Molly's Journey

by Sheila Newberry

  Alexa clamped her hat on her head, looked critically in the mirror. ‘I believe I look like an Alexander now. Elfie’s sewing is intended for the mission children, Molly—’

  ‘Well, she can sew trousers for them, too! Charity begins at home, don’t they say? Right, outside – sit on the fence and I’ll take my very first photograph! Nancy, where are you?’

  ‘Better read the instructions first,’ Alexa reminded her.

  FOUR

  Molly tried in her diary to describe the smell of greasy wool from the Merino sheep: the endless meals of mutton; the sweat which trickled continually from them and stained and rotted their underclothes; the bliss of cold water pouring over her head from a bucket obligingly tipped by young Toby. She was reticent on paper about her growing infatuation with Henny but she resolved to remember every detail of this strange place, till the end of her life. In time, she thought, she might confide in Nancy: she was unaware that Nancy knew.

  Unfortunately, Alexa’s first experience of riding out with Henny had been a disaster – she had not worn her breeches since, and spoke darkly of blisters in unmentionable places. She told Molly that it would be much better to confine her contact with horses to driving down to the stores with Nancy and Fay in the sulky, a two-wheeled carriage with a hood and a most useful box for carrying goods on the back. Frank hadn’t complained when the pastor offered to loan them this, together with a willing pony that proved to be a good ride as well as safe to drive. Alexa had given a generous donation to the mission, and even Elfie had taken up the reins with enthusiasm; it didn’t take much guessing why – she could now drive herself to the mission whenever Frank grudgingly allowed her time off.

  Molly intended to badger Alexa again tonight. Time was passing, and she did so want the chance to get to know Henny better, before Alexa arranged the visit to Queensland. Her friend actually seemed in no hurry regarding this, which was strange, considering her earlier comments. The good thing was that Nancy would be going with them, too.

  *

  They set off early one morning: Molly, Henny, four of the fellas – as Frank termed them – and Toby, as convention decreed Molly must have a female companion overnight camping out in the vast forest of tall pines. The men would be marking trees to be felled shortly for wood to be used on the homestead.

  Henny handed Molly up on the pony’s broad and dusty back. Rusty stood patiently while he adjusted the stirrups. Toby grinned at all the palaver. She rode without a saddle, without breeches, without boots: her only concession to the sun overhead a battered straw hat. Her gleaming dark skin was impervious to burning. A packhorse carried the minimum for such a short stay – rolled blankets, mosquito nets, tucker – as Molly had learned to call food, and water bottles. They would sleep fully clothed. Behind them skittered the homestead dogs, long-limbed yellow-coated creatures with sharp, intelligent faces, twitching pricked ears and tightly curled tails. Rather like their arch-enemies the dingoes themselves, Molly fancied.

  They inspected stock, maize, fencing, water holes on the circuitous journey; they replenished the water bottles several times. The billy can boiled at each stopping place; they drank milkless tea with plenty of sugar from chipped enamel mugs.

  At nightfall they chose their resting place among the trees, improvised little tents from protective netting and sticks to keep the insects at bay, and the fellas coaxed a bright, crackling fire to life to cook supper and to spread warmth and a circle of light as the atmosphere cooled and darkness set in.

  Molly and Toby stretched out on heaped leaves spread over with one of the blankets, and Molly watched Henny as he busied himself mixing damper dough from flour and water, which he suspended from a stick to be baked in the fire’s glow. They would dunk this bread substitute later into a pot of delicious, bubbling stew, prepared from strips of dried meat. It was a very satisfying meal, and Molly realised just how hungry she was after all that riding.

  Toby whispered: ‘Hear all the rustlin’, Missee? Maybe we hear bullroarer – but us no see . . . ’

  Molly looked to Henny for reassurance. He said: ‘Only in the still of the forest will you hear such an extraordinary sound: it is forbidden for women and children to see it. Always secret – but a powerful instrument.’

  ‘Your hand over ears,’ Toby demonstrated.

  Molly had read about the Aboriginal bullroarer. It sounded so simple, she thought, just a flat piece of wood attached to one end of a piece of string and whirled at great speed so that it vibrated. The noise rose and fell, having an eerie effect on all who heard it. She was not too sure she wanted such an experience tonight . . .

