by Darry Fraser
Rosie stood up and paced, scanning the rough walls and the scrappy ceiling. Elsa clutched her arm, stopped her for a moment. ‘Where would he put what? What are you looking for?’ She gazed around at the mess: there was an awful lot of straightening up she would have to do— Oh, what did that matter, now?
Rosie flung herself onto a small bench seat, one of a pair her father had fashioned so the family could perch and eat from a trestle table. Her hair was mussed, her cheeks had bright pink spots where colour bloomed and her nose was pinched.
‘Rosie?’ Elsa was still waiting.
‘Pa had buried a tin of money. It was full of sovereigns.’
Elsa stared, open-mouthed. ‘Full of sovereigns?’
‘At least thirty of them, he said.’ Rosie glanced at Elsa, it seemed without seeing her.
‘That’s a fortune,’ Elsa breathed.
‘Yes, it is,’ Rosie cried. ‘He was supposed to tell me where it was hidden when George took off on his adventure. George had to have known where it was, because he would have inherited after Pa’s death. But now both of them have gone—’ Rosie burst into fresh tears.
Shocked by the news, Elsa shot to her feet. ‘Where did he get such money?’ Her father might have told her about it. Should have told her. It would certainly have helped them.
‘He said he’d found it when he first bought the property. Whose ever it was, they’d been long since gone by that time.’
‘That’s astounding. No one missed thirty sovereigns?’
Bleary-eyed and waspish, Rosie said, ‘Clearly not, Elsa.’
‘I—have no knowledge of such a tin.’
‘Of course you wouldn’t,’ Rosie snapped. ‘Besides, what would you have done with it if you did know?’ She stood up again, rubbing her chafed hands together.
Elsa spun around, anger flaring. ‘But what would you do with it, sister? Give it to that lump of a husband of yours?’
Rosie turned on her. ‘No. I was going to leave him with his bakery. Let him do the work for a change.’
Elsa’s mouth dropped open again. ‘Leave Frank?’
‘I was going to get the tin and run from here. Go far away and start my life again, venture out of this dying place to find somewhere exciting. Somewhere I could breathe again and live my life.’ Flattening her hands on the table, she leaned on it and seemed out of breath.
‘And so—leave me?’ Elsa was incredulous. ‘Leave me penniless?’
‘Oh no,’ Rosie cried, gaping in horror. ‘Do you suppose George took it with him and it’s now in the hands of the bushrangers?’
Obviously, Rosie’s issue had nothing to do with Elsa’s indignation. But this was her big sister talking. This was a woman she’d always looked up to—not necessarily had liked all the time but had certainly looked up to. ‘I’d say so. George was the sort to have spent it, not kept it or kept it hidden.’
Rosie held her head and grimaced. ‘That’s true, the silly boy.’ They all thought of George as a boy, no matter that he was older than Elsa by two years. ‘Perhaps that’s why he was murdered. He might have flashed the coin around—that would undoubtedly attract attention.’ She exhaled. ‘I’ll leave. You don’t have to come. I don’t need you.’ Her tone was sharp.
At forty, Rosie was part of a world Elsa had not yet begun to explore. The baby of the family, Elsa had been protected by three older brothers and the firstborn Rosie, and never dreamed she would be left behind—by all of them as it was turning out.
‘What—you’d really do that? Abandon me? Had you found the tin of coins earlier, where would you have put me, or sent me?’ Elsa heard her voice become shrill. ‘And now, with our father dead, where am I to go? You still have Frank if you stay—’
‘Oh, I don’t know what I mean,’ Rosie shrilled. ‘Damn and blast Frank.’ She waved her arm around the room: ‘Are there any other hiding places here? We have to be sure.’
Elsa spread her hands, confounded by all of this. It was all wrong. George was dead, her father was dead—his body going cold in the cart—her sister had gone mad and now there was nowhere left for her to go. She would be told to move on if Frank really did take over administration of the property—which of course he was legally able to do.
