The Valley

by Di Morrissey

  Di Morrissey is Australia’s leading lady of fiction. She planned on writing books from age seven, growing up at Pittwater in Sydney. She quickly realised you don’t leave school and become a novelist. Di trained as a journalist, worked as a women’s editor in Fleet Street, London, married a US diplomat and in between travelling to diplomatic posts and raising daughter Gabrielle and son Nicolas, she worked as an advertising copywriter, TV presenter, radio broadcaster and appeared on TV and stage. She returned to Australia to work in television and published her first novel, Heart of the Dreaming, in 1991. The Valley is her fourteenth novel.

  Di lives in Byron Bay, New South Wales, Australia, when not travelling to research her novels, which are all inspired by a specific landscape.

  visit www.dimorrissey.com

  Also by Di Morrissey

  Heart of the Dreaming

  The Last Rose of Summer

  Follow the Morning Star

  The Last Mile Home

  Tears of the Moon

  When the Singing Stops

  The Songmaster

  Scatter the Stars

  Blaze

  The Bay

  Kimberley Sun

  Barra Creek

  The Reef

  DI MORRISSEY

  The

  VALLEY

  Author’s Note

  This is a work of fiction. All characters are creations of my imagination – with one exception. Isabella Mary Kelly lived in the Manning Valley of NSW in the mid nineteenth century and I like to think she would be pleased with my telling of her story, the salvaging of her reputation, and remembering her for the feisty and formidable woman she was.

  I have also drawn inspiration from the letters and memories of my grandparents, Jack and Louisa Revitt of Wingham NSW, where I was born.

  I hope you enjoy my valley.

  DM

  Byron Bay, 2006

  First published 2006 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  1 Market Street, Sydney

  Copyright © Lady Byron Pty Ltd 2006

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Australia

  cataloguing-in-publication data:

  Morrissey, Di.

  The valley.

  ISBN-10: 1-4050-3760-1

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4050-3760-0

  I. Title.

  A823.3

  Typeset in 12.5/15pt Sabon by Post Pre-press Group

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  These electronic editions published in 2006 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd

  1 Market Street, Sydney 2000

  Copyright © Di Morrissey 2006

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

  The Valley

  Di Morrissey

  Online format: 978-1-74197-657-1

  Adobe eReader format: 978-1-74197-054-8

  EPUB format: 978-0-23055-037-7

  Macmillan Digital Australia

  www.macmillandigital.com.au

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy both print and ebooks online. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events.

  Contents

  Cover

  About Di Morrissey

  Also by Di Morrissey

  Author’s note

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  The Valley

  Prologue: Kelly’s Crossing, 1840

  Chapter 1: Sydney 2006

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3: Cedartown, 1928

  Chapter 4: Cedartown, 1932

  Chapter 5: Mount George, 1840

  Chapter 6: Mount George, 1844

  Chapter 7: Mount George, 1845

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9: Cedartown, 1938

  Chapter 10: Mount George, 1846

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12: Cedartown, 1940

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15: Riverview, 1852

  Chapter 16: Cedartown, 1944

  Chapter 17: Cedartown, 1945

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19: Cedartown, 1948

  For all my family, everywhere.

  Special hugs to my mother, Kay,

  daughter Gabrielle and son Nick;

  and to Barrie, welcome to the family.

  Acknowledgments

  For Uncle Jim Revitt, who shares my memories of growing up in a special little town. Thank you for your constructive and wise input (as always). And also Rosemary Revitt for your balance and warmth. Thanks to Uncle Ron Revitt-Jonach for your help in understanding artists and their work. And for darling Boris who is always there for me and now too loves the valley.

  Thank you to everyone at Pan Macmillan – you’re family too!: James Fraser, who’s had such faith in me from book one; the lovely Nikki Christer (good pal, great editor); Jane Novak (clever, funny and the best road buddy). And always there with advice and friendship; Ross Gibb, Jeannine Fowler, Roxarne Burns. And thanks also to all the hardworking, enthusiastic Pan Mac reps.

  Special thanks to Ian Robertson, who pretends to be my lawyer but is really a great raconteur, lunch companion and all-round inspiration.

  Thanks to artist Katie Clemson, and to Liz Adams for her enthusiastic support and for being a great sounding board.

  Thanks also go to many people in the Manning Valley who helped me in so many ways. Also: Mave and Eric Richardson, Graham and Chris Gibbons, Noel, Rachel, Jack and Madi Piercey, the Wingham Historical Society, Tom Wollard, Russell Saunders, Sue Mitchell (Manning Regional Art Gallery).

  Special thanks to Maurie Garland for permission to use details of Isabella Kelly’s life from his book The Trials of Isabella Mary Kelly (Brolga Books).

  DM

  The Valley

  The valley was a little-known gem. Its undulating green landscape slashed by the magnificent river seeking the sea.

  Those who knew this place, knew its magic.

