Liam's Story

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  The town was well-established, formed mainly around the crossing of the routes between Melbourne and the south-east, and from the hills in the north to the coast. The former became a broad main street, shaded from the intense heat of mid-afternoon by immense red-barked gums. At the crossroads stood a grand town hall, faced by shops and hotels clearly designed to impress by their size and two-storied grandeur. To one who knew the age and permanence of cities back home, Dandenong was no more than a small, brash child; but it was confident despite its rawness, and in his weary, shabby state, Liam was not sure he was equal to its demands.

  It had been a dry, ten-mile hike from the hills, and he was in need of a drink and a wash. Resting on his haunches with his back against a tree trunk, Liam spent a good while watching the comings and goings from various hostelries, and eventually chose not the smallest, but the one whose customers were least concerned with their attire.

  His decision was confirmed by the approach of a labourer from the blacksmith’s shop. In dusty moleskins and an open-necked shirt, the man had overseen the shoeing of two sturdy horses before casually taking his leave and crossing the road to the hotel. As he passed, he glanced at the figure beneath the tree and gave him a nod in greeting. A few minutes later, Liam slowly gathered his things together and followed. The man was at the bar, ordering a beer. Liam went through to the washroom, so thankful for the sight of water running from a tap that he dipped his head to drink even before sluicing hands and face. In the cracked, fly-blown mirror his reflection was something of a surprise, the face much leaner and harder than he remembered, cheekbones pared of the flesh, jaw revealed as having a grim, determined set to it. His skin, now that it was free of dust, was a rich, golden brown, hardly the look of a recent arrival. The image pleased him; even the dark gold stubble glinting along his jaw marked him out as a man, not a boy.

  Feeling suddenly more confident, he raked the remains of a comb through thick, dusty hair, tucked in his shirt and slapped a hand over corduroys that were tattered and frayed; his boots were beyond hope. A moment later he was in the bar, ordering a large beer with what remained of his last day’s pay. With luck, he reflected as the cool, bitter liquid slaked his throat, there would be enough to order a meal; if not, he must go hungry. Thirst, however, was not something he could ignore.

  The man he had followed into the hotel was still leaning against the counter, having little to do, apparently, but take account of the small company gathered in the dark, bare room. Without bothering to disguise his curiosity, he watched Liam drink, smiling as he set the glass down.

  ‘Looks as though you needed that.’

  ‘Been on the road,’ Liam admitted ruefully. ‘It’s a dry walk from the hills.’

  ‘Thought I hadn’t seen you around.’ He fished a squashed packet of cigarettes from his breast pocket and offered it to Liam. ‘Smoke?’

  Trying to disguise the depth of his gratitude, Liam accepted; he had been without tobacco for days, and the beer had released afresh all his longings for a cigarette. Less openly than his companion, he indulged in a little observation himself. Close to, the man was younger than he had thought, late twenties, perhaps, shorter and stockier than Liam, with the walnut tan that goes with near-black hair and dark brown eyes. There was intelligence and good humour in the lines of his face, although Liam noted that the nose had been broken at some time and a deep scar bisected one eyebrow, lending his companion an eternally quizzical look. His expression seemed to be asking questions even when nothing was said, so that Liam found himself talking, about his situation, his most recent travels, and the need for work.

  For a moment the other man narrowed his eyes, and the glance that ran over Liam was surprisingly hard and shrewd.

  ‘Well,’ he announced, ‘I won’t pretend you’re in clover here, no matter what they told you up north. There’s been a bit of a drought, as you must’ve noticed, and bosses are laying men off, not setting ‘em on.’ He pursed his lips for a moment. ‘Still, it’s not bothered us too much where we are, and we’re a bit short-handed with the harvest coming on. The boss might be willing to set you on, but there again, he might not. Depends. Can’t promise anything, but if you want to come out with me, it’s worth a try.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘All right, if you’re straight. He’s a Welshman, came out here about thirty years back, with not much more than the clothes he stood up in. He’s done pretty good though. His name’s Maddox.’ The young man grinned. ‘And mine’s Hanley. Ned Hanley. The old folks – my Dad’s folks, that is – came out from Tyneside, way back. Where’re you from?’

  ‘Yorkshire.’

