Elsa Goody, Bushranger

by Darry Fraser

  Rain roared down overhead. Now her fury had evaporated, Elsa was chilled to the bone, standing in drenched clothes. Her one boot was heavy and squelchy with water, and the bandage on her sore foot was soaked. Her toes felt numb, on both feet.

  ‘It’s a tin,’ she said hoarsely. ‘A tin with at least thirty sovereigns in it.’ She lifted a hand to wipe over her lips. Her fingers were biting cold. She licked the droplets off them, her mouth was so dry. Water still dripped from her hat and she snatched it off, letting it dangle by its tie around her neck.

  ‘Thirty—’ He stared at her for some moments then looked at a leak starting in her ceiling. ‘I’ll find a bowl and a bucket, clean water for drinking.’ He handed her a key. ‘Let only me back in.’ He didn’t wait for her to answer, just turned on his heels and pounded back towards the bar.

  The barman filled a pitcher of water and told Zeke where to get towels. He agreed to find a dry dress for Zeke’s lady friend. Then he sent a boy out into the weather to stable Zeke’s cart and horses.

  ‘Not one of the tart’s dresses, either, Bernie,’ Zeke told him, flicking a glance at a couple of women entertaining the patrons. Though any sort of dress would suit Elsa. She was the most effortlessly beautiful woman he had ever seen. Strong, and natural in her disposition—he’d told her that—no airs and graces, just a normal down-to-earth woman. Elsa out of any sort of dress would suit him, too.

  What?

  The barman laughed. ‘Might be they’re the only ones that are dry today, mate. Hope the river don’t flood, else there’ll be nothin’ dry for months. ’Ninety-three was bad enough, you remember?’ he said and looked at the old water stains running on the wall beside him. ‘Heaviest drop in three years, today.’ He nodded towards one of the women. ‘I’ll have Emily bring something along directly. She’ll be finished soon, and I don’t reckon she’ll be in a hurry to leave in this lot.’ He put a shot of rum in a cup and slid it across the bar.

  Zeke grabbed it and took a swallow. When he remembered how Elsa had looked after he accused her of lying, he had cause to shift uncomfortably on his seat. Those big green eyes and her spitfire temper … She’d been dripping wet, angry, and glaring at him.

  Get your mind out of your pants, man.

  Right, right. Thirty sovereigns in a tin. No wonder the bastard had killed for it and had tried to kill Jude. He was sure Jude didn’t have it and never had. Who’d been with the boy, other than Nebo, before he found him and brought him in—

  Nebo. Zeke thought hard, shook his head. Nebo wouldn’t still be in the district if he’d found thirty sovereigns. He’d have gone, quick as snatching up a rum. Zeke went over the last conversation he’d had with him—there was no indication that his brother had had a stroke of that sort of luck.

  Zeke stared into the pannikin. All there’d been with the boy was the locket and those few buttons.

  No bloody thirty sovereigns in sight.

  Thirty-Nine

  Jaysus, glad I made it.

  Pete Southie shook off his oilskin and stepped into the main bar at the Glenelg Inn in Casterton. Others had crowded inside before him and the air was thick, all tobacco smoke. Blokes were yellin’ across the crowded room, ale was spilled, rum slopped. Busy place. The bar counter was packed with men except for a corner on the other side. Only one fella sat there, nursing a glass filled to the brim. He didn’t look happy.

  It was the only place to stand and Pete angled his way over. He kept his coat close to him and his hand in his pants pocket, feeling the warm coins there. He got to the vacant space, called over the din to the barman for a rum. He slapped a coin into the man’s hand and took his change.

  The fella alongside was surly. Barely even looked up. No matter. He didn’t need conversation. Not yet, anyway. Soon as he’d had a drink, found something to eat, he’d check around for those Goody girls, see if they’d headed here like the rabbito-kid said. Well, he would if the bloody rain let up. Was only luck me horse didn’t slide off the road and do a fetlock comin’ into town. As it was, he had to tie up his poor nag out the back with others. There was little shelter around.

  If Miz Putney was here, he’d tell her about Frank. Come right out and say it, he reckoned. Miz Putney, Frank is dead. He’d tried out other ways, kept himself occupied with it gettin’ over here, but he kept coming back to simple, and to the point. Frank is dead.

