Surprised and pleased I replied, ‘What are you suggesting Gustave Nitschke? Are you intending to make an honest woman of me then?’
‘If you like. We’ll find work in Adelaide and wait until our families have forgiven us for running away. They’ll want to arrange a proper wedding with all the fuss and bother that entails. They won’t take kindly to us running off to Adelaide, you know. Your Father will accuse us of dishonouring and shaming the family and his church and may want us expelled from the congregation. Do you think you can cope with that?’ he asked gently. ‘You realise our churches may not allow us back there to be married if we leave our families. And arranging a wedding to suit the two different strands of the Lutheran Church would bring too much bad blood into our families.’
‘When I leave here, I don’t care what the church thinks. Anyway, Father keeps reminding us that he can’t afford to pay for a wedding for any of us, no matter how humble. Couldn’t we have one of those civil weddings or something, or even get married in one of the Lutheran churches in the city? I don’t really care how we do it or which branch we choose so long as we leave here. And when I do, I’m never coming back.’
‘You sound harsh.’
‘You have no idea what it’s been like to live out here in the middle of nowhere with Father, and nothing to look forward to. Don’t you see, I’m at my wit’s end. I’m twenty-four now and Father still beats me and chastises me for all my imperfections. Have you any idea of the humiliation?’ Gustave couldn’t answer that question.
But once we had decided to leave Towitta, nothing further happened. He wouldn’t discuss it and I didn’t know why. His silence began to wear heavily on my nerves; what had happened to the urgency? Spring was quickly moving towards summer.
These trips to and from Angaston each fortnight had been a highlight which I eagerly anticipated. Maybe because of the strain of our stalled courtship plans, I began having fits again and fainting more often. When the doctor examined me and declared me unfit for work until my health improved, I grudgingly returned to Towitta and my total dependence on Father, having to beg for every item I needed.
There was no doubt that Mother was glad to have me back home, for apart from Bertha and those visiting commercial travellers and hawkers prepared to put up with Father’s insults, I was all the company she had. Although our nearest neighbours were less than a quarter of a mile away, sometimes we didn’t see anyone for days. When my health rallied I did most of the housework, and also helped with the farm work now that the older brothers had left home and Pauline had died. I was nothing more than an unpaid drudge.
There was always much to do and in my melancholy state, even though Gustave paid me visits, I gradually paid less attention to my appearance. My hair was unkempt. I wore the same clothes for days at a time. Apart from clothes that were worn for best, such as on Sunday when we went to church, I had only one dress and a skirt. I was moody and raging with anger, tightly coiled like a spring ready to be released at a touch. Even Gustave’s visits did little to comfort me. Even though he was cheerful, cocky and cheeky I was beginning to doubt him. He never made deliveries to us, but he would make a diversion from the main Towitta track to the farm. He saw me at my worst. My clothes were usually splattered with sheep or pig’s blood, and I was often too busy to stop although weary and bored by the same routine, day in and day out. It was at this time of the year, after the crop of new sheep and pigs were born, that Father ordered us to slaughter the older stock. We smoked the meat and made sausages for Christmas, as well as preparing carcasses for sale to neighbours or Towitta villagers. That year the sale of the meat made little difference to the farm finances because of the mounting debts.
Yet my splattered dusty state and lack of interest only seemed to heighten Gustave’s desire for me. He sometimes came back in the late afternoon or at the weekends to spend time with us. Sometimes I would trek over to the shady Cowlands Creek or to Towitta Creek and meet him there, far away from Father and Bertha’s prying eyes. She liked his visits a little too much I thought. And he stirred her up with promises of visits to Sedan and even to Adelaide. I was not pleased at this form of flirtation with my not-so-little sister who took him at his word.
My parents did not stop his visits but they didn’t exactly welcome him warmly. Father’s remarks to Gustave were often gruff. I was in my twenties and my prospects of marriage depended heavily on him, yet this grudging acceptance of Gustave, if that’s what it was, worried me. I couldn’t work out what Father felt about having another man in his territory for he said nothing to me. But he behaved like a jealous lover, handling objects roughly, slamming doors shut and making rude remarks about his daughters being wayward, uncontrollable and the talk of the neighbourhood. Surely he objected to more then the fact we belonged to branches of the church that had been feuding?
As I said, although Gustave had always been affectionate, our relationship changed dramatically after I left the Angaston fruit factory. He refused to talk about us going to Adelaide and I became moody and sullen. One afternoon beside the nearby creek I asked Gustave, ‘Are we still going to Adelaide?’.
‘Of course, Mary.’
‘But when?’
‘I don’t know, I have things to do first, things I cannot hurry.’
‘But you have to,’ I pleaded. ‘If I stay here much longer I’ll go crazy. Father is making my life Hell. Please can we settle on a date?’
‘I’ll see what I can do, Mary,’ he said, avoiding eye contact.
‘You promised weeks ago, don’t you remember? But now there’s something the matter, you don’t seem so happy to be with me any more. You only come for one thing these days.’
‘Now that’s not fair, Mary. I have a lot on my mind, please don’t push me.’
