Dust of the Land

by J. H. Fletcher

  Cable Street was endless, full of shadows but no shelter anywhere.

  She came to a side lane running down to the sea. Instinctively she turned into it, realised when she was halfway down that it was the worst thing she could have done. They would see the empty street and know she must have turned this way. They would follow her to the shore. Exposed on the beach, they would soon catch her.

  She rounded a corner. An overhead light cast a wan glow over the muddy ground and the walls rising high on either side. Beneath the light, a side lane opened its jaws. Bella swerved into it, feet pounding, breath aflame in her chest. The lane ran into darkness. The buildings hemmed her in.

  A streetlight was shining ahead of her, a warehouse wall beyond it, and she realised that the lane was leading her back into Cable Street. She looked about her, panic stirring, knowing that whatever she did would be fraught with danger. She glanced behind her, terrified she might see her pursuers racing towards her, but there was no one.

  She had to find somewhere to hide until daylight, then see whether there were any vessels in port that might take her to Darwin and beyond.

  Whatever else, she could not stay here; anyone coming down the lane would be sure to see her. Warily she retraced her footsteps, looking for an opening that might offer shelter. The after-effect of the evening’s traumas began to weigh her down.

  Eyes grown used to the darkness, she saw something she had missed before: an opening between two walls on the seaward side of the lane. It was narrow, and might be a dead end. Blacker than the pit, too. God knew what might be hiding in there, but at least it offered a possibility of escape. While she hesitated she looked back and saw the dark shapes of two figures standing beneath the street lamp at the point where she had first entered the lane. The darkness concealed her but if they came this way…

  They did. The lamp threw their shadows ahead of them, gulping and swaying upon the walls. It made the men seem huge and doubly menacing and made up her mind for her. Heart pounding, barely able to breathe, she forced her way into the opening.

  If there had ever been a path it had not been used for a long time. It sloped steeply; every step dislodged a clatter of stones yet doggedly she went on, stumbling and groping, while branches of unseen bushes caught in her hair and cobwebs brushed her face. Once past the buildings, the path – if that was what it was – plunged downhill. The smell and sound of the sea surrounded her. The slope ahead lay thick in shadow, with broken rocks and puddles left from the last rains. Mosquitoes whined. At last the ground levelled. Her nostrils full of the rancid mangrove stink, she edged forwards and found herself facing a quagmire of mud and mangrove stems growing so closely together that they almost touched; there was no way out in that direction. She looked first left, then right. Going left would bring her up against a vertical rock face; no chance of escape there, either, but progress might be possible in the other direction. She took a deep breath and headed that way.

  If she had thought the gully was hard going she soon realised it had been nothing compared with what faced her now. The tough bushes yielded only reluctantly to her efforts to force a way through them. Thorns snagged her clothes and scored bloody streaks down her cheeks. Occasionally she stepped ankle-deep into stinking mud. Several times she became so entangled that escape seemed impossible, yet somehow she managed to free herself. She had no choice if she did not wish to leave her bones in this hellish place.

  At last, after what seemed a lifetime, she was out of it, exhausted but safe for the moment. The harbour lay before her, its complement of fishing boats and freighters dark and silent. A solitary light cast a wan glow at the end of the jetty.

  She was about to step on to the shelving beach when she froze. Not twenty yards away a man was standing, his outline almost lost in the shadow of the jetty. Was he from the Cockatoo? It seemed likely. She dared not let him see her. It was difficult to tell in the shadows, but she thought he was looking away from her, up the empty road leading to the town centre. Bella eased back into the shadows.

  It was still dark. Get another twenty yards away without drawing his attention and there was a fair chance he would not see her at all; she sank to the ground and crawled as stealthily as she could across the dark-ribbed sand. The waves ran up in a froth of bubbles and retreated; beyond the harbour wall the riding lights of a passing steamer shone as it headed north inside the reef; little by little she distanced herself from the waiting man.

  Now she could hardly see him. She stood cautiously, avoiding any sudden movement that might attract his attention. But where was she going? In the starlight she could see a headland a hundred yards away. Whether it was possible to go beyond the headland she had no way to know. A dark patch on the sand proved to be an upturned dinghy; she considered sheltering beneath it for what remained of the night. That way she would be under cover, but if anyone came looking for her it was one place they would be certain to check.

  Bella looked around her. Once they failed to find her in the town the beach was the obvious choice. Wherever she chose, it would have to be somewhere not only secure but inconspicuous. She found it in a hollow beneath a low hedge that divided the beach from the buildings at this end of the town. It was cramped but as safe as anywhere could be. Exhausted after all that had happened, she had to rest. She settled with her back against the stem of a bush, her presence hidden by a screen of leaves.

  Eyes gritty with weariness, skin stinging from the scratches and bruises she had received during her escape, Bella leant back. The leaves murmured softly, the waves lulled upon the beach, and she closed her eyes.

