by Darry Fraser
His thoughts turned to his brother. Jude had been spared the infection, even after tending to his wife Anne and both daughters, Clementine and Bess, until their deaths. In the early days afterwards, Jude said he’d rather have gone, too. Zeke wondered if Jude’s roaming was due to guilt that he hadn’t saved his family, that he’d survived.
Jude had been there for Zeke, only a year later when Maisie died.
Then there was Nebo, not touched by loss, but lost nonetheless.
Next morning when Zeke waved his children off to school, the barking kelpies at his heels, Giff had given a forlorn look as he led Milo down the track. The moment they turned onto the road, Zeke called back the dogs and tied them up under a shady old gum. He filled a water flask, slung a bag over his shoulder and set off for Jude’s place.
Rolling grassland hills and hints of green cheered him. No rain yet, but early dew might have teased new shoots to the surface in the last few days. He’d given up on growing wheat; the market had dropped away. Dairy cows were the word among those who gathered in the town, and maybe cattle for meat; the postmaster had said he’d heard a fair bit of talk about that. Zeke would have to do something soon to bring about a change in his fortunes. And not the same way Nebo was trying to change his fortunes—by robbing others of theirs. He laughed to himself. It wasn’t a great place for a bushranger’s headquarters. Country was so wide open there was nowhere to hide. But he had to give it to Nebo; Zeke had no idea where he kept his band of merry men.
If Zeke found Jude was at the property, he’d speak to him again about a joint venture. Jude had long stated that his heart wasn’t in the land since Anne and the girls had gone, since life had been sucked out of him. Zeke felt that couldn’t last forever but at the same time, he just didn’t have the money to do anything about it and buy his brother out. He needed him to agree to form a partnership. The more he thought about it, the more he liked it. No point planning; first, he had to see what state Jude was in.
He strode on—the house was only a few hundred yards away over a low rise. The hut stood close to an unfinished stone dwelling. It had been an exciting time watching the house form, and Anne could barely contain herself that perhaps, within that year, she, her husband and two girls would live in such a grand, though small, house. It wasn’t to be, and the shell of her dreams had stood unfinished for years. The hut would be patched up and re-patched when absolutely necessary. No sooner would Jude finish mending some part of the hut, he’d up and leave.
Movement caught Zeke’s eye.
‘G’day, Zeke.’
Jude looked the same as ever as he stepped out through the doorless entry of the stone house. His battered hat was pulled low, sleeves were rolled and his waistcoat opened over a seen-better-days loose shirt. His moleskins were well worn; he was a working man of the land, as Zeke was. Zeke just didn’t know where he’d been working, if at all.
‘You’re back, brother,’ Zeke said.
Jude spread his hands out. ‘Here I am.’
At forty-two, Jude was still lean. He had a frown, always, so his features looked dark and brooding—he’d always been a thinker. Zeke reckoned Jude’s trouble now was that he was trying not to think at all. He had dark hair just like his brothers, but with a distinctive wave that swept back from his face and fell behind his ears. Shot with grey these days, it matched the beard stubble glinting with silver. There were even patches of snowy white in the whiskers.
‘Back for long this time?’ Zeke knew not to step forward for an embrace of any sort. Since Anne had died, Jude kept his distance from everything but his horse. Even Giff stood back. Poor Gracie wasn’t aware; he could barely pat her shoulder before retreating from her hug as quickly as he could. Perhaps she reminded him too much of his daughters. Gracie hadn’t seemed to mind. She still hugged him whenever she saw him.
‘Who knows?’ Jude looked around as if seeing the place for the first time. ‘I reckon someone’s been here, maybe camped.’
Zeke dipped into his bag and pulled out the flask of water. He took a long swig. ‘A young fella came by, we think someone found him here, or maybe he was hiding here after he got into trouble. Nebo came around—just checking on the place, he said—and found the boy shot up bad, brought him over home.’
‘Nebo didn’t shoot him?’
‘Don’t reckon he did. So he brings the kid to me, and we got the doc who did what he could, but the kid dies. Took his time, poor bugger. Raved on about his home and family. Just looking for adventure, I think, and came off second best.’ Zeke scanned the area too. ‘You find anything I should know about?’
