‘Aye.’
‘Why should I believe that?’
If he had spat in her face it would have hurt less.
‘Because I have told you.’ There were tears now. ‘Again and again I’ve told you.’
Never mind that it was a lie. What mattered was not what had happened but the underlying truth of the relationship between the two of them. Without that, without faith, they had nothing.
It was essential that he should believe the lie. If he believed it, it would no longer be a lie. Things would come right between them. She might even come to love him, given time.
The pain was stalking her again. She wanted him gone from here. He would be able to see the sweat beading her face. She looked at him, seeking warmth, finding an expression carved from stone.
‘You must believe me,’ she said.
The eyes were opaque. ‘I hear what ye say.’
But did not believe, she saw.
She withdrew her hand. The pain ground her between its teeth.
*
The baby was born at midnight after a labour that had lasted for sixteen hours.
Lorna nearly died, of cold, exhaustion, loss of blood. When Mary eventually put the baby in her arms it was an old woman who smiled wanly up at her.
‘’E’s fine,’ Mary answered the unasked question. ‘All ’is fingers an’ toes. All the other bits, too.’
Lorna cradled him to her, looking down at his crumpled face. He lay still, not red-faced and furious as Matthew had been.
‘What you goin’ to call ’im?’
With a tentative finger, Lorna traced the deeply cleft chin. Andrew’s chin was cleft, too. Her head buzzed with fatigue, her body was sore, she was exhausted.
‘Stuart.’
Andrew’s father’s name, chosen out of the compassion she felt for her husband. Perhaps he would believe she would not have chosen the name had she not been sure of the child’s parentage.
She tried, to no avail.
‘Look at him! Look at his chin! Whose son can he be?’
He would not look or see if he did.
He can think what he likes of me, she thought, hardening her heart against him, but I shall never forgive him for treating his own son like this.
Of course other men had cleft chins and she had known Charlie better than most. It didn’t matter. Stuart was Andrew’s child. It was a declaration of faith. But she saw that the baby would never be his son. He believed nothing she had told him. If he thought she was lying about that he probably believed she had been willing too.
At no time had he used the word rape.
The snow lay for a week then cleared as quickly as it had come.
At first the news was good. George had been right. Sheep could survive under several feet of snow. Shepherds, too—Bannerji, like the sheep, had sheltered beneath the drifts. But conditions grew worse.
Boosted by the melt, the floodwaters rose until the valley was awash. The knoll became an island. Up on top the buildings were safe but many animals that had survived the snow drowned.
‘Seventy-three,’ Andrew said, nearer to tears than George had ever seen him.
George was philosophical. These things happened when you locked horns with nature. He thought Andrew would be better worrying less about his sheep and more about his wife. A month since Stuart’s birth yet Lorna had still not recovered. Her face was as grey as the clouds. She had neither milk nor strength. She was twenty-five and looked sixty. A word of love, even of kindness, would have worked wonders but none came. Andrew ignored his son and seemed to pay his wife as little attention as he could.
‘Say somen,’ Mary urged George. ‘’E can’ go on like this.’
George refused. ‘None o’ our business,’ he said and for once had his way.
TWELVE
In September Andrew went into Jim Jim to speak to Michael Simmons.
Simmons’ store was an Aladdin’s cave stacked high with everything from pins to ploughs to potted shrimps, redolent of seed and salted bacon, but apart from a few routine purchases Andrew had not come to buy.
‘When can we expect the shearers, Mr Simmons?’
Shearers travelled the country from one district to the next, each year following the same routine.
‘They’ll be here in October,’ the storekeeper said. He balanced on bandy legs, pulling his long white apron tight across the bulge of his belly.
Andrew frowned. ‘No later than that, I hope, or the grass will be seeding.’ Grass seed in the fleece would lower prices.
‘They’re very reliable, I can assure you. I’ll ask them to add you to their list. You will make sure the wool is well washed, won’t you, Mr McLachlan? Buyers pay a better price for washed wool. And of course the cartage is much less when the wool is clean.’
‘I worked on a sheep run for three years, Mr Simmons.’
