‘Why am I here? To ease your father’s guilt? Am I to be thrown away, like my mother, when you’ve grown tired of me?’
Tobias flinched and left the room.
This cousin with his watery blood-ties was blond-haired, tall and burnt brown by the sun. He spoke carefully to her, portrayed himself as a kindly man with good intentions. Although she’d long since learnt that words were misleading and that only actions spoke of true purpose, at times Abelena couldn’t help but wonder what life may have been like if her mother had stayed in this big house with its sturdy walls, gilt-framed portraits and carpeted floors. But then she too had been locked up. Serena hadn’t been wanted in the end and she didn’t belong, so they tossed her away like an unwanted toy.
Abelena never spoke to Edmund Wade, not once did they even stand in the same space, share the same air. Tobias explained his father had been stunned when news reached them of the Blum boy’s death. The resulting details of Abelena’s family that appeared on Wanted posters and that first alerted the sheriff, and then Edmund, to Jerome’s murderous deed, had horrified Edmund Wade, but his patriarchal sense of duty and his love for Philomena had firmed his decision, albeit reluctantly. It seemed Edmund wanted Abelena found so that she could be sent away to a school for young ladies. Edmund wanted her educated. But first he wanted her to undergo a series of treatments that had proved successful on First World War veterans in England. He wanted doctors to give her electrical shocks to wipe the Indian part from her brain.
Tobias thought such a thing barbaric.
This, it seemed, was the substance of the arguments between father and son, arguments which filtered up from the rooms below. Edmund was not at the house to say goodbye to his boy. The old man had been out tending Philomena’s grave the afternoon before they left for the east coast and he accused Tobias of stupidly falling under the girl’s spell. Tobias’s reply: like father, like son.
There was a knock on the door of the sleeper and Tobias stepped into the compartment. Abelena pulled a shawl across her shoulders, concealing her nightgown.
‘I apologise, I thought you would be dressed at this hour.’
‘Dressed for what? I can’t go anywhere.’
Tobias slipped a hand into the pocket of his tailored tweed suit. ‘Is there anything that you want? You need only ask?’
‘My freedom.’
‘Why are you making this so difficult?’
‘Why are you keeping me locked up?’
Tobias was quick to become irritated. He had a habit of scratching above his right ear where blond hair met silver-grey. ‘Would you have preferred to have had the shock therapy?’
‘I would have preferred to have been left alone.’
‘That wasn’t an option,’ Tobias replied.
‘You mean it wasn’t an option for you, for what you wanted.’
‘I can’t understand you, Abelena. You’ve been on the run from the law, you’ve been starving and homeless. Anyone else would be grateful.’
‘For what? For sending my half-brothers to a state home, for not doing anything to save Jerome, for turning my mother away when she needed help? Oh yes, I’m really grateful.’
Tobias slammed a fist into the varnished wall.
Abelena scowled.
‘I’m only trying to help you, Abelena. I want us to have a new life in a new world. There are so many things I can give you and with time I hope …’ his voice trailed, ‘I know that we’ve only been together for a few months but –’
Abelena turned to stare out the window. The scents that impregnated his clothes, soap, cologne and tobacco, made her dizzy in the enclosed space. ‘You tell me that my Apache blood is not important.’
‘It’s not.’
‘And yet I’m your prisoner.’ She turned towards him and saw the unmistakable look of wanting in his eyes. The same expression that her mother Serena aroused in the men whom she’d taken to her bed and who had fathered the mismatch of children who were her family. Tobias Wade was torn between wanting and wariness. He didn’t trust her. He was right not to.
‘I was thinking that maybe it would be a good idea to change your name. Mary’s pretty. I thought maybe Mary Louise Harris. What do you think?’
‘You have taken everything from me. You will not take my name.’
‘Well, think about it,’ Tobias replied pleasantly, ignoring her fury. ‘I won’t pressure you, but Abelena is a very –’
‘Mexican name? Yes, it is.’ She sat down and resumed staring out the train’s window.
‘Would you like to have lunch in the dining car today?’
