Wildflower Hill

by Kimberley Freeman

  Her heart by now had experienced so much today—fear, hope, uncertainty—that it nearly collapsed under this new dread. Here they were, walking along a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, and it was going to storm. She stopped for a moment, and Lucy sat gratefully on the verge of the road. Sweat trickled under her blouse.

  Shelter. That had to be the priority. It was unsafe to shelter under trees in a storm, so she had to find a house, or a shed, or something with a roof. Anything. She turned in a slow circle. Off to the east were miles of dense scrub, but to the west were wide fields fenced off by low barbed wire or tall poplar trees, starlings flitting between their branches. Farms. Farms meant houses.

  “Mummy? I’m tired.”

  “I know, darling.” Beattie eyed the sky. The storm front was moving fast, but still there was no rain or wind. “We’re going to go up into that field and see if we can find somewhere to rest.”

  Lucy nodded, pulling herself to her feet.

  “Good girl,” said Beattie, and led her to the fence. “You’ll have to lie on your tummy and wriggle under. Careful, now.” Beattie gingerly held the wire up as high as she could, watching as Lucy slithered under it so that none of the spikes caught her clothes or hair. “Just like a snake. That’s it.”

  Beattie pushed the box under after Lucy but knew she would never fit under it herself. Instead, she tried to separate the two middle strands to go between. On the way through, she caught her dress and calf on a barb. It stung.

  “Mummy, you’re bleeding.”

  She pressed her skirt against the wound, which stopped bleeding quickly. “It’s nothing. Come on. There’s a storm coming.” As she said these words, the wind started to pick up.

  They trudged up a hill, and from up here, Beattie could see miles and miles of farmland. Green hills, softly curved, punctuated with large flat rocks. Solitary eucalyptus here and there, alive or dead and white, homes for crows. But no homestead. In fact, no cows or sheep, either. She started to suspect that the farm was either much bigger than she imagined or wasn’t in operation at all. But she could see a small white structure in the distance. A shed. The rumbles of thunder were coming closer, and a cool darkness was closing over the land.

  She swept Lucy up in her arms and hurried down the hill and across the field as the first spits of rain came. Please, don’t let us get wet as well. As she approached, she could see the shed was missing half its roof, that it had no door. Her heart sank farther.

  Bright lightning forked the sky. The shed would have to do.

  They reached it just as the rain started in earnest. The floorboards were stained and warped, but by sitting in the far back corner, they could stay dry. Beattie took Lucy on her lap and forced her muscles to relax. Lucy still smelled faintly of vomit. The storm moved overhead, its damp winds whipping the sweat on their bodies to ice. Lightning and thunder one on top of the other, then a torrent of rain in their wake. Lucy began to cry softly, calling for Henry. So Beattie cried with her. She cried for Henry, too, for the man he had seemed to be but wasn’t. She cried for her loneliness, her isolation from her family and the life she’d once known. And she cried for her daughter, who was pure beauty and deserved every good thing in life but had ended up with poverty and uncertainty, shivering in a storm far from home.

  The rain didn’t ease. An hour or more it fell, until the floor of the shed was awash and they had to stand up, the water filling their shoes, to avoid getting wet. Lucy clung to Beattie’s skirt, while Beattie considered what to do next. They couldn’t stay here all night; it was too wet. And Lewinford was still hours away by foot. If they didn’t want to still be outside walking in the dark, they would have to leave now.

  But how was she to tell her small, exhausted child that she had to walk in the rain? And so she stood, frozen, waiting for a sign. But there were no signs, there was only this awful reality, this heavy moment.

  “Lucy,” she said, “I’m sorry, my darling, but we will have to go back to the road and keep walking.”

  “Why?”

  “Because when things seem very bad, strong people keep going.”

  Lucy stood back resolutely, putting her hand up for her mother’s. “All right, Mummy.”

  Beattie took her hand, and they walked out into the rain.