‘Like what?’ Jude asked.
‘Maybe he left something, more than what Nebo brought me.’
‘Found nothin’ so far but you’re welcome to look.’
‘The troopers might have been by here. Seen them?’
Jude shook his head. ‘No.’
‘They reckon they’re watching this place.’
Jude grunted as he walked past him. ‘I’m ready for another drink of tea. You want one?’
Zeke followed his brother as he headed into the hut. Inside, the place looked like it had done when Anne and the girls still lived here, except that Jude had burned all their clothes and bedding. Two cots sat end to end on one wall, stripped of everything but the rawhide straps to hold the mattresses. On the bigger bed, Jude’s, his swag was still rolled up. He would throw that on the ground outside, or if the weather was bad, take shelter in a rough humpy out the back.
On his way through the hut, Jude grabbed a pannikin from a simple hutch where other kitchen utensils were stored. He left through the back door to where a small cooking fire had burned down to smoking coals. He threw on a handful of leaves, tossed down a few sturdy twigs and flames soon licked beneath the billy. His own pannikin rested on one of the rocks that circled the firepit.
Jude’s horse was tied to a rail under the shade of a eucalypt. The saddle had been slung over a fallen branch.
‘You been here a coupla days?’ Zeke asked.
‘Aye. Your kids good?’ He took a seat on a sawn-off log. ‘Dogs good? Bizzy?’
Zeke did the same. ‘Kids and dogs, they’re all good. Giff grumbles about going to school. Gracie loves it. Jonty’s just Jonty.’
‘Will be grand to see them.’
Interested to hear that, Zeke only nodded. Coming from Jude, who these days would run as fast and as often as he could from home and family, it sounded like a change for the better.
Jude dipped his cup into the billy and indicated to Zeke he should do the same.
‘Matter of fact,’ Zeke said, dunking his pannikin, ‘Giff reckons he’s ready to look after this place while you’re gone.’
Jude nodded. ‘Don’t reckon you’d let him out of school.’
‘Not yet.’
‘And Nebo? He still pretending he’s a bushranger and hiding in the scrub somewhere?’
‘He is. He came by yesterday to bring me the dead boy’s possessions. Nothing of value that I could see, except sentimental. A woman’s locket for one thing.’
‘Sentimental,’ Jude agreed. He pushed his hat back, scrubbed a hand through his hair and re-settled his hat. ‘I was checking things over while I was in the stone house just before,’ he said, staring into his tea. ‘I might start work on it again. Might need a hand, time to time.’
Zeke hadn’t been prepared for that. He nodded as if considering. ‘Good idea.’
‘Been listening to a few things about the place. About what might work now.’ Jude hadn’t looked up. ‘Beef cattle, maybe.’
‘Need good fences for beef cattle.’
‘Need a lot of things. Need to do a lot of things … I haven’t even gone back to my girls’ graves.’ He looked away. ‘Can’t bring myself to just yet. Maybe tomorrow. I should, I know. I’ve let that go a bit. I’ve let the whole place go, I reckon. Time to get on.’
Zeke nodded, liking what he was hearing. He knew not to make a fuss. ‘Nothing that won’t c
ome good when you put your back to it.’ He tugged at his hat, rolled his shoulders. It felt good that maybe his older brother had found his way and come home. For a time, anyway.
Jude held his pannikin with both hands, hunched forward. ‘Been thinking that we might be able to join up, somehow. Depends what you’re doing.’
Keeping the relief out of his voice, Zeke said, ‘Fencing’s been keeping the money coming in, but the blocks are small, money’s tight. I’m not putting in crops again, not buying more sheep. Was thinking dairy.’ He watched for Jude’s reaction.
‘Might work, too.’
The talk moved and shifted, ideas were tossed around. While their voices remained low, controlled, Zeke could have sworn his brother seemed lighter in himself. He sensed Jude must have considered returning for a while and for whatever the reason, he was glad of it.
The sun had climbed higher in the sky. While he wanted to sit and talk, wanted to be close to his brother, he knew he had to get on, get his chores done. They had more things to discuss, but the chores needed doing now, today.
