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For
years
the
reception
room
at
Drogheda
had
been
in
use
as
a
chapel
;
an
altar
had
been
built
at
one
end
,
and
was
draped
in
golden
raiment
Mary
Carson
had
paid
the
nuns
of
St.
Mary
d'Urso
a
thousand
pounds
to
embroider
.
Mrs.
Smith
had
decked
the
room
and
the
altar
with
winter
flowers
from
Drogheda
's
gardens
,
wallflowers
and
early
stocks
and
late
roses
,
masses
of
them
like
pink
and
rusty
paintings
magically
finding
the
dimension
of
scent
.
In
a
laceless
white
alb
and
a
black
chasuble
free
of
any
ornamentation
,
Father
Ralph
said
the
Requiem
Mass.
.
As
with
most
of
the
great
Outback
stations
,
Drogheda
buried
its
dead
on
its
own
land
.
The
cemetery
lay
beyond
the
gardens
by
the
willow-littered
banks
of
the
creek
,
bounded
by
a
white-painted
wrought-iron
railing
and
green
even
in
this
dry
time
,
for
it
was
watered
from
the
homestead
tanks
.
Michael
Carson
and
his
baby
son
were
entombed
there
in
an
imposing
marble
vault
,
a
life-size
angel
on
top
of
its
pediment
with
sword
drawn
to
guard
their
rest
.
But
perhaps
a
dozen
less
pretentious
plots
ringed
the
mausoleum
,
marked
only
by
plain
white
wooden
crosses
and
white
croquet
hoops
to
define
their
neat
boundaries
,
some
of
them
bare
even
of
a
name
:
a
shearer
with
no
known
relatives
who
had
died
in
a
barracks
brawl
;
two
or
three
swaggies
whose
last
earthly
calling
place
had
been
Drogheda
;
some
sexless
and
totally
anonymous
bones
found
in
one
of
the
paddocks
;
Michael
Carson
's
Chinese
cook
,
over
whose
remains
stood
a
quaint
scarlet
umbrella
,
whose
sad
small
bells
seemed
perpetually
to
chime
out
the
name
Hee
Sing
,
Hee
Sing
,
Hee
Sing
;
a
drover
whose
cross
said
only
TANKSTAND
CHARLIE
HE
WAS
A
GOOD
BLOKE
;
and
more
besides
,
some
of
them
women
.
But
such
simplicity
was
not
for
Hal
,
the
owner
's
nephew
;
they
stowed
his
homemade
box
on
a
shelf
inside
the
vault
and
closed
elaborate
bronze
doors
upon
it
.
*
*
*
After
a
while
everyone
ceased
to
speak
of
Hal
except
in
passing
.
Meggie
's
sorrow
she
kept
exclusively
to
herself
;
her
pain
had
the
unreasoning
desolation
peculiar
to
children
,
magnified
and
mysterious
,
yet
her
very
youth
buried
it
beneath
everyday
events
,
and
diminished
its
importance
.
The
boys
were
little
affected
save
Bob
,
who
had
been
old
enough
to
be
fond
of
his
tiny
brother
.
Paddy
grieved
deeply
,
but
no
one
knew
whether
Fee
grieved
.
It
seemed
she
grew
further
and
further
away
from
husband
and
children
,
from
all
feeling
.
Because
of
this
,
Paddy
was
so
grateful
to
Stu
for
the
way
he
minded
his
mother
,
the
grave
tenderness
with
which
he
treated
her
.
Only
Paddy
knew
how
Fee
had
looked
the
day
he
came
back
from
Gilly
without
Frank
.
There
had
not
been
a
flicker
of
emotion
in
those
soft
grey
eyes
,
not
hardening
nor
accusation
,
hate
or
sorrow
.
As
if
she
had
simply
been
waiting
for
the
blow
to
fall
like
a
condemned
dog
for
the
killing
bullet
,
knowing
her
fate
and
powerless
to
avoid
it
.
"
I
knew
he
would
n't
come
back
,
"
she
said
.
"
Maybe
he
will
,
Fee
,
if
you
write
to
him
quickly
,
"
Paddy
said
.
She
shook
her
head
,
but
being
Fee
went
into
no
explanations
.
Better
that
Frank
made
a
new
life
for
himself
far
from
Drogheda
and
her
.
She
knew
her
son
well
enough
to
be
convinced
that
one
word
from
her
would
bring
him
back
,
so
she
must
not
utter
that
word
,
ever
.
If
the
days
were
long
and
bitter
with
a
sense
of
failure
,
she
must
bear
it
in
silence
.
Paddy
had
n't
been
the
man
of
her
choice
,
but
a
better
man
than
Paddy
never
lived
.
She
was
one
of
those
people
whose
feelings
are
so
intense
they
become
unbearable
,
unlivable
,
and
her
lesson
had
been
a
harsh
one
.
For
almost
twenty-five
years
she
had
been
crushing
emotion
out
of
existence
,
and
she
was
convinced
that
in
the
end
persistence
would
succeed
.
*
*
*
