Goldfields Girl

by Elaine Forrestal

  ‘Like Moondyne Joe, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, a bit like that. Anyway, Pa isn’t one of those. Some prospectors just can’t resist the pull of gold. Even after they’ve struck it rich, they keep going back out there. Pa is like that, always searching. He’s never really struck it rich, but he never gave up. Not until Susan was born.

  ‘Mother had a very hard time with her. She could barely leave her bed for three months, and even then it was all she could do to take care of the baby. Mary and Emily looked after us and Billy and Joe went prospecting with Pa. Pa decided we couldn’t keep moving on forever. He got a job, working for wages at Cooper’s Mine, but he never threw away his panning dish or his rock pick. I could tell that, as soon as we were old enough to care for ourselves, he would go off prospecting again.’

  Jack was looking thoughtful. ‘Some people call it gold fever,’ he said at last.

  ‘Mother does,’ I grinned. ‘Sometimes I think I caught that fever from Pa. It’s just so exciting to think about gold lying in the ground, like buried treasure, waiting to be discovered. Don’t you think?’

  At first, he didn’t answer. He brushed the hair off his forehead and I noticed the deeper furrows. ‘It’s a mug’s game,’ he said. ‘Although …’ He held out his hand to me and I pulled him up off the rock. ‘Our dams and soaks have almost dried up. More condensers are being built to purify the bore water as it fills up the shafts.’

  ‘Did you hear that Martin Walsh had a stroke of luck the other day?’ I asked.

  Jack shook his head. ‘Is he the bloke drilling for the government?’

  ‘Yes. He put down a bore just off Bayley Street and struck water! It’s not much more than a trickle,’ I said. ‘And brackish. We can’t drink it, but it’s good for the washing.’

  Jack looked thoughtful. ‘There may come a time …’

  We walked slowly back towards the town, thinking our own thoughts. As we came closer, we heard music.

  ‘Come on,’ Jack said and quickened his pace. ‘Sounds like a singalong.’

  November 1892

  The new Miner’s Institute was packed with people. Twice as many as we used to fit into the dining room at the hotel. A banjo and a tambourine had joined Padraig’s accordion and his friend Liam’s tin whistle. The dance was in full swing.

  Jack held my hand and forged a path for us through the crowd, greeting people as we went. Between us we knew most of the people in the hall.

  During a break in the dancing, I went up to say hello to Padraig. He was sitting on his own in the band’s rest area, his accordion on his lap. At first, he didn’t notice me as he bent over the instrument, concentrating on some adjustment he was making to the strap. When he did look up, his face was drawn and serious.

  ‘Are you all right, Padraig?’ I asked. He gave me a half smile and a nod, but I wasn’t convinced.

  ‘Sure, I’m fine,’ he mumbled, head down again. ‘But Donal is in a real bad way.’

  ‘Why? What happened?’ I asked, leaning closer.

  ‘Silly bugger,’ Padraig said. ‘Got himself into a fight over some claim or other.’

  ‘So?’ I prompted. A fight over a claim was hardly unusual in the crowded camps.

  ‘So, one man’s dead already. And Donal …’ Padraig lifted his eyes to mine, but seemed to have run out of words. Liam came back to his seat and began to clean his tin whistle. ‘Donal took a bullet in his chest.’ Padraig spoke just loud enough for me to hear. ‘It obviously missed his heart. He’s alive, but strugglin’ to breathe.’

  ‘Where is he?’ I asked.

  ‘Out at Tipperary. I didn’t want to leave him there on his own, but he told me to bugger off.’

  ‘I could come out in the morning,’ I said tentatively, ‘to see if there is anything I can do.’

  Padraig looked surprised. ‘Are ya a doctor?’ he asked. The only doctor in the town had already left to go back to the city.

  ‘No, but I have my mother’s medical book. If he survives the night, I might be able to help.’ Perhaps it was foolish of me to offer, but I didn’t like to see Padraig so upset. Many times I had gone with Mother to help her attend to sick people, but never on my own. Still, Padraig was my friend and I wanted to help if I could.

  When I told Jack, he was horrified, but I had promised Padraig.

  ‘I can see that you are determined to do this, Clara, but at least let me come with you,’ he said eventually.