  Old town back home weren’t the same with the bakery shut. Miz Putney would take it over, for sure, when she got back, and have young Elsa help her out. Pete could run the farm, get a few trees in, get a vegetable garden going. The ladies like a good garden. Get a crop in maybe, this year if he was lucky. If he was smart. Some sorta crop, anyhow. He’d figure it out learning from a few of the others. He’d never been a croppie before. Would be better to run sheep. Maybe dairy cows. Yeah. He could see himself doing a fine job. Having a fine time. If he got it right.

  He’d get Miss Elsa on side, he could see she was itchin’ for him, playing that hard-to-get game. She’d see his way of thinking. And he’d have none of her independent-lady thinking. He’d wear the pants. ’Course, that other thing she done was just a mistake—messing up his tea that last day. Poor little lady woulda been all sad, and her mind woulda been turned upside down. Damned near poisoned a man, whatever she give him ’stead of sugar. Can’t have a woman all blithered in the head like that, allowed to vote like she wanted to do. No wonder everyone was agin it. Gov’ment’s gone damn stupid—dunno what it’s doin’ givin’ women the vote. He shook his head.

  He took a long gulp of rum. Looked at the fella next to him and nodded. The man eyed him, nodded back, and took a long swallow of whatever was in his glass. Whisky, maybe. Lucky bastard. No one dirt-poor could get whisky. Must be a rich local.

  Pete still had a bit of money left, could buy another drink for himself. He signalled the barman, then he’d strike up a conversation, see what he could get out of the bloke standing all quiet-like beside him.

  Could be an interestin’ conversation with a rich fella—never talked to a bloke with gold in his teeth before.

  Forty

  Elsa didn’t know how long she’d been asleep. She hadn’t believed it was possible to doze off with the rain still hammering above. But she had, and now the rain had stopped. The leak was still running and the chamber pot under it was catching most of the drips.

  Trying to rouse herself, she heard a knock at her door. She sat up, pushed off the covers and swung her feet to the floor. She’d stripped down to nothing earlier, pulled her hair out of the tie, and used a sheet from the other bed to dry herself off. Then had slipped under the covers of the big bed to warm up.

  Her clothes hung over the other bed’s rail, and small puddles had formed under the hems. Her dress was still heavy with water, her chemise was just a little more than damp. Still nowhere near dry enough to wear. Her ruined stockings were almost dry, but they would hardly help and she wondered what to wear to answer the door.

  ‘Elsa, are you in there?’ Ezekiel’s voice was urgent through the door.

  ‘I’m coming, I just have to— I won’t be a moment.’ Wrapping the thin bedsheet around her and tucking it secure, she draped a light, short blanket over her shoulders. Something smelled a bit mouldy, but it was bearable. Then she tried her weight on her sore foot—it wasn’t too bad—and hobbled to the door, unlocking it and pulling it open.

  It looked like shock on his face as he stared at her.

  ‘What is it?’ she cried, now fully alert. She was perfectly decent, she knew, but her hair was all over the place—would that have shocked him? Surely not.

  ‘Nothing.’ He gathered himself, shook his head. ‘I found this for you.’ He held up a light gown in an amber-coloured fabric. ‘I left the water pitcher here before, and a bucket,’ he said and pointed at the foot of the door. ‘I knocked, but couldn’t get you to answer.’ Still he stared. Then, ‘Here, I’ll bring it all in.’

  She hopped aside and he brushed past, laying the dress on
the bed. He was only in his shirt and his trousers. His feet were bare. Looked like he’d tried to dry off, too. He went back to the door and picked up the pitcher and bowl, set it on the dresser. He emptied water from the chamber pot into the large bucket. ‘Towels are somewhere. I think there’s a bathroom down the hall a bit.’ He looked as if unsure of what to do, then bemused, turned to go.

  ‘When will we leave here?’ she asked, one hand clutching the sheet around her, the other holding the blanket closed over her chest.

  ‘Tomorrow, if the rain stays away. The river hasn’t come up, it might not, but if it does, we’ll be here for a while.’ He headed for the door again, seemed to be in a hurry. ‘The cook will have a couple of bowls of mutton stew and potatoes for us. Will that do?’