Zeke got to his feet. ‘It’s good that you’re back, Jude. If it was later in the day, I’d say we have a rum.’
‘Time of day never stopped us before.’ His brother dropped his pannikin, stood, his attention focused over Zeke’s shoulder.
Zeke turned. ‘Know him?’
A lone man on a horse was coming up the track. Didn’t seem in a hurry.
Jude shook his head. ‘No, looks like he’s come a long way. Horse is loaded up.’
There was a swag over the saddle behind the rider, and stuffed saddlebags. A rifle. Zeke said, ‘He’s out of the way here. Must want something particular from you.’
The man pulled his horse up at a respectful distance. He tipped his hat with a forefinger. ‘Greetings,’ he called, and dismounted. He wasn’t a tall man, was solid but not portly. He had thick forearms, and big hands that looked used to hard work. He had brown hair that tufted out from under his hat, was unshaven but not bearded. Maybe he was as old as Jude, it was hard to tell.
Zeke’s gaze flicked to the rifle on the other side of the man’s saddle.
Jude nodded. ‘Morning. What can I do for you?’
The man stood with the reins loose in his hands. He nodded at Jude then at Zeke. ‘Name’s Curtis Goody. I believe one of you fellas buried my son.’
Seven
Elsa decided enough was enough for the day. The sun was low, and soon it would be too dark to see where they were going, even if they thought they knew. ‘Rosie, we have to find a place to stop now.’
‘Yes, yes.’
Rosie was squinting to focus on the road ahead, her hands tight on the reins. She’d wept silently for the first hour and there’d seemed to be nothing Elsa could say to help. Now Elsa wondered how much she could see out of her eyes—her own eyes would have been swollen shut by now, had she been crying as much.
‘Then stop,’ Elsa said and reached over to put her hand over Rosie’s. ‘Let’s see if we can pull off the road hereabouts.’
Sighing a long breath, as if she had to be finally convinced, Rosie pulled on the reins and Peppin slowed to a stop. She stood up and looked around. ‘Perhaps a little further where there’s a clearing on the left. Looks as if others have done so before us.’
Taking up the reins again, she directed the horse, and the cart eased off the road. After braking, the sisters alighted, and both went for the cover of bushes.
‘Oh my goodness,’ Rosie said, mildly. ‘It’s not called relieving oneself for nothing.’
Elsa laughed a little. ‘I was too scared to pull off the road earlier in case we were being followed.’
‘Too bad now.’
As they returned to the cart, Elsa said, ‘I don’t presume to know where we are but as long as we stay on this same road, we should find ourselves in Penola in about two more days’ time.’
Rosie looked at Elsa, who was pulling out a blanket and a pillow from under a pile of clothes. ‘And how would you know that?’ she asked.
Elsa handed her the blanket. ‘You remember Mrs Jessup? Her grandfather, old Mr Conroy, would talk about it. I visited him with Pa when we’d go there selling our milk. He had a map he used to carry, printed on skin of some sort. He showed me, and we would pore over it while he told his stories. He was a bullocky who used to take the Chinamen to the goldfields along this road after they got off the ships at Robe.’
‘Yes, yes, I know, but he did that fifty years ago,’ Rosie snipped.
‘It’s still the same road,’ Elsa said evenly. ‘He lives with Mrs Jessup now that he’s got so old. I used to love to sit and listen to him. He said he got very rich by escorting the Chinamen.’
‘Oh, and he looks very rich now,’ Rosie derided, her arms full of the blankets and pillows Elsa had been handing her.
‘He said he remembers one woman walking down the main street jiggling her many sovereigns, showing off that her husband had become so rich.’
‘A nice thought, all those sovereigns. All our sovereigns, if we can find them.’
In the dim light, Elsa looked about. ‘We need a place to unhitch the cart. Peppin must rest properly.’ She lifted a shoulder to ease an ache and heard the crinkle of Mr Jones’s letter in her bodice. If she could trust putting it somewhere else, she would, but for now it was safe. For some reason she liked having it close to her.
‘Well, what have I got the blankets for then, if we’re to work a while longer?’
‘So we don’t have to get back into an unstable cart when it’s not hitched up.’
