‘Happy bunch,’ Meg observed as the twins rushed to their reflections in the shop window.
‘Women in moleskins and work shirts don’t fit into their view of the world,’ Cora explained. ‘In fact, I don’t fit into their view of the world.’
‘What dear children,’ a shopper said as she stepped out of the General Store, a bulging brown bag on each hip. Pausing, she watched the twins as they twirled in front of the shop’s glass window.
‘Bloody bastard,’ Penny chimed, mimicking her father’s voice.
‘Good heavens.’ The shopper heaved the bags a little higher and left quickly.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ Meg called after her. ‘I don’t think we should have come, Cora.’
‘Rubbish!’ Cora laughed. ‘You go and get the groceries. I’ll drop the mail off and meet you back at the car in an hour.’
‘Come on, girls,’ Meg called to the twins. ‘I want you to be on your best behaviour. If you’re good I’ll buy you a lolly each.’
‘Really?’ Jill swayed from side to side. Meg nodded. Bribery usually worked. On the other side of the road the same two women with their pert hats and gloves departed the post office, stepping from the kerb and detouring in an obvious effort to avoid Cora. They crossed the road and, spying Meg, headed directly towards her, offering polite hellos.
‘I hope you don’t mind us asking,’ one of the women began, her white handbag strung across her arm like the Queen. ‘We noticed you talking to Cora Hamilton and we wondered what she was like.’
‘And how you know her?’ her ash blonde friend added. ‘You must be terribly brave.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Well, everybody knows of Cora Hamilton.’ The white handbag slid to the crook of the bearer’s arm. ‘And she looks like such a nice person.’
‘Tomboyish but nice,’ the handbag’s friend corrected. ‘What we were really wondering was if it was true.’
Confused, Meg looked from one woman to the other. ‘If what were true?’
‘If there really is a tree growing in the middle of her house?’ the ash blonde asked.
‘And if she really does ride with the ghost of her dead lover at midnight,’ her friend said excitedly.
‘What?’ Meg looked down at her daughters; their faces were agog. ‘Please, my children.’
‘And –’
‘Go on, ask her.’
‘No, you ask her.’ Ash-blond hair was tucked behind an ear.
‘Fine.’ The handbag was grasped securely beneath a woollen-clad armpit. ‘Well, everyone knows that Cora Hamilton was left Absolution Creek by Jack Manning. The talk is that she bewitched him all that time ago; that’s how she got the property. So we’re wondering, as no self-respecting man in his right mind would go near her, do you think she did the same thing to James Campbell?’
Meg took each of the twins’ hands. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t follow.’
The handbag switched arms. ‘Bewitched him? Well, did she?’
‘He’s so dreamy,’ the ash blonde concluded. ‘It’s such a waste.’
Meg wasn’t sure what world she’d stepped into. Giving polite excuses she dragged the twins through the plastic flyscreen strips and into the General Store. A row of tables and chairs lined one side of the shop and a sign read, Best vanilla milkshakes in the north-west. The storekeeper behind the counter wiped his hands busily on a white apron and beamed a greeting.
‘Well, well. I was wondering when she’d let you into town; you and your little ’uns. There you go, girls.’ He extended a large glass jar over the counter. The twins accepted the stick candy eagerly and with bulging cheeks began inspecting the comic rack next to the newspapers and magazines. ‘We’re so used to boxing up a standard monthly order that sometimes we forget people actually live out at Absolution Creek.’ He wiped his hands for the fourth time. ‘So then, how are things going out there?’
‘Fine, thank you,’ Meg answered cautiously. ‘Like all properties.’ She made a show of examining the wares behind the counter. Assorted cookery items such as egg beaters and saucepans were strung from the ceiling; dry goods were on shelves, while under glass sat fresh sausages, cooked meatloaf sold by the slice and a myriad mutton chops.
The shopkeeper gave a knowing smile. ‘Yes, but you’re not on any property, my dear. You’re on Cora Hamilton’s Absolution Creek.’
‘So it seems,’ Meg replied, passing the shopkeeper her list.
