The Light Horseman's Daughter

by David Crookes

  There was a knock on the cottage door. Emma opened it to find Elliot standing on the porch.

  ‘Good morning, Emma,’ Elliot said cheerfully. ‘I‘ve got a message from old Braithewaite. He wants to see you as soon as possible. I’ll be happy to drive you into town.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Emma said. ‘Oh and Elliot,’ she added quickly, ‘I’m glad you’re here. Will you come through to the kitchen please?’

  Elliot grinned and stepped inside. He followed Emma through to the kitchen. When he saw Beth his smile disappeared.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘Just bringing clean linen, Mister Elliot, that’s all.’

  ‘Then empty your basket and get out,’ Elliot snapped.

  ‘But Elliot, look at her,’ Emma said. ‘She’s been beaten. I was hoping you…’

  ‘What has she been telling you, Emma?’

  ‘Well nothing much. I was just asking her who was responsible. I was going to ask you to punish whoever did it.’

  ‘Go on Beth, do as you’re told.’ Elliot cocked his head in the direction of the door. ‘Get out’

  Beth emptied the basket and hurried out.

  ‘Do you let that sort of thing go on here, Elliot?’ Emma said angrily. ‘She’s just a young girl. You must do something.’

  ‘You don’t understand Emma. We don’t interfere in the blacks’ affairs.’ Elliot placed an arm around her shoulders. Emma moved away quickly. ‘You see, the niggers look after their own,’ Elliot continued. ‘Sometimes the young girls sent here from the mission, get interfered with by some of the old black hands. If it happens, we let the other blacks’ mete out any punishment. That’s the way it’s always been at Essex Downs.’

  ‘We never kept camp blacks at Yallambee,’ Emma said. ‘We had a few Aboriginal stockmen now and then and we paid them proper wages. We never had generations of Aboriginals born on the property and totally dependent on us.’

  ‘If you had, Emma, you would know these things are best left to the blacks to handle themselves.’

  ‘But Beth is a half-caste. She entitled to white law.’

  ‘Not until she’s sixteen, she isn’t.’ Elliot shrugged. Well, anyway, when would you like to go and see old Braithewaite?’

  Emma sighed. ‘As soon as possible, please. Perhaps this afternoon?’

  *

  Gerald Braithwaite was in conversation with one of his clerks in the front office when he saw Elliot pull up at the kerb outside the window.

  ‘Show Miss McKenna into my office,’ Braithewaite told the clerk. ‘And send some tea and biscuits as soon as you can.’

  ‘What is it, Mr Braithewaite?’ Emma asked as soon as she sat down. ‘Is there any good news?’

  ‘There are some new developments we need to discuss, Emma,’ Braithewaite said. He untied a length of string holding a dog-eared cardboard folder together and drew out a sheaf of papers. ‘Some are helpful, but I’m afraid some of them are not.’ His eyes scanned over the first of the documents. ‘I have here a memorandum of fees from the solicitors acting for VMP. It lists the amount due them under the mortgage including accrued interest and costs incurred in the foreclosure proceedings. I’m afraid it adds up to a very considerable sum. ’

  ‘How considerable?’ Emma asked quickly.

  ‘Just less than eleven thousand pounds.’

  ‘But that can’t be. There must be some mistake.’

  ‘Oh, it’s all listed here Emma. We have the right to have it scrutinized by an independent party of course, but under the circumstances…’

  ‘But under the circumstances they know we are in no position to do that,’ Emma said bitterly. ‘What other debts will be deducted from the sale proceeds?’

  ‘Just the usual fees of the auctioneers,’ Braithewaite replied.

  ‘And anything left over will come to us?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Emma.’ Braithewaite took another batch of papers from the cardboard folder. ‘I have here a large number of claims against your father’s estate, ranging from unpaid rates and taxes to bills from the local fuel agent and many other creditors, including the undertaker.’

  Emma sighed. ‘I’ve been hoping and praying there would be some money left over for us to start a new life somewhere.’

  ‘I did say from the beginning that would be very unlikely, Emma,’ Braithewaite said. ‘The only thing that we can hope for is a drought-breaking rain which might drive up the prices paid on the day of the sale.’

