Absolution Creek

by Nicole Alexander

  ‘A book?’ Cora said loudly. She peered through the gathering smoke as the flames took hold. The blaze leaped across a skinny volume. It was pale green, with a faded red binding. Cora lifted her bad leg and kicked at the drum. A tongue of flame reared up angrily. She kicked at the drum again and it toppled, falling on its side with a great whoosh of ash. Cora too fell with the force of her movement, and by the time she scrambled to her knees the book was already smouldering.

  At that moment Harold arrived, struggling with a dead wether over his shoulder. He dropped his load when he spied Cora and rushed to help her up.

  ‘I’m okay, really,’ she said shakily. ‘I was burning off and, well, I slipped.’

  Harold righted the drum and did his best to tidy the mess blowing about the garden. He gave a nod at the blackened remains she clutched. ‘You’re all right?’ His hands were bloody and the air about him carried a curious mix of fresh meat, lanolin-rich wool and manure. Cora hated the stench of a fresh kill.

  ‘Yes, sorry to startle you.’ She clutched at the book. There were streaks of black ash on her moleskins, shirt and hands. ‘An old book,’ she explained. ‘Hadn’t seen this one. Guess my curiosity got the better of me.’

  The growling of dogs had Harold running to the freshly slaughtered wether. Curly and Tripod were pulling on a leg apiece. ‘Get out of it, yah mongrels,’ Harold yelled, doing his best to kick at Curly and missing by a foot. Curly growled in response, but the dogs reluctantly backed off as Harold heaved the carcass over his shoulder. ‘You okay, then?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Harold carried the carcass into the meat house to hang by its shanks, and the door slammed shut. Cora tried to open the book, pulling at the hardcover until it ripped away to reveal a mass of blackened pages. For a second, just a second, Cora could have laughed. What she thought had been destroyed long ago had remained intact beneath her roof for nearly forty years. She’d found Jack Manning’s diary and lost it; once again destroyed by her own hands.

  Chapter 13

  Absolution Creek, 1965

  They arrived near dusk at a boundary gate just as the twins began to cry in unison. Unwrapping the last Vegemite sandwich, Meg passed a slice each to her girls, before clambering from the vehicle. Stretching the small of her back she opened the wooden gate to let the car through. There was a jam tin nailed to an iron post and a peeling painted sign that said Absolution Creek. This was it. They had arrived.

  The wind made Meg’s skin prickle with cold, yet it was unlike the chill of built-up Sydney. This air was bracing, fresh, new, and despite the long journey and the hours of mulling over Sam’s idea of selling Absolution Creek, Meg felt renewed. The trip had ended up taking two days. Penny had become car sick and then the radiator overheated. Still, they were here now. A sense of pride swept through her as her gaze encompassed the dirt beneath her feet and the grass swaying across the paddock. A flock of white birds flew overhead. Low on the horizon the sky turned from a dusty pink to a wavering line of red. They had crossed mountains and hills, watched as the countryside flattened and stretched itself into unknown horizons, all the while Meg smiling inwardly as they grew closer to this great adventure: their new life, their new home.

  The beep of the car horn swept away her thoughts.

  Meg got back in the car and they drove along a further five miles of road before reaching a second gate. A single row of wavering gums lined the western road ahead while a dense hedge hid what Meg assumed was a stately homestead – for the only thing visible beyond the hedge was the crown of a large tree. Sam stopped the station wagon outside a single wooden garage. Darkness was descending on the land. The southerly had increased in strength. Sam hurriedly wound the window up, turning to the back seat to cluck Penny and Jill under their chins. He received buttery Vegemite grins in return.

  ‘Yuck,’ he complained, screwing his nose up at them. Penny and Jill giggled.

  A distant line of outbuildings and a windmill smudged the skyline.

  Sam opened the car door. ‘Well then, here we are,’ he commented with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. ‘Hope the old girl’s got a couple of beers.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Or rum.’

  Meg frowned and the twins scrambled out of the car. ‘I’ll take them inside, find my aunt and we’ll go from there.’

  ‘Righto.’ Sam began unloading their belongings, placing them in a neat pile as Meg, holding her children’s hands, walked through the open back gate and up the path. There was a laundry block on the left and a gauze-walled building on her right, which she guessed was a meat house. Two steps led to the door of the homestead. Meg quickly took in the louvered glass shutters, peeling paint and uninteresting squareness of the home, and swallowed.

