‘Horse!’ Cora reprimanded. Twice Horse’s abrupt manoeuvre jolted her forwards. Cora pushed her knees tight against his flanks and gave the reins a tug. There was already an ache in her leg, although for the moment it was more chill than pain.
‘Must be the cool morning,’ Harold commented, walking his roan mare towards her. His Kelpie, Sue, was bringing up the rear as usual with an I may or may not work today attitude.
Cora sniffed. She’d never been one for sundowners – dogs that only came to life at dusk.
Harold drew abreast, cleared his throat and spat over his shoulder. ‘My nephew’s coming out again in a few weeks.’
‘Didn’t take to his apprenticeship then?’ Cora asked, surprised the boy’s father had even suggested a cadetship at a newspaper. What teenager wanted to interview stallholders at a Sunday afternoon market?
Harold hesitated. ‘Hated it.’
Ahead the mob of sheep threw up a curtain of dust. ‘You’re not surprised?’ The firm set of Harold’s jaw suggested something was amiss.
‘I suppose not.’ Selecting a pre-rolled cigarette from his hat-band, Harold lit up with a silver lighter. It had been a gift from Ellen on their wedding day – a perfect present for a bush man who rolled thirty cigarettes before breakfast, slipping them through his hat-band for easy access.
Cora tapped Horse lightly on his flanks and closed the distance between the mob. Overhead, swallows were flying directly towards the wool shed, readying to clog the eaves with their nests and splatter everything with their droppings. Harold was still riding beside her, which meant the conversation had some way to go. She mumbled under her breath about not having children and still being subjected to everyone else’s problems with their offspring, and waited for the next instalment. Kendal White was the youngest of three children belonging to Harold’s sister and had spent half his school holidays, and a bit of time in between, at Absolution. When the teachers decided that a period of suspension would be beneficial to both parties, he was packed off to his uncle.
‘Another scrape?’ It seemed to Cora that Kendal never initiated any problems at his fancy school in Brisbane yet was always in the thick of things at the end. ‘He should be sent out to the Territory for a year or so. A bit of time jackerooing on one of those big stations wouldn’t hurt him,’ Cora suggested. It wasn’t the first time.
‘His mother won’t have it.’ Harold ruffled his horse’s hair between the ears.
‘What about a fitter or turner? Or a boilermaker?’ She pulled on Horse’s reins, steadying him so that Tripod could gain some space between them. Candlestick maker, she mused. Why the silly dog just didn’t move out of Horse’s way was beyond her.
‘He wants to come here,’ Harold announced as if the decision were already made.
Cora whistled at Curly. He’d bailed an old ewe up under a Wilga tree with a handful of other stragglers. One by one her companions left to rejoin the mob until she was alone, stamping her foot and bowing her head in anticipation of a charge. The tail of the mob slowed to watch the show.
‘Here?’ Cora asked Harold, whistling again. Having managed to rid themselves of Jarrod Michaels, she was still coming to terms with her decision to trial Meg’s husband as a station hand. It appeared Absolution was becoming a home for waifs and strays. ‘I don’t think so.’ Once before, Harold had approached Cora with the suggestion of taking Kendal on as a jackeroo – he’d even coerced his wife, Ellen, into putting in a good word for the boy.
‘I don’t expect you to understand, Cora, but I’d appreciate it if he could come for a bit.’
‘I don’t know, Harold.’
‘The thing is, what with Jarrod’s leaving I thought we could do with the help.’
Cora’s intuition told her that employing relatives of staff could come to no good. They invariably expected special treatment and one could be assured that their bush ability never matched their perceived levels of importance. ‘I certainly can’t afford to pay him.’
‘I told him that.’ Harold rose up in the stirrups and whistled again. The ewe turned and walked back to the mob, but not before the right flank took the opportunity to charge across the paddock in the wrong direction.
Cora spun Horse around and galloped after the bolting sheep. There was a water hole ahead and if the ewes reached it, it would take some cajoling to move the old girls from its tree-shaded banks. Horse galloped towards the lead. Tripod was quickly left behind and, although his three legs worked overtime to keep up, he was engulfed in Horse’s billowing dust.