‘Then you know what’s required.’ Eyes, bright as coins, priced Andrew down to his boot straps. ‘I may be able to arrange a special rate for you, Mr McLachlan. As it’s the first time they’ll be coming to your run.’
Andrew stroked his long beard. ‘I’ll speak to them myself aboot that. But thank you for your concairn, Mr Simmons.’
Simmons nodded, white hands rubbing, eyes giving away nothing. ‘As you wish.’ His voice dropped reverently. ‘We’ve had a new consignment of goods in the last few days, Mr McLachlan. Smoked meats. Whisky … A few luxuries can make all the difference to the harshness of life in the bush, can they not?’
‘I’ve nae money for luxuries, Mr Simmons.’
‘I would be happy to open an account …’
‘I dinna like debt.’ Brusquely.
Simmons backed off a little. ‘Perhaps when the shearing is over then.’
‘Perhaps.’
Andrew and George had built a shearing shed modelled on Gavin Henderson’s shed at Inverlochrie. Now, with Bannerji’s help, they mustered and washed the flock in readiness. True to Simmons’ word, the shearers arrived at Montrose at the end of October. There were three men and they did a quick job. After they had gone Andrew and George baled the fleeces for shipment.
They built a rough box of slabs and posts and secured it to the ground outside the shearing shed. They suspended a baling bag inside the box and put the first eight fleeces into the bag. George then pushed the blade of a shovel between the fleeces and the bag and used the handle to compress them while Andrew added eight more to fill the bag which they then laced shut with wire. It was back-breaking, fingernail-ripping work.
‘I ’ear they d’ave one of they new screw presses at Coogalla,’ George said, wiping sweat off his forehead. ‘Must make life a lot easier ’n’ this.’
‘They’ve over ten thousand head on Coogalla,’ Andrew pointed out. ‘We canna afford such luxuries.’
He arranged with Simmons to have the Montrose wool clip transported to the newly named port of Melbourne for shipment.
‘I’m making up a load,’ Simmons said. ‘The drays will be leaving in two weeks. I’ll be happy to reserve space for you, Mr McLachlan.’ His voice was formal: he still resented Andrew’s refusal of an account.
They discussed costs and quantities. Transporting goods was a costly business but Andrew had no choice and they both knew it.
‘If you care to bring your clip through a few days earlier,’ Simmons said, ‘I’ll be happy to store it for you until the transport leaves.’
Storage would cost him, too, but he could not afford to miss the transport.
‘I’ll do that.’
‘I’ll put the charges on your account,’ Simmons said.
I’ve nae doot ye will, Mr Simmons.
The storekeeper said, ‘The drays arrive back from the coast some time in December. You’ll get your money then.’
Simmons had heard about the arrival of baby Stuart—he made it his business to know what went on in the outlying stations. ‘I have one or two things in stock that might be of interest to your wife. Baby clothes newly arrived from
England?’
Andrew’s face snapped shut. ‘When I want something I’ll ask for it.’
There were some things even Simmons did not know.
In the second week of December Simmons sent word that the drays were back from the coast and Andrew went in to get their money.
Prices had been good. Even after paying Simmons’ charges and freight of ten pounds a ton there was more over than he had expected, not that he let Simmons see that.
Andrew looked at the figures on the piece of paper in his hand. Here was the first tangible evidence that all their efforts, all the anguish, had been worthwhile. Through God’s help, he thought.
‘A great moment, Mr McLachlan,’ Simmons said, eyes watchful. ‘If you want coin I can let you have it, of course, but the danger of loss is great. Unhappily I have been receiving reports of bushrangers. For the most part this is a law-abiding district but it is the time of year, you see. Those rascals know the wool money is coming in now and act accordingly. I could arrange for your funds to be held at my bank. For safe keeping, you understand. It would be perfectly safe and you could draw on it whenever you wanted.’
Andrew eyed him. ‘There would be a charge for this service?’
‘A small charge,’ Simmons acknowledged. He smoothed the apron over his paunch. ‘Security is worth a few shillings, is it not?’
