Then an idea occurred to him. After struggling with himself for a day or so, he did the honourable thing.
‘Ali, are you still in touch with Troy?’ he asked over morning smoko.
‘Yes, every now and then. Why?’
‘Because I reckon if you let on to him that I’m leaving Redstone, he’ll be back in the country before you can scratch yourself, to snap up my job.’ Jeremy looked at Alice searchingly.
She sat quietly for a moment, her eyes downcast.
Jeremy went on, ‘Troy’d do the right thing by you here, Alice.’
‘Of course he would!’ she agreed earnestly. ‘But I could never forgive myself if he wasted the opportunity he’s been given overseas to rush back home. He’s only just starting to settle in over there and make a name for himself. No, best not tell him. We’ll have to think of someone else. I have a few more phone calls to make yet.’
Involuntarily, Jeremy felt a rush of relief at Alice’s words, then cursed himself inwardly. He had no right to be feeling possessive towards her. Why couldn’t he get it through his thick skull that Alice didn’t want him? After two-plus years of being with her almost every day, he’d had more than a fair go. And why shouldn’t Troy have her? There weren’t too many better fellas kicking around.
In the end, it was decided that Arthur and Beryl Sawtell would come to Redstone to help caretake and assist with the odd jobs. A few months ago the old couple had sold Serena Downs and retired to town, none of their children being interested in returning to work the place. Beryl had been lamenting the situation to Alice at church one day: she herself was thoroughly enjoying the social activities in town, but Arthur was very unhappy, ‘cooped up and impossibly cranky’. Consequently, the Sawtells had jumped at Alice’s offer.
Jeremy telephoned the elderly couple on the sly, to make sure they were going to do the right thing by Alice. He spoke to Arthur and explained how reluctant Alice always was to ask anyone for help. ‘She won’t wanna put you out. She thinks she can do everything by herself,’ Jeremy warned. ‘If it looks like she’s struggling you need to keep a bit of a tab on things. You might have to dig your heels in a bit and make her let you help.’
‘My oath I will,’ Arthur assured him. ‘Can’t wait to get my hands dirty again. They’ve gone all pink and soft like a townie’s. Anyway, Sammy Day was one of my best mates. You can trust me. I am a Rotarian, after all.’
‘Oh well, in that case . . .’ Jeremy tried to sound serious.
‘And Beryl will enjoy having someone to fuss over again. Like a mother hen she is, and not a single grandkid within cooee.’
A few days before Jeremy was to leave, it was Alice’s twenty-first birthday. She was awoken before dawn by soft, stealthy sounds coming from the kitchen. She lay still, listening, wondering whether a possum had found its way into the house. Next came a clatter and a clang, followed by the sound of Jeremy swearing. Then the noises ceased abruptly and the pre-dawn stillness took possession of the house again. But sleep had fled for Alice, so she climbed out of bed and pulled on some clothes.
The kitchen light revealed an odd arrangement that had been placed carefully at the centre of the old wooden table, in the spot usually reserved for the teapot. Placed neatly side by side on the checked tablecloth was a pair of exquisitely crafted old-fashioned riding boots. The tops of the boots had been crammed full of gumtips and an unusual assortment of weedy bush flowers. A tin mug and spoon that Alice had left after a bedtime drink were lying on the floor: the intruder must have knocked them off the table.
She walked closer. The leather of the boots was decorated with a delicate embossing of leaves and swirls. There were several solid brass studs around the top edge and the soles were also made of thick, dark leather. Scrawled on a pale blue envelope that had been placed beside the boots were the words, Happy 21st, Alice. Love from Jeremy.
The words suddenly blurred as Alice regarded the familiar messy handwriting. She picked up the envelope and turned it over. It was empty; it must have simply been something Jeremy had found in his cottage to write on. Alice smiled. The soft shade of blue was her favourite, and she wondered if he’d chosen it on purpose.
Alice gently removed the foliage and flowers and put them into a vase that had been sitting empty on the windowsill, dormant since her grandmother’s death. Then she pulled on the boots. They were a perfect fit and soft with use. It was clear that the former owner of the boots had taken exceptionally good care of them, oiling them regularly as the leather had a supple sheen.
