Keepers of the House

by JH Fletcher

  She let Dermot see he interested her. They found moments. He was gentle. If safety were possible with anyone, she might be safe with him.

  She decided they should marry. Not here; Paradise Downs was full of people who knew her too well. Her father; Sean, with his arrogant chin; the woman from Africa, who saw into her and, Sylvia believed, despised what she saw. All watching. Stay here, and she would be too much exposed.

  She knew already that Dermot would never break through the screen she had built around herself; he would imagine that by penetrating her body he had captured her. She would take care never to let him suspect anything else. She would be safe.

  First, of course, she had to put the thought into his mind. The war was over, Gavin had left Europe, would soon be back. Sylvia made up her mind it would be best to arrange things before he got home.

  Her sixteenth birthday fell in January. There was a celebration of sorts. A few drinks, a song or two, beef turning on a spit. Her eyes met Dermot’s beyond the fire. She drifted towards the waterhole, knowing he would observe and follow.

  It was hot and humid, the darkness a dense cloth weighing upon her. Clouds covered the stars.

  He came, as she had known he would. She kissed him, made no attempt to stop him when he placed his hands on her breasts. They were developed now, the nipples tender yet strangely tough to the touch. She permitted him to run his hands over her, fended him off without difficulty when he tried to lift her skirt.

  ‘Plenty of time for that later.’

  She spoke confidently, but was not. She was discovering things about her own body she had never known. Instinct guided her uncertainly, parting her lips, letting him see her tongue.

  ‘Where shall we go?’

  ‘Go?’

  ‘When we leave Paradise Downs.’ She saw that the idea of leaving had not occurred to him and was pleased. She would not wish him to be ahead of her in this, in anything.

  ‘We won’t hang around here, surely? Not after Gavin’s back? It’s going to be his place, eventually. No room for anyone else.’

  They heard the sound of hooves, voices. They turned but could see only the fire burning brightly in the distance. The screen of leaves divided them from the world, as it always had.

  Her dress was open. His hands stroked her breasts. She felt her body’s response, the ache, the moist softening. Her body would satisfy him, she thought. Herself would remain.

  He said, ‘I’ll speak to your father …’

  She stared. ‘What for?’

  ‘To get his permission.’

  Which he would never give.

  ‘What if he says no?’

  ‘We’ll have to wait, I suppose.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘We’re under age.’

  She didn’t care about that. She had brought him to this point; delay and he might change his mind. ‘I won’t be twenty-one for five years. I’m not going to wait that long.’

  He remained troubled. ‘I must speak to him. We just run off, he’ll come after us.’ With a gun. But did not wish to mention guns.

  Sylvia thought. He was right. ‘Speak to him, then. He says okay, we’ll get married, then make up our mind where we’re going. But if he says no, I want us out of here.’

  He didn’t like it but would do it.

  ‘Talk to him now,’ she urged, ‘while he’s in a good mood.’

  Whey they got back to the fire they knew at once that something had happened. The crackle of flame; the faces staring silently. One belonged to Jim Sykes, the postie from Waroola.

  Sylvia went swiftly to her father. ‘What’s happened?’

  He turned to her, groping, as though unable to see her or anything.

  ‘Your brother,’ he managed. ‘Gavin is dead.’

  The influenza had killed him, as it was to kill thousands more.

  Gavin Macdonald, Scott’s only son, the heir to Paradise Downs, had fought through the whole war. He had been at Mouquet Farm and Menin Road, had survived the hand-to-hand frenzy of Polygon Wood, where men had smashed at each other with guns and bayonets and bare hands, had seen men die of gas and drown in the mud of Brookseinde. All this without a scratch. And now he was dead on the transport bringing him back from Europe to Australia.

  The impact on his father was devastating. Anneliese had never been close to Scott Macdonald, had held herself in reserve with him as with all the men who passed through from time to time on their lonely way to who knew where. She knew they called her starchy; cared nothing for their opinion. Now she went to Scott Macdonald where he sat on the verandah of the big house, his eyes brooding upon memories, on dreams that were no more.

