A Far Country

by John Fletcher

‘Loki?’ Asta laughed. ‘Mr Laubsch would not be pleased, would he? But God has many names. Does it matter which one we call Him?’

  ‘Will they really take care of us, do you think?’

  Asking questions like a child. I could make her believe, Asta thought, if only I believed myself, and for a moment wished she did. It would be good to believe in something other than oneself. I could lie to her about it and she would believe me but faith is too important for lies.

  ‘I hope someone will,’ she said. ‘We all need it. You, especially, I think.’

  The two women stared at each other. Asta’s face was alert; Alison merely looked sad. ‘Why do you say that?’ she asked.

  ‘It is what I believe. Only you know if I am right.’

  She had said enough. She had been determined to raise the subject; now she had done so. The rest was up to Alison.

  But Alison said nothing. Asta watched her desolate expression. She doesn’t know where she is going or why, she thought, and felt sad, too, and full of feeling for the girl.

  ‘It is warm here out of the wind,’ she said. ‘We can sit for a while and look at the sea.’

  For Alison’s benefit she had put on a dress; she had thought Alison would prefer it, compelled to wear women’s clothing herself. The way it restricted her movements was a nuisance but now she was glad she had done it; Alison needed all the consideration she could get. Asta arranged her skirts primly and sat down on a level rock. In a minute Alison joined her.

  ‘In some lights you can see Adelaide from here,’ Asta said. ‘I sometimes wonder what my life would have been if I had never left it.’

  ‘Would you have been happy?’

  ‘At the time I didn’t think so. Now, I’m not so sure. I like to think I would have managed quite well, wherever I was.’

  ‘If I had gone back to Adelaide with my mother I wouldn’t be married now,’ Alison said. It was impossible to tell whether she regretted it or not.

  ‘You can’t tell. You might have met some handsome city man and married him. Now you’d be driving up and down Hindley Street in a carriage, looking at the people.’

  ‘And the buildings. I wouldn’t want to live surrounded by buildings.’

  ‘There are no buildings at your mother’s place.’

  ‘She never wanted me there,’ Alison said without bitterness, ‘any more than I wanted to go.’

  ‘Is that why you married Blake? So as not to have to go with your mother?’

  ‘All I ever wanted was to have someone to look after me,’ Alison said. ‘My father did, in his lifetime. He made the decisions and I relied on him. When he went …’ She lifted her shoulders, smiling wanly.

  ‘There was Jason.’

  ‘But he went, too, and then there was no-one.’

  Asta thought to ask her what she would have done had Jason written but decided against it. Talking about what might have been solved nothing. ‘If your husband ever ill-treats you,’ she said, careful to avoid any suggestion that Blake might already be ill-treating her, ‘will you promise to tell me?’

  Alison turned to watch the sea and Asta could not see her expression. ‘You have the wrong idea about Blake.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Asta said. There was no hint of apology in her voice. She remembered the Blake she had known for so many years and did not believe she had the wrong idea at all. Blake was bad through and through, always had been, always would be. The question was, what could she or anyone else do about it?

  She knew there was nothing she could do and was angry with Alison for doing so little to help herself. ‘We all have to learn to stand up for ourselves,’ she said.

  Still Alison watched the sea. ‘I told myself that, not long ago, but it is not easy.’

  ‘You must learn,’ said Asta, impatient with human frailty.

  Alison said no more and for the moment Asta gave up trying. She stood up. ‘We had better get on,’ she said, ‘unless you want to spend all day staring at the sea.’

  When they reached the house they had something to eat and chatted a little about nothing at all. Alison never let her get too close and Asta was glad when at last she said she must go home.

  ‘I will get Jason to ride with you,’ she said.

  Alison looked alarmed. ‘There is no need for that.’

  But Asta was determined. To bring Jason and Alison together had been one of the main reasons for inviting her; she was not about to let her slip away now. ‘I am sure that Blake would not like it if I sent you home without an escort.’

