Absolution Creek

by Nicole Alexander

  It was a whole day before Ben knew of her pet. Christmas Day passed barely noticed, with their father away all day and Abigail and Jane hunkered in the kitchen whispering. Squib kept to herself, afraid for the dog, waiting for the worst to happen. Afraid to mention her father and stepmother’s argument to her brother for fear the talking of it would make things worse.

  ‘You can’t keep him,’ her father said on catching sight of the stray at dusk. ‘Mr Purcell doesn’t allow feral dogs on the place. You know that, Squib.’

  Ben kicked at the dirt. ‘He doesn’t have to know.’

  Their father plied the soft plaited leather of his hat-band. ‘He’d find out.’

  ‘We won’t tell him,’ Squib argued. ‘We promise.’ Ben nodded in agreement.

  ‘He’ll know.’ Their father’s mouth thinned.

  ‘Only if she tells him.’ Ben gestured towards the cottage.

  ‘Don’t talk about your mother that way. She’s doing her best.’

  Ben sat down by the dog and scratched him between the ears. ‘She’s not my mother.’

  Squib readied herself for an argument, for her father’s belt to be loosened from his trousers. Ben was fast for a kid, but their father could run like the wind, especially when it came to giving them a hiding. Ben firmed his jaw. A pale blue blood vessel pulsed in his throat. ‘I think we should be able to have a pet.’

  Ben’s calm words settled their father. He scratched at his crotch, gave a trademark sigh. ‘Mr Purcell reckons any stray dog ends up being a sheep killer. Don’t forget what ram lives here on Waverly Station.’

  How could they forget? Mr Purcell handed out a shiny new shilling coin to every man and child on the property when Waverly No. 4 became famous. On that day Squib determined that she too would have such a grand animal and a dog.

  Their father left them sitting under the tree, the dog flanked by his protectors. Squib knew she wouldn’t have him for long.

  ‘I hate the blasted Purcells. I wish we could leave,’ Ben said, stroking the dog’s back.

  ‘And go where?’ Squib asked hesitantly. Clearly her brother knew nothing of the argument.

  ‘Anywhere, Squib, almost anywhere. If we could leave her behind it would be even better.’ Ben’s gaze was on the house again. They could hear arguing. ‘I don’t like her. Never have.’

  ‘Me neither.’ Squib drew a pattern in the dirt with a stick. The dog licked her arm.

  She was lying in the dirt, the sun bearing down on her legs like a fire. As she drew her body beneath the tree’s shade a lone shot rang out. The dog was gone. Ben appeared from around the cottage, his eyes red-rimmed.

  ‘Father came with his rifle. I let Dog off so he could get away but he went straight over to Purcell’s.’ He gave his customary kick of the dirt. ‘Sorry.’

  In a few more years Ben’s eyes would be hard like their father’s. Squib blinked, jabbed a stick into the dirt. At least her father knew how to shoot. He was real careful with his rifle, holding his breath and letting it out gradually as he slowly pulled the trigger. It was an art he’d explained when he’d showed her how to shoot, like those clever people who could paint. When the second shot echoed across the slopes of the property, Squib knew her father hadn’t done the killing.

  ‘Anyway, there’s some good news. We have to leave, tonight.’

  ‘Leave?’ Squib scrambled to her feet. ‘Tonight?’

  ‘We’re not to say a word, just pack up real quietly.’

  From inside the cottage they heard their father and Abigail arguing. Her voice was brittle, defensive, their father’s wounded.

  ‘Abigail stole Mrs Purcell’s pearl necklace.’

  Ben’s mouth sagged. ‘I know. There ain’t no proof, but Dobbs told me the talk is real bad and Evans wants Father’s job.’

  ‘He’s leaving because of us, Ben. If the coppers come out here and see us –’

  ‘I know. They’ll take us away. Put us in an orphanage.’

  Squib studied the crooked trees and the cracked ground, and thought of the yellow dog. He’d been the only thing worth packing, although she would have liked to have seen the man with the busted wrist one more time. Scrubber was her first real friend.

