An Uncommon Woman

by Nicole Alexander

  ‘And who are you? A big cat expert?’

  The lad ignored him. ‘What will you do if no-one buys him?’

  ‘Someone will buy him eventually, and if not and the mother doesn’t squash him flat,’ he made a slicing motion across the animal’s neck, ‘kindest thing.’

  Edwina gasped. ‘You wouldn’t?’

  The young man caught Edwina’s eye. ‘So it’s a good deal then. Me giving you a fiver and working off the rest.’

  The man appeared to be contemplating the offer. He stroked the cub thoughtfully.

  ‘You won’t get much for a dead baby lion.’

  ‘Wise little cove, aren’t you?’

  The lad persisted. ‘A fiver is better than nothing.’

  Next door, the elephant sucked up water from a bucket, spraying it at his minder. The onlookers clapped and cheered as the elephant man wiped his face and pretended to chastise the massive beast. In response, the mammal flapped its ears, blinking amber eyes. The crowd roared their approval.

  ‘There’ll be another town, sonny. Another place. That’s the thing about a travelling circus. There’s new towns, new people and new opportunities at every bend of the track.’

  ‘There you are.’ Mason was at Edwina’s side. ‘Sorry about that. Time to go. We thought we’d have drinks and dinner and then return for the show.’

  ‘I won’t be coming, Mason,’ Edwina explained apologetically. ‘I can’t. I have to go home.’

  ‘Really? You’re sure?’

  Mason actually looked disappointed and Edwina, although harbouring mixed feelings towards him after what she’d overheard, was quite desperate to let him know how much she’d enjoyed the day.

  ‘Are we going?’ It was Janice. She waited with her three friends, fingers tapping the material of her dress. It was clear by the woman’s stance that Edwina’s company wasn’t wanted.

  ‘I can’t, but thank you, Mason.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘You heard what the lady said.’ The would-be lion-cub purchaser placed himself slightly in front of Edwina. ‘If the lady has had enough of your company, then she’s had enough.’

  ‘Is that right, Edwina?’ asked Mason. ‘Have you had enough?’ Although he addressed her, the comment was directed to the stranger.

  Awkwardly caught between the two men, Edwina hesitated. How could she possibly tell Mason what a wonderful afternoon it had been with this interfering man standing right next to her?

  With her hesitancy Mason’s demeanour changed. ‘Then you and your friend here best make tracks before it gets dark.’ He tipped his hat politely, taking in the other man’s worn suit, before rejoining his friends.

  Edwina took a step after them and then turned abruptly. ‘Who do you think you are? Making a scene like that?’

  ‘Me making a scene?’ He gazed lazily at her attire. ‘Apart from the fact you’re dressed like a man,’ he pointed out, ‘usually when a woman has a man annoying them and a well-meaning person steps in to help, thanks is in order. My name’s Will.’ He held out a hand.

  ‘He wasn’t annoying me.’

  One of the attendants was speaking through a handheld megaphone. The menagerie was officially closing. Edwina and Will were caught up with the departing visitors.

  ‘Move on. Show’s over, folks!’ one of the circus workers yelled.

  In the commotion, the seller of the lion cub bent down to pick up the cage on the ground, leaving the larger cub momentarily unattended. Quick as a flash, Will removed his coat, left the fiver on the table with a pebble on it, snatched up the lion cub and ran.

  The cub owner yelled in protest as Will weaved through the remaining people, the lion hidden within the folds of his coat.

  ‘You!’ The grey-bearded man pointed a bent finger at Edwina.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You’re his accomplice. I saw you talking to him.’

  ‘I wasn’t. I didn’t.’

  ‘Saint Julian, you’re a woman.’ Retrieving a whistle from his pocket, he blew hard and the shrill noise brought a number of attendants running.

  Edwina didn’t wait to explain. She rushed after the thief, intent on clearing her name, aware that people were searching for her. The departing crowd provided a shield before she caught sight of a man running between two large woodpiles. It was him. She was sure of it. Edwina guessed he would head towards the river away from the town, the circus and the open paddock surrounding the spectacular.

  ‘Stop,’ she yelled, giving chase. ‘Stop!’

