by Di Morrissey
The kerosene lamp hung from a hook, Rob was sitting on a bale of hay outside Jasper’s box. The box door was open and Jasper was standing still, looking disinterested.
Sally was surprised to see Fitzi sitting in the shadows.
‘How is he?’
‘Physically he’s doing okay. Trouble is he seems traumatised. He doesn’t want to fight. Look how listless he is.’
‘What do you think, Fitzi?’ she asked the old man.
‘Him spirit gone looking for help. He gotta find good spirit people fix ’im up.’
‘So how do we do that?’
‘Sing ’em up.’
He threw back his head, began to sway and started to sing. The wailing turned into a sing-song babble, which rose and fell in a half-chant, half-song. It was hypnotic.
The final notes echoed in the silent stable. Then, softly, the rain fell. Fitzi sat, his eyes shut, mumbling to himself and rocking. Rob rose and stroked behind Jasper’s ears, soothing him and murmuring.
Sally pulled her jacket round her. Fitzi’s head had dropped to his chest and he seemed to be asleep. Rob continued touching and talking to the horse, whose eyes were closed and his breathing less erratic.
But then Jasper’s eyes flew open, his ears twitched. Fitzi looked up. The door to the stable was eased open and a bedraggled figure in sodden pyjamas crept inside.
‘How is he?’
‘Ian, you’re soaked, come here.’ Sally picked up an old blanket and pulled it around his shoulders.
‘Can you make him better, Fitzi?’ asked Ian.
‘Not dis old blackfella. Dem spirit fella come, talk ’em good to dat one horse. I reckon he listen longa time.’
Ian nodded and crept closer. Rob drew the boy to him and Ian rested his head against the side of the horse.
The stallion lowered his head slightly, his lips moving over his teeth. Ian patted his mane, his hand moving over Jasper’s eyes, closing them as he’d seen Rob do, his fingertips massaging behind the ears. Then the boy lay down, settling himself on the straw at the back of the box. The rain pelted and soon Ian closed his eyes.
He slept for several hours. Sally dozed, her head in Rob’s lap, the smell of the horse, the dampness, the straw, the smell of Fitzi’s baccy, which hung around his head and beard, all mingled in a comforting potpourri.
Eventually, after Fitzi had left, Rob bent down and kissed her cheek and whispered, ‘Go to bed.’ She nodded and got to her feet as Rob stepped into the box and scooped up the sleeping boy. The horse reached out and sniffed the bundle in Rob’s arms then watched them leave. As the kerosene lamp was extinguished, the stallion tentatively flexed one leg, then another. Satisfied, he shook his head and gave a slight wheezy whinny.
Rob put Ian on his bed and said to Sally, ‘When he wakes up tell him Jasper is going to be just fine.’
Lorna was admitted to hospital early, ‘as a precaution’, the doctor said.
‘There’s a faint chance I might have diabetes. They’re doing tests. To tell you the truth I’d rather be there than hanging around Marilyn’s place,’ she told John over the wireless.
‘Do you want me to come down, love?’
‘Is the airstrip dry?’
‘Not really. They’re saying the rain will ease next week.’
‘Then there’s not much point. I just hope I’ll be able to fly back.’
‘Don’t worry, pet, we’ll get you back one way or another.’
‘John, I’ll have a newborn baby with me.’
‘So you will. Don’t worry. Get on the wireless as soon as something happens.’
‘I’ll try. Check the call sign in case I can only leave a message.’
While the wireless was their lifeline – the first thing John did every morning was turn it on – sometimes it wasn’t tuned to their frequency and they had to wait to get through. There was a call button that was reserved for severe emergencies only.
When her labour started Lorna had no way of getting through to Barra Creek, and was preoccupied anyway. Compared to the women in the hospital who were delivering their first babies, Lorna thought she’d feel an old hand after three births. But she found the process draining and tiring, and this baby was not going to hurry. She lost track of time in the blur of pain and anxious faces around her. There was talk of a caesarean section then, through her fogged consciousness and the agonising waves rippling and searing across her abdomen, she learned it would have to be a forceps delivery. She was too tired to push and just wanted the whole thing over. She was groggy when the nurse said softly, ‘It’s a girl, Mrs Monroe. A sweet little girl.’ Lorna burst into tears.
