She scrambled through the fence and negotiated her way through the decaying trunks, her mind saturated with too many facts but not enough answers.
‘Coming back, coming back,’ screeched Watson from his new cage, an A-frame contraption erected halfway down the garden.
‘Be quiet,’ whispered Stella, tapping at the gauze.
‘Pretty boy, pretty boy,’ the cockatoo replied, spreading his wings and flying from the ground to the uppermost perch.
‘What did he tell you?’
Her nephew John was sitting on the back veranda, a mug in one hand, a cigarette in the other. She smiled quizzically at him as if she had no idea what he was talking about, and walked towards him.
‘I saw you,’ he told her, flicking the ash from the cigarette and then taking another long draw. ‘So did Watson.’
‘I was in the garden,’ she lied. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’
John took a sip of his coffee and then emptied the remains on the lawn. ‘And the other night? I came out here to have a smoke before I went to bed. I followed you. I saw you go through the fence. You were over there for at least an hour.’
Stella said nothing, and sat next to him on the step. Their legs stretched out side by side, as if they were sunning themselves at the beach.
John took a number of quick puffs of the cigarette. ‘You shouldn’t have gone over there, Aunty Stella.’
She could have argued. Reminded her nephew that at her age, she could do anything she wanted. ‘I had a difficult marriage with your uncle and I thought Irish—I mean Brandon, might have been able to help me understand Joe a little better.’
‘And did he?’
To her horror, tears started to well up. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve not slept much.’
John stubbed the cigarette out and flicked the butt into some nearby bushes. ‘Brandon Ryan is an old rogue. It’s bad enough that he converted to Protestantism and distanced himself from my grandfather because it suited his ambitions, but he’s also a criminal. I bet he forgot to tell you that.’ He flicked the striker on the zippo lighter so that it flared in a series of short, sharp bursts.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘He’s a thief. He stole that land of his, and he took Joe from us as well. And that doesn’t include what he did to my grandfather or the rest of this family. Enough good reasons not to be speaking to him. My dad will be pretty angry if he finds out that you’ve been over there. Don’t go back again. It’s not worth it.’
She reached for the packet of cigarettes by John’s side and took one. Wordlessly he lit it for her.
‘Brandon Ryan isn’t a good person, Aunty Stella.’
She drew hard on the cigarette. ‘Well. Neither am I.’
Chapter 47
Broken Hill, 1949
‘You do seem much better this morning. All a body needs is rest and a chance for contemplation. God will forgive you, Stella, for the burial of your child. They were extenuating circumstances.’ Father Colin sat by the hospital bed, his grey hair contrasting with the ruddy pallor of his skin.
Stella crossed her feet at the ankles and smoothed the new dress bought on her behalf by the grocer, Mrs Andrews. During the last weeks she couldn’t recall having asked for God’s forgiveness, nor of having expressed to Father Colin anything remotely similar. Not that he was the type of man who believed in the possibility of any of his faith thinking differently to him. He was steadfast in his beliefs and painfully consistent in his attentions towards her. The priest had appeared every morning since her admittance into the hospital. Stella felt rather over-tended, like one of the sheep running at Kirooma, forever under Joe’s scrutiny.
‘And is your husband collecting you this morning?’ he asked.
‘No, Mrs Andrews is. The hospital was going to billet me with someone in town but when she heard I was here, she offered to have me. I’m to stay with her for a few weeks,’ said Stella, trying to sound bright. The doctor had noted her melancholy disposition and warned her that it would require further treatment if there wasn’t an improvement. Shutting the door on her bleak thoughts was proving impossible. However, she was quick to note that a calm response to any questions asked of her seemed to keep the medical professionals happy, although they still ran through her chart every morning as if trying to pilot unfamiliar seas.
‘Ah, Mrs Andrews, the grocer,’ he said with a shake of his head, as if the poor woman’s soul was already damned. ‘She is not a churchgoer, of any denomination.’
