The Good Woman of Renmark

by Darry Fraser

  At the settlement, Jane’s words had echoed the deep thoughts Maggie had barely recognised until that moment. Fear of a lonely old age was not enough of a reason to marry. She had to truly want to marry, and only if she could forge her own way. If only Ellie Lorkin could forge her own way.

  Now, setting the bag aside, she washed her face and neck and emerged, only a little refreshed, from her cabin.

  Nine

  Angus Boyd wiped his hands on an oil-streaked rag. ‘I’ve ridden all over the place. It’s been three days, there’s no sign of her. She’s gone.’ The O’Rourke woman was gone, all right, but not the same way his Adeline had gone, he was sure.

  He couldn’t stop the tic flicker under his left eye, but his breathing remained calm. Everywhere he’d looked for Maggie O’Rourke, he’d also scoured the place for evidence of Adeline. Nothing.

  His brother rinsed the face flannel in the bowl of water and pressed it against his head once more. The ugly bruise was still coming out, and streaks of yellow had appeared only to be followed by more black smudging. ‘You check with Olivewood again?’

  ‘Not there. Gone.’ Angus picked up the bicycle and laid it on the bench. He bent closer and peered at the tyres.

  ‘Can’t have gone far.’

  The store had been closed for the last three days. There always had been plenty of work to be done—repairs, inventory, sales and the like. Aside from his brother wanting to hide out since the attack, lately Angus had noticed the store was being neglected. Not much stock had come in from the freight boat, so he knew Robert wasn’t ordering much. Money would be tight again, and that always made Robert twitchy. Angus was glad he had his own wages from the post office, but his brother, the man who thought he was a big deal about town, was as poor as any other bugger. Angus had no sympathy for Robert; he was clearly lazy, and deluded.

  ‘Could be anywhere,’ Angus said. ‘Forget about her, she’s gone. Just another woman disappeared, isn’t that right?’ He kept his features bland as he looked across at the frown on his brother’s face. ‘And if you did nothing wrong this time—’

  ‘It was me who got attacked with that iron bar,’ Robert exploded. He threw the flannel to the wall and shoved the bowl off the bench. The china burst on the floor, scattering shards and splinters, water flying in the air.

  ‘Then go to the police.’ When met with stony silence and a furtive glance, Angus added mildly, ‘So maybe you should remember who attacked who.’ He concentrated on his task testing the chain. He watched it pull the pedals and wheels and nodded, satisfied.

  Robert wrenched it from Angus’s hands and flung it off the bench. ‘You need to remember who calls the shots around here.’

  Angus stood for a moment, holding on to his own temper. He’d learned to wait until the bright white-hot flare of it had fizzled before he let the cold rationale ice his veins.

  ‘I do, and it’s not you. I manage the money, remember that too,’ he said, and heard the soft threat in his tone. He wiped his hands slowly, watching his huffing and puffing, touched-by-madness older brother sidle away. ‘That was my bicycle you just damaged,’ he said quietly, knowing Robert would one day realise the menace in him. One day.

  ‘Bloody bicycles. I need a bloody horse. Why the hell you sold the horses I’ll never know.’

  So you couldn’t run. Angus said, ‘Because we needed the money. I told you.’

  ‘I need a horse.’

  ‘Hold on for a bit longer. Winter’s coming and we’ll all have to get through that first. Think of your wife and kids.’ If you ever do.

  Robert grunted. ‘I’m going to get a drink.’

  Angus looked up. Renmark was a dry town, but sly grog was everywhere. ‘Just watch that those flies of yours don’t bust open again while you’re out.’

  Sometime, Robert was going to break the jaw of that stupid smart-mouth brother of his.

  He didn’t bother with his bicycle. He headed back towards the wharf on foot, certain that he looked more dignified that way. When he got there, he stood atop the bank and watched the boats unloading. Wool was coming off in great bales. There were boxes of fruit, and some furniture off a bigger boat whose name he couldn’t see.

  Bugger it, someone would know if she got on a boat. Plenty of people would have known Maggie O’Rourke. About time he asked about her. He could pretend to be all worried about her disappearance, of course, her being an attempted murderess. He’d just be protecting himself and his family. Just making sure she was no longer around, and dangerous.

