by Darry Fraser
Once a decent depth was reached, Henry slaked his thirst by slurping from the ladle inside the water barrel nearby. Then he dunked his head in the horse’s water trough. He slung his hat in it too and wrung it out. ‘I’ll be off then,’ he said, as he placed it back on his head.
‘No, Henry.’ Rosie stopped him. ‘You need to help us get the coffin down into the hole and then fill it in. A shilling, just for you,’ she said. ‘Come along. We need to get it done quickly.’
It was a juggle getting the coffin off the back of the wagon. Once they’d manhandled it to the ground, they only had to carry it a short distance to the hole. Then Henry jumped into the pit and directed Elsa and Rosie to push it towards him so that one end of the coffin could hang over the edge.
Elsa stepped back. Gracious me. They’d hardly have managed as well without Henry.
He worked the casket down until the narrow end rested on the cool ground. He ducked underneath it and crept it all the way until he was ready to fully lay it down.
‘Best not to look at this bit, ladies,’ he called up, his hands holding the broad part of the small coffin.
Rosie turned away and grabbed Elsa’s arm, forcing her to do the same. Elsa, bewildered, heard a loud thump and a curse then Henry saying, ‘He’s in.’
Both Elsa and Rosie turned back for a moment to see him step on the coffin to climb out of the hole. They stood side by side now. Rosie took a deep breath as she gazed down on it; Elsa could see tears again trailing on her sister’s cheeks.
‘I’m so sorry, Pa,’ Rosie whispered. She swiped her face, smearing dust over the sheen of perspiration. Rosie looked as dirty as Elsa felt.
Henry took up a shovel to lean on. He’d already knocked off his hat, ready for paying his respects.
Elsa and Rosie gripped hands. It was strange. The whole thing is strange. I feel very strange. The lump in her throat was growing again. Here they were, filthy, their father just dead these last few hours and George three weeks gone …
Now he is in his grave and there is a blacksmith’s son standing by with a shovel and the day has suddenly become very hot and I really feel quite peculiar as I’m saying a few mumbled words with my sister for our father and now clods of earth are being shovelled back into the hole and—
She took a breath. It was done. Their father was beside their mother. Henry was whacking the back of the shovel on the low mound of earth covering the hole. Then he dunked his hat in the water trough again and helped himself to another drink. ‘If there’s nothin’ else you want doin’, Miz Putney?’ With a shake of Rosie’s head, he pocketed the shilling offered, slapped on his hat and looked at Elsa. ‘I’m better’n that mad Pete Southie that’s comin’ after you. Remember that, Elsa Goody.’ He waved and began walking back to the town.
Rosie regarded her sister. ‘You will tell me about that later.’
Elsa looked away. ‘Nothing to tell.’
She stood by the graves. Her mother’s had a cross on it, which was leaning a little in the loose soil. The roughly carved letters read: KITTY GOODY. DIED 1889. LOVED WIFE AND MOTHER. George had made it, and had, just weeks before he’d left, painted the letters he’d previously meticulously carved. Elsa reached down and straightened the cross. Who would they get to make one for their father? Her throat squeezed.
‘We must get a stone marker for them,’ she rasped. ‘One so that the words don’t disappear.’ At her sister’s silence, she looked across.
Rosie was on her knees, doubled over and weeping silently. This time when Elsa put her hand on Rosie’s shoulder, she wasn’t brushed away. Still her own tears wouldn’t come. There should have been tears for the loss of her father, and for her mother and her three brothers. Elsa would have to let Rosie cry tears for her as well.
Elsa had directed her sister out of the afternoon sun and into the hut. A bowl of now dirty water and a freshly filled pitcher stood on the narrow table inside. They had each divested their dresses and washed. They’d sat, still in their boots and their chemises with pinafores tied over, and sponged off the dirtiest bits on the dresses. Once they’d been brushed down, the garments were left to dry over the hitching rail outside. No one would see them. No one was expected. No one would come. News of their father’s death would eventually reach the few folk still left in town, and maybe tomorrow people might visit to offer condolences.
Elsa had given the last of the bought feed to Peppin. Then she’d rubbed him down and he seemed content enough. Now back inside, she used the washcloth again and felt refreshed. She retied her apron, feeling better having it over her chemise.
