Chapter 11
Meg fiddled with the air-conditioning as she turned off the freeway onto a smaller road. It was on the lowest setting, but warm air blew from the vents. One more thing that was broken in her old Mazda, which she’d bought from a colleague at the paper a couple of years ago.
She’d hardly noticed the heat until now.
She’d been distracted, plagued with irritation at how Jenny had treated her that morning.
It was silly to be offended, she knew that.
It was just the disease. But it was hard not to take it personally when your own mother demanded that you leave and ordered you not to come back.
It was only mildly reassuring to hear Jenny call her by the wrong name.
Tina. Another crack in the wall. Was there a book of Tina?
She shook off the thought. So what if there was? If she was honest with herself, jostling alongside her offence at her mother’s behaviour was a distinct sense of relief. If her mum didn’t want her there, that was just fine. She wouldn’t go. And she wouldn’t feel guilty about it either.
She sat up taller in her seat, her eyes darting left and right, as she followed the winding road.
It was lined with fertile gardens beyond wrought-iron fences and pretty sandstone cottages with tin roofs.
She rounded a corner past an ivy-covered church and a quaint bed and breakfast with a sign advertising free wi-fi, then found herself in the town centre: one wide street with the tall jail walls on one side and a dozen shops on the other.
At least half of the shops were boutiques, the kind that sold candles and jam and loose linen clothing in various shades of beige. Tourist shops.
It wasn’t hard to find the Red Lion Hotel, where she’d booked a room.
It was a sandstone building at the top of the street, with a long veranda under a rusty corrugated-iron roof.
She pushed the heavy door, half-expecting it to be locked, but it swung open and she stepped into the cool, dark, empty space.
It was a typical country pub, with wood panelling, tartan carpet and a fireplace that probably made the atmosphere cosy in winter. Today, the grate was empty.
‘Hello?’ she called out.
Nothing.
After a moment, she wandered over to the far wall, which displayed black-and-white historical photographs.
The first one showed the exterior of the Red Lion Hotel in 1845.
A group of expressionless, bearded men in suits stood on the veranda.
Albert Ashworth, the caption read, owner and licensee 1838-55 (third from left).
It had been typed on an old-fashioned typewriter.
The next showed a small group of convicts standing in front of a squat building with a towering door. Convicts take a well-earned break from their work on Hartwell Gaol, circa 1830.
There was a clink of glasses and a woman with long grey hair and heavy eyeliner emerged from a room behind the bar.
‘How can I help you?’
‘Hi, I’m Meg Hunter.’
No recognition of the name.
‘I’ve got a room booked here tonight. I just wondered if I could leave my bags here until I check in later.’
‘Ah, yes. Hello, love.’ The woman smiled now, her tough edge replaced with a motherly warmth. ‘I’m Sue, I spoke with you on the phone. You can check in now if you like.’
Once they’d done the paperwork, Sue led the way up a steep wooden staircase, then down a long corridor.
‘Bathroom,’ she said, gesturing to a room with a Ladies sign hanging over the doorway. ‘Three showers. Excellent water pressure. We had a new system put in last year.’
‘Great,’ Meg said brightly, trying not to convey her surprise at the shared bathroom situation, which she hadn’t realised when she booked the room.
They stopped outside room thirteen. ‘This is you.’
Sue kicked the bottom of the door as she turned the handle. ‘Gets a bit stuck when we’ve had a lot of rain,’ she explained. ‘You just need to give it a good kick.’
She flicked a switch and a cane pendant light came on, casting a dim light over the room. Meg peered inside. It was simple but stylish, with white walls, high ceilings and a double bed against one wall. In a corner under a large sash window, a wicker armchair sat next to a pedestal fan.
Meg could feel Sue watching her as she looked at the room.
‘All good?’
‘It’s perfect.’
‘Bistro is open twelve till two and five till eight. No need to book at this time of year. Too hot for most of the tourists. What brings you down here?’
‘This and that,’ Meg said, deciding to keep things vague. ‘I’m studying historic jail sites.’ She’d planned her story in the car on the way down.
Sue nodded. ‘Not much to see of this one at the moment, I’m afraid. God knows if there’ll be anything left of it once the redevelopment’s done.’ Her eyes lit up. ‘There are a few other historical buildings around town, though. I can take you on a tour, if you like.’
‘Oh, thanks, Sue, but I’ve got a few things I need to do today.’
Sue’s face fell. ‘Of course.’
‘Maybe another day,’ Meg added, feeling like she’d offended her.
‘I’ll leave you to it.’ She handed Meg the room key and started back down the hall.
‘Oh, Sue?’ Meg called after her. ‘Do you know anyone called Tina who lives around here?’
Sue shook her head. ‘Nope, no Tinas around here.’
Meg squinted in the bright sunshine as she walked out of the pub, rummaging in her bag for her Aviators as she crossed the parking area towards Hartwell Gaol, gravel crunching underfoot.
She would have a look around, she decided, see what she could find out from workers on the site, then get lunch while she trawled the Save Hartwell Facebook group for people who might help her.
She crossed a narrow laneway to the footpath that passed the old courthouse then ran along the prison wall that towered overhead, casting an imposing shadow.