  Her mouth watered immediately. ‘Yes. I’ll dress and come down—’

  ‘No. Too many men in the bar, and they’ve spilled into the dining room. It’s crowded.’ He waited, and only once met her gaze.

  ‘Then I’ll eat here,’ she said, and her mouth flattened. She was to be locked in a room while he went off and had a fine old time in the bar.

  Still he hesitated, but then said, ‘I’ll be back directly, with the food.’ And he marched out.

  Sighing, she shut the door and shuffled to the bed, eyeing the dress he’d left for her. Wouldn’t make sense to put it on now that she was going to be in the room all night. She might as well stay as she was, even sleep without unders to give all her clothes a chance to dry more. The smalls that were still in the satchel were damp—the will had been dry, thankfully—and there was nothing worse than that stale water smell on clothes, the smell of things not dried properly but worn, nevertheless. She’d stay in the blanket and sheet, dry and warm.

  She sat on the bed and tried to wrangle her hair. The blanket slipped from her shoulders and the sheet drooped. She adjusted them and tried again with her hair. Drying, it was becoming voluminous, and not for the first time she thought about lopping it off. George had done her a favour all those years ago. She bit her lip. If she cut it off, would Ezekiel ever put his hands in it again? It would grow, of course. Heat crept through her chest as she remembered him plaiting her hair, the gentle tugs on her scalp as he worked, his warm fingers brushing her back. Would there ever be a chance he’d do that again?

  He did it for his child because she had no mother to do it; he did her own hair because Gracie insisted on it.

  Would he do it for a wife?

  Such an intimate act it seemed to Elsa, personal, innocent yet charged with something she couldn’t name, didn’t know how to name.

  Wife? She gave a little huff and tried to quell the glow inside.

  No lopping off my hair.

  ‘Elsa?’ His voice was muffled at the door.

  Startled, she adjusted the sheet and, clutching the blanket, opened the door. A tantalising waft met her. She looked down. ‘Oh, that smells wonderful.’ In his hands were two bowls of steaming, aromatic stew with a dumpling atop each. She couldn’t take them otherwise she’d lose her clothes. She pointed at the dresser with an elbow. ‘But I couldn’t eat all that,’ she said.

  ‘I thought to eat here with you, for company,’ he said, carefully placing the bowls. He took two spoons out of a pocket. ‘That is, I’ll eat here if you’ve no objection. We’ll leave the door open.’ He looked as if he was waiting for her to tell him what to do.

  The mutton stew called her, and her stomach groaned a little in response. ‘That’s a fine arrangement.’

  ‘Good.’ He seemed pleased with that and stood there.

  ‘I must change in order to eat in company.’

  ‘Certainly.’ He seemed pleased with that, too, and with a deep breath headed for the door. ‘I’ll wait across the hall.’ Seemed he couldn’t get out fast enough and he shut the door with a loud click.

  First, she swiped a finger through some gravy and took a quick bite of dumpling. Then Elsa shed the blanket and sheet and pulled on the dress. She didn’t need to fumble with too many buttons—it was a little big in the bodice, soft, well worn, but it would do. It smelled of lavender and was only a bit musty, but she was grateful to whomever had supplied it.

  She dipped her finger in the gravy again. Perhaps she could eat both bowls after all, it smelled so delicious.

  Pulling open the door, she could see directly into his room. He sat on the end of a bed, waiting, his dark head bowed, his hands laced between his knees. ‘Come in,’ she called. As he stood and walked towards her, she thought suddenly that perhaps she’d never seen anything better in all her life. Until he smiled. Then she was absolutely sure she’d never seen anything better. Her belly swooped as she met his glance. What would it feel like to see that face every day for the rest of my life? She cast her eyes down and blinked. How can I be thinking that? Pa just gone, George gone. There’s something the matter with me. Oh, for goodness sake, the world is all topsy-turvy—Pa would want a good man for me. George would laugh out loud. She could almost hear him.

  Standing aside, she left the door ajar as he strode past her to pick up a bowl and spoon. He waited until she’d hobbled to a bed and sat before handing them to her.

  ‘I’m so hungry, I could eat my poor horse, and yours,’ he said. Taking his bowl, he sat on the edge of the bed opposite and spooned a large scoop into his mouth.

