by Darry Fraser
‘No, I’m not. Another time, perhaps. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go to sleep and have another glorious night without wondering if someone is going to fumble in my britches. Goodnight, Elsa,’ she said, her tone clipped as she settled on her side, still facing away.
Elsa lay down again. She couldn’t imagine what would make her want to endure what Rosie had just described. She thought of those men in the bar and shook herself away from that. Thought of Henry and the look he’d given her at times, and things tingled deep between her thighs. Then she thought of Rosie doing her duty with Frank, but the picture was so awful, so very intrusive—and distasteful of her to even be thinking of it—that the tingles immediately dissipated and she put it out of her head.
No wonder some women didn’t marry. No wonder there were nuns. Not that she felt called to God at all, but they could certainly escape such male desires because nuns were forbidden to lie with men. But Elsa didn’t like the idea of becoming a nun, either.
But ‘what other means’?
She sighed and yawned widely. Rosie’s even breathing signalled that her sister was asleep, so Elsa turned on her side. Lots of young women she knew hankered to be married. It couldn’t only be the way Rosie described. Surely there was a decent man, someone quite different to Frank.
A kind man …
After a restless hour wondering if life really could be better than this, she spent a dreamless night.
In the morning, Elsa set off at the reins. Peppin had been harnessed by the lad who’d stabled him, and Rosie climbed on board after her.
Rosie leaned over. ‘How do we know which way to go?’ she asked, close to Elsa’s ear. They hadn’t asked for directions to be sure that if anyone did follow, no one would be able to say where they’d headed.
‘Casterton is to the south east, so if we take the main road this way, I’m sure it’ll be right. There’s bound to be a sign, and then we’ll veer off. I remember from Mr Conroy that there were a few tracks the teams used to cut across to the Mt Gambier road when they needed to.’
The sun’s early rays had swathed a golden glow over the road. Elsa was squinting into it, but Peppin, refreshed, trotted confidently.
‘It makes my nerves twitter, Elsa.’
Elsa took a deep breath. ‘Mine, too,’ she said and glanced at her sister. ‘Besides, it’s not a great distance, and if we feel too nervous, we can always return the same way.’
Settling herself, Rosie shook her head. ‘There’s that adventurous spirit again, dear girl. Thought you’d have grown out of it by now.’
Elsa shrugged and clicked the reins again. ‘I always knew there was another world outside my own. But by the time I grew up, our mother was gone, and our older brothers were gone, suddenly there was the farm to look after, and then Pa. George was still dreaming all day long about how he’d go adventuring. And he would go off, here and there, and leave me to it.’ She looked at Rosie with a rueful smile. ‘Then there was only me. And now you, too.’ She let Rosie squeeze her hand and then she shook away morose thoughts. ‘So I’m taking up the adventure. If Frank is to make the farm work, there’ll be nothing in Robe for me.’
Rosie looked at her sharply. ‘What makes you think Frank will make the farm work? He might sell it.’
Elsa made a face. ‘I don’t know what he’ll do, but he is the only man in the family now.’
‘Did Pa say something to you about it?’ Rosie burst.
‘Don’t be upset. Pa wanted me to marry. He didn’t want me administering, and so when he mentioned Frank on that last day, I just assumed he meant that Frank would take over and—’
‘What did he say about Frank?’
Elsa thought hard. Her mind had been woolly on that day—so much had happened. ‘We were talking about how badly you’d miss George.’ She frowned, remembering. ‘Then he said that I was to bring you home, so he could talk to you first. He said “first”. And that Frank was the only man in the family.’ There was something else in the conversation with her father that Elsa couldn’t quite put her finger on. ‘I got the feeling he wanted to tell you something, or have you do something, but he didn’t say.’
Rosie stared off into the distance, shading her eyes once or twice, then ducked her chin to gaze at her hands. She finally said, ‘Let’s find one of those tracks and get off this road.’
‘I thought we’d give it two to three hours, and then try to turn off.’ Elsa looked at her sister. ‘Had Pa spoken to you earlier about something to do with the farm?’
Rosie looked at her and nodded. ‘I had forgotten. Nothing ever seemed likely. George was headstrong but I always thought he was invincible, too. Pa had said a long time ago, after Ned died, that if something happened to George, he would name me administrator for his affairs.’
