The Girl from Snowy River

by Jackie French

  Then he stamped out and slammed the door, and Kirsty burst into tears and ran to her room, and Joey just looked at me reproachfully and said, ‘A motorbike, Flinty,’ as though I’d said they weren’t allowed to go to Heaven or eat bread any more.

  Andy came in about an hour later, and apologised, and I said a motorbike sounded fun.

  I never realised Andy was so bored up here, just working down at the Mullinses’ — I bet he gets the worst jobs too — and looking after us. But of course he couldn’t tell me, because I’m the reason he has to be here, and has to work at the Mullinses’ too, because if I were able to help we could muster brumbies again, try to get the farm working like it used to. Andy is as trapped as I am.

  I wonder if he’s let his beard grow because there is no one he wants to look good for. I thought the moustache looked funny at first, but now I wish he would shave and twirl it up again.

  I’m going to suggest he go down to the dances at Gibber’s Creek sometimes. At least he’d find dancing partners there, and enjoy himself, and he won’t get locked up like Snowy White. But I won’t say it yet. It would look like I’m fussing.

  I’m writing this on the back of some sales brochures Dad kept in a drawer. Kirsty’s story has filled all my old diary book and nearly filled the new one too. I’ll ask Andy to get me another two exercise books when he goes to Gibber’s Creek, and a slate and slate pencils for Kirsty too.

  Trimmed the lamp wicks this afternoon, which is why I’m making smudges on the paper. Somehow you can never get really clean after trimming the wicks, not unless you have a proper bath, which I can’t do. I’d be much too embarrassed to have Andy pick me up out of a bath and he is the only one strong enough to do it. I would love to soak in front of the fire in the tin tub like I used to do while the others were at school. I am so sick of wash cloths!

  There were icicles dangling down from the roof this morning. They went drip, drip, drip, then suddenly they dropped like daggers, one after the other. I suppose the ice that held them to the roof melted. Joey said the water trough was frozen this morning again, so he had to lug up buckets from the well.

  Kirsty and I had toasted cheese for lunch the way old Mutti Green showed us, with lumps of cheese and bread threaded on a green stick held over the fire. You have to hold it just right or the cheese melts into the fire or the bread burns before the cheese is soft. It is fun and very good if you do it properly. Made suet pudding for dinner, and apple dumplings. I thought we’d have enough for tomorrow’s lunch but Joey ate them all. He eats like Andy and Jeff used to do, and Mum said they had hollow legs. He will be as tall as Andy soon.

  She dreamed of Nicholas that night, Nicholas bending to kiss her in the mist. His lips were cold, colder than the Rock. She woke to find that she had pushed the quilts off in her sleep.

  She hauled herself over to the edge of the bed, reached down and pulled the quilts up again. She was glad she hadn’t had to wake Kirsty to do it. The extra exercise in her chair had made her able to move in new ways. Her arms were regaining the strength they’d lost from months in bed. She could twist her waist more easily too.

  She snuggled under the quilts and waited for sleep to pull her back to her dreams. To Nicholas saying ‘I love you’, because only Nicholas could understand how even if you lost your legs you were the same person. No, that wasn’t right. You were different, deeper, because you knew pain and understood what it could do. Nicholas had brought her roses, which must mean that he liked her…

  She suddenly thought of the faded bunch of everlastings in Sandy’s awkward fist. Sandy must have searched half the mountain to find ones still with all their petals in mid-winter. Roses would have lost their petals by now, vanished almost as fast as Nicholas’s had when she stepped off the Rock and into sunlight. Sandy’s everlastings still sat in the bud vase on the mantelpiece.

  She wondered about the nurse Sandy knew in Sydney, the one who had helped buy her chair. Had she sent the magazines?

  She could admit, now that all hope was lost, that even when Sandy had painfully ignored her in the past year she had still hoped that somehow they’d be together, that maybe he needed to get over the war before he thought of marriage, like Andy had needed to go off with cattle.

  But even if Sandy did think of her that way, she couldn’t marry anybody now. A farmer needed a wife who could work, not one who required a carer even to use a chamberpot.

  She was glad, though, that Sandy was still a friend. A good friend. So many good friends, all down the valley…

  Sleep came, as softly as the mist.

  The clouds had swung down over Rock Farm the next morning. You couldn’t even see to the Rock.