Chapter 27
The North West Plains, 1965
The cold air bit at Scrubber’s throat. Not even the collar of his oilskin could keep the wind from that most delicate of crevices in his neck. Spurring Veronica onwards he rode without a break. Groaning helped alleviate the pain. Biting the back of his hand until his skin bled distracted him. Abusing Dog to hurry and keep up also relieved the discomfort.
Dog bailed up at noon. Since then he’d been perched on Scrubber’s swag atop Samsara, a rope lacing him down lest he doze off and forget where he was. The cold eventually forced Scrubber to make camp early. Having finished the wallaby leg he’d been chewing on for the better part of a week, Scrubber was of a mind to catch some pigeon. He wasn’t a dietician but even he knew it was important to vary his food a bit. He’d even gone so far as to buy a couple of apples from a homestead, although he’d had to mush it up a bit like an old woman. The signs weren’t good. Even his throat was starting to close up on him.
Scrubber let the horses wander across the grassy flat while he scattered a bit of damper on the ground and backed off twenty paces to sit at the base of a wilga tree. The birds were twittering through the spiky branches of the surrounding timber and it was some time before a couple of topknot pigeons landed on the ground. If he’d had the materials Scrubber would have done the whole exercise properly, with a crate and a piece of string. Instead he sucked in his breath and waited for the pain in his guts to subside. Then he popped one pigeon in the head and blew the wing off his mate who had come to investigate the ruckus.
‘Sorry about that,’ Scrubber said as he lifted the mangled bodies and carried them away from the hunting ground.
With a fire going and the partially plucked birds roasting whole, Scrubber draped his swag blanket over some bushes. He’d not been near water for two days, but with all the signs of a dewy morning brewing he could rely on a sodden blanket for a morning cuppa. He stocked up on fallen timber to ensure the fire stayed good and hot, and cut belah branches for extra warmth. If he layered the branches above and below him he could be assured of a warm night. Splitting the pigeons down the middle with a knife, he scooped up the cooked innards and then chewed the carcasses, bones and all. He was a guzzler for a bit of bird meat and hot black tea; Veronica’s favourite. Ah, Veronica. Occasionally he did miss the old ball and chain. He remembered the day they got together like it was yesterday.
‘You came back then?’ Veronica stated with obvious surprise.
Scrubber turned to see the young woman with a basket of eggs over her arm. She was standing in the dirt. Dobbs needled him in the side with his elbow.
Lighting a smoke he leant against the stable door. ‘Wouldn’t have got my pay otherwise.’
‘Go on,’ Dobbs whispered over his shoulder. ‘You won’t get better out here.’
Scrubber walked out into a morning glazed with heat. The distant paddocks were hazy, the usual twittering birds quiet. He never was one for a stillness that made you look over your shoulder.
Veronica rubbed at an ankle with her toes. ‘Things sure changed after you went scrub-cutting.’
The girl’s blouse and skirt, although clean, were worn in places. Scrubber figured she’d be lucky to be sixteen. ‘I reckon.’ Matt was on the run, the kid was gone – dead most likely – and there was a new overseer. He took another look at her, a good slow one. Either Veronica appeared better now compared to a few months back or he’d been in the scrub too long. ‘Pity ’bout Matt.’ That was why he’d come back. To find out if Dobbs had any news.
Veronica gave a series of sniffs, finally dislodging whatever troubled her. ‘Yeah, I heard youse were particular friends with him. How will you go with the new overseer then? Evans.’
Scrubber took a drag of his smoke. The girl held out her hand for it and reluctantly he passed it across. ‘Don’t reckon I will. Reckon I’ll hand in my notice and head to the hills for a bit.’ He rubbed at his neck and shoulders. ‘I’m no full-time scrub-cutter.’
Veronica puffed and coughed, fiddled with the eggs in the basket, and waited as Dobbs left with two horses strung out behind him.
‘There’s a storm coming,’ Dobbs warned. ‘Youse better get to some shelter. I’ll go double-check on Waverly No. 4.’
Veronica brushed the cook and bottlewasher’s words away with a flick of her wrist. ‘Dobbs would have told you then ’bout what happened. That uppity Abigail Hamilton stole Mrs Purcell’s necklace and then cleared off. Mr Purcell was real disappointed in your friend, Matt. Anyway, Mr Purcell put the black trackers onto them when the coppers had no luck. They caught up with them and now she’s in gaol. Imagine stealing from Mrs Purcell. They still hang people, you know.’
