Purple Threads

by Jeanine Leane

  By the time I woke up, Aunty Bubby had taken a bath and was wearing a fresh set of clothes. She was heating milk over the fire for the lambs as if nothing had happened.

  ‘Mornin’, Sunshine,’ she said as I wriggled out from under my blanket of lambs and overcoats.

  Aunty Boo was snoring on the couch covered in terriers. Milli and the kids were still asleep in the back bedroom. Star got up too and Nan gave us damper with syrup and tea.

  ‘Now listen, youse kids.’ Nan shook a bony finger at us. ‘Milli an’ the little fellas gunna be stayin’ with us a while. Ya make ’em feel real welcome an’ donchya ask no questions, ya hear!’

  We gulped our tea and damper. ‘Yes, Nan.’

  ‘They say he’s gone missin’ in the flood an’ the way this rain’s goin’, it could wash the whole hut away. She ain’t safe down there so youse be real nice to ’er.’

  ‘Yes, Nan!’

  I loved it when it rained this way. Come to think of it, we all did. We were on high ground. The road below us crossed the creek and the river three times between home and Gundagai. Sometimes we were cut off by the rising water for weeks in winter. The phone lines often went down too. It meant no school. It meant days at home with the Aunties and Nan and all their wet weather stories and games.

  Even Milli laughed sometimes as the days passed. Annie let us read to her by the fire. The baby learnt to smile.

  The creek between our place and Cooper’s rose higher and higher. Near Gundagai the Murrumbidgee broke its banks. Centuries-old eucalyptus on the river flats fell like skittles as the huge snake of water flooded the land. And just as Nan predicted, the workers’ hut on the creek flats washed away.

  One night I heard Milli crying.

  ‘Donchya worry, Milli-girl,’ Nan soothed. ‘Time this flood’s done be a lotta things washed away an’ gone f’rever, jus’ you wait an’ see. River’s a powerful thing, jus’ swallows up some things an’ prob’ly for the betta.’

  ‘That’s right, sista-girl,’ Aunty Boo said. ‘Donchya worry, Aunties’ll look afta ya.’

  In Gundagai the water rose above the Prince Alfred Bridge and swallowed the town. Sheridan Street was a river. The residents made camp on South Gundagai lookout. Nan told us the story about Yarri and Jacky-Jacky, who rowed heaps of settlers to safety in bark canoes during the big flood of 1852.

  ‘Blackfellas told ’em ta move the town but they wouldn’t listen. Come the winter o’ that year, the mother of all floods come down the Murrumbidgee. They say the water was twenty feet high. Whitefellas were climbing up their attics fer safety an’ even then half the poor fellas drowned. But Yarri, he come first all on his own in a bark canoe that was made from the red gums on the river. Tiny little thing it was, but one by one he started rowin’ fellas across ta Morleys Creek, where the water weren’t so high an’ they’d be safe. All night he done that an’ then next day he was joined by ’nother fella, Jacky-Jacky, in a bigga boat an’ ’tween ’em they saved nearly half the town. Some o’ the poor fellas that drowned weren’t never found. River’s a powerful thing.’

  Nan drew breath but only briefly. ‘Fer bein’ so brave, the gov’ment give Yarri an’ Jacky-Jacky a bronze medal each an’ told ’em they was allowed ta ask for a shilling from any o’ the town people whenever they needed it. But some fellas got short memories an’ when they built the town again, there was some that wouldn’t pay. Some o’ the ol’ people from over South Gundagai reckon they even seen poor ol’ Yarri gettin’ beatin’ by some whitefellas when he asked fer money, an’ ta this day there ain’t no statue o’ Yarri an’ Jacky-Jacky, jus’ that dog fer the workin’ men.’

  At North Wagga the levy bank broke. We heard through the static interference on the kitchen radio that it took some time for emergency crews to evacuate all those left. Loss of life and damages to property would run high. We sat it out with lots of wood, lots of food, lots of stories, and plenty of buckets to keep the floors dry.

  After the storm washed out, the rains waned enough for us to see black and red gang-gangs and white cockatoos winging across the sky. Nan said it would take some time for the floodwaters to subside. Shopkeepers rowed boats across to Sheridan Street to clean up. Missing persons reports began to flow in from all across the soggy Riverina. ‘He’ was one of them.