‘But I have a lot to think about too,’ I wailed. ‘Father never lets me forget that as I no longer bring money into the household, I’m not worth anything, just another mouth to feed. Never mind that I work from morning to night for Mother and around the farm for him.’
‘Look, I’ve told you I have to work something out. So for now I can’t think about leaving here, until at least February.’
I was horrified. I felt betrayed. I couldn’t believe that I had to put up with Towitta for at least three more months throughout the hottest and most unbearable months of the year – and with Father. ‘You can’t do this to me. You don’t love me now that you’ve had your way with me.’
I demanded he tell me the reason he’d changed his plans. He refused to answer. In my frustration and anger I rushed at him and beat my clenched fists on his chest, crying with rage. He grabbed hold of my wrists and looked straight into my eyes and said firmly, ‘That’s how it is, Mary. I’m in a fix which I have to sort out. I can say no more.’
He pushed me aside and marched over to the horses standing quietly in the shade of the giant red gums along the creek. I was worried about losing him. Could I wait another three months? If he left that day with us fighting, I worried that he would not return. I swallowed my pride and asked him to return over the Christmas holiday period when my parents were away for several days. Things were a little merrier on his return, some of the passion was rekindled and we made new plans. I believed everything was going to be all right when he left me for a few days in Adelaide.
‘Look, Sister, I don’t want to talk about him any more today. It upsets me. I had blocked him from my mind and I didn’t know he could still affect me so. We had plans for a happy future together in Adelaide, but after he left me that day, I never spoke with him again.’ Sister Kathleen put her hand on my arm. ‘Mary, I quite understand.’
‘I don’t believe you do, Sister, because I said goodbye to Gustave when he left for Adelaide, and the very next night Bertha was slain.’
‘That is simply dreadful. Please don’t say anything more now, you look white as a sheet.’
‘I’ll be all right, Sister, really I will. All this was so long ago now.’
‘That may be s
o, but I don’t think I can bear to hear any more today. Let me make you comfortable before I go.’
15
When Sister Kathleen looked in the next day, I was resting after a night of tears and anguish brought on by mentioning Gustave and feeling the pain of his loss.
‘How are you feeling today, Mary?’ Sister asked, always solicitous. I shrugged. I’m sure I looked tired and wretched.
‘Perhaps we can sit on the verandah,’ I suggested, ‘and talk a little of other things. Tell me about your father who is a publican, and more of your German family.’
‘Hmm. My Aunt Vera married into a medical family. They’re quite well known – they had something to do with setting up a special German hospital. You may know it.’
‘I do, everyone does, it’s the one near Light’s Pass, isn’t it?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘That’s been there for decades. They mend bones and practise a special medicine, I believe. There’s a name for it … some kind of healing.’
‘Yes, it’s known as homeopathy. But enough about me today. Are you feeling strong enough to continue your story?’
‘I’m strong enough, Sister,’ I reassured her, ‘but this might be a little hard for me. Until recently I had thought many times about Gustave and me all those years ago, and cried when I realised what I had lost. But until yesterday I had not talked about him to anyone.’
We dragged cane chairs to the verandah and Sister Kathleen left me to find refreshments. When she returned she handed me cake and prompted, ‘What are you going to tell me today? Yesterday you stopped after Gustave went away. You mentioned Bertha’s death.’
Oh yes, I remember. Well you can imagine my ordeal following that dreadful night when Bertha was killed. Our isolated farm was suddenly crawling with police and journalists. And, of course, those who lived in the area took a diversion past our gate to see what was happening at the Schippan farm. On the morning following Bertha’s death, a Corporal Rumball and Dr Steel arrived at our farmhouse. A posse of police from Adelaide led by Detective Priest was not expected to arrive until the next day. When the detective’s name was mentioned, I knew we had met before in Adelaide when Rebekah had died.
Our farm was filled with men with duties following a suspicious death. Soon after the arrival of Detective Priest and his men, these men stomped around with tape measures, notepads and pencils, spades and trowels. There were detectives, troopers on horses, trackers and messengers, as well as journalists from the Adelaide newspapers. I was told that these men were billeted around the neighbourhood in private homes while our farmhouse became the headquarters. Although we were allowed into the kitchen and pantry, we weren’t allowed into the bedroom where Bertha’s body was found. Eventually, Mr Priest came over to talk to me.
‘G’day to you, Miss Schippan. So we meet once more in tragic circumstances.’ I returned his greeting, twiddling my handkerchief and willing myself to remain composed.
‘So, Miss, you have returned to Towitta. This is a dreadful business and you must be very distressed. I hope you weren’t injured yourself? I’ll come and take your evidence as soon as we have organised the men, animals and stores.’
‘I’m sure I’ll still be here when you need me, Mr Priest. Yes, I remember you from North Adelaide. I came home about six months after Rebekah’s death when I was taken ill. And thank you for enquiring about my injuries. I’m not really hurt, just a few cuts and bruises, and I am very tired. My brothers and I are very frightened that the stranger may return; we will not feel safe again until you have found him.’
‘Don’t you worry, Miss. You are safe now and we will find the murderer, whoever he is.’
