Washerwoman's Dream

by Hilarie Lindsay

  Though prayers were prescribed five times a day, they only prayed three times when they were travelling, except on Juma, which fell on Friday. On that day they said full prayers. Before they prayed they changed into their prayer suits which were of calico. If there was no water to perform the ritual ablutions they substituted clean sand, which they heaped into a cone and blessed. Sometimes they spent Juma sleeping unless there were saddles to mend, or camels with sores or the mange which needed covering with dripping and tar. For a treat Winifred would soak some dried apricots and make an apricot pie in the camp oven.

  She always enjoyed pulling into a station. The Aboriginal children would run to meet them and the station owner and his wife and children would be standing by the gate in the home paddock. It was a welcome respite to be warmly greeted and shown into a room with clean sheets on the bed, and lie in a bath filled with hot water from the black-iron fountain on the fuel stove. Later she and the woman would talk far into the night. Sometimes she came away with a stack of back issues of the Ladies’ Home Journal, which she pored over, reading the gossip, looking at the latest fashions and the tips on how to preserve your looks. If she noticed her weather-beaten skin when she glanced in the mirror in the guestroom of the homestead, she ignored it. Once on the track again she forgot about it.

  It never occurred to her that Ali noticed how she looked. Away from the Aboriginal camp, their children sleeping, Ali still held her, kissing her tenderly, putting her hands to his lips as he had always done, telling her she was the jewel of his heart. Stirred by her own passion she had no reason to doubt his love.

  They had been away three months, journeying almost to the western border, and had arrived at a homestead along the route at dusk. The camels had been unloaded and settled for the night. The children were swimming in a lily-covered pond with the Aboriginal children, under the watchful eyes of one of the women. Winifred and Ali were talking to the owner of the property, a middle-aged man, when his nineteen-year-old wife appeared. She was wearing a white muslin blouse and long black skirt, her fair hair curling softly around her shoulders, her unlined face youthful and fresh.

  Winifred went to stand beside the young woman and as she did so she saw Ali glance at the young wife and then at her. A look of disgust passed over his face and she became conscious of her unkempt appearance. Her hair was greasy and lank and there were buttons missing from the old blouse she wore over a pair of Ali’s old pants, which were torn and dirty and held up with a piece of string. She could smell the fragrance of lavender water, and she stepped to one side, acutely aware of her own smell of sweat and camel. It was weeks since she had had a proper bath.

  Winifred realised that she should have bathed and changed her clothes before they reached the homestead but she had not had time. She had been chasing a recalcitrant camel and riding another one hard. Now she felt mortified. That night as she lay in bed Ali stood over her wearing his turban. She had bathed, washed her hair and changed into a clean white nightgown. Now her hair hung softly and sweet-smelling around her shoulders as she gazed up at him. Instead of unwinding his turban as he normally did, he stood glaring at her, his brown eyes flashing as he hissed, ‘Once I thought you beautiful. Now I am ashamed to call you my wife. Tonight you looked like some filthy tramp.’

  Winifred looked at him stricken, and then she began to weep, thinking of how hard she had worked for him and the children, with no thought for her own comfort. She had raised young camels to build his string, learned to milk a camel to make sure the children had fresh milk, cooked meals, washed and mended, even though she was ready to drop. Never complaining. Because she loved him and he loved her.

  She felt his arms encircle her, and she rested her head on his shoulder until her tears subsided. Then he put his hand under her chin and raised her head, gazing into her eyes. ‘Forgive me. This life is hard for a woman. It would have been better if you had stayed in Oodnadatta with the other women.’

  She leaned her head against his chest and whispered, ‘I could not bear for us to be parted.’

  The incident came as a warning and Winifred began to take more care of her appearance, though she could not undo the damage done to her skin by the sun. Still, she made sure she brushed her hair and sponged her face and hands and changed into a clean blouse and skirt when they were approaching a homestead. After rain, when paperdaisies and Sturt’s desert peas sprang up almost overnight, she would pick a flower and put it in her hair before they sat down to their evening meal, then decorate their bed with flowers as Ali had done on their wedding night. He responded with renewed tenderness. Secure in his arms she knew that everything was right between them, as if the incident on the station had never happened.

  The experience of travelling to the far north and northwest of Australia brought Winifred into contact with people on the land who owned holdings that stretched for hundreds of miles, with vast herds of cattle. She knew they were wealthy, that was clear from the nice furniture, the pianos, the shelves of books and the way the women spoke. Like her, they taught their children. The difference was that when their children were old enough they were sent away to boarding school.

  Often their closest neighbour was five hundred miles away; which was why she and Ali were always made so welcome and urged to stay, ‘just one more day’. But unless it was Friday they had no time to waste. There was no backloading of wool. It was cattle country.

  As time went by Winifred felt herself growing into the land. It had been a time of good seasons, with plentiful and lush pasture. There was a vastness about the landscape and yet she never felt lonely. She was no longer the insecure woman full of doubts about her future who had fallen in love with Ali. Now she knew her future was here with her husband and children and that she would never want to change her life. This vast emptiness was their inheritance and she thought that when Ali had made enough money they might retire to a great cattle station, where the children could grow up in a comfortable home and travel south to be educated.