In the first-class sleeper there were fancy clothes hanging in a narrow wardrobe that she’d barely worn. The dresses were constrictive and uncomfortable, the shiny black shoes with their court heels painful to wear. ‘No.’
‘Suit yourself.’
After her keeper had left the compartment, Abelena sat in the leather chair next to the nailed-close window and fingered the izze-kloth hanging around her neck. Tobias thought that by leaving America he would save her. Instead, he’d unwittingly made her understand the importance of the land of her people. It was only now that she finally understood why Serena had not followed the man José to Dakota, to a new, better life. The Great Plains were in her blood too. All her life Abelena had hated the Indian part of her, hated being a half-breed, of not belonging, now anger made her want to hold up her fist and scream for the dispossessed that had come before her. She could never be like the white man, act like the white man. They would steal anything; land, people’s lives, even a person’s name.
Chapter 40
August, 1935 – The Plains, Southern Queensland
Opening the oven door, Flossy placed Marcus’s food inside to warm. She’d sat the meal on the table three times to keep it from spoiling and there was still no sign of him. The wind blew against the house. A draught spiralled in from under the door to whistle through the ill-fitting window at the end of the room. Shoving another length of wood in the fuel stove, she opened the flue until the flames could be heard crackling from the box within. There was a boned leg of salted mutton lying on the sink and a string of intestines ready to be filled with finely chopped meat. The rabbit sausages were long gone, as was Will. Her son had not returned since leaving to work as a stockman and they’d had no word from him. Marcus told her not to worry, that in a few weeks he’d return for a visit. A month had come and gone. Flossy put a hand to her belly.
Maybe this was how things were supposed to be. Maybe the child within her would stay now that she was almost always alone. Maybe it felt sorry for her. Flossy dug into the bowl of salted meat, fat and breadcrumbs and carefully pushed the mixture down into the soft, flimsy tube of intestine. She squeezed the meat carefully, packing it within so that the mixture filled the casing and there were no air pockets, then she twisted the end and began on the next one. The baby sickness was gone at least, quelled by the brandy that Marcus made her take a tablespoon of every morning. She didn’t need to be reminded anymore. Flossy ate her cooked breakfast of mutton washed down with a half-tumbler of brandy and a cup of tea. The grog had given her an appetite, which was just as well for it seemed that there would be a baby to feed and all of a sudden there was a lot of fresh meat that needed to be consumed. She didn’t ask where it came from, or why every fortnight there was another half-sheep ready to be salted, or what happened to the rest of the carcass. Flossy wasn’t going to complain, not when there was brandy and tinned condensed milk and treacle filling up the space on the pantry shelves that had never been filled before.
As she stuffed another length of intestine, Flossy began to wonder how much money Will would bring home. If there would be enough for curtains or even plaster for the walls. Something new for the baby would be good as well, although as there was a small suitcase in the wardrobe containing Will’s baby clothes, Flossy knew such a purchase would be totally indulgent. There were other more important things to consider. She guessed she would have to go to ch
urch again, renew her friendships with the few women in the district and see if the Hewitt woman was still in the midwifery business. There was also the christening to consider.
The filled intestine was long and pudgy, the meat turned the skin a reddish colour and made the surface knobbly with small uneven lumps. Flossy prodded at it with a fingernail. It was a long time since the church had welcomed her. Almost ten years. She couldn’t keep returning, not with the women around her birthing babies like rabbits, while she lost one after another. There was pity in the church, but no God, at least not for Flossy.
She didn’t mention any of this to Marcus. He was a man and men were mostly inconsiderate of women’s needs. Anyway, mornings were the best time to speak to her husband and by the time her breakfast was over, Marcus was in from milking the cows and he needed to be fed before he left again for the rest of the day. There was no time for ‘idle chit-chat’ – Marcus’s words, not hers.