  He veered around a camp fire where a group of men relaxed. The workers looked up disinterestedly, calling out a few rough remarks. Edwina ran on. Will enjoyed an impressive lead but it was easy to pursue him. The sun was yet to set and although shadows stretched across the ground, his figure could be clearly seen. Her father’s fedora now clutched in one hand, hair flying, Edwina ran past an assortment of smaller tents, a cookhouse, sleeping quarters and an ablutions area and then chased the thief, who was heading straight for the tree line and the safety of the river where he vanished among saplings.

  ‘Ridiculous,’ Edwina reprimanded herself, coming to an abrupt halt. She clutched at paining ribs, breathless and annoyed. The sun would set in a blink. The thief was gone and Aiden was yet to be found. There was nothing for it but to try and leave the circus grounds unnoticed.

  Something hard struck her head and Edwina landed face first in the dirt. She lay quite still, a throbbing sensation robbing her of all sensibility. She tried to breathe and found she couldn’t, attempted to roll over but her body refused to obey. Then the ground began to move and the air rushed into her lungs. Grass and pebbles grazed her cheek, branches bruised her clothed skin. With a shock Edwina realised that she was being dragged across the ground.

  ‘Help me.’ The words were a whisper. ‘Please.’

  She was flipped onto her back. Edwina heard material and buttons rip and then she was fighting, punching into the air, trying to hit whoever attacked her. The sting of a slap stopped her efforts.

  ‘It’ll go better for you if you’re quiet. What we got here then? A trinket.’

  The locket chain was pulled taut against her neck.

  ‘You got any other fancy baubles, girl?’

  Edwina gazed onto a crown of greyish hair as the man examined the locket.

  Pinned though she was, her fingers scrabbled frantically on the ground for a branch or rock. Feeling something long and rough, she seized the branch. Held her breath. Lifted her arm.

  A loud thwack broke her concentration and the attacker fell sideways, the weight of his body replaced by a shadow before a fading sky. The length of timber still in her hand, Edwina felt the wood extricated from her grasp.

  ‘You’re okay now, miss. You’re okay.’

  He was sitting her upright. Doing up buttons. Straightening clothes. When he lifted her into his arms, Edwina began to cry.

  Chapter Eight

  Hamilton’s favoured position at the Guild was a corner table vacated three years ago by the passing of an aged squatter. The spot provided a clear view of arriving members, was close enough to eavesdrop on those seated nearby and yet still afforded the privacy required for business transactions. The main room was dimly lit, the windows all but concealed with heavy damask curtains. Overhead three rather plain light fixtures of six parchment shades apiece shone weakly on the occupants, some of the wealthiest pastoralists in the state.

  There were fifteen men in the room and Hamilton knew exactly how much each man was worth, down to the last pound. He knew when their forefathers had arrived in the district, the size of their original and current holdings and their bloodlines. In order to be a member of this club, which the current custodians of wealth and privilege had established for those of their kind, one practically needed a blood test. When it came to the occupation of lending money, however, there were other elements that required consideration. Hamilton made it his business to know whether their enterprises were well managed and fruitful, each man’s
temperament and eccentricities and if he were faithful to his wife. Mistresses were not uncommon, although he was yet to benefit from any shared confidences.

  The risk level was paramount in every transaction and Hamilton had not prospered in his chosen enterprise without first weighing up a client’s flaws. He drew the line with gentlemen who couldn’t keep their brood in hand. Reputation was everything. Which was why, after some of the scandalous gossip he’d heard regarding wayward children over the years, his own two offspring were kept safely away from the enticements of the modern age.

  Hamilton returned the greetings from the clusters of men scattered around tables and at the long mahogany bar. His acceptance into this strictly men’s-only domain had been granted for two reasons. Firstly, he did know everyone’s business and had been instrumental in some middling-sized transactions of land over the past two decades, so keeping him within the circles of influence was to every member’s advantage. Secondly, his great-grandfather had once sat on the board of the powerful Australian Agricultural Company in London. This fact in itself elevated him to the higher echelons and almost but not quite obliterated the stain of his profession. It was one thing for a man’s services to be recognised and needed, his ancestors approved, quite another for him to be accepted at social gatherings beyond these tongue-and-groove walls.

