by Carol Jones
She closed her eyes, readying herself to accept his chastisement. Surely a lecture from the headman must hurt less than one of her mother’s scoldings, usually accompanied by a whack with a rush broom? She must bow her head and accept this shame. She must promise to behave as a good daughter of Sandy Bottom Village. To speak quietly and keep her opinions to herself. To dress modestly and never roll her trousers to the knee again. She must answer humbly and accept punishment gratefully. That was what she told herself as she waited for him to speak.
Except Little Cat did not always heed her own advice.
‘My son has told me all about you.’
‘He has, Wise Master?’
‘He has told me that you fight with your brother.’
‘Ai… only training.’
‘That you roll your trousers to your knees and display your legs for anyone to see.’
‘Ai… I don’t recall.’
‘That you twist and turn and dance like a crane,’ he said, peering at her legs. ‘Is this true?’
‘I spar with my brother sometimes.’
‘Show me these kicking legs then… that I may judge for myself.’
Reaching out with his long yellow nails, he picked up the bamboo backscratcher that rested on his desk and waved it in her direction. She eyed it warily as he taunted her with the tiny, clawed hand and bent to roll up her trousers as instructed.
‘Are they knees? They look more like shins to me. Up! Up!’ he said, poking at her thigh with the stick.
She did not like the threatening way he pointed at her. She liked the poking even less. ‘I can ask Second Brother to demonstrate the kung fu for you, Wise Master,’ she suggested.
‘No need. Up!’
She did not like the way obedience made her squirm, as if it were peeling away something more than the hem of her trousers. ‘My father can fetch him from the fields.’
‘No need, girl. We will conclude this business between ourselves.’
Big Wu might be the biggest man in the village, but he wasn’t her father. She did not owe him obedience. She would never burn incense for his soul. And he certainly had no care for hers. All thoughts of Elder Brother and the bride gift fled. Any thoughts of Siu Wan’s future happiness were forgotten too. All she knew was a profound desire to be gone from here.
‘And if you please me I may have an offer for your father,’ he said.
There was no doubting his meaning and he wasn’t talking about reeling silk. This wasn’t the first time a man had made lewd suggestions to her. But it was the first time she had felt fear. She didn’t like that feeling either. Silently she made her decision before the ‘offer’ was even disclosed. She would never please him in that way, no matter the consequences. She would never let those old man hands touch her. She would fight to the death before she submitted. She unrolled the faded black trousers to her ankles, and stood to confront him.
‘My father isn’t interested in your offers and neither am I.’
‘Your interest is of no concern and do not be so sure about your father.’
‘You are old,’ she said, her disgust evident in her voice.
‘Do not anger me, girl.’
‘I want to go home.’ She backed away, coming up against the edge of the desk.
‘Not so fast, my little wildcat.’
Two steps, and he grasped her breast with one hand as he thrust the tiny bamboo claw between her legs. ‘Don’t worry. Your father will be grateful. Who knows? I may give him back his land…’
She stood stunned into immobility as he slid the claw back and forth between her legs, grating against her pubic bone. She wanted to cry out but her tongue swelled in her mouth, filling it with silence.
‘I’ve been thinking of taking a concubine for some time. The Old Woman Inside is getting long in the tooth. You might do nicely. Once you’re trained,’ he laughed.
She shifted an arm to make the sawing weapon stop, but her limbs moved as if through deep water. Before she could grasp the backscratcher, he released it, pinioning both arms behind her back and thrusting his body against her so that the desk gouged her spine.
‘I’ll show you how to fight, little girl.’
He shackled both wrists with one of his large hands and wrenched her arms higher behind her back, while the other yellow-clawed hand smothered nose and mouth, forcing back her head.
‘Open your legs,’ he hissed, fishy breath oozing between his fingers and seeping into her nose, so that she gagged upon his words.
She wanted to resist but her limbs had become wooden. Her senses wadded in cotton. Soon she could not fix on any notion at all. Each thought drifted across her mind like a shadow.
‘Do I have to do everything for myself?’