  She said nothing, only sat. Macdonald gave no sign he knew she was there. After twenty minutes, she rose and went silently away. The next day did the same. And the next. For a month she sat with him in this way. Never in all that time did they exchange a word. Finally she began to talk. Of Koffiekraal. Of Stoffel and Amalie and all the others who had died. Of the mass grave as red as blood in the raw earth.

  She talked without expression and without pause, the words spilling ceaselessly, a stream of images upon the hot and silent air.

  At last Scott moved in his chair, restlessly. ‘I had no idea.’

  Anneliese looked at him, saw tears shining in the furrows of his hard face. The big man who had seemed cast from iron was weeping for his lost son, his lost hopes, even perhaps for the world of suffering of which they both were part.

  Anneliese would have taken him in her arms but knew better. Instead she rose, as she had done so often before, and walked soundlessly into the house. There she paused, secretly watching the bereft figure in its cane chair. She nodded once, satisfied, then went on with her work.

  Scott sat without moving until it was dark, then rose and went to his room. Early the next morning, the boards of the house echoed to the sound of boot heels as he strode swiftly to the steps and down into the yard. Anneliese watched as he crossed to the stables. Within minutes, mounted on his favourite gelding, wide-brimmed hat on his head, he clattered out of the yard and rode away up the slope between the scattered gum trees until he reached the crest and disappeared.

  Anneliese turned away. Neither she nor Scott would ever refer to what had happened yet the knowledge filled her with warmth, knowing she had helped him find healing.

  Sean had come through from the rear of the house and now stood at her shoulder, staring up the slope after the vanished rider.

  ‘About time,’ he said.

  ‘He has been in hell,’ Anneliese told him. ‘Now he is back.’

  ‘Where’s he gone, anyway?’

  ‘Just riding.’

  But knew there was more to it than that. Released from hell, Scott Macdonald was re-establishing contact with life. Which, to him, was Paradise Downs.

  ‘Don’ get it,’ Sean said.

  Anneliese, to whom love of land needed no explanation, longed to explain to him the importance of loving something beyond oneself but knew there was no point. Sean wouldn’t have known what she was talking about.

  Sean had been the dearest thing in her life for so long, but now there were times when she felt she did not like him at all. As he had grown, he had drawn more and more into himself. There were other things: the way he stared about him, chest out-thrust, chin pointing pugnaciously, as though he owned the world or intended to, yet kept a veil over his thoughts. She no longer knew him but believed he had the potential to be dangerous. It troubled her.

  She said as much to Dominic. Who did not care.

  ‘Good thing. Means he’ll be able to stand on his own feet.’

  The heat of the north had dried Dominic out. Now he was thin and laconic; scrawny neck, Adam’s apple like a walnut, blue eyes washed almost white by time and distance. He spent days away from the homestead, working in distant parts of the station. It suited them both. Time had separated them, even as it had drawn them together. Their lives were inextricably entwined, yet nothing physical remained betwee
n them. Nothing of love, either, unless love meant being at peace with each other, communicating without speaking. She had always known she did not love him although perhaps habit could turn to love, in time. She thought sometimes it was as much as they could hope for; more than they deserved, perhaps.

  When she thought about it, she could still recall the cauldron of fire and vengeance from which their shared lives had emerged, yet the memory, once as vital as the leaping flames themselves, had grown dim long ago. The sixteen years when they had wandered like the Israelites in the wilderness stood between Anneliese and everything that had gone before. The passions of the past were now no more than echoes, even the enigma of Sean’s parentage no longer an issue.

  The drink had eased its hold on Dominic at last; or perhaps it was simply the lack of opportunity that had blunted its claws. The previous year his wages had gone up to fifty-three shillings, with the promise of a further twenty if, as was increasingly likely, Macdonald put him in charge.

  Safe harbour, then, for them both. Even the fear that Gavin’s return might have seen them once more on the road had been removed.

  ‘Horse-breaking tomorrow,’ Sean said. ‘I wonder if Macdonald will turn up?’

  He did. Iron mouth and watchful eyes; he might never have been away at all.

