Absolution Creek

by Nicole Alexander

  ‘Will that save him?’ Meg asked, incredulous.

  Cora enticed Tripod to walk around a little, his back leg shuffling in the dirt, his muscles spasming. ‘Maybe. Bleeding him is about the only way to get the venom out that I know of.’ When he fell over she lifted him into her arms, whispering words of endearment and petting him.

  Meg kept a discreet distance behind her aunt as they walked back along the one-sided avenue of trees. ‘Cora.’ Meg finally increased her stride to match her aunt’s.

  ‘I don’t have time for anything at the moment, Meg.’ Cora looked out towards the west where a thick line of purple clouds was moving steadily towards them.

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Apart from Tripod?’ She patted the dog’s soft hair. ‘No. I’m expecting big rain. Not that it probably matters anymore.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Cora gave a condescending smile. ‘I know you don’t. Anyway, it appears personal agendas have lost their importance. I think time’s finally run out for me.’

  Chapter 43

  Stringybark Point Hotel, 1965

  Rain wasn’t something Scrubber calculated into this trip. Of course the inevitable happened when a fella strayed from his plans. The extra day at the hotel meant he’d woken to a cloudburst that would have made a man in his grave sit up at the noise of it. He leant over the balcony railings, half-expecting to see the prone body from a few nights prior squashed on the road like a pegged-out fox pelt. The main street was empty; the pub below was quiet. Everyone had retreated to the holes they’d climbed out of. He thought of his girls, cold and wet in the paddock, as the rain bounced off the bitumen and pooled on the dirt verge along the kerb. They’d seen worse.

  He took up position in the cane-bottom chair, Dog asleep beside him, the animal’s four legs tilted skywards. Damned if that animal couldn’t sleep standing up. Even now the collie was oblivious to the drops of rain dripping on his nose from above. Well, maybe not, Scrubber mumbled, as Dog opened his near-toothless mouth so that the rain settled on his tongue. Wherever they went it had always been five star for Dog. The mutt just had that ability of getting the best out of every situation. Scrubber hoped Cora would take the dog on after he was gone. Not as a favour, for he’d no right to ask anybody for such a thing, but maybe because he was an old dog who’d done good and was in need of a home. Veronica would have liked that.

  Scrubber stretched back, patting the tobacco pouch at his waist. His money was near gone and with no banks about it was back to bush tucker and the stars for a roof. It was the way things should be, he reconciled. A bushman didn’t spend his last days holed up inside waiting for that thing to whisk him off to the nether world. No, a man wanted to suck up the tangy scent of the scrub, to sniff at the blue haze of summer, to curse at the September winds and growl as cold froze his fingers in the saddle. He wanted to go surrounded by what he loved more than anything: the bush. She was a hard woman: contrary, stubborn, frightening and sometimes downright petulant. Yet in spite of his own demons, the bush had given him a home of sorts and in return he loved her.

  The publican told him it was around one hundred miles to Absolution Creek, but a cross-country shortcut would have him there in under two days. The travelling would be easier too if he stayed off the puggy wet roads.

  ‘Well, Dog, we’re off.’

  Dog stretched, yawned and slowly made it into a sitting position.

  ‘I think you’ll have to ride with Samsara again on account of your age and the weather.’ The dog cocked his head to one side, gave a single bark. ‘Shush,’ Scrubber reprimanded, ‘you’re not even meant to be here.’

  Dog gave a low whine and sauntered away.

  ‘No need to get your knickers twisted. Always did have an attitude,’ he mumbled. Scrubber patted the tobacco pouch. ‘Well, old mate, we’re off again. Hope you’re well rested cause this last trek will be the best and the worst of it.’ He looked across the street to where Green’s Hotel and Board once stood. Beginnings and endings were always difficult to forget.

  If it weren’t for the fact he didn’t mind the old gal, Scrubber would have left Veronica on the roadside some hundred miles back. There was also the niggling doubt that he’d ever find another woman, so he suffered her complaints about the horse, the saddle, the state of the roads, the weather too cold and too hot, camping rough, sleeping little and eating poor. Whew, it was some journey. How a woman could squander her energy on such things he’d never understand.

