The Otto Bin Empire (3 page)

They sat side by side on one of the benches.

‘I think we should take that shoe off,' Clive suggested. He made as if to do so, but she froze.

‘Thank you, that's very kind, but I can manage,' she said tightly.

Sarah was shocked as, for the first time, she took in her rescuer and her surrounds. The diminutive, litter-strewn park; the man in the worn flannel shirt and lurid tartan beanie who looked like one of the homeless; those people lounging about the wheelie bins barely twenty metres away, one clearly a hooker, the others obviously vagrants.

Instead of taking off her shoe, she fumbled in her shoulder bag for her mobile phone. ‘I appreciate your help, really I do,' she said, hoping he would recognise the dismissal in her tone and return to the company of his friends. ‘You've been most kind.'
The mobile was now in her hand. ‘I'll call a cab, please don't trouble yourself any further on my account.'

Clive had read correctly the woman's horrified realisation of the company she was in, which rather amused him, but he'd read a great deal more besides. He'd been right, she was drink-affected, but she was also upset, very upset.
She's been crying
, he thought, noting the smudges of mascara under her eyes.
In fact, she's doing everything she can to keep herself together right now
.

He pulled off the woollen beanie, which he knew wasn't a good look. ‘You'll still need help to get to the cab when it arrives,' he said, hoping he didn't appear quite so threatening or ludicrous minus the beanie. He was thankful that at least he'd had the presence of mind to cut off the pom-pom. ‘And honestly, you need to get rid of that,' he added, looking down at the high-cut shoe and her ankle, which was already visibly swollen.

That was when Sarah received a further shock.
My God, what an attractive man
, she thought. The realisation made her want to cry again, or perhaps she wanted to laugh, she wasn't sure which. How insane. The whole day had been one massive shock. Damien taking her to lunch at The Pier, their favourite restaurant, only to tell her the affair was over. After a whole year! She'd even thought there might be a future for them together; in fact, she'd desperately hoped that there would be. But no, he'd decided to ‘move on', the polite way of saying he was bored now. And he'd left the announcement until dessert! Then her mad sprint from the restaurant, ignoring the cabs sitting at the rank, deciding to
walk off the effects of the wine, striding up the hill as she had. He'd made no attempt to follow of course. And now this? Falling arse over tit in the street, being rescued by a dero who, in divesting himself of his awful beanie, had revealed himself as attractive.
The mousey secretary letting down her hair and taking off her glasses – ‘my God, but you're beautiful' – how clichéd is that?

She let out a strange sound that might have been a yelp of laughter and leaning down obediently removed her shoe.

‘You wouldn't happen to have a cigarette, I suppose?' she asked as she straightened up and delved in her bag for a tissue to stem the tears that once again threatened.

‘I don't smoke, but yes, I can find you one.'

She watched briefly as he crossed to the wheelie bins, to the two women who were observing them closely – the hooker, little more than a girl really, and the other a beefy, grey-haired woman of around sixty in a truly dreadful cardigan. She quickly averted her eyes, dabbing at the tears, wiping away the mascara that she knew must have run.
How embarrassing
, she thought.
No, more than embarrassing, how utterly humiliating
.

He returned with a packet of Dunhills and a Bic lighter. ‘There you go,' he said, offering her the open packet. ‘Sal's happy for you to take a couple if you like.'

‘No, one will do fine, thank you.' She took a cigarette, he lit it for her, and she watched as he walked back to the bins, returning the packet and lighter to the girl.
A
gentleman to boot
, she thought wryly,
this really is the most insane day
. She gave the girl a thank-you wave, which was acknowledged, and then once again looked away.

He returned to sit beside her. She took a hefty drag of the cigarette.

‘I haven't had one of these for three months,' she said as she exhaled, studying the plume of smoke with fondness, as if revisiting an old friend. ‘I thought this time round I'd finally kicked the habit, but it's been one hell of a day, so …' She shrugged, feeling dizzy from the instant nicotine hit, which was thankfully distracting. ‘I'm Sarah,' she said, ‘Sarah Martell.'

‘Oh, like the brandy,' he replied pleasantly, hoping to put her at ease, she appeared very tense. But she made no comment, and he presumed she hadn't understood. ‘Martell Cognac?' he offered.

