There were only a few people at the graveside that Emma had never seen before. She noticed in particular a tall, thin man with long, white hair. He wore a black patch over his right eye, held in place by a thin elastic strap. Despite the white hair the man didn’t look old. Emma took him to be about her father’s age. He didn’t appear to know anyone, and he stood alone, off to one side, holding a broad-brimmed stockman’s hat in two big, calloused hands. He towered a full head and shoulders above everyone else and his angular face had the texture of old leather. Emma thought he looked uncomfortable and out of place, in a clean, but old-fashioned suit that was one or two sizes too small for him.
Just as the coffin was being lowered into the grave, the tall man pulled a small linen bag from his jacket pocket. Emma watched as he sprinkled the contents of the bag down over the coffin. It looked like dry dusty soil. Just for a moment, a single pale-blue eye held hers and the strange man’s lips parted in an almost indiscernible smile. A second later he turned abruptly and walked away.
Watching him as he left, Emma wondered who he might be. She noticed the hem of his too-small jacket was gathered on something protruding from a back trouser pocket. The sun flashed brightly on the object.
It was a mouth organ.
CHAPTER FIVE
Almost fifty miles to the south of the Queensland-New South Wales border, the New England Highway was little more than a winding dusty track as the old stock-truck neared the small town of Tenterfield.
The tall man at the wheel wore a patch over one eye. He reached forward and turned on the headlights as twilight gave way to darkness. At the click of the switch, an old Collie bitch lying on the seat beside him lazily opened her eyes. Minutes later the truck rounded yet another bend in the road and the twinkling lights of Tenterfield came into view.
The driver drove slowly along the town’s main street, checking the buildings on each side with his good eye. Some distance down the street, he saw a number of cars and farm vehicles parked outside the town’s social hall. He brought the truck to a halt at the side of the road as close to the hall as he could get, then stepped out, leaving the dog with her head hanging dolefully out of the open window.
The man entered the hall, which was brightly lit, almost filled to overflowing and very noisy. Men stood in small groups pressed closely together, a mixture of local farmers and townsfolk. Some had their wives with them and there was a sprinkling of children. On the stage at one end of the hall, several officials and organizers stood under a large banner, anxiously awaiting the arrival of the evening’s speakers. The sign above them read:
SELF-GOVERNMENT FOR A NEW STATE OF NEW ENGLAND
The tall man’s eye raked through the crowd. Everyone in the hall was engaged in spirited conversation. He saw a familiar face among a group of farmers on the other side of the hall. When he made his way toward them, one of the farmers, a stocky man with a crimson face recognized him.
‘God Almighty,’ the red-faced man called out loudly. ‘If it isn’t Harmony Jones. What in hell are you doing here?’
The tall man held his hat close to his chest as he squeezed his way through the crowd. The men in the group made room for the newcomer and the farmer introduced him. ‘Gents, this is Sergeant Bill Jones, late of the Australian Light Horse. I had the pleasure of serving with him in Palestine during the war. But over there we called him Harmony.’
‘How’s that then?’ one of the men in the group asked.
‘Harmony always had a mouth organ in his pocket. He used to play all the old tunes around the campfire at night. Reminded the boys of home. Often made a lot of the younger soldiers cry.’
‘And the enemy?’ the same man asked.
‘Hell.’ The farmer laughed. ‘The snipers never fired on our campfires. We used to hear shots, but we reckoned it was the Huns and Turks shooting themselves rather than listen to the whine of Harmony’s mouth organ.’
Harmony grinned shyly, displaying long narrow teeth, set in blotchy receding gums. He reached out and took the farmer’s hand in a firm grip.
‘Mike Parry, it’s good to see you after all these years. I just drove down from Queensland. I stopped in at the farm earlier. Your wife said I would find you here. There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.’
At that moment the lights flashed on and off several times. The din in the hall began to abate and a loud voice boomed out from the stage.
