‘Walk around until you feel the wind on your face, then make a hollow at the base of it. Add some dry leaves and twigs. See?’ He hollowed an area and made a nest of grass and twigs and then, with a burning branch from one pile, lit the new one. ‘Can you do that?’
‘Of course.’ She gritted her teeth as she circled the next pile and then, finding the wind’s direction, carefully made a nest. The lighting of it proved more difficult. The splint on her leg prevented her from bending over so she slid to the ground.
‘Blow on it. A fire needs a bit of fanning. Didn’t your father teach you anything?’
The question hung between them. Squib wondered how many days a woman had to put up with a man’s mood. ‘He told me there’s no need to be grumpy.’ The fire caught quickly, crackling loudly as it wove through branches and leaves. When her father was in a bad mood he was like Jack: not wanting to talk to anyone, and only remembering half of what you told him. Her real mother once said that when a man grew sullen and cranky a woman had to let him alone; let the problem work out of his skin. Squib reckoned she’d have to do the same with Jack Manning.
Flecks of charcoal dirtied the creases around Jack’s eyes. ‘What’s the place you’re from like?’
Squib crawled backwards from the fire and drew a rough map in the dirt. ‘There are hills to the east of us, a big river and lots of paddocks fanning out like this.’ She drew a myriad of box shapes. ‘Mr Purcell grew sheep. Ain’t lots of trees like here. Father says they were rung years ago, although he still sends men out scrub-cutting near the slopes.’
‘You can’t possibly remember all those paddocks.’
‘Why not?’ Squib looked at the map; it was pretty good. ‘Maybe the ridge paddock is more square.’ Squib straightened the line with her finger and sat back to study her handiwork.
Jack glanced from the map to the girl and back again. ‘You know anything about sheep?’
Squib knew from experience it was best not to be too capable else you’d soon be working like a dog. She crossed her fingers behind her back. ‘Nope.’
Jack’s almost hopeful expression sunk to disinterest. Soon he was back swinging an axe and piling up scrub. Squib would have liked to have told Jack about Mr Purcell’s sheep and about Waverly No. 4 and the shilling coin, but she figured there would be time enough for that. Besides, he had to be in a better mood first, otherwise it would be just like her mother said: he wouldn’t remember anything.
Around mid-afternoon every afternoon, when the flies were settling on backs and faces, Jack read for a few hours before heading to the creek. The book he read was the Bible and Squib sure wasn’t showing interest in that, not after Abigail’s attempts at churchifying them. Instead she too took refuge from the day’s heat inside the hut, resting her leg and eye by sleeping during the long afternoons. By the time the sun was weaving its way through the trees, boredom usually set in and Squib took to trailing Jack to the creek. He reminded Squib of Ben: half-daydreaming and doing boys’ stuff; including her only when he needed help.
Squib hid behind a tree while Jack set his traps and threw in a line. She watched as he settled beneath a low-hanging branch. He perched himself on his fishing log, a line in one hand, a book in the other.
‘You don’t have to hide up there.’
Squib pressed her lips together. She’d been as quiet as a mouse. ‘I don’t like the water.’ She moved to sit five feet further down the bank, spitting on her ankle where a stick had grazed it and then throwing a branch into the water. A ripple formed across the surface.
‘Squib. Don’t.’
Squib thought of the times she’d fought to be heard amidst the clamour of her own family and wondered if Jack’s family were like him. Maybe they didn’t speak much either, except in short bursts.
‘Hot doggedy.’ Jack gave a toothy smile as he landed a fat yellow belly.
‘It’s a good one,’ Squib agreed as Jack grasped the thrashing fish, cut its head off and split him clean down the middle. ‘Yuk!’ she exclaimed as the guts spilled out onto the sand.
‘You say that now,’ Jack commented, running a knife blade against the silvery skin, ‘but wait till you’ve tasted it.’ Scales glistened on the hairs of Jack’s hand as he washed the fish clean in the creek. ‘Wrap it in that piece of wet calico.’ He passed the fish to Squib, who fumbled with her crutches and dropped it in the dirt.
‘Squib!’
‘No need to get crotchety.’ Squib wrapped the fish securely in the wet cloth, smiling at Jack. He’d already turned his back, concentrating on his fishing.
