Rosie forced a smile. She’d never warmed to her father’s foreman, but they didn’t have to be best friends, all they had to do was get along—somehow.
“There may be instances when I need to find you to clarify something,” she said. Surely he didn’t expect her to be chained to the desk all day, every day.
Bartel adjusted his hat. “I am sure it could wait until I return for the day.”
“Maybe…” There was no point in going in circles with this man. Rosie just needed to get on with her job and prove to her father she was more than capable. “So, are you up to date with the supplier accounts?”
“Of course.” He shook his head, as if it was impossible that he wouldn’t be.
“Bartel, I didn’t mean to offend. It’s just with everything going on some things may have fallen by the wayside.”
“I can assure you that everything is up to date.” His surly tone didn’t help matters, but she let it slide.
“Great.” She finished off the last of the tea, even though it was now cold. “I’d better get to it.”
Bartel turned on his heels and pounded down the steps.
Rosie watched him stride across the gravel toward the shed, dust flying behind him. No wonder he hadn’t married. With a personality like that he’d be hard-pressed to find a woman who’d put up with his surliness.
Trying not to let his mood crowd in on her day, Rosie went to her father’s office and stood in the doorway. Piles of papers lay on every conceivable surface—the spare chair, the desk, the floor, and the walnut cabinet that had belonged to her grandfather. Letting out a deep, long breath, Rosie sat on the dark green leather chair. Her grandfather had been an interesting man who had scared the living daylights out of her. He was gruff, sported a constant scowl, but he looked after the cane gangs who worked for him, while neighbors ruled with an iron fist. And no matter how busy her grandfather was, he’d always find a moment to let young Rosie sit on his knee and tell him about her day—the frogs she’d caught and let go, the tree she’d made friends with, the nest of baby birds she’d discovered. Rosie missed her grandfather dearly. What would he make of the goings on at Tulpil these days?
Rosie checked the calendar. Thursday. The day to check the cane gang’s tallies and make payments. She needed to get organized quick-smart so the men received their money on time. Rosie stood and rummaged around the piles and it took a few minutes before she located the ledger and hoisted the heavy book onto the desk. Leaning forward, she scanned through the pages, checking what each cane gang was owed and if they had accrued any loans with her father that needed to be paid.
As she worked her way through the figures, things didn’t add up—literally. She tried two, three times and even a fourth, but the cash she had in the safe didn’t match and the figures for the men didn’t balance, either. And there’d been a few payments missed to suppliers. Surely there’d been a mistake. Maybe Bartel could explain how he’d worked it out.
Putting on her hat, Rosie went in search of Bartel. It was now lunchtime and she suspected he wouldn’t have strayed too far from the shed.
Rosie rounded the corner and spied Loto in the distance. She asked, “How are you feeling?”
His hand instinctively went to his side, though he forced a smile. “Much better, thank you, boss.”
“Boss?” Where did that come from? She laughed lightly. “I’m just plain old Rosie.”
“Miss Rosie.” He grinned. “But you are the boss now.”
“My father is still the boss and Bartel and I are assisting him. Speaking of which”—she glanced around and saw Sefa walking toward them—“have you seen Bartel?”
“No.” Sefa took a swig of water out of the canvas bag hanging off the pole.
“He’s supposed to be out with the men. Is he in the eastern corner?”
A look passed between Loto and Sefa.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, a ripple of apprehension in her belly.
“Miss Rosie, the men haven’t—”
Sefa shook his head. Loto shuffled his feet and looked down at them.
“The men haven’t, what, Loto?” she asked.
“It is nothing, I am sure it is a misunderstanding,” said Sefa, scowling at Loto.
Rosie’s gaze travelled from one to the other. Neither man looked at her directly. “If there is something I should know—or my father should—I need to hear it. Now, please.”
“The men have not been fully paid for weeks,” Sefa finally said. He shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Since my father got sick?”
“No, before then,” Sefa said. “At first I thought it was strange but Bartel…”
Rosie said, “As soon as you see Bartel, please ask him to come up to the office. I need to speak to him right away.”
* * * *
Rosie sat at the desk and stared out the window, while the sunlight fought its way through the half-open shutters. She’d tried to concentrate on other accounts, but her mind, and eyes, kept returning to the payment records for the workers. The phone rang in the hall and she jumped up and went to get it before the ringing woke her father.
Picking up the receiver, she said quietly, “Hello?”
“Is that you, Rosie?” Came a familiar gravelly voice.
“Yes. How are you, Mr. O’Reilly?”
“I am fine, fine,” he said. “How’s your father?”
“He’s doing all right but…”
“Yes, I heard he’s been through quite a lot, which is why I’m calling to say not to worry about the overdue fuel accounts. He can fix me up when he’s able. The last thing I want to do is put stress on him and the family.”
Rosie drew her brows together. “I’d found some overdue accounts but I am pretty sure Bartel fixed most of them up last week.”
She heard a rustle of papers. “No. They’re still not paid.”
“Can you wait a second, please?” She balanced the receiver on the top of the box and went to the office. There she scrounged through the paperwork and found a couple of bills from O’Reilly’s Service Station. Taking them with her, she picked up the phone and said, “Bartel’s written down that it’s been paid.”