Rosie had done the same and was patting her face dry. ‘I’ve wanted to talk to you about something all day, something I’ve thought carefully about.’ She discarded the towel, placing her palms flat on the table. ‘It came to me this morning when I left you in the shop,’ she said as she twisted her wedding ring off and put it back on again.
‘What is it?’ Elsa had let out her hair and was trying to drag her mother’s brush through it, the only thing of Kitty’s she now had. Setting the brush aside, Elsa piled her hair up into a twist and pinned it as best she could. ‘Tell me,’ she prompted.
‘You are a grown woman, now, well and truly, as I am,’ Rosie said and hesitated.
Elsa frowned. This does not bode well.
‘And we know that there is a tin of money somewhere,’ Rosie began again.
‘We know there was a tin of money,’ Elsa replied.
Rosie let that go. ‘And as there are now no brothers of ours anymore …’
Elsa was listening. Her sister had a plan but, right now, she couldn’t presume what it might be. ‘Yes?’
‘We need to look after ourselves.’ Rosie was looking at her and for the first time Elsa felt as if it was as an equal, not a merely tolerated baby sister.
Elsa’s eyes were scratchy and dry. Her throat hurt from the lump in it that still hadn’t subsided, and she had begun to feel overwhelmingly tired. She sighed. ‘Of course we do, but you are ready to leave Frank and to leave me here to fend for myself, so I can’t see how we could do that.’ She was tapping her fingers on the table. ‘However, if I stay here, and you still have money in your pocket, I’d like to have a cow again and that way I can—’
‘We should both leave here, now,’ Rosie said, and closed a fist against her chest. ‘Or at least first thing in the morning. We have the cart, and Peppin. Frank is not expecting me back tonight.’ She patted her side. ‘And I do have some money in a purse here.’
Elsa thought for a moment, her mouth set. ‘Is that why we had to bury Pa so quick?’
‘No. That was plain necessity.’
‘It was too quick.’
‘Have it your own way, but the weather was against us. It is done.’ Rosie sighed. ‘If you don’t want to come with me, I’m still going, and I will take Peppin and the cart.’ She stood up. ‘Yes, no point waiting, is there? I’ll go now so that you can sit here on your righteous backside and be the spoiled brat of the family you always were. Good luck finding something to eat while you’re at it.’ They both glanced at the basket of bread and buns and pies left abandoned this morning. ‘We should truly eat those pies soon,’ she said a bit more softly, ‘but after that, good luck finding food.’
Elsa could not believe what she’d just heard. ‘I was not spoiled. I worked as hard as my brothers when they were here—’ Oh, that sounded so odd. ‘But I have my own mind, and I will always speak it.’
‘And get away with it.’
‘Not so. On his dying bed—’ That was only this morning. ‘Pa said that he wouldn’t consider that I administer—’
‘All those grand ideas about the rights of us women.’ Rosie shook her head.
‘Yes,’ Elsa declared. ‘The laws allow it now. And you well know there’s to be an election in April and I intend to be the first woman to cast a vote.’
Rosie scoffed. ‘Where? In Adelaide?’
‘No, here,’ Elsa cried. ‘There is to be a p
olling booth here, in Robe. We are in the Albert electorate.’
‘And so next you’ll be our new governor, I expect.’
Elsa scowled. ‘I will be exercising my right to vote,’ she said between her teeth.
‘And that’s a nice word-for-word quote you’ve read at some point,’ Rosie said, a dismissive wave of her hand following. ‘If I’d known that by saving all those newspapers for you, we’d have a raging suffragette—’
‘Suffragist,’ Elsa corrected. ‘And for your information,’ she erupted, ‘the governor is appointed by the queen, not by the general public.’
‘You’ll stand for parliament, then,’ Rosie goaded.
‘No women have decided to stand. If you’d read all the papers you saved for me, you’d know that.’
‘God, listen to you—no wonder people laugh.’
Elsa bristled. She certainly didn’t mind being vocal about her views. Perhaps other women were smarter than she was—keeping their views to themselves. But what good would that do? ‘I don’t care if they do laugh. I’ll stand up for what I believe in, otherwise how will things ever change?’
‘Yes, yes. And as impoverished as you are, no doubt it will serve you well. All this reading, and standing up for what you believe in, and changing everything by having one single vote.’ Rosie dusted herself down. ‘Well, I can’t waste time squawking about that. I’ve made up my mind and I’m not turning back. I’ll take a few things from here and be on my way, so that I can stand up for what I believe in.’
