Molly's Journey

by Sheila Newberry

  ‘I’d better go and make sure that Fay is asleep,’ she said, rising. ‘And if I’m likely to be able to eat my food in peace . . . ’

  Fay slumbered peacefully, right in the middle of their bed under the net canopy, which kept the flies at bay. Molly took up her diary and licked the pencil thoughtfully. Nothing much exciting had happened today, unless you counted Henny awkwardly patting her back – well, swatting a creepy-crawly that was about to insinuate itself under her collar. She wrote in capital letters:

  OLD FRANK IS A PROPHET OF GLOOM & DOOM!

  Gloomy Frank drove them on their first visit to the indispensable stores at the settlement in Bodenflower. ‘You can find your own way in future – think yourselves lucky it don’t take us more’n fifteen minutes to get here. That you haven’t landed up on one of them huge spreads in the outback hundreds of miles from anywhere . . . ’

  It was nice, Molly thought, to meet up with other friendly females, mostly Scots and Irish, who really seemed to thrive out here, but there were a few Europeans, too. The women wore sensible Holland dresses, with no concessions to fashion; plain, wide-brimmed hats, and what looked like men’s boots. Their hair was combed back and either plaited round the head or fastened in a tight knot at the nape of the neck. They didn’t buy by the pound, but by the sack or drum, and meanwhile they chattered happily, obviously enjoying the company. There was an all-too-pervasive smell of oil, sawdust underfoot and the long counters were scarred and the heavy brass scales looked to be antique.

  ‘I’m paying,’ Alexa said through her teeth when Frank displayed anxiety as the goods were piled up high. ‘I’m not going to be deprived of the best butter and cheese.’

  He obviously considered beer and tobacco to be of higher priority.

  ‘Here you are, Miss Sparkes,’ said the soft-voiced Scotswoman who presided over the post-office counter. ‘Some letters for you – one from Melbourne, one from abroad and one from back home. There’ll be cold weather on the way there, I guess. How d’you think you’ll do in the heat when it’s summer here? You’ll need to wear long sleeves and boots still, because of all those stinging insets and snakes.’

  ‘I haven’t seen a single snake yet, thank goodness,’ Molly told her, with a shiver. She tucked the letters in her bag to read later. The one from Melbourne puzzled her; the handwriting on the other letters was familiar, both sent to await their arrival: one from her father and the other from dear Sister Margaret Mary.

  Near the store was the Lutheran mission and school. Their friendly postmistress invited them to attend a service there the following Sunday. ‘It’s a regular meeting place. You’ll make friends there, I’m sure. Your lubra, Toby, came from the mission. Sunny, loveable girls they all are, but don’t be surprised if she goes walking now and then.’

  ‘Oh, we’ve already been warned of that,’ Molly said.

  ‘It’s hard to believe sometimes,’ Mrs Mac continued, blithely ignoring the queue for mail and stamps, ‘that not so long ago, families like hers lived on kangaroo, wild cat and ant’s eggs. They used water bags made from ‘roo skin and made fire by rubbing two sticks . . . ’

  ‘Save the history lesson, Missis, willyer?’ a gruff voice interrupted from behind Molly.

  ‘See you Sunday, then,’ Mrs Mac said, unabashed.

  *

  The Melbourne letter was from Serena Kelly, hoping that they had arrived safely, that they would enjoy living on the farm, and ending:

  Well, keep in touch, Molly dear. You never know, I might be able to help you in your ambition – I’ve still got a lot of contacts back home and my Rory is touring just now in Queensland. Look out for the circus if you go there as Mrs Nagel said you might . . .

  Molly didn’t show that one to Alexa – she wasn’t sure if her employer would approve. Besides, she thought, she was committed to her year with Fay in Australia.

  Alexa had collected a letter from her son-in-law, Matthew Dunn. They read their mail sitting under the canopy of the veranda, drinking tea.

  Alexa’s lips were working as she turned to the second page of the letter. She looked up and caught Molly’s concerned glance.

  ‘Matthew has decided to resign his commission at the end of the year – he believes he should have done this earlier, but the shock of losing Lucy – well . . . ’ She cleared her throat. ‘He should be settled back in England, he says, before we return with Fay. Of course, he has to seek suitable employment and proper care for his daughter – that will be his first priority. My letters, apparently, about Fay’s progress since the two of us came together, have prompted this decision. Oh, Molly, my dear, it’s ridiculous when I know this is the best thing for Fay but I’m not sure where this leaves me. I suppose I was secretly hoping he would allow me to continue looking after her when we were home again. How should I feel?’

