The Last Mile Home

by Di Morrissey

  As he went about the place, Barney found himself subtly observing Abby at every opportunity. She was unobtrusive but she intrigued him. He thought she was more than pretty — she exuded a sweetness, a naturalness, which he found entrancing.

  She seemed in some ways younger than she was, being unspoiled and unsophisticated; yet compared to some of the other girls he knew, she was far more mature. She had a strength about her and an obvious sense of responsibility.

  Barney watched her work around the shed and saw she didn’t shirk hard labour. Once he’d watched her struggle with a stubborn sheep and as she’d finally dragged it towards the pen, he’d hopped over the railing and helped her lift it.

  ‘Thanks. That’s a big one. Weighs a ton,’ Abby had panted gratefully.

  He’d been tempted to tell her not to lift heavy things, but thought better of such a personal remark. She was smart enough to know her limitations, he figured. Her smile had been thanks enough and he’d hummed as he’d gone about his own work.

  Out of Abby’s earshot the men made a few jesting remarks to McBride about the boss visiting more than normal and always stopping to have a word with Abby. Bob knew they were only joking, but their comments worried him. So one evening, on the way home, he broached the subject.

  ‘Young Holten seems to go out of his way to have a few words with you. I know you haven’t led him on at all, Abby, but . . . well, watch it. We don’t want to cause any talk.’

  ‘Dad! I haven’t said boo to him! If he stops to say something, I can’t be rude and ignore him, can I?’

  ‘No, of course not, Ab. But you did say he’d spotted you about the place before this. I just don’t want you to get led up the garden path. You are close at hand, so to speak; not to mention being the prettiest girl in the State as well.’

  ‘I can look after myself, Dad. I did think he’d been spying on me one day when I went swimming, but I was mistaken. He seems all right. Anyway, let’s face it, he’s not going to ask someone like me out.’

  ‘Well, not in public,’ said her father bluntly. ‘Just keep your distance.’

  ‘Oh I am, don’t worry.’

  Bob McBride patted her knee. ‘You’ll find a nice young fella soon enough. When you get your pay from this job, why don’t you and your mum go into town and you treat yourself to a new frock? Something pretty you can wear to a dance. There’ll be plenty of dances coming up. And once the boys catch sight of you, you’ll have more beaus than you’ll know how to handle.’

  Abby laughed and lifted her chin in mock arrogance. ‘I can handle ’em, Dad; just let me at them!’

  They laughed and Bob broke into song as the old truck bounced along the rutted road — ‘I’m looking over a four-leafed clover that I overlooked before . . .’

  But Abby was silent as her father sang, thinking over what he’d said. She knew he was right, yet it had never occurred to her that someone like Barney Holten would be interested in her. She’d heard stories before of rich boys who fooled around with the girls in town or girls who worked on their properties fruit picking, girls her mother described as common. These were not the girls they married — they married from their own class — and while they might have a few laughs and a bit of a fling, everyone knew the unwritten rules. Abby, however, was not going to be one of the goodtime girls the ladies loved to gossip about at tea parties.

  Once or twice when they’d been living close to a town, her mother had gone to teas and once to a card party. She’d come home after one occasion, pulled out her hatpin, held her hat up as a shield and pretended to fence with the long pearl-handled pin, jabbing and lunging at imaginary opponents in the kitchen.

  ‘And then she said, that Mabel Clarkson is being such a snob.’ Jab, jab. ‘And did you hear Tom Ogilvy had a drinking problem they say?’ Dart, lunge. ‘Of course those clothes of Betty Smith’s all come from the Red Cross.’ Joust, score, point!

  The children, seated around the table, had laughed and clapped as she fell into a chair fanning herself with her hat. ‘That’s it, I’m not going to another one of those dreadful hens’ parties.’

  Talk was big time in a small town where the trivial assumed unnatural proportions, and Abby had observed and learned that what caused most gossip was the overstepping of one’s ‘place’. There were status levels that, while never called class, existed in rigid and long-established rules. Income, job, family background, all dictated one’s level in the hierarchy and the barriers were strictly observed, each sticking to ‘their own’. So there was no way Abby was going to take any notice of Barney Holten other than observing the social niceties. He was out of her class — her father was working for him after all.

