Dust on the Horizon

by Tricia Stringer

  “What do you want?” Henry stepped around his mother.

  The woman lifted an empty calico bag.

  “Surely you’re not going to serve these … creatures.” Harriet’s words came out in a low hiss.

  “Of course not.”

  Harriet had instilled in Henry a dislike for native Australians from an early age. Her reactions to the sight of their black skin had deepened over the years from avoidance to animosity. Henry had never questioned it. He glared at the black man. “Out.”

  The man took the bag from the woman and waved it at Henry. “Flour.”

  “I don’t have any for the likes of you.” Henry pulled back his shoulders. He was a good head taller than the native. “Mr Garrat next door may serve you. His standards are lower than mine.”

  The natives spoke in their own language, first to each other then at Henry.

  “Flour,” the native man said again.

  Henry ignored the sharp hiss from his mother. He strode around the counter to the door and opened it wide. A blast of heat accompanied the dust that met him. “Out,” he commanded. “I have no flour for you.”

  The natives hesitated, then turned on shoeless feet and shuffled out the door. Henry ignored the baleful look in their big round eyes that didn’t quite meet his gaze. He shut the door on them as soon as they were through.

  Silence settled in the shop with the dust. Henry turned. His mother was still rooted to the spot. She put a hand to the locket that hung around her neck and grasped it with her fingers.

  “I do wish you would reconsider my suggestion of returning to Adelaide, Henry.”

  “There are natives everywhere, mother.”

  “But out here … Your father.” It was unlike Harriet to stumble over her words. She took a breath. “I worked hard to make our lives comfortable so that you didn’t have to experience this.” She flicked her hand in the direction of the door.

  “Everything is going well for me here. I can choose who I serve in my own shop.”

  Harriet pursed her lips and reached for her locket again. “Very well. In some ways it is appropriate your first shop should be in a town named Hawker. Your father and I built a good living as hawkers in our early days.”

  Harriet looked across the shop but Henry had the feeling she was picturing something else in her mind. “You never speak of my father.”

  Harriet’s back stiffened. She pulled at the waist of her dress and brushed her hands down the folds of fabric. “He died a long time ago. Nothing can bring back the past. We must look to the future.” She turned her shrewd look on him “Make your way here so that you can build a fine home in Adelaide. You have more responsibility now with a child on the way. You will find it’s much better to raise your son in Adelaide.”

  “My son?” Henry’s lips twitched into a smile.

  “I knew you were a boy from the start. Catherine will give you a son. I know it. You will want to bring him up properly.”

  “Of course, mother.”

  Henry’s smile widened. He had a longing to own land, lots of land and this region was full of opportunity. He had no desire to move back to Adelaide. A few natives wouldn’t frighten him off. He was happy to allow his mother to believe he would return. After all she had a lot of money invested in his business. Until he could pay her back he would keep his future plans to himself.

  Eight

  Thomas Baker took his wife’s arm and helped her down from the train. They moved closer to the wooden walls of the new Hawker railway station building and stopped to take in the scene. Around them on the platform other passengers stepped down and greeted friends and family. Porters rolled trolleys loaded with bags. Steam belched from beneath the engine and blew around their feet.

  “Thank you.” Lizzie brushed the front of her deep blue cloak. “Well, wasn’t that something?”

  “I suppose you plan to take the train rather than the cart to visit our daughter from now on?”

  “Wouldn’t you? I won’t miss bouncing along on top of a wooden seat for over half the journey. The train was much more comfortable. Besides it’s so much quicker. I’ll be able to make more regular visits to Ellen and the baby.”

  “We were with them a week. I don’t think they need us interfering again for a while.”

  “Thomas Baker.” Lizzie’s cornflower blue eyes flashed. The blue wasn’t as vivid as it used to be but his Lizzie was still a fine-looking woman and not a hint of grey hair. “It’s hardly interfering. Our daughter has just given birth to the most beautiful baby.”

  “Ellen has certainly taken to motherhood.”

  Lizzie tipped her head to look up at him. “Didn’t you think she would?”

