Chapter Three
Edwina and Aiden observed the automobile warily from across the boundary fence as it weaved between the deeply furrowed trunks of the towering brigalows. The vehicle moved slowly along the dirt road, carefully detouring left and right as if the gleaming metallic object was aware of the foreign environment it travelled through. Within the open machine sat the driver, his face concealed by goggles and a low cap. Accompanying the man was one other passenger, a female judging from the multi-coloured scarf billowing in the wind. The woman resembled a parakeet, Edwina thought admiringly, barely noticing the wallaby they’d been tracking as it bounded away low and fast into a wall of wicker-like bush.
‘He’s gone.’ Aiden reluctantly drew his attention away from the automobile and gave a huff of annoyance, replacing the rifle in its holster.
‘Do you think they saw us?’ asked Edwina.
‘We’re on our farm, they’re on theirs,’ he countered. ‘Did you see that automobile? A Model T Ford. I’m sure of it. What on earth is an automobile doing out here?’
‘It’s probably just as well you didn’t shoot with them on the other side,’ Edwina cautioned, secretly pleased for the escaping wallaby.
‘Maybe I should have,’ came Aiden’s reply.
The vehicle vanished behind the pendulous green leaves of flowering wilgas and low scrub.
‘You’d think the Ridgeways would do something about the numbers,’ complained Aiden. ‘I must have shot near one thousand kangaroos and wallabies over winter.’
Edwina’s horse grew restless. She gave the animal a reassuring pat. ‘They probably don’t know anything about it. How could they when they don’t live here anymore? Besides, the Ridgeways have their excellent manager, Mr Fernleigh, to keep an eye on things,’ Edwina finished sarcastically.
‘Yes,’ agreed Aiden, ‘excellent.’
Three miles of their dividing fence adjoined Ridgeway Station and it was this portion they now rode along. It wasn’t a large border to share by any means but it seemed that size proved inconsequential such had been the disputes between the two properties over the past few years.
‘I wonder who they are?’ said Edwina, speculating about the twosome sightseeing on the forty-thousand-acre sheep station next door.
Edwina and Aiden took off as one, galloping their mounts along the fence line until the trees and shrubs began to lessen, revealing open woodlands patched with grazing sheep. They halted again behind clumps of prickly pear where there was a clear view of the road. Here the automobile reappeared, scattering recently shorn animals before slowing to a complete stop. The driver stepped out of the vehicle and slammed the door shut, the female passenger joining him. Edwina noted the lean silhouette of the woman’s dress, the way the material, falling just below her knees, glimmered in the sunlight, and was suddenly conscious of her own masculine attire, her brother’s seconds.
‘A flat tyre, maybe?’ suggested Aiden, as the driver examined one of the wheels.
A cooee sounded from the scrub and a man appeared on horseback.
‘Who is that?’ asked Edwina, taking in the heft of the man and the wide-brimmed hat.
‘Who are any of them?’ countered her brother.
The rider circled the automobile and then slid from the saddle in one fluid movement. The strangers talked briefly and then the driver and his companion returned to the vehicle, slowly driving away. The rider remained stationary on the narrow bush track as the vehicle was consumed by trees and bushes, the noise of the engine gradually fading.
Aiden tightened his grip on the reins, as the rider flung himself up into the saddle, turning the horse towards the boundary fence. ‘He’s probably seen us, E.’ They nudged their mounts from out behind the cover of the prickly pear, moving directly into the stranger’s line of sight.
It was impossible to make out the features of the man. He sat tall in the saddle, a hand on a hip, unmoving, observing. Edwina wanted to lift a hand in greeting, to call out hello. But something stopped her. It was as if there was more than the wire fence separating them. A lot more. Was this the eldest Ridgeway? The elusive son and heir? ‘I think we should leave,’ said Edwina uncomfortably. Not waiting for an answer she kicked the mare in the flanks.
‘Do you think that’s them? The Ridgeway twins?’ asked Aiden, their horses matching stride for stride. ‘I always doubted they’d ever come home. It’s years since their parents died in that car accident. Father said the family made their fortune with steamboats on the Darling-Barwon Rivers. If I was them I’d be living the high life in Brisbane too.’