‘Jack?’
‘Hmm?’
‘I can’t remember what my father looks like anymore.’
Jack’s hand twitched. He was playing tug-o-war with another fish. ‘Me neither.’
The box tree dappled the water with sunlight, as Squib rested her hand lightly on Jack’s shoulder for balance. There were so many questions sitting unasked in her head, like a dusty shelf spilling over with piled-up objects. Where was Jack’s father, for instance, and how come Jack hadn’t mentioned him before? And why was he out here all alone? She kept staring up into the leaves, her hand on his shoulder, comforted by the knowledge that Jack Manning wasn’t grumpy at her. Like Squib he was just sad.
When Jack caught the next fish it flapped and splashed its way from the creek, spraying them in an arc of water before landing with a thud in the sand. They both squatted back on their feet, and looked at the large fish glistening on the bank. Their eyes met across their dinner.
‘You hungry?’ Jack gutted the fish quickly, stowing it in the damp calico. Before Squib could answer, her stomach rumbled. Jack burst out laughing.
Squib was prodding at one of the smouldering heaps the morning Adams arrived. The smoke spiralled up around her as she flicked at a lady beetle, coercing it to safety. The gruff coo-ee echoed above the crackle of the fire, and at the sound of the unknown voice Squib ducked behind the heap. Jack gave an answering yell and was quick to leave his cutting and walk to where the man tethered his horses to a hollow tree stump. The stranger was shorter than Jack, with a black beard reaching to his chest and a thick-legged stride. As the men disappeared into the hut Squib limped as quickly as she could past two pack horses, their saddle bags bulging, to the rear of the hut where she slid down against the timber walls in the hope of eavesdropping.
‘Appeared like some wraith in the mud of the creek after the flood,’ Jack explained. ‘Nearly scared the ghost out of me she did. Most of her hair had been shorn off and I thought it was a boy until I saw the dress; she even called me God. I thought she was done for.’
‘Well, that’s the strangest story I’ve heard tell.’ The man’s voice was scratchy and slow.
‘I’d say her folks reckon she would have drowned.’ Jack cleared his throat. ‘The kid thinks her father will be looking for her. But he would have given up by now.’
Squib clenched her hand over her mouth.
‘Depends,’ the gruff man answered.
‘She says she fell off the back of a wagon.’
‘Hmm, she probably did. Either that or she was pushed.’
Squib squished her nose against the timber. Adams had a perfectly round face and a pink tongue that darted out of the furry blackness, like a small animal.
‘She’s got a problem with one eye. The way she looks at me sometimes I don’t think she can see out of it clearly.’ Jack got a bottle and poured a splash of something into two glasses Squib had not seen before. She figured they were Jack’s special things from the piled-up goods and trunk against the wall. ‘It looks to me like she was either kicked by a horse when she fell from the dray or it ran over her.’ Jack took a sip of his drink. ‘I put a splint on her leg. I’m no doctor but by the way the kid yelped when I first examined it I reckon it’s either fractured or broken, or both.’
‘Well, you’ve done your best. Who knows how far she travelled downstream, Jack. Did you ask her what the country looked like where she comes fro
m? If it was flat or hilly?’ Adams took a good slug of the dark liquid.
‘Hilly. She mentioned people by the name of Purcell.’ Jack sipped his own drink.
Squib thought his voice sounded hopeful. She pressed her ear against the timber.
‘Purcell, Purcell. Seems familiar.’ The sound of coarse scratching was loud in the hut. Adams’s fingers disappeared into his beard. ‘Course there are the Waverly Station Purcells. You know, the ones that own that ram on the shilling coin. But I can’t imagine she’d be from there. Anyway, those Purcells run a tidy show from what I hear and they wouldn’t be bothered with the likes of some waif after her family had done left.’
Unfortunately Squib knew Adams was right. The Purcells weren’t any good to her now.
‘It’s not like she’s gentry,’ Jack added.
Adams slurped from the glass. ‘I reckon you’re right, Jack. The parents would think she’d drowned or some such.’ He gave a throaty cough. ‘She’d be an orphan then. What age is she?’