  His neck hurt like a bastard and his wife Myra’s ministrations weren’t helping. He rubbed a sore spot. Seemed aches and pains were travelling into other areas of his body, not only where Maggie O’Rourke had clanged him on the head. The bruising was all colours, and still creeping out from under his hair. His wife had remained tight-lipped as he’d explained the attack. Clearly, she was so distracted hearing of the terrible thing that had happened to him, that her hand, dabbing with the cold flannel, was not gentle.

  ‘And just who was this nasty young woman, Robert?’ Myra had been close to his ear, her voice sibilant. It sounded like she’d been talking between her teeth.

  ‘Don’t you worry yourself over me, Myra, my love,’ he answered.

  She dabbed harder for some reason. ‘Oh, I’m not.’

  ‘It’s only a little knock. The poor thing probably thought I was attacking her, rather than saving her from that common woman.’

  ‘Is that so, Robert?’ Myra’s dabbing hand got even stronger. ‘Where was this again?’

  He winced and pulled away. ‘Olivewood, my dear. But no need to worry. No need to make a fuss—wouldn’t look good if I called in the troopers to deal with a little lady half my size over a mistake, now, would it?’

  Myra had glared at him. He’d cleared his throat and shifted in his seat.

  Now, he gazed down at the river. Lots of boats were tied up. Seemed to be many more than usual, and some were over on the opposite bank, and still more barges moored further back. It almost looked like a backlog of boats, as if the unloading was slow or something. Yet workmen were everywhere. Robert hadn’t seen it this busy for a few years.

  Men shouldered loads, or stacked carts harnessed to horses ready to pull them up the hill. He headed down the slope, picking his way carefully to be clear of men who laboured under the weight of their cargo.

  ‘Nasty lookin’ bruises you got there, Mr Boyd,’ someone said as they passed.

  ‘Yeah. Won’t be back on a bicycle for a while,’ he said, and chortled, making out the joke was on him. Maybe best to let people think he’d taken a fall. All very well to put it out there that he’d been attacked, but it was working against him. It was embarrassing—he’d let a woman get away with it. One eye still felt a bit off. Myra said it was all bloodshot. He could still see out of it, so it couldn’t be too bad. He was just bloody lucky he was alive to tell the tale.

  ‘Aye, heard ye got clobbered good by a little lady.’

  Robert spun back, looking to see who’d spoken, but was met only by the broad backs of those who strode up the hill. ‘I was attacked,’ he insisted gruffly.

  ‘Doin’ what?’ the voice drifted back amid snorts of derision.

  Robert grunted and turned to resume his descent to the water, careful where he put his feet. He bumped hard against a man coming up. ‘Watch yerself,’ he snarled, then recognised the big redhead who carried a sack on his shoulder. He pointed. ‘You. Bert. You deliver for me sometimes to Olivewood.’

  Bert’s placid face creased in a frown. ‘I do. An’ now I got a job unloading from all these boats. Good day.’ He started to pass Robert.

  ‘Wait a minute. There’s a lot of boats, what’s going on?’

  Bert stopped, stepping out of the way of those following him. He juggled the sack on his shoulder. ‘Fire comin’ upriver from down Pyap way so boats have turned back to here, waitin’ for it to burn itself out. The boats already comin’ down from Mildura and such have had to wai
t here. River’s full of boats all vyin’ for space.’

  ‘So, no boats gone downriver the last few days then?’

  Bert looked away a moment, as if thinking, as if deciding on an answer. He shifted the sack. When he looked back at Robert he said, ‘Can’t go downriver yet, riskin’ lives an’ all if there’s live embers. Boats’d catch alight. Only upriver since three days ago.’ The big young fella eyed him square on.

  Upriver. And three days since she attacked him, so if she went by boat it would have been the only way she could go. He knew no coaches had departed, and it was unlikely she’d be on foot, or still hiding in the town—someone would have said something by now. Robert looked at the line of boats tied up. ‘I could get passage,’ he mused to himself.

  ‘Don’t reckon. River will take a while to clear, so no passengers until stock and stores get away first. Maybe folk will have to cart freight back to the railway if it’s a big burn. Now, I gotta get on.’

  ‘Wait. Wait. If you’re busy doing all this unloading and such, I’d like to buy or hire your horse—’

  ‘I don’t own a horse.’ Bert shrugged the sack again and went on his way, taking his place on the track uphill.

