The Light Horseman's Daughter

by David Crookes

  Under normal circumstances Emma would have jumped at the chance to sit at the same table as Stephen Fairchild. But it was Patrick Coltrane’s table. Emma was about to refuse when she realized it was Laura’s table too, and her aunt had shown the McKenna’s nothing but kindness since they had come to Essex Downs. And although she had said nothing yet about their plans to leave the property, Emma knew she must tell Laura very soon. With the sale at Yallambee taking place the next day there might not be another opportunity to make her aunt happy.

  Emma looked up from the mangle and said: ‘I’d love to come, Aunt Laura. I’ll try and find something decent to wear. But first there’s something I must tell you about Mother and the twins.’

  *

  Laura decided not to run the risk of a failure at the dinner table by trying to prepare any fancy foods she suspected her guest ate in Sydney restaurants. Instead, she decided to serve a good wholesome country dinner. The meal would start with soup made from fresh garden vegetables, followed by home grown Essex Downs roast beef with all the trimmings. Afterwards she would serve fruit with fresh cream and tasty cheeses and crackers.

  Patrick Coltrane sat at one end of the long dining room table. Laura sat at the other end with Elliot and Stephen on one side and Emma opposite them on the other. Coltrane and Elliot wore dinner jackets and Laura’s plump figure was compressed into a once-perfect-fitting pale yellow chiffon dress.

  Emma looked less grand, but radiant, in a plain but stylish white dress she had made herself. It had an oval neckline, long wide sleeves, and was brought to life by a bright red sash around her waist. Stephen wore a smart grey lounge suit which somehow must have fitted into his flying bag.

  With Mary at the cottage looking after Kathleen and the twins, the serving of the meal was left solely to Beth. She wore a navy-blue linen smock with a starched white collar and cuffs and a white apron drawn tightly around her, which clearly defined the fullness of her youthful figure.

  From the moment Emma sat down at the table, she was conscious of Stephen’s eyes on her from across the table. She tried to avoid them, pretending to be hanging on to every word of small talk the Coltranes were making. It was only when Stephen was busy answering a barrage of Laura’s questions about the current social and cultural events in Sydney that Emma had the chance to appraise him.

  She liked his fair hair and pale blue eyes. His skin had a soft white quality not often seen in the bush. He spoke quietly and confidently in a clear refined voice which Emma thought more suited to gentle conversations in elegant Sydney drawing rooms than a remote property in the rough and ready Queensland outback. Emma couldn’t remember ever meeting a man with such charm and assurance before.

  More than once Stephen turned his eyes to Emma as he spoke and smiled. Each time she returned the smile then looked away. Emma could see the exchanges were not lost on Laura who sat beaming at the end of the table. And she knew too, by the surprised and sometimes sour look on Elliot’s face as he drank more and more red wine, that he too, had sensed the chemistry between her and the young lawyer from Sydney.

  Occasionally during the course of the evening, Stephen asked Emma questions about herself or her opinions on trivial matters. But at no time did he ask her anything about her family, or the reason for her stay at Essex Downs. Emma suspected he must already know and he didn’t broach the subject to avoid embarrassing her. She wished she had met this man in more favorable circumstances.

  It was only after dinner, when Beth served tea and coffee and Patrick Coltrane produced a decanter of fine aged port and a box of cigars, that the conversation turned to the purpose of Stephen’s visit to Essex Downs.

  ‘It’s a fine thing you and the New Guard are doing, young man,’ Coltrane expounded. He leaned back in his chair and exhaled a cloud of cigar smoke. ‘The conservative forces around the country must be rallied. God Almighty knows, someone has to alert the capital and credit providers of this country to the very real dangers facing Australia today. I agree with you entirely. We must be on guard, and if necessary support a call to arms to prevent the overthrow of democracy. We must save ourselves from the lame and ineffective governments of Prime Minister Scullin in Canberra and Bolsheviks like John Lang in New South Wales.’

  ‘Exactly, Mr Coltrane,’ Stephen said without elaborating. He took a sip of port.