Jack hesitated. ‘Maybe twelve, thirteen.’
‘Nearly fourteen,’ Squib mouthed, tears stinging her sore eye.
‘I was hoping you’d take her back to Stringybark Point and telegraph the right people. Maybe one of the town women would take her in while the authorities tried to find her kin; one of the publicans?’
‘Maybe.’ Adams didn’t sound convinced. ‘Don’t go much on them women in them pubs. Oh, they’re good for a banging and a bit of information when a man needs to know the happenings about him, otherwise . . . I suppose I could ask Lorraine. I’m a bit on and off with her.’
‘Well, she can’t stay here with me.’
‘I reckon they’ll pack her off to some orphanage in Sydney. That’s the place for a kid like that. Eventually they’ll put her out to work and then she’ll have to fend for herself. When’s your woman and brother arriving?’
The breath left Squib’s throat in a tight squeeze.
Jack gazed about the sparse cottage. ‘My brother wrote to say Olive had fallen ill, but she’s recovering well. As it turns out I’ve only managed the foundations on the house so I’ll be pleased when I have some help. I can’t manage it what with looking after the sheep and clearing country as well.’
‘They’ve been slow to arrive,’ Adams pried. ‘I’m guessing it takes a bit to coerce a woman out here. Anyway, I can’t understand why you don’t move into the homestead over the creek.’
Jack swatted at a fly. ‘I thought Olive would like a brand new house, not some old wreck. She’s used to better.’
Adams looked about the dingy interior of the hut. ‘The girl could be helpful, you know, especially out here, and you with a city-bred woman.’
‘A man gets used to being alone, and with a girl and all, well it’s not right. She’s of an age where –’
Adams winked. ‘Got an inkling for her, eh, Jack? Nothing wrong with that. I meself have taken to a bit of young skirt on occasion. Me own brother married a fourteen-year-old. They’re good breeders – young and strong – and before a man knows it he’s got a ready-made work force. Worth considering.’
Squib’s good eye widened.
Jack put the cork in the bottle. Adams wet his lips and drained his glass. ‘I just don’t think Olive would take to her. It’ll be hard enough for her to get used to being away from Sydney. She wasn’t born to the likes of this, and then to be lumped with a lost girl . . . Well, I just don’t want to make things more difficult for her.’
Adams placed his glass on the table. ‘Tell you what. Once I’ve finished my run I’ll swing by and pick her up in a month or so. You never know, if a kid can make themselves a bit useful it’s a different story.’
‘No sooner?’
Squib thought about the afternoon at the creek. Weren’t they friends?
‘I’ve got myself a returned soldier who took up with a full blood a few years back. They tell me the fella’s got a few loose in the top paddock, but a man can’t be worrying about a fella’s mentality when there’s a job to be done.’
Jack took a swig of water and offered the canvas bag to Adams. ‘What’s the job?’
‘Two half-caste children.’ Adams sloshed water down his throat, beard and shirt. The liquid sparkled in the dark fuzz of his face. ‘We can’t have this sort of cohabiting going on, Jack. Them half-castes will be sent somewhere to be looked after, maybe even a good white person’s home so they can be reared proper.’
Adams left after a drink of tea and a bit of damper. He had a half-day’s ride to the next property, and told Jack that if he timed things right a bed and a feed were provided. Squib was pleased to see him leave. She didn’t like the way he looked about the outside of Jack’s hut as if he were visiting Mr Purcell’s chook pen.
‘A man gets a hankering for something different now and then that he hasn’t had to kill with his own hand.’ Jack poured tea from a spluttering billy into a tin pannikin. The camp fire glowed hot and bright. They sat apart from it, chewing on stringy salted mutton delivered by Adams, along with fried potatoes and johnnycakes made by Squib.
‘How’d you know how to do that?’ Jack blew on the little damper cakes, which were sweet and soft.
‘I know how to do a lot of things.’ Finishing her mouthful, Squib took a sip of the tea. As usual it was overbrewed and too strong. ‘I don’t want to go to an orphanage. I want to stay here.’
Jack wrapped the joint of mutton up in a swathe of calico. ‘You been sticky-beaking?’
‘If I go my father won’t find me.’ The tears were running down her cheeks, regardless of inclination.