  Maggie O’Rourke couldn’t have gone downriver, according to Bert. She had to be somewhere upriver. Robert stood aside from the trailing men and stared down the river. At least he’d be able to track her easily enough. Wouldn’t be too many young women taking a solo passage. Then a thought struck him, and he looked up the hill at the back of the hefty lad he’d spoken to.

  If Bert was telling the truth. You couldn’t trust anyone these days.

  Ten

  Echuca

  Sam Taylor was singing his lungs out as the sun went down. Trouble was, he was sitting on the dirt road outside the hotel and the publican had had enough.

  ‘Lad. Lad! Get on with yer, stop that caterwaulin’ about yer black-haired woman, yer silly bastard,’ he shouted. ‘Get on yer way and find somewhere to sleep it off.’ And a door slammed.

  Sam started another. ‘Twas early one morning a fair maid arose …’ He wasn’t that drunk, and he had an audience.

  A fella shouted back to the publican, ‘He’s not half bad, Jimmy. We was enjoyin’ that.’

  Someone slapped his shoulder. ‘Brings me to tears, lad, that song. Reminds me of the old country. Yer got the sound of a true Irish, that’s for sure. Keep goin’.’

  Another man stood by. ‘I can hear them pipes of home in your voice, laddie.’

  Sam had needed to blow off steam tonight. The O’Rourkes, Ard and his ma and pa, had got another letter from Maggie earlier today, but once again, he’d received nothing from her. He had hopes that he’d have heard by now, but they were fading fast.

  So late in the day he rode into Echuca to collect some stores for Mrs O. They were stacked at the wharf waiting for him to load up on the steamer first thing tomorrow. He’d made for the pub as soon as he could to drown his sorrows. The last of me sorrows, he swore to himself.

  Now the wind had gone out of his sails. If he was to get Mrs O’s groceries onto Ned Strike’s boat at dawn, and hitch a lift back to the Run—every opportunity he got, he’d ride the boats—he had to be sober and tidy. Not be heard all night wailin’ the high notes and annoying the good citizens of Echuca.

  Besides, he and Ard had to help Lorcan, Ard’s pa, cut down the last of those gums when he got back. He didn’t want a bloody hangover doing that.

  Sam wandered back to where he’d tied Pie. ‘Come on, horse. We have to find a place to kip for the night.’ He didn’t bother mounting; he’d walk Pie down by the river, tie him up, roll himself in his blanket and wait to be woken by dawn’s early light. ‘Thank God you’re a good sort yourself, Pie, me old lovely.’ Pie nodded.

  When Sam found a place to lay down his weary head, the colour of his true love’s hair, her wide blue eyes, twinkling and merry, her shout of laughter, and her ready smile meant only for him were all he could think about.

  It wasn’t doing him any good. He knew it. He tossed, lay on his back and stared at the stars, turned, only to toss some more.

  Maggie, I reckon I’ve got to let you go. Then he shut his eyes and slept.

  He’d presented himself, respectable, at the wharf for a steamer ride back to the Run. Sam offloaded the stores at O’Rourke’s landing, grabbed the cart and took the stores to Mrs O’s cookhouse. Nice lady, Eleanor O’Rourke. She’d warmed to him a bit of late, probably used to having him around. Now he stood with Ard at the base of a gnarly, aged eucalypt in the searing heat of midmorning.

  ‘Not bad for a bloke his age,’ Sam said. He nodded at Lorcan O’Rourke, who muscled his way further up, already twenty yards above in the old gum tree. The rope tied around his waist also spanned the tree trunk. ‘He’d have to be as old as my pa, heading for his sixties.’

  Ard peered up the tree. ‘Pa’s done it a thousand times,’ he muttered. ‘But why does he have to do it today? It’s still too stinkin’ hot.’ He pointed at the stack of sawn limbs over near the cart. ‘That lot will be right for fence posts once we get them neatened up, and the rubbish wood will be right for the fireplaces. We don’t need to do this now.’

  Sam swiped at flies. ‘The limbs are dropping in this drought. It’s gotta come down, it’s too close to the houses. Your pa said he wants to make a big dinner table for Linley outta the trunk, like that beauty he made for your ma.’

  Ard wasn’t distracted. He watched Lorc edge his way higher, the saw strapped to his back. He said, ‘Yeah, but Pa won’t be making the table for my wife, I will. He doesn’t have to prove himself by getting up there. He’d be better leaving that to us, and then helping to saw off the trunk. It’s massive.’