‘I’m not sure I will be in the future either,’ said Stella, watching as a nurse moved along the corridor, hopeful her discharge papers would soon be signed so she could escape Father Colin, whose diligence was tiring.
‘My dear, if you feel you need to repent, then say your Hail Marys. However I really do think that on this occasion you are being too hard on yourself. It is a sad but unfortunately very true fact that many a man and child have been buried in property graves without the presence of a man of the cloth, with only a Bible for guidance. Sometimes not even that.’
‘And what of the women? What happens to them?’ asked Stella.
The priest frowned. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’
‘What happens to the women who die out in the bush? You only mentioned men and children. Are we that unimportant?’
‘It was only a phrase, Stella,’ he said, patting her arm.
It was a significant omission to her. She folded her arms across her stomach and the emptiness within.
‘Shall we pray one last time before you leave?’ he suggested.
‘No. Thank you.’
Her frank reply was greeted with consternation. ‘Well, perhaps you have thoughts of home on your mind, but you will speak to your husband about coming to church here in Broken Hill, won’t you? Even if you manage it once every six weeks, I think you’d find it beneficial. There is so much comfort to be found in silent meditation and in our church community.’
‘Father, I have as much chance of getting Joe to church as I do of having him come home at night,’ said Stella.
‘I know, my child, I know. Such dedication should be commended. Men who embrace the land are embraced by it in return, and often it’s hard to shake them free of that grasp, to make them understand the importance of companionship. But I will write to him and entreat him to make the effort. There is great strength to be found in the company of others.’
Not for Joe, Stella thought. He had no craving for human connection. He existed outside of it.
‘And if he doesn’t want that?’ she asked.
Father Colin shrugged. ‘I’ve seen and spoken to many a soul who’s spent his life in the bush. A man can be anything he wants out here. Worker or grazier, happy wanderer or miserable nomad. There’s a certain savagery to the outback. We’re exposed to the basest elements of life and it takes a special type of man to reside in isolation, to have the hours marked out by the very birth and death of the animals that provide his livelihood. Some of us learn to live with the changes, although perhaps it’s not quite what we envisioned for ourselves,’ he finished pointedly.
‘So, I must simply accept my situation,’ said Stella. Outside the hospital window trees quivered in the breeze. A haze had taken root in the sky, dulling the customary blue. Father Colin muttered something about the cross that each of God’s children was required to bear. It was then that she swung her legs over the side of the bed, ready to leave, with or without discharge papers.
‘This is a very old Bible.’ He reached for the book that stuck out of the top of the carryall on the floor. ‘Does it belong to your family?’
‘No. I found it at the homestead when we moved in,’ said Stella. ‘Do you know anything about the people who lived at Kirooma before us?’
He adjusted his starched collar, as if the fit were too tight. ‘I met Mr Handalay once, at a function here in Broken Hill. It was his father that first settled Kirooma in the 1860s. They were extremely wealthy. Made their fortune on the goldfields
and were quick to buy up land, but the third generation lost interest. All three sons took up professions in Melbourne, and that’s when Mr Handalay placed the property on the market. I believe he left a lot of their furniture in the homestead when he and his wife left, and I also heard that the library was constructed from the hull of a wrecked ship. Can you hear the waves crashing at night?’ he asked with a smile.
It made sense to Stella. In that room, she’d never quite had her land legs. The ocean, like the lives of the previous owners, was steeped into her home. ‘And that’s all you know?’
Father Colin tapped the side of his skull with a knuckle. ‘I’m afraid my memory isn’t as good as it used to be. Is there something you were particularly interested in?’
Stella thought of the letter in the Bible. ‘No. Nothing.’
He bowed his head, as if duty truly was its own reward. ‘You’ll come and see me when you’re next in town?’
‘Yes.’ The lie slid smoothly off her tongue.
