The Woman In the Green Dress

by Téa Cooper

  ‘It’s easy, real easy, love. Port’s your left. Starboard’s your right. Not too hard, right? Once we get this far up the river there’s a fair bit of silting so I have to stick to the channel.’

  And that brought Jimbo’s reminiscing to an end, as he spun the wheel down hard and they rounded the bend.

  With her arms hugged tight around her body, as if Hugh was holding her close, the river brought her memories alive, made her even more determined to find the truth.

  There’s only us now. Just you and me. We’ll make it, you see.

  ‘Spencer up ahead. Can’t see anyone on the wharf. Reckon you could throw the rope out then jump ashore?’ He shot her a look from under his shaggy brows. ‘Good to see you’re dressed for it.’

  And she was thankful too. It was windy on the river and she’d only put on trousers as a second thought. One of the best things that had happened because of the war. All this nonsense about women dressing as ladies had been left far behind.

  The boat edged sideways across the current and slid neatly against the wharf with a bump. She grabbed the end of the rope and stood on the seat then closed her eyes and jumped. For a moment she seemed suspended in the air then her feet hit the timber boards with a whack.

  ‘Good on yer. Make a sailor out of you yet. Now tie that rope tight around the bollard.’

  She wrapped it around two or three time and yanked down hard. ‘Do I tie a knot?’

  ‘Nope. Just hold her steady.’ He cut the engine and clambered out onto the front of the boat and grabbed another rope. With a surprisingly agile jump he landed on the other end of the wharf and tethered the rope with a couple of neat flicks of his wrist. ‘Right. Now this is what we do. Three times around the bollard then loop this end over there and pull.’

  With a sigh the timbers strained and the boat came to rest. ‘Got a few letters here for the Skipper.’ He pushed his hand into his inside pocket and pulled out some envelopes. ‘Come with me. If we’re lucky, he’ll have the kettle on and we can ask him if he knows of anyone heading up St Albans way.’

  They crossed the track running parallel to the river. ‘See up there. That’s the Skipper’s house.’

  Fleur lifted her head and gazed up at the neat little white house tucked into the hillside with a commanding view of the river. A wraparound verandah with chairs facing out and a telescope on sentry duty.

  ‘What a beautiful spot.’ She and Hugh could be happy here in this secluded place.

  ‘I brought every one of those timbers up here. Skipper spends most of his time here now. He’s got a good few ships on the seas but he prefers the river. Says the place gave him his start and that’s where he intends to finish it. Phew!’ He bent almost double and took several deep breaths. ‘Lungs ain’t what they used to be.’

  ‘Would you like me to take the letters up?’

  ‘What and miss me cuppa? No bloody fear.’ He straightened up, his face bright red and shiny. ‘Not much further now.’

  ‘Ahoy there.’

  Fleur looked up at the verandah where a small man stood, waving his hand. ‘Kettle’s on. Get a move on.’ He bounced off the verandah and came trotting down the path to greet them. ‘Welcome. Welcome. And who’s this lovely young lass?’

  ‘Name’s Fleur,’ Jimbo heaved, resting his hand on the gate post.

  ‘Welcome Fleur.’ He took her hand and bent low over it, his beard tickling her skin. She laughed, resisting the temptation to pull away. ‘The wife’ll be pleased to have some female company.’ He jangled the bell at the bottom of the verandah and then stood back to allow them to climb the steps.

  Jimbo flopped down into the first seat he came to, some wooden box stowed against the wall. ‘Swear those get steeper every time.’

  ‘Rubbish. It’s that pipe of yours and that rotgut you insist on drinking. Nice cup of tea’ll see you right. Ah! Marianne, me darling. Come and say hello.’ He wrapped his arm around the waist of the petite figure encased in French silk, lace and whalebone stays, her blonde hair piled high on her head. ‘This is Fleur.’

  She eased past him balancing an overloaded tray with a teapot, cups and a plate piled high with something that smelt delicious. She’d given no thought to breakfast in her excitement that morning, making do with a glass of water.

