Elsa Goody, Bushranger

by Darry Fraser

  Zeke peered outside. There was still enough light for Giff to find his way around. Plenty of rabbits to trap, plenty of stew to cook. And the pelts were fetching good prices.

  ‘Trappers are gettin’ up to eight pounds a week if they’re smart,’ Giff had told his father. Zeke knew it to be true. Knew how much that sort of money would mean to his family; he just wanted his eldest son to be a boy for a while longer—he was nine—and not have to work for his living yet.

  He wasn’t winning.

  Zeke watched Giff hand the sack to Gracie who’d finished the washing up. She headed out behind her brother to pick the last of the apples before the birds and the insects got to the lot. Jude had said years ago that he’d build a cold store. Zeke might have to remind him of that.

  He called after Giff. ‘And not out too late. Jude will want a fair day’s work out of you, not a sleepy-head.’

  Giff lifted a hand in acknowledgement. Coming up ten, the boy was young, too young, but other families had their children working on the farms, hoping to survive without paying an adult wages. Times were tough so education had to play second fiddle to family survival for many. At least he had his kids close by, not like some who’d been sent away, or some whose fathers had abandoned them.

  Never. That would never happen. His kids were everything to him. The boy could trap all the rabbits he liked as long as he stayed close to home. He watched, his chest expanding. The dogs, tied up, barked madly as Giff took his determined strides across the paddocks around the base of the hill.

  Fourteen

  Elsa’s backside, no longer numb, hurt with every bounce of the cart. Her bones—her teeth—rattled as Peppin doggedly followed orders and took them off the main road. It had only appeared to be a slight grading through an opening of low scrub but was proving hard work.

  ‘Goodness gracious,’ Rosie yelled, one hand hanging onto the vehicle, the other onto her hat.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Elsa yelled back. ‘Nearly done.’

  ‘We should’ve got off and walked him into the scrub.’

  ‘Done now,’ Elsa replied and sure enough, Peppin’s stride was evening out. ‘Check the water barrel.’

  Rosie craned her neck to see into the back of the cart. ‘Looks like the lid’s held together.’ She turned back again. ‘And I’m glad the cart held together. Are you sure that was the right thing to do?’

  ‘No. But the wheels seem all right, so we just have to be careful from now on.’ She pointed ahead. ‘Do you see those faint wheel tracks there? I think this will be one of the places where others have cut through to the Mt Gambier road.’

  ‘Wish I was as sure as you are,’ Rosie grumbled. ‘How long will it take before we get to the other road?’

  Elsa didn’t know; couldn’t rightly remember if she’d ever known. But thinking back to Mr Conroy’s maps, and his tales of bullocky adventures, she didn’t think there was much in it. ‘I’d say a day’s drive at most.’

  More grumbling from Rosie as she hung on. ‘Looks like there might be rain coming.’

  Elsa believed so too. Rain would make things less than pleasant—if the trip so far could be called pleasant—and not just for their getting wet. She knew this country held water, and drainage was poor. If there was a lot of rain, they risked getting bogged, risked Peppin, so they’d have to be vigilant. She looked skywards briefly. Great rolling clouds breezed overhead. The temperature was still a little too warm, but the threat of rain was there.

  She would have to carefully wrap their father’s will to try and waterproof it. And the letter from Mr Jones. Any moisture could run the ink—even her own perspiration. As soon as she could, she would check the letter she’d tucked in her bodice. Better still, she’d remove it to the satchel. ‘Pass me the satchel, Rosie.’

  While Rosie took the reins after grabbing up the canvas bag, Elsa wrapped the letter from Mr Jones into her smalls. Then she took her father’s will from the toolbox and did the same with it. That done and the satchel once again secured over the back, she said, ‘We’ll push on, try to find a decent place before nightfall.’

  ‘I hope we meet that other road by then. Otherwise, I’d rather go back and stay on the Penola road.’

  Elsa heard the catch in Rosie’s voice. ‘We have water on board, we have a gun and we’re not far from either road. If we stay with these old tracks, we should be all right. And if we haven’t found the other road by first thing tomorrow, we’ll retrace our steps. Don’t be frightened. Nothing will go wrong.’