Simmons was right. There had been talk of bushrangers. Andrew did not much like the plump storekeeper but did not want to fall out with him.
‘Keep it for the moment,’ he said. ‘I’ll discuss it with my partner and let ye know.’
They talked about it after Andrew got back to the run.
It was a warm evening. The weather had improved in the last month. The river had retreated to its bed, leaving a swathe of rich grass where the flock was contentedly grazing.
The two families sat outside the open door of the house, admiring the view and enjoying a moment’s respite at the end of the day’s work. Matthew, nearly five now, was amusing himself with a toy horse, six inches high, that George had fashioned from a piece of scrap wood. Mary, full of energy now winter was over, could not bear to sit and do nothing and had a pile of mending in her lap. Lorna had regained neither colour nor strength. She sat silently, hand on the cradle in which Stuart was peacefully sleeping, dark-rimmed eyes watching them all.
Andrew said, ‘I’m no’ a hundred per cent happy aboot it, but I suppose it makes sense.’
‘Tes safe with him as anywhere,’ George said. ‘Safer than yur, wi’ bu … if what he says be true.’ They were all careful around the subject of bushrangers. ‘Not’s though ’e be goin’ to run ’way. Man like him got plenty of capital tied up along that there shop of ’is.’
‘Kin we get it out when we need it?’ Mary asked.
‘Och aye, there’ll be nae problems there.’
‘We should take some out for Christmas,’ she said.
Andrew frowned. At Jim Jim market stock prices were up again. They needed every penny they had.
‘Don’ be mean, Andy,’ Mary coaxed. ‘Our first Christmas at Montrose. We got plenty to celebrate, ’aven’t we?’ She waved her hand at the expanse of the valley. ‘Think! All that’s ours. Tha’s somin to be glad of, surely.’
Andrew considered. The pound or two that a good meal would cost would make little difference to their finances but a great deal to how they all felt. They were here, alive. Apart from Lorna they were all fit and well. The first shearing had gone better than expected. The winter had seen one or two cases of footrot, as was only to be expected, but they had been able to control it. There had been no sign of catarrh or any trouble with the natives. Above all, as Mary said, they owned the land. As always his heart swelled at the thought. She was right: they had much to be thankful for.
The Lord said to Moses, this day shall be unto you for a memorial; and ye shall keep it a feast to the Lord throughout your generations.
Perhaps it was their duty to celebrate God’s mercies to them.
‘It would no’ be unfitting,’ he said.
Mary and Lorna were going into Jim Jim to make all the arrangements for their grand Christmas celebration. Neither woman had been off the property since they had arrived. Mary was bubbling with ideas and excitement, looking forward to the outing so much she was like a child again. Even Lorna was more cheerful, animated by the prospect of a trip to town.
What she needs, Mary thought. Something to lift her out of herself. She cared for her as much as ever but their relationship had languished with Lorna’s health. After the one unsuccessful attempt when they first arrived at Montrose they had never spoken of those lost moments of tenderness before the men had stolen Lorna away.
‘How much can we spend?’ Mary asked Andrew.
‘A pound?’ He was reluctant, now the time to spend had arrived.
She smiled, trying to charm the uncharmable. ‘I was thinkin’ more of five pounds?’
‘Five pounds? Are ye mad, woman?’
They settled for three.
Andrew stayed behind to look after the station and the children while George drove the women into Jim Jim. Matthew howled with rage when he discovered he was not going but Mary had made up her mind this was going to be their outing, hers and Lorna’s, and she intended to make the most of it. For months they had seen nothing but that damned water-logged valley, the clouds sagging over the tops of the hills. They’d had to fight damp, mould, dirt, fluey colds, clothes that could not be washed or would not dry, fear, the morose moods of the men when things went wrong, Matthew’s tantrums, Stuart’s sickly health … A catalogue without pleasure and seemingly without end.
Now the sun was shining, it was a glorious day with a light breeze to lift the heat, and Christmas was coming. There was no place for demanding little boys.
‘Poor Matthew,’ Lorna said as they drove away. She was inclined to spoil him, even now.
