Simpson chuckled, handing her a tin cup of black tea. “Don’t you worry too much, Miss Higgins,” he said. “Rowly’ll get through this…” He glanced at Rowland who seemed to have fallen asleep. “He was a tough little kid… didn’t say much, but game for anything.”
Edna looked up. Rowland rarely spoke about his childhood.
“Were you born on Oaklea, Mr. Simpson?”
He shook his head. “Not quite. My mother went away with the women when her time came but she brought me back to Oaklea pretty much straightaway. I grew up there. It’s always been my home.”
“You called Rowly gaga… gagamin.”
Simpson didn’t look up. “It’s Wiradjurie. My mother was a Wiradjuri woman. She couldn’t give me much, but she did give me language.”
“What does it mean?”
Simpson giggled. A rich child-like chortle. It was both startling and endearing. “You know, Rowly used to think I was swearing at him.” He shook his head still laughing. “I didn’t realise till his pony threw him and he called it a useless bloody gagamin.”
Edna couldn’t help but smile at the obvious warmth of the memory. “You weren’t swearing at him, then?”
“No, I wasn’t.”
Edna stopped pressing him. Clearly Simpson did not want to tell her what the word meant. She sensed that it represented something important and personal to both men. Rowland would tell her if she asked him, but she wouldn’t ask him. She didn’t need to.
“Did you and Rowly play together as children?” she said instead.
Simpson was plainly happy with the change of subject. “Afraid not. I’m a good ten years older than Rowly. I knocked about with Wil and Aubrey some. Rowly was just a bit of a kid, always wanting to tag along. We spent most of our time trying to get rid of him. That was all before the war, of course.”
“Yes, the war.” Edna stared into the fire. “I guess that changed everything… even for the Sinclairs.”
Simpson nodded. “Especially for the Sinclairs.”
“What was Aubrey Sinclair like, Mr. Simpson?”
Simpson smiled faintly. “He looked exactly like Rowly… like him in other ways too.” He scratched his beard, and gazed at Rowland sadly for a while. “Aubrey was more noticeable, didn’t play his cards as close.”
“You miss him?” Edna said softly.
Simpson was unperturbed by her directness. “Yes, he was the kind of bloke that’s missed.”
“He was a writer,” Edna said, picturing the young man who’d been lost to the world with his talents still secret.
Simpson looked surprised.
“You didn’t know?”
“No, I just didn’t know Rowly did. He’s never mentioned it before.”
“He only just found out.” Edna put down the wet cloth with which she had been cooling Rowland’s face and neck, and wrapped her arms about her knees. “It must have been awful for them when the telegram came.” She remembered how the sight of the boy on his bicycle had become an object of terror in those years. Edna had known the boy who delivered the telegrams in her street; he had drunk himself to death in the twenties.
“I don’t know, really. We were all serving. Rowly was the only one still around… poor kid. Mrs. Sinclair took it hard.”
Edna nodded. She had met Rowland’s mother and witnessed her inability to acknowledge her youngest son’s existence. “My poor Rowly.” Her voice was almost a whisper. “How horrible for him. Oaklea must have been such a desperately lonely house for a little boy on his own.”
Simpson shrugged. “I’ve never been in the big house… but I don’t s’pose it was a good place back then.”
“Well, at least Rowly had his father,” Edna said without conviction. Henry Sinclair had died before she had ever met Rowland, and she knew him only through the severe portrait which glowered sternly from the wall at Woodlands.
“Don’t think the Boss took it much better than Rowly’s mother,” Simpson said, almost to himself, as he leaned back against a swag. “He was a hard man anyways. I reckon Rowly fought his own kind of war back here.”
Edna put her hand on Rowland’s, overcome by an impulse to protect him. But of course the war was a long time ago—Rowland was a man now. He mumbled restlessly in fevered sleep. She wiped his face with the cloth again. She had never thought Rowland secretive, but she realised there were many things he didn’t talk about.
Simpson studied her. “If you don’t mind me asking, Miss Higgins, are you the young lady who shot Rowly?”
