Elsa Goody, Bushranger

by Darry Fraser

  ‘Sad day,’ Southie said, no doubt warming to this picture of domesticity. ‘You ladies thinkin’ straight, though, getting ready to go to Frank’s bakery an’ bein’ under his wing an’ all.’

  Rosie bristled.

  Elsa, rolling her eyes, turned her attention to the tardy kettle. Then—at last—the damn thing was boiling. She snatched it up, poured hot water into the teapot and immediately filled their cups, careful to keep her eye on which one was meant for Southie.

  ‘Ye’ve not steeped the tea,’ he said, pointing an accusing finger. Terse, Elsa kept pouring. ‘We like it like that.’

  ‘In my house—’

  ‘We’re not in your house,’ she snapped, and glared again. Making a big thing of stirring his sugar, she finally handed it to him. ‘You know we don’t have milk.’

  ‘Perhaps I can fix that for ye one day, Miss Elsa.’

  Miss Elsa wanted to fix him with a clunk on the head. One of Pa’s iron boot lasts, which sat by the edge of the hearth, would do nicely but it was too hard to get to.

  ‘When you consent to—’

  ‘Our father has just died, Mr Southie,’ Rosie announced, flinging the broom to the floor. ‘And we’ve just learned of George’s death, too. There’ll be no talk today of consenting to anything,’ she hissed.

  Southie blew into his tea, slurped, grimaced at it, but said nothing.

  He’s lucky he got it in a cup and not dumped in his lap. What would boiling water have done there? Elsa didn’t think long on that.

  Rosie was busying about doing silly, useless things with maddening efficiency, straightening discarded utensils, brushing down cleaned benches, grabbing the dishrag and flapping it at anything within reach.

  Waiting, and watching her sister at work, long minutes passed. Elsa felt the sweat slip down under her chemise. She rubbed the spot, then when Southie’s gaze followed, she dropped her hand and turned to Rosie. ‘We have all we need of Pa’s things to take to Frank now, Rosie,’ she said quietly yet loud enough for Southie, behind her, to hear. She nodded encouragement to her sister.

  Thankfully, Rosie responded in kind. She seemed to be quite collected now. ‘Yes, you’re right, Elsa. Frank will know what to do. Perhaps we should go soon.’

  ‘Yes, we should.’ Elsa turned back to Southie. ‘What say you, Mr Southie?’ she asked, and as she looked at him, he slumped, glassy-eyed, and fell over backwards off the chair. His tea spilled, and the empty pannikin rolled over his chest.

  Both women froze. Then Elsa grabbed his cup and poured her tea into it. She swished it quickly with a finger then tossed the contents onto the floor, emptying it of any laudanum residue. Its smell was distinctive and she didn’t want it to linger. Rosie flung out her tea then used the dishrag to grab the kettle and pour hot water onto the coals in the stove.

  ‘And on the floor here,’ Elsa directed with a finger pointing over the puddle of tea staining the floorboards. She stared at Southie as steam misted the room. ‘He’s well and truly sleeping, but I don’t want to risk staying any longer than we must.’

  Rosie stared at her, agape. ‘You’re a scheming witch, Elsa,’ she said, a light in her eyes. ‘I never knew you to be so—’

  ‘Practical, inventive,’ Elsa finished for her, and stepped around the fallen man. ‘All this talk of bushrangers has made me quite daring.’

  ‘Elsa, the bushranger,’ Rosie said in wonder, hands on her hips and her gaze on Southie’s prone body.

  ‘Hardly. Bushrangers had guns and such.’ Elsa bent to peer at Southie’s closed eyes.

  ‘A lady bushranger. Choice of weapon, laudanum.’

  ‘Not a time for funny, Rosie. We have to drag him away from the door. Help me. Let’s roll him over there.’

  They’d loaded the cart in a frenzy. Elsa had taken most everything she could. Clothes, of course, and her spare pair of boots, the thin, ragged blankets, the flat mattresses, and any pillows still worth keeping. There wasn’t much when it came down to it, but the kettle, cups and tea provisions had to come with them. A pot. They’d have to cook from time to time, but she didn’t know what. The match book—she ran her hand over the mantel and found it. She grabbed tins of flour and sugar, salt. Preserved fruit that Frank had so kindly ‘donated’ to her father.

