Edwina located the ledger in the bookcase, a three-shelf structure that extended six feet along a wall and held numerous volumes of farming manuals and handbooks as well as magazines. She’d barely glanced at the covers for her father always ensured he was present when her whirlwind domesticity was permitted. Once a month he would leave the latest copy of the Agricultural Gazette in the parlour after he’d finished with it and Edwina would snatch it up hungrily, reading the contents. Now she selected a hefty guide on the clearing and management of land, setting it aside and relishing the quiet moment when she could read it.
Resting the ledger on the splintering windowsill, Edwina turned the thick lined pages in the sunlight, wondering at the reason it was secreted away. The breeze teased at her hair as she checked each column’s figures, which were accompanied by her father’s meticulous notes in the bold copperplate she’d tried to emulate in years past. Wages constituted a large expense, with the outgoings of the property far greater than their income. Based on these figures alone, they were quite broke and would have been on the brink of disaster three years ago were it not for a regular monthly deposit, its origin only described by a series of numbers. A bank account.
Closing the hardcover, Edwina walked slowly around the study. Other records must exist. Reports and transactions pertaining to the account that kept them viable. She assumed that their father’s main business assisted in the propping up of their block. It was the trade of lending money, the profession she hated, the role that separated them from the rest of the district that clearly sustained them. But why remain on a property that was losing money? Why come to the country in the first place when his talents seemed to lie in the financial realm? Edwina knew little about her father’s life before he came to the district of Wywanna. He’d been in business in Sydney, met his wife and then suddenly packed up and moved north to Brisbane before heading inland. There were stories of wealth lost in England. Of a grandfather who’d walked away from his family, returning to the money he’d been born into, only to lose it all. But the details were murky, except for the turning point in Hamilton Baker’s life, when he sought passage to Australia in 1890. Edwina wondered what came first – the farmer or the money-lender – and realised it didn’t matter. All she knew now was that they were failing on the land and with their father bedridden they could no longer depend on the secondary income stream to keep them afloat.
At the window, Edwina stared out at the pale-barked gum trees and the rise and fall of land that sank into obscurity with the setting sun. How difficult was it to make a living from the land? Was her father really so hopeless at the business of farming, or was it simply a matter of acreage? The bigger graziers, the pastoralists, appeared to make a good living from their larger holdings. In Edwina’s mind, it wasn’t difficult to see where they were going wrong, battling the all-engulfing costly prickly pear and trying to grow wheat when for some reason, no matter the effort, their results remained limited.
A square of colour moved into her vision. Davidson walked through the trees leading a horse. Clothed as normal, it was difficult to equate the stockman with the native who’d kept vigil beside their father’s bed, with his scars and burnt offerings. He sprang effortlessly up into the saddle. Sensing her, he wheeled the dark gelding, the land between them shrinking as he looked in the direction of the study before riding away.
At her father’s desk Edwina sat in the swivel chair and pulled the saddlebag towards her. The leather closure was hardened by use and weathering but she lifted the stiff flap and went through his belongings.
There were documents and a book. Edwina upended the contents on the desk, giving a whispered harrumph of accomplishment. A manila file was roughly folded in half. Inside was documentation relating to the monies their father had lent locally, including the substantial sum owed them by Charles Ridgeway. Her eyes popped at the thousands of dollars outstanding and she now understood why her father was so keen to ensure the debt was repaid. Looking back through the duration of the transaction, she saw he’d been inordinately fair about the lack of repayments. Had the management of the loan fallen to her, Edwina knew she would have been firmer, that is, until she read the compounding amounts. Her father wasn’t stupid. With every month the debt remained unpaid, the interest component ignored, the money owed increased substantially. This then was how one conducted business. The end result was harsh, the process demonstrably fair. Edwina placed the flat of her hand on the desk, pride for her father’s acumen inching through bitterness. The loan document, which she held, was co-signed by both parties and the debt, as Aiden said, was to be repaid today. There was no doubt that the proceeds would keep them viable for quite a few years if the worst occurred.