  Chapter 20

  Mrs Bennet’s Boarding House, Chatswood, 1923

  Olive felt as if she were floating above the earth. Her limbs were weightless and although she was aware of space and freedom, her mind was a blank. It was only when the incessant light kept beating against her face, when she was conscious of someone tugging at her, that she experienced a drawing back to a world she didn’t want to enter.

  ‘Olive, can you hear me? Is this right, Doctor? Surely a person can’t sleep for days.’

  ‘Considering the circumstances I would have let her rest a little more, however the police will have their statement and, although the identity of her assailant is undoubtedly Mrs Bennet’s missing gardener, a report is required.’

  ‘When can she travel?’

  ‘Travel? My dear lad, your friend has suffered quite debilitating injuries. No, I see no chance of travel in the foreseeable future.’

  Olive opened her eyes to a world gone blurry. Pillows were stuffed behind her and water offered. She drank gratefully, feeling the liquid spill over her lips to settle in the soft hollow at the base of her throat.

  ‘Olive, how are you?’ Thomas shook his head. He turned to the doctor. ‘What will I tell –?’

  The doctor removed the stethoscope from around his neck. ‘Her family?’ He pursed bulbous lips. ‘Things were done.’ He glanced at his patient.

  ‘But she will recover?’

  Olive heard the concern in Thomas’s voice.

  ‘Nearly fourteen hours before she was found. It’s a time for a young lass to be lying in the cold.’

  ‘But apart from the broken arm she has no bad wounds, mainly grazes. You said so yourself.’

  The doctor snapped his bag shut. ‘It’s the wounds we can’t see that are unlikely to heal, my boy.’

  It was nearly three weeks since the attack. Olive was staring out the casement window at the wind-blown treetops when Mrs Bennett appeared. Without a word the older woman bustled across to the window and opened it, the gusting breeze sending a shiver across Olive’s skin. She sank deeper into the sagging mattress.

  ‘Just a minute or so of fresh air, Miss Peters. We can’t have you suffering from a want of nature’s own healing powers.’ The woman dusted the dresser and washstand and topped up the ceramic water jug with a bucket. ‘Miss Peters, I want you to know that I won’t be charging you for the use of the room these past few weeks since the incident.’ She wrung chapped hands. ‘And please know I never knew that lad was such a criminal. You know I never would have left you in his care otherwise.’

  ‘Mrs Bennett, please –’

  ‘Having said that, well it’s just not proper; a young woman travelling alone. I used to say to my late husband that modern girls eventually got themselves into trouble, and you have, my dear.’

  Olive closed her eyes. There was a fierce clarity about the morning.

  ‘Well, it’s done now and I daresay you’ve learnt your lesson. However, things can be done, to fix things if need be.’

  ‘What do you mean fix things?’ Olive blurted.

  The widow gave a knowing nod. ‘Well, my dear, you’re my responsibility while you’re under this roof and the doctor felt it only proper I understand your situation.’

  Olive blanched. ‘My situation?’

  ‘Yes, your womanly monthlies have not come when expected.’

  ‘That is none of your business.’

  ‘I don’t believe in it myself, however I’ve sent word to a Mrs Harper. Now, now, don’t look so perturbed. She’s quite reputable in her circles. No knitting needles or such and anyway you’re too early for that with it being only weeks since the . . . the occurrence. Anyway, she’ll be paying you a visit when your arm’s mended. The doctor says another five or six weeks, so we’ll work on tha
t.’ Mrs Bennett smoothed her long black skirt. ‘Of course, it could be the shock and all that’s disrupted your, well, you know what I mean. Anyway, if the worst eventuates we’ll be ready, and once you’re rid of the child you can be on your way and no one will be the wiser as to your folly.’

  Olive sat upright. ‘I don’t want to see Mrs Harper.’

  Mrs Bennett’s face reddened. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Miss Peters. You’re not thinking straight. No woman in her right mind would want to birth a criminal’s bastard. Besides which –’ the widow lowered her voice ‘– such doings are quite against the letter of the law. I’m putting myself out for you, on account of feeling some measure of responsibility for your predicament. If I were you I’d be grateful. What’s a bit of warm water and disinfectant after all? I daresay Mrs Harper’s procedure will be a lot less uncomfortable than what you’ve already endured.’