  On approach, Stringybark Point looked like any other bush village: a mangle of low-slung houses, three hotels staring each other off across the dusty main street, a couple of stores and the usual post office and police station. The buildings resembled a skew-whiff set of stairs, worn and uneven against a pale blue sky. Scrubber flicked the reins on his horse, and whistled to Veronica to get a move on. They clip-clopped into a town dozing quietly beneath gums and box trees. A dusty road was interspersed with hitching rails, horse troughs and a single gas lamp. A couple of mangy dogs, half-breeds, wandered ahead of them. A child balled somewhere down the street to the right. At the hitching rail outside Green’s Hotel and Board, Scrubber left a complaining Veronica under the shade of a tree while he went about the business of stabling the horses. A gush of smelly water drained down from a pipe into the open gutter. Scrubber sniffed manure, dirt and soap; someone’s bath water.

  ‘Stay out of trouble,’ he advised her as Veronica practically fell from her ride.

  ‘Legs have gone numb,’ she said by way of explanation when he shook his head.

  The first Scrubber saw of Lickable Lorraine he was out stabling the horses at the back of the hotel. The woman was sitting at the rear of the hotel’s kitchen peeling potatoes, skirts hiked over her knees and a large bowl gripped between enviable thighs. Her child-rearing breasts, glossy dark hair and green eyes made up for a miserable mouth and poor eyesight that no doubt accounted for her squint. It was love at first sight.

  ‘Youse new here?’ She ran a peeling knife, blade flat, across her thigh.

  He puffed his chest out – not bad, he thought, for a man in his early twenties – and tried to think of something canny. ‘Yep.’ With the horses bedded down there was no reason he couldn’t partake of a bit of conversation. Scrubber admired a particularly impressive calf muscle.

  ‘Welcome. I’m Lorraine. Cook and chief bottle-washer at this here establishment. You staying long?’

  Scrubber watched the knife move smoothly across pale skin. ‘Could be. Got a bit of business to attend to. You know if a Matt Hamilton’s arrived in town?’

  ‘Name’s familiar, I’ll ask around.’ Lorraine sat the bowl on the ground. ‘I like a bit of business meself.’ She ran her fingers along the neckline of her blouse, rubbed slowly at her fleshy cleavage.

  Scrubber licked his lips. He wasn’t one for knocking back a bit of scratch and sniff. ‘I’ve a woman.’ The rear of the hotel was empty. A single piece of timber banged in the breeze.

  ‘I won’t tell if you’ve got coin.’ Lorraine walked towards him with a swagger that would have shamed a dandy.

  Stocky hands manoeuvred across Scrubber’s chest. The earthy scent of potatoes mingled with tobacco and something like lemons. With Veronica waiting out the front, Scrubber calculated how much time he had. In truth he didn’t need much. Grabbing the woman he hurried her toward the stables and into an empty stall. He ripped at her blouse, and held the fleshiness of her in his hands. With one arm pinned along a wooden beam, he thought of the ways he could take her.

  ‘Eh?’ Lorraine complained. ‘You’re a young one, aren’t you, to be so pushy.’

  ‘Don’t bother about my age,’ Scrubber replied, ‘everything works.’ He prised her legs apart with his knee, lifting it high against her as he fumbled with the buttons on his trousers, his leg moving against the flesh of her.

  ‘Coin first.’

  Scrubber shook his head. ‘I never pay for something before I’ve got the good
s.’ In reply he used his fingers for a bit of exploration. It was enough of an enticement to get him good and ready. He shoved Lorraine’s capable hands downwards; let the woman do a bit of work. No point rushing things – after all, he wouldn’t be coming back for seconds. He didn’t intend paying for firsts.

  ‘Cheeky,’ Lorraine laughed. ‘We’ll get on you and I.’

  Scrubber grasped at her hips.

  ‘Lovey, lovey, you out here?’ Veronica stood at the rear of the hotel, a towel over her shoulder. ‘I’ve got us a room. Are you there? I’m going to the wash house.’

  Stifling Lorraine’s giggle, Scrubber pushed her roughly into an adjoining stall.

  ‘Here,’ Scrubber answered, quickly righting his clothes as he watched the width of Lorraine’s arse disappear.

  Veronica side-stepped horse manure and empty feed buckets, pausing to let past a dark-bearded traveller who was leading his horse to the stables. ‘What you doing in there?’

