The Ballad of Banjo Crossing

By Tess Evans

A tender, heartwarming and utterly appealing novel about the power of community, love, loss and second chances.

Jack McPhail is a man on the run from his past, a drifter who lands by accident in a sleepy outback Australian town called Banjo Crossing. Jack -- almost despite himself -- becomes slowly drawn into the town, its community, its characters and its concerns.

He's on the brink of falling in love with Mardi, a young widow and owner of the local coffee shop, when the community is confronted and divided by an unexpected development. A coal mining company has come to town, intent on buying up the local properties to build an open cut mine. The town of Banjo Crossing rallies together to fight off the threat. Jack wants to help out his new friends, but if he does, he's at risk of his past being exposed. Having his secret out there could change everything for him. Will he help them out, even if it costs him his second chance at happiness?

'Highly topical and engaging ... incubating a mystery which must not be revealed until the exact psychological moment ... entertaining and charismatic' Adelaide Advertiser

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Dec 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781460708569

Tess Evans

Tess Evans' first novel, the bestselling BOOK OF LOST THREADS, was published in 2010 and was shortlisted for the Indie Awards 2011 and longlisted for the 2012 International IMPAC DUBLIN Literary Award. She has since published THE MEMORY TREE (2012) and MERCY STREET (2016). Previous to her writing debut, Tess taught and counselled a wide range of people: youth at risk, migrants, Indigenous trainees, apprentices, sole parents and unemployed workers of all ages and professions. She lives in Melbourne.

Book preview

Dedication

This book is dedicated with love to my children,

Carolyn, Timothy and Julian,

who have wholeheartedly supported this new career of mine.

Epigraph

And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended, And at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars.

‘Clancy of the Overflow’ by AB (Banjo) Paterson

Contents

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Author’s note

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Praise

Also by Tess Evans

Copyright

1

Mardi was the first to see him, and even then it was in the rear-view mirror. She had stayed with the children until the school bus came, and couldn’t resist waiting a little longer to wave them off as the surly replacement driver pulled out onto the highway. Sukey, her face illuminating the dusty window, waved with the enthusiasm of a six-year-old but Will, who was nearly twelve, sat on the far side of the bus, hands in pockets, scrutinising the paddocks with stern resolution.

The morning held the promise of a hot day. The haze that had veiled the landscape had already lifted to reveal the die-straight railway tracks where the twice-daily express trains bypassed the town and its once bustling station.

Maybe she should have offered the stranger a lift. But the easy country kindness of former times was hedged with modern caution, and she decided on a warning instead. Slowing down, she shouted out the window. ‘The overnighter’s due in half an hour. It’s not safe — walking so close to the tracks.’

The man raised a hand, whether in compliance or dismissal, she couldn’t tell. Head lowered, shoulders bowed under the weight of a bulky backpack, he continued to walk towards the town, hands hanging loosely by his side. After a moment’s hesitation, Mardi drove off, her retina imprinted with a silent movie of the stranger placing one foot in front of the other with neither grace, nor spring, nor purpose. He was simply moving forward. She couldn’t help wondering if he was going, really going, anywhere at all.

By the time she pulled into Main Street, the incident (of mild interest at best) had given way to more pressing matters. Balancing two plastic containers on a large battered handbag, Mardi made her way to the café, stopping to put down her load at the door. Old and heavy, with an impressive but useless brass lock, the door had begun to present a challenge. Fishing in her handbag, Mardi found a Yale key and jiggled it in a second, more functional lock, listening for the click.

‘I could oil that for you.’ The neighbouring butcher poked a florid face around the door of his own shop. ‘These old places …’

Mardi knew she should be grateful, but how hard can it be to oil a lock? And why did everyone seem to think that a single woman must be useless? The lock engaged and she pushed the door open. ‘Thanks Bob, but I can manage a can of WD-40.’

Hurt, Bob retired behind his own counter, to prepare for a day of butchering and flirtation. He enjoyed bantering with the women, old and not-so-old, who came to buy his famous sausages and freshly butchered meat — fewer of them now that there was a large supermarket chain only a hundred kilometres down the road. Still, country people knew their meat, and they all had to admit that Bob offered top quality.

