Goldfields Girl

by Elaine Forrestal

  January 1894

  Jack moved to Coolgardie to try being a prospector. He bought a tent with the wages his father had paid him, added a pick and shovel, tinned provisions, dry biscuits, then a hat with a fly net and corks hanging around the brim. I laughed out loud when he tried on the hat in Tobias’s Store.

  ‘I look the part, then?’ he said, squashing the hat down more firmly on his head.

  ‘You look like a bushwhacker,’ I told him. ‘Where is that dashing young man who was wearing a tie at the ball?’

  He swung the shovel up onto his shoulder like a rifle, clicked his heels together and stood to attention. ‘At your service, ma’am,’ he said, with a lopsided salute.

  ‘Go easy with that weapon, mate!’ A man with a brand-new wheelbarrow was trying to get through between Jack and the stacks of boxes that were blocking the aisle.

  ‘Sorry,’ Jack said, stepping aside. With the hat still on his head, he took his gear to the counter.

  ‘Suits you, Jack,’ Tobias grinned. I tried to keep a straight face.

  While Jack paid the bill I tried to imagine how it would be for him living away from his mother, who doted on him, and trying to scratch a living out of Coolgardie’s fickle patch of dirt. Would he get bored with it? Would he struggle to survive without regular wages from his father? I had been looking forward to him coming, but what if he hated it?

  I went back to work, expecting to see Jack that evening, but several days passed. Where was he? I was beginning to worry. Had something happened to him, out there in his tent? I asked several people if they had seen him. No-one had. I told myself not to be silly, that of course he was all right. He was an experienced bushman and knew this country well.

  Another day went by. I had made up my mind to walk out to his tent before work the next morning when I saw Jack in the dining room. He had dragged a chair over and sat down at a table with Jock, Mac and some of his new mates like Bill Lockhart. I delivered more meals to the counter and paused on the way back to speak to Jack.

  ‘Where have you been?’ I asked.

  ‘What?’ The room was so crowded and noisy with men talking, laughing and shouting their greetings while plates and cutlery clashed and clattered.

  ‘I was worried.’

  Jack looked at me blankly. He turned one ear towards me and cupped his hand behind it.

  ‘I was worried,’ I shouted, bending towards him.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s what friends do,’ I said. Jack looked puzzled. ‘We are still friends, aren’t we?’ I asked.

  Shouting broke out at the next table. Men demanding their meals began to clash with others calling for drinks.

  ‘Wait your turn!’ I shouted above the din.

  ‘You’re busy. I’ll get out of your way,’ Jack said, and stood up to go. The table rocked, spilling a man’s drink. ‘Sorry, mate,’ Jack bent down quickly to speak to him. Men had been killed in pubs for less, but not in this one. ‘I’ll get you another,’ Jack said, and brushed past me on his way to the bar.

  ‘Jack!’ He held up one hand and continued pushing through the crowd. My temper blazed. ‘Suit yourself, Jack Raeside, but don’t expect me to be waiting!’ He pulled a sheepish face but that only made me angrier. I glared at him, but he was hailing Mr Wisdom, ordering the new drink. I dodged the scuffle that had broken out and marched off towards the kitchen.

  It was hot. I was tired and irritated, fed up with always having to deal with demanding men.

  When I came back with the next lot of meals, Jack was gone. As I passed their table, I heard Mac say, ‘That dingo is on the prowl again. Cleaned out all Jack’s food.’

  ‘He’ll be wantin’ some barrels then – with lids,’ Jock said. ‘Leavin’ them opened tins of food around out there, that’s like offerin’ a free feed to every livin’ creature within miles.’

  ‘Yeah, old whisky barrels with lids. That’ll do the trick,’ Bill Lockhart said. ‘And I’m his man. I could be a real gentleman and help him with the emptyin’ of ’em.’ That set off a chorus of other voices chipping in with offers of help to empty a barrel of whisky.