  It was light when she woke. She came to suddenly and for a moment did not know what had disturbed her. Then she heard the growl of men’s voices close by her hiding place. She froze but through the bushes could see the expanse of sand in front of her and two men examining the upturned boat. They were not thirty yards away. If they decided to search the hedge they could not miss her. She clamped her chattering teeth into silence but could not still the shakes that had invaded her body. She was so cold, so frightened, and the men were so close…

  Why were they so determined to get her back? She was nobody. She had taken cash from the till, certainly, but there was a good chance they did not even know that yet. Even if they did, a pound or two – she had still not counted it – hardly warranted the effort they were making to hunt her down.

  As though to answer her unspoken question, a gust of wind from the sea brought clearly to her what the men were saying as they peered beneath the upturned boat.

  ‘I never seen him so mad,’ said the shorter of the two men.

  ‘What you expect? He’s made up his mind she’s a virgin –’

  ‘In the Cockatoo?’ The short man laughed.

  ‘Imagine what he could sell her for, if he’s right. No wonder he wants her back.’

  ‘Well, she ain’t here,’ the short man said.

  ‘Not anywhere, seems like. Searching all night, I’m fair buggered. But if we don’t find her, he’ll go ape.’

  ‘Maybe we should try the town again.’

  Their boots crunched on the sand. They came right past Bella’s hiding place while she sat with clenched hands, eyes squeezed shut, and waited. But they passed. The sound of their voices faded. She took a succession of deep breaths.

  Thank God!

  She did not stir until mid-morning. The town would be busy now, and safer; there was obviously less chance of their snatching her with other people about. Even so, she walked cautiously as she headed into the town, because now she had discovered another reason why Mr Henry was so determined to get her back. While she had waited in her hideout, with the sun rising and the sea extending in patterns of green and blue to the horizon, she had counted the money she had taken from the till.

  The notes had been in a roll, with a rubber band around them. She flattened them and counted them one by one. When she had finished she leant back against the bush, her heart pounding once again: not this time from fear bu
t disbelief. Fifty pounds. She checked it again to be sure. No wonder Mr Henry was so upset.

  His own fault, she thought. If he had not tried to cheat her… It was not as though she could take any of it back.

  She found a public toilet where she washed off the worst of the dirt and did what she could to tidy herself. Her face looked like she’d been in the Battle of the Marne but it would have to do. She went into the ladies’ department of a clothing store in the high street and bought a new outfit, as different as possible from the one she was wearing: a dress of emerald and gold, a straw hat with a wide brim and artificial roses in the velvet band. Anything to blend in with what most of the women in town seemed to be wearing.

  The assistant looked askance when Bella said she would buy the clothes and put them on at once but her attitude changed when Bella pulled out her roll of notes. Having money made the difference, no matter how you got it. She packed her old clothes into her case and with renewed confidence went into the hotel across the street and ordered breakfast in the dining room: steak, eggs, grease. She wolfed the lot, feeling energy pouring back into her.

  After she had paid Bella walked down the street, still keeping a wary eye open, until she came to the office of a shipping agent. Garth had said if she wanted to get in touch with him to drop him a line care of the Wyndham post office. There was obviously no time for that now. But if she could get to Wyndham and ask, someone would surely be able to tell her how to find him.

  Once again, what choice did she have?

  She pushed open the door and went inside. There was a counter in brown wood, a fly-specked photograph of a steamer with a red and blue striped funnel and a fat youth wearing a white shirt, not too clean, and a tightly knotted black tie. Beyond a door behind the counter a typewriter was hammering.

  ‘I want to book a passage to Wyndham,’ Bella said.

  The youth reached out a languid hand and drew a book of forms towards him. He placed his hand flat on the closed book and looked at her.

  ‘Seven quid,’ he said.

  She paid him. He scrawled something on a form, tore it out of the book and handed it to her.

  ‘You’re in luck,’ he told her.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Lucky there’s a spare cabin. Lucky she’ll be leaving on the tide. One hour’s time. Miss it, you’ll have to wait a week.’

  ‘Can you ring for a taxi?’

  The taxi came; Bella climbed in as quickly as she could; now she was so close to escape her nervousness had returned. She leant forwards to speak to the driver as he drove down the street towards the harbour.

  ‘Drop me close to the gangway.’

  She doubted whether any watcher would recognise her in her new outfit and it would take less than a minute to get aboard. They could hardly kidnap her from there.

  The driver did as she asked. She thrust a note into his hand and was out of the cab, leaving him staring open-mouthed at the pound she had given him for a two-shilling fare. She had not asked for change, afraid even so close to safety that they might grab her before she could get up the gangway.

  A blue-jerseyed sailor checked her ticket and carried her bag down the corridor to her cabin. There was the expectant air of a vessel about to put to sea, the faint rumble and vibration of the engines. Bella went into the cabin and closed and locked the door behind her before looking around.

  It was small but clean, with a single bed covered in a candlewick quilt, a corner cupboard for her belongings and a brass-rimmed porthole. Through the porthole she had a view of the jetty, where a crane was swinging last-minute cargo aboard. She heard the thump of hatches being closed and a number of men in blue coats and trilby hats went ashore and watched as the gangway was drawn in. Longshoremen stood ready to cast off. A steam whistle peeped briefly, the hawsers were thrown into the water and hauled in, the vibration of the engines increased and the boat began to move. Relief drew the strength from Bella’s legs and she sat down on the edge of the bunk.

