Elsa Goody, Bushranger

by Darry Fraser

  ‘Jesus, Ezie. Yeah, Barton. And it was self-defence, witnesses and all.’

  ‘Ah, and that’s why he hides out in the scrub, then.’

  ‘Fer crissakes, leave off. So, while Scotty himself was away hiding his end in someone else, Tillie asked Barton to come get her, and he did. So Scotty gets all funny on it, prob’ly more because Tillie took her horse Salty with her. You know the one? Bloody brilliant little gelding won at the races last year.’

  Zeke was busy eating now and didn’t look up. He knew the horse.

  ‘That was the thing that made us move again. We’ll keep our heads down for a while. Troopers will forget all about the other stuff.’ Nebo went on, ‘We got quite the society happening in our bush camp, hidin’ in the scrub. All the boys each have a little woman.’

  Zeke nodded. ‘Impressive. A real Robin Hood and his merry men. Haven’t come across a Maid Marion for yourself yet?’ When there was no quickfire response from Nebo, he could’ve kicked himself: he’d just done what he’d tried to avoid—opened a conversation he was sick of having.

  Nebo’s frown appeared, furrowing an already lined forehead. ‘You had the only Maid Marion for me.’

  ‘Don’t start.’ Zeke pushed his plate away. ‘You’re forgetting about poor Henrietta Porter. Henny was a real loyal one, and you barely gave her the time of day.’

  ‘She wasn’t Maisie. I saw Maisie before she latched eyes on you.’

  Zeke slammed an open palm on the table. ‘Maisie wasn’t for you. Don’t goad me, Nebo. Henny hung around waiting for you to stop chasing my wife.’

  ‘Well, she didn’t wait too long,’ Nebo said, ignoring the vehemence in his brother.

  ‘I reckon six years was long enough. And by then Maisie was already dead and still you—’

  ‘Now, you stop,’ Nebo yelled and bounced a fist off the timber table as he shoved out of his chair. He paced to the door and back, pointing a finger. ‘You dunno anything about anything.’

  ‘I know plenty.’ Zeke had had enough. ‘Tell me what it is you want and then get the hell out. I got work to do. Not wasting any more of the day, going over ancient history. Again.’

  Nebo rubbed his nose, scratched his chin: all signs that he was trying to hold onto his temper. ‘Don’t want anything. Just came for a visit, brought that packet. But now you’re asking, I do have something to tell you. It’ll mean you’re in it whether you like it or not. Cobb & Co’s coach is coming right by here next week, travelling from Mt Gambier to Casterton. Still gotta make good some details, like where and when to stop it, but it’s said there’s rich folk on board.’

  ‘I’m not bailing up Cobb & Co, or anything else. Besides, coaches are giving way to railways. Rich folk travel by rail.’

  Nebo cocked his head, agreeing, but said, ‘Rail don’t go everywhere yet. The spoils would help you out, too.’

  ‘I don’t need that kind of help.’

  ‘You used to enjoy yourself.’

  ‘Getting you out of trouble? I don’t think so.’ Zeke eyed his brother. ‘You’ll end up killed, doing a hold-up. Get a job like the rest of us.’

  ‘A job. You call this a job, what—this farm? There isn’t enough land to do anything with and you know it. How many sheep can you run?’

  ‘If your boys hadn’t been stealing them—’

  ‘My boys weren’t stealin’ from you. I’m sure of it, I’m tellin’ you.’

  Zeke shook his head. ‘I don’t want anything to do with any hold-up. I don’t want to know about it. I don’t want to see you back here talking about it. You’re a risk to my kids.’

  Nebo nodded, all too agreeable now. ‘Ah yes, your kids. How are they? How is the little tacker, Jonty? Always had a soft spot for him.’

  Zeke should’ve known that was coming. His brother had been angling for something the whole time, as was his way. He felt the pressure build, deep in his gut. His blood had seemed to heat faster in days gone by, a rapid boiling that threatened to spill, sometimes had. And it was fierce when it did. He’d always been the fiery one of the three brothers, always the one whom people kept on the good side, whom they knew to steer clear of. By now, he’d learned to beat down the flare of blind rage.

  Nebo lifted his chin, still goading. ‘He has the strong look of both his parents, boyo.’ He threw the contents of his tea out onto the dirt outside. ‘So we’ll never know, will we? Can never tell what some of the ladies get up to.’ He tossed the empty pannikin at his brother—the smirk on his face souring—ducked into the doorway and left.