  She never discussed her plans with Ali, certain that she could persuade him when the time came. There was vacant land as far as the eye could see. One day part of it would be theirs.

  19

  THE PARTING

  WINIFRED AND ALI HAD BEEN working with camels for a little over two years when, in between trips, they returned to Oodnadatta to find a letter waiting for Ali at the post office. His family were being put off their land and needed him home urgently. It came at a bad time because Ali had contracts to fulfill. He had plenty of work and his dream of becoming rich seemed as if it would come true. And yet he felt he had a responsibility to his family in India.

  ‘It is my duty as a son,’ he told Winifred. ‘I must go to my mother. She is old and what if she were to die without giving me her blessing?’

  They were sitting outside the hut they had leased in ghantown, watching the shadows creep over the land, the last rays of the sun glinting off the gibber plains.

  Though Winifred was concerned for his family, overriding her concern was her excitement at the thought of going to India and she began to plan what they would need for the trip. Her excitement turned to disappointment when Ali said, ‘You must remain here and see to our contracts. Otherwise when I return we will have nothing.’

  ‘But you promised to take me to India.’

  ‘It is not possible,’ said Ali. He rose and went walking in the direction of the mosque.

  Winifred stared after her husband with a feeling of foreboding. If he went alone he might never return. And then what would become of her and her children?

  The heat was still stifling. There was no breeze. She seemed to feel it more confined to the small iron hut than she did when they were travelling under the hot sun with the camels. Perhaps it was because there was no shade outside their hut, and inside the heat from the stove and the sun beating on the tin walls and roof made it almost unbearable. She had planted two date palms but they were barely more than seedlings and needed constant watering if they
were to survive.

  She sat listening to Yusef and Rhamat squabbling over who was going to wash the dishes. She picked up a thin stick from the woodheap and, charging inside, began to hit them around the legs until the stick broke. ‘Get to bed! Get to bed!’ she shouted. With tears streaming down their cheeks they obeyed, while she poured some water from the kettle into the tin dish and washed and dried the dishes, banging the tin plates down on the table before putting them on the shelf over the stove.

  Then she made herself a cup of tea and went and sat outside again. It was a dark now and a breeze was coming off the desert, cooling the air. Gradually she calmed down and felt ashamed of the way she had behaved. She went into the small room where Rhamat and Pansy were sleeping and bent and kissed them, tucking the covers around them. She turned to Yusef and saw his eyes glinting as he watched her. She sat on the edge of his bed and took his hand. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get angry. But I’m worried. Baba is going back to India without us.’

  ‘Will he be coming back?’ the child asked.

  She thought about his question for a few minutes before answering and then she put her arms around him. ‘Of course he will. Now go to sleep and tomorrow I’ll make an apricot pie.’

  ‘Will we stay here?’ he asked.

  She nodded.

  ‘Will I be able to go to school?’

  She patted him on the head. ‘I expect so. And Rhamat too.’

  Although she realised it was time they went to school, she was not prepared to give up her dream of going to India so easily. She filled the tin bath with water and bathed by the light of a candle. Then she went to bed to wait for Ali, still hoping to persuade him, but she fell asleep before he arrived home.

  A week later he was gone. The train had come in on Friday and he had arranged his new contracts, getting Winifred to check the freight charges and the loadings as she did for the other camel-men.

  ‘I will be back by the time our camels return,’ he told her.

  The camel-men had given him a farewell party, feasting on goats’ meat which they had spent the day preparing, adding onions, spices and vegetables, leaving it to simmer for hours before placing the pot on a tarpaulin, where the men sat round scooping up the curry with a chapatti and washing it down with strong black tea.

  The sound of their voices had drifted across to where Winifred was eating with her children. She felt disgruntled, wondering why women were excluded from such gatherings, as if they were of no importance.

  She had not waited up for Ali, but woke when she felt him beside her. He had reached out his arms to pull her close, kissing her on the lips and whispering, ‘Oh my dear heart, the nights will be long without you.’

  The camel trains had left and only the women and the old men remained in ghantown when Ali caught the train to Adelaide. Winifred did not go to see him off, sending Yusef instead because she could not bear the thought of people seeing her cry, too proud to let them see her distress.

  Weeks went by and stretched into months and there was no word. Ali had left money for food but had taken the rest with him on his trip. Now that she was settled in one place she planted a small vegetable garden on which she emptied the teapot and the washing-up water so that she could pick a few leaves of spinach. When there were no vegetables the boys would go to Ned Chong’s market garden on their way home from school and buy a cabbage for threepence. They had enough money for meat. And there were always dates to eat. But she was afraid her money might run out and she did not want to have to ask for charity.

  She asked Goolam, who butchered the meat for the Moslems and who, though not a mullah, was the leader at the mosque, if he had any news. His answer was, ‘Be patient, sister. All in good time. It is the will of Allah.’ She suspected that he knew something she did not. She made a point of sending Yusef to meet the train in case Ali arrived, thinking that he may have written a letter that had gone astray. She would have liked to have asked the stationmaster if there had been a letter, but she knew he would tell his wife and she might pass it on to the fettlers’ wives. Winifred knew they looked down on her because she had married an Indian.