  Emma thought Stephen looked reluctant to be drawn into a lengthy discussion. Laura appeared to be resigned to its inevitability. Elliot, already a little tipsy from the wine, but now quaffing port, had no interest at all in the topic of conversation and seemed more interested in watching the movements of Beth’s well-rounded body as she cleared away the last of the dishes on the table.

  ‘If the federal and state governments can’t see the lunacy of pandering to the unemployed,’ Coltrane persisted, ‘most of whom find themselves in that position because they have lived far too high on the hog and for far too long, then it’s time for responsible citizens who have created security and wealth through hard work and thrift, to lead the battle against the workers revolution that will surely come if no strong leadership is forthcoming.’

  ‘Quite right, Mr Coltrane,’ Stephen said dutifully. ‘I hear you’re interested in representing Queensland in the Senate. This country needs more men of your caliber in the federal arena.’

  Stephen took another quick glance at Emma.

  Emma smiled back.

  Laura’s face registered her approval. ‘Perhaps we should take our tea into the drawing room, Emma,’ she suggested. ‘I fear these men are going to set about solving the problems of the world over their port.’

  Emma and Aunt Laura moved to the drawing room and sat beside each other on a comfortable sofa. When Beth brought in tea, Laura praised her for serving dinner so well by herself and told her she could go to her quarters for some well-earned rest.

  ‘I’m so glad you came, Emma,’ Laura said when Beth left the room. ‘And everything did turn out well didn’t it? I mean. I’m sure Mr Fairchild enjoyed it, aren't you?’

  ‘I’m quite sure he did, Aunt Laura.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘It was lovely. Thank you for inviting me.’

  After chatting for a few minutes, Emma stood up and said she must be going.

  ‘All good things come to an end,’ Laura said. ‘I’ll get Elliot to walk you home.’

  ‘It’s really not necessary,’ Emma protested. But Laura insisted and they returned to the dining room to find Coltrane and Stephen engrossed in conversation. There was no sign of Elliot.

  ‘Where’s Elliot?’ Laura asked.

  ‘Elliot said he was going outside for some air,’ Coltrane said irritably, annoyed at the intrusion into the men’s conversation.

  ‘But I want him to walk Emma home.’

  ‘Perhaps I could?’ Stephen volunteered.

  ‘Emma is quite capable of walking over to the cottage by herself.’ Coltrane said curtly. 'Besides it’s a lovely bright night.’

  For a moment Emma hoped Stephen might insist and prevail over Coltrane’s rudeness. But he didn’t, and after an awkward moment he resumed talking with Coltrane.

  ‘I’ll walk you over, dear,’ Laura said as they left the room.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Emma said. ‘It’s just a few minutes walk. I’ll go out the back door in the kitchen. It’s quicker that way.’

  As Coltrane had said it was a clear night and the property was bathed in moonlight when Emma stepped outside. When she passed the servants shed at the end of the pathway she thought she heard a stifled cry. She stopped and listened. After a few moments she heard what sounded like the slap of flesh on flesh. She moved to the side of the shed and crouched below its only window. She listened again. She heard another slap and a muted cry.

  The small window above her was at shoulder height and it was open. Emma’s eyes were becoming used to the moonlight. Ever so slowly she raised herself up until she could see inside the shed. In the dim light she saw Beth standing against the opposi
te wall of the shed. She was naked. Elliot stood in his shirtsleeves in front of her, his back to Emma, his thin white hands roughly kneading Beth’s big brown breasts. Beth’s cheeks were wet with tears and her eyes were tightly closed.

  Emma watched as Elliot slipped his braces from his shoulders and pushed his trousers down around his ankles then roughly forced Beth’s legs apart. She didn’t know whether to scream out loud or run away. Instead she did neither. She just stood riveted to the spot, feeling a mixture of anger, hatred and fear all at the same time as she watched Elliot force Beth to submit.

  Emma turned and ran all the way to the cottage. She was startled to find Mary sitting out on the porch in the moonlight. She sank down into a chair beside the old woman and buried her head in her hands.

  ‘Oh Mary,’ she said despondently. ‘I just saw Mr Elliot rape Beth. I feel so ashamed. I just hid out of sight and watched. I didn’t do anything to try and stop him’

  Mary reached out and patted Emma’s shoulder. ‘You did right, Miss Emma,’ she said gently. ‘There’s nothing you could have done anyway. There’s nothing anyone can do about it. Never has been.’