  ‘Good cricket team, that. You’ll be right,’ he said with an encouraging grin. As though the matter had been decided, he ordered two more beers.

  He assumed Liam could ride, but Liam had no experience with horses. In the end they both walked, leading the freshly-shod mares along the dusty road, the distance a little over five miles.

  It was beautiful country, gently rolling grassland interspersed with woody pockets, the meandering lines of eucalypts following various watercourses down from the northern hills. On horizon they curved away, deep blue in the falling light.

  Every so often there were stands of ghost gums, trunks and branches white against dark foliage, bent and twisted shapes reaching out like wraiths across the fields. There was something beseeching about them, a strange, other-worldly beauty that Liam felt he would have painted, if only he knew how. And then he thought of Georgina, how well she could have portrayed them, and how she would have exclaimed over this strange land. A family of kangaroos, disturbed by their approach, went leaping and bounding away. As Liam stopped to admire them, Ned cursed his lack of a gun; they were pests, he said, breaking fences, ruining crops, a nightmare for every farmer in these parts.

  Their presence underlined the difference of this landscape, and yet with its lines of trees and well-defined fields, cattle grazing here and there and crops ripening into late-summer gold, it was not entirely strange. It was a land being tamed by Europeans, and to Liam’s eyes it bore a familiar stamp. This was a place where he could settle, where he could learn to love the land; he was suddenly anxious to be accepted by Ned Hanley’s boss.

  A broad, five-barred gate bearing the name MADDOX, marked the entrance to the Welshman’s land. It was a spread of almost a thousand acres, Ned said, with various crops and a few acres of vegetables, but the main interest was beef cattle. Behind good fences which lined the red dirt drive, Liam saw some of the herd munching contentedly beneath the trees. In a paddock close to the house horses grazed, no thoroughbreds to be sure, but good, sturdy cobs suitable for hard work.

  Behind a colourful, fenced-off garden sat the house itself, long and low with deep verandahs and a corrugated roof. It was hardly a colonial mansion but it spoke of permanence and solid assets. Maddox was not a man struggling in the wilderness, he was well-organized and here to stay. Liam admired that, knowing, as he weighed all before him, that he wanted the same for himself. One day.

  But every man has to start somewhere. Waiting for Ned to find the farmer and explain his presence, Liam sensed this was the first rung on his particular ladder. Anxiety gnawed at him. He wanted, with an urgency which astonished him, to be accepted here.

  Ewan Maddox was short and heavily built, with thick, iron-grey hair and black eyes which missed nothing. He was also a man of few words, his questions limited to essentials. In return, Liam was as honest as he needed to be, saying he knew little of farming but was keen to learn; and without false modesty claimed to be a good worker. That much he was sure of. He gave his name, as he had done since leaving home, as Bill Elliott. The short, hard, masculine name appealed to him in his new persona, far preferable to the soft diminutive which he had accepted but never understood until that last day. Liam was the name by which his family knew him; Liam represented the Irishness which came from Robert Duncannon, a man he would never acknowledge as his father. No one else, he sw
ore, would ever use that name again.

  Knowing nothing of the young man’s background, Ewan Maddox weighed him with shrewd eyes, assessing height and bones and the whipcord slenderness produced by too little of the right food. Gauging what he might become, the older man asked him to give a hand at shifting some sacks of grain in the barn. Liam performed the task with ease. Maddox told him he was hired, on trial, for a month.

  Delighted, Liam stammered his thanks, but Maddox had turned away, while Ned simply winked his approval and told him to come across to the bunk house and settle in.

  The men’s quarters faced the back of the house, opposite kitchens and storehouses and the quarters where the female servants lived. Usually, Ned said, there were two, but one had recently run off with one of the hands, so if Liam wanted to stay, he advised him not to make eyes at the other girl.

  ‘Mrs Maddox has had enough of it,’ he grinned, ‘so we’re all on a promise to keep ourselves to ourselves!’ He went on to give a potted history of the family, explaining that the eldest son and daughter were both married and living elsewhere, the son managing his in-law’s farm for them. Another daughter, Mary, was a nurse at the big hospital in Melbourne, so they didn’t see her too often, but she was a decent sort, not stand-offish at all. Then there was a son at university, supposed to be studying agriculture, Ned said dryly, although when he was at home he spent most of his time out in the bush, looking at trees and collecting flowers.

