‘It’s a weak person that blames another for their choices.’
Meg took two good drags and stubbed her fag out in the sink. ‘I just don’t understand why you’re so upset about our leaving.’ Jane was in her late fifties, yet life had left its mark on her in the listless way in which she moved, and the half-tilt of her head as she stared vacantly into space.
‘I told you a dozen times, she’s no good, that woman. Tricking you to go north to some property. What property? I say. Cora Hamilton doesn’t want you, girly. She’s only sent for you because she’s decided it’s time for a little payback.’
‘Payback for what?’
‘When you do get up there she’ll set about telling you a lot of things that simply aren’t true. She’ll make me out to look nasty, when it was her that always had the bad blood.’ Jane slammed the table with the flat of her palm. ‘How her father ever bred a girl like that I’ll never know.’ She pushed her plate aside. ‘You shouldn’t be going.’
This was the nearest they had come to an amicable conversation in a fortnight. As mother and daughter they’d never been close. ‘You have to explain why you dislike her so much, Mum, and why you’ve suddenly decided that you don’t want us to leave. I know you haven’t liked us living here for the last eighteen months, and the kids can be difficult.’
Her mother stubbed out her cigarette and reached for another. ‘I’m past young’uns. Leave that husband of yours and I’ll evict one of the tenants early.’ She clamped the cigarette between her lips, lit it and took a drag. ‘Give the place to you and the kids.’ The cigarette dangled from her mouth.
‘I can’t leave Sam.’
‘You don’t love him,’ Jane said bluntly. ‘You depend on him. There’s a difference.’
Meg opened her mouth to argue.
‘Anyway, no good will come of moving to be with that woman.’ Jane scratched her neck. ‘I should’ve known she’d come back into my life. Those sort of people can never be trusted.’
‘Why can’t she be trusted?’
‘The years pass and you think you’ve done enough to be rid of them.’
‘Mum!’ Meg said, horrified. ‘How can you talk about Aunt Cora that way? She’s your own sister.’
Her mother stubbed her cigarette out absently in the leftover cabbage on her plate. Lifting her head she looked Meg directly in the eyes. ‘I should know then.’
‘It’s not a bad place,’ Sam stated, waking Meg. They were out of Sydney and crossing a long low bridge over the Hawkesbury River in their station wagon. The water was a dull blue, the banks smeared green by the thick trees that covered the surrounding hills. The sun was hot for mid-winter, the twins overtired and cranky. Meg wound the window down a little further and pulled her sweater off.
‘A mate of mine’s been through that neck of the woods. Reckons it’s pretty good country. A bit isolated though,’ Sam said, one hand on the wheel.
‘Isolated? No pub you mean.’ Meg folded the sweater. Sam’s meal of sausages and cabbage had eventually been fed to the next-door tabby.
‘She’ll have staff. They all have staff apparently: managers, overseers, cooks, governesses. All the big stations run that way.’ He grinned. ‘Always fancied myself part of the landed gentry. Anyway, I don’t know nothing about farming, but how hard can it be?’
Meg stared at him open-mouthed. ‘But your grandfather, the farm. I thought . . .’
‘Good old fella, my grandfather. Had a few acres out near Windsor. Long since gone now. Lost it during the depression.’ He gave Meg a quick side-long glance. ‘I can ride, although I haven’t done it for a while.’
Meg felt the bile rise in her throat. ‘You said –’
‘You said,’ he mimicked, his fingers tightening on the steering wheel. ‘You didn’t know what you wanted, Meg, and you still don’t, so I helped make the decision. Anyway, I had to get out of Sydney. I got myself into an altercation with a bloke – laid him up pretty bad.’
Meg’s shoulders drooped. ‘Oh, Sam. You know what the magistrate said after your last bar fight.’
Sam shrugged. ‘Well, that’s the worst of having a one-time professional boxer on your hands. As soon as there’s a fight, I’m to blame.’
‘It could mean gaol, Sam.’