Springing out of her stupor, Elsa checked under her bed for any loose boards. Squeezing her arm behind the old cooker she felt for anything wedged in behind it. She dragged out the pine box that had been their pantry cupboard and looked behind that. Nothing. Hands on hips, she checked around. There was no place to hide a tin. The rafters were open to the poor roof, so there were no hidey-holes there. Besides, why would he leave it here if he was going off on his adventure? ‘He’s taken it with him, I’m sure of it.’
‘You haven’t looked very far,’ Rosie said.
‘You haven’t looked at all.’
‘It could be anywhere,’ Rosie muttered. ‘But I think you’re right. He would’ve taken it with him.’ She frowned. ‘What about the broken-down horse stall?’
Elsa gritted her teeth and marched outside to the stall, Rosie on her heels. ‘In you go,’ her sister said.
Careful no rotting roof timbers there fell on her head, Elsa scrambled around in the dirt, and came up with nothing. Brushing aside thick cobweb, she said, ‘Short of digging up the whole yard, what else do you suggest?’ She heard her voice rise to shrill. No, no, no. What was she doing? She pushed past Rosie and headed back towards the hut.
Inside, she dusted off, annoyed with herself. What were they doing? Good Lord. Their father was dead. There was something far more pressing to do. ‘Rosie, wait.’ She held up her hand. ‘Wait,’ she said more calmly. ‘We have to plan, yes, but first we have to get Pa to a coffin maker, get him buried properly without folk accusing us of a terrible thing.’ Elsa knew the ramifications of all this was still a jumble.
‘What terrible thing?’ Rosie asked, looking frightened.
‘Rosie, what if people say we had done something to Pa for this tin of coins? Does anyone know? Does Frank know?’
‘I don’t know, I don’t know.’ Rosie clamped her hands together. ‘No, Frank doesn’t know, I’m sure of it and don’t be ridiculous. We wouldn’t kill our own father for it.’ And then understanding dawned. ‘Oh, my God.’
‘You see, don’t you? We must be very quiet about this tin. We must ask Frank for the money to bury our poor pa—’
Rosie wailed yet again.
‘—and then plan …’ Elsa rubbed her face hard with both hands and swiped them into her hair, dislodging more from its loose plait. Impatient, she swiped at the thick, unruly locks. ‘We must find that tin and hide it anew. If Frank does know of it, we must claim ignorance. He must not find it.’ Elsa’s mind was working fast. She knew their land was so small that it wouldn’t bring much if they were to put it up for sale. And Frank would still have the right to administer their affairs if their father had named him. ‘We could just sell up.’ Her heart sunk at the thought.
Rosie shook her head. ‘The whole district would go for a song these days, why would this patch of worthless scrub be any different? You know the Robe port is all but dead. People are abandoning their farms, their homes and their businesses.’
‘Frank wouldn’t abandon your business.’
‘He might if he knew about the gold coins.’ Rosie seemed annoyed when Elsa shook her head in disbelief. She went on, ‘If he closed the bakery, he would expect me to go with him wherever he went.’ She held her head as if it pained her. ‘But I don’t want to be married to him any longer. I don’t want to be his wife.’ It was another wail, one probably borne out of years of thought.
‘How can you not want it? There’s no solution to that, is there?’
‘I could divorce. All the more reason for me to find the tin.’
‘Oh, Rosie. What grounds for divorce do you have? He has to be proven guilty of cruelty, or desertion or adultery. And we know he has provided for you—even if you’re the one doing all the work. No magistrate would release you.
’
Elsa had read enough newspapers; she knew of the terrible scandals divorce created. All the same, she couldn’t see that there was much going for marriage. Just look at her sister: so unhappy that she would plan such a desperate move as to run away from everything she knew and risk her life by being alone in the world. A fallen woman is how she would be labelled. Hers would not be a happy or a safe life and yet Rosie was prepared to forgo all of it. What sort of turmoil drove that? Divorce was terribly frowned upon, and a woman who instigated it would be almost untouchable afterwards. She despaired for Rosie.
It irked Elsa though, that Rosie would choose to abandon her, too. She would have to look after herself. If her only sister could forsake her for a tin of coins, who on earth could Elsa trust now but herself?