  ‘Hamilton,’ Peter Worth, Guild President and owner of five stations stretching across the border into New South Wales, beckoned him from where he sat in the middle of the room. Hamilton recognised the President’s companion, Tom Clyde, whom he’d met on two separate occasions a year ago. The man appeared in Wywanna only if something big was afoot. Owner of a large holding in the Riverina and a racehorse enthusiast of renown, when not dabbling with Melbourne Cup place-getters, he was vocal in selecting the next big thing in racing. Recent newspaper reports had the man stating that a horse named Phar Lap that placed second in the Chelmsford Stakes at Randwick only a few days ago was going to be the next horse to watch.

  ‘Sit, old chap,’ said Peter.

  Hamilton joined the men, exchanging greetings. Peter Worth was not improving with age. While his frame remained sinewy and upright, gravity pulled at a face marked by childhood illness and flaccid skin.

  Andrew was at their table immediately, placing a glass at his elbow, pouring a nip of whisky. ‘And will you be joining us for dinner, Mr Baker?’ the lad politely enquired.

  ‘Well, of course he will be,’ replied Peter irritably, scratching at a pockmarked cheek. His attention wavered between the men at the table and the far end of the room.

  Tom gave the boy an encouraging nod as he walked away. ‘You have them well t-trained, Peter?’

  ‘It’s a simple formula,’ the President responded. ‘The committee selects staff based on association and merit. Andrew’s the son of the Vice-President’s manager. If they breathe one word about what transpires within these four walls, well, that’s it. One goes, they all go.’

  ‘R-really?’ Tom’s surprise was evident.

  ‘These days you have to lay down the law with these young whippersnappers.’ Peter swirled his whisky. ‘Besides, a lad like Andrew, well, being trained up by Carmichael is akin to attending a Swiss finishing school.’

  Carmichael, resident chief and manager, had been persuaded to leave the employ of Sydney’s Australia Hotel. Blackmailed, Hamilton decided, was too hard a term. The man should have kept his trousers buttoned.

  ‘Hamilton grows wheat,’ Peter explained to Tom. ‘A waste of fine grazing land in my view.’

  ‘A side interest,’ said Hamilton, raising the glass so that the whisky barely touched his lips. ‘Having spent more money than I care to acknowledge trying to eradicate that blasted prickly pear I’m not going back to clearing scrub again.’

  ‘Sheep will keep any g-growth under control,’ suggested Tom, ‘once the land’s cleared of this d-dratted pear. Or c-cattle. I’m quite partial to a good line of c-cow flesh.’

  ‘Don’t bother trying to convert the man, Tom,’ said Peter. ‘We’ve all attempted to make him see the light, but he’s been led astray by the likes of those growers who have a penchant for being providers of bread.’ He lifted his hands in mock despair.

  ‘Th-there are many in my area who are turning to c-cropping as well,’ said Tom. ‘But up here in the west, well, the c-climate’s too unfathomable for my l-liking. More h-hot than cool, more dry than w-wet.’

  Hamilton nodded politely. The dapperly dressed grazier positively reeked of money. A scent so appetising that most people never noticed the stutter that grew more pronounced when he was excited.

  ‘Quite.’ Peter held the table’s attention as he stuffed the ball of his pipe with tobacco, sucking on the end, a match lighting the weedy filling. ‘But tell us, have the Somervilles arrived?’ Smoke escaped with each word, his gaze settling on the rear of the members’ area where a single door displayed a brass shingle claiming the room as that of the President.

  Hamilton wondered what captured Peter’s attention. The office was off limits to all but a select few and never without the President in attendance.

  ‘Baker? The Somervilles?’ repeated Peter.

  Hamilton expected the note in his pocket to contain the details of his upcoming meeting with the custodians of Ridgeway Station. It was best not to conceal what these men obviously already knew. ‘I hope to meet with them quite soon.’ There appeared to be interest in Ridgeway Station from Worth and undoubtedly Tom Clyde as well, otherwise the Riverina man wouldn’t be party to this conversation.

