‘Must ’ave ducked in through that broken wire.’ As Harold spoke a cow appeared from amid the prickly briar bush on the other side. ‘One of the bulls got in with some of the old girls before the joining date. There’s a handful of young’uns that have dropped in the last week. Too damn early to be calving, probably froze to death.’
‘Hypothermia,’ Kendal agreed.
On their approach the cow bolted back into the bush. ‘Beats me why they come here when there’s a bore drain not half a mile on.’ Harold stopped the vehicle near the edge of the dam. ‘There’s rope in the back. You boys pull that dead calf out and I’ll put the old runner out of his misery.’ Harold fetched his 22-calibre rifle from behind the bench seat, loaded the magazine and let off a single shot. The emu dropped like a stone.
Sam tossed a coin. ‘Heads for staying dry.’ The metal landed with a thud in the dirt. Swearing roughly, Kendal took his boots off and walked straight into the dam to loop the rope around the calf’s neck. ‘Righto.’ Together he and Sam pulled on the rope until the ooze of the mud loosened its hold and freed the stiff body. They dragged the calf up the embankment, leaving it to the crows. Kendal poured water on his feet and hands from a bottle, shook himself like a dog and redressed. ‘Unreal,’ he muttered. ‘Here I am, the unpaid worker, and I’m the one covered in mud and shit.’
Sam sniggered.
Kendal picked dried mud from the backs of his hand. ‘You’re only here cause of your missus.’
‘That’s enough,’ Harold ordered. He cut the wire trapping the emu with pliers, and the bird slumped heavily. ‘Get the gear out of the back and get to it.’
Sam began rummaging around in the tool box. Next to it, Harold’s foam esky was tied up with an old leather belt, and a large thermos was strapped on top. Sam’s own lunchbox was rattling around on the dash, minus the thermos. Distracted by whining children, half-cooked eggs and a wife who’d let the wood stove dwindle to nothingness, he’d left it on the kitchen table. His head was pounding; he really needed a drink.
‘Well, come on, then,’ Kendal called. ‘Have you found the pliers?’
Sam gritted his teeth. ‘Here, catch.’ The metal pliers spiralled through the air to land with a thud at Kendal’s feet.
‘Hey, they could have hit me!’
Harold looked up from where he was repairing the wire spinner. Although the fence was well past its prime he grudgingly admitted that some of the wire could be reused, just as Cora suspected. No doubt she’d been out in the dark, spotlight in hand, to make sure. Kendal was busy sniping at the short lengths of wire that held the barb to the tops of the upright iron posts while Sam was testing the strength of the posts with his own weight. Harold lifted the wire spinner as a loud ‘coo-ee’ echoed through the scrub. A mob of pigs rushed out of the tangle of undergrowth. Close on their heels came a half-dozen trotting cows and a handful of bounding kangaroos. The menagerie converged up the dam bank towards the startled men. Harold waited patiently by the utility, Sam raced for a tree and Kendal was caught between the fence and an irate cow. The pigs and remaining cows soon scattered, leaving Kendal with nowhere to go. The trembling cow put her head down and charged. Kendal dived over the fence and rolled awkwardly into boggy silt.
‘Nice one.’ Sam let out a bellow of laughter that set Harold chuckling as the cow trotted away.
Kendal dragged himself out of the mud, reaching the dry bank on his hands and knees. When he finally stood he found Cora staring at him, a grin on her face and a freshly shot bush turkey hanging across her thigh.
‘Women in the city pay a fortune for that sort of skin treatment.’
Kendal grunted at Cora as he trudged towards the utility, and grunted again at his uncle, who was perched on the bonnet having a cuppa.
Sam was still laughing. He was stretched out against a box tree, oblivious to the nest of ants at his feet, until they started nibbling. ‘Ouch, ouch, ouch.’
‘Ants,’ Cora commented dryly as she flicked Horse’s reins. ‘We’ve got three types out here, Sam: the white ones, which will eat your house; the black ones, which will eat your food; and the green ones, which will eat you alive.’ She nudged Horse closer to where Sam was flicking frantically at his clothing. ‘Those would be the green variety.’
‘They sting,’ Sam complained.