Five
In the bakery, Elsa watched with growing concern as she realised Rosie was losing the battle with Frank. Even though he had offered what appeared to be sincere condolences to them, he hadn’t softened one iota. Not that Elsa had expected it, but she’d been sure Frank had respected their father. Perhaps not.
It was time for her to step in. ‘I apologise for interrupting, Mr Putney—Frank,’ she started. Frank hated being interrupted, especially when they were standing inside the store. (Mind you, he didn’t mind interrupting others when he felt like it.) He also hated being called by his first name in public. Someone might come in and hear, and it could be misconstrued that he was letting his sister-in-law be impertinent. That was the least of her worries; right now her father’s casket was being measured up at the blacksmith’s—who was also the coffin maker. ‘But might I not work for you too, in order to repay you for the purchase of our pa’s coffin? We certainly don’t want him going to his grave with only his clothes on.’
Rosie had frowned at her sister, but Frank hadn’t seen that. He turned to look at her. ‘It would need quite a lot of work to repay that sort of money.’
A few pounds was all, not a lifetime’s worth of work, Elsa was sure. She forced a wheedle into her voice. ‘And you well know I’m a hard worker. Why else would we still be able to live on the farm?’ As she spread her hands, she realised just how dirty they were, the creases stained with the colour of the earth and her nails scuffed and dark.
Frank chortled. ‘The farm. Good-for-nothing piece of dirt right now. Still, might be worth something in the future. We’ll bury him there. That way I won’t have to pay for a hole to be dug in the town cemetery.’
Elsa swallowed down the affront and didn’t dare look at her sister. ‘Yes. We can do that, he’ll rest beside Ma, that’s preferable,’ she said agreeably, her eyes smarting. ‘I can dig a hole if necessary.’
Frank went back to his till but didn’t open it, just stood there, lord of the manor. ‘In that case, as soon as the smithy has finished the coffin, you’d better start digging. There’s no time to waste—it’s already early afternoon and this warm weather will finish off a body quick enough.’ He checked over his shoulder and addressed Rosie. ‘You may take today for your sister and the sad duty. If the reverend can perform a ceremony, we’ll have it the day after tomorrow. That’s enough time.’ He turned away; they’d been dismissed.
For the first time in a long time, Elsa saw the Rosie she thought she’d known for years. Her sister’s face reddened and her mouth flattened to a thin line, but she said quite calmly, ‘Thank you, Frank.’ However, when Rosie glanced her way, Elsa noticed the lightning flash in her eyes. She then tilted her head, indicating they should leave.
Rosie swept ahead of Elsa and left by the back door, snatching off her pinafore and grabbing her hat. They’d only been back in the town with their father’s body an hour, yet Elsa knew Rosie had been expected to don her work apron as if nothing was amiss. Upon their return, Rosie had disappeared into the house attached at the back of the bakery. Elsa was left standing on her own quite embarrassed as customers filed in to be served by Frank. For whatever reason, Rosie had taken her time, then returned wearing a clean pinafore over her day dress.
Now, trailing her sister, who marched to the smithy’s, Elsa felt quite outside herself. Having to ask for a coffin to be built was one thing; being unsure that funds would be made available to pay for it was another. Unsettling and wrong. Frank had the money to do it. A person had a right to be buried with decency. It was their father, after all.
‘Miz Putney,’ the smithy yelled at Rosie when they entered the forge area. He always yelled, whether he was in his forge or not. He yelled over the roar of his fire and the clanging of his tools on the huge anvil, even, it seemed, over thin air. Perhaps it was easier for him to do so all the time. He tipped his cap. ‘Miss Goody,’ he blasted at Elsa. ‘Got yer pa’s box all ready. Had one half done, just had to saw off a bit on account of he’s short.’ He pointed to a coffin standing on its end on the far wall. Then he wiped his forehead with his forearm, smearing more soot and sawdust over himself. With singes on his eyebrows and one sideburn almost completely gone, he must have got too close to his fire at some point.
Rosie crossed the shed to check the coffin.
