Before the Storm Page 7

  Tommy’s Treasures was inside at the back of the building. Shelves of books lined the walls and there was a musty rug on the floor, two sagging armchairs, and a desk with a laptop and credit card machine in place along with notes and a pile of books.

  The owner, Tommy, presumably, was sitting in one of the armchairs, reading. He appeared to be pushing fifty, his curly hair needed the attention of a barber, and he wore an old sweater over an un-ironed shirt, but it looked to be cashmere.

  He looked up as Ellie stepped inside, but waited a few moments before asking, ‘Want anything in particular? Mightn’t look it but I can put my finger on any title that I have in stock.’

  ‘Wow, that’s organised,’ Ellie replied. ‘I’m actually after anything you have on local history, in particular the early families who settled here. I’ve already checked the library.’

  ‘You want actual books or information?’

  ‘Ah, either, or both; what makes you say that?’

  ‘You doing a uni course, writing something yourself or digging into genealogy?’

  ‘I’ll just cut to the chase, shall I?’ said Ellie.

  ‘Go for it.’

  ‘I’m writing a story for the local paper on Mrs Kathryn O’Neill, so I’m looking for some background on her and the family. Do you know anything about them? Are you a local yourself?’

  ‘My parochialism shows, does it?’ He smiled, seemingly not offended. ‘Depends what you want to know. The O’Neills manage their public profile pretty effectively.’

  ‘Do they? Why? Is there dirty laundry somewhere? Oh, I’m Ellie, by the way. Estelle Conlan. My grandfather, Patrick Addison, runs The Storm Harbour Chronicle. You might know him.’

  ‘Yes, of course I do,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’m Tommy, as you might have gathered.’ He stood up and shook her hand.

  ‘I’m just visiting and I’m helping him out while I’m here,’ Ellie explained. ‘Though I spent a lot of time here as a child.’

  ‘Please, take a seat.’ Tommy waved at the other arm­chair and they both sat down. ‘The changes and so-called “progress” in our town sometimes pains me. I tend to lay the blame at the feet of people like the O’Neills.’

  ‘Really? What do you mean? Do you know something about their dealings?’

  ‘I’ve lived here all my life and I’ve never really worked out why they have so much power. Is it just because of all their money? Ownership? Because they were the first Europeans to settle here?’ He shook his head slowly.

  ‘I’m just interested to know about Kathryn O’Neill. I understand she had a lot to do with the Botanic Gardens. She did an amazing job; they’re gorgeous!’

  ‘Too right. Bloody pity they didn’t make the whole area the Botanic Gardens. That would have been an even bigger tourist attraction for the town. If one wanted to bring hordes here, that is. Though the caravan park has to be one of the best sites in the country to camp or live, don’t you think? I suppose that secret is leaking out. We do seem to have more people coming through. Even in here.’

  ‘I would have thought this place a must-visit.’ Ellie smiled.

  ‘You’re too young to remember it when it was the goods shed. Thank goodness they kept this place, though.’

  ‘My mother remembers it. And getting the train down here. I love train trips; it’s a pity the line doesn’t run anymore.’

  ‘So what in particular would you like to know about the O’Neills?’ Tommy asked. ‘You trying to find out some scandal about them to write up in your story?’

  Ellie couldn’t help smiling. ‘Not quite. The Chronicle doesn’t run scandals. But I am interested in finding out about their history. You never know. I hear they have long been leaders in the town and are quite philanthropic.’

  Tommy screwed up his nose in distaste. ‘Well, so they should be seeing as they’ve virtually run the place for genera­tions.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘I’ll do some research for you. Might go and talk to my Aunty Mary in St Bridget’s Home. She’s older than God, but still has her memory.’

  ‘I don’t know her; has she always lived here?’ asked Ellie.

  ‘Born here, and she’s in her eighties now.’ He pointed to the newspaper folded on the chair beside him. ‘She still gets the crossword out before me every day.’

  ‘Then she would have known Kathryn O’Neill,’ said Ellie.

