When Lucy was talking to her parents one evening on speakerphone, Graham picked up on her anxiety. ‘What is it, Lucia?’ he probed. ‘Are you having some trouble with the kids? Or Mel? Something’s upsetting you.’
‘Oh Dad . . .’ said Lucy, her voice quavering, ‘it’s just the rooster. He’s quite aggressive towards me when I feed the chooks.’
‘That’s outrageous!’ Marie piped up in the background. ‘Why would anyone harbour a dangerous animal like that? Tell them to cut its head off!’
Ignoring Marie, Graham went on, ‘Lucy, it sounds to me like a matter of simple psychology. It’s a pecking order—quite literally.’ Lucy gave a teary laugh. ‘Don’t take it so personally. You just have to decide whether you want to be above or below this rooster in the whole scheme of things.’
‘She shouldn’t have to decide any such thing,’ Marie called.
‘He’s a rooster and you’re a human,’ Graham went on calmly. ‘That gives you a definite edge, I should think, when it comes to mind games. You’ll put him back in his place, no doubt.’
Lucy smiled. She could feel her fear draining away already. How she loved her father. He dealt with real crisis each day and yet, no matter how trivial, her problems were always important in his eyes. With her father’s words to use for armour, she knew that White Trash would no longer hold any power over her. Tomorrow she would swing that bucket at the rooster.
Subduing White Trash was ridiculously easy once Lucy had conquered her fear, and her general confidence was boosted as a result. With each small triumph, she became more determined to enjoy her new environment, and found herself increasingly resilient to the daily frustrations she faced. She began to take herself for walks each evening, once the frenzy of dinner and bathtime was over. She stuck to the main tracks closest to the house so she’d have no trouble finding her way back home in poor light. At this time of day the burning intensity had gone out of the sun, and Charlotte’s Creek was at its most beautiful. While still warm and humid, the air hung with the calm expectancy of darkness and sometimes stirred with an intermittent breeze. In the short interval between day and night, Lucy felt herself becoming more alert to the smells, sights and sounds in what at first glance appeared to be quite an unvaried and motionless landscape. She forgot all her duties, all of the tensions of the homestead, and abandoned herself to the solitude. Rambo often tagged along, but with his thick wool he would soon become overheated. His heavy panting tended to disturb the blissful peace Lucy felt on these constitutionals, so some days she shut the sheep inside the netting fence around her cottage, and hurried out of earshot of his bleating.
News spread quickly among the Charlotte’s Creek residents, and even further afield, of Lucy’s tendency to ‘walk’ in the evening. No one had ever done anything like this before. On Lucy’s fourth evening of walking, Billie sprinted out barefoot in her pyjamas to meet her at the grid. ‘Where are you trying to get to?’ the girl asked.
Lucy smiled. ‘I’m not trying to get anywhere.’
‘Oh . . . righto,’ Billie said doubtfully. ‘Sounds like a bit of a waste of time, I’d reckon. That must be why Mum said I’m not allowed to go with you. She said to leave you be.’
Thanking Mel inwardly, Lucy tried to explain. ‘Walking refreshes my mind and body. It’s all about the journey, not the destination, Billie.’
‘You’re bloody crackers,’ Billie said, taking Lucy’s hand as they walked through the sparse carpet of weeds towards the buildings. It was a rare show of affection from the tough girl, and Lucy was touched. They said goodnight to each other outside the cottage, and then Billie sprinted off towards the lights of the house.
A few evenings later, Ted came across the briskly walking Lucy, on the southern road into Charlotte’s Creek, on his late return to the house. He cut his bike engine and coasted along beside her for a few metres until she stopped.
‘Want a lift?’
‘No, thanks,’ Lucy replied. ‘It’s intentional. I like walking.’
‘Righto, then.’ He went to restart the bike, but Lucy spoke again.
‘Do you think I’m crazy too, walking out here like this?’
‘No, mate.’ Ted shook his head. ‘None of my business what chases you out here.’
His respectful answer elicited from Lucy the explanation she hadn’t intended to give. ‘I just love the peace,’ she said. ‘I can hear my own footfalls in the dust. And I can hear my thoughts.’ She examined his face. If he hadn’t before, would he think her mad now? He said nothing, his face unreadable.
‘If you’d grown up in a city,’ she continued, ‘you’d know what I’m talking about.’
