Stone Country

by Nicole Alexander

  He noticed how tired she seemed. ‘I should leave you to rest.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she agreed.

  Darcey was asleep before he reached the bedroom door.

  Chapter 63

  Shooed away by the female Elders, Ross toed the caked mud of the billabong. It drew inwards to where newly hatched fish hugged the shallow weed beds. It was the time of dragonflies and hoarding mosquitoes. The dry season, when the slightly cooler nights made for easier sleeping. He pictured Hugh and the other stockmen, racing on the wing of a mob of cattle, dust and sweat smearing their eyes, the tang of the bush sharp in their nostrils. It wasn’t for wanting to be away from his wife that he wished to be among the thick of the gathering-in, but men were useless when women’s business was afoot. And he was no different.

  He’d spent the past fortnight relegated to Hugh’s room, the one that once belonged to Maria, and had scratched out so many children’s names that he’d totally confused himself as to what he liked or disliked. Eventually he reached a shortlist. If the child was a girl he rather liked Bridget, in honour of his grandmother. If a boy, he was partial to Cameron, Angus or James. If Connor had been present he’d have been quick to point out the merits of each, and more than once Ross had considered making contact with the little Scotsman, but of all the people he’d managed to begin acquitting of blame, Connor was proving the hardest to forgive.

  Darcey’s suggestion to wait until the baby was born to see which name suited seemed too logical for such a miraculous occasion. However Ross stopped pestering her for an opinion and instead began giving consideration to the child’s education. He was beginning to view the baby’s birth as a new start for all of them and, accordingly, a Brisbane-based boarding school appealed, not only for its proximity to the Territory but also for the detachment it offered from the Grants of Adelaide. No child of his was ever going to suffer from his or his family’s wrongdoings again. And so he stood at the billabong and mapped out the first ten years of the baby’s life, deciding that regardless of gender it would certainly be intelligent and have its mother’s saintly disposition.

  The pondering and planning stopped him worrying about Darcey, who was nearing two days of labour. Discomfort had kept her awake for the last week, and although Annie had been attentive with meals it appeared to Ross that his wife had lost weight. Her swollen belly sat heavy on her slight frame. He’d spoken to Darcey earlier that morning where she’d confirmed what he knew, that the birthing business was long and tedious, fraught with false starts and chattering women, before Annie had shoved him out of the bedroom.

  ‘Boss,’ said Annie. She didn’t stop, turning instead to walk back to the house and beckoning for him to follow.

  ‘How is she? It’s taking a long time for this child of mine to come, Annie.’ Ross thought of the Magellan Clouds and his folk looking down from above. For once, they would be proud.

  ‘You come now,’ she called over a shoulder.

  ‘Yes, all right. Slow down. I can’t walk as quickly as you. How’s Darcey? How’s the baby?’

  She halted for just a moment then, flicking at a fly, she resumed walking quickly towards the house. ‘Baby must come.’

  ‘Is it on the way?’ he panted, moving as fast as he could in a shuffling manner.

  ‘Missus very tired. She tell you she was tired, Boss. Too tired for baby.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. She was tired, not sick. Why is it all taking so long?’

  ‘Maybe baby not want to come. Maybe you not whisper hard enough or strong enough for baby to come in the first place,’ Annie told him.

  ‘Don’t tell me that mumbo jumbo, Annie. Darcey’s a white woman.’

  ‘Different but same,’ she muttered, running on ahead.

  Once in the house Ross entered the study. The bedroom door was closed. He knocked on the door demanding to be informed about what was happening and was told to wait. Ross shuffled the length of the room anxiously. Five minutes passed. Then twenty. From inside the bedroom came the sound of women weeping. The door finally opened and the women filed out. He glanced at their faces and then into the room. Darcey was laying in the bed, a sheet drawn to her chin as other women tidied up around her. A bloody sheet was carried from the room and then another bundle, held close to an older woman’s chest. He heard a soft sound, like a mewling kitten and took a step after the woman. Annie stopped him.

  ‘You have boys, Boss,’ said Annie.

  ‘Boys?’ asked Ross.

  ‘Missus have two.’

  ‘Twins?’ he clarified. He found himself thinking of his own birth, so many years previously and he grew fearful.