  Blake would not like the idea of Jason accompanying his wife, either, but Asta was beyond caring what Blake thought.

  They rode side by side without speaking until the weight of the silence grew too much for Jason to bear.

  ‘How have you been keeping?’ he asked.

  ‘Good.’

  Five minutes passed.

  ‘Been a nice day,’ he offered.

  ‘Great.’

  He was irritated that she should so ignore his overtures. ‘If you’d sooner I went back—’

  She said nothing. He did not know what she wanted him to do. She seemed angry with him without reason and the idea made him stubborn. ‘Forget I said that,’ he said, angry himself now. ‘I promised Asta I’d take you back and I’m going to do it.’

  More silence; he might have been talking to the sea.

  ‘We haven’t had a proper conversation since I got back,’ he said. ‘Why waste the chance now we’ve got it?’

  ‘What do you want to talk about?’

  ‘Anything,’ he said, exasperated, but in truth could think of no subject that was safe. The fact of her husband’s existence stood like a wall between them.

  She turned in the saddle to stare at him. ‘You want to talk about what you did at the Burra Burra?’ she asked. ‘You want to tell me why you never bothered to write?’

  ‘You knew I was going,’ he said angrily. ‘You helped me. We had an arrangement.’

  The idea of writing had never occurred to him but now, seeing the expression on Alison’s face, he understood he had done something terrible. Worse than terrible: something that could never be put right. He could think of no words to express the regret he now felt so said nothing.

  Alison, who had been silent for the whole ride, suddenly had plenty to say. ‘You might have been dead. You might have changed your mind. Anything. What was I supposed to think, hearing nothing for so long?’ Anger surfaced. ‘Not just months, Jason. Years.’

  ‘Is that why you married him?’ He had his own hurt, too.

  ‘Why should you care?’ she asked. ‘You had your chance and threw it away.’

  ‘I do care.’ It was all he could think to say.

  The reply seemed to vex her more than ever. ‘It doesn’t matter whether you care or not. I’m a married woman, Jason. Can’t you understand that? It’s too late to talk about caring.’

  ‘Are you happy?’ he asked, not looking at her.

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘You aren’t happy,’ he said. ‘I know it.’

  ‘You know nothing about it.’

  ‘I feel it.’

  ‘Jason, can’t you get it through your head? I’m married! There’s nothing for us to talk about any more.’

  And rode on more quickly, face turned away from him.

  She had been right in everything she had said and Jason knew he had no business saying anything more to her at all. He knew too that if he went on badgering her he ran the risk of losing her forever yet could not remain silent. He trotted after her until once again they were riding side by side.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ he said. ‘You never said if you were happy or not.’

  She did not answer. He did not know whether she was still angry with him or not.

  ‘You say it’s none of my business, what happens to you,’ he said, ‘but I can’t just switch off my feelings.’

  He turned in the saddle to look at her. Her expression no longer seem
ed angry, only sad, and she said nothing to interrupt him. Emboldened, he went on, ‘I cared for you. You know that. I still care. You can’t tell me you’re none of my business because you are.’

  She shook her head. ‘Words change nothing. Even if I agreed with you it would make no difference.’

  ‘Do you agree with me?’

  Silence. Suddenly resolute, he took his heart and placed it in her hands. ‘A week today I shall be at the grotto,’ he said. ‘If you want to come—’

  ‘Can’t you see that’s impossible?’

  ‘Just to talk. Nothing else. I’ll wait.’

  ‘You’ll be wasting your time,’ she said.

  ‘Perhaps. But I’ll go anyway. Just in case.’

  They rode the rest of the way without speaking, their minds filled with a multitude of thoughts and memories. Jason remembered how things had been between them before he had gone away. Now everything had changed; yet he could not escape the feeling that nothing between them had really changed at all. Even the fact of her marriage meant nothing. He still felt the same about things and was certain she did, too. If he could only find the right words he believed he would somehow break through to her. I shall go to the grotto, he told himself. She will come or not, as she chooses, but at least I will have tried.

