by Téa Cooper
The Skipper took out his pipe and banged it over the side of the boat then carefully packed it with tobacco. After much poking and prodding he held the match to it and puffed contentedly for a few moments. The scent of the tobacco, faintly flavoured with apple, curled around. ‘And so you’re here to sort things out.’ It wasn’t a question. Just a statement of fact.
‘I hope so. Do you know any more about the place?’
The Skipper drew his craggy eyebrows together and snapped the bowline. ‘Not really. Know it was one of the first grants around here. Never been sold. Never been farmed much either. Shame because it’s good land. Some call it the Forgotten Valley, though that’s not just the Mogo holding, the whole area. The road to Wollombi runs past the property, not that it’s used much these days. Mogo’s a bit off the track. Creek frontage, good soil. House set well back so no problems with flooding. We get a fair few floods. Last was before war broke out. Not as bad as the ’89, thank God. Covered the bridge, police quarters got washed away, that’s no great loss.’ He let out a bellow of laughter. ‘We river people ain’t keen on the law. Like to look after things ourselves.’
A man can be himself. Follow his dreams.
Will you share my dream?
Before she could respond to the Skipper the wind gushed down from the ancient sandstone cliffs making the boat heel hard to starboard.
‘Mind your head. Changing tack.’ The Skipper scurried across to the other side of the boat and she ducked as the boom flew across and the wind filled the sails again. They picked up speed; she felt like one of the seabirds skimming the waters behind the ship as they’d come into Sydney Harbour.
‘That was quite some flood that ’89 one. Left a seven-foot hole in front of the hotel, water right up to the first-floor verandah. Make more sense when you see the place. It’s not much further now.’
True to his word they rounded a bend and a cluster of buildings came into view.
‘There you go. St Albans. If you’d stuck with old Jimbo you’d just be stepping ashore back in Brooklyn.’ He pulled down the sail and bundled it under the seat and let the boat run up onto a small sandy stretch in front of a double-storey stone building with a verandah running along the front. There were a couple of old men lounging on a bench outside, legs stretched out, tankards clasped in their hands and their faces turned to the sun.
The sun always shines or it pisses with rain. None of this halfway English mizzle drizzle.
Feeling very much the seasoned sailor, Fleur jumped ashore taking the rope with her and hanging on tight while the Skipper grabbed her satchel in his rough sailor’s hands and clambered ashore. He exchanged the rope for her satchel which she slung across her body then she grasped the gunnel and helped him pull the boat clear of the water.
‘There’s a few people I know who could do with a deckhand like you. Let me know if you need a job.’
‘Thank you. I enjoyed every moment.’ She held out her hand.
He clasped it in both of his and squeezed. ‘I’ll sort the boat out. Go up and have a word with Pete, tell him I sent you and that you’ll be needing a room for the night. I doubt they’ll be full in the middle of the week. And good luck.’
The path led directly to the hotel and as she walked up she could feel the eyes of the two men following her. She lifted her hand in salute and they both responded with a grin. A stranger in town. She hadn’t felt as comfortable in Sydney. She drew in a breath of air, as fresh as any she’d ever breathed, and her shoulders dropped. She could be at home here.
Ducking her head, she walked through the door and stood for a moment waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. She could make out a bar with some wooden stools drawn up, and to the right and left tables and chairs, all empty. Once she could see clearly, she crossed the wooden floor to the bar where a man leant on his elbows waiting for her.
‘Afternoon.’
‘Good afternoon. I was wondering if you had a room for the night.’
He looked over her shoulder at the door, probably to see if she was alone.
‘I came from Spencer with the Skipper. He said to mention his name.’
‘That’d account for it. Wasn’t expecting anyone else through today. Quiet in the middle of the week. Staying long?’
‘No, just for one or two nights, I think. I was hoping to go out to Mogo Creek either this afternoon or tomorrow.’
‘Bit too late now. It’s a good two-hour hike, maybe more.’ He leant over the bar and raised an eye at her trousers. ‘I see you’re dressed for a walk. I’d leave it until the morning. Dinner?’
