by Darry Fraser
Elsa understood. So far, her own life felt as if it had already fallen apart. Everything had been so ordered before they received Ezekiel’s letter about George, before Pa died, before they’d left to seek out their dead brother’s belongings. How was she ever going to be able to go to Ezekiel Jones now? It was beyond her.
‘I’ll keep the door slammed shut on the damned bakery,’ Rosie had burst earlier.
Elsa thought about that. ‘But perhaps if you re-open it instead, you’d have an income.’ She hoped it might allow her to return to Casterton but as another tirade erupted then it didn’t seem likely.
Rosie needed her, she’d said, with or without the bakery. She made it plain and even if she hadn’t said so, it was clear Rosie would not fare well on her own. Her throat tight again, Elsa tried to push thoughts of Ezekiel away, just as she’d done time and again, unsuccessfully, since leaving him.
‘First thing I’m going to do,’ Rosie said suddenly, ‘is go and see Mr Milton about Pa’s will.’ But she hadn’t spoken of Frank at all.
Elsa had to ask. ‘Did Frank make a will?’
‘Would I know if he had?’ Rosie snapped.
‘You were his wife. He should have said.’
‘Well, hopefully Mr Milton will have a copy of it if he did.’
Salt was on the breeze again. ‘Can you smell the sea, Rosie?’
Her sister squinted into the afternoon light and twitched her nose. ‘I think I do.’
‘Not far now then.’
‘I want to go to the farm,’ Rosie said, staring ahead.
Elsa inclined her head. ‘All right. We have enough food for tonight if we’re frugal.’ Tillie had done well on the small budget Rosie had given her.
‘Then we’ll go to the town tomorrow morning, although I can barely bring myself to face it.’ Rosie looked away, her chin puckering, her mouth tightly closed.
‘It might not be as bad as you think.’ Elsa bumped her shoulder but got no response.
Peppin knew where he was. He picked up speed, his ears flat, and threw his head back and forth. Elsa let him speed up. She, too, was keen to get off this road.
They’d arrived at the hut to see the place almost devoid of any possessions—someone had been along and helped themselves to what little there was. Dismayed, feeling the weight of futility and the injustice of it, they spent a restless night’s sleep on the floor on their old mattresses that they’d carried in from the cart.
Despite being deflated, crotchety, and tired beyond measure, Elsa couldn’t muster the rage at the loss of their meagre pieces of furniture.
The next day, they harnessed poor Peppin once more and drove into town. Mr Milton welcomed them back, agreed to see Rosie that same afternoon, and no, to his knowledge Frank had not left a will, certainly not left one with him. Perhaps there were papers at the bakery, he’d said. Which meant they’d have to go there, despite Rosie’s aversion.
Opening the back door of the bakery, stale air rushed out. There was a pong of something dead just inside, probably a rat. Neither felt like striding through the store. Instead, they crept about—Rosie, as if being inside was not her right, and Elsa, because she wasn’t sure what she’d step in. Rodents had been having a lovely time amongst the goods in the heat, and thanks to Frank having laid poison, there was more than one dead rat strewn on the floor.
Rosie huffed and steadied herself on the shop counter. First thing she did was yank open the cash drawer, and merely raised her brows. ‘Not only home has been ransacked,’ she said, looking up at Elsa.
‘Wish they’d taken these old buns as well. Not even the rats wanted them,’ Elsa replied. She’d found a box and emptied the trays of mouldy and chewed pastries and cakes into it. ‘Good for someone’s pigs.’
‘Oh, Elsa.’ Rosie bit her lip and sagged against the bench.
‘Let’s get to his papers. Is there a safe box or something?’
In the back room, Frank had kept a large leather bag under his desk. Rosie hauled it out and together the sisters trawled through it. There were his bank books, his investment papers—Rosie hadn’t known of any investments—and there, shining a light on their day, was an envelope marked ‘Last Will and Testament of Francis Putney’. Rosie sighed and began to open it.
‘Don’t do that. You know what Mr Milton said.’
‘Pa’s will, yes, because there’s more than one but I’m not so sure about Frank’s will—’
‘Your appointment is at two, Rosie. Leave it till then,’ Elsa urged.
