by Peter Watt
The manager took a second look at Tom. ‘We have an account in the name of Tom Duffy, but it could not be the same person, Mrs Tracy,’ he said frowning.
‘Why do you say that it could not be my nephew’s account?’ Kate countered.
‘Because the account is the largest we have in the district, and couldn’t possibly belong to a half . . .’ He hesitated as the Tracy name struck a familiar accord. ‘I am terribly sorry, Mrs Tracy, I did not mean to infer that your nephew is of mixed blood.’ The manager remembered from reading the local paper the wealth and influence of the woman standing in his bank and it did not pay to upset her.
‘I am part Irish, part Nerambura,’ Tom said quietly. ‘I have in your bank a considerable fortune, and if my half-caste blood offends you I can take my money to another bank.’
The manager was now experiencing a rush of blood to his face and could feel his heart beating faster than was good for him. The very thought that the money might be withdrawn was horrifying.
‘I am sorry, Mr Duffy,’ he said extending his hand. ‘I did not mean to upset you.’
Tom glanced at Kate with a wicked grin. Maybe he should buy the bank, he thought. ‘I’d like to arrange the following amount withdrawn in five pound notes,’ he said, handing the manager the form he had filled in when they first arrived. The manager looked down at the amount.
‘I will have the money arranged by late afternoon, Mr Duffy, and I would like to discuss with you the many ways you can accrue interest on your deposit with us.’
‘Mrs Tracy handles my affairs,’ Tom replied. ‘You may speak with her at a later date. Just have the money ready by this afternoon.’
With that, Tom and Kate swept out of the bank, leaving the manager standing gaping at their backs.
Even as Kate was taking Tom to the best clothes stores to purchase garb befitting a wealthy man planning to travel to England, George Macintosh arrived at Glen View station with murder in mind.
Wallarie’s worst fears were being realised – the ancestor spirits had told him the devil would follow his fire, to finish off the last innocent.
28
It was bitterly cold in London, and the young woman screamed her pain in the dingy room. Outside the brooding building, snow flurries whipped around the legs of those unfortunately enough to be out on the streets.
Juliet lay on a table and a young doctor, assisted by the institution’s nurse, washed his hands in a bowl of liquid antiseptic. Although the British workhouses had changed their name in an attempt to give the establishments a better reputation, Juliet had found herself at the door of one such ‘institution’ after being evicted from the slum rooms she had shared with her brutal master, Smithers.
Smithers had controlled her from the moment she had been employed by the French madam in her brothel. His mere physical presence and her lack of means outside the brothel had ensured that she remained under his control while she scrubbed floors and prepared meals for the staff. His beatings ensured her subservience, as did the fact that Juliet did not know whether the child she carried was his. She was certain that Tom Duffy would never be able to accept her back into his life if she bore the child of the monster who had raped her, yet she could not give up the child. Alone and virtually destitute, Juliet had allowed herself to be used by Smithers; in truth there had been nothing she could do to stop him, save run away again, and she had nowhere to run now. Her only hope had been the fleeting sight of Tom the day the gendarmes had beaten him and taken him away. He had not returned and Juliet had lost all hope after that and submitted to Smithers’s will.
They had fled Paris for London near the end of the war as the authorities were closing in on the Australian deserter. Smithers had taken up with the local London criminals when he reached English shores. However, he had proved to be a failure in his criminal enterprises and they had lived in a slum tenement as Juliet approached her time to give birth to what Smithers considered was his child.
But the night had come when Smithers had got drunk, gone to bed and choked away his life in a flu-fevered condition. Juliet had sat in the corner of the room staring at the corpse, wondering what on earth she was going to do now, when she’d felt the first of her labour pains coming to her. She felt no pity for the man who had degraded her, but she also realised that she had no money for food and lodging and would not be able to earn any with a new baby to take care of. In her despair the young woman had sought admittance to the place that attempted to care for those with no hope. At least it had an infirmary to deliver the baby she carried.
The stench of rising damp pervaded the room and the young doctor frowned when he examined his patient.
