One of nine children, Therese Creed grew up in Sydney. After leaving school she worked as a teacher for several years before deciding to take a break and ride a horse from Victoria to Queensland. During a pit-stop on the ride she met and fell in love with Cedric Creed.
After marrying Cedric, Therese became involved in the running of his family’s cattle station and had a crash course in—among other things—fighting fires, driving tractors, shoeing horses and fencing. Therese now divides her time between bringing up her four young children and helping out on the station. Her first novel, Redstone Station, was published by Allen & Unwin in 2013.
First published in 2014
Copyright © Therese Creed 2014
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available
from the National Library of Australia
www.trove.nla.gov.au
ISBN 978 1 74331 917 8
eISBN 978 1 74343 759 9
Typset by Midland Typesetters, Australia
For Sue, the old Collie who
taught me how to muster cattle.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Lucy clambered down the stairs of the bus in the wake of the English tourists whose conversation she’d been doing her best to ignore since she’d changed coaches at Brisbane. As she stepped out of the air-conditioning onto the footpath, the intensity of the mid-afternoon heat nearly bowled her over.
‘Blimey! It’s stinking!’ exclaimed one of the English girls.
Soon after boarding the bus, Lucy had realised she was probably the only Australian among the passengers. Many were young backpackers, their arms bronzed by the Queensland sunshine.
Lucy found a sliver of shade and watched the driver carelessly sling bags onto the pavement. At last her faithful old backpack appeared, the one she’d lugged around Europe during her own overseas trips. This was its first Australian expedition, she thought, the irony of it suddenly striking her. Here were all these young Europeans enjoying Australia, while droves of Aussies headed to their homelands to seek adventure.
Picking up her heavy bag from the piles of luggage, Lucy looked around expectantly. But long after her travelling companions had dispersed in different directions, on foot or by vehicle, Lucy found herself standing alone. Squinting up and down the Ingham main street, she took in the luxuriant tropical plants on the median strip and the commercial buildings lining the street. She immediately noticed the generous sized roads, the absence of high-rise and smog. She watched the cars and the few sluggish pedestrians in sight, and wondered whether the pace of the town was being slowed by the temperature of the day. After a while her shoulder began to protest under the bag’s weight and she headed wearily towards a vacant bench seat facing a small park beside the truck stop. She was just sitting down when she heard a shout from behind her.
‘Oi!’
Lucy turned to see an extremely battered, once-white four-wheel-drive ute pulling up nearby. As it rolled to a stop, the driver’s door opened and a tall, lean young man leapt out. Lucy couldn’t help noticing the length of the man’s legs and the size of his boot-clad feet. Lifting her gaze to his face, she saw a tanned, heavily weathered countenance furrowed by a frown, and partly obscured by sandy stubble and the shadow cast by a wide-brimmed felt hat.
‘You the latest guvvie for Charlotte’s Creek?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she said, feeling slightly unnerved. That didn’t sound so promising.
Without further discussion the man grabbed her backpack and flung it into the tray of the ute, where it slid to join dog chains, a chainsaw and miscellaneous grimy tools. Then he stepped back into the driver’s seat. Lucy stood looking in through the passenger-side window at him, her hand on the rim.
‘What’s eating ya? Are you gonna jump in?’ he asked impatiently, fixing her with his amber eyes.
Lucy looked down at the clean rag he’d placed on the filthy passenger seat, presumably in her honour. Inside her head, her mother’s voice started up, warning her about uncouth country men. So she said, ‘I just want to make sure you really are who you say you are.’
‘Don’t think I said who I was, did I?’ the man replied.
‘Well, I’m from the city, I don’t talk to strangers,’ Lucy said, attempting a light-hearted tone to disguise the sudden panic gripping her. What on earth was she doing here? What had she been thinking?
‘Righto, well, I don’t really want to talk to you either,’ he said, irritably. ‘But we can’t stop here all day.’
Realising she had no other option, Lucy was about to open the door when a cheerful voice rang out. ‘Hey, Goldy! Flipper!’
An equally rugged-looking man, aged in his sixties, strong and stocky, had emerged from the truck stop and was walking towards the ute, his gait distinctly bow-legged. Reaching through the driver’s window, he slapped the younger man on the shoulder. ‘What the hell are you doing in town, Goldy? Must be the second time this year!’
‘Yeah, g’day, Stumpy,’ the young man said.
Stumpy looked over at Lucy and grinned. ‘Now, hang about, young Goldy, you never told me you had a sheila, especially a half-decent-looking one.’
He reached for a pouch and started rolling a cigarette, and Lucy saw he had two and a half fingers missing on one hand. Noticing the direction of her gaze, he waved his hand at her, then chortled at her mortified blush. ‘How I got me name,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Like young Flipper here and his feet.’ Lighting up his rollie, he sucked in hard, then blew smoke into the ute’s cabin.
