Absolution Creek

by Nicole Alexander

  ‘Young idiot!’ one of the crew yelled at Jack.

  Pushing his way through those passengers eager to disembark, Jack reached the huddle of survivors who were doing their best to get away from the six bodies lying on the boards nearby.

  ‘Father? Have you seen my father, Nicholas Manning?’

  ‘Like we know every person that travels to and from Circular Quay,’ a man with a deep gash on his forehead replied. His companions stared blankly.

  With a sinking heart Jack turned from the group.

  ‘Over there, lad.’ An older man pointed. ‘They fished a man from the water; he saved me, he did.’

  His father was propped against the wheel of a dray, his face bloodless, his suit coat and shoes missing.

  ‘Father?’ Jack squatted by his side and clasped a wet shoulder.

  ‘Jack, lad, I knew you’d come.’ His father partially opened his eyes. The punt rocked precariously as passengers began to disembark and another ferry moored alongside them.

  ‘I’m here.’ Jack removed his coat, wrapping it about his father. ‘We’ve got to get you home.’

  ‘Never forget the consolation of the Blessed Virgin, my boy. No matter what may happen, stay on the path of righteousness.’

  ‘Don’t speak, Father.’

  Nicholas Manning grasped his son’s shoulder weakly as Jack gathered him up in his arms.

  ‘Make way,’ Jack called, pushing through the crowds. ‘Make way.’ The punt shifted on the water’s surface as he carried his father to the safety of the wharf. People milled about them. A queue of walking wounded waited for an ambulance as police constables arrived. People were staring and pointing. Jack strode past waiting horses, noticing a dray plodding slowly uphill. Mustering his strength he yelled to the driver, ‘Help me, please, my father’s been injured. Please, I only need to go to Miller Street.’

  The driver drew hard on the reins and turned in Jack’s direction. Jack stood in the rain, his father bundled in his arms. ‘Please, help me.’

  The driver gave a curt nod. ‘Slide him in the back there, lad. We’ll see him home.’

  Chapter 3

  North Sydney, 1923

  The morning after his father’s accident, Jack woke still dressed. His teeth chattered as his chilled feet landed on timber boards. Pulling on an overcoat, socks and shoes, he looked through droplets of rain speckling the gauze of the sleep-out. Between the gaps in the paling fence he could see a hen scratching in the laneway. A movement caught his eye. Mr Farley was relieving himself over his wife’s cabbages in their shared vegetable plot, turning from left to right in a precise effort at complete coverage.

  ‘Right you are, Jack.’ He waved, buttoning his fly and glancing to where he’d just urinated. ‘Hate cabbage,’ he admitted, brushing his hands together as if he’d completed a major task, ‘and beans.’ He gave Jack what suspiciously looked like a wink. ‘I’m a potato man myself. How’s your father?’

  Jack wiped his face roughly. ‘Not good when I left him in the early hours.’

  ‘Hmm. Sorry to hear it,’ he said, retreating indoors.

  Jack was left alone with the bitter morning wind and light rainfall. The door was squeaking on the outside toilet, somewhere a baby yelped for attention and the guttering gurgled noisily as rainwater washed from the roof. The morning was the same as any other, yet Jack’s life was changing and he was sick to the stomach at the thought of the altered circumstances he found himself in. An image of his father came to him. Jack dreaded returning upstairs. To enter his father’s bedroom was to be faced with both his own mortality and the potential loss of a man who represented hearth and home. It was difficult enough last night. For five hours he had sat by his father’s side before being relieved by Thomas, then at midnight, having sent Thomas to bed, Jack returned to his father’s side. The waxy light from a single candle showed a man hollowed out by his exertions in the freezing waters of the harbour. Yet there was still a slim chance Nicholas Manning would pull through. Hadn’t they fished him out of a watery grave alive? And hadn’t his father managed a few strained minutes of conversation in the twilight hours?

  Jack had fetched another blanket and tucked his father in warmly. Above the bed a wooden crucifix hung silently, while outside the rain battered the window. He hadn’t liked the look of the night; it was as if the darkness clamoured for entry. He drew the curtains closed with a sharp tug before picking up his father’s Bible and laying the book between his hands.