  ‘Just be happy for them,’ Molly said simply. ‘I only wish my father had done the same for me.’

  THREE

  Frank grudgingly agreed to drive them to the mission, but said he would call back for them later. Once they had gone inside the church, he drove on down the street to the small hotel and its public bar.

  The elderly German pastor spoke in English and there was a fascinating variety of accents when the congregation responded: Norwegian, Dutch, and the true Australian twang.

  The mission hut had a tin roof, reminding Elfie of one she had attended as a child, uneven limed walls and hard wooden benches, but it was packed to capacity. The harmonium, suffering from the climate, wheezed and coughed through the familiar hymns, but Elfie was heartened to realise that the mission girls, wearing simple cotton shifts and bonnets, knew every word, although, as Alexa observed, ‘I wonder if they understand what they are singing?’ To Elfie this was irrelevant because they responded so stirringly to the music and atmosphere. Fortunately, it had this effect on Fay, too: she sat on Molly’s lap, playing with her grandmother’s fan, taking it all in.

  Elfie’s usual tight expression was quite transformed. She had been thinking before today that she had made a dreadful mistake. Frank was even more taciturn and unappreciative than he had been back home, and she was too hidebound to discard her stuffy clothes and rigid corsetry. All her life, looking after first elderly, ailing parents, then her brother, she had followed a strict regime. She thought nostalgically now of her childhood home: its cool dairy where she churned butter; then feeding the hens and collecting the eggs, or sitting mending thick socks, rocking in the old, creaking chair which had belonged to her grandmother. Here she could not summon the energy to cook meals at unearthly hours when Frank and his men returned, tired, dirty and grumbling, sitting down at the table still wearing their boots and with their hands unwashed. Her brother had let his standards slip badly, in Elfie’s opinion. And as for Alexa and Molly, well, she could guess how they felt about her . . . She was already sick and tired of roasting mutton, she thought inconsequentially. But here in the cooler atmosphere of the little chapel, she turned the familiar pages of her prayer book and felt sheer relief. Here was a haven from what she might, if she had been so impolite, have termed hell.

  After the service, they stood outside, wilting in direct sunlight, while the rest of the congregation eagerly asked them how things were back at home.

  ‘All those invitations to visit their homesteads!’ Molly whispered. ‘I’ve never felt so popular in my life before!’

  The pastor, shaking Elfie’s damp, limp hand, seemed to sense how she was feeling. He was a kindly man, a childless widower of many years’ standing, who regarded his motley congregation as his family. He was stooped, his once ruddy complexion thickened and tanned like leather, contrasting with the soft white fringe of hair round his otherwise bald head. ‘Miss Elfrida,’ he said, ‘I wonder – the ladies, they have the sewing party, you know? They meet at the next homestead to you, for the mission. Each Tuesday afternoon.’

  Elfie, to her companions’ delight, answered quickly that she would be delighted to attend. Then they could tell by
her expression that she had belatedly remembered Frank. What would he say to this?

  ‘Leave him to me, Elfie,’ Alexa murmured. ‘I’ll persuade him to take you, just as long as you don’t expect me to join . . . ’

  ‘Or me!’ Molly added quickly. ‘Anything I sew falls apart!’

  ‘By the way,’ the pastor said to Alexa, ‘I understand that you are looking for a girl to help with the little one? Well, I know someone highly suitable for this post. She has made the most of her education at the mission, although her circumstances did not permit her to continue beyond this. She is called Nancy Atkins and has only casual work at present – may I tell her to come to see you?’ For some reason he seemed rather anxious.

  ‘If you wish, certainly,’ Alexa replied. ‘You would be prepared to write a reference for this girl, I presume? Fay’s father naturally holds me responsible for her wellbeing.’

  ‘I should indeed,’ the pastor assured her. ‘She shall bring the letter with her.’

  Fay was becoming restless, but here was Frank, even redder in the face than usual, with their transport, cracking his whip to let them know it was high time they stopped jabbering and climbed aboard. So they said goodbye to their new acquaintances and were waved away by a veritable sea of arms.