Ted nodded, his eyes gleaming in the half-light. ‘I lived in Townsville for a bit,’ he said gruffly. ‘The bloody racket sends you barmy. You’d like droving, I reckon. Nothing like rocking along on some old plodder behind a mob of cattle. You get some thinking time in the long paddock, I can tell you. No one on your back or chewing your ear, for weeks, sometimes months.’
Ted’s words painted such a delightful picture in Lucy’s mind that she couldn’t help exclaiming out loud, ‘That sounds lovely!’
He was examining her face closely, and his sudden grin only just preceded a wicked chuckle. Then his usual fixed countenance returned as he restarted his bike and roared away into the evening.
Chapter 10
When Lucy told Mel she was going to a Country Women’s Association meeting, Mel was highly amused, and greeted Dennis with the big news when he arrived home for dinner that evening.
‘Oi, Den.’ Mel sounded more chirpy than usual. ‘Your mum’s so keen on Lucy she wants to drag her along to CWA! Can you believe it? Never took any of the other guvvies. Not even Natalie, who spent half her life over at Gwen’s.’
‘True?’ Eyebrows raised, Dennis looked from Mel to Lucy, obviously impressed.
‘Never offered to take me either, come to think of it,’ Mel added in an injured tone, though her eyes were twinkling.
‘So what did you say, Luce?’ Dennis wanted to know.
‘I said yes,’ Lucy said calmly.
‘And then came back here asking me what CWA was!’ Mel snorted.
Dennis guffawed and headed to the sink to wash his hands. ‘No backing out now then, eh? Better get out your scone recipe. And your knitting needles.’
Now, Lucy and Gwen were on their way to the meeting in the CWA hall on the Ingham road, the tantalising smell of warm lemon cake filling the four-wheel-drive wagon. It was a Tuesday afternoon, and Lucy had driven the children hard that morning in order to finish school in time to go with Gwen.
‘Whatever you do, don’t let Cynthia Tyrrell intimidate you,’ Gwen said, taking her eyes off the rutted dirt road to look across at Lucy. ‘Cynthia is the president and loves to do everything her way. She doesn’t always consult the rest of us, and no one ever stands up to her, except for me occasionally. Not even Betty Keene, the treasurer, dares to do anything without asking Cynthia first.’
To Lucy’s relief, Gwen looked back at the road. Lucy wasn’t sure whether she was expected to respond to the comments, and glanced down at her faithful jeans. She was wearing her prettiest shirt to compensate for the jeans, but she supposed she ought to be wearing a dress. She was quite nervous about attending the meeting, as Gwen wore the benevolent air of someone bestowing a great privilege. Lucy hoped she wouldn’t be a disappointment to Gwen in front of the ‘ladies’.
‘Cynthia usually wins Champion Baker at Ingham show every year,’ Gwen continued, ‘and it’s gone to her head, if you ask me. Of course, being friendly with the judges doesn’t hurt,’ she added wryly. ‘Cynthia is quite involved in the Show Organising Committee as well. She always runs the chook showing. She’s totally obsessed with the ridiculous little bantams she breeds. But just between you and me,’ Gwen looked across at Lucy conspiratorially, ‘there are some grumblings starting up about Cynthia at CWA, and it wouldn’t surprise me at all if the ladies decided to get together and vote in a ne
w president next AGM. She’s held that position for far too long.’
‘Will there be any other governesses at CWA?’ Lucy asked hopefully. As yet she hadn’t met another of her own species, and she was keen to compare notes.
‘Oh no,’ Gwen replied. ‘Most of us are middle-aged or older. But I have no doubt that you can easily converse with people of any age—that’s why I’ve brought you. You’re quite special, you know. If only my Justin would come for a visit and meet you,’ she went on wistfully. ‘Perhaps that would give him an incentive to come back for good! He’s the only one of mine who’s still unattached, and he’s a very young-looking forty-two-year-old.’
‘Oh,’ Lucy laughed nervously. She was greatly relieved when they passed a side road with a signpost reading ‘Rushmere’, and Gwen said, ‘That’s where old Mollie and Little John live.’
‘The Mollie who used to live at Charlotte’s Creek?’ Lucy asked.
‘That’s the one.’
‘How did she end up at Rushmere?’
‘John’s the manager there.’