The smaller book was more notebook than ledger. It listed a large number of business names Edwina knew nothing of together with a series of dates and numbers. In the absence of any other information she put it aside.
Leaving the study with the Ridgeway documentation safely stored in the saddlebag hanging over a shoulder, Edwina took the Lee-Enfield rifle from above the mantelpiece in the parlour. She wasn’t sure if the debt would be void if the worst happened to their father and she certainly wasn’t going to wait to find out.
She found Aiden by their father’s side, reading aloud.
Father and son looked years apart. One shocking to see, almost withered overnight by events, the other still dew-fresh with possibility.
‘I told you –’
‘I’m going out,’ interrupted Edwina, ignoring her brother’s glower. Their father stared blankly.
‘Where? What are you doing with that rifle?’ The book on his lap fell with a thud to the floor.
‘While you tend to Father, I shall tend to our business,’ she replied, her anger prickling.
Gathering up the novel, Aiden frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Ridgeway Station. The debt owed?’ She couldn’t help the sarcasm. ‘I’m going over there to ensure its collection. It’s due today.’
‘But you can’t go there, Edwina,’ Aiden complained.
‘Why? Why can’t I go there on behalf of our father? I have the paperwork,’ she argued. ‘I know what’s owed.’ She walked to the bedside. A thin line of glistening drool of spider web fineness hung from her father’s chin. The chicken soup was only partially consumed. ‘This property is broke and who knows what may happen over the next few days. We have to protect what’s ours.’
‘Broke?’
‘What did you think was going to happen with the cost of the clearing and you and father persisting with the growing of wheat? It’s only the lending of money that’s been keeping us afloat.’
‘But how do you know all this?’ asked Aiden.
‘I’ve read the ledgers.’ Edwina wiped away the clear liquid with her hand. Did her father blink? Edwina was sure he did. ‘What is that bruising on his face?’ she asked. ‘Is it from the fall?’
Aiden, thrown by the change of conversation, hesitated, as if trying to find his place. ‘I think someone punched him. We think that’s how he fell.’
Edwina stepped closer. There was a definite swelling on the side opposite to the sagging skin. ‘He was attacked? By who?’ she said loudly to her brother.
‘How would I know? Davidson’s gone out to investigate, after he’s spoken to Han Lee of course.’
Edwina rolled her eyes. ‘Investigate? Fat lot of good that will do when he can’t report back on what he finds.’
‘Maybe it’s better not to know,’ said Aiden. ‘Maybe it’s better if he just takes care of things. He cut his palm in front of me with that knife of his. Whatever needs to be done, he’ll do it. Davidson made a blood pact.’
‘Why didn’t you stop him, Aiden? For heaven’s sake.’
Aiden shook his head. ‘Stop Davidson? Impossible.’
They considered each other across the single bed. Her brother was right. Davidson wasn’t a man to be stopped. ‘Do you think …?’ Edwina didn’t want to say what sh
e thought.
‘That he’d harm Father’s attacker if he found him? That he’d kill a man?’ said Aiden. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘Who would have done such a thing?’ asked Edwina.
‘He wasn’t robbed,’ replied Aiden. ‘Honestly, I can only think of one person that might have done it.’
Edwina could guess. ‘Fernleigh?’
‘Yes. You should have seen the hate in Fernleigh’s eyes when we were over at Ridgeway Station on Monday. I wouldn’t put anything past that man.’
‘Davidson isn’t the law, we should –’
‘What?’ interrupted Aiden. ‘Tell the police? I don’t think we need them out here again, do you?’ He glared at her pointedly. Their father lay quietly between them. ‘Besides, Davidson knows what he’s doing.’
‘And we never will,’ finished Edwina.
Aiden thought on this. ‘Exactly.’