  ‘Finishing up,’ Scrubber explained, trying to right his clothes. ‘I had to move the horses over.’ He scratched at his crotch. It was a pity to waste it. ‘Come in here, girl.’

  Veronica gave a tight frown.

  Come on, don’t be shy. I’ve got a present for you.’

  Scrubber looked across the crowded bar. A fella by the name of George was playing the piano in the corner. A couple of the patrons – tall bush-bearded types with meaty hands and no voices – were trying to accompany him. There was a lot of glass swaying and liquid sloshing and yells of ‘more, more’. Nearby a young fella with dead man’s eyes took to shaking and yelling.

  ‘Pipe down, Sergeant,’ the publican hollered. ‘We ain’t on the Somme now. Take your war outside.’ The lad fell silent.

  Scrubber scrutinised the grainy bar. He never had been much for crowded places. He was on his second drink when something made him look up. A bit dim he may be, however a man knew when his name was coming up in conversation. After a tea of soup, roast beef and custard in the dining room, all for the fine price of a shilling, Scrubber left his girl in the Ladies Bar, and it was there Lorraine made a point of becoming fast friends with Veronica. He watched their heads bobbing and laughing in shared confidence, worrying that by now loose lips would have told Lorraine their life story. Sure enough, Lorraine poked her head through the door from the Ladies Bar to talk to a heavy-set man with a black beard. The man pinched Lorraine’s cheek and dropped some coins into her palm. In return she gave him a dreamy look. They held each other’s gaze for longer than Scrubber reckoned to be decent. He didn’t like the look of the man. Bog Irish, he reckoned; lower than. He should know – his own family being of a similar slant.

  Minding his own business was at the top of Scrubber’s list while he waited for Hamilton to show. He didn’t want any trouble at this stage, whether it be with Veronica or anyone else, so he’d turned down Lorraine on their second chance meeting; turned her down on account of the fact that a money earner such as she would have a man for a keeper. Now here was Lorraine, her fleshy mouth spilling who knew what into another man’s ear.

  Through the swirl of tobacco smoke old black beard nodded at Lorraine’s words and followed her pointed finger. Lorraine left the bar with a come-get-me pout. Scrubber would’ve pulled his head in like an echidna if he thought it would have saved him from a fight. No doubt he’d have to pay up for services only partially rendered by Lickable Lorraine. Through a sliding door to his left was a parlour and if it weren’t for the fact that a group of cockies were in there having a quiet nip he would have slunk in and out the other door. Pity he weren’t a nob.

  You a friend of Hamilton’s, then?’

  The bearded man was in his face without even a how’d you do.

  Scrubber slurped on his rum. ‘What’s it to you?’

  The man called to the publican behind the bar. ‘Eh, Greenie, you got the paper – the one with the lost kid in it?’

  Scrubber pricked his ears.

  I’m Adams. I’ve seen the girl over at Absolution Creek. Real tearaway she is.’

  You’ve seen her? You’ve seen Squib?’ Scrubber downed his rum.

  Adams patted him on the shoulder, elbowed a patron off a stool and pushed himself closer to Scrubber. ‘Sure thing. You kin, then?’

  No, just helping the kid’s father. He’s been worried sick.’

  Adams opened the paper. ‘Yep, says here the girl’s name’s Hamilton. So she’d be Squib Hamilton. The father worked at Purcell’s place, Waverly.’ He held up the paper for Scrubber to read.

  ‘Never did take to learning.’

  Adams folded the paper. ‘No matter, mate. At least we know the kid’s safe.’

  Scrubber couldn’t believe his luck. Not half a day at Stringybark Point and he’d found the girl. Despite his intention he nodded.

  Well then, that’s the first confirmation we’ve had. And the girl’s stepmother, she’s the one in gaol for thieving the jewellery?’

  ‘Stepmother?’

  Adams gave him a hard stare. ‘It was all over the papers. You sure you’re friends with the father?’

  Scrubber hesitated. ‘Yes.’ He tapped his rum glass on the counter. ‘Who’s the kid with?’

  ‘Some soft city-slicker. Safe, oh yes, safe as houses.’ Adams pushed the newspaper towards the publican who, with a nod, put it under the bar. ‘So, this Squib’s mother, she was a half-caste?’