  ‘I’m not frightened.’

  Elsa knew that was a fib. She glanced at her sister. Sure enough, Rosie looked worried, her face drawn, and her mouth was set in a line. But Elsa was sure this track was one that would lead them to the Mt Gambier road. ‘Tell you what,’ she said. ‘If it gets too hard on Peppin, we’ll get off and walk him. All right?’

  Elsa thought Rosie nodded, but with the cart bobbing on the rough track it was hard to tell. Funny, she thought Rosie had more gumption in her. They were on the road to finding poor George’s resting place, and hopefully their mother’s locket and the tin of gold sovereigns. Rosie was escaping from her loveless marriage to Frank, and that also meant that Elsa would not have to deal with that awful Pete Southie anymore. And—Elsa was on the way to find Mr Jones, the kind letter writer.

  Nothing would go wrong.

  Fifteen

  Lily had finished tidying her cookhouse after baking up a storm of meat pies and fruit pies. Well, not that many—she’d really had to rein herself in. But six mutton and potato pies in just the right amount of gravy, and six apricot and apple pies, all in her famous pastry (that is, famous in her own kitchen) and baked to perfection, stood cooling on a timber bench under an open window.

  Just the thing to tempt a hard-working man.

  Goodness. I hadn’t realised how much I’d been looking forward to Judah Jones returning.

  She stood for a moment and examined that thought as she dusted the flour from her apron. Rubbish, Lily. Stan had been gone a long while now, and lately, thoughts of Jude had often crept into her daily grind when she least expected them. She knew what that meant—she was ready for another man in her life and on the face of it, Jude suited her well. He’d always taken her eye—even though she’d been a good and faithful wife—and she knew him to have been a kind and honourable man.

  Over the last months he’d been away this time, she’d taken it upon herself to hitch up her horse and cart and drive to Jude’s place, taking flowers from her garden. The first time it was to lay them on the graves of Judah’s wife and daughters, which she had done, and found that the graves hadn’t been looked after as lovingly as she’d expected. Well, he had been away travelling somewhere, and clearly his two brothers hadn’t thought to do it.

  She remembered Anne, Jude’s wife, and his daughters Clementine and Bess very well. They had been a much-loved family, and although theirs weren’t the only deaths to diphtheria in the district, it had hit the town particularly hard.

  So Lily had set about weeding and tending to the graves. She’d taken some cuttings from her place and planted some shrubs of wattle around the site. When grown a little, they’d give a homey feel, somewhere to come and reflect in the peace that this place offered. It made her feel better to do it, in any case. She would love that someone might tend her final resting place when the time came.

  Oh, she was sure her children would visit her grave when they got tired of their busy lives in the city. Oliver and Edward and Loretta. All in Melbourne. The boys were studying engineering at Melbourne University, thanks to an inheritance for their education from Stan’s late uncle, and Loretta had a position as governess for some well-to-do folk in South Yarra.

  No one had married yet, but she was hopeful Loretta would accept her beau, young Bertie Drake, a carpenter—oh wait, was his name Drake or Darke? She must check her daughter’s letter; she’d received the latest one several weeks ago. Where was it? (Nary one from the boys since just before Christ
mas though, over three months back.) And that reminded her, she’d already started a reply letter to her daughter. She should finish it off and get it into the post. Loretta would be interested to learn that Mr Judah Jones was back in the district. She might very well have changed her tune about her mother marrying again, especially as she herself hoped to marry. Perhaps her daughter now understood the need for companionship, although she hadn’t been happily effusive when Lily had mentioned Judah in earlier letters. It would be lovely to talk to all of them in person, but visits from her children were rare.

  Hmm. Lily had indeed spent too much time on her own. If her children didn’t need her, she had to get on with life here, in Casterton. She didn’t enjoy Melbourne. Too busy, too impersonal—and the smell! (Her boys had assured her that once they graduated, they would be working on the new sewerage system due to begin operating at Werribee.) She was happy enough in the Western Districts, so wanted to rebuild a life here, and Jude Jones was in her sights.