  ‘Thanks, Jack.’ The voice was croaky. A bent thumb rubbed the worn gold cross on the cover. ‘This was my father’s and his father’s before him. It has given three generations solace. When I am gone it will be yours.’

  ‘Father, please don’t talk so, all you need is rest.’ Jack puffed the pillows behind his father’s head.

  ‘Rest is for the old and infirm, Jack. I know I’ll not make old bones and I’m content with the Lord’s doing. Very soon I’ll meet with the Almighty and the petty worries of this world will mean nothing.’

  Streaky lightning barrelled across the sky, illuminating the curtains. Jack sat on the edge of the bed and patted his father’s hand. ‘Don’t talk like that, Father. Haven’t you always told us not to entice such thoughts?’

  Nicholas ignored him. ‘You don’t want the responsibility an elder son must shoulder. Unfortunately, my boy, duty is a man’s lot if he’s to prove his place in the world.’

  ‘But –’

  Nicholas waved his hand weakly. ‘No, my lad, my deathbed is sacrosanct. It’s for old men to talk and the young to listen. It’s always been such. Sadly, all too soon you’ll get your turn and then you’ll wonder what all the hurry was about.’

  ‘Rest, Father, please,’ Jack pleaded. The doctor had warned of exhaustion.

  ‘You must care for your brother and sister,’ Nicholas instructed haltingly. ‘For if you fail in your family obligation the saints will look with disfavour upon you. Live a good life, Jack. Be happy, for both your mother’s and my sakes. It’s important that each generation improves upon the last.’ His grip tightened. ‘Follow in the path of the Church and you’ll always be saved.’ Jack’s hand was pressed between his father’s and the Bible. ‘Promise me?’

  Jack hurriedly agreed. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Then I can find the place God has made for me, knowing my family will be together.’

  When Jack left the room the weight of accountability had chased him downstairs.

  Now, in the cold light of day, Jack considered the words of commitment begrudgingly given.

  A heart-wrenching wail echoed through the house and out into the vegetable garden. He sprinted toward the noise. He could hear footsteps just ahead of him on the staircase and at the bedroom door he collided with Thomas. May was collapsed over their father, her muffled sobbing shaking the bedframe.

  ‘Thomas?’ Jack touched his brother’s arm. A single glance confirmed the worst. Jack gently pulled May aside, prising her fingers from their father’s grip. ‘Thomas will take you downstairs, May.’ Jack nodded to his brother. ‘Come.’ He walked May to Thomas. ‘Go on, Thomas,’ he coaxed. ‘I’ll be down soon.’

  May’s sobbing grew worse.

  ‘He should be laid out,’ Thomas stated. ‘It’s what mother would want.’

  When the bedroom was empty Jack retrieved the Bible from the floor where it had fallen, placing it on the bedside table. He brushed grey-streaked hair from his father’s brow and then gently closed his staring eyes. His throat constricted with emotion and Jack thought for a second how he too would like to collapse over his father’s body. Instead he took a steadying breath and fished in his coat pocket for two pennies, which he laid on each of his father’s eyes. Jack’s chest felt tight and he fought to regain a semblance of composure. He looked up at the wooden cross; Jesus glared down at him. Jack crossed himself, twice for good measure, and backed out of the room.

  A week after their father’s burial at Gore Hill Cemetery, Mr Farley called Jack into his terrace
. They stood in a replica of the Manning hallway, except Mr Farley’s lodgings were well maintained, carpeted and sweet smelling. ‘Dried lavender,’ Mr Farley announced as he led Jack up creaking stairs to a study. Accepting a seat in a swivel chair opposite a leather tooled desk, Jack glanced at the writing paper, books and ceiling-high bookcase that filled a whole wall. A large globe of the world, mounted on a brass stand, sat within arm’s reach of Mr Farley.

  ‘My grandfather’s,’ the old man explained, giving the globe a spin. ‘Of course everything pink belongs to the Empire.’

  ‘Of course,’ Jack agreed. Although Jack had only had a few years of schooling at a technological college, with an emphasis on preparing the lower classes for a trade, it had still been deemed necessary for all colonials to know the history of Great Britain.

