The Burning Land

by John Fletcher

  As Mary bustled about, Lorna watched, doing what she was told but being careful not to get in the way.

  ‘There’s tea in the big brown container in the cupboard,’ Mary said. ‘Fetch it for me, won’t you?’

  She had already raked the fire, added more wood and set a big kettle of water to boil. Now she tipped out flour, added water and mixed it into a dough.

  ‘What ye making?’

  ‘Damper.’

  She shaped it with swift, confident hands, and wiped her forearm across her forehead, leaving a smudge of flour.

  ‘There’s a plate of chops in the meat safe outside the door. Bring ’em in here.’

  A flat metal plate was heating on the fire. To one side, the damper was cooking amid the ashes. The chops spat and sizzled as Mary arranged them on the plate.

  ‘Gav used to like ’em boiled,’ she said.

  Lorna frowned. ‘Gav?’

  ‘Gavin Henderson. The squatter.’

  ‘Is that what ye call him? Gav?’

  ‘’Is name, i’n’ it?’ She poked the chops around with the blade of a large knife. ‘I reckon they’re much nicer grilled like this. So long as you don’t let ’em git too dry, o’course.’

  She turned the damper, turned it again, and in no time at all breakfast was ready. As though he had timed it, Henderson put in an appearance, not from the bedrooms upstairs, as Lorna had expected, but dismounting from his horse outside the kitchen door.

  ‘Mr Henderson must have been oot early,’ Lorna said.

  ‘’E’ll ’a’ bin out checking the stock,’ Mary said. ‘The same every morning. ’E don’t let the grass grow under his feet, I can tell you.’ She laughed. ‘Nor no one else’s.’

  As Mary took the chops and damper off the fire and started heaping the plates the door opened and Henderson strode in, the others on his heels. A breath of the cold, damp morning came in with them and the smell of the mist was on their clothes.

  ‘G’day, Mrs McLachlan. See Mary’s already getting you organised. Good, good. Slept well, I hope.’

  Obviously no reply was expected. Henderson sat at the head of the table. The other men joined him, Andrew a little awkward, taking his lead from George.

  Mary put a piled-up plate in front of each man.

  Henderson started talking as he ate. ‘George, you got enough to keep you busy the next couple of days?’

  ‘Plenty.’

  Henderson reached for more damper and spread it liberally with butter from the earthenware dish that Mary had put on the table. Prompted by Mary, Lorna filled a huge cup with tea from the kettle boiling on the corner of the fire and put it in front of him before doing the same for the other men.

  Henderson spooned sugar into his tea, added milk and stirred it energetically. He looked up at Lorna, standing by the fire. ‘Going to steal your husband from you, Mrs McLachlan. Show him the run and all the things that need doing. Should be back tomorrow night, all being well. Put us up some food, Mary,’ he directed. ‘Quick as you can. I’ll like to be off within the next fifteen minutes. We’ve a lot of ground to cover. We’ll get you kitted out while we’re waiting,’ he said to Andrew, gulping down his tea. ‘Come on.’

  He stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and strode to the door. ‘Thanks for the breakfast, Mary. You’ll look after Mrs McLachlan, won’t you.’

  He threw open the door and went out, Andrew hurrying after him.

  George finished his tea in more leisurely fashion, then stood. ‘Thank the good Lord ’e d’leave me run me own shop,’ he said to no one in particular. He strolled leisurely across to the door and opened it. Outside, the sun had broken through the mist and the morning was a mixture of gold and pearl. ‘See you later, then.’ The door closed behind him.

  ‘See what I mean about not letting the grass grow?’ Mary said. ‘Better get that food ready, I suppose.’

  After the men had left they sat down to their own meal and then cleared away.

  ‘Does Mr Henderson no’ have a wife?’ Lorna asked, washing plates. For the time being she had decided against the word Gav.

  ‘Not ’im.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Mary shook her head. ‘Lot of the squatters are like that. You wouldn’t believe the way some of ’em live, with no woman to take care of things. More like savages than men. Gav’s better’n most, I’ll say that. Don’t mess around with none of them native girls, neither, like a lot of ’em do.’

