Wilma’s lips puckered right up with distaste. ‘Is that how he met Rose Kane, in a public house?’
‘Too right.’
‘Mr Denholm, that is beyond the pale, given that Torte came from the British upper class.’
Vulgarity and class war aside, the two dowagers were spellbound. I sat up and the screen wobbled. I held my breath but went undetected as they were busy gorging themselves on the new revelations.
Mr Denholm shrugged. ‘As you know, Rose’s old man owns quite a few of Wolfftown’s public houses, including the House of Blazes.’
‘How appropriate, given Rose’s temper.’
‘Ah, Mrs Floros, the Rose wasn’t always a shrew. She was the most alluring barmaid in this neck of the woods. Silky red hair, lips any man would die for. She lit up the bar and sailors talked about her as far away as Tangiers.’
Mrs Adair snorted but Mr Denholm looked distinctly drifty. ‘Ladies, Rose was an angel just like her mother.’
‘Oh come off it, Mr Denholm. Everyone knows Bella Kane turned melancholic after the birth of her two girls and retreated from the world. It’s the Kane curse.’
‘That’s what they say. But Bella was never a social butterfly, she was a serious dramatic actress. That’s how Brendan met her.’
Mrs Adair reached for another curried egg sandwich. ‘All Kane women are actresses. Even those who don’t grace the stage.’
Nasty. I felt like slapping her but Mr Denholm let it pass. ‘You know, I saw Bella one summer’s night, drying her hair on the pub balcony. She was so bloody beautiful it brought tears to me eyes. True beauty does that to me, it’s like sweet syrup through my body. I’ll have just a dab more of the Stilton please, Mrs Adair.’
Cold fear gripped me. The pain in my left hand was excruciating. If my grandmother had been certifiably mad and my mother melancholic, what would become of me? With the way Grandpa was gambling and brawling, he could drop off the twig at any moment. I’d already learnt that adults could be whipped away suddenly and for no reason. Cook had lost her husband in a bar-room brawl, when he was shot over a spilt beer.
For the first time it occurred to me that I’d been born to a crazed woman and a lecher. My father by all standards of human decency had to be defined as bestial and if he hadn’t died, he would’ve been imprisoned. Former staff had offered to testify to his brutal rape of one of our maids. He was also under suspicion of having beaten an apprentice groom to death and was being questioned over the razing of Briar’s Farm, owned by the Chief of Police. Despite the rat cunning of father’s lawyer, Sigmund Wolff, it was an open secret that the law almost had him by the balls.
I’d never known parental love or experienced parental approval. Nanny had tried to make up the difference but I thought her judgment was biased.
I’d forgotten all about Harry until he bolted and ran up Mrs Adair’s skirts.
‘Argh, help me!’
‘Mrs Adair, calm yourself!’
The stupid woman screamed like a banshee and wouldn’t stop slapping at Harry. A crowd gathered. The mourners yelled advice or whispered lewd comments.
‘Worse things happen at sea.’
‘First thing up that dress in a few years I’d say, eh, John?’
‘Feel real sorry for the critter, imagine being trapped in those stays.’
‘Her husband pissed off, he couldn’t take no more of her pumpkin scones.’
‘Bullshit, he ran orf with his head groom to the mainland.’
Total pandemonium. I was clawing Mrs Adair and Mr Denholm was trying to pull me off her. My anger made me ferociously strong and when Mrs Adair raised her skirts to get at Harry, I sank my teeth into her plump thigh.
Agnes Pinkerton yelled, ‘Stop it! Let go of her, Sasha!’
She tried to pull me off but I’d already locked my jaw onto Mrs Adair’s abundant flesh. I’d learnt this trick from our hunting dogs but it was the first time I’d drawn blood and I found the experience exhilarating.
Fortunately the conflict was resolved before Harry got hurt and we both eluded punishment. I was excused on the grounds that I was distraught at the loss of my father. And Harry was forgiven because everyone expected bad behaviour from a rat. So having worked out that Harry and I were being judged by the same lax standards, I decided to make the most of it.
The only drawback was that my jaw ached painfully for days afterwards and I couldn’t chew any solid foodstuffs. I spent a week eating bone broth and mashed root vegetables. Cook didn’t really understand vegetables, so it was a miserable experience.
