Dust Off the Bones

by Paul Howarth

  Billy barged past him, and something in Drummond’s expression changed. Slack-jawed and gormless, like he’d only just realized what Billy was doing here, why he was so concerned. Billy barked a laugh and mounted the steps, the homestead looming over him, windows glinting in the sun, and Katherine inside somewhere, carrying his child. He strode along the hall to the atrium, calling out her name, his presence huge in the still, quiet house. Upstairs, around the balcony landing, calling out again, then along the corridor toward her bedroom. A latch clicked, the door opened, and out she stepped wearing a white nightdress, holding herself with both arms. Billy halted. She’d been crying, he could tell, and immediately he guessed what had gone on. He almost went back after him. Could have caught up with that carriage in no time at all. But last night by the campfire he’d vowed to never leave her, to protect her, so instead walked forward hesitantly, as if unsure whether he dared.

  “Where were you?” she asked timidly. “Where have you been?”

  “Working,” was all Billy could say.

  “With him?”

  “It was nothing. What happened? Are you hurt?”

  “It’s never nothing with that man.”

  “Katie, tell me.”

  “You first.”

  Billy took a long breath, his gaze on the floor. There was ten feet between them; it might as well have been ten miles.

  “We went down Drew Bennett’s place, he had a runaway trooper hiding in his barn. I was to mind the family, make sure nothing went wrong. And it didn’t—we just took the boy and left.”

  “Why you, though? Why would he want your help?”

  “Because Drew knows me. And the runaway was one of them from before.”

  “You mean . . . ?”

  He nodded. “Noone threatened us, me and you, even Tommy—he knows where he is, said he’d see to it he hangs.”

  “He knows where Tommy is? Did he tell you?”

  Billy shook his head. “He’ll be lying. But that’s it, that’s all that happened.” He waved at her. “Now it’s your turn.”

  She touched her face reflexively, sniffed, wiped her eyes. “Charles, last night . . . well, he didn’t, but he might have done. He certainly tried.”

  “He hurt you?”

  “No, not really.” A snatch of laughter. “If anything, he came off worse.”

  Billy stepped a pace closer, glanced at her midriff, couldn’t help himself. “Is it true? Are you . . . ?”

  If she was shocked she didn’t show it. “Who told you? Noone?”

  “He said he came here. Somehow he knew.”

  She let her arms fall open, looked at herself too. “Yes. I mean, I think so. God, Billy—I’m so scared.”

  He went to her, and held her, and she pressed herself against him, no thought about the state of his clothes. He felt her tears warm and wet on his shirtfront, the same spot where not five minutes ago her father’s hand had been. He would show that bastard. Him and all the rest.

  Katherine peeled away. Billy slid a filthy hand to her belly and cupped the tiny bulge, the hand dark against her bright white cotton nightdress. Billy couldn’t feel anything. He’d expected maybe a pulse or kick. He looked at her doubtfully.

  “Are you pleased?” Katherine said.

  “Of course I’m bloody pleased. Christ, Katie—come here.”

  Tenderly he kissed her and again they embraced and stayed like that for a long time. The rush of their breathing, his heartbeat against her cheek, the warmth of her hands on his back. Holding on so tightly, each all the other had.

  * * *

  They were married three days later in Bewley’s little church, in front of the whole township, it felt: people crammed into the benches and stood shoulder to shoulder along the walls. Billy wore a new suit the tailor had rushed through and Katherine was in the same gown she’d worn last time around—to hell with superstition, she wasn’t waiting for a new one to be made. Not everyone thought likewise. The wedding had a whiff of scandal about it from the start. There were grumbles that the vicar had even allowed it in the church, her being a widow and all. But the marriage of a Sullivan—any Sullivan—was as close to a state occasion as the people of Bewley got, and to a local hero, no less. Nonetheless, opinion was divided on the union. Some claimed to have long suspected there was something going on between them; others correctly predicted she’d been knocked up. There were those jealous of Billy’s windfall—a bride like that, plus an empire—while some could see the justice in it, what with Katherine losing her first husband and all Billy had been through as a child. Mostly they said good luck to them. Nobody in their shoes would have turned the opportunity down. You only get this one life, might as well take from it whatever you can.

