An Uncommon Woman

by Nicole Alexander

  Edwina recalled the sightings of blacks on the property. Stories Aiden and she attributed to tired men working long, lonely hours in the bush. She knew then in her heart that Davidson had most probably delivered his tribe to safety. ‘Your people are on our land.’ It wasn’t a question, more a confirmation of fact. ‘Hide them well, Davidson, for I’m sure you know the law.’ The stockman concentrated on the blade in his hand. ‘I want her to tell me the truth.’ Edwina gestured to the girl. ‘Go on.’

  ‘We’ve been down near the crick.’ She glanced at the stockman. ‘On the southern side. Been there nine years we have.’

  ‘Nine years.’ Edwina thought of the stories of aboriginals having been sighted on the property. ‘How many of you are there?’

  ‘Twenty-seven, miss. Some of the men, well, they work on other runs and come home on their days off. They want be with their families without having to travel back and forth to the mission to see them. It’s too far.’

  ‘And you’re one of their children?’

  ‘Yes, miss. I didn’t want to be taken away from my family so we all stay together. Davidson says your father is a good man and he wouldn’t make us leave.’

  Edwina felt the stockman’s stare. ‘My father doesn’t know,’ she pointed out. ‘Are you related to Davidson?’

  ‘Yes, miss. He’s my husband.’

  She tried not to appear surprised; however, the knowledge that so many of Davidson’s kind had been living unknown on the property, that their stockman was married, made her feel foolish. They’d been taken advantage of and yet Edwina couldn’t feel angry. ‘And do you have children?’ To Edwina’s dismay, Constance began to weep. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘My baby died, miss. But I did it because I had to. Because if I keep it maybe it will be taken away. If it was found,’ she looked to her husband, ‘if we were found.’

  ‘By the authorities,’ completed Edwina. She didn’t like the sound of this. Had Constance killed her child on Davidson’s order because they couldn’t bear the thought of it being taken from them?

  ‘So many children have been taken before.’ Constance rubbed at her eyes. ‘I’ll have more babies, with Davidson.’

  ‘And the baby you lost,’ asked Edwina, ‘are you saying Davidson wasn’t the father?’

  ‘No, miss. It was a white man. He saw me one day when I was out near the main road and he ran me down and had me. I still loved the baby, but he was half-white.’

  And a half-caste child, if found, would be taken from its mother. ‘I’m sorry, Constance. One day I hope things will be different.’

  ‘So do I, miss.’

  How many laws did the world have to have? It seemed to Edwina that both she and Constance were bound by a society that felt justified to dictate how they should live their lives. ‘And what of the man that attacked my father?’

  ‘If Davidson did find him, miss, he be floating down the crick by now. Reckon he’d be further than an emu can run in a day by this,’ said Constance.

  Not having been blessed with the ability to speak was one thing, but Davidson’s general demeanour did little to endear. He was a tough, wiry sort, born under a tree for all they knew. It was the bush he returned to at night, although no humpy of his was ever discovered. Now Edwina knew otherwise. But Davidson’s loyalty to his employer could not be doubted. His bedside vigil was the proof of it, if the fact needed validation. And only he had the ability to track their father’s attacker down. And if indeed the assailant was dead, then Davidson’s loyaly was doubly proved.

  Edwina sucked on the chicken bones and thought about the blood on his hands. Had he killed and what would it mean for them? Nothing, she prayed. No doctor was called to the house and Davidson couldn’t bear witness. Whether anyone else could was another matter. Across the table, the stockman pushed a thumb against a glinting blade. She shoved the plate of chicken in his direction. ‘Eat,’ she said, and he did. Now here she sat, Edwina Baker, breaking bread with her father’s man. The black factotum, the white-eyed crow. And possibly a murderer? She could never condone his recent actions, but she respected the stockman and was grateful for his guardianship.

  There was a hessian bag on the dirt floor. Davidson opened it, stabbed the knife inside and drew out a piece of prickly pear. It was wilted, clearly dying, like the specimens seen this morning at Ridgeway Station.

  ‘I saw this too,’ said Edwina. ‘It must be the cactoblastis. Do you know what this means? It means we’re saved.’