  Safe at last.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A week later Bella stood on the dock at Wyndham and thought: What now?

  There was no telephone contact with the interior, no roads, no way of getting to Miranda Downs except on horseback or foot. It was too far to walk, there were no horses she could hire and she did not know the way. There was radio contact of a sort, but it was unreliable and in any case the harbour master told her that Garth Tucker often left his set switched off.

  ‘Him and his son,’ he said. ‘Not much for the outside world, either of them. The camel traders are your best bet.’

  They called them Afghans, he told her, although many came from India. Several times a year they travelled through the bush with goods that they sold to the stations of the interior.

  ‘Only way to keep places like Miranda Downs supplied,’ he said. ‘The government is always promising roads but nothing ever happens.’

  ‘How long shall I have to wait?’

  Again she was in luck; the harbour master told her the next camel train was being prepared as they spoke.

  ‘They’ll be on their way in two, three days,’ he said.

  ‘Will they take me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  It was part of the service that the Afghans provided.

  It was a different world, governed by the slow, swaying gait of the camels. They were traversing a range of hills and every morning Bella woke to a vista of mixed scrub and forest bisected at intervals by meandering streams. Their progress seemed infinitesimal beneath a sky whose vastness dominated the earth; every sunset brought a display of crimsons, purples and greens the like of which she had never seen; every dawn showed no change from the day before.

  She remembered lines from a poem she had learnt as a child:

  We were the first that ever burst

  Into that silent sea.

  It was cattle country but she saw no cattle. From time to time she spotted kangaroos that watched the passing humans with curious eyes, or raced away with giant bounds that seemed to devour the earth. The camel drivers uttered harsh cries, goading their charges with sharpened sticks, which the camels haughtily ignored, swaying under loads draped in cloths whose lurid colours struck an exotic note in an otherwise green landscape. Beneath the cloths the supplies were mundane: bolts of calico, pots and pans, tins of paint, items of clothing, rifle and shotgun ammunition…

  Running a remote station was a practical business; there was no room for the exotic in the operators’ lonely lives.

  Three days after leaving Wyndham they came to the first station on their circuit. Even before the camels arrived at the homestead, the caravan was surrounded by the welcoming black faces of the Aborigines: tall, long-limbed and smiling, yet with their own intense dignity. The children and many of the women cast curious eyes at Bella but the men ignored her as they bought penny packets of tobacco and snuff. The station owner’s wife and daughter, faces bleached by heat and humidity, picked over what the traders had brought.

  ‘Where you headed?’ the wife asked Bella.

  ‘Miranda Downs.’

  It was only by good fortune that she had remembered the name of Garth Tucker’s place.

  ‘Good luck.’

  Was it a casual remark, or was she suggesting Bella might need it?

  The women selected the items they wanted, money changed hands and the train moved on. The solitude of the bush enfolded them.

  Slowly the countryside became less hilly; the trees and scrub pressed closer about them. The bush is pretty thick there, Garth had said, and so it was. When he had told her he had forty thousand head of cattle, give or take, no way to know exactly how many, it had sounded a tall story. How was it possible not to know how many cattle you possessed? But now, seeing the countryside, she understood. The trick must be finding the creatures at all, she thought.

  No doubt all would be revealed in time. Even if she landed the job of housekeeper it would have nothing to do with the day-to-day operations of the
station but she already knew she would want to take a hand in that as well, if Garth Tucker would let her. Why not? She hadn’t come all this way to be stuck indoors forever.

  Ten days after leaving Wyndham, they arrived at Miranda Downs.

  Bella stared. She had travelled thousands of miles to get here; she had escaped abuse and danger, she felt she had lived ten years in two months. It was entirely possible that Garth Tucker would not want a bar of her, yet she was beyond caring about that. She was here and for the moment that was enough.

  All the same, her first impression of Miranda Downs was disappointing. Several buildings of grey, weathered planks were built around an open square of almost bare earth. A paddock, enclosed by a wire fence, held horses that kicked up their heels as the camels strutted past. A creek with sandbars, fifty yards wide, ran away between trees. The house was the biggest of the buildings. It had a corrugated iron roof, rusted in patches, and a partly roofed verandah that ran around two sides. Empty crates and pieces of lumber were piled up; an airstrip had been hacked through the undergrowth and a windsock hung limply from a leaning mast near its edge.

  All in all it didn’t look much but a closer inspection would have to wait, because once again they were surrounded by an excited group of Aborigines, the children racing and staring at Bella with huge eyes, the adults observing her less obviously, while behind them, mounted on a black stallion of eighteen hands, came the station owner.

  He saw Bella and she saw him frown. Her heart sank.

  He walked the stallion over, taking his time about it, and looked down at her. ‘What are you doing here?’

  She sensed that on his own turf boldness was the only way with this man. She gave him a merry smile. ‘You offered me a job. I’ve decided to take you up on it.’

  He grunted. ‘As I recall, you turned it down.’

  ‘I changed my mind. A woman’s prerogative, right?’ she said, fishing for the smile she did not get.