It still seems like yesterday. It was hot and dusty. Detective Priest worked his men like soldiers. The troopers were sent in all directions to collect evidence from anyone who was in some way associated with us. They lifted and looked under every movable object as far as the eye could see and collected exhibits that were minutely examined before being arranged and labelled. They scribbled away in notebooks for the inquest.
I sat aside with Mother who had returned by this time. She kept asking me questions and when I wouldn’t answer them she cried and sobbed. When I wasn’t cooking, washing-up or otherwise helping her I sat on my own and watched everyone rushing about. Father liked to know everything going on about him and wandered about asking the men questions about their work. I saw him and August building an outside fireplace so that Mother and I could help prepare food and drink for the large army of people. We’d never had so many people at the farm at one time.
The mounted troopers brought extra kettles and pans and provisions for the many meals. With the promise of generous payment, Father killed two of his precious sheep each day. There were plenty to choose from but they were pitifully thin and scraggy. This provided mutton which we cooked and ate with potatoes and cabbage and anything that could be found from around the district. Father saw this as an opportunity to earn much-needed cash, more than any of us had seen for a while. It went without saying that Mother and I were expected to be kitchenhands but I didn’t mind at all. It kept us busy and took our mind off the reason for their presence in the first place. There were about sixteen policemen, our family of five, and about ten other men who were scientists, journalists and the like. So we spent a lot of time cooking and cleaning up after every meal.
About four o’clock one afternoon, we were rounded up for a meeting in the implement shed where we listened to the coroner, doctor and detective give their opinions of the events of two nights before. Father was asked again if he had identified Bertha, and he replied in a stern voice that he had. Willy and August, who had earlier sneaked back into the house, spoke morbidly of the pools of dark brown congealed blood, the noisy presence of swarms of blowflies and the awful smell. After agreeing that Bertha’s death was due to stab wounds, the inquest was adjourned for nearly a week so that more evidence could be gathered and the case ‘worked up’, as it was called.
16
After Sister Kathleen had gone I slept fitfully, reminded about Bertha’s funeral that was to take place the day after the first inquest. By the time Sister Kathleen visited a few days later, I had relived the funeral night after night and felt distressed thinking or telling Sister Kathleen about it. But as usual she had her way of prising from me the stories that had remained locked away for years.
She was cheery and calm and, as always, this soothed my mind. Then she presented me with a small gift. ‘Look what I’ve brought you, Mary. I thought you might like this bottle of scent.’
‘Sister, you shouldn’t have. It’s rather wasted on me for I’ll never finish it you know.’
‘Now, Mary, I don’t want to hear that. You’re getting better every day. You tell me these family stories and take my mind away from the home – and frighten me half to death. So it’s the least I can do.’ And we both laughed, but uncomfortably so.
When we made ourselves comfortable in the enclosed verandah she reminded me that we had planned to talk about Bertha’s funeral. She blushed as she said this, suddenly realising that this was an indelicate thing to have said with my own death not far off. She also sensed I was overly tired.
‘So how have you been?’ she asked, keen to distract me from talk of funerals.
‘Not so good, I’m afraid. I am so exhausted. The last time you left I thought about Bertha’s funeral and it stayed with me for days, disrupting my sleep. I wish I could forget it but I can’t. So I’d better tell you about it, so it will leave my mind. But I do find it distressing talking about undertakers and funerals.’
‘You really don’t have to go through this, Mary.’
I’ve been reliving this for days, so I may as well tell you about it. I told you about the first inquest. The undertaker came the next morning as the funeral was in the Sedan cemetery in the afternoon. Mother was given permission to prepare Bertha’s body which had been laid out on her bed by Mrs Lambert. I was too nervy to help her and she
never pressed me to do so. Bertha was dressed in her Sunday frock with one of Mother’s old lace collars wrapped around her neck to cover the gaping wounds. When the undertaker arrived in the morning he placed Bertha in a simple black painted coffin.
We all dressed up in our Sunday clothes for Bertha’s funeral. Father wanted Bertha in the coffin to be on display in the yard before we travelled to Sedan so everyone in the family and nearby neighbours could see her, if they wished. This was a Wendish tradition and was very important to Father and Mother and all our relatives. So after much discussion with Detective Priest Father had his way, despite the dreadful furnace-like conditions and the way in which Bertha had been brutally murdered by a stranger. I had not seen Bertha since her death and had no wish to look at her now she was placed on view. I found it too morbid. I think when Mother said that Bertha’s face was as pale as a ghost, it really upset me.
Being a Wendish coffin, the sides were folded down to show off the body but there was no sign to suggest how she had died. The troopers helped to keep the affair private. They fenced off a small area near one of the barns with posts and ropes so that it was difficult for anyone casually passing by the farm to see Bertha’s coffin from the roadway.
Our aunties and uncles arrived throughout the morning and joined us for an early lunch. Despite the intense summer heat, they had journeyed from Mount Pleasant, Eden Valley, Springton and Angaston to give us support for the funeral. Even my oldest brother Frederick had come back under the protection of one of the uncles from Eden Valley. Father and he had not spoken since the day he had left home, and despite the tragic circumstances Father refused to speak to him still. Frederick told me he was not in the least upset by this.
The Noon Lady of Towitta Page 9