Twenty minutes later the ewes were in the next paddock. It always amazed Cora how they knew instinctively which clump of trees to head to on arrival. They could remember where the tastiest grass was and the location of each specific watering point with a brief sniff of the air. Harold closed the gate behind them and lifted an exhausted Tripod up to her. Cora patted him as the dog settled on her lap.
‘About Kendal, I just don’t think I should be saying no to him. This is the only place he ever comes back to,’ Harold stated.
‘Out of necessity,’ Cora replied.
Harold’s voice was hopeful. ‘And I’ll watch over him.’
‘While you’re working?’ Cora placed a steadying hand on Tripod’s back. Give it a couple of days and the kid would be out helping to muster and then what? Then everyone would be expecting him to be paid, including the lad himself. ‘I already have Meg’s husband coming. I expect I’ll have to pay him something if he proves to be handy.’
Harold gave a disapproving snort.
The trouble with having a manager who had been with you for more than ten years was that they felt they had a claim to any decision made. ‘If Kendal comes he’s your responsibility and he won’t be paid. Secondly, if he comes this close –’ she held her thumb and finger together ‘– to causing a ruckus, he’s gone. No excuses.’
‘Thanks, Cora.’ Harold’s tone was flat. ‘He’ll understand. We’ve decided he doesn’t need any more schooling.’
As they neared the house paddock Sue detoured towards Harold’s house, while Tripod jumped to the ground and headed straight for the chook yard. Curly, who had followed the returning riders at a distance, stopped a few yards short of the yard. The rooster was already on guard, his chest puffed out in pride. The chooks fluffed their wings and a babble of noise filled the air.
At the stables Cora and Harold unsaddled the horses.
‘Do you think this arrangement will work then with this city lot?’ Harold asked.
‘We’ll see.’ Cora brushed Horse down, amused at the way the animal closed his brown eyes and hung his head, his breath softening into a sound like a cat’s purr.
‘Always hard bringing city folk in.’
The noise from the chook yard was becoming cacophonous. Cora yelled at Tripod and Curly to quieten down. Horse twitched his ears in irritation and walked away.
‘Might have a bit of smoko and then see about repairing the mincer. Thought I’d kill that wether for a bit of mutton later.’
‘Sounds good, Harold.’ Overnight the station’s fortnightly kill ration had gone from feeding three to eight. ‘By the way I’ve decided to get that old dam delved in the 1500-acre paddock.’
‘It hasn’t been used for years. It’ll cost.’
‘I figure once it’s cleaned out and enlarged I’ll run a channel across to the bore drain. That way we can fill the dam from the bore when it’s dry. You can never have too much water.’
Harold pushed his brimmed hat back on his forehead revealing deep sun-etched lines. ‘Well, it’s not a priority. I’d like to be clearing the lignum, doing some work on the woolshed, tacking a wall on the end of the hayshed.’
Cora ignored him. ‘We’ll be needing to take down the old fence from around the dam. That’ll be a good job for Meg’s husband to start on.’ She brushed her hands together. ‘And Kendal. When is he due?’
‘I’ll give him a bell tonight,’ Harold replied, his mouth fixed.
Cora fig
ured the boy would be sitting by the phone. They both knew she’d been stitched up good and tight.
Chapter 10
Middle Harbour, Sydney, 1965
Meg ran her fingers across the springy grass and pulled her knees tight beneath her chin. The scent of salt drifted up on the wind from Willoughby Bay as the many homes skirting the shoreline came to life. Primrose Park remained her favourite place since childhood. As a young girl she would scramble from her home down the hill after school, ignoring her mother’s instructions to keep away from the park with its sewerage works history. Yet what child wouldn’t want to run across spongy grass down to the shore, where the comfort of land met the unknown expanse of the sea. This was a place of butterflies and seagulls, barking dogs and fruit bats, driftwood and a cliff face of dark, dream-harbouring trees. Meg recalled collecting shells in the winter, when the cold sea breath had stung her neck and ears. There was a mossy log near the base of the tree-covered cliff. Beneath, in a shadowy depression, lay her most favourite shells; the skeleton of a baby bird thrown from a tree; and a piece of china stained blue like a baby’s eyes.