‘Cheer up,’ Cora replied, giving Harold a wink, ‘there’s turkey for dinner.’
‘Pull up a stump.’ Harold gestured to Sam and Kendal as Cora trotted away whistling. ‘Do you want to go home and get changed?’ he asked between mouthfuls of a cheese, onion and pickle sandwich.
‘No.’ Kendal took a slurp of tea. ‘Only half of me’s wet.’
‘Suit yourself. Forget your thermos?’ Harold asked, passing Sam the lid off his. ‘Happens.’
Sam took the tea appreciatively and bit into Meg’s butter and Vegemite saos.
Harold pointed a knobbly finger at him. ‘A man will die out here if that’s all she’s feeding you.’
‘Don’t usually eat much.’
‘You will,’ Harold assured him, gulping down his tea. ‘Right, back to it then.’
Sam looked at his half-drunk tea and partially eaten biscuit. Kendal dropped his mug in the esky, tied the strap around the lid and moved to follow his uncle.
Sam took another sip of the scalding tea, and decided Harold had to have a mouth lined with asbestos to drink that quickly.
‘Well, come on then,’ Kendal said gruffly. ‘This ain’t the city now.’
Considering Harold had managed to put off this fencing job for quite a few weeks, Sam couldn’t understand why, to use Cora’s phrase, they needed to go at it like a bull at a gate.
He settled back on the log and, looking at Kendal over the rim of the thermos lid, took a long slow sip.
It was near dark when Meg heard the utility idling outside. Wiping her hands on a tea towel she poured two glasses of milk for the twins and watched as they squashed their peas with the backs of their forks. Jill, a fast if messy eater, was already halfway through her roast turkey, while Penny was in the middle of transporting mushy peas from one side of her plate to the other.
‘Eat up, Penny.’
The back door slammed. ‘You look exhausted,’ Meg observed as Sam slumped into a kitchen chair. She turned off the radio. She’d scream if another weather report came on.
‘Buggered more like it,’ he admitted. ‘How’re my girls?’
‘Good, good, though Cora’s bush turkey isn’t going down so well. It’s a bit tough.’
‘I’m not surprised. Who knows how long it hung from her saddle.’
‘Yeah well, at least I didn’t have to pluck it.’
‘Finished!’ Jill held her plate up proudly.
‘Finished!’ Penny drank down the rest of her milk.
‘Go, the both of you,’ Meg said. ‘Clean your teeth and go to the toilet, you little ragamuffins.’
Penny shook her head. ‘But we can’t go out there by ourselves. The bogeyman will get us.’
The outside toilet was not something the girls had taken to. Actually, neither had Meg. The dash in the dark or on a frosty morning was made worse by the continual checking for spiders under the wooden seat. ‘Use your potty then.’ Meg waggled her finger. ‘But only number ones, not a number two.’ The twins scooted out of the kitchen. There was the clanging of doors and screeches as they ran along the cold walkway out to the veranda and their bedroom.
‘Well, one thing about it, this place agrees with the girls,’ Sam commented.
Meg cleared the twins’ plates. ‘So, how are you getting on with Harold and Kendal? Any better?’
Sam flipped open the door to the wood fire and warmed his hands. He was red from windburn and his lips were dry and cracked. ‘Put it this way, I’m regretting popping old Jeffo one in the nose. Gee, that seems like a lifetime ago now.’
‘That bad?’
‘Seems to me Kendal still isn’t being paid. Can’t blame him for being annoyed about tha
t.’
Meg figured Sam had got a drink from somewhere and he’d had just enough to be amenable.
‘How are things going with –?’ He nodded towards the dining room. Cora would be reading in front of the fire, a relatively new arrangement now the kitchen was no longer her domain.
‘Fine, although she tells me I’ve ruined her news hour, now that the kitchen has been overrun with children at 6 pm.’
Sam yawned. ‘I had a couple over at Harold’s place. I think he must be working on the “keep your friends close and your enemies closer” mandate. Anyway –’ he lit a cigarette, cocked his head sideways ‘– you don’t know where her stash is I suppose?’
‘No,’ Meg lied. She’d mistakenly thought he was cutting back.