  When the shearing was over, Barney went in search of his mother. He found her in the cool dimness of the sitting-room, the lightweight curtain linings drawn against the sunlight. Diet and Tucker were curled around her footstool and she was absorbed in her crewel work, using the light from the fringe-shaded standard lamp behind the settee.

  ‘Mother . . .?’

  ‘Yes, dear?’ She didn’t look up and frowned slightly at an unaligned pink stitch in the rose petal she was working on.

  ‘We’ll be finished shearing tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s nice, dear.’

  ‘I was thinking it might be nice to have cut-out drinks and a bit of a barbecue for everybody before they leave.’

  Enid looked up in surprise. ‘You mean, like a party? For the workers? Whatever for, dear. They’re being paid, aren’t they?’

  Barney was defensive. ‘Nothing fancy. They’ve got through quicker than we thought.’

  ‘Dear me, ask your father. I wouldn’t have to go to it, would I? I mean, the shearer’s cook is still on the payroll, isn’t he?’ Enid looked distressed.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Mum. I’ll handle it. I just thought . . . Oh, never mind.’ Barney headed for the kitchen where Mrs Anderson was pulling bread from the oven. Jim Anderson was sitting at the small table, his hat resting beside his mug of tea.

  ‘G’day, Barney. Join us for smoko?’ He rose to his feet, reaching for an extra mug that hung on hooks along the mantelpiece above the stove.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do. Any cake, Mrs Anderson?’

  ‘Under the flymesh cloth on the table there. Only a pound cake,’ she answered as she banged the loaf pans onto the side of the fuel stove.

  Barney poured milk from the blue-and-white-striped jug into his tea. ‘I thought I’d have a cutout barbecue tomorrow before everyone leaves,’ said Barney, and the Andersons looked at him in surprise. ‘Would you make a cake, Mrs A? The cook will do everything else.’

  ‘Of course I will. I’ll do two big fruitcakes.’

  ‘You’re both welcome to come down, of course. Nothing fancy, a few steaks and chops and drinks.’

  ‘Thanks, that’d be nice.’ Jim Anderson drained his tea. ‘Good clip this season?’

  ‘Yes. The wool classer reckons we’ll get a good price for it. Just hope the market stays up. Well, I’ll be off, got a few things to see to.’ As Barney went out of the screen door, Rene and Jim Anderson exchanged a glance with raised eyebrows.

  ‘We have never had a cut-out affair before,’ said Phillip Holten sternly. ‘It is quite unnecessary. Pay them off and let them cut out and go into the pub in town.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure they’ll do that too,’ said Barney. ‘I just thought as I’ve been so involved with them all, I’d like to make the gesture. Just a few beers and a barbecue.’

  ‘Barnard, just because this is the first time I’ve allowed you a free hand to manage the shearing doesn’t mean you owe these men anything. You did them a favour in hiring them.’

  ‘They didn’t have to work as hard and as fast as they did.’ Barney knew dissension among shearers, dissatisfied with conditions, could create havoc in the shed. ‘And it makes it easier to get a good team back next year. They talk amongst themselves, you know.’ Barney had heard the talk and knew the men had their own blacklist of propert
ies and owners.

  ‘Very well then. But it’s your show. I might put in an appearance, but that’s all. And while I’m still head of Amba I’d appreciate it if you ran your ideas past me first.’ He turned and strode towards the library.

  Enid heard the exchange between her husband and her son, and she felt her heart constrict with sadness.

  She walked onto the verandah, her heart beating erratically, and stood there watching the dogs sniff around on the grass as the dusk crept in. The confrontation between Barney and Phillip troubled her enough to penetrate the veil of vagueness that usually kept her from seeing the world too clearly. When Barney asserted himself, Phillip regarded it as a challenge to his authority. If Barney flowed along without making waves or taking any initiatives, Phillip criticised him for being weak. She knew, and with a pang realised Barney also knew, that he would never measure up in Phillip’s eyes. The bitterness and resentment Phillip felt, quite unreasonably, towards his son had coloured and clouded their relationship. And it was her fault.