  For the rest of the evening I looked for Jack every time I came into the dining room. If a dingo had stolen his food, he would be hungry. He had to eat. Where else could he go? I was tired before, but now it felt like something heavy in my chest was weighing me down. What was Jack doing? I needed him to come back so that I could say sorry.

  This was not how I had imagined things would be now that Jack was living here. Somehow he seemed further away than when he lived in Southern Cross. And Florrie’s questions about being in love had unsettled me. I needed to talk to Jack, but I was already feeling squeezed out of his new life.

  When I had finished cleaning up in the kitchen, I set the bread dough to rise on the hob, took off my apron and flopped down in a chair.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Florrie asked as she took the jug from the cooler and poured herself a drink of water.

  I nodded and tried to smile. ‘I’m completely done in,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘Goodnight, then,’ she said, giving me a curious look as she went out into the night.

  I sat for a while, thinking about things. When I opened the Coolgardie safe to pour myself a cool drink, I noticed that the water trays at the top and bottom of the metal safe were dry. The heat in the kitchen had been fierce all day and the wet hessian that hung down its perforated sides had dried out.

  When I had quenched my thirst and calmed myself, I carried the trays outside and refilled them at the water tank. Jack was not waiting on the verandah.

  The trays were tricky to balance when they were full of water and I spilled some on the kitchen floor. I could have left it to dry overnight, but I brought the mop in from outside the door and washed the floor with the spilled water. Even though it was late by the time I finished, Jack was still not there.

  Arthur Williams was behind the bar, adding up the takings for the day.

  ‘Have you seen Jack?’ I asked.

  Arthur looked up from the line of figures he was working on. ‘Everyone’s gone home,’ he said. ‘But I’ll come for a stroll with you, if you like.’

  ‘Thank you kindly, Arthur, but I’m very tired,’ I said, and went to my room.

  January 1894

  I couldn’t sleep. I was dog-tired but the room was hot and stuffy. I tossed and turned in my narrow bed. My mouth was dry again so I got up, lit my lamp and carried it to the kitchen. The cool night air caressed my bare arms. A puff of wind swirled around my legs, lifting the threadbare linen of my nightdress and soothing my hot skin. Stars filled the sky. Their brightness made it look even more intensely black. The sad face of the moon looked down.

  I began to wish that I could take back the harsh words I had said to Jack, but I was still angry with him for brushing me off and leaving the pub without saying goodnight. Nothing was working out as I had expected. Was Jack changing, or was I the one who was seeing things in a different way? Was I in love with Jack after all? I wanted to ask my mother. Suddenly I felt a long way from home.

  The jug in the cooler was less than half full. I took a long drink and refilled it with boiled water from the kettle on the hob. Then I went back to bed. Half an hour later I was up again, going out the back to the dunny.

  When I came back, the calico square covering my window was moving gently in and out. As I drifted into sleep, I made up my mind to visit Jack’s camp in the morning.

  I was awake even before the cockatoos in the trees made their first announcements of the day. Jack’s camp was well out on a different track to the one I usually took on my morning walk, but I gathered up some storage tins with lids. Mrs Fagan had said I could lend them to Jack. With the tins clinking together in a sack slung over my shoulder, I set off towards his camp. The sack grew heavy and awkward on my back. I stopped several times to shift it from one shoulder to the other. The sun was well up above the horizon by the time I reached Jack’s tent. T
here was no sign of movement from inside. Was he still asleep? Should I wake him, or just leave the tins for him? I told myself not to be stupid, of course I should wake him. What sort of friend would come all the way out here then sneak away without saying anything?

  The new canvas of Jack’s tent stood out from the others, which were faded and stained red with dirt. It was tightly closed, which was odd after such a hot night. Jack’s pick, shovel and panning dish were stacked neatly outside, but I couldn’t hear a sound from inside the tent, not even breathing. I put down the sack of tins and looked in through an eyelet hole in the laced-up flap. Jack was not there. His bed-roll was spread out, a crumpled sheet thrown on top, but there was no sign of Jack.