Scrubber spat a strand of tobacco into the dirt. ‘Only for murders and such like. Anyway, I just don’t understand how they could accuse her.’ He took a breath. ‘I heard there wasn’t any proof.’
Veronica took a step closer, real confidential like. ‘Why, cause Mrs Purcell employed her on account of the fact she was an edumacated woman.’ She gave a matter-of-fact nod. ‘She could read, and Mrs Purcell she’s real lonely, so Abigail Hamilton would sit up there in the big house and read to her of an afternoon. Perfect opportunity, that’s what Mr Evans said. Imagine being paid to read.’
Scrubber snatched the cigarette back, took an angry puff and stamped it out under his boot. The wind gusted over them, swirling dust into the air. Beyond the stables low brown cloud was rushing towards him. The wind picked up and Scrubber screwed his eyes against the flying grit.
‘I’ll never get back in time,’ Veronica cried out, suddenly anxious, as strands of hair flipped about her face.
‘Back for what?’
‘To get out of that.’ She pointed at a dense brown haze that was already upon them, dimming the daylight to a rust colour. ‘Dobbs was right. It’s a dust storm.’
The wind howled, shaking the corrugated iron on the stables. Dust choked the air. Dirt began to invade the whorls of Scrubber’s ears and nose, to get into his eyes. He pulled Veronica into the stables, eggs and basket flying, and together they managed to shut the double doors. They dropped the wooden cross bar to lock it and set about closing the single shutter window before backing away into the middle of the ten-stall structure. Timber and iron groaned above and around them.
‘Will it hold?’ Veronica looked anxiously at the visibly moving roof.
‘Buggered if I know,’ Scrubber yelled as the stables filled with dust. He could almost swear something was being thrown against the timber walls. Dirt was mounding up beside the door. Red dirt the colour of which Scrubber had never seen seeped inside. The world turned dark. They ran to the middle stall to crouch amidst tamped dirt and aged manure.
‘Is it the reckoning?’ Veronica asked, huddled beside him.
Scrubber had to think about that one. He’d done some bad things in his life but . . . ‘Nuh, don’t reckon. That’s meant to be thunderbolts and fire and stuff.’ Dirt and dust layered them. Veronica started coughing and couldn’t stop. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ He could barely see her.
‘Can’t, can’t breathe,’ she wheezed.
Damn it all, Scrubber mumbled. ‘You going to be right or what?’ He reached a hand out towards her. She was lying in the dirt. ‘Hey girl, sit up.’ That was all he needed. He put his cheek to her mouth, a hand on her heart. That’d be the next thing: she would die and the blame would be his. Scrubber looked through the haze of thick dust – inside or out would make little difference. Best they were apart when they found her.
Carrying Veronica to the door, he lifted the latch and shoved it open against the mass of dirt. She awoke, gasping for air and wheezing, and he dragged her along the side of the stables using the shaking wall for guidance. She clung to his body like a frightened bird and when they finally reached the yards he decided against dumping her. He pushed Veronica through the railings, going on memory as to the direction they should be heading. The wind was beginning to lessen; the girl was livening up. The yards were a swirl of murky brown objects. Reaching the water trough, Scrubber quickly lifted the girl and dumped her in. She spluttered and drank, and coughed and complained, until finally the wheezing eased and she had the strength to slap him across the face.
‘Eh, what’s that for? I saved your life!’
Veronica scrambled from the trough and slid down by the water tank. Now she was crying. Scrubber didn’t have much experience with the crying types. Dunking his own head in the water he stripped off his shirt and wet it good and proper. ‘Here.’ He sat beside her and flipped the wet shirt over their heads. ‘Breathe through this, it’ll keep some of the dust out.’ It was difficult not to look at the outline of her breasts, at the sodden material moulding her thighs. He wrapped his arm about her waist and pulled her closer. The girl was a misery of dust. ‘Where you from then, eh?’
‘T-Tamworth.’