  From its first inhabitants who roamed the hills, river and valley, it was a country of ceremony, corroboree and creation. Then came white settlers with horses and cattle. They carved first bush homes and found and felled the ancient trees. There were murders and births. Many died before their time.

  As two centuries passed, the valley remained little known. Those who came, and stayed, were drawn into its embrace as to a mother’s breast, were comforted and made welcome, finding peace in which to live out their lives.

  The valley was special to all who knew it.

  Prologue

  Kelly’s Crossing, 1840

  THE CLOUDS PARTED LIKE a plush grey curtain leaving a backdrop of streaky winter sky behind heavily timbered peaks. Centre-stage, three figures, dwarfed by the landscape, made their way along the narrow cutting through ancient trees in a dense rainforest. The track was rough, rutted from bullock hooves, timber drays and an occasional horseman.

&
nbsp; The rolling sound of a fast-flowing creek grew louder and soon the travellers were beside what was normally a shallow rocky crossing. They stopped at the swollen creek and took in the approach that angled gently down the bank. On the other side the way out was a steep stretch of dangerous loose stones. It demanded determination from both horse and rider in a hard gallop from the water and up the challenging bank.

  The three figures moved closer to the water. Only one, a woman, was mounted. The two men on foot were ill-prepared for the rough track and icy water crossing, their boots well worn, their apparel threadbare. One was leading a packhorse and both men were tethered by ropes to the lead horse and rider. They were not country men and they gazed at the water in dread.

  ‘We’ll never walk this flooded creek. It’ll be shocking cold. And strong by the look of it,’ muttered the younger of the two shackled men.

  ‘It’s for a hearty sailor at home in fierce water. Not for the likes of us,’ agreed the older man.

  The woman on horseback heard them. ‘I hope you don’t fancy yourselves as town gents. You two have been long enough on the land to rough your hands. We are crossing over this stream. We have a distance to travel before dark. Hold on to the ropes.’ The scoffing and at the same time commanding tone did not invite argument.

  The older of the two convicts who was leading the packhorse spoke in a subservient and hesitant voice. ‘Ma’am, it really is dangerous. With respect, be careful. It could sweep away the unwary.’

  ‘I am not unaware of dangers. The distance across is short if we act swiftly. Get down the bank. I will loosen the ropes.’

  The woman deftly untied the two ropes that were knotted on the ear of her saddle and led to the shackles on the ankles of the two convicts assigned to her for the last six months of their sentences.

  She was no beauty but a striking woman and any man could see she was not one to be trifled with. She rode side-saddle, as convention decreed, in a great swayback leather saddle, seated as comfortably as in an armchair. Her long black skirt was looped about her legs, her booted foot firmly in the stirrup. The scarlet jacket over her modest blouse was a vivid splash of colour in the grey and sodden scene. On her head she wore a cabbage-tree hat favoured by the men of the district. The woven brim shaded her face, her hair was coiled firmly beneath the plaited crown. She had no time or taste for fashionable bonnets. In her gloved hands she held reins and a whip.

  ‘If you lose your footing keep your head up and kick strongly. Hang on to the rope and it will pull you across.’

  The black stallion braced itself for the plunge through the creek. The horse and rider had forded flooded creeks before this day.

  She nudged the black horse forward and it strode firmly, the water surging around its chest. Glancing behind, the woman saw the worried faces of the men as they waded carefully, the water at their armpits. One held the rope above his head as the packhorse gamely stepped through the current. The packhorse was strong and a handy swimmer if required. If it tripped it would be let free to make its own way through. Even a normally narrow channel such as this was not to be trusted when swollen and muddy from storms.

  Before the woman’s attention returned to the way ahead, the stallion stumbled as a submerged log rolled underfoot and suddenly they were in a deep hole where the current churned in a whirlpool. The horse was flung sideways, its rider wrenched from the saddle.

  The two men and packhorse were on firmer ground and watched helplessly as the woman was swept away. The woman’s horse, holding its head high, swam strongly till it found a footing. Slipping on stones it stepped into the shallows and charged up the steep bank, water streaming from the saddle, dragging the men in its wake. The packhorse’s hooves clanged against stones and it too scrambled from the rushing water, the younger man clutching the reins, struggling to his feet after slipping on the bank.

  Both men craned their necks to see what had happened to their mistress but she was out of sight. They freed themselves from the ropes and stumbled along the creek edge, hanging on to trees until they saw a slash of red jammed into the roots of a tree toppled by the floodwaters. The woman was trying to drag herself free, but the waterlogged weight of her skirt and petticoats and the surging current kept pulling at her. The men looked at each other. Here was a chance to make away with two horses to freedom.

  ‘We wouldn’t get far, lad,’ said the older man.

  ‘I suppose it would go bad with us when we are so close to finishing our time,’ the younger man whined reluctantly. ‘What do we do?’

