“We could do with some flour and sugar and tea,” Ethel said. “In return for looking after the place, perhaps.” She raised her eyebrows expectantly but she wasn’t as confident as she had been. She rubbed her hands together. “If you’d be so kind as to leave some with us, that is.”
“I’ve got others to deliver to,” Septimus said making a show of his deliberating. “But perhaps there’s enough to provide you with some basics.” He pushed away his empty plate. “Now let’s look at these books and close them off.”
“Just until things get better,” Ned said.
Septimus put his elbows on the table and tapped his fingers together. “We’ll see what the new year brings.”
It was almost dark by the time the wagon crested the last rise. The hut, at least in his mind, glowed in the light of the setting sun. There was no smoke from the chimney but it had been so hot Dulcie would surely not have kept the fire going.
Septimus searched the hut and the area around it for signs of life. His heart sank as he found none. Perhaps Dulcie had left for good. He urged the horse on along the track. The wind that had blown for nearly two days had finally abated just as he left the inn. The air was still and thick with dust raised by the horse’s hooves and the wheels of the wagon.
A sudden movement near the creek drew his eye. Dulcie stood in her elegant nakedness, and his heart raced. She was there after all and as beautiful as ever. He hadn’t been with her for so long he felt he would burst.
He brought the wagon to a halt and jumped down. She took a hesitant few steps towards him.
He paused, puzzled by her reluctance to approach him.
“It’s me, Dulcie,” he crooned. “Your Septimus, home at last.”
Behind her there was a small wail. She turned and hurried back to the creek. He followed her and stopped in surprise. Dulcie sat on the large root of a tree, a baby in one arm and the other around a little boy. Her eyes were round and fearful as she glanced at Septimus then down at her baby.
Septimus stood open mouthed. These must be Dulcie’s children. Rage bubbled inside him. She had been with another man. He had thought her faithful only to him and he’d been duped.
He spun on his heel.
“Papa,” a small voice said.
Septimus stopped. He turned slowly back.
The boy stood up and took a step away from his mother. She murmured something to him.
“Papa,” the boy said again softly.
Septimus stared. The last light of the dying day was filtering through the trees, turning everything red and gold. In the shadow of the tree Septimus could see that Dulcie’s skin, a deep velvet black, was much darker than the children’s.
Dulcie rose and offered him the chubby baby in her arms.
“Septimus,” she said in her funny English. “Papa, Septimus.”
“Are you saying these children are mine?”
She put the baby in his arms. “Papa,” she said.
Henry, whom he’d not seen for nearly two years, would be fourteen now. Septimus tried to gauge the age of these children. This native boy calling him Papa was perhaps nine or ten and the baby, who was also a boy, not yet one.
He looked back at Dulcie. She looked thinner than when he’d last seen her and ill at ease. She was no doubt anxious about his reaction. Perhaps they were someone else’s and she was trying to pass them off as his. But if that were the case why would she wait until now?
Was it possible these two were his? Septimus felt a glow of pride he’d never felt for Henry.
“I am papa?” He pointed to himself and then tentatively to each child.
Dulcie nodded. “Papa.”
“You are sure?”
Dulcie nodded again. He had taught her some English over their time together. Quite often she didn’t understand but he believed she knew what he was asking now.
The baby clutched his finger and pulled it to his mouth. Before Septimus could react he felt a sharp pressure on his finger.
“Ow!” he yelped.
The older boy gave a soft laugh.
“He bites,” Septimus said and tried to hand him back to Dulcie.
Her face lit in a smile. “Papa carry,” she said. She spoke quickly to the boy and he went back to collect a bowl of food. Dulcie picked up a bucket full of water.
“Hut,” she said and led the way up the hill.
Septimus followed like a puppy. Not only did he have a beautiful wife, but she had raised two strong sons. After all the hardships of the year he felt as if he had come home. What had Ethel said about some people not having much of a Christmas? Septimus didn’t care for the occasion but this year he knew it would be very special.
Sixty-three
1865
Harriet drew the rug tighter across her knees and flicked the reins. Her horse picked up speed, making the chilly wind rush past faster. She gritted her teeth, anxious to make the inn before dark. She had spent one night camped out on her way from Port Augusta but it was a long time since her hawking days with Septimus. She didn’t like being in the bush alone any more.
She pursed her lips as she thought of her husband. Henry had wanted to come with her to look for him but she had insisted he stay home. They had a nice neighbour who would look out for him and provide his meals. Harriet had always made Septimus out to be a good father who must travel a lot to provide for them. She wasn’t sure what she would find out on this journey or how long it would take her and she wanted Henry safe at home, his delusions unshattered.
It had been three years since they’d last seen Septimus. In that time, Harriet had not heard a word from him or received any money. Thankfully her sewing business had done well, although it was a little quiet now with the hard times of dry years. She was getting by but becoming increasingly frustrated with her situation. She was at the mercy of the few people with money at the port. Henry was of an age where he should be taking up a vocation soon and once again there was little on offer. She knew Septimus was hawking again and getting his supplies from Adelaide: there was no reason for his family to live anywhere else.
