The Postmistress

by Alison Stuart

  Adelaide made a show of straightening the waistcoat she wore over the man’s shirt. ‘Sadly, my riding habit is being mended,’ she said in a tone heavily laced with irony. ‘I find this a more practical outfit for riding in the Australian bush.’

  His eyebrow quirked and the slow, familiar smile tugged at his mouth. ‘I think it becomes you,’ he said.

  She ignored this remark.

  He looked down at the letter in his hand. ‘I thought Mick delivered your mail?’

  ‘Call this one a special delivery,’ she replied. ‘I wanted to see you.’

  The smile vanished and he looked up at her. ‘Adelaide, I—’

  ‘I am just curious as to why you felt it necessary to run away? Were you running from me or the consequences of letting me see a glimpse of the real Caleb Hunt?’

  He flicked the envelope he held. ‘It wasn’t you, Adelaide.’ A muscle in his cheek twitched as he looked away. ‘I just need some time to think.’

  ‘And did you reach any conclusions?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, I concluded that I love this country. I love the smell of the eucalypts and the strange animals. There’s this big, hairy, pig-like animal that snuffles around my camp at night.’

  Adelaide smiled. ‘A wombat. He won’t hurt you. He’s just after food.’

  ‘He is on a mission, for sure.’ Caleb glanced behind him, in the direction from which he had come. ‘And just down the creek, the water gets deeper. I’ve seen an animal in there. I thought it was a water rat but it has a bill, like a duck. I think it’s called a platypus. I remember seeing pictures of it at school.’

  ‘And when you start mining here, what will become of those animals?’

  Caleb shrugged. ‘I’ve found a few grains of alluvial gold in the creek but not enough to make my fortune yet.’

  Adelaide stood up and gestured at the letter. ‘I need to take an answer back.’

  She knew what it said. Bowen had told her that now Geordie was out of danger, he wanted to send him down to the new hospital in Sale and he thought Caleb should go with him. Caleb could explain the situation and what had been done for Geordie better than anyone else in the town.

  Adelaide watched as he read the short note, a dark lock of hair falling across his eyes. His shoulders tensed and he looked up.

  ‘You know what he’s asking me to do?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If I’m going down to Sale, this might be a good opportunity to go looking for Hannigan. I can get the Sale coach straight through to Melbourne and there’s sure to be transport up to Creswick.’

  ‘You don’t know he’s in Creswick. What if he’s gone further west?’

  ‘I have to start somewhere.’

  Adelaide’s heart sank. She had hoped Bowen’s missive might serve to bring Caleb back to Maiden’s Creek, not drive him further away. ‘What do you hope to achieve by tracking Hannigan down? He won’t have your money or your equipment.’

  ‘Personal satisfaction.’

  ‘Another excuse to run,’ Adelaide said. ‘That’s it, isn’t it, Caleb Hunt? Whenever anything or anyone gets too close to you, you run.’

  He said nothing, his very silence his answer.

  ‘One day you will have to stop running and turn and face whatever demons are pursuing you.’

  They stood looking at each other, the challenge in the silence stretching between them.

  Caleb broke her gaze and looked around his encampment. ‘Tell Bowen, I need an hour or two to break camp,’ he said. ‘And it’s a good three-hour walk back into town. More with my leg.’

  ‘I brought you a horse from Sones’s stable. You will find it tethered to a tree up there.’ Adelaide pointed up the track. With a toss of her head, she flicked her long plait over her shoulder and she strode off.

  ‘If you wait a while, I’ll come with you,’ he called after her.

  Adelaide did not turn around. ‘I’m not waiting for you,’ she said.

  Sixteen

  Getting Geordie to Sale had not been easy. No direct route had been cut from Maiden’s Creek, so they had hitched a ride on an empty wagon heading down to Port Albert. If Caleb had thought the Shady Creek track rough, it was a boulevard compared to this rough bush trail. It must have been a difficult ride for Geordie but he bore it without complaint, and at Rosedale they picked up the coach from Melbourne.

  Caleb had left his patient in the care of a competent doctor in a pristine new hospital. As he said his farewells, Geordie asked if Caleb would be returning to Maiden’s Creek.