Mardi prepared the coffee and put her home-baked muffins under a glass dome. She took the carrot and banana cakes out of the fridge, put them in the display case and began to organise the ingredients for sandwiches. This was the tricky bit, preparing just enough of everything. She couldn’t afford (or abide) waste. She began to wash the tomatoes, keeping an eye out for the baker who brought over fresh bread and rolls each morning. It was the same every day. She started at 8.15 even though few customers came before nine. She didn’t live far away, but the school bus was an excuse not to return to her empty house.

She was making herself a coffee when the bell tinkled. Mrs Compton-Ballard. She’s a bit early. Mardi put on her professional smile and turned to greet her customer, but instead of the elderly lady she was expecting, saw a thin, middle-aged man blunder his way into the café struggling with an unwieldy backpack. Extricating himself from his burden, he collapsed into a seat and propped his elbows on the table. ‘Long walk.’ He jerked his head towards her car parked outside. ‘Was that you warning me about the overnighter?’

Mardi nodded. Should she also warn him that he was sitting in Mrs Compton-Ballard’s seat, a situation only marginally less dangerous than being mowed down by the overnighter? She decided not. Life was pretty routine, and every small ripple was a welcome diversion.

‘Coffee?’

He consulted the basic menu. ‘Short black and one — no, two toasted ham and cheese sandwiches.’ Then, wistfully, ‘No bacon and eggs, I suppose?’

‘We’re just a coffee shop. Pub breakfast should still be on. It’s not far.’ She began to explain how to get there.

The stranger shook his head. ‘Not to worry. Sandwiches will be fine.’

Mardi wasn’t so sure. His face was grey with exhaustion and he looked like he needed a good, solid feed. ‘No wonder I don’t make any money,’ she muttered as she slipped an extra slice of ham into each sandwich.

The bell tinkled again as the door swung open with something of a flourish. ‘Good morning, my dear.’

‘Mrs Compton-Ballard. How are you?’

The older woman must have been tall in her day. You could see that, despite the round shoulders and dowager’s hump.

In her glamorous and privileged youth she had swept into a room and despite the walking stick and almost sensible shoes, still expected the same reaction from her audience. She stood in the doorway and surveyed the café, finally staring down her hawkish nose at the strange man sitting in her place by the window. ‘I think you’ll find that’s my table,’ she said, enunciating each vowel, crisping her consonants like lettuce.

The man jumped to his feet. ‘I’m most terribly sorry, madam,’ he said, casting a reproachful look at Mardi. ‘I wasn’t aware …’ He jumped to his feet like a guilty schoolboy, and with clumsy chivalry, ushered the old woman into what was, though unlabelled, her chair. ‘Can I buy you a coffee? Tea perhaps? By way of apology?’

‘Thank you, young man. You may.’ Despite correcting his grammar, she accepted his offer with lowered eyes and a coquette’s smile. ‘Perhaps if Mrs Lawrence would be so kind as to introduce us, you may wish to join me.’ She turned to Mardi who was plating the sandwiches. ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

Mardi brought the sandwiches and coffee to the table. ‘Mrs Compton-Ballard — this is …’ She looked at the man who seemed to be enjoying her embarassment. ‘Mr …’

He relented. ‘Jack,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Jack McPhail. I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs Compton-Ballard.’

‘How do you do?’ she replied, extending her own imperial hand. ‘Mr McPhail — please join me.’

‘My pleasure, ma’am.’

Having served Mrs Compton-Ballard’s tea and muffin, and pies and takeaway coffees to some itinerant road workers, Mardi watched her only remaining customers with interest. Felicia Compton-Ballard was flirting outrageously with the stranger, even at one point covering his hand with her own. Mardi had seen his discomfiture when she served the tea, and the contrast amused her — the brown masculine hand, blunt-fingered, with fine gold hairs along the back; and the woman’s hand, white, wrinkled and spotted, with several rings winking their quality like a cluster of conspirators.

The old lady picked at her muffin, listening with polite murmurs as her companion struggled to make conversation. ‘This seems to be a nice town. A bit bigger than I expected. I was …’

‘Excuse me for interrupting, Mr McPhail, but I would like you to know that in those days we wore scanties.’ She patted his hand, commenting that in all likelihood he was too young to remember scanties but she was, she assured him, delighted to explain. ‘In later years they called them French knickers, or so I’m led to believe. Coarse word, knickers — but there you go.’

