An Uncommon Woman

by Nicole Alexander

  ‘Mid-twenties, I believe,’ answered Hamilton. ‘I presumed they would list the property immediately; however, the children may well have wanted some time to consider their options. Their parents were very fond of the property. Perhaps it is hard for them to sever ties so quickly.’

  ‘Good people, the Ridgeways. You knew them, Hamilton?’ asked Peter.

  ‘Yes, reasonably well.’

  ‘The wife was delightful, but Ridgeway senior was always a little wild. Very interested in cattle, at one stage. Had a good run in North Queensland around the turn of the century, while his brother and father ran the riverboat business in New South Wales. Made a fortune, those two did, before the railways took over, while Ridgeway eventually sold out to a syndicate and came here.’

  ‘And he did well during the war,’ said Hamilton, ‘what with wool and the demand for tinned meat, but then it all unravelled. First the father died, then the younger brother on the Western Front and then Ridgeway and his wife in that car accident.’ Peter poured rum into three crystal tumblers. ‘The children rarely come home.’

  The men raised their glasses in unison.

  ‘Here’s health. And the uncle, Somerville, he’s on the mother’s side, Hamilton?’ asked Peter.

  ‘Yes, but I know very little about him.’

  Peter took another sip of his drink. ‘I’m interested in the Ridgeway holding, Hamilton. It would link two of my properties together, giving me a chain of runs with good water.’ He paused as if for effect before tugging at the frayed cord of the world map. The linen parchment furled upwards, slowly revealing another map before finally spinning closed.

  Hamilton leant forward, resting the tumbler on his knee. Here was a chart he’d never seen.

  ‘This shows the major pastoral properties in New South Wales and Queensland. Mine are in green, Tom’s purple.’

  ‘You p-put me to shame,’ commented the southerner.

  ‘And the red?’ asked Hamilton, drawing attention to a land mass that outdid the President and Tom combined.

  ‘The Gordons’ of course.’

  It was really quite a staggering thing to see a graphic representation of two states’ agricultural land, divvied up into various sized stations by the biggest pastoralists. ‘And what are those white spaces?’ asked Hamilton, trying not to stare at Peter Worth’s holdings, which Hamilton was sure would engulf a number of small countries on the world map.

  ‘Anything under twenty thousand acres isn’t worth bothering noting ownership.’

  That, Hamilton thought, was a touch rude.

  Peter pointed to his properties, then noted the position of Wywanna and Ridgeway Station. The holding was indeed in a prime position in relation to his enterprises. Hamilton could quite understand why he was interested in it. Everyone was trying to emulate Kidman and the Gordons. Droughtproof their holdings. Increase their acreage. A linking of land, or at least properties positioned along a market route with water, was the best way to accomplish this.

  ‘As you can see,’ continued Peter, ‘Ridgeway would be of great value to me.’

  ‘And I’m k-keen to see such a p-purchase,’ interrupted Tom, ‘for my d-daughter Eliza is to m-marry Peter’s youngest, Lloyd, and I would like her situated closer to civilisation. Well, W-Wywanna at least.’

  ‘My congratulations to the both of you,’ offered Hamilton, now understanding the common ground that brought the two men together.

  Peter dismissed the good wishes as he relit his pipe. ‘It’s early days, old chap. They are yet to meet.’

  ‘You’re n-not interested in it, Hamilton?’ asked Tom.

  ‘No, no, five thousand acres is enough for me. I shall leave the pastoral empire-building exercise to those best suited to such enterprises.’ Yet, it was a sobering thing to see the apportionment of land and the few who held it.

  ‘Good. I didn’t want to have a battle on my hands, not over a piece of dirt. Not that I think you’d do that, Hamilton, now you know my intentions. Too much of a gentlemen for that,’ Peter concluded before his brow furrowed. ‘But if you’ve no interest in land, what do you do with your money? Shares. That’s it, isn’t it?’

  Hamilton gave an enigmatic smile. He was a recent convert to the share market having invested six years ago, although his previous business ventures were far wider than these good men could ever hope to know.

  ‘I dabble myself,’ Peter revealed, ‘in a very limited way. I have a great adversity to placing my money at the whim of the economy. Too changeable for me. And you know that financial expert, Roger Babson, is talking about a crash.’

