Mud and Gold

by Shayne Parkinson

  ‘Oh. Well, it’s maybe for the best. It would only encourage you to wander if you could ride. I’ll go over and see your pa first thing, see if he’ll take you in his buggy. I can’t put you behind me on Smokey, too hard on his back to have you bouncing around all the way into town.’

  Pretty hard on my bottom, too. And I wish he didn’t make me sound like a straying cow.

  ‘I suppose you’ll want a bath tonight,’ Charlie said.

  ‘Yes, please—if it’s not too much trouble. I’d better start fetching some water.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Charlie said in the tone of one making a great sacrifice. ‘It’d take you half the night to fetch enough.’

  Amy draped her nightdress and Charlie’s nightshirt over two of the chairs. Charlie carried a tin bath into the kitchen from one of the sheds, then made several journeys to the well carrying a large bucket in each hand. He watched Amy heat up water on the stove and pour it into the bath. He seemed to be thinking through a problem, and at last he said, ‘You can have the bath water first. Don’t let it get cold.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll try and be quick.’

  When Charlie had left her alone, Amy undressed and climbed into the little bath. She had to suppress a foolish urge to giggle. So there is something good about being married after all. No more having to use Susannah’s bath water. A small laugh escaped her; she stifled it before it turned into hysteria. She squirmed around to check her shoulders and found a livid bruise on each side. That doesn’t matter. No one will see those. And the bruise on my cheek’s faded a lot now. As long as he doesn’t hit me on the face before tomorrow no one will notice anything.

  Amy found small bruises at the tops of her thighs, and knew they must be from Charlie’s rough thrusting. Like the bruises on her shoulders, they were tender to the touch, but she ignored the discomfort and scrubbed herself all over. After three nights of Charlie’s demands it was blissful to feel clean again. Perhaps she would only stay clean for a few more hours, but in the meantime she was going to enjoy it.

  *

  Amy woke on Monday morning feeling weary and despondent. Sunday had got off to a good start, with Charlie leaving her alone on Saturday night. At first Amy had been afraid he was annoyed with her, but he had said nothing, just groped half-heartedly then rolled away and gone to sleep. After his importunity of the first three nights it had puzzled Amy, though she was grateful for it. She had no way of knowing it was one of the differences between a man of twenty and one well past forty.

  The service had been something to endure, with Amy only too aware everyone was staring at her as she sat near the back of the church at Charlie’s side. It had been even worse afterwards, with everyone rushing up to give meaningless good wishes and congratulations. Amy knew they were all speculating on why she had married Charlie. She had seen a gleam in Mrs Carr’s eye, and was sure Mrs Carr had been eyeing her belly, expecting to see a guilty swelling there.

  After the humiliation of being inspected by everyone, Amy had had to fight off feeling sorry for herself all the rest of that day. It hadn’t helped that, being Sunday, she had not been able to weary herself by working as hard as usual. That meant she had been wide awake at bedtime, when Charlie had seemed to want to make up for his wasted time on Saturday night. He had taken a long time over it, too, leaving Amy feeling bruised and battered. The final stroke had come when Charlie at last rolled away from her, and Amy, lying awake with her mind racing, had remembered the date: it was once again the eighth of February. One year since Jimmy had proposed to her, and one year since they had lain together under the stars. I used to like it with him, and I hate it now. I must be really bad to hate it with my husband. And we made Ann together, and I gave her away. She had sobbed into her pillow for much of the night before drifting into an uneasy slumber.

  And now she had washing day to cope with. At home Amy would have sorted the clothes into piles and put the dirtiest ones in soak on the Sunday, but there were no washtubs here, so she would just have to scrub them harder. She had found a filthy washboard on the earth floor of one shed, where it had obviously lain neglected for years, but there was no copper or any other sign of laundry facilities. Over breakfast she asked, ‘Charlie, where do you do the washing?’

  ‘That’s your job!’ he said indignantly. ‘It’s woman’s work!’

  ‘I know it is, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that I don’t know where things are yet, and I wasn’t sure where I’m meant to do it.’