  Aunty Boo rang the Gundagai police as soon as the phone lines were restored: ‘Yeah . . . that’s right, Alfi Schutz from up at Cooper’s . . . Yeah . . . that’s right, officer, he never come home from the pub the night the flood come down the river . . . Umm . . . nah . . . ain’t see hide nor hair of ’im since . . . or his truck either. Lookin’ afta ’is wife an’ kids ’ere. Yeah, they come down from the hut when ’e never come home. The water was risin’, weren’t safe fer ’em an’ they’s real worried . . . still are, poor darlins. Right . . . yeah . . . thanks, officer. We’ll wait ta hear from ya.’

  Water gushed off the hills. The flow shifted and ground the white stones across the swollen belly of the creek. We were confined to the house yard, even though the rain had stopped.

  Gypsy raised the alarm long before the police car ambled slowly through the brown sheet of water that was the road to our place and Cooper’s. Nan told us kids to stay out in the back room with Annie and the baby. Everybody put a clean dress on. Aunty Bubby made tea.

  Gypsy and Ginger stood up and barked, barring the door as the tall stranger in blue left the car and approached the front veranda. Aunty Boo opened the door and calmed the dogs.

  ‘Sergeant Jackson,’ I heard him say.

  Chairs shifted in the kitchen and Nan rattled cups and clanged teaspoons. Gypsy kept growling and Aunty Bubby put her in the back room with us.

  ‘Now youse kids sit quiet!’ she warned, and shut the door.

  Gypsy wouldn’t settle and crawled on her belly to the door, where she stretched out on the floor like a doormat. She pricked up her ears. I couldn’t resist either and eased forward on my bottom, ever so quietly, till I was close enough to Gypsy to rest my chin on her back and tune my ears to the kitchen.

  ‘Mmm . . .’ said the deep voice of Sergeant Jackson. ‘His utility was washed down the river and snagged at North Wagga . . . but . . . er . . . no body has been recovered so far.’ He paused. ‘I’m terribly sorry. We’re still dragging the river . . . but . . .’ he trailed off.

  The cracks between the boards in the door were wide and I saw the women nod gravely. Aunty Bubby had her arm around Milli, who’d gone very pale.

  Star tried to listen in too and Annie waddled after her, yodelling and cooing at the door. Nan flung the door open and shooed us away. Star and I wanted more excitement. We expected police to wear long overcoats, carry magnifying glasses, bring sniffer dogs and ask lots of questions, like Sherlock Holmes. Then we heard the policeman leaving.

  As soon as the police car slushed away, Star and I ran to Nan and Aunty Bubby at the wood heap. Nan was splitting wood. Milli was nowhere to be seen so I risked the jarring I might get.

  ‘What did the p’lice want, Nan?’

  ‘Aren’t they coming back?’ Star joined in.

  ‘Don’t they wanna look ’round with magnifying glasses an’ dogs?’ I asked, breathless.

  Nan dug her hands into her bony hips. ‘What did I tell youse kids ’bout askin’ questions, hey?’

  Star and I looked at the ground.

  ‘P’lice won’t be comin’ back this way coz they satisfied.’ She waved a gnarled finger at us and laid the axe aside. ‘Ain’t I always sayin’, let sleepin’ dogs lie.’

  The country was a mass of flowers. Bluebells, heath and grass lilies climbed the hills and spilled from the creek banks. Purple sarsaparilla spread tentacles across the granite. It was spring. Everything had changed. Nan told us that Milli and the kids would be leaving us soon.

  ‘But why?’ I asked. ‘She’s happy here, isn’t she?’


  ‘Milli’s got her own mother in Sydney to take care of ’er, child. Ya know what I always say, ya betta off with ya own.’

  Aunty Bubby knitted Milli a pretty blue cardigan to wear on the journey. Nan made new clothes for the kids. I didn’t understand why Milli cried when she got these presents. Aunty Boo drove them to the railway station, and Star and I got the day off school to say goodbye.

  That night by the fire when I was meant to be sleeping, I heard Nan laugh. ‘Fancy them kids wantin’ more fuss with the p’lice an’ all!’

  ‘Good riddance ta all of it I say, Mum,’ Aunty Bubby agreed quietly. ‘Let the sleepin’ dog lie.’

  ‘Let the lyin’ dog sleep!’ Aunty Boo called loudly from underneath her cosy quilt of dozing dogs.

  The dogs barely stirred.

  Land grab

  The leaves turned brown, red and yellow. The days became cool and crisp. A drift of Byzantium crocus pushed their distinct goblet shapes through the earth and swayed in a big magenta sea in the garden.

