“A man needs his sleep, don’t he? Can’t you make up a bed down the end there… down the passage?”
Holding the baby to her breast she swallowed hard. A bad dream? A nightmare? How could life have swung from such happiness to this misery? Of course there must be reasons. George was so disappointed; she had known he wanted a son but had no idea how much he had set his heart on it. In vain did she tell him of her own father… three sons and three daughters. There was always time, always time.
Of course he had been working so hard, he’d lost patience with them. Problems abounded on the property and he’d try to keep them from her. The strain must be getting to him. Round and round the excuses went but they gave no comfort. “Of course”, “of course”, “of course” preluded the unspoken litany of excuses each day.
When eyes which once had smiled now scowled, or at best glazed over with lack of interest, and when words only came in barked commands, then facts had to be faced and Mary Ann had never been one to shirk reality.
At what moment had the change crept in? Time and again she puzzled. Was it when Grand-père had sickened and she’d been away at the Lintotts, or had it come since then? No, she thought again, he’d been distant before that. The first inkling of anything amiss came when he’d spoken about Job and bringing the Irishmen onto the property.
Perhaps the time had come when she must accept their presence. Certainly the baby took up more and more of her energy and there were jobs around the home always waiting to be done. She knew she was no help outside on the property. Maybe she should accept their presence gracefully.
“I’d like some help with the pruning down in the orchard,” she asked. “Can Mick or Seamus spend the morning there? I’ll tell them what to do.” Even the names sounded foreign and vaguely sinister, but asking for help might be a way of pleasing George.
“Can’t spare ’em.”
“But it’s only a couple of hours.”
He scowled and shook his head.
“They seem to spend a lot of time out in the paddocks. I never see them round the yard except milking time.”
“Stop your nagging. They’ve more than enough on their hands.”
So no more could be said. Mary Ann decided she’d ask them herself but something in the way they looked at her held her back. She did not feel easy with them. That certain arrogance of their walk, their loud but often incomprehensible chatter and their entire demeanour made her ill at ease. Whereas she had often stopped to chat with Job, she found herself looking the other way when they passed by.
The black hair and blue eyes, and the secretive exchanges between them in a tongue she could not always follow, added to that sense of alienation. They darted about their work and then disappeared for hours on end. What were they doing half the time? The yard remained a mess. Straw littered the far corners, a pile of old boxes tottered near the well and a broken spade leaned against a rusted implement so twisted, she couldn’t even see what it had once been.
“What you going on about?” George snapped each time she asked for some help. “Can’t spare the lads, they’ve got more’n enough to get through.” George’s replies became more staccato as the weeks passed by but it wasn’t until he went on one of his ever more frequent trips to Goulburn and she found herself alone once again that she came up against the full reality of their smouldering resentment.
She’d driven the trap back from Gundaroo. Passing their neighbours’ spick-and-span driveways alerted her to the slovenly appearance of their own entrance. “That rail needs hammering back, down near the gate,” she told the brothers as they slouched out of the yard.
Seamus just looked at her and Mick shook his head. “Master’s never said nothin’.”
“But it’s hanging loose. Anything can get in.”
“We’re to be down the dam, Missus. Clear them reeds out, he said, that’s what we’re doin’.”
“The reeds! Clear the reeds. Why?”
“Them’s his orders.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” she exclaimed. The dam was the home to the moorhens and the ducks, frogs croaked from the dark green banks of reeds while dragonflies skimmed over the surface and even an occasional blue heron came fishing.
“Master said by the time he gets back from Goulburn he wants them reeds done for. Them’s his orders.”
Mary Ann drew herself up and faced them. “And these are my orders: that fence needs fixing, no one touches the dam!” The rail was back in place by next morning but her growing unease did not diminish as she watched them slinking about the yard.
She had to ask more times than she cared to remember for water to be brought up from the well and the yard to be swept. True, the milk awaited her in the dairy and the bucket of pig’s swill was taken down to the sty, but the reek of beer caught her nostrils when she walked past the lean-to behind the cowshed and she guessed they’d been sampling the brew.
Was she a nag? She kept remembering George’s words. Her life had shifted so radically, she had to admit to herself, that with the swift changes taking place she felt quite powerless. For all these years she’d been mistress of her own fate and now there were these two young demanding lives dependent on her; and at the same time countless tasks always to hand. Tending to the dairy, kitchen, vegetable garden and orchard filled every minute of her day.
Daily existence had always been arduous but there were opportunities to ride out and just occasionally people called in. Now solitude had become her lot.
No longer did she feel involved with her own property, never once was her advice sought. She could not remember the last time she and George laughed together. These days her husband was short-tempered and cold and, what was worse, she did not seem able to talk to him any more.
“George away again?” This was a red-letter day for Elizabeth had ridden over from Woodbury and brought some new clothes for the baby.
“Yes, the sales at Goulburn.”
“Must be spending a mint…” her sister shook her head.
“He says it takes time to build up good breeding stock. The drought’s only a while ago, after all.”
“Well, you’ve got the little girls now, anyhow, at least not quite on your own.”
