Keller's Ridge

KELLER'S RIDGE

B C Austen

Keller’s Ridge

by B C Austen

Copyright 2017 B C Austen

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords License Statement

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover designed by the author.

I would love to hear your thoughts on the book, good or not so good. Feel free to leave a review from your download site or email me at the address below.

Email: bcausten@westnet.com.au

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The Author

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I began this perilous journey into indie publishing with no idea my wonderful stories was going to profoundly change me. The highs of getting words written were simply amazing while the lows were just not quite bad enough to make me quit. Sleepless nights and living amongst my characters was something I never dreamt would happen. I’ve realised that the writer in me looked at the world from a more idyllic perspective.

My family were an incredible source of encouragement and inspiration which enabled this writing project from creation to publication. Whilst they were amazed and nervous that their matriarch was putting pen to paper their underlying presence and assistance was invaluable.

I wish to personally thank Val, Laurel, Jo and Pam, my loyal beta readers, for their role in getting this book to the standard required for the general public to enjoy. Without their fresh eyes, their editing support, their knowledge and merely by providing motivation during this time, none of it would have been possible.

I look forward to their continued participation and contributions for all my books.

CHAPTER ONE

‘You’ll be fine, Calvine. Your mother will be glad to have you back.’

She smiled at his sweet, boyish face. ‘Thanks, Jordan.’

Calvine hugged him for longer than necessary, knowing that letting him go meant she would never see him again.

‘All the best,’ she said. ‘I know you’ll be a big star one day.’ She let him go as she felt her throat tighten. On the verge of tears she looked away to check the departure board.

"London to Sydney - Flight # QS1690

All passengers to Gate 49.

No delays anticipated."

She looked back to him, and by the hint of moisture in his eyes, saw he was also feeling emotional. As he got to the top of the escalator, he gave a final wave.

You haven’t a clue how horrible my mother is, have you, dear Jordan. You, who has the world at your feet and a bright future. And me? I’ll sum it up in three words - drudgery and arguments.

Calvine joined the waiting queue in front of the Qantas check-in desk at Heathrow.

‘Passport please.’ Calvine stepped forward and handed her documents over.

Too late to turn back now.

As Calvine sat in the departure lounge waiting for her flight, she couldn’t help stewing over the past six years. Seeking the bright lights of London had been a dismal failure, and it was time to face her mother and do what had been expected of her before she’d left.

As a teen Calvine always had a yearning to be an actress. She had no desire to spend her whole life stuck in a small, backwoods, New South Wales country town. The thought of being married young, trudging through life raising children, and then ending up in the local cemetery, was not on her radar. There was a better life somewhere else, of that she was positive. Her best friend, Nadine Daniels, had married a month after school ended and with that Calvine found herself with not a single friend.

On her arrival in London she had easily found work as a live-in governess, but it soon became apparent that her aspirations of becoming a famous actress weren’t going to materialise, and in the fullness of time the stars in her eyes had diminished, as had a large portion of her savings. After the first year, even the glamour of working overseas had started to wear off, replaced by the never ending struggle of earning enough to live the life she wanted. But she stuck it out to prove she could make it. Others had, and she just had to be patient. But the doubts took over, and the constant knock-backs had that little nagging thought in her head begin to get louder, that she should return home.

She knew what the major stumbling block was. No formal acting training. That was always the first question asked at auditions. Did she seriously think she could wow the talent agents without that? Or had she just been going for the wrong auditions. In her favour, she had managed four or five minor roles, but in the end it no longer mattered, Calvine was broke and fed up. The prospect of spending another dismal cold winter in England was the catalyst.

She missed the warm Australian weather and the relaxed lifestyle. Returning to the Keller homestead and the punishing grind of running a farm, seemed a much easier prospect than trying to make a living treading the boards, not to mention coping in that artificial environment.

Before going to London she’d had no real ties. There were no boyfriends, unless you considered going on two dates with Jerry Hansen from her class, or having a snog after school with Max Jeffery, who lived on the farm next door; but that was the extent of it. With her home life descending into an abyss of clashing heads with her mother, she needed to get away and find herself; and it wasn’t hard, especially when at the age of seventeen she was given access to a $3,000 bequest from her late father.

Immediately she realised it was her ticket to getting off the farm and escaping. Stardom was beckoning the now tall, pretty, 18 year old, and the opportunity to fulfil her dreams was a reality.

Her failure was hard to swallow. She always considered herself to be strong and determined, but if she was truly honest, she was shy and reticent underneath. She had never settled down in London, and she could no longer shake off her destiny. As the oldest child in the family it was time to go home and front up to her duties on the farm.

It was the day of her twenty fourth birthday, on the sixteenth of March 1964, when she made her mind up.

