Washerwoman's Dream

by Hilarie Lindsay

  7

  END OF CHILDHOOD

  THE CHILD HAD NO ONE to turn to for help as she watched her father’s condition deteriorate. She had been told to keep away from the McNabs. But when he sank into a morose silence and made no effort to get out of bed, refusing the tea and damper she offered, she became alarmed. She hailed one of the bullock drivers who was taking a load of timber to the mill. He stopped his team, put down his whip and, pushing his cabbage tree hat to the back of his head, followed her to where her father lay, his face flushed, his body racked with a hacking cough.

  ‘Hae ye some water, lassie?’ The man held the mug of water she gave him to her father’s lips, cradling him in his arms. ‘Come on, laddie, tae a wee sup, you’re on fire. Tis a fever ye hae. We’d best get ye to the hospital.’ He took the red cotton scarf from around his neck and, pouring a little water over it, wiped Wilfred’s face.

  ‘Get your clothes together, lassie. Ye canna stay here alone.’

  She did as he asked and tied up her few belongings in her blanket, then made a bundle of her father’s clothes, including his cut-throat razor, razor strop and his hairbrush, all the time wondering where they were going.

  The man told her his name was Angus McDonald and, as if reading her thoughts, said, ‘There’ll be nay room at the cottage hospital for ye. But I know someone who has a wee bairn. She could do wi’ an extra pair o’ hands. She’ll most likely gie ye a sixpenny bit for yer trouble.’

  He looked around the small hut then picked up the billy can which was half full of water and handed it to Winifred, ‘In case yer pa needs a drink.’

  Wilfred did not protest when the bullock driver wrapped a blanket around him and carried him out to the bullock dray. With Winifred beside her father, the bundles and billy can resting at her feet, the driver cracked his long whip in the air and called out, ‘Gang away, boys,’ and with a jolt the team lurched forward and settled into a slow, measured tread.

  The air was hot and humid, with a bank of black clouds away to the west. Angus pointed with his whip. ‘Some poor body’ll get a wettin’ tonight. Many’s the night I’ve spent by a flooded creek, rain peltin’ down, frogs croakin’, nothing for my tay but flour and water, and mozzies and sandflies eating me alive.’

  He gave Winifred a quizzical look and drew on his pipe, a cloud of smoke rising in the air. ‘It’s a good life but it’s hard. Plod along at five mile an hour, no one to talk to, nothin’ to see but trees. Ye find yerself talkin’ to the bullocks.’ He looked sideways at Winifred and began to laugh. It was an infectious laugh and she found herself joining in.

  Angus patted her on the hand. ‘That’s better. Ye look a bit peaky. Yer Pa’ll be all right. But he needs to git off that land afore it kills him. The Government done wrong selling folks worthless land. I ganged away … bought a team instead. O’course your Pa ain’t strong enough to run a team. Ye need plenty of brawn, and plenty of patience. ’Tis a lonely life but it suits me … since the Lord took Annie.’

  He fell silent, drawing on his pipe and gazing away into the distance.

  Winifred thought that perhaps Annie was his wife but she didn’t like to ask. In any case she had worries of her own. She looked at her father who had his eyes closed. She put out her hand to make sure that he was still alive and felt the heat rising from his body. It frightened her, thinking he might die. And if he died, what would happen to her? Perhaps she could go and live with Uncle William and his wife, but she had no idea where they were.

  Angus turned to her, blowing a great cloud of tobacco smoke over her head. ‘Don’t fash yeself, lassie. It’ll be a change for ye … like a holiday,’ and he smiled at her and once again patted her on the hand. ‘Has anyone told ye yer a bonnie wee lass?’

  She tried to smile back but instead felt tears prickling her eyes and looked away. She felt weighed down with apprehension. She knew nothing about housework. She’d kept house for her father in a sort of a way, but a small hut with a dirt floor wasn’t a real house. She knew how to sweep out their hut with a broom made of twigs after emptying the dregs of the tea on it to keep down the dust. And sometimes she picked wild flowers, or a handful of feathery pink grass, which she placed in a jam tin on the table. She rinsed the plates and mugs in the creek, as well as washing the clothes which she hung on bushes to dry while she dangled her feet in the water, wearing one of her father’s old shirts which served as underwear and nightgown.