  Mile after mile they walked, and the rain eased but didn’t stop. The cardboard box under her arm grew sodden and sagged against her. Lucy soldiered on, one sturdy foot in front of the other, and Beattie felt the first glimmers of hope. They would get to Lewinford—surely they must be within a few miles by now—and Margaret would take them in and they would have a new life, a simple life, without fear. Gradually, the rain turned to drizzle, then she became aware that it had stopped altogether. Low on the horizon, a beam of sunlight struggled through the clouds.

  They rounded a bend, surely only half an hour from their destination. And Beattie saw it.

  The road was cut. The causeway over the creek was flooded. The creek itself was engorged and running with brown water. Beattie stopped, and Lucy stopped behind her.

  Her mind was blank. She couldn’t make it focus. What were they to do? They couldn’t go back and around: she didn’t know the way, and Lucy was exhausted. They couldn’t just wait for the water to go down. It might rain further, making them even wetter than they were. Besides, the temperature was dropping as night approached, and they would catch their deaths if they didn’t get somewhere warm and dry soon. All she wanted to do was cry. To sit down, put her head on her knees, and sob.

  “Wait here,” she said to Lucy, placing the box on the ground.

  She approached the causeway and noticed that branches and debris had gathered at the edge. That meant the water wasn’t too deep after all. Very carefully, she set one foot on the causeway. The water raced around her ankles. Another step. No deeper. Slowly, slowly, she walked forward, measuring out the whole crossing. The water was fast but not deep. If she carried Lucy across, she could—

  At that moment she turned and saw that Lucy hadn’t waited for her, was struggling through calf-deep water toward her.

  “No, Lucy!” She began to slosh back, slowed down by muddy shoes and racing water.

  Then the debris at the edge of the causeway began to move. At first it just slipped sideways, but then, with a surge, it came free and was carried across, knocking Lucy’s feet from under her. Lucy pitched over and was washed off the causeway. She caught a low branch ten feet up the creek.

  Beattie screamed. “Lucy! Lucy!” Her throat was raw. She ran back over the causeway and onto the bank of the creek, throwing herself out flat and flailing for Lucy’s arm.

  The little girl howled, “Daddy! Daddy!”

  “Take my hand, darling!”

  Lucy reached for her—inches too far away.

  “I want Daddy!”

  Beattie inched out farther, aware that were she to tumble into the swollen current, they would both be lost. “Please try again, darling.”

  Lucy extended her arm again but this time lost her grip on the branch. Beattie felt the brush of her fingers, then she was gone, under the water.

  “NO!”

  And then a splash out of nowhere. A man, on the other side of the creek, throwing himself into the water. Beattie had no idea who he was or where he had come from but saw a smooth, bare back the color of milky coffee disappear into the water. A moment later, he was up again, Lucy clutched in his arms.

  “Lucy!” Beattie cried.

  “Mummy,” she moaned fearfully, struggling from the stranger’s arms.

  At least she was breathing. “Hold on to him! Hold on tight!”

  The man pulled himself out of the water and laid Lucy carefully on the scrubby bank. He stood and flashed Beattie a smile. “I’ll come across and get you.”

  Tears pricked her eyes. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  She ran back for her box, by which time the man was on her side of the causeway. With a firm hand on her upper arm, he accompanied her across the water
. She ran to Lucy, who pressed herself into her mother’s arms with grateful desperation. The child sobbed, and Beattie held her, rocked her, listening to her own heartbeat grow quiet and calm.

  Finally, she turned her attention back to the man. He had pulled his shirt back on but hadn’t yet buttoned it.

  “How can I ever thank you enough?” she said.

  He shrugged. “What else was I going to do, missus? Watch the little girl drown?”

  She smiled at him, extending her hand. “My name’s Beattie. This is Lucy.”

  He took her hand and squeezed it once, then dropped it. His skin was very warm.

  Lucy looked up, her eyelashes still holding drops of water. “What’s your name?”

  “Charlie,” he said.

  “You saved her life,” Beattie said.

  “I was watching you from about a hundred feet off,” he said. “Tried to run down and warn you. Saw the little one following you.”