They rode back along the edge of the cultivation, where green plants stood thick and tall in the rich earth they’d cajoled from bands of timber and pear. Six hundred acres were planted to wheat and their father hoped for thirty bushels an acre come harvest, a not inconsiderable amount. Hoped for was exactly the right term, Edwina decided. Rain remained average for the year.
‘Did you know the circus was coming this week?’ asked Edwina. It was a subject she’d tried to raise repeatedly since yesterday when the ringbarker had alerted them to the imminent arrival of the spectacular.
‘The Carbeen paddock will look like this eventually.’ Dismounting, Aiden walked into the crop before dropping to his knees to dig in the soil with his hands. ‘There’s a bit of moisture there.’
‘I would rather see that new area allowed to go back to natural pasture,’ Edwina told him. ‘I’m sure we’d do better running more livestock rather than planting further acres to wheat. There’s just not the money in grain.’
The frown line between Aiden’s eyes deepened. ‘You’re not going to start arguing with Father again, are you, Edwina?’
‘Of course not; it’s just that I’ve made some calculations and I know my idea would work.’ Inside her trouser pocket were the figures she’d been working on for the last few weeks that showed the benefit of keeping their new development crop-free. Her fingers briefly touched the folded paper. ‘I thought you might like to see my notes.’
‘You always were keen on pen and paper,’ Aiden answered. ‘What were you saying about the circus?’
Edwina sighed. ‘Aiden?’
‘It doesn’t matter what I think.’
‘Of course it does. Father listens to you.’
‘That doesn’t mean he’ll agree with me,’ answered Aiden. ‘Why can’t you be happy with the way things are?’
‘Don’t you want to diversify? At the very least, introducing some cattle would make things more interesting. Why, if everything went well, eventually we might be in the position to buy more land. We certainly can’t do any worse than what we are now.’
Aiden looked up to where Edwina sat on her horse. ‘More land? I don’t want any more land.’
‘Oh. I thought –’
‘That’s the problem, you’re always thinking. It’s a hard enough job doing everything around here as it is. I don’t want any more work and I don’t want to read any figures,’ stated Aiden. ‘Now let’s change the subject. What were you going to say about the circus?’
Edwina knew there was little point getting angry. Although at this very moment she felt like screaming in frustration. ‘Last year I saw the Martins in town the month after Colby’s came through,’ she began. ‘Miraculous, Mrs Martin told me. There were dancing bears and prancing horses and everyone was there,’ explained Edwina. ‘Mrs Martin was quite pointed about it, implying that we were quite out of step with things. If Mother were still alive I’m sure we’d attend every year.’
But Aiden was walking past the damaged edges of the crop until his palms brushed unsullied flowering heads. A pleased smile graced a full mouth and the elegant panes of a face that would have sat far more comfortably on a woman had he not been born with a deep furrow between chin and lip.
‘I’d rather not shoot the kangaroos and wallabies, E.’ He placed hands on hips, surveying the clipped edges of the crop where native animals fed through winter.
Edwina disliked th
e killing of animals, but they needed every grain.
Her brother was stepping out a square and counting the plants growing within. Obsessed, that’s what he was, Edwina decided, obsessed with the growing of things that couldn’t be grown, at least by them. In some ways she wished the wildlife did eat them out; then maybe their father could be dissuaded from continuing with the growing of wheat and consider some other alternative that might actually make some money. ‘You know, Aiden, you might try counting the grain in one of the heads of wheat and multiplying that by the number of plants in your square.’
Her brother did as she suggested, prising free the soft green wheat. A few minutes later a look of consternation crossed his features. ‘There’s not much here.’
‘Exactly,’ answered Edwina. Maybe now he would tell their father that the harvest would be poor once again.
‘I’m sure it will still be an excellent crop.’
Edwina closed her eyes in dismay.
‘Are you coming?’ Aiden sprang into the saddle. ‘Father will be home from Wywanna by now.’
