Dust on the Horizon

by Tricia Stringer

  A wave of embarrassment swept over her. She tried to reach the sheet to cover herself. Henry’s breath turned to a sharp snort and he woke. He lifted his head and looked around as if he didn’t know where he was. His eyes met hers. He gave a self-satisfied smile then replaced the look with a frown.

  “What time is it?”

  He climbed from the bed to find his watch. She studied his naked back, the tight curve of his buttocks, as he bent to retrieve his clothes.

  “It’s nearly one o’clock, Catherine, and we haven’t eaten. The shop has to be open again in five minutes.” He pulled on his trousers.

  “I’m not hungry.” Catherine rolled over and curled into a ball. She had a funny full sensation in her stomach and she felt sleepy. She hadn’t dozed when Henry did, too busy recalling every step of their lovemaking. Now she felt like she could sleep the afternoon away.

  “Get dressed, Catherine.” Henry’s tone was sharp. “We’ve a business to conduct.”

  She sat up and slid her legs over the side of the bed. Her breasts felt heavy. She looked down. Her skin glowed with a rosy hue. She didn’t study her own body very often but she was fascinated by her own large dark nipples. Henry’s attention had made them bigger somehow. He paused in front of her. She glanced up and took in the hungry look in his eyes.

  He turned away. “Hurry up, Catherine. Bring me some cheese and bread once you are dressed. I will have to eat it in the shop.” He stepped out into the parlour and closed the door firmly behind him.

  Catherine smiled. Henry could put on as much bluster as he liked but she knew something had changed between them and it made her feel deliciously wicked. She stood up. Black dots whirled in front of her. She gasped and sank to the floor. Vomit surged up her gullet, warm and burning. She tugged the chamber-pot from under the bed, thankful she’d already cleaned it as she emptied the contents of her stomach into it.

  Five

  William sat on the long bench that ran under the windows of the stone house his father had built at Smith’s Ridge. There were three windows set in the front wall and another in the adjoining corner. Even though it was dinner time the sun still provided enough light for them to have no need of the lanterns yet.

  On his left, closest to the head of the table, sat Joe. On William’s other side were his little sisters. His father sat at the top end of the table and his Uncle Binda at the other. Not that Binda could ever be seen as William’s real uncle but as his father’s friend he had always had the title. William’s mother Clara held nine-month-old Robert over her shoulder, pacing the floor and patting his back in a steady rhythm. William could see the baby’s cheeks, pink and full from his feed, a small dribble of milk leaking from the corner of his plump lips. His eyelids fluttered with each pat. He would soon be asleep. Uncle Binda’s wife Jundala could be heard chatting in her own language to Mary. They were out in the kitchen, dishing out the mutton stew.

  The room that served both as a dining room and a living space was big. Even bigger than Grandpa and Grandma Baker’s front room at their neighbouring property Wildu Creek. William had only recently heard his grandma mention the size of the house at Smith’s Ridge as if it was a bad thing. But there were six of them living there now, ten if you counted Uncle Binda and his family. Not that they slept in the house, a thing his grandma was grateful for, but all ten of them ate their evening meal together when possible.

  It was always a puzzle the things grown-ups said and didn’t say. William had recently discovered there was often more to be learned. He was well practised at listening in when people didn’t think he was paying attention. His eyes met Uncle Binda’s across the table and William lowered his gaze; unless Uncle Binda was around of course. The native who was his father’s best friend always knew if William was nearby and listening.

  With the food handed out, his mother put baby Robert in his box crib in the corner and took a seat on the bench beside Esther. Mary and Jundala sat in the chairs on the other side of the table opposite the bench.

  William had never given any thought to this arrangement of theirs but from what had transpired on their trip to town and Mr Prosser’s remarks, he looked at his family and friends gathered around the table with fresh eyes.

  Everyone bent their heads as his father said grace. No sooner had he finished than Esther began to wail. Her mother tried to put some of the stew in her mouth but the little girl pursed her lips together firmly.