‘You are French?’ he asked and Juliet nodded, sweat rolling from her brow as she fought the waves of pain.
She reached out, grabbing the doctor’s hand. ‘You must register the father’s name,’ she gasped. ‘You must say where my child was born. You must swear an oath that you will.’ Juliet knew of the policy to save future embarrassment to those born in the institutions by registering a fictional address as their place of birth.
‘I promise,’ the doctor said to placate his patient. This was a very problematic delivery and he did not think the young woman would survive it.
‘There, there,’ the nurse said soothingly, stepping forward to release Juliet’s iron grip. ‘You must assist the doctor with your delivery.’
Juliet stared up at the wrought-iron roof with its fancy scrolling and felt the life move within her body. The delivery took a long time and it passed in a haze of pain, but eventually a squalling, red creature emerged.
‘You have a girl,’ the nurse said as the doctor walked over to the sink to wash the blood from his hands.
‘It is Tom’s daughter,’ Juliet whispered hoarsely with relief as the tears of pain and joy flowed down her cheeks. She had only to look into the baby’s eyes and see the golden sheen of her skin to know who her daughter’s father was. ‘You must register my daughter Jessica as the child of Tom Duffy, an Australian soldier. You must promise me that you will do that.’
The nurse glanced at the doctor, who was wiping his hands with a dry cloth. Juliet saw the exchange and turned her head to the doctor. ‘I know that I am dying,’ she said. ‘Please promise me that you will register my baby’s father as Tom Duffy.’
The doctor walked over to the bed. ‘I promise. Was Jessica’s father killed in the last days of the war?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Juliet answered. The pain was still racking her body and the doctor could clearly see that, despite his desperate attempts to stem the bleeding, she was haemorrhaging. He turned to the nurse with a knowing look. ‘Please make the patient comfortable, sister,’ he said and she nodded her understanding.
The squalling bundle of new life was placed on Juliet’s breast. Tears welled in her eyes as she fought the pain in her body. ‘My beautiful baby,’ she murmured as a peaceful darkness descended on her. She was once again in the flower-covered fields of her village, and Tom was walking towards her with a broad smile on his face, dressed in his uniform with his slouch hat set at a jaunty angle. The pain was gone and so were her tears.
‘She’s dead,’ the doctor said in a flat voice. The nurse wrapped Jessica in a thick, warm blanket after the doctor had cut the umbilical cord and wiped the mucus from the baby’s mouth.
‘Whether the baby’s father is dead or alive,’ he said to the nurse, ‘make sure that the young woman’s final request is kept.’
‘But Doctor . . .’ the nurse protested.
‘Make sure that the child is registered as Jessica Duffy, and that it is recorded her father is one Tom Duffy of the Australian army. It is the least we can do for that poor unfortunate woman.’
Reluctantly, the nurse obeyed the doctor’s orders when she filled out her paperwork. ‘Highly unusual,’ she muttered but the doctor was a man not to be crossed.
Jessica Duffy was born the day her father set out for his long journey to England.
&
nbsp; *
The funnel of air swirled up the ash from the fires and twisted in a dance across the brigalow plains. Wallarie stopped to stare at the twisting, twirling column of air he had heard the white man called dust devils. It slipped away and Wallarie mused on its appearance. Had it tried to speak to him? He had been feeling uneasy these past few days. It was as if a dark shadow had fallen across his consciousness but he did not know why.
Wallarie reached down to pick up the dead echidna. The fire had caught it and it would now provide a tasty treat for the old warrior.
That night, with a full belly, Wallarie sat by his fire and chanted his song until the shadows shifted to reveal the other world of his ancestors. What he saw chilled him to the core, and he cried out, breaking his link with the shadow spirits. Giselle’s son’s life hung in the balance, and there was no one who could save him from the clutches of the devil. If the boy died, then the ancestor spirits had played a cruel joke on Wallarie.
Hector MacManus disliked Jack Firth on sight, just as he had disliked George Macintosh when he’d first met him. Both men arrived covered in dust after the long journey by Cobb & Co horse-drawn coach and were picked up in a sulky Hector had sent to the crossroads fifty miles away. They carried little more than a carpetbag each, and George demanded a hot bath as soon as he step inside the homestead.