‘Well, you’ve already been here for a few weeks, Squib. He hasn’t found you yet.’ Slurping his tea, Jack kicked the ends of a log into the crackling flames.
‘And I d-don’t want to l-live with whores.’
‘Well you can’t stay here,’ Jack said softly. ‘And there’s no point getting upset.’
‘Why not? Why can’t I stay?’
‘Because it’s not proper. You should be at school or something.’ Jack scraped his plate and tossed the contents of the pannikin on the fire, the liquid sizzling.
Squib poked at her food. ‘I’ve been schooled. I had my learners. I know how to write and read. Anyway, maybe your wife would want me.’ She began undoing the splints on her leg.
Jack looked up from his book. ‘You don’t want to stay here, Squib. I can’t look after you. Hell, I can barely care for myself. Hey, don’t undo that!’
‘My leg’s itchy. Anyway, if you build a house with a fireplace I can cook on that. I can cook corn meat, mutton, pig and rabbit.’
‘You should be in a town with other kids your own age.’
‘If you got a copper I could do your washing.’
‘Maybe if you were in a town your father would have a better chance of finding you.’
‘Do you believe that, Jack?’ Frowning, Squib untied the last strip of material from her injured leg. It looked paler and smaller compared to her other one, as if shrunk from lack of use.
Jack began stuffing his pipe. ‘Of course.’
She looked at him doubtfully, whipped the pipe from his hands and began packing it as her father had taught her. ‘I was washed down the crick. If I was washed down the crick then my father will ride along the crick until he finds me.’
‘How do you know that?’
Squib fiddled with the hem of her dress. There were two new holes in the skirt and a worn patch in the back of it, which she could see when she dunked it in the wash barrel and held it up to the light. ‘I can cook and clean and look after babies. I looked after Beth when she was just a wee thing.’
‘How’s your leg?’ Jack took his pipe and lit it with a glowing twig from the embers. The tobacco flared nicely.
‘Fine!’ Squib wiggled her toes. Her leg felt stiff. She stood shakily, only using one crutch for support. Gingerly she placed her weight evenly across both her legs. The pain was gone to be replaced with a dull ache.
&nbs
p; ‘I left a bit of material out with a needle and thread. They’re sitting on the tin trunk. I thought maybe you could patch your dress.’
Squib gritted her teeth and began walking slowly towards the hut to fetch the sewing things. ‘I’ll sleep out here.’
There was no moon – only the whirr of insects and the tang of smoke from the smouldering scrub to keep her company. Cocooned beside the fire, Squib stitched material across the holes in her dress as she imagined playing blind man’s bluff with Ben or skylarking down at the stables. Even his face was fading. It was as if being swept down the creek had gradually washed away all memory of her family. Squib tried not to think of them. She tried not to cry. She knew Jack wouldn’t like her to cry. He’d think she was a baby, and he and Adams already thought she was just a kid. A kid nobody wanted. A kid who was lost. A kid who would never be found by her father. As Squib’s eyes filled with tears the myriad stars blurred together until a sea of whiteness danced before her. She dreamt of running away, but the dream ended in a strange land where her days were spent tearing at green shoots of grass with her teeth, of fighting with the kangaroos for a soft hollow at night, of ending up a pile of sun-shrunk bones.
The next morning Squib washed her face in the water barrel. Her eye was better now but it still didn’t like daylight much, and only stopped weeping when the sun sank to the other side of the world. There was no chopping noise coming from the scrub; no smoky scent winding itself towards her on the wind; no Jack. A pile of horse manure, still warm when Squib held her hand over it, marked the track eastwards and she set off into the path of the rising sun. She could move a lot faster with two crutches, and with her leg freed of the splint she managed a half-hop, half-step which was almost a slow run. Soon she was travelling through a paddock scattered with timber and knee-high grass, the butts of the plants tinged the palest green. Her leg quickly began to ache from the exertion, yet the rush of adrenalin spurred her onwards. Bush quail scampered across her path. Off towards the south-east an ambling horse and rider disappeared into the scrubby horizon. Squib, eager to catch up, placed a little more weight on her injured leg.
Absolution Creek Page 22