had more than three dusty vehicles parked along the length.

‘The Regional Action Group will be using the community room this afternoon.’ As usual, Faelie’s disconcertingly wispy voice drifted off into nothingness, the end of her sentence barely audible. ‘The other offices don’t care to be accountable, so we oversee the use of the facilities, then do the lock up after community events.’

Micromanagement seemed to be Faelie’s style.

‘You can go home for an early dinner first. And to feed that animal.’ Faelie pointed at Amelia’s desk.

Dinner wouldn’t take any time. It would be a peanut butter sandwich. Had been for the last three years. Amelia had carefully not given Noah any peanut products for the first two years of his life but then, when he discovered peanut butter, it became a firm favourite. She loathed it. Always had. But she’d eaten it almost every day for the last three years, staring at the solitary sandwich as though it was a communion wafer.

Communion with her dead son.

8

Heath

He shouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen with his own daughter. But the truth was that Heath was relieved that Charlee had remained slightly down the street from the old council office, sitting in the gutter. Her location probably wouldn’t make her bib-fronted overalls any filthier than they already were.

As if Charlee wasn’t embarrassing enough, there was her permanent attachment: Ethan. He was currently skateboarding down the quiet streets of Settlers Bridge on an oversized deck like some semi-decrepit delinquent.

Heath yanked at the ornate brass-plated pull on the door into the old council office, a little surprised when the heavy wood slab opened; he had suspected he and Sean would be the only ones to turn up to the Regional Action Group meeting, and had only agreed—after two weeks of Sean’s nagging—to get his Dad off his case. Which meant Sean also had to come, as Heath didn’t drive. And Charlee had to come, because she couldn’t be trusted in a house thathad his prescription painkillers in an unlocked cupboard, let alone whatever meds her grandfather had to hand. Which of course meant that Ethan—who apparently had nowhere better to be than hanging around Charlee—also had to come into Settlers Bridge.

‘What do you make of him?’ Still holding the door open, Heath scowled toward where Ethan crouched on his board, balanced diagonally across the handrail of the cement access ramp up to the side door of the chambers.

Sean shrugged. ‘Seems harmless enough.’

‘Harmless? He’s twice her age if he’s a day.’ It wasn’t the first time he’d mentioned the age discrepancy, but what the hell: none of them was getting any younger. ‘Makes him a bloody paedophile in my book.’

‘Bit unfair, son. Charlee’s an adult, even if she’s not acting much like it at the moment. And last night … I overheard them talking. Charlee said she wants to quit uni and Ethan came down pretty hard on her. Said if she’s nothing better to do, she’d do better bettering herself.’ Sean gave a satisfied nod, evidently pleased to recall the quote. ‘She didn’t take it too well—you know our Charlee, she’s not an easy one to give advice to. But when she’d finished having her tantrum about the pointlessness of it all, Ethan told her she needs to grow up, take responsibility, and that if she wanted to quit, she should have done it before census date, so she wasn’t wasting money on fees.’

‘Bit rich coming from a permanent Austudy leech.’

Sean peered down the hallway, probably trying to find out which room the RAG meeting was to be held in. Most had closed doors, each bearing the name or business of the office holder. ‘He’s not so bad. Have you noticed that Charlee actually seems a little more alive with him around?’

Heath winced at the choice of words. ‘That’s probably not because of his company.’ Two years ago, he would have intervened in the relationship. Now he didn’t dare.

‘I think she might be clean, son. There’s something different about her … a calmness.’

‘Probably a different bloody drug, then.’ Heath tried to quell the sudden leap of hope. In the face of his inability to do anything to help her, could Charlee have worked her own way through the worst of the addiction? No, that wasn’t credible. ‘You know she’s hardcore, Dad.’ Jesus, but he wanted Sean to disagree with him. ‘I don’t know what her gateway drug was, but she’s done the trifecta: depressants and stimulants; opiates and opioids; hallucinogens.’ Charlee had been thrilled to throw her progression in his face, proving how terribly grown up she now was. How he couldn’t control her—or her destiny.

‘You don’t know the gateway?’ Sean said sorrowfully. ‘Come on, lad, you know right enough. It wasn’t a drug. It was trauma. Grief. Guilt.’

‘So this is my fault as well.’

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