“Our lost world,” Bronte smiled. “I’d love to have seen Oriole in its prime.”
“Its prime could come again,” Gilly’s face wore an enigmatic smile. “World sugar prices peaked in the mid-seventies not all that long before you were born. I remember the Duke of Edinburgh—so handsome he was—attending a ceremony in Mackay in 1982 to mark twenty-five years of bulk handling. We led the world in the mechanical cultivation and handling of the crop. Oriole was right at the top in the 1970s, and it was a tropical Shangri-la years back when I was a girl. We lived like royalty in our own kingdom. Then came the war. You know the rest. McAllisters were among the first to enlist. Four of them. My father and his three brothers. Uncle Sholto was the only one to make it home. Such losses tore a great hole in our family.”
“They would have,” Bronte answered soberly, thinking how tragic it must have been for bereaved families all over the world.
“Uncle Sholto tried to do his best for us but he’d been badly wounded and suffered a lot of pain for the rest of his life. My brother, your grandfather, was so young when he took over. When we lost him in 1979 it was the end for Oriole. Your father had always wanted a different life. He was clever and ambitious, making his mark as an architect. I often think if he’d stayed at home he’d still be alive today.”
Bronte’s heart lurched. “Oh, Gilly, why do you say that?”
“Sorry, love, maybe I shouldn’t be saying it. I don’t want to hurt you but I’ll never forgive Miranda for what she did to my nephew.”
“What did she do?” Bronte asked quietly.
“She destroyed him.”
Bronte sucked in her breath. “You truly believe that?”
“No escaping the facts, lovey.” Sadly Gilly shook her head. “Miranda tried to pass off young Max as premature but you and I know differently. Not that I believe for a moment Ross threw away his life, he loved you far too much. It was an accident, tortured minds become careless. Your father never meant to leave you.”
“My mother said he loved speed.” Bronte looked off to the left where the trees of the rain forest met McAllister land. The savannah grasses had been scorched golden but the forest was in deep emerald shade.
Gilly’s voice vibrated with long suppressed anger. “She had to say something didn’t she? Speed may have been a factor but I’ll never believe any other explanation than Ross’s mind was elsewhere.”
“I was lucky I had you, Gilly.” Bronte’s voice lightly trembled.
“Darling girl, it was you who turned me back into a human. Around here I was becoming known as the witch of the North. I had to shake myself up with a child in the house. I came to love you so much I was devastated when you had to leave me.”
“I hated going away,” Bronte told her. “I’d been hoping my mother had forgotten about me. Why do you suppose she suddenly remembered she had a daughter?”
“I don’t know.” Gilly yanked on the gear stick. “Maybe she thought you might finally be an asset. You got prettier and prettier every time she saw you.”
“Which was like once a year,” Bronte’s mouth turned down. “I wanted to ask you. Would you mind if Max came to visit in his school holidays?”
Gilly shot her a slightly chastening look. “Of course I wouldn’t mind. But I can’t see your mother letting him come. Just for spite. She’d hate for him to enjoy himself up here.”
“Maybe she might.” Hastily Bronte adopted the brace position as Gilly floored the accelerator to tackle another ditch head on.
“Made it!” she whooped in triumph as they bounced high then plunged deep across. “Why don’t you write to the boy? I don’t suppose you can ring him at the school. We’ve got plenty of room. I suppose we’d better start getting back to the house. What are we going to give Steven for dinner?”
“What do you usually give him?” Bronte asked in a supercilious voice.
“Have you forgotten? I’m a terrible cook. I was hoping you would do the honours.”
“Really! You’ve got me up here to cook for Steven Randolph. In that case there’ll be a choice of cured kangaroo,” Bronte offered, deadpan, “or fricassee of baby crocodile’s tail with stir fried noodles.”
“You’re joking, aren’t you?” Gilly asked, alarmed. Gilly’s all time favourite was boiled eggs.
“Don’t you worry,” said Bronte. “I’ll put on a great meal. What time is Action Man arriving?”
“I know you’re going to be nice to him?” Gilly asked, mildly nervous. “I said, six-thirty for seven o’clock. Drinks on the verandah before we move in for dinner. Steven’s great company and you’re going to enjoy yourself, love. That’s a promise!”
Bronte looked at her sceptically. “I only know one thing for sure, I’ll be keeping a very sharp eye on Steven Randolph at all times.”
Bronte had difficulty deciding what to wear. She wasn’t going to dress up for the man, Gilly’s heartthrob or not. For one thing he might get the wrong idea. On the other hand she couldn’t offend Gilly who considered it impolite not to dress up for the rare guest. She’d only brought a couple of dresses with her anyway, trousers being de rigueur in the jungle. She looked at the two pretty summery dresses on the bed. One was a floaty white chiffon printed with big red flowers and swirls of green leaves. The other was a simple slip top with an asymmetrical skirt in imperial purple. Of course she’d bought it because of the colour. It did wonders for her eyes.
Steven Randolph was going to miss out on the pleasure of seeing her in those. She ought to be able to get away with what she called her pyjama outfit—a halter neck top with slinky long pants. The fabric was an understated gunmetal, but in certain lights it looked silver.
“What’s that you’re wearing?” Gilly asked, when she walked into the huge, old-fashioned kitchen. “You look gorgeous!” Gilly rolled expressive black eyes. “You’ve got just the right figure for trousers. I’ll have you know I had a great figure in my day. Great hair and skin, too. Hell, I don’t know why I lost my fiancé, I was a lotta woman.”
“You still are, Gilly,” Bronte smiled. “I love your caftan. Very Marrakech. Your fiancé couldn’t have been terribly smart.”
“He wasn’t,” Gilly snorted. “I think he’d planned to take me for every penny I had then found most of it was tied up with the land which I’d never sell. But I was in love with him at the time. He used to sing to me, you know, accompany himself on the guitar.”
“Good grief! That’s the first I’ve heard of it,” Bronte said, trying to visualize the young Gilly being serenaded by her caddish fiancé.
“Well I have to keep one or two things up my sleeve. Speaking of which, what are we having for dinner?”
“It’s a wonder we’re having anything,” Bronte said. “This kitchen might be as big as a football field but it wouldn’t thrill a serious cook. In fact, Gilly, the major appliances would make a serious cook seriously unhappy.”
“That’s all right, love,” Gilly said complacently. “Cooking isn’t my passion.”
“Whilst I on the other hand undertook an excellent cooking course to prepare myself for being a good wife to Nat.” Bronte moved over to the hob. “Controlling the heat on this is downright impossible. There’s no such thing as a simmer, no moderate heat, it’s all a raging boil. But I haven’t let you down. We’re having something nice but simple. The whole barramundi is in the oven as we speak. It should take around forty-five minutes. I’ve stuffed it with prawn meat, egg, cream, sherry, mushrooms, and surrounded it with cubed vegetables. It’s going to be delectable. The seafood certainly came in handy. Obviously your Steven knew he was coming to dinner. There’s a little