by Darry Fraser
St. Mary’s, the sign said.
She looked up to the clear blue sky and laughed to herself. No smite so far.
She would check that a door was open, and sit in a pew for a few moments to gather her pagan self.
James alighted at the Rochester stop and waited in the shadows of the station building. Not all the cabins emptied of their passengers, but those passengers who did disembark hurried to the restrooms.
Wilkin was not among them.
Ladies already on the station with covered baskets sold their wares: cold pies, some fruit, bread and jam in thick slices, some with boiled eggs. James reached into his pocket for a couple of shillings, and lifted his finger to attract the attention of a vendor. The woman, her plain apron over a dull-coloured dress, offered him a heavy-looking paper bag. ‘Two fresh mutton pies, still warm from me oven, and two boiled eggs.’
James handed over his shillings and pocketed some pennies as change. He nodded his thanks and returned his gaze to the waiting train carriage.
‘And when you’re finished, if I could have me bag back, sir?’
He nodded again, opened the bag and grabbed out the eggs, still in their shells. He thrust them into his coat pockets and took out the two pies. Stacking one on the other in one hand, he gave her back her bag.
‘There’s a bench around here, sir, if you need to sit.’
Wolfing down one pie, he took a seat, from where he could continue to watch any lagging passengers alight.
No one.
The second pie was good. He’d consumed the first one almost without noticing so this one he savoured a little. The thick, strong gravy around rich mutton oozed through a perfect pastry, the likes of which he hadn’t tasted for a long time. He licked his fingers clean. A good draught of beer wouldn’t go astray, but nobody would be selling beer here. Looking about, he saw a water station not far away, but decided against leaving his position. His thirst for water was second to his thirst for vengeance.
Rubbing his face, the beard stubble of a couple of days was scratchy under his fingers. A bath would do him wonders, as would a shave and some fresh clothes. How long had he been in—
There! A face at the first carriage window and then it was gone.
Was it him? It could have been a child peering out …
A whistle shrieked. James glanced at the station master who waved passengers aboard, bellowing as he went. He lingered as long as he could but the face at the window did not reappear. Would he risk being seen entering that cabin?
If Wilkin was in there he’d kill him … But too hard to dispose of the body; it would be seen being chucked off the train. Or—could he stand the stink of the man’s body if he kept him in the cabin after he’d despatched him?
No. More chance he’d be found out and witnesses called to bear. Far too risky either way.
I’ll wait until the train stops at Echuca to execute my next move.
An interesting choice of words, Anderson.
Thirty-One
Bendigo
Sam looked at him. ‘What—tomorrow? Shit, lad, what’s the rush?’
Ard snorted. ‘I told you, I have to find work, and fast. No good in Bendigo anymore without my fruit trees.’ He stood just inside Sam’s yard. ‘I’ll roll out my swag here tonight, if that’s all right with your ma.’
Waving a hand in the air, Sam said, ‘What happened to our adventure and riding off to join the scallywags and visiting all the pubs in Echuca?’
Ard turned to tie the reins to Sam’s gatepost. ‘You’ve got work with your pa. Me, I’ve got to find work. And creeping around this place waiting for Mr Ling to up his price, or Pa and my uncle to come home, is not for me. No one can steal a burned-out orchard.’ He wiped a forearm over his face. ‘I don’t need to be here and I need work.’
‘Didn’t you tell me that Mr Anderson said the river is losing trade?’
‘But the sawmills are still hiring, and people need fruit and vegetables. I can work a plot.’
‘The Chinamen got that worked out,’ Sam said.
‘Here they’ve got it worked out, but they’re not in Echuca.’
Sam folded his arms. ‘How you goin’ to get started?’
Ard opened the gate and stepped into the yard, a three-foot strip of dirt from the pickets to the step. ‘I’ll find work first, and plan from there.’
‘There’s another depression already on the doorstep.’
Ard nodded. ‘Seems.’
Sam’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’re you not telling me, mate?’