  Mr Farley interlaced his fingers. ‘Such power – and all of it achieved through tenacity and sheer strength.’

  ‘I suppose.’ Jack played with the brim of his cap.

  ‘Never suppose, Jack. Be of strong conviction and stout heart and you can achieve anything.’

  Jack straightened his shoulders. He wasn’t of a mind to start receiving lectures.

  Mr Farley’s placid countenance gave way to an uncharacteristic frown. ‘I’m well aware that you’ve no interest in the family business, and with the way things are . . .’ He extended his palms upwards. ‘I’ve brought you here to ask you what your plans are, Jack.’

  ‘Get out of the city, I suppose. I just don’t see much on offer for the likes of me. Except that now I have Thomas and May to consider.’

  ‘Hmm . . . well, I have an offer to make to you. When I injured my back you didn’t hesitate to give me a helping hand, so now you’re leaving I’d like to repay the favour.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Jack hadn’t actually said he was leaving.

  Mr Farley slid an envelope across the expanse of desk. ‘Open it.’

  Inside was a substantial bundle of pound notes. Jack hesitated as he handled the money.

  ‘You’ll find you’ve been well compensated for your efforts on my behalf.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Don’t say but, Jack, say thank you.’

  ‘But, Mr Farley.’

  ‘I always pay my debts. Go out and conquer the world, Jack. And if you’re thinking about places to conquer you may consider heading north if you’ve got the stamina.’

  Jack’s gaze flicked from the money to Mr Farley. ‘North? North to where?’

  ‘Why, north to the bush, of course, the outback. There’s nothing to keep you here now.’ Mr Farley pushed his reading spectacles higher on the bridge of his nose and selected a book from a dusty shelf. The page he opened showed a map of New South Wales and his long forefinger marked a line from Sydney across the page in a north-westerly direction. ‘What do you think?’

  Jack leant over the map; looked at the distance covered. ‘That’s a long way.’

  ‘Eight hundred mile in fact.’

  ‘Eight hundred . . .’ Jack found it difficult to comprehend the distance. ‘What’s there?’

  Mr Farley formed a pyramid with his fingers. ‘Land, Jack. Land as far as the eye can see. Great swathes of dirt.’

  ‘Dirt?’ Jack studied the atlas. He may as well have been looking at a map of the moon.

  ‘Dirt for growing things: sheep for wool, cattle for beef. Wheat for flour too. Maybe even decent vegetables.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘Interested?’

  Jack looked at the map again, at the series of squiggly lines and barely marked tracks; at the mountains and rivers that lay between this life and a brand new one.

  ‘I have these, you see.’ Mr Farley slid two pieces of paper across the desk. ‘They’re title deeds to land in north-western New South Wales. Initially I’d decided on selling them, until I saw this.’ He retrieved a shilling coin from his pocket and rolled it across the desk.

  Jack stopped the coin’s progress with a slap of his palm.

  ‘It’s freshly minted. See the ram’s head?’

  Jack flipped the coin over.

  ‘That –’ Mr Farley tapped the desk ‘– is Waverly No. 4. The finest stud ram in Australia, probably the world.’ He formed a pyramid with his fingers again. ‘Imagine an animal held in such esteem that he ends up stamped on a coin. Anyway, it got me to thinking about the opportunities there are in this country, Jack. What a man could do if he were young again, eh? Well, I don’t expect you to understand – you have youth on your side. But I have land and you have youth, so why not?’

  ‘Why not what?’ Jack repeated, studying the coin.

  ‘I’d like to send you out there; see if you can make a go of it. You’ve money enough there to provision yourself, and I’ll transfer more funds to the local stock and station agency when you’re ready to buy livestock. I believe sheep are best suited to that country. Fortuitous, don’t you think?’

  Jack looked at the date on the deeds.

  ‘Soldier settler blocks, Jack. Land resumed from the hoarding squattocracy of last century. It’s our turn now. How’d you like to be one of the landed gentry?’

  ‘But it’s yours.’

  ‘Look at me. I’m too old for such adventures, but you, my lad, have the opportunity to make a fortune for both of us. If you’re willing enough you’ll succeed. You’ll be my caretaker and manager. I’ll expect two payments a year amounting to twenty-five percent of the turnover. Your brother and sister can go with you if you like.’