  ‘Oh. I used to give things a bit of a splash down at the creek. I expect you to do it properly, though. I want things nice around the place now there’s a woman here.’

  Doing it properly without anything to boil the clothes in was going to be difficult. Amy thought hard while she did the dishes, then went through to the bedroom, pulled the sheets off the bed and bundled the dirty clothes up in them. At least there was only two people’s worth of washing to do.

  She checked her wood heap, and was relieved to find it full. She dragged the tin bath out of its shed and piled the firewood into it along with a cake of soap, some newspaper and matches, with the clothes on top. There were several empty kerosene tins lying in the shed. Amy carried out two of them and managed to fit one into the bath with the wash board inside it. She looped the second tin over one arm and struggled down the hill to the creek, juggling her awkward load.

  She lit a fire on a level spot close to the creek, filled both kerosene tins with water and set them on the fire. It took load after load to fill the bath with boiling water, and the sun had been up for hours before she had enough.

  The washboard came clean when she dipped it in boiling water and rubbed it hard with soap, and after a rinse in the creek it was ready for use. Amy managed to get all the underwear, her work dress and aprons, and Charlie’s shirts and socks washed before the bathful of water was soiled enough to need emptying. She tipped it over, narrowly avoiding a nasty scald, and looped the steaming clothes over a stick to carry them from the tub. The creek was the best place to do her rinsing, though it meant keeping a tight hold on each item as she swished it about in the water.

  After stopping for an hour to make lunch and bolt down her share, it was time to carry on. Her fire needed stoking again and a fresh bathful of water had to be boiled before she could wash the sheets and the rest of the clothes. She left Charlie’s work trousers soaking in the hot water while she finished rinsing the sheets, which were particularly awkward to hold on to in the creek. Although she added more boiling water, Amy could not keep the bath of water at a high enough temperature for the dirtiest clothes. Even after having been soaked, the trousers took a long session of hard rubbing against the washboard before they came clean, and Amy skinned her knuckles against the wooden board.

  The edges of the tin bath had cut into her hands when she carried it down the hill, and wringing the steaming hot clothes by hand wore the skin raw. Her head ached from being out in the hot sun for so long, despite her straw bonnet, and her bruised shoulders protested painfully. Amy sat on the grass for a few minutes to rest her back, which was aching from hours of hunching over the washing. She tried not to think too longingly of her lovely big copper with the two tubs beside it where she had done the washing so many times over the years.

  I shouldn’t complain. Pa told me Mama had to do the washing down by the creek for years, before he got the proper house built. There were four of them to wash for, too. Pa used to carry the wet washing up to the clothesline for her afterwards, because it was so heavy. I won’t even try asking Charlie—that’s woman’s work.

  With that, the next problem struck her: there was no clothesline. Why does everything have to be so hard? But she had no time to waste on the luxury of feeling sorry for herself.

  She sought out Charlie, and found him checking his potato paddock. ‘Charlie, can I please have a bit of rope?’ she asked.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To hang the clothes on.’

  He stared hard at her. ‘Is t
hat the truth?’

  ‘Yes,’ Amy assured him, wondering at his earnestness.

  He studied her puzzled expression, and seemed satisfied. ‘There’s plenty in the cowshed. You can fetch it yourself.’

  What did he think I wanted it for? Maybe he thought I might hang myself with it. Amy smiled at the foolishness of the idea, until it occurred to her to wonder if it really was such a ridiculous notion. No more struggling to please Charlie, never knowing whether he would approve or lash out at her. No more being mauled in bed, then lying awake wondering if he would do it again. How would Charlie feel if he found me swinging from one of the trees? She shuddered at the picture. Maybe he’d feel guilty. I don’t think so. He’d be angry, but it would be too late. That would get the tongues wagging—oh, it would be terrible, Amy realised abruptly. Everyone would say Pa forced me to marry Charlie, then I hung myself because I couldn’t bear it. Pa would never get over that. It would be the worst thing I could ever do to him.