‘Nothing.’ He shrugged. ‘What?’
‘I could help,’ Sam said.
‘Maybe come up later.’ Ard sat on the stoop. ‘Besides, your pa needs you here, too. And you need him, if it comes to that. Another depression, who knows what’ll happen.’
Sam sat beside him. ‘Bleak prospects.’
Ard nodded. ‘Grim.’
‘I could—’
‘I’ve got something I need to do, Sam, something I can’t tell you about right now. And Pie needs to stay somewhere until I can come get him and buy him from you.’
‘You know Pa says to keep him.’
‘I know. I’ll send you a telegram in a week’s time. Let you know what work’s around. Maybe if I find work, and they can hire you, too, or maybe we’ll work our own plot together, somehow.’
‘And maybe you’re mad leaving here. Maybe I’m mad thinking I’ll go.’ Sam looked at his hands. ‘Don’t leave it too late to let me know.’
Ard rolled his shoulders. ‘I won’t. I’ll write you to bring me some of the stuff still in the shed at the orchard.’ Then he shrugged, eyes wide. ‘Train doesn’t leave until well after sunrise … Got any rum? Night’s early. We could just have one.’
Sam perked up. ‘Now you’re making sense, laddie.’
Thirty-Two
Echuca station, late morning. The train slid the last few yards, the steam whistle shrieking as the carriage clunked and rolled to a stop.
James grabbed his travelling bag, jammed his hat on his head and threw open the carriage door. Sure he would meet Wilkin as he tried to alight, he stepped onto the platform and headed to the first carriage. Dodging the few passengers on the platform, he could see the door of the cabin he aimed for was open. He hesitated only a second and realised no one was emerging.
Level with the open door, he peered inside. If anyone had been in there, they’d gone. Empty, except for the undeniable stink of Gareth Wilkin.
‘Mr Anderson!’
He rounded at someone calling his name.
‘Mr Anderson! Over here.’ Bill Jenkins, only a few yards away, waved a hand. ‘Thought I’d missed you, sir. Got the cart waiting out the front.’
‘Bill. Good man.’ James looked over his head.
‘You looking for something, sir?’ Bill’s thick, gnarled hands grabbed James’ bag. He sat his hat back on his head and led the way out to the concourse.
‘A short bloke, sores on him. Stinks.’
‘Sounds like a pox or something.’
‘Burns, I think.’ James abandoned his search. Too many people about, including Bill. He slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good God, man,’ he said and nodded at the laden cart. ‘You have been busy.’
Bill tucked James’ bag into a wedge of space in the back of the cart and waved his hand at the load. ‘You did telegraph to get whatever household stuff yer money would buy.’ He clambered up to sit behind the horses, gathering the reins as James climbed up beside him. ‘Had me missus come with me to Mr Egge’s boat, and to Mr Thompson’s store. Reckon she did orright.’
James studied the load over his shoulder. ‘She did at that.’
‘Yessir, there’s ever’thing there for the ladies, the baby, the kitchen, and all other womenfolk requirements.’ He giddy-upped the horses. ‘What yer didn’t buy I reckon me and the boys could build.’
‘Reckon you might be right.’ James swung his attention back to the road as Bill steered the cart away from t
he station. ‘Let’s get to the house.’
There was no sign of Wilkin, but he was here, James knew it.
His only thought now was of CeeCee and the news he had to tell her.
Thirty-Three
Echuca
Widow Esther Bailey refused to even glance across the road to that house with those women in it. A menace to the wellbeing of all decent womenfolk in the town, they were, those women. Unlawful women. That’s what they were. And there was a new one among them. Good Lord. If I see one more slovenly woman with a dirty-nosed child there, I will drag that policeman here by his ear to sort them out once and for all.
They’ll attract undesirable types who’ll come sniffing around, dragging Lord only knows what with them. They will bring men into this street who use their violence on them and the children. And probably others, should we object to their presence.