  ‘Never make a farmer, won’t Lewis, no matter how hard the old man pushes him. He’d rather be a whatchamacallit – he did tell me, but I forget – somebody who studies plants, he said.’

  Liam grinned. ‘Botanist — was that it?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the word.’ There was a spark of mockery in the other man’s sudden amusement. ‘Don’t tell me you had an education?’

  ‘Not really – I just read a lot.’

  ‘Well, you won’t find many books here, mate – the most we get to see is the weekly paper.’

  ‘Never mind – I’ll get by.’ Liam dumped his pack by the wooden bunk indicated. Like the walls it was constructed of solid baulks of timber, roughly planed and pegged together. Unlike most of the others it had no bedding, but Ned Hanley explained that Mrs Maddox kept that sort of thing in the house. In a lean-to outside was a pump with an overhead shower, a stone sink with a tap, and a couple of cubicles. Mrs Maddox saw to the laundry, but she expected the men to wash and shave regularly.

  ‘If you pass muster, you eat in the kitchen, like family – if you don’t, you eat on your own, out here!’

  It sounded fair enough to Liam. After weeks of living rough, he could hardly wait to get under that shower.

  It was good to be rid of dust and grime which had accumulated despite his frequent resort to mountain creeks; better still to don the clean if ill-fitting clothes Mrs Maddox lent him while his own were laundered. Refreshed, Liam’s only problem after that was an empty, grumbling stomach. Shortly after seven, that too was taken care of. In the cool of evening the farmer’s wife doled out massive plates of stew and dumplings, followed by hearty portions of fruit pie and cream. Liam ate till he thought he would burst, grateful for every delicious mouthful.

  Mrs Maddox, he decided, was sharp but kind, as voluble as her husband was silent, and still with the sing-song accents of her native Wales. With her prematurely white hair and long pointed nose, she reminded him of a little Jack Russell, lots of bark and a few nips to the ankles, but basically affectionate. He thought he would like her.

  Until they had the measure of him, the other hands treated the newcomer warily, but in his months at sea Liam had learned something of diplomacy and the value of a smile. He said little, kept his past to himself and worked hard.

  Arriving just as the harvest was about to begin, Liam was plunged immediately into an exhausting regime, up at dawn to follow the reaping machine, stacking the stooks into neat pyramids, while the stubble stabbed at every exposed bit of skin. It was hot, dusty, back-breaking work, yet he enjoyed it, falling into bed just after dark to sleep the sleep of the just.

  Mrs Maddox and Ella, the general help, milked the handful of dairy cows and worked the kitchen garden, releasing Mr Maddox and all six hands to what was essential in the fields. After the reaping came threshing and winnowing, gathering oats and barley into sacks and the straw into barns for winter bedding. Hay, gathered well before Christmas, already stood in stacks beyond the yard.

  For weeks there was little time for anything but work and sleep, but as soon as it began to slacken off, Ned grabbed Liam one morning and ushered him into one of the nearby paddocks for his first riding lesson. Daunted though he was, Liam was secretly elated. It had crossed his mind more than once that Ewan Maddox might have taken him on purely for the harvest, and be thinking of some reason to dismiss him. But if Ned had been told to teach him to ride, the farmer must be thinking of keeping him on.

  Smiling as he hitched himself up onto the rails of the fence, Liam watched Ned saddle up. Having tightened the girths, he casually ran his hands down from withers to fetlocks, examining legs and hooves with an expert eye. Memory jerked then, like a sickening physical jolt, and Liam was suddenly a child again, small and suspicious and confused, watching another dark-haired man in boots and breeches perform a similar action.

  Words rose from the past: ‘You don’t know what to call me, do you, Liam?’ and his mind clamped shut on the question, leaving him white-faced and trembling.

  Mistaking the reason, Ned Hanley suddenly laughed, assuring the green newcomer that old Daisy was the dullest, quietest mare ever bred, guaranteed not to shy or rear, even in a thunderstorm. With an effort, Liam thrust aside that picture from childhood and managed to concentrate on the lesson. Each day before work the lessons continued, and within a fortnight he was pronounced capable of riding out alone.