  ‘Come and sit down next to me, Fleur.’ Marianne patted the bench seat by the table. ‘We’ll leave those two old fools to chat. It’s not often I have some female company.’ She picked up the teapot and strainer and poured two cups of tea, added milk and several teaspoons of sugar and carried them over to the men then sat down. ‘How do you like your tea, dear.’

  ‘Milk with one sugar, please.’

  ‘And have one of these. Just out of the oven.’ She lifted the napkin and revealed a plate of steaming scones, a pat of golden butter and a pot of strawberry jam.

  Fleur’s stomach gave an embarrassing rumble. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. It’s the river air, always makes you hungry.’ She offered the plate of scones and Fleur loaded up her plate.

  ‘Now what brings you to Spencer? You’ve got the look of the city about you.’ She ran a critical eye over Fleur’s trousers.

  ‘I’m on my way to St Albans.’

  ‘And you’d be looking for a ride, would you?’

  Fleur’s cheeks grew hot. She’d rather hoped Jimbo would do the talking. She nodded her head and bit down on the scone, almost groaning with pleasure.

  ‘And I suppose Jimbo here told you I couldn’t resist a damsel in distress?’ The Skipper winked.

  ‘The lass thought to take a trip with me as far as Wiseman’s then see if she could find a ride with someone to St Albans tomorrow. I’d take her meself if I could but I got the postal contract to consider. Thought maybe you could help ’er out, she’d be at the Settlers Arms before dark.’

  ‘Come along now, you know you like any excuse to take that little sailing boat of yours out for a run.’

  Fleur sat and let the conversation wash over her as the scone and tea settled. Right at this moment she’d be happy sitting here in the sunshine for the rest of the day savouring her memories of Hugh. She let out a long sigh and put the plate back on the table. ‘I really don’t want to cause any trouble.’

  ‘No trouble at all.’ The little man bounded to his feet. ‘Marianne’s right. Nothing better than a sail on a lovely day like this. I can have you in St Albans in time for tea. Stay the night at the Settlers Arms. Come on Jimbo, finish that tea and on your feet. You can give me a hand and then I’ll return the favour so you’re not late back to Brooklyn.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’ Fleur pushed to her feet.

  ‘You stay right where you are.’ Marianne patted her arm. ‘Have another cup of tea and let the men do the heavy work. I’ll make you some sandwiches for the trip and you and the Skipper will be off before you know it.’

  Fleur looked from one face to the other, warmed by their hospitality. Everyone seemed to be so keen to help a stranger, not like London with its shuttered faces and grey misery.

  It’s another world out there.

  Right again, Hugh.

  Fifteen

  Mogo Creek, Hawkesbury, NSW, 1853

  Sunlight spread across the home paddock where the kangaroos grazed, drawn from the early-morning shadows to the warmth. Walking across the yard Della inhaled the fresh after-rain scent and listened to the creek rushing and twisting. Later, she’d go down there and see if she could find Tidda.

  She swung open the big barn door, and the smell of damp skins flooded out to greet her. She hadn’t set foot in the workshop since Gus and Dobbin left.

  The embers from their fire still littered the fireplace and the empty pot of mutton stew stood on the hob surrounded by crumbs and the last remaining piece of damper tossed to one side. Filthy pigs. Thank goodness they’d gone. They didn’t usually stay the night, just dumped the supplies and high-tailed it to the one of the local inns, which was the way she preferred it. She didn’t
want their company, Dobbin made her flesh creep and Gus’s sly eyes carried more than a hint of warning.

  A muted sound made her stop. She cocked her head to one side. The last skin from the table slithered down to the floor, which was odd, because she remembered stacking them all on the table in case the rain leaked in under the door.

  Bush rats! It had to be. She took two steps forward, spotted another heel of damper under the table. Damn Gus and Dobbin for their foul habits. She and Charity worked long and hard to keep down the infestation. When they’d first arrived the place was totally overrun and she’d used more than half the white arsenic intended for curing the skins just to get rid of the pests. They chewed anything and everything. Last night they must have had a feast.

  She shuffled forward and squatted down to retrieve the heel of bread. A whelp of pain issued from under the stack of skins and a dark head appeared.

  ‘Jarro!’

