Barra Creek

by Di Morrissey

  Chapter Twelve

  SALLY SAT ON THE garden seat almost hidden by the long branches of the peppercorn tree next to the rain tanks that supplied water for the kitchen. The lawn was velvet green scattered with fallen frangipani flowers. Rob walked up and sat quietly beside her.

  ‘I wondered where you’d got to. Everyone is gathering inside. They’ve come from Melbourne, Sydney, across from the coast. People they haven’t seen in years.’

  Sally didn’t answer for a minute but continued to stare across the garden to the schoolhouse and further away, to the home stables. ‘Odd, isn’t it, how a place can look so different? Nothing has changed out there physically, yet everything has changed.’ A tear rolled down her cheek. ‘All because a little boy has gone. I used to think this was such a pretty outlook. Now it’s just . . . sad.’

  He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to him as he looked across to the school where Ian was solemnly leading a group of kids towards the house. He felt he saw Marty racing after them, eager and smiling as always. ‘I know, I know,’ he whispered supportively.

  Sally lowered her head, eyes closed, a look of pain on her face. ‘I can’t help blaming myself. I should have held onto him, all the time. You told us not to go near the rails –’

  ‘Sally, stop. Stop it. You cannot hold a child’s hand every minute of the day. If there’s any blame . . .’ he bit his lip. ‘You have to help Tommy and Ian through this. And Lorna.’

  Sally nodded, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘God, I hope this doesn’t upset the baby. If she loses it, I can’t imagine . . .’

  Rob spoke firmly. ‘She’s doing fine. You told me the doctor said she was in good shape. It’s going to be later, when all this is over, when she’s alone, that she’ll fall apart. In private.’

  ‘Oh, do you think so? Maybe I shouldn’t go away then.’

  ‘Go? Go where?’

  ‘Lorna is insisting I take that holiday in Darwin.’

  ‘That’s a good idea. You need to get away from here. At least I get away on the stock camps. I’m heading out again. I think it’s best to leave the family on their own for a bit.’

  Sally was doubtful but said nothing. She certainly needed a change of scenery. And she was still hoping Sean would fly over and meet her.

  ‘We’d better go inside. The minister is all ready for the service.’ He took her hand, pulled her to her feet and led her onto the verandah.

  They had all brought something, the kitchen was piled with boxes of food and bottles of beer and liquor. Women thrived at these times of upheaval. Like a swarm of worker bees they knew what to do, moving from the kitchen to the verandah in a choreographed buzz of making sandwiches, dishing out plates of food, making urns of tea, peeling back greaseproof paper from plates of cakes, slices and biscuits. Those off stations directed the house lubras in authoritative tones, the city women avoided them.

  Light, lacy cloths were thrown over the food, the bustle slowed, the mood subdued as they gathered on the front lawn.

  Reverend Hector, who’d come in from the mission down the river, waited in his cassock, prayer book clasped to his chest. Then, at a nod from John Monroe, he turned and led the assembled family and friends through the garden, past the schoolhouse, along the track that wound past the stables to the rise above the homestead where Lorna had planted a magnolia among the fruit trees beside a lone white gum flecking shadows on the grassy knoll. At certain times of the year a little red wildflower crept up between the stones and grass, and from here one caught the first breeze, the first raindrops. You could see across the river and hear the sounds of cattle and horses, men singing and, sometimes at night, the songs of a corroboree. Lorna had planned to landscape this as an extended garden. She and John had chosen it to be a resting place should either of them die on the property. Never had they anticipated one of their children dying before them.

  The coffin was made from trees that grew by the river. When the men were building it at the back of the workshop they had looked up to see Lorna standing in the twilight watching them. Awkwardly they stopped work and Bluey came forward. ‘What is it, Missus?’

  Silently Lorna thrust out the soft yellow bear in its red jacket with its cheerful honey-licking smirk. ‘Put this in with him. It’s my son’s favourite toy.’

  ‘Yes, Miz Monroe. We do dat. For sure.’