  ‘No.’ Scrubber stretched out his answer. Abigail Hamilton wasn’t black. He avoided the man’s eyes. ‘You might have the wrong person.’

  ‘Not likely. ’

  Scrubber tapped his glass on the counter again, grateful when the publican finally reappeared to top it up. ‘You can’t believe most of what’s written up in them papers, you know.’

  ‘Hey, Adams, you out of the clink then?’ a stranger enquired, sticking dirt-brown fingers into three tumblers of rum.

  ‘Mistaken identity,’ Adams replied, a shower of spittle festooning the square of bar towel and Scrubber’s glass.

  ‘You mean no proof,’ a flat-headed sherry drinker intoned.

  The publican wiped down the bar, a long fingernail scraping the cracked surface as he went. ‘Keep your calm, Adams, they’re only playing with you.’ He topped up Scrubber’s rum. ‘Accused of stock theft our Adams was. Most unfortunate.’

  Adams sculled his drink. ‘Those Campbells will get their comeupperance and others.’ He spoke real low. ‘You being a stranger here, I’d keep my head down. There are always things that happen in the bush that’s best kept local, if you get my drift.’

  Scrubber swirled his rum and swallowed the dregs. The warnings were already about and his time in Stringybark Point was only nearing four hours. Adams returned to his seat at the far end of the bar. Scrubber got up and walked in the opposite direction. He hoped Matt Hamilton made an appearance real soon, for it seemed he wasn’t the only man with an interest in his daughter.

  Chapter 44

  Absolution Creek, 1924

  Squib tried to wiggle her toes against the tight brown leather. It was as if her feet were tethered to the ground. She felt like a captured, frantic animal desperate to break free. Were it not for the fact the sturdy lace-ups were a present from Jack she would have thrown them away. Instead, she bit her lip, finding solace in the memory of her nightly freedom. The shoes were Jack’s second gift. Although he’d not purchased the material for her new blouse and skirt, he’d given her the money for it on their last trip to town, much to Olive’s annoyance. Olive talked of carpets and a clothes mangler, a lounge-room suite and china cabinet, and queried the need for Squib’s clothing as if Squib were not even in the room. In return Jack asked whom Olive was expecting to visit.

  An old girth strap shortened and religiously polished for a week cinched in Squib’s waist, and her hair was now restrained by a single thick plait. Squib recalled her father gathering wild daisies for her mother, of buying a length of ribbon when there was coin for such luxuries; Jack cared for her – a woman kn
ew such things. If her father arrived tomorrow Squib doubted she could leave Jack. In fact she was sure it would kill her.

  Through the gaping stable wall a shaft of sunlight spun gold through Jack’s hair as he lifted a swinging plank of wood and positioned it back in place. The movement dimmed the light and it was some seconds before Squib grew accustomed to the darkened space and could see Jack’s outstretched hand searching for the hammer. Squib was by his side immediately, hammer in hand, smile ready. Her fingers grazed his and he smiled softly, where once he would have ruffled her hair. He hammered the final board in the last of the stalls into place, striking the nails dead centre.

  ‘I just need to repair the gate and do a bit to the roof and these will be as good as new.’ Jack gathered his tools.

  ‘It’s a fine job, Jack.’ They walked out into a morning noisy with birdsong. Topknot pigeons and willie wagtails were competing for branch space in a nearby brigalow tree.

  ‘I’ll accept a compliment from you any day.’ Resting the tools on an upturned tin, Jack sat on a knobbly log and patted the space beside him. ‘Noisy little fellas.’

  Squib sat down and placed her leather-encased feet squarely in the dirt. ‘Woolshed next?’

  ‘It’s not too bad.’ He gave her a nudge. ‘Might get you to run your eye over it, though, you being a bit of a sheep woman.’

  Squib nudged him back and felt her cheeks heat up. ‘One of the timber planks is broken where you roll the bales out and there’s another needs replacing on the board itself. One of the pens has a broken latch on the gate and there’s an overhead beam, non-bearing, that has a crack in it.’

  Jack let out a sound that was half-cough, half-surprise.

  ‘Well,’ Squib said, shrugging, ‘you asked.’

  ‘And I’m glad I did. We might ride over there this afternoon.’