She wrote to her mother to let her know but didn't get a reply. The fleeting thought or hope that maybe her mother had missed her didn’t last long. It was no surprise, given she’d only received two letters from her in the whole time she was away, and not a word of encouragement was forthcoming in those.

As both women were afflicted with inborn stubbornness, many confrontations had taken place, leaving a mountain of unresolved matters. Calvine expected that running off overseas when her mother needed her the most would be high on her list of issues.

You’re going to come crawling back when you realise that chasing rainbows is fruitless. You belong here, and the sooner you wake up to it the better it will be. Those were her mother’s parting words. She knew life would send Calvine some hard lessons while she was away.

Calvine hoped they could make amends on her return, but she suspected Frances Keller wasn’t going to make it easy. Given her nature, Calvine knew she would take up where she’d left off, and there would be times she’d regret coming home. But she had her back against the wall and there was no other option. Returning like the prodigal daughter was no guarantee that she would be accepted with open arms.

Jordan, also a budding actor, was the only friend she had made, but his life was taking him on a new and exciting path, without her. He was from Sydney and they’d arrived in London at the same time, full of hopes and dreams. Jordan was the more successful of the pair. It appeared that roles for males were easier to come by. The previous month he’d landed a regular part in Camelot, playing at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. Rehearsals were in full swing. She had fond memories of their hitchhiking adventures through Ireland and Spain. But now at Heathrow, with that same old backpack containing everything she owned, the two friends parted ways. There were the usual promises of keeping in touch, but life was already taking them in different directions.

The five hour bus trip from Sydney to her home town, Grenfell, was uneventful. The route took them in a westerly direction. They passed through numerous towns and small villages, which mainly catered to the farming communities. Each town was usually the same. The main streets consisted of a service station, a hotel, maybe two, a collection of small shops and a post office. Further back was a school, a sports ground and various homes. Some grand and pretentious, others merely four or five room bungalows. The larger towns had a hospital, police station, more houses and usually more hotels.

As the bus wound it’s way further inland, Calvine could see how the drought had worsened since she’d left, with the landscape now brown and dusty. A smattering of hardy surviving native trees and scrub bushes dotted the hills. Areas near streams and creeks were more lush and sought after by the herds of kangaroos and a few emus. Despite the lack of their natural food they seemed to be in plague proportions.

Once the bus drove through Longwood Calvine knew she wasn’t far from home. In another hour they passed through Crossman, a decent sized inland town of roughly thirty two thousand inhabitants and then thirty miles after was Grenfell. The Keller farm was farther along in a north westerly direction. Depending on how fast you drove, it was usually a twenty minute trip from town.

When Calvine alighted from the bus that afternoon, at it’s designated stop outside the post office, she felt as though she’d stepped back in time. Grenfell, without any modern shops and it’s narrow streets, looked like a wild west town, just without the horses and the gunslingers.

The main street was exactly the same as the day she’d caught the bus to leave. There were several farm utilities parked in the street, their owners obviously shopping and catching up with the news. The co-op, which sold groceries and other day to day necessities, mainly magazines, gifts and children’s clothing, was across the street from the post office. Batchelor’s Hardware Supplies was the main hub in the town, apart from the hotel. Further along, on the way out of town, was Carpenter’s Petrol Station. If you wanted anything else you had to drive over to Crossman, which was an inconvenience, but the locals didn’t mind having an excuse to take a trip out.

When the bus drove off Calvine stood on the footpath and gazed around. She chastised herself for not having given any thought to how she was going to get to the farm. She noticed that a few people on the other side of the street had paused to see who had got off the bus. She could see on their faces when recognition of her came to them. Shyness overtook them and they turned away from her, too unsure of themselves to come forward and offer a greeting. Although she expected that, it was disappointing. Surely someone must have wondered why she was home, but no doubt the grapevine was already alerting the community, and speculating on the reason for it.

In the distance Calvine could hear school children playing during recess, while closer to her, a screaming toddler outside the co-op had just received a smack on his bottom and was bundled into his pusher by his angry mother. A council worker was mowing the grass verge on a side street, with a stray dog running along beside it, yapping with excitement. People going about their business, the same as anywhere else in the world.

The street trees that were small when she’d left were now fully grown and were providing greenery, lessening the harsh appearance of the old town. They blended in harmoniously with the planters, that were full of white flowering petunias, and the nearby cast iron benches.

Calvine carried her backpack into Batchelor’s Hardware store and asked if their taxi service was still operating. She was in luck. Jim Batchelor, the owner, said he could take her right away. She’d known Jim since she was a kid going to school on his bus run, and always thought he was a lovely man. Everyone liked him.

During the short drive he chatted for a while about himself and his sons, who were around Calvine’s age. He hadn’t seen them for a few years. Calvine detected a sadness as he spoke of them and she got the impression they had lost touch. He had the radio on the ABC news station, but he turned it down after the weather announcement, and continued idly talking along the way, filling her in on all the comings and goings of the locals. She appreciated the information, but at the same time her nerves were building up at the prospect of coming face to face with her mother. She began wishing he would shut up and leave her to her thoughts.