  ‘Are you well, Clara?’ Mrs Finnerty asked as I went about my work, wiping down their washstand and cleaning out the water bowl.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Finnerty,’ I said, looking up at her worried face.

  ‘It has been so hot, and you do look a bit flushed. I thought you might be suffering from heat stroke.’

  ‘Oh, no, I’m perfectly well,’ I smiled at her. ‘I just took a longer walk than usual this morning, that’s all. It will be hot again today. Is there anything I can get for you from the cooler?’

  ‘It’s sweet of you to offer, Clara, but I have my fan and I shall be staying indoors writing letters for most of the day.’

  I finished the Finnertys’ rooms and went to the kitchen to help Mrs Fagan with the lunch, although it was hard to concentrate. Random thoughts of Jack kept popping into my head.

  There were not many people moving about and only a few customers for lunch. I was clearing the tables in the dining room when I saw Jack coming out of the general store. I abandoned my work and rushed out onto the street.

  ‘Jack! Wait,’ I called. He turned and smiled. I felt my heart lift. ‘Oh, Jack, I was worried about you,’ I blurted out.

  ‘And I was worried about you,’ he said, ushering me into the shade of an awning.

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘Stupid of me,’ he said, shaking his head as if to get rid of the thoughts inside. ‘Thanks for the tins.’ He looked at me with that open, friendly smile and I wanted to hold him and never let him go.

  ‘Are you staying in town?’ I asked.

  He considered this for a moment. ‘Maybe I will,’ he said.

  ‘I have to get back to work,’ I said. ‘But come in for dinner.’

  ‘You obviously think I’m made of money,’ Jack laughed, and we waved to each other as I went back to the pub.

  February 1894

  One day, when Florrie and I had cleaned up in the kitchen after dinner, we took off our aprons and joined the stayers in the bar. A man pulled a chair into the middle of the room and stood on it.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to announce that a ballad of mine has just been published in the newspaper!’ he said.

  ‘Ah, away wit’ ya,’ Padraig called out. ‘It never was.’

  ‘Cross me heart and hope to die,’ the man shouted. He searched the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a folded page torn from the newspaper. ‘There ya go.’ He shook out the folds and waved it in the air. Padraig reached up and snatched it from him. He smoothed the paper, stared at it, and began to read:

  She laughed, and shook her sunny head –

  Laughter from gates of rose and pearl.

  ‘Look in the cook-book, Dan,’ she said,

  ‘To kiss you first must catch your girl.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be …’ Padraig passed the paper across to Jack. I read over his shoulder. The poem was about a woman who flirted with ‘Dan’ after he had asked her for a kiss. She teased him into following her on horseback for miles and miles, leading him out into very rough country. Each time he came close to catching up with her, she would turn and laugh at him, then gallop away again. She sped away, but fell from her horse and was fatally injured. The last two lines of the poem stayed in my mind:

  He stooped to catch her last faint breath …

  ‘You’ve – caught me – won’t you – kiss me – Dan?’

  Later that night, Jack and I strolled out to the rocky outcrop. Jack sat down and leaned back on both elbows, his face tilted up to the stars. I sat beside him, thinking about the poem in the bar and the conversation I’d had with Florrie after the Boxing Day ball.

  ‘Jack,’ I said, ‘have you ever kissed anyone?’

  Jack sat up, straightening his arms and resting his hands on the rock. ‘My mother,’ he said, his mouth twitching up at the corners.

  I slapped him on the arm and said, ‘You know what I mean!’

  He looked serious then. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Why are you asking me that?’

  ‘We are such good friends,’ I told him. It was the first time I had ever felt shy with him, but I had to go on. ‘I was just wondering what it would be like – to kiss someone, I mean.’

  Jack leaned in close and I shut my eyes. His warm breath was on my cheek. The comforting smell of leather and horses that I always associated with him was strong in my nose. I stayed very still and waited for the sensation of his lips touching mine. Suddenly he shrieked and leapt away from me.

