by Clare Flynn
She woke with the realisation that they had stopped moving. The light had faded into dusk, so she must have been asleep for several hours. Kidd had unhitched the pony from the trap and it was a few yards away, feasting on a patch of grass by the roadside. Kidd was coaxing a fire, over which he had hung a frame to support a billycan. Elizabeth walked a short distance along the road ahead. The trees gave way to a space where the darkening sky was visible in a broad sweep. They were on the side of a ridge or plateau but the night was descending fast and she could only just make out the mountains, black against the dark grey sky. She would have to wait until morning to see if these mountains were as beautiful as Mrs Little had claimed.
Kidd called to her that the tea was brewed. When she reached him he spoke for the first time since they had left the city. 'I've made the brew. But it's the last time. That's your job. I like it strong with three sugars.' He handed her a chipped enamel mug with a dirty piece of string attached to the handle. 'Wash the things afterwards in the stream over there.'
He took up his own mug and walked away to sit against the trunk of a tree, curling back into his silence. Elizabeth sat down on the grass, leaning against one of the wheels of the cart as she sipped her tea. He had added sugar and she wrinkled her nose in distaste, but made herself drink the hot liquid. She realised she was hungry. She had eaten nothing since the slice of dry toast she had forced down that morning and then thrown up.
She finished the tea and walked over to collect Kidd's cup. 'Where we will be staying tonight, Mr Kidd?'
'Here. After we've eaten. There's some jerky and bread in the bag in the back. Fetch it here. Washing up can wait till morning. But do it quick. I want to move as soon as it's light.'
'We're not taking shelter in a guest house? We've passed quite a few.'
'I'm not paying to stay in someone else's house.'
'We can't sleep out in the open and there's no room on the trap,' she said.
Kidd jerked his head at the back of the cart and the rolled up pile of oilcloth.
'You mean we're to sleep in a tent?' There was disbelief in her voice.
'No tent. Under the stars in a swag.'
'What about wild animals? Where do I wash? Change my clothing? I can't sleep in the open.'
'Welcome to Australia, your ladyship. Wash down there in the stream. Water's cold, mind.' He pointed to where the ground sloped away under the trees.
Kidd unrolled the canvass swag bag, spilling a mix of pots, pans, boots and assorted items of clothing onto the ground. He showed her how to arrange the swag, the calico cover acting as a ground sheet with a couple of blue blankets on top and the clothing rolled into a makeshift pillow. Elizabeth shuddered at the prospect of sharing that grubby and likely uncomfortable sleeping accommodation.
After their meal of cold jerked meat, bread and another mug of strong tea, which in Kidd's case was supplemented with a large tot of whisky, he belched loudly then walked a few yards away, turned his back and urinated noisily and copiously. The man was a savage, but the sound of him made her realise she needed to relieve herself too, so she walked back down the road, out of his sight and hearing. Struggling to adjust her underclothing, in the now almost impenetrable darkness and chill air, she wondered what she had come to.
She looked around to see if there was some way she could avoid taking her place beside Kidd in his swag. She thought of lying down in the cramped space at the back of the trap and covering herself with layers of clothes, but Kidd called out to her:
'Get over here, woman. I'm not waiting all night. We've an early start tomorrow.'
Elizabeth reminded herself that she could not afford a delay in consummating the marriage, if she were to pass off the baby as Kidd's. She unlaced her boots and slipped under the rough blue blanket beside her husband, trembling with dread. Almost immediately he began to snore. She sighed with relief and tried to sleep herself. She shivered in the cold of the cloudless night, aware of the unfamiliar sounds of the bush. Terrified that a strange animal might come and attack them, she lay rigid beside the sleeping man, staring up at the stars. The constellations of the Southern Hemisphere were different from the stars she had grown up with. It was indeed another world and she was far from everything familiar. About to cry, she reached in her pocket and found Michael Winterbourne's handkerchief. Holding it in her hand she felt calmer and turned on her side, her back to Kidd and at last slept.