  The knowledge that she was being sent to strangers frightened her more than anything. She had lived in isolation for so long that she did not know how to relate to other people. Any social graces she had acquired from her mother had disappeared. She was also mortified because the clothes she had arrived with three years ago hung in tatters which barely covered her body. The boots, which were once two sizes too big, were now too small. Her father had cut the toes out with a knife but the soles had separated from the uppers and flapped up and down when she walked, so that she had to be careful not to trip. Her hair still curled around her face but it was matted and unkempt and needed a good brushing. Her father either did not notice or did not care, knowing that no one ever saw her. He had discouraged visitors, wanting to be left alone.

  If the doctor who examined Wilfred and admitted him to hospital raised his eyebrows when he saw the girl in a skimpy dress that barely reached beyond her thighs, he did not comment. He was used to the way the settlers’ children looked. He knew how poor most of the farmers were, with their wives forever having children which he delivered, receiving in lieu of his fee half a sheep or pig when they killed a beast. There was no money to buy clothes. Instead they turned sugar bags into shirts and dresses and their children ran round bare-footed, their toes splayed and the soles of their feet developing the texture of leather.

  It was he who drove Winifred in his buggy to the house where she was to stay, after a tearful farewell with her father whom she wondered if she would ever see again. The doctor took her to the door and, after a whispered conversation with a woman inside, said goodbye to Winifred and drove off.

  Winifred found herself in a large room divided off with a piece of hessian. A woman was seated at a table with a baby at her breast and another young child clinging to her skirts, its thumb in its mouth. Winifred glanced around the room at the black fuel stove in one corner and the two long planks of wood supported by rough-cut timber legs which ran along each side of the table and served as seats. In one corner a cradle made from a butter box rested on a wooden stand. Winifred put down her bundle of clothes, wondering where she was going to sleep, but afraid to ask, and turned shyly towards her new employer.

  ‘I’m Mrs John Smith. The doctor tells me your name is Winifred Oaten, that you’re strong and healthy and I’m to give you sixpence a week. Here, take the baby,’ and she handed the small, red-faced scrap to the girl who, never having held a newborn infant before, took her gingerly, afraid that she might drop her.

  ‘Put her down,’ the woman said, and pointed to the cradle.

  Winifred did as she was told, gazing at the baby, who had her eyes open and was staring back at her. She put out her hand and the baby reached out and touched it.

  ‘There’s no time to play. The men will be in for their dinner, and I’ve got to give little Freddie some titty-bottle. The cow’s gone dry and the goat ain’t giving any milk.’ She picked up the toddler and put him to her breast where he started to suck lustily, kicking his legs. ‘You’d best hurry. There’s two little ones asleep and they’ll be wanting something to eat soon.’

  The woman looked at Winifred, as if seeing her for the first time. ‘How old are you, child?’

  ‘Nearly twelve.’

  ‘Have you no pinafore to cover your modesty?’

  Winifred shook her head.

  The woman reached out and handed Winifred a sugar bag apron which was hanging on a nail on the wall. ‘Put this on. It ain’t right for a big girl like you to be showing so much. My boys are grown men. If you excite their passions, then where wi
ll we be?’

  Winifred pulled on the garment which covered her from head to foot and tied it at the back.

  ‘That’s much better. Now run along and fetch a bucket of water from the well and see that the goat has water.’