  Ross caught up with the woman, and took the swaddled infants into his arms. He unwrapped the cloth. Inside, two tiny bodies lay huddled together, pink and warm. He lay them on the desk and stared at the perfectly formed limbs, counting fingers and toes, the knot in his stomach loosening.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with them,’ he said in wonder. ‘Nothing at all.’

  He tried to fathom how they could be so perfect, when the horrors of his own birth had left such an indelible mark on his early life. But before him were two small people, exquisitely made. Crafted from pain and longing and regret. Ross stroked the lick of a curl on a forehead, his own skin dark as stirrup leather against the healthy colour of his sons. ‘James and Cameron,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Boss, you see the Missus now,’ said Annie. Gently, she pushed Ross aside and, rewrapping the infants, held them close.

  Ross couldn’t take his eyes off them. ‘Boss …’ Annie persisted.

  ‘Yes.’ He went to Darcey’s side as the room slowly emptied, dragging a chair next to the bed. ‘Darcey? Darcey, are you awake?’ he said excitedly.

  ‘The baby, Ross? The baby?’ queried Darcey through sleepy eyes. She was very white, as if the colour had been leached from her skin.

  ‘We have two, Darcey. We have twins.’

  Her eyes flickered about the room, coming to rest on the empty cot. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Annie’s with them. She’ll bring them in soon.’ He kissed her on the cheek and took her hand. ‘How are you feeling?’

  Before she could reply, Annie arrived with a moistened cloth. She held the material against Darcey’s lips, gently wringing the cotton so she could drink. ‘You want me to send a message for Hugh, Boss?’

  ‘No, not yet,’ replied Ross.

  Annie left and returned with the babies. She placed a child in the crook of each of his wife’s arms and Darcey touched their downy skulls with her lips and then looked at Ross. A single tear slid down her cheek.

  ‘You’re tired, Darcey. You should rest.’ Ross nodded to Annie and the woman took the children again and left the room. ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ Ross told her.

  He found Annie in the adjoining study staring at the waterlily painting.

  ‘We wash your boys, Boss.’

  ‘Thank you. Annie, the Missus is very pale. Can you make some chicken soup? Or beef tea? Yes, beef tea might be better and fish for dinner.’

  ‘Food not help, Boss. Missus lose too much blood.’

  ‘Of course it helps,’ said Ross.

  ‘Not this time, Boss. I’m sorry, Boss,’ replied Annie.

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘That Missus not stay with us.’

  He dropped his hands and stared at her. ‘What do you mean, she’s not staying with us? That’s ridiculous. She’s just given birth to two healthy sons. She’s tired, that’s all.’

  ‘Boss, haven’t I always told you things straight?’

  The room grew so quiet that Ross was sure he could hear the dragonflies hovering at the edge of the billabong.

  ‘How long?’ he whispered finally. ‘How much time do I have? Time to fetch a doctor from Pine Creek?’

  ‘Boss, even if you weren’t all mangled up like you are, no riding would make any difference. Missus probably be gone by sundown.’

  The blood in him seemed to stop running. Ros
s hit the wall with a fist and then leant on the timber, feeling nothing except the richness of what he’d once had slipping away. He looked to the bedroom door and back to Annie. He wasn’t quite sure what was to be done. People needed to be informed. But there was no one. No real family. Maybe Connor. Definitely Hugh. Perhaps no one. Not yet. He’d be incapable of forming a sentence, of holding a pen. Did he tell Darcey or wait? Or did she already know? A hopelessness had taken hold. He looked to Annie for answers.

  ‘Boss, better you be with the Missus,’ she told him.

  He nodded and in a daze he returned to Darcey’s side, cupping her hand in his, observing the little tremors that shook her every few minutes.

  ‘I was an idiot all those years ago,’ Ross told her.

  She smiled weakly. ‘I wish I’d met you first, Ross, before Alastair. Before the war. For I would have chosen you over your brother. You have more honour than Alastair ever did, and you asked nothing of anyone except to be allowed to live your life on your own terms, right or wrong. And that’s how a life should be lived, with persistence and passion and courage. I’ll always love you for that and for giving me our precious children.’