After Mrs Adair had been seen to by Dr Dual and heavily sedated with brandy, three of Alain Torte’s cronies tried to pay tribute to him. The speeches were brief and lacked substance, probably because Papa’s cronies felt Brendan Kane’s eyes boring holes into their brains.
The wake went on past midnight as everyone worked their way through the deceased’s extensive wine collection. I overheard Grandpa informing the merry mourners, ‘I hope you will demonstrate tolerance towards my granddaughter. With the passing of Alain Torte and the disappearance of my daughter Rose, Sasha is ostensibly an orphan.’
There were low murmurs of assent. And from then on I was given tacit permission to milk the situation and abandon all pretence of conforming to society’s conventions.
It would be both the making and the undoing of me.
5
BURNING THE TOAST
I rather fancied myself as an orphan. It gave me enormous leverage, especially with Grandpa. While Alain Torte’s last will and testimony was consulted and letters dispatched to my relatives I was allowed to run wild. At no stage did I shed tears for Papa nor regret the absence of my mother. My emotions were permanently frozen. But in order to appear normal I had to constantly be on my guard. I thought I was doing a great job until I overheard the servants whispering in the linen room.
‘Strange little thing that Sasha.’
‘No friends her own age. She don’t cry and don’t laugh.’
‘Give her a break you lot, how would you feel if your mum ran off and your dad necked himself?’
‘Feel real sorry for the mite. Let’s bring her to the Butchers’ Picnic tomorrow.’
It was as though I was swimming in a silent echo chamber, going through the motions of childhood but feeling nothing. Emotionally I was a cynical adult inhabiting a child’s body. I knew too much and was old beyond my twelve years. I had no friends my own age and spent most of my time with hired staff or hiding out in the attic and the stables. Now that I was an acknowledged orphan, kind folk had taken to giving me chocolates and sweeties and I had to act the part of the delighted innocent. It was exhausting playing the ingénue when I knew damn well what was going on.
I read voraciously and took to modelling my behaviour on the little English girls in my story books. Sweltering through an Australian summer I read about Jane and Eupatoria boating on the Thames River or gobbling hot roast chestnuts at Waterloo Station. They were always wrapped to the eyeballs in coats, muffs and scarves. No one was ever mean, cruel or violent. It was all about pluck, perseverance, good manners and cleanliness. In short, a jolly good show.
I decided children were supposed to speak as though they were choking on plums. So for a few weeks I sounded remarkably like a member of the British upper classes. It confused everyone, especially Nanny who asked Dr Dual to take another look at me. She said, ‘I reckon there might be some residual damage from that nasty knock to her head. Tell me Doctor, are children’s skulls more fragile than adults? Sasha did take a terrible beating.’
I spent a lot of time with Grandpa and he taught me to ride horses just as he’d taught my mother and aunt when they were children. He didn’t believe in training his young on ponies as it makes them too soft. I was really excited about getting my own horse, until the day arrived and Grandpa presented me with a white monster called Satan. ‘It’s going to be up on the eighteen-hander right from the beginning, my girl. You’ll thank me for it when you b
ecome an accomplished Kane horsewoman.’
Brendan Kane was so tall and strong that he dwarfed every other being but next to Satan he merely looked well matched. Tim had to build me a set of mounting steps so I could reach the stirrups.
Grandpa had won Satan in a card game. Satan’s previous owner was a decadent member of the landed gentry who’d gone to seed and gambled away an extensive fortune. Grandpa referred to him affectionately as Mortal Ruin. Mortal Ruin had been regularly thrown by Satan and was glad to get rid of him.
Satan had flaring nostrils and ears which communicated many things; primarily distaste and scorn for anyone who had the audacity to ride him. He also had the unpleasant habit of looking me straight in the eye and pulling his mouth back so I could see his cavernous mouth and tombstone teeth. He terrified me.
Grandpa wasn’t at all concerned. ‘Sasha my girl, it’s high time we made you a Kane. All Kane women are great horsewomen. Rose and Lil were naturals; great seat and effortless communication with all animals. Unlike Torte whose own horse despised him. Now then, possum, I’ll hoist you up and if you fall on your arse again I’ll just boot you back up.’
