‘Can’t we get rich somewhere else?’ Petal asked.
Dinny had been to a cattle sale that day and had drunk all afternoon with the buyers.
‘Get on home to your sisters then,’ he said. ‘Just like a baby . . . See if I care.’
He tottered off to the veranda. Petal put her head under her pillow and wept.
Grandma would usually corner Petal after breakfast.
‘Sit down, Petal, I’ll teach you how to mend. You’ll need to know how to darn when you’re here by yourself and Dinny is running the place.’ Or, ‘Come here, Petal, I want to teach you how to make Dinny’s favourite fruit cake. Leave Sister Bernadette to watch the kids. One day you’ll have to do all the cooking, dear. I want to teach you my best secrets.’
It was the morning after the fight and this time Petal cocked her head. ‘Where are ya goin’?’
‘Oh, in a year or so when you and Dinny are settled, Paddy and I plan to move to the coast.’ Grandma gave a rare smile. ‘I was born in a city, never knew anything about being a farmer’s wife till I came here, but I learnt just like you will. Course the isolation nearly drove me mad to start with but I learnt to keep myself busy with cooking and cleaning and mending . . . always plenty of work to do . . . and then the children started coming . . . five of them . . .’ Grandma seemed pleased about her transformation from city slicker to farm wife. ‘And there’s the Country Women’s Association once a month in town. Paddy always drives me to that. I’ll take you next time, Petal, the ladies put on a lovely spread, tables just laden with cakes and sandwiches, and to think I was slim as a reed when I first came out here . . . I must show you my wedding dress, Petal, you might like to wear it when you marry Dinny. You’d be slim enough for sure. Better make the most of it while it lasts. You all right, Petal? You look a bit pale. Come on, let’s start that cake.’
Petal stared at the endless horizon, the empty blue space. She looked back at the ingredients being weighed out for Grandma’s fruit cake. Grandma prattled on about how Petal could redecorate the house however she liked when she and Paddy had moved to the coast.
‘Of course in a year or two when the children are in boarding school, you might like to make some new curtains and floor-coverings, maybe even have an inside toilet installed if it’s a good year. Petal . . . ?’
But Petal didn’t answer. She was on another plane.
Sister Bernadette’s month at home seemed like a century for me. I was surprised and disappointed when Petal declined the day out that Dinny offered us when he was giving her a lift to the station.
‘Thought you’d want to come . . .’ He looked miffed. ‘Usually jump at the chance of going to town, and ya haven’t seen Emerald before. Lot bigger than Jericho, you’d like it.’
‘Can’t we go, Petal?’ Star tugged on her skirt.
Petal shot us a look that burnt us. ‘Not this time!’ she barked and we slunk off. ‘I’ll cook something nice for tea,’ Petal called as Grandma, Sister Bernadette, Paddy and Dinny piled into the dusty bronze station wagon. Star and I climbed on the front gate post and Sister Bernadette waved her chicken-leg arms as they cruised off through the haze.
Petal stood on the veranda and watched until the car was no more than a speck on the horizon. When she was satisfied that we were alone she rushed to the wardrobe and grabbed the hatbox she’d brought from home full of hats she hadn’t had the chance to wear at the O’Rileys. Petal was frantic as she flung the hats across the bed.
‘Pack!’ Petal said sharply as we stood wide-eyed in the doorway.
‘What . . . Where are we goin’?’
Petal flung the brown suitcase down from the wardrobe.
‘Hurry up!’ she shouted, searching through the hats. ‘We’re goin’ home,’ Petal finally said when she found the envelope of money she had stashed in the crown of her blue felt hat. ‘Now hurry up.’ She threw some unfolded clothes into the empty suitcase.
‘Are we really?’ Star was jumping up and down.
‘How?’ I was clutching my book but I felt like jumping too.
Petal threw a kitbag in my direction. ‘Put the books and magazines in there,’ she said flatly.
‘Petal, how we goin’?’ Star was pouting.
‘I’m gunna ask Pete ta give us a ride ta town when she comes with the mail. So youse kids settle down an’ behave,’ she warned. ‘She won’t take noisy kids with ’er so be quiet when she comes an’ let me talk, otherwise youse’ll hafta stay ’ere. Do youse want that?’