Meg walked slowly back to the flat she shared with her mother, husband and children. Her aunt’s letter sat tucked in a top drawer of her dresser. There were only a handful of days before they left. It was funny. Having been so excited at her aunt’s offer and then thinking it would be dashed by her married state, now she felt nervous as their departure neared. At the stone wall marking their block of flats, Meg paused. She had a mind to find her special log and dig up the shells, the dead bird and shard of hard-baked china. The cliff beckoned as Meg lifted the latch and walked through the gate. Everyone needed a special place, even if it could only be reached by way of memory.
‘You sure you want to do this?’ Sam asked Meg. He was sitting up in bed smoking, waiting for her to finish brushing her long hair. ‘It sure came out of the blue. Who would have thought the old sheila would have picked us.’
Me, Meg corrected silently. She tied her hair back with a scarf, checked on the sleeping twins and climbed into bed beside Sam, wrinkling her nose up at the smoke.
‘You know we’ve got a roof over our heads and food.’ Sam puffed out a perfect circle of smoke, grinning at his creation.
‘Thanks to my mother taking us in, Sam. And it’s my job that’s feeding us.’ Meg adjusted the bed covers irritably.
‘Want a smoke?’ he asked quietly. ‘Always settles me for the night.’
‘No thanks.’ Meg could never be certain where her husband’s good moods would lead, especially when the whiff of rum escaping from his skin was stronger than the tobacco smoke hugging him like a cloud. As she wriggled down beneath the covers a tail of smoke wafted into the air above her. Her aunt’s letter was so unexpected that she’d hugged it to her chest in wonderment before giving thought to its ramifications. Her carefully written reply, which revealed her married state, was sent immediately. For two weeks her correspondence remained unanswered. For two weeks Meg bit her tongue, scared that if the offer was so much as uttered aloud a letter would come immediately, withdrawing the chance of a new life.
‘Don’t you think it’s too good an opportunity to refuse?’ she asked. Sam’s eyes were glassy. ‘Sam?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I ain’t been much good to us so I reckon we should have a go.’ He sat the ashtray on his chest. ‘Besides, it’s a bit late to be talking yourself into it now she’s said yes to our moving up there.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘From what I hear the bush is full of toffs. They all made their fortune from sheep in the fifties when the boom was on. You’ve heard the stories. The papers were full of it. My pa still tells tales about the squatter who walked into the Hilton Hotel and offered to buy drinks for the bar. All them suits, can you imagine it? Course, next thing the squatters are all buying Rolls Royces. Country people ain’t like us any more, Meggie. We’re poor and now they’re the toffs.’
‘So you’re saying my aunt could treat us like poor relations?’
Sam yawned. ‘Who knows?’
Meg turned to her husband. ‘Well, I think she sounds really nice in her letters. It’ll be such a big change, but I think of the girls and the space and the chance to have a place of our own eventually, and a job for you . . .’ She said this quietly, the words trailing off into the room.
‘She hasn’t actually said she’d leave the place to us, Meg,’ Sam reminded her. ‘Glorified housekeeper and companion is the role you’re setting yourself up for. Looks like I’m along for the ride.’ He gave a rum-enriched belch.
‘She said that the property was beautiful and that she had no other relatives.’
‘Well, she can’t turf us out when there’s a couple of ankle-biters in tow – her own blood – and we’ve given up our lives in the city for her.’
Meg figured her aunt knew they weren’t giving up that much. ‘Mum never talks about her, you know. Never did, not even after Dad died and it was just the two of us.’
Sam dragged on the butt and then stubbed it out, wincing as heat met his fingers. ‘My grandfather had a farm, out Windsor way.’
Meg sat upright in bed. ‘You never told me that. So, you’ve had a bit of experience then? You know what we’re in for?’
‘Sure. Sure thing, love. I might be an unemployed mechanic but I’ve seen a bit, you know. I’m a good five years older than you.’
Meg lifted her hand to cuff him playfully on the shoulder, before thinking better of it. ‘Well, aren’t you the cagey one.’