  Caleb shook his head. ‘I’ll buy a horse here and then I’m heading for Melbourne and on to the western goldfields.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Got to find a man who owes me money,’ Caleb said, but even as he spoke, he struggled to find the conviction in his words.

  ‘Forget ’im,’ Geordie said. ‘You’ve got a grand girl in Maiden’s Creek. Why’d you want to give her up?’

  Caleb had no answer for that.

  He purchased a handsome grey gelding he named Shadow for sentimental reasons: in memory of the loyal, gentle animal who had borne him from his father’s farm and through the early years of the war. When the first Shadow died in a hail of Minié bullets, Caleb had mourned for him as he would have his best friend.

  As he left Sale, the clouds hung heavy and the air had the consistency of damp wool. In the distance the flashes of lightning and thunder the bush people so dreaded rolled over the countryside.

  Ten miles out of Shady Creek, the rain began as a few heavy drops that quickly became sheets of torrential rain. He arrived at Shady Creek at nightfall, drenched to the skin and in a foul mood. His leg ached and he wanted nothing more than dry clothes and a good feed. He saw Shadow stabled, dried and fed before hoisting his satchel and stomping into the pub from which he had set out with such high hopes only a few weeks earlier.

  The proprietors of the Shady Creek pub, who he remembered as Ethel and Ernest Gulliver, fussed over him. Mrs Gulliver insisted on taking his wet clothes to dry by the kitchen fire. Considering the few coins in his purse, Caleb paid for a bed in the bunkhouse.

  He took his dinner of stew washed down with a beer in the front parlour of the hotel. Dry and replete, he sat back with another beer and watched the rain dripping through the ceiling into a wooden bucket.

  A family seated at a table in the far corner appeared to be the only other travellers. Caleb studied them without much interest. A husband, a wife, a fretful boy of about three or four and a young woman with a pockmarked face. From her plain clothes and subservient manner, Caleb took to her be the maid.

  The wife rubbed her temples and grimaced. ‘Take Robbie to bed. I simply can’t take his grizzling any more.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ the maid replied and shepherded the child out of the parlour with a quick apologetic smile at Caleb.

  The husband and wife turned back to their meal.

  ‘Come on, dear, eat up,’ the husband said. ‘It’s been a long day.’

  The woman pushed the food around her plate and stared at it with distaste. ‘I’m sorry, I have a terrible headache. Forgive me, but I will retire for the night.’

  She pushed back her chair and Caleb watched her unsteady progress through to the accommodation in the back rooms. Something about her high colour and bright eyes made him uneasy.

  Her husband caught Caleb’s glance and shrugged. ‘It’s probably something we ate last night,’ he said. ‘Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t mend.’

  Caleb nodded and looked down at the gristly remains of his own dinner, congealing on the tin plate. ‘Indeed, sir,’ he agreed. ‘It is no surprise more of us don’t succumb.’

  But he watched the door through which the woman had gone with a troubled feeling that something more than just a queasy stomach ailed her.

  Caleb woke to the patter of rain on the tin roof. He lay on the bunk bed with his hands behind his head. Shady Creek stood at the crossroads. One path led to Melbourne and onto the western g
oldfields and the other path led back to Maiden’s Creek. To take that step down the path to Melbourne would take him away from Maiden’s Creek, from Adelaide.

  The old restlessness tugged at him and he pushed thoughts of Adelaide to the back of his mind. Even if he didn’t find Hannigan at Creswick or beyond, there was always the lure of adventures in another part of the colony. Money to be made or lost at cards or even the prospect of that speck of gold at the bottom of a pan. Adelaide would be better off without him.

  Caleb swung his feet off the bed and scratched his chin. He would push on to Buneep, the next major town on the road to Melbourne, when the weather cleared.

  The rain persisted and he whiled away the morning in the stable, getting to know Shadow and polishing the second-hand tack he had bought. Amos Burrell arrived just before lunch with the Maiden’s Creek coach. The man and his two sturdy horses were soaked to the bone and mired in mud. After Amos saw to his horses, he joined Caleb on the front verandah to eat his lunch. The two men sat in companionable silence watching the steady rain dripping off the roof.

  ‘Heading back today?’ Caleb asked at last.