  ‘Is this it, Mummy?’ Jill asked.

  ‘Pooh!’ Penny said loudly.

  The scent of meat hung in the air. It was a ripe, chewy smell, more overpowering than any butcher’s shop.

  ‘Look!’ Penny pointed a finger towards the skinned carcass hanging in the meat house. All three of them walked closer and, looking through the gauze, stared into a cast-iron bucket filled with offal.

  Meg put a hand over her mouth. ‘Let’s stretch our legs before we go inside,’ she said, fighting the queasy sensation in her stomach. She dragged the girls away into cleaner, crisper air.

  A narrow cement path bordered the house, which was set within a garden consisting of partially dead grass, a scraggly green hedge and tall trees. Everything was perfectly square. Even the chairs and tables scattered on the verandas had a uniform look about them. As they walked further, Meg noticed that the house appeared to be split into two, with a vine-covered walkway joining the two rectangular buildings.

  ‘Look, Mummy, a tree.’ Jill pointed ahead. Together the three of them stared at the great hulk of tree poking out from the low roof. For the briefest of moments Meg thought it was an optical illusion, however the wall inside the veranda was clearly misshapen by the growth within.

  ‘Heavens,’ Meg mumbled.

  ‘Will it fall, Mummy?’

  Meg wasn’t sure. ‘Of course not, Penny. I think the branches have grown that way to find the light.’ Her girls were still staring. ‘I think we’d better go inside. It’s getting dark.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  Despite her inclination to seek the safety of the house, Meg allowed Penny to drag her towards a small shed that stood some yards from the homestead. The sky was turning from blue to black, blurring the space between ground and air as Penny led them along a worn path to what they soon discovered was a toilet.

  ‘Why’s there a toilet outside, Mummy?’ Penny pushed at the creaking wooden door.

  Meg looked at the outdoor toilet and at the tree cradling the house below. A scatter of stars dotted the sky.

  ‘Mummy?’

  ‘I don’t know, Penny,’ Meg answered, firmly clasping a small hand in each of hers. She quickened their pace, glancing up at the towering tree as they walked the length of the homestead. The wind nipped at their cheeks. Ahead two dogs barred their path. Meg skirted around the animals, a child pressed close on either side. The dogs growled softly. So then, this was Absolution Creek.

  Meg knocked on the back door while the twins fidgeted at her side.

  ‘Come on in,’ a female voice invited.

  Meg opened the door and hurried her children into the glass-enclosed back porch.

  ‘Just walk straight down the hallway,’ the voice continued.

  Meg followed the direction of the voice along a narrow hallway, the uneven floorboards slowing her progress. They found themselves in a large kitchen lit by an overhead light and heated by a wood-burning stove on a far wall. The black cook top and flue, with its plate racks on either side, was clearly warped, for a thin stream of smoke wafted upwards in the draft. A radio crackled the six o’clock news. At the end of a long wooden table, which could easily have seated twelve, sat a woman totally unlike Meg’s mother. Where her mother’s face was creased with dissatisfa
ction, this woman was almost wrinkle-free, apart from the crow’s feet around her eyes. She was full featured with a wide forehead, generous lips and glossy dark hair.

  Leaning nonchalantly against the kitchen bench was a man in his sixties. Short and stocky with a basin-shaped haircut, he gave Meg a nod.

  ‘Well?’ Cora barked. She was wearing pale trousers and a lemon-coloured shirt.

  Meg jumped. ‘Hello, Aunt.’ She was shocked to discover the youthful woman opposite and quickly stepped forward to grasp her hand.

  ‘Meg, this is Harold. Meg’s fortunate to be the only child of my sister, Harold, and so through sheer genetics is my first choice as companion, although I daresay each of us believes the other’s on trial. Harold’s my manager.’

  Harold nodded again and shook Meg’s hand. She found his grip reassuring, his glance less so. Meg had been subjected to the sweeping head-to-foot gaze of other men, but she doubted she’d ever rated so poorly.

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  His mouth twitched. Meg wondered if he were responsible for the slaughtering of the animal outside.

