by Darry Fraser
He checked Jude again. He was trying to raise his arm to take a bite of the pie. Zeke took the pie, broke off a piece and angled it into his brother’s mouth. Jude chewed slowly.
Zeke asked, ‘So what happened?’ He sat the remainder of the pie in Jude’s lap.
‘Don’t really know. I told him I knew nothin’ about whatever the lad had with him, that I was still away when my brother found him, and to get the hell off my land.’ Jude stopped to catch his breath.
Jude had just told Curtis Goody that he’d been away when George was found. At the gravesite Zeke had told Goody that his brother had found George. Wouldn’t take a genius to figure out there was a third brother, or that possibly someone was lying. Either way, Zeke would have to find Nebo before this madman did. George had touched them all.
Jude was staring at the little pie in his lap. ‘What was Lily Hartman doing here?’
Zeke glanced at him. ‘She tends your girls’ graves when you go off on your little wanderings.’
Jude let out a deep sigh, closed his eyes. ‘Was she all right when she got to you?’
‘Out of breath. Unhappy. Why?’ Zeke jolted upright. ‘Was she here when—’
‘No, but next thing after I got the knife in me back, he’s headed up the track to where the graves are.’ Jude looked at Zeke. ‘Then I’m waked up by Lily who’s standing over me. If she was at the graves, she mighta seen him.’
So, Mrs Hartman, as well, might be in his sights. Zeke tapped his thigh, thought of Gifford. Come on, lad. Come on. Hurry up. He leaned over and peered at his brother’s side. No fresh blood. But move that swabbing and who knows what’d happen. Sweat broke over his forehead. He took off his hat and sat it on his brother’s head. ‘Wait there.’
Jude gave an amused grunt. ‘Funny.’
Zeke tramped inside, found Jude’s hat on the hook behind the door. He stared out the window in the direction he knew Giff would be coming. Dust was rising from the track. That’d be his boy, for sure. Back outside, he replaced Jude’s hat for his and clamped on his own. ‘You could have picked a shady spot.’
‘Could have. Meant to build that lean-to, but never got ’round to it.’
‘Never did.’ Zeke squatted again. ‘We’ll get it done the next few months. My kids are keen for it.’
‘They’re good kids. Those boys are a chip off your block. And that Gracie, mind of her own, that one.’ Jude sucked in air, winced. ‘Hold ’em close, Zeke. There’s nothin’ more important. Once they’re gone, there’s no gettin’ them back.’
Zeke’s chest expanded and tears sprang. ‘I know it, Jude.’ He pressed a hand to his brother’s shoulder. He swallowed down the pressure in his throat. ‘Nothing comes before my kids.’ Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he aimed a thumb over his own shoulder. ‘And I reckon that’s Giff coming up the track not a mile off. Not long to go now, old mate. Then we’ll clean up here, get you home to mine.’ He stared at his brother whose eyes had closed, and his heart gave a solid thump. ‘Jude?’
Twenty-Two
Pete Southie was kicking dirt in the front of the bakery. I had to oversleep, didn’t I? Dammit. Frank would be spittin’ brimstone—and at havin’ to open the store on his own. Maybe that’s why the doors were still closed. He stared at the women hovering around the bakery door, peering inside.
Without Rosie on hand, Frank would be running behind. That Rosie. She really left poor Frank in a state. He has to do all this work himself, now.
Pete knew not to go in the front way and began to walk down the alleyway between the bakery and the saddlery. Frank had always made him come around the back. But something about the shoppers huddled before the door made him stop and head back that way.
A grim-faced dumpy lady in her brown and patched day dress stepped aside as he approached. ‘We can see his boots,’ she said, alarmed. ‘He’s on the floor.’
Pete marched onto the footpath past the other ladies. Nose to the pane on the door, his breath clouding it a little, he rubbed the glass. As he squinted, he reckoned that he was staring at Frank’s lifeless body.
Mr Benson kept banging a molten horseshoe on the anvil with his hammer. ‘And I’m tellin’ you, Pete Southie,’ he yelled. ‘I ain’t handing over no coffin if I dunno how I’m gonna get paid fer it.’
Pete held up his hands. ‘You know the bakery’s good fer it.’
‘I know the bakery’s good fer it, but not you.’
