by Darry Fraser
Oh, there’s a delicious aroma coming from the back of the store. Mrs Carrick must be cooking Mr Carrick’s lunch in their kitchen behind the curtain. Hmm. She did miss baking a good meal, and having it appreciated by a hungry man. The scents of fresh bread and roasted mutton wafted across the store. Lily’s mouth watered, and she thought perhaps she should avail herself of a meat pie from across the road at Casterton’s finest bakery—the only one—for the ride home.
More extravagance, Lily Hartman. Unnecessary.
Aggie Flagstaff was in front of her talking to Mr Carrick. ‘You might have heard, Mr Carrick, that one of those Jones brothers has turned up at his house again.’
That grabbed Lily’s attention. One of those Jones brothers. She knew which brother that would be. She hadn’t heard it herself before now but was glad to know.
‘Would that be Judah Jones?’ Mr Carrick asked, placing packets of tea and sugar into Mrs Flagstaff’s already loaded basket. ‘I’d heard he was back.’
‘Yes, and it will be a good thing if he pulls himself together this time and goes back to working that place of his.’
Mr Carrick glanced behind her and inadvertently caught Lily’s eye. He cleared his throat. ‘Mrs Hartman, I won’t be long.’
It didn’t stop Aggie Flagstaff, who turned around. ‘Hello, Mrs Hartman. You were friendly with Mr Jones’s wife, weren’t you? Poor woman, and her two daughters. Such a tragedy.’ Mrs Flagstaff’s cheeks wobbled at the same time her hair wobbled when she shook her head. ‘But no point in the man wallowing in his sorrows, wasting time any longer. The good Lord gave us lives to live and Mr Jones should be well over his mourning by now.’
Lily only glanced at Mr Carrick who had the good sense to keep his mouth closed. ‘I was good friends with Anne Jones, Mrs Flagstaff,’ she said, her voice low. ‘And a finer woman, and indeed a finer family, I have yet to meet.’ She had the pleasure of seeing Aggie Flagstaff take a moment to digest that. ‘It’s no wonder Mr Jones has taken some time to adjust to his terrible loss. Unless experienced, no one can understand a bereavement such as he has suffered.’
Mr Carrick nodded to Lily. ‘As you, yourself, have experienced, Mrs Hartman.’
‘Oh, Mr Carrick, that’s kind,’ Lily said. ‘Dear Stan had been ill for a long time, as you know, and I’m blessed all three of our children are still alive and healthy. But Mr Jones was not so blessed.’
Mrs Flagstaff appeared flustered. ‘Well, whatever it is, now he’s back, he should gather himself together. Do something about that disgraceful brother of his.’
‘Mr Ezekiel Jones?’ Lily asked innocently.
‘No, no. Not him, though he’s been bad enough in the past. Got a temper on him, he has. It’s the other one with that horrible biblical name.’
‘All the brothers have biblical names. Mr Nebo Jones, then?’
‘Unchristian. I’m sure they’re pagan names.’
‘But they are in the bible, Mrs Flagstaff,’ Mr Carrick said and kept a straight face when she gave him a look.
‘In any case,’ she retorted, her cheeks on the wobble again. ‘He purports to be a bushranger, of all things. Next, he’ll be calling himself and his cronies the Kelly gang. I’m surprised the constables let him carry on as such.’
Mr Carrick spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘They have to catch him at it first.’
‘That Nebo creature clearly thinks it’s all a lark. Mr Judah Jones should take task over the way his brother terrifies good people.’
Lily glanced at Mr Carrick, who’d kept his face deadpan, before she said, ‘They’re grown men. I don’t see that it’s any of Mr Judah’s business to control his brother.’
‘Until his brother bails him up somewhere.’
Mr Carrick’s eyes widened. ‘Have you been bailed up, Mrs Flagstaff?’
‘I most certainly have not,’ she said. ‘There’d be such trouble if I had been, I can tell you that.’
‘Something to look forward to then,’ Mr Carrick said, and smiled his shopkeeper’s smile. ‘That’ll be one pound two, thank you, Mrs Flagstaff.’ Distracted, bemused, the woman dipped into her drawstring purse and handed over two one-pound coins. He pressed change firmly into her hand. ‘Good day to you.’