‘My fellow New Englanders…’
The hall fell silent and the speaker continued: ‘My fellow New Englanders. My name is Earle Page, leader of the Federal Country Party. Lately, I have addressed meetings like this from Maitland in the south, right up to the Queensland border. Everyone I have spoken to knows we have to find better ways of governing ourselves. We must move toward simplicity in government and we must move toward government that has fair representation for the man on the land.’
There was a roar of approval from the partisan crowd.
‘Rural industries, ‘ Page continued, ‘contribute ninety-six percent of our nation’s exports. We in New England, like rural people everywhere, create the nation’s wealth. Accordingly, we must have the right to rule ourselves within the Commonwealth as a free and independent state. Since Premier Lang has chosen to renege on New South Wales’ share of Australia’s commitments to the British banks, we must create that new state now, and form a smaller, lower-taxing, more efficient, and more honorable government.’
Another roar went up from the crowd.
‘It is my pleasure to announce,’ Page went on as the roar subsided, ‘that we have been supported in our cause by a new national organization, dedicated like ourselves, to a return to the tried and true Anglo-Saxon traditions of thrift, fairness and justice for all. This organization is called the New Guard Movement and is represented here tonight by Mr Stephen Fairchild of the Sydney law firm of Fairchild & Associates.’
Page beckoned toward a fair-haired young man seated behind him on the stage. The young man stood up briefly and the crowd clapped politely.
‘In addition to the support of the New Guard,’ Page continued,’ Fairchild and Associates have offered their services to assist in the drawing up of a New England state constitution which will be submitted to Canberra for approval very soon.’
‘At what cost, Mr Page?’ a dissenter in the crowd called out. ‘If there is a need for lawyers, let’s use our own country solicitors from New England, not city shysters who’ll bleed us dry.’
‘May I explain…’ Stephen Fairchild rose to his feet and stood beside Page. ‘My father’s law firm has assured Mr Page that our assistance will be given at no cost whatsoever to the New England Movement. Our only interest in the matter is to help in any way possible, the advancement of causes which, like the New Guard, are committed to seeing Mr Lang ousted from power.’
‘Lawyers rarely have any interests other than their own, Mr Fairchild,’ the heckler persisted. ‘How do you feel personally about Lang’s proposal to suspend all interest payments to London?’
Fairchild responded without hesitation. ‘As Mr Robert Menzies, a prominent Melbourne lawyer put it recently, ‘I would rather see every Australian citizen starve to death than see us renege on our debts.’
‘Coming from a couple of lawyers who’ve never gone to bed hungry, that doesn’t mean much to me,’ the heckler taunted, and a ripple of laughter ran through the crowd.
Stephen Fairchild returned to his seat with a look of chagrin on his face and Earle Page continued with his address.
*
After the meeting, Harmony and Mike Parry adjourned to the public bar in the hotel beside the hall. Harmony looked for a place to sit while Mike Parry pushed his way through the crowd to the bar. After a few minutes he returned with a pint of beer in each hand and sat down.
Parry took a generous swallow from his glass then laid it down on the table.
‘How long has it been Harmony, eight, nine years?’
‘Closer to eleven I reckon, mate.’
‘Still jackerooing up there in Queensland?’
‘No mate, gave the cattle stations away years ago, left all that to the younger blokes.’
‘So what do you do for a crust now?’
‘Got a little house on sixty acres, a few miles north of Goondiwindi. It’s not much but it’s paid off. I do a little buying and selling, horses mainly, and a little kangaroo shooting. It’s a living.’
Parry took another long swallow of beer.
‘What brings you to Tenterfield, Harmony?’
‘Captain McKenna.’
Parry smiled. ‘How is he?’
‘He’s dead, mate.’
The smile evaporated from Parry’s face.
‘The Captain dead. What happened?’
‘Victorian Mercantile foreclosed on Yallambee. He wouldn’t get off the place. The police shot him down outside his own front door, right in front of his wife and family.’