His hand relinquished its hold upon her face to fumble beneath her tunic. Long nails dug into the soft flesh of her stomach as they fiddled with the cord tied about her trousers.
‘I have a gift for you. One you’ll like.’
She stared up at the wooden battens of the ceiling, noting how the rafters were carved in a twisting mass of vines. Flowers floated amongst the leaves. Fist forced her legs apart.
‘A woman needs a man. Not a boy.’
Dust motes drifted in the light filtering through the papered wall.
‘Why should I pay for a worthless peasant girl, anyway? It does not even have proper breasts.’
She felt sharp teeth at her breast and heard a moan of loss emerge from somewhere close.
‘Your father owes me. Everyone owes me,’ he said, releasing her breast to laugh even harder.
Outside in the courtyard, she heard a woman’s voice calling for her husband. Gatekeeper Wu shouted in reply. Closer to hand a grunting sound, like a pig snuffling at the forest floor. A vague ache in her shoulders. Pain in her yielding neck. Roughness. A shadow of thought flitting across her conscious mind.
She tried to capture it.
‘Let me go.’ She choked out the words, her throat shuttered, her mouth dry.
Clawing at her breasts, hard and sharp. ‘I never relinquish what is mine.’
‘Let me go,’ she rasped, dragging up her head.
‘Now it begs.’ Fingers digging into raw flesh. ‘Beg again. I like it.’
She gathered her scattered thoughts. Searched them out, drew them together, and mustered every last shred of her will. Then when a useful idea presented itself, she threw her head forward and smacked her forehead into the bridge of Big Wu’s nose. Fracturing his concentration. And his nose.
He cried out, reeling in pain, and released her wrists in shock. There was no time for thought, but now her fighting instincts had returned. She lifted her right leg and stomped her heel hard on the frail bones of his foot. Then as he curled inward on his agony, she sought the prize that lay waiting upon the desk.
Her searching hand met cool stone. Grasping the heavy seal, she swung her arm high, bringing it down upon his head with a crack. Pouncing tiger.
He dropped to the floor and she stood over his body, quivering. She had to be sure. Then her mother could never again accuse her of leaving a task unfinished.
14
Robetown, South Australia, 1856
They had been outside in what was loosely termed the garden for barely a half-hour and already Violet’s curls were limp upon her cheeks and a mosquito had feasted upon her décolletage. Today was only a taste of the hot weather to come and already the thick stone walls of the schoolroom were beginning to appeal. Violet wondered how she was going to make it through an entire summer in this heat. How odd to be longing for a cold, wet London winter.
‘Why does James get to stand so close to the peg?’ Alice complained, a frown etched between her brows. The heat appeared to be affecting her too, normally so good tempered.
‘Because your arms are longer than his. You can throw further.’
‘But he is wearing trousers and I a dress. That is an advantage too.’
The girl was right. Unlike her brother’s jacket an
d trousers, her clothing was designed to hamper movement. And now that the summer was almost upon them, the layers of petticoat her mama insisted upon were particularly odious for an athletic child like Alice, and quite unsuitable for the climate. Violet could not argue with her logic so she did not try. Instead, she leaned closer and whispered in her ear, ‘But you have a much better eye than your brother, chérie. Your aim is true.’
Alice held her gaze for a moment, before relenting with a gracious nod. ‘That is quite right, Miss Hartley. James is at a disadvantage due to his size. I shall let him have a full yard’s handicap.’
‘Very generous. I commend you. Isn’t that kind of your sister, James? To let you throw the quoits from closer in?’
The boy did not reply and she realised that he had been very quiet throughout the entire conversation, which was not at all like him. Usually he was positively bubbling over with interjections. He was also very competitive by nature, yet now he did not appear to be paying any attention to their game. He stood looking across the lawn into the distance, apparently lost in his thoughts, a quoit dangling from one hand. If Violet had been artistically inclined she would have made a study of the sturdy, tow-haired boy silhouetted against the silvery lake, the endless scrub and the infinite sky.