  ‘Darcey –’

  ‘You’ve carved a fine life here, Ross, and you have our sons. Be good to them.’

  ‘But how will I manage without you?’

  ‘You know what to do. Guide them, love them, be an example.’

  She had no idea of the enormity of the task that she asked of him, and for the first in his life he felt truly afraid. How would he go on without Darcey? And what chance did he have to raise their children alone, when his own childhood had been without real fathering? Ross kissed her and held her close as she drifted deeper into sleep, the sun’s rays patterning the room as it slipped lower in the sky. He looked again and again at the bassinet, and thought of the children she’d given him, and each time he held Darcey a little tighter until he was sitting on the bed, holding her in his arms.

  He felt her stir and he squeezed her fingers and kissed her on the lips one final time and told her that he was with her, forever. The smile she gave was magnificent and Ross reached out to touch the softness at the base of her throat as her breathing stilled. He stayed with Darcey until her skin grew cool and the room lost all light and the day came again.

  Then he found a shovel and dug a hole a short distance from the house. Ross wrapped Darcey in a sheet and carried her outside, his legs straining under her weight, pain searing through him. She was white, shrouded in white, and Ross thought of their marriage and the unconsummated wedding night and how all the long years later he was carrying his wife across a far different threshold, one he was not quite ready to span, while the attendants of her later life walked behind, wailing.

  He collapsed on the ground and lay Darcey in the narrow grave. There were words that needed to be said. A long, grateful, pitying prayer that spoke of suffering and love and begged for help but Ross was so far removed from church and religion that although he searched, nothing appropriate came to mind. Had he been at Oenpelli he would have clawed his way up the missionary’s hill and chopped down the wooden cross and its false ideals of hope. Instead, he drew on his fragmented memory, sorting through partial passages and quotes until one rose whole.

  ‘You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again.’

  In the end, it seemed that some good had come of reading Homer.

  The old men, women and children who crowded in on her resting place left silently soon after. Annie was the last to go, a sleeping baby in each arm. Ross sat at the foot of Darcey’s grave for the rest of that day and long into the night, his body cramping as the hours dragged. The nightbird’s songs became her requiem and as the moon rose he touched the freshly turned earth. He’d never be able to express his gratitude for what she’d said, about his life and his brother. He thought that perhaps honour came in different forms, and how extraordinary it was that in the eyes of Darcey he’d finally found his.

  Chapter 64

  Although in the end, messages were sent to Hugh and Connor telling them of Darcey’s death, neither boy nor man returned to the homestead or relayed their sympathies. Ross gave up waiting in the silent house and left a fortnight later, riding northeast. He rode for two hours at a time, stopping each night, barely able to move. Each morning, the effort of realigning and urging his body onwards became more difficult. Ross ate up the pain and lived on it, existing on tea and bread and little else. He knew that if he kept on going, eventually he’d become exhausted and the return trip would undo him. Ross depended on that.

  He rode to where schools of eel-tailed catfish swam lazily in pools sheltered by stone, and as light fell softly, he led the old mare around the edge of a waterhole carved out in the shade of burgundy cliffs. Ferns and other wet-rooted plants grew from recesses where dried moss clung and Ross looked about at the still water, at the paintings of spread-out hands on the cliff wall and another that resembled a crocodile.

  Then he sat back on his haunches and cried for the first time since childhood. He thought of the wasted years and the love he’d always borne Alastair in spite of everything, and the fortunate life that remained, and decided that maybe it was time to forgive his family without exception and put aside regret. When he was ready, he rode back towards the homestead and his children, aware of the responsibility they presented and knowing that this time he couldn’t run away.

  He saw Hugh first. His boy was leading a horse towards the stables when he arrived home and for the first time since Darcey’s passing Ross smiled at the sight of his elder son. The boy was a fine rider, a loner at times, but already Ross could see the man he would become. Strong and smart, willing to try anything, but stubborn enough to ensure that whatever he attempted would be accomplished his way. He’d not seen the similarities linking them as clearly as he did at that moment, and the recognition made Ross value the importance of being patient, of guiding and caring for the next generation. Something his own father had not managed. He refused to be like that. The distant patriarch. And Ross made up his mind to try and be the father figure he’d needed in his own life and had never experienced.