  And so, before the townspeople, and before God, the sun streaming through the windows as if announcing His presence there, they faced each other at the altar and made their vows, Billy slipping his mother’s wedding ring onto Katherine’s finger, his stomach knotting when it fit. His family should have been here with him. Tommy should have been at his side. Instead, the front pews were filled with strangers in all but name, and Billy stood up there alone. Although not any longer: from the moment Katherine arrived framed in the doorway, her father on her arm, neither was alone from now on. Later, back at the homestead, Billy would collar his new father-in-law and put him up against a wall, and warn him that if he ever showed his face at Broken Ridge again he would be taken down to the stockyards, tied to a post, and gelded like a no-good bull, Wilson Drummond’s face whitening at the realization that not only had his daughter married the kind of man who would make such a threat, but also one whose reputation suggested he might actually carry it through. And he would leave then, the coward, after an awkward, perfunctory farewell, scuttling back to the city he’d come from, Billy and Katherine standing on the verandah together, watching him go.

  When the ceremony was over they came down the aisle arm in arm as husband and wife. The crowd applauded, smiling faces and teary eyes, men climbing over each other to shake Billy’s hand. Working their way slowly to the doors, a guard of honor already forming outside, when through the scattered bodies Billy glimpsed a very tall man at the back of the church, leaning against the wall. He hadn’t taken his hat off. He smiled and touched the brim; Billy tightened his grip on Katherine’s arm. Noone was politely clapping, joining in with the crowd, and though he and Billy watched each other all the way to the doors, he did not move from that position: smirking at the newlyweds, reclining against the wall.

  Out they came, into the sunshine, and a showering of rice and grain. Katherine squealed as it peppered them, running to the waiting carriage and bundling inside, reeling in her dress-train. Billy fell against her on the bench. She was laughing breathlessly, her cheeks were flushed. He doubted there’d ever been a more beautiful bride. As the carriage pulled away the crowd surged after them along the street, and there were well-wishers lining the pavements either side. Some threw flowers, others simply stared; while Katherine leaned through the open window and waved to those she knew, Billy twisted to check on the church. The doors were wide open, the congregation spilling out, flowing past the giant silhouette of Noone—his hat, his longcoat—immovable among them, like a river around a stone.

  “What is it?” Katherine asked, her hand on his thigh.

  Billy spun. “Nothing, it’s fine.”

  The town receded behind them, the crowd and noise died away. Katherine flopped back on the bench, sighed, looked at him and smiled.

  “So that’s that done,” Billy said.

  “My husband, the great romantic.”

  “All I meant was—”

  “I know. I’m only teasing.”

  “Sounds odd you saying it: husband.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?”

  “Reckon we’ll get used to it?”

  She shrugged. “You can get used to anything if you give it long enough.”

  “Now who’s being romantic?”

  “Sorry.
I’m just tired.”

  A brief silence. Billy said, “I wasn’t expecting so many people.”

  “Nor me. You’re more popular than I thought.”

  “They came for you. Get a look at that dress.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Aye.”

  “Shall I keep it on a while? Till tonight, maybe?”

  Her eyes danced with mischief. Billy said, “If you want to.”

  “Do you want me to, though?”

  “Aye.”

  A thump on the side of the carriage. The driver slowed. Billy sprang to the window and looked out: they were passing the native camps, and a group of boys throwing stones. The driver yelled and cursed them. Another volley of stones. One hit the back of the carriage and Katherine flinched. “Go, man!” Billy ordered. The coach pulled away with a jerk. The boys gave chase, the next stone missed, and Billy was about to sit down again when he saw by the roadside a very old man standing there in his rags, his face gummed with anger, furiously shaking a stick, shouting as the coach passed.

  “Where’s them Kurrong at, Billy? Where’s them Kurrong gone, eh? Does she know what you did to ’em? Does she know what you done?”

  Billy slammed up the window. The old man was gone. Billy retook his seat and felt Katherine watching him, fixed his stare resolutely ahead.

  “What was that about?”