Jack McPhail looked as though he indeed wanted to go, but sat with a fixed grin as Mrs Compton-Ballard continued. ‘As I was saying, scanties. No elastic in those days. They had a little button on each side. One day, in early October, as I recall, I was walking down this very street, and right in front of the Scots Church — you may have passed it on the way — a button came off, and there were my scanties — you haven’t forgotten what they are?’

‘I don’t imagine I ever will.’ Jack’s grin was now a rictus and Mardi snorted into her coffee.

‘So there they were around my ankles in the middle of town. Can you imagine if it happened to someone with less poise, less savoir faire?’ Jack looked relieved to find that this was a rhetorical question as the old lady continued. ‘I, however, simply stepped out of them, put them in my handbag and proceeded with my shopping. You see, I had style. I still do, as you have no doubt noticed.’ She patted her lips with a napkin, and commenting as usual, that paper napkins were vulgar, thanked Jack for the tea. He retrieved her stick and opened the door for her to pass. ‘That must have been an embarrassing experience,’ he said as she commenced her stately egress.

The old lady looked confused. ‘What experience?’

‘The … um …’ He turned to Mardi with a silent appeal for help and she took pity on him.

Leave it, her look said as she crossed to the door. ‘See you tomorrow, Mrs Compton-Ballard. Take care now.’

The old woman stumped her way out to a new-looking BMW and hailed Jack with her stick. ‘The door, young man.’ Jack sprang forward like a chauffeur. ‘Thank you.’ Inclining her head in acknowledgement, she settled in her seat, gunned the motor and roared off down the street.

Jack returned to the café and drained the last of his coffee. ‘What was all that about?’

‘Mrs Compton-Ballard has her moments.’ Mardi had watched his growing bafflement with barely concealed amusement.

Stung, he responded with a challenge. ‘Enjoyed that, didn’t you?’

‘There’s not much entertainment in a town like this. What brings you here?’

He hesitated an instant. ‘Nothing in particular. I’ve been hitch-hiking for the last few months, walking when I couldn’t get a lift.’

‘Where are you off to?’

His tone was guarded. ‘Here and there.’

‘So here you are in Banjo Crossing.’

‘As fate would have it. A truckie let me off at the crossroads a few kilometres back so I followed the railway track and found myself here.’

Mardi looked at him. The grin had gone and he seemed older, with defeated shoulders and a deep crease between his eyes which slid away from hers as he spoke.

‘So you’ll be moving on, then?’

‘Don’t know yet. Depends if I can find work.’

‘Work? Here? Seasonal stuff, maybe.’ She was doubtful. He wasn’t used to manual labour — his hands were a dead giveaway for a start. ‘Look, why don’t you go and organise somewhere to stay while I have a think. I could put a sign in my window. What can you do?’

He smiled again, faintly. ‘Jack-of-all-trades, that’s me.’

‘Handyman, then.’ She stepped back and surveyed his slight frame, thinking of the labouring work that might be on offer. ‘I’m sorry but the sign’s as far as I can go. I don’t know anything about you, so I can’t really recommend you to anyone.’

Again the faint smile. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. But maybe you could see your way clear to recommend a cheap place to stay?’

‘Try the pub on the next corner.’ She pointed back the way he’d come. ‘There are a couple of motels and a caravan park just out of town, but value for money, I’d try the pub.’

He chuckled as he stepped out onto the street. ‘So long as I don’t get mowed down by that geriatric petrolhead on the way.’

Mardi watched as he set off, and seeing he was heading in the right direction, returned to clear the table. There’d be no problem getting a room. There never was, except on Sale days, the annual race meeting and of course, the Festival.

Later, before what Mardi, with a roll of her eyes, liked to call the ‘lunch-hour rush’, her friend Cheryl called in for sandwiches and takeaway coffees for herself and the two colleagues who worked with her at the small Community Bank. ‘She told the scanties story? To a complete stranger?’ Cheryl’s plump face crinkled with delight. ‘What did he say?’

‘He just sat there staring at her in horror.’ Laughing at the recollection, Mardi slopped coffee onto the counter. ‘He must wonder what sort of place this is.’

‘I saw the sign in the window. Why on earth would anyone come here looking for work?’

Mardi shrugged. ‘If I’m any judge, I’d say he’s running away from something.’

*

The main street was wide, its neatly grassed median strip dotted with well-tended flowerbeds. A modest clock tower-cum-War Memorial stood in the middle of what looked to be the major intersection. The streetscape included an uneasy mixture of nineteenth-century and mid-twentieth-century architecture; bull-nosed verandahs and solid Victorian bank buildings interspersed with a few houses, a medium-sized supermarket, a two-storey office block and two small rows of bland shopfronts, a gesture to utility rather than beauty.