She didn’t care for herself but Henry watched for his father. Septimus had suggested Henry go with him on his travels a few times in the past. Harriet had always been secretly pleased when Septimus reneged but she knew Henry was disappointed.
So she had set off on this journey to find her husband. Discreet enquiries around the port had confirmed he no longer visited, so she had decided to trace him through the businesses she knew he had. The inn was the closest and she needed no directions. If he was not there, she thought she’d try Smith’s Ridge, the property Mr Baker had mentioned years back when he frightened her with his visit.
Harriet shivered in spite of her gloves and coat. The wind was cold in a cloudless sky. Dust rose around her and the foothills she travelled through were bare of vegetation except for the bushes and trees. The land had suffered through three years with barely a drop of rain. All vegetation around the port had been stripped by animals or people needing wood and building materials. She hadn’t realised the barren land extended up into the hills.
She was thankful to see a light at the window and smoke pouring from the chimney of the inn. It would be pleasant to have company. She had only passed two wagons going in the opposite direction. Their drivers were hunched into the wind like her and had barely given her a wave.
She came to a stop at the front of the inn, climbed down and tethered her horse. She felt stiff and sore. She reached around and patted feeling back into her bottom. “You’ve grown soft, Harriet,” she murmured.
A raucous laugh issued from the inn, and the murmur of voices.
Harriet stepped up onto the verandah. She was looking forward to meeting Ethel again. How lovely! The check curtains she’d made were still hanging in the windows. They were drawn, no doubt to keep out the chilly air.
Harriet pushed open the door. Several men stopped talking and turned to stare at her. They were seated around tables with bowls of stea
ming food and mugs of drink. From the look of their cheeks there was something warmer in the mugs than hot tea. Ned and Ethel both gaped at her from across the bar.
Ethel was the first to speak. “Mrs Wiltshire!” She came from behind the bar, arms outstretched. “What are you doing here?” She peered past Harriet, a small flick of concern crossing her face. “Where’s Mr Wiltshire?”
“I’m travelling alone,” Harriet said. She felt a pang of disappointment. She had hoped to find Septimus there, or at least that Ethel and Ned might know where he was, but from their reaction she could see that wasn’t the case. “That smells good,” she said nodding towards the closest bowl.
“Kangaroo stew’s all it is, but you’re welcome to it.” Ethel closed the door and drew Harriet to a table by herself near the fire. “Warm yourself up, lovey,” she said. “You look blue with cold.”
“The wind is icy.”
“Have you travelled up here all the way from Port Augusta by yourself?”
Harriet nodded, pulled off her gloves and held her hands towards the fire.
“Ned!”
Harriet jumped as Ethel bellowed her husband’s name.
“Bring Mrs Wiltshire some of your brew. She needs warming up. I’ll go and get you some stew.”
“Can someone see to the horse?” Harriet asked.
“Course, lovey.” Ethel gave her a grin. “Ned’ll see to it soon as he’s got you a drink.”
Harriet had taken to having the odd glass of sherry but she rarely drank anything else. She wondered what Ned’s brew would be.
“You men mind your manners,” Ethel said to the room in general then she bustled out to the kitchen. Ned placed a mug in front of Harriet with a glimmer of a smile and a nod, then let himself out the door.
One by one the men went back to their meals and their talking. Harriet sat quietly, studying each one. They were weary-looking men with weathered skin and well-worn clothes. From the snatches of conversation she heard and their appearance, she was guessing they were teamsters. She didn’t recall seeing any sign of bullock, horse or wagon near the inn, and the last time she’d seen Septimus he’d said there was little trade. Perhaps that had been a different time of year, because there were five men enjoying the food and drink at the inn tonight.
She reached for the mug and the smell of the liquid nearly took her breath away. Ned was probably making his own grog.
Ethel came back with two bowls of stew.
“I hoped you might feel like company,” she said. “I don’t see too many women around these parts.”
“Of course,” Harriet said.
Ned came back inside and Ethel plied Harriet with questions about the port and what was happening there.
Finally Harriet put down the rough spoon and knife. Her bowl was empty.
“That was delicious, Ethel, thank you.”
“You’re very welcome, Mrs Wiltshire. I’m glad you’ve finally had the opportunity to visit. You happened to strike us on a rare busy night. That’s the first lot we’ve had here for a good while.”
Harriet looked around the room. The other tables were now empty. The men had left while she and Ethel were eating. Ned had disappeared also.
“I didn’t see any sign of animals or wagons,” Harriet said. “Where do they camp?”
“Further away, I expect. I don’t go looking for them. With the permanent water being so low they only bring their animals to drink. They camp elsewhere.”
“My husband said trade had been poor the last time I saw him.”
“The long dry has affected everyone.” Ethel collected the bowls.
“Even before that.” Harriet tried to watch Ethel’s face but she was bent over the table. “He’s never made the return from the inn he expected.”
Ethel stood up and looked at Harriet. “I don’t understand the way of it, Mrs Wiltshire, but we’ve stayed on, Ned and me, even though the inn is actually closed. We do the best we can. We’ve nowhere else to go.”
“Closed?”
“The last time your husband was here, he closed the books off. Ned and me don’t get a wage but we can stay on and look after the place until things get better.”