Lucy peered back at the side road. ‘She grew up on Charlotte’s Creek, didn’t she?’
‘Yes, she was born there,’ Gwen explained. ‘Her grandmother was a house girl for the people who owned Charlotte’s Creek before Noel’s grandfather bought it. When the Wests took over, the Aboriginal staff stayed on.’
‘Mollie worked for you, didn’t she?’ Lucy prompted. ‘Was she your kids’ governess?’
‘Governess?’ Gwen laughed. ‘I’m not sure she can even read very well. No, we had lovely Jane Mills, a war widow, for our governess. Loved our kids like they were her own. I’ve always wondered why, if Dennis so badly wanted to name his child after one of the staff, he didn’t choose Jane.’
‘Was Dennis very close to Mollie?’
Gwen nodded. ‘Dennis was sick a lot when he was little, and Mollie always babied him. Spoiled him rotten, really. But Mollie was a great help with the kids, when she wasn’t being called away to do stock work with Noel and the ringers. She taught the kids how to ride and all the outdoor things. Noel never had the time nor the patience, and I was much too busy running the household.’
‘Mollie must have been quite multi-skilled, then,’ Lucy remarked.
‘Oh yes. She could turn her hand to most things of a practical nature. She’s as tough as they come, that one. We were all a bit shocked, though, when she went off without any notice to join our former head stockman, Little John, a few days after Dennis went to boarding school. John had left Charlotte’s Creek about six months before to take up the managership of Rushmere. She’s been living there with him ever since.’
‘Didn’t you realise they were . . . close?’
‘Well, I had no idea,’ Gwen said. ‘She’s at least twelve years older than John. I found out afterwards they’d been an item for years—even the kids were aware of it. Apparently I was the last to know.’ She laughed lightly, but Lucy noticed a shade of resentment in her expression. ‘They never bothered to get married but they seem happy enough. They have a son, also called John, and he does the bulk of the work out at Rushmere nowadays, although our Ted sometimes helps them on weekends.’
‘Do you see her much?’
‘No, not really. They keep to themselves, and Mollie won’t come to Charlotte’s Creek anymore.’
‘Because of the Grey Lady?’ asked Lucy.
Gwen threw Lucy a slightly disparaging look. ‘Like a lot of Murris, Mollie is ridiculously superstitious.’
‘And she doesn’t come to CWA?’ Lucy asked.
‘Oh no!’ Gwen laughed again. ‘Not that she’s shy, exactly—she’ll talk your ear off if she knows you—it’s just that, well . . .’ She paused, looking for the right words. ‘Mollie’d be much more at home with a mob of men out in the paddock than with a bunch of chattering ladies.’
As they drove on, Lucy smiled to herself: now she knew where to find Mollie. She felt as though she’d been given one of the keys to the mystery.
As she and Gwen entered the CWA hall, Lucy looked around at the crowd of women. They were all engrossed in animated conversation and Lucy felt herself enveloped by the friendly buzz. She tried to pick out Cynthia, expecting her to be a large, domineering sort of woman. As she looked around, a tiny, pointy-faced woman, aged in her late sixties, hurried over and took her hand.
‘Welcome!’ Her small dark eyes twinkled with pleasure and Lucy liked her immediately. ‘How wonderful to have a new, fresh face here! Oh, we badly need some new blood! I’m Cynthia, and you must be Lucy.’
‘Oh!’ Lucy stifled a surprised exclamation. ‘Yes, that’s right. Thanks, Cynthia, it’s great to be here!’
Cynthia guided Lucy away from Gwen towards the other women. Lucy could understand why Cynthia might be so keen on bantams; she was rather like a pretty little fussing hen herself.
Feeling the warmth radiating from the curious smiles of the women, Lucy suddenly felt safe and comfortable. Most of them were elderly, with only one or two who appeared to be less than sixty. She soon found herself holding a cup of sweet, milky tea and a jam drop biscuit, and being questioned enthusiastically from all sides. Was she really a trained teacher from Sydney? Did she miss the city? Was she unattached? Was her father really a heart surgeon? They’d heard her mother was ‘ethnic’—did that mean Lucy could cook? How was she managing those rowdy West children, and Mel?
Then Cynthia called them all to attention. Everyone fell obediently silent, and those who were sitting stood up while the motto and creed were read. Lucy smiled to herself at the integrity and boldness of the grand, old-fashioned words.