“Then he must be mistaken. The last payment I received was six weeks ago.”
“Oh.” She stared at the yellow paper in her hand. The Stantons had known the O’Reilly family for years, the friendship between her father and Mr. O’Reilly stretching back as far as their school days. So, there was no reason for Mr. O’Reilly to lie about accounts not being paid. Especially as there had never been a problem before…
If this had been an isolated case she could give Bartel the benefit of the doubt, but this, coupled with Loto and Sefa mentioning about the men not receiving their money…
“I’m sorry for the delay in paying you, Mr. O’Reilly. I’ll get the money to you as soon as possible.” She stared at the front door, itching to get out there and find her father’s foreman.
“Don’t worry, Rosie. Just whenever you can. Please send your father my regards.”
“I will. Thank you. Goodbye.” Rosie hung up so quickly Mr. O’Reilly didn’t have a chance to bid farewell. Gripping the paper tightly in her hand, she ran down the stairs, across the yard and to the shed where she found Sefa.
“Where’s Bartel?” It hurt to get the words out as she gasped for breath.
“He went up to the house an hour ago.” Sefa looked genuinely puzzled. “I did as you asked and told him to see you urgently.”
She glanced around then noticed Bartel’s car was missing. Oh no.
Returning her attention to Sefa, she said, “I need to find Bartel. While I’m away, you are in charge.”
“Me?” Sefa pointed at his chest, his eyebrows nearly hitting his hairline.
“Yes. I won’t be long.” Hopefully.
“Is th
is…” He studied his dusty shoes. “Is this about our pay?”
“I’ll be back soon.” She couldn’t voice her concerns.
Rosie went back to the house and quietly opened the screen door before grabbing the keys off the hook. A small gust of wind caught the door and slammed it shut.
Shit!
“Rosie?” her father croaked.
“Yes, Dad?” She moved to the doorway and plastered on a smile.
“How is it all going?” He maneuvered himself up the pillow.
“I’m working my way through it all.” At least it wasn’t a lie.
“What about Bartel? Is he leaving you to do your job?”
“He’s…not kicking up a stink.”
There. Not a lie. How could Bartel cause trouble if he wasn’t around? Quite easily, apparently…
“Right, well, I must get back to it,” she said, trying to figure out how she could drive the ute away without her father’s suspicions being raised.
He nodded then a small, lopsided smile formed on his pale lips. “Thank you.”
Rosie waved her hands in a dismissive manner. “It’s nothing. Thank you for having faith I could do this.”
If only current events didn’t make her question her abilities.
* * * *
Dust flew through the open windows of the ute as she sped toward town. Her knuckles had turned white, her fingers ached from gripping the wheel, and the muscles across her shoulders ached from tension. Tulpil had been in her family for generations, her ancestors weathering drought, flood, fire, famine, war. There was no hope in hell that she would let a hot-fingered foreman put a dent in the already-dwindling coffers of her family’s livelihood.
Pulling up in front of Reg’s Pub, she turned off the engine and stared at the second story, where Bartel rented a room. Even though he’d been offered board at Tulpil, he’d declined, saying he liked to separate work from his personal life.
Staring up at the open windows on the second floor, she could make out the faded floral curtains billowing in the light breeze. Taking a deep breath, she exited the ute and looked around for Bartel’s vehicle. There were a handful of cars she recognized—Robert Henderson’s, Stuart Dover’s and Bertie Sherrington’s—but no sign of Bartel’s battered beast. Rosie walked over to the front doors on the corner of the building and hesitated. The Public Bar—a ridiculous misnomer—was only for men, with women being forced into the Ladies’ Lounge. And even then they couldn’t buy their own drinks. She really shouldn’t enter, but right now Rosie didn’t care for archaic rules. Besides, the publican, Reg, was yet another old school friend of her father’s. Surely Reg would make an exception this time. It wasn’t like she was going to demand a brandy, lime and soda.
Rosie glanced up the street and saw the trio of Mrs. Daw, Mrs. Marriott, and Mrs. Aylwin gathered out the front of Mitchell’s Bakery. Ranging from short and rotund to reed thin and lofty, the devout church women turned all eyes on Rosie. She gave them a quick wave, well aware she would be the subject of gossip until the next victim surfaced.
Grabbing the handle with both hands, she yanked open the door. It was heavier than expected and as she stood in the doorway, she peered into the darkness. Cigarette smoke and stale beer assailed her nostrils as she allowed a moment for her eyes to adjust. Her ears filled with men’s deep voices as they chatted, apparently unaware of her presence. Just as she stepped forward she noticed a figure striding toward her.
“Hello, Reg.” She kept her tone light.
He gently grasped her elbow and steered her through the door and onto the street. The sun glinted off his red hair and fair skin. “You can’t be coming in here like that, Rosie. Do you want to cause trouble?”
“You still enforcing that ridiculous rule?” She shook her arm free.
He cocked an eyebrow. “What do you want?”
“I’m looking for Bartel.”
“He’s not here,” Reg said quickly.