Stella waited until the priest left and then moved to the window. Joe had visited a week earlier. He’d spent a whole hour telling her of the condition of the sheep, the bore that had broken down, and the orchard, which he’d diligently kept alive for her with buckets of water. The subject of her health and baby Elizabeth was skirted as neatly as a man on a motorbike avoiding a tree-stump, the exclusion so obvious that it only served to emphasise the disaster more. Stella had wanted to scream at Joe. Instead, she informed him of her intention to recuperate at Mrs Andrews’s home.
He’d been aghast; told her he was surprised she had made such a decision without at least discussing it with him first. She had laughed at this, and kept on laughing until the nurses were called and Joe was asked to leave. Whether Mrs Andrews was the right choice Stella remained undecided, however an empty homestead held no allure.
‘Stella.’
She turned to find Joe in the doorway holding a potted blood-red Sturt’s desert pea. His hat dangled from his hand.
‘I’ve come to take you home,’ he said with a proprietary air.
‘Joe? But I said Mrs Andrews was picking me up. It’s all been arranged. I was to stay with her for a fortnight at least.’ Stella’s body began to stiffen. Perspiration seeped up through the pores of her skin.
Joe took a step into the room. ‘I’ve spoken to Mrs Andrews and the doctor. Everyone feels it’s better if you come home. Delaying things probably isn’t in your best interests. It’s better to be in your own environment.’
‘You mean your best interests,’ she replied sharply. She dug her nails into her palms, trying to stem the trembling that threatened to spread through her body.
He came further into the room as if inch by inch he intended to push his way back into her life. ‘Stella, you have to come home. You can’t run away from what’s happened.’
‘How could I run away from it?’ she said loudly. ‘Elizabeth’s death will be with me forever.’
‘Just come home and we’ll talk. Okay?’
‘You never want to talk,’ she replied. Crying wasn’t going to help. She was aware, at least, of that. Tears were for people who were capable of feeling. Since Elizabeth’s death, a numbness had settled within her but now Joe was standing at the end of the hospital bed and all Stella wanted to do was open the window and jump.
The man before her meant nothing to her. Theirs was a poisonous marriage. She backed away and leant against the windowsill, clinging to the bricks-and-mortar security of the building.
‘Stella, please. Don’t make a scene.’ Joe sat the plant down on the bed and held out a hand to her.
She stayed by the window, feeling the same haze that drifted outside on the horizon beginning to take hold of her. Just as the dust obscured the clarity of the sky, so her own thoughts grew unclear. She was curious enough to understand that she’d not been the same since Elizabeth’s birth and death. That somehow, during the many hours she’d nursed her dead child, and placed her in the salt-preserving cot at night, she’d lost the ability to comprehend reason or reality. It left her with the unsettling sensation of being eggshell thin, as if a hairline fracture already ran through her and the slightest knock was capable of breaking her in two.
‘Stella. This is ridiculous,’ said Joe.
‘I just—’
‘You just what?’ he said.
Joe was standing at her side. He slid his arm about her waist before placing his hand gently on the small of her back as if ready to guide her as he would one of his woolly ewes down the race.
‘Come on,’ he said, with a look of encouragement.
They skirted the bed and he shoved the hat on his head and collected the plant and her bag. ‘I thought you’d like this for the kitchen. Give the place a bit of colour.’ His arm snaked out about her, their bodies joined from shoulder to hip. He walked her along the corridor, nodding pleasantly at everyone they passed.
‘Mrs O’Riain, it’s nice to see you looking so much better,’ said a nurse.
‘Wonderful to have her up and about again. Thank you for your splendid care,’ said Joe.
‘You’re very welcome, Mr O’Riain,’ said the nurse.
‘Well come on, my dear. We best get you home,’ Joe said, for the benefit of anybody nearby. ‘The doctor tells me that routine is important. Having a reason to get up in the morning. Tending to things. I’ve done my best with the orchard but you’re the one with the green thumb.’
He led her outside to the parked station wagon. He opened the door, sat the plant in the middle of the bench seat and then waited until she was seated.
‘There, all set?’