I would be true, for there are those who trust me.
I would be pure, for there are those who care.
I would be strong, for there is much to suffer.
I would be brave, for there is much to dare.
Once they were all seated again, and the apologies and minutes of the previous meeting were being relayed to the group by the secretary, Lucy looked around the charming old timber hall and then at the women. To her they were the embodiment of resilience. Many had work-roughened hands, skin that had seen too much sun and dusty heat, and shoulders squared by physical exertion. These were the unsung, unglamorous heroes of the bush, their lives ones of happy struggle, cheerful toil. For years they had bolstered up the weary men in their lives, fed and guided their children, worked their fingers to the bone outdoors and in, and were still doing so, while many of their urban counterparts enjoyed a comfortable retirement. But they were so bright and alive as they discussed the list of various issues that had been put forward for the CWA’s consideration and patronage.
When the meeting was over, the women milled around, chatting and laughing. Lucy enjoyed talking to each of them and felt she was drawing strength and motivation from being in close proximity to so many women of substance. Many of them pressed invitations on her, asking her to come and visit them at home. She had never imagined it possible to feel so welcome in a room full of strangers. But by the time the third woman had taken her aside to casually mention the existence of an unmarried son or grandson who would be delighted to show her around, Lucy felt that it was time to leave.
Cynthia escorted Lucy and Gwen to the car, gripping Lucy’s arm affectionately. ‘It was an honour to have you with us today, Lucy,’ she said, beaming. ‘We probably seem like a lot of babbling old ducks to you, but you have given us all a thrill, even if you never come again. By the way, do you like bantams?’
‘Well, I am beginning to enjoy my contact with the Charlotte’s Creek chickens,’ Lucy answered obligingly, climbing into the four-wheel drive.
‘Oh, but mine are bantams,’ Cynthia said, with a faint air of reproof. ‘They’re practically another species from ordinary chickens—full of intelligence, beauty and maternal instinct. I’d love to show you my girls. You must come out to Pink Lake one day soon.’
‘Goodbye, Cynthia,’ Gwen said crisply, and Lucy only had time to smile and wave at
the tiny birdlike woman before they were pulling away from the quaint CWA hall.
They drove in silence for a while, Lucy reflecting on the morning. Suddenly she pictured Mel, with her harassed expression and unkempt clothing. At first glance Mel bore no resemblance to the cheery, friendly, good-natured CWA bunch, but the more Lucy thought about it, the more certain she felt that Mel, too, was a woman of substance. Had circumstances been kinder, Mel’s face might have been creased with smile lines also, not the furrows of tension and anxiety.
‘Maybe we should bring Mel to the next CWA meeting,’ Lucy heard herself suggesting.
‘Mmmm,’ Gwen said dubiously. ‘I’m not sure that would be a success, for Melissa or the other ladies.’
‘She seems so tired and frazzled all the time,’ Lucy persisted. ‘A change of scene might do her good.’
‘Melissa has no one to blame but herself for the state she’s in.’ Gwen’s tone was harsh.
‘But she works so hard,’ Lucy pointed out quietly. ‘I don’t think anyone in her place could be too cheerful.’
‘You haven’t known her for as long as I have,’ Gwen said dismissively, and Lucy fell silent.
As they passed by the Rushmere turnoff, Lucy swivelled in her seat, taking careful note of the squat stone walls and grid at the property entry. At the first opportunity, she told herself, she would be taking that road.
Chapter 11
That very weekend, Lucy set off in her little car for old Mollie’s place. She’d asked Mel for the phone number of Rushmere, phoned ahead and spoken to a deep-voiced young man. He’d wasted no words in friendly conversation, telling her only that Mollie would be back soon and that he ‘reckoned’ it wouldn’t bother her if Lucy was to drop by that day.
However, when Lucy pulled up next to the shabby low-set timber house at Rushmere an hour later, it was a surprised face that looked from the kitchen window. Lucy got out of her car and walked to a screen door standing wide open at the side of the house. She waited nervously, wondering whether to knock, when the owner of the face appeared inside. A tall, thin woman with a halo of fluffy hair, Mollie looked old and weather-beaten, but she moved with surprising agility and her brown eyes were lively. She stopped dead when she saw Lucy, and didn’t quite come to the doorway.
Charlotte's Creek Page 9