‘That’s more than three hours away,’ her sister cried.
Elsa took a deep breath despite the stink in the store and squared her shoulders. ‘Time enough to visit the cemetery then.’
Rosie squeezed her eyes shut, slapped the sealed envelope on her palm, and nodded.
That afternoon, they sat in Mr Milton’s ‘office’, an old table in Mrs Milton’s parlour room. It was jammed against a wall, and a pigeon-hole shelf had been hammered above it. It did feel strange to sit crammed against one another in the front room watching the retired solicitor peer at the wills.
‘Quite right,’ he said, after reading. ‘All in order. This one of Frank’s is straightforward. In the event of his death, you are to administer his business, Rosie, and take over the ownership of the bakery property. Any debts are to be paid from his bank account and the residual paid to you. You are entitled to keep the account open and operate it yourself, and the bank looks favourably on you keeping his investment shares.’ He studied the names and figures. ‘Small as they are. However, he has left no stipend, my dear, and the shares don’t look worth overly much.’ He checked Rosie’s response over the rim of his spectacles. Taking her silence to mean she didn’t understand, he said, ‘That means you must work for your living, or marry again. I presume you could re-open the bakery.’
Rosie remained stony-faced.
He studied Rosie. ‘My dear, Pete Southie was known for his tall stories. Whatever he said about the situation between you and Frank, rumours are all they are.’ Today, instead of bugs, he had remnants of his lunch in his beard. Crumbs periodically worked their way out of the healthy white bush on his face and fell onto his lap.
Rosie took a deep breath, tapped her clasped hands on her chin and nodded.
Elsa filled the silence. ‘And our father’s will, Mr Milton?’
He set Frank’s will aside. Found his letter opener again—in front of him—and sliced open the envelope he’d had stored in his files. ‘Now, this one says all goods and chattels and the farm to go to his only surviving son, George Curtis Goody, dated, oh let me see …’ He glared at the date on both wills. ‘… Two years before this one.’ He shook the unopened one at them, the one they’d carried to Casterton and back.
Rosie huffed, her impatience evident. Well, not evident to Mr Milton.
Elsa nodded at him. ‘Please go ahead.’
He opened it with a flourish, read down the page and began at the top again. ‘It’s been crudely written, but it has a witness. Tell me, is this his handwriting?’ He waved it at Rosie first, who looked at Elsa.
Elsa checked. ‘Yes, it is.’ Rosie would scarcely have known if it was her father’s handwriting. ‘And who is his witness?’ She had tried to catch the name.
Mr Milton glared at the page. ‘Peter Southie.’
Rosie groaned and so did Elsa.
The old lawyer looked from one to the other. ‘Heard Pete trooped off after you. I suppose he caught up with you before you went on to Naracoorte.’
‘Yes,’ Elsa said, nodding. ‘He did. We saw him near Penola and—’
‘And he informed me of my husband’s passing,’ Rosie said, shooting a glare at her sister. ‘He won’t be coming back this way.’
‘Not surprised,’ Mr Milton said. ‘Some men get the drifts, late in life, especially if they don’t have anything to stay for. Work is tight, all of that. Probably a good thing. Wasn’t a great addition to society around here, was he?’ He missed Rosie’s squinty glare. ‘Now, you
two ladies. You should have your own wills prepared. Let’s get that underway for you.’
‘Our father’s new will, Mr Milton?’ Elsa pressed.
‘Ah. Mind like a sieve.’ Mr Milton skimmed the paper and looked over his spectacles at both women. ‘He has written that the farm and goods and chattels should go to his last remaining child or children, to be owned jointly if that is the case.’ He sat back and stroked crumbs from his beard. ‘Most unusual not naming names. But clearly, you both have ownership.’
Rosie sighed and flattened her hands on her lap. Elsa felt like a pond into which a large stone had been dropped. The implications of her father’s will kept coming at her in ripples, wave after wave, rolling over her thudding heart and opening possibilities she never really believed would come her way.
An hour later they left Mr Milton’s, their own simple wills done, and were driving back to the farm.
‘Pa must have had an idea that George might not survive us,’ Elsa said, as the revelation kept breaking over her.
