He pulled in at a bore, where she cleaned herself up as best she could. Then he delivered her home to the valley, along with another year’s worth of supplies.
Milly was with him when he went the next year. At Marj’s suggestion!
He chuckles at the weird irony of it all as he gives the stew a stir.
Marj and Bob had always been civil, without ever really having much time for each other. But they were the two who started to get mixed up in all the politics stuff, going off to Land Council meetings and what have you. He was proud of them. Especially Marj, who wasn’t going to let the diabetes and all its complications slow her down; there weren’t many women up front in those early days.
Somewhere in there they stopped being the Highlands mob, and became the Jimbala Wali Community, with Marj as the chairman. The name never took root in his mind. He knew all that politics business was not for him. He went to one of the meetings early on, and it was all too hard and angry for his liking. After that, if the Land Council couldn’t pick them up, he handed the car over to Marj and stayed home looking after Milly.
On one of those long drives Marj put the screws on Bob, challenging the twins’ Fish Creek story. Neither of them ever told Two Bob exactly what transpired, but the dynamic between him and Marj shifted. She let the ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ arrangement stand, knowing that a confrontation would make him at best deeply uncomfortable. But with the odd comment she let it be known that Bob had spilled the beans – or some of them at least – and she stopped being so resentful about this silence between them.
That year when he gave her his usual mumble about having to take off for a week, she gave him a look, and said, ‘Why don’t you take Milly with you. I’m goin’ to be flat out here.’
He and Milly arrived at the hut to discover that three had become four. Jinda had been pregnant. Milly couldn’t have been more delighted. It was like having a real live doll. For the three days they were in there she hardly let go of her little nephew Riley.
Jinda’s dissolute years in Derby had taken their toll. One morning she didn’t wake up. Two Bob arrived in the valley to find toddler Riley in the care of his sixty-year-old grandma and eighty-year-old great-grandpa.
Billy and Sarah’s lives had narrowed down to the most basic of tasks. They survived, and they doted on the boy. They both knew it had become ridiculous. But both of them had also gone beyond the point of being able to change it, to take the momentous step of leaving, even for Riley’s sake. Two Bob had the only blazing row of his life with his father, but there was no persuading him.
Instead he started to go in two or three times a year, taking powdered milk and tinned fruit for Riley. And he built three huge piles of firewood. Big enough to create a smoke smudge on a far horizon. He told them he would watch every morning that he could. If Riley needed help, light the first pile. If he had not come within the week, light the second, and then after another week the third.
They all knew it was less than adequate, but could think of no other scheme.
18
In the year of 1929 a miracle unfolded in this room where I sit and write. I can think of it no other way. It was a most bewildering experience when I was ushered in by Polly, that first time I beheld the mewling pair each grasping for a teat; so like in feature as two peas in a pod, yet such a contrast in hue. I was overcome with manly pride and love. Yet there was at the same time something almost disturbing in the sight; one near as dark as his mother, the other near as pale as I, creamy and stark beside his mother and his twin.
Othello and Hamlet. Wajarri and Janga. Two Bob and Bob. My flesh and my blood. My heart and my soul. My agony.
As young’uns they were an unbridled joy to Bessie and I, and the rest of us here in the valley. But as they grew I came to realise that they were a mystery as much as a miracle. It was an intrigue to us all to watch them. So unalike in temperament, yet always, it seemed, in harmony with each other. Othello was a steady young soul. Hamlet, though, confounded me; there was indeed a fire in him.
Marralam breathed his last a few years after the twins arrived. My brood aside, his daughter Polly with her gammy leg was the only permanent resident left. Her son Bullet and her two cousins and their families still came and went back then, but the responsibility of leadership fell by default upon me. I speak now with hindsight, but with his passing something changed profoundly here. This place had been founded as a defiant warrior’s retreat and fastness, bound to the stories and deeds of a time of war. With him gone, it became instead a mere hiding place.
At the time, I had no such thoughts. Indeed, they were my golden years, that decade when the lads were young. I knew full well how odd our situation was, but fancied that I would not change it for the world. I was the head of a family I adored, and given our peculiar circumstances I provided for them well.
After Sarah’s birth, having abandoned any thought of departing the valley, I gradually transformed our boughshed into the dwelling it is now. I instigated a scheme of irrigation for the kitchen garden that I cultivated. And most importantly, I came to an arrangement with Stumpy Maclean.
Maclean had taken up his run to our north, which he called Highlands. He was clearly a hard-working and assiduous man, determined to make the most of the lease he now occupied. Two years running he had mustered his southern flank, making camp at the selfsame waterhole near the hillock where Bessie and I had waited. Such activity was much too close for comfort as far as Marralam was concerned. Bessie told me that there had been talk between he and a couple of the younger men about an ambush. But they well knew that the disappearance of a white man would inevitably lead to inquiries and searches that would imperil our fastness.
Well, I knew something of the man. He was the one the police had investigated so thoroughly but unsuccessfully for a murder without a body! I had encountered him during my days at Mount House before I reached Poison Hole. The men there admired the coolness and nerve he displayed in the face of the investigation. He was a man who looked to his own business, caring little for proprieties or the sentiment of others.
