The Boy with Blue Trousers

by Carol Jones

  He closed his eyes, picturing the girl’s flying limbs, the taut bow of her torso beneath the ugly blue tunic. The way she had whirled through the air light as a darting swallow. She was thinner than he remembered, more delicate, even posing as a man. From behind the milling crowd he had watched her. Wanted her. He could no longer deny it.

  ‘We will have to do it ourselves,’ sighed the old man. ‘Or your father’s po will not rest.’

  ‘I will do it. When I am ready,’ he said, leaping over a fallen tree to land several paces distant from his erstwhile uncle.

  The old man rested his weight upon the trunk before clambering over. ‘It’s no easy thing. Killing. Especially a woman.’

  ‘I can do it.’

  ‘She is only a girl. And you are a Wu.’

  What did he imply? That Young Wu could overpower her easily? That only a coward would shy away from such a task? Or was he suggesting that it would be an unfair fight? Young Wu shook his head to get the old man’s words from his head. He couldn’t afford to think about the matter too deeply. That way lay chaos. That way lay the muddy waters of love and hate. From the moment he saw Little Cat again, his thoughts had become mired in confusion, a swamp far more treacherous than the black mud rimming the lake’s shore.

  ‘I can do it.’

  ‘A righteous son nourishes his parents in life and in death.’

  ‘I know this, Old Man.’

  ‘And your father was always a greedy one. His ghost will take plenty of feeding. Even as a boy he demanded more than his share. Wanted whatever another had,’ said the old man, swatting at a mosquito that had landed on his arm and was digging in for a meal. ‘Got it!’ he exclaimed gleefully, giving Young Wu a sideways glance.

  By now they had circled around the midday camp to a spot a stone’s throw from the resting bullocks. Crouching behind a tangle of papery branches, they considered the scene before them. The ghost man stood with his back to them, the ghost woman at his side. Young Wu could not discern the relationship between the two, whether they were husband and wife, or merely fellow travellers. The woman’s wide skirts were crushed against the man’s leg, their arms almost touching. What this meant, he wasn’t sure. The outside barbarians were still a mystery to him. But there was something between them.

  Facing them were Little Cat and that mixed-blood coward, Big Nose. These two also stood close, their baskets knocking together. Clearly, they had formed an alliance, although of what sort, he couldn’t be sure either. But as the bullock driver spoke to them and Big Nose translated, the two traded glances, both wearing the expressions of startled chickens. Something had set a fox among the hens.

  ‘The girl and her friend have their baskets with them,’ whispered Uncle Wu. ‘The foreign devil has taken them under his protection.’

  ‘I can see that!’

  He hissed the old man to silence. If the foreigner had taken Little Cat under his wing, it would make it that much more difficult for Young Wu to fulfil his vow. But she was a woman masquerading as a man. Sooner or later she would need solitude, and Young Wu would be watching, waiting to strike. What concerned him more was why the bullock driver had decided to protect her. Surely she was just one more man from the Middle Kingdom amongst many. What had the ghost man seen in her? What did he know?

  And what did he want?

  32

  Western District, Victoria, 1857

  Nothing could have prepared Violet for the unremitting heat of the road. The sun seared her skin through sleeves and gloves, turning the underside of her dress into a Turkish bath. Yesterday it had got so bad that she was forced to abandon several petticoats. Dust and grit from the road invaded every available crevice of her skin so that she was coated in grime. Even at night, curled up on stony ground beneath the dray, the temperature rarely dropped below unbearable. During the day, Lewis took pity on her and made space for her to ride on the bullock dray, but squeezed between the Celestials’ store of mining equipment – the handcarts, cradles, sluices, buckets, shovels and picks they deemed crucial – the ride was so uncomfortable that walking was preferable.

  What had she been thinking when she conceived the brilliant idea of joining this trek? A bucketful of gold and a line of suitors could not warrant this torture. At night she dreamed of long cold baths and iced tea. During the day she ached for dark rooms and wet London winters, anything to relieve her parched throat and desiccated skin. What sins had landed her in this hell?