‘Just checking.’ Sam’s work coat concealed half a bottle of whiskey, thanks to Kendal. ‘You know she rides in the middle of the night – goes out hunting wild pigs. She’s different.’
Meg lowered her voice. ‘The people in Stringybark Point certainly take a wide berth when they see her. It’s like they’re scared of her, and there’re some wild stories doing the rounds too.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ Sam took a long drag, blowing the smoke into the expanse of the kitchen. ‘A lone female running a property with all-male staff isn’t exactly the norm. I reckon you’re here to help repair her reputation.’
Meg stirred the gravy on the stove top. ‘Somehow I don’t think my aunt’s worried about that.’ She rested the steel egg flip on the sink.
‘You heard from your mother?’
‘No. I wrote a letter letting her know we’d arrived safely and I’ve heard nothing.’
‘Well, you might want to try again.’ Sam belched. ‘We’ll want to go back eventually. What about Cora? Do you know what happened between them?’
‘No.’
‘Have you asked?’
‘No.’
Sam dropped his half-finished cigarette into the remnants of Penny’s milk glass. ‘Aren’t you interested?’
Retrieving the glass, Meg rinsed it out. ‘Yes . . . no . . . maybe. I’m not sure if I want to know. I don’t want to end up in the middle of –’
‘A family argument?’ Sam finished. ‘I think it’s a bit late for that.’ He heaved himself out of the chair. ‘I’ll go have a shower and have an early dinner. I don’t think I could do the whole dining-room thing tonight. I’ll tuck the girls in.’
Meg looked out into the wintry void above the sink. Beyond was a low hedge hemmed by three willowy gum trees, a square of grass, scraggly geraniums and ghost bush. A faded yellow blind cut a third of the view, however having spent the better part of her days at the sink Meg knew the landscape intimately.
‘Do you want to know?’
Cora’s voice jolted Meg from a daydream of Primrose Park and the harbour. Her aunt was slouching against the pale timber of the door, a pair of reading glasses dangling from her fingers.
‘I didn’t know you were listening.’ Meg turned her attention once again to the gravy. Privacy was a hard-won commodity under this roof.
‘Tell me about your father,’ Cora said.
‘I never met him. He died during the war,’ Meg replied sharply.
‘Do you know that for sure?’
‘I know what Mum told me.’
Cora grimaced. ‘No need to be defensive.’
‘Fine. They met in Sydney, fell in love and then he was shipped off to the war. He died in Tobruk.’
‘Well, that’s pretty true. It’s the order of things that have been rearranged. Your father left your mother when you were two years of age. She never saw him again. He probably did die in Tobruk. At least he was listed as missing in action, presumed dead.’
The clang of the metal egg flip hitting the floor startled Meg into action. She swiped at the greasy splats of gravy with a dishcloth. ‘How do you know that?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t believe in perpetuating lies. I’ve had experience with them.’ Cora sat the book and reading glasses on the kitchen table. ‘Actually, I rather thought you knew.’
‘But how? Why would Mum lie?’
Cora tucked the book under her arm. ‘Your mother never suffered from a shortage of self-preservation, Meg.’ She gave a brittle laugh. ‘Anyway, I might dislike your mother but that sentiment doesn’t extend to you. Ask her next time you speak to her. Write her a letter.’
Meg rinsed the dish cloth. ‘She hasn’t answered my first one.’
Cora looked as if she were about to say something, but instead she opened a cupboard and retrieved a rum bottle secreted inside an empty flour canister. She poured herself a drink. Ice and rum filled a glass. ‘It was your birth notice in the Sydney Morning Herald that piqued my curiosity. I came across it by chance. I actually thought there may be a chance for, if not quite a reconciliation, at least a confession of mistakes made in the past.’
‘That’s very cryptic.’
‘Anyway, I wrote to your mother, congratulated her on your arrival. Two years later she wrote back – a little belatedly, don’t you think? – to tell me that Geoffrey had left her. She blamed me for his leaving.’
‘Was it your fault?’
Cora wagged her finger. ‘Oh no, my dear. No apportioning blame on me, thank you very much. I never met your father and so, in truth, I don’t think it was my fault. I blame love.’
‘Love?’
‘Your grandfather’s love for his first wife. You see, your mother and I are stepsisters.’