  In the mustering yard the air was razor-sharp. Tension and dust, the whirligigs of mounted men, the rocketing frantic thrust of horses attempting to break free, to not submit. One brumby stallion in particular. Eye glaring white, red-rimmed nostrils, the whole body trembling.

  Dominic eyed it dubiously. ‘Goin’ to be a handful, that one.’

  ‘Let me,’ Sean said, lust thick as phlegm in his throat.

  The years and dust had pared the Irish from Dominic’s voice yet still it showed through on occasion. As now. ‘Break your back soon as look at you, so he would.’

  Sean watched, raging, as one of the black hands, arms and legs like wire cables, mounted. Exulted secretly as he was flung unceremoniously off. Again he mounted. Again flew cartwheeling. Another man tried. Same result.

  ‘Dermot?’ Dominic’s voice was doubtful.

  Dermot shook his head. ‘Not me.’ No shame in saying no; there were easier ways of getting killed.

  Scott Macdonald said, ‘Someone had better do it. I’m damned if I’ll cut him.’

  Again Sean pleaded. ‘Da —’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Let him.’

  Something in the way Macdonald said it. Dominic glanced at his boss, knowing the words had been more than a suggestion. Yet he still resisted, if only for the sake of resistance. ‘It would be madness.’

  ‘No it wouldn’t. Let him have a go.’

  Dominic shrugged. ‘Up you get, then. And for God’s sake don’t be killing yourself,’ he told Sean ferociously, ‘or your mother will murder me.’

  And he walked away, his turned back demonstrating clearer than words what he thought.

  ‘Your chance, Sean,’ Macdonald told him. ‘Show us what you’re made of.’

  Sean swung up into the saddle. His heartbeat filled his ears; his mouth was dry as sand. He wound the reins tight around his wrist and whacked his knees high into the brumby’s ribs. He could feel the power trembling beneath him. Like a bomb, he thought. Tension and terror clawed him. He looked down at the men holding the stallion.

  ‘Let him go!’

  The world exploded. Eyelids crushed shut, his only concern was to stay on. Somehow he survived the first moment’s frenzy, the bucking lunacy of the gallop around the yard when he thought his backbone was going to break into a hundred pieces and come smashing up through his brain. He thrust in with his legs until his muscles screamed and his knees felt as though they would meet in the middle of the animal’s body. Around and around, bucking and rearing. Somehow he stayed on.

  The stallion made for the gate and he was powerless to stop him. Just in time someone flung it wide and they were gone in a wild gallop, more flying than running. Up the slope, avoiding the trees by a miracle, a succession of miracles, and they were in open country. Ears back, neck outstretched, the stallion ran. Tears streamed down Sean’s face. Still he held on.

  Suddenly the animal stopped. It was all Sean could do not to be flung ten yards over his head into the neckbreaking dust. Then away they went again, round and round, bucking and jumping, Sean still clinging to its back. He felt as though he had been pounded into a sackful of broken pieces, blood and bone and muscle pulverised into jelly, yet would not give in, knowing for the first time that he would hold on, if necessary, until both of them were dead.

  ‘You are mine. Mine!’

  He screamed the words in the horse’s ear, hating him, loving him, fighting and fighting him. Until death, if need be. Beyond death. If need be.

  Back in a frenzied circle, heading for the creek. Down the crumbling bank the stallion plunged and into the water.

  Sean thought, He’s going to roll, try to drown me. For the minutest fraction of a second, his will sagged. The animal was indefatigable. No way he or anyone could ever tame him. But doubt passed as quickly as it had appeared.

  Let him drown me, then. I’ll hang on until he drowns the pair of us.

  They plunged deeper in an explosion of green foam. And stopped. Sean clung precariously, barely daring to breathe. Between his legs, beneath his hands, he felt the wire-taut muscles relax. The great body was wracked by tremors that built to a climax and died slowly away. Cautiously he leaned forward and patted the great neck.

  ‘There you go, mate. There you go.’