“I realise how lonely it must have been for Grand-père … with Papa and me always out. Even so we’d be back in the evenings.” Mary Ann confided in Elizabeth.
“And George isn’t home evenings?” Her sister sniffed. “’Tis always the same when the babies come - they takes up all your time but doesn’t make for that much company.”
“Oh, he’s very good.”
“But the men, they stop by with their friends, don’t they? There’s things that need to be seen to…and all those sales too? Amazing all the things that have to be seen to once the little ones arrive!”
“It’s not just that… it’s… well, sometimes I feel like an intruder on my own property!”
“What do you mean, Mary Ann?”
“Those men, those Irish, have got a kind of resentful look about them, as if I’m in the way just being here. The other day I really had to stand my ground to get them to do as I asked. I told George, they are too full of themselves by far. He didn’t like it, but he had to agree in the end.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to say something but then thought better of it. “Tell you what, my dear, why not leave me to listen for the little ones. Take yourself out for an hour or so.”
“I’m tired, that’s half the trouble. Just to walk down to the dam I find pretty exhausting.”
“Then take my Merrylegs and go for a ride. I’ll be bound you’ve not been in the saddle for weeks.”
“More likely, months! Last time was when I found I was expecting Lizzie.”
“Well, there you are. You go off now. You see, you’ll feel a new woman.”
“And a pretty achey one, not being used to it nowadays.”
“Never mind. Be off, before young Cathy wakes up and starts making a fuss. If you’re not here it won’t m
atter but if she sees you go off without her there’ll be the devil to pay.”
Mary Ann had to admit her sister had been right. Ten minutes away from the house, the world looked a different place. Wind blowing through her hair and the call of the plovers in her ears she soon passed the dam and reached the bank of the river.
The cool wind blowing across the water refreshed her.
Not a soul in sight. Not a movement on the opposite bank. The Irishwoman’s cottage stood still and silent. Even though smoke spiralled out of the chimney the dwelling appeared deserted.
As if to prove her very thoughts wrong the door of the hut opened and a figure appeared on the step. Mary Ann shaded her eyes. The Irishwoman herself stood there. I don’t even know her name, Mary Ann admitted to herself. My only neighbour, and they’ve been there forever, yet I don’t even know her name.
And why should you? She could hear her grandfather’s derisive comment. No better than tinkers!
On impulse Mary Ann waved to the woman.
Hair awry, hands upon her wide spreading hips, feet splayed out, the woman stared back for a few moments then swung round on her heels and disappeared once more indoors.
Mary Ann winced, suddenly feeling exposed and uncomfortable. Even a nod of the head would have been something.
She turned the horse’s head away from the river and set off at a swift trot and then a canter over the hill towards the furthest paddock.
Reaching a sloping eminence Mary Ann blinked in the sunlight. Beyond the rocky summit the land dropped away and the shepherd’s hut nestled amongst the tumbled boulders at the bottom of the hill. Since the drought the hut had not been occupied, no flocks had grazed upon these paddocks and only a few wandering goats browsed amongst the scattered boulders and occasional clumps of bush.
Leaning back in the saddle she half closed her eyes. Many years ago she and Grand-père had ridden to just this very place. Several times they’d sat on the on those rocks and she’d listened to the old man telling his stories. Nothing had changed, all remained peaceful and tranquil. Guise lands. Just the boundless acres and the hut with the air shimmering above the bark roof.
Shimmering! She opened her eyes wide and looked closer. The air above the bark roof certainly quivered in the heat but the movement came from a spiral of smoke rising and spreading from the chimney and slowly dispersing into the atmosphere.
Smoke? That hut hadn’t been occupied in several years or more. Briefly after the drought George had restocked but there had been an outbreak of scouring in the flock and George told her he had decided to move them on to higher ground. Who could be living in this remote place?
Approaching more closely she caught sight of an orderly array of implements outside the door. Two buckets, a large jar, a shepherd’s crook and a rake were ranged neatly against the wall. Two dogs, lying in the shade of makeshift cover eyed her suspiciously and as she came closer one began to bark.
“Was you wantin’ summat, Missus?” A rangy leather-faced man emerged, shirt hanging down and a straw broom in his hand.
At a loss for a moment she paused and then dismounted.
“Don’t get many visitors hereabouts, Miss. You come from the property over the hill? Wherever you come from, would you like to sit down for a moment and I’ll fetch you some water?”
“I’ll not trouble you but…”
“No trouble, Missus. Plenty of water in the well,” he laughed as though attempting to lighten the situation, for Mary Ann could not take her eyes from him. She stared at him. Who was this man? He appeared to be perfectly at home in their hut. What was he doing here? George must have hired this new shepherd and he’d completely forgotten to mention him to her.
“I didn’t realise you had a well here nowadays. We always brought water over to this hut from the stream. Has Mr Brownlow had a well dug for you?”
The man looked puzzled. “Not Mr Brownlow, Missus, ’tis Mr Palmer I works for.”
“Mr Palmer?”