Elsa’s mouth dropped open then closed again as flies tickled her face. ‘Did he write anything down?’
‘It would be in his will.’
‘I have that.’
Rosie glared at her. ‘I know but it won’t be worth a thing if it is opened,’ she rebuked sharply.
‘It’s sealed,’ Elsa cried. ‘I know a lawyer has to see it.’
Rosie sat up straight. ‘I don’t know if he wrote anything down. Truly, I didn’t take a lot of notice because at the time, it hardly mattered. Even when George went off on his adventures, I never gave it a thought. Why would I? Being married to Frank I would have to hand it all to him, anyhow, even if my name was on a will.’
‘No, you wouldn’t. The law changed years ago. You know that.’
‘And I know Frank,’ Rosie said, a wry twist on her lips.
Ahead, a ragged, scrawny clutch of four children appeared at the side of the road. Three boys and a girl. Dead rabbits were slung over their backs and shoulders, certainly a good meal or two there, and no doubt some coin would be exchanged for the pelts. The dirt-smudged faces stared up solemnly in the early light and one of the taller lads raised a hand holding up a furry body.
‘Tucker for a few pennies, missus.’
Rosie shook her head.
Elsa waved back, well remembering those days of her own past. ‘Thank you, no.’ She clicked the reins again and as they drove by, he called, ‘Hoo-ray, miss.’
Shifting again, the memories rankling, Elsa said, ‘If you thought we were being adventurous by leaving, now we have to make sure we find that tin of George’s to pay for a lawyer. That’ll be our real challenge. There might be more to our future in that tin than we think, if indeed, it’s still to be found.’
‘All those sovereigns,’ Rosie said. ‘What a mess.’
Elsa squared her shoulders. ‘None of that. We are strong women, and we will find our way out of this.’ She raised her chin higher. ‘We are the Goody sisters. Better, we are intrepid Mrs Conroy and her clever daughter, Miss Myrtle.’ Looking over at Rosie she saw a glimmer of a smile.
Twelve
Nebo shot to his feet as Glen Barton galloped in. ‘What is it?’
Glen threw himself off his horse. ‘That Billy Watson, the great fat redheaded git who’s got it in for you. Seems he’s told tales after all. We gotta get out of here, quick. He’s put the finger on you for bashing him and says we’re cattle and sheep duffin’.’ He ran across to Tillie when she appeared out of their tent. ‘I’m packin’ up,’ he called back. ‘Movin’ further in. We can all go there.’
Christ. Nebo threw his pannikin to the ground. Well, he knew it wouldn’t have lasted for long, especially after he’d had a go at Watson. But going further in—and by that Glen meant into swampy country between the Mt Gambier road and the Penola road—they’d be that much further away from the ambush site they’d chosen to bail up the coach.
But we’d also be that much further out of sight. Retrieving the pannikin, he looked up. Clouds had gathered around the sun, and more were on the western horizon. Might mean rain tonight. Shit. He wished he’d have been able to buy that tent he needed.
He laughed to himself. He needed a house
to live in, not a tent.
One more job. Then he’d go on the straight and narrow. Patch things up with Jude—Ezie was another matter—maybe work Jude’s farm for him while he went off roaming the countryside.
Wally was flicking mud from his hands and as he pushed hair off his face, it smeared on his cheek. ‘Nebo, we’re movin’, as well.’
Nebo watched Sal straighten tiredly, a hand on her back and her belly protruding as she listened. ‘I don’t know how long we got till the troopers ride in,’ he said. ‘You’re right. Best to pack up now, and quick.’
Wally hesitated, glanced at Sal who nodded. ‘I gotta go somewhere safe. Sal hasn’t got long to go, she reckons a month. I can’t be draggin’ her all over the place.’
Nebo knew one thing for sure—he didn’t want a baby birthin’ right when he needed all the boys for this job. ‘’Course not, ’course not. We need to find a place, bit of higher ground somewhere.’
‘Yeah. Me and Fred found a spot,’ Wally said. ‘Needs work, some drains dug, but it’s a good site. Good water in a couple of places nearby. We’d be hid from the other road, and it’s not far in. Good access.’