‘That would appear so. And Pete Southie, Pa’s witness, already knew one of us would inherit.’
‘I didn’t think he could read. He never said.’
‘No wonder he was keen on you, Elsa.’
‘Thanks very much.’
For the first time, Rosie cracked a laugh.
At the farm, Elsa dug out a pair of George’s cast-off trousers and one of his old shirts, shook them out, and changed into them. She pulled on a pair of boots. Rosie only raised her brows.
‘I’d been wearing these for work, and there’s work to be done, Rosie. Weeds to be pulled, the well to be cleared. If we’re to stay here at the hut, then we need the vegetables harvested, what’s left of them, and to replant for a new crop. The house needs repairs, the fences need—’ She stopped at the look of despair on her sister’s face.
‘Do you even want the farm, Elsa, really now?’
‘I can’t manage it all by myself, but together—’ She floundered again. ‘Do you even want the bakery, Rosie?’
Both stared at the other. Shoulders drooped.
‘Perhaps one business could help support the other,’ Rosie said. ‘I need the bakery, I know it. You help me there, for wages. And—we could lease the farm to someone, couldn’t we? We have no animals, no stock to worry about.’
Elsa nodded, resigned. She’d already thought as much. The door that had briefly opened to her here on the farm, after her father’s will, was closing. And the glimpse of a new life in Casterton further away than ever. Rosie, the runaway woman, needed her here in Robe. Elsa, who’d been the stoic stay-on-the-farm woman, had found life elsewhere but wouldn’t go. Couldn’t go and leave her sister.
She looked around the hut, at its gaps and its cobwebs, its floor with broken boards, and with dirt and dust clinging to every surface. She thought of Ezekiel’s home of timber, of smart tongue-and-groove, of a big verandah, of lively children. Of his smile. Of his arms around her. Of promise. She thought of what she’d found, the very thing she’d never known she was missing.
Elsa breathed in long and quietly, and slowly let it out. She was letting go of something so new, so untried—why did it hurt so badly, so deeply? She’d been swiftly cut with a blade, and healing from it would be long and hard.
She would write to him but only once she’d found the right thing to say. She didn’t have the right words just yet.
Fifty
Voting day has dawned at last. The 25th of April, 1896, will go down in history! Elsa sprang out of bed. The weather, rainy and cold all week, had turned fine, and so far this morning the sky was blue and cloudless.
Oh, nothing would take Elsa’s mood down today. Well, something will if I let it. But just for once, today, she must try and not think of him while she went about her business. She’d written once, and he’d replied. She must get his letter out again, safe and sound by her bed, and re-read it for the—oh, there I go again, thinking of him. She couldn’t help it. Thoughts of Ezekiel Jones had not left her, not ever, not for a minute. Although she fell into bed so wearied and went straight into a deep sleep, she was sure that she even dreamed of him.
Elsa had got up early this morning, and made sure Rosie was comfortable. Her sister had been ill for the last couple of days and Elsa had gone to the bakery at all hours ensuring there would be goods to sell. (She was tired as tired could be, but today she would vote for the first time—what was sleep compared to that?) She’d said to Rosie that as a baker, she made a very good farm girl, still tending the repairs and chores at the hut. Exhaustion was her latest routine.
She set out her new dress. New-ish. It was a hand-me-down from Mrs Bourke who lived in the street back from the bakery. Elsa had made a careful job of taking in the seams and it was in reasonable repair now. It was her going-to-vote dress. A nice blue, a calming colour, and one that matched the muted colour of the ocean today.
‘Rosie.’ She called across the room to her sister who’d cocooned herself in the bed. ‘We have to vote today. You haven’t forgotten. Come along.’
Rosie mumbled something.
‘Yes, you must,’ Elsa replied. ‘Come on, the sooner it’s done, the sooner you can get back to bed.’
The moan was muffled. ‘I think I’m dying.’
Elsa tut-tutted. ‘I think not. I’m going to harness Peppin, then get changed. Hurry up.’
Elsa parked their cart close by the District Council offices.
One of the men waiting to vote held up his timepiece. ‘Ye’re late on such an auspicious day, I’da thought, Miss Elsa—it’s nine forty-five. But y’are the first lady to vote, I’ll give ye that. Well done.’