  The girl stepped out into the yard, wondering how she would find the well, then she saw the goat lying in the shade of a tree. It had a rope round its neck which had become tangled around the tree trunk. She wondered if she was expected to disentangle it, but she was afraid of the creature and kept her distance. It had kicked over a cut-down kerosene tin which she thought must be for water. She picked it up and carried it to the well which was at the far end of the home paddock. The well had a wooden cover and she struggled to lift it, finally managing to push it far enough to one side to make an opening. There was a pail hanging above it which was attached to a windlass and she turned the handle, hearing the pail hitting the sides of the well until, a long way down, it splashed into the water. She filled it and began to wind it up again, feeling the pull on her muscles, until she had it to the top. She filled the goat’s dish and carried it over to where the goat was lying, then returned and emptied the rest into her bucket. It was only half full and she wondered whether she should fill it but didn’t want to waste any more time. The water was alive with wrigglers, not like the clear water she got from the creek. Without replacing the cover on the well, Winifred struggled back to the house. Mrs Smith was busy at the stove when Winifred carried the bucket inside and put it on the floor. ‘It’s got things in it.’

  ‘They won’t hurt,’ the woman said. ‘Fill the kettle and empty the rest into the tin dish by the door. The men’ll want a wash. Did you put the cover back on the well?’

  Winifred shook her head. ‘It’s too heavy.’

  ‘Nonsense! You’re a big strong girl. I hope you’re not going to be useless.’ She wiped her hands on her apron and grabbed the empty bucket. ‘I’d best go and do it myself. The children had a pet wallaby last year, drowned itself in the well and we couldn’t hardly drink the water for weeks.’ She pointed to a black pot on the stove with a huge metal spoon in it. ‘Stir the porridge and make sure it don’t burn.’

  Winifred put her hand around the spoon and the metal bit deep into her palm. It was red hot from the boiling porridge and she dropped the spoon back in the pot, tears in her eyes from the pain. She took a corner of her apron, and wrapped the cloth around the handle of the spoon and began to stir, splashing some of the contents of the pot on the stove.

  ‘Not like that!’ the woman came bustling into the kitchen.

  ‘The spoon was too hot and it burnt me,’ Winifred said.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Mrs Smith, who put her hand on the spoon and began to stir. ‘Go and fetch some wood. If there’s no kindling you’ll have to chop some. Use the axe. And watch out for snakes. They’re bad this year.’

  The girl did as she was bid, looking at her hand as soon as she got out the door. It was very painful and an ugly blister had formed in the centre of her palm. She was relieved to see that there was plenty of wood and picked up an armful, piling it in her apron, stopping to look at some green ants that were building a nest in an ironbark and a crow lazily circling the paddock. She turned and hurried back to the house. She could hear the sound of men’s voices and knew that they were coming in for their midday dinner. She was hungry and hoped there would be enough for her as well.

  There were four sons in the Smith family and Winifred learned later that they were the sons of the first wife, who had died of snakebite. They ranged in age from seventeen down to thirteen, and after sluicing water over their face and hands, they sat on either side of the table. Their stepmother handed them a plate of cold meat with a spoonful of pickles which she had taken from a small boxlike structure covered in netting. There was a loaf of bread on the table and the eldest of the boys cut it into thick slices which they ate hungrily.

  ‘Make the tea, Winifred,’ Mrs Smith said and handed her a large grey enamel teapot. ‘Put in a handful of tea leaves and fill it with water. There should be enough for us to have a cup when the boys is done. Don’t forget to rinse the pot afore you put the tea in, and make sure the water’s boiling.’

  Winifred lifted the tea caddy down from a shelf over the stove and then tried to lift the kettle, but was deterred by the steam pouring out of the spout, frightened that the metal handle might be hot. Her hand was still hurting from her burn.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, child, what’s the matter with you? I’ve a good mind to send you straight back.’ She pushed Winifred to one side and, lifting the steaming kettle, poured a little water into the teapot. This she empied into the tin wash dish and then, tossing in a handful of tea leaves, filled the teapot with water and put it on the table. She turned towards the girl. ‘Do I have to tell you everything? Don’t stand there like a bag of wheat. Fetch the tin mugs and the sugar.’

  Winifred did as she was told, conscious of four pairs of eyes staring at her. She hung her head and went to the corner where the baby was sleeping with a piece of netting thrown over the cradle to keep the flies away. There was no sign of the other children, whom she imagined must be sleeping in another room.