‘Closer to the Penola road?’
‘It cuts in between real neat, right in a patch between the two roads. We can still get to the coach easy enough.’
Nebo stared. So the boys had already scouted for another place. What did that mean? Wally didn’t look away, didn’t look defiant, either, just matter-of-fact. No use gettin’ all nervous about it. Wally had done the right thing—was lookin’ after Sal, and the new little one to come.
‘Let’s go, then,’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ Wally said. ‘But Nebo …’
Fred began to pack away a few remaining tools into a large bag. Alice was stuffing bedding into a couple of sacks. Glen and Tillie worked on dismantling their humpy. They’d all been way ahead of him on this. ‘What?’ Nebo said, short, annoyed.
‘After this last one, this last job, I’m heading maybe to Portland. Heard there’s a bit o’ work there.’
‘And Sal?’ Nebo didn’t know what else to say.
‘We’ll be all right.’ Wally turned and walked away. Sal turned with him, picked up the last of her still-damp bricks and hurled them into the scrub.
Fred had begun strapping his bags to his horse. ‘It’s a good camp, Nebo, where we’re goin’ now. But like Wally, I’m off after this. Me an’ Alice can make a living on good farmin’ land further south. Or maybe if there’s a timber mill somewhere, we can set up business.’
Nebo bowed his head and stood, hands on hips. They’d talked about it. All of them? He looked up at Glen and Tillie. Glen shrugged at him. ‘I’m not botherin’ about a place here anymore. I got family in New South Wales, on land south of Sydney. Nobody knows Tillie there. This last job will maybe buy me a cart and we can head off.’
Nebo looked around. Wally had nearly packed everything they owned. Sal was shrugging on a bag. She’d walk miles like that, even heavy as she was with child. She had to; they couldn’t get her on Wally’s horse, and no one had a cart.
Fred was tying Alice’s tools onto a spread of oiled canvas, then he rolled it up and tied it to his horse. Alice threw him her bag and he strapped it on.
Glen and Tillie were sorting seed into little paper packets. Glen folded them into squares and folded again before tying them off with twine. He shoved them into his saddlebags and said, ‘We reckon you’ll find your way, Nebo, find what it is you want. We gotta get along as best we can, too. So, one last job.’
One last job. Nebo couldn’t even get mad. They were right. One last job.
Thirteen
Zeke stood back from the man who said he was Curtis Goody. He’d brought him from Jude’s place to the boy’s gravesite. The day started out cooler, but now late in the afternoon, heat had built under a thick layer of cloud, and the wind had dropped to almost nothing. Storms ahead, maybe. Hopefully rain.
The man dragged in a deep, pained breath as he knelt to place a hand on the hot earth of the mound over the boy’s body. Sorrow welled in Zeke’s chest; he too remembered the pain of losing a loved one.
Jude had stayed behind at his place. Before Zeke left to walk back with Mr Goody, his brother had called him aside. They’d left the man studying the area inside Jude’s unfinished house where Nebo said he’d found the injured boy.
‘Tell ’im nothin’, Zeke,’ Jude had whispered, hurried and low. ‘He hasn’t told you anything about the boy. And who told him where to come? Yeah, I’m suspicious. Tell ’im nothin’.’
Now, even though he was in the shade of the huge gum tree, sweat trickled down Zeke’s back. The older man got to his feet. Funny, he’d forgotten to take his hat off as he’d said a prayer. Or that’s what Zeke presumed he’d done—he’d heard him murmuring while he was on his knee.
‘Mind if I camp here the night?’ Goody asked, his frown dark over an unsmiling face.
‘Don’t mind. But might be weather comin’ in.’ Zeke pointed to the sky.
‘Been in worse.’ Goody turned back and stared at the grave again. ‘Boy didn’t leave any possessions behind?’
‘Had none when he came to me,’ Zeke answered. He kept his head down, as if in respect.
The man grunted. ‘Tell me again how he came to you?’
‘My brother found him.’
Jude had been tight-lipped when the man had begun asking his questions, and Zeke had followed suit. He’d never been abrupt like his older brother, but he took Jude’s lead this time and didn’t offer too much. As if by a silent agreement, neither Zeke nor Jude brought their middle brother into it.
