Weaving through a clump of trees she slowed, listening as Jack’s horse whinnied a few hundred yards away. Her leg ached, sweat dripped from her face and her feet were sore. When she looked again in Jack’s direction he was nowhere to be seen. Disconcerted and a little bewildered as to where she actually was, Squib sat heavily on the ground. There was a soft rustle of grass, the squeak of leather. Jack appeared, leading his horse by the reins.
‘I was wondering how far you’d get. Pretty impressive, kid. C’mon. Hop up. Old mate will give you a lift. We’re only about half a mile from the yards.’
Squib flew up onto the saddle, dragging her leg over the horse’s back, and waited for Jack to hand up her dropped crutches. He was still staring when she held out her hands for the reins.
‘I didn’t know you could ride.’ He kept the reins tight in his hand.
‘You never asked. Besides, everyone can ride.’
Jack lifted a bemused eyebrow. ‘I see you didn’t waste any time on repairing your clothes.’
‘Well, I’m handy to have around. This horse is pretty old.’ Squib patted the animal’s neck. ‘You can give me the reins.’ Jack wrapped the leather about his hand more securely.
From a distance the sheep yards appeared small yet well shaded. Two large box trees towered over the largest yards while a pretty pepper tree provided shade for the business end of the drafting race. They were pretty much the worst set of yards Squib had laid eyes on, and she’d seen plenty at the Purcells’.
‘What do you think?’ Jack led her on horseback through a series of yards towards the drafting race. It was a narrow affair with one side collapsing inwards, so that any self-respecting horny ram would baulk immediately and either go backwards or over the railings – any direction except straight ahead. Across the race two yards were full of sheep. The animals stood to attention, heads erect, the leaders stamping their hooves in disapproval. Warning puffs of dirt rose a few inches above the ground with each movement. Squib automatically picked out scrabble holes, where a canny ewe could escape, and broken railings. She noticed many of the gates were affixed with twine. Although Jack was obviously proud, Squib reckoned her father would say the yards weren’t worth a spit.
‘Are those sheep meant to be out there?’ She pointed to where sixty or so stragglers were feeding into the wind.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ Jack muttered, bashing his hat on his leg before sticking it firmly back on his head. ‘I’ve got 2000 of these ewes. I purchased them joined at the saleyard, and do you think I can find them all now? How am I gonna keep a handle on the flies?’
‘You open the gate, Jack, and I’ll ride around the back of them.’
‘They’ll take off.’
‘Not if we’re quick.’ Squib grabbed the reins from Jack and steered the horse around the yards, circumnavigating the escapees just as Jack reached the yard closest to them. He dragged the gate open, ducking around the opposite side of the escaped mob. It took time, but eventually the mob caught sight of their compatriots inside the yards and with a little cajoling they raced towards them, jumping into the air as they passed through the gate.
‘Thanks.’ Jack walked on ahead of her. ‘I thought you didn’t know about sheep.’
Back in the yards, Squib slid from the horse’s back. Jack passed her the crutches. ‘Where’s the shearing shed?’ she asked, ignoring his query.
‘On the other side of the creek.’ He hurdled a timber fence and began carrying fire wood from a pile back to the yard adjoining the race. Squib met him at the fence, shaking her head doubtfully. ‘I reckon we’re going to be busy come shearing time then if it’s just you and me doing the mustering. Is the shed far away? Is it big?’
Jack dumped the wood on the ground. ‘Big enough.’
He wasn’t going to need much of a shed with 2000 head, Squib decided. But then she figured you had to start somewhere. It might take Jack a while but he had land and sheep; one day he’d also have a thirty-stand shed with lanolin-smooth boards, large wool tables and sprawling yards that practically ate sheep up and spat them out naked the other end.
‘I need to make a fire to –’
‘To boil up the bluestone?’ Squib arranged the wood in a pile. ‘You haven’t been here long, have you, Jack?’
