by Darry Fraser
As Ard got to the wide doorway, the blast of the forge rushed him headlong. The smithy glanced up, drove a few more blows onto the steel then turfed the mallet across the bench. He wiped a forearm over his forehead, though Ard could see there was no sweat. It was too dry in here for sweat.
‘Yer back here again. What can I do yer for today?’ He reached for a rag and rubbed the grime from his face.
Ard took a look around. ‘Not me. First time here.’ The shop was crowded with the paraphernalia of building wheels, shoe horses, cooking pots … jobs finished, jobs half done. A big pile of jobs abandoned, he suspected, piled in the back corner.
The smithy wiped his eyes again. ‘Weren’t it you in here yest’y? I shoed your big stallion, that MacNamara of your’n.’
Ard shook his head. ‘Don’t have my own horse. Must have been someone else.’
The blacksmith took a step closer, and squinted at him. ‘Be your brother, p’raps?’
Again, Ard shook his head. ‘No.’
The man wiped his hands on the rag, tossed it aside and leaned back on the bench, his burly frame relaxed. ‘Well, if it weren’t you, and weren’t your brother, swear you got a dead ringer out there, mate.’ He folded his arms.
The shop was stifling. The heat of the day outside was mild compared to the temperature in here. If Ard stood where he was and not a foot further in, he could feel the cooler air on his back.
‘Strange thing,’ Ard agreed. ‘Look, I’m up from Bendigo, looking for work. Reckon you’d know who’d be hiring.’
‘And about fifty other fellas looking for work, too.’ He ruffled his hair with both hands and flecks of dirt sprayed off. ‘Why you asking a smithy? I got no extra work.’
‘You shoe horses. Build cart wheels.’ Ard waved his hand around. ‘Lots of folk must come see you. And boat builders. They all need you. You’d hear a fair bit.’
‘Thing’s are slowing down now with the railway and all. Reckon the sawmill’s still hiring, but …’ He flexed his hands, thick and scarred. ‘Still, the wharf’s yer best bet. Blokes coming and going all the time. How you earned a livin’ before?’
Ard lifted his shoulders. ‘We owned an orchard down Bendigo. Burned down last week. I’ve worked the river a bit, with Mr Egge. Can turn my hand to just about anything.’
‘Well, then, wharf’s best, I reckon. Bound to be something for a young fella like you.’ He pushed off the bench.
‘Thanks.’
Ard turned to go when the smithy called him back.
‘Sure yer name’s not MacHenry?’
Ard nodded. ‘I’m real sure. It’s O’Rourke.’
‘Bugger me if you ain’t like that fella, yest’y.’
Ard waved and walked back to the street, away from the stifling heat of the forge. The air cooled his back and made the trek down to the river bearable. The swag shifted across his shoulders; he would be glad to be rid of it.
The mighty wharf stretched out before him. Great red-gum planks and hewn trunks lifted the three-tiered construction up from the riverbed in a criss-cross of beams and joists and posts. He’d half expected to see the place abandoned. For an industry people said was dying, it still looked plenty busy to him. Five boats lined up, waiting for the cranes to get to them. Barge after barge, loaded with wool bales stacked high, jostled and sloshed against each other on the low-level muddy water. Men stood on the deck of the wharf, and leaned over to shout orders or jibes at men still on the boats below.
Spectators stood a long way off, leaning over a chain-link rail that looked flimsy to Ard. He could see some ladies, their white dresses puffing slightly from a gentle breeze, stepping back and forward nervously, perhaps afraid of falling into the river below. He stepped carefully onto the wide expanse of the wharf deck. The broad planks of solid timber underfoot, gnarled with tar, were gapped. Some felt loose as he strode the length of it, past a long storage shed and the men who worked there. They nodded at him as he passed. He nodded in return, tipped his hat. He might need to revisit these people to look for work.
‘Watch where yer goin’!’ A voice bellowed up from below.
Ard stopped in his tracks. A head poked up from beneath the deck, Ard’s boots only inches away.
‘Yer’d have come down on me head, mate, done yerself an injury, too. Broke a leg, maybe.’ The head ducked back under again and Ard heard chortling above and below.
