A Distant Dream

by Vivienne Dockerty

  “Let them go, Bessie,” he said quietly. “We’re peasants not gentry, we couldn’t afford to live their kind of life. I’ve asked the driver to take us to this place called Willunga in the south. His lordship told me it’s a pleasant place, the soil fertile and a couple of miles away from the sea. We’ll find a property, something like we had before but not a tenancy. I’ll buy some tools, grow some wheat or barley and get a horse or perhaps a donkey. I don’t want to spend all the money on land that we’ll have to clear before planting. If things go well we can get a few more acres later on.”

  Bessie sniffed, her vision of rubbing shoulders with the gentry going up in a puff of smoke. She kept her peace, reluctantly accepting this new life in Filbey’s distant dream, as whatever she said in the future, it wasn’t going to change a thing.

  *

  It was late afternoon before they reached the Onkaparinga River. It was a place of honour and respect belonging to the Kaurna tribe, according to their driver, Silas, who looked as if he had a touch of the indigenous in his own bloodline.

  Along the way, he had pointed out the places he thought would be of interest to a newly arrived settler’s eye; the breathtaking view of the ocean from the incline that they had just climbed wearily after walking beside the wagon as the horse had stumbled along; the terrain towards the thickly wooded hills rising in the distance, where a few small farms had been established on the flat expanse of land. He kept the girls amused by pointing up the trees at little koala bears who sat up high feeding on the gum leaves, or told them about the kangaroos and wallabies that kept their babies in a special pouch. He warned them of the deadly snakes and spiders and the bushfires that were sparked by the heat.

  Passing by a few small settlements, where dwellings which lined the highway were made from rough-hewn stone or stringy bark, they stopped in a place called Reynella, where a small tavern stood on the banks of a gurgling river. They rested with the horse and driver and ate a meal of bread and cheese, washed down by a brew of locally made ale. The girls drank juice made from the fruit of the lemon trees, which grew in profusion there. Morphett Vale was a settlement where the inhabitants appeared to have lived for a while, considering that the dwellings were more substantial and much of the land was in the process of being cultivated. Orchards had already been established, along with many vegetables for sale.

  Later, beginning their descent down a rather steep hill, the wheels of the wagon held firmly in place by sturdy brakes and the experienced horse which was used to the road’s uneven surface, they passed a half built church, a brewery where the steam rose slowly through the large boiler chimney and into a small hamlet with a blacksmith’s shop. A stone-built cottage and a flour mill stood at the side of a tidal river, with a market square that bustled with cattle and stockmen, across the road from the Horseshoe Hotel. At the river they were faced with a long queue of bullock carts, fly wagons, people standing in groups carrying bundles and mothers holding the hands of children or carrying babies, whilst waiting to cross the narrow wooden bridge ahead.

  “It’ll be a bit of a wait until the carts from the slate quarry get over. They load ‘em so high, it’s a wonder they don’t shed them. Bin a few accidents – we can wait over there,” said Silas, as he looked over longingly at a small, weather boarded cottage where men, mostly labourers, stockmen and waiting travellers, sat sipping drinks on the wooden verandah. There was a horse trough outside and the flagging beast looked over longingly too.

  “Well, just until the bridge clears and then we’ll be off” said Clarence, conscious of the fact they must find shelter before it grew dark, though the driver had assured him that it didn’t get dark until late as it was summer. “Bessie, do you want to take the girls to the dunny?”

  He spoke proudly, the driver having given him a few words from the local dialect and he had learnt that a“dunny” was a small hut used for relieving yourself in. Another one was “ankle biter” for a young child, but he didn’t see Molly doing much of that. The poor little girl had kept up well, though the sweat had been pouring off her and Hannah, dressed as they all were for an Irish winter. He took a swig from the canteen of water he’d been carrying, wishing that they could be soon away.

  “My canteen is empty, Filbey”. Bessie looked flushed and had taken her jacket off before she had joined him. She had seen plenty of women along their way who were wearing their long sleeved blouses rolled to their elbows and she couldn’t see the need for keeping standards in this hot and dusty land.

