Wildflower Hill

by Kimberley Freeman

  For the next two weeks, there was no time to think about her situation. She was up at dawn making breakfasts, working right through the day, then slipping off her apron and combing her hair for an evening attending Raphael and his guests as they played poker and drank.

  Raphael seemed largely unaware that shearing season was going on. Everything was organized and run by Terry, the farm manager, an affable red-faced man who always smelled of sweat and horses. Raphael didn’t set foot in the shearing shed, and his only acknowledgment of the frenetic activity on his property was when he grasped Beattie’s hand as she served him a drink one night and said, “Your skin is quite red and raw. You have been working too hard for those ungrateful shearers.”

  She extricated herself and kept busy with her work. The busier she was, the less time she had to think. Every night she fell into bed, exhausted, around midnight. Woke six hours later to do it all again.

  Then it was over. The shearers packed their belongings and moved on to the next farm, and quiet returned to Wildflower Hill. Beattie still hadn’t found a place to live permanently. When she and Alice went out to the shearers’ cottage to clean up, she decided to sound Alice out about the idea.

  “Alice, I’ve nowhere to live anymore. Margaret kicked me out.”

  Alice, who was mopping the floor, didn’t even blink. “You can stay here in the cottage.”

  “Do I have to ask Mr. Blanchard?”

  “I’ll tell him. It’s easier for us if you’re here. The room at the end of the hallway opposite Mikhail’s is the nicest.”

  “There’s not a chance that I could stay in the homestead, is there? Like you do?”

  “Not with the little one. Mr. Blanchard doesn’t like children.” Alice straightened up, slopping the mop back into the bucket. “You’ll lose five shillings a week of your pay; six with the child.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “And you’ll have to buy furniture. A bed of your own.”

  Beattie nodded. There was a shop in town that sold castoffs and old furniture, and she’d seen a rug and a bed for sale that she could afford out of her savings. She’d have to make do with fruit crates for chairs. Alice ate all her meals in the kitchen, and Beattie assumed she and Lucy could do the same. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad.

  Late that afternoon, she slipped out of the laundry for an hour and crossed the paddock to set up her new living space. Until she could get her bed, she borrowed a swag that had been left behind last shearing season and rolled it out on the floor to sleep on. It smelled faintly musty, of the man who had owned it, even though she had already washed it twice. Alice let her take a rickety bookshelf from storage under the house, and Beattie slid Lucy’s favorite books onto it. Outside, the sun withdrew from the fields, blushing the sky pink. There was no fire, so she dared not open the windows to let fresh air in. The room smelled faintly of sweat and disinfectant. She picked a posy of wildflowers from around the edges of the cottage and put them in a cup without a handle on the windowsill. Then she sat on the rolled-out mattress and cried. There was no way to make this room look homely, or welcoming, or inviting to a little girl. Lucy would return from Hobart, from her toy pony and her embroidered linen, to this bare room. Beattie realized a terrible thing about herself: that she had tried as hard as she could and this was the best she could give her daughter.

  A quiet knock at the door roused her. She wiped her face on a handkerchief and went to open it. Mikhail stood there.

  “Mikhail?”

  He searched her face. She knew he saw the tears, but he said nothing. “You play cards.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  He reached into the pocket of his threadbare jacket and pulled out a deck of cards.

  “Oh,” she said. “No, I . . . I’ve never played.” Though she had watched hundreds of games.

  “Is easy,” he said. “Night is very lonely and quiet. You play cards with me. I teach you.”

  So she stood back to let him in. They sat on upturned fruit crates and played on top of the bookcase. He patiently stepped her through the rules, and they bet matchsticks. The afternoon turned into night, and Beattie was grateful for his company, for ordinary human warmth when the future seemed so cold.

  The next evening, as she was mending one of her slips by the fluttering light of a candle, she heard another knock. She rose and opened it, expecting Mikhail and his deck of cards. But it wasn’t Mikhail, it was Raphael. And he was drunk.

  “Beattie!” he exclaimed, putting out his arms to hug her. She sidestepped and he stumbled, righted himself, and shuffled into the room. “I’m so glad you’ve decided to stay with us.”