‘Your mother has become reclusive, did you know? Yeah, she keeps to herself mostly. I hardly ever see her. She only comes into town occasionally to get supplies. It’s a shame your brother and sister have also left. Are they ok? married? any kids?’

He didn't wait for her reply. She sensed he had more to say, and sure enough, he continued prattling on until he pulled up at the farm gate.

‘Right, here we are then,’ Jim said as he turned the motor off.

Calvine’s eyes scanned the entry and she couldn’t help noticing how rusty the farm signage was. It was crooked and faded. Not a good first impression for anyone.

Jim turned in his seat while she sat there taking it all in.

‘Your mum was pretty upset when you left. She refused help from anyone even when she slipped down the verandah steps last year and dislocated her elbow. Stubborn as a mule she is, but you probably know that. I think you are in for a huge adjustment when you get to the house, my girl. Let’s hope you settle in soon now that you’re back. The two of you must try and get along together.’

No need to feel sorry for me, Jim. I’m fully aware of what I’m going to find up there.

Calvine forced a smile and reached for her purse.

‘No need to pay me, I’ll put it on the farm account.’

He made no move to get out to open the car door. Rather than wait for him to continue talking she pulled at the handle and let herself out.

She took a deep breath and savoured the familiar smells of the open spaces. She closed her eyes for a few seconds and felt a calmness settle over her. Reality returned when she heard Jim slam his door shut and go to the boot to remove her over-stuffed backpack. He then opened the small gate for her and set it on the ground. After she’d gone through he closed it again, this time its hinges didn’t squeak quite as loud as when he’d opened it.

‘Give me a call if you ever need anything, always glad to help. We do all sorts of pick-ups and deliveries you know.’ He slammed the boot shut, climbed back behind the wheel and drove off down the gravel road. The dust billowed out behind his vehicle as he disappeared into the distance.

With mounting trepidation Calvine trudged along the fifty metre, pot-holed, gravel track towards the homestead. The staunch old jarrah trees and the drooping acacias that lined the driveway were looking much the worse for wear after the continuous droughts.

It looks different. Smaller.

As she got closer to the house she could see just how neglected and shabby everything had become and it saddened her. She took a few moments to take it all in, idly wondering if it was salvageable.

What the hell has been going on here? Have I come back too late?

The farmhouse looked tired. Years and years of intermittent drought had not treated it well. Calvine felt herself tense up at the thought of losing it. She still loved the old place. It was the huge verandah that went all the way around the house and the way the rooms were laid out inside that she loved. This was where she’d grown up and where she would always feel the most comfortable.

To say it was badly in need of repairs was putting it mildly, but she didn’t hold her mother entirely responsible for the state it was in. Like other places she’d noticed in the district, it was the victim of the harsh country weather, which had wreaked havoc on the weatherboard walls and iron roof. The entire place was badly in need of a paint job, and the surrounding fence looked as though the white ants had been in parts of it. The section on the fruit tree side of the house had fallen on the ground.

Trying to run the farm alone would have been a monumental task for a lone woman. Her mother must have loved the farm to stay on, but she would have felt trapped. Calvine was to learn, soon after settling in, that depression and dementia had set in, and most likely she wasn’t aware of the state the farm was in.

She was stopped in her tracks by an excited dog rushing headlong at her from under the house, yapping and leaping as high as he could. She braced herself as he got on his hind legs and leaned on her thighs, wanting to be patted.

‘Hey, Koby old fella, you still remember me.’ She rubbed his head and ran her hand along his back as he got down. She wondered if that was to be her only welcome. ‘Steady now, mate. Get down,’ she urged him.

Together they went up the five wooden steps of the front verandah, but Koby wouldn’t come past the top one. Calvine paused and took in a deep breath before she nervously reached for the door knocker. The door swung open before she was able to use it. Koby’s excitement must have alerted her mother that she had a visitor.

Frances Mary Keller, stood in the partially opened door frame. Her left arm was pressed against her side, the other in her apron pocket. Very little had changed about her, except that her hair was greyer and she looked thinner, more gaunt than Calvine remembered. Her eyes were drawn to her mother’s left arm. It had a tremor, which she presumed was the result of the accident Jim had mentioned.

This was the welcoming committee. She looked stern, and Calvine felt a sense of foreboding.

~ # # # ~

‘Hello, Mum. It’s great to…,’ Calvine spoke cheerfully, but when her mother cut her off mid sentence, her smile faded.

‘So, you’ve come crawling back. I knew you would. You and your silly ambitions. I could’ve told you that you were wasting your time,’ she said with a sneer.

She motioned Calvine to come in.

