Haunted Creek

by Ann Cliff

  Rose turned to him in shock. ‘Weeks? But I thought we’d be farming! It’s a gamble, isn’t it, looking for gold?’ How could she stay here alone?

  Changing the subject abruptly, Luke pointed to the map. ‘There’s a few folks round here. I think the Carrs would be able to sell vegetables. Down here towards the Tangil River there’s a pub called the All Seasons: it was busy in the gold rush days and there’s a few miners left. Landlady’s a bit of a character. Maeve they call her. Irish, I suppose. There’s not many women up here, though. And then—’ He pointed to a track leading out of the Haunted Creek ‘—this goes up the ridge to Wattle Tree. There’s a store there, a few houses and a little school, that’s used sometimes as a church. Mrs Jensen is the schoolmistress and her son Erik farms a couple of blocks. I reckon he’s a big bore … but very straight, you understand.’

  Rose nodded, trying to take it all in.

  ‘Then there’s a farmer, Ben Sawley, a bit further along who’s cleared his land, has a few cows and breeds donkeys. He grows whatever he thinks will sell…. Last year he grew a lot of onions – I got these from him.’ Luke looked at Rose and added, ‘I’ve met him once or twice at the All Seasons … don’t know if he has a wife. There’s a few more … the store’s here, they have a load of bairns … and some folks have built a grand house on this hill.’

  Against all the signs, Rose persisted with her dream. ‘When your land is cleared, Luke, could we keep milking cows?’ A dairy herd would be a little oasis of civilization in this wilderness. ‘I could sell butter to all these people.’

  ‘No, Rose.’ The rather hard voice was firm. ‘I milked enough cows at home – don’t want to be tied to a cow’s tail ever again. You can milk Gertrude the goat when she comes into milk. There maybe will be dairy herds here in time, if more folks come. Somebody might build a butter factory like I hear they’re doing in some places, for the farmers to deliver their cream to. But that’s all in the future. Haunted Creek is pretty quiet at the moment. Gold’s the thing, I tell you.’

  As they ate the meal, Rose said, ‘Do you remember old Mr Alsop at Kirkby, Luke? Well, he died and his lads are fighting over the will….’

  Luke listened in silence for a while and then stood up with an impatient gesture. ‘I hope you’re not going to be talking about Kirkby all the time, Rose. You’re here now and we have to make the best of it, not be looking back all the time.’

  Rose felt tears rising and turned away from him. She would not show any weakness; she would be strong. That Spider was sitting at her feet now, mocking her, and she tried to laugh. ‘You’re right, lad. Let’s make the best of it and start farming. That’s what we’re here for.’

  The Carrs decided to buy and were pleased with their selection. ‘It’s a good thing,’ Bert said to Martha a few days after they had settled in, ‘our block has a little creek running down to the big one. Plenty of water.’

  They were sitting at the top of the ridge, looking over their land. ‘Yes, Bert. And I’ll tell you something else – if you leave that line of thick trees on the ridge we’ll be sheltered from the worst of the storms.’

  Martha and Bert had strolled through the neighbourhood, looking at the lie of the land and the progress of the local folk. They had visited Rose and walked up the hill to Wattle Tree and now Martha said, ‘Jim Carlyle beat us to the level block, but he’ll have no water on his land as far as I can see. He’ll need to dig out some dams to catch the winter rains. We’ve got the best deal, I’m thankful to say, in spite of the race to get here first.’

  ‘It was no race – you can’t hurry cattle,’ Bert reminded her. ‘They’ll not be pushed.’

  Martha continued. ‘But what worries me is that poor English lass, the mess she’s come to. I was shocked to see their place. That Luke should be horsewhipped for bringing her out, telling her the farm was ready. Everybody knows it’s hard enough for young women in the back blocks, even if they’re used to our climate. Most men make a bit of an effort, build a house that keeps out wind and rain and rats … I wouldn’t live like that for very long and I doubt she will.’

  ‘But if you go back, folks say you’ve failed. And they’re married, so she’ll have to stay. A woman’s place is with her husband,’ Bert said heavily.