‘The constable said it’ll just take some time for a magistrate to get to Frank’s affairs—’
‘Ever’body knows his missus has gone. Took orf, they reckon. Not comin’ back. So who’s gonna pay for a coffin?’ He stopped banging the hammer and jutted his chin towards an assortment of coffins standing by the far wall.
‘How much is it?’ Southie asked.
‘Won’t get much change from a fiver.’ The hammer clanged and bounced back off the horseshoe taking shape. Soot and glowing sparks leapt into the stifling air.
Young Henry Benson smirked at him. ‘Has to be a big coffin,’ he said. ‘That’s why it’s a fiver.’
Pete Southie wasn’t real sure about the truth of that, but there was nothing he could do about it. He knew right where he could get five pounds, too. He knew how to get into the bakery. He weren’t no thief, not really, not when folk would be looking out for Frank and the bakery. But he knew there was money in the till—and if it meant Frank would have a decent burial, then he’d go get it. Frank had been good to him, least he could do. He’d nip into the bakery, dark of night, and lift a fiver. Or two if there was two—to pay for anything extra required, of course.
‘You have to measure him up,’ Pete said.
‘I don’t,’ Mr Benson yelled. ‘That’ll fit him.’ He thrust the hammer at the tallest, widest pine box. ‘When will I get paid? Dunno where his missus has gone.’
A man with a long white beard approached. It was the retired solicitor, Mr Milton. ‘Frank Putney’s wife, do ye mean? I know where she’s gone,’ he said and stepped up to the anvil. He looked at Mr Benson. ‘I need you to make me six more of the railway spikes for me shed.’
The smithy nodded, threw down his hammer, picked a pencil out of his pocket and made a note on a piece of raw timber. ‘Will do,’ he yelled.
The man went on. ‘I passed those Goody girls on the road to Penola maybe three or four days back.’ He looked at Pete. ‘Someone will have to tell Mrs Putney she’s a widow now. There’s a will to be read, and all that.’
Pete Southie had opened his mouth to say something to Mr Milton then shut it abruptly. All manner of things rushed through his head. Rosie would be a rich widow. Elsa was unmarried. There was money in the bakery’s till to get Frank buried—and the funeral could happen while he was off looking for the two sisters.
Tonight, he would get into the bakery and get that money for this damned fool smithy. ‘I’ll get you your money, Mr Benson,’ he said, and he couldn’t help his lip curling. He turned to Mr Milton. ‘They were going to Penola?’
‘They were, to relatives there and then on to Naracoorte. Coming back here after that, I thought.’
Pete would get the priest fella, or the vicar or whatever he was called to get the council men to dig a grave in that fancy walled cemetery. Soon as that was done, he’d take off for the farm, then go after the women. No point trying to run the bakery, but he’d be able to look after the farm for Elsa when he brought her back. He’d make himself useful. She’d like that. She’d be grateful.
He wouldn’t mind living on their place. Now, there’s a thought. A man had to have prospects, after all. He’d have to take opportunities where he found them.
Twenty-Three
Elsa couldn’t shake her goosebumps—the person’s pain was palpable in that wail of theirs.
Nebo Jones leaned down from his horse towards her sister. ‘I’m going to check what’s going on. Wait here.’ He wheeled and followed Fred at a gallop.
Rosie clasped her hands. ‘What do you make of t
hose cries? They sound like—I don’t like the sound of them.’
The yells were incessant, crowding Elsa’s thoughts. ‘We can’t be far from the camp if we can hear that. I’m sure I could walk—’
‘No,’ Rosie cried. ‘What if those terrible bushrangers have found where these people live and—’
‘Oh, stop it.’ Elsa shimmied herself down to the end of the cart and worked the latch free on one side. She shuffled over to the other side and edged down, trying not to put any weight on her sore foot. ‘If you find me a stout stick I can use it to hobble a little.’
Tut-tutting, Rosie climbed down from the driver’s seat and scouted the area for something suitable. Elsa tested her foot but the throbbing was beginning to make her dizzy. That would clear, she told herself, and took a couple of deep breaths, steadying herself on the cart.
The wails were coming every few minutes.
Rosie thrust a sturdy dry limb at her and Elsa grabbed it, testing again. Better. If only she could keep her feet on even ground, she might be able to limp along. She took a couple of tentative steps.
‘Where are you going?’ Rosie shrilled.