  The trouble was, her children hadn’t felt she should rebuild her life with another man. Loretta was her youngest and had been quite adamant in the past that her mother remain a widow. In fact, she’d been particularly irritable about it, and Oliver, the eldest, had become very prickly about the subject, too. Edward, her middle child, had simply refused to discuss it. Of course, it was clear all three would have conferred. There was almost no point once again trying to explain that she would not be replacing their father with a new man in her life, but rather wanted to find a companion—

  No point. It only made her unhappy to think her children wished for her to continue to be alone. Even though Lily hadn’t had a mind to heed them, it did unsettle her.

  A blowfly buzzed over her pies. She swished at it and found a tablecloth to cover her baked goods. Would it be the right thing to pack a few pies, cut a bunch of flowers and just, well, arrive at Jude’s place fully intent on going to the gravesite?

  She hesitated. Sighed. She knew she’d do no such thing. Having strong feelings for a man—and one who was mostly absent in mind and body—was one thing, but to go chasing him was entirely another. Well, what to do? She’d done it again. She’d baked and baked and now had so much food she might as well give it away as let it spoil.

  You stupid woman. You should be well over these girlish thoughts. Perhaps Loretta and the boys are right. I’m being foolish.

  Everyone knew Judah Jones was made of granite these days. He barely had a glance for anyone, much less his neighbour’s widow. What would he want with a middle-aged woman who’d been left on her dead husband’s patch of dirt with nary a blade of grass on it?

  But how long would she hope to hold out on that patch of dirt? The little stipend Stan had left was only just enough to keep her going. She had her chickens and sold their eggs. She supplied baked goods to the store when she pestered them to take her excess. She hadn’t had a new dress in a couple of years. She was frugal. She was careful with her watering and her vegetable patch, her fruit trees.

  And she felt like a lonely old lady. Something Loretta could not possibly understand. Not yet, anyway.

  Old lady. She rushed out of the kitchen and into the house, down the short hallway to her bedroom and checked her reflection in the small mirror atop her dresser. She pulled a face. Yes, there were fine lines. Yes, there were grey hairs—barely discernible—weaving their way through her fair hair. Yes, she would pluck out that stray chin hair right now but all in all, she was presentable. She looked well. Contained. Dignified. And still with an imp in her eye when she felt like it.

  Her shoulders slumped. What is wrong with me?

  Nothing, she decided a moment later and straightened up. Nothing is wrong with me. I will cut my flowers, take one pie for myself to eat—perhaps two, just in case—go to Mrs Jones’s grave, and the graves of her dear daughters, and do what I’ve always done. God knows, no one else does.

  With that decided, she brushed the flour from her apron again and went back out to the kitchen. She collected her secateurs—sent over from her cousins in England—being only the finest of ladies’ gardening tools, to cut the hardy, prickly and blooming Anaïs Ségalas roses. Such colour, so lucky to have the mauve-crimson variety, rich and vibrant. And such romance in their name—not the woman they were named for unfortunately. This strange lady was all about sticking up for her rights as a woman—even way back in the late ’forties. Then she seemed to have turned her back on the very same thing. Hard to keep up with, Lily, so don’t try. But the blooms would make a memorable bouquet for the dear departed mother and daughters.

  Now there’s a thought—the Anaïs is hardy enough to plant nearby. She would try and propagate some cuttings and use them for a garden around the graves. One should be joyful of the lives of loved ones who’d gone, not only lament their passing.

  Under a clear sky, Lily pulled the last stubborn weed from around Miss Clementine’s resting place and sat back on her heels. She’d worked steadily for over an hour relieving the hard earth of the stalwart and healthy but useless tufts.

  Goodness, it’s warm today. Everyone says that it’s too warm for autumn, but there you are.

  She watered the little cuttings she’d planted before the summer, pleased that most had survived and that they looked as sturdy as expected. Yes, the Anaïs would do well here. If only there’d been a nice big gum tree for shade. There wasn’t one nearby, anyway. The undulating hills and plains were naturally grassy, with only a few patches here and there of tall, wooded areas.

  Looking over her shoulder, she could see all the way to Ezekiel Jones’s property. The brothers had a good number of acres each, but some family issue had got between them and they’d decided to keep things separate. Most people believed that bigger holdings would better survive, and their separate blocks were not that big. She swung her gaze around to where she knew Judah Jones lived—just beyond the low rise, not very far at all—and wondered if he was at home, wondered if she should chance a visit … despite good sense.

