Absolution Creek

by Nicole Alexander

  ‘And I want you to write to your mother. Again.’

  Meg glanced about the room with its picture rail of watercolours.

  ‘It’s only fair to let her know what your intentions are, and that Absolution and not Sydney is your future. If you hold out the olive branch you’ll have a far better chance of reconnecting with her and paving the way when it comes to approaching her for assistance with the twins’ education.’

  ‘Gee, maybe she can come and visit and we can all sit around and have a friendly chat like old times.’

  ‘Meg, I’m being serious. And yes, it would be easier if she did visit.’ Cora’s need for a final confrontation with her stepsister had firmed in the months since Meg’s arrival. The retelling of ‘Squib’s’ story was the catalyst. Cora needed Jane to admit her part in the Hamilton family’s demise. She needed Jane to admit to her face that she’d purposely let her fall from the back of the dray and that in her desperate need to have Matt Hamilton to herself, Cora’s brother Ben had eventually died. Cora wanted Meg to hear it from Jane’s mouth. All of it. It was simply wrong for Meg not to know about the past.

  ‘Why has it taken so long for you and Mum to tell me that you were stepsisters?’ Meg asked.

  ‘So you have heard from her.’ Cora twirled her reading glasses. ‘I guess I figured your mother would do the honours, but then I suppose you would have asked questions and Jane wouldn’t know how to reply.’ Her eyes darkened. ‘That’s part of the reason you’re here. I want your mother to admit what she did to me and my brother. I want you to know the truth.’

  Meg was beginning to feel a little uneasy. ‘About what?’

  ‘You know what, Meg, about me. What she did to me.’

  Meg’s eyes were drawn to a particularly fetching watercolour of blue-green hills hanging above a marble-topped table. A crack ran from floor to ceiling behind the painting, a jagged reminder of the unstable foundations beneath them. She took a breath, saw the tears glistening in her aunt’s eyes and visualised the young girl falling from the rear of the dray some forty years ago. Meg knew Cora’s words to be true. It was the story of Cora ‘Squib’ Hamilton, her own mother’s stepsister, the child who’d been lost as a young family ran from the law in the dead of night.

  ‘Cora, I –’

  ‘It’s probably hard for you to hear but your mother was the catalyst that made me what I am today, good and bad. But I think we’ve talked enough tonight.’

  ‘Are you all right? You look a little peaky?’

  Cora closed her eyes for the briefest of moments. ‘It’s been a struggle all this remembering, Meg. That’s all.’

  Beneath the carpet the timber floorboards creaked as Cora left the dining room. Meg sat the mesh guard across the fireplace, banging it into place. A small chip appeared in the mahogany surround and she rubbed a finger over the indentation, glancing over her shoulder before walking around the room to turn the lamps off. Through the casement windows the moon illuminated the garden. The fence and trees were thrown into relief by the white light. Meg could almost see the dam bank from this angle. It was a crisp, clear night, a night for the lonely. Meg shivered. She knew her aunt didn’t ride out at night to be with a dead lover, but all the same, some nights at Absolution Creek anything did seem possible.

  ‘So, what was the old girl on about tonight?’ Sam was sitting up in bed reading a book.

  ‘You’re reading?’ Meg couldn’t even begin to explain her aunt’s life. Hers had been a gradual realisation that Cora and Squib were one and the same, and that the nasty stepsister was in fact her own mother. Tonight had confirmed Meg’s suspicions.

  Sam folded down a corner of the page and closed the slim volume. ‘Don’t sound so surprised, I do know how to read.’

  ‘Sorry, it’s just that I’ve never seen you read a book before.’

  Sam grinned. ‘Well, you know it’s really not that big of a step to go from reading the form guide to –’ he showed her the book’s cover ‘– The Farmer’s Handyman, or whatever it is. Thought I’d better do some research before I embarked on fixing Lady Cora’s feeder tomorrow.’ He gave a cough. ‘And the gate.’

  Meg screwed her nose up. ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘Hey, no problems here. I guess the old girl had to rub off on you eventually. Just don’t go getting too independent.’

  ‘Cora said the girls would have to be sent away to school next year, probably Brisbane.’