Jack piled the wood, scrunching bark, twigs and a handful of dry leaves into a protected hollow. His match flared and, with much cupping of hands across the weak flame and puffs of air, gradually a pale yellow flicker snuck across the dry tinder. They watched the growing fire in silence until it was ready for the old copper that lay upturned under the pepper tree. Jack sat it in the fire, adding water to it from a couple of empty ceramic rum flagons he’d filled from the creek over the preceding days.
‘Is your family from the bush, Jack?’
He poked at the fire. ‘Sydney.’
‘Syd-e-ney? Where’s Syd-e-ney?’
‘It’s south of here – a big city with a beautiful harbour that splits it in half. Well, not for long. They’re going to build a bridge that will unite the north side with the south.’ Unwrapping a block of bluestone he dropped it into the simmering water. ‘You know what a harbour is, don’t you?’
‘Of course, silly.’
Jack proceeded to push the sheep through three yards until they reached the area that fed into the drafting race. Clouds of dust billowed up from the trampling hoofs. The dirt stung Squib’s eyes and throat and settled on her sweaty skin. The ewes baulked at the narrower pen, and despite Jack’s best efforts he was soon cursing their stubbornness. Squib left the fire and walked slowly in the opposite direction to the ewes, her movement quickly spurring the sheep forwards. Jack glanced at her but said nothing.
They spent a good part of the day checking the ewes for flystrike. They filled the race and inspected each animal before turning them out the opposite end to escape to the grassy paddock beyond. The slightest discolouration of wool or dampness was double-checked by Jack’s probing fingers and then swabbed with the bluestone. Ten ewes were badly struck across their backs. Flies had already nested in the thick wool staple leaving a nest of maggots to eat away at soft flesh. Jack cut away at the worst areas with a pair of sharp shears, removing the matted wool so that the bluestone could be applied directly to the wound.
‘Shear it all the way back, Jack, until you’ve a ring of clean, dry wool around the wound.’
Jack looked up from the matted stench of maggoty wool. ‘Would you like to do it?’
Squib squashed the wiggling pale maggots with a stick as they fell to the ground. ‘My wrists aren’t strong enough.’
By the time their shadows were long on the ground the job was finished. Jack kicked the copper over, the blue water extinguishing the fire. Squib swallowed great gulps of water from the canvas bag, her hands tinged blue, her hair dark and matted with dust. When Jack mounted up, he pulled her up behind him. Her leg ached with exhaustion, however Squib wasn’t telling Jack.
Close to the hut Jack detoured through the trees. They moved through the lengthening shadows silently, the air growing fresher as the trees grew denser. Eventually they arrived at a small clearing further along the creek. It was here Jack had laid the foundations and framework for his four-roomed home. Two lines in the dirt marked an eventual covered walkway, which he intended to lead to a kitchen. ‘In case of fire,’ he explained as he led Squib around the perimeter of the building. ‘These wooden uprights are four feet in the dirt, packed solid.’ Taking hold of one of the tree trunks he gave it a quick shove. ‘I’ll mix up mud and grass, form them into bricks and make a proper waterproof wall.’
‘With no holes.’
Jack ruffled her hair. ‘No holes.’
Squib was impressed. Mr Purcell’s house was made of mud brick, which meant Jack was secretly rich. ‘It’s called pise.’
‘Well, aren’t you the know-all.’
They rode back to the hut in darkness. Squib figured they were due for a full moon. The stars hung low and bright, and beyo
nd the rim of the camp fire the shadowy scrub was quiet. Jack threw another piece of wood on the fire, the embers fizzing into the air. They chewed on salted mutton, exhausted. Squib knew this was one night when she’d sleep like a baby, at least for a bit of it. And if her father didn’t come for a while longer she reckoned that would be okay too. ‘My real name’s Cora.’ Squib scratched at the dirt by her side. ‘Cora Hamilton. I got called Squib on account of being small for my age and for being . . .’
‘Being what?’
‘Unimportant – at least that’s what Abigail and Jane said.’