  In the morning Jack was at my door at first light. We walked out to Tipperary, where the tents were roughly grouped together with washing lines strung between them. Picks, shovels, panning dishes, empty kerosene tins, pots and pans and all manner of things were strewn around in heaps and bundles.

  ‘How do they know which tools are theirs?’ I asked Jack.

  ‘They don’t,’ he said. ‘They just share them all.’

  Padraig saw us coming and came out to meet us. In a bag on my shoulder I carried my mother’s book, some clean towels, and bandages I’d made by boiling up some of the cleaning rags. I had looked up the treatment for bullet wounds in Mother’s book the night before, and it seemed there was little I could do without surgery. Padraig offered to take the bag but I said I needed to keep it with me.

  ‘I’ll need hot water,’ I said.

  ‘Sure I’ll give the fire a poke, so,’ Padraig said, indicating the small circle of rocks with glowing coals in the middle. A tripod had been erected over it and an iron pot suspended from a hook at the top.

  ‘Where’s your friend?’ I asked as Padraig went to stoke the remains of last night’s fire. He pointed to a faded tent.

  Jack and I made our way past a decaying pile of rubbish and the stinking latrine trench that served the whole camp. I covered my mouth and nose and raised my eyebrows at Jack.

  ‘How can they live like this?’ I muttered.

  ‘What?’ he said. I shook my head. He lifted the tent flap and a cloud of flies rose into the air. The stench from inside was almost as bad as the one from the latrines.

  The sound of Donal’s tortured breathing was the first thing I heard. He lay on a camp bed, a grubby army blanket covering his legs and a blood-soaked shirt discarded on the ground beside him. Blood had congealed around a wound just below his right collarbone. Flies crawled around the open wound and I brushed them away. Donal’s eyes remained closed. His chest heaved as he sucked at the air.

  I looked around the inside of the tent. There was another camp bed and a wooden box full of who knows what, but nothing else in the dingy space.

  Padraig came back from stoking the fire and I asked him if there was a chair in the camp at all.

  ‘I need something to sit him up in,’ I explained. Jack was dispatched to one of the other tents where, hopefully, he would find a folding chair.

  Padraig bent over his friend. ‘Donal, can ya hear me, mate?’ Donal opened his eyes, but it was obvious that the act of breathing was taking every ounce of concentration he could muster. ‘This is Clara. She’s going to help ya.’ I thought I saw a slight nod of Donal’s head before his eyes closed again.

  Jack returned with a deckchair. He unfolded it and set it beside the bed. The striped canvas seat flopped down in the wooden frame, making a kind of cradle. Padraig stood behind Donal’s head and slid his hands under his friend’s armpits. A low animal groan came from the injured man’s open mouth. I saw that the thin mattress cover, which was also soaked in blood, had stuck to Donal’s skin. It tore away as his shoulders were raised, exposing a matching hole in his back. The bullet had gone right through his shoulder.

  ‘Wait,’ I said, and moved closer to examine this second wound. It looked cleaner than the other one and I was hoping that there were no fragments of the bullet left inside to complicate things. I gave him a nod and Jack lifted Donal’s legs. Between them, Jack and Padraig transferred the man’s tense body into the chair. Fitful moans escaped from his mouth between each gasping breath. I needed him to sit more upright in the chair, to help his breathing, so Pa
draig brought the grubby pillows from both beds. Jack lifted Donal while Padraig stuffed the pillows under him. He gave a sharp cry of pain and bright blood oozed from his wound. I tried to stay calm.

  ‘Is that water hot yet?’ I asked Padraig, who immediately went out. He came back with a steaming kerosene tin full of water. I took a face cloth out of my bag, dipped a corner of it in the water and, as gently as I could, wiped away blood and maggots from the wound. Then I placed a wad of towel over it, lifted Donal’s hand and pressed it against the towel.

  ‘Hold this in place,’ I told him. He looked at me with despairing eyes. I wrapped a smaller towel around the kerosene tin and held it under his nose.

  ‘Breathe in the steam,’ I said, but there was very little steam left. Even so, his breathing seemed easier, now that he was in a more upright position.

  ‘Do you have any rum or brandy?’ I asked Padraig.

  ‘We gave it to him already,’ he said.