  ‘Take the small axe from the packhorse. We can cut through this tangle. Get a rope we can throw out to her.’

  The men worked quickly as the horses stood patiently on the bank, shaking their manes and flicking tails.

  ‘We be getting to you, ma’am, hang on,’ called the older man.

  The woman’s expression was grim, and although her arms were tiring as the water pulled at her clothing, her grip around the tree was firm and determined.

  The older man threw the rope towards her and she caught it. He secured the other end to a nearby tree while the younger man used the axe to swiftly cut away a barrier of shrubs and saplings on the steep bank.

  ‘Good lad. That’s enough.’ He gave an encouraging smile to the trapped woman. ‘Right?’ he called.

  The woman hesitated before loosening her grip.

  ‘It’s strong, ma’am. Won’t break. Hold tightly.’

  Trusting herself into their care, she let go of the tree and was swiftly hauled in despite her waterlogged weight. She staggered up the bank and hastily made an effort to get to her feet and grasp at what dignity and authority remained to her. The men busied themselves with winding up the rope, stowing the axe in a pack saddle and wringing water from their clothes.

  ‘That was fortunate. And quick thinking. I am grateful,’ said the woman briskly. ‘I must find a dry jacket. My skirt will dry as we ride.’

  ‘We’re moving on?’ the young man asked in surprise.

  The woman arched an eyebrow. ‘Did you imagine we would camp at this miserable crossing just because we got wet? We are expected at Port Macquarie and we will be there on time.’

  She went to the packhorse as the men exchanged a look of frustration.

  ‘We should have left her. Gone on. Found someone and reported an accident,’ said the younger man in a low and angry voice.

  ‘You could live with yourself? I couldn’t.’

  ‘But surely she won’t take us to be flogged? Not now?’ The younger man’s face was red with anger. And fear. His life had been dogged by ill fortune. Now for the first time having acted without self-interest it proved to him there was no gain in honesty or decency.

  ‘It may go easy with us now,’ answered the older man.

  ‘And if not? Is she so hard a woman?’

  ‘If not, it will be over and done with quick enough,’ said the older man philosophically.

  Seeing the woman returning in a dry jacket taken from the saddle pack the young man turned away, his face sullen. ‘I suppose we have to be tied to the horses again?’ He yanked at the rope.

  ‘Do I have your oath to stay beside me? You can take turns on the packhorse. We must travel further to make camp before dark. Fetch the horses.’

  She turned to the older man as the young fellow trudged to the horses. ‘I will not forget what you have done this day. But I am obliged to do what must be done.’

  The man’s face was expressionless. ‘Whatever you say, Miss Kelly.’

  She swung into the saddle and watched him help the younger man on to the packhorse. ‘Decide between you when to change over.’

  She spurred the black stallion further up the slope, paused where the track began to level, and watched the packhorse pick its way towards her. The older man followed, leaning on a stout stick salvaged from the bush litter. The young man on the horse sat with shoulders slumped and his head bowed, angrily contemplating the punishment awaiting him at the penal centre that serve
d the district.

  They had indeed done wrong by their employer. Letting several unbranded cattle stray to be conveniently collected and ‘bought’ on the sly had seemed a quick and easy way to pocket some money. Cattle were often lost in the thickly timbered hills around Miss Kelly’s unfenced property. But the purchaser was found out before he could brand the cattle and he wasted no time in pinpointing the culprits, pleading his own innocence. So in accordance with the regulations governing convict labour to free settlers the men were to be punished as the law stipulated.

  But Miss Isabella Kelly was not about to put her men in the hands of the local magistrate, a man she knew despised her. She preferred to take them on a longer journey to Port Macquarie where they had been serving out their term before assignment. In 1843 there were no townships between her holdings at Mount George, well up the Manning River, and Port Macquarie on the Hastings River.

  Eight days later the three returned the way they’d come. This time the creek crossing presented no challenge. The water had receded, the stream gurgled pleasantly and sparkled in the sunlight. The woman did not glance downstream where she had almost perished. It seemed to the men that she appeared not to recall that day, and rode on apparently more interested in checking her cattle on the remote rolling hills being cleared as part of her dream to become a great and rich settler in this vast and enthralling land.

  Back at Port Macquarie the story of Isabella Kelly’s accident and rescue by the convicts was being told with increasing embellishment. It was growing well beyond the version given by the young convict hauled before the court, who had smarted not only from the pain of the lashes received, but also from what he regarded as the injustice of the event.

  There were many who shook their heads dismissively when they heard the story. The men in the colony overwhelmingly disliked Miss Isabella Kelly. To them she was wrong to meddle in the affairs of men. Settling the land and overseeing convicts was men’s business. She might be a proud woman but she was bound to fall or fail. It was not right that a woman alone, with no kith or kin, an orphan from the old country, could better the men of the district with her cattle and horse breeding. She was an aloof and therefore mysterious figure who did not fit into the accepted ways of the new settlers.