He closed the door and then walked around to the driver’s side and took up his place behind the steering wheel, placing her carryall in the back on his way around. The man of the house, always in control.
Stella wound down the window. The engine turned over and the vehicle cruised onto the road. The air was hot and dry. It stung her eyes and made her face crease up protectively. The Sturt’s pea shifted left and right with the road’s corrugations. She lifted her hands to her throat, convinced that some invisible cord was strangling her, as surely as her own body had strangled her child. Joe began talking about the latest weather report. His hopes for the coming season. More rain was needed for the grass to grow. She nodded and made occasional sounds as if she were listening, then she fixed her gaze on the road ahead and waited for Joe to run out of words. Why couldn’t he see it as clearly as she could? He and Kirooma had become her jailers and, ultimately, they were at the beginning of the end.
Chapter 48
Richmond Valley, 1949
Hetty.
Stella stopped her morning patrol of the garden. She was opposite Watson’s cage, surrounded by the green of rain-fed country. Tea-tree plantations and sugar cane were interspersed by arteries of channelling water that somewhere to the east mingled with the foamy sea.
The bird screeched at her. ‘Gone again. Gone again.’
Only recently she’d sat in a baggy military chair drinking aged cognac and listening to tales of the past. Stories of a young boy who’d grown to become the man she’d married and once loved. Her conversations with Brandon Ryan had been convoluted, and she’d been focusing only on what he knew of Joe. Perhaps that was why it had taken a couple of days to shake loose a single name. He’d mentioned someone called Hetty.
Stella returned to her bedroom and retrieved the old Bible. She might well be wrong, but she had a feeling she wasn’t. And Hetty wasn’t the only name of significance. There was also the letter. Signed with a single initial: B.
‘Stella?’ She heard Ann calling out for her, so she slipped the book into the pocket of her apron and hurried down the hall.
Ann was in the lounge room listening to music. Her breakfast tray was almost empty, apart from a piece of jam toast that lay upturned on the carpet at her feet. Stella cleaned the spill and then placed the wireless a little closer to her.
‘Thank you.’ Ann moved gingerl
y on the couch.
‘Can I get you anything else?’ Stella asked.
‘No,’ said Ann.
Her patient still wasn’t speaking to her beyond what was necessary. Their recent argument had ruptured their delicate friendship and made Stella realise that it wasn’t just Harry who resented Brandon and Joe, but the entire family. Perhaps they’d been expecting her to apologise for him. If that were the case, then Ann would be disappointed. Stella’s peace branch was quite wilted. It had run out of water long ago.
‘We might have to get rid of that cockatoo. He makes a dreadful noise,’ said Ann.
‘Don’t you like birds?’
‘That’s not really the point,’ replied Ann, brushing crumbs from her lap.
Despite the tensions, Ann was steadily improving. It was the second morning that her sister-in-law had taken breakfast out of bed. The colour had returned to her skin and she’d even managed to dress herself. Stella imagined that in a few days Ann would be much better, which was a relief. If John knew about her nocturnal visits to the big house, it was unlikely to stay a secret for long.
‘As you’re so much better, I’ll be leaving in a couple of days,’ said Stella.
Ann positioned a cushion a little lower behind her back. ‘We haven’t discussed your leaving. Anyway, I’m not quite back to my old self.’
‘I think you’ll manage.’
‘This is because of our disagreement, isn’t it.’ She batted away a fly from her face. ‘I was trying to explain things to you.’
‘What, that you and Harry were against the way Joe lived his life, because it wasn’t what Harry expected of him? That Joe had the audacity to speak to someone that you hold a grudge against? Joe was entitled to live his life the way he wanted. Right or wrong. Good or bad,’ said Stella.
‘Really?’ replied Ann, her knuckles white where she clutched at the couch. ‘What about you, Stella? During all your time out west, are you telling me that you didn’t once complain to your husband or think ill of him? Can you truly tell me that you’re not angry with him?’ She lifted the teacup and took a sip.
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