  Her aunt took a cigarette from a packet on the table, inserted it into a slender holder and lit it. Fingernails shone in the harsh overhead light. She drew in the nicotine steadily, exhaling through her nose. ‘Harold’s been here for many years. He’s what you call a station manager.’ She puffed again. Penny and Jill tightened their grip on Meg’s hands.

  ‘Do you know you have a tree sticking out of your house?’ Jill said, standing with one ankle crossed over the other and her fingers in her mouth.

  Penny nodded in agreement. ‘A big one. You’re very brown.’

  ‘These would be your children, then?’

  Meg pushed the twins forward, their reluctant feet fighting against the linoleum flooring. ‘Penny and Jill,’ Meg introduced them, giving them another shove. The floor covering was quite worn in places and Meg snuck a glance at where the linoleum was upturned and pulling away from the cracked skirting board.

  Her aunt laughed. ‘Sounds like a nursery rhyme. Never mind, we all have our crosses to bear. And your husband?’

  ‘Sam’s unpacking the car.’ Immediately the scrape of boxes sounded from the porch.

  ‘Well, I wasn’t expecting you to have a ready-made family at your age, but there’s not much we can do about it.’ Cora stared at the twins. ‘I’ve put you in the bedroom on the right. The children can have the one next to you. They look to me like they’re ready for schooling.’

  ‘Next year, Aunt. They turned five a few months back.’

  The back door opened and the noise of Sam sliding boxes and suitcases onto the porch halted their conversation. ‘I see you haven’t taught him how to knock.’

  Sam entered the kitchen with a smile and hearty hello. His greeting stilled when he took in Cora sitting serenely at the end of the kitchen table. Hesitating, he shook Harold’s hand. ‘Nice to meet you all . . .’

  ‘Cora Hamilton.’ Cora reached out a slender arm and shook his hand. ‘And what’s your trade then?’ She turned his hand over, briefly studying the smooth palm. ‘Pen pusher?’ She stared at his twice-broken nose. ‘Street fighter?’

  ‘Mechanic.’ He took a step back to place an arm around Meg’s shoulders. ‘Long day. We’re pleased to be here.’ Sam ruffled Jill’s hair while his other tightened on Meg’s shoulder. ‘Gee, I didn’t realise there were good sorts up this way.’ There was an edge to his tone. Meg knew what he was thinking. Neither of them had been expecting the likes of Cora Hamilton. She was certainly not a doddery aunt.

  Cora flipped the lid on an ashtray and stubbed her cigarette out. The lid closed with a snap. ‘We rise early here, Samuel. I’m up well before dawn, however if you breakfast at six-thirty, you’ll have time enough to meet with Harold at seven-fifteen.’

  ‘I’ll give you a tour in the morning, Sam,’ Harold advised. ‘There’s a bit on. There’s an old fence to be pulled down and some yard repairs.’

  To Sam’s credit the expression on his face didn’t change. ‘Sounds good to me, Harold. How many staff do you have here?’

  Cora gave an engaging smile. ‘We have a team, Sam, and including you that would be two at the moment. The thing is, what Absolution needs is someone with experience, but now you’re here we can put you to good use. After all, you have to earn your keep somehow.’ Cora lit another cigarette.

  ‘Thanks, Miss Hamilton.’ Harold dipped his head in deference and left the kitchen, side-stepping the luggage. The back door clicked shut quietly.

  ‘Dinner’s at seven, Meg. You might like to wash and change. I’m putting you in charge of meals from now on. Harold’s wife, Ellen, will still come in the mornings to explain how things run, at least for the next couple of weeks until you get used to things.’

  ‘Okay.’ Meg hadn’t exactly envisioned herself as a housekeeper. ‘The girls are fed.’

  Sam gave her a told you so look and lifted a yawning child in both arms. ‘Bedroom?’

  ‘Go straight through, Samuel.’ Cora pointed towards a door at the opposite end of the kitchen. ‘Along the walkway, turn right onto the veranda. The girls’ room is first on the left.’

  Sam glanced at Meg.

  ‘Off you go, Sam,’ Cora directed. ‘I’m sure it doesn’t hurt for a father to put his girls to bed occasionally.’ She waited for the sound of the kitchen door closing. ‘How’s your mother?’

  ‘Good,’ Meg answered warily. There was a large crack in the wall above where Cora sat. It extended from the floor in an arc to the corner of the room.