‘She’ll be right. I don’t think old Jeffo’ll die. Anyway, what does it matter now? We’re off to a new life. The old girl wants a companion and you wanted to accept. The worst thing that can happen is you’ll get bored and we come back to Sydney once Jeffo’s well. And the best thing.’ He grinned and leant across to squeeze her arm. ‘Fell on our feet this time I reckon, Meggy. This one could set us up for life.’ Sam concentrated on passing a Bedford truck. ‘All we have to do is hang around for a while, see if she intends to leave the place to us.’
‘You do know how old my aunt is, don’t you, Sam? She’s a bit younger than Mum. This isn’t going to be an overnight thing. I don’t think she intends to drop off the perch anytime soon.’
‘Well, I figure that if she was all fine and dandy she wouldn’t have made the offer. And it seems to me that as you’re her only kin then it would be worth our while for you to make yourself indispensable to the old girl.’
Meg reluctantly agreed. ‘It’s a great opportunity for us. A chance for a fresh start.’
‘That’s the way, Meggy. Think of the money that was made in the bush in the last decade when wool was a pound a pound. Think of the advantages that Penny and Jill will have away from the city.’
Meg glanced at the twins who were currently comparing the shape of their knees.
Sam patted her arm. ‘And good farming land will fetch a pretty price. A mate of mine has a mate in rural sales who has a mate who reckons we’ll be made.’
Meg gasped. ‘If anything does happen to my aunt I’m not rushing out and selling the place.’ She could only imagine how long the money might last if Sam got hold of it.
‘Well, we’d hardly be interested in keeping it,’ he argued.
‘Why not?’
‘Why not? Are you mad? We don’t know anything about farms.’ Sam shook a cigarette from its packet and gripped it between his teeth. He pushed the lighter button on the dash. ‘It’s one thing to take advantage of something that falls in your lap,’ he said as the lighter popped out and he lit his cigarette. He drew heavily on the tobacco. ‘Quite another to bugger things up.’
‘This is about financial security,’ Meg replied quietly. ‘Besides, I think we’re getting a bit carried away. We’ve got lots to learn and, who knows, you might like working on the farm.’
Sam stared blankly at the road ahead. ‘Not likely.’
Meg opened her mouth to retaliate then pursed her lips instead. Experience taught her that arguments once started could last for hours, particularly in a closed environment from which there was no escape. She looked at the highway, thought of the wonderful city she was leaving behind: the harbour and bridge, the picture-postcard park of her childhood. It was harder to let go of than she had imagined.
Chapter 11
Absolution Creek, 1923
Placing a boot firmly in the stirrup iron, Jack wrapped his hand around the pommel of the saddle and hoisted himself up onto the roan mare. He tightened the reins, gripped her flanks with his thighs and dropped his heels in close. The mare steadied, snorted into a hot breeze and gave a single stroke of hoof to dirt. Theirs was a tentative relationship forged through two days of testy riding lessons from the blacksmith in Stringybark Point and the occasional pointer from the postal and supply rider, an Irishman by the name of Adams.
With a touch of spur to horse hair, they were off spinning through trees sappy with new growth, and careering over grasses and soil, leaving behind a doughy imprint of their passage. Jack firmly pushed down his wide-brimmed hat, making it a little more secure. A few days back he’d spent an hour or more retracing his steps when it had blown free at the gallop, and he wasn’t of a mind to go through that rigmarole again. The mare slowed to a wa
lk and Jack rode on, oblivious to the sun piercing the countryside. He was conscious only of the horse moving beneath him, of muscle and sinew stretching and lengthening with each stride.
A light wind teased them onwards over lightly timbered plains, and through shrubs and saplings. They passed scrub-reared animals appearing like jack-in-the-boxes from behind trees and clumps of grass. Kangaroos and wallabies, startled at his approach, bounded across the paddock in mobs of thirty or more, their long tails stabilising every move. Ahead, twenty or more emus were strung out across the grassland, all long legs and bobbing heads. Jack twitched the reins and ducked low-hanging branches. Every single day since his arrival at Absolution Creek he found himself reminded of what it meant to be a city lad. There was much to learn.
At the creek he dismounted, leading the mare down to the water’s edge. The horse drank thirstily, her nostrils flaring just above the water as she swallowed and breathed simultaneously. Once finished, Jack tethered the mare at the base of a gum tree, tying the reins good and tight.