  Lorna was shocked. ‘Native girls?’

  ‘Plenty of ’em in the bush.’ Mary started putting the dried plates on the shelves at the side of the stove. ‘Lots o’ men take up with a black woman. S’pose it’s natural enough. Not too many of us white ones around, are there?’

  Lorna had wondered whether there would be enough to keep her busy. Mary soon removed any doubts about that.

  No one was allowed in the office where Gavin Henderson carried out the paperwork of the run but the rest of the house had to be kept clean, even though most of it was hardly ever used.

  ‘Very particular Gav is,’ Mary confided. ‘Likes everything spotless.’

  There were candles to make, clothes to wash, ironing to do, food to cook, as well as the three dairy cows to be looked after.

  ‘Ever ’ad anythin’ to do wi’ cows?’ Mary asked when they had finished in the kitchen.

  ‘Before I got married I used to look after my father’s wee herd. Make the butter, such like.’

  ‘You kin look after this lot, then. Cows an’ me, we don’ git along. Right now we need more butter. The men get through it at a hell of a rate. The cows need milking, too. Not Bluebell, she’s dry. You can’t miss her, she’s only got one horn. But Agnes, the big one, and Buttercup, they needs to be milked. If you kin take ’em off my ’ands, that’ll be grand.’

  Mary told her the cows were kept in a paddock near the house so Lorna took a halter and went looking for them. The air was warm and full of the pepper smell of dust and dry vegetation. There were many flies.

  The three cows were grazing at the bottom of the paddock close to the river. Lorna got the halter around Agnes’ neck and led her back to the shed, the big beast following docilely. She tied her up, washed her down with water that she drew from a barrel outside the shed door and settled down to the milking.

  The cow’s flank was soft against the top of her head, her gentle smell filling her nostrils. The milk squirted, ringing, into the bucket that she held clamped between her knees. The frothing liquid climbed higher and Lorna thought, yes, this is what it was like, nothing has changed, I have come home again.

  When she had finished she took Agnes back to the paddock, fetched Buttercup and repeated the process. Then she carried the brimming buckets into the stone-floored dairy, rich with the smell of milk, of life. She put the buckets on the floor and covered them with damp cloths. The milk for making butter had been left in shallow pans to separate the cream from the buttermilk.

  Lorna carried the wooden butter churn into the kitchen, scalded it with water from the kettle simmering on the side of the fire, and fetched the pans of separated milk. She scooped the cream into the churn and poured the buttermilk into a tall jug that she had also found in the dairy. She sat on a tall stool with the churn in front of her and settled to work.

  Round and round went the handle, round and round went the paddles inside the churn. For a long time nothing happened then, slowly, it became harder to turn the handle.

  She opened the top and peered inside. Not ready yet. She closed the top again and went on. Round and round. Round and round. She checked twice more before she decided the butter was made. Her arm was aching, her face flushed, she could feel sweat running between her breasts. Out of practice, she thought.

  She took out the butter, washed off the buttermilk with cold water and put the yellow mass on the wooden table. Mary had shown her where to find the wooden paddles for shaping the butter and the rectangular earthenware pots for storing it. She divided the butter into two s
ections and beat them with the paddles until they were the right shape and size to fit the pots.

  One of the paddles had what she thought was a goose and the inverted initials IF burnt into it with a hot iron.

  ‘IF?’ she asked Mary as she came through the kitchen. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Inverlochrie Farm.’

  ‘And the goose?’ Hoping that was what it was.

  ‘Don’ mean nuthin. I thought it looked pretty. Don’ look much like a goose, I admit.’

  ‘You did it?’

  ‘With a hot poker. Yair.’

  ‘Did Mr Henderson ask you to do it?’

  Mary laughed. ‘Gav wouldn’t notice if I put the devil on it. None of ’em would.’

  ‘Why do it then?’

  She winked as she went out. ‘Let ’em think what they like. Can’ ’ave ’em runnin’ our lives, can we?’

  Lorna skimmed off the top of the butter until it was almost flush with the top of the pot, took the paddle with the shape of the goose on it and pressed it down with all her weight.

