Catriona put down the letter with a frustrated sigh. The mail took so long to get here, and the telephone system in Rome was hopeless, even worse than at Belvedere. It could be weeks before she heard any more.
She swiftly read through the letter from Fred Williams. Belvedere was going from strength to strength, and the work on the homestead was almost finished. She sighed with longing. If only she could see it, she thought, but it would be at least another year before she could find the time to make the journey out there.
The last letter in the pile was from Poppy. She and Ellen had been working for almost a year in Drum Creek’s one and only pub, and Connor was a sturdy three-years-old and thriving. They were busy with their vegetable garden and had already begun to sell their produce to the local store. Ellen had also begun a dressmaking business which was picking up nicely and all in all life was good and they were happy.
Catriona had been concerned over Brin’s welfare during the short flight to Paris, but he seemed to have rallied a bit and was looking forward to seeing the Eiffel Tower and Montmartre. Paris was exciting as always, and as soon as they were settled into a hotel, Catriona took Brin shopping in the hope he would regain his old spark of enthusiasm.
It was not to last. The doctors were baffled and Brin was getting slowly worse, until even a short outing in a taxi up the Champs Elysee exhausted him. As time moved on, Catriona feared the worse, and when he asked to be taken to a hospital, she knew the end was near.
‘I’m dying, darling,’ he said as he lay in bed, propped up by pillows. ‘But Paris is probably the best place for it.’ His smile was wan. ‘Thanks for letting me come with you, sweetie. I do adore you.’
Catriona took his hand. ‘And I adore you too,’ she breathed.
Brin asked her to brush his hair and help him into the richly hand-embroidered jacket they had bought at Chanel. Dressed for the occasion, Brin smiled sadly at his reflection in the mirror she held for him and then closed his eyes and left her. Catriona was numb with grief. It seemed as if life was intent upon taking away all those she loved, and as she sat there in the hushed French hospital room, she felt incredibly alone and very far from home.
Brin had the funeral he wanted. Black horses, a glass and ebony carriage, plumes, flowers and candles. He would remain always in Paris – the city of romance.
*
Eight months later she received a worrying letter from Fred Williams. He’d begun the long, carefully penned missive with news of Belvedere. The Station was doing well and the new herd was shaping up nicely. Billy Birdsong was a godsend – he had proved to be a man of infinite intelligence regarding the land and the elements they were constantly battling against. He suggested that Billy should be given a raise in wages, for he was now the proud father of three children.
Catriona smiled. She’d liked the Aborigine, and on her brief visits to Belvedere he’d taken her out into the bush and patiently explained the mysteries of the plants and animals to be found there. She turned the page.
Poppy and Ellen still worked in the pub and their market-garden was doing well. Unfortunately, Ellen had grown restless during the past month. She’d been heard complaining about how bored she was and how much she was missing the bright lights of Sydney. Without Poppy’s knowledge, she’d written to Michael, her husband. It appeared she’d thought he’d changed, and – absence making the heart grow fonder – had told him where she was and had begged him to come and get her.
Catriona’s lips tightened as she swiftly read the rest of the letter. Poppy had gone to Fred and told him Michael had turned up, taken one look at their nice little set-up there and immediately decided to stay. As a favour to Poppy, Fred had taken him on as a fence-poster. But he’d proved unreliable and too fond of the drink.
Michael Cleary then got work in the pub, but was soon caught with his hand in the till and sacked. He worked for a while at the feed-store before giving up all together and living off Poppy and Ellen’s meagre earnings. He was a no-good drunk in Fred’s opinion, with a nasty temper, and he owed money to everyone.
Poor Poppy was too ashamed to tell him everything, but he’d read between the lines and things weren’t at all as they should be. Poppy and Ellen had tried to disguise them, but he’d seen the bruises and the black eyes – and wanted to know what he should do about Michael Cleary.