“Yes.” Edna frowned. “I didn’t mean to,” she added.
Simpson’s eyes twinkled. “I figured that. Wil mentioned Rowly was keeping some interesting company.”
Edna sighed. “Mr. Sinclair doesn’t like us, I think.”
Simpson’s dark brow rose. “He doesn’t approve of you… that’s an entirely different thing.”
Edna liked Harry Simpson very much. His relationship with the Sinclair brothers, though unusual, was unforced and natural, as was their loyalty to each other. The stockman had a certain unflappable peacefulness about his manner that was reassuring under the circumstances. As the hours passed and Rowland became more fevered, she needed that.
Edna stirred. The fire had burned down a little but it still cast a warm inconstant light on the cave walls. A deep, rhythmic rumble told her that Simpson too had dropped off. She was aware that the ground was hard but she was not particularly uncomfortable. Quietly, she brought herself to her knees, looking first to Rowland.
His eyes were open, bright and confused. He had thrown off the blanket; his hair was visibly wet with perspiration.
“Rowly,” Edna whispered as she leaned over him. He was hot to touch.
“Ed?” He tried to sit up.
She stopped him, pushing him back down gently.
“What are you doing here?” he asked vaguely.
“Where else would I be?” She brushed the hair back from his forehead. “Do you remember what happened, Rowly?”
“What is wrong with your face?” he said, putting his fingers to a remnant smear of blood on her cheek.
“You don’t want to know.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
Edna was aware that her face was moving closer to his but it was not something she could stop. Rowland’s chest was hot beneath her hand and she could feel the rapid beat of his heart.
His hand moved from her cheek to the back of her neck and he pulled her into him. The first kiss was gentle, almost reverent, as if she were made of the finest glass. The kiss of a man who worshipped her. The second was different, passionate and demanding. He drew her down strongly, insistently, his hand entwined in her hair. The kiss of a man who wanted her.
Edna pulled back, startled by both the intensity of the kiss, and the depth of her response. The closeness of it… how badly she wanted to stay, just to lie against him with her heart pressed against his. Quietly. Forever. For a second she looked at Rowland from the edge of complete surrender… and then the familiar fear—she couldn’t do this without losing herself, and she would not. Instinctively she resisted.
Rowland would not let her go. His eyes were glazed. He pulled her back and kissed her again. She struggled. “Rowly, no!” She tried to writhe out of his grip. It tightened.
“Whoa, Rowly, what are you doing?” Simpson grabbed Rowland’s arm and forced it away.
It was only then that Edna noticed Rowland was shaking. Within seconds he was convulsing. She watched in horror as Simpson forced a wad of cloth between Rowland’s teeth and held him down. Rowland’s eyes rolled back as his muscles spasmed. The chain jangled as the fit took hold. Despite his substantial bulk, Simpson battled to restrain Rowland.
Then finally it was finished.
Simpson removed the cloth. Rowland’s body was limp, exhausted by the seizure.
Edna watched, unable to move, horrified by what she had allowed to happen, terrified by what had followed.
“Are you all right, Miss Higgins?”
She nodded, sobbing now. “I’m fine.”
“If I thought Rowly knew what he was doing I’d… are you sure you’re all right?”
“It wasn’t Rowly’s fault.”
“I saw what he was doing, Miss Higgins. If he remembers it, he’ll be mortified… and bloody sorry.”
“I know, but it wasn’t his fault.” She moved back to Rowland’s side, wiping at her tears with her sleeve. “Is he going to… is he…?” Edna choked on the question.
Simpson replied calmly. “The seizure’s probably to do with the fever… I had a dog once who took a fit every couple of days—never hurt him.” He checked the wound on Rowland’s arm. “Had to shoot him in the end, but that was for something else entirely. Look, Miss Higgins, if you don’t mind me saying, you look beat. Why don’t you get some sleep?” Simpson settled himself comfortably beside Rowland. “I’ll sit up with Rowly.”