Their lives were changing, where her two menfolk would have returned at midday to eat, now she rarely saw Marcus. Her husband worked from dawn into darkness, his days top-and-tailed with milking the herd with only Perch for company. The rest of the time he was out in the paddock, mending fences, delivering milk or goods to the store or checking the small amount of wheat that carpeted one of their paddocks, and chasing kangaroos and other rodents from the tasty plants. When he wasn’t working, Marcus still wasn’t here with her. Not really. He ate quickly and silently, drank his tea and smoked and stared into space then literally fell into bed, exhausted.
Flossy stuffed the remaining intestine and twisted the end. There was a string of sausages coiled on the sink worthy of a butcher. If her boy were here, he would have congratulated her. Told his mother what a fine job she’d done. But there wasn’t anyone to talk to, not anymore. She’d taken their family dinners for granted. So used was Flossy to having her two boys with her, sharing their news and their days outdoors, that it wasn’t until they were gone that she gave thought to the way she spent her own life. It had revolved around them.
Flossy fussed with the sausages. She could cook them now, that would fill in some of the evening or she could carry them outside to the meat-safe on the eastern side of the house. The safe was filled with salted cuts of mutton, butter and dripping. She worried the meat would ruin. Not from the weather but from sitting too long untouched. There was only so much a person could devour.
‘What do you think, little one?’ She cradled the bulge of her stomach. ‘Are you tired? I’m tired.’ Occasionally a feeling of nervousness overcame her. Not badly, but it was enough to set Flossy on edge. It was with her tonight as if some unknown thing had followed her inside from the woodpile. She’d looked over her shoulder, heard rustling in the trees and walked quickly back to the house and slammed the door, jamming a chair under the worn brass knob. Of course it could have been the tramp returning hopeful of more bread and milk, but her kindliness to strangers didn’t extend past dark. Flossy wiped her hands on a towel and, leaning forward, rubbed at the fogging glass of the window above the sink. The night was cold. She imagined the little house floating in a giant sea, a torrent of water spilling through cracks and crevices. She couldn’t imagine what Marcus was doing. It was terribly dark outside.
In the drawer under the sink lay the Luger pistol. The steel was cold and hard. She guessed a dead German had carried it into battle until a brave man had killed him and then lost the gun to Marcus in a card game. Well, it was hers now. ‘Look, little one.’ She held out the pistol for inspection and then rested the gun on the table. The same drawer held the brandy bottle. Flossy tipped a measure of the golden liquid into a glass, looked at it and added a little more. Placing the fresh sausages in a skillet to cook slowly, she sat by the fuel stove and sipped the brandy. Her parents never allowed grog in the house. Her father called it demon-drink. Now she knew why. It warmed a person from the toes up. Flossy licked her lips and poured more brandy. The baby was asleep, curled like a peanut in the bosom of her soul. There was a lullaby her mother sang to her as a child, and she hummed it now, reaching for the Bible with work-chaffed hands. There were butterflies in her stomach. If her mother were still alive, Flossy knew she’d be calling her a nervous Nellie. Gradually the brandy calmed her nerves, her eyelids drooped …
A knock sounded on the door. Flossy lifted her head from the table. There was a smell of burnt sausages and her neck was stiff from the way she’d been lying. The doorknob rattled.
‘Sorry, Marcus, I’ll be there in a tick, love.’ Moving the skillet of over-cooked sausages to one side, she tidied her hair on the way to the door. ‘I fell asleep and jammed the door because –’
The doorknob was being twisted violently. The chair shuddered and creaked with each loud whacking sound that vibrated the door. Someone was trying to get in. Flossy backed away and, taking the pistol from the table, slid a bullet into the empty chamber. Her brain ached from the brandy but she levelled the pistol at the door just as the noise ceased.
‘Don’t worry, little peanut,’ Flossy whispered, ‘don’t worry.’
There were footsteps outside. Flossy ran to the kerosene lamp and turned it off. They could see her, the hair rose on the nape of her neck, when she’d been looking outside, someone had been looking in. Her heart was beating quickly, perspiration gathered at the waistband of her dress. Flossy crawled as quickly as she could into the bedroom, closed the door quietly and slid under the bed, aiming the pistol at the door. The front door gave way. There was a sickening thud and the splintering of wood and then heavy footsteps. A freezing draft of air blew under the bedroom door.
