‘How was your first night?’ he asked. He had the decency to look abashed as tiny flecks of food flew from his lips and landed on the table.
‘I want to see Mr Gunnerslake.’ Susie pulled back her shoulders, trying to feign composure and courage.
‘Bit late for Mitch, he’s already up and out. But he asked me you to show you around.’ Slade pushed his oily plate into the middle of the table, and Susie watched as it was instantly descended upon by a gang of flies. As she stepped up onto the veranda she stifled a scream. In the corner, with his back against the wall and his knees drawn up to his chest, he was the strangest looking man she had ever seen. He wore a maroon T-shirt with a ripped sleeve, and khaki trousers that had been cut off at his calves. His skin was dark, and he had large, bloodshot eyes beneath hooded lids and a prominent brow. His nose was broad, with flattened nostrils that flared over thick, plum-coloured lips. His hair hung in beautiful, glossy twists, and his feet with their pale, dry soles were bare. He was fascinating. Susie raised her hand in a small wave, but he didn’t respond.
She followed as Slade strode ahead into the main residence of Mulga Plains.
‘Who’s that? On the terrace?’ she enquired.
‘That’s Elouera.’
She had hoped for a bit more. ‘What does he do?’
Slade grimaced, ‘Anything Gunnerslake tells her to. And for your information, he is a she, we call her Loulou.’
Susie opened her mouth to speak, but decided against it.
As they entered the house, her nose wrinkled at the musty tang that lingered in the air. She looked up, seeking windows that could be flung open at the first opportunity. The central hallway and main part of the house smacked of faded glory. Gold brocade wallpaper bore the marks of greasy skin that had rubbed along it. Smudged handprints covered the walls, evidence of someone trying to right themselves after a drunken stumble. A large wrought-iron light fitting hung in the double height hallway and held an ornate latticework of cobwebs. It was clearly years since anyone had wielded a feather duster in there. The doors that uniformly lead off the square hallway were unpainted dark wood, with tarnished brass handles. The bottom third of each door was spattered with all manner of liquid. Susie made out sploshes of what looked like soup, and drips of beer that had run down and formed a sticky fly-covered pool on the floor. One door had the perfect, neat imprint of a large boot stamped on it.
Thick, heavy curtains with braided, tasselled edges and co-ordinating tie-backs, hung at the filthy window. Susie prodded the fabric, regretting it instantly as a cloud of dust billowed into the space, filling her lungs and sitting on her hair and lashes. The heavy mahogany sideboard took up one whole wall of the dining room. Under a thick layer of grit, ornate soup tureens and matching serving dishes gleamed dully. The delicate gold leaf pattern and filigree work around the rim was beautiful. At some point, this house had been occupied by someone who took pride in their possessions. Susie felt sad for whoever it was.
The kitchen at the back of the house was functional but large, easily big enough for her to ensconce Nicholas in a play pen or a makeshift bed, meaning she could keep him close when she was working. A huge dresser housed all manner of crockery, none of it matching, but much of it pretty, if slightly old-fashioned. It reminded of her Grannie’s collection, which she had last seen nestling on shelves in the cellar at home, alongside abandoned croquet sets and rusting bikes. Here, the delicate pink floral painted teacups and pale glazed milk jugs seemed incongruent to their surroundings. The cooker was a wood burning stove that she could tell would, on the hottest of days of the year, make the room insufferable. Luckily there was a large, shuttered window that opened up like a hatch to the outside world. The fierce oven seemed to have two settings, roasting or off. She was sure it would take her a good few weeks to master it, not that she cared much if every chunk of meat she served was dry and singed.
Thankfully, the laundry room was in a spare block only yards from her own cabin. It was a long low building, housing an industrial sized twin tub and oversized ceramic sink with a washboard placed across it. Washing lines had been strung like fat spaghetti across the roof space and back again. In the corner, a tap dripped fresh water. Susie smiled, she would be able to clean their dirty clothes and boil up Nicholas’s nappies, and she would be able to fetch water to drink. Above the tap, on a scrubbed shelf, two paraffin lamps and four fat candles made her stomach leap with the knowledge that she would not need to be in total darkness tonight. For the first time since she arrived, Susie felt a glimmer of hope. Perhaps her stay wouldn’t be as bad as she had thought.