Catriona was furious. Furious with Poppy for not confiding in her. Furious with Ellen for being so stupid as to let that awful man back into their lives, and furious she couldn’t go there immediately and give the bastard a piece of her mind. She fired off a letter to Fred, telling him to take Michael to one side and warn him off – threaten him with violence if he had to – but to make sure he left the women alone. Then she fired off a letter to Michael himself, warning him that if he laid a finger on the women again she would personally see the police were informed. The last letter was more difficult. Poppy was proud, and when she realised Catriona was aware of her plight, she would do her best to deny it. But the little boy had to be protected before his father started beating him too, and Catriona needed to make it very plain that she intended to seek custody of Connor should the violence continue.
*
Connor had no recollection of the first time his father had hit him, and because it happened on a regular basis, he’d come to accept that was how life was. His father didn’t need an excuse, and drunk or sober, in good mood or bad, Connor had become his whipping-boy.
By the time he was four years old, Connor had learned to keep out of his way, learned not to scream in terror and pain as he was knocked from one end of the wooden shack to the other. Learned to bury his face in his pillow at night and cry silent tears as the bruises throbbed and his head rang with his father’s curses. His childhood had been swept away before he’d had a chance to know what it could be like.
He spent every day feeling confused and frightened. Each time he heard his father’s footsteps on the verandah he experienced a shudder of terror. Were the steps light, was he sober and in a good mood? Or were they thudding, the very house shaking as he slammed through the screen door and roared for his dinner? It seemed to him that it was mostly the latter.
A terrible silence would fall in the kitchen as he strode in, the reek of drink on his breath, the gleam of malice in his eyes. Granny would cringe, her eyes downcast as Mum hastily put his food on the table and scuttled out of his reach and into the darkest corner. Connor would try to become invisible, hiding in the shadows, staying silent and watchful, poised to run. It was as if the house was holding its breath; waiting for the boot to fall, the fist to rise.
His mum tried to protect him. She had taken the beatings and kickings and shielded him with her bruised and battered body that was swollen with his baby brother or sister. Granny would scream and shout and be knocked flying by his fists until she didn’t have the strength to get up off the floor again and continue her attack.
As he stood there that particular night in wide-eyed, terrified silence and watched his granny being kicked, he felt his own anger rising. He was going to fight back.
His fists looked so small as he beat against his father’s sturdy thigh, and his bare feet seemed to make no impact at all on the thick ankles as he kicked and kicked and screamed for him to stop hurting his gran.
He was silenced by a vicious kick. The boot caught him on the chin, sending him crashing against the stone hearth. He lay there stunned, his sight blurred as Gran screamed and tried to pull his father away. He could make out the crumpled figure of his mother in the far corner and was slowly aware of something warm and sticky on his chin and down his neck. Then blackness closed in and the shouts and screams disappeared.
When he next opened his eyes he was in his gran’s arms. She was singing to him in her funny voice as she washed his face with a cool cloth. He nestled into that bony frame and warm, loving arms and longed, simply, for the hurting to stop.
*
The year in Paris were almost at an end. Catriona had just come
off stage when the dresser handed her the telephone. ‘It’s from Australia,’ he said in whisper.
‘Sounds urgent.’
Catriona took the handset. ‘What’s the matter?’
It was Fred. ‘One of my men heard screams coming from the shack. He saw Cleary storm out and drive off and went in to have a look.’
There was a long pause and the atmospherics on the line hissed and clicked between Belvedere and Paris. Catriona gripped the receiver.
‘Poppy’s bruised and battered and Ellen isn’t much better,’ Fred said grimly. ‘But poor little Connor got it this time.’
Catriona felt the chill of dread prickle on her skin. ‘Is he all right?’ she asked.
‘He’s shaken and terrified, and he’ll always carry a scar on his chin where the bastard kicked him.’
Catriona’s tears fell and she swiftly brushed them away. They wouldn’t help Connor. ‘Should he go to the hospital?’ she said. ‘I’ll pay whatever it costs to make sure he gets proper medical care.’
‘The local doc’s already been in and patched them up,’ he said, his voice rough with emotion. ‘But the women refuse to leave the house. They’re terrified of what Cleary will do if he comes back and finds them gone.’