  Alison was afraid of Blake’s anger should he discover that Jason had escorted her home, so half a mile from the house she sent him back and rode the rest of the way alone.

  She was glad to have a few minutes to herself. Her day out had unsettled her. In some ways she wished she had not gone yet at the same time was glad that she had. It was dangerous to compare what she had now with how things might have been but she was pleased that Jason still cared for her. It did no good and might indeed be dangerous but all the same it gave her a warm feeling and she was glad of it.

  As to her own feelings … She would not examine them too closely, fearing what she might find.

  You are married, she told herself as fiercely as she had told Jason. There is nothing you can do about it. Nothing you would do, even if you could.

  She reached the house, put her horse in the paddock, went indoors and began to cook the supper. Routine enfolded her.

  Blake came home earlier than she had expected. He fetched a bottle from the cupboard and drank from it as he sat watching her finish cooking their meal. It was something he had never done before and the change of routine made her uneasy. She had learned to tread cautiously around her husband so said nothing while she tried to gauge his mood.

  ‘Enjoy your outing?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘It was all right.’ She spoke indifferently, having learnt never to sound too enthusiastic about anything in which Blake had not been involved. Oh, it was so difficult, always having to be careful what she said and the tone in which she said it.

  ‘Asta didn’ have no business lettin’ you ride back alone.’ Blake tipped the bottle, gulped noisily. ‘She sends that mate of yours to warn us how dangerous the bloody blacks are, then lets you come back by yourself.’

  So that was what he thought. Let him go on thinking it, she thought. It might help her to avoid trouble, if he was in the mood for trouble.

  ‘I didn’t see any natives,’ she told him.

  He grunted. ‘No thanks to Asta Matlock.’

  She put the food out. He thrust it into his mouth, chewed and gulped, washed it down with grog. He did not go back to work, as he had always done, but sat brooding, red-veined eyes watching her as she finished her chores. His watchful presence was like a scream in the silent room. She hoped the liquor would put him to sleep but it did not. She thought nothing could be worse than the last time but feared, all the same. She moved silently about the room, trying to do everything she could to avert his anger, trying to still the terror inside her.

  He waited until she had finished tidying up. ‘Bed,’ he said, rising. He swayed a little, unused to the liquor. He went to the bed and sprawled on it.

  The lamp cast shadows across his face so that Alison could not see his eyes. He neither moved nor spoke but she was frightened to take too long. She made everything ready for the morning. She drew her dress over her head, quenched the lamp, walked silently to the bed, praying that he slept. She finished undressing in the darkness, slid inch by inch beneath the covers, holding her breath, willing her body not to disturb him.

  She lay for a minute, eyes staring up at the darkness. He did not move and she had a few seconds in which to feel the first stirrings of hope before he turned and fell upon her, using her with such brutality that she thought he meant to destroy her. At the last, ravaged and sore, sick with despair, she heard him say, ‘You lying bitch. I saw you riding with him,’ and knew that her punishment had only just begun.

  Six days later Blake and Asta met as they were riding through the thin bush that bordered the two runs. They nodded stiffly; they had never liked each other and saw no reason for pretence, but they were neighbours in what might be a hostile land and the courtesies had to be observed.

  Sitting side by side on their horses, they talked for a few minutes about the condition of the sheep, the prospects for rain, the likely wool price at Adelaide later in the year.

  ‘I so enjoyed Alison’s company the other day,’ Asta told him eventually. ‘I hope you will allow her to visit me more often.’

  Blake had already decided there would be no more outings. ‘She’s got things to do about the house,’ he said.

  ‘They must have priority, of course, I understand that. But perhaps it might still be possible for us to meet from time to time?’

  He pretended to consider. ‘You’d best forget about it,’ he said eventually.

  ‘I could always come to her if she has no time to come to Whitby Downs.’

  ‘Not a question of time. Ain’t safe, ridin’ around the country without an escort. Not for you, neither.’

  ‘Why? Have you had any trouble from the blacks?’

  He laughed harshly. ‘They knows better than mess wi’ me.’