  Phillip’s dissatisfaction with his marriage had been transferred to his son. Images of the past she tried so hard to ignore came flooding back. The pretty young woman she’d once been who’d fallen in love with her schoolfriend’s brother. The passionate romance, the First World War, their engagement, his enlistment and departure. Then the news of his death near Damascus with the Light Horse. She shivered, not because of the coolness of dusk, but because the pain returned to rack her thin frame. She struggled for another deep breath, trying to control her irregular heartbeat as another series of flashing pictures reeled through her mind . . . the Sydney Show, the introduction by mutual friends to the handsome and wealthy grazier, Phillip’s persistent if somewhat stodgy courtship, and the recognition of a safe escape from grief and insecurity.

  It was nearly dark when Enid called the dogs back to her. The strange beating of her heart made her feel a little nauseated. Phillip was right, she told herself, they must not put off too much longer going to Sydney to see a specialist.

  She turned and walked indoors, the two white shadows at her heels, their nails clicking on the polished wood floor. As she passed the library, she paused and looked in. Phillip was in his usual leather chair reading his Stanley Gibbons catalogue, spectacles perched on the edge of his nose.

  Phillip noticed his wife out of the corner of his eye but did not acknowledge her presence. He listened to her walking down the hall, following the steps into the kitchen. God, she was becoming hard to live with! Ever since her heart murmur had been detected by a very worried local doctor, she had become increasingly vague.

  Phillip walked to the sideboard and poured himself a port from the crystal decanter and returned to his chair. He sipped his drink and put his head back, staring into the darkness of the high wood-panelled ceiling. The doctor had said the trouble began with the strain Barney’s birth put on her heart. It was an unexpected and difficult pregnancy, and a harrowing birth — a miracle of survival was how the doctor had put it because it had nearly killed both mother and child.

  Well, the child had grown into a stout lad, but his mother had never recovered fully. In a way, neither had Phillip. He never quite got over the resentment of a child whose birth had taken away the wife he loved, leaving a woman obsessed with tending a baby that nearly killed her. He had hoped that things would change when Barney was sent to boarding school, but Enid had retreated further into her own little world.

  Phillip wished he could relate better to his son, but somehow his resentment could never allow him to get too close. He felt his son had robbed him of his wife.

  Phillip Holten finished off the port and walked out of the French doors of the library onto the verandah. He leaned on the railing and looked up into the sky with its eggshell moon and profusion of stars, searching for the answer to a question he often asked the heavens. ‘How can a family lose itself like this? Is there a way to connect with each other again?’ He never heard an answer.

  GWEN PULLED THE STEW OFF THE STOVE AND SET it to one side. The long kitchen table had been laid by the twins, with everybody’s plate in place save for Bob’s and Abby’s. The tablecloth was blue-and-yellow-check oilcloth, thick and easy to wipe clean. In the middle of the table sat a large bottle of Rosella tomato sauce, a bottle of Holbrooks Worcestershire sauce, pepper and salt shakers that looked like little lighthouses — ‘A Souvenir of the South Coast’ — a slab of butter on a plate, a pile of thick slices of milk loaf, and a pot of homemade mulberry jam.

  ‘Kevin, go and get the twins inside for their bath while I get Brian out,’ sighed Gwen, already missing Abby who normally bathed little Brian and got him ready for bed.

  She hurried through the house to the bathroom, hoping Abby was having a good time with her dad at the cut-out barbecue. Maybe there was a nice young shearer there she’d make friends with. Not that she’d wish the life of a shearer’s wife on her daughter. At least with Abby in tow, Bob wouldn’t be tempted to go into town to the pub with the others. Gwen knew what the men were like once they got a few quid in their kick. Bob had never blown a pay cheque the way some of the men had, but in his younger days he hadn’t said no to a drink or two. Gwen knew he’d have a few beers and bring Abby home safely.

  It was nice for them to be out together like this, she thought, for soon enough Kevin then Brian would be out with their dad, and hopefully Abby would have a man and a life of her own. Father and daughter would treasure these times.

  Once in the bathroom, she picked up the worn enamel saucepan from out of the bath and poured a panful over Brian’s soapy head.