  Sam’s eyes widened. ‘Well, that’s a bit of a windfall. We never could have afforded a boarding-school education for them.’

  ‘She didn’t offer to pay for all of their education, Sam. In fact, she suggested I ask my mother.’ Meg changed into her flannelette nightgown and began putting the day’s folded washing away in the tall chest of drawers. ‘Apparently there are no decent schools around here.’ It took some time for her to notice that although the room was as cold as usual, there was no lingering scent of cigarette smoke, no laden ashtray on the bedside table.

  Sam gave a grimace. ‘I hadn’t thought about schools.’

  ‘If the girls left I don’t know what I’d do.’

  ‘We’ll keep you busy.’

  Sure, Meg decided, cooking meals and cleaning the house. Next door one of the girls gave a dreamy whimper. The little mites were exhausted by the end of every day and, while their childish arguments continued, there certainly wasn’t the bickering that had seemed to rule their daily existence in Sydney. They were happily thriving in their new environment. As of today, surprisingly, so was Sam.

  ‘I might not want to be separated from them.’

  Sam patted the bed. ‘Well, let’s just wait and see what happens. So, who is this Jack Manning, anyway?’

  Meg hunched her shoulders. She didn’t want to go into this with Sam tonight. The conversation would weave through her dreams and Meg couldn’t bear to be haunted by little Squib, not when the grown-up version lay a wall’s width away. Nor did she want to know any more about her own mother’s part in Cora’s childhood, for Meg had a terrible feeling that Squib never did find her father. Outside, a dog barked. Meg tucked the remainder of the clothes in the drawers. A pair of pantyhose caught her eye. They were in her sock drawer and appeared to have been stretched out of all proportion. Huge ladders ran down each leg.

  ‘Ah, sorry about that,’ Sam said sheepishly. ‘They help with the chaffing.’

  Meg’s forehead creased.

  ‘You know,’ he persevered, ‘when you’re riding.’

  ‘Of course they do,’ Meg said, giggling. She was relieved to have her thoughts broken. ‘Let me know what colour you prefer and I’ll buy you some.’ She slid between the sheets. ‘You like it here, don’t you?’

  Sam rested the book on his chest. ‘You’ll drive me to smoking in bed again if we keep having these normal conversations. But yeah, I do like it here. Outside you can see where you’ve been once a job’s done. And the thing is, I might be a learner, but I’m prepared to listen to Harold. I’ve got a lot to catch up on.’ Dropping the book on the floor he took her in his arms. ‘I might be a bit grumpy over the next few weeks. I’ve never gone cold turkey before.’

  ‘We’ll survive.’ Meg snuggled into him, relishing the closeness. Tonight all she wanted was to be held. Too much separated them for anything else, and Sam would take sex as a sign that everything was fine – that an end to his drinking would rectify all their problems. Meg knew better.

  He tugged at her nightgown. ‘Let’s get rid of this passion killer.’ Reluctantly she allowed his wandering hand to unclothe her. The man had rights after all. He was her husband and the father of their children.

  Through the window the moon cast puppet-like shadows against the drawn curtains. The flickering shapes danced haphazardly, coerced into movement by moonlight and a rising wind. There was a sudden lull, a clatter of leaves on the roof and then the wind picked up again, the shapes changing direction. The northerly that Cora predicted had arrived. With the gradual unfolding of her family’s
past and the abrupt transformation of her husband, Meg knew much had altered for her as well. Sam’s cheek was against hers, his breath steady, rhythmic. She too had grown and changed, and for some of those closest to her, they may not consider the change to be for the better.

  Chapter 41

  Absolution Creek, 1924

  Squib left the house at daybreak, saddling the brown mare at the yet-to-be-repaired stables. Thomas and Jack rode southwards and then split up; Jack heading east and Thomas west. Once Thomas cleared her vision Squib cross-whipped the mare into a gallop. They were a couple of hundred ewes short and, despite Jack and Thomas searching for nearly six hours yesterday, they were yet to find the missing sheep. Jack was part way to the creek when she finally caught up with him. He was looking down at a pile of bones and what remained of a sun-dried hide.

  ‘Dead horse.’ Squib reined in the mare. It was an unusual spot for an animal to die. There was no shade in the immediate area, only an expanse of coarse grass.