“Mr Palmer brought his flock back from the mountains last month and this is where we’ll stop till they drops their lambs. Mr Palmer said as how he’d had a good well dug and looks like it’ll never run dry. A blessing ’tis, not a drop of rain in weeks, animals is parched half the time.”
Mary Ann remained silent. How could the Palmers own these pastures? As far as the eye could see the land had belonged to her father.
Sipping the water she listened to the man as he rattled on. “You come a fair step, Missus. If you don’t mind me saying, you’d best be back before them shadows start lengthening.”
Every inch of the way on the journey home increased her puzzlement. How could Palmer own that land? These acres had been left to her in her father’s will. Question after question flew through her mind adding to the fear that she had stumbled on something she would rather not know about.
She said nothing to Elizabeth about the matter. There must be an explanation and she’d wait till George came home.
By the time he returned the evening had set in. With Cathy tucked up and the baby asleep she sat in the kitchen watching him eat his meal. Absorbed in his food, remote at the far end of the table, Mary Ann found herself regarding him for the first time as an onlooker instead of a wife. His chin jutted aggressively, a frown creased his brow and hadn’t she noticed before how close together his eyes were set? Love plays subtle tricks with memory. That first sight of him, smiling down at her, every feature graven in her mind as she felt the warmth of his embrace had never wavered. Now George could have been a different person entirely.
“I went for a gallop this afternoon,” she ventured.
“How so?” Pulling his bread apart he sopped up the last drops of gravy.
“Elizabeth came over, suggested I take her Merrylegs out…fine ride.”
“You’ve not been in the saddle for months.”
“And don’t I know it. Aching in every joint.”
“Thought you’d given all that away. Don’t have no call to go riding out these days, do you?”
“I went up past the long paddock. Have you leased that land, George?”
He pushed his plate away. “No, never lease me land.”
“The shepherd there says he works for Mr Palmer.”
“That’d be right.”
“Well, how did it become Mr Palmer’s land all of a sudden?”
George looked up and held out his hands, palms upward. “Come my love, come and sit over here. ’Tis a pity you come to hear about it like this but I’ll explain.”
Silently she sat beside him.
“I never want to worry you with business matters, you know that. We’ve had more’n enough expense lately, and wives don’t need to concern themselves about such things. Think of your grandmother, she was kept busy from dawn ’til dusk. She never fretted over what was happenin’ on the property, she left that to your grandfather.”
“Father never sold any land. He would never agree, whoever asked.”
“Not wishing to speak ill of the dead, your father had let the place go a bit, hadn’t he? I’ve been stocking up again, and then there’s the Percheron and them black saddlebacks and where’d you think the money come from for the new trap?”
Of course. How could she be so slow-witted. There’d been so many changes in the running of Bywong during the last months. The two Irishmen, those Spanish sheep and all the matters he’d mentioned. How could she be so blind? Remorse swept through her. Of course George had been trying to spare her any worry. She took his hand and held it in hers. “But couldn’t you speak to me about it? Couldn’t you trust me? I’d have understood.”
“You’ve got more’n enough on your plate,” he smiled at her. She realised he’d not smiled in ages. “I didn’t want to worry you, had a hard time with little Lizzie and you still feeding her. It’s a strain on you, I know that. Leave the running of the place to me.”
“But you could have told me.” She grasped his hands.
“Not easy,” he muttered as he lo
oked away.
“George!” She moved closer and took his other hand. “George, everything’s going to be alright. I know the stock’s been a bit run down but there’s good years and bad years. Think of all those months and months of drought and we’re pulling out of that now.”
“Takes time.” He took his hands away and rose, walked over to the window and stared out across to the dam and the distant river.
“Time, yes, but if we don’t have the land, we don’t have anything. Of course you did the right thing but we’d best not let any more go.” She went across to the dresser and picked up her sewing, drawing the candle closer. Better not pursue the subject any more. The point had been made, leave it at that.
Silence filled the room. Silence should be emptiness, a gap, a nothing. But sometimes silence propagates more silence until it spreads and fills every corner and becomes a tangible barrier between two people. Words that cannot be said, thoughts which must not be expressed, combine to make a wall of silence.
Determined that her last words should not sound like a criticism Mary Ann took the time-honoured path of changing the subject. Shying away from the awkward to the familiar ground of everyday life she pushed silence aside.
“River’s filling up. Time was not so long ago when anyone could wade across to that hut…”
“Hut?”
“You know. Where the Irishwoman lives.”
“They got the punt.”
“Seems pretty quiet over there.”
“Lad’s live down the village.”
“Must be lonely for their mother nowadays. Well, I suppose she’s still got her daughter at home.”
Silence seeped back.
“Come to think of it, I’ve not seen her about lately.”
“Who?”
“The Irishwoman’s daughter. Used to see her in the village sometimes. I wonder what’s happened to her? Remember she came looking for work last year? Maybe she’s in service somewhere.”
“Blessed if I know,” George grunted as he picked up the Herald and left the room.
Two weeks later the answer came to Mary Ann’s question when she called in at the general store.
The Hanging of Mary Ann Page 16