She wondered what had stolen the boy’s attention from their game. Beyond the lawn lay the lake, and beyond the lake lay the town. Noorla sat all by itself amongst the ti-tree scrub, separated from the rocky shore by a thin strip of land. Sometimes she imagined a ship being driven onto those rocks, its timbers smashed to splinters, its crew and passengers cast adrift into the night. Castaways, not unlike her.
‘James?’ she said, coming to place a hand upon his shoulder when he did not respond. ‘Are you unwell?’
‘Don’t bother about him, Miss Hartley. Mama says he cannot keep his mind upon one thing for longer than two minutes.’
‘Do you want to go inside?’
The word ‘inside’ was enough to wake him from his dream for he answered, ‘Mr Thomas is returned.’
His words set her to scanning their surroundings, searching for the unmistakable form of the bullock driver, but Thomas was nowhere in sight. It had been three months since she last saw him. He had returned to Robetown, his dray laden with wool bales, before departing with yet another party of Chinese bound for the goldfields. She could not deny that her thoughts had drifted his way every now and then in the interim. And now he was back.
‘Where?’ she asked, hoping excitement wasn’t evident in her voice. Alice had a sensitive ear for a girl who had only just turned thirteen.
‘On the circle. With his bullocks. See?’ said James, pointing across Lake Butler to the low rise of the Royal Circle where several bullock teams waited with their loads.
‘How can you tell Mr Thomas from the other bullockies?’ scoffed Alice. ‘They are all the size of ants from here.’
‘His team are all Herefords,’ said James and Violet looked at him quizzically. ‘All red and white.’
‘Of course.’ Now that she thought about it, he was correct. Thomas’s bullocks had been all of one breed, with their shaggy white faces and chests, reddish-brown coats and long horns that protruded almost horizontally from their heads.
‘Perhaps we could pay him a visit,’ she suggested lightly. ‘It’s only a short walk around the lake to the Circle. We could all do with the exercise.’
For once James did not leap at the chance of absconding from Noorla. ‘My throat hurts,’ he said with the puzzled expression of a child accustomed to robust good health.
‘A spoonful of honey on our return shall fix it.’
Alice was looking sceptically heavenward, where a bank of dark cloud threatened from the south. ‘There’s a great deal of cloud.’
‘You’re not afraid of a few drops of rain, are you?’
‘But what about Mama? You told her we were to play a game of quoits on the lawn.’ The girl peered at her, aware that Violet and her mother did not always see eye-to-eye on the children’s educational needs.
‘We will be back before she notices we have gone.’
‘But what if she asks me what we did this afternoon?’
‘You must learn to be a little more flexible, Alice. The world is weighted against a young woman as it is. I’m surprised your mama has not taught you this.’
As Alice held her gaze, Violet observed the thoughts flitting across her face with its unfortunate scattering of freckles, neat nose and clear blue eyes. She may as well have been speaking them aloud. Disagreement. Doubt. Followed by a subtle wavering. The girl really was an open book. Violet often wished that her own mother had lived long enough to teach her the skills a woman needed. Instead, her father had scraped together the funds to send her to a minor school for young ladies where she learned such useful skills as embroidery, French and flower arranging while he sailed the seven seas. How French and embroidery were supposed to help a penniless girl get on in this world was a mystery to Violet. They had not helped her fend off the advances of wealthy, entitled men. Nor had they taught her how to charm a gentleman into appreciating her point of view. She had had to learn those talents through trial and error. And they had certainly been of no use when her previous employer decided to turn her out of the house without a reference and then spread malicious lies about her to half the matrons of London.
So, Alice would do well to learn from Violet while she was able.
‘But is it not a lie to say we were somewhere we were not?’ said Alice, still mulling over Violet’s advice.
‘No, my dear, it is merely a slight tweak to the facts. One that is more convenient for everyone concerned. For example… are you not bored confined to the lawn with six loops of rope and a wooden peg for your only amusement?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you wish to walk over to the Circle and visit with Mr Thomas and his bullock team?’