  ‘I thought I saw you tailing me. What are you doing out here at this hour?’

  Squib cocked her head sideways, a thick plait falling over her shoulder. ‘One of yours?’

  ‘Yeah, she got bit by a snake a few months back and dropped dead.’ Jack’s horse shifted its legs restlessly. ‘This one was my packhorse, but I reckon she’s taken to me now.’

  ‘You should have skinned her, Jack, and sold it to a Hide and Tallow shop.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, what do you think they make those fancy horsehair boots out of or that fancy lounge suite Olive’s been hankering for? Horse hide fetches a pretty penny you know.’ Squib looked again at the wasted coin lying on the ground.

  ‘I never thought about that,’ Jack admitted.

  ‘You know, if the sheep are still on Absolution they’ll be feeding into this northerly wind. That’s what they tend to do.’

  Jack scratched at his brow, the action tilting his hat. ‘Yeah, yeah, I remember. It’s just I’ve got this feeling they’ve been stolen.’

  ‘Stolen? Well, let’s have another look, eh, before we call in the troopers.’

  Jack gave her a lopsided grin as they spurred their horses onwards.

  ‘I love the way the sky is streaked with cloud some mornings,’ Squib commented, ‘with those little wispy bits that sort of merge with the pinks and reds.’

  Jack’s horse grew level with Squib’s. Ahead, the pale smudge of red faded as the sun clambered over the horizon. ‘Me too. Not everyone sees beauty out here.’

  ‘That,’ Squib said softly, ‘is because they don’t look.’

  The wind changed within half an hour and soon they were riding due east into a glittering sun. Squib pulled the brim of her hat a touch lower and narrowed her eyes. ‘They must have crossed the crick.’

  Jack waited near the creek’s edge. ‘I think it’ll be up to the horses’ bellies. What do you reckon? Hey, Squib, what’s the matter? You’re white as a sheet.’

  Squib backed her horse up. The last time she’d crossed the creek was in the dray when they moved their belongings from one side to the other, en route to the Mankell house. The waterway had been a trickle then.

  Squib closed her eyes and grabbed Jack’s arm. ‘I can’t do it. I can’t follow you over, not with all that . . .’ She mouthed the word water.

  ‘The water?’ Jack asked, a little confused. ‘Oh, the water on account of . . .’

  Squib backed her horse up a little more. ‘I’m, I’m . . .’

  Jack trotted his horse to her side. ‘Get down.’

  ‘Why?’

  Jack waited as Squib did what she was told. ‘Now, you hop up behind me and hang on tight and I’ll lead your horse over. Okay?’

  Squib bit her lip.

  ‘Get up,’ Jack ordered, extending his arm.

  Squib took it and scrambled upwards. Jack smelt of tobacco and the soap he used for shaving, and she sucked in the scents, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist, her cheek planted firmly against the width of his back.

  ‘Hang on tight.’ Securing her horse’s reins he gave his mount a flick.

  ‘I can’t do this, Jack.’

  ‘Sure you can. You’re my Squib, you can do anything.’

  The tang of vegetation filled her nostrils as the squelch of mud and the slosh of water competed with the measured breaths of the horses. Jack’s reassuring voice urged the mare onwards. Squib felt the push of the mare against the restraining forces of mud and water and tightened her grip around Jack’s waist.

  ‘Squib, are you okay?’

  She opened one eye, barely able to concentrate on anything beyond the heat of his body.

  He patted her bare leg. ‘Come on now, you’re safe. Hop down.’ Jack’s voice was almost gruff.

  Squib reluctantly did as she was told and soon they were ducking branches and following a sheep trail out into the paddock. They rode quietly, Squib still raw with the feeling of Jack’s body.

  ‘There they are, Squib.’ Jack pointed to where a mob of ewes grazed into the wind. ‘Looks like they’re all there. I reckon they must have crossed further up where the creek’s narrower.’

  ‘Probably.’ Squib wondered if Jack intended to return the way they came. At the thought of being so close to him again she felt quite light-headed.

  ‘I reckon we should be able to find where they crossed and go back that way ourselves. I’m sure you don’t want to go through that rigmarole again.’