Mrs Flagstaff turned and spoke to Lily. ‘Well, I only meant—’
‘Yes, good day, Mrs Flagstaff. Mr Carrick, if I could purchase one of those lovely bars of Pears soap?’ Lily thought no more of Aggie Flagstaff as the woman swept by her on her way out.
‘Certainly, Mrs Hartman.’
Lily paid for her soap. With her heavy basket of goods over her arm, she nodded her goodbyes to others lined up behind her and left the shop. She headed for her horse and cart tied to the hitching rail in front of the merchant store across the street.
The bakery was close by, but she wouldn’t need that pie now. It was just as well she had a few extra things in her basket, and in her pantry at home. Perhaps she’d begin baking again. Her neighbour, that very kind man Mr Judah Jones, had returned to the district. He would most probably need a good meal every so often.
Nine
It came as a surprise to Frank when Pete Southie, standing outside the shop’s back door holding his head, said, ‘I’m tellin’ you, Frank, there’s no sign of either of them. Grave’s fresh dug, but no one’s around, and no horse and cart.’
Frank firmly expected Rosie to be back any time now—he’d already closed the shop for the afternoon. One night away from home to tend to family matters was enough and now she should be back to tend to him and his bakery. He undid his apron, hung it on a hook inside and took in the state of the place—abominable. Rosie would have her work cut out, so she’d better show herself soon.
Annoyed, he stepped outside and pulled the door shut. ‘Perhaps they’re visiting someone,’ he said, though he couldn’t think who.
‘Don’t think so. The beds are stripped.’
Frank frowned. ‘Maybe the women thought to make a new start, burning the bed linens or something.’
‘Mate, even the mattresses are gone. Oilskins gone, food, the billy, all gone.’
Folding his arms and now uneasy, Frank eyed Southie. ‘What were you doing out there?’ This bloke—a man Rosie always said had a shady gleam in his eyes—smelled of the day’s sweat, and cow shit. Frank rarely let him inside the shop.
‘Payin’ my respects. What else?’
‘So you went inside the house?’
‘I yelled out, walked around the place. Thought I’d check in there when I, uh, heard nothin’.’
Simple enough explanation from Southie but where was Rosie, and his sister-in-law, Elsa? ‘Well, I can’t do much about it, now. Rosie’s got our Peppin and the cart, so I’ve got no transport. ’Sides, I reckon they’ll be back directly. Hard to hear that you’ve lost your only remaining brother and then you have to bury your father. I expect they’ve gone visiting some lady friends for tea and tears.’ But inside, Frank knew.
Southie rubbed his ear. ‘Well, if you say so, Frank. But if they’re not back tonight, I’m happy to go look for them for you. I’m fair taken with Miss Elsa, as you know.’
Frank wasn’t thinking of Southie’s matrimonial quest. He was trying to think if there’d been anything Rosie had said that he might have missed. All he remembered was that she was going to purchase a coffin. Sometimes the smithy delivered them. ‘The coffin maker. Let’s go see if Mr Benson is still in his shop.’
Outside, Frank tugged at his collar. He shouldn’t have needed to. The autumn air of the late afternoon had cooled. The crisp breeze brought in the whiff of seaweed and salt as gulls squawked overhead.
As they neared the forge, Frank could hear Mr Benson banging the hammer, shaping a tool on the anvil. The smithy looked up, nodded and waved. He dropped the hammer onto a bench nearby. ‘Afternoon to you,’ he yelled.
Frank lifted a hand in greeting. ‘Afternoon. Did you deliver a coffin out to my father-in-law’s place yesterday?’ His chest felt peculiar in the
dense air of the forge.
‘Your missus and her sister took it in the cart. My boy went with them and helped dig the hole.’ Mr Benson’s yell brought Henry out from behind a doorway. ‘There he is.’
‘Hello, Mr Putney.’ Henry ignored Pete Southie.
‘Lad, you buried my father-in-law yesterday?’
Henry glanced from Frank to his father. ‘Miz Putney said it were to be done quick.’
Frank blew air into his cheeks and held it there a moment. ‘I see. Yes, of course.’
Mr Benson yelled, ‘Somethin’ amiss, Mr Putney?’
Frank shook his head. ‘I don’t—’
‘Did they say they were going somewhere, young Benson?’ Pete Southie cut in.