  Lorna, in a straight dark dress, her face set as if in constant pain, walked stiffly beside John, who was dressed in dark pants, white shirt and a tie. Sally wore her arrival clothes of pleated navy skirt, white blouse and pearls and walked beside Rob. Most of the men, including Rob, wore long-sleeved blue or checked shirts, buttoned up, and a tie if they owned one. It was too warm for jackets and Lorna, for once, had not bothered to insist on correct attire. She did not care or notice.

  Everyone from the blacks’ camp squatted or stood on the fringe. The school children hung back behind the old women, their eyes wide and frightened that the little white boss fella had been spirited away to his ancestors. Fitzi and Bluey stood with Snowy and his men. Fitzi wore a black waistcoat and whitefella tie, his silvering hair not covered by his usual battered ten-gallon hat. The house girls had on their best frocks of bright colours. Some wore old shoes, one carried her prized possession of a voluminous peeling patent-leather handbag. They had wailed around their campfire for two nights, and now curiously watched the whiteman’s ceremony.

  It was simple, short and formal, too painful an occasion for long speeches and prayers. The minister spoke of the short life of a sweet child, chosen to be with God. The coffin was sealed and a bouquet of flowers from Lorna’s garden, sprays of bougainvillea and frangipani, lay on top.

  They sang the twenty-third psalm, ‘The Lord is my shepherd, I’ll not want . . .’ accompanied by Rob on his harmonica, which sounded so unbearably sad to Sally. To her surprise, Donny led them in the hymn, his sweet rich voice ringing above the stumbling voices of the small congregation.

  As the coffin was lowered and the red soil of Barra Creek rattled on top, covering the raw wood, the family stepped forward to pay their respects, dropping flowers into the grave as the minister intoned, ‘We have entrusted Marty to God’s merciful keeping and we now commit his body to be buried in the ground in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ who died, was buried, and rose again. To God be glory for ever and ever. Amen.’

  Ian and Tommy stood close to their mother, their faces pale, Tommy silently crying. As John led Lorna forward to the graveside, Tommy looked wildly round and Sally quietly stepped between the boys and took their trembling hands.

  Reverend Hector continued, ‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.’

  Lorna knelt, her shoulders shaking, and John opened his palm and let the fistful of earth crumble into the grave.

  Tommy tugged at Sally. ‘I don’t want to go and look,’ he whispered.

  He looked distraught and Sally led him back to stand with Rob and Fitzi. Donny finished the hymn, dropped a flower onto the coffin and then joined them, taking Tommy’s other hand.

  Ian, standing on his own, looked grim and defiant, determined not to cry. John took Lorna’s arm and with head bowed, she turned her back on the grave and walked towards the homestead.

  Ian glanced at the minister who held out his hand to the young boy. Ian stepped forward, leaned down and scooped up a handful of the soft dirt, and stood looking at it. Instead of dropping it into the grave, he spun, threw the dirt at the sky and ran as fast as he could down towards the river.

  Sally jerked but Rob put a restraining hand on her arm. ‘Let him go. Fitzi will bring him back.’

  Donny led Tommy away and a straggling procession headed for the house.

  Lorna was the gracious hostess for a short while, catching up on news from the visitors, but her attention would quickly waver and she’d excuse herself to move on. Then she quietly disappeared.

  The gathering broke into groups, me
n and women. The Aborigines had returned to their camp, including Rob’s men who forsook their separate camp to join the Barra Creek mob. The white men sat on the verandah knocking back the rum and beer, the women settled in the living room with the leftover food, fresh pots of tea and an occasional glass of rum. The late morning tea ran through to lunch. Some people stretched out on the beds along the verandah for a kip, a few of the men repaired to the single men’s quarters and continued drinking.

  As sunset approached, preparations began for dinner. Ribs, steaks and chunks of meat from a freshly killed steer sizzled over the open fire on a sheet of hot iron and pots of boiled potatoes bubbled on the side. In the kitchen the women prepared vegetables and salads.

  Sally and Donny stayed with the boys, busying themselves with six nanny goats and one billy that a couple had brought with them from their property. They thought the little herd might help distract Ian and Tommy, as it did with the Aboriginal children who giggled hysterically at the goats’ antics.

  ‘Make the blacks understand these are not for eating. Milk and cheese only,’ Donny told Ian.

