The Woman In the Green Dress

by Téa Cooper

  A woman stepped away from the group, her hand outstretched. Della clasped her rough, warm hand. ‘Yalana, I’ve missed you.’

  They sat down on the bank and Della hooped her arms around her knees waiting for the older women to settle.

  ‘I haven’t seen Jarro or the other boys for ages.’

  ‘Not boys. Men.’ Yalana stabbed at her front teeth.

  Della didn’t have to ask; she knew what that meant. Jarro and the others had left the women for their learning and initiation. Next time she saw him, if there was a next time, he would be deemed an adult, and have learnt the sacred songs, dances and stories of his people. ‘Where are you going?’

  She pointed up over the ridge.

  Della nodded. Their walking tracks crisscrossed the local countryside. She and Pa had travelled them, shortcuts that saved time and followed a simpler route than the convict-built Great North Road. ‘Maybe you’ll stay around here for a while. The appleberries are ready.’

  Yalana shook her head. ‘Hunters.’

  ‘Hunters? What hunters?’

  ‘Yarramalong and Wollombi way.’ Her lips pouted and her forehead creased in anger.

  Charity said there’d been raids, settlers banding together to protect their land and livestock, but Della had heard nothing of hunters.

  The old woman pushed herself to her feet and the others followed suit, taking the track through the trees and fading into the distance.

  Della sank down beside the creek, waiting for the flash of white fur that would herald Tidda’s arrival. The first time she’d come across her she’d been no more than a joey hardly big enough to be out of her mother’s pouch. Perhaps because she was different, with her strange lack of colour and red eyes, the mob had rejected her. Charity reckoned it was the sign of the devil, a punishment or a curse from the Darkinjung ancestral spirits. That was nothing but a load of rubbish. Tidda was more beautiful than most because of the strange trick nature had played upon her.

  Fingers sore from hours of sewing, she flexed her hands and picked at the callouses on her palm, missing the company of the women. Once she’d enjoyed her work but the pleasure had leached out of it along with pretty much everything now Ma and Pa were gone. No one ever came, no one except Gus and Dobbin with the monthly supplies and yet another pile of skins for her to stitch. Charity tried to help but she hadn’t an eye for the intricate work and besides, she’d changed. She never laughed or joked as she had in Sydney, her face had grown wary and she jumped every time she heard an unexpected sound.

  ‘Tidda! Tidda!’ Della’s voice bounced back, resounding on the sandstone rocks framing the gully. In the silence before the next rumble of thunder, leaves rustled in the undergrowth. She plucked at a patch of new green grass shoots as the watery sun broke through the massing clouds.

  Dried leaves crackled and Tidda’s sweet grassy scent filled the air. She was here, somewhere close. Della turned her head and there, still as a statue, stood the pure white kangaroo, her head tipped to one side in greeting, her front paws held out waiting for her evening treat.

  Careful not to make any sudden movement Della shuffled forward and rested her face against Tidda’s soft fur, breathing in her warm comfort. A zigzag of lightning flickered behind the hills and she flinched as it crackled. Tidda held firm, just as she had that first day, the day they’d arrived after burying Ma and Pa.

  She’d been stunned to stillness by Tidda’s brilliant white fur, and when they’d locked eyes it was as though they’d recognised each other’s loneliness. Tidda had turned and bounded away but the next day she was back, and the next, every evening. It was fanciful but she liked to believe that Ma and Pa had sent the kangaroo to watch over her.

  An almighty crash made the rocks shudder and huge drops of rain pitted the surface of the creek. Tidda shot her a look of regret before she bounded up to the ridge and disappeared into the scrub.

  Della stared after the kangaroo, the rain drenching her hair, plastering it to her head. Throwing the last of the handful of grass across the clearing she pulled off her heavy leather apron and draped it over her head before bolting along the path.

  By the time she reached the workshop, she was drenched to the skin and could barely see her hand in front of her face. Muscles screaming, she pulled open one of the heavy doors and slipped inside, fighting to fasten it tight. The wind lashed the shutters sending flurries of rain inside and dampening all her finished specimens.