  Olive was dozing in the wooden rocker when Thomas arrived mid-afternoon.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you up.’ It was clear he was pleasantly surprised, for Thomas’s usual non-descript expression was replaced with a smile of perfectly straight teeth.

  Olive used finger and thumb to rub at the corners of her eyes. ‘Thomas, it’s good of you to keep coming.’

  He took her hand briefly. ‘I’m so sorry, Olive, about all of this.’

  ‘Thomas, please stop apologising. You’ve been saying the same thing nearly every time you visit.’ She forced herself to smile and gestured for him to sit on the poorly made bed. ‘How is May?’

  Thomas coloured. ‘Quite well, thank you. She wanted to come and visit . . .’

  Olive picked at the fringe on her shawl. ‘Tell May I understand. My predicament is not something a young woman should be exposed to.’

  ‘Not at all, Olive.’ Thomas leant forward. ‘She will come eventually, when you’re up and about and have put this terrible thing behind you.’

  ‘I’m quite a sight really, Thomas. The independent, upwardly mobile twenties girl who ran away only to be attacked and . . . and ruined.’ Despite her best intentions Olive broke down.

  Thomas concentrated on the wooden floorboards. ‘May thought perhaps Jack should be told.’ He faltered. ‘I could write a letter telling him of your . . .’ Again the search for an appropriate word. ‘Misfortune.’

  Olive thought of Jack’s sister. May was giving her older brother the opportunity of breaking their engagement, something Olive could not allow to happen, not now. She tried to recall the days before the accident. It was all so hazy. She vaguely remembered that she had been going to write to Jack to tell him it was over, but she couldn’t for the life of her recall if she had written the letter in the end.

  Thomas interrupted her thoughts. ‘I’ve already written to say that you were ill and that our journey north has been postponed.’

  ‘No. No letter. Please thank May for her concern.’ Olive thought of Mrs Harper. She would hardly stoop to such lower-class tactics, regardless of her dreadful predicament. ‘Do tell May that I would appreciate her understanding as to my privacy. Meanwhile we will continue as planned. We will leave when my arm is quite mended.’

  ‘The doctor said –’

  ‘The doctor knows very little other than what he reads out of a book, Thomas.’

  ‘Mrs Bennett said you were going to the train station the day of the attack. Why were you going there?’

  ‘I was coming to find you.’ Olive found herself lying smoothly. ‘There is a Mr Worth staying here and he became suspicious.’ How the circumstances of the past weeks had altered her. Now she was blatantly lying.

  Thomas furrowed his brow.

  ‘Spying,’ Olive emphasised.

  ‘I should have found lodgings more appropriate for you. When Jack finds out –’

  Olive dragged herself up from the rocker to clutch at Thomas’s arm. ‘He must not find out. Neither you nor I will tell him.’

  ‘But surely you can’t keep such a thing from him.’ Thomas ran a hand through glossy hair. ‘I promised Jack on my life to watch over you, and instead –’ he could barely meet her eyes ‘– you’ve been attacked and . . . and violated. And by all people it had to be Mills McCoy. Mrs Bennett tells me they still haven’t tracked him down.’

  ‘Mills McCoy? I didn’t know his name. But it is of no matter.’ Olive squeezed Thomas’s arm. ‘If I can bear it, you can bear it, Thomas. Swear to me that you will not say a word.’

  ‘Olive, I’m –’

  ‘Swear it!’

  He gave a single, miserable nod. ‘Come for me when my arm is mended and we’ll make plans.’ She pushed aside his attempt at an embrace, inwardly shuddering at the thought of a man touching her. ‘Leave now, Thomas. I’m tired.’ She closed her eyes, keeping them shut until Thomas’s footfall sounded on the staircase.

