‘I wouldn’t have cared less. You know how I felt about you.’
‘Some of us can’t afford to be so reckless. I know what it’s like not to fit in, to be unacceptable. I didn’t want that for my child.’ Maria tugged once at his sleeve as if to ensure he was listening. ‘Hugh thinks his father is dead and it’s best that way.’
‘And is Edward a good father to my son?’
‘Of course.’ The answer was curtly given.
Ross sensed there was more. ‘Maria?’
‘We have four other children, Ross. It’s natural that Edward favours them over Hugh.’
‘Meaning what exactly?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Maria?’ he said again,
She looked out to the ocean, clearly hesitant. ‘It would be easier for everyone if they got on a little better.’
‘In other words, Edward wanted you but not another man’s child?’ He watched as the truth of what he said showed itself in Maria’s eyes.
Yesterday, barely a shred of Ross’s own making existed and now he’d discovered that there was one extraordinary thing he’d had a part in creating. And yet he was being asked to walk away, before he even had a chance to meet his son. It was hard to give up something so sweetly found. There was a mangling going on within him, a twisting of knowing and having and wishing and wanting and all the time Maria waited for an answer, scrappy sand blowing on and around them as if the wind didn’t give a damn.
Ross imagined escaping Darwin with the boy. Cutting cross-country through clusters of termite mounds aligned according to the passage of the sun. Camping rough. Hiding. Moving in the shadow of the stony escarpments until the creeping ferns and paperbark swamps dried up, until the rocky outcrops dwindled in size and the land grew flat and smooth, dust-riddled and mazed by things that walked and hopped and slithered. Ross could be the father that the boy needed. He could teach his son how to survive on the land, knowledge that could not be found in any book, like finding water when there was none to be found, of the type of horse a man needed for roping cleanskins in a yard, and the ones that were fearless and agile, that glistened with sweat on the buffalo plains. These were all things he’d once thought of sharing with Hart, had he and the boy been given time.
‘I could take him with me, Maria.’
‘No!’ she shouted, her cheeks red with rage. ‘If you take my boy he’ll be your shiralee. Maybe not to start with, but you’ll think of him that way eventually. Once people start hunting you it won’t be as easy to disappear. There is more to consider here than what you want, Ross.’
He stepped away from the incoming tide, from the bubbles popping up through the sand, and the anger of the woman in front of him. ‘I won’t leave without meeting him. That’s final.’
Ross thought of the girl on the buffalo hunt. Even now, a child of his blood could be resting beside her as she salted hides at another’s man’s request. There’d been women. And maybe other children. This one he wasn’t letting go of.
‘I mean it. It would be wrong of you to deny your son. You know that, Maria. Particularly if Edward isn’t the father to the boy that he should be. You’ve said as much.’
Maria glanced briefly down the street to her house. ‘If I let you meet him,’ she said, ‘will you leave us be? Will you promise not to cause any trouble? Or do you intend to hurt me twice? You owe me, Ross.’
She knew how to strike, he’d give her that. ‘I have no other children, Maria. In the end, what property I have should be left to my son. I’d like it to be left to my son. I won’t say anything to him about it today, but at some stage in the future Hugh needs to know the truth. You need to tell him so that when I return he won’t be surprised to see me.’
‘Not while he’s a child,’ she warned.
Ross waited on the bench outside the house while Maria went indoors. The young woman from the beach emerged, with a red-haired child on a hip. She told him that Mrs Maria wouldn’t be long. She seemed interested in him, and lingered on the veranda, sitting the little girl on the bannister. Eventually the child’s kicks drew her back to the present, and then she too disappeared down the long hall. Ross pulled on the knotted swing supports before sitting on the bench. A row of shrubs planted sporadically along the fence leaned away from the onshore wind. There was a hole near the gate big enough for a dog to crawl through and above it, on the top railing, a magpie stared at the house.
Maria’s voice could be heard and then there was a stomp of footsteps and a boy ran outside and down the three stairs from the veranda to the garden, stopping directly in front of Ross.
‘Hello, Mr Grant.’