She had registered the reference, but it had been of no interest and her attention remained concentrated on the cigarette. Sadly, the dizziness had passed, and with it the pleasant distraction it had offered. The cigarette was now just a cigarette.

Clive studied the woman as she studied the plume of smoke rising in the autumn air. He felt sorry for her. She seemed so sad. Then she turned to him.

‘What's your name?' she asked.

‘Clive.'

She smiled, which came as a surprise to them both. ‘How deliciously old-fashioned,' she said. ‘My grandfather's name was Clive.'

‘Really?' He returned the smile. ‘I had an elderly aunt called Sarah.'

A moment rested between them, a familiar moment. This was the way men and women flirted.
How ridiculous
, both thought. Then she picked up her mobile.

‘I'll ring for that cab now,' she said. ‘What's the nearest crossroad? They're bound to ask.'

He told her and she made the call. ‘Next available,' she said, ‘shouldn't be long.'

She sat back, dragging again on her cigarette, knowing she'd get the cab driver to stop on the way home and buy a packet.
Meant to be
, she thought, Dunhill was even her brand.

‘Who are you, Clive. What do you do?' The question was no doubt offensive to the man – he was probably unemployed, on the dole, possibly even homeless. But he was unfathomable, a mystery; she wanted to know at least something about him.

The question
was
presumptuous, but for some reason Clive wasn't offended. In fact, he was quite prepared to offer an honest answer.

‘I'm a jack-of-all-trades,' he said. ‘I do bits and pieces around the place. Some handyman stuff, but gardening mostly. I know a lot about gardens.'

‘Really?' She took instant notice. ‘I have a very large garden that needs regular attention,' she said, which was quite true. She lived in one of the wealthier suburbs and the house she'd been granted in her divorce settlement five years previously sat in lavish surrounds.

She slipped a hand into the side pocket of her bag, producing a business card. ‘Here's my card,' she said.

He took it from her. ‘Thanks, that'd be fine. I'll pay you a visit.'

She dropped her cigarette butt onto the stubbly grass and ground it out with the toe of her shoe. Among the surrounding litter it seemed stupid to seek out an ashtray or bin. ‘Do you have a number where I can reach you?' Again a seemingly ridiculous question, but one she felt compelled to ask. ‘I'll ring and let you know when it's convenient to call around.'

‘I do as a matter of fact, yes.' He gave her his mobile number and she entered it into her list of contacts. She didn't ask for a surname. Oddly enough, that really
did
seem impertinent.

Then … ‘I think that's mine,' she said as a cab pulled up at the kerbside.

Clive turned, gave the driver a wave and Sarah collected her things.

‘I'd take off the other shoe if I were you,' he suggested.

She did so, and in stockinged feet with his arm about her she limped the twenty or so metres to the car.

Madge's eyes followed them every step of the way. Sal's attention was elsewhere now, she was chatting with two of the regulars several bins away, but Madge's ever-observant eyes had been taking in everything.

‘Thank you, Clive.' Sarah offered her hand. ‘You've been very kind.'

They shook. ‘My pleasure,' Clive said.

The cab drove off and he returned to The Corner where, from behind one of the Otto Bins, he retrieved his backpack. He delved an arm into it and, ferreting about at the bottom, eventually came up with his mobile phone. He tested it – dead as a dodo of course. He'd get it charged up right away.

‘You're back in action I see,' Madge said, referring to the mobile, which he'd told her some time back he'd contemplated throwing away.

‘Yep, why not,' he said with a smile. ‘See you, Madge.' Gathering his gear together and slinging it over his shoulder, he set off for the Neighbourhood Centre.

But Madge had been referring to far more than the mobile.
He'll be leaving us soon
, she thought, watching him go. She'd miss him.

Funny, isn't it
, she thought.
There doesn't seem to be anything at all wrong with Clive, but he's a lost soul, just like the rest of us. Good that he's found a niche for himself, or at least that he will shortly, but I wonder how long it'll last? Wonder if he'll come back to us when it's over?
Madge had the strangest feeling that he would, that Clive was a true member of the Otto Bin Empire.

Read on for an extract from Judy Nunn's new novel

 

SPIRITS OF THE GHAN

 

Available November 2015

In
Spirits of the Ghan
Judy Nunn takes us on a breathtaking journey deep into the red heart of Australia.