‘You stay put,’ he cautioned. The mare, whom he’d christened Pat after Olive’s mother, was a wanderer. Jack already knew the pain of a five-mile walk home when the sun threw no shadow. As he turned, the mare bit him on the shoulder. ‘Mary, Jesus and Joseph!’ he exclaimed. Pat blinked large brown eyes as Jack rubbed the paining flesh. It took a scant two days following the mare’s purchase for him to discover that the blacksmith who’d sold him the horse was not the obliging man he appeared. The man had even thrown in a pair of hobbles. ‘Just in case,’ he’d said smiling.
‘Just in case, my foot.’ Jack scowled as he left Pat to the soft herbage edging the creek.
Stretching his fingers to the sky and humming quietly, Jack knelt to splash water on his wind-burnt skin. The creek water was cool and he ran handfuls through his shaggy hair, which was in want of a cut. On the opposite bank five grey and pink birds, long-legged and sure-footed, spread their wings wide as they danced slowly in a circle. Their feet tossed up puffs of sand as they moved, their heads swaying from one side to the next. Jack sat at the water’s edge, watching them.
It intrigued him that he’d not once missed Sydney since his leaving. He thought of the North Shore on occasion – often dreamt of the white spray of the ocean and the screeching calls of the seagulls, of car horns and the salty kiss of a dawn shore walk – however, the memory was eroded by the continual pounding of the jack hammers, the sound of which even now reverberated in his brain.
He lay flat on his back with his hands behind his head, the sand cushioning him as mid-morning light brightened the narrow strip of treeless space above the creek. He’d had a mind to build a hut right here on the water’s edge, but one night’s camping with mosquitoes that nearly carried him away quelled any such idea. The hut on the eastern side of the creek was his current home and, having just pegged out a proper homestead block not two miles further on, it was on this space he currently daydreamed about.
Jack dreamt of the completed structure nightly, saw it rise from the misty swirls of sleep like a magnificent castle. At its centre was a snug bedroom with a soft thick mattress and sheer-netted mosquito veil. Olive lay on the bed dressed only in a sparse white slip that clung to her thighs and stomach, and rested lightly on her gently sloping breasts. When Jack drew close to her, close enough to see a vein pulsating through the warm skin of her neck, Olive spoke to him softly, beckoning. It was always at this moment that Jack awoke, agitated and restless, eager for the rest of his life to begin.
The mare whickered quietly, bringing Jack to wakefulness. It was just as well, he decided, for he wasn’t sure of what came next, when the bedroom door was closed and the candle blown out. He thought of his father’s Bible sitting snug in the saddlebag and wondered if he should take up from where he’d left off last night. He’d been a stickler for his Bible readings, finding it eased the night-time hours and provided a semblance of normal life. And his conscience reminded Jack daily of the promise he’d made in Sydney. Having disregarded his dying father’s wishes, and aware further transgressions were not advisable should he need to call on the Saints’ assistance, his devotion to the Church’s teachings were now absolute.
Scraping sand into his palm, Jack felt the weight of it before flinging it in an arc across the water’s surface. The grains fell in a spray on the sunlight-speckled water. He expected Olive to arrive before Christmas, and as the days disappeared in a blur of gratifying toil he could scarcely keep the grin from his face. There was so much to show her. Apart from the boundaries of the property, the different sizes of the paddocks and the two thousand head of sheep that now grazed happily under his care, there was the land. Each new day brought with it a glimpse of heaven: the musty pinks of dawn and the flaming reds when the sun sank, the warbling of birds in the early morning and the rustling of wind through the trees. It was getting hot – hotter by the day – but that change carried with it a new beauty. By mid-afternoon the earth shimmered in spun silver. Land and sky merged together as waves of heat buckled the natural symmetry of the air. It was then that the bush grew melancholy. Stilled by the sun’s heavy hand, the countryside slept for those few heat-held hours.