  ‘Known of her, certainly. They wouldn’t have moved in the same circles.’ He smiled. ‘Okay, leave it with me. Here’s my card; send me your number.’

  Ellie pulled out her phone and texted Tommy her details.

  ‘Thank you for your help,’ Ellie began, but Tommy waved a casual hand. ‘I’d better get going and leave you to your work.’

  ‘The shop’s just a hobby, really. I have to pretend to do something with my life.’

  ‘Oh. Why? Did you win the lottery?’ Ellie raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Something like that,’ he smiled.

  *

  ‘I couldn’t find out anything much about Mrs O’Neill other than what appeared in the social pages. And there were a few magazine features on her gardens at Craigmore and the Botanic Gardens,’ Ellie said to Patrick that night over dinner. ‘There was the record of her marriage – I did discover that her maiden name was Kelly – but no details of Kathryn’s family or their history. However, I discovered she was a good bit younger than her husband. Surely if Kathryn had come from “good stock” her family would have been mentioned.’

  ‘Mmm, maybe. Although the focus was probably on the bridegroom’s family, I s’pose. Considering their standing in this district.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe,’ Ellie said, taking a sip of her wine. ‘Seamus was born some time after the wedding so it was no rushed event. And within a few years the “charming hostess and mistress of Craigmore”’ – Ellie made quote marks in the air with her fingers – ‘was presiding over social and charitable events, which she then continued to do for decades. She was active in the gardening club and set up a creche for the children of itinerant workers during the shearing and fruit-picking seasons.’

  ‘There you go. I never knew Kathryn set up a creche. She certainly didn’t make a song and dance about it, and I admire her for that,’ said Patrick. ‘Has she agreed to an interview?’

  ‘Her assistant has. She will notify me as to a conveni­ent date and time,’ sniffed Ellie. She had found a phone number for the O’Neill family business and been directed to the family’s personal assistant, one Susan McLean. ‘She sounds a pain. Susan, the PA, that is, not Mrs O’Neill.’

  ‘Better do your homework, then,’ advised Patrick.

  *

  Ellie allowed extra time so she wasn’t late, feeling slightly annoyed at herself for being nervous. ‘This is just a simple interview about a life well lived,’ she admonished herself.

  At five minutes to ten she turned through the gates, driving past the mailbox with only a number on it and along the dusty road to the formal entrance to the estate, where wrought-iron gates displayed the word Craigmore across the top of the archway. There was a post with a buzzer and speaker, and when she announced herself the gates swung open.

  Taking a breath, Ellie stared at the large red-brick mansion, but even more impressive was the rocky red hill rising behind it. The driveway curled around a fountain. Ellie drove past the portico and the ornate front door and pulled up alongside some parked cars.

  As she got out, the front door opened and a well-dressed woman in her forties walked out and waited for her.

  Ellie stared at her for a moment and then froze in horror.

  ‘You must be Estelle. I’m Susan McLean, the O’Neills’ assistant.’ The woman walked towards Ellie, extending her hand, then stopped, frowning. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yes, we’ve met,’ said Ellie coolly. ‘Your dog attacked mine. It should be kept on a leash.’

  ‘I apologi
se. There’re rarely other dogs there. He’s a male breeder so he sees other dogs as a threat.’

  ‘He did more than threaten!’ Ellie had to press her lips together to stop herself saying anything else.

  ‘I hope your dog is all right. I am happy to pay any vet bills.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. Our dog sustained a nasty wound but thankfully he’s recovering.’ With an effort, Ellie changed the subject. ‘Shall I leave my car here?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  Before Ellie could say anything else, Susan turned inside. ‘Mrs O’Neill will see you in the morning room.’

  ‘Lovely, thank you.’

  ‘I hear the photographer is coming later?’

  ‘That’s right. Jonathan Cubbins. He’ll call to arrange a time.’

  ‘That’ll be fine. Most press like to photograph the gardens, too. Mrs O’Neill will take you or the photographer around them, if she’s up to it.’ Susan strode ahead as Ellie followed.