  Nae bad, she thought, looking at the result. Nae bad at all.

  THREE

  The two men rode steadily through the morning as the sun gathered strength. The ground rose in a series of barely perceptible waves from the river that was now far behind them. There was no sign of habitation or any human presence. The land was untouched, as it had been for thousands of years.

  After two hours they came to a hillock covered in dense scrub with a summit of white stone. Henderson reined in and dismounted. ‘Something here I want to show you.’

  They climbed the hill side by side. From the summit Andrew looked out over the plain flowing away to the distant horizon. Trees flecked the ground with shadow. Overhead, a hawk hovered on quivering wings in the cloudless sky.

  ‘Here.’

  There was a cleft in the rock with a slab of smooth stone at the bottom. Henderson knelt, worked his fingers beneath the slab and lifted it clear. Under the slab was a hole, a foot across and perhaps four deep, filled to the brim with water.

  Henderson scooped water with a cupped hand and drank. He stood, water dripping from his chin. ‘I’ve known this spring nearly all my life and it’s not run dry yet. The wrong pool will kill you quick as a brown snake but this water’s always good.’

  Andrew knelt in his turn and drank. The water was cool and sweet. ‘How did ye find oot aboot it?’

  ‘One of the natives showed me when I was a kid. This was all their land once.’

  ‘Did they work it at all? Grow crops, anything like that?’

  ‘No, but they lived off it, same as we do. Don’t think it’s not important to them just because they don’t cultivate it.’

  ‘Important in what way?’

  ‘They believe spirits made all things, this hill for instance. For them, the land and the spirit are one and the same.’

  ‘We say God created the world. There’s nae difference.’

  ‘They don’t say the spirits created this hill. They say the spirits are this hill.’

  ‘Idolatry.’ Very fierce, Scots hackles stirring.

  ‘Why do we always think we’ve got a monopoly of the truth?’ Henderson wondered, as they walked back down the hill to the horses.

  Employee or not, Andrew’s conscience made him speak up. ‘Because we do. Withoot the saving grace of our Lord Jesus Christ we canna be saved. Neither Christian nor heathen.’

  Henderson said, ‘Perhaps we need to learn from them. The land’s not something you just use. It’s got to mean something to you. Any farmer worth anything knows that. If we don’t get our own spirits involved here, we’ll never come to terms with it.’

  ‘Nae doot that is why the Lord has brought us here. To bring them all to grace.’

  ‘While we help ourselves to the land.’

  Andrew glanced sharply at him, suspecting irony, but Henderson’s face showed nothing.

  They found the sheep as the shadows were lengthening towards evening.

  The birds caught Henderson’s eye first. ‘Look there …’

  Andrew looked up, startled at the fury in the squatter’s voice. A mile away, on the far side of a dried-up creek, dark wings cut swooping circles against the sky.

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Kites. Come on.’

  They put their horses into a canter.

  The kites, large birds with black wings and forked tails, were swooping near the ground. Some had already settled and were tearing at what looked like the carcasses of several sheep.

  ‘Goddamnit it all to hell!’

  Henderson leapt from his horse and ran, Andrew following. The birds scattered.

  There were five sheep, all with bleeding bites on both flanks, eyes pecked out, entrails dragging. Two of them were not quite dead. Too exhausted to make a sound, they lay, necks extended, bodies quivering.

  Henderson cursed again. He drew a long-bladed knife from the scabbard at his belt and, kneeling, cut their throats.

  He stood, eyes hot and angry, and wiped his hands against the side of his pants.

  ‘What did it?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Dingoes.’

  Sheep grazed a short distance away, unconcerned by what had happened. There was no sign of other animals, no movement in all that vast country.

  ‘Happens from time to time. They get in a feeding frenzy and attack a mob of sheep. They cut out half a dozen or so and rip ’em up. Other times they leave ’em alone.’

  ‘What causes the difference?’

  ‘Who the hell knows.’ He turned away, brushing flies off his face. He wiped his knife on a tussock of wiry grass, shoved it back into the scabbard. ‘See a dingo, shoot it. Understand me?’