Frank felt his chest grip. The heat was overwhelming, even at this time of day, worse than the heat from the ovens in the bakery. Too hot. He ran a finger along his collar and loosened off the top button.
Henry Benson stared at Southie then scratched his forehead. ‘Don’t recall that. Looked to me as if they were gonna settle in. No mention of returning to town here, otherwise I’da got a lift. I walked back in.’
Frank felt sweat on his scalp. I need to get out of here.
Southie stepped forward, a menace in his tone. ‘How long were you out there for, boy?’
Henry lifted his chin. ‘Long as it took.’
Mr Benson yelled, ‘Here, Mr Southie. My lad was back well by sundown. What’s your issue?’ A frown creased his brow.
‘Pete,’ Frank grabbed Southie by the arm. ‘I have to get out of here.’
Southie shook him off. ‘What did you get up to out there, boy?’
Frank felt a pain shoot across his chest. Too hot in here. Have to get out. All he could think of was that Rosie had left him. It all added up. The overnight stay, the horse and cart gone, bedding and other items gone. She’s run off.
‘I got up to digging a deep hole to put Mr Goody into and then—’
Frank turned, reeled towards the doorway, banging against benches and walls as he stumbled. Once outside, he slumped to the ground and took deep breaths. The pain in his chest had gone, and now cold shudders racked him as the sweat cooled all over his body.
Pete Southie strode out. ‘Frank. What the hell happened?’ He squatted, dropped a hand on Frank’s shoulder.
‘Get me back to the bakery,’ Frank wheezed.
‘Jesus, you’ve gone all white in the face. Is it a heart attack? I’ll get some help—’
‘Not a heart attack. Just get me back to the shop. Had one of these before, it’ll pass. It’ll pass.’
Southie hauled Frank up and dropped a shoulder under his arm. ‘What is it then?’ he grunted, trying to get Frank fully on his feet. ‘Shit, yer a heavy bastard.’
Back at the shop, Frank lurched in the back door and waved Southie away. ‘I’ll be right. It passes, and I have medicine I must take.’
Southie stood in the doorway. ‘Anything else you need, Frank?’
‘I need a horse. I need to get to the Goody hut,’ Frank said, his chest easing. ‘If my wife has gone somewhere, I need to know her father’s will is safe.’
Ten
Nebo poked at the campfire with a long stick. ‘Do y’reckon Billy Watson told the troopers where we were?’ He looked across at Glen Barton who had sat on the ground holding a pannikin of rum.
‘Not if he knows what’s good for him.’ Barton swallowed from the cup. His blond hair, dirty and flattened, looked as if he’d sat a bowl on his head rather than a hat. He picked up a glass bottle, yanked out the stopper and poured another generous shot. ‘Reckon you scared him well enough.’ He held the bottle out to Nebo.
‘Roughed him up a bit, is all. Don’t want any loudmouthed gun-happy fool shooting at anything that walks and bringing it all down on our heads. Don’t want murder on my plate.’
‘Gentlemen bushrangers, that’s us.’
Nebo snorted. ‘That’s us. But it’s a good thing we moved camp. The troopers won’t find anything if they do come looking.’
Barton studied his cup. ‘Zeke gonna ride with us?’
Nebo shook his head as he poured from the bottle. ‘I give up on him. He won’t do us over, but he won’t do a job with us.’ He mulled over what he’d just said. ‘He’s got his kids. Be no good for them if he got caught.’
‘You know they got troopers on some of the coaches now.’
‘And we won’t know which ones until we get there.’ Nebo stared into the rum. ‘Just need one big haul. Then we can all go our separate ways and not have to do it again.’
Barton barked a laugh. ‘You sound like a loser at cards, mate. Just one more round and me luck’ll change.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You got family, Nebo, your brothers. Go work the land with Zeke or Jude. Why live this life? A sheep here and there, a few pound notes for grog money, gettin’ the law all hot and bothered when they’ve got nothin’ else to do.’
‘Could ask the same question of you.’
‘I got no family to worry about.’ Barton glanced over at Tillie who was dunking washing in a tub on the edge of the clearing. ‘And Tillie, well, she don’t have much either, now.’
‘Zeke and Jude, they should put their places together, make a bigger place. Maybe then there’d be work for me.’ Nebo tossed the rum dregs to the dirt. ‘I told them that but they don’t listen.’ He wiped a hand across his mouth. ‘What about Wally and Fred?’