‘Come on then, Pat.’ Jack untied the mare’s reins and she nibbled at his back as he remounted. ‘You can do that all you like, but we both know neither of us is going anywhere so you may as well behave.’ His foot found the stirrup and Jack settled in the saddle. With the arrival of two thousand ewes on Absolution Creek less than a month ago, there were now fences to check and more yard building to continue with. He’d given up on trying to build the house prior to Olive’s arrival. There were simply not enough hours in the day to do everything. Besides, Thomas would be here soon and with his brother by his side the whole exercise would be far easier.
A Sunday morning ride had become habit, although in truth most days blurred into the next. No longer stymied by shop opening hours, regulated mealtimes or the obligatory Sunday mass, Jack discovered the benefit of bush living. He sensed city folk probably needed such methods to keep them in order, like a well-oiled machine. Out here it didn’t matter so much. A man could live according to his own inclination, his life structured only by the hours of daylight available to him and the work required. Freedom was now his and it came with a swathe of land only a magician could conjure. Jack held aspirations of eventually owning Absolution Creek, for the Farleys were without children and he’d done the man a good service for many years in Sydney. Certainly good enough to warrant such a gift. Nevertheless, Jack knew a person couldn’t be forward about such a transaction. He would bide his time, keep his part of the bargain and eventually sound Mr Farley out as to his future intentions. Only last month he’d received word from Mr Farley requesting Jack sign an updated leasing agreement. It appeared that a maiden aunt was entitled – by a recent will – to financial assistance. Jack had proudly signed a ten-year lease agreement and, in doing so, protected Mr Farley’s current asset and cemented Jack’s future. Absolution Creek, Jack decided, would be his land one day. It would be his place in the world – somewhere safe to rear a family, somewhere where a man could love his wife and provide for her.
Jack manoeuvred his horse through a clump of tight spiky-leafed trees. The postal rider Adams called them belahs, and they dotted this part of Absolution like hairs on his arm. The whippy branches yanked at his shirt and hat. Sticky cobwebs were an added obstacle. It was with relief that Jack reined Pat out towards open country again.
When Pat reared, Jack was ill-prepared. He slipped to the ground with a hard crunch, landing solidly on his back. Some feet away the mare reared again and struck out fiercely with her front hoofs. Jack stood shakily. He collected his hat from the dirt, watching as Pat kept striking at the ground. Whatever it was, the mare was clearly frightened. He glanced at the rifle holstered by the saddle. ‘Hey, girl, are you right?’
The mare’s ears twitched as Jack took hold of the reins. On the ground was a large brown snake, its hoof-shred
ded body already attracting ants. Taking hold of its tail, Jack stretched the creature out. It was nearly seven feet long.
‘You got a bit of a scare, that was all.’ Jack inspected the mare’s fetlocks, pausing at the coronet where the front leg merged into the hoof. He couldn’t see any bite marks and from what he’d read there would be a distinct puncture mark. What he’d read, Jack thought with disgust. Everything he knew about the bush came from a book. Sometimes he wondered if it was enough. Mounting up he turned the mare homeward. It was a ride to the hut – at least four miles. The horse grew slower, finally dropping to the ground halfway home, her back legs kicking out, her breathing ragged. Jack patted the mare’s neck and then set about undoing the saddle and removing the bridle. There wasn’t anything to do except wait until she breathed her last, so Jack sat in the dirt as she shuddered and whinnied, her hind legs striking haltingly at the hollowed-out dirt. An hour later she was dead.
The landscape looked washed out and vacant in the growing heat. Jack slung his rifle and waterbag over his shoulder and slid his father’s Bible down his shirt front. Perspiration blurred his vision and he wiped a hand across aching eyes. At dusk he would return with the pack horse to collect the hog-skin saddle and bridle. For now he concentrated on the road home, as crows cried out soullessly above. So much for his dreams of rising to be a respected squatter. At the moment Jack just hoped to survive.
Chapter 12
Absolution Creek, 1965
‘You’re looking well.’
Ellen sported a red cardigan, woollen skirt, and a rarely seen slash of lipstick on her thinning mouth. ‘I’m having lunch in town today,’ she announced to Cora, scraping dirt from her heels at the back gate.
‘Well, good for you.’ Cora was expecting James at any moment. Horse had gone off his feed and she wanted him checked out.
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