  All Olive wanted to do was return to her family, however if Mrs Bennett was right, if she was with child, she could not bear to bring such embarrassment upon them. Heavens, how she would miss them. She thought of her father standing by the fireplace, of her mother attentive and adoring as she poured him an evening drink. Even worse was the worry that would beset them as the days drew on, and there remained no sign of their youngest child. Were they searching for her? Had Henrietta revealed their discussion at the Queens Club that day they lunched? Did her parents believe she’d run off with her lover, or worse, Jack Manning? If so they would be so distressed by the potential scandal it was likely they’d chosen to wait and see what eventuated. Olive closed her eyes tightly to ward off the ready tears waiting for release. She had to be strong. She had to carry on. She was, after all, a victim of her own stupidity. Besides which, there was no alternative. A second violation, as insinuated by Mrs Bennett, was equally distasteful and quite simply beneath her. The brown coverlet on the bed muffled Olive’s sobs. No eligible man would want her now. Her best hope lay in joining Jack and, if she really were pregnant, passing the child off as his. This then was her life’s path, and Olive knew there was little alternative than to make the best of it.

  Chapter 21

  En Route from Waverly Station, 1923

  The horse-drawn dray careered violently to one side of the dirt road, throwing Squib, Jane and Beth onto their sides. Tin plates fell from a stack and a kettle hit Beth, before rolling towards the open end of the dray. Beth began bawling immediately. Jane clutched at the precious kettle, which she had caught just in time, and proceeded to kick the spluttering four-year-old in the leg.

  ‘Plain Jane, plain Jane,’ Squib antagonised, trying to divert the girl’s attention from Beth. Her stepmother turned and barked at them to all shush and hang on. Beth cowered as Jane grabbed the stacked tin plates to stop their rattling and then, manoeuvring her skinny body against their piled belongings, kicked out her feet. Her aim as usual was perfect and Squib cringed as her thigh became numb. ‘Stop it,’ she yelled, grasping at the splintery sides of the dray as the wooden wheels travelled back over the rough corrugations of the road to the opposite side. ‘Just because youse wanted to have babies with Jimmy Winter doesn’t mean you have to be nasty to us.’

  The three girls looked sullenly at each other as they bounced up and down on the wooden boards. Jane scowled and folded her arms. Beth stopped crying. ‘Are you having a b-baby?’ she asked between hiccups.

  Jane’s neck twisted towards the front of the dray. Sweat stained the puddle-brown of her mother’s dress, the material taut across the breadth of her back as Abigail hung on grimly to the reins. Ben turned from his seat beside his stepmother and grinned knowingly.

  ‘No one’s having a baby, silly,’ Jane said to Beth who was now sucking at a length of her short dress. ‘We have enough of those in this family already.’

  Ben poked his tongue out in response.

  Squib moved to the rear of the dray and dangled her legs over the end. Beneath her bare feet the road moved quickly. A lone magpie swooped low across the dirt track, the trees sucked away by distance until they became a blur of brown-
green mingling with blue sky. She swiped at the beads of perspiration on her face and thought of the crooked trees fringing their house. She would miss riding with her father at dawn when the others were still waking. She would miss the paddocks and sheep yards and Waverly No. 4, and she would miss the overseer’s house that was meant to be theirs. For a moment Squib believed that the past two days were only a dream. How else could she explain the events that had forced them to leave Waverly Station? Yet those days now lay behind them and her memories of Mr Purcell’s sheep station were already unravelling in her mind like a ball of twine. The narrow track carried them onwards, tufts of dry grass and coils of dust springing up from the road’s surface. The grit sprayed her bare feet like handfuls of thrown sand as Squib tilted her head towards a sky wispy with white cloud, and tried not to think of the tiredness that made her ache. She was already sick of travelling and sad that they were running away.

  The whinnying of a horse quickly drew everyone’s attention. Squib swivelled in the direction of the noise, pulling uncomfortably at her dress, which had caught on the wooden splinters beneath her. It was their father. Tall in the saddle he cantered towards them, straight down the middle of the road, a plume of dust tailing his approach like a guardian angel. The dappled mare slowed with the barest of pressure on the reins and he pulled level with the dray, his hat low, his face streaked with dirt.

  ‘If we follow the creek I reckon we’ll find ourselves a place to cross eventually. I’d like to be doing it before dark.’ He pointed at violet clouds gathering in the east as he walked his horse beside them.

  ‘Righto,’ Abigail replied with a sniff. She’d been crying for most of their journey.

  Squib scrambled across the bumpy dray to be near her father, ignoring Jane’s kick. ‘Where are we going, Father?’ The wooden boards dug at her knees.