Two days later, Susie stood in the kitchen admiring her handiwork.
‘What do you think, Nicky? That’s a bit more like it isn’t it?’ Nicholas lay in the empty tea crate, lined with a thick, fringed velvet table cloth that Susie had found in a drawer and which she had washed twice. She had scrubbed the entire room from ceiling to floor, and although it now stank of bleach, it was at least dirt free, without a cobweb to be seen. Susie jumped as she heard the sound of heavy boots treading the wooden floor outside. Slade had clearly been avoiding her since she’d arrived, so it was unlikely to be him. She turned towards the door to see a small, offensive-looking man in his early seventies, wearing snug jeans and a grubby shirt. Thick hair hung to his shoulders in grey, wiry loops, framing small, bright eyes, like chips of amber glass. His tight lips housed teeth that were neglected. The stubble on his face was dark and reached from the top of his cheekbones to the base of his throat.
The man walked forward and stood with his arms a few inches proud of his body; his legs too, slightly bowed, didn’t meet between the thighs. The man looked to be full of gaps.
‘I’m Mitch. You Susie?’
In any other circumstances Susie would have made a joke, No, I’m another English girl who happens to be standing in your kitchen while you look for this Susie. But there was something about his fixed expression and twitchy fingers, which told her he was not a man who liked humour.
She nodded.
‘Find everything you need?’
‘Yes, thank you Mr Gunnerslake. I’m getting there. It’s good to meet you; I wanted to say thank you for our sponsorship.’
He didn’t respond. She tried to be more direct in an attempt to engage him, ‘I’ve got a couple of questions if that’s okay?’
He shrugged.
‘My son, Nicholas, is a baby,’ she pointed towards the makeshift cot in the corner, ‘and our cabin is so hot and as far as I can make out, the only water is in the laundry, which isn’t that close and in the dark it makes it tricky to get to and from, are there any rooms available in the house? We don’t need much space and he is a very good baby.’ She added the last bit in case the fear of Nicholas crying at all hours of the day and night might have been a concern.
‘Keep him away from the machinery; it’s no place for kids.’
Susie opened her mouth to speak, but was unsure how to respond.
‘There’s fourteen mouths wants feeding twice a day including my Jackaroo, a hand full of Abos who run my stock, ringers, boremen, and Slade my manager who I believe you’ve met.’ She nodded resignedly. Slade had evidently passed on her requests, and if Gunnerslake had any mind to help her out, he would have already done so. ‘Supplies come in twice a month, make a note of what we’re low on, give it to Slade. You get meat daily, with over three thousand head of sheep, there’s always some available if you get my drift. We don’t eat nothing fancy. Meat, veggies, potatoes, pie, stew, that kind of thing. Loulou’ll help you with anything; just tell her what you need.’
‘Okay,’ Susie tried out a smile, ‘I’ll do my best!’
Mitch looked her over, studying her cropped trousers and vest. ‘There’s plenty of clothes and whatnot in the linen press on the landing. My wife’s old stuff. She’s dead.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’
She waited until he left before going up to the landing to se
e what clothes she could use. This was the first and last time Mitch Gunnerslake would show her an act of kindness or generosity. Susie felt a flutter of excitement as she lifted the lid on the large wooden chest to reveal the dust covered florals and cottons. At home they would have invited ridicule; here, it was different and she rummaged through, extracting anything that might prove useful.
As she made her way back to the kitchen to sort through the jumble of dresses, shirts and trousers that filled her arms, she stopped in the doorway. Loulou was there, facing towards the open hatch, with her back to the door. Susie approached quietly. The woman was humming and singing, but not in a language that she recognised. As she turned, Susie felt her pulse quicken. Nicholas was lying placidly in the strange woman’s arms.