In the next room crockery was being smashed, cupboards opened and closed. Flossy lay on her side, her knees drawn up, the cold of the hard floor pressing into the length of her. They’d heard reports of thieves in the area during the height of the depression. When the culprits were eventually caught, it was two starving boys. Footsteps passed the bedroom door, a man muttered something undecipherable. Flossy tightened her grip on the Luger, a taut forefinger on the trigger, and held her breath.
Moments later the footsteps left the house. From outside came the familiar whine of the meat-safe door being opened, followed by the crunch of gravel. Flossy clutched the pistol, listening as spirals of air spun up from the gappy floorboards. She wiped at her runny nose. It was some time before she felt brave enough to crawl out from under the bed. By then her body was numb, her knuckles white. The mattress squeaked under her slight weight as she sat on the end of the bed and began to sob.
The pistol was still in her fingers, the metal shone in the light from a late rising moon. Flossy sniffed quietly, concentrating on the pool of white light that suffused the room in a comforting glow. Releasing her grip on the Luger, she sat it on the bed and began to tidy her hair. She needed to go out into the kitchen to survey the wreckage the intruder had left in his wake, but somehow Flossy couldn’t face it. She would wait for Marcus. Wrapping the bedcover around her shoulders, the moon’s rays slanted across the timber floor. The light lengthened and widened, tracing a pattern across her lace-up shoes, climbing steadily to the hem of her skirt, before highlighting the material across her thighs.
The pain came quickly. It shot through her stomach and then settled itself as a stinging ache. Flossy huddled over and began to moan.
‘No, no please.’ The moonlight reached her stomach. Through a haze of pain, she imagined the moon reaching for the child within, its pale, silvery fingers grasping.
It was over as quickly as all the others. The little one lay curled in her hands, a slip of a thing that really did resemble a peanut. Flossy stared at the little creature pooled in the moonlight, haloed by blood, and slowly began to sing.
Chapter 41
August, 1935 – the south-east boundary of Condamine Station,
Southern Queensland
Will trailed the men across the paddock. There was a full moon on the rise. The great orb hugged the horizon for long minutes and then, as if propelled
by some other-worldly force, started to climb quickly. There was a thick line of timber to the north and, beyond that, a mountain range he’d never seen. His father said it was many miles away, much further than the two hills that sat on the edge of the grassy plains near their home. Will curled his fingers on the reins. The men ahead cast stretched-out shadows, the horses flicked their tails and nickered. Will tried to draw his body down into the thick coat he wore but it was a cold night and the temperature was getting worse. The Plains seemed a long way from his new life. He missed his parents, Sissy and the other cows, and Perch. If Perch were here he’d be running around in circles, chasing nestling ground birds and barking at the moon.
‘Black frost on the way, I reckon.’ Evan was at his side, a smoke hanging from his lips. The old man smelt like rotten potatoes. ‘Jim and you are going to take the mob straight on ahead, one mile. Put ’em through the gate with the piece of tin flapping on it and then stay put. No campfire, nothing.’
‘What’s the rush?’ Will asked, blowing on his fingertips.
‘Tomorrow’s Friday, boy. With a month of work behind them, the men are keen to collect their pay and have a weekend of rest. And I want to be back at Condamine Station come mid-morning.’
They never shifted sheep in the evening, but they’d had a longer break at noon and managed to keep the mob moving since well after the sunset. ‘It’s a bit cold, Evan.’
‘And I’m guessing you’re hungry for a feed as well, but ain’t nothing doing until I get back.’ He gave a low whistle. Up ahead one of the horses pulled free of the line. The moonshine hit Jim squarely in the face as he rode towards them. ‘You know the drill, lad?’
Jim pointed west. ‘One mile to the gate and then wait.’
‘Exactly. The kid’s with you. Keep the mob together, move them quickly and don’t bugger things up.’
The Great Plains Page 33