This encouraging discovery raised spirits and needed something to top it off. There seemed no better way of celebrating than with a good breakfast, so Estelle made a bee-line for the kitchen. Choices of fare were plentiful, the mere thought of most nauseous. The coffee machine provided a temporary remedy and while waiting for it to perform its noisy procedure, she revived the positives by anticipating the end of all her troubles when she finally went to meet Jason in Kalbarri.
Hopes and dreams took centre stage and lingered through the pouring of the first coffee. Actions necessary to perform the various functions were easy, tried and tested, nothing to worry about. They’d been done before, a thousand times. But Kalbarri….? She wasn’t even sure where it was, could barely remember what Jason had told her – only that it was a long drive. Could she make it on her own? Was she crazy to try? Wouldn’t it be better to bail out right now and join Jason’s convoy? He said he’d phone before leaving, so the option was still open.
A glance at the wall clock brought a frown. He’d said he wanted to make an early start, but it was hardly that. Maybe something had gone wrong. He could have had problems and forgotten to phone. Surely not?
By the time she was on her third cup of coffee and he still hadn't called, Estelle was worrying fit to burst. When the phone eventually burbled into life, she snatched it up in near-panic, pulse racing, breathing constricted. "Are you alright?" she asked hurriedly, not even attempting to mask her concern. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten."
"How could I do that, Estelle?" He sounded hurt and extremely weary. "I'm sorry it's so late, but things haven't gone quite according to plan. It's like the start of the gold rush out there," he grumbled, full of misgivings. "I was under the impression most of them were making their own way, but I was wrong. There are six cars blocking driveways up and down the street, and seventeen people, all milling about, making enough racket to wake the dead. Old Mrs. Teasdale's driving a Morris Major that doesn't look as if it will make it past Midland. She's brought her budgie along! Can you believe that? I need you with me, Estelle. If you don't come I can't vouch for my sanity."
She knew he didn't mean to make her feel bad, but the effect was the same. "Keep thinking of Sunday, Jason. By then it will all be over."
"That's four days!" he moaned. "A lot can happen in that time."
"It won't," she stated categorically. "I won't let it. I'll be fine, Michael will have gone, and you won't have to weave baskets - I promise. Take your wagon train and have a good time. How far is it, by the way?"
"Almost seven hundred kilometres. It's a very long drive on your own."
"You won't be on your own - you'll have lots of company, including Mrs. Teasdale, and her budgie."
"I was thinking about you." Jason had gone very quiet.
Here was the option, perhaps the last chance to exercise it. Yes, or no? She took a deep breath and glanced around the kitchen at the normality, the tedium it suggested, a reminder of those patterns in life so often ignored because they never change. Not unless someone interferes with them. Only then do they become a conscious issue. Although disagreeable, the path she must continue to tread was clear – make no waves, no changes. "Don't worry about me. I intend to take it very easy. Just make sure the tent you said I could use is set up and waiting. I've never been camping before and I'd hate to make a fool of myself."
"You could never do that, Estelle," he said gently and typically Jason, being nice again.
The rest of the day dragged terribly with only the memory of his words to carry her through until he eventually called at eleven that night. She had been watching the phone like a hawk since early evening, worrying that it was getting so late, but then she remembered the delayed start and the distance to be covered. No doubt Mrs. Teasdale and a few of the others would want to stop at every available ladies room on the way. Jason confirmed as much, this and the utter shambles which had ensued when they were forced to make camp after dark with only the courtesy lights of the caravan park and a few strategically-placed car headlamps to guide them.
Once he'd hung up, Estelle sat alone, brooding. If only she could have been there to share in the confusion and experience the excitement of his nearness, even in the midst of bedlam. But her time would come.
Friday was the longest day imaginable. She spoke to Jason for ten minutes in the morning - another surprise call - and was decidedly miserable after he'd hung up because she wasn't sure when she would next hear his voice. It could be as early as that same evening, assuming Michael failed to show up at the airport.
That being the case, she would ring Jason at the caravan park to give him the 'good' news and confirm that she would be leaving for Kalbarri on Sunday. He would argue, of course, saying that there was no reason for her to stay, not with Michael as-good-as gone. But Estelle had decided something. It was necessary to actually see him leave. She had to be at Perth Domestic, watching from the safety of the crowd as George Truscott boarded the Sydney flight, taking the misery which was Michael with him. It was the only certain way of ending the nightmare.
But that was ‘if’. For now, it had to be played by the original rules, the same way it always was when Michael flew in from overseas – even though he already had. Estelle was ready to leave for the airport in good time and, although still very nervous, she had managed to summon a sense of anticipation. Then she heard the phone. The initial thought was to let it ring, but, unlikely though it was, it could be Jason with a few words of much needed comfort and support. She snatched up the receiver.
The voice wasn’t Jason’s. Immediate disappointment regressed to disquiet as she recognised the caller. It was Keith Dunbar, Michael's business partner. The man was a creep of the first order, self-opinionated and insincere with a voice to match. He was to be regarded as dangerous, perhaps more so than Michael because much about him was unknown. He was certainly the last person she needed to talk to. As it happened, he just wanted to know if Michael was still arriving on the scheduled flight. There seemed no harm in telling him. In fact, there was a possibility that his call was instigated by Michael to check up on her. So, she feigned pleasantness and was in the midst of explaining that she was about to leave for the airport when the phone went dead - not so much as a 'thank you', or 'sorry to have troubled you'! Estelle was then forced to sit for a while to rid herself of the shakes.
She left the house late, tense at first, becoming calmer into the drive, feeding on the reassurance that Michael wouldn't be there. This was merely going through the motions, a charade for the benefit of whoever might be watching, a parting gift for Michael to ensure his master-plan went off without a hitch. By the time she reached the airport, the con-job was complete and a girlish anticipation was taking hold.
She parked, then walked casually into the terminal, playing the part as rehearsed by gazing wide-eyed at the TV flight monitor, displaying a look of eagerness tempered with that brand of anxiety which any loving wife who mistrusted aircraft would show.
Once the plane had landed, she moved to the appropriate arrival gate, knowing full well that at least ten minutes would elapse before the first of the passengers cleared customs and began to filter through. She eased her way to the front, every so often standing on tip-toe to get a better look at the new arrivals.
It would be necessary to wait until the last had disappeared into the night before painting the finishing touches of the concerned, dutiful-wife portrait. First would come the anxious enquiries regarding a husband who had failed to arrive as scheduled. To this would be added growing distress with a dab of anger for moral support. The situation might even call for a tear or two during the perplexed shuffle to the car. Underlying this, and hopefully undetected by anyone, would be a bubbling euphoria waiting for the right moment to burst free. It would be such an amazing experience, a___!
"Oh, My God! Michael!!!" she heard herself whispering.
He was lumbering through the gate towards her, weaving a somewhat unsteady line with his trolley which was as much a means of transporting his Italian leather suitcase and bag of duty-free’s, as it was