Stepping lightly out onto the veranda through the open door, Alice savoured the soft thud of the leather soles on the old timbers. There she stood for a time, watching the orange glow that was kindling in the east and listening to the first birds heralding the birth of the day. Looking down at the boots in the dim light, she suddenly recognised them for what they were. Jeremy had once told her about a precious prize he’d won in a calf-riding competition: these boots Jeremy had named as the pride and joy of his early teens. Alice had never imagined he’d still have them, or that they would still be wearable. She felt humbled and undeserving, as though he had given her a small wedge of his own flesh. How would she ever thank him?
‘Look, Jeremy,’ was all she said, glancing down at her feet when he came over for breakfast. Then, smiling up at him, she hoped her gratitude was written on her face. Unspeaking, he smiled back and she could see that he was well pleased.
Jeremy’s last days slid by, and all at once the time of his departure was upon them. By six o’clock in the morning, Jeremy had packed his few belongings into the tray of his ute. Alice stood by sadly as he tied down the load.
‘Hop in, Ace!’ he commanded, in as bright a tone as he could muster. Then he turned to Alice. Their eyes met briefly before she lowered her lashes to hide the tears that threatened.
Her voice trembled. ‘Jeremy, how can I ever begin to thank you for everything you’ve done?’
‘It’s no big deal, Ali,’ he said, with forced lightness. ‘Just give me something to remember you by. A kiss’ll do. I promise ya, you won’t catch any diseases from a little old kiss.’
To Jeremy’s surprise, without hesitation Alice put her arms around his neck and kissed him on the lips. Then she buried her face in his chest. He put his arms around her and held her tightly, planting a few tender kisses on the top of her head. Then he released her and turned quickly away, climbing into his ute.
He tried to sound cheerful as he waved casually out the window. ‘I’ll see ya when I’m looking at ya.’ But his voice cracked and the last word came out sounding more like a sob. He looked away from Alice, who was crying in earnest now, and accelerated away in a cloud of dust. He slowed down a little at the grid and Ace took the opportunity to jump out and lope back towards Alice and the Bennet sisters, who were still standing where he’d left them. Jeremy halted for a moment, watching his dog’s desertion in the rear-vision mirror.
‘Bugger him, he might as well stay. No place for a dog where I’m going.’ Then he sped away down the Redstone road.
Chapter 43
Alice decided to let the Sawtells live in the big house and she moved into Jeremy’s cottage. She knew that her grandparents had lived in the tiny building for a few months after they were married, while much-needed renovations were performed on the big old Redstone homestead. The simple, rustic slab cottage had well suited her grandfather and had retained some of his essence for all these years. Alice somehow felt closer to him there, and she thought the absence of him and her grandmother might be less painfully obvious there than it was in the main house where all three had lived together. Also, though she’d never have admitted it, being in the cottage made her feel that in some way she was still connected to Jeremy.
A few weeks after he’d left Redstone, Alice found out from Sue O’Donnell that Jeremy had gone to the mines. She felt deeply sad for him, knowing how he’d feel about himself for ‘selling out’ and doing something he had despised even the thought of. Sue ga
ve her his address, and she wrote to him every now and again, telling him all about the day-to-day happenings at Redstone; about her small achievements, and sometimes about the setbacks that came all too often.
She wrote to him when his heifer, Olive, had a snowy bull calf. She wrote when she saw brumbies at the spring with two leggy foals. But when Ace was bitten by a taipan and died, Alice didn’t write. She supposed she’d tell him one day, when the time was right. He never replied to her letters and she wondered whether he even read them. Still, she continued to write to him, telling herself it was just in case he needed something to think about outside the big black hole where he now spent his days. But the letters also allowed her to maintain a sense of connection with Jeremy, and this was more vital to her than she liked to admit.
For the first time in her life, Alice now had to struggle to derive the simple pleasure she once experienced from the most mundane of tasks. Her beloved dogs and horses were no longer sufficient companionship for her. Everywhere she went, she could see the ghost of Jeremy, stepping out of the shed, carrying a saddle to the rail, whistling as he crossed the yard from the cottage to the house, or pulling a wire. And things didn’t seem to work so smoothly anymore on the station: she seemed to be continually hitting obstacles. Jeremy had taken his streak of cocky luck with him.
