by Darry Fraser
Oh, that’s silly. They had to go back—to come back home. Or at least she did. There was her one fervent wish—to be the first woman at the voting booth in Robe on the twenty-fifth of April this year. That was still many weeks away. She had to be back in South Australia by then, and if not able to be in Robe, then in another town where there would be a polling place. That might be a better plan; she’d avoid Frank that way, and Pete Southie. She tried to remember what other towns in the area had been reported as a place to vote. Nothing came to her. She would investigate how to vote as an absentee; all she needed to find was a post office and be able to prove she was a resident of the colony. Gracious me. Another obstacle.
She was tired. Her throat hurt from the strain of holding back emotion, not that she was doing it on purpose. Perhaps it was just a good sleep she needed—
‘Elsa, I said we can’t go back to Robe.’
‘We’ll think of something.’ She patted Rosie’s hand, and after a while turned on her side to face her. ‘Do you happen to remember if in the newspaper there was another polling booth mentioned, one closer to the border perhaps?’ She waited a few seconds before realising her sister wasn’t thinking but had dropped off to sleep.
Elsa sighed and rolled onto her back again. Stars twinkled. A breeze rustled the leaves. Peppin sneezed. She closed her eyes.
Elsa woke to Rosie coming back from her morning ablution, shovel in hand. It was barely light, but a good time to get going, so she set Rosie to packing up the bedding. ‘Give it all a good shaking,’ she said while she found a tree to step behind and do what she had to do.
‘Yes, madam,’ Rosie replied, throwing the mattresses on board before flapping the blankets hard.
After trying to retie her hair into some order, Elsa walked towards the cart. The night’s sleep had been welcome, but she wasn’t sure yet if she felt refreshed. No point complaining, they might have to sleep rough for a while before their fortunes changed.
Fortunes.
Stretching her back, Elsa limbered a little before starting to hitch up the cart again. She directed Rosie to hold Peppin at the bridle as she tied the straps in place. Checking the over girth again, satisfied the horse and cart were ready, she took up the driver’s seat. Rosie had loaded the blankets and pillows, had handed Elsa her hat and tied on her own, and had dug around in the basket for two of the fruit buns.
‘They’re a bit dry,’ she said, looking at hers and holding one for Elsa. ‘Would be lovely with some tea.’
Elsa took a bun as they pulled back onto the road. ‘Maybe tomorrow we can light a fire.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘If we’re lucky—and we treat Peppin well—we’ll be more than halfway to Penola.’
Rosie shuffled on the seat to get comfortable. ‘And then how far to this Casterton place?’
Elsa flicked the reins and Peppin moved forward into a comfortable trot. ‘That I don’t know but there are bound to be signs, and I’m sure some of the good folk of Penola will be able to direct us.’
Rosie brushed loose hair from her face and tucked it back under her hat. ‘You sound cheerful today,’ she said, as if disdaining.
Elsa looked sideways. ‘Perhaps if I sound it, I’ll begin to feel it. But I think the good things we are doing will help.’
‘What good things? I’m leaving my husband. I’ll never be able to return to Robe for all the gossip that will abound—’
‘That we’re going to find George,’ Elsa cut in quickly. ‘That we’re going to find Ma’s locket, and perhaps the tin. Not to mention that we will be giving our heartfelt thanks to Mr Jones for his kindness.’ She gee-upped Peppin as a flutter slid across her chest. For goodness sake. If she just kept her thoughts on the task ahead, she’d be all right. No need to snap at her sister, though sometimes Rosie could be so thick-headed. And selfish. Now she could feel her gaze. ‘What is it?’
‘I’m looking at you anew, little sister. Sometime in the last few years you’ve grown up.’
‘Inevitable,’ Elsa said, annoyed. The prick of bristles replaced the flutter.
‘I wasn’t condescending. You have taken to our situation with great calm.’
‘What else to do?’ Elsa cried, and the burst surprised her as well as Rosie. She flicked the reins again then reminded herself that Peppin needed to take them a long distance. A little speed for a while wouldn’t hurt. As he picked up, she felt the breeze on her, and the rush of heat inside dissipated. ‘I have to worry about my future, too, and how I’ll manage from now on. If I stay in Robe, what on earth would I do? I’ve done nothing but think of my options.’