  ‘The fog will clear once I get past the Rock,’ said Joey confidently. ‘It always does.’

  Flinty shook her head. ‘There’s a storm coming. I can smell it.’

  ‘You’re as bad as a brumby,’ said Joey. ‘Sniffing at the wind.’

  ‘Yes. Well…’ said Flinty. ‘Promise to stay at the Macks’ tonight if it’s raining?’

  Rain down in the valley could mean sleet or snow up at Rock Farm. Thick snow could even be a white-out — you couldn’t even see your feet, much less the track. Dad had made sure that none of them ever went out of doors in a white-out, except to check the horses and, even then, not alone, and with a rope tied to the verandah post so they could feel their way back.

  ‘It’s different now I’ve got the chair,’ she added. ‘Kirsty and I are fine here for a night or two by ourselves. I can even get between the bed and the chair now you’ve put up the rail for me. But I don’t want you heading up the track into a blizzard.’

  ‘All right, I promise.’ Joey grabbed his jam sandwiches — half for lunch and half to eat on the way down. ‘Did you know that mist keeps the heat in, like a blanket? It was in one of Mr Ross’s books.’

  She shook her head. ‘No. What books?’ The only books she’d ever seen at school were the tatty textbooks.

  ‘He’s got lots of books in his cottage,’ said Joey. ‘He says he only lets the best students read them though, otherwise they’d get as battered as the school ones. He’s going to start giving me Greek and Latin lessons,’ he added, a bit too casually. ‘He says if I go on to do my Leaving or go to university I’ll need Greek and Latin.’

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ said Flinty hollowly. She’d been Mr Ross’s best student when she was at school — she’d even learned to read just by following the words as Mum read to them. But Mr Ross had never let her read his books. She supposed he didn’t want to waste his time on a girl. And now Joey was studying Greek and Latin, still with no chance to go on to high school, much less university.

  She wondered if Joey knew and was just pretending so he didn’t have to let go of his dream. Or maybe he’s hoping for a miracle, she thought. If impossibly bad things could happen maybe impossibly good ones could too. ‘I’m really proud, Joey.’

  He grinned at her cockily. Mum’s grin, under Dad’s fair hair. The door slammed behind him as he clattered down the stairs.

  She looked at the bread rising in the bowl by the fire, then wheeled her chair into the larder and got out the flour and a couple of eggs. She’d make date and walnut buns instead of bread today. It was good to be able to cook properly again. Even better to be able to dress herself, wash her hair and the rest of herself — mostly — from a bowl, work at the kitchen table. Good to let her sister sleep in sometimes now too.

  Kirsty emerged, still yawning.

  ‘Water’s hot,’ said Flinty, nodding at the big kettle and stew pot on the stove.

  ‘I smell buns.’

  ‘Not till you’ve washed. There’s enough water for a proper bath today.’ A few weeks earlier Kirsty would have been the one to take charge. Maybe the best thing of all is letting my sister be a little girl again, thought Flinty. Next week Kirsty is going to school again, she decided, no matter what Andy and Joey say, at least for part of each week.

  She suspected that Kirsty was lear
ning more up here at Rock Farm than she’d ever learned at school. But even a couple of days a week with her friends would be good for her. And if Kirsty ever wants to learn Latin Mr Ross can jolly well teach her, she thought. Or Joey can. She guessed Kirsty was more likely to want to learn how to hunt for diamonds, or make a ball dress, than sit down with Latin grammar.

  She lifted the tray of buns from the oven, then rolled down the corridor and let herself out the front door onto the verandah while Kirsty bathed.

  The cloud was rising from the mountains as though the sun sucked it up, little streams and eddies heading towards the sky. A few snowflakes fluttered from the deep blue sky, what Mum had called a sun shower, the flakes gusting from the clouds that still lurked behind the mountains.

  Flinty breathed deeply. Yes, there would be a storm, tonight or maybe tomorrow, and a big one. The world seemed to be waiting, the ants scurrying down into their nest by the steps, the white goshawk skimming purposefully above the grass as though it knew it needed a good feed before a couple of days of huddling in the snow up here or sheltering from the rain down in the valley.

  The mist had almost gone now, except around the Rock. Even as she watched, a figure emerged, so suddenly her heart lurched.

