by Carol Jones
She imagined the additions Lewis had promised her. A second storey and a separate outbuilding to accommodate the kitchen, scullery, laundry and maid’s quarters. For Violet was determined to get herself a maid as soon as one could be enticed away from the goldfields. With all this manual labour she was growing old before her time. Why, she had recently developed a plague of freckles upon her nose, and on Thursday a faint line had manifested upon her forehead where none had been evident a week earlier.
Yes, a maid could not come soon enough. The gold nugget they had discovered the night Wu was shot had been welcome, but divided amongst them it did not make for a fortune. Especially given Lewis’s ridiculous pangs of guilt. He was too warm-hearted for his own good.
Sighing, she picked up basket and baby, balancing them upon her hip. She took one last look out over their sprawling domain of kangaroo grass, to the mountains beyond. Somewhere out there, five thousand head of sheep grazed upon the sea of native grass, sheltered beneath the spreading branches of giant red gums, drank from the gentle waters of creek and river. And it was all hers. Well, hers and Lewis’s. She should be pleased. She had acquired a husband. She had acquired a manor of sorts. Soon she would acquire a suitable house and servants. She should be happy.
*
Strong Arm leaned her weight upon the shovel and dug manure around the sapling. She smiled to herself as the earth turned freely. It had taken many months of toil but the soil was improving at last. Unlike her home in Kwangtung, where summer brought the monsoon, the summers here were so hot and dry that all moisture was sucked from her body. The rain was sparse, the rivers parched, the land thirsty. Despite the Wannon River, which bordered the property, and the narrow creek, which flowed through it, water was precious. But they had laboured to build a dam. They had dug canals to channel the water. And now the plants flourished even in high summer.
The garden rolled out before her in a carpet of green. She had worked the hard earth to a fine grain, woven windbreaks from she-oak branches and planted the soil with a profusion of vegetables. Potatoes, carrots, cabbages, turnips, beans and onions to suit European tastes and bok choy, gai larn and choi sum to suit her own. She had even created a small pond to raise ducks, giving their manure back to the earth to add to the soil’s goodness. Yet despite her efforts, the country here was so different from home, where the Mo, Wu and Yee ancestors had devoted centuries to taming land and river. Here, she was only just beginning.
In the east, the Grampians snaked like a purple shadow upon the horizon. To the west, perched on a slight rise overlooking the creek, was the dark smudge of a low bluestone cottage. While behind her sat a small slab hut. These were the only buildings within sight. The hut was hers. Thomas had helped with the heaviest work of constructing it, but for the most part she had brought it into being with her own hands. First she had sawn the four sturdy posts of blue gum that stood at the corners to hold up the roof. Then she had attached beams at ground and roof levels, fitted saplings as roof struts, and split slabs of timber for the walls, before filling the chinks with clay. The roof was made from bark shingles. The floor was of pounded earth. And the chimney and fireplace were of stacked bluestone.
She had formed it of this earth. And now it was part of her.
The first of the beans were ready to be picked. They hung in clusters of bright green from vines, which twined around two neat rows of frames. Tomorrow she would rise before dawn to harvest them while the dew was still fresh on their skins. She would cut some cabbages, pull up a good number of carrots and turnips, and fill her baskets. Then she would take up her ta’am and walk five miles into the village to sell her produce from door to door. On Tuesdays, the townspeople had come to expect her arrival. They opened their doors with coins in hand for the woman with the long black braid and blue trousers. She had let her shaved scalp grow out until it was once more long enough to be plaited into her braid.
This was the pattern of her days. Tending her garden, selling her produce, practising her writing so that she could send word back home to Second Brother. One day, if she sold enough beans, she might even have enough coin for his passage to New Gold Mountain. As for Elder Brother, with her share of the money from the nugget, their father had finally come to an arrangement with Mr Yee and soon she hoped to receive news of a new arrival. Elder Brother and Siu Wan’s first child.
Every couple of months, she borrowed a horse from Thomas and rode into Creswick to visit with Big Nose and stock up on rice, tea and other goods from home. He and Uncle Wu were doing well with their store, although she suspected that many of their customers came to gossip with Uncle Wu rather than spend money. Big Nose had recently purchased a plot of land in the main street and was now a respected member of the community. He had even petitioned the government for better drainage on behalf of his countrymen.
Soon the bullock dray would return from its latest journey carrying wool and wheat to the port and returning with supplies for the settlers, since her countrymen no longer landed at Robetown. She caught her breath at the thought that he would be home any day now. Often he was gone for weeks at a time and she felt his absence like an empty chamber in her heart. She worried for him driving the team across vast swathes of country with only Ruby’s pup for company. But Thomas had taught him well. The road kept him away from anyone who might recognise him, anyone who might be sent to look for them.
Thomas always said that Wu was lucky the bullet only shattered his left shoulder, not his whip arm. Wu always said that he was lucky Thomas repaid his debt by bequeathing him the bullock team and freedom. But Strong Arm believed they were luckiest of all to have this chance of a life together. Lucky they did not have to wait a thousand lifetimes. Lucky… and determined.
Placing the shovel in the ground, she stood back to take stock of that morning’s toil. The sapling had almost doubled in height since she planted it, shooting up tall and straight under her care. She thought of the brilliant green cloak of mulberry that draped the fields of Sandy Bottom Village. From a distance the bushes appeared lush and verdant. Their leaves sparkled in the sunlight. But each year the villagers cut and pruned the bushes, keeping them shrunken and truncated, to more easily harvest their leaves for the silkworms. The mulberries of Sandy Bottom Village would never grow tall. They would never bear fruit. They would never reach their potential.
Strong Arm did not have a grove of mulberry plants. She had only the one. But she would feed it and nourish it, so that it grew tall as its nature allowed. And one day, a few years hence, when the time was ripe, it would bear fruit.
Acknowledgements
In researching this book I made my own trek from Robe – albeit on four wheels rather than two feet – and I would like to thank the many people who helped me along the way. Many thanks to the staff at the Customs House Museum, Robe, Evelynne Bowden at The John Riddoch Centre, Penola, Anne-Marie Matuschka and Margaret Hanel at Mary MacKillop Penola Centre, Ian Black at the Hamilton History Centre and the staff of the Gum San Chinese Heritage Centre in Ararat. Heather Funk at the Dunkeld and District Museum went out of her way to open up the museum for me and find and send on material, as did Joy and Henry Gunstone of Ararat. This on-the-ground research helped bring the book to life.
A book is a collaborative project and The Boy with Blue Trousers wouldn’t exist without the enthusiastic team at Head of Zeus. My wonderful editor Rosie de Courcy helped me make it into a much more subtle and dare I say, likeable beast. Thanks go to Sophie Robinson, Clare Gordon, Christina Ryan and the entire team at Head of Zeus for their continued support for my books. I also appreciate the fantastic efforts of Samantha Teo and Jinli Tang at Pansing who helped get the word out in Singapore and Malaysia. Thanks also go to the international publishing team at HarperCollins Australia.
I continue to be grateful for the ongoing support and encouragement from my agent Judith Murdoch, who can be counted on to tell it like it is.
A big thank you to family and friends who gave me such lovely compliment
s about the first book and encouraged me to continue.
And as always, lots of hugs to my husband Vincent Kwok – who keeps me company on research trips and can be counted upon to help with all things Cantonese – and to my children Ru and Kit Kwok, two of my biggest supporters.
About the Author
Born in Brisbane, Australia, Carol Jones taught English and Drama at secondary schools before working as an editor of children’s magazines. She is the author of several young adult novels as well as children’s non-fiction.
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