  One by one she dragged them into the centre of the room and threw a series of burlap sacks over the top of the massed collection. Gus and Dobbin would be less than impressed with a wasted journey.

  Satisfied everything was out of harm’s way, she wiped aside the trailing creeper that liked to snatch at her face with every gust of wind and slipped through the walkway to the place she and Charity called home.

  Two small buildings and a washhouse, all built facing the creek. Alongside the kitchen, herb and vegetable gardens and an orchard and in the slab hut two small bedrooms and the big room with the fireplace. One room for her and the other for Ma and Pa; now Charity had that room because Della couldn’t bring herself to use it. When it was cold they ate at the table in front of the fire and in summer on the verandah where the cool breeze swung up from the creek.

  The main room was empty, a pile of dying embers wallowing in the grate. She knew where Charity would be—tucked under the blankets in her bed sheltering from the storm, quaking. Della stoked the fire, put the billy on the hob and pulled down the tea caddy and peered inside. There wasn’t much left, just enough for two or three more brews. Gus and Dobbin better not be late.

  ‘I’m home.’ She pushed open the door. The pile under the blankets moved and a pair of panicked brown eyes set in a small plump face appeared.

  ‘The storm’s moving through. There’ll be more rain though not much more banging and crashing.’

  Charity pushed back the blankets and struggled off the straw pallet, tossing her long black plait over her shoulders.

  ‘Kettle’s on. Come and have a cuppa.’

  ‘If this keeps up we’ll be flooded in and Gus and Dobbin won’t make it across the creek.’

  ‘We’ll worry about that when the time comes.’ Della turned to leave the cramped room when another crash sounded, sending Charity scuttling back under the blankets.

  ‘Come on. It’s not that bad.’ She held out her hand.

  ‘They can transport me thousands of miles to this godforsaken colony but I’ll never get used to being out here in the wilderness. Ain’t right. Out in the middle of nowhere.’

  ‘Sydney has thunderstorms, and London.’

  ‘Not like this they don’t.’ Her mouth pulled down at the corners. ‘I want to go back to Sydney.’

  When Della awoke tiny bright stars still glittered through the barred window but the first fingers of light ruffled the horizon. Charity wouldn’t have dragged herself from her bed or stoked the fire yet. Far too cold for her to get up. The early signs of winter had taken hold and before long the first dusting of frost would ice the valley.

  A possum eyed her from the tree outside, its eyes wide and glinting in the half light. The wind howled and rattled the loose-fitting slabs, failing to thaw the cold seeping through the jagged gaps. Della hugged her shawl around her shoulders, shivered and stretched her stiff fingers, forcing the blood to flow while she stared blankly around the room. She didn’t need the full light to show the details, she knew every inch of the small holding as well as the palm of her own hand.

  At night she might mourn Ma and Pa but with the morning light her tears dried and she’d put herself to the task at hand. To go back to Sydney and face all the people, the shop, the incessant noise, was another matter. She let out a big sigh and the kookaburras cackled at her nonsense.

  It had broken her heart when Gus had trapped and wrung the necks of the two adult kookaburras. She’d liked them to keep her company while she worked. As a tribute, she’d spent hours creating an intricate mount wi
th a dead branch. When it was complete it looked so lifelike the remaining kookaburra had attacked, thought his territory invaded. That was the last time she’d had a note from Cordelia, telling her the kookaburras had pride of place in the front window of the shop.

  She loved the bright sapphire flash of colour on their wings and their knowing gaze. They reminded her of the toffs she’d see making their way to Macquarie Street while she sat in the shop window dreaming, dreaming that one day a handsome man would walk through the door and whisk her away. That was about as far-fetched as Charity’s ideas about upping sticks and returning to Sydney.

  Pa had great dreams about building up the farm—the water was plentiful, the land down by the creek rich and fertile—but nothing had come of that because the sickness had struck. Asiatic cholera the doctor had said, though he’d been surprised neither she nor Cordelia nor Charity had suffered even a moment’s sickness. Ma and Pa had withered before her, eyes bloodshot, faces as gaunt as skinned carcasses. They’d died shrunken skeletons, every ounce of flesh stripped by the relentless disease. And nothing she could do had helped to stem the tide.