‘Get off him! Get away from him now! Don’t you ever touch him!’ she raced forward, shouting, dropping the clothes on the floor, intent only on getting her son away from this woman who looked and smelt like a vagrant. Snatching at her son, she pulled him into her, and he yelled instantly and powerfully. ‘It’s okay, Nicky, it’s okay. Mummy’s got you. I’ve got you now.’
Elouera stared at the floor, and quietly walked out of the kitchen.
Susie calmed her son, feeding him before he fell into a deep sleep. It was only as she watched him dozing that she replayed what had happened. Elouera had been singing to him, comforting him and he had been quiet, happy in her arms. Susie ran her fingers over her scalp.
Making her way back to the cabin with her booty under one arm, and Nicholas in the other, Susie stopped before entering. Someone had placed an empty jam jar, half filled with water, by the front door. In the water sat a single, rose-like bloom. It had long mauve petals and a clashing red base that formed a hub of colour in the centre of the flower. It was so delicate against the ugly backdrop of her cabin it took her breath away.
‘Oh Nicky, look! Someone has brought us a flower.’
Susie marched around to the terrace, hoping to find Elouera in her usual corner, but there was no one around. She ventured to the left of the house and beyond the gardens, where there was a collection of huts and stores, stables and an open-sided barn of sorts. Stepping gingerly among the ramshackle collection of buildings, she felt her courage fading as she ventured further in, treading over piles of litter and trying not to inhale the stench of human waste. About to give up, she trod a path back towards the main driveway, when a flicker of motion drew her eye. Following the flash of maroon, she discovered a basic hut, approximately eight foot in diameter, made out of a corrugated iron sheet, which had been propped on two wooden posts at the back, and two oil drums stacked on top of each other at the front. The floor was covered with newspaper, and a folded bedspread made an inadequate bed. Elouera was sitting on the floral cover, her legs hunched up in their usual position. She didn’t raise her eyes, so Susie crouched down until the woman was forced to look at her.
‘Elouera, I’ve come to say sorry for shouting at you earlier. I was frightened, that’s the truth and I’ve come to say thank you for my beautiful flower. It’s the first time anyone has done anything kind for me since I arrived.’
The woman ignored her.
Susie continued. ‘I wish you understood me. I could do with a friend out here and I hope that I haven’t blown it. Thank you for comforting Nicky, I’m really sorry I shouted at you. I was scared, that’s all.’
She held out her sleeping son, whose little arms and legs dangled like a rag doll over her hands. Elouera reached out and received the bundle. Her mouth opened in a smile, revealing crooked, brilliant white teeth. It transformed her face into something quite beautiful.
‘He can sleep anywhere!’ Susie laughed.
‘They’ll sleep when they need to, they all do.’ Her voice was a deep baritone.
‘Oh! You speak English!’
Elouera smiled, ‘Yes. Call me Loulou.’
‘Okay Loulou, I’m Susie. Elouera is a beautiful name.’
‘It means from a lovely place.’
‘Gosh, I wish I had a name like that, I think Susan means a flower or a Lily, I’m sure that’s what I was told.’
‘Well that’s good too.’
Susie smiled. ‘Although I must admit, I don’t feel like this a particularly lovely place; in fact I think I’d like to be anywhere else!’
‘I’d like to go to New York.’ Loulou smiled.
‘Oh me too! I think I’d like to traipse around the shops and listen to some jazz.’
Loulou shook her head, ‘I’ve seen pictures and a movie, once. I’d like to go to the top of the highest building and see how far I could see, up among the clouds.’
Susie nodded; she guessed when your world was as flat as Willeroo that would be incredible. She tried not to show her shock at the woman’s surroundings, but it was hard. She had never seen such privation. It made her feel grateful for her own cabin, which in comparison was relatively sturdy.
Nicholas raised his joined hands in a cherubic stance under his chin, ‘Ah, look you’re a natural.’
‘Should be, I’ve had six of my own.’
‘Six? You don’t look old enough!’
‘I’ve grown-up grandchildren as well.’