She was still quite full from Marianne’s scones and ham sandwiches but she had to pass the time somehow. ‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Right I’ll let the kitchen know. Chicken pies tonight. If you go through that door to your right, I’ll meet you at the bottom of the stairs and show you your room.’
Fleur woke in the big lumpy bed before the sun had risen, her neck stiff, shoulders aching and with absolutely no idea where she was. She lay very still for a moment inhaling the faint smell of mildew and mothballs while the room came into focus, then rolled over and peered out of the small window at the pinprick stars.
The sky’s as soft as velvet and studded with stars as bright as your eyes.
Hugh’s voice whispered in her ear. Promising this. Not the searchlights of London slashing their ominous arcs across the sky, bouncing off the cloud cover. Clouds that carried fear, destruction and zeppelins.
When the first inkling of dawn shimmered above the trees she rose, splashed cold water from the jug and scrubbed at her face, removing the remaining traces of yesterday from her skin.
The clanking of pots and pans from downstairs told her she wasn’t the only one awake so she dressed and laced her boots tightly before making her way down the stairs and out into the courtyard. The warmth from the kitchen drew her and she stuck her head around the door.
‘You’re up early.’ Pete sat at the table, a mug of steaming tea in his hand, his hair standing on end like one of the cockatoos Hugh had talked about. ‘Can’t do breakfast yet, bread’s still in the oven. Like a cuppa?’
‘Yes, please.’ She sat down in the chair opposite him and the woman standing at the stove plonked a mug of tea in front of her.
‘Want milk and sugar?’
‘Thank you.’ She wrapped her hands around the mug and inhaled the steam. How many people in England would give their eye teeth for a cup of tea with sugar and milk?
‘So you’re off to Mogo today. The old Atterton place, the Skipper said.’
There was that name again. ‘Who were the Attertons?’
‘Not real sure. Could ask around when you get back.’
She might very well do that. ‘Is it an easy walk?’
‘Pretty much flat all the way. Just follow the road over the common. You can’t get lost. If you hang around there might be someone going through and you could beg a ride.’
‘No, I’d like to walk.’
‘From England, aren’t you?’
‘How do you know?’
He raised one eyebrow and his forefinger. ‘First your accent. Sounds like you’ve got a plum in your mouth.’
Her accent? She didn’t have a posh accent. Far from it. ‘Really?’
‘Yes really, and two …’ he held up another finger ‘… your clothes.’
‘My clothes?’
‘Yep. Don’t have no problem with women wearin’ trousers. Been happening around here since long before I was born, practical-like, but I ain’t never seen a woman wearing a pair of trousers that look like her own.’
‘Oh.’ The colour started to rise to her cheeks and she sipped at her tea to cover her confusion. ‘Lots of women wear trousers now. It was the war you see.’
‘Good for you.’ He pushed the chair back from the table. ‘Dot’ll give you some bread and honey if you want to leave before breakfast.’ He nodded to the woman pulling two golden cobs from the oven. ‘Make sure you take some
thing to drink. It’ll be hot later in the day and the cattle foul the water on the common.’
‘I will. Thank you.’
Dot slapped the loaf down onto the table along with more of the same delicious-looking butter Marianne had provided, and honey this time. No rations in this part of the world. She spread the butter thinly, not wanting to appear greedy.
‘Give it here.’ Dot grabbed the knife from her and spread the butter about half an inch thick. ‘We don’t stand on ceremony.’ Then she put a dollop of honey in the middle and tipped the bread until it drizzled to the very edge. ‘Can’t have you dying of starvation in the middle of the common.’
Highly unlikely that would happen. She wouldn’t fit into any of her clothes if she kept eating this way.
‘More tea?’
She swallowed the last mouthful of bread and honey. ‘No, that’s fine, thank you. It looks like the sun’s up. I’ll be on my way.’
‘Sensible girl. It’ll be hot in the middle of the day. Got a hat?’