Edna was torn, aware of how tired she was—how much she wanted to retreat into her own mind for a while—but she was scared, afraid to take her eyes off the laboured rise and fall of Rowland’s chest in case it stopped. Her lips were still seared with Rowland’s kiss—the memory of it confused. She wanted to run away and she wanted to sink back into his arms. She needed to think. “You’ll wake me if…”
“Of course.” Simpson smiled. “I’ll pull your chain.”
25
A FIRE-LIGHTING HINT
Cinders soaked in kerosene make the best possible fire-lighters. It is a splendid idea to keep a little oil in an old fruit tin and each day to pop half a dozen fair-sized cinders into this. In the morning the cinders are taken out and used for starting the fire. No paper, and hardly any wood, will be required where the oil-soaked cinders are employed. Six or eight of these cinders are quite sufficient in an emergency to boil a small kettle, and this is a much cheaper way of getting hot water than putting the kettle on the gas. The actual amount of kerosene used is very trifling, far less than might be supposed. In fact there are no cheaper fire-lighters than cinders saturated in oil.
The Examiner, 1932
Rowland opened his eyes. It took him a couple of minutes to realise that he was staring at the ceiling of the cave. He could make out a bit of movement where the swallows nested in the crags. His mouth was dry, parched. Slowly he turned his head to check that his arm was still there. It felt hot, numb and painful at the same time. Simpson was sitting beside him in a half-doze.
“Harry,” he said hoarsely.
Simpson started into full consciousness. “Rowly? How’re you feeling, gagamin?”
“Do you think you could take this flaming tourniquet off now?” Rowland bit his lip as he tried to move his deadened fingers.
Simpson tested Rowland’s forehead. The fever had subsided completely.
“I’ve already loosened it but your arm’s probably swelled a bit. Can you sit up?”
“I think so, give me a hand.”
Simpson helped Rowland to sit and when he had done that without any problems, Simpson removed the tourniquet. He watched Rowland carefully as the circulation returned to normal, and when nothing untoward happened, he relaxed.
“How long have I been out?” Rowland asked.
“Nearly a full day. You got through the worst of it a few hours ago.”
“Rowly?”
Rowland turned as Edna looked up drowsily from the swag on which she’d been lying. At first he thought she looked frightened but then, she smiled and reached out.
Rowland squeezed her hand. “You’ve cleaned your face,” he said, studying her. “Much better.”
Edna breathed, clearly relieved.
Rowland’s eyes lingered on her face. Despite the smile, her lashes were still clumped with tears. He frowned as he remembered her crying.
“Why am I wet?” he asked, noticing the dampness of his clothes and hair.
“Fever,” Simpson replied, handing him a canteen of water. “Probably what saved you—I think you might have sweated out most of the poison.”
“Charming,” he said grimacing.
“How’s your arm, Rowly?” Edna asked.
“Hurts like the blazes, but it’s much better without the tourniquet.” He drank from the canteen. “I’m famished. Did you eat all the biscuits?”
Edna found him the biscuits, stopping to unsnag the chain yet again. Rowland stared at the chain as she freed it.
“What now, Rowly?” Simpson followed his gaze.
“I may have an idea how we can get loose,” Rowland said, picking the shortbread out of the tin. He felt a bit stiff, but essentially he thought he’d come out of the snakebite quite well.
“You won’t be able to break the chain,” Simpson said wearily.
“No, if it were possible you would have done it by now,” Rowland said, glancing at the large stockman. “Milt said that snakebite potion of Eichorn’s exploded when it fell into the flames.”
“Milt exaggerates,” Edna reminded him.
“Even so, it’s flammable… certainly smells that way.” Rowland rubbed his hair. “What if we set the tree on fire… burned it down? We could douse it with the snakebite concoction and set it alight.”
Simpson shook his head. “That kind of fire would make the chain red hot… and we’re shackled to it.”
Rowland was not deterred. “But if we stood in the stream, the water would cool the chain before the heat reached us.”
Simpson looked at him thoughtfully, clearly interested in the proposal. “We could end up setting the whole ravine alight.”