‘Oh? And that’s to leave your husband and be destitute, is it?’
‘Don’t be churlish. You know nothing of marriage.’
‘And I don’t want to know.’
‘Spoken like a true brat—you don’t want to know. In that case, make no comment.’ Rosie looked around. She picked up her father’s bedclothes and sniffed, then tossed them back.
Elsa thrust off her seat. ‘Then tell me what it’s been like so I can understand why you want to leave.’
Rosie set her mouth and ignored her. She went to Elsa’s cot and picked up the sheet there, decided it was good enough to take with her and began to strip the bed. Elsa snatched the bedclothes out of her hands. Rosie countered, ‘I’ll be sleeping in the cart, Elsa, so I need to take some bedding. At least you’ll have time to wash Pa’s bedclothes tomorrow before you need them here.’
‘Rosie.’ Elsa dropped her bedsheets back on the cot.
Rosie stamped her foot and shouted, ‘Well, you’re just standing there like some nincompoop, not doing anything. It’s time to go.’
Elsa’s thoughts were spinning again. ‘I—haven’t had time to check things over here.’
‘Check what things—all the gold and silver?’
Elsa glanced around the hut that now looked so foreign. ‘I—wanted to look for Ma’s locket, and I need to consider what to take, if I’m to leave. How can we leave with nothing? We’ll both be impoverished—’
‘My mind is made up. Hurry up and pack some clothes. And I can tell you, you won’t find Ma’s locket. George took it with him. Good old sentimental George.’ Rosie cast about, looking for something. A small trunk caught her eye and she went to it, opened it and pulled out its ragged horse rugs until she found an old canvas satchel. ‘This will do for your smalls.’
Elsa stared at Rosie. ‘George took it? Oh no.’ Then she felt real tears beginning to smart. ‘Ma’s locket was the only thing with a picture of her.’
Rosie flipped the satchel to the floor. ‘I know,’ she said with empathy. ‘And now there’s nothing of Pa left either.’
‘Yes, but he was going to live forever.’ Tears filled Elsa’s eyes, but she dashed them away before they fell, and blinked and blinked to make sure they’d disappear. She set her jaw. ‘I hadn’t given a thought to how I’d fare here in the hut with no one and no money. And now, suddenly, that doesn’t even matter.’ Hearing her own words, she looked with surprise at Rosie. Then she wiped her nose and went to the little milking stool that had been upended in Rosie’s first manic rush around the hut. Underneath it was Mr Jones’s letter. She picked it up and smoothed it against her chemise then held it to the light. ‘If George is buried on this man’s property, we must go there.’
Rosie threw her hands in the air. ‘Into Victoria? There are wild men there, and bushrangers again, the letter said.’
‘It was just a description, I’m sure,’ Elsa said. ‘There haven’t been real bushrangers anywhere since—’
‘Anything George had with him in Victoria would’ve been stolen by whoever killed him. Call them bushrangers or not, I don’t care, I won’t go there,’ her sister cried.
Exasperated, Elsa threw her hands in the air. ‘So where did you think you’d go, Rosie?’ The expression on her sister’s face answered that. She’d not thought that far. Taking a breath, Elsa changed her tone. ‘I hear the Western Districts is quite a beautiful area. Besides, this man, this—’ she consulted the letter, ‘Ezekiel Jones was kind enough to bury our brother.’ Her heart gave a little thud as she mentioned the man’s name. How odd. She folded it, put it back in its envelope and tucked it into her bodice. ‘Perhaps he would be kind enough to offer us more information. George might have told him things.’ She paused. ‘Like where the tin might be. It would be better to get that information face to face, don’t you think?’
Rosie shook her head, frowning. Elsa knew she was thinking. ‘We could write a letter instead,’ she said, not quite ready to give over to Elsa’s idea.
‘And how would we receive an answer if we run away?’
Rosie paced the room, flicking items up from where they’d been cast, checking in case she’d missed something. When she spun back to Elsa, she grabbed up the satchel. ‘All right, we go to Victoria. But pack this with what you need, and let’s go now, so we don’t get caught by some unexpected sympathiser for our dear pa’s death.’ She tossed the bag onto their father’s bed then flung open the hut’s flimsy door, and marched smack bang into a leering Pete Southie. She propelled backwards in shock as he hovered in the doorway.