Then there was the nagging worry of the debt. Putting her plans into place seemed to mean only cost and, so far, no gain. She had been prepared for this, but nevertheless it weighed her down like a lead collar. The financial year was coming to an end and she was still afloat, but only because the season had been good. She dreaded the onset of the next extended dry, which was bound to come sooner or later.
Jeremy did read the letters. They were his lifeline, a small ray of light in his dreary new world. He read them slowly, soaking in the words, seeing Redstone again through Alice’s eyes. A place of simplicity and beauty upon solid ancient earth. Her words reached him through the haze of interminable shifts. Sitting in the cabs of machinery, working levers. Back and forth, round and round.
For the first six months, he ached for Redstone. Lying awake at night in his tiny fibro box in the single men’s quarters, he’d squeeze his eyes shut and picture the rough old timber slab walls of the cottage and hear the squeak of the slow-turning ceiling fan. He’d listen for the rhythmic throb of the crickets and the trill of the cane toads. One of Alice’s dogs would jangle on its chain and bark at an invisible rustle in the bushes. A warm breeze would steal into the room through the open window and cool the beads of sweat on his face; the huge stars would be hanging low and bright outside, and he’d see them peering at him through the branches of the old box tree.
But there was no breeze here. The tiny cell was air-conditioned and quite cool, and he sweated not from heat but anguish. He’d open his eyes then and take a shuddering breath. Rolling over and holding on to his pillow, he’d try not to listen to the muffled monotony of the television through the wall. Then the tears would come and soothe him off to sleep.
But as the months went by numbness stole over him. One night, in a terrible panic, he realised he could no longer picture the once-comforting scene. And the warm subduing tears wouldn’t come anymore. From then on, alcohol and sleeping tablets came to his aid. Then there were the benders that occupied his time off. He stopped going home. He stopped going anywhere but the nearest town. He worked out how many hours it took him to sober up enough to pass the pre-shift urine test. And this was his new timetable.
His reputation was soon established. King Jed was resurrected. He still possessed the knack of ensuring that all the other drinkers had a good time. Laughing along to his antics and jokes, they could all pretend they were having the time of their lives. But King Jed had become more reckless and heartless.
He longed to be able to hate Alice. To have the strength to trash her unopened letters without a thought. He tried to blame her, be angry with her. This was easier than trying to forget her, but still futile. It was like trying to hate the scalding heat of the sun, or the power of rushing rapids. She was guilty only of truly being herself, and how he wished he could have been the kind of man she deserved.
Alice was starting to realise how much she’d taken for granted about Jeremy. With him as her offsider, cattle work had always been straightforward and enjoyable. He’d needed no instructions or supervision, and any job he undertook was always done well. Alice’s trust in him had been complete.
Mushgang still came for the musters, but Dan had mostly retired, and the other ringers she hired only wanted to get the job done as quickly as possible. They were in short supply and costly, expecting to be paid a day’s wage that equalled mining money. She began to rely more on her dogs to do the cattle work, and they rose to the occasion admirably. Kitty had delivered a litter of pups to Darcy, and Alice had kept one, selling the others. So including the two short-haired collies Troy’d given her before leaving for the States, Alice now had six grown canines and the young one coming on.
Darcy was beginning to truly shine and Alice leaned on him more and more. He was more assertive than the bitches and amazingly instinctive. He cast out wide, easily covering the ground on his long legs. He had an uncanny ability to anticipate the movements of the mob and was worth at least two men, or so Alice often told herself.
Darcy also became her main companion, shadowing her everywhere. His only vice was his tendency to take an instant dislike to some people. His hackles would rise at the sight of the unfortunate individual and he’d stand between Alice and the offender. Then, with teeth bared, he’d growl threateningly until she called him to ‘come behind’.