  “Don’t press her, Clara.” Joseph gave a little chuckle. “Eat your own dinner while it’s hot. At least it means she’s quiet.”

  Immediately Esther opened her mouth and let out another cry. Quick as a flash her mother shovelled a spoon of stew in and just as quickly had it spat back at her. She smacked Esther’s fingers and the little girl bellowed.

  Violet’s lip trembled. William put an arm around her shoulders. Joseph pushed back his chair and stood, his empty tin cup clattering to the floor. Except for Esther’s cry there was silence. William stared at his mother. Her cheeks were red but there were dark shadows under her eyes. He’d never seen his mother lash out like that. He’d had his father’s hand across his backside a few times but never his mother’s, and not when he was as young as Esther and Violet.

  Mary stood. “Let me take her, missum,” she said.

  William thought about the funny word Mary called his mother. It was a cross between Mrs and mum. He was glad she didn’t call his mother mum. Mary had her own mother, Jundala, and it didn’t seem right. There was no way his fair-skinned mother could be considered Mary’s mother.

  “You haven’t finished your own meal, Mary.” Clara’s voice was weary.

  “Let her take the child, Clara. Mary can eat later. You look worn out.”

  “I am quite well, thank you Joseph.”

  William noticed his mother give his father an odd look but she handed Esther over into Mary’s waiting arms, took her plate and sat in Mary’s empty chair beside Jundala. Joseph gave his wife’s shoulder a squeeze and sat back down. Once more William felt the air was heavy with things left unsaid.

  “What news is there from town?” Clara asked her question looking from Joseph to Binda and back again.

  “We are having an easy time of it compared to the farmers on the plains.”

  “Really?” Clara’s voice had a ring of disbelief.

  “At least we’ve had a little rain here in the hills to water stock and encourage some summer grass. They’ve had almost nothing on the plains for three years. We spoke with some desperate farmers, didn’t we Binda?”

  The native man nodded.

  “Quite a few won’t last until the new year,” Joseph said.

  “What will they do?” Once more Clara asked her question of both men.

  Joseph shook his head. “Leave it and walk off.”

  “Surely not. What about their homes, their animals?”

  William was anxious at this new topic. How could someone leave their land? Could it happen to them here at Smith’s Ridge and to his grandparents over at Wildu Creek? His grandfather had taken up the first lease on Wildu Creek and the great uncles he’d never met had started this neighbouring property of Smith’s Ridge. William had been born in this house. His father had built it for his mother when they had taken back the lease. The country here was more rugged than Wildu Creek and the waterway his grandfather had first called ‘Wildu’ wriggled its way down through the Wildu Creek property and across the bottom of Smith’s Ridge. It still held pools of water and there were several natural springs in the hills behind the home yard. William couldn’t imagine no water.

  Joseph broke off a piece of bread and mopped up the juices on his plate. “Most of them have sold anything of any value to feed their families.”

  “How terrible,” Clara said.

  “Ran into Prosser on the way home.”

  “What did that uncouth man want?” Her tone was sharp.

  “He was shifting sheep.” Joseph glanced down the table at Binda. “I wonder if they were al
l his.”

  “Lots of tracks where the fence came down,” Binda said. “Plenty going in his direction and horse prints with them.”

  Clara put down her spoon. “How can someone get away with such open thievery?”

  Joseph shook his head. “We can’t be sure he’s taken our stock. We don’t even know if there’s any missing.”

  “His wife called here while you were away.”

  “What did she come for?”

  “Who would know?”

  “Eyes, looking.” Jundala pointed to her own eyes.

  “She didn’t want to come in and take tea.” Clara gave a nod of her head. “Jundala’s right. A stickybeak is all that woman was here for, I’m sure.”

  “Odd.” Once more Joseph looked along the table to Binda. “Perhaps we should be keeping a closer eye on the boundary between us and Prosser’s Run.”

  Worry wormed inside William. Here was another thing to add to the list of things he didn’t understand. He poked at the stew with his spoon. He’d been hungry for the delicious-smelling meat but now it was congealing on his plate.