She was handed the small bundle firmly wrapped in a pink blanket. Lorna touched her daughter’s cheek and the baby opened her wide blue eyes and stared at her. It was only then that she allowed herself to admit that she’d longed for a girl. No child could replace Marty but a little girl . . . how she’d hoped for this.
On Lorna’s behalf the hospital staff contacted Barra Creek with the news and John Monroe broke out the good port after dinner to celebrate.
Sally told Lizzie and her face creased in a broad smile. ‘Dat good pella news, eh? Little missy be good for dis place. Mebbe be lot ’em piccaninnies when Betsy baby come.’
Sally nodded but she couldn’t imagine that Lorna would allow her child to spend too much time with Betsy’s baby. Betsy was still a child herself, and the rest of the lubras would help when her time came and with her baby. They seemed to pass children around, even sharing breastfeeding duties.
The boys were thrilled. A girl, and so much younger, was no threat and might help to partly fill the gap where they still missed Marty. When they told the kids from the camp the next day little Alice started jumping up and down and asked Sally if she could ‘Push ’em baby pram.’
‘So what’s the baby’s name?’ asked Rob.
‘I don’t know. We’d better ask Lorna when she calls in.’
Sally and Rob were amused at John Monroe leaving the naming of the baby to Lorna. ‘It’s like he had nothing to do with the whole thing,’ said Sally.
‘In John’s opinion, a girl isn’t going to be much use around the station,’ said Rob.
The following morning Lorna was on the wireless sounding relaxed and cheerful. ‘What do you think of Jillian?’ she asked John Monroe, with half of the Gulf country listening in.
‘Jilly for short? Like Jillaroo? She’d better get on a horse soon as she can. Yeah, whatever you want, love. Sounds okay to me.’ He looked over his shoulder at the breakfast table and Rob, Sally and the boys gave him the thumbs up. ‘Everyone else thinks so too.’
The rain had not set in again and the airstrip was passable. Donny flew over it on his mail run and agreed to fly Lorna in from Mount Isa.
She was pale and exhausted after the trip, but pleased to be home. She proudly sat on the verandah to feed the small baby as the boys hovered nearby, surprised to see their very proper mother breastfeeding just as the lubras did.
Soon, life returned to its routine. Lorna rested a lot, with Jilly sleeping in the cot beside her bed. She was a quiet baby and everyone commented on how good she was. John was relieved his sleep wasn’t broken by the sound of a crying baby ripping through the house.
Every afternoon Lorna took a long nap and Lizzie, the very heavily pregnant Betsy and little Alice took Jilly in the old cane pram swathed in mosquito netting for a long walk, bumping over the rough track that rocked the infant to sleep.
Betsy continued to do light household tasks under Lizzie’s and Lorna’s watchful eyes. There was something about Betsy that touched Sally. Her sweetness, lack of guile and the fact she was so young – sixteen perhaps. She was different from most of the other lubras, who were quick to jump into the whitemen’s swags and flirt or fight over them for the reward of a new dress, a few sticks of baccy, some loose change or a trinket. She thought back to the young girls who were handed over to Mr Stinky, and she hoped that Betsy’s baby was not fathered by th
e creepy old ‘witch doctor’.
Sally would recall those first weeks when Jilly arrived as the most peaceful she’d known at Barra Creek.
Chapter Sixteen
SALLY STOOD AT THE schoolhouse door watching Frankie, Ginger and Alice change from their clean school clothes into their camp clothes. In the simple process of neatly folding their clean shorts and shirts and placing them on the bench, to pulling on their worn-out old camp clothes, Sally thought how they were sloughing off one skin and slipping into another world – one she’d never encountered before. When she’d arrived at Barra Creek theirs seemed a primitive, deficient world that straddled neither one culture nor another. Its inhabitants were treated as less than second-class citizens in the white environment, their subservience made the whites think they were ‘stupid’ and ‘lazy’. Out in their country, though, they were comfortable. Out there the white men acknowledged their superior wisdom and treated the black stockmen as equals, sharing meals and talk of horses, cattle and droving around the campfire.