Marralam agreed to the plan I suggested. It entailed a very great chance at the outset, should my estimation of the man be mistaken, but Marralam recognised he no longer had the power to ensure our survival by his will alone. The beauty of it was the obvious benefit it provided to all the parties.
Stumpy was a man to rapidly assess a situation. He showed no surprise when I walked into his camp. Indeed he laughed. ‘The Billygoat! You’re looking a bit raggedy arsed there lad. I thought you’d be in the Territory. And where’s your brother?’ They never found poor Des, I thought. But quickly enough we got down to business. His closing words were, ‘You hand over the cattle before I hand over the goods.’
Thus was sealed a bargain that served us all well for nigh on twenty years. The arrangement was simple enough. By enclosing the valley at its two entrances Marralam had already created a supply of beef more than adequate to our needs. I offered the surplus to Stumpy in return for a supply of goods. The first year it was twenty head. But as we started to manage our stock, we were able to provide him with fifty, sometimes sixty head of quiet bullocks each year, walked down the ravine to its outlet only a short ride from the billabong that he had christened as Bullfrog Hole.
Each year, as we handed over the bullocks, I would also deliver a list of goods and supplies for him to bring to Bullfrog Hole the next. I have no doubt that he profited handsomely from the transaction. But from our perspective, so did we. The necessities and the small luxuries were both provided for. And each year I was able to obtain tools, equipments and various items that made our life here more amenable. This scheme was in place before our boys were born, but from a very early age they became adept young stockmen, and soon exceeded me in proficiency.
I became confident enough in Stumpy – or should I say in his desire to keep our arrangement intact – that I broached the matter of our tenure. For two years I asked for nothing but basic supplies on
my yearly list. In return, Stumpy took out a new pastoral lease, which, at my request, he registered as Maryvale. Most of it was steepling rock on which no beast would ever graze, but it included this valley of ours. That year, before the exchange of stock and goods, he signed the deed I had drawn up, assigning the lease to me.
My Maryvale. Named for my mother. A valley of no horizons, where the steep walls delay the sun’s appearance and hasten its departure; but I have never found it gloomy. The lease papers and the deed with mine and Stumpy’s signatures are secured in the trunk with my Will.
I also took to embarking on occasional ramblings further afield. I steered clear of Stumpy’s domain to our north, but explored the other three quarters, gradually extending my range. As I learned to read the country more closely I became fascinated with the nature of the rocks and ranges that were so dominant. This in turn led to my discovery of a thin and somewhat fickle seam of gold in a belt of quartzite some two days walk from home.
I liked to think of myself as a prudent man. Though I had no plans at all to change our situation, between the lease and the gold that I secreted, I felt I had some insurance, should mischance befall us. As sure enough it did!
Stumpy Maclean, the foolish man, decided it was his duty to take the fight to the Emperor of Nippon. Now, that was an action that seemed out of character with the man I knew. Perhaps he had at last tired of his life as Lord of Highlands, and wanted a new adventure.
The bell was tolling for this fool’s paradise.
19
Two Bob hums the song of the spring. The song that Parli taught them both in the time before he can remember. He pulls a small chunk of the boab pith from his pocket, and sucks on it, smiling at the sourness.
You never really forgave me, did you, for goin’ with the old man. For leavin’ you behind, locked up. I didn’t know. I told you that, but still you didn’t forgive me.
Two Bob looks up at the new moon, a thin silver sliver amongst the branches, halfway towards the western horizon. The edge is coming off the midday heat. There are a good couple of hours of light left, but the day is on the decline.
Marj and Bob were at a Land Council meeting. Down at Billiluna in the desert country, which was as foreign to Two Bob as France. There were none of those premonitions that twins are supposed to get, and which he would have expected.
His theory is that it happened too quick for Bob to call out to him – Marj said he had a big heart attack right there in the meeting, and lay down dead on the spot.
He didn’t know what to feel. He just had to live with the hole that was left.
Eh brother, I might be readin’ you wrong, but I don’t think so. You’re givin’ me the go-ahead. It’s time to sort things out.
He is feeling old. And strangely nervous. Of all his blood relations and family, only Riley and Dancer are left.
Let’s just hope I don’t fuck it up; I’m not as clever as you were.
20
My hand is shaky this morn.
Was it prudence or fear? A mixture perhaps? I had the means – my stash of gold. And if I’d acted that same year whilst the lads were younger and Hamlet more amenable, all may have turned out differently. But I dithered, eking out Stumpy’s last consignment as the rains failed us two years running. But worse than the hard rations was what I can only describe as a loss of harmony amongst us.
Bessie’s general mood and occasional fits of temper were certainly not improved when the supply of chewing tobacco ran dry. She would grumble about this shortage or that, or watch with disapproval as I began to struggle with exercising my fatherly duties.
Our Sarah had been besotted with Bullet for many a year, had always pined when he departed the valley. Whereas Bullet and I had never got on. We had words during one of his visits, and he departed angrily to seek his kin. He swore to Polly and Sarah that he would return, but cursed me as he left. Sarah, unfairly I believed, held me responsible, and withdrew her affections from me.