  ‘Did it help?’ I asked.

  ‘It did,’ Donal said. We looked at him in surprise. His voice was hoarse and strained, but at least he had spoken. I smiled and wished him well. Then I picked up my bag and stepped outside. It was such a relief to be out in the fresh air that I opened my mouth to suck it in, and a fly flew straight in. I gagged and spat it out. Padraig and Jack followed me out of the tent.

  ‘Come into town and get some brandy,’ I told Padraig.

  ‘That would brighten me day, so it would,’ he said.

  ‘For him! Not for you.’

  ‘Sure, I’m only jokin’,’ he laughed. ‘Old Donal is lookin’ so good now, I’ll not be surprised if he’s back at the dance next week.’

  I was wishing I felt as confident as Padraig sounded – or was he just trying to make me feel better? I had done all I could, but it wasn’t much.

  ‘We’ll have to wait and see,’ I said. As soon as I’d spoken I could hear Mother’s voice in my head saying exactly the same thing. I cleared my throat and went on. ‘Make sure you keep that wound of his clean. And if you hear him wheezing bring boiling water and a towel. Put the towel over his head and get him to breathe in the steam. If the bullet hasn’t punctured his lung he might survive. I think Mrs Fagan has some powders he could take for the pain.’

  ‘I’m indebted to ya, Clara, so I am,’ Padraig said, sounding serious again.

  ‘No bother,’ I said. ‘I hope he recovers.’

  Jack and I waved to Padraig as he disappeared into the tent.

  December 1892

  When Mrs Fagan told Mr Wisdom that it was almost impossible for me to finish my work, he agreed to employ more help. In the two months since Coolgardie had been declared a town it had grown to four times its original size. Six condensers worked away at purifying the underground water. Although it was still not safe to drink and had to be boiled and cooled, at least we could use it for washing and cleaning. Bayley’s Mine at Fly Flat employed almost a hundred men. Some of them had even brought their wives and children. Transport companies delivered stores, timber and building materials. Real houses, built from weatherboard and corrugated iron, were springing up, and Tobias’s Store had expanded. A large shed had been built at the back to hold extra stock.

  Even on my morning walk I could feel the heat of summer approaching, but my spirits lifted when Mrs Fagan greeted me with the news that Warden and Mrs Finnerty were coming to live in Coolgardie.

  ‘They’ll be stayin’ here with us, so they will, until their own place is built,’ she said. She was smiling so much that her round cheeks almost hid her deep-set black eyes.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Fagan, that’s wonderful news!’ I said, clapping my hands.

  ‘So it is,’ she agreed. ‘Mrs Finnerty is a woman of quality. Sure the town will be the better for havin’ her here. And the warden, of course.’ She looked almost as delighted as I was. There would be even more work, but I didn’t care. I would manage, no matter how long it took. Anyway, I was still hoping Mr Wisdom would find someone to come and work here.

  Later that day a willy-willy came down Bayley Street. It started out on the plain. I could see it coming from twenty miles away, swirling the loose particles of sand and dried-out stalks of spinifex into a thin, red-brown column of dust that reached high up into the sky. It swayed and twisted like a demented dancer and I crossed my fingers behind my back. Willy-willies were unpredictable things. Although it seemed to be heading towards us, there were moments when it wavered along its chosen path and I fervently hoped it would veer away and miss the town. I had just finished cleaning all the rooms. A willy-willy would cover them in red dust and grit in less than a minute. I had been late starting that morning. Jack was leaving and I had gone to the stables at first light to say goodbye to him. I knew Mrs Fagan needed me in the kitchen so I hurried through the last of the sweeping, still hoping that the storm might miss us, but my heart sank when I glanced out into the street. The willy-willy was almost upon us.

  I ran to the front windows and slammed them shut. Arthur Williams was already rolling down the canvas flaps in the billiard room and tying them tight. Mr Wisdom threw covers over tables in the dining room and tipped chairs upside down, shouting at me to come and help. The willy-willy, which had been silent at a distance, began to hiss and squeal. It came shrieking in under the rafters, lifted a loose corner of the tin roof and slapped it down with a bang. The whole makeshift building shuddered and seemed to lean away from the wind, but there was no keeping it out. It brought the red dust swirling in through every crack.