  Avoiding Southie’s body (he’d be all right, she’d given him only a little more tincture than prescribed for her father), she looked around the hut. Their father’s old rifle took her eye. It leaned against the ancient sideboard, a piece of furniture her mother had brought with her from Mt Gambier when they’d married. Elsa thought about the gun, knew that it worked because she’d been the one to clean it on Curtis Goody’s say-so. Bushranger she’d be. She grabbed it, rested it against the table and searched the sideboard drawer for bullets already made. Only three, but at least they’d be dry. If she had to, she’d purchase powder and make more ammunition. She stopped a moment. She knew her father’s will was also in there. She rummaged around, found the thick envelope and held it up. ‘This is coming with us, too, Rosie.’

  They dropped the dirty dishrag over Southie’s eyes—just in case—stripped off their pinafores and donned their cleaned dresses. Elsa snatched up the pinafores and a blanket for across their knees, for when the sun would drop and the temperature with it.

  Impatient to get away, Rosie marched for the cart. She pushed their belongings into it, shoving aside the shovel Henry had used, keeping things packed tight as Elsa handed her everything she’d gathered.

  ‘I’ll get newspaper for our nature calls,’ Rosie piped, and ran back inside.

  Elsa slid the rifle in behind the driver’s seat and tucked the bullets and the will into a small wooden toolbox attached nearby to the floor of the cart. In it was a pot of axle grease tightly clamped shut, oily rags, a mallet, leather straps for something-or-other, and a tin of nails. All useful for something.

  Rosie returned, threw a small bundle of newspaper into the cart and beckoned with a wave of her hand. ‘Come along, the day is getting away. How much longer will he be unconscious?’

  ‘Probably for the night.’

  ‘We should untie his horse and let him run home,’ Rosie said.

  Elsa looked at the nondescript brown gelding, still saddled, standing quietly under a tree. ‘Best not,’ she said. ‘But there is one more thing we have to do. I’ll need you to help me.’ She didn’t wait for Rosie to get down but headed around towards the water trough. There on a timber stand was a barrel of water.

  Rosie called, ‘How are we going to manage that?’

  ‘How are we going to manage without it? Come on, two of us can do it. Bring the cart.’ Elsa climbed onto the stand and with the heels of her hands, hammered the lid down tight on the barrel.

  Rosie gee-upped Peppin. Wrangling the barrel between them, they managed to hoist it onto the cart and slid it all the way along until it sat snug against the driver’s bench. Rosie got back into the driver’s seat, huffing and puffing, and muttering, ‘Hurry up, hurry up.’

  Elsa took one last look inside the hut. She stepped over Southie, only a moment fearful he would suddenly wake, and from stout nails on the far wall she grabbed her father’s oilskin coat, as well as her own wide-brimmed and battered hat and the hand-me-down blue woollen jacket she’d worn for years. She’d tie one of her brother’s long leather belts—much too big for her—around her waist to keep the jacket closed because she’d lost buttons and never bothered to replace them.

  Outside she took a moment to stare at the pair of graves, one fresh and one much older. She felt strange. She turned to look at the hut, squat, dilapidated—it appeared as if it was a life that was no longer hers.

  Ezekiel Jones’s letter was safely tucked into her bodice, and knowing she was on her way to meet him, the man who’d buried her brother, there was that odd flutter in her chest again. Mr Jones might be one hundred and ten years of age, and not able to help at all. Why on earth do I feel so unsettled about meeting him?

  Rosie’s call
distracted her. ‘Up you get, Elsa. We’re off to see that letter writer of yours.’ Nothing unsettled about Rosie’s thinking, it seemed.

  Whether he was ancient or not, they were going to meet Mr Jones.

  Six

  Zeke knew it wouldn’t be his kids when he heard horses approaching; it was too early in the day. When he looked up from the post hole, sweat dripped into his eyes, and he blinked away the salty sting of it. Autumn and still the sun was hot as Hades. He lifted off his hat to wipe a forearm over his face, then replaced it.

  A couple of troopers reined in. ‘Mr Jones.’

  ‘Afternoon.’ Zeke leaned on the post-hole digger, glad for an excuse to stop pounding it into unforgiving ground. A fence line had to go in—it was hard work, but it was his work. He didn’t keep many sheep these days and was often hired on other properties to build or repair fences. ‘You’re out of luck if you think Nebo is around.’