‘Poor nuffin,’ Mary said. ‘I’d say ’e does pretty well for ’isself.’
‘Just as well we didn’ bring ’im,’ George said. ‘A drover were sayin’ there be some throat infection goin’ round town.’
‘Just our luck to get it,’ Mary said, then laughed. ‘I don’ care. This is our day, Lorna girl, an’ I aims to enjoy it. We’ll worry ’bout coughs an’ colds later. Christmas,’ she said, eyes shining. ‘Can you believe it?’
When they reached Jim Jim they left George with the dray and walked side by side down the rutted street. The town had more than doubled in size in the past year. They stared at the passers-by, the windows of the half-dozen shops. They listened to the sound of singing coming maudlin with the smell of beer through the open door of one of the ale houses. People … They had almost forgotten there were such things.
Inside Simmons’ store two ladies were talking together about ribbons. In the far corner a man, swaying and laughing, an uncorked bottle sticking out of his pocket, had his hands in a tumbled heap of women’s clothing. A small girl, perhaps a year younger than Matthew, stared at them around the edge of a door at the back of the shop.
Michael Simmons could smell a customer at twenty paces. Within seconds, bow legs twinkling, he was at Mary’s side. He had never met her yet somehow knew who she was.
‘Mrs Curtis … Good to see you, ma’am. How may I be of assistance?’ Bowing and scraping, white hands washing.
Mary’s dark eyes laughed at him. ‘You kin help us organise a Christmas party.’
‘We hae no’ much to spend,’ Lorna cautioned.
Her voice was a thin whisper in the jolly shop and Simmons ignored it. Beaming at Mary, he said, ‘If I may make some suggestions …?’
Lorna watched, bemused, as the pile of parcels grew. First, there was a present for each of the children—a grass seed rattle for Stuart, a little wooden man with movable arms and legs to go with Matthew’s horse.
‘They dinna need presents,’ Lorna protested.
‘It’s Christmas. Stuart’s first. First for all of us at Montrose. Give ’em
somethin’ to remember it by.’
Lorna smiled. ‘Ye expect Stuart to remember it too?’
Mary was unrepentant. ‘Somethin’ for us to remember then. Can’t slave away and git no fun out of it. No point livin’ like that.’
Then the food. They would have their own mutton, of course.
‘Five courses we’ll ’ave‚’ Mary said gaily. ‘Lamb fritters to start, then a dish o’ mutton, main course sheep, ram stew to follow an’ finish up with ewe jelly.’
‘Wi’ a glass of hogget wine to help it doon‚’ Lorna suggested.
They laughed together.
Mary thought, It is doing her good. I gotta try and git her away from that miserable husband of hers more often.
She turned to the shopkeeper. ‘Kids’ things are all very well, Mr Simmons, but they don’ ’elp us much. What you got in the way of special food?’
Mr Simmons had peas for the making of soup, even some oranges—not many, he confided, and unfortunately not cheap but having come all the way from Melbourne …
‘I did nae realise they grew oranges in Melbourne,’ Lorna said.
‘How much?’ Mary asked.
Simmons told them, apologetically.
‘Impossible‚’ Lorna said. ‘Oot o’ the question.’
‘We’ll take ’em‚’ Mary said. ‘What else?’
There were ingredients for sauces, freshly killed pigeons, wild duck.
‘Don’ like duck‚’ Mary said. She looked at Lorna. ‘Them things allus tastes fishy to me.’
They agreed they would leave the duck.
‘This has just arrived‚’ Mr Simmons said. ‘Something new.’
‘What is it?’ Mary examined the jar curiously. ‘Potted bloaters? Never ’eard of ’em.’
‘I understand it’s a new method of preserving herring. From Scotland.’ He inclined his head in Lorna’s direction.
‘From Scotland?’ Mary said. ‘We’ll ’ave ’em. Cheer Andy up a bit, eh?’ And nudged Lorna with her elbow.
Lorna thought Andrew would be more concerned with their cost than their flavour but said nothing. The potted bloaters joined the growing pile.
The Burning Land Page 14