  Charity sashayed in, disrupting her morbid memories, and sat down in front of the fire hoicking her skirt above her knees and rubbing her hands together in front of the flames. ‘I want to go back to Sydney. It’s not for Cordelia to decide. She’s your aunt, not your keeper, certainly not mine. You own the shop now your Pa’s gone. She shouldn’t be there running the show, putting on airs and graces as though she’s forgotten her roots.’

  Della was more than happy to let Cordelia run The Taxidermy Shop. Her interest lay in her job—her ‘art’ as Pa called it. Art seemed far too highfalutin’ a word for sewing; after all that’s all she did, that and creating the straw models that held the capes in place.

  She enjoyed her work though, took pride and pleasure in the tableaux she created. She didn’t see herself as an artist—not the same as those people who painted huge canvases or portraits to hang in the new mansions in Sydney.

  Four

  London, 1918

  ‘I’ve told you before, Fleur, I don’t hold with fancy men coming here, ’specially not when you’re working. You do that on your own time.’

  God! Would the woman never let up? Just because Hugh had sneaked in most afternoons and sat nursing a cup of her precious black coffee. ‘No fancy man, Mrs Black. He is my husband, and for the record he’s still out there somewhere so he won’t be bothering you for a while.’

  Mrs Black’s already rumpled face sagged even more. ‘No need to speak to me like that, Missy. How was I supposed to know?’

  Good question really. Fleur hadn’t told anyone she was married. What was there to tell? She’d fallen in love, married the man on a whim and now what was she left with? A heart in danger of breaking and a letter from the Ministry of Information. Not even that—she’d torn it into a thousand pieces and thrown it out.

  ‘Well, you better get over there and tell him you’re not interested ‘cos he can’t take his eyes off you.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Gawd. Can’t you listen to anything I say? No more fancy men. Get over there and find out what’s ’is problem.’ She tipped her head like an irate sparrow in the direction of the window.

  Hugh’s seat. Fleur’s stomach flipped.

  When the man raised his head, she saw her mistake. He was no more Hugh than the Duke of Wellington. In his fancy black cashmere coat and trilby, shading heavy brows and an imposing nose. Nothing like Hugh.

  Why wasn’t he in uniform? More to the point why was he sitting there and Hugh was … she swallowed the threatening sob. This had to stop. Days of mind-numbing tedium, not knowing what to do, or think.

  ‘Asked to speak to you, he did. Mrs Fleur Richards, if you please. I don’t know. Giving yourself airs and graces won’t make you belong.’ She gave a tedious, long drawn-out tut. ‘And straighten your pinny. This one’s upper crust, not like that last one with his funny accent and cheek.’

  Fleur pulled down her apron and walked across the crowded restaurant, squeezing between the chairs and tables, careful not to jog a gesticulating arm or knock a precariously balanced teapot.

  ‘Fleur Richards?’ The long lanky man with his expensive overcoat half rose, steadying himself on the back of the chair, and took off his hat.

  She nodded. ‘Can I get you something?’

  ‘Just a moment or two of your time. My name’s Waterstone. Archer Waterstone.’

  For goodness sake. Fleur threw a look over her shoulder at Mrs Black standing, arms folded, her face a perfect match for her name.

  ‘I’ve spoken to the manageress, she said she could spare you for a moment. You are Fleur Richards, aren’t you? Pretty name. French heritage?’

  Just a mother who dared to dream. How many flowers grew in Islington? She was no more French than this man was a soldier. How had he managed to escape the war? ‘Yes. I mean no.’

  His eyebrows rose, wrinkling his brow.

  ‘I’m Fleur Richards, but I’m not French. My parents were both English, born and bred in Islington. Dad was a bus driver, Mum a clippie.’

  ‘Were?’

  ‘The first Zeppelin raid.’

  ‘I’m sorry. So, you’re alone. No family?’

  ‘I’ve been on my own since then.’ Until Hugh came along and whisked away her loneliness. A sob caught at the back of her throat and she forced it down. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Waterstone. I received your letter. We’ve been rushed off our feet. I haven’t been able to take time off. When it rains … you know.’ She gestured at the torrent of water streaming down the steamy window. The man must think her a total fool. ‘My name is Fleur Richards. I married Hugh Richards, an Australian soldier.’