Elsa sucked in a breath, her chest tight.
‘Ladies,’ he said and whipped off his hat as he stepped inside. He was a broad-shouldered, stocky man with bushy eyebrows and black and grey whiskers shaved haphazardly. The sour tang of fresh sweat, the earthy odour of rangy horse and the stench of stale tobacco smoke pervaded the hut. ‘Where are ye going if you’re packin’?’ He glanced at Elsa.
Elsa wasn’t fooled by that smile. It wasn’t kindly, it was a leer, for sure. His gaze roved over her, then flicked to Rosie. She pulled her pinafore strings tighter. They were both only wearing pinafores over their chemises. Think quick, girl. She glanced around at the disarray, at the fireplace, at the old kettle waiting to be packed, at her father’s bed with the linens crumpled on it. At the little bottle of sleeping draught left by the doctor. ‘We’re closing up the house to decide what’s to be done, and we’re going back to the bakery, aren’t we, Rosie?’ she said as Rosie came to lean against her. She gripped her sister’s shaking hand.
‘A good thing I arrived then, to see ye’re all right. I can escort ye back.’
‘We’re all right,’ Elsa said, squeezing Rosie’s fingers before she let go. ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting tea after the ride out.’
Southie’s eyes lit up. ‘I would. Ye’re being generous today, Miss Elsa.’
Elsa glanced at Rosie who was frowning, her gaze still on Pete Southie. ‘Him just buried, our pa would have wanted us to offer hospitality.’ She noted her sister was saying nothing. Rosie’s mouth was firmly closed.
‘He was a good man, Curtis Goody was,’ he said and helped himself to a chair, swinging it in front of the door. He sat, elbows on his knees, staring intently at them.
Blocking escape.
Feeling Rosie stiffen, Elsa said, ‘I think there are still hot coals in the cooker, so tea shouldn’t take long.’ She pushed at her sister. ‘The tea, if you please, and there’s a third
cup somewhere.’ Think. As Rosie crossed to the mantel, Elsa turned to her father’s bed linens. Aha. ‘We have to take all this to town to wash because the well here is nearly dry again, isn’t it, Rosie?’ As she gathered the old sheets, she swept the little bottle from the bedside table into her pinny pocket. Turning, her arms full, she faced Southie.
He shot to his feet. ‘I’ll put them in the cart for ye, duly,’ he said and reached over to grab them from her arms.
Elsa flinched as his hard fingers, gathering the bundle, scraped both her breasts. She gritted her teeth and kept her features stony as he sat back down again. He scrunched the bundle flat, shoved it under his feet and folded his arms, watching one woman then the other. A sting of pinpricks rushed across the backs of Elsa’s hands. Fear? No, not that. Danger.
Rosie poked an iron rod into the cooker, stirring the coals. Elsa wondered about the poker, but watching Rosie, she knew her sister wouldn’t take any action with it. She’s too jittery. She watched her sister drop the tamp with a clang and thump the kettle onto the hotplate. Water splashed and spat. Rosie shoved three pannikins across the stovetop and threw a hard glance at Elsa.
Elsa ignored it, steadied the cups and asked him, ‘Sugar?’ She drew the tin from above the cooker and hovered it over a rusty pannikin.
‘You know I do, Miss Elsa. Four spoons.’
She waited imperiously. Dared him with a glare.
‘If ye please,’ he added, and shuffled in the seat.
Four spoons, indeed. Such extravagance, you great gormless hog. Go wallow in a swamp somewhere. Elsa took a spoon from the hutch drawer and cranked open the sugar tin. She fiddled, and with her back turned, palmed the little bottle in her pocket, flicked the tiny cork from its neck and dropped tincture generously into the cup. Belatedly, she wondered if it was too much. Too late. A scent of cinnamon and cloves wafted up. She capped the bottle and dropped it back in her pocket. Rosie saw, and chewed down on her lip.
Elsa spooned sugar into a cup. Why does boiling water take so long? She jiggled the kitchen utensils. She reached for the ancient teapot on the mantel, lumped a handful of tea leaves into it from the little box on the same shelf, and set it on the stovetop. Rosie snatched up the switch broom and swept madly along the hearth.