Dense trees and naturally open country gradually replaced the wheat fields as they cut cross-country to trace the creek that wound through their land. The horses whinnied quietly as they padded single file along the bank, sand flicking up from beneath their hoofs. Further along the sloping ground a goanna scuttled out from under the carcass of a sheep to race up the trunk of a tree.
Aiden drew up beside the dead animal. ‘One of Ridgeway Station’s escapees, I guess.’ He peered at the ewe’s head.
‘Come on,’ urged Edwina, ‘it smells.’
The horses were eager to move on and they rode two abreast, the sun striking the surface of the water where the overhanging timber allowed, dabbing it with flashes of light and highlighting patches of the green-brown eddy.
‘Do you hear that?’ questioned Edwina. ‘That noise?’ It was a faraway sound, dampened by the stretch of stubby bushes and trees. ‘It sounds like a child.’
‘Bowerbird,’ replied Aiden knowledgeably. ‘You know how they like to mimic.’
‘It’s very lifelike.’
Birds fluttered and promenaded before them as they left the creek. The grasses, although short, were green and fresh beneath their horses’ hooves as they zigzagged through saplings and prickly pear, hopping mice darting clear of the horses.
Ahead, their comfortable homestead gradually came into view. Late Victorian in style with symmetrical gable ends, the appearance of the building was much improved by the addition of slate and louvre venting covering the windows on the building’s facade. The house sat in the middle of a myriad of trees, encircled on three sides by their father’s impressive orchard, while the front was hemmed by a row of stately gum trees. As a child, Edwina believed the building had been placed amid the fruity grove by some mythical titan from another world. The reality was quite different. Their father was the builder, along with a workforce of men, some of them barely trained in the mechanics of construction, a fact evident on closer inspection. The walls didn’t quite join uneven floors, the roof leaked and the timber boards were gappy at best. Not that the makers could be wholly blamed for such faults, for the soil beneath the foundations was a living, breathing thing, contracting and swelling depending on seasons, whether wet or dry.
The four rows of orange and lemon trees, in which thirty-eight remained of the original planting, stretched their branches out across the roofs of the weatherboard house, stables and chicken roost, boughs interlocking in an intricate web of timber, leaves and fruit. From some angles the homestead wasn’t visible at all and one had to look carefully to see that the leafy mat that appeared suspended above the house was in fact its roof. The corrugated iron was almost perpetually covered with leaves and quite often fallen fruit.
‘Race you!’ yelled Aiden, urging his mount onwards. Apart from the orchard, there was no garden to speak of, or fence. Chickens and turkeys scattered in all directions as they raced across the papery bark discarded by the gum trees. Five large dogs bounded towards them, circled the galloping siblings, and then with a series of excited yelps raced back towards the house. The horses whinnied in protest as the collies retreated, jumping onto the verandah. They ran excitedly along the length of the floorboards encircling the building. Edwina winced as a loud crash sounded and then the dogs reappeared, skidding around the corner of the verandah. On sighting the master of the household, they slid under the house.
The bulky figure of Hamilton Baker appeared at the front door, holding a pipe, his other hand clasping a jacket lapel. Striding to the large gong suspended on the verandah, he hit it repeatedly, as if there was no sign of his children, before retreating indoors.
Edwina tugged on the reins a little more sharply than necessary as they drew up next to the hitching rail outside the house. There should have been something comforting in the familiarity of their father’s ways; instead she felt a spike of annoyance. Why couldn’t he just wave at them? He could see them after all.
Davidson appeared and, without a word, spat on the ground, nodding a greeting of sorts.
‘Thanks, Davidson,’ Aiden said with a smile. ‘We won’t be using the horses again this afternoon.’
The man looked at him blankly and, untying the horses, led them around the rear of the house to the stables. Edwina watched him leave. Noticed the straight shoulders and soldierly gait. It had always unsettled her having a mute working on the property, she didn’t know why. Perhaps it was simply because Davidson was vital to the running of their business and yet he was unable to voice an opinion and they in turn never knew what he was thinking.