  Davidson showed a tooth by way of a smile. It was the most animated the black had appeared for years.

  Edwina prodded the withered plant. She knew there were large tracts of land made worthless by the pear’s infestation – land that would eventually become fertile and useable again, once the pear died. The Agricultural Gazette’s articles were detailed in the damage done by the plant and the acreage involved across Queensland and New South Wales. Some owners, like them, were nearly broken by it. Edwina stabbed at the plant with a bread knife, twirling it thoughtfully. What if those owners wanted to sell but couldn’t find a buyer because of the uselessness of the land? Would there not be an opportunity to buy up a large tract of acreage for a low price, knowing that eventually the pear would die and the land be returned to them?

  ‘I want you to show me where you found this, Davidson?’ said Edwina.

  ‘Oh, he show you,’ said Constance. ‘You boss lady now.’

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Having risen early and dressed with care, Edwina drove into town in the buggy, accompanied by Han Lee and Davidson. They’d left at daylight before the opportunity arose for Aiden to stop her, before she could think better of what she was about to do. The previous evening had been arduous. Placating Aiden in regards to her Ridgeway Station visit and sharing her hopes of a positive outcome did little to improve his attitude. Aiden continued to rebuke her for her involvement in the circus crime and showed no sign of understanding or forgiveness. The one bright point was the arrival of the aboriginal girl, Constance. Aiden didn’t care where she came from as long as she was capable of cooking and cleaning house, so she was yet to share the news about the presence of the aboriginals on the property.

  The road was quiet. A brown track rutted by the passage of wagons and horses. A cloud-patched sky and the stretch of bush on either side. Close-knit in places, as if intentionally secreting what lay beyond, at others, opening out to allow the passer a glimpse of life. Cattle, sheep, a hay-filled corrugated iron shed leaning dangerously to one side, the remains of a dwelling, all fallen brick and timber, only part of the fireplace remaining. Edwina clasped the side of the buggy as they traversed a particularly rough patch of the road, wishing she’d brought more than the rolled shawl to cushion her lower back. They passed Mrs Landry bucketing water onto an ailing sapling outside the inn, the old woman turning her back as they passed. At the sight of this landmark Edwina couldn’t help but think of Will’s kindness. If he did return, she was now not so sure how she would greet him. Her father’s illness filled most of her thoughts and Mason the remainder.

  ‘You are quiet.’ Han Lee slowed the horse as a kangaroo bounded across their path.

  She smiled in reply. Edwina thought Han Lee would be a talkative companion, and was pleased to find they’d both been content to travel in silence. Until now.

  The Chinaman looked over his shoulder at a trailing Davidson, clearly uncomfortable by his presence. ‘I still would have preferred to have seen your father, Edwina. I may be able to help. You should have told me of the accident sooner.’

  ‘I’m sorry, my brother took control of our father’s needs,’ she answered. The Chinaman’s skills were never considered, an error on Edwina’s part considering how her face had recovered. ‘He is sitting up and managing some speech. A great improvement compared to how Davidson found him.’ Han Lee, although willing to act as chaperone on her trip to Wywanna, had been more than reluctant to leave without seeing his new employer. ‘It is p
ossible it isn’t the palsy and that Father’s injuries are directly related to the fall from his horse.’ Her father was improved but clearly agitated. He spoke in blustery strings of words like an oncoming storm soon to blow itself out. To the ignorant his babble meant nothing, suggesting some mental incapacity, but he was coherent enough for Edwina to guess that the lion may have made an unwanted appearance at the homestead. A not unlikely event as the little animal was probably hungry.

  ‘I hope so and I am pleased to hear that, for one of the men brought news yesterday that your father proved successful in the brokering of land on our behalf. I am most grateful for his assistance.’

  Edwina knew little of this business but was happy her father was able to help Han Lee and his people. He was a good man and Edwina was pleased to have him by her side this morning. Coming to town was difficult enough without doing so unchaperoned, again, although undoubtedly her companion would set tongues wagging afresh.

  ‘I will give you tea for your father.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Edwina wondered at the mismatch of remedies, Davidson with his acrid smoke and black man’s knowledge and the man beside her from across the sea.