The boy extended an arm and Ross rose. Hugh was tall and skinny with black hair. His grip suggested he was used to mixing with men. ‘I know all about you. How you saved my mum and then roamed the bush with the blacks.’
‘This is Hugh,’ Maria puffed, catching up. ‘Named after his grandfather.’
Ross thought of the old bastard he’d met in the Hotel Victoria the first week he’d set foot in Darwin. The man who’d placed Maria into his care. ‘I know Hugh Carment. How is your grandfather?’
‘Still running the property. My dad says he’ll be running it even when he’s got one foot in the grave. But I don’t think he’d be able to do that, do you?’
‘Probably not. And where is your father now?’ asked Ross.
‘He’s with him. I’d like to be there to help with the muster-up, but Mum says I have to go to school.’ He screwed his feet into the ground, scuffing his shoes.
‘There’s plenty of time for cattle work,’ said Ross. ‘School’s important too.’
‘What was it like when you were out bush, Mr Grant? My dad says you went mad. Is that right?’
‘Hugh!’ Maria admonished. ‘I’m sorry, Ross.’
‘That’s all right.’ Ross met Maria’s gaze. ‘For a while there I almost certainly did.’
‘And Mum said that you got hurt when you were hunting buffalo.’
‘Did she tell you all that just this morning?’
‘Oh no.’ Hugh stuck his chin out. ‘Mum told me some of that stuff ages ago.’
‘Did she now?’
‘That’s what I want to do,’ continued Hugh. ‘Hunt buffalo. Grandfather says I’m already a crack shot and that I can stick a horse like nobody’s business.’
‘Is that right? Well, I wouldn’t doubt it,’ said Ross.
‘Time to go, Hugh,’ urged Maria.
‘Bye, Mr Grant.’ He ran up the steps. The front door squeaked on its hinges, and he was gone.
‘So you have five children?’ asked Ross.
‘Three boys and two girls.’
So many, Ross thought. A household of little ones to carry on the Carment name. ‘Does he need anything?’
‘Nothing. Hugh’s a good student.’ Pride showed in the way she glanced back towards the house. ‘He likes reading and sports and he gets into a fair bit of trouble. More than some other boys, but he’s strong and healthy and headstrong. Like you.’
‘Can I write to him?’
‘And say what?’
‘I don’t know. I could tell him about buffalo hunting.’
‘And nothing else?’ queried Maria. ‘Hugh’s too young. Be content with the fact he considers you a hero.’
‘Nothing else,’ promised Ross.
‘All right, then. Yes. But don’t flood him with letters, it will make Edward suspicious.’
They walked in silence to where Ross’s horse waited in the shade. Unsure whether Maria’s company meant she didn’t trust him to leave, Ross said nothing more about the boy. He didn’t want to break the fragile bond he had established that morning, but he hoped Maria appreciated how much it tore at him to go.
The sun was already high, a blur of light that Ross needed to shield his eyes from when he glanced up, which he did often. He focused on anything that attracted attention. A piece of newspaper on the ground, mail wedged in a letterbox, the sound of a child’s laugh. Litt
le things that meant nothing but would become permanent fixtures when he recalled that day.
The whiskery mare nickered on their approach. Maria patted the animal as Ross lifted his leg, sliding the boot into the stirrup, then heaved himself onto the horse’s back, his face almost touching the mare’s neck with the effort. With difficulty, he straightened in the saddle.
‘You shouldn’t be riding, Ross.’
‘So they tell me,’ he replied.
‘You’re as stubborn as ever.’
The mare flicked its tail. ‘Maria.’
‘Don’t say anything, Ross.’ She folded her arms across her chest.
He thought of his hopes of reconciliation that morning and of the enormity of what had now replaced those vague expectations. Maria stepped further away and he in turn pushed the crown of his hat down hard. Ross measured the distance connecting them and the son, which now created a triangle. He’d wanted Maria once. But what he recalled and what was before him no longer corresponded. And yet if she’d come to him, willing and happy … but there was no point in speculating, not anymore.
