by Paul Howarth
Tess glanced up curiously, wondering at this change in routine.
Sure enough, he left the outhouse to find Emily waiting on the back porch, wrapped in a bedsheet, her hair loosely tied, blond strands falling about her face. Tommy stalled at the sight of her, draped all in white and framed by the house in the pale morning light. How had he got so lucky? How hadn’t that luck run out yet? Once, she’d been married to the fat baker in town; the day his heart gave out was the day Tommy’s fortunes really changed. And Emily’s—they should never have been together in the first place. Tommy was almost waiting for her to realize the same thing about him. Good job she’d not caught him earlier, pissing off the steps.
“Morning,” Emily said, smiling. Tommy began walking again.
“Morning.”
“You should have woke me.”
“You were sleeping.” He came up the steps and kissed her. Soft lips, her breath sleep-warm, the tanned and freckled skin of her bare shoulders. “I made coffee if you want one. Or tea, however you like.”
“I have to be getting back, Bobby. I’ve the shop to open. I’m already late.”
He looked down shyly. “You know you don’t have to.”
“It’s not about having to. I want to. The bakery’s my life, my living.”
“What I meant was it doesn’t have to be, I—”
She touched his face tenderly. He didn’t go on. There were things he wanted to tell her, ask her, there had been for a long time now. He was worried he might spoil something between them. That she might not feel the same.
“I know what you meant. Maybe one day. But that shop means a lot to me too, and I’m good at it, or I would be if you weren’t always making me late.”
“I’ll take you down then.”
“I can walk.”
“Be quicker if we rode.”
“All right, but we’d best hurry up about it.”
“Before anyone’s awake to see us, you mean.”
“Well, you aren’t exactly respectable. And me a widow and everything . . .”
They smiled at each other, at her teasing. Tommy never knew when she was being serious, when he should worry, or take offense, and that playfulness she had about her, that unpredictability, set off butterflies. The simplest word could send him spinning. He’d never experienced anything like it in his life.
Inside, Emily gathered up her scattered clothes and took them into the bedroom to get dressed. Tommy found a shirt and a pair of socks, sniffed both, figured they would do, pulled them on. He tidied up a little, collecting their wineglasses, emptying the ashtray. He was always tidying when she visited. Before Emily, he’d lived like any other bloke. Now all his books were lined up neatly on the sideboard, his old Queenslander journals were in a tall pile by the fire. For years those journals had been like a millstone, Tommy scouring the pages for news from home. Now he was working his way through them a little differently: a couple of pages a night got his fire going just fine.
He sat down in the armchair and waited. Furtive glances at the bedroom door. Through the gap he could see her moving, her shadow playing over the wall. He could already feel her leaving, the absence of her in the house. There’d been one other brief relationship before this—Anne, they’d not been right from the start—and since then he’d made his peace with being alone. He’d never figured he deserved true happiness, not in that way, content to count the other blessings in his life. But now, with Emily, it was like he could touch it: a life together, the two of them, maybe children, a proper family—Christ, he didn’t dare.
He never woke up screaming, those mornings she was here.
* * *
After dropping Emily in town, Tommy ate a quick breakfast then with Tess by his side rode out on Lady, to Arthur’s place, north across the undulating fields, the three of them loping along together, comfortable in their routine. Lady was good for him that way. Her easy, unhurried gait. She was a hazel-colored mare and only the second horse he’d had since Beau died; the first had been a mistake, another dun-gray gelding he’d hoped would be just like his old mate. No horse could have been. Beau was a true one-off. He’d died not long after they’d got here, like he’d been waiting to see Tommy right. Those thousands of miles he’d carried him: all over Queensland, from Bewley to St. George; the long slog into the center then the stock routes year on year; south through the ranges and goldfields, then across into Victoria and finally here, until one day he simply lay down like he was knackered, and died. Tommy had wept when he found him, held tight to the cooling flank, then in the days following had toiled to dig a grave big enough, now a lonely little marker in a copse of sapling trees. He’d mourned that horse far longer than he should have—what would his father have said?—but was now quite taken with Lady, they’d been together almost six years. He liked her steady temperament. Just riding her kept him calm.
They’d built the second house about a mile away from the first, put some distance between them, just in case. Arthur hadn’t wanted to be too near the track anyway, the risk of inviting trouble, he knew how folks could be. He’d been right about that, the locals had never accepted him, not once they’d learned he wasn’t just Tommy’s boy. Arthur didn’t care, instead contenting himself back here, with his work, his land, with Rosie; especially so with her.
Arthur’s horse was already saddled and hitched to the verandah rail; as soon as Tommy came within sight of the windows the front door opened and there he was, hobbling down the steps, shouting, “You’re late. What time d’you call this?”
Tommy chuckled. He rode up to the house. Arthur was as thin and wizened as he’d always been, his hair and beard fully gray, but his spirit remained undimmed. He walked bandy-legged, like he was forever saddle-sore, his joints twisted and gnarled like roots. It took him a few attempts to get into the saddle. Tommy knew better than to help. He also knew what it meant to Arthur, the two of them still doing this, working together every day.