  He remounted and stared down at Andrew, who was still looking at the shambles that the wild dogs had left. His rage bubbled over. ‘You planning to hold a burial service over ’em or can we get on now?’

  *

  When they had finished their work, Mary and Lorna went out and strolled down to the riverbank.

  ‘Best time,’ Mary said. ‘No flies and too early for mozzies.’

  ‘Are ye happy here?’ Lorna asked.

  Mary raised her shoulder. ‘’S orright. Easier for me, o’course.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Born in the colony. Currency lass, that’s me.’ She leant her back awkwardly against a tree and patted her distended belly with her hand. ‘’Ere’s another one. Little currency boy.’

  ‘When’s it due?’

  ‘Next week, I reckon.’

  ‘Your first?’

  ‘Yair. An’ you?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Mary moved again, uncomfortably, and burped under her breath. ‘You get sick o’ waiting.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Boy, I reckon. George says he don’t care. But men do, don’ they? Want a son, I mean?’

  ‘I suppose it depends on the man.’ Andrew would, she thought.

  ‘I was hoping you’d been through it yourself,’ Mary said.

  Lorna stared curiously. ‘Why?’

  ‘You’d know what to do, wouldn’t you? You’re the only white woman ’round here, don’ forget. I don’t want one o’ them blackies.’

  Lorna looked at the silent swirl of the water at her feet, thinking, I dinna believe what I’m hearing. I know nothing aboot babies or birth or anything. ‘Is there no’ a doctor in Goulburn?’

  Mary laughed breathlessly. ‘I wouldn’t trust ’im with a cat. ’Sides, havin’ a man around then … It’s enough they’re there at the start of it. Don’ want ’em at the finish. Don’ seem …’ she groped for the word, ‘don’ seem decent, some’ow’ She sighed and shifted her bulk again. ‘Regular ton weight, ’e is.’

  They walked slowly towards the house, Mary’s hand pressing the small of her back.

  ‘It’s lucky I’m here then,’ Lorna said half-heartedly.

  ‘Not luck.’ Mary smiled sweatily. ‘I said to Gav, you want another worker, you
better get one with a wife so we kin ’ave her around when the time comes.’

  They reached the house. Mary paused, one hand on the door frame, supporting herself. She was sweating freely now.

  Lorna looked at her, alarmed. Not now, she thought. Not now, with no one here. ‘Ye sure it’s not till next week?’

  ‘Maybe I counted wrong.’

  A slow convulsion moved through her.

  ‘Ye’d best lie down,’ Lorna said, anxiously.

  Mary took a couple of breaths, holding herself against the sudden influx of pain, of fear.

  Presently she said, ‘Reckon you might be right.’

  They turned and began to walk slowly in the direction of the sleeping quarters.

  The Curtis’ room had a few pieces of furniture, neatly made, and the straw palliasses were spread out on the downstairs floor. Otherwise, Lorna thought, it was no different from their own.

  ‘Brought the bed down,’ Mary said, breathing deep. ‘Couldn’t drag myself up that ladder, not for a month now.’

  She lay on the mattress and the straw talked and hissed through the thin cover. Mary’s eyes were squeezed shut. Lorna could see how she was holding herself in. Then she relaxed, opened her eyes and smiled. ‘Reckon you’re more scared than what I am,’ she said. ‘Best tell George.’

  Lorna remembered little of that night.

  For hours, there was nothing. Only Mary concerned, of all things, for George and his supper.

  She’s more concerned for him that caused it than for herself, Lorna thought, but cooked a meal for him, all the same, because it would put Mary’s mind at rest.

  ‘Things awright?’ George’s face was lined and anxious.

  ‘Everything’s fine.’ I hope.

  Lorna cooked for herself, too, thinking she would need the energy, but couldn’t eat.

  When she got back to the room Mary was lying on her back, still fully clothed, belly sticking up in the air like a pumpkin. Her face was rigid, white.

  Lorna waited until the spasm passed, then wiped sweat from her face. ‘Think ye should get oot your clothes?’