  She wanted to tell him she had little choice, and that in a perfect world she’d keep her daughter a million miles away from him, but instead, she gritted her teeth and said, “I’m very grateful, Mr. Blanchard.”

  He sat down on her swag, nearly losing his balance for a moment. He patted the blanket next to him, but Beattie shrank away, stuck her back to the wall by the window. She had never seen him anywhere near the shearers’ cottage before and hoped that after this visit, he would never return again. At least Mikhail was just across the hall if she needed help removing him.

  “When are you going to start calling me Raphael?” he asked, pouting like a child.

  Alice had told her that he put all his staff—male and female—through this test. The moment they dropped the formal “Mr. Blanchard” or “sir,” he fired them.

  “It’s not fitting, sir,” she said.

  He looked around. “It’s very bare here.”

  She hoped he wouldn’t recognize the bookshelf. “I’ll get some furniture this week.”

  “If you sleep with me, I’ll buy you a roomful.”

  Beattie’s skin prickled. “No, thank you, sir.”

  He lay back on her pillow, sighing. “You are a stubborn thing. I’m determined to have you before I go.”

  “Are you going somewhere?”

  “I might have to. My father is furious with me.” He looked so vulnerable for a moment, like a little boy, that Beattie almost felt sorry for him. “Is your father ever cross with you, Beattie?”

  “My father is dead, sir.” Suddenly, she realized he was talking about the business, how he’d run it into the ground as Mikhail had told her. Did this mean that her job would soon be gone, too? Her new living arrangements? There were no jobs out there; what would she do if she lost this one?

  “Why is your father furious with you?”

  Now his face became cruel and hard again, and the dim light drew dark shadows across his brow. “Because he’s a fastidious old prick. Because he’s made of ice and stone. Because he bought this place for me to keep me out of trouble, and I found more trouble. And I’ve not cared much about the business and lost a lot of money. Sheep! Who could be interested in sheep? I wasn’t. I’m still not. And all signs point to rather a disappointing wool clip.”

  Beattie’s stomach clenched at his lack of gratitude. Here he was, rich when so many were poor, the owner of a business, a large and beautiful house. And he would let it all go to pursue drinking and gambling. So many people would die for a chance like the one he was throwing away. She would die for that chance.

  “What will happen to all of us if you go?”

  He closed his eyes, and for a few awful moments, Beattie wondered if he’d fallen asleep. How would she get him out of her room? But then he opened his pretty blue eyes and sat up. “Beattie Blaxland, I’d do anything to have a chance with you.”

  “You didn’t answer my question. What will happen to all of us? To Alice and Mikhail and Terry and me?”

  He shrugged. “There are other farms. You’ll find work.”

  “One man in four is unemployed,” Beattie said. “It’s almost impossible for women to get jobs.”

  He rose unevenly and came to stand next to her. He grasped her hand, and she couldn’t wrestle it away. His fingers were icy. “I’ll give you a bonus before I go.” He laughed, forcing her han
d onto the front of his trousers.

  “Mikhail!” she shouted.

  Raphael dropped her hand and stood back, narrowing his eyes. “I’d threaten to sack you, only it’s going to be a miracle if you have a job at the end of the year anyway.” He turned and let himself out just as Mikhail arrived at the door.

  “It’s all right, Mikhail,” Raphael said to the big man, “her honor is still intact.” Then he was shuffling off.

  Mikhail waited until he was out of earshot, then said, “Are you well?”

  “Thank you, yes.”

  “You should maybe put a bolt on door.”

  “Mikhail, he said he’s probably going home soon, that the business has failed.”

  Mikhail nodded. “I hear him in the car talking to Mr. Sampson. He will know by beginning of November.”

  Two months. Should she look for another job? Move to Hobart with the hope that she could find work? Or should she hang on to this job and hope for the best? At least it was good regular pay. Better than the misery of the dole queue.