  ‘With us too, it seems. We’ve seen no sign of them. It’s a miracle, with those whisky traders in the district. Those men should not be allowed to do what they do.’

  ‘Free country, ain’t it?’

  ‘But look how the natives are when they’ve been drinking. It destroys them completely.’

  He didn’t see what the fuss was about. ‘Nobody makes ’em drink. Anyway, drunk or sober, they don’ scare me. Them whisky blokes don’ ’ave no trouble, do they?’

  ‘They are armed to the teeth. Besides, they have troopers with them.’

  He was interested. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘I visited the camp and saw them for myself.’

  ‘They’ll keep the abos in line. They’re tough blokes, from what I’ve heard.’

  ‘Brutal,’ Asta conceded. ‘Perhaps not so tough, from what I saw.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Jason was with me. He and the sergeant, a man called Dawkins, had a disagreement. It led to a scuffle.’

  ‘A real fight? Wi’ fists?’

  ‘Of course with fists.’

  ‘That right?’ Blake was intrigued. ‘Who won?’

  ‘Jason won. For a minute I was afraid he was going to kill the man.’

  ‘I’m surprised he dared, eh.’

  Asta’s eyes questioned him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘The day he come back,’ Blake said. ‘I heard that horse of his had just about had it. I wondered then what he’d done to be in such a hurry.’

  Immediately Asta was on the defensive. ‘The troopers weren’t after him, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘You don’ know that no more than I do.’ He watched her, eyes scavenging for any shred of information.

  Asta’s expression gave nothing away. ‘I know.’

  ‘Told you, did he?’ Making no attempt to conceal derision.

  ‘He has no reason to conceal anything from me.’

  ‘Then you won’ mind if I men
tion it to the troopers, eh?’ He grinned slyly, enjoying what he thought was his power over her.

  Carefully Asta inspected the threads of one of her riding gloves. Eventually she raised her head and stared at him coldly. ‘There is something you should remember. It is Mary Matlock who owns Bungaree, not Alison.’

  Blake eyed her, truculent but unsure. ‘What about it?’

  ‘Mary Matlock is the widow of my late husband’s cousin. How long do you think it would take me to get a power of attorney from her if I wanted to?’

  ‘Power o’ what?’ Blake was uncomfortable, conscious of unfamiliar waters.

  ‘A power of attorney is a piece of paper drawn up by a lawyer. It would give me as much power over Bungaree as if I owned it myself.’

  He still did not fully understand. ‘What you getting at?’

  ‘We are alone in this country. We have to work together or we cannot survive. If you do anything against Jason or the rest of us I shall obtain that power of attorney from Mary Matlock and you will be finished at Bungaree.’

  He jeered. ‘You couldn’t run Bungaree without me and you know it. And what about Alison? Don’ tell me you’d chuck her out, too?’

  ‘You rate yourself too highly,’ she told him. ‘I would run Bungaree somehow, make no mistake about that. As for Alison, she chose her road when she was foolish enough to marry you. Now she will have to follow it to the end.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  It had taken Alison almost a week to recover from the trauma of that night yet recover from it she had. Not entirely, that she would never do, but at least she felt able to get on with her life again. What had happened had come as no great surprise, after all. She had known for a long time that Blake was the boy who stamped on the heads of kittens, not the pleasant fellow he had been in the months before she married him, yet had continued to delude herself that she was immune to his violence. No room for delusions, now.

  ‘I was a fool,’ she told herself.

  There was nothing she could do about it. It would be nice if one of these days he got so angry with her that he just walked out but she knew there was no chance of that. Being married to her represented Blake’s only chance of owning Bungaree. Her mother might live another fifty years; on the other hand a horse might kick her head in any day, as had happened to her father, and Blake would certainly want to be on hand if it did. After he had got his hands on the property he might get rid of her, even kill her, but never before. The prospect of violent death did not trouble her. Spending the rest of her life with Blake was more dreadful than the thought that he might kill her once Bungaree was his.