  On the second day of the trek the flat and treeless plain had extended in a mindless trudge through barren emptiness. It must have disheartened some of the Celestials because they went so far as to jettison goods they had hauled all the way from China. The track behind them became littered with the wooden blocks they used as pillows, earthenware crocks, iron cooking pots, padded jackets… anything that weighed down the baskets that burdened their shoulders. Although not a one abandoned their opium pipes, she noted.

  When the travellers stopped on the second night at the Kangaroo Inn, solid stone walls, chimneys and the promise of a bath lightened her spirits. But the proprietor merely laughed when she asked for a bath to be drawn and pointed to a chipped ewer in a cracked bowl. The same held true two nights later at the Royal Oak in the town of Penola. She was excited at the thought of a township. But upon arrival, weary and footsore, she discovered that the entire settlement consisted of a mere two dozen dwellings of hand-sawn timber, with a few cobbled together from the local rubble. And there was nothing royal about the rough slab hut, with sagging calico ceiling, which did service for an inn. At the time, she consoled herself that Lewis might have time to spend with her but he devoted the entire two days of their stay to gathering supplies for the remainder of the journey.

  The interminable diet of mutton and beans was now supplemented by damper, which Lewis had shown her how to cook in the campfire. Violet had never made a loaf of bread in her life but, surprisingly, she was becoming quite accomplished at dousing the flour with beer to get a yeast, kneading and shaping the dough into a flattish cake, then setting it to bake in the ashes once it was risen. She had been sceptical when he first pulled one from the coals to reveal a greyish, ash-coated lump. But upon brushing away the worst of the ash and breaking it open, she found that the loaf was quite palatable.

  The Celestials, it turned out, would eat anything. In addition to the smelly black eggs they craved, the dried seaweed, and other unidentifiable stuffs they brought with them, they had taken to bartering for food from the natives. Magpies, lizards, several types of weed and once an entire back portion of a kangaroo, were devoured with gusto.

  After leaving Penola, the cavalcade travelled north-east across more flat country covered in open forest where at least there was scattered shade. They wound through mile after mile of twisted white-trunked trees and dry yellow grass, groves of brown stringybark, with squat grass trees sprouting on fire-blackened trunks scattered amongst them. She found this forest quite disconcerting. Despite its open nature, she would not like to wander far from the bullock dray, for by its sameness the forest became a maze.

  They were now eight days into their journey from Robe and she was yet to make further progress in her quest to win the affections of Lewis Thomas. She might almost have thought he was avoiding her, except the idea was so ridiculous that she would not countenance it. He was most likely constrained by the presence of so many Chinamen, especially the two youths he had taken under his wing. Violet was determined to rectify matters. If she could win his heart, at least one possible future would be assured. So in the last hours of daylight, as her fellow travellers finally made camp in undulating country by the banks of the Glenelg River, Violet decided to take action. The first thing to be done was to take a bath, since they had finally come to a river. The second thing might prove a little more complicated, but she felt adequate to the task.

  There was something to be said for having a Celestial at your beck and call. She summoned Big Nose to her side and explained that she wished Str
ong Arm to accompany her upon a walk upriver. He was also to ensure that under no circumstances were they to be followed. Then she ignored his protests that the lady might not be safe with only Strong Arm for company, and set off along the river, with the boy trailing behind her. After all, Strong Arm was the one with the kicking feet and flying hands. She felt confident that he would protect her if it came to trouble. Intuition told her that she needed no protection from the boy himself.

  The river trickled rather than flowed at this time of the year, yet there were inviting pools to be found here and there. She glanced behind to ensure that the boy still followed, only to find him looking around furtively, as if frightened.

  ‘Do not concern yourself. They’re too afraid of Lewis’s rifle to follow us.’

  Of course, he did not understand her. Although she suspected he was learning more English by the day.

  ‘Savvy?’ she added. ‘No man follow.’