  Martha sighed. ‘Maybe she’ll straighten him up, if she’s got the character. Poor Rose! I’ve only known her for a week or two but I feel right sorry for her. I suppose we owe her for pulling Charlie out of the creek, although I know he was shamming. That was quick of her, that was, and she thought he was drowning.’

  ‘There’ll be plenty of chances to help her, you mark my words.’ Bert got stiffly to his feet. ‘It’s time you put those young monkeys to bed.’

  THREE

  THERE WERE FLEAS in the dust of the floor and rats scuttled about in the roof of the hut at night, to say nothing of spiders. Rose was used to the realities of farm life, but nothing like this. They lived for most of the time outside in the bleak back yard. How long would it be before they had a decent home?

  For a few weeks Luke tried to please Rose in practical ways, doing things like putting up shelves in the hut, although she seemed to get no closer to him emotionally. The loving relationship was not developing; it seemed as though a part of her husband was private, shut away. She hoped it was just the effects of isolation and that he would change in time.

  One day as she was washing clothes in the creek, Rose looked up to see a figure towering over her. Then the enormous grey kangaroo turned and bounded into the bush. Were they dangerous? Luke had not warned her of any dangers at all, but Martha Carr had mentioned snakes, so she kept a watch for them. If a snake bites you you’re as good as dead, Mrs Carr said, but they usually avoid people if they can. Perhaps Luke didn’t want to frighten her.

  ‘What about men like Ned Kelly?’ Rose asked one evening. She’d read about bushrangers before she came to Australia; gangs of outlaws could be anywhere. People on the ship had warned her about them. ‘There’s no police anywhere near Haunted Creek. I suppose our cattle are worth money, it would be easy to gallop off with them.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, woman,’ Luke said shortly. He was drinking beer from a bottle that had been submerged in the creek all day to cool it. ‘The Kelly gang’s hundreds of miles from here, up north. Remember, it’s a big country! And, anyway, they mostly steal from rich folks, not poor cockies like us.’

  ‘Cockies?’

  ‘The folks on the grazing runs call the selectors cockatoos – they arrive in flocks and get in the way. Don’t worry so much, lass.’

  One or two trees were chopped down and Rose helped to clear away the branches, but it was a slow job and by the end of a month she could tell that he was getting restless.

  Luke was unwilling to work long hours. ‘Tradesmen in Melbourne have worked an eight-hour day for years. Why should I kill myself out here?’ he demanded.

  ‘I’ve never heard of an eight-hour day. We worked at least twelve on the farm at home.’ Rose stopped; she had noticed that her voice was getting harder. She must try not to be bitter, try to be loving.

  One Sunday night, Luke started to pack a bag. ‘I’m off down the creek with Jim to look for gold tomorrow. You’ll be all right, won’t you?’

  Rose swallowed. He was so casual! But she was not going to plead with him to stay at home. She was a settler’s wife; she must not seem to be afraid. She would refuse to think about snakes, outlaws, howls and shrieks and she would stare down spiders with big goggling eyes.

  One night they had climbed the hill behind the hut so that Luke could show her the unfamiliar southern stars. ‘The Southern Cross,’ he said, gazing at the bright cluster low in the sky. ‘Shining down on the best place on earth. This is our country now, lass.’ She had heard the growls, the grunts, the rustling all around them that night, but Luke had only mentioned the croaking of bullfrogs. ‘It’s not like Kirkby, Rose, you mustn’t expect it.’

  ‘So I’ve noticed,’ Rose murmured, peering into t
he rustling darkness. Heaven knew what was out there, a few yards from their hut. Now, she would have to face her fears alone. ‘Just one thing, Luke,’ she said, more calmly than she felt. ‘Why is it called the Haunted Creek?’

  There was a slight pause before Luke answered. ‘Surely you don’t believe in ghosts?’ He put a casual arm round her. ‘It’s just a name, that’s all, from the gold mining days. Most of the haunting was done at the All Nations hotel. They say some of the miners couldn’t get enough of the place in the old days, stayed there for weeks at a time.’

  There had to be a better explanation. The roses down at the bottom of the Carrs’ place … perhaps there was a grave there. She’d realized that people were not buried tidily in churchyards here, because there were few churches and not many cemeteries as yet.