Why a Christian woman has to put up with this, I don’t know. If only Mr Bailey were still here, he would have them out on the street.
Well, if the truth be known—and she bristled a little as she corrected herself—these particular women hadn’t attracted any undesirables so far. Not that she’d seen, anyway. But they would, she was sure.
Only, they’d told her that they had been removed from violence in Melbourne to her quiet street under the protection of a benefactor … Oh, bosh. How likely a story was that? And what was this sort of ‘benefactor’, hmm?
But at times, Esther caught herself wondering. What would her life have been like if somebody had removed her mother and her from the violence and fear in her own childhood home? How lucky they were then, these women across the street—if it were true, of course.
It was true that there hadn’t been any trouble. Unless you called a little child by the name of Jane ‘trouble’. It seemed the scallywag had quite taken to Esther, despite her efforts to dissuade the toddler.
She stopped herself smiling, brushed down her white cotton blouse and skirt as if to remove the dirt of their existence. Her boots swept her along her side of the road on the flat dirt pathway, her eyes averted from the offending house opposite, her nose in the air.
It’s only a matter of time before the rot sets in. She would have to discourage the women and the children, somehow. She wouldn’t be able to stand the sort of violence she’d endured as a child and as a young woman if it visited her again, even if only in close proximity. Those people had to be drummed out of the street before it followed them here. She shouldn’t have to be frightened for her life anymore.
She reached her gate. Odd. The latch was unclipped.
She never left it unclipped. Dogs and all sorts of other unwanted presences might appear on her doorstep, including the grubby children from across the road. Even if they were cheerful and cheeky, they belonged to those wretched women.
No sign of the children.
She stepped through the gateway, turned on her path and snapped the latch back in place. A furtive glance about, but she couldn’t discern another presence.
Firm in her conviction she had not left the gate unlatched, she stepped to her front door, a hand on her chest, her heartbeat pounding against her palm.
Oh my Lord. The front door is ajar.
Not much, just enough to see that it had been opened and not closed properly.
She stood stock still, her heart hammering. The children had never been so outrageous before. Oh how ridiculous, Esther. Why, they were barely able to toddle across the road on their own let alone undo the latch of the gate and open the door to the house.
An intruder, then.
She cast a glance about, turned back to look across the road at that house and saw a curtain drop. They would know someone awaited her inside.
Her nose pinched, her head thumped. And they would do nothing, not even warn her. Typical.
She turned back. Stared at her door. Her gaze darted to her two windows, darkened with thick fabric to keep the view across the road blocked from her sight, and blocked from any beggars and … and neighbours looking in.
Esther heard a voice call out and backed up a step, hand on her thumping heart.
‘We saw someone enter your house, Mrs Bailey. You might watch out.’
She turned and looked back across the road. That Mrs Cooke or whatever she called herself, the one with the mess of orange hair, stood at her front gate.
‘You should … mind your own business.’ Esther stared at the woman but couldn’t stop her chin quivering.
Mrs Cooke shrugged. ‘That wouldn’t be neighbourly in this case.’ A child pushed out from behind her thin skirt. ‘It were a man, if you want to know. An’ he’s still in there, lest he’s took off out the back way.’
Esther froze. The breath stopped in her throat. She watched Mrs Cooke nod at her, then prod the child back inside the house. She backed up another step. She would go back to the main street and go to the police …
‘Here,’ a voice called out.
She turned again to see Mrs Cooke marching across the road, a sturdy switch in her hand.
‘If you want, I’ll come in wi’ yer. He’s not likely to tackle two of us.’
Esther watched horrified as Mrs Cooke unlatched the gate and came to stand alongside her. She smelled of baking, of sweat, and of some fragrance coming from her hair. Her blotchy freckles had blended in places so that the pigment on her face gave her a sunbrowned look.
No one with that colour hair would enjoy too much sun …
‘I …’
‘Go on,’ Mrs Cooke said. ‘It’s your house. In yer go.’