  Amy found a coil of rope, noting the grubby butter churn lying neglected in a corner of the same shed; she would have to clean that up and start making butter when she had a little time to spare. She looked for two trees a convenient distance apart, and saw a suitable pair some way further up the hill from the house, in a spot sufficiently exposed to catch the sun. Attaching the rope high enough so the clothes would not drag on the ground was going to be a problem. Amy studied the branches, and decided there was only one way to do it.

  If there was one thing even more difficult than clambering over fences in a corset, Amy found, it was climbing trees. But it had to be done, and by taking off her shoes and stockings she had at least given herself a chance of getting a grip on the tree trunk. She knew she would make a strange sight, clinging to a tree branch with her skirt and petticoats tucked into her apron strings, but no one was likely to see her. One leg had a deep scratch by the time she had secured the rope.

  The wet clothes were heavy, and it took Amy several trips to bring them up from the creek. She had to drape them over the makeshift clothesline and hope they would stay there, as there were no clothes pegs. That was another thing she would have to ask for one shopping day.

  Amy stood back from her clothesline and studied the washing. It did not look as clean as she would have wished, certainly not as clean as she was used to, but it was a good deal better than it had been before. The sun was hot enough to dry everything in what was left of the afternoon. It was essential that they did dry quickly, as Charlie only seemed to possess one pair of sheets. No wonder he never bothered washing them.

  By the time dinner was over and Amy had her bread dough warming in front of the range she was drooping with exhaustion, but she welcomed her weariness as a friend. I’m so tired I’m sure to drop off as soon as he’s finished. Maybe I’ll even go to sleep during it. That, she decided, was too much to hope for. But another first had been conquered: her first washing day. The sheets were back on the bed, smelling fresh and clean instead of musty, and the clothes were all dry and ready for ironing. It had been far more difficult than she could have imagined, but next time would be easier. She wondered fleetingly how she would manage during the scanty daylight hours of winter, especially when the creek began to run muddy, but she thrust that thought aside. I’ll just be miserable all the time if I think about things like that. One day at a time, that’s the best way to be. And at least I’ve got a clothesline now. I won’t have to do that again. I’m not much good at climbing trees. She rubbed at her scratched leg through her dress.

  Charlie put down his cup and rose to go through to the parlour. At the door he turned. ‘You left my good bit of rope tied to those trees,’ he said, frowning. ‘I had to get it down and put it away. Now, don’t go bawling whenever you’re told off, you silly bitch.’

  3

  February – April 1885

  One day at a time, Amy told herself whenever things threatened to weigh her down beyond bearing. She was used to working hard, and strong enough to cope with the drudgery of this house.

  Charlie allowed her to bring out her bedspread, but he announced that her lacy doilies were too fussy for his room, so they lay neglected in a drawer. Amy did not risk asking permission to bring out her books, and she could not bear to think of her mother looking down at the bed and all its horrors with her loving smile. She left the photograph in a drawer with her books.

  Her beautiful white bedspread looked out of place in the starkness of Charlie’s room. Sometimes its familiarity gave Amy comfort; she liked to stroke it as she climbed into bed, remembering her grandmother’s hugs. At other times she regretted having brought it from home to cover what took place in that bed.

  Desperation taught her ways of coping with the ordeal of her nights. She learned to make her body relax when her instinct was to go rigid, and she slowly trained herself to let her mind wander as Charlie grunted and moaned above her. She would lie very still and plan what meals to cook the next day, what she might ask Charlie to buy at the general store that week, how she could make time to weed the neglected vegetable patch. As the days wore on into weeks Amy often found herself left to lie in peace for two or even three nights in a row, but she never knew just when a hand would reach out in the darkness and pull up her nightdress. She soon learned always to sleep on her back.

  Loneliness made things even harder. Lizzie was too far away and too busy with wedding preparations to pop over, and there was no one else to visit her. It was a week before Amy managed to pluck up her courage and ask permission to visit her old home so she could return her borrowings, but she was not allowed to stay long enough to have a cup of tea with her father.