  “This is delicious, thank you Jundala.” Joseph’s plate was almost empty. Clearly he was having no worrying thoughts blocking his appetite.

  “You are welcome.”

  William watched Jundala bend her head to the bowl and slurp up the last mouthfuls with her spoon. Uncle Binda and his family often didn’t use a spoon at all but ate with their fingers. If he ate like that he would earn a reprimand from his father.

  “I like the hat you chose, William. Did you enjoy your trip to Hawker?”

  He looked up at his mother’s question. Her face was composed with the hint of a smile. He shrugged his shoulders.

  His father frowned. “Answer properly, son.”

  “We had sweets.” Violet chipped in before William could respond, her face lit up in a smile.

  “Did you? Your father spoils you.” Clara gave her husband a brief glance.

  “The lady gave them to us,” Violet said.

  “One for each of us.” Joe’s grin was wide.

  “How nice of her.” Clara looked back at her husband. “Where is this shop?”

  “It’s near the railway station.”

  “A proper shop?”

  “It had four solid walls and windows.”

  “And a big wooden counter.” Violet’s voice was pitched high with excitement. “And shelves with lots of things. There was a doll. It was so pretty, Mama.”

  Clara clasped her hands together. “Perhaps I can go into town if there’s a proper shop.”

  “I don’t want to go there again.” William put down his spoon. “The man in the shop didn’t like us.”

  His mother chuckled, reached across and tickled his cheek. “How can someone not like you?”

  “He called us a funny name,” Violet said.

  “Vagabonds.” William frowned. “What is a vagabond, mother?”

  Clara opened her mouth.

  “It’s of no consequence.” Joseph’s spoon hit his empty plate with a clang. “We won’t go there again.”

  “I like the lady,” Violet said.

  “If we go there again we’ll get more sweets.” Joe folded his arms across his chest. “You can’t stop me from going.”

  William was shocked. Joe rarely spoke in front of the adults and here he was being disrespectful to his … what was Joseph to him? Anger surged through William’s body.

  “It’s your fault he didn’t like us!” William’s shout drew all eyes to him.

  “Why is it my fault?” Joe’s voice rose a notch.

  Joseph put a gentle hand on Joe’s shoulder. “It’s nobody’s fault, son.”

  “He’s not your son.” William clambered over the bench and around the end to stand between Joe and his father. He thrust out his arm and placed it alongside Joe’s. “He’s too black.”

  Clara gasped.

  “Where did you learn something like that?” Joseph’s voice was low but William knew the tone well enough to know he’d crossed some invisible line. He remembered their neighbour’s words.

  “Mr Prosser said we were black, white and brindle.”

  “Joseph,” Clara gasped. “Where has our son been to learn such things? He’s only six years old.”

  The shock in his mother’s voice sucked the fury out of William. He saw the smouldering anger in his father’s eyes and put his hands behind his back. He figured this was about to be another of those occasions when he would feel the slap of his father’s hand on his backside. Joseph lifted his hand. William flinched but instead of hitting him his father pushed his plate back and rested his hands on the table. He closed his eyes and when he opened them he looked down the table at Uncle Binda and smiled. Uncle Binda nodded.

  Once more William was puzzled by the hidden messages between adults that he wasn’t privy to.

  Joseph reached out and took both William’s hands in his. “In this family we don’t judge people by the colour of their skin.” He flipped over his left hand taking William’s hand with it. “You see that scar?”

  William nodded with barely a glance. He knew his father had a small, jagged scar on his left wrist.

  “Binda is my dearest friend. He saved my life twice. I love him like a brother. We cut our arms and our blood was the same colour. This mark is where our blood was mixed. Mr Wiltshire and Mr Prosser do not understand this. They are not charitable men.”

  William gave a quick glance in Uncle Binda’s direction. How had his father been so weak that the smaller native man could save him from anything?

  “You are a better person than them, William.” Joseph let his hands go.

  They fell limply to his sides and tears brimmed in his eyes.