There was something written on the wall.
White letters outlined in red, contrasting against the sandy-brown wall.
She stood back, trying to read it. The font was blocky, stylised, like the graffiti murals she barely noticed in her Inner West neighbourhood.
Here, it demanded attention. Ashworth … something.
Ashworth scum. That was it. Interesting.
She took a photo and walked on to the boom gate guarding the entrance to the compound.
The open space beyond the gate was a chaotic scene.
Bobcats beeped, dodging piles of gravel, building supplies and workmen smoking cigarettes.
A young woman with long dark hair and long fake eyelashes held a stop-go sign.
Somewhere nearby, a jack hammer competed with a drill, making an ear-splitting metallic sound.
The heritage-listed building, which she’d seen in the photo on the pub wall, was completely obscured by scaffolding.
On the left of the driveway, a vintage convertible Mercedes looked jarringly out of place in the midst of the construction zone.
‘You right?’
She whirled around and came face to face with a large, middle-aged man with shaggy red hair, holding a paper bag and a can of Coke. Morning tea.
He eyed her suspiciously. ‘You’re not one of those bloody protesters, are you?’
‘Oh, no, sorry, I was just passing and I stopped to have a look.’
He frowned as though he wasn’t buying it.
‘I’m doing a PhD on historic buildings,’ she added.
He shrugged, relaxing slightly. ‘Each to their own, I guess.’
‘How’s the redevelopment going?’ she asked. She might as well see if he’d tell her anything.
He shrugged again. ‘Slowly.’
She looked up at the modern apartments above the original building. They seemed high for an old town like this. She was about to ask if he’d show her around when his phone rang. He tucked the Coke can under his arm and pulled the phone out of his pocket.
‘Yep?’ he said into the phone.
As she stood watching him walk away, her stomach growled.
The Apple Tree Café was on the other side of the main street, halfway down, nestled between Stevenson’s Sweet Shoppe (Established 1911) and an art gallery selling mostly pottery, from what Meg could tell.
A bell jingled overhead as she pushed the door of the café open. Behind the red-tiled counter, a middle-aged woman with dark hair in a messy bun looked up from where she was arranging muffins on a tray.
‘Morning,’ she said, with a welcoming smile. ‘Have a seat anywhere you like.’
It was after breakfast and too early for lunch, so the café was quiet.
An elderly couple sat at a table by the wall, sharing a piece of carrot cake.
A long communal wooden table with red bentwood chairs ran through the centre of the small room.
It was the sort of place that made you want to order pumpkin soup.
Meg went to a far corner and sat at a table that would have a good view of the room and the street beyond the glass windows.
‘Can I get you a coffee?’ the waitress asked, handing her a menu.
‘Cappuccino, thanks,’ Meg said, studying the woman’s face. Her skin had the weathered look of someone who’d spent too much time in the sun. A few locks of dark hair fell loose around her face, giving her a harried look.
The bells over the door jingled again as a young mum manoeuvred a bulky pram through the doorway.
‘I’ll give you a minute.’ The waitress went to hold the door open. A preschooler dressed as Elsa entered a few steps behind her mum and handed the waitress a white flower she must have picked along the way.
‘Thank you, sweetheart,’ the waitress said, tucking the flower into the hair tie holding up her bun.
Meg smiled. The waitress looked over, catching her eye and smiling back.
Meg opened her laptop, shifting her attention to the reason she was in Hartwell: the story. It was time to find some leads. She went to the Save Hartwell Facebook page and read the list of members, then she clicked on the name of the group admin and typed a message.
Thanks for adding me to the group. I’d like to have a chat about the Hartwell Gaol development. I’m in town for a short time. Please let me know if you’re happy to meet with me.
She hovered her mouse over the send icon, checking she was on her fake account.
‘Sorry about the wait, can I get you something to eat?’ the waitress asked, putting Meg’s coffee on the table.
Meg looked up. ‘I’ll have a cheese and tomato toastie, thanks.’
The waitress gave her a nod and turned away.
The café was filling up with the start of the lunch rush.
Meg watched as the waitress handed menus to a table of three who had just seated themselves, then she moved to the elderly couple, who had finished their cake.
As she picked up their plate, she laughed at something the old man said, deep lines creasing the corners of her eyes.
The elderly couple stood to leave and the waitress followed them to the door, then she raised a hand at a passing pedestrian and said something.
As she turned back, she looked in Meg’s direction and their eyes met.
For a moment it was as though a thread connected them.
Meg looked away quickly, back at the screen in front of her. She sent the message, then took out her notebook and started writing a list of things to do: visit Hartwell Gaol site; council chambers; contact protesters.
‘Here you go.’ The waitress put her toasted sandwich in front of her.
‘Thanks,’ Meg said. Maybe this waitress could help her. ‘I read about the protests at the old jail—’
The bells jingled again and they both looked towards the door.
Meg inhaled sharply. The oversized sunglasses did little to disguise the flawless face of Isobel Ashworth, who looked around, then sashayed between the tables to the counter.
Meg sensed the waitress stiffen. ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ she said, her warm smile replaced with a steely glare.