Hamlet took her side. He had become increasingly defiant, and I knew not how to deal with him other than to become ever firmer in directing and disciplining him. He would bow to my authority when he had to, but only because he had to. My love for him did not diminish, but his for me did lessen.
I would watch him. With his brother, his mother, his sister, he was as high-spirited and as charming as ever. He and Othello went about their tasks with the cattle like a pair of old hands, working in perfect harmony. It was only when he and I had dealings that the air would become thick with tensions. It came to seem that in the daylight hours only Othello could find a smile for me. Yet of course, I knew him to be entirely sympathetic with his twin, and would not have expected it to be otherwise.
It came to its boiling point when we had consumed the last of the flour. There was meat aplenty still, but nary a vegetable. The tea and sugar and tobacco were long finished. The johnnycakes the ladies made from the seeds they winnowed and ground had once been a treat for us all, but they too were exhausted.
The time had well and truly come to make use of the gold I had been hoarding. It was Stumpy who had told me of Sohan the cameleer, and his block at Moonlight Valley. There was a chance he was no longer there, or that he might be away with his camels when I visited. But I could think of no better scheme. I conveyed none of my doubts to Bessie and the children when I laid out my plan.
Ah. I think back now on our foolishness. As if Hamlet was ever going to live a life here in this valley, with all that curiosity and energy and charm he had. But Bessie was just as adamant as me that Hamlet should not accompany Othello and I. Should things go awry, I might pass myself off as an eccentric prospector, and Othello as a native in my employ. But a fourteen-year-old as pale as his father, and identical to his brother in all but hue of skin? It was beyond explanation.
It is also true, though I would not say it, that I was reluctant to embark on this chancy adventure with him. I could rely upon my Othello to play his part. When it came to Hamlet, I had no such confidence. I had guessed a two week walk. The two of us would not last that long in each other’s company!
And so, with stern admonitions on my part to Hamlet to care for his mother and sister, Othello and I departed. We left later than I had planned, and made it only as far as our valley’s eastern exit that first night.
In truth, I was not surprised at what unfolded the next morn. Othello’s demeanour gave the game away. He may perhaps have laid an eye upon his brother, but more likely it was that sixth sense they shared.
It took a great effort on my part to maintain an outward appearance of calm. I called out, and when Hamlet finally appeared his manner was defiant. The look exchanged between us remains burnt in my memory. Yet he bowed to me. Not a word crossed our lips in the hours it took us to return to camp. He walked as slowly as he dared, knowing that my fury and frustration were mounting.
When we reached the final turning that leads into this hidden pocket, he simply sat. He deliberately forced me to take him in hand. Yet the moment I did, he resisted not. Oh how many times have I replayed that day in my mind? Each time I released my hold on him, he stopped and regarded me, almost mildly, until I was forced to take a hold again and lead him on. And so we entered the camp, me grasping his wrist, Bessie and Sarah fearfully watching. I let go of him there in the kitchen boughshed. He let his arm drop and stood motionless as the women edged closer.
It took every ounce of self-control in me to keep my voice calm. ‘Will you stay?’ I asked. It came out as a whisper, almost, the first time.
He looked not at me, and answered not.
‘Will you stay?’ I asked again, louder. The same response.
‘Will you stay?’ I shouted.
This time he met my eye, but still he said nothing.
‘By God you shall!’
I find it hard to believe, still. That I remembered it. That it was there at all. But in that moment I did not hesitate. I marched to the hut where I kept my tools, and there, buried in a dark corner amon
gst other unused, long-forgotten items we had brought to the valley all those years ago, I found it. And back I marched.
Bessie realised what I was about but was unable to stop me. In a blind fury, I secured the chain around the boughshed’s post, and before he knew what I was doing, I sat Hamlet on the ground, and snapped the iron around his leg above his ankle.
The poor boy was too shocked to protest.
With my blood still boiling, I glared at the three of them and departed.
There! I have confessed at last.
I did chain my own flesh and blood. And I used the same chain and the same leg-iron that had been used to chain his own mother.
But there is something worse than that.
I took the key with me.
Oh I feel wretched.
It was so long ago, that fateful day. There is more I would like to say, of my dear Bessie, of my Sarah, so recently buried, of her Jinda, and especially of, or even for, Riley, but the chance is past.
I know not what else I should have done that day. But what I did was wrong and was foul. It tainted all. This place, and those of us who remained.
I am sorry to all of you.
My greatest trait was stubbornness. I fear it did not serve us well.
It is done. I am going to sit by the spring.
21
Two Bob was on the track to Bullfrog Hole within fifteen minutes of seeing the smoke on the south-west horizon.
‘Did Bob tell you about Riley?’ he asked Marj.
‘He told me.’
‘I dunno what’s goin’ on, but he might be comin’ back with me.’
Marj held his eyes. He couldn’t read her face, which disturbed him.
She reached in through the car window, laid a hand on his forearm, squeezed briefly.
Two Bob stretches his arm out, remembering that touch. It is an old man’s limb now, the skin is looser, the muscle weaker. He remembers her words too, and the surge of love he felt.
The Valley Page 9