  ‘Okey dokey, out we get.’ She lifted him over the edge of the old tin tub onto the floor mat and wrapped him in a towel. She staggered slightly as she lifted the chubby child. ‘My, you are getting a big boy. Almost too heavy for Mummy to pick up.’

  ‘Where Abby?’

  ‘She’s at a party, darling. With Daddy. They’ll be home soon. But we are going to have a party of our own.’

  Outside, the twins were nowhere to be seen. Then Kevin heard their muffled squeals coming from the back of the water tank where they’d set up their little garden. There he found Shirley and Colleen running about the edge of their garden bed, flapping their arms and chanting, ‘Shoo, shoo!’

  ‘Quick, Kev, help us! The chooks got out and they’re digging up our plants,’ wailed Colleen.

  Kevin lunged and clapped his hands at the merrily digging hens and rooster. Tom Turkey flew up to perch on the tank stand and, with a startled screech and whirr of wings, the rest scattered from the garden bed across the straggly grass lawn.

  ‘Don’t frighten them! Now look what you’ve done!’ Shirley began to run after them, sending them in all directions, a rooster crowing in alarm.

  ‘Come back, stop chasing them, you’re frightening them,’ called Kevin. ‘They’ll come back. Come inside. Mum says to have your bath.’

  ‘We can’t leave them out, it’s getting dark.’ Colleen looked worried.

  ‘Leave them alone. Leave the coop door open and they’ll find their way back inside.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ asked Shirley.

  Kevin looked at his twin sisters, their almost identical blue eyes looking trustingly up at him. He grinned. ‘Yeah. Take my word for it. They’ll all be there in the morning.’

  Brown-haired Colleen and fair-haired Shirley walked beside their teenage brother, comforted by his know-it-all voice.

  ‘Why do we have to lock them up at night anyway?’

  ‘Well, you sleep in a house, don’t you?’ Colleen said to her twin.

  ‘There could be a fox or a dingo or a cat about that would grab them. Or a big bad wolf!’ teased Kevin, pretending to grab them both. Squealing and laughing, the girls took off as he chased them, growling and calling, ‘Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf . . .?’

  They thundered into the house and the girls fled to the bathroom, slamming the door as Kevin began, ‘I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blowwww your hou
se down . . .’

  ‘Kevin, stop that racket and come and help in here please,’ Gwen shouted from the kitchen where she was lifting a saucepan of milk, which had boiled over, off the stove. Brian was perched on a cushion on his chair eating a chunk of bread. ‘Wash your hands, I’m about to dish up.’

  ‘I can’t, the girls are in the bathroom.’

  ‘Use the laundry; but before you do bring in some more wood, please.’

  Eventually, after much toing and froing, they were all seated at the table, Brian and the twins in their pyjamas, all with shiny scrubbed faces.

  Gwen brought the big pot of stew to the table and put it down on a bread board; then she clasped her hands and looked around the family. They all recognised Mum’s ‘announcement’ pose.

  ‘Dad and Abby are having a party at the shearing shed, so we’ll have a party too. I have a little surprise.’

  She went to a kitchen cupboard and got out a pile of paper hats shaped like boats, made from coloured pages of the Women’s Mirror. They were handed around to squeals of delight from the children, though Kevin disguised his feeling of awkwardness as he put his hat on.

  ‘What’s the party in aid of, Mum?’ he asked with genuine curiosity.

  ‘Our good fortune, Kev. Our good fortune.’ She smiled and ladled out the meat and vegetable stew thickened with barley.

  Brian picked up his spoon and echoed happily, ‘Party!’

  They all laughed and Gwen wondered how the other party was progressing.

  The cook was passing around seconds of the steak, chops and sausages. The Andersons had joined the shearing team at the table and were handing round a roasting pan piled with baked pumpkin and potatoes. Barney put another couple of bottles of draught beer on the table and glasses were topped up.

  ‘How about you, Abby?’ asked the shearer beside her. ‘Want a beer instead of that lemonade?’

  ‘No thanks,’ she smiled.

  ‘Would you like a shandy, luv?’ asked her father, who was sitting opposite.