He looked across at an open shed, laden with wool bales. A figure lolled in the doorway, tipped a finger to his hat. ‘Need to watch yer step, mate.’
Ard checked his feet again before moving back to a safer path. ‘Looking for work on the boats, if you know of any.’
‘If a bloke’s not going to survive walkin’ on the wharf, how’d he survive a boat on the river?’
Ard snorted. ‘Was just distracted a moment.’
The man, at least as tall as Ard, was a good deal heavier. Not lardy, but stocky, muscular.
‘Easy enough.’ He remained leaning on the doorjamb. ‘What work you after? All we got is loading and unloading.’
‘I worked on the Murrumbidgee with Mr Egge a few times. Crewed the way to Renmark and back.’
‘Didja now? Nice boat full of nice trinkets and such. Good captain. Good crew. But I don’t know of anything going on the river.’
Ard nodded his thanks and moved on. The ’Bidgee is more than a ‘nice’ boat, mate.
A little further on, he leaned over the edge. He spotted the Hero tied up at the other end of the dock, smugly sitting away from the cranes. So, too, perhaps the Clyde, though he couldn’t be sure. Back closer, the old girl Kelpie sat in a huff as she waited attention. Closer, almost underfoot and steadying for the cranes, were two splendid boats—the Lady Mitchell and the Lady Goodnight. Ard had heard of them. Hard to miss the river talk of new boats and skippers, all jostling for position and trade up and down the highway they called the River.
They’d have work for sure. Ard leaned further over but couldn’t see anyone on either boat. Checking for another manhole to take him down to the next level, he saw the closest was yards away, over by the next crane. No harm to get down there and call out, see if anyone was around. He knew these two boats travelled regularly between Echuca and Swan Hill. If he got work, it wouldn’t be a stretch to get a closer look at the terrain, seek out land he could …
Suddenly, a figure caught his eye, over near where the Hero was tied alongside a small building. A woman, carefully making her way closer to the water’s edge at the foot of a bank studded with lanky gums. Before he could even see her clearly, he knew who it was.
His heart banged against his rib cage. Shading his eyes against the sun, he squinted into the afternoon light and blinked. Dare he believe what his eyes were seeing?
With a quick glance at his feet to be sure he wouldn’t step into a hole, he took off. Bounded over the boards. The swag bounced on his back and he ran with nothing else in his mind.
Linley!
Esther slapped the registration paper down on the table in front of her brother. ‘There it is.’ She turned to the stove, added a small rough-cut log of wood into the fire and resettled the heavy plate lid. The kettle went back on top, and steam began to rise as it came back to the boil. ‘You’ll thank me.’
‘I do.’ Gareth reached across and fingered the corner of it.
‘Though what good it’ll do you without knowing where the baby is, I don’t know.’ She glared at him. ‘And why you’re not so unhappy about that, and more worried about the inheritance—’
‘Shut up, Esther.’ His chin almost reached the table, he slouched so much.
Two pannikins thumped on the table in front of him. ‘I didn’t lie to my good pastor to have you tell me to shut up.’ Her nose crinkled. ‘You need to get back in that bath and scrub yourself again.’
He glanced up. ‘Me burns are bad. Me foot’s bad. It’s what stinks. I almost can’t get a boot on.’ He pointed at his bandaged foot.
Shaking her head, Esther sa
llied on. ‘And you’ll sleep in the laundry room. Heat the boiler. Dress in there, too,’ she ordered, and adjusted her apron, smoothing it down. Suddenly she had no interest in her brother or his issues. If, in fact, she ever did. He was like the lid jammed tight on a boiling billy, waiting to burst from the tin can and damage the first thing it came into contact with. And she’d seen too much of it before her marriage to want to see it again.
But if Gareth makes one wrong … No. This will not do.
‘What’re lookin’ at me like that fer?’ he growled.
Her mind made up, she pointed at the blank form. ‘You do with that paper what you must and then be gone from here.’
He snorted. ‘Or you’ll what? You have to write it for me, and then I might be on my way.’ He scanned the room. ‘But seems to me ol’ Bailey left you a nice little place here. Big enough for two.’