  He sat up straighter in the saddle. He used the reins to turn the animal, to clamber back up out of the water. When they were on top of the bank he slipped from the saddle, still holding the reins, and grabbed a handful of grass to rub the stallion down.

  ‘There, then. There.’

  Gently, over and over again, letting him hear his voice.

  When he was finished, he wanted nothing more than to lie in the dust and sleep. Instead he climbed wearily into the saddle and rode back to the homestead.

  ‘I’ll be damned,’ Macdonald said. ‘I thought we’d find you with your neck broken.’

  Sean was unable to answer. He slid from the saddle, staggered and almost fell. He took the reins and offered them to the owner of Paradise Downs.

  ‘Your horse.’

  Macdonald considered him thoughtfully. He ignored the proffered reins. ‘Put him in the stable. He’s had enough excitement for one day.’

  The next day Macdonald came looking for him. It was a rest day, as far as such things existed at Paradise Downs, and Sean was where Macdonald had known he would be, by the horse yard. They leant side by side on the fence rail, staring at the great stallion as it circled the yard. Sunlight gleamed on its coat, its movements were as fluid as water.

  ‘Good animal, that,’ Macdonald said. ‘Get a fair price for it, I reckon.’

  The words were like a hand tightening on Sean’s heart. Sell him? After all that? Protest rose in his throat but he fought it down. It was Macdonald’s horse, Macdonald’s decision. What had happened did not matter. Possession — ownership — was all.

  ‘Right,’ he said casually.

  The news of Gavin’s death had derailed Dermot’s plans to speak to Macdonald about Sylvia and himself. Afterwards she got at him about it. ‘You promised.’

  ‘I couldn’t. Not when he’d just heard about Gavin.’

  She pouted. ‘What’s Gavin got to do with it?’

  ‘I will speak to him. I will.’

  ‘When?’

  He did not know when. Before he’d summoned up his courage, Macdonald spoke to him instead. ‘I hear you’ve been getting matey with my daughter …’

  Dermot couldn’t imagine how he’d found out. ‘I was going to speak to you about that, Mr Macdonald —’ Spluttering nervously.

  Macdonald put an axe through his apologies. ‘Sylvia’s just sixteen. Far too young to be thinking of marriage.’ His eye, uncompromising as a
gun muzzle, focused on Dermot. ‘That is what you had in mind?’

  Oh yes, he assured him quickly. Exactly what he had in mind.

  ‘Whoever marries my daughter will inherit Paradise Downs, one of these days. You sure you’re up to it?’

  ‘I’ll do my very best, Mr Macdonald.’ Eagerly, displaying a confidence he did not feel.

  Macdonald grunted sceptically. His bleak expression seemed to share Dermot’s secret doubts.

  ‘Sylvia won’t be twenty-one for another five years,’ he said. ‘Too much to ask of any man. Show me you’ve got what it takes, you can have her in three.’

  Dermot felt his face light up.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Macdonald. Thank you.’

  ‘Just between the two of us, mind. Nothing official. Make sure it stays that way.’ Gently, threateningly, his massive fist took Dermot by his shirt front. ‘And no monkey business. Hear me?’

  Dermot thought Sylvia would be pleased; discovered, once again in his life, that he was wrong.

  ‘I’m not waiting three years!’

  ‘What else can we do? You’re under age.’

  ‘Who’s going to know the difference, once we’re away from here?’

  ‘And have your dad come after us with his gun?’

  ‘Get to Waroola, hop on a train, he’ll never find us.’

  Dermot wasn’t game for anything like that. Besides, there was the prospect of Paradise Downs that Macdonald had dangled under his nose, so temptingly. He tried to get Sylvia to see that three years wasn’t that long, but she wouldn’t listen.

  ‘If you cared for me, you’d want to take me away.’

  She sulked, unavailingly. Dermot had made up his mind to ignore her; it would be crazy to chuck away their future for the sake of three years.

  He confided in Dominic, who was not so sure. ‘You think Macdonald’s given you a good deal?’

  ‘Of course.’ Dermot’s confidence bled a little. ‘Why? Don’t you think so?’