  ‘This is Winifred Oaten. She’s come to help me for a couple of weeks until her dad gets better.’ She turned to Winifred. ‘These are the boys — Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. They run the farm while their father is away droving.’

  Winifred looked at them. They were busy cleaning up the last of the loaf of bread, dunking it in the strong black tea. Luke looked up briefly, ran his eyes over her and then went on eating. When they had finished they pushed back the long wooden bench and, without speaking, picked up their broad-brimmed hats which they had hung by the door and went out into the heat of the afternoon sun.

  The room seemed empty once they had gone. Mrs Smith lifted two tin bowls from a shelf and carried them to the stove where she spooned in a generous serving of hot porridge. ‘Here.’ She handed a bowl and a tin spoon to Winifred. ‘You must be hungry. Pour yourself a cup of tea. I save the meat for the boys. They do all the hard work. There’s no milk … the cow’s dry. If you hear her bellowing presently, it’s because she needs a bull. I’m waiting for John to take her, but it’s a good ten-mile walk and he’s helping Luke repair the fence in the back paddock. Kangaroos got in and flattened the wheat. Their dad’ll go mad when he finds out. He’ll take a stockwhip to the boys if he can catch them. Yet it weren’t no one’s fault.’

  The job was hard but it had its compensations. Mrs Smith taught Winifred how to bake bread, something she had never done before because her father still cooked on an open fire and his only attempt at bread-making was damper cooked on the coals. The girl enjoyed kneading the dough and watching it rise, then punching it down again, later savouring the taste of bread still warm from the oven. And once the boys brought in a pair of rabbits they had trapped and she learned how to skin and dress them and bake them stuffed with chopped onion and bread. It was a meal she remembered for a long while.

  She slept on a calico sack filled with bracken fern which Mrs Smith spread on the kitchen floor by the baby’s cradle. Mrs Smith and her three other children slept in a small room inside and the boys slept behind the hessian curtain. Winifred could hear them talking and later grunting and snoring in their sleep.

  One night she woke, conscious that someone was bending over her, then she felt a hand slide beneath her blanket and over her breasts. She held her breath, too frightened to call out and then a voice she recognised as Luke’s whispered, ‘There’s nothing of you yet, more’s the pity. You’ll keep.’ She held her breath until she heard him open the back door and then the sound of him making water. It reminded her of the cab horses she had seen in Lambeth, standing with water streaming out in great bursts. And she had a sudden vision of the man in the lane behind Tradescant Street who had frightened her when she was only a tiny girl. She shivered and pulled her blanket tightly around her. When she woke it was morning and the baby was cryi
ng. She got up and carried her into her mother.

  It fell to Winifred to care for the infant, getting up when she cried in the night to change the wet rag for a dry one, and in the cool of the afternoon carrying her outside and sitting with her under the shade of a tree. The toddler and the two older children sat by her side, and she made up fairy stories to entertain them.

  But there were a thousand and one other jobs for her to do as well, and she had no time to sit and daydream as had been her custom. There was washing to do — first carrying the water to an old kerosene tin in the yard, lighting a fire underneath and stirring the clothes with a pot stick. The boys’ work clothes were heavy and after rinsing them in a tin bath she struggled to lift them onto a rope tied between two trees. Later there was the ironing to do with an old black iron which she heated on the fuel stove, spitting on it to test the heat as she had seen Mrs Smith do.

  Though she was learning valuable lessons that would help her earn her living, she knew she was being imposed on for sixpence a week and she was always tired. Her nights were disturbed by the boys walking past her to relieve themselves in the yard and the baby crying because she had wet herself.

  On her last visit to her father, when she had once again spent her sixpence on twist tobacco, she was overjoyed to hear him say, ‘I’ll come for you next week. The doctor says I can go home. There’s good news. I’ve found William and his wife. They’re coming to live with us. William will work the land and I can get work at Jondaryan Station and bring in some money. You’ll have your Aunt Lydia for company.’