  Russet turned to brown and brown turned to grey before the trees in the garden finally became totally bereft of leaves. The colour oozed out of the leaves. Only the camellias, with their lush evergreen foliage, stood staunchly in defiance of the winter holocaust. The bare branches of the Damascus rose that lined the path were a shadow of the plush purple petals that the same arms bore all summer long. All about us the skeleton trees glistened in the morning frost, exposing the empty nests of birds.

  It was the May holidays, midway through my third torturous year of school. Star and I were too big to play made-up games any more. We moped around the veranda reading comics and I thought wistfully about having friends.

  ‘Hey, girls.’ Aunty Boo had stuck her head round the corner of the veranda post. ‘Give us a yell if ya see a strange car comin’. It’ll be that ol’ Profit tryin’ ta buy the farm. Been pokin’ round here all month tryin’ ta talk us in ta sellin’.’

  ‘What!’ I was wallowing in my own misery. ‘Why would anybody wanna buy this place? It’s not even a proper farm, it’s just a paddock an’ one side of a hill.’

  Aunty Boo’s eyes burned. ‘What did I jus’ hear ya say?’ She dropped the hand-held shears, flung the woolpack she was holding down on the veranda, and stomped over to where I was stretched out on the cane couch. I sat bolt upright. I knew I was in trouble. I hadn’t seen her wild like this since I asked Milli what had happened to her face.

  ‘You listen ta me!’ she roared ‘This is my home an’ that of ya Nan an’ ya Aunty an’ ya sista an’ ya-self. Now it may not be real flash, but ya dunno the trouble I went ta to grab this little bit a land fer us girls.’ She shook her bony finger hard. ‘Ya cheeky an’ ungrateful, that’s what ya are. Wantin’ ta be like them girls at school! I tell ya, they ain’t worth it. I love this place . . . this land. An’ jus’ fer ya information there’s plenty o’ people want this bit o’ land fer one o’ them new-fangled hobby farms. What d’ya think Profit been sniffin’ round here fer the last few weeks for, hey? Plenty o’ people offerin’ ’im good money for our place.’ She was almost foaming at the mouth. ‘An’ I wouldn’t swap it fer nothin’, it’s my home an’ it’s your home too. Where ’ud ya be if ya couldn’t live here, hey?’ She stormed off and didn’t wait for me to answer.

  I was burning with anger, but I knew better than to talk back.

  ‘Now you’ve done it.’ Star dangled her legs off the edge of the veranda. ‘She’ll be mad for days now coz of you!’

  ‘Stupid bloody land!’ I muttered, none too quietly. ‘We could go ta town an’ have a flash house with all the money she’s talkin’ ’bout. An’ I could ’ave friends . . . an’ . . . an’ . . . go lotsa places . . . an’ . . . an’ . . . people would think we were normal.’

  ‘It won’t make any difference,’ Star said nonchalantly, still swinging her legs. ‘People won’t think we’re normal no matta what we do. Get used to it.’

  But I didn’t want to.

  Aunty Bubby came puffing round the side of the veranda. ‘Hey, which one o’ youse kids upset ya Aunty?’

  I looked at the ground.

  ‘It was Sunny,’ Star said, pointing accusingly. ‘She asked ’er why we couldn’t sell the farm an’ move to town an’ be normal.’

  ‘What?’ Aunty Bubby planted her hands on her hips and glared at me. ‘Ya couldna picked a worse thing ta say?’ I didn’t look up. ‘Inside, youse two. I wanna have a little talk with ya. Now!’

  Aunty Bubby rarely raised her voice and we both jumped to attention.

  ‘D’ya know all the trouble ya Aunty Boo went to jus’ ta grab this little bit o’ land fer us? She coulda gone ta jail or somethin’ like that. Ya know how much crawlin’ an’ kowtowing an’ lyin’ she had ta do ta the men – an’ ya know how she hates that.’

  ‘How could we know?’ I was feeling dejected. ‘It all happened before we were born.’

  ‘An’ if it didn’t, ya wouldna had nowhere ta go when youse was born.’

  I’d made Aunty Bubby wild too. She was banging cups down on the table.

  ‘Well sit ya-selves down, it’s ’bout time ya knew. I gunna tell ya this story once, an’ afta that, donchya ever let me hear ya say ya wanna sell our little bit o’ land again. I tell ya, girls, ya mark my words it’ll be over my dead body an’ Mum’s an’ Boo’s too that this place becomes a bloody hobby farm.’

  ‘What!’ Nan woke from her sleep by the fire. ‘Has that bloody Profit been back?’ She wriggled in her chair and frowned.