  The lubras hovered, waiting to clean up. They looked anxious. There was a big gathering at the blacks’ camp. All the men were in and there was competition amongst the women, the old men and the children for attention. At the men’s quarters there was heavy drinking among the white workers not included in the homestead activities. The noise level rose as the booze flowed.

  Donny took Sally aside and, as they walked to a quiet corner of the garden, he handed her a piece of paper. ‘Loverboy can’t make it.’

  ‘Sean? Oh.’ She skimmed through the brief message on the telegram. ‘I guess there wasn’t enough time.’

  ‘He says he’ll keep waiting though.’

  ‘Well, that’s easy to say when I’m tucked up here and he’s over in New Zealand getting on with his social life.’

  ‘Do you want to marry him?’

  ‘No, not yet. There’s still too much to do.’

  ‘The trip to England?’ Donny took her arm and tucked it in his. ‘Don’t delay too long, Sal sweet. This part of the country can suck the juices out of you. Before you know it you’re a dried-up bush bird with a string of kids, a tired husband constantly battling the weather and all the other hassles of outback life.’

  ‘Thanks, but you might like to dust your crystal ball. My mother would be over here like a shot and haul me back on the next plane if your prediction was a possibility.’

  ‘He’d have to own his own station at the very least, eh?’

  ‘Mother couldn’t imagine life on a station. Owning a million miles of land might sound impressive but I think she sees my sister and me in elegant houses in town and a nice little farm for weekends.’

  ‘Married to an accountant or a bank manager, or a solicitor?’

  ‘You got the picture.’

  ‘All the more reason for having a fling with someone unsuitable, eh?’ He grinned.

  ‘Sean?’

  ‘Or someone around here, like Rob.’

  ‘You’re taken?’

  ‘I’m your best friend – that’s better.’ He squeezed her arm. ‘By the way, don’t be surprised if Lorna or John suggest you take off for Darwin earlier than planned.’

  ‘Your crystal ball is getting a workout.’

  ‘Seriously, Sally. I think it would be a good idea for you to get away soon. Let the family grieve in their own way. Now that you don’t have a definite rendezvous with loverboy . . .’

  ‘I’ll wait till I’m asked.’

  The wake turned into a serious drinking session and occasional bursts of raucous laughter echoed from the men’s quarters. Along the verandah conversation drifted in the darkness. Sally sat with Tommy and Ian on her bed telling them a story about New Zealand. She was trying to remember the Maori folktales she’d heard from a cook who’d once worked for her mother. The boys liked the new setting of these stories, which differed from the Aboriginal legends they’d been told. Sally was surprised to see Lorna appear on the verandah.

  ‘I wanted to say goodnight to the boys. And, Sally, could we have a word in a few minutes?’

  Sally nodded, knowing what was coming. She slid off the bed. ‘I’ll go brush my teeth, see you soon.’ She left them alone. It wasn’t often that Lorna came out to where they slept. The boys looked slightly uncomfortable, hoping their mother wasn’t going to cry or talk about Marty. So far no one had uttered his name.

  Lorna was brief, almost formal, as she suggested that it might be best for Sally to take her break in Darwin now. John had made a reservation at the Darwin Hotel, she could fly out the next day with friends, the Hardys, who’d flown in for the funeral in their own plane. ‘The wet season is coming so you’d better go before then. Leave some school work for the boys to do.’

  Sally wanted to ask, Why Darwin? but knew Lorna would tell her once again that it was where all the governesses went. Instead she said, ‘Whatever you think best.’

  ‘I’m not thinking too well, Sally, but thank you for being so accommodating.’ Then she looked away and added, ‘I need time with my family.’

  Sally couldn’t pinpoint the tone of the remark. Was it part sadness, remorse, or a hope they could come closer together in this time of tragedy? A feeling of despair swept over her and she wanted to embrace Lorna. But Sally’s own pangs of guilt over Marty’s death stopped her. Lorna held herself stiffly, as if frightened of crumbling. A moat surrounded her and she was not letting down the drawbridge.