“Come on, Reg. If he’s here, I need to know.”
“Why?” Reg looked past her shoulders and down the street behind her. She turned around but no one was to be found.
She narrowed her eyes. “You haven’t asked me why he isn’t at Tulpil working.”
Reg’s face turned as red as the tomatoes she’d picked from the garden the day before.
“Reg…”
“Fine. He swung past about an hour ago. In a mad rush, like a rabid dog was after him. He went to his room, grabbed his bag, came downstairs and threw money across the bar at me.”
“What for?”
“Rent for the room. He owed me a few weeks.”
“But we pay him regularly. Surely he had enough to pay you board.”
Reg looked at her as if she’d just crawled out from under a rock. “You don’t know, do you?” He shook his head. “No, of course you don’t. How could you?”
“What?”
Reg paused, as if deciding if he should say any more.
“Please, tell me what you know.” If she had to beg, she would.
“He gambles,” said Reg.
Her shoulders dropped. “Badly?”
“If he’d saved the money he spent on the gee-gees he’d have a palace by now.”
She had desperately wanted to be wrong… Bartel needed to be found. Maybe she could talk some sense into him. Get the money back somehow…Then reality hit hard. “He’s skipped town, hasn’t he?”
“More than likely.” Reg looked toward the bar. “I’ve got to go.”
She nodded. “I understand.”
He took a few steps then turned and faced her. “If I get wind of anything about Bartel, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
“Thanks, Reg.”
“How’s your father?”
“He’s…” An image of the frail man at odds with the world flashed before her. “He’s finding things difficult at the moment, but we’ll work through it. We always do.”
Reg gave a knowing nod. “He’s a lucky man.”
“How so?”
“He has you looking out for him. And for Tulpil. The boys were telling me about your new role there. I always knew you had potential, Rosie. I’m sorry your father is so ill, but I’m glad to see you have the chance to shine.”
She smiled at his kind words but inside her stomach churned.
* * * *
After dashing from shop to shop and the occasional house asking if anyone had seen Bartel, Rosie had come to the sobering conclusion that he had most definitely skipped town. With a heavy heart, she drove back to Tulpil, her mind a mess of distressing thoughts. Was leaving Sefa in charge a mistake? Had the men loaded all the cane to go to the mill? If they hadn’t, they’d be behind schedule and this would cause her current headache to turn into a migraine. Then there was the whole question about informing her father about the latest developments. She could keep it from him, but this was his business, he should know, although Rosie was petrified about what this could do to him. Learning of the betrayal by the one man he trusted and discovering the farm was now in financial risk…Rosie doubted his heart would cope with such news.
With one hand on the wheel and the other rubbing her throbbing temple, she flicked on the headlights as dusk settled in. The sky had turned a magnificent red and blazes of pink and purple stretched across the horizon. Any other day she would have pulled over to take in the sight, her heart swelling with pride in the land she called home. But today was no ordinary day.
Turning the ute off the bitumen and onto the dirt road, she grasped the wheel with two hands, trying to keep it out of the large potholes scattered along the road. Darkness descended quickly and she raced along. Although she hadn’t organized it with Sefa, she hoped he’d stayed behind to fill her in with the events since she’d left him in charge.
In the distance, she could see the lights of Il Sunn
u. The Queenslander house overlooked the farm like a king lording over his land. No doubt Tomas would have finished work, his smooth hands getting more beat up with each passing day. Had he known about the dispute between his family and hers? Surely he would have mentioned it if he did.
Pushing out a sigh, she continued toward her house. Since her father had taken ill she hadn’t had a chance to catch up with Tomas. She missed his smile. His gentle laugh. She missed the warm, happy feeling she had whenever they were together.
For now, though, Rosie had to deal with a whole lot of unexpected headaches.
Chapter 11
By the time Rosie arrived at Tulpil, the workers had packed up for the day and were back at their dwellings. As she’d hoped, Sefa and Loto were waiting for her return. They stood out the front of the shed, heavy in conversation when she pulled up. Turning off the engine, she got out of the ute and gently closed the door.
“How did the men go this afternoon?” she asked.
“Good, good.” Sefa nodded. “Very good.”
Loto backed this up with a nod.
“Thank you for filling in. I really do appreciate it,” she said. “Please, go and enjoy your evening. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
With that she hurried along the path and up to the house. The harsh verandah light bit through the darkness and as she climbed the stairs, her confidence waned. This would not be an easy conversation.
Entering the living room, she found her father sitting in the reading chair, his hair neatly combed, his reading glasses on. His cheeks were rosy and he sat straighter, like he’d found some of the strength he’d lost since the stroke.
Looking up from the newspaper, he asked, “How was the first day?”
Sinking onto a chair, Rosie took a moment to compose herself; the more she willed the brewing tears away, the more they wanted to break free.
Empathy shone in her father’s eyes—she hadn’t seen this look in years. She gulped down a sob.
“What’s wrong?”
She shook her head, fearing her voice would crack. Her father’s frown didn’t help matters as surely he was thinking a woman who cried after the first day of work wasn’t up to the job.
Burning Fields Page 11