  “Well, let’s say she’s been …” Thomas wasn’t sure how to describe his wilful daughter.

  Lizzie laughed. “If you say a handful, Thomas Baker, I’ll disown you. You’re the one who always let her have her own way.”

  Thomas smiled. They’d buried two baby girls before Ellen came along. Joseph and Ellen were their only children. His son had grown into a fine man but Thomas’s heart was captured by Ellen. After Lizzie she was the light of his life. “At least that husband of hers appears to have tamed her a little.”

  Once more Lizzie laughed. “We’ll see. Ellen has him wrapped around her little finger as well.”

  A chilly wind blew along the platform. It was mid-afternoon and the sun didn’t have as much heat as earlier in the day. Autumn was well advanced but it had not brought any longed-for rain to the dry plains. There was a grey smudge on the horizon. Perhaps it held some promise. One could always be hopeful.

  Thomas gripped his hat and took Lizzie’s arm. “This way.”

  They wove between people and boxes and luggage. Thomas arranged for the suitcase Lizzie had convinced him to buy in Port Augusta to be delivered to the hotel along with their old trunk. Outside the road was busy with carts and wagons loaded with wool. Dust hung in the air, blown from the plains and stirred up by the movement of hooves and wheels.

  “I’m thankful that terrible summer heat has gone but the dust is still as bad.” Lizzie held her gloved hand over her nose and mouth.

  “We’ve been lucky with the rain we’ve had at Wildu Creek.” Thomas looked along the street to the shops and buildings already erected or still in progress. Not a tree to be seen and dust coated everything. Hawker was so dry. “The plains need water badly. They say the reservoir here is nearly empty.”

  “Grandma! Grandpa!”

  “Oh look, Thomas. It’s Joseph and the children.” There was no mistaking the delight in Lizzie’s voice. Her grandchildren were precious.

  William reached them first. He came to a sudden stop in front of them, kicking up more dust. Thomas ruffled the boy’s hair. “Hello, young man.” He looked over at his son who was carrying Violet and a few feet behind them was Mary carrying Esther.

  “What are you all doing here?” Thomas tickled Violet’s chin. “We’ve got the cart and horse in the stables.”

  “I had need of the blacksmith and I have wool money to collect.” Joseph kissed his mother on the cheek. “We thought we’d meet the train but we’re a bit late.”

  “Esther wouldn’t get out of the wagon,” William grumbled. “I wanted to see the train arrive.” He scuffed a rock with his boot, stirring up more dust.

  “We’ll go and look now before we go to the shop.” His father reassured him. “Clara has given me a list as long as your arm.”

  “How is Clara?” Lizzie’s question brought a frown to Joseph’s face.

  “She’s not very well.” Violet stared up at them, her young face set in a serious expression. She reached out and climbed into Lizzie’s arms.

  “Mothers get tired just before they have a new baby.” Lizzie swept the little girl’s roughly brushed hair from her eyes. She could do with a ribbon and her pinafore was ripped.

  A burst of steam hissed from the train beyond the station building.

  “Is the train leaving?” William ask
ed.

  “Soon,” Thomas said.

  “I’ll take the children to look at it.” Joseph held his hands out to Violet. The little girl clung to Lizzie.

  “I want to stay with Grandma.”

  “She can.” Lizzie kissed Violet’s cheek. “You take the others. Why don’t we meet for a cup of tea at the new hotel? Your father and I are staying the night there before we travel back to Wildu Creek tomorrow.”

  Joseph raised his eyebrows.

  “Your mother’s idea,” Thomas said. “It should be quiet enough. Evidently they don’t sell liquor yet as the main building isn’t finished.”

  Joseph moved off. Lizzie kissed Violet again and set her on the ground. Thomas took one of his granddaughter’s little hands in his. It felt so fragile against his rough skin.

  They watched as Joseph and William hurried into the station closely followed by Mary and Esther.

  “I wonder if it’s wise for him to bring Mary.” Lizzie’s voice was lower than her usual vibrant tone.

  “Binda’s family are friends, just like Gulda and Daisy have been for us.”