  But it wasn’t a man in a bathchair — or a man with new legs either. It was a horse, Sandy’s piebald, Bessie, with Sandy and a strange woman in jodhpurs on her back. This must be his nurse from Sydney.

  She dragged her sinking heart back into place. It was good of Sandy to bring the visitor up here, another woman to talk to. Of course Sandy would want to introduce his girl to his best mate’s sister. And just possibly, she thought, her cheeks flushing, make it clear to a girl he had once kissed that she was a friend, and just a friend, no matter how often he might visit.

  Sandy lifted his hand in greeting. Flinty inspected the woman as they rode closer. She didn’t look like the delicate roses she’d seen on the recruiting posters. This woman was at least five years older than Sandy, her face sallow rather than pink and white. Her clothes were the sort that any sensible woman would wear to ride up a mountain in winter: no hint of lace or frills.

  Flinty rolled closer to the steps. ‘Hello!’ she called.

  The woman dismounted without waiting for Sandy to help her down, then strode up the stairs as Sandy took Bessie around the back to the stables, away from the buffet of the wind. The woman pulled off leather gloves and held out a swollen hand knotted with red scars. ‘Gwendolyn Burrows,’ she said.

  Flinty took it hesitantly. She had never shaken hands with a woman before. Only men shook hands. ‘Flinty McAlpine.’ She couldn’t ask them in before Kirsty had finished her bath, but Kirsty appeared almost immediately, resplendent in her too-tight red shoes. She’d even had time to put ribbons on her plaits.

  Kirsty looked at the new arrival curiously, inspecting everything from her boots to her short haircut as Sandy came back and climbed up the stairs to join them.

  ‘Miss Burrows,’ said Flinty. ‘This is my sister, Kirsty. Kirsty, this is Miss Burrows.’

  ‘Sister Burrows actually. I’m a nurse.’ Sister Burrows looked ruefully at her hands. ‘Well, I will be when my hands settle down again in summer. The cold weather’s always hard on them.’

  Sandy looked strangely awkward. ‘Sister Burrows is visiting for a while.’

  ‘In winter?’ asked Kirsty. Flinty could see she was trying not to stare at the scarred hands.

  ‘Sandy invited me.’ Sister Burrows shrugged. ‘I was bored out of my skull in my Sydney flat.’

  Flinty looked from one to the other. Was Sister Burrows really Sandy’s girlfriend? She wasn’t very pretty, but she seemed… Strong, thought Flinty. Capable. The sort of woman a man might like to travel through life with.

  ‘Come into the kitchen. It’s warmest there. I’m afraid there’s no fire in the parlour. I’ll put the kettle on. The date buns are just out of the oven.’

  ‘Fresh date buns. Heaven,’ said Sister Burrows.

  They followed Flinty’s chair into the kitchen. Sandy, Kirsty and Sister Burrows sat at the kitchen table while Flinty served the tea and buns and Kirsty asked about the train journey from Sydney. Sister Burrows held her teacup awkwardly, using both hands, as though afraid she might drop it if she used only one.

  The small talk dried up. Flinty could feel Kirsty wanting to ask if Sister Burrows was Sandy’s girlfriend, but Mum had drilled into them you didn’t ask personal questions. You waited for people to tell you. And somehow Sandy and Sister Burrows didn’t act as if they were walking out. Sandy called her Sister Burrows too, not Gwendolyn or even Gwen.

  Something relaxed inside her. She chose a bun herself and took a bite. She looked up to find Sister Burrows watching her.

  ‘I met Sandy in France,’ she said abruptly.

  Flinty glanced over at Sandy. He said nothing, looking into his teacup. It must have been when Sandy was wounded, she thought. ‘You were a nurse there?’

  Sister Burrows nodded, just as Sandy said, ‘She was my doctor.’

  ‘Well, I was a nurse,’ said Sister Burrows. ‘But our surgeon had been blown up by a stray mortar — Dr Nigels, a good man, such a tragedy. The army in its wisdom didn’t get round to sending up another doctor for three months. That was when Sandy’s lot were there. Well, the casualties kept coming in. We coped as best we could.’

  ‘First time I met her she’d just sawed off a bloke’s arm.’

  ‘Nonsense. It was hanging by a shred when he was brought in. I just tidied it up. If you can sew a hem you can sew up an arm.’