Sally was slowly beginning to understand that these people had a complex law and belief system, which had guided them for centuries; a history rich in song, dance, art and languages. Their traditional culture, combined with their modern abilities in a stock camp, around cattle, horses and station life, brought grudging respect from the whites. But there was a boundary, like the fence around the homestead, beyond which each reverted to their own.
As she watched the black children laughing and giggling, happy to exchange their school clothes for whatever came to hand, she wondered what would become of them. Frankie could write his name, read a little and was practising writing the alphabet. They all had startling skills when it came to their art. Sally had never seen anything like the drawings they produced in their simple, stylised outlines.
She also wondered about her other students. Ian – so committed to Barra Creek, passionate about Jasper – dreamed of running the station when he grew up. Tommy, so gentle, so sensitive and such a talented writer, longed to travel and see the world beyond the property, dismissing his natural horse skills. And now, a dear little girl, whom she felt sure Lorna would raise in her own shadow – a refined lady with an appreciation of the arts. While John wanted a daughter who’d ride like the wind and fill the place left by Marty.
In such a short time Sally felt her life had become entwined with this family. She’d also become used to the heat, flies, humidity, rain and mildew. She had come to know the dramas in the lives of the blacks and the visiting white workers. She fell asleep to the sounds of crocodiles grunting and barking, wild dogs howling, the occasional noises from horses and cattle, frogs croaking, geckos squeaking – sounds carried in the stillness. She awoke to soft piccaninny light, screeches of birds, John Monroe in the kitchen arguing with Lizzie about milking the goats. Then the clang of iron calling the men to breakfast, the lilting murmur of the black stockmen and Fitzi, the boys racing along the verandah.
Life back in the South Island was as calm as the Milford Sound: remote, secluded, isolated, parochial, ordered. Bland, she decided. There were strict protocols, everyone knew their place and what was expected of them. Few broke the rules. Sally felt like an outsider when she thought about her life back home. How was she going to settle back there after living on the property? And then there was Rob. What was to become of them? The sex was wonderful and the more time they spent together the more deeply she felt for him. These feelings worried her. Was she only attracted to him because they were thrown together in this isolated place? Would her feelings be the same if they found themselves together somewhere else, away from Barra Creek?
*
The weeks were trickling past quickly, and everyone was making plans. Baby Jilly’s arrival had made little impact on their daily lives. She never cried and she slept a lot but she was not gaining weight. She was a tiny, pale, wisp of a baby who spent hours in the cot with an electric fan cooling the damp air. Even Lorna seemed wilted, her control of everyone and her constant supervision of the household chores had loosened up.
When she had flown home with the baby Lorna had invited Donny to lunch at the homestead. A few weeks later he called on the wireless to say he would take up the offer, and he was bringing a surprise to add to the menu.
He carried a large wet box into the kitchen and inside, packed with ice, were pounds of pale giant prawns.
‘A fellow out of Karumba has a trawler and he and a couple of mates are doing a survey for the government to see if it’d be worth putting a prawn fishery up there.’
‘They’re always on about trying to develop the north. If they can hit regular catches of these and supply the market they’ll be on a winner,’ said John Monroe, holding up one of the prawns.
‘He calls them banana prawns,’ added Donny. ‘Whack them on the fire or throw them in boiling water.’
Everyone wanted to talk to Donny and he diplomatically managed to spend time alone with each of them. He admired Jilly and chatted with Lorna, then talked with John and Rob as they cooked the prawns and thick steaks trimmed in yellow fat. After lunch he drove with Sally and the boys down to see Jasper.
As the boys hung over the railing of the yard calling the stallion, Donny leaned close to Sally.
‘Do I owe you a prize?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Didn’t we have a bet whether you’d stick it out or not?’ He grinned.
‘If we did, you lost.’
‘That’s for sure. So, sweet Sal, what have you got out of this experience?’
Sally found she was blushing. The normal smart retort didn’t come to her lips. ‘A damn sight more than I expected, that’s for sure.’