‘No, no I haven’t. I lost it on the river.’
‘Take one of these then.’ She pulled a battered felt hat from the peg by the door and handed it over. ‘That’ll keep the worst off. Don’t want to end up spoiling them English peaches and cream.’
Nodding her thanks, Fleur rammed the hat down on her head, threaded her arm through her satchel strap, pulled the bag around so it sat comfortably on her hip and set off.
The cliffs across the river flickered with golden light and long shadows ran across the track into the hills. It was still cool so she strode out containing the curl of excitement spreading inside her. She could feel Hugh beside her, the weight of his arm around her shoulders, his warm breath brushing her cheek, the sound of his laugh in the kookaburras’ morning greeting.
The track weaved around a few bends past an old church and a graveyard. Substantial two- and three-storey houses dotted the hillside on both sides of the track and she could see another property on the other side of the river. The area looked as though it had been populated for a long time, yet the Skipper had told her Mogo was one of the first land grants, so it must be older than those she was passing.
The land flattened and ahead rich grazing land spread, littered with stretches of water, too big to be called ponds. A collection of long-legged birds tiptoed through the shallows, their narrow pointed beaks darting down into the water every few seconds in search of food. She turned to the left and her breath caught. Drifting in the middle of a large patch of water were several swans.
Everything is different. The swans are black and their beaks are red.
Everything Hugh had told her, truer than she’d dared believe.
There’s room to breathe. The sky is higher.
Walking along in this place Hugh loved with the limitless blue sky above and his country around her she felt closer to him than ever. Surely she’d find him, walking down the road towards her, hands pushed deep in his pockets, his wide smile ready to greet her.
Large sleek brown cows, healthier than any she’d seen before, lifted their heads and threw her laconic glances before turning back to their chewing.
A large boulder by the side of the track offered a comfortable seat so she sat, pulled the bottle of water out of her satchel and took several long gulps while wriggling her toes in her boots.
It couldn’t be much further. She must have covered more than half of the distance. With a grunt of determination, she stood up and set off again, past a sign marking the boundary of the common where the track turned into more of a road, in places paved with crushed sandstone. It made the going easier and she picked up her pace.
On either side, scrubby stands of trees crowded down overhanging the road and if she craned her head upwards she could see caves lining the rock face.
Hugh had told her about the early days when the area had been populated by natives and many of the rocks and caves had carvings and handprints. He’d shown her; dipping her hand into a freezing puddle on the Embankment they’d made a series of overlapping prints. They’d vanished in front of their eyes but maybe up in those caves ...
Resisting the temptation to veer off the road she continued to climb, the muscles in her legs complaining as the road made a sharp turn and crested the hill.
With her hands on her knees and her head down she fought to regain her breath. Straightening up she shaded her eyes. The track widened and disappeared up yet another rise, pulling away from the creek. Not a sign of any buildings, nothing to show that the land was farmed. No fences, no chimney pots, no dwellings, no neatly tilled fields.
She pushed on up the hill and came to a halt on the curve of a bend, the suspicion that she might have embarked on a wild goose chase eating at the edges of her mind. Through the trees the creek rambled, a series of pools linked like a string of pearls twinkling in the sunshine. She leant out over the edge of the cliff and looked down.
A slow smile curved her lips.
Nestled on a teardrop-shaped piece of land sat a series of small buildings hemmed in by the creek and the high rise of the ridge. Fluffy daisy-like flowers with grey leaves carpeted the ground and, high in the spreading branches of the long-fingered trees, huge red-tailed black birds, a perfect match for the swans, shrieked as they cracked and spat rounded nuts onto the grass below.
Without a moment’s hesitation, she clambered off the track and slid down the steep incline, loose rocks chasing her path. Down and down, until finally she came to rest in the small green valley.
With a whoop of excitement, she leapt through the long tufty grass and headed towards the outcrop of buildings. Ahead a dilapidated gate swung from one hinge and when she untwisted the wire that tied it to the post and pushed it wide, it collapsed with a groan at her feet.