  Zeke let the cup clatter past him as Nebo disappeared from his sight. He heard the dogs barking and Nebo’s snarl at them to shut up.

  Jonty was Maisie and Zeke’s child. But the boy had a strong resemblance to his uncle Nebo, more than Zeke’s other two children did. Nebo always made it sound as if Maisie had at some later stage hankered after him, that maybe she’d let him dabble there. From time to time when it suited, Nebo would needle Zeke about it. It mostly always worked, like today, but Zeke never let it take him over. With Maisie life had been rocky before the last babe, and worse after he’d died. Nebo never niggled Zeke about the dead child, and he was never aware of what caused their marital troubles. He just knew there was a chink in Zeke’s armour and that’s all he needed.

  Even as Zeke heard Nebo’s horse galloping away, he stood, planted by the familiar rage, so white-hot he could see stars.

  He knew Maisie and Nebo had never, ever gone there. He knew it in his heart, no matter what trouble there was between him and his wife. Nebo always pushed it, always tried to ignite an explosion in his younger brother, giving Zeke a pain in his gut. He bent to sweep up the cup and set it on the bench with a soft tap. Grabbing his hat, he stalked off to catch the dogs and tie them, then he’d go to the place where he had buried his infant son and not many months after buried his wife.

  He knew he never would but some days he wondered if he could kill his brother.

  Three

  ‘Elsa,’ her sister said, surprised as she opened the bakery’s front door. ‘This is very early. The store’s not even open. And my goodness, look at your hair. It’s all over the place. You know to plait it tight and not loose.’

  Elsa had trudged into town, her heart heavy, her head empty. Even as hot and bothered as she was, she’d known not to go around the back door because Frank didn’t like that. She pushed inside, not bothering to fuss with her hair. ‘It’s not about Pa, in case you’re wondering,’ she said pointedly.

  ‘Then what?’ Rosie snapped, impatient. ‘I’m very busy getting ready to open.’

  The aromas inside the bakery were irresistible. Elsa’s stomach growled, and she could feel her mouth water, the saliva pooling over her tongue. Hot baked bread was cooling on the vast benches. Buns with fruit dotted through them sat alongside, and rows of jam tarts, their edges neatly pinched and perfectly formed were behind them. She feared she would dribble as she told her sister the awful news. Just to be on the safe side, she wiped a hand over her mouth.

  ‘It’s George,’ she blurted. ‘He’s been killed in Victoria.’

  ‘Oh!’ Rosie’s hand clapped over her throat. ‘Oh no, not George. Not our George. How? Who—’

  ‘I came for some stores and the post yesterday and there was a letter to Pa. A kind gentleman from Western Districts in Victoria had sent it to inform us.’ When she’d had to come to town, Elsa hardly bothered any longer to visit her sister in the bakery. She’d usually been ignored so there was no point. She would do what she had to do, turn around and go home.

  ‘Victoria?’ Rosie looked bleak. ‘George travelled far on his adventure.’

  Frank came lumbering into the storefront. ‘I heard a cry, what is it?’ Flour-dust handprints were on his apron and a dollop of custard was stuck high up on it, as if he’d taken a bite of something and missed his mouth.

  Rosie was groping for the bench to hold herself up. ‘It’s George. Elsa has just said he’s been killed.’ She leaned back heavily on th
e bench, with a hand on her throat. Her brow furrowed as she waved Elsa away.

  Elsa blanched at that. She just needed someone to—

  ‘Lord love us, that’s awful,’ Frank cried, and pressed a fist to his chest. ‘Where? When?’

  ‘Casterton,’ Elsa said dully, resigned to standing in the store without an embrace from her sister.

  ‘Good Lord. That’s days from here.’ He was now by Rosie’s side and patting her shoulder. He didn’t seem to notice she edged away. ‘And Curtis?’ he asked. ‘He’s not taken a downturn, I hope.’

  Elsa knew Frank was genuine for news of his father-in-law; however, later in the day, it would all be about the business of family and succession. She swallowed that down. ‘He is distraught, of course.’

  ‘Frank,’ Rosie said, dashing tears and pinching her nose. ‘We must close the store today.’ She groped inside her pinafore pocket to pull out a handkerchief.

  All three looked at the produce on the benches. Elsa itched to grab bread and buns, but dared not. Not yet.

  ‘Rosie, dearest,’ Frank began, his eyes wide in his florid face. ‘We need to remain calm. You must go to your father, and I will stay in the store for the morning. You know how busy it gets.’ Now his gaze darted around the store. ‘And after midday, I will close up and then we will decide on a course of action.’