Initially I couldn’t stay on. I was black and blue all over. I took to padding the seat of my underpants with newspaper and bound my knees in flannel. Grandpa thought it was to be expected. ‘Damn horse hasn’t been out the gate for four months and he’s a bit toey. Satan is getting lazy and mean. Yesterday he almost killed Tim’s stallion, bit his ear and stomped on his ribs. Are you all in one piece, Sasha?’
I staggered to my feet. My ears were ringing and I thought I was going to pass out. Death before Kane dishonour. ‘Yes, Grandpa.’
‘Your horse comes from great racing stock; Satan was sired by Grande Cavalier. Top notch bloodline and a very handsome piece of horse flesh. I can’t put Satan out for stud though – he’d probably kick the poor mares to death. Right then, up you go again.’
I was so scared I wouldn’t make the grade that I often took Satan out on my own for extra practice. I desperately wanted to be accepted as a Kane and to distance myself from my late father. But it was hard going and it wasn’t getting any easier. I was spending an inordinate amount of time bruising my arse.
Tim gave Nanny some foul-smelling salve and she rubbed me down after each disastrous ride. It not only stank of eucalyptus but it felt hideous under my prickly woollen undergarments and had me on fire for two hours.
‘Nanny, please stop. It burns.’
‘Our Tim recommends it. It’s a secret recipe and has been in his family for generations. Now, if you stop this stupid riding business, I’ll give up on the ointment.’
‘I can’t.’
She stuck her fingers in the jar and extracted a big glob of the vile stuff.
‘Well, my girl, I’ve got no choice then.’
I backed away from her. ‘But I’m only trying to become a good rider.’
‘Sasha dear, that horse is a beast. He may well be a thoroughbred with a pedigree as long as your arm but he has no manners.’
‘Nanny, I want to be a Kane.’
She slapped the ointment on my bare arse. ‘But you already are. Why only yesterday at the butcher’s, Mrs Adair told me, “Young Sasha is the spitting image of her mother and aunt.”’
‘I want to ride like Rose. Even if it kills me.’
Nanny looked decidedly grim. ‘That may well happen, pet.’
One morning Satan was in a particularly ugly mood. The sea was unusually calm and all the birds were hushed as though waiting for a signal. There was no breeze and the strange yellow light hovering over the sea had turned the vegetation a bright nightmarish green. I ignored nature’s warning and rode Satan out to Deadman’s Gorge but he resisted me every inch of the way. Even though it was only about three miles away, we didn’t usually go up there but I was feeling adventurous and a tad bored. There was a certain cachet to the gorge as it was rumoured to be the wilderness area where Wolfftown’s gangs disposed of their victims’ bodies.
Deadman’s Gorge was known as a sinister place. The old folk reckoned the derelict house had stood empty since its occupants were brutally murdered, leaving their vengeful ghosts to haunt the area. It was rumoured to be the hangout of criminals on the run. The abandoned house sat on a rise overlooking Wolfftown, and from a safe distance it was easy to see anyone who was approaching and pick them off with a rifle.
The gorge itself was a red gash in the hillside and its steep sides were a treacherous combination of loose rocks and slippery clay. Even though the gorge was narrow, the drop was well over ninety feet. When I peered over the edge I saw a slow moving stream and glistening water rats scrambling through the empty eye sockets of a bleached human skull.
There was a distant roll of thunder. Satan reared up and took off as though driven by fiends. Tree branches lashed my face and prickly bushes swiped my legs. I gashed my head on a low bough and blood streamed into my eyes. Impervious to my commands Satan powered onwards. I groped my way forward and shouted in his ear, ‘Please don’t kill me.’
It was almost as though Satan understood. He stopped suddenly and I fell off into some prickles. My humiliation was complete and I burst into tears. I was a failure and my father had been correct in his judgment of me. I lay on the ground as rain fell and a biting wind blew up the cliff. I cried for a mother I never really knew and for the father I’d known only too well. I was skinless, defenceless and without hope.