  ‘Sit down.’ He gestured to the chair. She couldn’t sit down. Mrs Black would have a fit. ‘I regret it’s my duty to inform you Hugh has made the great sacrifice for King and country.’

  Great sacrifice? What did that mean? All the men had made the great sacrifice, left home to go and fight in nasty, muddy, rat-infested trenches against a bunch of greedy, land-grabbing Huns.

  ‘Hugh died on November the fourth, killed by a German shell. The tunnellers were brought in to put a bridge over a heavily defended canal.’

  Hugh was dead? He couldn’t be.

  No one’s going to take me away. Not now I’ve found you.

  She was supposed to get a telegram. November the fourth was days ago, over a week. A howl built and she swallowed it down. She’d clung to the hope that the letter was all some horrible mistake. If this man with his upper-crust accent and bowler hat had turned up to speak to her then it couldn’t be.

  Her stomach gave some sort of disgusting lurch and she had an overwhelming need to rush out the back. She glanced over her shoulder again. Mrs Black was still in the same place, hands on hips, watching her like a bloody carrion hawk. She’d have to push past her to even make the outhouse. She dragged in a breath and swallowed.

  ‘I’m sorry to be so blunt. The matter is somewhat convoluted which is why I asked you in my letter to come to the offices, however I need to hurry things along.’

  What on earth would he and his new-fangled government department want with her? She didn’t want a bar of it. ‘I’m sorry, you’ll have to forgive me, I must get back to work.’

  He narrowed his eyes and tipped his head to one side as though waiting for something more. She had the most awful feeling he was going to reprimand her for not using her married name. This was ridiculous. She had to get a hold of herself.

  Mr Waterstone’s cool hand reached across the table and covered hers. She reared back. ‘I understand this is something of a shock. Shall I order some tea?’

  That was her line. ‘No. No tea.’

  ‘Please, let me explain as quickly as I can and then when you’ve had time to …’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry for your loss, however I need an answer today.’

  An answer? To what? What else was there? Nothi
ng made any sense.

  ‘What do you know of Hugh’s life?’

  ‘He is an Australian and his family are miners. He said when the war was over we’d go to Australia. The sun shines there.’ Her voice hitched on a pathetically high note and she blinked the memory away. ‘I believed him.’ She sank into the chair and dropped her head into her hands. ‘I don’t see what this has to do with me, Mr Waterstone. If a German ended Hugh’s life, whether he was a miner or a soldier makes no difference now.’ There, she’d said it. She couldn’t summon a single tear. All she wanted to do was curl up in a ball like a dying animal and be left alone.

  The massive water urn billowed and sent out a hiss of boiling hot steam. The clanking of tea cups stopped and a thundering took over, forcing her to squeeze her eyes closed.

  ‘That’s where you are wrong. As Hugh’s next of kin, you are his heir.’

  The silence shifted and she snapped open her eyes and gazed into Mr Waterstone’s dark eyes. His eyelashes, still damp from the rain, clung together and there was a small scar running through his right eyebrow.

  ‘I have managed to secure you a berth on a ship leaving for Sydney, hence my need to speak to you immediately. I’d like you to come to the office so we can go over the details, as I know them. Of course, Hugh’s solicitors in Sydney will be able to give you more information once you arrive. If you choose not to take this opportunity I’m not sure when another passage will become available. With the repatriation of thousands of troops, it will be particularly difficult.’

  ‘I can’t go to Australia!’ A wave of heat flushed through her body making her pulse hammer. Not without Hugh. ‘What about my job? My rent’s overdue. I … what if Hugh comes back looking for me?’

  His cold fingers clasped her hand again. ‘Hugh’s not coming back, my dear. And you have responsibilities.’

  The drumming noise in her ears was too much. She dropped her head onto the table.

  ‘Let me get you a cup of tea and have a word with Mrs Black.’

  Quite honestly she didn’t care what he did. It was all too much for her addled brain to absorb. Responsibilities. What responsibilities? What was the man talking about? She might as well be standing on a precipice peering into the unknown. It made her all jittery and weak-kneed.