  The hallway was lined with photographs, lavishly framed, mostly of large merino sheep bulked up with their valuable fleece, posing with ribbons and prize cups. Ellie leaned forward, seeing an enlarged photo of a 1950s wool cheque made out for one million pounds.

  Susan opened double teak doors. ‘In here, please.’

  The room was welcoming and cosy despite its grand floor-to-ceiling windows looking onto a formal garden. There was a faint mustiness, possibly from the heavy brocade window drapes.

  An elderly woman with pure white hair cut in a stylish bob, who Ellie recognised from the social pages photos as Kathryn O’Neill, was standing, leaning slightly on a walking stick, and smiling. She offered her hand.

  ‘Good morning, Estelle.’ Her handshake was firm, although she looked thin, almost frail. ‘Please do sit down and be comfortable.’ She gestured to the small settee opposite the armchair beside her. A low coffee table was between them.

  Susan hovered close as Kathryn O’Neill lowered herself into the chair, resting her walking stick to one side.

  ‘I’ll bring the tea.’ Susan excused herself.

  Ellie pointed to the garden outside. ‘Susan tells me you still enjoy your garden.’

  ‘I do. Gives me endless pleasure. And some pride. It’s been a great passion for me. Of course, I didn’t inherit a blank canvas; my mother-in-law had a tribe of gardeners do a lot of the work. The old photos show a rather modest effort in the early days. A garden was not a priority,’ she said and smiled politely.

  ‘I imagine not,’ replied Ellie. ‘What got you interested in horticulture? Did you grow up with a garden?’

  ‘Not at all. But I loved the wild bush around us . . . ah.’ Kathryn paused as Susan returned with a china teapot swaddled in a crocheted tea-cosy. She poured a cup each for Kathryn and Ellie then put down the pot.

  ‘Can I get anything else for you?’

  ‘No, dear, thank you.’

  ‘Well. I’ll be just outside if you need me.’

  Ellie read the shorthand between them. Susan would be watching the clock, and likely listening to the interview as well. She did not completely close the door behind her as she left.

  Ellie held up her phone. ‘Do you mind if I record our interview, for later reference, Mrs O’Neill? I don’t trust myself to remember everything.’

  ‘Not at all. Memory can be a very fickle thing, as I have good cause to know at my age,’ said Kathryn with a chuckle.

  Ellie returned her smile and turned on her phone to record. ‘I was wondering about your early memories of moving here as a bride. You were very young – and beautiful.’ Ellie had found a formal photograph of the couple in a file copy of the Australian Woman’s Weekly magazine, in the society pages.

  ‘Thank you. It was war time. But I must say, it still felt like a fairytale. Until Boyd had to return to his duties in Sydney, that is. It wasn’t till the war was over that we went to Paris for a belated honeymoon. I have spent my married life here at Craigmore. We’ve made many trips to Ireland over the years, though.’

  Ellie leaped in. ‘And is your family Irish as well? I noticed your maiden name is Kelly, and there don’t seem to have been any Kellys in this district. Where did you grow up?’

  For a split second Ellie thought she saw a slight intake of breath as Kathryn sipped her tea, then replaced the cup in its delicate saucer.

  ‘So many questions at once. My father was an accountant so before I married I had quite a different lifestyle. Very little to do with sheep.’ She chuckled quietly. ‘You should speak to my grandson if you’d like to find out about our breeding of the magnificent merino sheep and developing the superfine wool that has made them so famous. We supply Chinese, Japanese and British markets these days.’ She gave a small smile. ‘We also breed high-quality Angus cattle at our property in Queensland.’

  This was not the friendly girl talk Ellie had planned. She tried again.

  ‘And where did you and Mr O’Neill meet?’

  ‘Oh, it was all so long ago, I’m sure no one will be interested in those early years. Please, you haven’t touched your tea.’ She leaned forward. ‘And there’s some lovely shortbread that the cook made. Do help yourself.’

  Ellie could sense a slight resistance in Kathryn to this line of questioning. Was it too personal? she wondered. She thought the questions reasonable enough, but something felt a bit off. Nonetheless, she pressed on.