 

It is 2001 and as the world charges into the new Millennium, a century-old dream is about to be realised in the Red Centre of Australia: the completion of the mighty Ghan railway, a long-lived vision to create the ‘backbone of the continent', a line that will finally link Adelaide with the Top End.

 

But construction of the final leg between Alice Springs and Darwin will not be without its complications, for much of the desert it will cross is Aboriginal land.

 

Hired as a negotiator, Jessica Manning must walk a delicate line to reassure the Elders their sacred sites will be protected. Will her innate understanding of the spiritual landscape, rooted in her own Arunta heritage, win their trust? It's not easy to keep the peace when Matthew Witherton and his survey team are quite literally blasting a rail corridor through the timeless land of the Never-Never.

 

When the paths of Jessica and Matthew finally cross, their respective cultures collide to reveal a mystery that demands attention. As they struggle against time to solve the puzzle, an ancient wrong is awakened and calls hauntingly across the vastness of the outback …

1876

James McQuillan knew he was a dead man. He knew the instant the snake struck. A large king brown, a good six feet in length. He didn't know how long his death would take or how much pain might accompany it, but he was aware the sight would not be pretty. ‘Get back to the homestead, Emily, and fetch help,' he said. Quelling as best he could the fear that accompanied his awful knowledge, he kept his voice authoritative: ‘Hurry along now, there's a good girl.' There was no point in her fetching help, he would be dead long before her return, but if his daughter were to witness his death she might panic and lose her way home. It was imperative he give her a sense of purpose.

Legs outstretched on the dusty red earth, he leant his burly frame back against the rock, the very rock with the very crevice from which the snake had darted its head. The very rock he'd steadied his hand upon while leading the way down to the rock pool. He'd so wanted to share with his daughter this oasis, this perfect gift of nature nestled in the desert. A place of such beauty, where white-trunked gums grew stark and ghostly out of ochre-red rocks that walled a pristine lagoon of blue. He cursed himself now. How could he have been such a fool? He was a dead man, and his daughter's life was in jeopardy. Emily should be
safely home in Adelaide. He should never have brought her to this wilderness.

Sixteen-year-old Emily stared down at her father, dumb-struck with fear. She had seen the snake. Light brown in colour with a flat cobra-like head, it had struck with such speed and ferocity and then disappeared so quickly that she hadn't even screamed. Now, upon her father's instruction, she was galvanised into action.

‘No, Father, no,' she said, crouching beside him and urgently taking a hold of his arm. ‘I can help you to your horse. We'll get you home together and Alfred will look after you.' Alfred was the property's overseer. A tough outback man, Alfred would know what to do. But even as she spoke, her father's arm began to shudder. The action was not deliberate, she knew, but a series of involuntary muscular spasms, and it frightened her.

‘Do as you're told, Emily.' James tried once again to sound authoritative, but he was starting to convulse and his throat was swelling. His larynx restricted, his voice was only a painful rasp. Soon paralysis would set in and he would be unable to speak at all. ‘Go home and fetch Alfred. Be quick now.' They had set out in the late afternoon to avoid the heat of the day, but she had a good hour of light still ahead of her, he told himself, and the homestead was only a two-mile ride away. So long as she doesn't get lost, James prayed, so long as she doesn't …

‘Head east,' he said with the last few words he could push out, ‘keep the sun behind you. Head east …' Then as his throat restricted further his voice failed him altogether.

Emily stood, her chest heaving, her breath coming in frantic, fevered gasps. Her father's body was starting to shake uncontrollably, but his eyes were still upon her, very much alive and ordering her to go.

Half blinded by tears of sheer terror, she turned from him and ran to where the horses were tethered twenty yards away. She must save her father. ‘My daughter can
ride like the wind!' She could hear his laughter and the proud boast to his friends; he delighted in her skill as a horsewoman. She tightened the girth strap and mounted the hardy little mare. She could hear him now, urging her on. ‘Ride like the wind, Emily! Ride like the wind!' Well, she would ride as she had never ridden before. There was still time: there had to be. She must save her father's life.

James tried to watch her go, his eyes rolling in their sockets, but he couldn't see her. He couldn't move his head. He couldn't move any part of himself. Brain and body were disconnected, no longer his to command. All that remained was thought. And thought said,
There is no road to the homestead, not even a track, and I didn't think to teach her the landmarks.
Then a further thought …
I should have told her to let the mare have her head
–
the mare will sense the way home.
Then all that was left as the venom overtook him was a terrible guilt and self-recrimination.