  ‘Nah, Mum, not today, but ’e will be. He ain’t called Profit fer nuthin’, an’ ’e can smell money ta be made.’ Aunty Bubby poured long streams of tea into our cups. ‘I’m jus’ tellin’ the girls why we ain’t never gunna sell our farm.’

  ‘Course we not!’ Nan shook her head vigorously. ‘It’s our home an’ all the trouble Boo went ta, ta swindle ’em. I was real frightened, thought she might end up gettin’ ’erself arrested.’

  ‘One time this place was bigga,’ Aunty Bubby swigged her tea. ‘Dad had sheep an’ some cows, bit of an orchard an’ some chooks an’ ducks an’ the like.’ She guzzled again.

  My grandfather had died at home in the summer of 1966. I was too little to remember the farm being any bigger. Star had just begun to toddle. But I remember trails of mourners at his funeral and how hard it was for Star and me to avoid being trodden on wherever we went.

  ‘Dad was gettin’ old an’ soft by the time Petal was a big woman, an’ he never got properly betta from the stroke he had when Richie got hurt. Dad prob’ly woulda left the house ta Mum . . . it was never real flash. An’ us girls who weren’t gunna get married coulda stayed here. But Boo didn’t trust that Richie, if Dad left him everything, which he was prob’ly gunna, him bein’ the favourite an’ all.

  ‘Afta Dad had that stroke he couldn’t work no more an’ Richie was meant ta be runnin’ the farm an’ Boo was meant ta be helpin’ ’im. But that bloody Richie, he moved in ta town so he could drink an’ drive his flash car an’ be round up-town women. He come out here a coupla times a week, say a few words ta the ol’ man an’ make it seem like ’e was workin’, but ’e never done a damn thing. It was Boo done all the work organisin’ the sheep an’ the wool sales an’ all. Ya Nan said ta her, Why donchya get that lazy sod ta do a hard day’s work with ya? But Boo said it was betta if he stayed right away an’ didn’t know what was goin’ on an’ how much money was gettin’ made. She worked like a man she did! Let ’im think he’s in control, Mum, she said, an’ leave the rest ta me.

  ‘Yeah, ya Aunty Boo loved them stories ’bout the Roman Empire an’ the women behind the scenes. She always said she learnt from that Livia how ta work the men. Accordin’ ta Livia an’ ya Aunty, the best way ta deceive a man is ta never act like his equal, always play the role of the servant an’ always pretend ta be interested in what t
hey’re doin’ – then they’ll tell ya everythin’. Boo loved all that cloak and dagger stuff, an’ always said, Cloak every request and suggestion like it’s in the best interests of the man at hand.

  ‘She’d learnt all them book-keepin’ skills from the ol’ Mrs O’Brien too. An’ Richie, well, ’e was never smart. He never knew how much money ’e was meant ta be makin’. All he wanted ta do was wait till the ol’ man died an’ sell the place.’

  ‘Too bloody right he did!’ Aunty Boo came through the kitchen door. ‘Bloody Dad was hardly cold in the grave an’ the will had only jus’ been read, when ’e sold off all the rest o’ the land ’spite him promisin’ Dad he wouldn’t. You leave off now, sista, I’ll tell the rest o’ the story.’ She heaved her work boots off. ‘An’ then I’ll kick their little arses if I hear any more talk ’bout sellin’ this place.’

  ‘Took me a bloody long time ta convince Dad ta get the cheques sent ’ere in both ’is an’ Richie’s name,’ Aunty Boo started. ‘Dad always said ’e didn’t wanna worry Richie an’ it’d be betta if they jus’ come straight ta him, an’ I put ’em in the bank. But I said ta him, God forbid anythin’ would happen ta ya, Dad, but if it did an’ the money’s only in your name, then Richie ’ud hafta miss out on the money an’ it’d be real good anyway, fer Richie ta get some experience handlin’ the money on ’is own. Well that did it, didn’t it? Anythin’ for bloody Richie. So when the cheques fer the wool an’ the sheep started comin’ in both their names I use ta tell one o’ them that I showed it ta the other. Course I had ta get good at forgin’ signatures coz them cheques had ta be signed before I could cash ’em at the shops in town an’ split ’em up an’ take some out fer Mum an’ us girls b’fore puttin’ the rest in the bank.’

  ‘I was real worried she was gunna get caught.’ Aunty Bubby pulled a face. ‘Forgin’ signatures is a criminal offence.’