‘Well then, you and me, we’ve got something in common,’ Scrubber lied, squeezing her about the waist. He turned his face to hers, and rested his hand on her thigh.
‘I’m starving h-hungry.’
Scrubber licked his lips clean of dirt and dust. ‘So am I.’
Chapter 28
Absolution Creek, 1965
They drove away from the homestead in the old blue Holden utility, with Sam squashed between Kendal and Harold on the bench seat. The road was shadowed by the line of native trees. Extending out from the base of each gnarled trunk was an expanse of frost-free ground. The remainder of the thinly grassed paddock was glassy with cold. Even the chook house was quiet, the inhabitants fluffed and hidden deep within their roost. A frost layered the house paddock gate, strings of ice hanging like shredded paper from the frame. Sam wondered why Harold persisted in starting so darn early when anyone in their right mind would have been snuggled in bed with a cuppa.
The radio was playing a Dean Martin song, ‘Pour the Wine’. It had been a while since his last drink – a single rum and milk with Cora and Meg to mark six weeks on the property – and despite the early hour Sam swallowed. Cora had quickly got a whiff of his sneaky drinking and hidden her stash, which left Sam to keeping a bottle in the bedroom. It was an easier alternative, except when you ran out and the fortnightly trip to town was a few days away.
Harold switched the radio off, wound down the window and began whistling. Already the customary silence that marked the start to their days irked Sam. On average Harold needed a good ten minutes before he could construct a complete sentence. This early morning reticence was usually complemented by coughing, whistling and . . . there it was: the worst smell in the world. Sam reckoned Harold could power his own vehicle with the amount of methane he produced. Harold wound his window up. Like clockwork Kendal wound his down.
The utility moved along the pot-holed road at a slow pace. It seemed every few hundred yards they were stopping for something: cows, kangaroos, wallabies, sheep, even birds. As usual nothing seemed to be particularly interested in getting out of their way. It was as if the ute was part of the bushland; a pale blue inhabitant in a winter grey world. Kangaroos in particular were in the nasty habit of jumping directly in front of them, like crazed kamikaze animals. Why Harold just didn’t put his hand on the horn Sam couldn’t understand. This sort of driving wouldn’t cut it in the city. People had places to be. Harold wound his window down again. The blast of cold air from both sides knocked Sam breathless. Ahead the road was physically barred by two Hereford bulls camped in the middle of it.
‘They like the warmth of the road,’ Harold explaine
d as the utility bumped off the track to avoid the animals.
They turned right to drive along a fence line as the sun struggled over the horizon. In the distance came the sound of a sharp crack, then another. Sam jumped. ‘What in the name of Moses was that?’
Harold shifted down a gear. ‘That’d be your boss.’
‘My boss?’
‘Yeah,’ Kendal drawled, ‘the one and only Cora Hamilton.’
‘She goes out shooting of a morning,’ Harold revealed.
‘Of a morning. Half the night more like it,’ Kendal corrected. ‘Mad as a cut snake that one.’
‘Kendal.’
‘Well she does, Uncle. She gets up when the rest of us normal people are still in bed, saddles that poor horse of hers and takes off into the bush. It’s just not natural.’
Sam knew Cora was a bit of a night owl. He’d heard her stalking the house on numerous occasions and she was never around at breakfast, which didn’t bother him. However, midnight rides were out of his comfort zone. ‘Why does she get up so early?’
‘Ask some of the locals – they’ve got some interesting takes on that.’ Kendal flicked a dried piece of snot out the window.
Ahead a white mound of earth came into view. Harold drove straight towards it, picking a track through a stand of stringy saplings, and headed straight up the degraded incline. The sides of the dam were deeply cracked. They breached the top of the bank, and Harold slowly drove down the other side. Sitting in the middle seat, Sam was flung from one set of shoulders to another as the utility navigated the deeply eroded bank. The dam had been fenced in. A muddy pool of water filled a tiny section of it, and a number of carcasses – ragged flaps of protruding bone and dark hide – straddled the remains of the water hole.
‘Well, bugger it.’
Sam quickly saw the cause of Harold’s annoyance. A live emu struggled feebly, caught in the fence. Feet away a calf had not been so lucky.
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