  Uttering a mournful groan, he rolled himself into a ball and curled back into the pile of skins.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ She lifted the top skins and dumped them back on the table. ‘Come on. Get up. You can’t stay here, Charity will have a fit.’

  She reached out, and his skin almost seared her hand. ‘You’re burning up.’ Now she was closer the beads of sweat on his neck were clearly visible and his hair was damp, plastered down to his skull. Not smallpox. Please don’t let it be the dreaded pox. It had as good as decimated the local tribes over the years and only a handful of the Darkinjung people now survived in the area.

  He struggled upright and thrust his shoulder forward. Even in the dim light, the entry of the musket ball was clear to see. ‘Who did this?’ Her mind flew back to her meeting with the women and their talk of hunters. ‘Have you been up Wollombi way?’

  It had to be a settler; none of the local tribes had muskets, at least not as far as she knew, and she was certain they wouldn’t take them up to Yengo. The site was a sacred meeting place. Not a place for violence.

  ‘Hunters come. Hurt the women.’ His face crumpled.

  She ran her hand over his shoulder and turned him gently to the light. ‘We have to report these attacks before anyone else is killed.’ He might well die. There was no exit wound. None that she could see.

  Jarro groaned again and shrugged her off. ‘You fix?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s gone deep.’

  ‘Fever go.’

  ‘No, Jarro it won’t. The fever is from the musket ball lying under your skin. In your muscle. It needs to come out. Maybe your medicine is better.’ But only if the musket ball came out.

  Jarro struggled upright and frowned at her then waved his hand in the direction of the leather pouch on the table. ‘You fix.’

  Della looked at her tools on the table, her heart sinking. It was one thing stitching and sewing an animal hide, but a living man... What if he died?

  Jarro let out another groan and stumbled to his feet, swaying in the strengthening patch of sunlight streaking through the shutters. His swollen and bloodshot eyes pleaded with her. She couldn’t send him away. He was in pain. Great pain.

  She could imagine the musket ball lodged in the muscle of his arm, the dirt and poison working its way into his blood. She let out a long puff of breath. ‘I’ll give it a try but first I have to prepare some things and make sure Charity doesn’t disturb us. You stay here out of the way. And drink some water.’ She picked up the enamel jug and dumped it on the table.

  Once she’d stoked the fire and settled Jarro in the corner away from prying eyes she pulled the door of the workroom closed. How was she going to make sure Charity didn’t come looking?

  ‘And what’re you up to, Miss?’

  Della jumped and turned around, guilt making her cheeks flush. ‘I’m just getting a bit of fresh air before I attack the mess Gus and Dobbin left in the workroom.’

  ‘I’ll give you a hand when I’ve finished with the chooks and the ’orses.’ Charity swung the bucket of weeds from the vegetable garden around in a circle. ‘You’ve got a lot of work to get done, especially if Gus and Dobbin want to take some of those skins back.’ She let out an irritated huff. ‘Whatever next?’

  ‘I can manage, Charity. You finish with the stores for the house. The workroom’s my responsibility. It’s wet and smelly in there after the rain. It won’t do that cough of yours any good.’

  ‘Sing out if you need my help. Can’t have you working your fingers to the bone. All that stitching and cutting’s hard on the hands.’

  Della’s cheeks flushed again. She’d certainly be cutting and stitching, only not the way Charity had in mind. She shuddered and scooted into the house for clean cloths, a basin for boiling water and some tea. She collected everything together and then as a final thought rummaged in the back of the cupboard where Charity kept her secret stash of rum. She pulled the small flagon out and hid it under the cloths. It might give poor Jarro a bit of relief.

  Charity’s out-of-tune lullaby curled over the chook shed and drifted across the yard, some song from her past about losing her true love to a red-headed witch. Della slid back inside the workroom and closed the door behind her. The sound of Jarro’s teeth rattling turned her attention and she pulled another of the skins around his shoulders to keep him warm while she heated the water and cleaned her tools.

  Once she’d added a tot of rum to the tea, she handed it to Jarro. ‘Tell me about the men.’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Three men, one boy, musket and whip.’

  ‘Why did they shoot?’

  He hung his head.