  On Sundays she saw her family on the drive to and from church, and it gradually became less of a trial to be inspected by the other churchgoers as her hasty marriage became less of a novelty. But even after the service she had little opportunity to talk to Lizzie. There always seemed to be someone talking to Lizzie and Frank about their approaching wedding, and Amy was reluctant to butt in on such conversations. If she did, some well-meaning woman would make a remark about Amy’s being a happy young bride, and Amy would feel like a liar. If her father was nearby she would have to make a special effort to smile.

  On the third Sunday after her wedding, Amy stood outside the church waiting for her father to take her home. The previous week Jack had invited them for Sunday lunch that day, and after some thought Charlie had agreed. As she watched Charlie walking towards his horse, she heard a voice at her shoulder.

  ‘Hello, Amy, you keeping well?’

  Amy turned and saw Matt Aitken, with his two older children at his heels.

  ‘I’m very well, thank you,’ she replied automatically. ‘Hello, Bessie.’ She smiled at the little girl. ‘You’re getting so big! You must be eight now.’

  ‘I’ll be nine soon,’ Bessie said proudly. ‘I’m in the fourth row at school.’

  ‘Are you? You must be working hard.’ Her brief spell of teaching seemed so long ago that it was almost as if it had happened to someone else. Someone who still believed in dreams.

  Amy turned back to Matt. ‘How’s Rachel?’ She knew Rachel was only a month or two away from having her fifth child.

  Matt grimaced. ‘Fed up with being stuck at home, poor old girl, specially in this heat. She’s well enough, though. You should come and see her some time, she’d like that.’

  ‘Maybe I will, if I’m allow… I mean, if I have time. Tell her I was asking after her.’

  ‘I hope you can come around, Amy. It’d cheer her up.’

  Amy opened her mouth to say she would try, but instead she gave a startled cry as her arm was grasped. She turned and saw Charlie there.

  ‘Charlie, I was just telling your wife she should—’ Matt began, but Charlie ignored him. He tugged at Amy, giving her no choice but to walk with him away from the church and towards the horse paddock.

  His fingers dug into the flesh of her arm. ‘You’re hurting me, Charlie.’

  ‘I’ll h
urt you worse if you don’t behave yourself,’ he said, gripping her arm more tightly. Amy bit her lip to keep back a cry of pain. ‘Don’t you talk to that Matt Aitken,’ Charlie growled.

  ‘Why? Don’t you like him?’

  ‘I don’t like seeing my wife talking to him. Understand?’

  ‘We were talking about Rachel, that’s all. He asked me—’

  Charlie gave her arm a shake, and this time Amy could not hold back a yelp. ‘Are you arguing with me, woman?’

  ‘No! I’m sorry, I won’t talk to him again. I didn’t know—’

  ‘You’ll know another time.’ He led Amy over to her father’s buggy. ‘You just wait there and stay out of trouble until your pa comes.’ Charlie went over to Smokey, but made no move to leave. Instead he stood rubbing the horse’s nose and fiddling with the bridle, occasionally casting a glance in Amy’s direction. Only when Jack and Susannah arrived at the buggy with their children did he mount and ride off ahead of them.

  When the buggy reached Charlie’s gate he was standing there waiting. ‘Hop in, we’ll give you a lift,’ Jack said, halting the horses.

  ‘We’re not coming,’ Charlie said. ‘We’re stopping home.’ He reached out a hand to guide Amy down from the buggy.

  ‘But you’re coming for lunch,’ Jack protested.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind. Hurry up, Amy.’ Amy avoided her father’s eyes as she got down.

  ‘Now, Jack, it’s only natural Charlie wants to have Sunday lunch at home,’ Susannah came in smoothly, covering the awkward moment. ‘They’ve only been married a few weeks, and Amy is a very good cook. Leave them in peace, they can come another day.’

  Jack laughed. ‘You’re right. Come next week, then, Charlie—I miss my girl, you know. Bring her over to see me soon.’