Scrublands(43)



‘You heard about the police at Springfields?’ he asks, as a way of initiating conversation.

‘I’ve heard of nothing else. The town’s abuzz. Television reporters like blowflies. Awful people.’

‘Indeed,’ says Martin.

‘You are as well, of course,’ says Fran, smiling. ‘Although in your case, you’re forgiven.’ There’s something flirtatious in her manner. Martin wonders if she’s coming on to him.

‘That’s nice to hear. What are people saying?’

The coquettish smile drops away and she sighs. ‘That there are bodies in Harley Snouch’s dam. At least half-a-dozen. Discovered by a power company linesman, or an insurance inspector, or a firefighting helicopter refilling from his dam. They’ve already flown Snouch to Sydney to interrogate him. Awful man. He should never have been allowed back into town.’

Martin considers this, decides there’s not much point in pursuing town rumours, that Robbie Haus-Jones and Herb Walker will be more reliable sources of information. Instead, he indicates the bunches of pale blue flowers standing in a small white bucket at the end of the counter. ‘Nice flowers. Swamp peas, aren’t they?’

‘That’s right. Very good. Would you like a bunch?’

‘Not right now. Can’t carry them. Do they grow around here?’

‘Most years. Great swathes of them around Blackfellas Lagoon on the other side of the river. Beautiful. Not in the drought, though; no water. I pick them down near Bellington. Even on the Murray, they’re almost impossible to find. But I know a billabong where they still grow. It’s very pretty down there first thing in the morning as the sun is rising.’

‘Long way to go for flowers.’

‘Not really—I go every day to get the papers, bread and milk.’

‘And to put swamp peas on Byron Swift’s grave.’

Fran stops moving, expression draining from her face. Martin thinks of her praying in St James. Praying for whom?

‘It’s okay, Fran. I’m not going to put your name in the paper. Not like that.’

‘Like what, then?’

‘Explain it to me. Why are you mourning Byron Swift?’

‘He was a good man.’

‘He killed your husband.’

‘I know he did. It was awful. Unforgiveable. But you didn’t know him from before all that. He was a kind man. So gentle.’

Martin nods, grits his teeth, concluding it’s better to be blunt. ‘Were you having an affair with him?’

The shopkeeper doesn’t answer immediately, but he can see the confirmation in her wide eyes, in her open mouth, in the way she involuntarily takes a small step backwards.

‘Are you going to put that in the paper?’

‘No. And I won’t mention your name if I do. Besides, I’ve got my editor on my back. They want everything they can get on Springfields and the bodies in the dam. The anniversary of the shooting at St James has very much taken a back seat.’

‘I see.’

‘Fran, what can you tell me about Harley Snouch?’

‘Is this for your paper?’

Martin nods. ‘But I won’t use your name.’

The woman sighs, relieved at the change in topic. ‘Okay. I guess I owe you, after all, for saving Jamie. But please don’t write about Byron and me. Jamie has been through so much. He doesn’t need that.’

Martin nods. ‘I promise I won’t mention you. Not by name.’

Fran looks unsure, eyes unhappy. ‘What do you want to know about Snouch?’

‘I’m not sure. Everything, I guess.’

‘Well, there’s not that much to tell, really. He turned up a while back, maybe two years ago, moved into his family’s place, Springfields, but only after his father died. He was a lovely old fellow, Eric. A true gentleman. People said he had banished Harley, wouldn’t allow him to step foot in the house while he drew breath. First time he came into the store, I didn’t know who he was. Seemed nice enough, but there was something strange about him, something out of kilter. Then I found out who he was. After that, I didn’t talk to him, no more than I had to. I wouldn’t refuse him service, but I didn’t encourage it. He was pretty much ostracised. I see him wandering around, wearing that awful old coat, always drunk.’

‘What did he do that was so terrible?’

‘Didn’t Mandy tell you?’

‘Not really,’ he dissembles. ‘It upsets her too much.’

‘Yes, well, that’s true.’

‘You’re friends, aren’t you? You and Mandy?’

‘Yes. She was really nice after Craig died. Helped me a lot. And I look after Liam for her sometimes.’

‘You’re right, she is nice. But you were telling me about Harley Snouch. Why was he ostracised?’

‘Well, it was before my time, before Craig and I came back here. The story is that Harley was the most eligible bachelor in town, only child of the Snouches of Springfields. He’d been away to boarding school, then university somewhere. He came home over the summer break and met Katie Blonde, who was the daughter of a local truck driver. Smart, though, and very good-looking; Mandy is her spitting image apparently. Katie had been to university too, at Bathurst or Wagga or somewhere, which was fairly unusual in those days, a girl from a working-class family. Harley and Katie were an item, engaged to be married. Then they were gone, back to university. No one knew anything had gone wrong until a year later. She came back again, with a degree and a baby. But there was no Harley Snouch.

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