  ‘The dogs,’ Henny told her, seeing her apprehension, ‘will keep the wild things at bay, I will sleep close by.’

  Surprisingly, when they crawled under their nets, Molly found it very easy to drift off into sleep. She did not stir when Toby crept away to join the fellas, who were keeping a respectful distance, lying by the horses. There was muffled giggling and mock sparring by the two younger ones, until Toby warned them, tongue in cheek: ‘You be still now. I shut eyes.’

  At some time during a night scented with pine and woodsmoke, Molly stretched out her hand uncertainly and it was instantly clasped by a large hand, calloused from rough work, but still warm and comforting.

  ‘Sleep on, little Molly,’ Henny mouthed. He remained awake himself for some considerable time. He must take care not to betray his attraction to this young and innocent girl. He had come to this place, like many others, to lose himself. To forget.

  At first light, the fire was rekindled, the billy boiled, and Toby gently shook Molly’s shoulder to wake her. The space next to her was empty, the blanket neatly rolled. ‘Wakee, Missee, you want wash? We go crick when men come back?’

  ‘We go crick,’ Molly agreed, still bemused. She needed the shock of cold water to dispel the magic, she thought.

  *

  Molly was decidedly saddle-sore on the journey home. She and Toby brought up the rear, but now and again Toby, with one of her disarming grins, slapped her pony on the rump, encouraging it to gallop gamely in order to catch up with the fellas. After a while, she would drop back to ride with Molly once more. Rusty, being well-schooled, blinked at all the to’ing and fro’ing but kept to a steady trot. The intention was to be back at Wills’ Spread by mid-morning.

  Henny had exchanged a few words with Molly while they ate their simple breakfast: two eggs apiece from the dozen Elfie had carefully wrapped and packed, which they boiled in the water for the tea. There was leftover damper from supper. ‘Sleep well, Miss Sparkes? No bullroarer?’

  ‘Molly – please,’ she’d insisted, blushing. She was aware that her hair was hanging in damp rat’s tails down her back, that her clothes were crumpled and grubby. She had merely removed her shirt at the creek, leaning over the rim of the water, taking a deep breath and dipping in her face and hands. Toby had had no such inhibitions, divesting herself of her dress in an instant, while a startled Molly became aware that that was all she wore, and splashing happily about. ‘Come! Nice!’ she called out. The shining water and rose-ribboned sky made Molly feel good. She realised why she had felt apprehensive in the dark place where they had settled for the night: it was because the tall trees obscured sight of the starry heavens above.

  Henny rode back to see how she was doing. ‘We’ll rest soon, the next waterhole is near, Molly. Toby has deserted you again, I see.’

  ‘I don’t mind, really,’ she said. ‘She’ll be back.’

  ‘You are used to the countryside?’ he asked. ‘You have taken well to the life here.’

  ‘Country, yes – but in a very small way – just an English village. Of course, I am only visiting here, that makes a big difference. I don’t have to work from dawn to dusk and longer, as you do, Henny,’ she said frankly.

  ‘Oh, I like it. It suits me. I, too, come from a small place: a farming community in Denmark.’

  ‘Did you come here for the adventure?’

  ‘Adv
enture?’ His hearty laughter took her by surprise. ‘That is how you see it, Molly? Danger, sometimes, certainly – but work is work the world over. It is good for the soul, they say . . . ’

  ‘Will you stay here for good?’

  ‘I cannot know that. For now, it is right. Maybe I will settle down—’

  ‘If you can find the right woman to settle with!’ She finished for him daringly.

  He put out a hand to restrain her pony. ‘We are here . . . See, the others have stopped. I shall not marry, Molly. I am thirty-six years old: twice your age. Ten years ago would have been the time for me – that time has not yet come for you. Don’t look to me, Molly, please.’ He shaded his eyes, looked directly at her.

  ‘Oh, whatever gave you that idea?’ she flashed. ‘You may not want an adventurous life but I assure you, I do!’ She dismounted, disregarding his move to help, and went to join Toby in the boiling of the billy can.

  *

  ‘Enjoyed yourself?’ Nancy asked later, out on the veranda.