  Emma looked up in astonishment. ‘You mean it’s happened before? It’s not the first time?’

  ‘Oh. no,’ Mary said. ‘And it won’t be the last. It’s always been that way on Essex Downs. The one good thing is, it’s nowhere near as bad as it used to be in the old days. There were no roads to speak of then, no motor cars, no wireless or telephones. For white men it was really remote out here. It was hard for the stations to get workers. A lot of squatters made sure there were Aboriginal girls available for their white workers so they wouldn’t just quit and move on. The Coltranes always kept the girls penned up like cattle behind a chicken wire and barbed wire fence down by the creek. The white men used to call it the "poke-pen".’

  Emma took her head out of her hands. ‘Good God, Mary,’ she gasped. ‘That’s disgusting. ‘How long ago was that?’

  ‘It ended about thirty years ago. Some white folk complained to the Aboriginal Protector, important people, people the Protector had to listen to. You know, white people with the churches. The Protector brought policemen out from Brisbane and released all the girls in the pen and took them away to reservations. Took all their babies too, some of them were almost white. After that, the same thing still went on, but there were no poke-pens anymore.’

  ‘Only the whites complained,' Emma said incredulously. ‘What about the blacks?’

  Mary shook her head. ‘You’re so young, Miss Emma, you don’t understand. In those days if a blackfella made trouble, the master would tell the Aboriginal Protector the blackfella had been stealing or pestering white women or something like that and he’d be sent to the bad-nigger settlement on Fraser Island without even a hearing or a trial. Once a blackfella was sent to that awful place, he was never seen or heard of again.’

  Emma looked at Mary’s kind old wrinkled face. ‘You were never penned up like that were you, Mary?’

  ‘No, Miss Emma,’ Mary said as she got up to leave. ‘I was one of the lucky ones. I was too ugly.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Emma was up early the next morning. Just after seven o’clock she saw Stephen from a window in the cottage. He was dressed in his flying leathers and walking, bag in hand, toward the airplane in the paddock. He was flanked by Patrick and Laura Coltrane. There was no sign of Elliot.

  The dawn had been late in coming. For the first time in months, a few grey scattered clouds hinted at a change in the weather. The twins joined Emma at the window, then they all went out onto the porch to watch the plane take off. Emma saw Stephen glance toward the cottage. He said something to the Coltranes and headed toward Emma and the twins.

  ‘If your sister will let you, you can come down to the paddock to watch me take off,’ Stephen said to the boys when he reached the cottage.

  Emma smiled and nodded. The boys raced away.

  ‘I did so want to walk you home last night, Emma,’ Stephen said.

  Emma smiled. ‘I would have liked that too, Stephen.’

  There was a short silence. He shrugged. ‘Perhaps another time. I might be here again before too long.’

  ‘I might not be here, Stephen.’ Emma said. ‘We’ll be leaving Essex Downs soon.’

  ‘How soon?’

  ‘A week or two. I’m not sure. You see, there’s a sale at Yallambee today. That’s where…’

  ‘I know, Emma.’ Stephen broke in. ‘Your aunt told me. I can’t say how sorry I am.’

  ‘Thank you, Stephen.’

  He turned to leave, then hesitated and reached into a pocket in his jacket. He held out his hand. ‘Here Emma… my card. Please keep it. If you’re ever in Sydney, or if there’s anything I can ever do for you, promise me you’ll contact me.’

  ‘I will, Stephen.’ Emma took the card. ‘I really will.’

  *

  Mary came over to the cottage just after the plane had taken off. Gerald Braithwaite arrived in his car a few minutes later.

  ‘Are you really sure you want to go to Yallambee?’ Braithewaite asked as he held the car door open for Emma. ‘You know, you really don’t have to go.’

  ‘Neither do you,’ Emma said as she got in the front seat. ‘Victorian Mercantile’s solicitors are obliged by law to send you all the details concerning the sale, you said so yourself.’

  ‘I’m only going because I owe it to your father to see with my own eyes that the regulations and procedures governing forced sales are fully complied with.’