I thought Satan had gone until he started gently prodding me with his nose, forcing me to get a grip on my emotions. You may not believe this but it’s true; I felt Satan wanted to make amends. I climbed up onto a tree stump and managed to scramble onto his back. Initially he waited patiently while I tried to pluck the prickles from my flesh but eventually he made the decision to head for home. I was all done in. I let the reins hang down and collapsed forward, with my fingers tangled in his mane. Satan was extremely docile and I surrendered to the gentle rocking motion and let him choose the route home.
I’ve since learnt that horses know damn well when they don’t have the leader of the pack on their back. To Satan I was just an ignorant child who was low in the pecking order. He would never have given Tim any trouble as he was clearly a pack leader. Tim also had a reputation all over Tasmania as Wolfftown’s supremely gifted horse whisperer. Lucky for me, instead of smashing my ribs, cracking my skull or killing me, Satan had decided to teach me a lesson as to how I should conduct myself. He was taking me into the future. Grandpa was correct, Satan was an exceptionally smart horse.
Tim rushed out from the stables when we entered the mounting yard. He plucked me down from the saddle and his eyes narrowed. I was drenched, with torn clothes and bloodied face. He yelled at a stable boy, ‘Get me a rifle and saddle my horse. Move it! Jacko and Cornelius, grab your guns. You’re coming with me.’
The stableboys gathered around with anxious faces. It was common knowledge that an unknown paedophile had been terrifying young girls on the west coast for weeks. Tim knelt down and looked me straight in the eye. ‘Sasha, who was the dirty bastard who violated you? I want his name.’
‘Nobody. I hit the ground.’
‘Don’t be afraid, we’ll get you to Doc Dual and everything will be all right. Where did it happen? I’m going to bring that fucker in. If you don’t know him by name then just give me a description. Trust me, I can make you safe. I can fix this.’
‘But I’m telling you the truth! I fell off.’
‘Honest? Cross your heart?’
I solemnly crossed my heart. ‘I would never lie to you, Tim. But please don’t tell Nanny about this.’
Tim stared at me intently and the seconds ticked by as he weighed it all up. ‘All right, Sasha. You’ve got a deal. Get your sorry arse into the stables and I’ll clean you up. But make no mistake, I will be having words with Brendan about this bloody horse.’
It was cosy in Tim’s rooms above the stable, everything was shipshape and clean and my wet clothes steamed ne
ar the potbelly stove. I loved the smell of oiled leather, horses and fresh hay that drifted up from below. Tim hadn’t had much of an education but he was whip smart. He had maps of the world pinned to the walls with pins attached to the exotic places he intended visiting. There was also a whole shelf of atlases and equine medical books, which had been given to Tim by Grandpa. Brendan Kane valued men who were willing to drag themselves up by their bootstraps. To this end he was always questioning and sometimes mocking Tim’s country town bigotry. Like just about everyone else in Wolfftown, Tim had been taught to never question the status quo.
I sat on Tim’s kitchen table, decorously draped in a horse blanket while he deftly removed all the prickles from my arms and legs with a leather tacking needle. Then he washed off my blood and dabbed me vigorously with horse antiseptic that stung like hell. I ground my teeth but didn’t yelp. No doubt my equanimity had something to do with the sugared hot milk I’d just slurped down. Our cows’ creamy milk had come straight from the milking pail, been warmed over the stove and liberally laced with Irish whisky.
Jacko, the head groom had made it for me. ‘For medicinal purposes, Sasha. It will give you sweet dreams. But there’s no need to mention this tipple to them wowsers indoors, all right?’
Of course not. I knew I must be half-cut because I felt wonderful. Even though I was black and blue all over, I felt no pain. And that night I snored so loudly that Nanny became suspicious. But Tim kept his promise and didn’t blab.
In the following weeks Satan and I made peace. Tim let me ride out with him on his rounds of the estate. He had a way of communicating with horses that I’ve never seen before or since.
I had to unlearn everything I’d been taught by my father. He’d been all about man dominating beast, and the right of Homo sapiens to use and abuse other species for their own gains. Small wonder that Alain Torte’s own horse, Digger, had loathed his master and had slyly unseated him on several occasions. Fortunately, Papa had been crapulous and likely to tumble out of the saddle anyway, so Digger had not been punished.
The Scandalous Life of Sasha Torte Page 6