How could I have let this happen
?

 

James Angus McQuillan, only son of Angus Donald McQuillan, gentleman, farmer and Director of the Bank of Scotland, was born in 1820 in Dundee, Scotland on 21 August, a birthday, he often remarked, that he shared with King William IV.

After migrating to Adelaide in 1854 to appraise and report on his father's already-established land-holdings in South Australia, James had formed a business partnership with lawyer and fellow Scot, Edwin Moss. The two presented an odd couple in appearance, James ginger-bearded and burly, Edwin moustachioed, lean and lanky, but a strong friendship developed between the Scotsmen, a friendship based on mutual respect, for they were similarly shrewd when it came to business.

In 1859 McQuillan, Moss & Co invested with Elder, Stirling & Co to finance the Wallaroo and Moonta
Copper Mines. After initial risks, the investment brought them a handsome return, and over the ensuing years James and Edwin went from strength to strength, acquiring vast tracts of land that spread further and further into the untouched wastes of South Australia and the territory to the north known as Alexandra Land. In tackling the problems presented by the outback, they spent thousands of pounds on fencing and the sinking of bores until finally their pastoral properties constituted a land mass far larger than the whole of their native Scotland. James McQuillan and Edwin Moss had become wealthy men.

James lived a happy, fulfilled life. He had fallen in love two years after his arrival in Adelaide, and became engaged to Eleanor Welles, a fair-haired, pretty young Englishwoman. Eleanor was the daughter of a prominent banker with whom James did a great deal of business and everyone agreed it was an ideal match. ‘Convenient', some even said a little archly, which was an apt enough comment for the relationship did indeed benefit all parties concerned, but this happy fact did not make the love shared by the couple any the less real.

The two married and in 1860, after several unfortunate miscarriages, Eleanor finally bore James a daughter, Emily, who grew to be a replica of her mother. James, who could be surprisingly effusive when something delighted him, as Emily did, would happily declare to one and all in his rich, Scottish brogue, ‘She's the apple of my eye, that wee girl, the apple of my eye.'

The McQuillans lived in a gracious three-storey home that James had had specially designed in North Terrace, the very heart of Adelaide. A wide circular carriageway led up to the front of the house, where a series of impressive stone arches formed the ground floor facade, while the broad balconies above, encased by a lacework of ornate railings, offered excellent views of the surrounding township and countryside. The grounds were spacious and
beautifully landscaped, with separate servants' quarters at the rear near stables housing James's beloved horses and a large barn sheltering a selection of vehicles – work-drays, traps, buggies and a covered carriage – together with the requisite harness tackle.

McQuillan House was a symbol of James's position in society and far larger than was necessary to meet the family's requirements, but it was not a deliberate show of ostentation. James and Eleanor intended to have many children, and their lifestyle obliged them to entertain. Along with the many philanthropic concerns both had embraced, Eleanor was a keen follower of the arts and nurtured budding writers and painters, while James, as a member of the Adelaide Legislative Council, took his civic duties very seriously.

Given the diversity of the couple's interests, McQuillan House saw numerous and eclectic social gatherings over the years. There were dinners with twenty to table in the formal dining room, gala charity concerts staged in the front salon, casual afternoon teas held on the balcony and huge garden parties each spring. But sadly, as time passed, the house did not see a growth in family numbers. After suffering another two miscarriages, both times well into her second trimester, Eleanor was warned that any further attempt to bear children could prove dangerous, perhaps even fatal.

‘Oh James, I am so very, very, sorry.' When the doctor had gone, Eleanor succumbed to the tears she'd been desperately fighting back. In her weakened state, they now flowed freely as her husband sat beside her on the bed. ‘Oh my dearest, how I have let you down.'

‘There, there, my dear, you have done nothing of the sort, don't talk such nonsense.' James drew his kerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the tears from her cheeks. His tone was brisk and business-like: indulging her in any maudlin sentiment would do her no good,
he thought, though in truth his heart ached to see his normally vibrant wife so wretched and unhappy. ‘Come along now, blow your nose,' he said as if to a child. ‘No more tears, there's a good girl.'