‘I do. Mr Thomas promised to teach me how to work his dog,’ croaked James, holding his throat ostentatiously now. ‘Papa would be pleased if I could train his sheepdogs.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Alice. ‘I like Mr Thomas.’
‘I think we can agree that we all like Mr Thomas,’ said Violet. ‘But what would happen should your mama find that out? He is not exactly your mama’s class of person.’
Alice sighed, glancing up at her mother’s bedroom where the curtains were already closed at three o’clock in the afternoon. ‘Mama wouldn’t be pleased. And we would all be in trouble.’
‘So if she were to ask what you did this afternoon, it would suit everyone if you left out the part about visiting with Mr Thomas and only mentioned playing at quoits upon the lawn, would it not?’
‘I suppose you are right, Miss Hartley. It would be in all our interests.’
‘Well then, let’s set out before the weather turns on us.’ The weather or Mrs Wallace. She did not know which would prove more hostile.
*
Violet was glad she had thought to wear her blue plaid that morning for not only was it quite becoming, any unforeseen dampness would not show under the arms after a spot of exertion on this warm afternoon. They set out at a brisk pace along the track to town, with the lake lapping at reeds to their right, and the ocean crashing to shore beyond the sandhills to their left. If James lagged behind somewhat, Violet did not make too much of it. Perhaps the lad was feeling a bit peaky, but he would be right as rain after a bracing walk and some dinner. Violet resolved to fix the boy a potion of hot water, honey and rosewater upon their return. That always did the trick.
Noorla was only a ten-minute walk from the Circle so it wasn’t long before they were within hallooing distance. The bullocks rested with their limbs curled beneath their bodies, waiting patiently while their drivers stood in a group smoking and chatting. Mr Thomas noticed their approach and raised a hand in greeting, before leaving his fellow bullockies to their conversation and walking towards them. Violet quickened her step.
‘Hello, Mr Thom
as. This is a surprise. I didn’t expect to see you for some time.’ She did not mention that the last three months had dragged worse than the unseasonably wet winter.
‘A pleasant one I hope, Miss Hartley.’
‘Indeed. James has been telling us you promised him a lesson in canine management.’
‘I did. Although I doubt I called it that.’
‘That was very kind of you.’
‘And I expect he has come to hold me to it. The lad has a long memory.’ He whistled softly and the dog appeared at his heel, a border collie, James had revealed recently. ‘This is Ruby. Lie down, Ruby.’
The dog settled obediently on her haunches, her gaze alternating between her master and the bullocks. She wriggled her hindquarters as if she could not wait to nip at the heels of another bullock.
‘The first trick is to teach her to stay still. It’s her nature to be restless.’
‘Can I try?’ asked James, his eyes lighting up for a moment.
‘Why don’t you and Alice take Ruby down by the lake and practise?’ said Violet.
Thomas released the dog with a gesture and she trotted happily after the children, tail wagging.
‘Have you had Ruby long?’
‘About six years. Since I took up my run. Trained her myself from a pup.’
‘She must be good company on the road.’
‘And on the farm. Ruby works with bullocks and sheep.’
‘But how do you tend your sheep while you’re travelling?’ she asked. ‘Are there not dangers to the flock?’
‘I employ shepherds. Carting wool and wheat is a sideline until I build up stock.’
‘You do not suffer loneliness spending so much time alone?’ she asked.
‘I have Ruby. It can be hard and lonely work for a shepherd, or a bullock driver, without a dog. And sometimes I am fortunate to converse with the most congenial of strangers.’
In her entire life, Violet had not been alone for longer than a few hours. What might it be like to be alone in the bush for days, a dog one’s only companion? Yet being alone wasn’t a prerequisite for loneliness. One could be alone in a house full of people. One could find oneself alone, lying abed with a lover. One could find oneself alone in the midst of a conversation. Not with this man, though. He gave their conversation his full attention, just as he did his team of bullocks and his dog. She suspected that whatever he undertook, he would give it his all. Lewis Thomas would not be a man of half-measures, a man who declared undying love one day and abandoned his lover to her fate the next.