  That was sensible, Elsa decided. But how would she cope with Rosie in their house—or hut as Rosie called it—with her father? Still, it had to be that way.

  Rosie tucked loose hair back under her cap. She dabbed at tears and daintily wiped her nose. She looked all blotchy, crying for her lost brother.

  Elsa felt the lump in her throat again, yet still, tears would not come. It was as if grief was holding them back and not letting go.

  ‘Off you go then, dearest, go with your sister. But be back soon.’

  Rosie looked up. ‘I’ll take the cart, Frank. I’m not walking miles there and then miles back.’ Not expecting resistance, that was clear, she pulled open the ties on her pinafore. ‘Wait out the front, Elsa. I won’t be a minute. Frank already had the horse hitched up for his delivery rounds earlier this morning.’

  Frank was retreating to the kitchen and Rosie was about to follow him out the back. ‘Might I pack some of this delicious produce to take home for Pa?’ Elsa asked guilelessly. Today she expected no resistance—Frank did turn and gave Rosie a small nod. They’d never been generous, and Elsa had found on some occasions that if she encountered Frank in the store and not Rosie, she’d had to hand over her pennies. Rosie had never taken money from her but never offered much either.

  Her sister pointed at the bread, loaves that looked crusty and still had steam floating above them. ‘A loaf and a fruit bun,’ Rosie said loudly. ‘You haven’t brought a basket so take mine. It has a cloth in it. Both of which need to come back when I come back.’ Her sister stepped behind the curtain.

  ‘Yes, Rosie,’ Elsa said to thin air. Words were exchanged between husband and wife and then the back door opened and closed.

  Rosie reappeared from behind the curtain, moving fast, her voice low. ‘Take four loaves and four big buns, and I’ll put in a couple of tarts. The meat pies we’ll pack under all of that and cover with the cloth. Hurry,’ she said, as they heard the horse and cart being driven around to the front.

  Surprised, but as bid, Elsa packed the items into the basket and covered them quickly. Ushered outside by a flap of her sister’s hands, she waited until Frank had pulled up the cart. He stepped down and Rosie climbed up unaided. ‘Come along,’ she said to Elsa, while taking the reins.

  Elsa put the basket into the cart and climbed up to sit by her sister. A quick wave of hands between Rosie and her husband, and then Rosie snapped the reins. The horse and cart pulled away.

  As they drove, Elsa knew she’d be interrogated over the news, but it didn’t happen right away. Except for an occasional snivel, and a hiccup—Rosie was letting out her grief—there was no other sound from her sister. Glancing sideways, Elsa could see Rosie really was struggling, yet when she ventured a reassuring hand on Rosie’s arm, her sister had shaken it off, irascibly.

  On the way out of town, Elsa studied the horse, Peppin, pulling the cart. He wasn’t always harnessed. She knew Frank sometimes saddled him up and rode the poor thing around if there’d only been a few deliveries. And these days with a reduced population in the town, that seemed to be the case. She wondered why he’d been harnessed today. Perhaps Frank was feeling the weather again and hadn’t wanted to ride or walk. He was always so florid in the face lately.

  A fresh breeze whipped up her hair. She found a length of worn calico ribbon in her pinafore and tied it back. As the light gusts brought the scent of the sea, in the morning light she could see white-tipped waves in the distance. She breathed deeply, closing her eyes for just a moment to capture that hint of salt and seaweed. The strong bouquet of the coastal daisy, its new shoots piney and sweet, was a reminder of a familiar part of home. All the scents of home never failed to make her feel as if there was some reason for her existence, but she couldn’t ever capture what that reason might be. It just felt like hope, a fresh start every time she smelled it, and like—

  ‘Now with George gone,’ Rosie said, all matter-of-fact. The cart had gone past the last of the buildings and pedestrians in the town and was headed out along Main Road. Lake Charra came into view, and the women crinkled their noses as its sulphuric odour drifted by. They passed the handsome Lakeside House at a steady pace. ‘And Pa too ill and not likely to recover, you will have to think about where you’ll live.’

  Elsa was taken aback. ‘Will I just?’ she said, trying to keep down a sudden burst of anger. ‘Pa is not yet dead, if you don’t mind, and I will stay there until he has departed. As for George, can we not give him at least a little of our thoughts before you bundle me up and get rid of me?’

  Rosie scoffed and a breath puffed out. ‘Not what I meant.’ Her nose was swollen and red, but the tears had stopped. ‘Do you know when George died? Did this letter writer tell us?’ She seemed very insistent, even angry perhaps.