  Mikhail nodded. “I see what you thinking, and I think same. Terry is talking of leaving. He have no farm manager soon. Alice is also asking other places. Me, I will do same. It is not so bad. We have long time yet. And maybe it won’t happen. Maybe another year.”

  Mikhail, Alice, and Terry had no small children to take care of, though. They could easily follow the work around. Lucy needed stability.

  “I hope you’re right, Mikhail,” she said. “Just one more year.”

  He tapped his pocket. “More cards?”

  She smiled and nodded. “Come on. I’m determined to beat you at least once tonight.”

  Beattie was relieved to see Lucy’s initial disdain for her new home quickly replaced with excitement. There were dogs and horses, rabbits and wallabies, miles of paddocks to roam in, and the big echoing kitchen to sit in, drawing with the new set of pencils Henry had bought her. The rug and the bed arrived in the first week, and Lucy settled back in to life with her mother.

  Lucy was frightened of Mikhail at first but soon grew used to him. He came to visit every night, and Lucy fell asleep in the bed while Mikhail and Beattie played poker for matchsticks. Beattie found she had a knack for the game: years of watching men play helped, as did her gift for judging her opponent’s hand through his subtle physical reactions. Soon she was confidently beating Mikhail at almost every hand. He began to call her the Matchstick Tsarina, until Lucy complained that her mother’s name wasn’t Serena, it was Beattie, and he should get it right.

  Two days before Henry was due to collect Lucy for her next visit, Alice came to find Beattie in the laundry. Lucy was sitting on an upturned fruit crate, wrestling a peg doll into a tiny dress that she had sewn herself. Beattie was pressing Raphael’s shirts through the mangle as the copper cooled beside her.

  “Beattie, you have a telephone call,” Alice said.

  Beattie stopped and wiped her hands on her apron. “A telephone call? Are you sure it’s for me?”

  “It’s Molly MacConnell.”

  Lucy looked up and beamed. “Mama Molly! Can I speak to her on the telephone?”

  Mama Molly? Beattie’s heart sank into her stomach.

  Alice shook her head. “She wants to talk to your mother, dear. Not you.”

  Lucy pouted. Beattie stroked her hair off her face. “I’ll tell her you said hello.” She followed Alice to the long hallway, where the telephone sat on a polished table. She picked it up and said, “Hello?,” trying not to sound too nervous.

  “Beattie, it’s Molly.” Her voice was distant and small.

  Beattie wound the cord around her fingers, leaning against the wall. Morning light through the transom fell in a pattern on the floor. The house was dim and quiet. “How can I help you?” she said.

  “I hope you don’t mind me calling, but I need to discuss something with you while Henry isn’t around.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s about Lucy.”

  Mama Molly. How long had Lucy been calling her that?

  “Beattie, I know you love your little girl, and I know you are doing your best to provide for her, but . . . frankly, when we dropped her off last time, I was appalled. A bare room without even a bed—”

  “We have a bed now. And rugs. Lucy loves the farm.”

  “Nonetheless, she’s nearly five. Next year she’ll need school. Here in Hobart, there are many schools. There’s her church.” Molly’s voice grew urgent. “And a proper house with a room and a bed of her own, toys, books, everything she could need.”

  Beattie knew where this conversation was heading. “I see. So you think she’d be better off with you? With Mama Molly instead of Mama Beattie?”

  Molly fell silent.

  “I am her mother,” Beattie said.

  “Henry is her father. He has as much claim on her as you.” Molly calmed herself. “Beattie, I don’t want to argue with you. But surely you can see good sense? If we reverse the arrangement and she spends one week a month with you, then she will still get to run around on the farm from time to time.”

  Beattie was fighting tears. She knew deep down that Molly was making good sense, but to admit it was impossible. “Why did you have to call me when Henry wasn’t there?” she asked. “Doesn’t he want her?”

  “Quite the opposite,” Molly said. “He wants her all the time. He’s been talking about engaging a lawyer, going to the court. I thought if I spoke to you, we could arrange something amicably, something that you could be happy about.”

  Happy? How could she possibly be happy if they took her little girl away? But then how could she hold on to Lucy in the face of this? Her job was uncertain, her living arrangements were inadequate, and Lucy spent hours of every day unattended.