‘I hope you’ve got it out of your system now because there’s a lot of work to do on the farm. You know where your room is and don't be late for dinner. It’s at the usual time, six-thirty.’

With that she turned and headed off in the direction of the kitchen, leaving Calvine standing there. It was as though her six years away had been a distant dream and she was back exactly where she’d left off.

No cup of tea? No concern for my health?

She started to fume.

Just go in Calvine, you should’ve expected this from her. She sounds even more crusty than I remember, and look how stooped she is. Oh, dear god. I’m going to have to learn how to deal with her all over again. She’s going to irritate the crap out of me.

As she went up the passage towards her room it was obvious to Calvine that nothing in the house had been disturbed since she’d left. The same furniture was there, still looking dull and dusty, as did the dark brown curtains. Small dots of light coming through the velveteen fabric showed where the moth larvae had eaten their way through it. The floor coverings had threadbare patches in the doorways. There was certainly no sign of anything new having been brought into the house. The lack of any photos on display did nothing to ease her mind. Calvine had hoped to sit and talk things over at some stage, but she sensed that it probably wouldn’t happen. Although her mother had made the briefest of eye contact with her at the door, it indicated to Calvine that the anger was still there and she had no intention of letting it go.

Frances had cooked a tasty dinner of roast lamb and home grown vegetables, which was eaten in silence, except for the clanking of cutlery on the plates. Her mother’s mood hadn’t improved. Calvine was too tired to talk so she just ate, uttered some words of appreciation and returned to her room. She leaned against the back of the door, her hands fisted in frustration.

Lying on the bed, tired and exhausted she chastised herself for running home so quickly, for not trying harder to stay and make a go of it in London, or why didn’t she have the foresight to go somewhere else. Thoughts of packing her bags and running off again were materialising, but sleep finally came and probably saved her from making another rash decision.

In the morning her mother’s sharp banging on the bedroom door got her out of bed.

‘Get up. Calvine. You know there’s work to do. You’ve got a barn to clean out and there’s 250 sheep to be moved to the back paddock. We have to contact the shearers before lunch and Biddy needs her hooves trimmed. We haven’t got all day, so get a move on.’

Life continued in that vein between Frances and Calvine, with intermittent arguments dominating and the silences lasting longer. August came and went. Calvine felt utterly lonely, but she came to accept that a social life just wasn’t worth the bother, after all, she had no friends in the area that she’d kept in touch with. No invitations from old acquaintances were forthcoming. She soon found her own way of relaxing and unwinding.

By the end of each week it was Calvine’s treat to hitch the old farm horse, Biddy, onto the two wheeled buggy and head up onto the ridge. This area was a natural rock outcrop that rose up near the Keller’s furtherest paddock, then stretched some distance towards the Jeffery’s farm and beyond. It was a wasteland of gravel and rocks, an unproductive area of bushland, smattered with small to medium scrub and the occasional tallish tree. If you climbed one of the highest rocks you used to be able to see a lake in the distance, but not anymore. It was now a dried out salt-pan, thanks to the drought.

At the ridge she could freely indulge in a bottle of wine and smoke some weed, one of her few secret indulgences. Usually Koby came along, but when he felt the weather coming in he preferred to stay curled up in his kennel on the back verandah of the house. The ridge had the remnants of an old derelict barn on it where she was able to shelter from the elements. She dug a pit beside it where she could have a fire when it was cold. The original homestead that had been built there at the turn of the century had burned down decades ago, but Calvine felt at home there. Maybe the ghosts of her ancestors were still there looking after her.

Frances Keller was in her late fifties by now and still a tough woman. Eventually mother and daughter came to an unspoken understanding. Calvine would do most of the outside farm work and Frances would take care of the homestead. In order not to antagonise each other they avoided contact as much as possible. Despite their differences, Calvine had to concede that her mother was still an excellent cook and gardener.

What was also becoming apparent was that Frances was having more frequent episodes of dementia. Occasionally Calvine would see her standing on the verandah holding the kitchen knife and just staring in her direction, usually when she saw her putting farm equipment away in the shed. She suspected there were times when her mother didn't know who she was. On rare occasions, when in one of her better moods, she would start talking about her past, sometimes addressing Calvine as Alice, her sister. At these times, the name Michael Irish would come into the conversation. He was her true love, and she had to give him up. While Michael was away fighting the war, she had a short dalliance with Harry Keller, and had been forced to marry him after she’d found herself pregnant. She never forgot Michael, and Calvine discovered that she was that child. In her mother’s eyes, she was a constant reminder of what she’d lost.

Calvine had lost touch with her sister, Rebecca, and brother, Frank, who was the youngest of the three. They were aged fifteen and twelve at the time she’d left, and any bond they’d had was broken. The two letters her mother had written while she was in London was to let her know when each of them had left the farm. They too had received a lump sum bequest from their father, and