by Ann Cliff
Erik felt anger rising, threatening to choke him. Luke had never deserved a girl like Rose; he’d let her down all along the way. ‘What did the young fool do? He should’ve taken better care of himself … leaving a wife and baby. Irresponsible to the last, obviously.’
‘Now, Erik, don’t speak ill of the dead. Luke was killed by a falling tree. It could happen to anyone. He’d made provision for Rose – the land is hers and there’s valuables in safekeeping …’ Freda looked at him uneasily. ‘My dear, has your accident affected you? You seem a little – angry.’
‘Of course not, Mother,’ her son said crossly and saw her wry smile. Was it a normal reaction? Poor Rose! She would remember the youth’s perfections but not his faults, of course. People often did that when someone died. She’d always been very loyal to Luke and now she’d be devoted to his memory.
In spite of his first reaction to Luke’s death, over the next few days Erik began to feel a spark of optimism, growing from a tiny seed. Of course Rose would be grieving for Luke. He would leave her alone, give her time to get over him. But … in time, his memory was bound to fade. She would be free and he would wait for her, years if necessary. He remembered that night of the dogs, the way they had clung together. It had been a reaction to the fear and horror, but there was more to it than that.
Erik made up his mind. He would work hard on the farm, increase production, build another house – the very thought of marriage to Rose gave him energy. He would exercise the lame leg and make a complete recovery.
‘Will you cut my hair, Mother?’ Erik asked that night when school was over. He needed to get back to normal, to overcome the lethargy of the past few weeks.
Rose had given up the sewing class and so Erik didn’t see her for some weeks. One Sunday the vicar came to Wattle Tree for a service and as the congregation filed in, Erik was shocked. The new widow was thinner than before and looked smaller, all in stark black without so much as a white collar. Her face was strained, she was nothing like the glowing girl of his memory, but she greeted him with a ghost of the old smile. Mourning black was the convention, of course, but wasn’t it a little bit theatrical? She seemed to be emphasizing her loss.
Erik took her hand gently after the service. ‘Rose, I was so sorry to hear your news.’ Thank goodness, the baby looked well and had grown. The baby would keep her going; with Ada becoming more mobile, Rose would have little time for grieving.
‘Thank you, Erik. I’m glad you’re back, your mother was worried. Yes, losing Luke is hard to bear.’ She was pale and composed, but there was a slight tremor in the low voice and Erik had to bend down to hear her. ‘I feel worse because I could have done more to help Luke. It’s too late now.’
Oh Lord, she’s feeling remorse. That makes it much harder. Erik sighed.
Rose looked up at Erik and he felt a surge of the old feeling; this woman affected him as no other had ever done. He loved her as she was, wrapped in mourning; he would love her when she was old and grey. This was the woman he’d called for when he was unconscious, giving himself away. There was no hope for him with anyone else. ‘Dear Rose,’ he said quietly. ‘Live for today, not for yesterday.’
At that moment Freda came up and invited Rose to lunch. There was never another chance for Erik to get a private word with her and his mother walked with her back to the hut, the little black figure looking pathetic with the baby on her back. He knew that it was going to be a long, long wait.
‘Can’t you persuade Rose that she did everything she could for Luke?’ Erik demanded that night as he brought in wood for the fire. ‘Heaven knows, his shortcomings were not her fault.’ He’d been turning it over in his mind since she went home.
‘How can anyone outside a marriage know how it worked – or it didn’t? I can’t interfere in Rose’s private life.’ Freda put a piece of wood on the fire. ‘When will you see Miss Sinclair again? Perhaps if she visits here a few times, she’ll get used to the bush.’
Erik sighed. He hadn’t yet told Freda that Miss Sinclair was married. ‘I’ll go and feed the dogs.’
It might be better if Rose didn’t know what Luke had been up to, even if it could have helped her to get over his death more quickly. It would be cruel to tell her; he would just have to wait.
Winter was mild that year, a damp season. Rose borrowed some books from Freda and once the baby was asleep, she read every night. It was a strange feeling to read about Charles Dickens’ London in the depths of Gippsland. The hut was quite cosy with a warm glow from the iron stove that Luke had fitted; there were far worse places to live. In the intervals of reading she gazed into the fire, wondering what to do with the land.