  Jack trotted ahead, whistling a mismatch of tunes. A series of sheep trails wound through the grasses. They interlaced across the grassy plain, converging and separating like wayward footpaths. Choosing a creek-bound track they finally crossed the dry bed. Squib tailed Jack homewards, not daring to ride abreast for fear that he would sense or, worse, see reflected on her face, the strength of her wanting. They all saw her as a child yet her mother was pregnant at her exact age, married to her father and making a home.

  See me, Jack, want me, Squib whispered as the distance between their horses grew.

  Why couldn’t Jack see they were meant to be together, especially now, especially after what she’d seen pass between Thomas and Olive. But that was the problem, she realised, Jack didn’t know, he hadn’t seen.

  Chapter 42

  Absolution Creek, 1965

  Horse padded softly through the countryside. Cora’s father once told her to follow the sheep trails if ever she were lost in the bush; that they would eventually lead her to water, to safety. She guessed that was what she was doing now: following a trail highlighted by the moon’s glow to the one person who could help her. Horse whickered softly. Ahead the landscape spread out flat and quiet. Every sound was magnified in the expanse around them: the creak of leather, Horse’s teeth chewing at the bit, her coat flapping about her. Belah trees framed their progress as they crossed from Absolution Creek to the country belonging to another.

  This property was well tended. Fences were taut, gates swung properly, unlike some of those on Absolution Creek, and out-buildings were solid and in good repair. The paddocks, however, were clipped short from over-stocking. The owner obviously worked on the adage of the more stock the better, but Cora knew that the paddocks would be slow to grass up after rains and quick to turn to dust during a dry period. She leant down from the saddle to undo a gate, swinging Horse around to ensure the chain was secured good and tight. She didn’t need any more arguments or accusations, not when she was travelling under cover of darkness to ask for help.

  Having ventured this way on horseback only once, she halted beneath the face of the moon to get her bearings. She hadn’t been feeling very well since the altercation in the yards with the ram, and the letter received from the solicitor did little to help her constitution.

  ‘Come on, Horse.’ She flicked the reins lightly. It was only a couple of hours until dawn and Cora wanted the whole business to be concluded so that she could be home as quickly as possible. Having never once asked for help during her life, this whol
e quest was proving more loathsome the closer she edged to her final destination. ‘Come on, Horse, get a move on.’ He pricked his ears and moved into a trot. An owl flew upwards from the grass, startling the horse and upsetting Cora’s seat in the saddle.

  Ahead, a line of willowy shapes emerged. Cora shushed Horse quiet, and stilled their progress. Even if she wanted to move she doubted her ability to do so. Her heartbeat grew louder as the travellers came into view. She could see eight Aboriginal men, widely spaced. Each man carried a hunting spear and they looked neither right nor left as they crossed the ancient landscape on foot. Horse made a loud snorting sound, and backed up a few paces before falling silent again. The men tailed off into the smudgy silhouette of trees, the last one turning to face her. He rested on his spear, one foot placed in the crook of his knee. He was perched, almost defiantly, for long seconds, then he too was gone, melting into the night.

  Immediately Cora was a young girl again sitting under a tree with a mangy dog, the land illuminated by moonlight. There were eight of them then, too. Whether imagination or reality, the moment returned with absolute clarity, and Cora found herself unnerved by the memory. Soon afterwards they had left the Purcells’ property in the dead of night. Now here she was, and with all the time between then and now she’d seen them again.

  Horse shook his head and reluctantly recommenced their journey. ‘I know how you feel, old boy.’ Cora patted his neck and gave him a brief scratch between the ears. A shiver ran down her spine. She was of a mind to turn back, for surely the appearance of the Aboriginal men was a warning. ‘I’ve come too far now.’

  Horse picked his way carefully through an area thick with gums, finally locating the dirt road leading to the Campbell homestead. James was fifth generation, and the scent of old money was as tangy as the leaves Horse crushed beneath his hoofs. The homestead was encased in a veranda. It had once been open, then gauzed in, and was now partially enclosed with cheap weatherboard. It ruined the look of the house and had been a cross James’s mother bore with shame, yet the homestead was prized for its furnishings and lavish garden, and James did his best to ensure the property’s upkeep: this despite the deaths of two Campbells in the fifties and the resultant death duties imposed by the government.