  The boy followed, but his uneasiness did not lessen. There was a habitual tenseness about him, as if he was wound tighter than a fob watch. She wondered briefly what made him so anxious, then cast off the thought. He was a mere child. How many dark secrets could he have? Fewer than hers, she expected. She returned her focus to the uneven riverside path. It was cooler by the river, shaded by enormous reddish-brown trees with girths two arm-spans around, and huge spreading branches. She longed to immerse herself in a pool beneath their shady arms, to wash the dirt and grime from her body and float free in the river’s cool waters.

  After a ten-minute walk, they reached a place where a bend in the river had formed a pool enclosed by a cluster of boulders. The pool was protected from view by a grassy bank, several large trees, and the smooth granite boulders. Violet could already feel the cool waters of the river swirling around her.

  She motioned for the boy to turn around saying, ‘You stay here.’ Then she skipped down the bank and proceeded to divest herself of garments. When she had worked her way down to pantalets and chemise she paused, then stepped out of the pantalets too, so that she stood with legs and arms bare, clothed only in the thin cotton shift. She dipped a toe in the shallows, then waded into the pool’s centre where the water reached to her waist. Small fish darted out of her way as the silty bottom squelched between her toes. But it wasn’t unpleasant. Lowering herself into the pool she fell backwards, to rest half-submerged in the cool waters. She let her hair and chemise float around her, luxuriating in the feeling of freedom. Then in a moment of abandon, she slipped the dripping garment over her head and tossed it to the bank.

  She immersed herself once more, the water enveloping her like silk. She relaxed into its embrace, closing her eyes and relishing the tingling cold. Somewhere high above she heard a sudden burst of raucous laughter, as if from a lunatic asylum. She stood to look about her, but apart from the boy there was no one to be seen, nothing but a cream and brown bird sitting upon a nearby branch gazing down at her. Its eyes were slashed with brown stripes that gave it a crazed look. As she watched, it opened its beak and the wild rolling laughter began again, soon joined in chorus by a second bird in the next tree. She sensed that she wasn’t the only one observing the birds. The boy’s attention was also drawn from his guard duties and he stared, first at the laughing birds and then down at the pool. For a moment his gaze fixed upon her body, before he quickly glanced away.

  Not in embarrassment or shame, she realised, simply for fear of being chastised. In his eyes, for that brief moment when he observed her exposed breasts, she saw nothing but mild curiosity. Why didn’t it surprise her that she saw no lust in his gaze? The boy was old enough. Either he had no interest in women or…

  Well, there was one way to find out. Stepping from the water, she pulled the sodden chemise over her head so that it moulded the curves of her body, and climbed the bank once again.

  ‘Boy!’ she called. He turned his head over one shoulder but his feet remained planted.

  ‘Boy! Come here!’ She beckoned him with a crooked finger. Reluctantly, he took a few steps in her direction.

  ‘Closer!’ He knew what she meant. She could see it in his eyes.

  Faced with her intransigence, he shuffled nearer until only a foot or so separated them. His eyes, shaded by their straw hat, were firmly fixed upon the ground, the thick dark lashes fanning his cheeks. The bones of his face were delicately sculpted, the eyebrows winged. The Celestials were not heavily bearded but even so, she could detect no hint of a bristle. Not even a subtle down. Mrs Wallace had more whiskers than this lad.

  Swift as a pouncing cat, she reached out to place her hands upon the boy’s chest, unsurprised to discover small soft mounds. She grinned, pleased with her powers of discernment, and gave them a quick squeeze. Then she wove her hands through the air, tracing the shape of womanly curves.

  ‘So… you do have secrets?’ she laughed. ‘Well, I’m sure you have your reasons.’

  The girl-boy looked stricken, as well she might, and backed away, her eyes wide and flitting from Violet, to the pool, and the camp ten minutes’ walk behind them. The camp full of two hundred and sixty Chinamen.

  ‘No speak,’ she hissed. ‘No speak.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  For a second, Violet thought the girl might run. But instead, she dropped to her knees and knocked her head upon the ground, not once but thrice. Banging her head so hard that Violet felt certain she must damage her brain.

  ‘Well, I never,’ she said, astounded for perhaps the first time in her life.