  Weeks went by and still there was no news. She confronted Goolam when he was coming from the mosque. ‘If you have news of my husband, please tell me. I am sick with worry.’

  ‘I can tell you nothing … except … except that there is cholera in his village and many have died. That is all I know.’

  The news chilled her but she could not accept it. ‘No, not Ali …’

  ‘We have no choice if it is the will of Allah.’

  ‘Allah … Allah. What do I care about Allah? It is my husband I care about,’ and she clutched him by the arm, while Pansy, standing clinging to her mother’s skirts, began to cry.

  ‘Compose yourself, sister … Go home now and pray to Allah for forgiveness. I will send someone to help you.’

  Winifred was never sure how she made it back to her hut, where she put Pansy in her cot and flung herself on the bed, unable to control her tears.

  She was still there when there was a voice at the door. ‘Goolam has asked me to come. You are in trouble.’ It was the stationmaster’s wife and she sat by the bed and took Winifred by the hand. ‘Is there some way I can help?’

  ‘It is my husband. I have heard nothing since he left and now I am told that hundreds have died of cholera in his village and he may be among them.’

  ‘But you do not know for certain.’

  Winifred shook her head.

  ‘Well then you must not worry until you know. He may be perfectly well and on his way home.’ She went to the tank, filled the old black kettle and stoked up the fuel stove. ‘I’ll make a cup of tea.’ She picked up Pansy who had woken up and was shaking the sides of her cot demanding to be let out. ‘Hush, little one,’ she said, and sat down with the child on her knee.

  Later, at the kitchen table drinking tea, Winifred said, ‘My boys are at school. I don’t want them to know. I must go to Adelaide to the mosque. That is the only way I will be certain.’

  ‘Do you want to leave the children with me?’ the woman asked.

  Winifred shook her head. ‘No, where I go my children must go.’

  Thinking back later Winifred was surprised at the kindness she was shown. All her life she had had to fend for herself, friendless and alone until she met Ali. The woman helped her pack and gave her a hamper of food for the train.

  Winifred was subdued on the long trip to Adelaide, unable to rest, one minute certain Ali was dead and the next full of hope. She watched her children curled up asleep and when they were awake tried to act normally. Yusef had been excited about the trip, telling Rhamat that they were going to meet their father at the ship. Winifred did not disillusion him. If his father really was dead he would find out soon enough.

  They left their luggage at the station and walked to the mosque. When the mullah saw her standing outside his office with dark circles under her eyes, her face pale, her mouth downcast, he called one of the visiting camel-men and asked him to look after the children. ‘Buy them some milk and cake. Take them for a walk. I need to talk to their mother.’

  Winifred remembered sitting in his office. Later someone brought her a cup of tea and a biscuit. She was so tired she could hardly speak. She knew from the way the mullah looked at her that it was bad news. For one crazy second she wondered if she should leave, thinking that she would rather not know. But that would solve nothing. She felt better after she had drunk the tea and steeled herself to find out the truth.

  ‘I have come here for news of my husband. Goolam tells me that there has been cholera in his village. Is my husband alive?’

  The mullah rose and walked to her side. ‘Sister, you must be brave for the sake of your children. Your husband is dead.’

  ‘No!’ Her voice rose. ‘I do not want him dead!’

  ‘It is the will of Allah.’

  ‘But we loved each other.’

  ‘Then you must cherish his memory.’ />
  Winifred heard the children returning and looked anxiously towards the garden, wondering how she would tell them the sad news. She rose and the mullah opened the door. She went into the garden where Yusef was sitting on a wooden bench holding Pansy in his arms. Rhamat was standing on the grass watching ants run up a tree. She could tell by their sad faces that they had already been told. Yusef gazed at her, his dark eyes troubled, and she bent and kissed him. ‘I’m sorry, my son.’ Then she reached down and lifted up Pansy, holding her close. She sat beside her older son and Rhamat came and sat beside her, resting his head on her knee.

  Later the mullah came out to join them. ‘I will pray for you,’ he said. ‘I have made arrangements for you to stay in one of the tenements until you decide what you will do. I will send in some food and you can rest there. The children can play in the garden. They will be safe here. I will talk to you again tomorrow. Pray to Allah. He will guide you.’

  It was a week before Winifred was able to think clearly. She tried to remain composed in front of the children, but wept to herself when they were asleep. She was terrified of the future, and the knowledge that she would never see her husband again. He had been her whole life. Now he had died, taking her happiness with him. And she was left with three children to feed and clothe, to bring up alone.

  She asked the mullah how she could go about claiming her husband’s estate. He was quiet for a few moments, staring at her. Then he spoke. ‘You are not one of us. You do not know the Islamic code. You have no claim on your husband’s estate because there is no record of your marriage.’

  Winifred stared at him in disbelief. ‘But what about his children … his two sons?’

  ‘You could send them back to India. Their uncle is their legal guardian now their father is dead. Your daughter … that is different. A daughter may stay with her mother till puberty. And then she will be found a husband.’

  ‘I will not give up my children.’