  ‘It’s not your fault, you can’t be expected to protect the women from three grown men. Drink some more rum.’

  He sniffed it and pulled a face. ‘No good for blackfellas.’

  ‘I know but this time it might help. This is going to hurt.’

  He grunted as though she’d made some affront to his masculinity and made a frail attempt to puff out his chest. He looked dreadful; if it hadn’t been for his dark skin she was certain he’d have that ghastly chalky look. ‘Drink it. You must trust me. I’m going to need you to keep still and you can’t yell out.’ She handed him a rolled cloth. ‘Put this between your teeth in case you scream. We can’t have Charity in here.’

  He tossed back the tea and rum then stuffed the cloth into his mouth, his feverish eyes sparkling at her while she scrubbed her hands.

  ‘Ready?’

  He nodded and she lifted the scalpel and separated the skin. There was a big difference between live flesh and dead flesh, and the thought of having to delve deep for the musket ball scared the hell out of her. What if she slipped and he bled to death? She’d be no better than one of the hunters.

  The blood swelled, making it impossible to see what she was doing. She dabbed at it then drew the blade across his skin a good three inches from the entry wound, taking note of the direction the musket ball had entered.

  How long she’d prodded and poked she had no idea but when the door to the workshop flew open she dropped the scalpel and turned, expecting to find Charity, arms akimbo, ranting and raving.

  Instead, the silhouette of a man. A tall man.

  Sixteen

  Hawkesbury River, NSW, 1919

  Fleur sat in the small wooden boat in the middle of the river trying to keep her arms and legs out of the way while the Skipper ran up a brilliant white sheet of canvas and tethered the ropes. ‘A bit of tacking and bending until we round the bluff, then the wind evens out and we’ll have a clear run.’

  The sail billowed and the wind caught the little craft, sending it and her hat skimming towards the opposite bank. She grabbed her hair and held it tight against her neck and gave a shiver. Despite the warm sun, the wind had a chill to it and every so often they’d hit a patch of shade where the tall trees skimmed the water’s edge. The Skipper sat with his pipe clamped between his teeth. Short stubby legs stretched out and his arm looped around the tiller.

  ‘Done much sailing?’


  ‘No, none. A wherry across the Thames. The trip from Brooklyn was the first time I’ve ever been on a riverboat.’

  ‘From England. Thought as much. Here for good?’

  ‘My husband was from the area.’

  ‘Copped one, did he?’

  She shook her head. ‘He’s missing and I’m trying to find his family. They own a property at a place called Mogo Creek.’

  The Skipper’s head came up. ‘Mogo Creek? That’d be the old Atterton place, would it?’ His voice held an edge and for a moment Fleur wished she hadn’t mentioned it.

  ‘No, not Atterton, Richards.’ Something made the colour rise to her cheeks.

  ‘Nah! That don’t ring no bell. Three brothers if I remember rightly. The older two had their sights set on the mining business. Not interested in farming, that’s why the place is bit the worse for wear. The youngest always wanted to make something of it. Said he’d be back after the war and turn it on its toes.’

  The air whooshed out of her lungs in relief. ‘Yes. Hugh Richards. We married in London, before the Armistice was declared.’ The familiar sob caught at her throat and she swallowed it down.

  ‘Early days yet. It’ll take them a while to get all the boys home. Nice young chap.’

  For the first time her spirits lifted, as the old man spoke of the Hugh she knew. ‘Yes, yes he is.’

  ‘Chin up. We’ll have one of those sandwiches Marianne packed. Fresh home-cured ham and her mustard unless I’m mistaken.’

  Fleur lifted the napkin from the wicker basket under the seat and pulled out the packet of sandwiches, neatly wrapped in waxed paper and tied with a piece of string. She balanced them on her knee.

  ‘Fingers’ll do.’

  She handed one of the chunky doorsteps across to him.

  ‘Fresh air always gives me an appetite. If I know Marianne they’ll be a couple of bottles of ginger beer in there too. Likes to keep me away from anything stronger when I’m on the river. Help yourself.’

  Fleur upended the bottle and washed the whole lot, her misery included, down with a gulp.