Rosie came out with their food parcels. She was short and plump and healthy, with hair braided tight to her head. Down the steps, eyes alight with affection, she handed a parcel to each man. “It’s not much but it’ll keep you living—I’ve a stew on for supper that’ll fill you both to the gills. Morning, Bobby-love, how you been?”
“Ah, can’t complain. Not like this old bugger, mind. Not even got a hello.”
“Should bloody sack you,” Arthur grumbled. “Nearer lunchtime just about.”
Rosie rolled her eyes. “He’s ten minutes late if anything, quit flapping your gums.” She turned to Tommy. “Will you be over for supper tonight, love?”
He thought of Emily. They rarely saw each other two nights running, as if not wanting to push their luck. Or arouse suspicion, though everyone in town already knew, Emily far more concerned with appearances than Tommy had ever been. But then she had to spend her days among them, depended on their custom in the bakery—everything would be so much easier if she just came and lived up here.
“Aye, that’d be lovely. Looking forward to the stew.”
They rode away together, Tess following at their heels. Trotting lightly over open country, into the pastures beyond. Flat grassland up here, rolling green plains, occasional trees and hedgerows, not a clump of spinifex or scrub grass in view.
“She came by again, I take it,” Arthur said, once they were clear of the house.
“Might have done, aye.”
“No might have done about it.”
“Why d’you say that?”
“Rode in late and smiling, that’s why.”
Tommy laughed. The two of them side by side together, like it had always been. “She had the shop to open, the ovens to get on. I rode her down this morning. Might have said some things I shouldn’t.”
Arthur looked at him sharply. “You stupid bugger. What did you say?”
“Not like that. Just got a bit ahead of myself. Talking about her moving in.”
“And? What did she make of it?”
“Said
one day, maybe. She won’t let go of the shop.”
“Well, don’t ask her to. Then you’d be making her choose.”
“So how the hell do I get her out here?”
“Let her do it on her own terms. Shit, Tommy, buy her a horse so she can ride to and fro, then she could keep the shop on too.”
“I’m talking about marrying her, Arthur.”
“Why can’t she do both?”
“Get married and still work?”
“Now there’s a thought,” Arthur said.
They spent all that day in the fields with the cattle. Arthur tired in the early afternoon and Tommy left him dozing beneath a tree, woke him up two hours later; Arthur denied he’d been asleep. At day’s end they rode back home then separated, each to his own place, Tommy calling out to make sure Rosie saved him some stew. He stabled Lady, gave himself a wash, found a clean shirt, and slung it on. There was still a little wine left from last night, so he poured himself a glass and rolled a cigarette and took them onto the front verandah to watch the sunset. Tess wandered around the side of the house and hopped up onto the deck, lay down at his feet on the boards. Tommy lit his cigarette. He sipped the dark red wine. The gully falling away beneath him, the birds flocking for the trees, the chaos of their twilight dance. He felt dangerously on the cusp of something. As if teetering on an edge. Happiness, contentment, love . . . these weren’t words he’d ever recognized, or certainly not for many years, hadn’t thought it possible they could apply to him, yet here they were. It scared the shit out of him, honestly. The risk of having something unwarranted, something he might then lose. But he couldn’t stop his thoughts from spiraling, plans fluttering over him like falling leaves. Emily living up here, the house painted and prettied-up with all her things. She could keep the bakery, like Arthur suggested, ride there and back every day. And if they ever had children, well, maybe then she might decide to give it up. Or not. She might not have to, if she could find a caretaker to run the place for a wage. Tommy could help pay for it. He had plenty of money—their cattle sold more than well. Then, when she was ready, she could take the shop back again, and on those days when things were difficult with the children maybe Rosie could lend a hand.
Dreamily he watched the sky purple as the sun slid from view. The birds took their roosts and fell silent, settling down for the night.
Chapter 32
Billy McBride
Billy took the train to Brisbane: private coach to Charleville then first class all the way, dining cars and single-sleeper carriages, he didn’t like to share. At Roma Street station he hailed a buggy and told the driver to take him to the Bellevue Hotel, only a short trip down George Street but he wasn’t inclined to walk. Po-faced, he watched the city trundle by. He’d visited often enough by now. Some of the architecture was impressive, he supposed—the courthouse, the new treasury building, the land office and suchlike—but think of the money it had cost to build them, and to what end? That was the thing with cities: everything was on the surface, no substance, no return. They built these things out of vanity: a bunch of monied old boys putting their pizzles on display.
They reached the Bellevue quickly, Billy climbed down, a bellboy came to take his bags. He was traveling with just a small suitcase but let the boy carry it anyway, Billy marching ahead of him into the hotel. A curved three-story corner building, with ornate cast-iron balustrades encircling the two upper floors, the Bellevue sat adjacent to the immense grandeur of Parliament House, opposite the famous Queensland Club, and looked out over the ornamental parkland of the Botanic Gardens, the river just beyond. Billy noticed none of it. Not even a glance. Ignoring the doorman’s greeting, he walked through the lobby to the desk.