  ‘Not after him.’ The constable, a young fella with a wide black moustache that seemed too big and too mature for his face leaned over his saddle. ‘We heard that you buried a man not long back.’

  ‘I did. Dr Smith wrote a death certificate and I notified the registrar. Wrote a letter to his folk. I buried him on my place, being a good distance out of town. All legal.’ Zeke looked at the other trooper, another young one with tufts of downy fair hair unshaven on his chin. ‘What’s this about?’ he asked the older one.

  ‘Heard that he might have had a run-in with your other brother.’

  Jesus. ‘Jude hasn’t been in this area much since his wife and girls died. Comes back for a while and goes again.’

  The fluffy-chinned trooper shifted in his seat, gathered the reins. His horse shied, stamped his feet, and took a moment to settle. The lad said, ‘Heard the fella who was killed mighta been hidin’ out in Jude’s old place.’

  A fiery zing shot through Zeke’s gut as he thought about that. Jude could very well be back in the district, and it wouldn’t be unlike his older brother to slip back and not announce it. The death of Jude’s family had taken a toll on his mind. These days, he was dour, reticent, and lived almost like a hermit. He seemed to roam here and there, always returning, and he didn’t always let his brothers know he was back. But he wasn’t a violent man. Nebo would have said if he’d seen Jude at his place.

  ‘What about Nebo?’ the older trooper asked.

  ‘I’m not his keeper.’ It was a half-hour’s ride from here to Jude’s place; no time at all for Nebo to get to, but Zeke would have to walk it because his horse, Milo, had taken the kids to school. Had Nebo been to their brother’s abandoned place and found the Goody boy, shot him as a trespasser then brought the dying lad to him? ‘You said you weren’t here about him.’

  The constable on the nervous horse gave a short laugh. ‘Not here to get you mad.’

  Zeke ignored that. ‘I don’t know if Jude is back, I haven’t seen him. I haven’t been up to his run for a while,’ he said. ‘What makes you think he had anything to do with the boy’s death?’

  The mustachioed policeman lifted a shoulder. ‘Talk.’

  ‘I don’t listen to talk.’

  ‘Everyone listens to talk,’ the trooper said. ‘We got instructions to let you know that we’ll be watching out for both your brothers.’ He smoothed his thick moustache. ‘Why is it you don’t run on the wrong side like they do?’

  Zeke took up the post-hole digger again. ‘Wasn’t aware they’re on the wrong side. And I don’t care to be.’ He stove the digger into the ground and rotated it hard by its handles.

  ‘Good day to you,’ one of the troopers said.

  Zeke flicked them a look and nodded. They wheeled their horses and rode away. He waited until they were out of sight then threw the auger to the ground. He packed up and headed for his house, too late to go to Jude’s place now. He’d wait until tomorrow, after the kids had left for school. Then he’d walk over to Jude’s property to see what he could find out himself.

  Zeke always met his kids at the mail tree by their gate. That way they’d have more time together before they got home and had to do a few chores. Gifford was on foot as usual, Gracie was walking by his side and Jonty swayed on Milo’s back. Seemed like the little fella was tired. He’d perk up when he had to feed the chooks and collect their eggs.

  But the chooks would have to wait. Zeke swooped up dark-haired, sturdy Gracie and swung her around. He hugged the raw-boned Giff, ruffled his dark coppery hair, stiff with dust, and noticed how the boy fell into him. Lately, some days Giff was still a lad, like today; other days he was trying to be a man and didn’t want affection from his pa.

  Then Zeke lifted Jonty off Milo and carried the sleepy boy down the long track to home. He hugged him close, this third child of his. This boy, his boy whom he loved, who looked so much like his mother. His thick dark mop was in need of a cut.

  Skipping alongside, Gracie never seemed to tire. She loved books, loved music, and when Mr Henshaw at school would lend her something to bring home—under dire threat to return it—she treasured it as if it were gold. She was fierce in her convictions and stood a little apart at the tiny school. Sometimes he feared for her wellbeing, but she seemed content in herself. He wondered why she preferred solitude to making friends.

  She held her father’s hand as they walked the driveway. ‘I do wish I didn’t have to do sums, Pa. I try hard, but I’m much better with me reading and me letters.’

