Her heart ruled her head. Even though reasoning and common sense told her she’d been disregarded, the whirlwind of emotion experienced now, as she was almost in his arms, once more swept aside any doubts.
She’d have his meal on the table. The little girls would be in bed by then. She’d have him all to herself and as she hurried her daughters indoors Mary Ann rejoiced to be back where she belonged.
“We’ll get a bite to eat and then it’s bed for you two,” she hurried them along to the kitchen.
The same homely smell greeted her, wood smoke with a faint memory of roasting meat on its breath. The cups and saucers gleamed from the shelves and pans were piled on top of each other in the washing-up bowl. All so familiar, this was home again and she felt herself smiling from ear to ear as she looked around. Home again.
Then something caught her eye. A straw sun hat, tossed casually beside a pile of apples on the table, its pink ribbons lay crumpled and twisted as though whoever had worn it had snatched at the brim and hastily thrown it down.
Visitors? We’ve had some visitors. Well, he won’t have been entirely on his own then, that’s good, Mary Ann thought.
How thrilled George would be to see them back again, a whole week earlier than expected. Her body glowed with anticipation as she rattled out the ashes, set out the kindling and wood in the stove then watched the flames take hold.
First of all, feed the little ones and get them to bed. Cathy grizzled with tiredness and the baby kept nuzzling for her breast as she hurried round the kitchen, not wanting to put her down in case she started crying. Some said a good cry got the appetite going, but Mary Ann just thought it filled them up with wind and made for more trouble.
“You wait here, lovey, you just watch over our Lizzie while I go and fetch us some milk from the dairy. Just you be a good girl and wait.”
Cool and cavernous the faintly animal scent of milk, butter and cheese enveloped her as she reached the threshold. How neat and tidy it looked. But how different. A stack of cloths and butter pats took up the space where usually she kept clean bowls, a pipkin of cream stood on the cold marble surface and whey slowly dripped through the cheesecloth suspended from one of the beams.
George must have been busy, but he did not usually bother himself with the dairy. She’d expected to find a trail of disorder left by Job but of course, she pulled herself up. No Job now, must be the work of one of the men.
Perhaps I should go away more often, she smiled to herself. They certainly have managed very well - for the time being.
Cathy and Lizzie were tucked up and fast asleep well before she heard the crunch of George’s boots upon the path. Her heart leapt as she turned to the door.
“What’s up?” He stood staring at her. Rigid, hands at his sides, his gaze flitted around the kitchen.
“I’m back. Oh George, I’m never going away again. Isn’t it wonderful, I’m back.”
She threw her arms around him.
Wooden as a post he stood there. Then he patted her on her back and gave her a slight squeeze. She raised her face to his but somehow his lips were not there and if she had seen the expression she’d have seen his startled reaction when he glimpsed the straw hat. But the flood of relief at being once again in her husband’s arms had transported Mary Ann beyond ordinary everyday matters. The very feel and smell of him!
Pulling back she held him at arm’s length, her eyes bright with excitement. So broad-shouldered, so bronzed and so completely the man of her dreams, and also so different from those milksops up in the city. Never ever again would she leave him. Next time they’d make the trip together.
“Oh George! Look what I’ve brought you.” She took out several little packets from her bag. “Look.” Impatiently she waited for him to undo the string: his favourite tobacco, a new necktie, some exotic lures for his rod. The thrill of seeing him unwrap the gifts matched her pleasure of choosing them.
“And I’ve brought Job a new waistcoat, he’ll look such a swell.”
Then she paused. Job! Hastily she rattled on, this was no moment to bring in a discordant note.
So much to talk about, so much time to make up. As she hurried around the kitchen laying the food out, she barely noticed his silence.
“…and most of all, it’s wonderful to be back. I’ll never, never go away again.”
Of course George had never been one to chatter, had he? And if she did feel he was a little quiet… well, the poor fellow had been forced to make do with his own company these two weeks anyhow with only those fellows to talk to.
Even by the time they laid beside each other that night the subject of Job had not been brought up.
When she called by at the smithy two days later old Job did not come out at first.
Eventually George had got round to the subject and she’d listened to his reasons for putting off the old man. Reluctantly she’d nodded but could not bring herself to agree. Now she watched the back door of the smith anxiously. Would the old man come out and talk to her, or was he mortally offended with her family?
“Job! Job! Out ’ere mate!” the blacksmith shouted again, but he had to call three more times before the old man came out.
“Job! Look what I’ve got for you…” She held out the package, smiling broadly. “You know how sorry I am, but certainly there’d be less heavy work here. You’ll find that a blessing. I’ll never forget the fire, never forget how you saved the day. We’d have been lost without all you did. Bywong’s not the same without you, though. Here, cut that string…”
The old man stared at the waistcoat.
“Brass buttons, those brass buttons caught my eye. The moment I saw that waistcoat, I said to myself, ‘That’s for Job’.”
He mumbled his thanks but his eyes did not meet hers.
“Perhaps you could come and spend a few hours helping in the orchard? One of those days when work’s quiet?”
He still said nothing, just fidgeted with the string, finally winding it into a neat ball.