Hector sent a couple of his stockmen off to fetch water from the dam, and the bath was prepared for the city visitors.
That evening, Hector ensured a good meal was placed on the table, and he had as his guests Karolina and the pastor, who rode in from the wreckage of their mission station where they had erected a tent until the buildings could be resurrected. Despite the heat of the evening, the air had a chill as they all took their places at the table.
The food was brought out by the housemaid and Hector carved a tender haunch of beef. Slices were placed on the fine china plates kept for such important occasions.
Karl said grace and they commenced eating.
‘You can see that we suffered a bad bushfire some weeks ago, Mr Macintosh,’ Hector said. ‘You are not seeing the property in its best light.’
George ignored this comment. ‘I note from the figures in Sydney that your production quota was down for head of cattle,’ he said, picking at his beef with a fork while Jack, sitting next to him, ate heartily.
‘We lost a few in the back blocks,’ Hector replied. ‘The lads are chasing them down, and it will put up our figures in the next head count.’
‘You must know my reputation for efficiency, Mr MacManus, and know that I do not suffer fools,’ George said coldly, causing the tough Scot to bristle at the insult. ‘I expect to see the head count improve by at least twenty percent before winter.’
‘That will be done,’ Hector answered. ‘In the meantime, how long do we have the pleasure of your company?’
George paused, looked around and returned his attention to Hector. ‘I do not see master David here tonight. I hope nothing is wrong.’
‘My daughter’s son is with one of Pastor von Fellmann’s parishioners back at the mission station,’ Karolina answered. ‘He is in good hands.’
‘I did not know that you had any European help at your mission station,’ George said.
‘We don’t, Mr Macintosh,’ Karl said. ‘The tribesmen and their families are looking after David. As Mrs Schumann has said, David is in good hands.’
George raised his eyebrows in disapproval. ‘If you say so,’ he said and raised a slice of beef to his lips.
‘I am surprised that you have come to Glen View, Mr Macintosh,’ Karolina said coldly. ‘Considering that you must know about the curse on your family.’
George placed his fork beside the plate and wiped delicately his mouth with the edge of a starched linen napkin. ‘I have heard the old wives’ tales,’ he scoffed. ‘As far as I can see, the curse seems only to have taken your daughter and that doddering old manservant of my father.’
Karolina rose to her feet and stormed from the room; Karl excused himself and followed her, leaving Hector ready to punch his employer. But he held his temper.
George shrugged. ‘I meant no disrespect for the dead, Mr MacManus.’
‘Mrs Macintosh was much loved and respected here, Mr Macintosh, and your comment was inappropriate under the circumstances,’ Hector growled.
‘I apologise, Mr MacManus,’ George shrugged, savouring the tension he had caused more than the meat he was eating.
‘It is to Mrs Schumann that you should apologise,’ Hector said. ‘Not me.’
‘I will do so in time,’ George answered. ‘But, in the meantime, you must know that your position as station manager is at risk if my inspection of the property proves any incompetence.’
The trio ate the rest of the meal in silence, and Hector was glad when it was finally over and he had an excuse to retire. He was seething at the insults thrown at him and his friends during the meal but there was very little he could do – George had the controlling share of Glen View. He could hear the two men start in on the bottle of good whisky he had set aside for them; after a while the two unwanted visitors went onto the verandah to finish off the bottle. Hector could hear the faint murmur of their voices, but that was all. He tried to sleep but could not; George Macintosh’s arrival at Glen View did not bode well for anyone.
George indicated to Jack that they should take their drinks and walk a short distance from the house to discuss their plan.
‘If the boy is left in the care of the savages here, it will make it easier for us to get rid of him,’ George said.
‘How do you plan to do that?’ Jack asked, staring up at the brilliance of the night sky.
‘Well,’ George said, ‘what if young master David was to wander off into the scrub and get lost. In this heat he would not live long. It would be a case of saying the blacks were careless and let him slip away.’