  Han Lee gave a single nod. ‘This is not my business, but I wonder at why you must travel to Wywanna, Miss Edwina, when your brother could do so in your place.’

  ‘Is it so very unconventional?’

  ‘For certain stations in life, yes. My apologies. This is not my world. It is yours.’

  Yes, it is, thought Edwina. Or it could be. A world with many possibilities. The dying prickly pear, great swathes of which were pointed out to her by Davidson on an adjoining property yesterday, presented an opportunity too great to be ignored.

  ‘If there is anything I can do?’

  ‘There isn’t, Han Lee, but thank you. Thank you for agreeing to accompany me.’

  ‘I think you must walk in your father’s footsteps,’ said Han Lee. ‘This is an admirable quality.’

  Was it? The past week was one of mixed emotions. Annoyance, sadness, shock and bitter disappointment permeated Edwina’s thoughts, altering her beliefs and skewering forever the relationship of father–daughter. Now, however, she couldn’t help but wonder if she and her father were more alike than she cared to admit. The startling idea she’d arrived at after seeing the demise of the prickly pear offered every possibility of being a sound venture, an investment that would free them from the life they knew, although Edwina recognised it would take some years. And yet something else propelled her to Wywanna, thoughts that went beyond her concern for Aiden’s lack of business acumen and she acknowledged the force of it. This was an opportunity to prove to her father that she was more than a daughter who’d made bad choices. She may be a woman, but she too was capable of great things.

  By mid-morning the town grew slowly in size, changing from a horizon of indeterminate buildings to more recognisable structures, the water tank and clock tower, the peaked roof of the two-storeyed Royal Hotel and the golden dome of the bank. Han Lee flicked the reins and the horse trotted sharply across the town bridge. Davidson overtook them at the other end and, turning his mount south, followed the dirt track that bordered the slow-moving river.

  ‘He does not come with us?’ asked Han Lee.

  Davidson rode under a dogwood tree, shirt tail flapping.

  ‘Don’t worry, he’ll be watching from a distance.’

  They turned into the main thoroughfare, a haphazard assortment of weatherboard and brick buildings most single storeyed, some two, lining the street. Two vendors were doing their best to entice customers to their carts of fruit and vegetables, their voices competing for dominance as they sold their produce in the cooling shadows of the awnings. It was a busy Saturday morning bustling with horses, drays and pedestrians, the scent of baking bread and the tangy stench of manure overriding all. Ahead a bullock wagon was lumbering along the road. Taking advantage of the wide street planned specifically for their movement, the bullocky cracked a whip and let out a warning yell before coercing his team and the load of wool bales to turn left at the next intersection.

  ‘Where would you like me to take you?’ asked Han Lee.

  ‘The Post Office, please.’

  They halted outside the building and Han Lee assisted Edwina down from the buggy. She straightened the calf-length skirt and fitted jacket of serviceable brown wool, tucking a length of blonde hair beneath the straw hat. The clothes were far from fashionable, having belonged to her mother, but they were tailored and of good quality, more suited to this expedition than the lone tubular dress she’d taken to the circus in the saddlebag and never worn. ‘Han Lee, could I ask you please to go to the Lands Office? I need a map of soldier settler blocks in Queensland. I specifically want to know what the current price is for land infested with prickly pear and who might be willing to sell. Cheaply.’

  ‘Is this your father’s wish?’ The Chinaman appeared doubtful.

  ‘Of course. Anything you can find out about land prices, location of properties, the quality of the soil before the pear infestation, grasses, carrying capacities –’

  ‘This is not something I have knowledge of, Miss Edwina.’

  She touched his arm. ‘Please, Han Lee, just find out what you can for me. It’s important.’

  ‘And this venture of yours, I mean your father’s, Miss Edwina, is there a place for me, in a business capacity?’

  He was shrewd. Edwina removed her hand from the warmth of his arm. ‘In a business capacity,’ she repeated, knowing intuitively that she could trust him, that she would forge ties with not only this man but also the people who followed him, ‘yes.’

  ‘Then I will find out what you need, for I think you are an uncommon woman.’