Rosie retied her hat and brushed down her skirt. ‘You could marry.’
Elsa scoffed. ‘Marry who? And how quickly do you expect I might be able to manage that?’ Now the bristles shot up her back. ‘Besides, I didn’t think you thought so highly of marriage.’ Her glance at Rosie was rewarding: she spied a bloom of colour on her sister’s face.
After a little time, Rosie said, ‘That Henry Benson has his eye on you. I remember what he said to you. I saw him looking at you and flirting with you.’
‘And what timing,’ Elsa said, and raised her eyebrows. ‘I’d just heard of my brother’s death, and Henry was there helping us dig a hole for my father’s grave. Besides, he’s a boy.’
‘Oh, and don’t for one minute think I didn’t notice how you reacted.’
Elsa felt the bloom on her own face now. ‘I don’t know what it means. I just ignore it.’
‘It means you’re well ready for marriage. And well past the age, too. You’re practically a middle-aged woman.’
Elsa was incensed. ‘At twenty-four?’
‘Ancient. You should’ve been married by now.’ Rosie straightened in her seat, clasping her hands in her lap, as if it gave her more authority on the matter.
‘Rubbish. Other women my age are unmarried.’ Although she couldn’t name too many right now. She shook that off. ‘Besides, if I choose to, I would marry a man, not a boy,’ Elsa insisted.
‘Why not accept Henry Benson? Most of the single men have left the town, gone off looking for work.’
‘Because he’s only a boy.’ Elsa shook her head. ‘And I haven’t thought further than that,’ she said quickly.
‘You have.’
Elsa huffed. ‘All right then. I’ve had a good look around and found nobody worthwhile.’
‘Is that so?’ Rosie wasn’t giving it up. ‘Hmm. True, I suppose. Pete Southie’s not much of a candidate, is he?’
‘It was never him. I don’t want to talk about that awful man.’
‘I’ve heard he’s been on the lookout for a wife and is very determined. Talk was recently that he’d found someone but she’d spurned him—’ Rosie looked at her, incredulous. ‘Oh. Was that you?’ she asked, teasing.
Elsa’s lip curled. ‘I only have to look at him and my skin crawls.’
Rosie sighed. ‘Agreed. Then Henry Benson. You could train him to be a good husband.’
Elsa rounded on her. ‘You’re making fun of me. I don’t want a boy and I don’t want anything like that lecherous Peter Southie. I want a real man. Like our big brothers were men. Like John and Ned. They were kind men.’ Her chin puckered. Why are tears starting to prickle now?
Rosie was quick to squeeze her hand. ‘They were real men, you’re right, and kind. They’ve been gone long years.’
Elsa felt the gulp coming up from her stomach. Felt the hiccup happen as she tried to speak. ‘So, you see, there is a high bar for any man who might come into my life.’ Her face then screwed up and the tears broke.
Rosie seemed at a loss. ‘Tears? Surely not for some unknown man?’
Elsa shook her head, sobbing. ‘No. For all our men, for all our boys. They’re gone and there’ll be no one to replace them. Even George,’ she said. ‘George, the adventurer, the gadabout. He would have made a fine man once he grew up a bit. And now, now—’
‘Oh dear.’ Rosie slipped her hands over her s
ister’s. ‘Give me the reins and get your handkerchief.’ She watched as Elsa complied. ‘You know, our big brother John never liked Frank,’ she said as Elsa cried into her hanky. ‘He always said he was a lazy sod. But did I take any notice? No. At sixteen I was ready for the world. I could take on anything.’ Rosie gave Peppin a light flick. ‘Ned, well, he was a bit younger and not so vocal. He just kept away from Frank.’ She looked at Elsa who nodded as she blotted her eyes. ‘But Pa thought Frank was wonderful. A baker and all that. He—we had a good business when the port was doing well. What business wouldn’t thrive in a place where the only rival in the colony was the port of Adelaide?’
Elsa felt the pressure in her chest ease. A last sob escaped and the hiccups dwindled off. She couldn’t speak yet.
Peppin trotted along at a good pace in Rosie’s hands. ‘Do you know, Elsa, that there were a couple of men vying for my attention even after I married Frank?’