  ‘Yes, well that p-prediction did shake th-the markets,’ commented Tom.

  Peter studied the map before him. ‘Commodity prices continue to fall, unemployment is rising. The papers are full of stories about men leaving the cities and trudging through the countryside looking for work and the economy is already stagnant. No, I’ll stick to my land.’ The map of pastoral ownership was concealed once again by the faded world chart.

  ‘Th-that was a depressing outline.’ Tom swirled the contents of his glass.

  Peter gave his friend a perfunctory frown. ‘So, Hamilton, now you know my interest, I’d like to see the matter attended to in a timely manner. There will be attention from other parties, specifically the Gordons I’d imagine, and with that in mind I’d like initial negotiations kept quiet. And to that end, if we are successful I would like you to handle the sale, arrange a deposit. In short, do what you do.’

  ‘Of course.’ Hamilton was already calculating the property’s value, the size of the deposit required and the funds he had at his disposal. This was the transaction he needed. A deal to cement his reputation and boost his income. It was perfect.

  ‘Well, I promised my wife I would take her to the circus this evening. Acrobats, lions and clowns.’ Peter sounded less than interested.

  ‘Perhaps I shall see you there,’ Hamilton tested. ‘I am relegated to escort duties myself.’

  The President appeared impressed. ‘I was wondering when you were going to dazzle dusty Wywanna with Mrs Zane’s company again. The lady in question,’ the President explained to Tom, ‘is the grand-daughter of Lady Perpetua Wilkins of Devon.’

  ‘Well done,’ said Tom appreciatively. ‘If a man is going to put his f-foot in the s-stirrup a-again, the effort must be worthwhile. It is some time since your wife’s passing, isn’t it?’

  Hamilton was not one for the past. ‘Five,’ he told them, although Caroline’s incarceration in an asylum was a good decade ago, making her dead to him for many years.

  ‘You should be remarrying,’ suggested Peter, ‘especially with such a pedigree on your arm.’

  Worth and Clyde proceeded to discuss the advantages and disadvantages of title while Hamilton enjoyed the rare pleasure of a cat-and-cream smile. Did that mean that Gloria and he would be accepted? While his lover was blessed with beauty, lineage and wealth, she did nonetheless have a rather notorious reputation. Gloria’s elopement with a croupier at a casino in Monte Carlo quite startled the establishment and the ensuing years did nothing to enhance her reputation, especially when she divorced him. His lover was most commonly seen as being part of the fast set, very fast. Worse, she was a businesswoman with money, old money. Beauty, intellect and unfettered free will. A definite challenge for the English male, but perhaps not so much in Australia where women had held the right to vote since Federation.

  ‘Keep them satisfied,’ Peter advised, discussing the management of the weaker sex, ‘but not so satisfied that there is expectation. And your Mrs Zane, Hamilton?’ enquired Peter. ‘She maintains a house in Wywanna?’

  ‘Yes, west of the central business district,’ answered Hamilton. So the President was suddenly interested in his relationship. Not that he wouldn’t know everything there was to know about Gloria. The fictitious lung condition that required dry air, her house and the rooms where they met. Was he expecting an invitation? Hamilton doubted it. If Peter Worth stepped foot inside G
loria’s abode it would mean instant acceptance of Hamilton and his lover by the greater Wywanna district. Worth knew how much power he wielded and he wasn’t about to show such largesse unless it was of benefit to him.

  ‘She is quite the modern businesswoman, I hear.’ Peter’s tone was flat, if questioning. ‘And I believe her gatherings are very entertaining.’

  Hamilton smiled. ‘Indeed.’ Gloria partied with a motley assortment of bohemians, artists, musicians and singers who literally appeared out of the woodwork, or scrub in their case, whenever she arrived in town.

  ‘And Mrs Gloria is an acknowledged beauty,’ remarked Tom with a knowing smile.

  The conversation had come full circle. It was a query, Hamilton decided, as to whether he and Gloria would wed. Here, ensconced in this office, there was never going to be a better time to mention his quandary. ‘I am conscious of being father to a motherless twenty-year-old daughter.’

  ‘She needs a mother?’ asked Peter, a probing look in his hazel-flecked eyes.