  ‘Oh, my word, Mr Braithewaite,’ Emma said with feigned surprise. ‘Are you implying VMP and their agents can’t been trusted?’

  Braithewaite smiled wryly and closed the car door behind her.

  During the drive north, the isolated grey clouds that came with the dawn began to close in, at times blocking out the sun. As the car neared Yallambee, Braithewaite said, ‘You know Emma, it just could rain today.’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me,’ Emma said resignedly. ‘Now it’s too late to do the McKenna family any good.’

  *

  The auction was scheduled to start at ten o’clock sharp but it was a few minutes after that when Braithewaite’s car reached the top of the ridge overlooking Yallambee. As they drove down the dusty road to the homestead, memories of Emma’s girlhood came rushing back to her. She felt her eyes moisten and a lump came to her throat. Even now, she still found it hard to come to grips with the fact that Yallambee was no longer her home.

  The yard area was congested, so Braithewaite pulled up beside a stock truck parked on a rise some distance away. Emma was surprised to see a man in army khakis leading an old waler down a ramp at the rear of the vehicle. Two other men standing near the truck had their backs to her. At the bottom of the ramp the man with the horse took a long swallow from a hip flask.

  Emma and Braithewaite walked down off the rise toward a crowd gathered around a wagon from which the auctioneer was about to conduct the sale. As they approached, an auctioneer’s assistant pushed a sale catalogue into Emma’s hand. ‘We’ll be starting soon, miss,’ he said with a wink. ‘Don’t be afraid to bid up. The mortgagor’s loss is your gain.’

  Emma ignored him and looked around her. The lump came back to her throat. Everything she had ever known in her life was neatly arranged for sale. Larger items, like motor vehicles, farm implements and machinery were lined up in rows in the yard. A large number of cattle and sheep and a few old walers had been herded into several nearby holding yards.

  She looked toward the house. The front door was wide open. A sign invited all and sundry to come inside and look around. The veranda was strewn with hundreds of household items for sale. Each had a bright yellow tag with a lot number. Even from where she stood, Emma recognized things familiar since childhood. She looked away.

  Emma turned her attention back to the crowd around the wagon. She saw no one she knew. Not even anyone from neighboring properties. She had steeled herself earlier to fa
ce any sticky-beak neighbors, determined to look them squarely in the eye. But there weren’t any to be seen. Just a lot of strangers and opportunists picking over what was left of her childhood.

  ‘The vultures are out in force today, Emma,’ Braithewaite said quietly. ‘I see no graziers or farmers, just bargain hunters, buyers for the abattoirs, livestock dealers, second-hand merchants and perhaps a few cashed-up land speculators. They’re all looking to buy cheap and sell dear, especially the speculators who know they’ll double or treble their money in time.’

  Suddenly the loud voice of the auctioneer carried across the yard. ‘Your attention please. Under instructions from the mortgagee, we shall offer for sale here today all land and appurtenances, livestock, equipment and all miscellaneous chattels belonging to the late Jack McKenna. I shall now read the terms and conditions of the sale, after which we will commence with…’

  ‘One moment please.’

  Another loud voice interrupted the auctioneer. It came from the direction of the rise where Braithewaite had parked his car. The crowd turned their heads. A lone horseman was riding down slowly from the rise. He was mounted on the waler Emma had seen earlier. The rider held a rifle in one hand, the butt resting on his thigh, the barrel pointing into the air.

  There was a loud murmur from the crowd. All eyes were riveted on the horseman as he drew closer. Two men accompanied him on foot. One was short and stocky and had the leisurely gait of a farmer. The other was tall with flowing white hair and a patch covering his right eye. Emma recognized him as the stranger she had seen at her father’s funeral.

  The horseman was dressed in full military uniform. He wore a slouch hat with a chinstrap, and a sewn-in plume—a patch of emu hide with a cluster of feathers still attached to it. He looked to be in his early forties with a slim build and a handsome, but blotchy red face. An army kerchief was tied loosely around his throat with the ends tucked in beneath his tunic and he wore jodhpurs, high riding boots and spurs. A bandoleer was strung around his chest and a sheathed bayonet hung from the belt around his middle. The uniform was unmistakably the uniform of the Australian Light Horse.