  ‘Oww!’ he cried.

  My eyes sprang open and I saw him slapping at his hand, blowing on his fingers and stomping one foot down hard on the rock. I leapt up, too, not knowing what to expect – a snake, a goanna, a spiny devil? I saw nothing that could have caused him such distress.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  He lifted his foot and we both bent down to see what it was that he’d squashed under his boot.

  ‘A bull ant!’ I cried and jumped further back. ‘Oh, Jack, there will be others.’ I began to search for them, bending low to examine the surface of the rock, the sandy soil around it. ‘Let’s get away from here,’ I said.

  ‘Clara,’ Jack looked at me quizzically. ‘It’s dead now.’

  ‘I don’t care. This one may be dead, but where are the others? I can’t stand bull ants!’ I shrieked.

  Jack began to laugh.

  ‘It’s not funny, Jack Raeside. Stop laughing.’ Of course, that only made him laugh even more.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said. ‘You can’t be scared of a bull ant! I’ve seen you stare down a huge bungarra, and patch up a man with a bullet hole in his chest. You’re not even afraid of Mrs Fagan and she scares the pants off most people!’

  Suddenly I saw how ridiculous I must seem, and felt ashamed. Jack looked confused.

  ‘Are you disappointed in me, Jack?’ My voice came out small and childish.

  He shook his head. ‘Come here,’ he said, and held me in his arms.

  February 1894

  Florrie left Coolgardie as she had arrived – on Snell’s coach. We hugged each other and I told her, for the hundredth time, that I wished she would stay. She shook her head.

  ‘Where will you go?’ I asked, a deep sadness weighing me down.

  ‘I don’t really know,’ she said. ‘But I fancy somewhere cooler. Maybe I’ll work in Perth for a while.’

  ‘Write to me,’ I pleaded.

  ‘I will.’

  She waved as Mr Snell shook the reins and called to his horses. The coach moved off towards the west.

  Everyone had come to see her off. Jack, Mrs Fagan, Mr Wisdom, Arthur Williams, even the Finnertys. We had all grown to love her.

  ‘Will she come back, do you think? Jack asked.

  ‘I don’t know. She says not.’

  ‘Lucky I’m here then,’ Jack said.

  After the dance that evening we took the north-east track out of town for about two miles. Sandgroper was away to the right, in a patch of mallee scrub. From the top of a rise, we could see Jack’s tent. At first, I thought he was taking me there. My heart beat a little faster, but the tent had been closed up all day and would be unbearably hot inside. The wind came fitfully across the desert, not yet blowing a gale as it would later, but moving the air enough to give some relief from the heat of the day
. The distinctive smell of the camp wafted towards us. A mixture of wood smoke, canvas and latrines.

  Jack placed a hand on my arm. ‘Shh,’ he whispered. A shadowy shape flickered around his tent – pale, elongated, there one minute and gone the next. In the moonlight I saw pointed ears, a long snout, a tail carried low.

  ‘Bloody dingo,’ Jack said, as it disappeared over the ridge on the far side of the camp.

  ‘Oh, Jack, has it been raiding your stores again?’

  ‘I hope not,’ he said. ‘I’ve put lids on everything and sealed up the bottom of the tent with rocks.’

  ‘Should we go and see?’

  ‘No, too late to save anything now,’ he said. ‘Come on, let’s just enjoy being cool.’

  Later, outside my door, Jack leaned in close to my ear. ‘Sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite,’ he said softly.

  I dug him in the ribs with my elbow. ‘What bed bugs?’ I asked. ‘I’m in charge of beds around here. How dare you suggest there are bugs in them!’ He stepped back and rubbed his ribs, but I could see that he was laughing, silently, so as not to wake Mrs Fagan. He crossed the yard. At the corner of the building he turned and waved. I waved and blew him a kiss to make up for the sore ribs.