‘No! No!’
‘Then be good.’
Petal strode off to check the kettle for tea. Pete usually came between ten and eleven.
‘What’ll we do afta we get to town, Petal?’ I called out from under the bed where I was searching for a lost book.
I could see Petal’s long legs and bare feet standing in the doorway in front of me. I could hear her shoulders heave as she puffed hard on her fag.
‘Get on a train.’
‘Wow! A train, a train . . .’
Star was jumping on the bed and I slid out from underneath. A train sounded good to me too.
‘Will there be food on the train, Petal? Can we buy some?’ I asked.
Petal stubbed the butt out on the veranda rail. ‘There bloody betta be. Gunna be on it for three bloody days!’
Petal already had a cigarette rolled and a steaming cup of tea and hot scones for Pete as she lumbered up the front path. Petal ignored the hello and cut to the chase.
‘Can ya give us a ride ta town, Pete?’
‘Had enough, eh?’ Pete took the cigarette and mug and sat on her haunches. ‘Need to escape the Wild West? Or something?’ She drew long and hard on the cigarette.
Petal set a plate of scones in front of her guest. ‘I wanna go home,’ she said directly, eyes levelled at Pete’s. ‘Can ya take us ta town or not? We hafta get on a train.’
‘Can I have a cuppa and a smoke first?’ Pete smiled wryly. ‘Kids’ll have to sit in the back and behave themselves.’
She shot an ice blue glance at Star and me, who were standing meekly behind Petal. We nodded vigorously.
Petal paced the veranda. Pete guzzled her tea.
‘Best to get out while you’re still young if it’s not what you want,’ Pete said earnestly as she stubbed her cigarette. ‘Be a train out of town later going to either Rocky or Brisbane. I’d get on the first one out if I was you. Man might come looking for you . . . and the kids.’
Petal twisted her smouldering fag in her thin brown fingers. ‘Can we get goin’ soon?’
‘You kids don’t touch anything, you hear?’ Pete glanced at the empty mail sacks and paraphernalia in the back of her seedy smelling van before slamming the door shut.
The stilted homestead melted into redness behind us.
On the train Star wiggled and whinged because she couldn’t get comfortable. Petal offered to read to us but she got frustrated with me very quickly and told me I asked too many questions. I tried to read The Wizard of Oz quietly to myself but Star kept annoying me by pointing to words on the page and yelling them out to prove she knew them. When I turned sideways and buried my head between the covers she slammed the book shut on my nose. A spat broke out and Petal had to sit in between us to calm us down. She ignored the disgruntled looks from other passengers, but when we were quiet she issued a warning.
‘If youse two don’t stop fightin’ the other passengers will call the guard an’ he’ll stop the train an’ throw the two o’ ya off in the middle of nowhere an’ you’ll hafta walk back to Grandma’s.’
After that we just pulled faces at each other. We didn’t know whether to believe Petal or not.
The train shuddered along. The skin on Petal’s cheeks was stretched so taut and hollow across her sharp cheekbones, I thought that if I tapped it, it would
beat like a drum. But I didn’t dare. She dozed against the headrest, crimson lips set tight. Star got so bored she fell asleep, head on Petal’s lap in the seat opposite. Snapshots of the red dirt country flashed by me through the window for the last time.
Petal looked sick when we arrived in Brisbane late the next day. She bought us hot chips and milkshakes before making us up a bed on the hard benches in the railway waiting room. She slept on the floor beside us with her knees pulled into her chest and her head resting on our suitcase. Next morning she snapped at us for waking up before her and running across the railway benches in broad daylight.
‘D’ya want someone ta come an’ take ya away?’ she demanded and stamped her foot.
We shook our heads.
‘Well, behave yourselves,’ she growled.
She bought us cold toast in a paper bag and tea in plastic cups from one of the railway stalls.
‘Wait ’ere an’ donchya move while I ring Boo an’ tell ’er we’re comin’ home.’