  ‘When is it?’

  ‘April the fifteenth.’

  There was a tap on the door and a clerk wheeled in the tea trolley. As Braithewaite poured the brew he said: ‘When you were here last, I said I would make enquiries into relief organizations which may be able to help you. I’ve had two positive replies to the letters I sent out explaining your family’s position. If the worst comes to the worst, I take it you won’t want to stay at Essex Downs.’

  ‘Heavens, no,’ Emma said. ‘I don’t want us to be beholden to Patrick Coltrane for a second longer than is absolutely necessary. You know what kind of a man he is. I can’t understand how Aunt Laura could ever have married him.’

  Braithewaite shrugged. ‘Oh, he was considered quite a catch when she did, Emma. He came from a wealthy, well-established family. Your Aunt Laura was considered to be very lucky.’

  ‘Not by the McKenna family.’ Emma countered. ‘My father told me he threatened not to go to the wedding.’

  ‘The feud between your father and Patrick Coltrane goes back a long way. There’s always been something between the two of them, something buried so deep in the past it may never come to light, especially now that your father is dead.’

  ‘It’s probably just as well.’ Emma sipped her tea, then laid down the cup. ‘Now, about these positive replies to your letters…’

  ‘Yes, well, first the twins. There’s a Roman Catholic order called the Brothers of the Apostles which is dedicated to the social, religious, and educational rehabilitation of boys who are orphaned, abandoned, or whose families, for one reason or another can no longer provide for them. Acceptance of the boys is based on need and the severity of their circumstances. But the brothers have offered places for both Bruce and Jack.’

  Emma looked horrified. ‘But it’s an orphanage! I could never send the boys to an orphanage, Mr Braithewaite. You must know my mother was raised in one in Brisbane. By all accounts it was a good one and I never heard her speak badly of it, but those places are for children without any family. The boys have got their mother and they’ve got me.’

  ‘But how can you provide for them?’

  When Emma said nothing, Braithewaite continued: ‘The brothers have a large mixed farm near Goombungee, just north of Toowoomba. It is practically self-sufficient. They grow most of their food and have a large commercial dairy herd. Many of the brothers are qualified teachers. The boys spend half their time working on the farm and the balance getting a sound education in the classrooms. Apart from the farm work, it wouldn’t be too different from their old boarding school. I’m told the accommodations are good and that the camaraderie between the young boys at the farm is excellent. You really should take advantage of this opportunity.’

  ‘When must I make a decision, Mr Braithewaite?’

  ‘As soon as possible. These days there are far more applications than places available.’

  ‘Can it wait until after the sale?’

  ‘I suppose so. But don’t delay a day longer. Now,’ Braithwaite paused, searching for the right words, ‘have you given any thought to your mother’s future well-being, now she is more dependent on you than ever?’

  ‘I think about it all the time.’ Emma said despondently. ‘But I just keep hoping against hope that we’ll have some money after the sale.’

  ‘I spoke with the doctor yesterday,’ Braithewaite said cautiously. ‘He says he has never seen anyone stay in shock so long. He said your mother might never speak again and she could deteriorate fur
ther; even her mind might be affected. He has told you all this, hasn’t he, my dear?’

  ‘Yes.’ Emma said. ‘And I can’t tell you how much it distresses me.’

  Braithewaite rubbed his chin for a moment. ‘Emma, please understand that as a friend I want to help as much as I can. At my time of life, I think perhaps I can see a little more clearly than you the absolute importance of making the right decisions now. However hard these decisions might be, you must consider the long term. For the next few years, at least until the boys are older, you are the only one who can provide any tangible help at all for your mother. But you can’t even do that if you are looking after her twenty-four hours a day.’

  ‘What are you trying to tell me, Mr Braithewaite?’ Emma looked confused.

  ‘I’ve made enquiries into the possibility of having your mother cared for. That would allow you to perhaps find a position of some kind which, if only as a domestic, would give you some sort of a life of your own and provide some income to contribute to the cost of your mother’s care. With no income you couldn’t care for her at all anyway and she’d have to be placed in an institution. I’ve been inside some of those places, my dear. Many of them are no more than prisons. That’s why I wrote to the Mary Wells Society.’