‘God Almighty!’ Parry looked stunned. ‘How could it happen?’
‘He got too far in debt. And he lost a lot of friends when he came home from the war with only you, me and Lieutenant Parsons left of his squadron. A lot people in the district blamed him for the loss of their kin. You know how it was in the Light Horse. It was brigades of bushmen. An officer knew most of the men under his command. They came from the same district as he did. He owned the station they worked on, or he was their cocky, or their local solicitor or dentist. The chain of command was never broken for a Light Horseman, it was the same as when he was a civilian.’ Harmony paused for a moment, then asked, ‘Where the hell is Parsons these days anyway?’
‘Old Snakeoil.’ Parry’s lips stretched into a wry grin. ‘The silver-tongued bastard. He talked a widow over in Inverell into marrying him. Her husband was a publican. Died a few years back. Snakeoil runs the pub now.’
Harmony grinned and shook his head.
‘Is he still on the grog?’
‘Yes. But half the time you’d never pick it.’
The grin lingered on Harmony’s face. ‘Snakeoil running a pub. That’s a bit like putting a sex maniac in charge of a brothel, isn’t it? Anyway as I was saying, it seems a lot of people blamed the Captain for the loss of their loved ones. He took it hard. He’d call into my place once in a while when he was passing through Goondiwindi, just to talk.. He told me his father took on a lot of debt during the war, just to keep the place running. The Captain blamed himself for that, for leaving the old man alone on Yallambee. And things just got worse. His father died, his wife became a cripple, and there’s a drought up in that country that just won’t end. And now he’s dead, and his wife and daughter and two young boys are living on charity from Patrick Coltrane.’
‘And that wouldn’t come easy.’ Mike Parry grimaced. ‘I know there was no love lost between the Captain and Patrick Coltrane.’ The farmer stared into what was left of his beer. ‘When did it all happen, Harmony?’
‘A little over a month ago. I was at a horse sale in Toowoomba when I heard about it. I got to Augathella in time for the funeral. I saw the Captain’s daughter, prettiest thing you’ve ever seen, no more than eighteen or nineteen years old with the troubles of the world on her shoulders. I don’t think the family’s got a brass razoo between them.’
‘Is that why you’re here, Harmony? I know how you feel about the Captain. You’d have lost more than your eye in the desert if it weren’t for him. And Snakeoil and me would never have made it back without him.’ Mike Parry rubbed his chin. ‘I reckon I could spare a few pounds, but only a few. I don’t need to tell you how bloody tough things are these days.’
‘I didn’t come to ask for money, Mike. If the family’s half as proud as the Captain, they wouldn’t take it anyway. No, they’ll be sending the auctioneers to Yallambee pretty quick-smart to sell up the place. I’d just like to see the bastards don’t let everything go for a song.’
‘You’re not thinking of trying to bid the prices up are you, Harmony?’
‘Hell, no. That’s too dangerous. We could get caught with something we don’t have the money to pay for. I thought maybe the three of us…’
‘The three of us?’
‘Yes. You, me and Snakeoil. I thought we could say something on the Captain’s behalf, you know, try and shame the buyers into paying fair prices.’
‘Say something to them? What could we say?’
‘Maybe something about the old days, something about the Captain and the Light Horse and what we all fought for. The lieutenant would know what to say, they don’t call him Snakeoil for nothing. There’s nothing he likes better than standing up and flapping his face in front of a crowd.’
Mike Parry looked unconvinced. ‘But people these days don’t care about all that, you know, the war and everything, especially those who weren’t there. And those that were are trying hard to forget it. It’s all history, Harmony. These days people have got other things to worry about.’
‘But we’ve got to do something,’ Harmony persisted. ‘We owe the Captain that much. From what I hear there won’t be a penny left over for the McKennas if he sold up at fire-sale prices. God only knows what will happen to them then. They’ve got no family left except the Coltranes.’