She waved gleefully. She was about to be the first woman to vote here. How grand. But she didn’t need congratulations on her legal franchise. ‘I’m glad to finally have my basic right to vote, Mr Simmons, so any time I can do that is a very civilised time.’ She waited impatiently for her sister who looked anything but enthused. ‘Come on, come on, come on, Rosie,’ Elsa urged. ‘I have to be the first.’
Grumbling and pale, Rosie said, ‘I’m only glad it’s Saturday and we don’t have to open the bakery. You’ll have to tell me what to do, so hurry up and let’s get this over with.’
Elsa marched into the council office with great purpose in her stride. She nodded her thanks to the gentlemen who lined the walkway, allowing her to go ahead of them. How wonderful—they’re all extremely polite on this historic day of all days. Did that mean they truly understood the importance of the day that had dawned? She clapped her hands under her chin, as if holding onto her enthusiasm.
One man said, ‘I heard ye ladies would most likely vote for the good-looker, Miss Goody.’
Clearly that man has not understood the importance. Elsa turned and spotted him. ‘A good thing then that you’re not running for election, Mr Williams. You’d be vastly disappointed by the results in the polls.’ And that wiped the smirk off his face and brought knee-slapping guffaws from his mates.
‘Elsa,’ Rosie admonished from behind her, but there was a smile in her tone.
‘You look right smart in that dress, Miss Goody,’ someone else called.
‘Ignore them, Elsa,’ Rosie said. ‘Now, Mr Gell, do tell us what we do here?’
Mr Gell, the returning officer, handed her over to an assistant. Elsa felt her hackles rise. Rosie had addressed him and he saw fit to pass her off to a man whose spectacles slid down his nose as he stared kindly at them, and spoke as if he were addressing imbeciles. Handing them voting papers, he took his time explaining exactly what was required while male voters waited patiently in line behind. ‘Number the candidates one to four as you prefer. No words, no identifying marks as to your person. All sections, including the education question on the referendum paper, must be filled out correctly—a cross in only one box against either yes or no on that paper, else your vote will be invalid.’
‘Thank you, sir, for your kind explanation, although I do see that it is plainly written
as such on the papers,’ Elsa said, her eyes alight.
He ducked his head towards her and smiled. ‘Ah, but we don’t want our first vote to be an invalid one, now do we, miss?’
‘We most certainly do not want that,’ she answered sweetly, instead of stomping on his foot. Elsa tugged Rosie with her, heading for the curtained recesses to cast their vote. Between her teeth she said, ‘After all this time, Rosie, we absolutely don’t want that, do we?’
‘Now you’ll have to tell me who to vote for,’ Rosie said, still snippy.
‘Vote as you think best, and keep it secret.’
Once the vote cards were handed back to the box at Mr Gell’s table, Elsa beamed for the first time since returning from Casterton.
‘I am so happy today, Rosie, that I—that you and I—have cast our first vote to have a say in who governs us.’
‘Still so naïve, Elsa.’ Rosie pushed her way outside, heading as quick as she could for their cart. She flew around the other side once she got there.
Startled, worried, and hurrying to reach her, Elsa saw her sister double over and retch.
It had been a slow journey home—they’d had to stop a number of times along the way. Once back at the farm Elsa had put Rosie to bed again. Now she sat with Ezekiel’s letter on her lap, open but not re-read this time, and tried to absorb what Rosie had told her.
There was no doubt in her sister’s mind that she carried Nebo Jones’s baby.
Elsa had blinked at her. ‘Not Frank’s?’
‘For goodness sake, Elsa,’ Rosie had said, cross and tired at the same time. ‘Definitely not Frank’s.’
‘But you’d said that—a duty to be endured.’
Rosie had sighed. ‘It was different with Nebo. Very different. I wanted to find out— I found that it was a thing to be enjoyed, after all.’ Then she pitched forward over the bowl. Elsa had rubbed her back, wiped her face with a wet cloth. ‘And only you and I know that my life with Frank was anything but what it seemed,’ Rosie said pointedly, sliding a glance at her before spitting out the last of the bile. ‘You’re to tell no one of Nebo.’