‘Thank you, Mr Benson,’ Elsa said. She didn’t have to yell. ‘We’ll need help to get Pa into it and then into the back of the cart.’
He nodded, made a sad face, then whistled through his teeth. Young Henry, his son, appeared, just as blackened from soot as his father. His teeth gleamed against his dirty face. ‘Hello, Miss Goody.’
Henry was only about twenty and had a confidence that was a bit disconcerting. Still, she wouldn’t take any notice of someone so cheeky and full of himself, even if he did have that heady I’m-interested-in-you stare that on other occasions had made her insides tingle. If he’d been older, Elsa might have taken a shine to him. So forthright was his stare today that she couldn’t help the patter inside her chest—on the day of her father’s death, if you please. She turned away, dismayed with herself.
‘Lad,’ Mr Benson yelled. ‘We have to help the ladies load up their pa.’
‘Right you are.’ Henry sidled past Elsa, his eyes now kind with sympathy (so he’d just redeemed himself), and when he got to Rosie, scuttled around her to hoist the coffin over his shoulder.
Elsa followed as he took it out to their cart. Their horse, Peppin, still harnessed, was fully under shade, and so poor Pa would have been relatively cool. When Henry and Mr Benson got in the back of the cart, and the coffin followed, poor Pa was unceremoniously hefted inside it.
As the lid was slid over the top, Rosie started to say something but stopped. There was no reason to stop them closing the coffin. Mr Benson pulled out a hammer from the bag slung about his thick waist. With three or four nails clamped between his teeth, and more in his hands, he whacked them into the lid, securing it. Elsa ears had begun to ring.
‘Guessin’ you done spoke to the doc and got yer pa a death certificate,’ he shouted while concentrating. He flicked a quick look at Rosie who nodded curtly.
Elsa let the lie slip by. She hadn’t thought of that, but nobody would dispute their father had been dying, and was now dead. They would register it soon. But first, please God, let’s bury my poor pa.
Finally, Mr Benson was done. ‘That oughta keep him tight,’ he yelled and jumped down from the cart. He snatched off his hat and Henry followed suit. ‘Right sorry, Miz Putney, Miss Goody.’ They nodded at both of them. ‘I’ll send me bill to Mr Putney, directly,’ Mr Benson said.
Rosie stopped him then. ‘No need. Here. Five pounds, isn’t it?’ She clutched the notes and held them up for him to see.
Elsa gaped.
Mr Benson shook his head. ‘Two pounds too much, Miz Putney.’
‘If we can have Henry for this afternoon at our farm to dig a hole, would that make it about right?’
‘Miz Putney, it’s still—’
‘For God’s sake, man. We’re trying to bury our father,’ Rosie said, glaring. She thrust the notes at him. Elsa closed her mouth.
Mr Benson pocketed the money. ‘Whenever you’re
ready, Miz Putney.’
‘We’re ready now.’
At Mr Benson’s lift of his chin, Henry leapt into the driver’s seat. Rosie and Elsa climbed up beside him.
‘Thank you, Mr Benson,’ Elsa said as Henry released the brake and the cart lurched forward.
As she helped Henry dig a decent enough hole for her father, right alongside her mother’s grave, there was no time for Elsa to speak to Rosie on her own. Digging had been easier than she’d imagined. The earth around had already been loosened—of course at the time of her mother’s interment a while ago. Also because George had always intended to plant shrubs there and had begun to work the soil, never imagining that their father would lay there so soon. Dear funny, sentimental George. Elsa wondered if she and Rosie should try and bring George back home for burial here. But she decided against putting it to Rosie. It would be a terrible task, grief aside. They’d have to dig up George from wherever he was. Elsa wasn’t so sure she could do it.
Henry did most of the harder work as they steadily dug into the solid earth. The only talk was when someone needed a drink. Sweat dried on Elsa’s face and neck. She had dirt all over her—face, neck, dress, boots. Didn’t matter, the job had to be finished, and Elsa was used to being dirty; it was part of working the land, and it was honest work. She’d get to bathe when she could.