  All four of us huddled together behind the bar, which was the sturdiest part of the building. Mrs Fagan crouched down and pulled the bottom of her apron up over her head. Mr Wisdom and Arthur Williams sat on the floor with their knees drawn up and their hands over their ears. The glasses rattled above us in their wooden racks. I didn’t know what to do. There had been dust storms before, but nothing like this. Even in the shelter of the bar, the wind blew my hair about my face and dust into my eyes.

  There was a huge clap of thunder overhead. Above the roar of the wind I heard horses screaming and stamping in the stables. Where was Jack? Was he still out there in the storm? I leapt up to go and look for him, but Mrs Fagan caught my arm and pulled me down again.

  ‘Don’t be daft, lass,’ she yelled in my ear. ‘Ya can’t be goin’ anywhere in this!’

  The rain came right behind the willy-willy. When the first fat drops fell, we all stood up and rushed to the door. Rain was splashing onto the dirt, each drop leaving its own tiny moon crater. The dry earth welcomed the moisture and gave off a distinctive smell of wet soil – it made me want to run outside and stand in the rain, to breathe in the freshness of it and feel the cooling drops on my gritty skin.

  The rain was now pouring down in sheets. The splashing sound had changed to a steady drumming. Mrs Fagan and I went out into the street. It seemed that the whole town was out there, all in their work clothes, getting soaking wet. The men pulled off their hats and let the rain wash through their hair. The women took off their boots, lifted their skirts and bathed their bare feet. Two children ran splashing through puddles. A toddler who had clearly never seen rain before clung uncertainly to his mother. Mrs Fagan and I looked at each other and laughed at our bedraggled state. Water streamed through our hair and left red stains on our white blouses, which quickly turned to pink as the deluge soaked into our clothes. I lifted my arms to sweep the hair from my eyes. Water trickled down my neck and into my armpits.

  The storm was over as quickly as it had begun. Red-brown water coursed down the street, making gullies in the wheel tracks and puddles in the doorways.

  The sun came out. People hung their wet clothes over railings, and pegged them onto clothes lines. Neighbours called to each other as they opened their windows.

  ‘Nice drop,’ they said.

  ‘Smell that clean air.’

  ‘Any damage?’

  ‘Nothing major over here. How about you?’

  Jack came up from the stables. He was s
oaked to the skin but grinning broadly.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Isn’t it wonderful? Now we can wash everything! And your wells and soaks will be full.’

  ‘Hmm, we’ll see,’ Jack said, and his face straightened out. ‘Storms like this can be very local. It was a big one, but out here they can come through in a strip that’s only a mile wide. Lots of places miss out.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, deflated.

  ‘Hey, don’t be glum,’ Jack’s smile returned. ‘The track will be too wet for me to go back to the Cross now. I’ll be here for another night at least.’

  That definitely brightened up my day.

  December 1892

  A week later, Mr Wisdom told me that Padraig was in the bar and was asking for me. I had been wondering about his friend, Donal, but had been absolutely run off my feet with cleaning up after the willy-willy and helping Mrs Fagan get ready for the Finnertys. I set the lid on the bubbling stew I had been tending and turned to Mrs Fagan.

  ‘Away with ya, lass. I’ll finish up here,’ she said.

  I took off my apron and went through to the bar.

  Padraig stood there awkwardly with a wooden vase in his hand. I could see that it had been carved from a gum tree branch. It was beautifully smooth with a polished sheen to the curved surface. The inside had been hollowed out and sealed with varnish to hold water.

  ‘It ain’t much,’ Padraig said, handing me the vase. ‘But I wanted to thank ya for what ya did for Donal.’

  ‘Padraig, it’s lovely!’ I said, taking his offering and turning it in my hand. Pa sometimes gave bunches of flowers to Mother, but flowers were rare here. ‘It will be perfect for the eucalyptus sprigs.’ We often cut fresh leaves from the bush and put them in the bedrooms to make them smell nice. ‘And how is Donal?’ I asked.

  ‘He passed away,’ Padraig said, bowing his head and making a sign of the cross.

  ‘Oh.’ I looked at the floor. Although I had not really known Donal, my eyes began to rim with tears.