‘On the plus side?’
She laughed at his arch tone. ‘Yes. For lots of reasons.’
‘And a big one would be Rob?’
‘You’re such a nosy old lady,’ she teased. ‘You know very well what’s been going on.’
‘Mmm. But what happens now? Don’t forget that I saw how you looked when you came back from Darwin, clutching the orchids from dear Doctor Lee.’
‘Donny, don’t mention that! There was nothing to it. He was just a nice friend while I was on holiday.’
‘Pity. He sounded quite divine. So, what’s happening with Rob?’
‘We’re talking about our future. He thinks I should go to England after I’ve been home for my sister’s wedding. Give him a chance to set himself up a bit.’
‘So we haven’t seen the last of you?’
‘Who knows. Come and meet Jasper.’
During the week, the combination of heat and the wet earth had turned the air into a steamy, clinging, invisible blanket. Lorna had Lizzie pull everything leather out of the cupboards and oil them to wipe away the mildew. Shoes, handbags, wallets and belts were all covered in a faint green powder. Betsy wandered around the house with a duster, flicking idly. At every opportunity she hovered at Lorna’s doorway, peering at the cot with its flyscreen covering, the legs standing in tins filled with water to keep ants at bay.
Sally was walking towards the schoolhouse and smiled at Fitzi, who was weeding around the verandah steps. Suddenly Betsy’s scream pierced the morning, then she yelled out in her own language, causing Fitzi to drop his trowel and run. Sally realised that it must be something serious for Fitzi to rush inside. She’d never seen him venture past the kitchen before. She and Lorna ran along the verandah to the bedroom. Betsy hung at the doorway as Fitzi reached the room.
Looking inside they each froze for a moment, then Lorna pushed Fitzi forward.
Draped across the top of the cot was a huge snake – a taipan – its markings glittering as if lit by electricity. Sally knew it was poisonous. The jewelled head of the snake was inches away from the sleeping baby. It must have been six feet long. Lorna’s voice was low, every word forced through her clenched teeth. ‘Get rid of that thing, Fitzi.’
‘It’s all right, Lorna, it can’t get through the mesh,’ said Sally, trying to sou
nd calm.
Fitzi moved slowly around the cot behind the snake, which lifted its head, watching him, tongue darting. Then before Sally could register what happened, his arm shot out and he grabbed the snake by the tail, threw it in the air and belted it down on the floor like a stockwhip, breaking its back.
He held the snake up above his head and it touched the floor. ‘Him big pella closeup. Good tucker.’
Lorna went straight to the cot, peeling back the netting to find Jilly staring up at her. ‘I don’t care what you do with it, Fitzi, get it outside. And thank you.’
Sally and Betsy followed him as the boys came rushing in.
‘Wow! Where was that?’ exclaimed Tommy.
‘In your bed,’ teased Sally.
‘Fair dinkum?’ He looked shocked.
‘She’s joking. Are there any more inside?’ asked Ian.
Sally looked serious. ‘Oh, heck. I hope not.’
‘I’ll get the women to start poking around with brooms,’ said Lorna. ‘In the meantime, fetch one of the dogs in here.’
The cattle dog was shown the dead snake and sent inside to search out any others.
A message came from Donny that he’d spotted a mob of cattle on the high ground above the floodplain in the northwest corner of the property. He said the ground looked pretty firm as it was far from the river and marshy swamp land. Rob knew the area he was talking about, and he and Monroe decided to set out and muster them while the rain was holding off. John would take the Land Rover with supplies, dry wood and gear. Rob would bring the plant – men, packhorses and dogs.
The clouds began to roll in again. Sally decided they should have a small party as the boys had passed their exams with good if not brilliant results and as expected would be going down to Sydney next term after the Christmas holidays. Tommy had done very well in English, Ian in mathematics.
The little party – a fancy picnic at one of their favourite spots on a small rise overlooking the spread of the home paddock, the homestead and the river – was rather melancholy. They hobbled the horses and spread out their choice of chocolate cake, fairy bread and cold sausage sandwiches with lots of tomato sauce. They sat on an old rug and Ian boiled the billy for their tea.