‘But it may not be Fernleigh.’ Edwina considered the many men employed on the farm over the last few years. Many left disgruntled, a state they’d arrived in. Returned soldiers questioning their survival and trying to find their place in a changed world. Youths and young men searching for work when there was little to be found. However, the men who worked on the property were always paid and fairly treated. Edwina imagined Hamilton Baker’s enemies to be few. ‘You said Sears was annoyed?’
‘Yes, he didn’t take kindly losing his job to the Chinese and he’ll be more annoyed when he hears that Father agreed to broker a deal for Han Lee to purchase land on the edge of Wywanna when he asked for assistance to do the same.’
‘Mr Sears needed financial backing. Han Lee only needed a good word put in on his behalf,’ argued Edwina as they moved to the foot of the bed.
‘That won’t make any difference to Sears. The end result is the same. Anyway,’ Aiden explained, ‘he’s not the only one with a grudge. Your friend Will Kew wasn’t exactly happy when he was fired. I saw Davidson punch him as I rode away with Han Lee.’
‘He is not my friend.’ Edwina didn’t dare share with her brother that Will had told her he would return. For her. How could she? ‘Well, I suppose there’s nothing we can do for the moment, except wait for Davidson to come home.’ The room smelt fresher. Edwina wedged a cloth-covered stone against the door to keep it from closing. ‘I only came to tell you what I was doing.’
Aiden threw the book on the end of the bed. ‘For heaven’s sake, you didn’t meet Charles Ridgeway. You don’t know what he’s like. And another thing, Edwina, if Fernleigh did attack Father how do you think he’ll take to you showing up on his doorstep?’
‘Come with me then?’
‘Me?’ answered Aiden. ‘It’s Father’s business, not ours,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘Besides, you don’t know anything about money-lending.’
Edwina thought of Mason. She had an ally there, she was certain. ‘I know what I’m doing.’
‘But you simply can’t ride over there and demand that money, Edwina. It’s just not done.’
‘Why on earth not?’
‘Because you’re a woman.’
‘That,’ said Edwina, ‘seems to be more of a problem for you and Father than it’s ever been for me.’
Chapter Thirty-two
Hamilton used his one workable arm to leverage his body upright. The haze of past and present was clearing and he recognised up from down. Understood where he was. Could distinguish day from night and knew that at last he was free of the middling world that momentarily claimed him. He wasn’t mad, dreaming or dead. There was no Green Man, his mother was long gone and Ross, his best friend from his youngest years, had been a Lord who had died on the Titanic. True, some of Hamilton’s parts weren’t hinging properly – it was as if he’d been snigged to the draught horses and dragged across a paddock – but he knew what was going on around him and that was a start. Davidson’s foul smoke had startled him back to consciousness. Hamilton thought he would smell it for the rest of his life, a tangible thread linking him to the aboriginal to whom he owed his life for a second time.
Slurping down the leftover muck that was meant to pass as soup, his eyes watered at the pain in his jaw. It had been a fair punch but Hamilton’s mind was not so clear that the attacker could be recalled. That would come, he reasoned, with time. Taking a breath he swung one leg from the bed onto the floor, then the other. His toes moved at his bidding, grounding him, and although his head felt weighed down as if tethered by an anchor, he managed to stand, leveraging his weight on the dresser and allowing the dizziness to pass. For it would pass. He damn well willed it.
Dressing was another matter. His left arm was useless but he managed well enough to open the wardrobe and select a shirt, buttoning it up in a skew-whiff manner, hit and miss, slow and painful, grateful that he still wore trousers. The hallway, distant and dark, briefly flummoxed Hamilton but he limped the length of it, scowling, swear words circling his mind as he crabbed the wall for balance, a shoulder scraping paintings, dislodging one, which fell to the floor.
At the entrance to the parlour, teeth grinding, Hamilton staggered forward unaided. The first chair he reached became a saviour. Sweaty and breathless, he buckled into it. By the Lord, he craved tobacco, the comforting familiarity of a pipe, a mouthful of water. The building was quiet with no-one about to help. Not that it mattered; for the moment Hamilton was satisfied. Trees were visible through an angle of window, a square of washed-out sky, a strip of yellow curtain. If he could walk to the window his wheat would be standing tall, a green flush with beige borders.