  As if knowing he was being observed, Hugh turned towards his father and, dropping the reins, ran to him, slowing as he reached his side as if worried about the level of enthusiasm he should display at Ross’s return.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Hugh chastised, waiting as Ross dismounted. Then, steadying his father’s descent with a braced arm, he said with concern, ‘I came as soon as we got your message.’

  ‘I needed to get away for a while.’ Ross leant on the horse for support before clasping his son’s shoulder in greeting.

  Hugh gave a tentative smile and untied Ross’s swag, swinging it over a shoulder. ‘We were miles away. I’m sorry about Darcey.’

  ‘Thanks for coming home,’ said Ross.

  ‘I would have been here sooner had I known. You look pretty crook, Dad.’

  It was the first time Hugh had ever addressed him that way. As his father. Ross took in the length and breadth of the young man before him, searching for a word that could express his happiness. ‘I’ll be right. A cup of tea will help.’

  ‘And a feed, by the looks of you.’ Hugh offered an arm and Ross leant on his son as they walked slowly towards the house. ‘I’ve got a couple of new brothers.’

  Ross halted. He was too exhausted to argue. ‘I hope you’re okay with that, Hugh.’

  The boy didn’t answer directly. ‘I think it’s good, Dad. They’ll come in handy when I’m running the property. You can never have too many workers.’ He grinned. ‘While you were away Annie organised for Little Bill’s wife, Jo, to care for the twins. It seems to me you’re going to have your hands full, Dad, so I thought I’d stay on through the wet and maybe next year. If that’s all right?’ he asked.

  Ross couldn’t answer. His throat swelled up. ‘That’ll be just fine, but what about your mother?’

  ‘I’m gro
wn up now, Dad. I don’t need to get permission.’

  ‘No,’ said Ross. ‘I suppose you don’t.’

  Chapter 65

  1939

  The pedal radio tapped out the letters on the Morse keyboard.

  Hugh leant over the contraption. ‘You know, Dad, you can get a voice transceiver these days.’ He read the message aloud. ‘Prime Minister Menzies has announced the beginning of Australia’s involvement in the Second World War.’ His concentration reverted to the machine, as if willing more news to be relayed.

  ‘War,’ Ross repeated. He knew it would happen. That they’d be drawn once again into a bloody conflict. How was it possible that such stupidity existed in the world?

  Across the room his son waited for the machine to reveal more details. Alfred Traeger’s radio device had connected the vast stations of the outback, however with the technology came knowledge. Ross preferred the old days, when folk lived in isolation and other people’s difficulties carried more chance of remaining their own. It’ll save a life, Hugh had claimed, upon returning from Pine Creek with the invention. Ross doubted it. The radio wouldn’t have helped Darcey or Sowden or Annie, who’d passed earlier that year in her sleep. The radio, Ross judged, was a bad investment. Particularly now. He knew the boy would enlist. He stirred two spoons of sugar into tepid water and drank.

  ‘He had to do it, Dad. Germany’s invaded Poland,’ said Hugh.

  ‘And so it starts all over again,’ replied Ross.

  ‘We won last time.’

  ‘Sure we did, Hugh. But we also lost much.’

  Ross balanced the ledger on a knee, holding the magnifying glass so that the numbers doubled in size. He could just make out the figures. His vision had long since deteriorated. Mrs Guild’s husband’s spectacles and another three pairs besides were long discarded. Hugh had walked the sale bullocks back to the main yards yesterday and was stopping in for only two nights before heading north and rejoining the mustering team, who were now concentrating on hunting and domesticating buffalo in the top portion of the station. Theirs was a strong partnership. The type of working relationship Ross once envisaged he and Alastair would share. Only twenty years of age, Hugh had earnt the regard of the men on the property and was mature enough to consider other people’s opinions, even if they were at odds with his own. For his part, Ross had learnt to give his son praise when it was due and to quietly reprimand when required, although it had taken some time for him to grasp the fundamentals underlining their relationship, mutual love and respect. As he became more accustomed to parenting he was hopeful that when the twins were older, the task wouldn’t be quite so challenging.