‘So when Father asks,’ said Aiden, ‘we checked the fence and patched it.’
‘I think we should tell him we haven’t got to it yet,’ cautioned Edwina. ‘You know what he’s like.’
‘I’ll do it this afternoon. Just for once can’t you let us have a moment’s peace?’
‘Okay, but I’ll not be responsible if he finds out we’ve told a fib.’
Standing forty feet away from the homestead, sitting squarely on the dirt, was the kitchen hut. Edwina and Aiden jostled each other in the doorway, calling out greetings to the cook. Mrs Ryan barely acknowledged them as she returned canisters to a wall of shelves, each tin landing with a thud and accompanied by a mumble of angry words. She paused to touch the upturned lucky horseshoe nailed to the shelving before directing her tirade at the filthy rag hanging from her apron. The single room with its large wood stove was filled with the debris of a woman whose skills didn’t stretch to tidying as she worked. Dirty dishes, spilt flour, vegetable peelings and what appeared to be the innards of a number of eggs were strewn across table and workbench. Sidestepping a trail of ants on the dirt floor, Edwina and Aiden washed up in a large porcelain bowl, the water a greasy brown from the morning’s cooking. They stood side by side, nudging each other playfully as they reached in turn for soap and water.
‘I’ll be needing more water carted from the crick.’ Their cook wasn’t one for asking politely. ‘The well dried up this morning. Ain’t a spit in the bottom worth bucketing.’ She stood at the large wooden table, leaning down to clear a space with a meaty forearm. Once accomplished, she began ladling beans and potatoes onto three plates. ‘About time you two were home.’
Aiden tossed the towel to his sister. ‘No water again?’
Mrs Ryan blew air into her cheeks in reply. ‘That’ll be four wells dug these past three years. There be experts, you know. Why, my brother once told me about a man who walked the country with a forky stick.’
‘You mean a forked stick,’ corrected Edwina, drying her hands.
‘Gifted he was. Point the forky stick he would and then he’d be a-saying, dig there,’ Mrs Ryan pointed to a spot on the dirt floor, ‘there be water right there, he’d say. And low and behold, a body would dig and there would be water.’
‘He was a diviner,’ explained Edwina.
The cook scowled. ‘I can’t tell you the look of the
man; whether he be divine or not was not the point, young lady, but he could find water.’ She gave a sniff. ‘You tell Mr Hamilton that I’ll not stay if he can’t do something about the water.’
It was true there’d been some troubles with their water supply. The rainwater was lost when the tank bottom rotted during winter and since July they’d been relying on creek water for the washing of everything and the dwindling well with its increasingly brackish offering for drinking water.
‘Hopefully we’ll get rain soon.’ Aiden did his best to comfort their Scottish housekeeper, reminding her that the tank was now repaired and that all that was needed was a fall of rain.
Mrs Ryan looked pointedly out the window at a blue sky. ‘We’ve three barrels of drinking water left.’ The subject of water addressed, she eyed Edwina’s clothing disapprovingly. ‘It would be nice for once if you two changed before sitting down to eat.’ She wiped greasy fingers on her apron, before tucking wispy hair under her cap.
‘It would be nice if one had the time to do so,’ Edwina countered.
‘It’s not dignified, just not dignified I say,’ the woman continued. ‘It’s bad enough you’re out in the fields day in, day out, working like one of them factory girls in the city, but appearing like you do at table. Well, what if someone called?’
‘Like who?’ asked Aiden with interest.
The cook, flustered by the question, grew ruddy cheeked. ‘I don’t know,’ she replied, slamming the salt cellar down so hard that Edwina thought it would split in half. ‘Maybe one of them fancy gentlemen your father conducts his affairs with.’
‘And have you ever seen one of father’s business associates here at the farm?’ Edwina’s question confounded the Scotswoman. With a huff she carried a serving dish of roasted mutton outside, mumbling for them to bring the vegetable-laden plates. The well-trodden track between house and kitchen was freshly swept, with mouldering orchard leaves piled neatly on either side.
An Uncommon Woman Page 3