  ‘That woman was never good – she was either sour, argumentative or spiteful.’

  A small oh escaped Meg’s lips. Of course it was to be expected. If her mother hated her sister then it only made sense for the feeling to be reciprocated. She suddenly realised she had unwittingly placed herself in the most unenviable of situations: in a war between siblings.

  ‘Plates in the cupboard,’ Cora called over her shoulder as she walked to the fridge, returning with a tray of ice. Meg tried not to stare at her aunt’s slight limp. She foraged through the cupboards, locating condiments and cutlery as ice clattered into a glass. ‘Drink?’ Cora asked.

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Bet you’ve never had one.’

  ‘Beer,’ Meg admitted.

  Cora was sipping on a tall glass of rum. ‘I’m a gin martini girl myself, however I find rum more warming in the winter and it’s a better painkiller.’

  Meg glanced at her aunt’s leg. ‘Are you in a lot of pain?’

  ‘Some. Arthritis during winter. That’s when it’s worse. I had an accident a long time ago.’

  ‘What happened?’ Meg asked.

  ‘It involved a horse and a dray. You should ask your mother.’ Cora’s eyes were bright. ‘She was there.’

  At the tight look on her aunt’s face, Meg decided against further questioning. At least for the moment.

  Cora crunched ice. ‘I’d imagine that husband of yours likes a few. ’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Drinks, Meg. He’s a drinker, isn’t he?’ Cora twirled the ice in her glass. ‘Unhappy people with a fondness for the bottle take to it pretty quickly out here. It’s the isolation.’ Cora took a sip. ‘I’m thinking he thought he’d be here to see the old girl out – that old girl being me – then sale-o!’

  Meg experienced more than a twinge of guilt. ‘I didn’t think that,’ she blurted out.

  Cora laughed. ‘So much for matrimonial loyalty. Don’t look so concerned, Meg. I’ll take honesty any day. Did she remarry?’

  ‘Who? Mum? After Dad?’ Meg queried. ‘No.’

  Cora drained her glass, looked as if she might say something, and then changed her mind. ‘Go wash and change,’ she commanded Meg. ‘I’ll set the table tonight.’

  Sam was still in the bathroom when Meg finished rummaging through her suitcase. She brushed her hair, dabbed on some lipstick and felt somewhat better once dressed in her best grey sweater,
black skirt, stockings and lace-up shoes. She glanced around the white-walled bedroom, which smelt strongly of fresh paint, and decided against waiting for Sam. She walked back to the kitchen. Finding it empty, she investigated the rooms leading from the hallway. The room to her left was like an Aladdin’s cave. Art deco side tables and coloured glass lanterns competed with an eclectic selection of trendy plastic furniture, including large Acapulco chairs with their iconic saucer-shaped backs, and smoky glass-topped coffee tables. Different varieties of lush green ferns trailed down the sides of tall mahogany planters and a myriad tiny dried leaves lay scattered across the black-and-white floor tiles. This, she supposed, was used mainly in the summer, for the room was quite cold.

  The dining room opposite was totally different. Here the walls were a pale yellow and the curtains framing the six long casement windows a faded red silk. Meg’s eyes were drawn to the fireplace. Framed by shiny red timber with a single column on either side was a mantelpiece with an oblong bevelled mirror. The interior of the fireplace was decorated with an etched canopy, with a fire grate of quite gothic design. It would have been magazine perfect were it not for the cracks that spread across the plaster walls like varicose veins. Meg was sure light could be seen through the crack in the wall closest to the hallway and there was a definite gap running the length of one wall where the floor had dropped a number of inches. In spite of the evident state of disrepair, strategically placed lamps gave the room a warm glow.

  Her aunt was already seated at the dining table. Steaming platefuls of an aromatic stew wafted into the air.

  ‘Have a seat, Meg.’

  Meg did as she was told and they began eating without Sam. She was frightened of dropping food on the polished table and conscious of her manners. Her aunt certainly didn’t stab the air with her knife, like her mother did, or position her knife and fork in the quarter to three position on her plate. Nor, she noticed, was there the obligatory cabbage her own mother so loved. Meg did her best to emulate her aunt, eating slowly and carefully, and straightening her back so that she too sat upright. She crossed her fork over her knife in a delicate V between mouthfuls. She was sure her aunt gave a slight smile.