  “How should I know?”

  “You didn’t know that man?”

  “’Course not. How the hell would I?”

  “Well, he seemed to know you.”

  “I don’t know him, I just said.”

  Silence between them. The coach rumbling on. Eventually Katherine stirred and asked, “What did he mean about the Kurrong? About what you did?”

  He looked at her sharply. “You know what we did. You were there!”

  “I know what you all told me. Ran them off into the center, so you said.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And I’ve also heard the rumors. The same as that old man.”

  “So who do you believe, me or him?”

  “You, if that’s what you’re saying.” She stared at him. “Well? Is it?”

  “Christ, Katie—today of all days.”

  “Answer me, Billy.”

  “You know what they’re like out here. Every story’s better for the telling.”

  “So he’s wrong? They all are?”

  The lie washed out of him, easy as a breath: “We went out after Joseph and got him, and that’s all there is to it. There were a couple others with him but the rest . . . they buggered off into the center, and bloody good riddance too.”

  “And you’ll swear to it?”

  “Why are you so bothered about all this suddenly?”

  “Because I want to know the man I just married, the father of my child. For better or worse, remember. Even this.”

  Billy laughed weakly. “Bit late now.”

  “Swear it, Billy. On our wedding day.”

  “I just told you . . .”

  “Swear it.”

  “All right, for Christ’s sake.”

  She said no more about it. Quietly, Billy stewed. Katherine adjusted her dress and turned to the window, to the continuum of sun-blushed red scrubland streaming by outside. So this is how it begins, she thought to herself. The first day of the rest of their lives.

  Chapter 14

  Tommy McBride

  They limped into Marree like troops back from war, Tommy riding beside Jack Kerrigan at the head of the cattle train, Arthur at the back with the dogs and mules. It felt a miracle they’d actually got here; to see buildings, other people, shops, pubs, hotels. Four weeks battling their way down the Strzelecki Track, living waterhole to waterhole, or puddle to puddle most of the time. Crossing desert and salt flats, the impenetrable Cobbler Sandhills, past the wonder of Lake Blanche and the low scrubby peak of Mount Hopeless, which more than deserved its name, Jack steering them as expertly as if they’d been following road signs.

  Tommy didn’t need convincing, would have trusted anything that man said. Hard going as it had been, he’d been true to his word, sharing his water and the rations off his mules; if they hadn’t met the drover there was no doubt they’d both be dead. He didn’t know what Arthur had been thinking, blindly bringing them west, then blaming Tommy for their troubles, like they were his fault. But this was Jack’s living, he did it every year. He described it like poetry: waking with the sunrise, living off the land, the constant back-and-forth tussle with the mob. It sounded perfect to Tommy. Close to the life he’d always imagined for himself but had never quite known how to get.

  They deposited the cattle into the rail yard pens and while Jack spoke with the agent, got their money, filled out forms, Tommy considered the town. He’d never seen anything like this place. As if they were no longer in Australia at all. More accurately it was two towns, a black and white side, bisected by the railway tracks. The usual fare on the white side: hotels and drinking holes, a post office, a general store; cattlemen and teamsters, railwaymen, women talking in shop doorways, children running about. But across the tracks was a marketplace filled with dark-skinned men with long beards and strange toweling wrapped round their heads. They sat at tables smoking ornate contraptions and hawked their wares in an alien tongue. Tommy had never seen an Afghan before, wondered what kind of native this was. Their tents spread out over the flatland beyond, and in their cattle yards were not cattle but immense bent-necked beasts: camels, humpbacked and bandy-legged, being unloaded of their cargo in the red wash of the sun.

  “You want to try riding one,” Jack Kerrigan said, appearing at Tommy’s side. “They take a bit of mounting, but they’re not actually as uncomfortable as they look.”

  “Stick to the horse, I reckon.”

  “Very wise, young Bobby. Very wise.”

  He still wasn’t used to it, this name he’d taken on. A few times now Jack had spoken and he’d missed it, had to pretend he was lost in thought. Arthur hadn’t slipped once yet, called him Bobby from the start. On those rare occasions they’d been talking, that is, which for the most part they had not.