  ‘So what were your ambitions as a young woman, Mrs O’Neill? What did you dream of being when you were a teenager?’

  ‘Teenagers were not really known then. In my day young women did not have the opportunities or access to the workforce that they have now,’ she replied tightly. ‘Therefore one had to cut one’s cloth to fit, as it were. Which is why I have been so dedicated to helping women achieve their goals.’

  With a sinking feeling, Ellie realised she wasn’t going to get anything more than the most general answers to her many questions. Mrs O’Neill wasn’t as forthcoming as she’d expected and seemed to feel constrained, but Ellie felt she had no choice but to keep trying.

  ‘You have a son, Seamus, two grandsons, and a granddaughter in Melbourne, I believe. How do you see the generational changes from when you were married?’ Ellie said.

  ‘It certainly was a different era. I like to think I grew more progressive as I matured. I certainly had a very supportive husband.’

  ‘I understand you’ve always been involved in philanthropic enterprises. You seem to have been very independent, breaking away from tradition, perhaps? Or because of your family influence?’ Ellie smiled.

  ‘You learn that as a woman matures, she finds the strength of character to follow her instincts and, where possible, her interests. Women are standing up for themselves more and more in these modern times, which is pleasing to see.’

  ‘It’s just unfortunate that we still have to battle for it, though; that it’s not a given right, be it for equal pay or opportunity,’ said Ellie gently.

  Kathryn O’Neill shifted in her seat. ‘Well, I have to say there are different battles now. I find social media these days dangerous and despicable, I’m sorry to say.’

  Ellie decided to steer the interview back to Mrs O’Neill’s own life. ‘Do you consider yourself fortunate, privileged, perhaps, looking back on your life compared to when you were a young girl?’

  There was a brief pause before Kathryn straightened slightly. ‘I have been very fortunate. Equally, I have lived through some perilous times. As, now, has your generation. Our challenges are different, but they are what shape us to be who we are,’ she replied.

  Sighing inwardly, Ellie wondered what to do. The article would be as dull as dishwater at this rate, beautiful gardens notwithstanding. ‘Mrs O’Neill, what do you see as being your lasting contribution to the town and environs? Apart from the wonderful Botanic Gardens, are there any projects you wished yo
u’d been able to accomplish –’

  At that moment the door was thrust open and Susan came into the room, saying loudly, ‘I do hope you have enjoyed the tea. Are you up to doing a tour of the garden?’ Before Kathryn O’Neill could answer, Susan went on, ‘Or maybe that would be something to do when the photographer comes . . .’

  Ellie put her cup down with a clatter. ‘Please, don’t trouble yourself.’

  The interview was over, Ellie realised, as Susan McLean began to collect their tea things.

  ‘Are you comfortable, Mrs O’Neill? I’ll take Ms Conlan to her car,’ the PA said firmly.

  ‘Thank you for coming, dear.’ Mrs O’Neill reached for her walking stick, which Susan handed to her. Ellie muttered her thanks and a farewell as she followed the briskly walking Susan to the front door.

  *

  Patrick emerged from his office. ‘Hello, Ellie. Sorry, been on the blower. Did you get any gems from the Queen of Craigmore?’

  Ellie wrinkled her nose. ‘She’s a better poker player than I am a reporter, I think.’

  Patrick laughed. ‘Well, I’ve been on the phone with the mayor, Meredith Havelock. She’s hearing a lot of gossip. Meredith is pretty steamed up about it, mainly because she’s got wind that something’s going on but still can’t get any details.’

  ‘Details about what, exactly?’

  ‘Meredith overheard a conversation at the council chambers. It was something to do with some land Boyd O’Neill gave to his wife decades ago, which could be any of a number of places, Meredith said – Boyd loved Kathryn and apparently gave her quite a few plots and properties over the years for her to use for her charitable endeavours. Anyway, details are very scarce, but Meredith is worried that something underhand may be going on.’

  Ellie shook her head. ‘I bet Ben doesn’t know about any such plan. Besides, he’s been away for so long.’