One of these people was Arthur Sawtell, and it was something of an ongoing problem for the Redstone folk. Arthur would have loved to solve it quickly and cleanly with a bullet, but he’d seen the dog work and knew that this course of action was out of the question. Overall, the Sawtells were a great help to Alice. Their assistance was just enough to keep things manageable for her. However, the old couple were in no way a replacement for Jeremy.
A few weeks after their arrival, Arthur accompanied Alice on a checking drive, offering to help her lug the heavy dry-lick bags. After driving for most of the morning they were approaching a long shallow gully in Pandemonium paddock. Pointing to the wide area at the base of it, Alice said to Arthur, ‘I’ve been thinking of putting a dam in there. Do you think that sandy soil will hold?’
When he didn’t answer, she looked across at him and was horrified to see a look of undisguised animal lust on his face. In a flash, Arthur reached across with his hairy, age-spotted hand and placed it on Alice’s thigh. She slammed on the brakes and plucked at his hand all in one moment, flinging it away as though it were a rotten fish.
The next instant she was out of the ute. The dogs, sensing that something was amiss, jumped out of the tray and pressed against her legs on full alert. Arthur climbed out too, looking sheepish; all the fire seemed to have gone out of him and once again he looked like a harmless old man. Darcy began to snarl, and for once Alice refrained from silencing him. Instead she glared at the old man, waiting for him to explain himself. Arthur stayed on the other side of the ute and rested his freckly forearms on the side of the tray, remaining silent.
Alice quietened Darcy, then glared back at Arthur. ‘I’d like to know just what you thought you were doing in there.’ She waved a small brown hand in the direction of the cab of the ute.
‘I’m sorry, pet. It was worth a try.’
Alice was flabbergasted; her mouth dropped slightly open.
Arthur went on, ‘Only you’re the first real gin I’ve ever had much to do with, and I’ve heard tell of ’em.’ He looked up and met her astounded gaze. Then he lowered his eyes again self-consciously and studied the switch on the generator.
Alice looked at his neatly ironed work shirt, his tidily shaven face and thick-rimmed glasses. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself.’ She spoke quietly but her tone was deadly. ‘Poor Beryl. She deserves better.
’ Rather than looking stricken with guilt at the thought of his wife of forty years, Arthur answered matter-of-factly, ‘If you’re not that way inclined, pet, we’ll just pretend it didn’t happen.’
Alice felt an angry rush of loyalty for Beryl and her disgust showed on her face. She wanted to forbid him from calling her ‘pet’. Instead, and without knowing why, she added an afterthought.
‘Fine Rotarian you make.’
This seemed to hit a nerve. The old man’s shoulders caved inwards and he put his head in his hands and mumbled, ‘Please don’t think less of me over this. It’ll never happen again. God’s honest truth.’
Alice nodded once, shortly. They climbed back into the ute, finished the run and returned home in silence.
After that occasion, Arthur never stepped over the line Alice had drawn for him. They both pretended his advance had never happened, but neither could forget that it had. And Alice had never felt more alone.
Bustling, hard-working Beryl took on the milking and revived Olive’s vegetable garden, which was thriving in no time. By winter, she’d crocheted colourful blankets for all the Redstone beds, and little ones for each of the dogs. But she was clearly concerned about Alice, seeming to sense her physical and mental weariness. She fussed over Alice and tried to mother her, but the girl found her attentions stifling. Every few days Beryl would bring a meal over to the cottage, but it was always so rich and strongly flavoured that the chooks and dogs were the main beneficiaries. Alice, like her grandfather, had always preferred simple food.
One evening, Alice came back late to her cottage. She’d been out searching for Lydia, who was on heat and had been missing for nearly three days. Finally, tonight, with the help of the other dogs, Alice had discovered the little kelpie inside a hollow log not far from the yards. It looked as though Lydia had encountered some dingoes in her wanderings, and she had been lucky to escape alive. The little bitch’s back was a swollen mess of deep puncture wounds, from teeth; they had partly closed, trapping an infection under the skin. Using a syringe, Alice had flushed out the wounds with salty water and gave Lydia a large needle of penicillin, but the little dog was exhausted and dehydrated, and Alice knew it would be touch and go.
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