Meg removed the bubbling gravy from the stove top. ‘I don’t understand. Stepsisters?
Cora skulled her drink, the ice clattering. ‘No, I don’t expect you do.’
‘Mum never said anything about you being stepsisters.’
‘Actually, I doubt she said much about me at all. Yes, well I can see by your expression that I’m right on that account.’
‘I need to know, Cora. I’ve never had any grandparents, or any aunts and uncles, until now.’
‘Believe me, Meg Hamilton Bell, I know how that feels.’
‘Mum never talks about you or Granny. It’s like she never had a mother.’
‘I expect she feels let down by her. Why my father ever got caught up with the likes of that woman, Abigail . . . Well, let’s just say she was an embarrassment to the family. I blame her for some of what happened. For the rest of it I blame your mother.’
‘And what happened?’ Meg asked desperately. ‘Tell me.’
Cora sat tiredly at the kitchen table. At last here was her opportunity to reveal the truth.
Chapter 29
Absolution Creek, 1924
Squib lit the slush lamp on the table. Jack’s diary was in its usual spot, his cramped handwriting noting weather conditions and stock work. Not once was her name mentioned – not even when they’d worked together in the sheep yards. Well, he could do it by himself and see how he managed, Squib thought angrily, noticing the name Olive scrawled in a corner margin. ‘Olive.’ Squib’s lips pinched. Olive was the reason Jack didn’t want her to stay.
I’ve my own family coming.
Squib knew that if she were sent to an orphanage, her father would never find her. It was better to leave Jack before he sent her away, and walk upstream from the direction she’d come. With a sob she flung the waterbag over her shoulder, inadvertently knocking the lamp. The flickering flames spread swiftly over the diary, letters and books. Squib gave a gasp, her first instinct to smother the fire with the scratchy blanket from the bed. As she watched the flames, however, a feeling of righteousness spread through her body. Gathering her crutches, she walked out the door.
At the creek she turned right, following the curve of the waterway to limp over fallen logs, the sand cool beneath her feet. She hated the creek. It had taken her away from her father. She only bore being so close to it in the hopes it would lead her back to him.
She kept moving until the sun rose and birdsong drifted down from the trees. Once daylight arrived she rested her injured leg ever
y hour.
At noon she slurped water from the canvas bag at the base of a gum tree as a flock of ibis took flight. At least it was cool near the creek. There was a slight breeze and the closely packed branches overhead shaded her from the sun.
By mid-afternoon Squib could barely walk. Her feet complained and her hands hurt from the makeshift crutches. She knew eventually she would find someone, although an image of Jack riding up, his hat pushed low on his head, a tuft of grass between his lips, haunted each step.
By late afternoon her legs could carry her no further. Turning a bend in the creek, she scattered a mob of sheep at the water’s edge. Skirting their soft piles of droppings she ran up the slight bank. Ahead lay an expanse of grassland broken up by patches of trees. Exhausted Squib lay down in the long grass and slept.
Squib awoke to a low-hanging moon. The wind rustled the grass, blowing the tips of it so that it appeared like a grassy sea in the moonlight. Her nostrils twitched as the wind briefly changed direction. The scent of roasting meat floated on the breeze. She was not alone. She could see hobbled horses feeding into the northerly wind. There was the creak of leather, unmistakable in the clear night air, and the low murmur of voices interspersed with the occasional laugh. Squib peered across the grass to where a group huddled around a campfire. She knew too well the sound of marrow being sucked from a bone and the fatty juices that smeared your chin. Soon theft would be added to her list of sins.
When the moon passed its midpoint in the sky, Squib walked stealthily towards the glowing embers. The smell suggested a morsel of their meal remained somewhere among the snoring bodies. She circled the camp carefully, picking her way around a freshly killed sheep that had been left lying in the grass. Congealed blood oozed from its slashed neck, and the partially skinned animal’s flesh glowed white under the moon’s gaze. One of its legs had been hacked off, and the rest of it – meat that would have fed a family for days – left to rot.
The three travellers were nestled around the dying fire, snoring intermittently. Squib took a single, silent step towards the stacked dirty plates and reached across for the lump of meat.
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