  ‘A husband at th-that age,’ suggested Tom. ‘It is so much easier with sons.’ He toyed with an unlit cigarette and sat back thoughtfully. ‘If they sow some w-wild oats, well good luck to them I say. A b-bit of adventure and a few broken hearts stands us in good stead, but d-daughters. Women are my nightmare and my joy. My young g-girls in particular have been urging me to send them abroad. But Europe’s not the same since the war. B-beggars everywhere. A shortage of labour. Half the world is filled with d-decimated c-countryside, bombed-out buildings and starving people; the rest, returned soldiers w-wandering around in a d-daze, with womenfolk scared of losing their jobs. And we know that’s n-not going to happen. I mean, who needs to employ a verified war hero when you can keep hiring a girl for less than half price.’ Tapping the cigarette on the desktop, Tom lit it with a flinty match. ‘And then we have th-this t-treaty thing. If you ask me th-the G-Germans will be m-mad at us for a l-long t-time to come. Reparations is o-one th-thing, the wholesale b-bleeding of a c-country is quite a-another.’

  ‘I certainly wouldn’t send my Edwina abroad,’ said Hamilton, trying to turn the conversation.

  Peter voiced his agreement. Knocking out his pipe and placing it aside, he paused thoughtfully. But much to Hamilton’s frustration there were no immediate suggestions. Surely they knew of some family with a second or third son who needed a wife. Money wasn’t an issue. In fact Hamilton would be satisfied with a poor man of breeding. What he needed most was a good name.

  ‘Marriages are such t-tricky things.’ Tom puffed at his cigarette as if his life depended on it.

  At least the word was out. In a matter of days the district would know that Hamilton Baker was shopping for a husband for his only daughter. But perhaps he needed a form of enticement that might soften the fears of aligning with a man of his profession. ‘My father was a great believer in substantial dowries.’

  Tom ashed a cigarette in a brass saucer, Peter concentrated on re-stuffing his pipe. For the first time since sitting down Hamilton was aware of the other members outside the closeted office walls talking, laughter at the bar, the clash of balls as men played billiards in the adjoining room. Desperate. He’d sounded too desperate. Hamilton finished his rum. How ill-advised to verbalise the one thing that no-one ever talked about. Money.

  Tom finally spoke. ‘A fact not to be taken lightly.’

  ‘It was good to see you, Hamilton,’ said Peter, politely dismissing him. ‘You don’t mind, do you, old chap? Tom and I have much to catch up on. You’ll keep us informed about that other matter with Somerville?’

  Hamilton agreed that he would and, taking leave of the men, shut the door to the President’s office where he had experienced the extraordinary sensation of bearing witness to the dividing up of the pastoral world. Normally he would have joined another party, ensuring he didn’t dine alone, but there was too much to think on.

  Young Andrew appeared, taking his order for the evening meal as soon as Hamilton returned to his table. ‘You’re dining early this evening, Mr Baker. Do you think everyone will?’

  The poor lad was undoubtedly eager to attend the entertainments on the river flats. ‘I have no idea.’ He ordered the French onion soup, wild bush turkey with bacon and a glass of champagne, declining dessert with the knowledge that he would have to endure a late supper.

  The fact that Peter Worth called on him to act on his behalf in the matter of Ridgeway Station was cause for celebration. This was the type of transaction he’d yearned for. Working with and for a respected pastoralist. Being accepted. Trusted. Hamilton would have shouted the men at the bar were discretion not imperative. Instead he took a gulp of the champagne Andrew set by his hand, beaming into the bubbles. Then he read the note received on arrival. Somerville was due to arrive on Monday’s train. Which made him wonder who his children had seen driving around Ridgeway Station in a Model T Ford? The paper scrunched in his fist. No upstart cash-rich grazier was going to get a foot in the door of Ridgeway Station without him being involved. He would have to cut the speculator off at the pass, so to speak, and somehow bring forward the meeting with Somerville. Hamilton was on the cusp of killing two birds with one stone, ensuring repayment of a significant debt and ingratiating himself with Peter Worth and Tom Clyde. And, by Jove, he wasn’t about to let the opportunity slip through his fingers.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘We always get drifters and no-hopers hanging about. Travelling shows entice the worst of men. ’Course, I shouldn’t be saying it with your lady friend having recently been attacked, but a woman shouldn’t be out and about at sundown. Not these days. I mean the world’s a-changing. Too fast for my liking. But it’s a-changing. Of course, I blame the war for the state of young women today. Working in factories and the like. And it’s worse out here. Most of the young women work like navvies they do. ’Course that doesn’t mean a lass should be walking about unchaperoned, dressed like a man. And wandering around here, out of the public area? Well, where I come from we’d say she was asking for a bit of rough, if you get my meaning. Silly young thing.’