  As Sally turned away, Lorna said, ‘Oh, and Sally . . . with everything . . . there’s some mail for Rob on the bureau. I think you should take it down to him. I’m afraid I haven’t been very organised.’

  Sally dismissed it. ‘I’m sure it’s not important.’

  Lorna swung around, her eyes bright. ‘Oh, but it is. It’s not right of me to neglect these things . . . I want you to take his mail down to him. Now, please.’

  She spoke carefully, enunciating every word. Sally shrugged. Lorna was not functioning properly and who could blame her? Perhaps by observing these little niceties she was clinging to the normalcy of life.

  ‘Of course. I’ll do it right away.’

  The men’s quarters were forbidden territory. Lights blazed and there was the unmistakable noise of the raised voices and drunken laughter of those escaping the reality of the moment. Sally knew Rob usually camped with his own men away from the influence of the rough likes of Snowy, the white stockmen, ringers and workers passing through. But on occasion he stayed in a room in the bunkhouse. She stood outside in the darkness, clutching the small parcel of mail, then chose the loudest room where all the activity seemed to be happening. She stepped onto the narrow verandah and, realising no one would hear her knocking, pushed the door open.

  It took a moment for the scene to register in her brain. Yet it was an image that stuck in her head for years.

  Like some rough Australian version of a bacchanalian orgy, bodies were sprawled over bunks and the floor, and the pervading smell and sense was one of slovenly lust, overindulgence, loose morals. There were men with their shirts off sitting around drunk, and girls with laughing black eyes, hitched skirts and exposed breasts commanding their attention as they straddled laps and bodies. They glanced at her with some bemusement, even arrogance.

  ‘I was looking for . . .’ she stuttered. Then she saw Rob on a bunk bed, obviously passed out, too drunk to move. She looked wildly round the room, Snowy leering, Chilla and Bluey with women, young Betsy huddled in a corner. Sally dropped the letters, turned and fled. She never mentioned her visit and never knew, or cared, if Rob got his mail.

  The boys were upset at her sudden departure for Darwin and their feelings were mirrored by the black children who were confused at the coming and goings of so many people. Now Sally was flying away and they lined up by the edge of the runway watching Tommy hug her.

  ‘You promise you’ll come back,’ he said.

  ‘Of course. It’s just a lit
tle holiday. You fellows have to look after your mum and dad. Cheer them up.’

  Ian gave her a defeated look. ‘Mum’s sad and Dad’s mad. How are we going to make any difference?’

  ‘Be patient, be good, stay close with them. Try to do things together.’

  Ian rolled his eyes in exasperation but Tommy nodded. ‘Okay. And when you come back will we start school again?’

  ‘Of course we will,’ said Ian. ‘We’ve got to pass and get good marks for King’s.’

  ‘You have some essays to write and homework to do. It’s all with your mother. There’s something you can do together.’

  ‘The black kids too?’ asked Tommy.

  ‘Ask your mother.’ She turned to the rest of the group and wagged a finger. ‘You be good piccaninnies. All right?’

  They nodded and shuffled their feet then suddenly little Alice rushed at Sally, holding onto her legs and howling as the realisation that Sally was getting on the plane hit her.

  Frankie pulled her away and held her. ‘We draw pictures. Make good one for you,’ he said.

  Mr Hardy was beckoning and Sally grabbed her handbag. ‘Bye. Drive back carefully, Ian.’ She knew Ian drove the old Land Rover better than she did but now she was terrified of accidents.

  As the Cessna rose and banked, she saw a scatter of horses in the home paddock and recognised Rob on horseback, waving his hat. In seconds he was out of sight but she was touched by his gesture.

  The Hardys only stopped overnight in Darwin on their way back to their property.

  Sally took a taxi to the Darwin Hotel. The town looked a rough and ready sort of place; some shops still had chicken wire and reinforced mesh in the windows replacing the bombed-out glass.

  ‘Is that from the war?’ she asked the Greek taxi driver.

  ‘Yair. No one hurries up here.’

  ‘Twenty years is a pretty slow reaction,’ said Sally. ‘So where’s a good place to eat?’

  ‘Milk bar. Caff. The pub. You with a bank, government or something?’

  ‘No. I work on a property.’