  Molly was lying face down on a line of cushions. She had been only too glad to discard her breeches and slip on a cool dress. Alexa had passed the arnica with a quizzical lift of her eyebrows, and left Nancy to her anointing of all the sore places.

  ‘I did, but I’m paying for it now . . . ’ she murmured ruefully.

  Nancy glanced round. Mrs Nagel and Fay were sleeping off lunch in their room. Elfie likewise. Frank and the men were nowhere to be seen. Only Toby was nearby: squatting outside on a patch of grass, singing cheerfully and sending up a cloud of feathers as she plucked a chicken for supper. ‘Git!’ she told the dogs as they sniffed around. It was all right to talk more intimately.

  ‘Find out anything – you know – ‘bout Henny, Molly?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ Molly’s voice was muffled, wary.

  ‘You can tell me! I’ve seen the way you look out for him. He’s a real handsome fella . . . all the ladies here-abouts got excited when he first come, but he don’t have the eye for none of ‘em, it seems.’

  ‘Well, you can add me to your list,’ Molly told her ruefully.

  ‘I ain’t too sure ‘bout that. I guess he likes you all right. Maybe he needs you to show you like him first.’

  Molly rolled over and sat up, wincing. ‘Oh, he’s aware of that, Nancy – d’you know, he had the cheek to tell me this morning that he’s not the marrying kind. And he’s twice my age, anyway!’ She sounded as indignant as she felt.

  ‘He wouldn’t say that ‘less he was interested,’ Nancy said confidently.

  ‘Well, I won’t be pleading to go riding with him again!’ Molly said. ‘I’m not giving him that satisfaction. You’d better go and collect Fay, she’s burbling away. Alexa won’t be pleased if she wakes her up.’

  I’m obviously not lucky in love, she thought. Much better to plan a sparkling career. When I’m famous, the only man I’ve met so far will see what he has missed. Think I’ll write to Serena again, and ask her advice on that!

  *

  It was mutton again for their Christmas dinner, which they ate in the evening, out on the front veranda because, being midsummer, it was stifling indoors. Elfie triumphantly produced a Christmas pudding she had prudently made before their departure. ‘There was only a little mould on the top,’ she said proudly to Alexa. Frank even set the traditional brandy alight, while Molly held on tight to the excited Fay. ‘A toast: to absent family and friends!’ Alexa announced, and they raised their glasses. There were no sad reminders of Christmases past, of her daughter, in Australia. It was an entirely different way of life.

  Alexa noticed that even Elfie was content and smiling, and obviously delighted that the pastor had come to join them at their celebration meal. Alexa had enjoyed arranging that surprise. She felt much less irritation with Elfie nowadays, for she fully understood the reason why her cousin had become what she was: Frank. No wonder, Alexa thought, he’d never found a wife! She took delight in slyly pointing out his sister’s achievements since her arrival here: how she shone in the Ladies’ Circle, how she was teaching the mission girls to knit and sew. She had even put Elfie up to telling her brother Frank, ‘I am entitled to adequate time off, Frank. You drink and smoke with your pals; my interest lies with the mission.’

  ‘With that pastor, more like,’ he had grumbled. Alexa thought this much nearer the truth than he imagined, the old curmudgeon.

  She had actually delayed moving on because she felt that she was helping her cousin in her quest for a truly new way of life, by championing her cause. Also, Fay and Molly had settled so well, particularly since the advent of Nancy.

  She’d give Frank more food for thought today, Alexa decided. The workers, including Nancy, had been given the day off; Henny, being far from home, had eaten with them, but made vague excuses and retired to the bunkhouse after the meal. ‘You and I, Frank, will tackle the washing up,’ she’d said, ‘while Molly takes Fay off to bed. Why don’t you entertain Ernst, Elfie, while we’re busy?’

  Only Molly rightly interpreted the innocent expression on Alexa’s face.

  *

  Nancy certainly had no reason to want to be at home on Christmas Day; not that she could tell Mrs Nagel that. She chose instead to go to the hotel and to help there. Ma agreed. ‘You’ll get a better meal there, gal,’ she said. ‘With any luck, they’ll all be stupefied with the drink when you get back . . . ’

  Maybe I’ll be out of all this soon, Nancy thought, trying to boost her spirits. Dear Ma, well, there’s no escape for her. I only hope she buys something for herself with the money Mrs Nagel gave me . . .