Star and I sat on a bench and ate in silence, thinking of another whole day on a train to Sydney, then another train after that, all the way to Junee. When Petal returned and bundled us into the long shiny carriage, the look on her face and the tone of her voice told us not to push her.
In Sydney Petal was distraught. The Brisbane train was late arriving and we had to pull our luggage off one train, tear through the bustling Central Station and pile onto the next. We only just made it, Petal cursing and swearing as she tried to hoist our suitcase onto the luggage rack.
The waitress on the train looked daggers as Petal kicked off her shoes and blew smoke rings into the air. Petal stared back and scraped up enough change and dignity to buy us meat pies and orange juice, before we returned to our seats and she rolled her cardigan into a pillow and collapsed into a deep sleep against the shuddering window of the carriage. The country outside was black and shapeless. Star and I soon fell asleep too and when we finally reached Junee the guard had to wake us up and tell us to get off. I couldn’t believe we had nearly missed our stop. The railway station clock was striking four.
Aunty Boo was waiting. She looked smaller. ‘Petal, ya look that thin an’ tired girl . . . an’ sunburnt. Look at ya.’
‘I wanna go home,’ Petal sighed, and passed the battered suitcase to Aunty Boo. ‘An’ donchya ask me no questions.’ She strode off towards the old car.
Star and I sat in the front and hoed into the home-made biscuits and cordial Boo had brought especially for the trip home. Petal stretched out on the back seat and slept.
‘Our Grandma in Queensland said if ya sing at the table ya’ll end up an old maid,’ I told her through a mouth choked with biscuit crumbs.
‘Gee, that’s good advice,’ Aunty Boo chuckled, craning her neck and squinting at the pearly lit road ahead. ‘Bubby an’ me’ll hafta get them song books out when we get home.’
‘Can youse be quiet?’ Petal hollered from the back seat. ‘I’m tryin’ ta get some sleep back here.’
The eucalypts were thick and streaky white on the creek flats, and the cicadas had ceased their humming as they clipped the trees like glittering brooches in the fading moonlight.
When we arrived home, Nan was snoring on the couch but Aunty Bubby was up and waiting with plenty more food. Petal took a plate of pancakes and went off to her room. My head was thumping with questions and stories about strangers and horses and cattle and peddlers and charlatans and prayers and dingo shooters and nuns and chores and Abos but I just wanted to sit back and eat as much as I wanted with my feet up on my chair and listen and laugh and fall into bed on the old club lounge by the kitchen window in the gas-blue dawn when our whole house was silent and still and sleep through the cool summer morning.
‘I hope ya never said nuthin’ to ’er.’ Aunty Bubby’s eyes narrowed as she drained the teapot into the mug in Aunty Boo’s outstretched hand.
‘Nah, I never said nuthin’. There ain’t no point, sista. Told ya she’d come home, didn’t I?’
‘I never know what Petal might do,’ Aunty Bubby muttered.
‘I tell ya what she won’t do.’ Aunty Boo’s words were thick with sleep. ‘She’ll never settle.’
And she was right. Petal soon went off on another whim, and it would be years before we heard from Dinny again.
Marching with Hannibal
We used to lose our Aunty Bubby sometimes. Aunty Boo would say, ‘She’s prob’ly up on the hill with that bloody book.’
That bloody book was Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte. Aunty Bubby loved books. And she passed on that passion to me.
Our favourite games were playing scenes from the books she read. Star and I spent hours running across the hill being Heathcliff and Cathy. We liked the bit when they were kids and ran wild on the windy moors. After a while, though, we decided that there was only so much you could do with the soul mates. We had a whole winter ahead of us – one short biting afternoon after another of roaming the hill.
We had a good time with Jane Eyre and the mad woman in the attic who tries to burn the house down. But even Jane got too soppy for us and, like Aunty Boo said, that bloody Mr Rochester was shameful. He’d drive anyone mad.
One cold afternoon the rain set in and kept us all off the hill.
‘I got a good story for youse kids,’ Aunty Boo said. ‘That rich ol’ girl that I use ta work fer, she was goin’ blind an’ use ta get me ta read to ’er. Loved all that ancient history she did. Ya know, the Greek an’ Roman stuff.’