The distressed cries rose in the air around them. ‘I’m heading towards that poor person, wherever they are,’ Elsa said.
‘Nebo told us to stay here.’
‘Nebo did, did he?’
‘What about Peppin? We can’t leave him,’ Rosie said, her voice rising even higher.
‘Peppin will be fine. We’ll come back for him. He won’t go anywhere if you sling the reins over that tree branch. Then come help me.’ Elsa began to shuffle away.
Peppin secured, Rosie ran to Elsa and slipped under her arm. Steadily, they made their way over the dry, sand-like soil, avoiding dips and mounds to keep Elsa on her feet.
Rosie froze as a man on a horse came galloping towards them. It was Nebo Jones, trailing two riderless horses behind him. ‘We have to get you into the camp quick. I’ll help you up,’ he said to Elsa, and slid to the ground. ‘Bein’ ladies you know all about birthin’ babies.’
At the camp, Elsa waited until Rosie, with Nebo Jones, helped her dismount. She took the stick Rosie had brought with her and adjusted her stance until she could move with some confidence. Waving Nebo away, she limped and hopped until she came to a swathe of canvas thrown over some tree branches. It created a tent of sorts that sheltered the woman crying on the other side from view. A man paced at the side of the tent, shaking his hands as if to bring back circulation.
At the sound of a wild yell, the man stared at Elsa. ‘That’s my missus. That’s Sal. Baby’s comin’ early.’ The wails reduced to whimpers until another contraction grasped the woman.
Elsa bit her lip. She’d told Nebo Jones before they left the cart that she only knew about cows and calves, not about human babies. He’d said, ‘That’s good enough.’ Now she glanced back at Rosie who lifted her shoulders, her face pinched. Her sister would know even less. Her gaze shifted to another woman who hovered a distance away, whose strawberry-blonde hair was twisted high on her head.
‘I’m Tillie. I dunno much either. Never had my own yet. Poor Sal’s been screaming for a long time now, she wouldn’t settle, so Alice went in for the doctor, or the midwife. I sat with Sal a bit, but I couldn’t do nothin’.’
Dear God. Elsa looked at Nebo Jones, standing well back from where she was. Fred and Glen were standing with him. ‘How far away is a doctor?’ she called.
‘Hour there, hour back,’ Nebo said.
‘A midwife?’
‘Same. If she’s sober.’
‘Can you do somethin’?’ the man by the tent asked Elsa. His big hands clenched and unclenched by his side. Then he looked at Rosie who shook her head. ‘Yer women, ain’t cha?’ he burst, anger flaring from him. ‘Ain’t cha s’posed to know what to do?’
Tillie shrank away. Rosie sucked in a sharp breath.
Elsa hobbled a little closer to the tent. The roar through the last contraction had faded to puffs and groans. ‘Get me something to sit on,’ she said to him, no longer hesitant. ‘And something I can make a lather with.’
The man bolted for a pile of pots and boxes and yanked up a billy can. He found a water bowl.
‘What are you going to do?’ Rosie shrilled at her.
‘We are going to go behind that canvas and hold her hand. Then I might have to pull that baby out.’
Colour drained from Rosie’s face. ‘I can’t. You can’t.’
‘If the baby can’t come out on its own, it’ll have to have help.’
Rosie grabbed Elsa by the arm. ‘You don’t know anything about this,’ she hissed.
‘No, I don’t,’ Elsa snapped back. ‘But look at those useless clods,’ she said and flicked a hand towards the others. ‘No one else does, either.’
Rosie didn’t turn, she kept staring at Elsa, a hand at her throat.
And when they both heard another wail beginning, the man rushed back and thrust a crude stool Elsa’s way. ‘Put it in there by her feet,’ she said, and pointed at the canvas.
‘Not goin’ inside. That’s women’s business.’ He stood like a dumb beast, the stool thrust out.
Elsa glared. ‘Did you put that baby in there?’ she demanded, hopping on one foot and pointing again at the canvas enclosure.
‘Elsa,’ Rosie breathed, the shock clear in her voice.
Tight-lipped, the man gave a curt nod and Elsa returned his scowl. ‘Then you can damned well witness the result of that and do the least bit more and help her. Put that seat in there for me to sit on,’ she ordered, ‘so that I can try and get your baby out.’
He glanced at the other men, his face flaming, his mouth still closed in a grim line. Then he ducked behind the canvas, stool in tow.