Jack stretched his legs out. The sole of one of his boots was flapping. ‘Well, I think Cora’s a real fine name.’
Squib pointed at his boots. ‘You should be wrapping leather about them for protection; they’d last longer. Roo hide’s good.’
Jack passed Squib his pipe and tobacco pouch. ‘Better go shoot myself one. Guess you wouldn’t know how to tan it?’
‘Of course, silly. Everyone knows how to do that.’
Jack folded his arms around his knees. ‘If you weren’t here I’d learn from one of those books.’
‘Sure you would,’ Squib agreed.
‘I’ve been told there isn’t much spring or autumn out here. The weather doesn’t seem to be interested in a kindly lead into summer – or winter, for that matter.’ Jack lit the freshly packed pipe, took a puff and inclined his head in thanks.
‘My father always said it was important to keep a property’s stocking rates down. You know, on the conservative side. That way when a tight time comes around the ground isn’t already chewed out.’
Jack scraped bits of meat into the fire and gave the plate a lick. ‘For a kid you sure know a bit. I’ll be sorry to see you go.’
‘Go?’
‘Well, yes. The thing is, you do have your own family and as none of them have shown it’s best you go into town and see what the coppers can do for you.’
Squib was stunned. ‘I thought we were friends.’
Jack edged his way from the yellow flare of the fire. ‘I just want you to find your kin, Squib. Everyone deserves to have family.’
‘But I could stay and cook and clean and wait for my father to show up.’
Squib’s words floated in the night air as Jack walked away.
Chapter 26
Absolution Creek, 1965
Morning light glazed the condensation on the louvred glass shutters, competing with the flickering fire to turn the cypress floor into a variegated pattern of light and dark. It stretched towards the speckled bark of the leopardwood tree as two inquisitive field mice raced from their hidey-hole beneath the hardwood dresser to seek cover at the opposite end of the room. Returning to the paperwork on her desk, Cora checked the monthly outgoings in the station ledger. The only notable gains were in the form of Kendal, who admittedly could work like a Trojan, and he was currently doing so for free. The other bright spot was shearing. This year’s clip had been excellent, the prices obtained good. The result ensured the station bank account would be out of the red for at least seven months or so until the next payment was due. They had Montgomery 201 to thank for that. The prize stud ram purchased at great cost was the shining light in Cora’s flock improvement plan, and so far her gamble was paying off. In spite of these positive developments, the new bank manager, Mr Harris, had happily informed Cora only last month that they would no longer be willing to provide credit if Absolution Creek exceeded the agreed overdraft limit. It was inevitable that the previous manager would eventually retire, but after a banking relationship spanning thirty years it was still a shock for Cora. His departure came at a time when the banks were questioning their exposure to the fluctuating agricultural markets. The wool boom of the fifties was over, the season was iffy, and credit wasn’t something the banks were excited about.
She wrote out two cheques – one to the general store for their monthly account and the second to the rural produce and supply store. With no other major expenses until the delving of the dam, which was booked for late August, and the dipping of the flock six weeks after lambing finished, Cora anticipated they wouldn’t go beneath the bank agreed debt amount. That was a relief. There was more at stake now than a fight with the bank for a short-term loan. The previously amenable leasing relationship she’d enjoyed with the Farley Family Trust had ended with a new generation.
The leasing arrangement of Absolution Creek was a convoluted affair. Cora had renegotiated Jack Manning’s initial ten-year lease in 1933, an arrangement which, thanks to her not once defaulting on a payment, led to an ageing Mr Farley agreeing to a further fifteen-year lease of the property. With the Second World War falling into that period and then the dustbowl weather of the forties nearly blowing half of the bush out to sea, a further renegotiation in 1948 was easily accomplished. However, that was when the difficulties began for Cora.