  But washing up, despite the mountain of dirty dishes, came to an end eventually. Nancy walked slowly home afterwards, thinking how different to hers Molly’s day would have been.

  *

  Molly felt strangely restless when she had settled Fay down. She didn’t want to go and play gooseberry to Elfie and Ernst in the parlour. Elfie, she thought, bemused, was obviously not too old at all to have romantic feelings. Alexa and Frank were already arguing, she could hear them, over who should scour the saucepans. She wished Nancy was here so that they could play a traditional board game or two. Suddenly, she felt very homesick. This wasn’t like Christmas in England at all.

  On impulse, she went quietly on to the back veranda that opened off her room. She had humped and arranged a spare mattress there earlier, declaring her intention to sleep out. Startled, she realised that she was not alone. Someone was leaning on the veranda rail. She almost screamed, but of course, despite it being late, it wasn’t yet dark, and it was only Henny.

  ‘I guessed you would come out here sometime,’ he said calmly. ‘You are not going to bed yet, surely?’

  ‘At ten o’clock on Christmas evening?’ she asked, quickly recovering her composure.

  ‘Will you sit and talk with me for a little while, Molly?’ He pulled forward a veranda chair. ‘I have something for you – nothing at all, really. I like to carve wood with my knife sometimes.’

  ‘Whittling,’ Molly said, ‘that’s what we call it, Henny. Well, aren’t you going to give it to me, then?’

  He gravely handed her a little wooden horse, smoothed and polished. She fingered the pale wood, the tiny hooves, the curve of the head and neck. This was carving she thought, not idle whittling. She cleared her throat. ‘Thank you, Henny, it’s lovely, I didn’t expect—’

  ‘I know you didn’t,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll keep it always.’ She really meant it.

  ‘I hope you will. Molly, did I upset you when we rode together that morning? You hardly speak to me since.’

  She looked up from the little horse, unsure what to say.

  His hand covered both of hers, still holding his gift in her lap. She was instantly reminded of the night in the forest. ‘You held my hand before . . . ’ she whispered.

  ‘I didn’t know you realised,’ he said slowly. ‘It was impertinent, I think.’

  ‘I didn’t mind at all. I fact, I
liked it. You spoiled it all,’ she added childishly, ‘when you said what you did, you know . . . ’

  ‘Shall I say I am sorry? Is that what you want?’

  ‘I think,’ Molly said softly, ‘I would like you to kiss me, Henning Rasmussen.’

  ‘Not here,’ he said. ‘Come. A walk, and you may change your mind, Molly.’

  ‘No, I won’t,’ she said. She was sure of that.

  He put an arm casually and lightly round her shoulders.

  ‘You shiver,’ he exclaimed, concerned, feeling the slight tremor through the thin stuff of the pretty muslin dress, which Elfie had painstakingly mended for her.

  How could she tell him that she was shaky with excitement? They were at the bunkhouse. ‘Wait a moment,’ he said, ‘I fetch a coat for you, Molly.’

  She followed him just inside the door, and waited as he took a jacket from a hook. There were four bunks, covered in drab blankets, all empty tonight, and a strong smell of rank tobacco, and of kerosene from the lamp.

  Molly closed the door behind her. He looked at her, startled, offering the coat. ‘You can kiss me here,’ she said. ‘Just to wish me a happy Christmas, you understand.’

  ‘I understand, I think,’ he said slowly.

  ‘This will be my first real kiss.’ She was being painfully honest. ‘Just think, Henny, I’m eighteen— ’

  ‘That’s all,’ he told her, ‘one kiss. No more. Then we go walking, or you go back to your veranda.’

  She made the first move to close the gap between them. He put his hands lightly on her shoulders, ensuring that they were still a little apart, then bent his head. It was a brief kiss, certainly not passionate, she admitted to herself later, but warm and nice, all the same. A proper kiss: on the lips.

  ‘Now, just down to the stables to see that all is well,’ he told her, wrapping the jacket round her and pushing open the door. ‘Or we may expect a search party, eh?’

  Rusty whinnied and came toward them, poking her head over the stable door, nosing at the familiar jacket, which sure enough had a few lumps of sugar in the pocket.