  Not the reaction Elsa expected from Rosie on this occasion. Perplexed, she said, ‘It seems about two or three weeks ago, by the date on the letter.’

  ‘Took a long time to arrive, then, didn’t it?’ Rosie was snappy. ‘Could’ve walked faster.’

  Elsa shrugged. ‘Anything could have happened to delay the mail.’

  ‘Well, come along then. Did the man say how he died?’

  ‘Bushrangers killed him.’

  ‘Bushrangers?’ Rosie erupted. ‘There’s no such thing anymore.’ She looked at Elsa before sharply turning back to concentrate on the road. ‘Where?’

  ‘I told you. Casterton. It’s in the Western Districts.’

  ‘Elsa, that is a huge area. Where exactly? What else do you know? Was he robbed?’

  ‘I—would presume as much, and that is such a horrible thought. I have no other details but what was in the letter. You’ll see it when we get home.’ Elsa felt a round of painful thuds strike from within as her pulse raced. Her poor brother. He would have had nothing to hand over to bushrangers—is that why he got himself killed? ‘There are so many questions, Rosie, we may never have the answers.’

  A mile along, Lake Fellmongery, named for the now declining business of removing wool from sheepskin, appeared on their right. Fresh air—not long to go now before their turn-off. Rosie flicked the reins. ‘Come on, Peppin,’ she yelled ahead. ‘Get a move on.’

  Peppin trotted his way to the hitching rail out the front of their father’s house and waited patiently to be tied. Elsa alighted, put down the basket and patted his muzzle, whispering her thanks. She knotted the reins loosely over the rail.

  Rosie braked the cart and jumped to the ground. She glanced down the yard beyond to the clearing where the unfinished house stood. Its first row of packed stones was covered in long strands of dead weeds that seemed to have no end, and sturdy thistles r
eached high on its walls, bereft of a roof. ‘Waste of money and effort,’ she muttered. ‘Bring the basket, Elsa,’ she ordered, pushing open the door to the hut.

  With the basket already in hand, Elsa decided she’d resisted the baked goods long enough. Hanging back just a little, she snuck a hand under the cloth, pinched off a small piece of fruit bun and popped it into her mouth, chewing delightedly, swallowing hurriedly before she reached the door to the hut.

  But a lump of chewed bun stuck in her throat when she heard her sister wail.

  Four

  Even though Curtis Goody was not the heavy, densely muscled man he had been before being stricken, the sisters had a hard time trying to take their father’s body from his bed to place him into the back of the cart.

  Rosie had wailed afresh, and who could blame her? If only Elsa could wail out her grief too, but nothing came. The blow of George’s death had numbed her, but this—her father now dead—so soon after. She couldn’t take it in. Couldn’t work her mind around it.

  She’d slumped by the bed watching Rosie, who’d been frantic, trying to wake their father. Of course nothing had worked. Of course not. Death was final, a hollow silence, an eerie space, which before had been filled with noisy life. Elsa had only been away from home perhaps three hours and in that time, life had left him, quick as that. Gone.

  Had he minded dying on his own? Or had he waited until Elsa left so he could slip away by himself, resting his weary heart without disappointing those clinging to him and keeping him in this life? That was it—that was probably it. It was his time, and he’d just decided to go. But oh, that silence, that space.

  The last weeks of his life had left him feebly coloured and now that life was gone, he was even a paler shade than before, tight-skinned and waxy. He was still warm to the touch—perhaps Rosie was right: he would soon wake. He looks like he needs a shave. Elsa would do that for him. Perhaps Elsa is going mad, thinks Elsa. Her mind was whirling in strange loops.

  Now, with their father’s body covered in the cart and under the shade of a gum tree, they’d returned to the hut. In her own grief, she hadn’t taken any notice of her sister who seemed to be babbling. ‘… few minutes, only a few minutes, a few minutes more …’ and the repetition was beginning to sink in. Then Rosie was rushing from corner to corner of the hut, muttering, ‘Where would he put it?’ She pulled Elsa’s cot from the wall, upended the milking stool. Fiddled about in the disused butter churn. Swiped along the top of the rough homemade bricks of the mantel. Tipped up her father’s cot and peered under, sweeping a hand over the floorboards underneath. She flipped through the raggedy story books and old copies of The Bulletin from which Elsa had always read to her father (before he got bored with the same old stuff. They’d been too poor lately to buy more).