“There is that,” Rowland admitted. “But the camp is fairly well cleared except for that tree. We’d be unlucky.” He looked at Simpson. “Do you know where we are?”
Simpson nodded. “Pocket’s Hut is just a few miles from here, we could get help there… but it’s rough country, Rowly.”
“Our other option is to wait,” Rowland replied. “God knows how long they plan to keep us here. Clyde will be back looking for us in a few hours… but out here…”
“I think we should try burning the tree,” Edna said. “If nothing else, it might tell Clyde where to find us.”
“We’ll be standing in the stream for a while,” Simpson warned. “The tree will take a few hours to burn to a stump low enough to get the chain off.”
“We don’t need to stand in the water,” Edna said confidently. The sculptress understood about heating metal. “We only need to put enough of the chain between us and the tree, in the water. It just has to cool before it reaches us.”
“Are you sure?”
“I think so. We can always walk into the stream if it gets hot.”
Rowland smiled. He’d always admired Edna’s gumption. “Shall we light this thing up then?”
Simpson shook his head. “For God’s sake, Rowly, you’re not lighting a bloody Aga. You can’t go out and just toss a match. We’ll need to build a fire at the tree’s base—it’ll take a bit of work.”
Rowland shifted impatiently. “The sooner we get started…”
“Rowly, darling, you were very ill just a few of hours ago,” Edna said softly.
“I’m quite well now… really.” He looked round at the two of them. “I’ve sweated out the venom, or it wasn’t the brown snake in the first place… headache’s gone, I can see all right, my arm hurts but that’s to be expected. You did bite me…”
The world outside the cave seemed bright though the day was overcast. The wind slapped at their faces with icy hands.
Rowland turned up the collar of his jacket, which Edna had returned to him. Although the shirtsleeve had been torn off his injured arm, it had been bandaged with strips of blanket and was consequently the warmest part of his body. Edna was wearing her blanket like a plaid cape. Only Simpson was reasonably attired against the cold.
They hobbled down to inspect the tree. It was only a few feet from the stream and may in some seasons have been partially submerged. Perhaps that’s what had killed it.
Rowland squatted on
the bank and splashed his face and neck, gasping with the shock of the frigid water. Still, he felt better for it. He rubbed the dark stubble on his jaw. If they didn’t get out of here soon, Simpson wouldn’t be the only one sporting a beard.
“What do you think?” he asked Simpson, who was looking closely at the tree.
“It might just work, Rowly. I’d say a good part of it’s hollow. It mightn’t take as long to burn down as I thought.”
“We’re going to have to carry the chain with us once we get it off the tree,” Edna said, frowning at the long length of linked iron. It would be heavy.
“Not far,” Simpson assured her. He pointed. “There’s another small cave about there. They took everything they thought could help me escape over to it.”
“What things?” Edna asked.
“Tools mainly—a couple of shovels, an axe, picks… If we can get to it, we’ll be able to break the chains.”
Rowland was pleased. It had occurred to him that ploughing through the undergrowth still shackled together would present a challenge.
Simpson gathered the odd bit of driftwood and kindling, pulling both Rowland and Edna with him. He took the supply of firewood which had been placed beside the cave and piled that too at the base of the tree. Rowland could use only one arm, but Edna was both learned and efficient on the subject of building fires. She advised Simpson on how to stack and layer the fuel to concentrate the heat around the trunk. They went back into the cave to retrieve the crate of Eichorn’s Snakebite Cure. Simpson kept one bottle back.
“What’s that for?” Rowland asked suspiciously. Much of the previous night was confused and hazy, but he remembered the application of Eichorn’s Snakebite Cure all too clearly.
Simpson grinned. “This might have saved your life, Rowly.”
Rowland was unconvinced. He said so. Somewhat bluntly.
Regardless, Simpson slipped the bottle into the pocket of his jacket.
At sunset they poured the rest of the crate into the hollows of the tree and doused the base. Edna took control and insisted they retreat as far as possible along the stream. She ran the length of the chain through the water.
Miles Off Course Page 19