  ‘Sums are good to learn. Try a little harder.’

  ‘Oh, I will. But I know I’ll never be really good at them—’

  ‘Girls aren’t good at sums,’ Giff said, leading Milo.

  ‘Am if I want to be.’

  Giff cut off the argument. ‘Pa, Dougie Carter said Uncle Jude was back. His pa saw him riding down Jones Track.’

  Ah. So someone had seen his brother on the old property’s track. At one stage, the track connected all the properties their father had owned on the one lot, before it was split into three and reallocated.

  Zeke swung Gracie’s hand in the air and squeezed Jonty with his other hand. The boy had slumped over his shoulder, secure and comfortable there. ‘Did he now? I haven’t seen Uncle Jude yet. I might have to visit tomorrow.’

  ‘Can I come?’ Giff, suddenly wide-eyed and hopeful, had always wanted to be around Jude.

  ‘It’s a school day tomorrow.’

  ‘Yeah, but if I take these two then come back—’

  ‘School is just as important for you, too. If Jude is home, he’ll be here a while.’

  Giff frowned but didn’t argue.

  Zeke looked over at him. ‘You know he takes a day or so to settle in. Let’s leave him do that first before we visit.’ By the look of it, Giff found that a reasonable request. ‘And he wouldn’t think too much of you missing school, either.’

  Giff’s shoulders dropped. ‘I just wanna work on the farms, Pa. I could look after Uncle Jude’s when he goes roamin’.’

  Gracie still skipped along. ‘Me too, Pa,’ she chimed. She pushed forward. ‘And before you put your tuppeny’s worth in, Gifford Jones, girls do work on farms.’

  Zeke hid a smile. Hitching Jonty before he slipped any further, he said to Giff, ‘School first. And I’ll decide when you leave school. I’ll be talking to Mr Henshaw about your marks and until they’re good enough—’

  ‘Mine are good now, Pa,’ Gracie said and poked out her tongue at Giff.

  ‘Mine too,’ he answered, poking out his tongue at her.

  ‘Until they’re good enough on my say-so, no one leaves school.’

  At the house, Zeke set Jonty on his feet. The lad grumbled for a bit but there were chores to be done. Today was Giff’s turn to rub Milo down and feed him then feed the dogs, Gracie’s turn to lay the table for dinner, and Jonty was to collect eggs as usual, and fill the bowl for wash-ups. There would be fights, yells, and a push here and there, but all in all his children got along well. He was careful to watch Giff for any of the brooding his two brother
s displayed, but it hadn’t showed itself, and it might never. He would be a happy man if Giff remained free of it, and free of Zeke’s own temper.

  As the children went about their tasks, Gracie hummed a tune, Giff talked to Milo in low and measured tones, and Jonty crept inside with the eggs, storing them on the bench in a basket. Then he filled the water bowl, concentrating on not spilling a drop. Zeke felt his chest expand. He and Maisie had made these kids in those early days with love, in the days before she changed, in the days before his heart had gone to sleep. Filled only with his kids now, there was no room in his heart for anyone else, even if he had noticed someone. It was shut off to another woman, and its sleep was deep.

  He looked at his good kids. He would see to it that they turned out to be good adults. A niggling thought wormed in. How much longer could he do it by himself? The older they got, the more the farm would be required to support them. He’d need a strong lad to help with that. But Giff was still a couple of years off eleven, the age at which Zeke had decided he could finish school. And Gracie. Well, she’d need a woman’s help—Zeke knew he’d be well over his head in that department, and he only had five, maybe six years if he was lucky. He looked at Jonty whose tongue was on his top lip as he tried to prevent the wash-up bowl from slopping water over the rim. Jonty was already missing a mother. Gracie had told her father that Jonty sometimes called other mothers Ma and would hold onto their skirts. Zeke figured he’d grow out of it but it pained him, all the same.

  The older two had a few hazy memories of Maisie, but Jonty was too young when she’d died. An aneurysm of the brain, the doctor had told a bewildered Zeke. It had happened so fast, with no warning. Maisie had died at twenty-eight, four years ago. Mother at the time of a five-year-old, a four-year-old and a two-year-old. It hadn’t been long after their fourth child was born. Perhaps the heartbreak of his death had brought on the deadly aneurysm. He didn’t know.