Caught off guard, Esther took a step or two towards her front door and stopped.
Mrs Cooke stepped around her. ‘All right. I’ll do it.’ She strode to the front door, shoved, and it banged against the inside wall.
They saw a form scuttle down the hallway and duck into a room on the left of the house.
Esther recognised who it was immediately. She closed her eyes a moment. ‘It’s all right. I know him.’
‘Are you sure?’ Mrs Cooke asked. ‘We women on our own have to look out for each other. God only knows—’
‘Yes, yes. I’ll be all right,’ Esther snapped. ‘Please go.’
Mrs Cooke stared at her then thrust the switch into her hand. ‘You call out, now, if you need—’
Esther pushed past her and stepped inside, closing the door. She gripped the switch more tightly as she heard Mrs Cooke shut and latch the gate.
There was no doubt in her mind who it was. It was her brother. The only menace that had come to pay a visit was from her own family. Esther was ready for him, though. She had hoped never to see him again. But now he was here, she would do anything to be rid of him.
‘Gareth.’ Her voice sounded stern despite a little tremor. ‘Come out where I can see you.’
As she moved down the hallway, the switch slapped against her skirt.
Thirty-Four
James and Mr Jenkins unloaded the furniture at the new house and set each piece in its tentative place until CeeCee returned from her outing. Mr Jenkins left on foot as she arrived, and would return the following day to check if he was required.
While they were still on the street, James greeted CeeCee with a kiss on both cheeks. Then he proceeded to help her inside despite her exclamation that she was perfectly all right.
‘I hope you are, my sweet. Nevertheless.’ Gripping her arm lightly, he steered her inside, down the hallway and into the little parlour. ‘I have some news.’
CeeCee faced him in the doorway. ‘I am a little creaky, and in some places more bruised. But now you’re here and we’re all alone, I’m really much more interested in something more personal between us.’ She laid the palm of her hand on his face and whispered, ‘Could your news not wait while we take some time for ourselves?’ Leaning in, she wrapped her arms around him and looked up.
He stared down at her. ‘I’m not sure it can wait, CeeCee.’ His hands slid around her waist. ‘Though I’m sorely tempted.’ He dip
ped his head to the nape of her neck. ‘Let me—’
‘Is it life or death?’ she murmured and her hands floated through his hair, her breasts pressed softly against his chest.
James’ mouth teased along her skin. ‘No … but not pleasant.’
‘Is it something we can fix right now?’ Her fingers played down the front of his shirt and on to his trousers. ‘Is it dangerous?’
He held his breath. ‘… No.’
She reached up and kissed his mouth, lingering. ‘If we walk this way, you can tell me in my room.’ She tugged his hand and with her other hand tugged at the buttons on her dress.
He followed. ‘But you’ve been out walking already. Are you not tired?’
‘It was invigorating once I found my rhythm. Such a pleasant day.’ At the door to her room, she turned and stroked his face again. ‘And I need to feel alive and safe and loved. Please, let’s leave your unpleasant news until afterwards.’
He let out a long breath. The news could wait, it could wait. What harm? What was done would not change. His erection hardened as she pressed closer.
The tip of her tongue touched his lips. ‘I need you fast and hard and without mercy.’
‘Is that right?’ he whispered low. ‘How can you be so wanton? I would be wary of those bruises, darling girl.’ His penis strained at his fly. His hands shifted to her breast and he brushed the nipple until it rose under her light chemise.
Backing into her room, she pulled James through the doorway and locked the door. ‘I am wary of the bruises, but I am more sorely in need of you, my handsome man.’
She sat him on her bed, unbuttoned his trousers, brushed her hand along the length of him. Lifted her skirt above her knees. ‘You’ll have to help. I am breathless for it … I can’t get up on your lap by myself today.’
‘It could hurt you …’ He was hard and ready. His gaze swept the dark curly patch of hair between the open legs of her drawers, his naked penis strained.