‘Back,’ he said with difficulty, the word stretching out long and slow. ‘Back home.’ Under the floorboards the collies could be heard squirrelling in the dirt, tunnelling their way towards him, fat bodies striking the timber with thumps as they growled and snapped their way to a place beneath their master. He tapped a foot on the timber, comforting, comforted. There was life left yet in the aged carcass.
Hamilton may have stayed in bed were he not party to the extraordinary conversation in the sickroom. His daughter had gone to do men’s business while his son had become nursemaid. There was something terribly wrong with the state of things. A man was non compos mentis for a few hours and the whole world went mad. There were things he could have done. A cough, the lifting of an arm. And yet as he listened to his offspring, heard the bickering, noted the reversal of roles, Hamilton reasoned that admitting to a recovery of sorts was pre-emptive when a man could learn so much in such a short space of time.
Edwina was quick to enter the study and search through his personal papers and he was not so befuddled as to be incapable of registering the concern at the debts, at his illness, at the attacker. What irked the most was his daughter knowing his business and dealing with the unlikable Charles Ridgeway. As a female, it wasn’t Edwina’s place, but with Aiden’s lack of enthusiasm it fell to her. The monies were obviously due today and Edwina was quite right to ensure the debt repaid. Although disappointed Aiden hadn’t offered to go in her place or at least accompany her, it was with a sense of confession that Hamilton admitted his daughter did have brains. The girl was quick, smart. She was formed in his image, not her damaged mother’s. What a pity she’d been born of the weaker sex.
The yellow curtains swayed in the breeze. The dogs began to growl. Their rumbles and roars were definable. Something had disturbed the collies. Hamilton tapped on the boards. Looked to the mantelpiece and the empty rifle rack. The animals were fidgety; they yapped and barked, bumping heads and spines as they rushed out from under the house. Hamilton listened to the pad of their feet, to the crash of dog versus table as they ran along the verandah. The barking and growling grew in pitch and frequency. Hamilton’s good hand clasped the rubbed edge of the seat.
A head appeared at the partially open window, then a body. The animal was tawny-coloured with large amber eyes. It looked like a cat. Except it wasn’t a cat. It was a …
‘Lion?’ Hamilton scrunched both eyes tightly shut before refocusing.
&nbs
p; The creature sprang down from the sill and then jumped up onto the armchair opposite him. His chair. Outside, the dogs woofed and howled, as the cub circled the hollowed-out cushion.
‘Lion.’ Hamilton chewed on the word like a piece of leather. The thing sat on his chair, licking its furry hide. At first he thought the creature was a vision, a delirium conjured by a mind made temporarily feeble, but the damn animal was only eight feet away, shifting and pawing at already shoddy material. Then it was crouching, as if readying to pounce.
Edwina. That was the only thought in Hamilton’s mind. ‘Edwina,’ he cursed, ‘Edwina.’ His daughter’s name was a whisper, a whisper that grew in fury, taking on a life of its own. The vowels and consonants twisted and tumbled on Hamilton’s tongue until thick with overuse he spat the name out in an angry roar.
The cub leapt onto the ground, skidded on the timber boards and fled the room.
Aiden arrived breathless. ‘Father, how did you get out of bed? Are you alright? I heard you yelling. You can speak?’
Exhausted, Hamilton fell back. ‘Water,’ he said with pain staking slowness.
The boy was quick to fetch a glass. Hamilton drank in slurps and splutters. ‘Lion?’
Aiden took the vessel from his lips. ‘I know,’ he said with concern. ‘I saw the newspaper you brought back with you from Wywanna. I’m well aware of Edwina’s behaviour.’
Hamilton slapped a thigh with his good arm. ‘Lion. Find it.’ Aiden’s eyes held the same sobering stare reminiscent of his mother’s. Overrun by fatigue, Hamilton closed his eyes.
An Uncommon Woman Page 26