  ‘The road through to Maiden’s Creek is bloody impossible,’ Amos said. ‘By rights I should stay here until it’s safe to go on.’ He lowered his voice and jerked his head at the front parlour window. ‘But ’im inside is insistent I carry ’em today.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Murray, chief clerk at the Bank of Victoria. Thinks he’s Mr ’igh and Mighty.’ Amos blew out a breath. ‘I’ll take ’em on but I don’t think we’ll get beyond the Thompson River guesthouse today, despite what ’is nibs in there would like.’

  Caleb took a sip of the tea Mrs Gulliver provided. It tasted like hot dishwater.

  ‘It’s none of my business,’ Amos said with his mouth full, ‘but whatever’s going on between you and Missus Greaves. She thinks you’re gone for good and she’s been like a parson with a long face since you left.’

  When Caleb didn’t answer, Amos shrugged. ‘Like I said, none of my business, but it’s worrying Netty and what worries Netty worries me.’

  Caleb looked at the black leaves swirling in the bottom of his mug, wondering what they foretold. ‘It’s nothing. I just had to see Geordie to Sale. That’s it.’

  ‘So you’re coming back?’

  ‘Of course I’m coming back,’ Caleb snapped. Eventually … maybe …

  The two men lapsed into silence.

  The rain eased in the early afternoon and Amos judged it time to make a move. The Murray family came out onto the verandah to wait while Amos brought the coach around.

  Caleb glanced at Mrs Murray. The rain had brought cool weather and she huddled, shivering, in a heavy cloak, the hood pulled up over her head, leaving the maid to deal with the irritable child.

  As Amos stowed the family’s baggage, Caleb stepped forward to help the woman into the coach. The hand she held out to him burned, the skin dry, and when she turned her face to thank him, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright. His doctor’s eye saw something else: a rash around her mouth, spreading out across her face.

  ‘You’re not well, Mrs Murray,’ he said. ‘I suggest you see Dr Bowen as soon as you get into town.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said in a wavering voice. ‘It is just something I ate. I will be glad to be home in my own bed.’

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Visiting with my sister in Melbourne,’ she said with the ghost of a smile.

  ‘Lizzie, get in the coach. The sooner we leave, the sooner we’ll be home,’ her husband chided.

  Caleb helped the maid up into the coach and lifted the child in after her. As he raised the footstep and closed the door, the maid turned to look at him. Her mouth moved and for a fleeting moment he thought she had mouthed the words ‘Help us’, but the coach had begun to move.

  Caleb glanced up at the scudding clouds. Patches of blue had appeared and it looked like the afternoon would stay fine. Time to go. He saddled Shadow and set out on the road to Buneep, but each step along the muddy road took him further away from Maiden’s Creek and he felt the wrench as something physical.

  ‘You’ve got a grand girl waiting for you. Why’d you want to give her up?’ Geordie had said.

  He didn’t want to give her up. All he had to do was turn his horse and take the road north into the mountains. North to Maiden’s Creek. North to home …

  Just a few miles to Buneep, he told himself, and you can consider your options there.

  The thought of Buneep brought back his last conversation with Mrs Gulliver as he settled his account.

  ‘Glad to see the back of the Murrays,’ she had said.

  ‘Why’s that?’ Caleb enquired without interest, counting out his coins.

  ‘Mrs Murray made a right mess in their room and despite what he said, it wasn’t nothing I served ’em. She was sick when she arrived. That pub at Buneep serves rancid meat in their stews.’

  Eating at the Buneep pub was to be avoided, Caleb thought.

  He wondered if the Murrays would get through to Maiden’s Creek. Mr Murray certainly seemed in a hurry, but that was understandable if his wife was unwell. He turned over the symptoms in his mind. Fever, aches and vomiting could all be attributable to a dose of rancid meat but a rash around her mouth?

  The answer hit him with the force of a Minié ball.

  He hauled so hard on Shadow’s reins that the horse went down on his hindquarters. Caleb turned the animal and put his heels to him.

  He reached Shady Creek in the late afternoon and found Mrs Gulliver taking her leisure on the front verandah of the hotel with a cup of tea and a plate of scones.

  Caleb swung off the horse, tethering Shadow’s reins to the front rail and ran up the steps to the verandah.

  ‘Mrs Gulliver, we have no time to waste.’