Although thoughts of purchasing Absolution crossed her mind almost daily, Cora was afraid to take the step. Once the district became aware of the lease arrangement and her intention to buy the property, her past would be dug up and those people who had stayed quiet in the area for so long would surely complain. They wouldn’t want a woman such as herself owning Absolution, and Cora was convinced someone would draw the government’s attention to her existence. The 1948 lease signed by a widowed Mrs Farley continued past her death in 1960. Since then the twice-yearly payments required had been renegotiated and increased. Cora had little choice. The Farley Family Trust made no secret of their wish to end the leasing arrangement. Cora could either agree to the new terms or leave Absolution Creek. Her hand was being forced and there was little she could do. One payment default and she was out.
Cora shook away images of losing Absolution and checked the rest of the paperwork on her desk. There was her list for today’s shopping trip to Stringybark Point and an unopened letter addressed in an unknown hand. Unfolding the thick paper Cora scanned the contents.
‘Heavens.’
Jarrod Michaels was suing her for injuries sustained while in her employ. The phrases partial disability and loss of income were quickly followed by the amount of £50,000.
Pushing her chair out, Cora studied the tree as her heart steadied. It sprouted from the corner of the bedroom to rise up through the homestead like an ancient monolith. Grazing the edge of the partially sawn-off cypress ceiling, it extended into a shadowland of exposed roof beams and faint splinters of light before finally escaping through a circular hole in the corrugated-iron roof. Beyond this partial entombment it flung itself gloriously into sky and space to stand sentinel over her land. For how long?
Thanks to the bank and the Farleys, the property now teetered on a knife-edge. Fifty thousand pounds was too much; solicitors cost too much. Cora scrunched the letter into a ball and then flattened it out again. Ignoring the problem wouldn’t help the situation. A visit to her solicitor while in Stringybark Point was now required.
‘Damn it,’ she muttered.
From next door came the sound of running, then giggling. The twins were ready for town. It had become abundantly clear over the last few weeks that companionship was one thing, but it couldn’t be turned on and off like a tap. One moment the twins could be as quiet as baby pigeons asleep in a nest, the next as determined as wild cats seeking food. There was no in between, no appreciation of the silences, of the breaths between breaths. Penny and Jill were tiring and fascinating and sadly indicative of the changes from one generation to the next. When only five years older than the twins were now, Cora had assisted at the birth of her half-sister, Beth, carrying boiling water and swaddling clothes. That same day her young hands had swirled bloodied sheets in a boiling copper, and plucked black duck for dinner. She’d ridden bareback alone to find her father. Of course, those days were gone. So much of everything was gone.
‘Are you ready?’ Meg’s knock on the door and the opening of it occurred simultaneously. Her niece was dressed in a grey skirt and cream twinset, with a hint of blush a
nd a rose-coloured lipstick. The local matrons would be impressed.
‘Ready.’ Cora gathered the mail. ‘Have you got your list?’
‘Double-checked.’
‘Yeah, double-checked,’ Penny copied, skating to her mother’s side.
‘Me too,’ Jill agreed.
They were a matching pair dressed in red velour dresses and white tights. ‘Well then.’ Cora smiled. ‘Let’s go.’
In spite of the gradual decline in population over the decades, Stringybark Point remained a small yet prosperous centre. The main street juggled the standard assortment of businesses, with the post office, bank and the long-running offices of Grey’s Solicitors deemed the town’s historic buildings. Cora parked outside the General Store, amused at the level of excitement a trip to town generated. The twins were desperate to get out of the car, desperate to visit the park further along the street and desperate to get inside the store. They scrambled from the vehicle in a flurry of red and white, long plaits flying. Eventually all four of them were standing on the kerb, Meg and Cora discussing their list of jobs.
‘I’m a bit underdressed,’ Meg commented as two women similar in age walked by, neatly attired in serviceable suits, hats and gloves. ‘Did you see how they stared at me?’ she remarked as the women walked across the road to the post office.
‘Oh, I don’t think it’s you.’ Cora slipped the car keys into her pocket.
Another group of townsfolk walked by. Cora recognised one of the older women as a particular friend of James’s mother, Eloise. She smiled a greeting and received a curt nod in reply.
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