  *

  Nancy had been running. Now, she slowed down and gulped in some deep breaths. She looked at her shoes, which she had buffed up earlier, and saw to her dismay that they were covered in dust from the track. When she bent to wipe them clean with a handful of scrubby grass, the scuffs were revealed once more. They were second-hand, of course – she had picked them from the mission box this morning, and been grateful they actually fitted. ‘You will look nice for the meeting with Mrs Nagel, Nancy,’ the pastor told her as he handed her a discreetly wrapped parcel. ‘Mrs Mac sent this for you to wear. No hurry to return it, my dear.’ It was the dress Mrs Mac had worn to Sunday service; not that Nancy was aware of that, for she had been up to the elbows in greasy washing-up water in the hotel kitchen on the Sabbath.

  The sober grey frock constricted her youthful round bosoms but hung in folds round her narrow hips. The style was too old for her, but Nancy appreciated the thought, and the dress was brightened by a deep lace collar in snowy white. She had buttoned up the introductory letter within her bodice, for safety, not possessing a bag.

  Now she rubbed her sleeve across her damp forehead and thought ruefully that the bright sunlight would add to the many freckles on her fair-skinned face. Because she so seldom bothered with a hat, her hair was bleached like straw the year round. Ma had rubbed it vigorously with rough hands smeared with lard and then yanked back her mane and divided it, so that it hung down her back in a long bellrope. ‘You don’t want to look too pretty,’ she’d advised. ‘No mistress likes that. But try not to show that chipped tooth when you talk.’ Nancy gave an involuntary shudder, remembering how this had happened. Worse things had gone on in the past which she could not talk about, even to her ma who had enough troubles of her own with a drunken husband who couldn’t keep a job and four great wayward sons.

  Calm down, Nancy Atkins, she told herself sternly. Pastor says they’re nice folks – they won’t bite . . . Pity it’s not a live-in job and might not last long. Young lady’s about my age, he says. Depended, though, if she was above mixing with one born the wrong side of the tracks.

  She was approaching the paddock gates now and saw someone waving energetically. It was a girl with long, light hair, dressed in a white muslin frock and hanging on to an energetic toddler who was climbing up the bars of the gate. Nancy felt a flicker of disappointment. The girl looked very friendly, but at first sight she appeared to be not much more than a child herself.

  ‘You must be Nancy.’ The girl smiled, swinging the gate open but retaining a firm grip on her charge as the baby chortled and enjoyed the ride. ‘Welcome to Wills’ Spread. I’m Molly and this is Fay – Fay, this is Nancy who’s going to help us look after you. Mrs Nagel’s waiting for you on the veranda. She sent me down here to see if I could spot you coming. Oh, I’m glad you’re young, I’ve been missing company of my own age!’ She beamed.

  ‘I’m seventeen,’ Nancy told her. She forgot her mother’s warning, and smiled back.

  ‘And I was eighteen in May and Fay was one. Come on, Mrs Nagel’s already looking at her watch.’

  ‘Had to finish my morning’s work before I come,’ Nancy said. ‘Hope that’ll be my last time at the hotel – if I get this position, of course. Here, why don’t you hold my hand, too?’ she invited Fay and they walked with the little girl between them, lifting her off her feet every now and then and swinging her along, to quicken the pace. Fay was a happy little soul, rosy-faced and beaming, with a new crop of dark curls just showing under her firmly tied sun bonnet. She wasn’t shy with strangers.

  ‘Oh, you’ll get the job – I’ll make sure of that!’ Molly said firmly. ‘And don’t be taken in by this dress: Mrs Nagel’s choice – not exactly my style. I’m only wearing it to please her. I hope she doesn’t see the hedge tear in the skirt. Now you’re here, I might be allowed to do a bit of exploring, eh? Old Frank – that’s Mr Wills, but don’t worry, I don’t suppose you’ll encounter him much – puts such a damper on things. D’you know, he says it’s unwise for me to go out alone further than the paddock because I wouldn’t know a venomous snake from a harmless one. That’s rubbish because Alexa – Mrs Nagel – showed me some pictures and said to watch out for the black ones with the blue bellies. He rubbed it in, he really did, about huge poisonous spiders—’

  ‘Frighten Miss Muffet away!’ Fay put in with relish.