Parry picked up the empty glasses and went to the bar for more beer. When he came back he sat down and said, ‘All right Harmony, I’ll get in touch with Snakeoil. If he agrees, then we’ve got a goer. When do you think they’ll hold the sale?’
‘Don’t have a date yet, but it’ll be soon.’ Harmony raised his beer high. ‘To the Captain and the 3rd Brigade. Let’s try and do them both proud.’
Parry touched Harmony’s glass with his own and said:
‘We’ve got nothing to lose I suppose, providing Snakeoil stays reasonably sober’.
CHAPTER SIX
March gave way to April. The first days of autumn brought some respite from the heat on Essex Downs but no sign of a break in the drought. By taking one day at a time, and never for one minute accepting their situation as in any way permanent, Emma somehow managed to cope with her family’s changed circumstances.
Kathleen had still not spoken a word since the shooting and she appeared to have no interest or comprehension of what was going on, or what was being said around her. She just spent the long days sitting in a still silence in the shade of the cottage porch.
Mary came to the cottage every morning for an hour or so to help Emma with her mother and often she would drop by for a short while in the afternoon. It was only during Mary’s afternoon visits that Emma saw any hope of her mother’s condition improving. Mary would spend the time sitting out on the porch carrying on a one-sided conversation, trying patiently to stimulate a response from Kathleen. Emma could see no reason for the old Aboriginal woman’s compassion for her mother but she was grateful for it.
The twins, unable to return to boarding school in Toowoomba, were now taking lessons from the station manager’s wife with the children of station workers in a shed which served as a schoolhouse. At first the boys were reluctant to even enter the humble school. But after they got to know the other pupils, Emma could tell they looked forward to going.
Emma tried to keep her hands and mind as active as she could. Over the weeks she had cleaned, scrubbed and polished everything in and about the little cottage until it shone. Any other time she had was spent sewing and dressmaking, although the craft she had discovered and enjoyed so much after she left school to look after her mother, was now severely curtailed due to lack of material.
Her father was never far from her mind. Sometimes when she was alone and feeling down, she would open her father’s brown wallet where she kept her favorite photograph of him. It was taken just before he left for the war. He sat astride a young waler, confident and assured, proudly wearing a full dress uniform, that Emma had brought with her from Yallambee.
From time to time, Laura would call to see if Emma needed anything in addition to the food and essentials she sent over with Beth, the young Abo
riginal girl. Her aunt’s visits were more frequent when Patrick Coltrane was away from the property. When he was away overnight, as he often was, Laura would plead with Emma to bring the family over to the house for their meals. Emma always politely refused and Laura knew why. Both women preferred to make no mention of Patrick Coltrane at all.
Elliot also called by the cottage more when his father was away. At first Emma thought he was just trying to be helpful and considerate. But she soon realized he had more on his mind. Often his hands had unnecessarily touched her lingered on her body, until she had gently but firmly pushed them away.
As each day passed Emma prayed that the impending sale at Yallambee would result in even a small surplus of money, at least enough for them to step from the shadow of Patrick Coltrane’s charity and their strained existence at Essex Downs.
*
The twins had just left for school one morning and Emma was about to look in on Kathleen, when Beth arrived at the door carrying a hamper of clean linen. When Beth lowered the hamper onto the kitchen table, Emma could see the young girl’s pretty dark face was puffed and swollen with a cut above one eye.
‘Good heavens Beth, what happened? Emma asked.
‘It’s nothing, Miss Emma.’
Emma took her arm. ‘What happened Beth?’ she insisted. ‘You’ve been beaten haven’t you? Did one of the station boys do this?’
Beth nodded her head.
‘Have you told Mrs Coltrane who did it?’
Beth shook her head.
‘Tell me who it was,’ Emma said. ‘The boy has to be punished. Mr Coltrane is away but I’ll speak to Mister Elliot and have him deal with this.’
Beth remained silent. Emma could see she was afraid.
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