  Flinty held her breath. Beside her Kirsty’s mouth hung open around some half-chewed bun. ‘Was that when you were wounded?’ Kirsty asked.

  Sandy shrugged. ‘It was my mate who was hurt that time. I brought him in.’

  ‘Carried him two miles under fire and won the Military Cross,’ said Sister Burrows firmly.

  Flinty gazed at him. ‘You…you never said.’

  Sandy still stared at his cup of tea.

  ‘Can I see the medal?’ asked Kirsty. ‘I’ve never seen a medal.’

  ‘Hasn’t Andy shown you any of his?’

  ‘What medals? Has he got more than one then?’ demanded Kirsty, while Flinty said slowly, ‘No.’

  ‘Well.’ Sandy shrugged again. ‘There’s not much to medals, really. We were just there.’

  Sister Burrows met Flinty’s eyes. ‘We were all just there,’ she said quietly. ‘We did our best, and if it wasn’t good enough…’ her mouth twisted in an almost smile ‘…if we were lucky we learned to forgive ourselves.’

  Flinty shivered. The fire could warm the cold air of the mountains, but not the memory of war.

  ‘I didn’t get to know Sandy till later, when he was wounded himself,’ added Sister Burrows.

  ‘She sewed me up,’ said Sandy simply. ‘I reckon I’d have died if she hadn’t been there. Then later she was in charge of the convalescent hospital in Brighton.’

  ‘They sent me back to England when my hands got too bad to work. The Brighton Hospital was mostly administrative, so it didn’t matter if I dropped the bandages.’ She made it sound like a joke, not a test of endurance and pain.

  Flinty tried to take it all in. Did Mrs Mack even know how badly Sandy had been hurt? She wanted to ask what his injuries had been, when there was no scar on face or hands, just that strange hunching that seemed worse sometimes. But if he’d wanted her to know — wanted any one of them to know — he would have said.

  ‘Thing is,’ continued Sandy doggedly. ‘Sister Burrows is as good as any doctor.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ said Sister Burrows. She looked at Flinty again. ‘But I might be better than a drunken old sot who’s forgotten most of what he learned half a century ago. You see, I’ve seen men with their backs broken. I remember,’ she glanced down at Kirsty’s wide-eyed gaze, ‘well, no need to tell you the whys and wherefores.’

  ‘Thing is,’ repeated Sandy. ‘A man with a broken back can’t move his f
eet.’ He flushed as he looked at Flinty. ‘Not like you can.’

  So that was why he’d been looking at her feet on her birthday. Flinty flushed too. She’d hoped maybe he’d been looking at her because she looked pretty, with clean hair and in her Sunday dress. But he was just interested in her feet moving.

  ‘I can move my knees sometimes too, in the afternoon when I’ve been in my chair. But I can’t stand up. My back really is broken,’ she added. ‘Dr Sparrow showed me the lump where the break is.’

  ‘Is the lump still there?’

  She nodded. ‘Not as big as it was — not as swollen, I suppose.’

  ‘Have you tried to stand up?’ asked Sister Burrows gently.

  ‘Of course I have! Every day!’ Flinty stopped, shocked by the anguish in her voice. ‘Yes, I’ve tried,’ she said more quietly. ‘But if I put any weight on my feet the pain is so bad, well, it isn’t even really pain. The world goes black and I have to lie down.’ She turned to Sandy. ‘It’s really…kind…of you to bring Sister Burrows here. But it’s no use.’

  Sister Burrows put her teacup carefully on the table. ‘May I have a look at your back?’

  Flinty nodded, trying to beat down small flames of hope. A doctor knew more than a nurse, didn’t he? But on the other hand this woman had probably seen more severe injuries in a few years in France than Dr Sparrow had in his whole life — and she was sober.

  Flinty turned the bathchair, flushing again as Sandy watched her manoeuvre it back and forth away from the table without speaking, glad he didn’t spring up and try to push her. At last she had it pointed in the right direction. Sister Burrows followed her into her bedroom and closed the door.

  ‘Do you need help getting onto the bed?’

  ‘I got my brother to put bars up so I can pull myself in.’ And a ghost told me how to do it, she thought. But she couldn’t tell this calm-eyed woman that.