We all gathered round the kitchen stove. The roof on our old house creaked and sagged with the rain. Nan snored by the fire. Aunty Bubby made us big mugs of tea with toast and jam.
‘This one’s called the Punic Wars,’ Aunty Boo said. ‘’Bout two warrin’ giants. Big countries that owned a lotta other countries. One’s called Rome an’ the other one’s Carthage.’
We kept a battered Britannica atlas on the shelf above the stove. Aunty Boo got it down and pointed out the empires then ran her gnarled finger across the Mediterranean Sea between Spain and North Africa. ‘That’s the part they was warrin’ about!’
‘Why didn’t they jus’ share?’ I asked when I saw the vastness of the empires.
Aunty Boo threw her head back and laughed. ‘Share? Lor’, child, you seen them farmers standin’ round arguin’ ’bout boundary fences an’ strayin’ stock. No, child! Sharin’ jus’ ain’t in the nature of things when ya talkin’ men an’ land.’
‘Anyways . . .’ Aunty Boo began again as she settled back in her old chair with cats and dogs curled across her lap, ‘there was no guns back then. Men had big spears an’ swords an’ shields an’ all sorts o’ headgear. Some of ’em rode horses but most of ’em walked. So these fellas from Carthage, that’s in Spain, ’ad some big boats – warships with big purple sails, so they say. The Romans ’ad boats too but they wasn’t much good. So the Romans picked a big fight with the ones from Carthage. Carthage got their arse kicked an’ their pride hurt. Lost one of their best men too, bloke called Hamilcar.’
She could tell a good story, Aunty Boo, and when she got to Hannibal marching his elephants across the Alps into Rome to avenge the death of his father she really jazzed it up. Her heroes were usually women and dogs but my sister and I knew she had a bit of time for the man with the elephants. We could really see him marching into ancient Rome riding a long-tusked, heavily adorned elephant followed by thousands of equally spectacular men and a huge herd of elephants. Aunty had us seeing him rampaging all over Rome, burning wheat fields, trashing grain silos and defacing important monuments. And the colours! Purple, scarlet, crimson, gold and indigo flying high above the carnage.
‘Now there’s a game for youse kids!’
And it sure was. We couldn’t wait for the long wet days to clear so we could get out there and try it. Meanwhile we bided our time drawing charco
al pictures on old bread paper of what the Punic Wars might have looked like. Because our Aunties never threw anything out, we had plenty of boxes of old clothes – printed dresses, petticoats and big billowy skirts to rip up for flags and war gear. The cardboard boxes that Aunty Boo brought the fortnightly shopping home in and never tossed out made excellent armour. We made plans for some of the big, docile sheep – way past their use-by date, according to the farmer’s calendar – to be our elephant army.
It was a deadly game once we got started. We put mud and charcoal on our faces and tied coloured rags to sticks for flags. Some of the sheep had horns that we tied ribbons and bits of tinsel around, and they were so woolly they didn’t mind having cardboard armour strapped to their backs or, even better, being ridden. We couldn’t steer them but we got to ride them over the rise of the hill and some way down the other side before rolling off. We got good at marching too, coming up over the tip of the hill in a straight line, pretending we were ten abreast, even though we were only two. Once my sister hit me in the head with a dirt clod for not paying attention to her orders. I didn’t cry or run and tell Aunty Boo, who was rabbiting by the creek, because, as Star said, it was a war game and no place for a cry-baby. We played ‘Marching with Hannibal’ for weeks and months on end.
Once when we came in for our dinner Nan said it was cruel running the sheep around and tormenting them. But Nan slept a lot in the afternoons by the kitchen stove, while Aunty Bubby read and Aunty Boo took us out. Aunty Boo said not to worry about Nan because most sheep lived miserably short lives, spent a lot of cold nights outside without their wool and died cruel deaths just to put money in the farmer’s pocket. All our sheep had to put up with was us kids, and they even got to sleep inside when it was cold.
‘What happened to Hannibal?’ I asked.
Aunty Boo breathed a long sigh. ‘He went back to Africa an’ killed his-self.’
‘Why?’ My sister and I were shocked.
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