Catriona gritted her teeth. Why did some women remain victims? Why the hell didn’t they get out and find shelter at the homestead? If it had been up to her, she would have faced the bastard with a shotgun and not been afraid of pulling the bloody trigger.
Fred cleared his throat. ‘The mongrel deserves a taste of his own medicine,’ he growled. ‘I want your permission to run him out of town.’
‘You have it,’ she replied.
He outlined his plan and Catriona admired his cold efficiency. ‘Ring me and let me know when it’s done,’ she said flatly.
*
The men of Drum Creek gathered in the room behind the feed-store. There were ringers and drovers and jackaroos from Belvedere, the owners of the small stores in Drum Creek and the regulars of the pub. They had all come to dislike Cleary, and most of them were owed money by him; but it wasn’t the money that had brought them to the feed-store that night, it was the disgust they all shared for the mongrel who’d beaten up an old woman, a pregnant girl and a little kid.
The landlord of the pub sent word that Cleary was drinking there, and if they didn’t get there soon he’d have passed out. The men moved as one as they left the back room and walked across the broad dirt road. Cleary was at the bar, shouting for the landlord to give him another drink.
‘You’ve had your last drink here, mate,’ said Fred as he stood in the doorway.
Cleary turned and leaned against the bar. His eyes were bleary, his face mottled with anger. ‘Yeah?’ he slurred. ‘And how d’ya figure that out?’
‘We don’t want you here, Cleary,’ shouted one of the men behind Fred. ‘This was a nice little town before you arrived.’
Cleary swayed on his feet as he squared up to the men who were pouring through the double doors. ‘I’ll fight every last one of you bastards,’ he shouted, spittle flying. He raised his fists and they saw the bruising on them.
‘About time you hit someone yer own size, yer bloody mongrel,’ shouted one of the drovers, who followed up this angry retort with a shuddering right hook.
Cleary stumbled and would have fallen if he hadn’t been pinned to the bar by the landlord. The others moved forward and grabbed him, dragging him out into the street. The blows rained down and he fell to his knees, pleading with them to stop. A boot caught him in his side, and another shoved him face down in the dirt.
The circle of men drew back as he screamed for them to stop. They watched in silence as he crawled around in the dirt and begged them not to hurt him. His face was bruised and one eye was swollen shut. Snot and tears streaked his face and his mouth was slack with fear.
Fred yanked him to his feet. ‘Get out of town,’ he said to the befuddled Cleary. ‘And if we see your face around here again, we’ll give you a beating you’ll never forget.’ He shoved Cleary in the direction of his ute. ‘Touch that kid again and I’ll personally take a stock whip to you.’
*
Ellen had gone into labour and Connor had been put to bed in the other room and told to stay there. His gran had looked worried and for the first time in his life she’d been short with him. He lay there listening to the awful sounds of his mum crying out. Something was hurting her, but how could that be, he wondered. Dad hadn’t come back.
He heard a strange cry – it sounded angry – but it wasn’t his mother. After what seemed an age, his gran came in and she was smiling. ‘Come on, me duck,’ she said softly. ‘Come and say hello to your new sister.’
Connor went to his mother’s room and looked at the bundle in her arms. ‘This is Rosa,’ she said, her voice weary.
Rosa was a tiny little thing with a shock of black hair and a mighty yell. Her face was all screwed up and her fists were waving, her feet kicking as if she was furious at being born. Connor looked at her in awe and fell instantly in love. He’d no idea where she’d come from, or why she was here, but from that moment on he knew here was someone else he had to protect from Dad.
He watched as Gran put Rosa carefully into the wooden cot he used to sleep in, then he climbed into his mother’s bed. Careful not to hurt her, he gave her a kiss on her bruised face. She looked very tired, but she smiled and stroked his hair, holding him for a while before she finally fell asleep.