  ‘Mr Wills is right, I’m afraid. And so are you, Fay,’ Nancy remarked. ‘You can easily get lost in the bush. A young lady who was visiting the mission vanished into thin air ‘bout two years ago. She’d gone out by herself to do some sketching. They never found her, just her pencils and paper all scattered. And when the old sun is burning down like it will be soon, well, you have to watch out for bush fires. You’ll hear a fierce cracking sound when the bark splits on the gum trees.’ Molly needed holding back, for her own sake; Nancy had realised that right away.

  ‘Old Frank went on about that, too – but I’d really love to see it,’ she said.

  ‘Did Mr Wills warn you about the anthills?’

  ‘ ’Course he did. But he doesn’t talk about all the beautiful things in this amazing continent, like silver-tailed lyre and bower birds. And the native animals – well, some of them – are beyond belief.’

  ‘It’s a great country, for some. I’ve lived here since I was three and I haven’t been further than Bodenflower yet . . . ’ Maybe, Nancy prayed, she would get the chance at last.

  They had reached the veranda, and Alexa, who had probably heard most of this as they approached, rose from her chair and said to Molly: ‘Take Fay with you – I’m sure Nancy already feels she knows you both. Also, Fay should be having her nap. Come back in fifteen minutes or so with refreshments, will you, please? Oh, and ask Elfie if you can borrow her tape measure – we can add Nancy’s uniform to our Lassetter’s order. Sit down, Nancy, and relax – you look overheated. Now, tell me all about yourself? But don’t worry, the job is yours, Fay has taken to you just as she did to Molly, that’s obvious.’

  *

  ‘Collected this at the stores,’ Alexa said, straight-faced, displaying the large, cardboard package addressed to Mr Alexander Nagel: the clerk at Lassetter’s in Sydney having obviously decided there must be some mistake. Molly, Nancy and Fay crowded round while she opened the box.

  Molly couldn’t resist it: ‘They must have wondered what sort of men possessed such feminine measurements, Alexa. Large bottoms and barrel chests, eh?’

  ‘I shall ignore that, Molly.’ But Alexa was not riled, Molly having generously included herself in this description, although of course she could easily fit into boys’ breeks. Anyway, as the one paying for the goods, Alexa had the privilege of unpacking them. She had not forgotten E
lfie – the chip hat, lavishly decorated with roses, was for her.

  Her cousin, hovering in the background, was pink and pleased when this was handed over. ‘Oh, I never thought – just the hat for Sundays. Thank you very much, Alexa.’

  ‘For you, Nancy.’ She passed her the impeccably folded garments, not the uniform Nancy had envisaged, but a good quality navy blue skirt and crisp cotton blouse striped in blue and white. There were cotton stockings too, and leather house shoes. Nancy was too surprised and pleased to murmur more than: ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Nagel.’

  ‘Here you are, Fay. A pretty parasol and a Sunday bonnet, now Elfie’s made a regular church goer of you, eh?’

  ‘Don’t like hats,’ Fay said cheerfully, and tossed the bonnet in the air.

  ‘Oh – thanks!’ Molly exclaimed, in turn, as she received a bullseye box camera and several rolls of film. ‘Let’s gather all this up and get changed quick, Alexa – then I can take your photograph outside, and you can take mine with Fay and Nancy, if she’ll delay doing her ironing for a few minutes. Put on your hat, Elfie, so I can snap you, too. Oh, and don’t forget to take off your pinny . . . ’

  Alexa was grateful when Molly said not a word about the tight fit of her breeches, only: ‘You look a real pioneer!’

  ‘I shall probably have to enlist your aid,’ Alexa said ruefully, ‘in pulling them off later.’

  Molly executed a couple of high kicks – what freedom, she thought exultantly, from tiresome, bulky skirts – and determined to wear the breeches whenever she could, whether she was going riding or not. Now that Nancy was here to take care of Fay, she’d wear down Alexa’s resistance to her going out on horseback with Henny one day.

  Little Fay, excited by all the laughter, endeavoured to copy her, and landed on her bottom. She looked more surprised than hurt.

  ‘Darling!’ Molly cried, picking her up. ‘We’ll wheedle round your Aunt Elfie to make you some cool and comfy cotton trousers, eh? At one of her sewing bees.’