Chapter 57
Waybell Station
The old mare trudged next to Mick’s young gelding, growing more reluctant as the miles increased. Ross figured the horse smarter than him, that the animal could sense that rushing to an uncertain welcome wasn’t something to be advised. Tread carefully, the old horse cautioned as she stepped hesitantly through the undergrowth. Boss he might well be, however his entitlement was neither warranted nor proven.
‘You need to stop?’ asked Mick.
Ross pulled the mare up and caught his breath. Three hours in the saddle was testing his pain threshold. ‘I’ll stretch my legs,’ he said. He gripped the saddle, swung a leg over and, on hitting the ground, buried his forehead in the horse’s rump. When the discomfort lessened he began to lead the mare. ‘I’ll walk for a while.’
‘Ross, are you all right? Perhaps you should ride in the dray,’ called Darcey. Parker sat next to her. The wagon was loaded with supplies and her most favoured pieces of furniture, her easel sticking up on one side. Eustace tailed the small party.
Ross gave a dismissive wave in response, knowing how much worse the ache would be if he was to sit on that wooden seat with his legs crooked up at right angles. He thought of the walking stick in the rear of the wagon as he stepped over some fallen timber, and of the woman who observed him from the advantage of height and full health.
Darcey’s presence had come about through pity.
Yes, she’d said a few days later, answering his correspondence in a neat, concise reply. Darcey had taken it into her mind that Ross wanted her on the property to care for him and organise the household, and accordingly she offered to live on the station for a period of one year until he became more settled. Refusing the offer was an impossibility, for then Darcey might have assumed he’d expected more from their relationship. Twelve months. Ross thought of the weeks allotted to him. The time was undeserved and he still berated himself for writing the letter and presuming that she cared. He wished that Darcey had refused him. He wasn’t sure what he wanted from his wife, but whatever it was, it wasn’t pity.
‘Are you sure you should be walking, Ross?’ she asked again.
‘I’m fine,’ he replied.
Mick slowed his horse. ‘It’s a long way yet, Boss.’
‘I know, Mick, but I’ll just walk for a little while.’
‘Must have been a big buffalo to smash you up so bad.’
‘It was Nugget that fell on me. He got flipped into the air,’ said Ross.
‘That weedy nag?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Shouldn’t have swapped that tobacco for him. It was good tobacco,’ said Mick.
‘No, it was a great trade, Mick. Nugget was the best horse I’ve ever owned.’ He didn’t add that his recklessness killed the animal, and that he’d ridden too hard, too fast for far too long.
‘Boss, we run buffalo in the north now and cattle in the south. Better for the cattle,’ explained Mick.
‘Sounds like a good idea to me.’
‘Your idea. We talked about it. You be here for a while?’ asked Mick.
‘It depends. Staying mightn’t be the right thing to do. For anyone. Waybell might be better off without me.’
‘This country go on no matter who’s here, Boss. Best that you ask if you’d be better off without Waybell,’ answered Mick.
The land was spoilt from the heat, and the dry crackled about them. They journeyed for the rest of the day, Ross feeling more settled now he was back in territory he knew, despite the aches that tormented him. Timber-framed turrets of rock could be seen in the distance and it was towards these craggy projections they headed until the bluff that hung cold and straight above Waybell came into sight. A ridge, an incline, a well-gouged track and then the trees separated.
The station’s inhabitants were lined up to greet Ross and Darcey. A string of people, distantly familiar. Old men sitting in the dirt. Children in hand-me-downs, stockmen leaning impatiently on rifles and women who, Ross supposed, figured he’d gone womba and waited with interest to see what might happen next. Mick led their small procession to the front of the homestead.
Lifting his boot free of the stirrup, Ross dismounted. He staggered a little from the weakness of his legs, and waited until his balance evened out before limping slowly to where Sowden sat in his cane-bottom chair. The manager was older and smaller. Long grey hairs sprouted from his eyebrows and spiky chin-grizzle gave him a dissolute air. Annie held the familiar raggedy umbrella aloft, the woman and the bent parasol both showing signs of age.