Jack walked past the clock tower and crossed to the pub the woman at the coffee shop had suggested. He was annoyed that she knew his name, but had neglected to tell him hers. The old lady had addressed her as Mrs Lawrence, but that seemed overly formal for a woman her age. Thirty-something, he surmised, recalling her face in surprising detail.

The pub was old, two-storeyed, with an iron-lace verandah on each level. Jack found comfort in its familiarity. At least one just like it, in every country town. He tried the door marked ‘Office’, but it was locked. A handwritten sign directed him to the bar, so he shouldered his pack and went around the corner where he pushed open the frosted-glass doors. Dim and cool, the bar was a sudden contrast to the street; its overhead fans — for the moment at least — kept the rising heat at bay. The barman, resting on his elbows, looked up from a newspaper.

‘What can I do you for?’ He rubbed his nose and straightened up. ‘Beer?’

Jack realised that the coffee hadn’t satisfied his thirst. It was too early, but he shrugged and ordered a beer anyway. ‘I need a room,’ he said, after taking a long draught. ‘Not sure for how long.’

‘I’ll get the Missus. She looks after that side of things.’ The man turned and shouted through the door behind him. ‘Rene! Shop!’ He put out a large hand. ‘Dinny,’ he said. ‘Dinny Heagerty. And …’ He made no effort to hide his pride as a petite, dark-haired woman bustled through the door. ‘This is the wife, Rene.’

Irene Heagerty took Jack to the small reception desk and booked him in. ‘Welcome to Banjo Crossing,’ she said. ‘I hope you enjoy your visit.’ She ran an appraising eye over her new guest. ‘Staying long?’

Jack told her he wasn’t sure. ‘If I can find some work …’

‘Work? Here?’ Her laugh was like a firework that fizzles out before it can explode. ‘Good luck with that, darl.’

*

Tossing the overabundant cushions to the floor, Jack lay on his bed and looked at the ivy-patterned wallpaper. The room was clean and fresh, if a little too feminine, and a welcome overhead fan churned the warm air. Its drone was hypnotic, and for the first time in many days he allowed his weary body to sink into the comfort of cool pillows and clean sheets.

Why did I stop here? he wondered as his mind began to drift. Then, Why not? All he needed was to be some place where no-one knew him. Knew who, what, he was. He’d stay here a while but if he couldn’t find work, he’d have to move on. His aunt had left him a modest inheritance. That would do for a while, but it would be better if he found work. Better for his finances. Better for his body. And definitely better for his soul.

He slept for nearly two hours, then had a shower and went downstairs to see if the pub provided a counter lunch.

*

The road workers had come in for their lunch and together with a few others, made up a respectable number of diners. Jack sat down at a small table in the corner and ordered steak and chips. He hadn’t bothered with a square meal for two days and wolfed down the main course before relaxing over apple pie and coffee. He was last to finish and an inquisitive Dinny wandered over to join him. ‘Orright is it? The tucker?’

‘Excellent.’ Jack regretted his response. It sounded so prissy. ‘Hit the spot,’ he amended. ‘You’ve got a great cook.’

‘The Missus. They all love Rene’s tucker.’

Jack looked at the menu and the name of the pub: the Geebung. ‘The Geebung Polo Club — that’s a Banjo Paterson poem isn’t it?’

‘Yairs. They reckon he came up this way once.’

‘So that’s how the town got its name.’

‘In the end it was. It’s had a few names. The Aborigines called The Plains Place of Abundance. In their own lingo, of course. Then some squatter called the settlement Dead Horse Creek because his horse drowned over by the bend. That didn’t last. Sometime way back when, a few old biddies got all hot under the collar about the name Dead Horse Creek and sent a petition to the Premier. So they changed the name to Banjo Crossing.’

‘In honour of the poet?’

‘He was supposed to have come through here just after the First World War. Old Bert Rowan’s father used to swear he had a beer with Banjo Paterson right here, in this bar. And Johnno Johnson never shuts up about how Banjo’s horse was shod in his great-uncle Ted’s smithy. To be honest, I reckon Dead Horse Creek is more authentic, but we gave the pub its new name when we took over from Dad. It’d been the Imperial for over a century, but we changed it to the Geebung to cash in on the Banjo Paterson connection. Rene’s idea. She’s smart as a whip, is Rene.’