Jack remained silent for a short while contemplating the idea. ‘How do we get the boy out of the clutches of the blacks – and his grandmother?’
‘That is what I need to consider, but the idea of the boy dying in the wilderness has a certain romantic twist about it, don’t you think?’ George said.
‘I stop short of being present when the boy dies,’ Jack said. ‘Your money only buys so much, Mr Macintosh.’
George turned on Jack. ‘This is not personal,’ he said. ‘Simply a case of basic financial consideration – as there can only be one captain of a ship.’
Jack took a long swig of the fiery liquid in his glass. He did not like what he was being asked to do, but he was now totally reliant on George Macintosh’s patronage.
‘We’ll sleep on it,’ George said, turning to walk back to the house, which was lit by kerosene lanterns. ‘I expect that with your experience you will be able to find an opportune moment to snatch the boy and carry him into the wilderness.’
‘You’re a cold bastard, Macintosh,’ Jack said.
‘And you will be a rich bastard, Firth,’ George countered.
Hector assigned one of his experienced Aboriginal stockmen to take George and Jack on a tour of the property. As neither were riders, a sulky had been readied and the stockman took the reins.
‘Where you want to go?’ he asked. He was a wiry man in his midthirties and had been born to a tribe north of Glen View, but had drifted with his clan south to settle on the fringes of the property. As a young boy he had been recruited to work around the stock and given the name Billy. Billy eventually found himself in the saddle as a stockman where he had proved himself an excellent manager of cattle.
‘I would like to see the hill on the property first,’ George said. He knew that it was time to confront his hidden fears but he was not about to explain to a mere cattle manager.
‘That not a good place to go, boss,’ Billy said. ‘Ancestor spirits live there. Bad place to go.’
Hector, standing a short distance away, broke in. ‘I would take Billy’s advice, Mr Macintosh. The hill is
a sacred place to the Nerambura people.’
‘Are you telling me, the owner of this place, that I cannot go and look at a piece of volcanic rock on my own land?’ George said coldly.
‘You boss man,’ Billy said. ‘I take you there but ol’ Wallarie, he still alive an’ he still live there.’
George shuddered inwardly at the mention of Wallarie’s name. He was like some living ghost haunting the family with the memory of the massacre.
‘The idea of some old black savage does not worry me,’ George said arrogantly. ‘After all, this is the twentieth century, and my friend Jack is carrying a reliable revolver. I am sure if he hobbles at us waving a stick, we are more than capable of dealing with him.’
‘Ol’ Wallarie uses magic,’ Billy said. ‘No whitefella bullet can kill ’im.’
‘Just take us to the hill,’ George commanded.
Billy shrugged. He had warned them.
The day was hot and the sun blazed down on the sulky as the horse plodded through the blackened scrub. They reached the hill by noon, and even George had to admit this place that had featured in family folklore for generations was impressive. He knew from his schooling that the lone and prominent feature on the plain was probably an ancient volcanic plug, eroded over the millennia by wind and rain.
Billy brought the sulky to a stop and pulled out the picnic basket Hector had asked the cook pack for his employer’s sightseeing tour. It contained beef sandwiches with chutney and some cake to follow. Jack had ensured that they take a bottle of gin as refreshment.
They dismounted and Billy placed a feed bag on the horse’s nose. George sought out one of the few trees that provided some semblance of shade against the blistering sun.
‘Bloody arse end of the world out here,’ Jack grumbled, brushing the flies from his face. ‘The bloody blackfellas can keep this land.’
Although George agreed the place was hellish, he also knew that Glen View, along with the other Queensland properties the Macintosh family owned, provided a respectable income. He had no idea what had prompted his brother to live the life of a cattleman out here on the outskirts of civilisation, although much was changing even in this part of the world. The Cobb & Co coaches were almost all gone, replaced by trucks and buses. Telephone wires were reaching out to far-flung properties, and the nomadic Aboriginals were being pushed onto mission stations. The frontier his great-grandfather faced was a half-century in the past, and the warrior tribesmen who had stood and fought pitched battles against the white settlers were a distant memory now.