Rosie almost smiled. ‘My dear little sister, when did you ever get so practical?’
From very early on, Elsa thought but kept it to herself. ‘Come on, while it’s light, let’s set ourselves up. I don’t think we’ll want to build a fire tonight.’ She headed for the edge of the clearing.
‘Why not?’
Looking at her sister, Elsa said, ‘Frank just might come looking.’
Rosie’s face threatened to crumple again.
‘And we should eat those pies before we need to cook anything. They won’t be any good tomorrow,’ Elsa said. Oh no, it looks like Rosie’s going to be in tears again. ‘You’re not changing your mind about leaving, are you?’ she asked as her sister held on to the snivels.
‘Not at all,’ Rosie said sharply, and followed her. ‘It’s just that, suddenly, all this is reality. George has died. Then Pa dying. I’ve left Frank. You’re with me. I’m worried about what I’ve done.’
‘Perhaps it’s regret.’
Rosie hesitated. ‘No. It’s fear.’
They found a big enough space to unhitch the horse from the cart. While Rosie held Peppin, Elsa undid the over girth, removed the breeching straps and pulled the rails from the tugs. It took some effort, but Peppin was patient. Then she pushed the cart back a little way and set the rails down. Puffing, she scrambled for a rock to wedge under one of its front wheels. A short, thick piece of fallen tree branch sufficed for the other wheel. Dusting off, she took Peppin from Rosie and led him to a tree.
‘I’m impressed,’ Rosie stated.
‘We should roll our bedding out over there,’ Elsa said, pointing to the other side of the cart. ‘If it rains, we can get under the cart.’
They settled in, ate a couple of the pies and took a drink from the water barrel. Elsa filled a small pail for the horse and he drank, seemed satisfied and comfortable.
Before the sun set completely, they’d removed their hats and brushed out their hair.
‘I don’t think I should ever take my hair out,’ Elsa said as the mass of her wild mane resisted the brush. It crackled and bounced down her back as she pulled and tugged at it before she became impatient and retied it for bed.
Now that it was dark, a silence descended on the world that to Elsa seemed peaceful after the day they’d had. Stars were bright, there was a half moon and the sky was mostly cloudless. After bunching her pillow to give it a bit of plump, Elsa
lay back on it. Rosie had also plumped her pillow and side by side, they stared into the night sky.
After a moment, Rosie said, ‘You haven’t shed one tear yet.’
‘I know.’
‘You must be sad, though.’
‘Of course I’m sad,’ Elsa said. ‘I don’t know why I haven’t cried. I feel like I have a great lump in my chest where my heart is, but that’s all.’ She rested a hand over where the letter was safe in her clothing and took in a deep breath to stay calm.
As they continued gazing at the sky, Elsa tried to get around a little rock that poked the thin mattress under her backside. It had been a long time since she’d slept on the ground. Her little cot at her father’s hut had been better than this, she thought.
Rosie started to sniff again.
‘It’ll be all right.’ Elsa squeezed her sister’s hand but Rosie didn’t squeeze back. ‘We’ll find Mr Jones, we’ll find the tin and then we’ll be all right.’
‘And then what?’
‘I don’t know,’ Elsa said. She had thought Rosie might have had some plan but clearly not.
‘We can’t go back to Robe,’ her sister said.
There was no Pa to come back to, and no George. Frank would take over the farm. Elsa frowned. She’d have to try and find a lawyer to advise whether Frank would automatically administer the property, if Rosie declared she had left him. And would it mean they no longer had any rights to the farm? Perhaps daughters could inherit. Maybe there was hope, slim as it may be; they couldn’t possibly afford to engage a lawyer right now to find out. Perhaps they could do anything if they found this tin of sovereigns.
She wondered what would happen if they did return to the farm. No good could come, for sure. Rosie was a runaway wife; although Frank wouldn’t realise it until tomorrow, it was true. How could Rosie possibly go back after that—even if she wanted to?
What if they didn’t go back? What if they stayed in Victoria? What if they found Casterton appealing? She felt a heat bloom in her cheeks. Why on earth would she think of that? Her hand went to the letter tucked under her chemise, against her skin. How strange that it seemed to warm.