“There’s always the pruning. I know there’s Mick and Seamus but they’re often busy. There’s a lot of work going on up at Bywong after the fire of course, Mr Brownlow has his plans.”
“Oh aye, he has his plans alright… and he ain’t the only one.”
CHAPTER 17
“There was a lonely drummer boy and he loved a one-eyed cook!
“With a hey! And a ho! And a hey nonny no!”
Mary O’Rourke sang loudly and triumphantly as she swept out the hard dirt floor, beaten down and resilient from the earth of ancient anthills pounded down over the years. “And when that rascal came to call the very timbers shook!” She stopped and chuckled to herself.
“Ma, I’ll thank you to stop singin’ yer filthy ditties. Me only just back from town and lookin’ for a few hours peace and quiet.”
“And I’ll say you may be thinkin’ you’re on yer way to being a fine lady but the time’s comin’ when the kid gloves is coming off over at Bywong, my bird. Time’s comin’, dirt’s got to fly!”
The Irishwoman looked at her daughter with satisfaction. “Didn’t I tell you to bide yer time, wasn’t I right? This time next year we’ll be singing a different song over them pastures. You listen to yer old ma. Things’s working out very nicely, thank you. Now come and help yer ma. There’s a load of pegging out to be done. Rain’s on its way, can feel it in me knees.”
Brigid stared across the paddock with a smug gleam in her eye. “The lads’ll be back soon. They ain’t sayin’ much.”
“Don’t need to. They know which side their bread’s buttered and, like you say, they never says much, but things ain’t the rosiest over there. Still, that old fool isn’t hanging around no more, carryin’ tales and the like. Best place for him down with that Briggs. What the eye don’t see, the heart don’t grieve after.”
Job’s departure had certainly made Mary Ann’s life even more arduous. She did not feel comfortable with the Irishmen, she could not come to terms with George�
�s decision. Job had certainly been slow and often forgetful. If he could end his working life fetching and carrying for the blacksmith in the village, then perhaps that was his lot and, after all, everyone reaches a stage when heavy labouring is beyond them. Yet a stubborn sense of loss pervaded her daily life and a conviction of something amiss constantly nagged at her.
The old man had always been there. They’d shared many times together; now when she went out to the yard she missed his cheery greeting. From the days when she had help him with the milking and he had grinned up at her from his stool and squirted her with a stream of milk from an overflowing udder, to the times when he had grumbled and complained, he had been part of their family.
“I’d like a hand with that wire down in the chicken run. Look at those clouds. Don’t want to be out looking for those hens in the wet,” she said. “Can Seamus spend a while there, I’ll tell him what to do.”
“Can’t spare him.”
“But it’s only a couple of hours. Two hens have already got out. They’re broody and if they make their nests out in the paddock the dingoes will get them.”
“No, he’s got more than enough to do.”
“When he comes up for the milking perhaps he could spare a minute. It’s the only time I catch sight of him.”
“Those lads have more than enough,” he repeated and shut his mouth tight.
Mary Ann decided she’d ask them herself but something in the way they looked at her held her back. Their walk had a certain arrogance, when they spoke she found them difficult to understand. That black hair and blue eyes accentuated their sharp features. They darted about their work, then disappeared for hours on end. Nor was the yard even tidy any more.
“Why are those lads so unwilling?” Mary Ann grumbled on yet another day to her husband. He’d returned from a journey to Goulburn and they were sitting over their meal in the kitchen.
“Different folks has different ways.”
“I suppose it’s like Grand-mère used to…” but she did not finish the sentence. The door opened and Seamus stepped into the room followed by Mick.
“An’ where’s me winnins?” He held out his hand to George while his brother waited a few steps behind.
Mary Ann stared in amazement as the three men put their heads together and when Seamus, with no bidding, drew up a stool and joined them at the table she stood up and retreated across to the dresser. In confusion, she busied herself tidying one of the drawers while the three men immersed themselves in the details of horses, finishing posts, wagers and handicaps.
When Mick took out his pipe and began filling it she left the room.
“What were you thinking?” she demanded later. The men had gone and she’d returned to the kitchen, now smelling of tobacco and beer fumes.
“What’s the matter?”
“How could those fellows just walk in? And smoking, no one smokes indoors here.”
“No one did, you mean. Times change, my girl. Move with the times, same as the rest of us, eh?” He fixed her with a challenging stare.
“And the money… that money… where did it come from?”
“If you want to know, Mrs High and Mighty, it come from the old gee-gees and there’s plenty more where that come from.”
“The horses. Was that what you went to Goulburn for? Was it the races? You told me…”
“Never knew I was marrying a nag. Here am I, working all the hours God gives a man. Taking a few hours for me pleasure and here’s you putting the boot in, as usual.”
As their voices rose Cathy ran over to her mother, then the baby started to cry.
“My bloody oath. Can’t a man have some peace in his own home?”
Own home? That was the crux of the matter.
All the excuses in the world came flooding in. Overworked, worried about owings to the bank, hoping to make some easy money and put things right.
Feeble, hopeless excuses that shied away from the one inescapable fact - he was not the man she had always imagined him to be. And she had become a stranger in her old home. A foreigner in the family kitchen with its streaky walls and scrubbed table.