  They stabled the horses and headed for a hotel: the best in town, Jack said. He got them three rooms with baths, ordered hot water; blacks weren’t usually welcome but Jack paid up front and had a word. Years now he’d been coming here. Could hardly move for people saying hello. Tommy noticed how they greeted him, the smiles and handshakes, the winks some of the women gave. Jack introduced Tommy everywhere, like he was his new best mate, meaning people then shook Tommy’s hand and clapped him on the back also, and those same women who’d winked at Jack winked at him too.

  He’d never had a bath like it. Emerged a new man, reborn.

  He was half-dressed and almost finished shaving when there came a gentle tapping at the door. He opened it expecting Jack, instead found Arthur standing there, his hair still damp from bathing, droplets glistening in his beard. Tommy went back to the mirror. Arthur came in and closed the door.

  “Some place this, eh?” Tommy said, meaning both the hotel and town.

  “We can’t stay here.”

  “Why? What d’you mean? What’s the problem?”

  “They’re just as likely to know us here as anywhere. We need to be heading south, Tommy. Changing your name won’t do bugger all.”

  “How will they know us? How?”

  “Well, for a start they’ll have the telegraph. All it takes is that boyfriend of yours to tell ’em how we met—it’s not much of a leap from there.”

  “He promised not to say anything.”

  “Stake your life on that, would you?”

  “I would, actually, yeah.”

  Arthur rolled his eyes and turned away.

  “You know,” Tommy said, pointing with the straight razor, “all he’s ever done is look out for us. He saved our lives back there. Paid us exactly what he said he would, even got you your own room. You’d be yon side of them tracks if it wasn’t for hi
m—wouldn’t hurt to show some bloody thanks.”

  Arthur snorted, shook his head. “Quite the pair, aren’t you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s like the last five years never happened, Tommy. Or the fourteen before that. You seem to forget where you’ve come from, and where you’d be without me, or does it not work that way round?”

  Tommy finished with the razor. He put it down and toweled off and faced Arthur front-on, and for probably the first time ever felt he was his equal, a man. He sighed, relented a little, said, “Look, we’ve been through hell together these past few months, you must be feeling it the same as me. I can’t head straight back out there—besides, Jack says there’s more droving work if we want it, before the season ends. The pay’s good, we’re in the middle of nowhere, nobody’ll find us out here. With money we can start a new life properly. Otherwise we’ll just keep running, nothing in our pockets but sand.”

  Arthur shook his head. “Bloke acts like I’m his fucking boy.”

  “He doesn’t mean nothing by it.”

  “Oh, you reckon?”

  “What have you got against him, Arthur? What’s he ever done?”

  “Fellas like that, Tommy, they only want you when it suits ’em. He’ll get bored soon enough and then where will you be? The state you were in when I found you . . .”

  “How long are you going to keep throwing that at me? You’re always telling me it’s time to grow up, move on, then when I do you pull me right back down again, talking like I’m a kid, and all the shit that went on back then. It’s like I can’t ever forget what happened with you around.”

  Arthur was quiet a moment. Sadly he said, “Yeah, well, sorry for sticking by you for so long.”

  “Don’t be like that.”

  “But you’re staying, are you? With him?”

  Tommy pulled on a shirt. “For now I am. But first, I’m going downstairs to eat a nice big steak then I plan on drinking myself under the table with Jack. I’d say you’re welcome to join us but you’re not. Doesn’t sound like you’d want to anyhow.”

  They stood a long time in silence, Tommy flushed and restless, Arthur’s unblinking stare. He took a breath and nodded, as if something was decided, opened the door and left the room. Tommy almost went out after him. He regretted what he’d just said. But there was a kernel of truth to it: he was sick of Arthur treating him like he was a child. At least Jack saw him simply for who he was now, unencumbered by a past he dragged behind him like an ankle chain. They had no history together, which for once was a relief. And the droving work was good work, lonely work, decent pay too, not that it mattered—Tommy could have suggested anything and Arthur would have said it was a terrible plan. Tommy had had enough of his bullshit. He snatched his money off the dresser and went downstairs.