Her first plan was to increase the poultry flock again. Poultry were easy for a woman to manage. She bought some ducklings to rear after the butcher at Haunted Creek told her his customers would buy ducks, and a few geese for Christmas. During the summer the hens had hatched out more chickens and they would come into lay next year.
The cattle were another matter. They were big and needed stout fences. Rose liked cattle, but reluctantly she decided to sell them. Bert undertook to sell them for her and she made a profit. They were females and the farmer who bought them wanted them for his breeding herd. That had been Luke’s plan – to breed beef cattle.
The sale of the cattle left a lot of land producing nothing except tall gum trees. It was pleasant open woodland and she loved it, but the land had to be improved by order of the government and it also had to earn her some money. Erik would know what to do, but she had to keep her distance from Erik. It was part of her loyalty to Luke’s memory.
Over the winter, Rose was given some empty kerosene tanks by a miner who was leaving the area. Maeve had arranged it, of course. Scrubbed out, they were set to collect rainwater. It saved time bringing water from the creek and would help to keep the garden alive in the summer.
Rose had been surprised at how often her garden needed watering. Even when the rainfall was good, the warmth of the sun dried the ground up quickly. She was getting used to the Haunted Creek conditions; someone had told her that the Victorian climate was like that of Italy and she knew it was a lot warmer than chilly Yorkshire.
The egg money was spent as fast as it was earned, but it was being put back into the farm. It cost Rose very little to live, although she was often tired of goat’s milk cheese.
One spring day Rose took Ada to visit the Carrs up on the ridge. She felt guilty of neglecting them when she saw how pleased Martha was to see her. After Luke died Martha had called to see her several times, but Rose had never made the effort herself. She felt that she was not fit company for anyone, pale and sad as she was, but now she realized that it was a selfish notion. Going to see Martha might be good for both of them.
They sat in Martha’s new kitchen and admired her splendid kitchen stove; she didn’t need a camp oven any more. Bert was at home that day and over a lunch of soup and bread, he talked about the demand for fresh food. Folks were sick of living on damper and pickled beef, he said. Looking at him, Rose had an idea. ‘You’re a vegetable man?’ she said.
Bert looked surprised. ‘So I’ve always believed,’ he said drily.
‘I have some land that’s not being used. Would you – would you like to grow some onions or potatoes on my land? We could come to an arrangement and I could weed them for you.’ Rose blushed a little; it seemed rather forward. She pulled her black shawl closer to her chest.
Martha nodded in approval. ‘But you could grow your own crops, Rose. It’s not that we don’t want to help, but you’ve your own living to make. Bert could tell you how to go on and give you the seed.’
Bert held out his mug for another cup of tea. ‘She could, but turning the soil’s far quicker with my team than with a fork.’ He grinned. ‘You’ve got your eye on my grand plough, eh, young woman?’ He ploughed with six bullocks yoked to a large three-furrow plough; Rose and Luke had watched him one day and admired his skill.
‘Well, that is a
consideration,’ said Rose, who had not thought that far. ‘But I know you need to grow crops on a different patch of land every year, rotate them, and that would be easier if you had my land as well. We only grew a small patch of potatoes for ourselves … of course, we did grow onions.’ We should have done more, she thought, I should have encouraged Luke. It was a constant buzzing in her head. By the time Rose left for home they had a rough plan of action. The available ground between the trees would be divided into sections and the vegetable crops would be rotated round them.
‘It’ll be easier when it’s cleared, of course,’ Bert told her.
The land needed fertilizer and it was time to buy some more sheep to provide it. There had been fewer wild dogs of late and the farmers shot them on sight, so it was worth trying again. ‘We’ll be proper farmers, Ada,’ Rose told the child, who tried to agree. Ada would soon be talking.
To learn what she could, Rose helped Martha with the weeding at the Carrs’ farm, now called Carrs’ Hill, in the weeks that followed. ‘There’s a lot of weeds we didn’t expect, English weeds coming in,’ Martha told her. ‘Bert says they come in the bags of seed. But I reckon some blow in from Wattle Tree. They’ve been working the land there for years and they’ve got thistles, all sorts.’