Sleep was short-lived. Kidd was pressing up against her, his body curved into the spoon of her back. His erection pushed against her and then his arm was over her, pulling her onto her back. He was half asleep. It was the middle of the night.
Consummating her marriage to Jack Kidd was a short-lived ordeal. He unbuttoned his trousers, pulled down her undergarments, spat on his hand and after rubbing it quickly between her legs, climbed on top of her. She closed her eyes and whispered 'Don't hurt me' then with a few thrusts it was all over. He rolled off her onto his side with his back to her.
After a couple of moments he echoed her words, ' "Don't hurt me" – that's rich! I've bought second hand goods.'
Before Elizabeth could respond, his snores were permeating the quiet of the glade. She lay on her back and watched the stars. The first day of her married life was over. But Kidd knew she was not a virgin and would surely find out she was having another man's child. How stupid she had been to think he could be deceived. If he found out she was pregnant, he might throw her out. Only a few days ago she dreaded marrying him and now she was afraid of being abandoned. What would she do with no means of supporting herself and a baby? Her mind was in ferment as her anxieties crossed the divide from thoughts into dreams.
When she woke next morning, Kidd was nowhere to be seen. The sky was lightening and the clouds were tinged with pink. She scrambled to her feet and gathered the cups and plates they had used last night and headed over to the stream. The ground fell away in a steep descent. In front was a panorama of mountain ranges and valleys. A sea of eucalyptus trees covered all but the vertical sections of mountain, breaking the cragginess of the rock face. Over it all there was a hazy blue canopy, a sapphire mist. It was so lovely a sight that she wanted to cry out.
Australia was a beautiful and wild country. For the first time since leaving Trevelyan House, she felt hope and a sense of purpose. There on the edge of the mountain, in front of the vastness of the scenery before her, she squeezed the white cotton handkerchief and imagined Michael standing beside her, his hand holding hers.
Her daydreams were interrupted when Kidd shouted. 'Get a move on, woman.'
They resumed the journey in silence, the pony plodding on along the road through the mountains, passing small settlements and farmhouses, but never stopping.
Elizabeth stood on the threshold. The gloom of the interior contrasted with the brightness of the day outside, but the darkness could not hide the disorder of the place, nor could it mask the smell of mildew and rotting food.
Kidd had gone. He had dumped her in front of what was to be her home and with a crack of his whip and a mumbled statement that he would be back the following day, guided the pony and trap on down the dusty road towards what she presumed was the nearest town.
It was a large, single storey, wooden dwelling, with a makeshift veranda. It looked as though someone had tried to enhance the appearance of the place by tacking on the veranda decking, but had become bored or called away to other tasks before the job was completed. The wood was untreated and the railings only partly inserted, so it was sad and dilapidated. There was a hole in the planking where the wood had rotted and someone had put a foot through. It was hardly more than a hut: to call it a house was an act of generosity.
Elizabeth turned her back on the building, lacking the strength yet to face what might be inside, and surveyed the land surrounding the property. A well-worn dirt path led to a shed at the side that was probably a stable for the pony. There was another hut with a tin roof and a metal water pump. Between the house and the rough track Kidd
had driven off along, there was a tangled mass of brush and a stretch of earth thinly covered in browned grass. Even to her untrained eyes it was clear there had been no rain for a considerable time.
At the back of the house the paint was cracked on the wooden slats and around the window frames. There was a water butt and a tree-trunk with a rather rusty axe embedded in its surface. Against the back wall was a pile of logs covered in cobwebs and a collection of long-dead bugs that looked like wood lice. The scrub stretched for a few hundred yards, before giving way to a dense growth of gum trees. Elizabeth walked back to the front of the house and looked in the direction Kidd had taken, but there was no sign of other dwellings, just the dusty track, a sea of scrub and the ubiquitous eucalyptus.
She moved her bags onto the veranda from the side of the track where Kidd had dumped them. Taking a deep breath and covering her mouth with her handkerchief, she stepped inside, leaving the door open. As she entered, there was a scuttling and scrambling. Mice, or worse, rats. Or more likely possums. She stepped gingerly across the room towards where she thought a window might be. The shutters were just a few boards hammered together and held in place by a bit of string tied at each side to a large nail. They were evidently intended to serve in place of curtains as well. She untied the string and lifted them down from the window. As the light forced its way through the grime of the windowpane, she looked around in disgust.