‘Keep your bloody cancer fumes to yourself, Stump,’ the younger man said. He gestured towards Lucy. ‘New guvvie for Charlotte’s Creek.’
‘Yeah?’ The older man exam
ined her again with twinkly blue eyes. ‘Where you from, darling?’
‘Sydney,’ Lucy said.
‘Heck, you won’t last long, if you don’t mind me saying so, love. The missus out there at Charlotte’s Creek is about as sour as they come. Poor bugger, she wasn’t always like that. Real sweet little thing she was once.’
‘You lot heading off again soon, Stump?’ Goldy changed the subject, just when Lucy had pricked up her ears.
‘Yeah, mate, three hundred head on the hoof, four months on the track, we reckon. You wanna come back out with us?’ Stumpy raised an eyebrow hopefully. ‘We’ve been chasing another decent drover. Those two new young jokers aren’t worth the boots they’re standing in. Lazy coots. They’ll opt for the mines as soon as they’re old enough.’
Goldy looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Wish I could, mate, but I’ve got me block to pay off. Got a few head on it now too. Mostly other people’s rumpers, but you gotta start somewhere.’
‘Still reckon you can stay put, then?’ Stumpy sounded doubtful. ‘Thought you had more of your old man in you than that.’
Goldy shrugged. ‘Don’t want to end up a pickled old drifter like you, Stump.’
‘Cattle industry’s going nowhere,’ said Stumpy. ‘It’s gone nowhere for the last forty years. Wouldn’t wish it on a young bloke. Be smarter to get out, I reckon.’ Then, looking at Lucy with kind eyes, he added, ‘Aren’t you gonna hop in, love? Young Goldy here looks real mean, and he doesn’t think too much of the ladies and such, but he won’t hurt you.’
‘She thinks I’m gonna abduct her,’ said Goldy drily. ‘Doesn’t know I’ve got better things to do than drive two hours to nab some city girl.’
Gritting her teeth, Lucy pulled the door open and climbed in, then sat glaring out at the road ahead.
‘Good to see you anyway, young Goldy,’ said Stumpy. ‘Not a day goes by that I don’t think of your dad. Every time I wake up out there on the run I still half expect old Jumbo to be there, poking up the fire. Still miss the bugger.’
‘Dunno why you would,’ muttered Goldy, starting the engine. ‘That old bastard.’ Lucy stole a glance across at the younger man, and saw that he was scowling.
‘Get out! You never could fool old Stumpy.’
‘Have a good run, Stump.’ Goldy tipped his hat. ‘Ta ta, then.’
Stumpy gave a salute with his one good forefinger. ‘You have fun with your young guvvie, Goldy. Looks like a real sweetheart.’ He winked at Lucy again. ‘Can’t even look mean when she tries. Cheerio!’
The ute pulled away, and they took the road out of town in silence. Lucy was too tired and annoyed to try to make conversation. In any case, Goldy showed no sign he was even aware of her existence. Why had she come all this way to work in the middle of the outback for a bunch of strangers? she wondered again. Had she made a monumental mistake? All at once she felt afraid she might prove Stumpy right and find herself returning to the city soon. She couldn’t help picturing how amused and smug Cheryl Bolton would be when she found out.
When Lucy had handed in her resignation at Greenoaks School, the principal had tried hard to change her mind. ‘It’s totally normal for a young teacher to feel overwhelmed by the reality of the job,’ Mrs Bolton had said knowingly. ‘But quitting so early in your career is a little extreme, don’t you think? If you’re struggling we’ll put more support in place, but you always seemed to be coping so well.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Bolton, but as I said, my decision is made,’ Lucy had replied as firmly as she could. ‘I’ve accepted another job.’
‘Perhaps you don’t realise how fortunate you were to be given a permanent position at such a prestigious school as Greenoaks?’ Mrs Bolton said, more sharply. ‘Over sixty people applied for the role. And we’ve invested a great deal in you, Lucy, by sending you on so many professional development courses over the last two years. Now another school will get all the benefit.’
Lucy forced herself to meet the principal’s gaze. ‘My new job isn’t at another school,’ she said. ‘I do appreciate the opportunity you’ve given me, and the training, but I don’t belong here—I’ve never fitted the image. I’m not sure I’m even cut out for this kind of job.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Mrs Bolton snapped. ‘You’re just tired, that’s all. Every young teacher experiences self-doubt. You’ve achieved stellar results with some particularly difficult children over the last two years—Joel Selsis-Jones, to name one. Before you, some very experienced teachers had given up on him. Just between you and me, I’ve already had a few requests from parents for their children to be put in your class next year.’ Mrs Bolton smiled, obviously confident that this would be the clincher. ‘Your strengths clearly lie in teaching, Miss Francis.’
‘I will still be teaching,’ said Lucy. ‘I’m going to be a governess.’
‘A governess?’ Mrs Bolton gaped. ‘Does such a job still exist?’ Then she lowered her voice indulgently. ‘Lucy, tell me, is this about the jeans?’