A sinking in her belly sent her gut cold. ‘Not big enough for you and me, Gareth.’
‘We’ll see, after you write on that paper for me,’ he said. ‘Kettle’s boiled. My tea’s strong and dark with some of that fine sugar I know you got hid on the shelf.’
‘It’s not sugar. You’re not to touch it. It’s—’
‘I’ll do what I want. I’ll have sugar.’
A chill danced through her veins. It wasn’t his voice, it wasn’t the arrogant slouch, or even the stench coming off him again. It was the threat he represented. The threat of their father appearing night after night on the doorstep, his fist always bunched, his arm swinging and the grunt of his primal thrusts on their mother as she cried out in pain. They’d both witnessed the horror, heard the terror. Yet despite all, her brother had turned out just like their father. Esther would not revisit it again. For anybody. She did not have to save anyone. Least of all her violent brother.
She moved swiftly, her skirt swishing against the rough table. She gripped the switch that Mrs Cooke had given her yesterday and swung it hard. It slashed down on the table, the slap loud in her ears. ‘You’re a fool.’
Gareth fell back, mouth open, legs kicked up as he went down on the floor, the chair thrust out from under him.
‘Wha—?’
‘This is my house,’ Esther hissed at him close to his face. ‘One misstep while you’re here, Gareth Wilkin, and I’ll bury you myself in this very yard.’
He skittered back, pressed up against the cupboard behind him. ‘What are yer talkin’ about?’
She swept to his side and knelt low, her face just above his. ‘And you won’t even see it coming.’
When she stood upright, looming over him, he scuttled away out the door and into the yard. She shifted her gaze to the innocuous tin on the shelf over the hearth, the one Gareth thought was sugar, and set her mouth in a grim line. He was a fool. She should put that tin elsewhere.
Esther stared at the switch in her right hand. If she wasn’t careful, the inner rage she knew was with her would take over. All the years at the hands of her father she’d battened it down, kept it contained, buried it deep.
Would retribution serve her justly? Would God forgive her this?
Naught to forgive. Not retribution, but protecting herself, when no one else would.
All it would take was one wrong move from Gareth. Just one.
Jaysus. She was mad. Me own sister, mad as a cut snake.
What happened to the meek and mild quivering little go-for she’d been when they were growing up? He’d have to get his gumption back up and deal with her like their pa dealt with them all.
Gareth crouched in the corner of the washroom. He eyed off the tub, half full of his previous bath water.
Cold. I aren’t getting in no cold bath water.
He needed to get Esther to write that paper and get it registered so he could get his hands on that old biddy’s money. That’s what he needed to do.
Shit. It was back in the kitchen with that madwoman sister of his. Nothing to be done for it but to go back in there and grab it. He stayed crouched for a moment, screwed his face as he checked his thoughts.
So, why am I sat in here for, like some toady coward?
Mindful that his legs poked out from under his dead brother-in-law’s shirt, and his feet were in oversized socks, he propelled himself up.
Look ridiculous. A man should be shamed. Well, not me. Them others’ll be shamed when I’m a rich man.
Gareth clomped his way unevenly back to the kitchen, his left foot hard to manage. When he got inside, Esther wasn’t there. Well, he’d find her and when he did …
Over at the stove, he unwrapped a piece of bread warming in a cloth on a plate, took a bite then tucked the rest up his sleeve. He poked his head out of the room, checked the hallway. He took two steps and looked into the dark parlour room.
Pfft. Women’s fafferies. Lace and cushions and teacups and whatnot. He’d show her who was boss. Inside, he picked up a cushion from the settee and flung it across the room into the heavy drapes. As they parted briefly, he saw a man and a woman at a cart across the road.
He scuttled across and held the curtains shut, allowing only a sliver of light so he could see. Blinking hard, his sight only a bit fuzzy, he focused, his heartbeat like thunder against his ribs. That hurt, still. It pounded in his throat.
It was him. That big redhead bloke. Staring at his sister’s house.
And it was her. The guardian girl’s aunt. The one who could handle a heavy cooking pot. And that was a brat’s carry basket on the seat beside her.