‘Boss.’ Sowden nodded.
‘Sowden,’ answered Ross.
They shook hands. Sized each other up. ‘You look well,’ commented Ross.
‘And you not so much.’ Sowden took in the slope of Ross’s waist, which was kinked up on one side.
‘Hello, Annie,’ said Ross.
‘How long you back for this time, Boss?’ Her fingers moved along the handle of the canopy.
‘Long enough.’
Further back the women and children gathered around Darcey, calling out ‘Missus’ and touching her. She greeted each person. Shaking a hand here and there, asking after children who had since grown and meeting new additions. When she reached where Ross waited with Sowden, he noticed she held a package wrapped in brown paper and twine.
‘Hello, Bill.’
The manager smiled, taking Darcey’s hand in both of his. He nodded and grew watery-eyed as Annie and Darcey exchanged hellos, and there was a brief discussion of camp news. Darcey enquired about medical ailments that might be troubling the tribe and offered her services if required. Annie said she might just send one or two who never listened and see if the Missus could do better.
‘We kept the house just as you left it, Missus,’ Sowden told her.
‘Oh, Bill. I did tell you and Annie to move in. You know that.’
‘That wouldn’t have been proper.’
‘This is for you.’ Darcey gave Sowden the package as women and children crowded in.
Sowden, puzzled at first, carefully unwrapped the gift. Inside was a canary-yellow umbrella with navy stripes. ‘Thank you, Missus,’ he said.
Everyone moved back so that the sunshade could be opened. The old parasol was thrown away to be fought over by some of the children as Annie set the new one above the manager’s head.
‘It’s the best thing someone’s ever given me,’ he snuffled, folding the brown paper into a series of smaller and smaller squares. ‘The very best.’
‘Mick tells me you’ve got the place in good order,’ said Ross.
‘Fair enough.’ Sowden set the paper and twine in his lap, slapping away the eager children. ‘Mick’s been in charge since the little Scot left.’
‘With your help.’ He’d planned on taking Sowden aside and having a private conversation, but now he was back on the property he felt the familiar hierarchy come in
to play. The camp waited for one of them to speak. Ross hesitated. Sowden’s lips curled into a slight smile. It was as if he understood Ross’s predicament as he tried to find the right words, if not apology for the accusations of the past, at least indebtedness for what had been done in his absence.
‘Thanks for looking after the property. I appreciate it,’ said Ross finally.
Sowden bowed his head.
‘You figure things out now?’ Sowden asked, without a hint of cynicism.
How to answer the question when the whole camp was eavesdropping? ‘Am I meant to?’ replied Ross.
Sowden’s mouth twisted to one side, the skin bunching. ‘Don’t know rightly. My father couldn’t read or write very well. He used to mark time with a stick. Scratched on a bit of wood with a knife to count off the days. Six upright strokes and a slash through the lot of them for Sunday. That’s how I learnt to tally numbers as a boy. Staring at the passage of time. Lost days, my mother called them. That’s the only thing that’s certain. Time. One day we’ll all be gone. And everything we’ve done, the good and the bad, the mean and the kind, well, it’s gotta count for something, otherwise why would we put ourselves through it? You stick a piece of wood in the ground with my name on it or burn me and place my bones in the hollow of a termite-rotted trunk, doesn’t matter to me. Shouldn’t matter to anyone. All the remembering and the doings got to be done now because no one will be doing it for you in the future. So it’s not so much about working things out, but living. Making use of the time we’ve got.’
Almost the entire camp was on the ground, limbs crossed and attentive. Even Parker and Eustace had halted their unloading of the wagon. One of the horses whinnied and the disturbance roused Sowden. He tapped the chair, and two young men grasped the arms on either side.
‘A place needs a boss,’ Sowden said to Ross as the chair was lifted and everyone got to their feet. ‘And get yourself a better horse,’ he called as he was carried away. ‘That old mare might be all right for a cripple.’
‘He tells a fine story,’ commented Darcey as they walked up the stairs and inside the homestead.
Stone Country Page 33