  “I think that’s enough, Joseph,” Clara said. “He’s only a boy. He can’t be blamed for the way you’ve chosen we should live.”

  “I’ve chosen?”

  Clara held out her arms. “Come here, my young man.”

  William scampered past his father and into her arms. His tears flowed freely now.

  “Shhh. Shhh.” She patted his back gently.

  Behind him William could hear the sound of the metal plates being gathered up.

  “Leave them please Jundala. I will manage.” His mother’s voice rumbled in the ear he had pressed against her chest.

  Chairs scraped. Binda said something in his own language to Jundala then he called to his son. “Come Joe.”

  Baby Robert began to cry from his crib in the corner of the room. Esther joined in. Joseph rose from his chair. “I will meet you at the yards in the morning, Binda?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you my friend. I’m sorry for—”

  “No,” Binda said. “No sorrow.”

  William raised his head a little and looked over his mother’s shoulder. Mary was standing in the doorway holding Esther. William’s gaze met hers. He was shocked by the hostile glare on her face.

  Clara let go of him and used her thumb to wipe the tears from his cheeks. The noise created by Robert and Esther was loud in everyone’s ears. Clara sighed and stood up.

  “You see to Robert,” Joseph said. “I’ll take Esther.”

  Robert’s cries ceased instantly with Clara’s cuddle. Esther’s grew louder in her father’s arms.

  “Thank you, Mary.” Joseph lifted Esther over his head and sat her on his shoulders. Immediately she began to laugh.

  “There’s no understanding that one,” Clara said.

  William looked down as Violet’s little warm hand slipped inside his. She smiled up at him. Mary crossed the room to collect the plates.

  “Please leave them, Mary.” Clara cuddled Robert’s chubby body to her. “Join your family. We can manage. It’s about time William learned to dry dishes.”

  William opened his mouth but closed it again when he saw the sly smile on Mary’s face.

  “Okay, missum,” she said and left the room.

  Apart from the noise of the younger
children, nothing was said once Mary had left.

  William noticed the angry look his mother gave his father.

  “We’ll talk later.” Joseph’s voice was low.

  William knew that meant there’d be an adult conversation the rest of them wouldn’t hear but he badly wished he could listen. He still had an uneasy feeling about his family and their close cohabitation with a native family.

  Six

  The bulk of the large wood-and-iron shearing shed was still in shadow as Joseph walked up the slope from the house. The sun had not yet risen above the highest ridge to cast its heat over the yards filled with sheep. The shearing shed had been built on a small plateau and Joseph had extended and improved it since moving here after he and Clara were married. Clara had wanted a better house and he had been more than pleased to knock down the old place that only served to remind them of his uncles’ past misfortunes at Smith’s Ridge.

  Now his thoughts were on his stock. The sounds of the lambs and their mothers filled the air. He was working on creating a strain of merino better suited to the rugged conditions of the Flinders. These lambs were the offspring of his first trial.

  The early morning air was cool on the skin below his rolled up sleeves. With five hundred lambs to tail he knew he would soon be warm. Across the rails he could see the dark curly hair of Binda as he bobbed up and down, separating the ewes from their lambs. Jundala and Joe worked with him. Mary was down at the house with Clara and the younger children. William had been sent to feed the hens and collect the eggs and then he could join the men at the yards.

  Joseph stopped at the wooden rail. He still worried over William’s outburst at the dinner table. A week had passed since then and life had settled back to normal. Joseph had been too busy to find an opportunity to talk about it with William. The boy had always been a deep thinker and was often hard to read.

  Clara had been distressed by her son’s words and had given Joseph a tongue-lashing that night. He puzzled over that too. It wasn’t like Clara to lose her temper like she had with Esther, even though he knew the little girl’s tantrums were enough to test a saint. Then there had been Clara’s accusation that including Binda’s family with theirs was Joseph’s choice not hers. He’d never realised she’d felt that way. Binda had been his friend to the detriment of the native’s relationship with his own father and the rest of his family. He was like a brother to Joseph.