  She bent down, pulling at the girl’s arm to haul her to her feet. There really was no need for such a demonstration. It was almost embarrassing. Then in a rare moment of something akin to sympathy, she wrapped her arm around the girl’s waist and whispered, ‘No speak,’ in her ear.

  She was little more than a child really. So long as she kept out of Lewis Thomas’s way, Strong Arm might become a friend worth having.

  ‘Friends?’ she said, holding out a hand.

  The girl stared at Violet’s hand for an instant before clasping it tentatively in her own. ‘Friends,’ she repeated, presumably understanding the gesture, if not the word.

  33

  The clearing was lit by the glimmer of scattered campfires. Violet knelt by one, pouring a mug of tea from the billy, the firelight casting a golden glow over her features and framing her face in a spun silk halo. She put a hand up to her forehead and smoothed away a loose tendril of hair that was in danger of being caught by a stray cinder. On the other side of their campfire, the gesture caught Lewis’s attention. He had been poking about with a stick in the coals, but now he looked up, meeting her eye through the flames. He seemed almost jittery this evening. When his hand had brushed hers earlier as he passed her a chunk of mutton, she caught his almost imperceptible intake of breath and was puzzled. Men usually made no secret of what they wanted. Why was he so diffident?

  For months, since she had first met him, she hadn’t been certain how Lewis felt about her. One minute he seemed charmed, the next wary, at times indifferent. Now she was beginning to suspect that he was repressing desire. Whether he did so out of gentlemanly respect or for want of privacy, she couldn’t be sure. But she decided that she had had enough of his reticence. She wanted to get him alone. She wanted some hold over him. She wanted him to be hers. She wasn’t sure yet for how long, but certainly until she found someone better. Only then would she feel safe.

  ‘Lewis?’

  ‘Violet?’

  ‘There was something I wanted to show you. Something I discovered on my walk by the river earlier this evening,’ she began hesitantly.

  ‘Can it wait until morning? The ground is uneven by the river. I wouldn’t want you to be hurt.’

  ‘No. I don’t think this can wait until morning. It might have repercussions for the remainder of the journey. It has to do with the men, you see.’

  ‘You sound very mysterious. I suppose we shall have to investigate then.’

  ‘I think it best.’

/>   Violet retraced her footsteps along the riverbank, Lewis by her side. At one point she tripped over a fallen branch in the dark and he gripped her upper arm, his fingers firm upon her flesh. And when a strange cackling growl rent the night she flinched, moving closer to him.

  ‘It’s only a possum,’ he said. ‘It won’t hurt you.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘The dangerous creatures are those you don’t hear.’

  They continued along the river, their path lit only by the first glow of starlight, until they came to a tree that soared as high and wide as a church. So large that one could not fail to notice it. Taking his hand for the first time, she led him closer to the tree, so close that her back rested against its gnarled and battered trunk. She drew him towards her, saying, ‘Look.’

  ‘I’m looking.’

  She could barely make out his features in the dark but she could hear the tension in his voice. With her free hand she lifted her arm above her head, so that her sleeve fell back to reveal her pale inner arm.

  ‘See,’ she said. She felt her breath quicken and a delicious warmth spread between her legs. ‘See the mark.’

  But he wasn’t looking at the scarred tree. He couldn’t tear his eyes from her. In an instant he had closed the space between them, so that his thighs touched hers, and she was glad for the loss of her petticoats.

  ‘What mark?’ he groaned, as he grasped her other wrist, forcing her hard against the tree. She felt his weight along the full length of her body as he pushed against her. She moved slightly, moulding herself better to his shape.

  ‘The Chinaman’s mark. Carved into the tree,’ she whispered. ‘What can it mean?’

  For answer, he bent his head, their lips almost meeting. He hesitated, as if seeking her permission, then touched his lips to hers. At first their mouths met, light as the caress of a butterfly’s wing, but when she parted her lips he increased the pressure, crushing her mouth to his, until she felt possessed. His hand slid down her arm, releasing it, and she wrapped both arms around him, exploring the hard muscles of his buttocks through rough spun trousers.