Within minutes his breathing changed and the snoring began. One of her girls gave a whimper in her sleep.
The next night four of them sat in silence around the yellow laminated table. Meg’s mother continually glanced towards Sam’s vacant seat as if she expected the occupant to materialise at any moment. The two adults and two children chewed their way through sausages, potato and cabbage. The sound of their swallowing and gulping seemed inordinately loud within the confines of the small kitchen. Jane Hamilton’s flat only boasted two bedrooms and a sitting room, kitchen and bathroom; Sam’s first comment on arrival was that the place wasn’t big enough to swing a cat. Or a punch, Meg’s mother retaliated. Although her son-in-law rarely raised a voice indoors, he was not averse to fighting and one such incident had ended Sam’s job as a mechanic, eventually rendering her daughter and grandchildren homeless.
‘Pass the salt, Meg,’ her mother said archly. She doused her sausages liberally and then watched the twins poking at their food. ‘Jill, Penny. Stop that.’
The five-year-olds jolted to attention, all sausage-grease smiles and swaying legs, their focus directed at Meg.
‘Time for bed,’ Meg ordered, ushering the girls from the kitchen.
‘You’ve made your mind up then?’ Jane asked, her eyes never leaving the food on her plate.
‘Yes.’ Meg collected her plate, tossing the uneaten food onto a sheet of newspaper on the sink. ‘Sam will be back later. We’re leaving early in the morning.’
‘I’ve asked you not to leave and you’re just ignoring me.’
‘It’s for the best, Mum. We both know that. And Sam –’
‘He’s a handy one, isn’t he? Just follows you about waiting for everyone else to do the providing.’ Her mother squished sausage meat and potato onto her fork. ‘You can bet he’ll be out drinking now.’ She chewed thoughtfully. ‘I wouldn’t bother waiting up for him. If you’re off tomorrow he’ll be on a right bender tonight.’
‘Knock it off, Mum.’
‘Don’t speak to me like that just because you managed to get yourself caught up with the likes of him. My heavens, marrying the first boy you had a liking for and then getting with child, all when you’d barely turned of age. It’s not right.’
‘Neither is sending a girl to work instead of letting her finish her schooling. And you wonder why I was married at nineteen.’ Meg watched her mother scrape her plate clean with a scrap of bread.
‘Well, as it happens you didn’t need much of an
education. Once you leave here you’ll be in the back of beyond.’
Meg turned the hot water tap on, and the water spurted out, hitting the plates in the sink and splashing back to burn her hand. ‘Damn.’ She faced her mother. ‘There’s no point you being angry about this. You could have helped us. You had your chance but you rented the upstairs flat instead of giving it to Sam and me and the kids.’
‘And what am I?’ her mother asked loudly. ‘A goddamn charity? I’ve looked after you, haven’t I? I’ve raised you, haven’t I? Just because you go and marry a no-hoper doesn’t mean I have to pick up the mess.’ She waved her fork in the air. ‘And what about payment? Do you think that husband of yours would’ve kept the rent up? No. How could he? You’d be stacking the grocer’s shelves and scraping to feed your young’uns, and the rest of it he’d be spending down the pub.’ She fumbled a cigarette from the packet on the table and lit it. ‘No point all of us being homeless, just because you were too scared to go it alone for a while. Wait for the right man.’
‘And was your man the right one, Mum? There’s not a single photograph of him, not one letter, not even his dog tags.’
‘You leave your father out of this. He’s dead, and the dead deserve respect.’
Some days Meg wondered if she’d ever had a father in the truest sense of the word or if she was simply the product of passion during the terrible war years. Her father was just a telegram on yellowing paper. Another soldier missing presumed dead, a man unknown to her, his whole family unknown to her. Meg snatched a cigarette from the packet, lighting it with her mother’s discarded box of matches. She wasn’t having this argument again. She wasn’t going to ask for the hundredth time why there was no contact with her paternal grandparents or aunts and uncles. It never got her anywhere. ‘Well, maybe if you’d been a bit kinder I wouldn’t have felt the need to marry early.’ She regretted speaking the moment the words spilled from her mouth.
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