‘He couldn’t look after him there. You’ve seen how he lives.’
‘And the boy died where?’
The boy, not my son. ‘At my house.’
The man glared then grunted again. Changed his stance a little. ‘I thank ye.’
Maybe a man in pain, Zeke thought. ‘You’re welcome to a meal here with us. I’ve got hungry kids comin’ back from school, but we could stretch a rabbit stew to one more mouth.’
The glare came again, and then a shake of his head. ‘Grateful, but no. How did he get here? Cart? On a horse? Walkin’?’
‘On a horse. He couldn’t walk.’ It was Nebo’s horse, but Zeke wouldn’t offer that.
‘A horse? Could he have gone somewhere else before your brother found him?’
Jude’s right; this is strange. ‘Doubt it. Reckon whoever shot him left him for dead. Or thought he was already dead. I sent you a letter, first he died.’
The glare darkened. ‘A letter?’
‘Sent to your farm. You didn’t get it?’
A short shake of the man’s head again. ‘I—uh, followed soon after the boy left home, wanted to track him down, bring him back before he got into too much trouble. Missed the letter.’
‘Well, his sisters would have it now,’ Zeke said. ‘Sad for them. No pa there to help them with the news.’
The man thought a moment. ‘Aye, the womenfolk,’ he said, as if just remembering he had daughters. ‘I should get back to them,’ the man said and stared off into the distance. Then he looked at Zeke. ‘He—uh, talk a bit, did he, before he died?’
‘Not really talk. Whispers about this and that, about his mother, that he had two sisters. How he was the last boy, his brothers gone too.’ Young George had called out more than once about a sister on the farm: Ellie—Alice? He hadn’t been too coherent by then.
The man nodded. ‘I’ll stay up here a while, if you don’t mind. Won’t be disturbing you?’
Zeke hesitated but said, ‘Stay as long as you like.’
The man nodded, looked away again, as if in thought, but he said nothing more.
Zeke’s kids would be just about at the mail-tree now. He needed to see them, hug them tight. He strode off, not sure if the man had watched him or not.
Giff pushed his plate away. ‘When we gonna see Uncle Jude?’
His three kids stared at
him. Jonty had his fork laden with potato and gravy halfway to his open mouth. Gracie set her knife and fork on her plate.
Zeke took another couple of mouthfuls, chewed and swallowed. Nearly time for another batch of stew the way these kids were eating. There’d have to be an extra loaf of bread a day, too. ‘Tomorrow’s not a school day, so how about we do our chores early and get over there?’
Satisfied with that, it seemed, Jonty angled his fork into his mouth and chewed.
‘Good,’ Giff said. He stood up and took his plate to the pot on the stove. Scraping out his last ladleful, he turned and looked at Zeke, offering the spoon. ‘Pa?’
Zeke shook his head. He could easily have eaten another plateful, but Giff needed it more than he did. Jonty was a slow eater, but he’d soon finish his. Gracie never asked for seconds.
Giff helped himself to the remaining mashed spud and the last drop of gravy. Back at the table, he said, ‘I reckon he could use some help fixin’ up the roof again.’
Zeke agreed. ‘You’d be right. Don’t know that he’ll be expecting us, though.’
‘He will.’ Giff concentrated on the last mouthfuls. ‘He always knows we’ll come as soon as he’s home.’ He dragged the last of his bread through the cold streaks of gravy on his plate.
Thank God for my kids. If there was going to be a way back to his brother Jude, it would be through these kids. They’d never given up on him, as gruff as he’d appeared, as often as he’d pushed them away. They just let him be Jude. Where had they got that from?
‘Can I leave the table, Pa?’ Giff asked, and without waiting for the nod, he stood and the others followed, Jonty’s cutlery clanging. ‘We need to take some food for tomorrow.’
Having stood too, Zeke and the other children took their utensils to the washing-up bowl that sat on a bench under the window. Giff left Gracie at the bowl—it was her turn—and he took to rummaging in the only vermin-proof cupboard they had. He pulled out a sack with a drawstring. ‘Gracie can go to the orchard. I’ll go check the traps after I feed the dogs.’