“When was that, Ethel? When was my husband last here?”
“Oh, now you’re testing me.” Ethel held the bowls in one hand and put the other to her cheek. “Just before Christmas, that’s right. We talked about folks having a tough time of it for Christmas.”
“That’s five months ago.” Harriet slumped in her chair. Septimus could be anywhere by now.
“Something wrong?”
“No, thank you, Ethel. I was hoping to catch up with him here. It’s quite a while since he was home last and we’ve things to discuss.”
“Lawd sakes, you don’t think something’s happened to him?”
“No. It’s not unusual for him to be gone for long periods of time.” Harriet didn’t say it had been three years since she’d last seen her husband. “He’s back hawking again, which takes him many places.”
“Yes, I remember he had his wagon loaded with supplies to deliver.”
Harriet stared at the fire. What would she do now? Had he gone on to the property he had in the north?
“He didn’t say which direction he was headed?” she asked.
“No, lovey. He never tells us what he’s up to. Sometimes we see him a couple of times in a month and other times not for several months.”
Harriet gave a little shiver.
“Would you like me to put more wood on the fire?” Ethel asked.
“No, thank you.” Harriet suddenly felt very weary. “Do you have a spare bed where I can stay the night? I’ll be off again in the morning.”
“Course we do. There’s the little room at the end of the verandah. Rarely have visitors who want a bed for the night. I’ll go and make it up for you.”
Ethel bustled out to the kitchen. Harriet held her hands towards the dying fire.
“Where are you, Septimus?” she murmured.
He had evidently called at the inn more often than he ever did at his home in the port. Why would he call back in a couple of weeks after a visit? Perhaps on his way to and from another place nearby? But there was little in these hills. She remembered how glad she’d felt to move to Port Augusta after the isolation of the little hut.
Harriet stiffened. The hut – perhaps Septimus still used it as a resting place or even storage for some of his goods. Her spirits lifted. She was sure she could find her way there. She’d go tomorrow. Perhaps there’d be a clue to his whereabouts. She rose to find Ethel and the room she was to sleep in. A good sleep was what she needed. She planned an early start in the morning to have a good look around the inn in daylight before she set off. Ethel and Ned were very cosy here for people with little income.
Sixty-four
Septimus scratched at his bushy beard. He really should shave it off. He’d never abided thick facial hair since his convict days but he was in no hurry. In fact he was in no hurry to do anything. He was the happiest he’d ever been here at the hut with Dulcie and the children. He almost felt as if he could stay here forever, to hell with the rest of the world, but deep down he knew that couldn’t happen. The wagonload of supplies he’d arrived with in December was nearly all gone. Dulcie was adept at gathering food from the bush but she didn’t like to go far from the hut these days. The time was coming when he’d have to face the world again … but not just yet.
Dulcie’s sharp tone drew him from the bedroom into the kitchen, where she was standing at the back door with Jack. Septimus had used some of his time to make a door through the back of the hut where he’d added a verandah for the boys to sleep. Jack had grown taller: he was nearly the same height as Dulcie. Neither mother nor son looked pleased.
“What’s the matter?”
“I want to hunt, Papa.” Jack turned his big pleading eyes to his father.
“What are you hunting?” He smiled at the boy, who was so different from his half-brother, Henry.
Jack’s face split in a grin. “Kangaroo, wallaby, possum.”
“Whoa.” Septimus put up his hand. “One animal will be enough.”
“Not hunt today,” Dulcie said, her face full of worry. She had been watchful since Septimus’s return, but the last few days she’d been even more on edge.
“Why not?” Septimus asked.
She just shook her head.
Septimus looked at the boy. He was tense with anticipation. Jack often went hunting and he was good at it; he saved Septimus supplying meat for the table. It was a sunny day with less chill in the air than they’d been having, a good day to be outside.
Septimus wrapped his arms around Dulcie and tucked her naked back to his bare chest.
“The boy will be fine,” he murmured in her ear. “Off you go,” he said to Jack. “Don’t be too long.”
The boy went before his mother could say any more. Septimus looked down at Eddie, who had wobbled across the floor on his pudgy legs and now grasped a handful of his trousers.
The baby on the other hand was still a nuisance, demanding Dulcie’s time. Septimus shook his leg to escape the dirty fingers. Eddie plopped to the floor.
Dulcie bent to pick up the child, but a cry from Jack made her rush for the door.
Dulcie cried out in her language. Septimus stepped up behind her and frowned. Two black men had Jack grasped between them. One of the men carried a waddy at his side and the other a spear. They spoke quickly. From their tone, Septimus could tell they weren’t happy. He hesitated. Perhaps Jack had encroached on their hunt.
One of the men pointed at him and began to shout. Septimus turned to Dulcie. “What is it? What do they want?”
She shook her head at him, tears brimming in her eyes.
“They not happy,” she said, “I am your woman.”
“I’ll set them straight.” Septimus turned back to the men. He pointed to Dulcie. “My woman,” he said then he pointed to Jack and Eddie. “My sons.”
The men fell silent. Jack pulled away from their grip.
Heart of the Country Page 40