On her knees working among the onions, Rose suddenly let out a cry of delight. ‘I can use these! I’ve been missing them!’ The weeds Martha hated had been useful herbs to Rose’s grandmother. There was dandelion, self heal, plaintain, nettle … and at the side of the track she found yarrow. Martha was not convinced, so Rose promised to make up some remedies if the weeds were allowed to grow in one corner.
At over a year old, Ada was making good progress. She walked rather unsteadily round the clearing and she was almost too big to be carried on Rose’s back. A donkey was the answer, Rose decided; a donkey would carry Ada and also it could be used to deliver vegetables. She had seen donkeys over the fence at Ben Sawley’s farm near the Wattle Tree school. He might sell her one.
Mr Sawley turned out to be a donkey enthusiast. Ten or eleven animals were grazing in a small paddock and when he called, they all came running over to him. Surrounded by gentle donkey faces and long ears, Rose held up Ada to stroke their soft necks. ‘Treat them right, missus, and they’ll carry aaanything,’ he drawled. Mr Sawley spoke very slowly and it took a long time, but in the end Rose knew quite a lot about donkey care. ‘If you take one and don’t treat it right, I’ll be aaafter you,’ he threatened. ‘There’s a laaat of folks have no i-dea.’
The farmer had a brick-red complexion and sparse fair hair; he was middle-aged, a careful man with a tidy farm. He thought that Rose’s vegetable venture was a good idea. ‘They’ve found more gooold down in the diggings … mooore folks’ll be up here sooon,’ he told her.
Rose went home with a young male donkey called Dougal, leading him on a borrowed halter. Ada sat on his back and so their progress was slow, especially as Dougal stopped to browse on tasty bushes at the side of the track. He might get on well with the goat for company, but Mr Sawley said it depended on whether they took to each other. Dougal would need shelter from extremes of weather, so it would be good if Gertrude allowed him to share her shed.
A few weeks later, Ada said her first clear word: ‘Dougal!’ The two were friends, very gentle with each other. Gertrude the goat had not yet made up her mind about admitting a donkey into her life. They stood in adjacent pens, getting to know each other gradually and Rose let them out in turn. Being bowled over by Gertrude would not be a good start for the newcomer.
By early summer there were potatoes, cabbages and spring onions ready to sell and Rose had bought panniers to strap across the donkey’s back. Mr Sawley had told her what sort were the most comfortable; they were made of light wicker work. With Ada perched on top of the load they made their stately way down the Haunted Creek track to the store.
‘Well, isn’t this grand! And the baby riding on top! My, Mrs Teesdale, you’ll do well with your veggies now.’ Mrs Thorpe gave Ada a biscuit. The storekeeper and his wife looked at her with sympathy and didn’t haggle over her price, although Rose herself thought the price Bert had suggested was high. But business was good, more folks were coming to the Tangil goldfield and so more vegetables and eggs were needed.
‘Will the ducks be ready soon?’ Mr Thorpe asked as they left.
‘It depends whether you want duckling, or older ducks,’ Rose called back over her shoulder.
On the way back they called at the All Nations with the last of the eggs and Maeve came out to see the donkey. Wiping away a tear, she said it reminded her of bringing home the peat as a child in Ireland. ‘I can just smell the peat smoke and feel the soft rain,’ she said, stroking Dougal’s nose. ‘And you in the black shawl now, that’s pure Donegal. Did you not have an Irish granny?’
Rose smiled. She’d seen pictures of poor Irish folk with their donkeys and only now did she realize that she looked just like them. Perhaps that was why the storekeeper had treated her so well. He may have had an Irish granny.
Rose sat down on a bench outside the pub and looked around warily for eucy men, but there was no one else about. Maeve brought out coffee; Ada was given a drink of milk and said ‘tank you’ which impressed Maeve very much. ‘I can see the plan’s going well and good luck to you, Rose.’ She smiled. ‘You’re surviving without the husband, God rest his soul. I was always thinking you would.’