  Beattie squeezed Lucy hard. “I should have known she wouldn’t listen to me.” She considered Charlie in the late-afternoon light. He had dark, curly hair; his eyes were almost black. She slowly realized he must be Aboriginal; she had never seen one of his kind before. She couldn’t tell how old he was: perhaps a few years younger than her. He had a boyish look about him, with his unruly curls and his long lashes and clean-shaven chin. Then she realized she was staring and glanced away.

  “Where you heading?” he said, casually buttoning his shirt.

  “Lewinford. We’ve walked all the way from Bligh. The coach didn’t come.”

  “He never runs it on stormy days.” Charlie squashed his hat back on his head. “I just come from Lewinford,” he said warily. “You got friends there?”

  “Yes. No. We’re going to see Margaret Day. Her cousin said she might take us in.”

  “Yeah, Mrs. Day will take you in. Don’t you worry.”

  “Is she . . . nice?”

  Charlie shrugged. “Not to me.” Then he laughed. “But she’s nice. You want me to take you up there? Watch out for you?”

  Beattie wanted that very much indeed. “It’s too much trouble,” she said.

  He shook his head. “Missus, you’re wet through, your little one’s cold and frightened. If you don’t mind a blackfella, I’ll help you out.”

  “A black . . . No, of course I don’t mind. You saved her life.” Beattie smiled weakly. “I’d be honored if you’d take us.”

  Charlie bent down and smiled at Lucy. “You want to ride on my back?”

  Lucy pouted and shook her head. But Charlie ignored her, scooped her up, and wrangled her onto his back. “Come on.”

  Lucy, glad to be off her feet, clasped her hands around his neck. Beattie picked up her box again—the clothes inside were soaked—and they started walking. Mud squished in her shoes.

  “Must say, that’s a fancy accent you got, missus.”

  “Please, call me Beattie. I’m half Scottish.”

  “Scotland. That’s a long way. You’re further from home even than me.”

  “Where are you from?” He walked very fast, and she had to hurry to keep up.

  “Me? I’m from the Gulf. Top of Australia. I’ve worked all the way down to the bottom. Might head west next. Might stay a while. I’m fond of the soft light down here.”

  “Are you an Aborigine?” She didn’t know if it was rude to ask, but she had never seen a person who wasn’t white.

  “Yeah. Well, my mum was. My dad was some whitefella that blew through. Ancient history.”

  “You’ve never met him?”

  He was quiet a moment, then said, “Ancient history. I never think about it. I got no parents. Just me in the world now, looking after myself.” But a sad expression crossed his brow, and she suddenly saw that he was older than she. Perhaps by ten years.

  At length, they approached a white sign with the name Lewinford written on it. For the first time that day, she allowed herself to feel relief. They were here. At last.

  Beyond the sign the road branched off to the left, and Beattie could see rows of houses, shop awnings, cars and carts parked on the dirt road.

  “You want to head that way,” Charlie said, pointing toward the town. “Then your first left is Mrs. Day’s street. Hers is the house with the rosebushes out front.” He crouched and gently let Lucy down.

  “Can’t you take us?” Lucy said. “I’m tired of walking.”

  Charlie shook his head. “Sorry, little one.” He stood, nodded at Beattie. “Sorry, missus. I’m not welcome in Lewinford anymore. I was on my way out for good. I’ve got to go pick up my swag back at the creek and head down to Bligh for work.”

  “Not welcome? What happened?”

  “I’m sure you’ll hear about it.” He smiled at her. “You take care of the little one.” And then he rubbed Lucy’s head. “And you take care of your mum.”

  “I will. And my daddy. When he’s better.”

  Charlie was already turning away. “Good on you.”

  “Goodbye. Thank you,” Beattie called after him.

  He lifted one hand in farewell but didn’t turn back.

  Henry decided he needed a drink before he could face home. One turned into two or three . . . And it was dark before he finally returned to the house, twenty-four hours after he had left. He hoped Lucy was still awake: he missed her with every inch of his skin. She was the only reason he was coming home at all. He’d be happy to be done with Beattie, with her judgmental eyes and her long-suffering expression and her complete inability to run the household on a budget.