  “Beattie?” Molly said gently.

  “Why must you be so kind?” Beattie said through tears. “Why can’t you at least be cruel so that I can hate you?”

  “Kindness is all we have to give others,” Molly said. “You are Lucy’s mother, and you will always be in our lives. Is it not better that nobody hates anybody?”

  Now Beattie felt foolish, young, a naughty girl. “I suppose I have no choice,” she said. “If I say no, Henry can afford a lawyer, and I can’t.”

  Molly was silent, but Beattie knew what she was thinking: You won’t say no.

  Moments ticked past in the cool, dim hallway.

  “All right, then,” Beattie said at last. “You win.”

  “It’s not a competition. What’s important here is what Lucy needs.”

  For a moment Beattie wavered: Lucy needed her own mother, didn’t she? More than anything else? But she wasn’t such an idealist. “You’re right, of course,” Beattie said. “I’ll let her know what we’ve decided.”

  Beattie waited until the morning they were to collect Lucy to tell her. She didn’t want anything to spoil their last night together, snuggled up in the narrow bed. Lucy was excited about seeing her father again in the morning, demanding her hair be pulled into plaits, her pale skin flushed with happiness.

  As Beattie sat her between her knees on the bed, carefully combing Lucy’s silky red-gold hair into even strands, she finally said it aloud. “Darling, I need to tell you something important.”

  “Hm?” Lucy said absently.

  “I spoke to Molly, and we all think it’s best if you stay with her and Daddy and just visit me once a month.” She hadn’t meant to cry, but her voice broke and the tears spilled over.

  Lucy pulled her hair out of Beattie’s hands and turned to face her. “Mummy? Why is it best if I stay with Daddy and Molly?”

  “Because there you have a room of your own, and you can go to school and church. And I know you love your daddy so much.”

  “I love you so much.”

  Beattie realized, through her own tears, that Lucy’s little mouth was quivering. She hadn’t expected this. She’d assumed that Lucy would be happy with the new arrangements. She put her hands gently on Lucy’s white c
heeks. “Don’t cry.”

  “Don’t you want me to live with you anymore?”

  “Of course I do. I want you with me all the time.” Beattie pressed Lucy against her hard. “But my life is so uncertain, and Daddy and Molly can give you things I can’t.”

  “I will miss you.” Lucy’s voice was muffled against her shoulder.

  “I’ll miss you, too. But you’ll come once a month for a week.” Even as she said it, Beattie knew that arrangement wouldn’t hold forever. Not next year, when Lucy was at school.

  If Beattie even had a job next year.

  And as Lucy cried against her, and her heart ached, and she felt the full weight of her life’s uncertainty, Beattie found herself growing angry. When she’d left Henry, she was certain she’d been taking control of her life. Being a woman who does things. And yet here she was, giving up her daughter for fear of having things done to her once more. She was tired of it, so tired that her bones hurt. All she wanted was a decent, secure, well-paying job, but there were thousands who wanted the same thing. She was one of a crowd of people who couldn’t get ahead; she could never prove to Henry and Molly that she could look after her own daughter adequately.

  Was there anything she could do to struggle out of that crowd; was there any pathway of thought she hadn’t explored, any special skill or talent she could use? Her dressmaking skills meant nothing—but she had spent years working around men with ratlike cunning. What had she learned from that experience?

  An idea glimmered. She felt giddy with fear. But she resolved to do what she had to.

  It was late. Raphael and his lawyer, Leo Sampson, had already dined. It remained only for Beattie to bring them their brandy. She stood in the hallway, quite unable to open the door and go in. Her nerve was failing her. She wanted very much to open the brandy and take a long swig of it herself, for courage.

  Do it, Beattie, do it. There wouldn’t be a better time. She needed Leo to be there, and within a month Raphael himself might be gone. She strode forward, pushed open the door.

  This time she didn’t shrink about, hoping to remain invisible. She walked to the dining table, put the drinks tray down, and stood, erect, waiting to be noticed.