‘Just. All the money I earn has been needed to set up,’ Rose confessed. She had not gone back to the sewing class. Their diet was very plain, mainly eggs and goat’s milk cheese with vegetables and bread. The new potatoes were a great treat, but Rose wanted to sell most of them.
Martha and Bert sometimes killed a pig and gave Rose some meat and once or twice, Charlie brought rabbits for her. Jim Carlyle walked over to visit Rose from time to time after his work was done and he offered to cut firewood for her, but there was plenty of dead wood lying under the trees, so she was able to maintain a wood pile near the hut.
Rose had never before seen trees that dropped their branches so often and she was careful not to walk under them in a high wind. You never knew what was coming down next. For weeks she practised with axe and splitter and was then able to manage the bigger branches. As Martha told her, it was a knack, not just brute strength. Martha was a good wood chopper and she told Rose that most settler women were. ‘You need wood all the year for cooking and of course you can’t rely on the men to fetch it in,’ she said. ‘Their work’s more important. But they’d soon notice if they didn’t get fed.’
Jim didn’t call often, and when he did his attitude was respectful and rather formal. Perhaps the black dress made her look like a nun. Rose didn’t invite him inside, but sat with him on the veranda or by the cooking fire outside. He told her on one of his visits he had nearly finished building his house, a grand affair with three bedrooms and a corrugated iron roof to catch the rainwater. He looked across at Rose’s hut and added, ‘My house will be good but I feel guilty, you know. I shouldn’t have taken Luke off to Noojee like that, and you with this hut and a small baby.’
‘Don’t blame yourself,’ Rose told him gently. ‘Luke loved to be off. If you hadn’t been there he’d still have gone with Tom Appleyard. He was doing what he loved to do, that’s a bit of consolation.’ Although at first she’d thought that Jim was a bad influence, she had since decided that Luke’s friend was the steadier of the two.
One evening they’d been talking for a while and Jim said, ‘Did you ever think of getting wed again, Rose?’
Rose shook her head, but didn’t explain. Her guilt and sadness were receding, but she felt bound to Luke still. ‘I was going to ask the same of you, Jim. Have you found a good young woman yet?’
‘Well, Ben Sawley has a daughter, Ellen … do you know her? Nice girl, she’s a teacher in Warragul so she don’t come up here much.’ He gave her his cheeky lopsided grin and added, ‘But I wanted to find out whether you’re … er, well,
whether you would be likely to consider matrimony … some time in the future, maybe … before I made a move. Didn’t want to upset you, before. But it’s a year ago now, since we lost Luke.’
Rose was shocked. Real love didn’t work like that, she knew it now. Real love meant one person only, no second choices. ‘Now, Jim, you’re trying to cheer me up again, talking nonsense. I met Ellen once – she’s just the type for you. Invite me to the wedding!’
There was another surprise; Jim’s face cleared and he said, ‘Well, I’m glad that’s settled, then. You see, Rose, I thought maybe you expected me to … well, offer for you, after we’ve been friends and all. Luke would’ve expected me to look after you, a woman on your own. And … I’ve tried to help, but you’re very independent. There’s nothing I can do, it seems.’
Rose smiled at him. ‘You’re a kind lad, Jim. But to think of marrying me out of kindness! That’s daft. Bring your Ellen here to see me when you can – and forget all about any duty to me. I’m doing very well.’ The hut didn’t matter any more, she welcomed visitors. Was she getting used to living in poverty? Maybe it was just that people were more important than possessions. She should have known that when she first joined Luke.
They had a cup of tea and as Jim was leaving he said, ‘It wouldn’t be too much hardship for a man to wed you, Rose. You’re still a bonny young woman.’ He kissed her quickly on the cheek before she could move away, and was off.
SEVENTEEN
‘WE’RE WATCHING OUT for you, these days. When we see the donkey coming we know the eggs and stuff are on the way – and we need them. But where’s the bairn?’ Emily Watson was new to the district, very friendly and determined to succeed. She and Sam had put all their savings into their new retail business. ‘WATTLE TREE GENERAL STORE PROP S WATSON’, a large sign in fresh paint, advertised the shop to all passers-by.