She blew her nose obediently, but she could not stem the flow of tears. ‘You married the wrong woman, James. You should have chosen a stronger wife, one who could give you the family you've always longed for.'

He took her hand in both of his and pressed it gently to his lips. ‘I married exactly the right woman, my dear,' he said. ‘I married the woman with whom I wish to spend the whole of my life. And we have a family. We have Emily.'

‘But the sons you so craved …'

Disappointment ran deep, it was true; he would very much miss having sons. But he would teach Emily to ride like a man … He would imbue in Emily the thrill of adventure … ‘Emily is family enough,' he said firmly, ‘now go to sleep: we need you strong.'

Although his intention had been merely to placate his distraught wife, the years proved James right. All of the love he might have lavished on a large family he focused upon his daughter, who became the very centre of his existence. Emily was not mollycoddled or spoilt though, for that was not James's way. From a very early age she was treated as an adult and shared in his life, in his very dreams and expectations. Father and daughter quite simply adored each other.

To many, James McQuillan appeared a somewhat contradictory man. He was personally wealthy and lived a lavish lifestyle, yet the speeches he made at legislative council meetings were invariably in opposition to what he considered extravagant government spending. He was practical and conservative, his public addresses short and to the point, yet on social occasions, particularly as host in his own home, he was flamboyant and could wax lyrical with the best. But the most contradictory element
in James McQuillan's make-up was something that would have been beyond the comprehension of his desk-bound city colleagues. James McQuillan was an adventurer, a man whose love of the outback was so fierce it bordered on passion.

Even Edwin Moss, James's friend and business partner, did not know the degree of passion he felt for the rugged beauty of central Australia. Certainly the two had shared excitement over their ventures into the wilderness of Alexandra Land. Certainly where others had seen nothing but dry desert James and Edwin had seen endless possibility. But Edwin had not bonded with the land as James had, and James had not seen fit to share his feelings about something he regarded as intensely personal. He did, however, share them with his thirteen-year-old daughter, painting vivid pictures of giant gorges and fiery-red escarpments and huge gum trees growing from the centre of dusty, dry riverbeds.

‘A primitive land, Emily,' he told her, ‘a land so spiritual you cannot help but feel at one with it. A person is closer to God out there, I swear. You can feel His very presence.'

So enthralled was Emily with the images her father painted of a landscape foreign to the green hills of Adelaide that she made him promise to take her to see his newest holding, a cattle station many days' journey from anywhere.

‘I don't see why not,' James agreed, much to Eleanor's consternation. ‘Perhaps in a year or so when the homestead's living quarters are completed and the station is running smoothly.'

‘Not until she is sixteen, James,' Eleanor insisted. ‘I will not hear of it. Not until she has turned sixteen.'

‘Very well,' James acquiesced good-naturedly, ‘sixteen it is. The homestead will be finished altogether by then.'

‘And we'll travel up by camel?' Emily asked excitedly.

‘We will indeed. You and I will be in a cart drawn by a camel pair-in-hand, and a camel train will follow with
supplies. Splendid animals, splendid – this country would be lost without them.'

James McQuillan, like a number of adventurous businessmen, saw the camel as the answer to the transport problems of the outback. Recently, with the help of Thomas Elder, a fellow aficionado of the camel and first to introduce the animals to Australia, James had imported a batch of breeding dromedaries, together with Afghan cameleers to manage the beasts. He intended to breed sturdy stock at his pastoral property in Alexandra Land. An area of well over one thousand square miles, the property's border lay just twenty-five miles southwest of one of the newly-established overland telegraph repeater stations, so an accessible track from Adelaide was already in existence.

The Overland Telegraph Line, traversing the continent from Adelaide in the south to the furthermost northern port of Palmerston, had been completed just the previous year, in 1872, and had very much followed the route of explorer John McDouall Stuart, who, a decade earlier, had led the first successful expedition north through central Australia. A massive undertaking, the Line had linked Australia by undersea cable to Java and therefore Great Britain. Two thousand miles of telegraph line had been painstakingly erected through the desert heart of the country and telegraph poles and materials for the construction of repeater stations had been transported into the barren wilderness. It was an extraordinary feat all round and, as James was wont to point out when enthusing about his new business venture, one that could only have been made possible by the camel.