  A look of apprehension spread over Emma’s face.

  Before she could say anything, Braithewaite said: ‘It’s an international welfare organization which operates homes for underprivileged children and the incapacitated aged in many countries. It’s the society which operates the home your mother grew up in. Over the years your mother and father contributed generously to the Mary Wells Society. It was a way of showing their appreciation for the support the society gave your mother in her formative years. I told them of your mother’s changed circumstances. Like all welfare organizations these days their facilities are strained to the limit, but they’ve managed to find a place for her in their Armidale establishment in northern New South Wales. Please consider accepting it, Emma.’

  Emma sat silent for a long time. Eventually she said: ‘You are a good man, Mr Braithewaite. My father was fortunate to have you as a friend. You have made me see that since he died I haven’t faced up to the fact that we are destitute as a family, and I have no qualifications for employment except as a domestic or perhaps a seamstress. I made the mistake of making belief that everything wasn’t really lost, that the privileged life we led before this awful nightmare began wasn’t really over, that somehow there would be money left for us to start a new life somewhere together.’

  Emma rose to her feet. ‘It is not a mistake I will make again, Mr Braithewaite. Would you please be kind enough to notify the Brothers of the Apostles and also the Mary Wells Society that we accept and deeply appreciate their generous offers of assistance.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Emma lay in bed staring up at the ceiling. Kathleen lay sound asleep beside her, flat on her back, her small still body taking up little space in the bed. It was the day before the sale at Yallambee. All night long Emma had wrestled with the heartache of the decisions she had made in Gordon Braithewaite’s office. What troubled her most was that she had not yet found the strength to tell the boys about Hope Farm.

  When it started to get light, Emma got up and went to the boys’ room. She stood beside the bed for a long time trying to sum up courage to wake them. In the half-light the startling sameness of their faces gave no hint of the differences in their temperaments that she knew so well. .

  She sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Bruce… Jack.’ Emma repeated their names several times until they stirred and opened their eyes.

  Jack looked up at her, saying nothing. Bruce turned and lay on his side, propped up on one elbow. ‘What is it Emma?’

  As gently as she could, Emma began to tell the boys about the farm at Goombungee. Almost immediately, Jack began to cry and buried his face in his pillow. Bruce remained propped upon his elbow, his head cradled in his hand.

  ‘Will you and Mum be staying here until she’s well again? he asked when Emma had finished.

  ‘Yes…’ Emma said cautiously. ‘Well, for the time being anyway,’

  ‘When do we have to go?’

  ‘In a week or two when all the arrangements have been finalized.’

  ‘You will come and see us often, won’t you, Emma?’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  Later, only Bruce joined Emma in the kitchen for breakfast. Jack moodily chose to remain in his room until it was time to wash and go to the school. Mary arrived at the cottage just as the boys were leaving and Jack looked so upset that Emma decided to walk with them. As they neared the schoolhouse they heard a high-pitched whine in the distance. Gradually the whine grew louder. Soon it became a screaming roar. Suddenly a bright yellow biplane roared by directly over their heads.

  The aircraft flew low over the flat paddock between the cottage and the schoolhouse. Then it climbed steeply into the bright morning sunshine and swung away in a wide arc. A look of awe and delight lingered on the twins' faces as they entered the little schoolhouse. Emma was glad the unexpected aerial show had brought them a diversion from the prospect of Hope Farm.

  When Emma walked back to the cottage she heard the aircraft returning. She looked up to see the plane was gradually descending and realized it was coming in to land in the paddock. Soon it was no more than two hundred yards away, just a few feet off the ground and heading straight for her. When it touched down it bounced down the paddock in a swirling cloud of dust and came to rest so close to her its varnished wooden propeller was just a few yards away. Then the engine stopped and the pilot hoisted himself out of the cockpit and jumped down to the ground with a small travel case in his hand.

  He made a brief visual check of the aircraft then walked over to Emma. As he approached, he took off his goggles and leather flying helmet and unwrapped a white silk scarf from around his neck. He was tall, slender and fair-haired. Soon he was close enough for Emma to see his pale blue eyes. He grinned and held out his hand.