  Jack wondered if the Mannings had ever really known their neighbour. ‘And if I make nothing?’

  ‘I don’t invest for nothing.’ Mr Farley leant forward, the cuffs of his white shirt grubby about the edges. ‘However, I don’t want anything the first year. We’ll call that the establishment period. I’ll expect detailed accounts to be kept of your daily activities. If you default on one payment, well then –’ Mr Farley drew a line in the air ‘– our contract ends. There’s no point in it if there’s no money.’ Satisfied with his explanation he removed his spectacles. ‘What do you say?’

  Jack hesitated. ‘I know nothing about the country.’

  ‘Neither did that Kidman fellow or the Wangallon Gordons. If a Scotsman can build an empire, you can, my boy. Anyone can learn. Here.’ Mr Farley selected a number of texts from the bookcase. ‘These are all on animal husbandry – sheep to be exact. That’s what you’ll be growing, lad, and you’ll be growing them for me.’

  Jack stared at the map, wondering at the possibilities of such a scheme. Imagine, he thought, Jack Manning: landed gentry. It meant more than a steady job. It meant a life, with Olive. ‘I’d need money for a dray.’

  Mr Farley smiled. ‘Sign here.’

  The typed letter had the address of a Pitt Street law office printed in one corner and there were two pages’ worth of numbered points. ‘I’ve never signed anything like this before. What does it say?’

  ‘It simply formalises our agreement, Jack. You pay me twenty-five percent in two payments per annum. I’ll give you a copy to take with you when you leave.’

  Jack thought briefly of Thomas and May, of his father’s words and the family Bible that seemed to seal his fate. If he did this one thing, Jack decided, he would obey the Church’s teachings forever after. He glanced briefly about Mr Farley’s study and, seeing no evidence of religious persuasion, he wrote his name neatly on the line indicated. Mr Farley shook his hand.

  ‘Welcome to your new life, Jack. Welcome to Absolution Creek.’

  Jack was fit to bursting on leaving Mr Farley’s house. With his stash of pound notes safely inside his shoe and a letter of employment with a copy of the deeds tucked inside his breast pocket, he entered the kitchen intent on gorging himself on sausages, eggs and bacon. Today they could afford it.

  Thomas was sitting opposite the wood stove, his feet perched on the warm cast-iron door. He was morose as usual. In spite of May’s sorrow at their father’s passing it was Thomas who now visibly suffered, although May still cried herself to sleep e
very night. At the sight of their expectant faces, Jack felt awkward. Then annoyance set in. Finally, a door was opening towards a new life and he was saddled with two young siblings and restrained by promises of obligation.

  May poured tea and took her place at the end of the table like a dutiful housewife. Jack considered the two and recalled Mr Farley saying they were free to accompany him. Rolling a cigarette, he picked stray bits of tobacco from his tongue. Outside, the rumbling of jackhammers echoed through their once peaceful suburb.

  ‘Mr Farley’s offered me employment north of here.’ Jack thought of what his mother would say; what his father expected. It was stuffy in the kitchen.

  Thomas dragged his chair from the fire to the table. May paled. ‘Are you going?’

  This was his chance. He flicked ash from the cigarette into a dish of sand. ‘There’s nothing to stay for here.’

  Timber boards creaked in complaint as May stopped her bustling.

  ‘Is . . . Is there a place for us?’ Her voice quavered.

  Thomas reached for her hand.

  ‘It’s a long way from here. Near eight hundred mile, a sheep property.’ Jack looked at his younger brother, a softer version of their beloved father. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to pack up on a whim, especially when it’s a trial basis.’

  May wrung the end of the tea towel. ‘You don’t know anything about sheep,’ she challenged. ‘Besides, Jack, with Father’s passing we should stay together.’

  Thomas rolled a cigarette of his own. ‘What about the store? Our home?’

  ‘Things change, Thomas. I’ve never been interested in it, you know that. You’ve got a job, May, and you’ll find something, Thomas, if you decide not to stay in groceries. I need to do my own thing, just me and Olive.’ There, it was said. Jack looked at the stove top. He was hungry.