  “Fill it at the river” Silas said, pointing ahead as he loped past her and Bessie saw the sparkling water of the Onkaparinga as its waves lapped below the river bank. In the distance pelicans and black headed birds that looked a little like penguins stood and a flock of white corellas circled in the air before settling on the sandstone rocks. A couple of enterprising men could be seen fishing in the waters with sticks and another was selling his catch.

  “Can we paddle?” Hannah and Molly had joined her whilst Bessie scooped up some water. “Tis terribly hot, Missus.”

  “Aye for a minute, though don’t go getting your hem wet nor Molly’s neither and you may as well take your boots off.”

  She watched as the two girls, Hannah hatless and Molly still with her bonnet on, stepped down the bank gingerly before standing in the water, not screaming with laughter or splashing like a small group of children further up, but watching solemnly whilst holding hands.

  The carts came across and the people began to move again, as the sun began to lose its heat and clouds began to form.

  Chapter Eight

  At last they arrived at the migrant settlement, feeling exhausted even though they’d had the luxury of travelling in the wagon. It was at the top end of a small village, situated below a backdrop of densely wooded hills. They drove along a narrow street which had a few stone built dwellings and a couple of primitive cottages made from wattle and daub. Passing the Bush Inn with its shady verandah, men, who judging from their dusty appearance were workers from the nearby quarry, stood chatting and slaking their thirst after the heat of the day. Silas, who was taking them to stay at the Government Reserve, which was used as a tentage area for immigrants, told them that they were to mind the many venomous spiders which took many an unsuspecting person unawares and could kill you stone dead.

  “Willunga, a place of green trees” he explained, having been very informative on their journey, once he had got over his initial distrust of Bessie, whom he reckoned was the boss of the little family. It looked as if she’d terrified her daughters, who hadn’t said a word between them since they’d climbed aboard his fly. He told them that they had just travelled through the Vale of McLaren, a place named after a John McLaren who had surveyed the area in 1839. Settlers, mostly farmers, had begun to turn the land over to the raising of cattle and sheep, or the growing of wheat or barley, using the seed that they’d brought with them from their homeland. Now they were in Willunga, where most were employed in the slate quarry, as the fine grained rock which provided bluish purple roofing materials, was hewn to supply the vast amount of building in the city and surrounds.

  “Boss man is Mister Ellis.” Silas pointed to one of three single storey buildings set apart from a dozen canvas tents on a dusty piece of land. It was on a hilly incline, where gum trees, pines and golden wattle grew in profusion and overlooked the site. A couple of families sat around a campfire and one of the men had just put down his fiddle.

  In the darkening of the evening, feeling so tired that it could have been the Devil himself who was in charge of the place, Bessie snapped that Silas should get their things from the wagon and then be gone. She was sure he would want to get himself back to the dockside to bring another poor family to such a God forsaken place!

  “Bessie, there’s no need for that” Filbey chastised her, embarrassed, as the man slunk off obediently, muttering as he went. “He’ll need shelter for himself and stabling for that poor, tired horse of his. Besides, it doesn’t look s
o bad here, seems they’ve made the best of the place.”

  Bessie sniffed and walked towards the building that Silas had pointed to, ignoring the nods and welcoming smiles from the other settlers and a little boy who had run to them excitedly carrying a large frog.

  “Thank you, Silas,” Clarence said as the driver struggled over with the wooden trunk. “ Have yer got somewhere to stay yerself?”

  “Under the stars, Master. Know a safe place back along the way, me and the horse’ll be sweet.”

  “Well here’s our fare and a little extra. Good luck on your travels, eh?”

  The man nodded and went on his way, glad he wasn’t saddled with such a wife. Bessie returned accompanied by a large bearded man, shaggy haired, tough looking and walking with a limp. He announced his name as Mort and said he was a government official.

  “Yer can ‘ave that one over there,” he said, pointing to a small canvas tent a few yards away. “Dunny’s there, creek’s over yonder but don’t forget to boil the water or it’ll give yer the cramps. I’ll see yer tomorrer then.” He walked away towards the group that sat around the campfire. “Any of youse moving on yet?”