Elsa heard a female voice pant, ‘Wally—I told yer, this isn’t good. I know—this isn’t good.’
A noise emitted from him before he swung back out from behind the tent. ‘I’ll get that lather,’ he said to Elsa, his face no longer red, but white and sweaty.
‘Help me get in there, Rosie. Then hurry up that fool with the soapy water. I know he’s frightened, but he’s not useless.’
‘I’m frightened, much less him,’ Rosie said, twisting her hands. ‘You’re still so plain-spoken.’
‘Plain-spoken gets the job done and you will not be frightened. We’ll be helping this poor girl, and her babe.’ She looked around. Everyone else appeared to have abandoned Sal.
Rosie smiled a little. It seemed to light her face. ‘A baby.’
Sal let out another yell; Rosie dropped the smile, lifted the canvas and stepped aside for Elsa. ‘In you go, then.’
Taking a deep breath and hopping past her sister, Elsa saw Sal, exhausted, was on her hands and knees. Dark red streaks marked the inside of her thighs, and her dress bunched at her waist. Blood pooled in the earth underneath her as if her body had torn as the baby tried to come out. The woman turned her head, stared up bleakly, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her face was crumpled, sweat bubbled on her brow and her cheeks were ruddy.
Rosie stepped in beside Elsa, still holding up the tarp. ‘Oh.’
Elsa angrily shooed the flies that buzzed close by. ‘Rosie, get some drinking water, too.’
Rosie drew a ragged breath, her eyes on the labouring woman a moment then she dropped the canvas and disappeared. Elsa eased down to the stool. ‘I’m Elsa, Sal. I’ll help all I can.’
Sal, her dark blonde hair slipping from a tie made of twine, stared back. ‘Pleased to meetcha, just get it out,’ she said, sobbing with the effort. ‘I think it’s dead.’
Elsa looked between the woman’s legs. She could see a small crown.
Rosie called out. ‘I have the soap and water.’
Another wail started, but stopped as Sal strained, her neck corded in the effort to push as the contraction bore down.
‘Quick, Rosie,’ Elsa cried. She slipped off the little seat and onto her knees, her sore foot paining sharply as it bent und
er her.
Rosie burst in, shoving the bowl of water, and a pannikin, at Elsa. She dared a look at Sal. ‘Oh God.’
‘Get the cup of water to her.’ Elsa sat awkwardly on one knee so her broken foot wasn’t in as much agony. ‘Support her under the arms at her shoulders.’
Rosie bent and helped Sal take a few slurps then shuffled behind her.
Plunging her hands in the bowl of water, Elsa scrubbed furiously with a square of hard soap to make a lather. She shuffled forward to be right at Sal’s thighs, and at the next push, she eased her fingers in alongside the crowning head. The head kept coming and she felt deeper for the little shoulders, wrapping her struggling fingers around them.
Amid Sal’s next agonised yell the contraction clamped and the baby pushed out into Elsa’s hands. Sal collapsed into Rosie’s arms and they sank sideways to the ground.
Elsa glanced at her sister. Rosie’s gaze was on her, hopeful, expectant.
There was nothing. No yells. No crying. Only silence.
Silence.
Holding the perfectly formed baby in her lap, Elsa knew that the tiny infant girl was long asleep, and peaceful. Her little face was lifeless.
Twenty-Four
Elsa watched as Fred walked Peppin and the cart through the scrub to the camp and felt some relief. She was glad to see her horse and to know their possessions were still intact. Fred took the horse to a tree and tied off his reins. Glen Barton helped to unharness him.
There was quiet in the camp, a hush borne out of misery.
Away from the others, Elsa was sitting on a rough bench. Rosie was at her feet, carefully wrapping a bandage around Elsa’s bruised and battered left foot, the clear mark of a curved hoof on it. Rosie’s face was still blotchy and red, her eyes swollen and squishy-looking after an hour of gulping great silent sobs, out of sight of the others. She sniffed and said in a ragged whisper, ‘You’re lucky Peppin didn’t crush your whole foot. Perhaps it’s as you say, only one bone broken—all your toes move bar one.’ She grabbed up Elsa’s torn stocking and refitted it carefully. ‘It’s as modest as I can make it, Elsa,’ she said and stood up. ‘You should keep it out of sight, though.’