It was one big room. Everything was a jumble. Against the rear wall was a large unmade bed, its covers slipping onto the floor. The bedclothes looked as if they hadn't been laundered in months. Beside the bed, a small table made from a tree-stump and a piece of plank, bore an oil lamp and a dirty glass. She picked up the glass and saw there was a thick culture growing inside on the residue of what might once have been beer. A table was shoved under another window, which had the same quasi shuttering as the other - this time propped on the table, there being no windowsill. She reached up and undid the string and lifted the wood to the ground. The windowpane was as dirty as its fellow, but with a crack running from top to bottom ending in a triangular hole. On the table was a bowl of dirty dishes, the remains of a mouldy loaf, an onion that was oozing liquid and competing with the bread, the dishes and the whisky glass in a mould-growing contest. A rag rug lay on the floor, pieces of grubby ribbon fraying at the edges. It looked as though whatever she had heard scuttling away when she'd entered, had been devouring the rug. A stove stood in one corner, its surface covered in grease and baked-on food. The only other furniture was a rocking chair, draped with clothing, and a large, battered trunk.
Depressed and dispirited, Elizabeth went outside and sat on the edge of the crumbling veranda, her head in her hands. She would not cry. She was past crying. She had no tears left. She thought bitterly of Peggy's words that at least she was marrying a rich man and would want for nothing. If Kidd was a rich man, he did not believe in flaunting his wealth.
When he'd left her at the roadside, telling her he would be gone for a day, she had enjoyed a short-lived pleasure at the prospect of being alone and setting up her home. But this shack was fit only as a home for a pig. But that was what it was. Jack Pig. She allowed herself a smile.
'Elizabeth Morton, you've led a cosseted life: servants to wait on you; agreeable friends to amuse you; nothing too onerous to do, except teach a few charming but talentless children to play the violin. Now let's see what you're made of!' She jumped to her feet.
'I won't let him reduce me to living like a wild creature. I've never done housework before but by God I'll do it now. I'll make this hole a fit place to live if I die in the process!'
An hour later, the contents of the primitive dwelling were stacked on the ground in front of the veranda and Elizabeth, hair piled under a scarf, was at work with a broom. The dust was thick and the broom missing half its bristles. Her throat burned as she laboured, pausing every few minutes to cough. The floor could not have been swept in months, probably years.
Under the bed, amid a jumble of shoes, a dirty plate that had mould growing on the mould, and an assortment of socks and undergarments, she found a rolled up rug. After a hefty beating with a piece of planking over the rail of the veranda, it appeared in reasonable shape and wasn't too faded. It would add a welcome touch of colour to the otherwise drab interior. She consigned the other moth-eaten rag rug to a pile of items to be burned, then set about washing the now clean swept floor.
As the day progressed, she realised she was tired and thirsty. Her pregnancy made her tired after only moderate exertion. Even walking, a pleasure she had always pursued with a passion, wearied her now. She cursed her condition, then pushed the thought to the back of her mind. There was no point in dwelling on it. Better not to think about it. It was too painful to imagine the child growing inside her. With an effort of will, she pulled herself back on her feet and after drinking some water straight from the pump, she pumped a bucketful and set about washing the bedding and then the dishes. At least the effort stopped her from feeling the cold.
As the light began to fade, she stood in the doorway, hands on hips and surveyed her handiwork. The room was still spartan and ugly, but at least it was clean. She had done all she could with the materials available. A couple of old prints of some long-forgotten English town now hung on the wall near the table. She had found them in the bottom of a cupboard. The crockery was clean and neatly stacked on a shelf she had made from an upturned wooden box. When he returned, she would ask Kidd for a hammer, nails and some paint so she could make a more permanent solution. The bed was made up with clean sheets she had found in the trunk. The other sheets were hanging on the washing line. Her finishing touch was a brightly coloured shawl that had taken her fancy when the ship called at Tenerife. She draped it theatrically between a couple of nails across the wall over the bed.