‘Where are they?’ Susie felt her cheeks flare, unsure if it was okay to ask.
‘Gone.’
Susie nodded, unsure if she wanted to enquire further. ‘I bought you a present too.’ Susie unfurled the magenta floral dress that she had earmarked for Loulou, it had a white lace collar and delicate pearly shell buttons. Loulou gathered it into her free hand and placed it on the floor without studying it, seemingly uninterested, far too occupied with the tiny infant that filled her arm and slept soundly in her grasp.
‘White babies look like grubs. Is that what you are, a little grub?’ Loulou spoke to the sleeping infant.
Susie smiled, she knew love at first sight when she saw it, grub or not.
The next day, as Susie toiled with a mound of spuds that she was peeling for supper, Loulou appeared in the kitchen, resplendent in her new dress, which hung beautifully on her frame and reached down to the floor. She was beaming.
4
Seven months passed and Susie fell into a routine of sorts. She had jazzed up her cabin with the addition of drapes made from old candy-striped sheeting that she had hemmed and tacked over the window. A row of glass jars suspended on wires from the ceiling held stubs of flickering candles that bathed their room in a golden glow, making it feel almost cosy. The floor was covered with makeshift rugs: multi-coloured rags that she had found abandoned in an old wardrobe, and in the corner of the room, opposite the cot, rested a white painted shelving unit which she had appropriated from the laundry room. On this, she stored all of her and Nicholas’s folded clothing, the small amount of toiletries that Slade fetched for her when in town and her precious copy of Pride and Prejudice, which had recovered surprisingly well from being dropped in a swamp.
Her heavy workload and the constant need to boil and cool water for Nicholas meant she was exhausted and if it hadn’t been for Loulou, always on hand to hold the baby or serve the food, she didn’t know how she would have coped. In some ways she was grateful that her mind was constantly preoccupied with the work. The constant grind left little room for thinking about home, the life she had left behind, and, most importantly, Abigail. Only at night, when her mind emptied, would Susie lie in the darkness and wonder if Abigail, like her brother, could now sit unaided, grab for objects and gurgle as though speaking. Did she too have a tooth and was she too able to shuffle from her tummy onto her back and then flounder like a stuck turtle? Susie swallowed these thoughts and tried to feel relief instead, that her little girl was not being forced to live in the same conditions that she and Nicky were. It pained her to admit it, but maybe her child was better off with parents who would tuck her up every night in a pretty nursery in the suburbs, rather than here with her twin who lay covered in bugs and grime. It wasn’t always easy to convince herself, though. Susie did not
know anything about Abigail, and a black cloak of realisation engulfed her when she considered that she never might.
One day Nicholas fell ill. Six hours earlier he had started refusing food and then he’d vomited until he was spent. Now he lay in her arms, wailing as his little bunched fists beat the air over his head and his legs bent up towards his tummy as if in pain. ‘It’s all right darling, it’s okay Nicky, it will all be okay.’ Susie rocked him on her hip and spoke into his scalp, where his hair was stuck to his head with sugary sweat. She tried not to panic. Loulou had gone into town with Mitch and was not due back for a couple of hours. Mosquitoes and flies that a couple of months ago would have sent her spiralling around, squealing as she tried to swipe them from her child, no longer registered; it was simply part of life at Mulga Plains. At this time of day, the heat was so intense that it was dangerous to enter the oven-like cabin. Instead, she had erected a shelter of sorts; an old green, jacquard floral cover that she had found in the storage cupboard on the landing, and had skewered it onto four old lengths of wood at each corner before placing it in front of the cabin. There were three sofa cushions on the ground, on which she could lay Nicholas for his nap or sit and read to him when she had the chance.
Neither of these things was possible today, he had a fever, he was screaming and Susie was scared. She hadn’t been up to the house to start supper and quite frankly today they would have to whistle, her little boy was her priority. The sound of hooves alerted her. Mitch cantered up and stopped short of the door, his horse kicking up a red plume that engulfed both her and her baby,
The Ten-pound Ticket Page 3