  Sam gazed at the broad base of the tree. ‘It’s the last of the big old dead ’uns. Thing must have been a hundred years old. Can’t stop him. Hey, Mr O,’ Sam shouted. ‘Steer clear of that branch on the right. I reckon it’s rotten.’

  Lorcan lifted a hand for a quick wave. He changed direction, his hands working the rope as he tugged around the trunk. Ard followed at the base of the tree. When his father stopped and grinned down at them, Ard barked a laugh. ‘Hurry up,’ he yelled. ‘We left those three little ones for you.’

  ‘Run rings around you two scrawny lads,’ Lorc shouted back. Sweat gleamed on his bare arms. His thigh muscles bunched, his thin trousers bearing the strain. His booted feet gripped the trunk, his knees pinned tight. Readying to reach for the saw, he steadied as he lined up the first limb.

  The end of the rope flipped out of its knot. Sam called up. ‘Mr O, get yeself tucked in, the rope’s gonna fray.’

  Lorc waved again, shuffled again, and straddled a sturdy branch where it attached the trunk. He kept the rope about his waist as he dragged the knot around. ‘Thanks, lad,’ he said. Thick fingers deftly plied open the knot to retie it. ‘Nearly done, good as new—Shit,’ he barked and slapped hard at his right knee. He yowled and reefed up his pants leg. Leaned too far. The rope let go and he toppled over and, still yowling, bit the dust with a thud.

  ‘Pa!’ Ard yelled and slid to his side.

  ‘Christ almighty,’ Lorc breathed, writhing. Shaking his head, growling, he fought Ard off as he tried to sit up, tried to reach his leg. Sweat popped, his face blanched and he dropped on his back in a dead faint.

  ‘Shit. He’s broken it.’ Sam had heard the sickening crack, and the shin was bent at an ominous angle. He pulled off his shirt and began ripping at the sleeves. ‘We need to splint the leg, mate, while he’s out to it.’

  Ard thrashed around in the dirt and found sticks sturdy enough to strap the shin. ‘Gotta straighten the bastard first.’

  ‘Do the best we can.’ Sam had one sleeve free of the shirt. He wrenched the other off and knelt by Lorc’s leg. ‘I only know me pa did this for me when I was a lad. Hold his knee.’

  White-faced, Ard wrapped his hands around his father’s knee.

  ‘Hold it steady.’ Sam gripped Lorc’s heel, held
his calf muscle and moved the shin until it looked straight, aligned. He hoped they’d only have to do this once for Lorc, hoped he’d done it right.

  ‘Seemed too easy,’ he said. ‘Come on, let’s strap it quick.’

  He tossed Ard the torn-off sleeves and held the sticks in place for the splint. Ard wrapped fast, firm, and tied a knot at his father’s knee and ankle.

  Sam said to him, ‘I’ll get the cart, mate. If we’re lucky he’ll stay knocked out ’til we’ve got him in bed.’

  Eleanor O’Rourke sat by her husband’s bed, a hand on his arm, the other clutching Mrs Chaffey’s letter, the words of which swum before her.

  Dear Mr and Mrs O’Rourke,

  It is my sad duty to inform you that your daughter, Miss Mairead O’Rourke, employed at Olivewood and known to us as Maggie, has fled our home for parts unknown, two days ago at the time of writing. It is the consequence of a terrible act of assault in which bodily harm was perpetrated on a citizen of our small community here.

  Our personal sense of your daughter’s integrity is not one of a criminal, nor would her apparent accomplice, another woman sometimes in our service, Nara Wadge be so attainted, but it would seem that they were both involved in the altercation in which Mr Robert Boyd, the alleged victim, was most terribly harmed. His brother, Mr Angus Boyd, came late to the scene of the crime and can attest to their presence and their flight.

  I am so sorry to be the harbinger of this awful news. And worse, to advise that your daughter, and the other woman, have not been sighted anywhere in our district.

  Should you need further information from this household, please contact the writer.

  Yours most sincerely from one mother to another,

  Ella Chaffey, (Mrs. Charles Chaffey).

  May Twelfth, 1895, Renmark, South Australia.

  Eleanor had only read the thing one hundred times since it arrived this morning, delivered by her son who’d ridden off before she could open it. Her fingers on Lorcan’s arm tapped by rote, a comfort more for her than for him. He was sleeping, and teetered between consciousness and unconsciousness.