  Sighing at the futility of denying herself, she pushed herself off the dirt, gathered up her gardening tools: the secateurs, the little digging spades, a pitchfork and the shovel. She wrapped the smaller items in their burlap bag and tossed them into the cart then grabbed up the rake, a heavy piece that Stan had made for himself, and slid it into the back. Flexing her back, she twisted left to right, stretched. She patted her horse, Cricket, on the rump and climbed onto the cart.

  As Cricket turned his head for home, something caught her eye rounding that low rise. It was a surprise to see a lone man she didn’t recognise on a horse approaching at a walk, not fifty yards from her. Had he been to see Jude? Why was he coming up this way? No reason to visit the gravesite unless he was a relative perhaps, and paying his respects.

  He lifted a hand in a greeting, and a shiver skittered down Lily’s back. All very well that she was trespassing but she had very good reason. Just who is this man? No one she knew. She decided she wasn’t going to stop to find out. She didn’t have a good feeling; that shiver had come from nowhere, and she always trusted that. She gee-upped her horse and drove towards him, having to do so in order to turn the cart left onto the track that would take her home.

  For a wild moment she thought he’d directed his horse across her path, but he pulled back. Her heart raced. She barely nodded as he called, ‘Good day,’ and flashed her a big smile.

  Definitely do not like the look of him. A man who looked as shabby as he did and yet had gold in his teeth could not be trusted. She kept going, her heart in her throat, until she could sneak a look behind to make sure he hadn’t followed her. What on earth she thought she’d do if he did follow was beyond her. She couldn’t even reach the gardening tools to throw at him—

  Lily Hartman. How silly. For goodness sake, the man hasn’t done anything and you have him already a criminal intent on harm.

  Cricket answered the flick of the reins for more speed, and when Lily was certain she wasn’t being followed, and was
equally certain she couldn’t be seen by the man, she steered her horse to the right and onto the barely used back track to Jude Jones’s house.

  She really began to feel silly at the same time she felt gladdened and relieved to see Jude’s makeshift hut appear just around the hill. Smoke from his fire rose idly out of the chimney, and nothing at all looked amiss. What she expected to see she wasn’t sure.

  Goodness me. Any story she would give the reticent Judah Jones would sound as if she’d made it up, that her reasons for suddenly appearing uninvited would be transparent. Yes, Judah. I had to come because I saw a man on the track and he smiled at me and his teeth were glinting gold. Well, she couldn’t very well turn the cart about now; she’d be seen by Jude for sure. She pressed on to his house, would just tell the plain truth of it, and hope she wasn’t roundly told to get along and stop making a fuss over nothing.

  What a fool you can be at times, Lily Hartman.

  Sixteen

  Pulling on the cart’s handbrake, Lily got to the ground and slung Cricket’s reins over Jude’s hitching rail. She stretched then leaned in the back and lifted out her basket of goodies. She stood a moment longer, practising once more her explanation for why she was just barging in on him without an invitation.

  ‘Well, hello, Mr Jones. Jude. Judah. I thought perhaps you could do with—’

  No, no, no.

  ‘Hello, Judah. So glad you’re home. I wonder if you’d like some pies I’ve—’

  No, no, no.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Jones. I was just passing by after someone told me that—’

  Oh, Lily. For goodness sake. Just go up and knock on the door. He must be in, it’s wide open.

  ‘Mr Jones,’ she called as she approached the door. ‘It’s Lily Hartman, your neighbour.’ No answer. Unsure of her next move, her steps faltered. She called again, her hand on her hat as if holding it against a breeze. There was no breeze; it was just something to do as she stood awkwardly in front of his hut. ‘Mr Jones, are you there? It’s just that I was at your family’s gravesite and I saw a man …’ A noise. She listened. A voice, a groan more like it. Oh Lord. She swept forward to the doorway and saw him, blood everywhere, trying to get himself up. ‘Oh, my Lord,’ she cried. ‘Judah.’ Rushing inside, her basket flung away, she dropped to her knees, her hands spread, trying to see where the blood was coming from. Her hem was soaking it up.