  Jim Carlyle arrived with a backpack about seven the next morning. ‘Good day, Mrs Teesdale, I’ve come to take your husband off your hands for a few days. I’m sure you’ll enjoy a bit of peace for a change.’ He was a likeable lad but there was something of the rogue about his crooked smile and Rose wondered whether Luke would be better off without his influence. She gave him a mug of tea while Luke tied a pan to his bundle.

  ‘Where are your horses? Won’t you be riding?’ she asked Jim. Surely it would be easier to travel with horses, the ones that had overtaken the bullock cart on her way to Haunted Creek.

  ‘Well, you see, they’re borrowed from a neighbour when we go to town. We haven’t got ourselves nags as yet,’ Jim said airily as though he could pick up a horse any time he wanted one.

  The men went off and Rose was left alone in the little clearing, listening to the hum of bees in flowering trees high above her head.

  There was very little housework in a bark hut. Perhaps she should try to make some proper bread? That would be challenging without the comfort of a kitchen and a coal oven. Mrs Carr – Martha, as she liked to be called – had given Rose some yeast with instructions for making a loaf in the cast-iron pot. ‘You bury it in the embers of a fire and then it’s an oven, a camp oven,’ she had explained. ‘It bakes the bread very well, if you get the heat just right.’

  It would be a good idea to try the method while Luke was away, in case the first batch was not eatable and it had to be given to the hens. The embers would need to be hot enough to cook but not burn the bread. First she’d lock up Gertrude, in case she interfered with the process.

  The goat watched with interest from her pen as Rose kneaded the dough, working on a board set on a convenient tree stump near the hut. It was a very hot day and the bread rose quickly. In Yorkshire, it had nearly always been slow to rise. Over there, they would be struggling through winter snow. It was hard to imagine that she was in the same world … but she must stop thinking about Yorkshire.

  By noon, the birds had fallen silent and the gum trees seemed to shimmer in the heat. The bread went into the pot and Rose pulled the embers of the dying fire over the camp oven. As she did so, a sudden breeze blew through the trees and sparks flew up from the ashes. They landed on a pile of dry gum leaves and a blaze sprang up immediately. The hens cackled in alarm and Gertrude bleated.

  Rose looked round wildly. With all her worries, she’d never thought to be afraid of fire. She now had a fire on her hands and if it spread to the bush, those oily gum leaves would go up like a torch. Where was the water? She rushed over to the buckets, but they were empty. Fetching water from the creek had been planned as her next job.

  Fanned by the breeze, the fire ran along towards a tree with long ribbons of dry bark hanging down from it. If the flames got into them, the whole tree would burn and the hut would be gone in a few minutes.

  Rose bit her lip and fought down panic. Luke had left a shovel leaning by the door and she snatched it up and began to dig a shallow trench in the dry earth between the fire and the trees, to try to contain it. It was the only thing she could do. Dirt wouldn’t burn, surely? Everything in this place seemed likely to burn. The summer sun had sucked all the moisture out of the earth, the hut, even the people, everything except the grass down by the creek.

  Digging feverishly, she hardly noticed when the wind changed until the blue aromatic smoke came back towards her, making her cough. She could now see little, but the dreadful laughter began again. ‘Don’t sit there laughing, come and help me!’ Rose called to the bird. The fire was gaining ground and she was not going to be able to stop it now.

  Just as the wind seemed to gain strength and the fire rose higher, a figure appeared in the smoke, carrying a basket. ‘Please help me, there’s a rake by the fence,’ Rose called and went on digging.

  The woman nodded and took up the rake. For some minutes the fire seemed to be beating them and Rose despaired of the hut; they would lose what little they had.

  ‘Keep going!’ the woman encouraged her. Gradually they gained ground and, working together, they were able to contain the fire, pushing it back to the open hearth, and then beat out the flames. A few wisps of smoke still rose up from the ash, but the fire was ringed with bare earth. It was safe.

  Gasping, Rose sat down suddenly on the bench beside the door as her legs gave way. ‘Thank you. I was in real trouble until you came.’

  The woman smiled. She wore a plain cotton dress and bonnet and was browned by the sun. ‘I am so glad I was here at the right time. I’ve been picking blackberries … You must be Luke’s new wife. I’m Freda Jensen. I teach at the Wattle Tree school up on the ridge yonder. It was built last year.’