  ‘I see.’ For a third time Peter glanced at the door at the far end of the room.

  ‘Is there something the matter?’ Hamilton finally enquired.

  The office door swung open and a man stepped out into the members’ area clutching a folio of papers. A rough-looking individual, with a pistol jabbed through his belt, he sized the room up with an arcing gaze and then walked straight to the bar. He could have been middle aged but it was difficult to tell his face was so sun wizened. The men present backed away slowly and fell silent. Hamilton stood with the others, not knowing the reason, conscious of the scraping of chairs and then a period of wordless waiting. The stockman at the bar ordered a rum, a tumbler full, and drank it straight. Then he lurched back against the polished mahogany, perching on his elbows, a Cuban-heeled boot resting on the brass guard running the length of the bar.

  The second man who exited the President’s room was barrel-chested and tall. He glanced about the Guild’s interior, sharp-eyed, knowing.

  Hamilton felt the air leave his body as Angus Gordon, not more than thirty years of age, placed a battered wide-brimmed hat on his head and, singling out the President, approached their table.

  ‘Peter,’ the two men shook hands, ‘appreciated.’

  ‘Not a problem, Mr Gordon, anytime.’

  Hamilton shuffled forward but the boy-man was already leaving, the other members clearing a path as he strode out of the club, followed by the stockman.

  ‘Be seeing you, Pete. Thanks for the drink,’ the stockman said as he left.

  ‘No problems, Luke. Dinner next time you’re in town?’

  ‘You know I’m not the indoors type.’ He smiled good-naturedly.

  ‘Come with me, gentlemen,’ said Peter.

  Hamilton and Tom followed the President to the office, their progress keenly followed by the other members, Hamilton still trying to process what he’d just witnessed. ‘I didn’t know the Gordons were members?’ he said as the normal sounds of the Guild started percolating once again.

  ‘They’re not.’ Once inside Peter flicked on the light, gesturing to the men to settle themselves in the comfortable leather armchairs. Hamilton was instantly at home, reminded of the plush Sydney offices he once had. With the thought came the familiar feeling of loss.

  ‘What are they doing in Wywanna?’ asked Hamilton. The President’s office was lined with darkly polished timber. A bookcase filled a wall, its contents more suited to a soli
citor’s rooms than a private men’s club.

  ‘Part of their wool clip is coming through here and they’re looking at land. I have no idea where,’ explained Peter. ‘It’s only the second time I’ve seen young Angus. Luke, on the other hand, can be relied upon to pass through here every three years or so. He never got droving out of his blood.’ He sat at a large desk, its surface cluttered with rose-coloured folders tied with string, a bronze cow holding down a sheaf of loose papers.

  ‘But he’s –’

  ‘Half-brother to Angus?’ completed Peter. ‘Yes, unlike most dynasties with more than one son, Luke wasn’t interested in taking on the reins of the business. It makes for a much easier succession.’

  Tom remarked on the age of Angus Gordon; Hamilton, however, wasn’t interested in such things. Behind the desk was a map of the world, British sovereignty coloured in pink. Hamilton fixed on the place of his ancestors while contemplating Peter Worth deferring to another. The stepping stones in life may well be spaced differently but there was still water to be crossed no matter your station in life.

  ‘Any thoughts as to the Somervilles’ intentions?’ asked Peter.

  Hamilton could quite easily hazard a guess, but it was not any business of Worth’s, at least not until he’d ascertained the most advantageous position from his own viewpoint. But he knew how to play the game, perhaps better than Peter Worth, who’d taken up his seat behind the desk with a smile verging on smug. ‘No. I have a somewhat tenuous relationship with Ridgeway Station’s manager. Mr Fernleigh and I are not on convivial terms.’ Admittance to this inner sanctum was not to be treated lightly. There was some joy in that.

  ‘A matter of straying stock,’ the President explained to Tom. ‘Still, requesting a meeting with a neighbour – yourself, Hamilton – would suggest they want to divest themselves of the property.’

  Hamilton nodded. ‘It’s my understanding that the Ridgeway twins came of age last year in regards to the terms stipulated in their parents’ will.’

  ‘They are in their twenties?’ asked Tom.