  ‘And you, sir, are the most uncommon of men.’ They shook hands, agreeing to meet in two hours further down the street.

  Edwina felt the stares of loitering bystanders as Han Lee left. A white woman with an oriental as her companion was not a usual sight. And as she was an infrequent visitor to Wywanna, most people probably considered her a stranger. There was comfort in that. Head erect she walked into the Post Office building and straight to the bank teller who handled accounts for those customers not in business with the edifice across the road. Having announced her name, Edwina asked to see her father’s passbook. She knew it was kept in the safe here for she’d accompanied her father last year, waiting quietly in one of the chairs lining the wall as he checked his deposits.

  The teller stared at Edwina with more than a passing interest. ‘I can’t just show it to anyone, miss,’ he told her, dabbing at the perspiration on his face and neck with a ratty handkerchief.

  ‘I’m not anyone. I am his daughter.’ She tugged off her mother’s too-small leather gloves. ‘And I wish to see his passbook as a deposit is to be added to his savings.’

  ‘You’re his proxy then, are you?’ The teller, white-haired and jowly, appeared satisfied. ‘I’ll be needing a letter of authority.’

  ‘I have no such thing. My father had an attack of the palsy last Thursday and is invalid. Surely you can help a daughter attend to a father’s request.’

  The teller rose reluctantly. ‘As it’s for a deposit and not a withdrawal …’ he mumbled, his tone suggesting he had better things to do as he selected a document from a stack of papers and then walked to a large cupboard, inside which sat the safe. Pencil clenched between his lips, he rummaged about the interior then returned to the counter with a bundle of passbooks. ‘Yes, monies have been deposited.’ He ran an ink-rimmed nail down the list he read. ‘To a Hamilton Baker.’

  So then, Charles Ridgeway was a man of honour. Mason’s friendship with such a person now seemed right and proper.

  ‘Would you like me to write the amount in your father’s passbook?’ He sorted through the pile. ‘Here we are, H. Baker. Baker’s Run.’ He looked across the counter. ‘There is quite a substantial withdrawal as well, miss, made yesterday morning. I’ll write that up too.’ The teller beg
an filling in the passbook in tiny cramped writing, his face bent close to the counter. ‘So, there’s ten thousand pounds remaining,’ he said discreetly, showing her the entered figures, ‘plus the addition of the sum recently deposited.’

  ‘Who withdrew the other money?’ The amount was considerable.

  ‘I really couldn’t say, miss.’

  ‘But you must know. I mean this has been withdrawn while my father has been ill.’

  ‘I only have dates and amounts, miss, but I would imagine he gave authority for the withdrawal before he took ill.’

  ‘You understand that as his proxy I don’t want any money being withdrawn unless I say so.’

  A short, curious queue of customers was lining up behind Edwina. The teller placed his hand on the passbook, but Edwina claimed it before the man could return the document to the safe. ‘I’ll keep hold of it, for my father,’ added Edwina, slipping the bank record into her handbag. ‘Now please, you must be able to tell me who made that withdrawal?’

  The man looked over her shoulder, then back at Edwina, his voice ingratiating. ‘I can help you if you tell me what happened to that lion. For instance, your father was here on Thursday. Saw him I did. He sent a telegram and chatted to young Tufty over there.’ He gestured to the telegraph counter.

  Edwina’s grip tightened on her mother’s purse. ‘So I should speak to him?’

  ‘The lion?’ he encouraged.

  There would only be the slightest of chances that the telegraph operator would recall the contents of the message, and even if he could there was undoubtedly some regulation preventing him from disclosing the contents. ‘I didn’t take the cub. I was simply in the wrong place.’ The press of bodies grew closer. If there was ever a time to attempt to clear her name, this was it. ‘Besides, if I were guilty don’t you think the police would have arrested me by now, especially if I’m unstable?’ The men and women in the stuffy timber room were talking softly, but not quietly enough for her name to be mistaken. Her voice grew louder. ‘Do you think I would be in town attending my father’s business a mere week after the event? No. Of course I wouldn’t. I hope the story has given the town and district much to talk about, but surely there is another tall tale to think on now.’