  “But it’s not quite the same for us. We’re friends, yes, but Gulda and especially Daisy have kept their own ways. They’ve helped us but I think Gulda only comes back out of a sense of loyalty to you.”

  “And what I pay him.”

  “Grandpa.” Violet tugged at his arm. “I’m hungry.”

  “Goodness, we can’t have that. Let us go and find this cup of tea your grandma has promised and perhaps there will even be cake.”

  Lizzie chuckled. “You and your sweet tooth, Thomas Baker.” She thrust her arm through his and together the three of them made their way to the hotel.

  By the time Joseph joined them they’d finished their tea and cake.

  “There’s cloud moving in from the west.” Joseph pulled his hat from his head and sat in front of the cup of tea Lizzie poured.

  “Anything in it?” Thomas cast a look towards the window. The day had darkened while he’d been inside sipping tea.

  “I know they’re desperate for rain here,” Joseph said. “It certainly looks promising.”

  Thomas wished he hadn’t agreed to stay overnight at the hotel. He was anxious to get back to Wildu Creek. Rain was welcome but would impede their journey.

  “Stop fretting, Thomas.” Lizzie brushed imaginary crumbs from her skirt. “We’ll be home soon enough.”

  “We must set off soon.” Joseph stood and waved to Mary and the children who were playing on the wooden verandah. “I am going to collect my money from the odious little man who is acting as a forwarding agent and then we will be on our way. I want to make camp at the first creek by nightfall.”

  “Did you say the agent’s name was Wiltshire?” Thomas asked.

  “Yes.”

  “There must be several people by that name.” Lizzie reached across and patted Thomas’s hand. “No need to jump to conclusions.”

  “Wiltshire, of course.” Joseph clicked his fingers. “That was the name of the man who swindled Uncle Zac and Uncle Jacob out of Smith’s Ridge.”

  “And tried to take Wildu Creek from us,” Thomas growled

  “But his name was Septimus,” Joseph said. “And this Henry Wiltshire is close to my age.”

  “Could be his son,” Thomas said. “Especially if he is as offensive as you say.”

  “Or he may be no relation at all.” Lizzie got to her feet. “He might be odious but his young wife is lovely and they have delightful items in their shop. Some of it better than I could find in Port Augusta. I’ll come with you.”

  “We’ll all go.” Thomas stood, plucked his hat from the rack and handed Joseph his. “I’m curious to meet this fellow.”

  Lizzie stopped in front of them and held up her hand. “Let me go first. I’d like to have a look around before you two go causing trouble. Besides, I can have his family history out of him in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

  “Lizzie,” Thomas warned. His wife was adept at unearthing the facts but he didn’t want her in harm’s way if this Wiltshire fellow was indeed related to his old adversary Septimus.

  Thomas knew he should turn the other cheek but he’d had trouble forgiving and forgetting Septimus Wiltshire. The man was dead now but not before he’d caused a lot of grief for both Thomas and Lizzie’s families. He’d swindled Thomas in his early days in the colony and been a thorn in his side during their first years at Wildu Creek.

  Thomas believed Lizzie’s brothers, Zac and Jacob Smith, would both be alive now if they hadn’t lost their lease on Smith’s Ridge through Wiltshire’s trickery. Even though Septimus’s wife, Harriet, had tried to make things right after her husband’s death by giving back the lease, none of the Smiths had wanted it. The brothers had ended up dying far too young. Jacob lost his life on the goldfields in Victoria and Zac drowned in the hills beyond Adelaide, trying to cross a swollen creek after one too many drinks. Joseph had been the one eager to maintain the lease, which had been done with the help of an overseer. Thomas would have eventually let it go but Joseph had badly wanted to keep it in the family.

  Now as Thomas watched his wife disappear inside the shop, his sense of unease strengthened.

  “Let’s go,” Joseph said.

  He made to step from the hotel verandah but Thomas put out a restraining hand. He wanted to rush in like his son but he’d allow Lizzie her chance to meddle. If anyone could get to the bottom of things quickly it was his Lizzie.

  “You know your mother is a capable woman,” he said. “We’ll give her a few minutes’ head start.”