  ‘Yes, I’m Rose Teesdale.’ The name was still unfamiliar. Rose mopped her brow; the heat was intense. They sat quiet for a while and a bird flew down onto a stump, evidently looking for insects in the newly turned earth. It looked like a kingfisher. Then Rose moved slightly and the bird flew up into a tree, making the unearthly laughing sound she had come to hate.

  ‘That was the bird, Mrs Jensen!’ Rose laughed herself. Those dreadful sounds came from this bird.

  ‘The kookaburra – it’s called the laughing jackass. He always seems to turn up when you make a mistake.’ The older woman went over to the fire site and hooked off the cooking pot with a forked stick. ‘I’m afraid your cooking is ruined, Rose. What was it?’ There was a blackened lump in the pot.

  The relief was enormous. Rose realized that if the fire had got away it could have burned miles of bush, right up to the Wattle Tree settlement. She would clear a wider space round the site of the cooking fire and she would be much more careful in future.

  The women looked at each other, both covered in grime from the fire. ‘I’ll go down to get some water …’ Rose began, but Mrs Jensen stopped her.

  ‘No, come home with me and we’ll have a cup of tea with Erik. It’s not far to walk. You can wash your face at our house. And please call me Freda. There’s not so much call for formality in the bush.’ The teacher certainly had a determined way with her. She picked up her basket.

  Rose was still shaky and in no condition to argue and so, with a backward look at the smoking embers, she walked with Freda up the steep track to Wattle Tree. Her right hand was painful and, looking at it, she realized that it had been burned at some time while she was fighting the fire.

  The sound of hammering grew louder as they approached a new wooden house at the side of the track. Freda led the way round the house, which was built of rough sawn timber. ‘Erik is building a veranda … it’s almost finished.’ She waved to the workman but went on inside and showed Rose to a small bathroom with a wash-stand, basin and ewer, soap and towels – how civilized! ‘There’s water in the jug. Wash while I put the kettle on.’

  The bathroom mirror was much better than the cracked one at home and Rose saw that her face was browned by the sun and her dark eyes had a haunted look. She smoothed down her hair, which was singed at the front.

  Feeling cleaner but still shaky, Rose joined her hostess in the big kitchen. Freda had also washed and put on a clean apron. As she poured the tea, a large figure appeared. ‘Erik, come and meet Mr
s Teesdale – Rose. This is my son, Erik with a “K”, named after his father.’

  Erik Jensen. So this was Luke’s ‘big bore’, this blond, suntanned giant with blue eyes that made her knees turn to jelly. It must be the effects of the fire, I’ll recover soon. Whatever had come over her? This was like no feeling she had ever experienced, this sudden strong attraction; terrifying, in fact. She leaned against the table for support.

  The big man reached out a huge hand. ‘Welcome, Mrs Teesdale.’ He looked at her intently. Erik took her hand and then he felt her wince so he held it, turning it over very gently in his. ‘A burn, eh? We’d better do something about that. What do you normally use to treat burns?’

  Her hand was certainly burning in his. It was his touch that affected her; the pain of the hand was nothing. Concentrate, lass, stay practical. ‘We always used lavender oil …’ Rose stopped, almost blinded by the look of concern in his eyes.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Freda put down the teapot and looked at the burn. ‘Tea leaves, I think. Sit down, my dear.’ She put a spoonful of cold wet tea leaves on a piece of cloth and tied it round Rose’s hand. ‘Now, hot sweet tea. You’ve had a difficult morning.’

  That was putting it mildly. Rose had nearly burned the parish down and now she was nearly swooning like a heroine in a romantic novel, just because of a neighbouring farmer’s blue eyes. Ridiculous, she told herself.

  It was past the middle of the day, time to eat, but Rose did not feel hungry.

  Freda cut slices of new bread, buttered it and added hunks of cheese, talking as she worked, telling Erik about the fire. Rose quietly drank her tea, waiting for the churning feeling to subside. Erik had fair hair bleached almost white by the sun, blue eyes and a very determined chin with a dimple in it. He looked like a sunburned Viking. ‘You did well not to panic, Mrs Teesdale,’ he said quietly, and his mother nodded.