Marriage At Murraree. Margaret Way
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name was Jock McIvor. Swashbuckling cattle baron. A man with money to burn.
Jock McIvor, who it appeared short of DNA testing, was Casey’s father. He couldn’t be anything else. He was even taller than she was. After she had finally closed the door on a sobbing Judith Harrison, nevertheless de-lumbered of her burden, Casey had made it her business to read up everything she could about McIvor that paragon of sin; all the press clippings, accompanied by photographs. Judith Harrison hadn’t lied. Handsome was too tame a word for him. The photographs were all in black and white so she didn’t know his exact colouring except for what Judith Harrison had told her. He had a leonine shock of red-gold hair. He was very tall, probably six-four with sapphire eyes and a cleft in his chin. Casey had almost laughed. It fit her own colouring. She even had—in her case—a dimple in her chin. In no way had she resembled her dark haired, dark eyed mother who’d been five-three at most. The person she resembled obviously was the person who had seduced her naïve little mother, ultimately destroying her life.
A man without conscience. Jock McIvor.
Powerful, rich, probably dumping one woman after the other, he had taken everything her mother could give him, then returned to his own world where pretty gullible little creatures like her mother didn’t belong. By the time her mother found out she was pregnant she was on her own and a long way from home. Casey had no way of knowing what her mother had felt then but she must have been terrified with no one to turn to. She had alienated her parents in abandoning herself to her lover.
Only her lover, it turned out, had a wife and a baby. A baby called Darcy.
Jock McIvor, who should have had Dirty Rotten Scoundrel as a bumper sticker.
But he was dead. That was okay. The family was going to pay. Those McIvor women—she knew all about the other one, Courtney, who had arrived a couple of years after the first born Darcy—those McIvor heiresses as the Press dubbed them—were rolling in money. That struck Casey as being shockingly unfair. If she were McIvor’s daughter and she didn’t for a moment doubt that she was, wasn’t she entitled to a stake? It was about time the poor and oppressed of this world had justice. Well she was poor enough to qualify but just let anyone try to oppress her. She’d had more than her fair share of that in The Home where all her survival skills had been tested.
She was probably traumatised. She had been sexually assaulted by The Cobra but he hadn’t managed to rape her on account of the noise she made and a great kick that would have carried her far in soccer, sending him hurtling across the room. She was fourteen then, almost at her full height and as wiry as hell. That had sent a message to the others. Leave McGuire alone or she might be tempted to slug you or kick you in the balls. She never had much of an education. About two days at school and a smattering of the three R’s she picked up at The Home where grade ten was about as good as it got. Could she ever forget even in her time two of the kids had committed suicide, unable to withstand the day in day out torment? She had prayed and prayed they had gone to a much better place….
For years Casey had been supporting herself singing for her supper. People really liked her in the pubs where she was starting to make a name for herself as a singer-songwriter. She had a good voice for country and she liked to think plenty of talent on the guitar. One of her boyfriends, a really nice guy—yes, there were a few out there—had taught her. He had even passed over his own expensive guitar saying when he heard her he realised he shouldn’t play any more. She’d even managed to finish her formal education to Leaving Certificate. Emboldened by the results, she had taken up various courses at an Adult Learning institute, even basic French. It made her feel cultured. On the purely practical side she’d signed on for a get-to-know-your-car course where she’d outshone most of the guys. Heck, she was as good as any A Grade garage mechanic, which was probably why the ute was still running.
Twenty minutes later she saw on a slight rise set well back from the road, a fairly impressive dwelling for this or any other neck of the woods. A homestead of some kind? Though she leaned forwards peering through the windshield she couldn’t see a solitary goat let alone a herd of cattle. It even had trees around it. Desert oaks. She’d become familiar with them. Several towering gums. A couple of palms. The house was two storey, built of rose coloured bricks finished off with wide verandahs, white cast-iron balustrades and white lattice treillage. What in the world was a quite handsome house doing in the middle of nowhere?
“You’re seeing things, Casey girl,” she mumbled to herself. Her heart missed a beat as a large stone flew up from the road and hit the windshield at a point close to her head. At various intervals on her long journey she had seen piles of glass at the side of the road marking the spots where some traveller had struck trouble. Mercifully her windscreen remained intact, but she would like to take on more water. The house didn’t look deserted. It looked lived-in. She could see a big galvanised iron water tank off to one side and a few out-buildings at the back. Surely a weary traveller could beg a container of water? Outback people were supposed to be hospitable. On the other hand she might run into some ornery character totting a .22. Nothing life dished up surprised her.
Okay, let’s see! Casey took the gravelled side road that led to the house. She wasn’t counting on a gate. I mean just how many people came calling? Nevertheless she got out to open it and closed it securely after her once the ute was inside. Maybe a bunch of cows was out back planning a stampede?
Not cows. A cattle dog, with the distinctive blue speckled coat and dark tan markings. She knew what it was. A Queensland Blue Heeler bred especially for droving and rounding up cattle. It came skittling around a corner of the house barking its head off, probably determined to make amends for having been taking a nap.
“Hey, fella!” she called to it, standing her ground. “What’s your problem? I’m not a bad person. I’m here for water.”
The bluey must have liked the sound of her voice. It stopped barking and came right up to her as though eager to clear up any misunderstandings.
“Hi, there, what’s your name?” She bent to pat it. She liked animals better than people and they liked her. There was a collar around its neck with a name tag.
“Rusty!” She chuckled. “Is that your name? Howya goin’, Rusty? You’re a clever boy. How about showing me up to the house?”
She could have sworn the dog smiled.
She rapped on the solid timber front door. No one came.
“Damn, Rusty!” The owner had to be away. They had probably taken a run into the town, which on her map was Koomera Crossing. She kept talking away to the dog to prove her good intentions. The front door was offset by brilliant stained glass panels, fan lights and sidelights, in the style she had learned was Art Nouveau. She had been starved of beauty. Now she was making up for lost time. She was taking a closer look, one hand resting gently against the front door when the door suddenly gave. It swung open and she was left looking into a generous entrance hall illuminated by the brilliant sunlight. It had an unusual floor of alternating light and dark boards. There was little furniture beyond a single painting hanging above a small dark timber console.
“Hello, there,” she called. “Anyone at home?” But if anyone was at home, surely they would have heard Rusty’s barking.
Afterwards she never knew why she walked in but everything about the place was irresistible. Rusty followed her, making not the slightest attempt to nip at her heels.
Casey laughed. “Some watchdog you are.” She gave him another pat while he looked back at her with an eager, expectant face as if soon they’d be outside playing catch. Obviously Rusty had retired. “Since I’m here, I suppose it’s okay if I fill my container.” She went back to the ute to get it with the cattle dog padding along happily at her side. “Rusty, you old dog, you like women. I wonder if you’d be so nice if I were a man?” Probably not. Men were such threatening creatures. Women weren’t.
By the time she filled the big container to the top it was heavy. She lowered it to the floor and then, because she was so much enjoying being inside such a house, she decided to take a quick look around. She wouldn’t go upstairs. She felt sure she shouldn’t, but there was