  Elsa glanced at the open doorway. Noises from the bar threaded their way along the hall, but it wasn’t too bad. She tucked in, mutton stew bursting onto her tastebuds.

  ‘I want you to know,’ he said between mouthfuls, ‘Nebo would never hurt your sister. Never.’

  She lifted a shoulder. ‘I know nothing about you, or your brothers. Mr Judah was very quiet, for good reason of course, and Mr Nebo is—different. You seem a decent man.’ She felt heat creep again. It was the look on his face when he’d glanced up. ‘You all seem decent men.’

  He chewed, watching her. ‘I know nothing of you or your sister.’ He spooned another mouthful. ‘Or your family. George was in no state to befriend anyone.’

  She ate more before answering. No point being hungry. ‘There were five of us. With George gone, and our older brothers long gone, there’s only my sister and me. Rosie left her husband recently.’ Elsa looked away, then decided it was not for her to be worried what he thought of that. ‘She’s unsure she should be ashamed of herself or happy for herself. She wants to be happy. I was a farmer, as I told you. I intend to go back, but perhaps I mightn’t be able to go back to the farm. Rosie’s husband stands to inherit, or at least administer. We won’t know until the will is formally read, but we do know Frank is not in favour of independent women. And I certainly doubt he’d look kindly on a woman who’s left him, or look kindly on her sister.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Ezekiel waved his spoon. ‘I hear there are many independent women in South Australia, and all women there are about to cast a vote for the first time. Second in the whole world only to New Zealand women. You see? I read, too.’

  She let the remark pass her by. ‘And I’m to be one of them. The ballot is set for the twenty-fifth of April and I will be there in Robe for election day, no matter what.’

  ‘Even if you don’t find that tin of sovereigns?’

  Was he teasing her? Her chin came up. ‘I’ll drive myself to get back there, with or without the tin.’

  ‘Is that right, by yourself? What of your sister?’ He wrangled meat from between his teeth with a fingernail.

  Elsa let a little breath huff out. ‘I think she might not want to—return.’ She sat her bowl on her lap and stared into it.

  ‘Ah. A runaway. So, both lady bushrangers, then.’

  ‘By accident,’ she cried, looking at him. ‘A ridiculous incident. Our cart was ahead, and the coach came roaring up behind us. There was no space on the road to overtake us or time to stop, and then that big fat redhead jumped out on the road on his horse. I’d been thrown onto the brace poles, and my horse had just stomped on my foot.’ She thrust out the bruised foot, and whe
n Ezekiel glanced down, she quickly withdrew it. ‘Boffa, the other man, grabbed me and threw me off the road, luckily, else I could’ve been killed. It was only luck that no one was killed.’

  Everyone knew stories of horrific coach accidents. Men, women, children and horses killed outright, or maimed terribly, only to die agonising deaths by the side of the road.

  ‘Then they bailed up the coach,’ she went on. ‘And that Watson man yelled that he was Nebo Jones, and that Rosie and I were his accomplices. The driver had said he’d remember me, and that redhead idiot thought it was a huge joke and had fun with it. Then they took off.’

  ‘And Nebo was where?’

  ‘Not far away.’ She ate some more then set the bowl aside.

  ‘Hmm.’ That seemed to be Ezekiel’s thinking sound. ‘That’d be Nebo,’ he said, a wry twist on his mouth. He reached over, took her plate and spoon, and set them on the dresser. He poured two cups of water from the pitcher, handed her one and sat down again.

  ‘Why do you three have such unusual names?’ she asked.

  Ezekiel gave a laugh. ‘Not mine or Jude’s so much. But Nebo’s is certainly unusual. My mother, Mary Brown, married my father John Jones. Seems she didn’t want plain names for her boys. They’re all old biblical names. Years ago, I could have told you chapter and verse where to find them. Not now.’ He took a long draught of water. ‘Tell me about your farm.’

  His gaze was so intense, it was as if he’d asked her something else completely. Flustered, she took a moment. ‘Uh, a small holding my father secured before the land grabbers came in. Back then, I think in the ’sixties, land agents and the big pastoralists would make sure to run the price of land up at the auctions. Smaller farmers lost out.’