  “Come on then Filbey, let’s get the trunk and you girls stop that messing about with that frog. I’d like to be able to lay my head down in the next few minutes.”

  “The boy said they’re cooking something called a wallaby, Missus” said Hannah, her tummy rumbling at the smell of the meat roasting on an iron over the hot embers. “His mother has said we can go over, so she did.”

  “Then do so” snapped Bessie, swatting away yet another fly that had landed on her hand, feeling pleased in a way that she didn’t have to set about looking for something to feed them with, as all she wanted to do was lie down and die. Her head was thumping, she felt dizzy and occasionally the floor would feel as if it was coming up to meet her. “Filbey, bring the trunk and then you can join them.”

  “Tis a very nice place we’ve come to,” said a man in his early thirties, who if Clarence had known the accent, he would recognised it as a Cumbrian one. “The name’s Fred Dickinson. This is the wife Mary, my youngest is Tommy, our little Katy, Elizabeth and my eldest, Eddie. We arrived a few days ago from the city, though it took us a while to get here what with the pace of our bullocks and the dray being loaded as it was.”

  “Aye, a bit of a journey, we thanked the good Lord for his mercy when we got here,” broke in the other man who had just finished playing on the fiddle when the Filbeys had arrived.

  “I’m Joseph McVeigh. Me and the missis come from Bonnie Scotland, Glasgow way. Me boys are over there somewhere. John, James and Joseph, he’s me eldest. Sadly no girls yet, eh, Fiona?”

  His wife shook her head, solemn faced, then turned away to check on her pans that were simmering away on top of hot stones that had been placed in the fire.

  “You’re welcome to join us, we’ve plenty.”

  “Aye, we will and thank yer kindly.” Clarence motioned to Hannah to sit with Molly on one of the long smooth rocks that seemed to have been placed there for sitting on. “I’m Clarence Filbey, recently of Mayo in Ireland. These are my girls, Hannah and Molly and me wife Bessie is having a lie down. I heard the man ask if yer were moving on? Is there somewhere better to move on to?”

  “No, he was codding,” said Joseph. “‘e knows we’re ‘ere to look around for work. Fred and me are builders. We worked together in the city for a couple of years, after meetin’ on the ship comin’ over from Liverpool. The wife and I are from Glasgow and we were lookin’ for a new life for the bairns. We were sick of the crime and the tenement living, but found it just the same in the city over here. Drunkenness, fornication, blasphemy, immoral livin’ and that’s without the brawlin’ that goes on. I’m a religious man and don’t want that kind of life for my youngsters.”

  “We’re hopin’ to set up a business together” Fred explained, after listening to Joseph who had gone quite red in the face after his rant against people who he reckoned had brought their Sodom and Gomorrah ways along with them. “Buy some land, build a couple of properties then sell ‘em on. As far away from the city as we can get, barring travellin’ over yonder to Victor Harbor, that is.”

  “‘Ere, get this inside yer,” said Joseph’s wife, who had been busily carving chunks from the hapless wallaby. “Mary’ll dish up the parsnips.” She handed out tin platters to their guests who couldn’t help but eat the food greedily. Though chewing the parsnips, which were not very tender, was a bit of an ordeal. “Will yer wife be joining us, Mr. Filbey?”

  “Bessie? No she’s worn out, poor soul, best that she gets her head down. Mmm, this meat’s delicious.”

  “So what’s your story?” Joseph asked, once everyone had finished the food on their plates and one of the children had gone to fetch the others for a second sitting. “Look, why don’t we sit over there and let our wives see to the bairns.”

  He pointed to a shady tree which the three men walked over to.

  “Well, as yer might have heard, another blight got the potatoes in Ireland. It’s been happenin’ more and more over the past few years, so people are uppin’ sticks and leavin’.”

  The two men nodded; they had met a few sufferers on their own journeys.

  “Aye, and it’ll be the landlords that’ll benefit, I’ll be bound.” Joseph’s parents had been victims of the Highland clearances.

  “So we decided to throw it all in and make a new life as settlers. Bessie’s not so keen, but I’m sure she’ll warm to the idea once we’ve bought our own bit of land.”