So, they had business at the house across the road, did they?
Thirty-Nine
James settled CeeCee back at their house. He gave her orders to sleep in the chair, and not move too far until he returned, orders he knew would not be taken any notice of at all.
He pulled the cart alongside the post office, stepped down to tie the reins and headed inside. He waited in line and when his turn came, he presented the filled-in birth registration form.
The young desk clerk answered with bright-eyed efficiency. ‘Yes, sir, we do know the address of the Births, Deaths and Marriages registrar in Melbourne. I can address it for you, and make sure it’s mailed speedily, along with your mail to—’ He peered at the other envelope. ‘Mr Campbell in Bendigo.’
‘I’m also in need of a marriage declaration—’
‘Yes, sir, we do have a form for a marriage declaration here. You take it along to your church man and he’ll do the rest, or he may even have his own form to give you.’ The clerk glanced at James’ expression then continued. ‘Or you just fill in those few lines and lodge it by mail. I know, sir. I just done it meself. Same registrar’s address. Are you going to fill it now, sir?’
James shook his head, aware there was a queue behind him. ‘No. I’ll take it with me and bring it back directly, once we’ve filled it in.’
‘Absolutely, sir.’ The clerk seemed a little overjoyed, which bemused James. ‘Bring it back when you’re ready. Congratula-tions, sir!’
James leaned in and spoke quietly. ‘No need for congratulations.’
The clerk mimicked James and leaned towards him. ‘Well, sir, in that case, there is a pastor here who helps all sorts of people. Pastor McNeill. He doesn’t need a church, sir, if you know what I mean.’
James stood upright, finished with this enthusiastic postal dolt. ‘When does the mail leave here?’
‘Every Tuesday—that would be tomorrow—by Cobb and Co. Oh, we expect it gets to town in three or four days, broken wheels, lame horses and bushrangers aside, if you know what I mean.’
‘And the charge?’
‘Two shillings will cover it all, with change.’
James headed back out to the cart. The birth registration would make CeeCee and Linley happy, and ultimately would make little Toby happy.
Another couple of stops to make, first to the store for more pots and pans, and a mirror, he had been ordered, and then on to the grocery store where he would buy good Mrs Cooke some sugar.
As for the other f
orm he had tucked in his pocket, he’d keep that hidden away a little while longer. Pastor McNeill, eh? He would seek the man out.
Toby’s inheritance would soon be protected by the registration of his birth. It would be in the mail room of the registrar on Friday, and hopefully processed the following week. Mr Campbell would be well pleased with the news.
James wondered about Ard O’Rourke and whether or not it’d make him happy. He wouldn’t think too hard about it; it would make no difference to the current circumstances anyway. If Ard ever did find Linley, he’d deal with it then. He caught himself.
Perhaps, Anderson, you need to mind your own business more.
Didn’t matter, none of it. Nothing could go wrong now. Because soon he would find the little bastard Wilkin, and make sure of it.
Forty
Ard pounded down the wharf, lost sight of her, caught only glimpses of her dress as it seemed to float behind a group of people, or waft between a stand of trees …
It was her. It was her. Sure of it.
No missing her glorious blaze of copper-coloured hair when the breeze loosened her hat. It had shimmered under the noonday sun before she’d clamped the hat back to her head.
Don’t shout, don’t shout, you’ll frighten her.
He skidded off the boards, slipped on the loose sand underfoot on the bank and went down hard, thudding on the ground. Christ, that hurt. His eyes watered. He couldn’t see her. He struggled to his feet, rubbing his backside hard. One of his ankles felt tender but still held his weight. He hobbled a few steps then felt it ease under the load.
‘Eh, lad!’
Ard glanced over his shoulder, back up the bank.
An older man, sporting a droopy thick salt-and-pepper moustache, headed towards him, his bow legs carrying him smartly to the end of the wharf. A portly belly wobbled in front of him.
‘Lad,’ he called again. ‘The boys up yonder said you asked about work. I got work. I got a load of wool to pick up Koondrook way, not far …’ He arrived at the edge of the boards and stopped, doubling over as he caught his breath.