  ‘Good morning.’ He shook her hand very gently. ‘I do hope I didn’t frighten you. My name is Stephen Fairchild.’

  For a moment Emma was taken aback by his startling good looks. ‘Good morning,’ she said ‘I’m Emma McKenna.’

  The young man’s grin turned to a frown. ‘Oh dear, I thought I was on the Coltrane place, Essex Downs.’

  ‘Oh, but you are ,’ Emma said quickly. ‘I’m Patrick Coltrane’s niece. I’m staying here for a little while. Let me show you to the house.’

  As they walked from the paddock, Aunt Laura came out of the house and hurried towards them. When she reached them, Emma said, ‘This is Stephen Fairchild, Mr Fairchild, this is my aunt, Mrs Laura Coltrane.’

  ‘Welcome to Essex Downs, Mr Fairchild. I’m sorry you and my niece had to introduce yourselves. My husband expected you later in the day. He’s travelling home from business in Brisbane and my son has driven to Charleville to meet the train.’ Laura smiled generously. ‘My husband said you would be staying with us for a day or two.’

  ‘Yes, I’d like to if it isn’t too inconvenient. I have a great deal to discuss with your husband.’

  When they neared the house Laura turned to Emma. ‘While I show Mr Fairchild to his room, dear, would you ask Beth to make morning tea. You’ll join us, of course?’

  When Emma hesitated, Laura said, ‘But we insist.’ She turned to Stephen.’ Don’t we, Mr Fairchild?’

  While Laura took Stephen upstairs, Emma went through the house to the kitchen. She found Beth cleaning the ashes from the grate of the wood-burning stove. Her face had all but healed. Beth and Mary were the only Aboriginals who lived at the homestead. They lived in a small shed at the back of the house. The rest of the station Aboriginals lived in a cluster of bark huts at a camp beside a creek almost a mile away.

  Emma wondered if whoever had abused Beth had been punished She was about to ask when she heard Patrick Coltrane enter the front door of the house, his loud bo
oming voice in conversation with Elliot. Emma quickly asked Beth to make tea as Laura had asked but decided not to stay herself and slipped out the kitchen door.

  *

  The boys were late coming home for their sandwiches at midday, having spent a good deal of time looking at the yellow biplane in the paddock. Emma was glad the aircraft and not the farm at Goombungee dominated the lunchtime conversation.

  Mary didn’t call by that afternoon. Emma realized the old woman would have a lot to do over at the main house with the Coltranes entertaining a house guest. Around mid-afternoon Emma was washing clothes in a tub in the kitchen when Aunt Laura dropped in.

  ‘Mr Fairchild wondered where you got to this morning, my dear,’ Aunt Laura said. ‘He seemed disappointed you didn’t join us.’

  Emma fed a shirt into an old mangle beside the kitchen sink and turned the handle with both hands. ‘I’m sorry Aunt Laura, but…’

  ‘I understand,’ Aunt Laura said quickly. ’I didn’t expect Patrick home quite so soon myself. He’s been talking with Mr Fairchild in the study all day. He seems like such a nice young man. He’s a solicitor you know, a partner in one of Sydney’s largest law firms. You know, Emma, I’m sure he was quite taken with you.’

  Emma laughed, ‘And I’m sure he has lots of girls waiting for him in Sydney.’

  ‘They may have to wait for quite some time. He said he’ll be in Queensland for several weeks. It seems he’s drumming up support for an organization which fears the entire country is going to wrack and ruin. It must be very important work. I must say it all seems very exciting, flying around in that airplane of his.’

  Emma fed another shirt into the mangle. ‘Yes, I suppose it must be.’

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t spare Mary this afternoon,’ Laura apologized. ‘She’s busy helping me prepare a special dinner for tonight. That’s why I came over. I want you to join us.’

  Emma sighed.

  ‘Please, don’t say no,’ Emma. ‘Say you’ll come. Living with your uncle can be difficult. I rarely get the chance to entertain at Essex Downs, especially someone like Stephen Fairchild. I do want it to be an evening to remember. Do come, Emma. Do it for me. I’ll send Mary over to look after your mother.’