‘They’re in,’ Barton said. ‘These are desperate times. Wally’s not keen for any more after this one. Will ye look at him? He’s right at home bein’ a family man, and he wants somethin’ better than hidin’ from the troopers all his life.’
They both looked across at Wally and Fred who were sitting at their own campfires with their two women. It seemed a homely affair, serene. Humpies with canvas laid over the top made crude huts. Wally, a stripling black-haired lad in his mid-twenties and his girl, Sal, blonde and buxom and big with child, had begun to make mud bricks, which had the others laughing, but short of stealing building supplies there was nothing else with which to construct any shelter. And winter was coming. It was always cold in these parts.
Fred and Alice had two layers of canvas over a sturdy tent stacked with brush. They worked mostly on small pieces of furniture, storage boxes on legs to keep off the damp ground when it rained, a meat safe or two, cots for themselves and for the others.
‘And Fred,’ Barton continued, ‘he has more talent in his hands than for just bein’ a bushie. He could make his mark if he had a chance. Alice is good, too. They’ll be all right. Just one more job.’
Fred, his dark brown hair flopping into his eyes, bent over something Alice had in her hands. She looked up at him, brushing her long fair hair out of the way before she reached up and tucked Fred’s behind his ears.
They all had skills; they could all survive in the bush. But what good was that when because there was no work—only another bloody depression—there was no future? Couldn’t live out a good life scratching around on Crown land, keeping one step ahead of the law just to survive. Nebo turned that thought over. Barton was right: Nebo could—should—work with his brothers. He knew it was pride that got in his way. His own pride.
Jude had once exploded that his youngest brother was a no-hoper, a lazy bastard out for a good time and nothing else. And Zeke had only given Nebo the eye when Nebo had played up to Maisie—who mostly ignored him. He admitted Zeke could’ve clobbered him, beaten the daylights out of him, yet he didn’t. Nebo got him back for not paying him attention; he kept Zeke wondering about just which of them fathered Jonty.
Nasty, that was. He knew it. He wasn’t proud of it, just couldn’t seem to stop himself. He knew it was jealousy, plain and simple.
One last job. That’s all it would take. A good haul, and then everyone goes their own way.
Tillie Scott, a slim woman with glossy pale red locks, came up behind Barton. ‘You’re goin’ to need to set them rabbit traps, darlin’,’ she said and ruffled his
bowl-shaped head of hair.
‘You could do it, lass,’ he said. ‘I got business here.’
‘I could, but I won’t,’ she quipped and slapped his shoulder. ‘I told you, I’m no slave.’ She smiled a bright smile. ‘And if I’m to stay, someone needs to till me some soil for spuds and other vegetables,’ she said, and tapped Barton’s nose before she wandered off.
He watched her go, bemused. ‘I’d send her back if I wasn’t so taken by her,’ he said, and swigged his rum.
‘You poor, poor bugger. Better get yourself a patch of dirt quick, so you can dig in those spuds and get all homey. Don’t knock your luck.’
Barton’s attention was momentarily on Tillie’s retreating figure. ‘Speakin’ of luck,’ he said and took the bottle back from Nebo. ‘I reckon I know where we could jump that coach up from Mt Gambier. What about at the ten-mile out of Casterton? That’s not far from here. Plenty of scrub.’
‘Sounds all right but it’ll be broad daylight by the time it gets there.’
‘Yep, but far enough out of town, and day after tomorrow it’s due. No one will know what hit ’em. No one expects bushrangers anymore. All them hopefully rich ladies with golden garters.’
Nebo grunted. ‘Not harmin’ any ladies. I just want gold coins, notes, a bit of jewellery.’ He tossed back the last of his rum while watching the other two couples.
Barton stood up to head to his own tent, and to his delectable Tillie as he’d put it. Nebo heard low murmurs and companionable laughter. He turned his head to regard his own camp, his meagre possessions. A swag and his saddle lay under a low stretch of canvas held up by short stout poles. Fred had nicked it for him on a visit to Casterton. Nebo’s horse was nearby, tethered with the other horses.
He looked around. A nice patch of dense scrub, it was in off the road a way, and that suited his purposes. A creek was close, the water low but flowing. He’d be all right if this one job went off to plan.