‘No! Well, yes . . . in a way.’ If Lucy was honest with herself, the jeans had really been the last straw. She’d certainly never forget the incident. After she’d worn her favourite pair of jeans for a class horseshoe hunt on Melbourne Cup Day, three mothers had complained that she’d broken the school’s strict staff dress code. What seemed to bother them the most, however, was that the jeans weren’t from a fashionable label.
‘As long as my clothes are clean and respectable I don’t think it should matter what I wear,’ Lucy told Mrs Bolton. ‘And I want to work somewhere where I can do a fun, simple activity like a horseshoe hunt without having to do a risk assessment and send out a permission note.’
Mrs Bolton began to look a little harassed. ‘I never would have thought that you’d take that silly complaint so seriously,’ she said. ‘I did back you up, you know. When those mothers came to me, I told them that you only wore jeans because it was a special occasion and the children were out of the classroom.’
‘Did you tell them I’d stick to the staff dress code in future?’ Lucy asked.
‘Of course.’
‘I thought so.’ Lucy nodded. Then aware that she was sounding like a stubborn child, added, ‘Well, I don’t want to.’
The episode with the jeans was just the latest in a series of incidents that had left Lucy feeling burnt out and disenchanted with her job at the highly prestigious school. There had been several complaints from affluent parents that her carefully planned classroom activities were unchallenging for their highly intelligent offspring. Lucy, who could see that many of the children in her year six class were already struggling with their parents’ impossible expectations, was left with the dilemma of whether to place more demands on these overly scheduled kids, or whether to continue to teach them at an appropriate level, taking into account their abilities and interests.
Then there was the ‘cleaning award’ that she’d given Tarquin Meadows. It was a pocket dictionary with an innocent little written inscription thanking him for helping tidy up during his lunch break one day. This had resulted in an unscheduled interview with both the Meadows parents, who were outraged that their son had been ‘forced to clean’. Didn’t the school pay an exorbitant amount to professionals for this service? Meanwhile, Amelia Bradshaw’s mother had been convinced for the entire first semester that the votes for the school leadership positions had been tampered with and that Amelia was the rightful school captain. She’d even attempted to muster a group of supporters to help her unravel the conspiracy.
Then, just two weeks before the end of term, Mrs Smerdon had made an appointment to see Lucy about Lucy’s failure to identify two spelling mistakes in her daughter’s rainforest project. Mrs Smerdon had been prepared to put the first one down to human error, she said, but to overlook two mistakes was unforgivable.
Phoning the North Queensland cattle station to enquire about the governess position had been an uncharacteristically impulsive act for the sensible, predictable Lucy. She’d been
searching on the internet for some farm images to use for the next day’s lesson, when she spotted the ad; the property’s romantic name and the accompanying photo, of four grinning kids in felt hats astride their ponies, had captured her imagination immediately. It held out the allure of escape, the opportunity to fly north, away from the treadmill of the city and the school, to the wide open spaces of ‘Charlotte’s Creek’. Without stopping to think, she’d dialled the number.
The children’s mother, Melissa West, had been abrupt but not unfriendly on the phone, giving Lucy a quick run-down on the job, and making no attempt to glorify the position. ‘There’re four of the little buggers,’ she’d explained, ‘but the twins don’t start school till the year after next. They’re all hard work.’ She’d gone on to describe the living quarters and the environment, finishing off with another warning. ‘It’s a big lonely place, a hundred and sixty thousand acres and a fair way out from anywhere, and if you’re from the city and used to teachers’ wages, the pay will probably seem like crap.’
But Lucy was already picturing the ‘paddocks’, the ‘schoolroom’ and the ‘guvvie’s cottage’ that Melissa had described. ‘How did the property get its name?’ she asked dreamily.
‘Charlotte’s Creek?’ Melissa sounded a little surprised. ‘Well, it used to be called Leichhardt’s Creek once. They reckon old Ludwig and his explorer mates camped here when they passed through in the eighteen forties. But when the wife of the first owner died, they changed it to Charlotte’s Creek. She was Charlotte, see.’
Although Lucy had asked for a few days to think it over, she knew she’d take the job.
Now, though, racing along in the noisy old ute through the impossibly green landscape, with the humid air of the Queensland wet season blowing on her face, Lucy couldn’t suppress a terrible suspicion that Mrs Bolton might have been right when she laughed at Lucy’s dream. Who in their right mind would take a job on a remote cattle station as a governess, of all things? What had she done, walking away from a good job and an established career path?
Glancing down, Lucy saw that her hands were clenched into fists on her thighs, clad in her favourite jeans. The jeans! Seeing them, she was filled with an overwhelming desire to prove Mrs Bolton wrong. She must stay positive, she decided. With renewed resolve, she looked out the window and was struck by the beauty of the emerald cane fields opening up on either side of them, backed by blue hills.
Charlotte's Creek Page 1