‘And a good cook. You’re a lucky man.’

Dinny finished clearing the table and Jack was relieved that he hadn’t had to answer any questions about himself. He was becoming quite deft at dodging the personal.

*

With a little patience and a lot of key-jiggling, Mardi locked up the café and drove back along the highway. She turned at the sign ‘Compton’s Run’, and flanked by a handsome avenue of cypress, continued down the gravel driveway to the homestead. She had admired this house as a child and came to appreciate it more with maturity. Long and low, its French windows opened onto a well-shaded verandah that looked out over a sloping lawn and an English rose garden. Best of all, were the red-brown handmade bricks that had long since settled its form into the landscape.

Approaching the house, Mardi saw that Mrs Compton-Ballard, wearing a large hat and plying a moth-eaten ostrich feather fan, was enthroned on the front verandah. The old lady craned her neck and peered at the younger woman standing no more than a metre away.

‘It’s Mardi Lawrence, Mrs Compton-Ballard. Just popping in to see if there’s anything you need.’

‘I need my glasses.’

Mardi picked up the glasses from the cluttered wicker table. ‘Shall I make us a cuppa?’

Mrs Compton-Ballard clutched her fan in horror. ‘You are my guest,’ she said, tinkling a tarnished bell. ‘Violet Mercer will make the tea.’

‘Violet’s dead. Remember? She had a stroke. Years ago, now. I was still at school.’

The old woman plucked fretfully at her sleeve. ‘She didn’t say anything to me about going off and dying. Who’ll make my tea now?’

Mardi, inured to such ramblings, went into the house and put on the kettle. She’d be glad when Susan came back from her holiday, but couldn’t begrudge her the break. Poor Susan Compton. Waiting hand and foot on her mother, she hadn’t lived her own life for years.

Mardi brought out the tea and sat a while before leaving to pick up her children. Later someone else would come by with an evening meal — the Country Women’s Association had rostered the care of its oldest member while her daughter was away. As Mardi took her leave, Mrs Compton-Ballard thanked her with a faint air of condescension. She was, Mardi thought wryly, used to being waited on. It was only to be expected from someone with such impeccable family connections.

Pulling out of the drive, Mardi headed for the school bus stop. The Comptons had been the wealthiest and most influential family in the district as long as anyone could remember, but Felicia Compton-Ballard’s husband, Geoffrey was the last of the family to work the land. There was a daughter, Susan, an only child who had returned to the family home and reverted to her father’s name when she was deserted by her husband three years into their marriage. She brought with her a baby, Peter, who, when he left school, went off to study agricultural science at Sydney University and stayed on as a lecturer. Bloody know-all, the old guard agreed. Thinks he knows everything because he’s got a few letters after his name. Farmers need dirt under their fingernails, they declared, spreading callused hands to demonstrate their point.

So as Geoffrey Compton became too old to work on his property, it was sliced and diced into manageable portions, and leased to share-farmers, all of whom were happy to work such prime land. Having thus arranged his affairs, Geoffrey took to his bed and died, leaving his wife without encumbrance but in receipt of a comfortable income as well as a sizable portfolio of blue-chip shares. That was over twenty years ago, and as the old lady’s life contracted, so did her spending. She must be worth a fortune, her neighbours agreed, but after Violet Mercer died, she had refused to employ another full-time housekeeper. ‘I have a daughter for that sort of thing,’ she always said.

The bus was late. Mardi looked out across the stubble to an assortment of farm sheds. These had been the last acres of the Compton farm. After his grandfather’s death, Peter had leased it to the Grogans, who share-farmed it for the family. Peter Compton. They’d been teenage sweethearts before they both went away to pursue tertiary studies. She had only seen Peter once or twice since then but despite his friendly manner, she somehow felt inferior, not because of his family’s status, but because he was an educated man of the world and she was a woman who ran a barely profitable, provincial coffee shop.

There had been a time in her life when she felt inferior to no-one. That seemed so long ago. She rummaged in her handbag for a tissue. If Tom had lived, she’d be going home with the children to prepare his dinner, to wait for his bear-hug as he came in the door. How’s my best girl? He used to swear that he’d married the greatest cook in the world and tucked in with enthusiasm until, well — until he couldn’t eat anything much at all. Mardi dabbed her