“Mr. McBride,” the clerk said, smiling. “So nice to see you again.”
“Is my room ready?”
“Of course, sir. Will you be needing anything after your journey? Refreshments? Laundry? A bath?”
“Aye, a bath. Hot. I’ll eat in the restaurant after. A table by the window.”
“Very good, sir. There’s a bell in your room, just give it a pull and—”
“I know how the bloody bell works.”
“Of course. My apologies. James will take you up.”
“There is one other thing, actually.” Billy leaned forward a little, lowered his voice. “I need an address for an old friend of mine, a lawyer by the name of Henry Wells. It’s been a while since I saw him, I thought I might drop in. His office, ideally. Whatever you can find.”
“I’ll get right on it. I’m sure it won’t take long. Please, enjoy your stay.”
Billy lay in the perfumed bathwater, soaking the journey from his bones, then unpacked and dressed, put his travel clothes in for laundering, and ate alone in the restaurant downstairs. He was one of only a few diners. Midafternoon, most tables empty: a man sipping tea and reading a newspaper, two women giddily drinking champagne. Billy ordered steak and stared out the window, chewing. Watching the crowds shuffle by. From a back room somewhere there came bursts of raucous laughter, the sounds of glasses clinking, voices competing to be heard. Billy asked the waiter what was happening and was told it was the members’ bar.
“It’s a hotel—what members?”
“Of parliament, sir. From next door. They’re finished for the day.”
Billy checked the wall clock, scowling. It was just after three o’clock. Workshy bastards. No wonder nothing in government ever got done.
He was crossing the lobby again when the desk clerk called to him: “A message for you, Mr. McBride.” Then, quietly: “That address you asked me for.”
Billy took the folded sheet of paper, glanced at it, tucked the note away. “Thanks,” he said, swiveling on his heels and making for the main doors. He didn’t hear the clerk say “My pleasure, sir,” or see him scurry away into a side office as soon as Billy’s back was turned.
* * *
If Henry Wells’s name wasn’t on the little brass doorplate, Billy would have assumed he’d been given the wrong address. The office was in a run-down backstreet somewhere in Fortitude Valley, halfway along a row of boarded-up shopfronts, dilapidated tenements, piss-stained doorways, and rat-infested rubbish piles, and might once have been a tailor’s workshop judging by the faded lettering on the sign. There was shouting coming from the tenements, an argument; somewhere a door slammed. Billy checked the street in both directions, cupped his hands to the filthy window and peered inside, saw a little seating area and empty reception desk, light coming from the office behind. Billy tried the door and opened it. A bell tinkled overhead. He stepped into the waiting area and a voice called, “Just a moment! Please take a seat!”
Billy didn’t bother. The tiny chairs looked more suited to a schoolroom. Instead he browsed the framed certificates hanging on the walls, and the spines of ancient law books on the shelves. He picked up an old magazine from the coffee table and dropped it again. There were no papers on the reception desk, he noticed, no stationery; a dusty film coated the plain, unvarnished wood.
“Sorry about that,” Henry Wells announced, bursting through the office door. “I’m afraid my secretary is sick at the moment and I’m just so flat out with—”
He pulled up short when he recognized the visitor, flushing suddenly, shock then anger in his face. Other than being a little heavier, Billy had not changed much these past nine years, though for Henry age had not been so kind. He was bald now, an auburn crown, and his once cherubic plumpness had turned emphatically to jowl. His eyes were dark and bloodshot behind his little round spectacles, and his suit looked years-old and threadbare, the cuffs fraying, patches sewn onto the elbows.
“Billy McBride. What the hell are you doing here?”
“I wondered if we could have a talk.”
Bitterly, Henry snorted. “And what could we possibly have to discuss?”
“Well I wouldn’t be here about the bloody weather now, would I?”
Henry weighed him carefully. “You’re changing your stor
y?”
A shrug. “Might be, aye.”
“Now? After all these years?”
“If you ain’t interested, I could go find someone else.”
“There is nobody else. You know that. Nobody would touch that case, not after what happened to me. I should have been King’s Counsel by now, running my own set, but look at me: look what that bastard did!”
He held out his arms to the office, his life. Billy said, “Noone put you here?”
“Of course, Noone—who else?” He nodded at Billy’s suit, his pocket watch, the obvious trappings of his wealth. “Seems you’ve fared a little better. All that blood money feathering your nest.”
“Hey now, I never had nothing to do with your troubles.”
“You had everything to do with them. You lied through your teeth!”
“For my own protection. That wasn’t about you.”
A burst of laughter from Henry. He looked about in disbelief. “He doesn’t even deny it! As if perjury isn’t a crime!” He pointed at Billy. “If you’d told the truth, if you’d contradicted Noone, we’d have had him hanged by now, and my career would have been made. Do you know how long it took chambers to get rid of me? Two days! I’d been with them since my pupilage and they dropped me like a bad penny. I lost my career, my marriage, my children—I’m a pariah in this city thanks to you.”
After a moment Billy said, “I thought you chased the fellas anyhow?”
“Excuse me?”
“I didn’t figure you were married, I mean.”