Elsa was surprised by that. ‘How does that happen?’ Her voice was hoarse. ‘Once you’re married, that’s it, isn’t it?’
‘Well, it’s supposed to be. But I wasn’t dead, I was just married. I suppose people take your eye here and there over the years, and it’s up to you to ignore it. When things got bad with Frank—’
‘Bad?’ Elsa looked at Rosie through eyes that felt squishy. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Not physical danger. Frank wasn’t like that. Not like that Mr Greenaway—terrible man, bashing poor Mrs Greenaway and thinking nobody knew it.’
‘Nobody does anything for her,’ Elsa said, sniffing.
‘No one can.’ Rosie squared her shoulders. ‘But it wasn’t that way for us. Bad as in I admitted to myself that I’d made my bed and had to lie in it. I learned early on that I didn’t love Frank. Never would. But what do you do?’ She bit her lip and shrugged.
‘What did you do?’ This was all news to Elsa. She’d never thought for one minute that her big sister had a life that wasn’t happy and successful, and that she might have had thoughts that strayed … Were they only thoughts that strayed? She sucked in a breath.
‘Nothing. What could I have done? Back then I was too young and scared to do anything. I just wondered what things might have been like if I’d taken heed of John’s words. I even felt a little …’ She cast a glance at Elsa. ‘A little jealous of you, that you would grow up and perhaps choose better. I used to listen to you talk about the newspaper articles on the suffragists, or those written by some of their number.’ Rosie gave a laugh. ‘And then I’d see Frank’s disapproving look—’
‘Oh yes. He’d make his mouth go like this.’ Elsa made the face, puffing out her cheeks and pouting.
Rosie blurted a laugh. ‘That’s the one. And then once you’d left the house, I’d get into such trouble about the newspapers. If I was reading them, too, he’d say he was worried I would become—’ She dropped her voice to boom her last few words, ‘Independent in my thinking.’
‘And you have.’
‘Not really. I don’t care to have the vote.’
‘But having a vote means we can change the way things are, change the way the world sees us because we now have a voice.’
‘Oh, Elsa. How long do you think it would take for that sort of change? And would it stop what happens to Mrs Greenaway? We women would still be helpless in the face of a bunched fist coming at us. Change would take too long for what I want. But then, some would say I got what I wanted, at sixteen.’ Rosie gave a short laugh. ‘I just didn’t understand. And I did try to be a good wife. Back then.’
Startled, Elsa asked, ‘Back then? Does that mean—’
‘No. I never strayed. But as soon as I learned Pa had died, especially after hearing about George too, I knew I couldn’t stay with Frank. All our brothers gone, our parents both gone, only you left—and I wasn’t worried about what you thought.’ She took a deep breath, looking embarrassed. ‘The only thing now is knowing that those gold sovereigns are somewhere out there and that they are my chance.’
Elsa swiped the handkerchief over her nose and tucked it away to wash later. Shaken, she said, ‘Was I really not in your—’
‘I meant to say, the sovereigns are our chance, Elsa. If we find them, if we stay together, we will be all right.’
Elsa felt the gulps coming on again. She had always been the little sister and long treated as if her opinions were not worth anything. Elsa knew how capable she herself was, and yet how often she’d been overlooked. And now Rosie had practically spelled it out for her. She had been overlooked and had nearly been once again. That’s why life at the farm with her father had suited her well. She went about her business—learning from her father of course—but had no one telling her how to live. Not until the subject of marriage had come up. Her father had tried but he hadn’t won that one. If she was going to marry someone, it would be her decision … and she’d want a good marriage, not one like Rosie’s.
‘From now on,’ Rosie said, casting a sidelong glance at her, ‘I’ll never do anything I don’t want to do. If we don’t find these sovereigns, I’ll find work somewhere to keep us.’
And there it was again. ‘I’ll find work, too. I’ll keep myself.’
‘Of course,’ Rosie said too fast.
A new determined Rosie seemed to have emerged quickly, but the old Rosie was still there. Elsa would remain wary.
They didn’t speak for a while. Peppin kept up a comfortable pace, and the flies weren’t too annoying. There wasn’t much of a breeze, so the dust flying around was minimal. It would only be about eight or so in the morning, the temperature still cool.