The peace and silence was shattered by the slam of the door hitting the bedroom wall. Connor was jerked awake and scurried from force of habit under the bed. His mum started screaming and Rosa joined in. Michael Cleary was a terrifying sight, covered in blood, one eye swollen and turning black. He was drunk and in the darkest temper.
Connor cringed as his father’s boots approached the bed. Mum had stopped screaming and was frantically trying to sooth Dad out of his temper. Gran was wrestling with him, trying to get him out of the room. And all the while, Rosa was screaming; a high-pitched, seemingly endless scream that hammered in Connor’s head and made him yearn to silence her, for surely his father would hurt her if she didn’t stop?
Michael Cleary swayed next to the bed, his voice rising above the awful din. ‘Shut that brat up before I kill it,’ he yelled.
Gran scuttled across the room and gathered up Rosa. Connor edged to the very depths of the shadows beneath the bed and Mum started to sob.
Connor held his breath, the tension in the room so strong he could feel it hammering in his head. He heard the creak of his father’s boots as he stood by the bed and swayed back and forth. If only Mum would stop crying, he thought in despair. Dad hated it when she cried.
Without warning, came the awful sound of flesh punching flesh. It was a single blow to the defenceless Ellen, delivered with all the strength and venom Michael Cleary could muster. Without another word he gathered up his few belongings and left the house.
His dad’s departure brought an uneasy calm; a calm laced with the terror he might return. Despite all assurances from Fred and Billy Birdsong, they remained on their guard. At any moment they expected to hear the thud of his boots on the verandah and the crash of the screen door.
As the weeks passed and they heard no news of him, Connor and his mother and grandmother dared to believe they were really free. Yet it was to be years before Connor stopped cringing at any loud noise, years before he could sleep without a light on in his room.
Chapter Fourteen
After Michael’s exile, Ellen grew more and more dissatisfied with life in the Outback. It was almost as if Michael’s beatings had given her some excitement, had added the drama to her life she’d been missing. She began to neglect the children, leaving Poppy to look after them while she sat in the pub and drowned her sorrows.
It was there that she met a flashy travelling salesman by the name of Jack Ivory. He was a man who could talk his way into and out of any situation. He had a charm and a winning smile and never s
eemed short of money. Ellen, a woman who found life difficult without a man at her side, saw a chance to escape the drudgery of being a mother and breadwinner. Determined not to miss this promise of a new life, she returned to the cottage and began to pack her bags. After a furious row with Poppy and many tears and entreaties from her children, Ellen walked out and didn’t look back. She and Jack drove away from Drum Creek and were never heard of again.
Catriona was saddened, but not surprised by Poppy’s news. Ellen had always been flighty, her choice in men, questionable. But it was the children she really felt for – how could any mother turn her back on a small baby and a little boy who was bewildered and hurt enough already?
She fulfilled her engagements in London and New York and as soon as she returned to Australia, she made sure her busy life was organised so she could visit Belvedere on a more regular basis. Poppy was too old to be raising such young children, and although Billy Birdsong’s wife went in each day to help, Catriona knew Poppy was at the end of her tether. Her offer to help financially had been gruffly turned down and it seemed Poppy was deternined to raise the children as well as keep working.
Over the following eight years Catriona found she looked forward more and more to the short visits, and always took presents for the children, and make-up and perfume for Poppy. It was good to shed the formal suits and high heels for strides and flatties, and the chance to breathe the good clean air of Belvedere always meant she returned to Sydney refreshed and eager for work. Yet she despaired of Poppy ever being still, even though she admired her fierce pride – her strength – and realised her old friend would work until the day she dropped.
The little house smelled of freshly baked bread and furniture polish. The windows sparkled and the wooden floor had been swept. Through the back door, Catriona could see the neat lines of vegetables growing in the rich black soil, and the crisp white laundry flapping in the warm breeze. Poppy had returned from the pub, where she cooked good, plain food for the customers. Her lunchtime stint was over, but she would go back to cook the teas later that evening. The house was quiet; Connor and Rosa were at the local school.
Dreamscapes Page 24