  “Ah, it’s land that yer after then. Well yer’ve come to the right people if you want to know about things. Me and Fred ‘ere have been to the land titles office, had a look at the map and ‘ope to sort out a place for ourselves. Perhaps we can build yer somethin’, Clarence. We’ve a ready made quarry just up the way.”

  “It would have to be cheap. I’ve only enough for ten or twelve acres as it is. Me money seems to be goin’ nowhere.”

  “Hey Fred, what about that place we heard about on the road out of the village? Yer know the place where that man shot ‘isself and left a wife and two little ones.”

  “Aye, they say the place is going cheap ‘cos the wife wants to go to back to England and there’s still a lot of clearance of the land. She’ll be stuck ‘til someone buys it, as they will have put all their brass into it.”

  “Oh I don’t know, I don’t know what Bessie would think. How much land is there that still needs clearin’?”

  “I’ve heard about ten acres, but I believe there’s enough bin cleared to run a market garden and ‘e kept a sow and a few layin’ hens. Or you could turn the whole lot over to growin’ almonds. I ‘ear there’s a lot of profit in almonds and easy to grow round ‘ere. If it were me I’d start with sellin’ the produce that he’s bin growin’. People need food and not everyone ‘as green fingers, I know I haven’t. Think it over; I can give yer the name of the place if yer want me to.”

  “It would be nice living on a farm, Mr. Filbey” Hannah piped up at the side of Clarence, whilst Molly sat listening to the chatter of an excited little boy who seemed to be of the same age.

  “Yes Hannah.” Filbey’s face creased with worry as he listened to her words, hoping that the others hadn’t picked up that she had called him Mr. Filbey, instead of Dada. Bessie had told him that she wanted them to be thought of as having a couple of daughters, or even a daughter with a nursemaid and she would go mad if Hannah spilt the beans.

  “Do yer know how much she’s askin’?” he said, a little voice inside him saying that if he could beat the woman down he’d have some money to put aside for a rainy day. “Though I’ll have to talk it over with the Missis of course.”

  “Dunno, but it’ll be cheap, bound to be if she wants to go back to her family.”

  *

  All the settlers were up at cockcrow, which didn’t seem much time from when Clarence had lain his body next to the sleeping Bessie, with the gir
ls cuddled up together nearby and the filtering light of the day which had appeared between the shady gums. The tent was small; there was just about enough room for the four of them. It was meant for sleeping, as cooking was always done outdoors.

  Bessie, still feeling groggy from the deep sleep that her body had put her in to, groaned when she realised that lying on the hard packed earth instead of on her downy bed in Killala was a reality and not Filbey’s distant dream. Seeing that this could be her way of life for the very near future, she was more than willing to listen to all that had gone on around the campfire the night before. Not being a pioneer, nor even having the will to be one, she implored Clarence to make more inquiries over the widow’s land. They could go that very day if it meant she’d have a proper bed to sleep in.

  “It’ll mean a lot of work though, Bessie. It’ll be a tough existence and we’d have to hire men to help with the clearance of the rest of the acres.”

  “Has it got a dwelling built upon the land?”

  Clarence nodded. “I believe of sorts.”

  “Then that’s all I need to hear, Filbey. Anything has to be better than this wilderness you’ve brought me to. Now go and ask that Scottish person what we have to do about it.”

  The “Scottish” person, after Fiona, his wife had offered the family a breakfast of a chunk of bread made from hops and potatoes cut up and boiled together that she had cooked in the communal camp oven and a drink of weak tea with no sugar in a battered tin mug, directed them down the street until they would come to the same junction from when they had come down through the McLaren Vale.

  There they were to cross over onto a wide dirt track which led to a place called Aldinga and would eventually take them all the way to the port if they were to follow it. They couldn’t miss the place which was known as the Aldridge’s, as it was within a clearing just beyond a narrow creek. There was a small cottage on the land and it was just a hundred yards past the place where the first few settlers had been buried, though that might change now that the church of St. Stephens had just had the laying of its foundation stone.