  ‘As I said, it wasn’t her fault,’ a man replied.

  ‘Never is, is it?’ answered the woman. ‘Excepting that the lass told you that she came here by herself. What woman does that, dressed like she is? She ain’t like you and me, you can tell by the look of her. You can put a woman like that in a potato sack but it don’t hide the quality of the goods.’ She gave a weak cough. ‘And you, what’s your caper then? Do you make a habit out of rescuing women? Handsome young man like yourself and all. If you feel inclined you could save me.’

  ‘I’m looking for work. I can do most things.’

  ‘It’ll take a bit to calm Riley, with you having nicked his cub. I’ll be in for a right telling-off as it is, if he finds out I’ve helped you.’

  ‘He only would have killed it.’

  Edwina lifted the heavy compress partially covering her face, frowning at the half-light. She wasn’t dreaming then. There was a man and a woman sitting next to her.

  ‘Maybe, maybe not.’ The woman belched and drank heavily from a flagon. ‘Some cove would have purchased it eventually. If not out here while we’re travelling through the sticks, then once we arrived at a bigger town. Either way, it ain’t a pet, you know, lad. One of these fine days you’ll be searching for another circus or zoo to hand it back to before it kills you.’

  ‘And work?’ the man persisted.

  ‘There’s so many looking for work. You all seem to think that a travelling circus has an endless supply of jobs. We don’t, you know. We have the performers and then we have the workers who set up the tents and care for the animals, that sort of thing. There’s not much in between. And there ain’t much coin at times either. Of course, if you’re willing to work for food that’s another matter,’ the fat lady explained. ‘There’s plenty here that work for food and the joy of seeing the world.’

  ‘So, if I was taken on, would I get to go abroad then?’

&nb
sp; The fat lady lowered three heavy chins. ‘I was talking figuratively, lad. You’d see the bush on our regional tours. No, the days of us travelling to the likes of America are long gone. It’s the filmums, you see, and the talkies. Everybody wants to see Clark Gable and watch the newsreels. No, the days of travelling overseas, well, the golden years are gone. We ain’t even as popular in the cities these days. But out here, well we’re still the only major entertainment you folk get.’

  The man peering at Edwina was the thief she’d given chase to. He smiled encouragingly, the skin creasing at the corners of his eyes. She clutched at the blanket, rough against bare skin.

  ‘You’re awake, love? Good, good. A cup of tea with a dollop of rum always helps. That and a bit of a rest.’

  Edwina was lying on a camp bed, the blanket protecting her modesty although she noted she still wore her brother’s trousers and a chemise. A huge woman, barely contained within a purple gown, sat next to her. Shaped like a pyramid, white rolls of flesh grew in staggering proportions so that Edwina half expected the bottom of the lady to be pooled on the ground.

  The fat lady bit a length of cotton and, stabbing a needle in a pin cushion resting on a massive thigh, held up Edwina’s shirt. Tiny eyes in a pudgy face surveyed the handiwork. ‘Work of art, if I do say so myself.’

  The shirt was roughly stitched. Part of the shirt tail was longer than the other. The thief, Will, nodded approvingly. ‘Good bit of work, eh?’

  Maybe, Edwina thought, she really was dreaming. If she was it was a nightmare.

  ‘Get yourself dressed then,’ the fat lady commanded, pleasantly but firmly. ‘I’ve done what I can for you, but this ain’t no hospital.’ Handing Edwina the mended shirt she pointed to a three-panelled dressing screen standing at the foot of the bed.

  The screen was painted with a faded, dirt-smeared woodland scene of nymphs and castles, with her clothes flung untidily across the top of the room divider. Gripping the blanket, she sat up slowly. The pain in her head, although having eased a little, still throbbed terribly.