And there at her feet she found what she was looking for. Faded letters burnt into the crossbar, Mogo Creek. A mixture of emotions swirled in her stomach as she surveyed the tumbledown buildings. Somewhere in her mind she’d had a vision of a cosy Cotswold cottage and green fields neatly encircled by stone walls. The sort of picture they put on Christmas cards and sent to the boys in the trenches: Greetings from home and hearth.
This was nothing she’d expected.
Mogo’s as far from England as you can imagine.
And yet she felt closer to Hugh than she had since she arrived in Australia.
Once level with the buildings she could see the layout. To one side a large timber shed, joined to the house by a walkway, marked by pink trumpet flowers, their faces turned to the sun, revealing their vermilion throats. A winding track led through the grass from the gate to the shed.
She hesitated. The last thing she wanted to do was to be accused of trespassing. For all she knew the property could be leased. Her stomach plummeted and the wisdom of her plan withered.
‘Hello!’ Her voice bounced off the ridge and echoed back at her ‘Hello … Hellooo!’ She waited to see if anyone appeared, and then, with a shrug, headed for the shed.
Outside there was a water butt and next to it a tree stump with a rusty axe embedded in the crumbling wood. Two huge timber doors, held closed by a crossbeam, barred her way. No sign of any padlocks or chains. She wriggled the timber and lifted one end; it slipped easily aside and the door swung open, letting a shaft of light onto the hard-packed dirt floor. With a quick glance over her shoulder she stepped inside.
A strange smell caught at the back of her throat. Rats and something else that made her stomach churn, earthy and pungent, reminding her of the liver and onions swimming in coagulated gravy Mrs Black served every Thursday.
A huge table dominated the centre of the room. She ran her hands over the smooth timber, not polished but worn smooth and bleached as though it had been scrubbed daily within an inch of its life. And silence, such a deep, peaceful silence.
Stepping further into the room she found a long workbench running the length of one wall and above it narrow shelves lined with glass jars and tins, their labels peeling, the writing
faded. She reached up and pulled a large square tin down. It was heavy. She prised off the lid and peered inside at the fine powder—sugar, or was it salt, or even flour? She licked her finger and stuck it in then brought it to her lips.
‘Not a real bright idea.’
The lid of the tin clattered to the benchtop and her hand froze in front of her face.
Seventeen
Mogo Creek, Hawkesbury, NSW, 1853
‘Gawd, it smells like a bloody butcher’s shop in there.’
Stefan inhaled; the lad was right. ‘Get outside.’ Rotting carrion, undigested food, battlefield detritus. His gorge rose as he peered inside the darkened outbuilding, blinded, while he waited for his vision to adjust and his stomach to forget the memories he’d hoped he’d left behind.
‘Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?’
Ah! The dulcet tones sounded familiar. A figure stepped forwards into the light and a grin tugged the corner of his lips. The girl with the kangaroo. What was she doing here? ‘Good morning.’
Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘It’s you? And I suppose you’re responsible for this too. First a pot shot at my kangaroo and now a harmless young man.’ Her face was flushed and she waved a very thin and very lethal scalpel in front of her. He took a step closer and the pungent odour of blood and animal hides intensified.
He raised a hand, palm up. ‘I mean no harm and I was not responsible for the shot at the kangaroo.’ Surely she must have noticed he wasn’t carrying a gun. ‘I’m heading back to Sydney and wondered if you could give me directions.’ His compass had already answered this question but Bert’s incessant whingeing about food had got the better of him. The blade lowered an inch or two.
‘The road’s that way.’ She pointed over her shoulder. ‘Less than an hour’s ride to St Albans.’
‘I wondered if you could provide some food. We’ve been travelling since yesterday and were forced to spend the night on the ridge.’ And had saved little time.
‘The ridge? What were you doing there?’ Her hands slammed onto her hips and thankfully the blade disappeared into the pocket of her apron. ‘I presume you’re responsible for the attack on the camp.’ She let out an irritated huff and her dark eyes flashed.