There was one last task she wanted to do before turning in: to burn the pile of rubbish. She could cook the potatoes Kidd had left her in the embers and boil up water for tea. Cleaning the stove inside the house would be her task for tomorrow and meanwhile she would enjoy a meal under the stars tonight. She set about lighting the fire.
'What do you think you're doing, you stupid idiot?'
Before she could turn towards the voice, she was pushed out of the way and landed on the ground like a sack of flour. She struggled to her feet. A young man was pouring a pitcher of water over the still small flames of the bonfire. Discarded on the ground nearby were about half a dozen fish, tied together with string.
'You trying to burn the place down? And everything between here and town? And the whole town too? What the hell do you think you're doing?'
'How dare you!' she yelled. 'Who do you think you are? This is private property. I can burn a fire here if I choose.'
He looked at her, the nascent fire having been quenched. 'Don't you know about bush fires? We've had no rain in weeks and a fire could burn the whole county out and destroy everything in its path. If you want to light one, you dig a hollow first. Then you put in just enough to get it going and add more bit by bit so you can stay in control. Make sure the wind isn't going to blow the sparks straight in the path of a tree or a building. This place is all wood and it's dry as a dead dingo's donger. It'd go up like a box of kindling.'
He was little more than a boy: about sixteen or seventeen, but tall and already quite broad around the chest. His hands looked as though they had already seen a lifetime of labour. Bright white teeth and shaggy blonde hair contrasted with the warm tan of his skin. He wore a checked shirt and dirt-encrusted overalls.
He moved towards her, rubbing his hands down the side of his overalls then stretching one out to her. 'Sorry, Miss. I'm Will Kidd. I didn't mean to shout at you like that. But if you'd seen a bush-fire you'd understand why.'
She took his proffered hand. 'I'm Elizabeth. I didn't know that Mr Kidd had a child?'
'Not just me – there's Harriet too – Hattie we call her - and we've an older brother, Nat, but we haven't seen or heard from him
in years. He may be dead'
'Where's Hattie?'
'She lives in town with the schoolteacher. Hattie's eighteen. She's been there since Ma died, five years ago. Pa said it wasn't suitable for a young girl living with us men. But who are you, Miss? Pa didn't tell me to expect a guest.'
'I'm not a guest, Will. Your father and I are married.'
The boy looked stunned. 'Married? Pa? He said nothing about getting hitched.'
'I'm sorry to surprise you like this. It must be quite a shock.'
'I never thought he'd marry again after Ma died. Never seemed to show much interest in anything after she went.'
Elizabeth's capacity for surprise had significantly diminished since landing in Australia. 'I'm sorry Will. It must have been hard for you, losing your mother at such a young age. I lost my mother too just a couple of years ago.' Embarrassed and silently cursing Kidd for placing them both in this situation, she blundered on. 'It must be difficult to get used to your father marrying someone else after your mother. I can't think why he didn't tell you about me. Or me about you for that matter. ' Her voice trailed off in embarrassment.
'You're very welcome here. I'm just surprised – though not that Pa should want to marry you – you're a beautiful lady.' He looked at her wide-eyed.
'I had no idea about you and your brother and sister, Will. I know next to nothing of your father and his circumstances. He was a friend of my own father; I met him only briefly before we married.'
The boy grunted, 'Didn't think the old man had any friends.' He was about to ask another question, then seemed to realise it would be inappropriate to enquire further.
Anticipating his discomfort, Elizabeth said, 'I arrived from England three weeks ago to join my father in Sydney, but he died just a few days earlier.' Her eyes welled with tears. She brushed them away and turned her head so the boy would not notice.
'That's real sad' he said. 'You coming all that way and getting here too late.' His voice was tender and he moved towards her. 'I expect you're feeling pretty low. I know I was when Ma died. Pa and I never had much to say to each other and since she went, we hardly speak at all. I miss her. And your Ma's dead too?'