  To his surprise, Liam found something immensely satisfying about being able to control an animal so much larger and stronger than himself. He discovered, after a while, that he had something of a way with horses and, as he graduated to more spirited mounts than Daisy, that he rode well. That his affinity may have been inherited from Robert Duncannon, the cavalry officer who had lived and worked with horses all his life, was something Liam refused to consider. Nevertheless, that early, unconnected memory returned to plague him at odd moments. He felt like an amnesiac in possession of one solitary clue to his identity, except it was an identity he did not want.

  Several times he dreamed of a large house with long windows which dwarfed him, and an intricate fanlight above a massive front door. He had a strong feeling that the house was real, but he could not remember where it was. Sometimes a little girl with blonde ringlets appeared; at other times, his mother, weeping and wringing her hands. Each time he woke in distress, to find sleep impossible afterwards.

  To smother the memories, he drove himself hard.

  March was the season for ploughing, and while he was learning to handle horses in the shafts, he begged to be taught how to drive a plough. Little Nobby, who was the expert, tired of the game long before Liam; he wanted to lie on his bunk after a long day, he said, and teaching somebody was twice as hard as doing it yourself. So Liam practised on his own with old Daisy, learning to laugh back at the audience watching from the rails.

  He ate well and mostly slept well, putting on weight and muscle despite the regime he set himself. When Mrs Maddox remonstrated with him, he said he liked to keep busy, whereas in reality he was afraid to relax. He needed something with which to divert his mind when he did stop for the day, but having read every newspaper and farming journal in the bunk room, what he really longed for was a book.

  Ned was good company and Liam counted him a friend, but the other man’s weak point was a lack of education. His tendency to mock it made enquiries about books difficult. Liam had never seen Ewan Maddox with anything other than a newspaper or a treatise on cattle, and his wife had no time to read, merely listening to what her husband saw fit to r
elate. But at Easter, when their son Lewis returned for his vacation, Liam spied an opportunity.

  A dark, heavily-built young man, Lewis might have been Ewan Maddox thirty years previously. He was far from the airy, bookish youth that Liam had been led to expect. A keen horseman, he rode out every day, and it was on a joint excursion that Liam found courage to speak up.

  ‘What sort of books?’

  ‘Well, anything, really – I just like to read.’

  Lewis Maddox considered. ‘The Mechanics Institute has a library – it’s in the Town Hall. Open most evenings, if you can manage to get down. But I’ve got all sorts in my room at home — if you’re not particular, I’ll pass a few your way. And my sister has plenty of novels – a few classics among the romance, I’m sure,’ he added with a short laugh. ‘Mary won’t mind.’

  Liam was uncertain about that, but meeting Mary Maddox a few days later, he thought her brother might be right. She was a plain, practical young woman, sure of herself but by no means overbearing. She talked as easily to her father’s hired hands as she did to the maid, Ella, seeming to regard all of them as a kind of extended family. Liam imagined that to her, that was what they were. Old Murphy had been with them since before she was born, while Arnie and Ella, who were brother and sister, had virtually been adopted by Mrs Maddox after being orphaned by a bush fire some ten years back. Bert and Ned were more recent, and Ned, although he had all the qualities of leadership required by a foreman, had only been at the Maddox place just over a year. Watching him keeping a covert eye on the daughter of the house, Liam wondered whether Ned’s ambitions to own his own land someday, did not centre upon the sturdy, capable figure of Mary Maddox. But nothing was said, and Liam did not ask.

  Easter Day dawned bright and clear, and under Mrs Maddox’s persuasion, they all set off in the open wagon for morning service at the Methodist church in Dandenong. It was a long time since Liam had been in any church, and although the service was strange to him with its lengthy prayers and unfamiliar hymns, he thought he preferred it to the set ritual of the Prayer Book. It seemed more sincere. Sitting there with his head bowed, pretending to add his own silent petitions to the words of the preacher, he found himself thinking about God, and wondering about his own faith. He had believed, once upon a time; although since leaving home he had not spared the Almighty much more than a passing curse. Admittedly, that had been when things seemed at their lowest, but even so, he felt ashamed. Did he believe? He was not sure. If there was a God, why did He allow such things to happen? He had been happy, and then…