  He was aware immediately that there were no lights on. Either they were both asleep or Beattie was trying to save money on their electricity bill. A twinge of guilt: so little money left in this week’s pay packet. Perhaps their electricity had been cut off.

  In his drunkenness, he fumbled with the key in the dark. Finally got himself in the door and tried the switch. The uncovered bulb above him lit up.

  “Beattie?” he said. He knew he shouldn’t be loud and wake Lucy, but she was so beautiful when she woke up. All warm and sleepy. He went to the main bedroom. The door was open. He could see by the reflected light from the hallway that the bed was empty. Curious, he went to the kitchen. No sign of her.

  Of course. She had probably fallen asleep next to Lucy. He crept to the child’s room and opened the door. It was empty.

  “Lucy!” he cried. Hearing the note of fear in his own voice frightened him further. Where was she? Had somebody taken her? Why wasn’t Beattie here to protect her? He stumbled from room to room, leaving all the lights blazing. There was no sign of either of them. He raced into the garden, past the laundry. His shirts were still hung on the line, ghostly shapes in the dark.

  “Lucy? Beattie?”

  “They’re gone.”

  He turned at the voice. The old woman who lived in the next house stood at her back door, clearly roused by all his shouting. He didn’t know her name.

  “What do you, mean?” he said.

  “She’s left you; she’s taken the child.” Her fingers were clenched hard around the door frame. She was afraid of him.

  The anger was so intense that he nearly threw up. He choked it down. His hands felt heavy, his ears rang. “Where did she go?”

  “If she’d wanted you to know, she’d have left you a note.” In the dark, the woman’s features looked severe. A bird of prey. But all the same, she shrank slightly from his thundering voice. “I saw her at the bus stop this morning. She told me everything about you.”

  “She knows nothing about me,” he muttered, stalking away.

  “The Lord is giving you an opportunity,” she called after him, emboldened by his departure. “He’s telling you that you can’t go on drinking and gambling.”

  Henry slammed the door behind him, collapsed into a chair at the empty kitchen table. Silence gathered around him. A little moan escaped his lips. He put his head down on the table and listened to the dull thump of his own heart.

  ELEVEN


  Beattie picked Lucy up, holding her on her hip with one hand, the sodden box still tucked under her arm. She walked. Down the pitted dirt road past the pub, with its red iron roof and large, rough-hewn bricks. Past a grocer, a post office, a brick arched door. Past a baker, a bank, a used-furniture shop, and a row of houses: some wood, some stone, all with sloping tin roofs. She took the first left, as Charlie had told her, and identified Margaret’s house immediately. Pale yellow weatherboards, a paved front path, roses growing in profusion. A moment’s uncertainty: what if Margaret didn’t take them in? Drizzle began again. Then she marched up to the front door under the shelter of the verandah and knocked briskly.

  Within moments, a woman answered the door. She was much younger than Beattie had imagined—perhaps only in her late thirties—and she had a pretty face and a soft roundness to her.

  “Oh! You’re wringing!” Margaret said, opening the door wide. “And the child. Can I help you?”

  “I’ve come up from Hobart. I lived next door to Doris Penny. She said—”

  “Come in, come in. Do you have dry clothes? I might have some here to loan you. Shall I run a warm bath for the girl? What happened to you?”

  Beattie was speechless. Margaret’s kindness was too much to bear. As she stepped over the threshold, the bottom finally fell out of the box. A tumble of wet clothes cascaded onto the floor. She fought back sobs. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I’ve had rather a long day.”

  “Then come in and take good comfort.” Margaret bent to help her pick up her things. “Let me help.”

  Margaret’s house, like Doris’s, was tidy and full. Soft furnishings, knickknacks, paintings, even a sewing machine. A cross on the wall, pictures of Jesus and Mary, Bible verses cross-stitched onto cushions. As Margaret bustled about, Beattie followed her from room to room, haltingly relating her journey and the storm. Lucy was quiet. Exhaustion had hit her. Margaret took them into her bathroom, ran a warm bath. “I expect you’d like one, too?” she asked Beattie.