A fierce tide of disgust flooded through her. Abhorrence at her own feelings, her own weakness and her sudden helplessness. Trampled upon and insignificant and strangely unclean as though she had betrayed all those who’d gone before. The ancient name of de Guise had been dishonoured.
Tipping water into the basin she scrubbed her hands. Round the nails, round the knuckles, then time and again she rinsed them in the soapy water as the discord of her thoughts clamoured in her ears.
What had Grand-père often said, something about water finding its own level? Were those Irish louts the level where George Brownlow really belonged?
Something of her confusion must have communicated itself to her husband. He glanced at her curiously. For a moment he just looked at her, then he walked across and knocked out his pipe on the window sill.
“Look, my dear, you know how ’tis. Time’s been difficult…we’ll pull through. I never meant no harm and that’s a fact. Believe me, I’m always tryin’ to do the best for you and the little ’uns, and maybe it don’t seem so clever but that’s the way of things.”
He put a tentative arm around her waist and pulled her closer.
Oh, you weak fool, something inside her said, but even so she pushed the doubts from her mind. She wanted to believe him, wanted to go about their daily life as they had always done, needed the world of cooking, mending and afternoon strolls.
“I’ve been a bit sharp,” she muttered burying her face in his shoulder.
“Well, ’tis always said there’s a touch of curry in the Guises,” and he laughed as he ruffled her hair.
“But those lads, they’re taking liberties that’s what I don’t understand.”
“Look at it this way, my love, them Irish is all the same. Butter wouldn’t melt in their mouth one moment and the next they’d have the shirt off yer back. But we need hands about the place, time’s so difficult. Where’ve the shepherds all gone? There’s no one to tend the beasts hereabouts. We’re lucky to have the smith still, one over Bungendore’s up and gone. There’s only old men like Job left. Everyone’s shot off to the goldfields. We should be countin’ our lucky stars for what we’ve got. At least we’ve got them lads and that’s a fact.”
Reluctantly Mary Ann agreed. Gold fever had not subsided a single bit. Some had said at the time it was a passing madness but men still left everything and made for the diggings. Anyone who could get to the goldfields made their way there. Everywhere employers were bitterly complaining.
“If we lose these lads, Mary Ann, then we’re in a bad way.”
“They’re sly. They always seem to be up to something. I don’t…”
“High spirits, my love. That’s all ’tis, high spirits. You’ve been used to that old codger these many years past well, look at him, one foot in the grave! These lads may be a bit rough but that’s all ’tis, high spirits.”
Of course George must be right. Times certainly were changing. Up till now daily toil for the working man had been the necessity. Routine, regular work and skills learnt from the very earliest days of life. Now this delectable option had appeared. The luck of digging up a golden nugget could transform a working man into a millionaire overnight. Everyone had heard the tales. Those fortunates who could light their cigars with banknotes, the lucky ones who tossed away their tents and pots and pans and headed for home. Well, you’d be mad not to have a go! You’ve got to be in it to win it.
Yes, they were lucky to have two able-bodied men on the farm. Instead of bemoaning her lot she should be grateful. You fool, she told herself, you’ve a fine husband and two lovely daughters, you have your acres around you and your beasts out in the paddocks. Why be so discontented?
Discontent was not the right word. A deep uneasy malaise of the spirit had taken hold of her. Like a swimmer who’s waded into the sea and finally takes their foot off the bottom, and finds the
mselves at the mercy of strange currents and rips pulling them this way and that. Never once did she manage to get her head up and see where the best direction lay. Instead, from day to day and week to week she vascillated between agreeing with George and a conviction that strong undercurrents at Bywong were distorting their lives. Helplessly she sensed that tide in the life of all humans that can sweep them inexorably towards the maelstrom.
Was she imagining their insolence and sideways looks? Why did George have to travel to Goulburn or Yass or Bungendore so often, and should the farm be left in their hands so much? Some days none of this mattered; George might be at hand, the men could be working out on the property and all seemed normal. But in his absence the pair of them took over. Any request she might have made would be met with a shrug, they’d scarcely appear, except at milking time.
How could life have changed so radically at Bywong? How could the servants suddenly come to rule the master? The Irishmen appeared to make the choices and George complied without a murmur. Matters came to a head with the rebuilding of the barn.
The roof of the dairy had been patched up, the sides of the cowshed had been cobbled together, but the barn remained a cavernous travesty of itself.
For a couple of months since the fire the blackened walls had gaped, roofless, at the sky. During all that time everything was left open to the elements, even the new trap remained outside. No room, no shelter anywhere else. Several times Mary Ann mentioned rebuilding but the reply remained the same.
“Bide yer time, Mary Ann, bide yer time. The lads have enough to do, they’ll come round when things is slack.”
But that time never arrived. As the new harrow lost its shine and the paint on the trap blistered she held her tongue - until the day when she went to fetch the sickle and found it yellow with rust and the handle split.
“We’ll just have to get that roof mended. Look at this, George. We can get the wood for those rafters any time. You must tell them to get on with the job.”
“They ain’t much hand as carpenters.”
The Hanging of Mary Ann Page 21