  The woman started, slopping her tea over her hand. ‘Whatever is the matter, Mr Hunt? What brings you back so soon?’

  ‘Ma’am, I hate to ask this of you, but you have to burn everything that was in the Murray’s room. Furniture, sheets, towels—and scrub everywhere they went with carbolic.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  Caleb took a deep, steadying breath. ‘I don’t wish to alarm you. I—I am a doctor and I think I know what ailed Mrs Murray.’

  Mrs Gulliver stared at him, her kindly eyes troubled. ‘A doctor? I don’t understand … What ailed Mrs Murray?’

  ‘Smallpox.’ Caleb almost exhaled the word.

  Mrs Gulliver’s delicate rose-decorated tea cup hit the verandah and shattered into pieces.

  Caleb didn’t linger at the Shady Creek Hotel. He turned his tired horse northward, hoping to catch the travellers at the Thompson River guesthouse. He arrived well after dark, his horse too weary to go any further.

  When he asked after the Murrays, the proprietor told him they had arrived late in the afternoon and insisted Amos take them through to Maiden’s Creek while the daylight lasted. Murray had even paid Amos extra.

  ‘He weren’t too happy, but a pound’s a pound,’ the man concluded. ‘Hope they got down Little John’s in one piece.’

  The rain had started again and Caleb had to admit he would be foolish to continue on to Maiden’s Creek in the dark. He had to rest his horse and wait until morning.

  He left at first light but the going was slow, the track deadly, with water-filled ruts and potholes. At the top of Little John’s Sleigh Ride, Caleb dismounted and led Shadow down the hill and even then he lost his footing several times and slid through the gloop. He arrived in Maiden’s Creek in the late afternoon and limped through town leading his tired, mud-caked and exhausted horse to the livery stable.

  Caleb handed the dispirited animal over to Sones. ‘I’m looking for Amos Burrell,’ he said.

  Sones jerked his head in the direction of the stable. ‘He’s in there seeing to his horses. Stupid fool came all the way through from Shady Creek last night and Mac’s gone lame.’
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br />   Caleb found Amos perched on the divider between horse stalls, chewing on a piece of straw and watching Mac. The horse’s head drooped and he was favouring his right foreleg, which sported a foul-smelling poultice.

  ‘Will he be all right?’ Caleb asked, rubbing the neck of the gentle giant.

  ‘Dunno,’ Amos said morosely. ‘I knew I shouldn’t ’ave brought ’em down Little John’s last night. Bastard Murray. Wasn’t worth the extra pound. Won’t be going down to Shady Creek until Mac’s up to it so that’s me income lost.’

  ‘And the Murrays? Where are they?’

  Amos removed the straw from his mouth and his lip curled. ‘The missus was right poorly so ’is nibs insisted I drop ’em at the Britannia.’

  Caleb swore. Murray had installed his family in a hotel right in the middle of Maiden’s Creek.

  At the profanity, Amos looked up. ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘Yes. I hope I’m wrong, but just in case I’m not, Amos, you have to scrub out your coach—every inch—with carbolic. Trust me.’

  Amos blinked and opened his mouth. He closed it again and nodded.

  ‘And your clothes, Amos. Burn them.’

  Now it was Amos’s turn to swear. ‘You think I’m made of money? I think I should ’ave some sort of explanation.’

  ‘You’ll understand why you need to do this after I’ve spoken with Bowen.’ Caleb fondled Mac’s soft ears. ‘And you get better, old fellow. We may need you soon.’ He stepped out of the stall. ‘Where can I find Bowen?’

  Amos gave a snort of laughter that made the horses start. ‘At ’ome, I dare say. Up to ’is ears in a whiskey bottle.’

  Caleb set out for the doctor’s cottage on the hillside above the Britannia Hotel. His leg hurt like the very devil but he ignored it as he climbed the path to the small cottage sitting on an excavated plot of land. A wobbly handmade notice on the door read, BOWEN MD. KNOCK.

  Caleb knocked and when he got no answer, he tried the handle. The door opened to a gloomy room that appeared to serve as parlour, kitchen and consulting room. A fug of alcohol and tobacco hung in the air. Bowen sat slumped in front of a dwindling fire, a whiskey bottle in one hand and a glass in the other. He looked up without interest.