Rosie eventually broke the silence. ‘I wonder when Frank will think to come looking for me.’
‘Will he go without you cooking his lunch?’
‘Yes. But not his dinner.’
Elsa tried to calculate how far they’d travelled and how far ahead of Frank they would be. ‘We’ll drive as far as we can,’ she said. ‘Even a little bit into the night if the moonlight is good. But I’ve still got my eye on Peppin. He’ll be as important to us as food and water.’
The cart racketed along the hard packed earth of the road as it stretched ahead. Hardly a bend or a turn so the sweep of the landscape could barely be seen through the dense scrub. After a little time, Rosie said, ‘I wonder if Southie has woken yet.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Would he come after us?’
Elsa gave a little shiver. ‘I don’t think so. He’ll go straight back to Frank.’
Saying nothing, Rosie nodded. She flicked the reins gently again and Peppin picked up a little speed.
Elsa rubbed her hands together and wiped them on her dress. Keen to change the subject, she said, ‘I don’t know how far we’ve come, but old Kangaroo Inn is about thirty miles from home. If we get there in daylight, I say we push on a bit further.’
‘Wish the inn was still in its heyday. We could’ve taken some refreshment there.’
‘And come across all sorts of travellers and stragglers, and people drunk and rowdy. There was even a murder there, you know, and it’s still unsolved.’ Elsa was trying to remember what she’d heard people mention when they spoke of travelling the Robe to Penola road. ‘Besides, it’d be the first place someone would look, checking to see if we were camped the night. I believe there’s still shelter there.’ She should have listened more carefully but how was she to know she’d need that information?
Rosie raised her eyebrows. ‘I doubt a murderer would still be lurking, although perhaps there’ll be those old-fashioned bushrangers around,’ she said, all wide-eyed.
Not offended, Elsa said, ‘I know you’re making fun of me again, but you were the one scared of bushrangers and wild men. We don’t know who or what we’ll come across. Two lone women—’
‘And a rifle, don’t forget.’
‘Only three bullets.’ Then Elsa looked at her sister. She shrugged and smiled. ‘Formidable, then,’ she said, nudging Rosie.
Rosie nudg
ed back. ‘Indeed.’
Eight
Lily Hartman stood waiting for Mr Carrick to serve the customer in front of her. She’d come three miles from her farm for groceries in Casterton and thought she would treat herself to a fragrant cake of soap before returning home with all her stores.
Though what on earth she was doing, buying as much as she had, was beyond her. She looked down at the basket over her arm. Stan had been gone nearly seven years—why had adjusting to her widowhood proved difficult from time to time? Mostly she only bought for herself but every so often, she’d buy for two, and cook for two. Perhaps wishful thinking. She did miss a man in her life.
Lily was careful not to eat for two, and of course her finances would not stretch to that extravagance and neither should her waistline. When she overcooked, she had to eat the same thing for days before cooking again.
She felt like she’d aged decades since he’d died—and felt silly now, waiting in line for a cake of soap. As if that would make her feel more youthful or restore her scatty memory. She could make some soap if she put her mind to it. She should leave. While trying to decide to stay in the line or go, she put a hand to her hair. Just for something to do, really. She always kept the fine blonde waves—threaded with silvery sparkles she liked to tell herself—neat and tidy in a simple knot at the back of her head. Jiggling her basket, she decided to stay in the store. Besides, it would look odd if she just vacated the line after having waited so long.
They’d say, ‘There goes that poor old woman, can’t make up her mind whether to be here or there.’
She wasn’t that old. Forty-five wasn’t old. She was just a bit worn out, that was all. She smoothed her cheeks. Her skin was still firm, and she was careful to stay out of the sun. So far, her old-fashioned large brimmed hat, hanging on the hook behind the door at home, did the trick to shade her while she tended the vegetable garden.
Waiting patiently in line, she studied her free hand, palm up then palm down. Only a little dirt was ingrained, just from the reins of the cart, she was sure. And there were crepey wrinkles on the back of her hand, but so what? Her fingers were still strong with no sign of arthritis, and her nails were neat, clean and short.