  Henry looked up at the jangle of the bell over his door. He’d had a busy morning. In spite of the continuing dry weather, the cooler conditions had brought customers to his door. His general produce was similarly priced to his opposition, Mr Garrat, but Garrat didn’t stock quality goods such as the finer haberdashery and the fabric with pretty patterns that Harriet was adept at sourcing. Neither did he have the heavier-duty trousers, the soft felt hats and the superior axe heads that Henry had on his shelves. Some of Henry’s customers had money and sales had picked up a little during autumn.

  He smiled at the attractive older woman who came through his door.

  “Good afternoon madam, how can I be of service?”

  “Hello.” The woman beamed at him and studied him with her pretty blue eyes. She was well dressed and wore gloves, something few women seemed to be bothered with out here. He wondered where she’d come from. Perhaps she was someone Catherine could befriend. There was an age difference but the woman may have daughters. Before he could ask, she had advanced across the shop and thrust her hand at him.

  “You must be Mr Wiltshire?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Henry, is it?”

  “Yes, and you are?”

  “You have such wonderful stock here. Such exquisite tablecloths.” She ran a finger over the display of his mother’s fine needlework. “Much better than Port Augusta. I’ve just returned from there.” The woman spoke quickly as she glanced around the shelves, taking it all in with her bright eyes. “I’ve only been in once before and a delightful young woman served me.” She turned back and fixed him with a piercing gaze. “Your wife perhaps?”

  “Catherine.”

  “Such a pretty name. Is she well?”

  Henry felt his chest swell with pride. “She is very well, thank you, Mrs—”

  “Oh that’s good. She was most helpful finding a special gift last time I was here. It was for my daughter-in-law. We settled on some of your perfumed soap.”

  “Catherine is resting. She is with child.”

  “That’s wonderful. Is this your first?”

  “Yes.”

  “Congratulations, Henry.” The woman beamed at him. “I do hope it’s all right to call you Henry? How long have you been in these parts? I seem to recall there used to be another Mr Wiltshire who travelled the area selling goods from his wagon. He used to have such good quality items li
ke you. I remember his wife was very adept at needlework.” She tapped a finger to her cheek. “Now what was his name?”

  Unease prickled at the back of Henry’s neck. He watched the woman ponder. He still didn’t know her name. His mother had suggested he not mention his father’s name in these parts. That’s why it wasn’t displayed on the front sign. She said there’d been a few business deals that had gone awry and some people held grudges even though she assured Henry it was not his father’s fault. That was a long time ago and this woman didn’t appear to hold any resentment.

  “Septimus.” He said the name of the father he hardly knew and of whom he held his own vague, difficult memories. “He died when I was young. I hardly remember him.”

  “I’m sorry. And your mother? I do recall taking tea with her when we were both much younger.”

  Henry felt his confidence return. “Harriet. She is quite well thank you and living in Adelaide. She has a business of her own there. Those cloths you admired are hers. Or at least the women who work for her. Mother’s eyesight is not the best for close work anymore.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that but I do understand. I have to get someone else to thread the needle for me these days.”

  The bell above the door jangled. Henry frowned as his eyes adjusted to take in the face of the man framed by the light from the open door.

  “Mr Baker.” Henry kept his tone civil for the sake of the lady at the counter. To his surprise she reached out her hand to Baker.

  “This is my son,” she said with pride in her voice. “Joseph was born not long after you, Henry.”

  Henry pursed his lips. So this woman was a Baker. Another man followed Joseph into the shop. They were a similar height. The older man had a darker head of hair, greying at the temples but there was no denying the likeness to Joseph.

  “And this is my husband, Thomas Baker. He knew your father.”

  Henry saw the older man stiffen. Beyond him on the verandah, the native girl stood holding the hands of Joseph’s two little girls. A boy swung on the hitching rail. Baker had brought his ragtag tribe with him again. Henry wondered where the sullen black man who had been with them last time was hiding. A chilly wind blew through the open door. The afternoon sky had darkened. He would need to light the lamps earlier than usual.