by Bonnie Leon
“Sometimes, but then again there are things a fella needs to leave alone. The blacks aren’t a bad lot, but trying to change the order of things just causes trouble.”
Rebecca knew now was not the time or place to have a discussion about such ideas. There would be time later. Instead, she asked, “What’s a walkabout?”
“Well, it’s when a black just up and leaves. They walk from place to place, sometimes for weeks or even months.”
“Why?”
“I think they’re searching for something . . . new experiences, a change of mind. Some of them are following song lines or something . . . it’s in their souls.”
“They just leave whenever they want?”
“Right.” Daniel grinned. “We’re used to it.”
“What about their families, their jobs?”
“It’s part of life for them. Even my father lets the workers go, and he’s glad to have them back when they’re done wandering.”
“Seems strange.”
“To us maybe, but the blacks know what they’re doing.” He shook his head. “Sometimes they leave in the middle of a job, and when they get back they take up right where they left off.”
The train crested the mountains, and Rebecca turned and looked out the window. A broad plain stretched out below, disappearing into a hazy expanse. The air became discernibly hotter and dryer. The forests faded away, leaving a mix of brown grasses, gum trees, and brush. Patches of green dotted the flatlands. “What are the green areas?”
“Farms. They’re properties that grow mostly vegetables.”
“Do you have a farm?”
“No, we have a station. But we grow vegetables for our own use. There’s not much water, but the land is good for grazing. That’s why we raise cattle. Some stations have sheep. When my grandfather settled ’ere he decided to have a go at cattle. It was a right good decision too. We have the most prosperous place in the district.”
“So your father decided to do the same, then?”
“No deciding to it. He did what his father did. No other course.”
“A man should have a choice.”
“My grandfather’s blood and sweat went into making a go of things.” He shook his head. “How could a son let a father’s work die?”
Rebecca was reminded of her new father-in-law, and her stomach quailed. “You were going to tell me about your father.”
Daniel glanced across the aisle at a chap sleeping with his chin resting on his chest. “He’s a good man. Works hard and expects his family and his stockmen to do the same. There’s nothing foolhardy about his running of the place. And he’s a godly man, lives by the Bible. He watches out for everyone in the district, especially his family.”
Although Daniel’s words were complimentary, his voice lacked conviction and warmth. Something wasn’t right.
The train made a short stop in Toowoomba, then hurried on to Jondaryan, a small community that sprang up because of the wool industry. Sheep were sheared there and the wool shipped out by train.
When Rebecca stepped off the train, she hoped for a reprieve from the oppressive heat, but there was none—no cooling breezes. “Is it always this hot?”
“This time of year, yes. And it’ll be hotter out there.” Squinting, Daniel nodded toward the west. “When we get farther out on the flats, it’ll heat up.” He grinned. “You’ll get used to it.”
Fanning herself, Rebecca doubted that.
After eating a light lunch, Rebecca and Daniel joined three others who were also traveling west. The small group waited in front of the only hotel. They’d barely arrived when a stagecoach moved down the street, pulled by two sets of horses. Dust enveloped it and continued to swirl about after it stopped.
An ill-tempered driver climbed down from the high seat. Loading luggage, he said, “Ya better git on in. I got a schedule ta keep. Not even time enough for a middie,” he grumbled.
Daniel helped Rebecca inside. “What’s a middie?” she whispered, thinking that sometimes the Australian language wasn’t English at all.
Daniel chuckled. “It’s a medium-size beer. He’s complaining because he’s got to keep traveling—no time for refreshment.” He grinned. Then, watching the driver through a window, he added, “Poor bloke. Probably choking on dust most days.”
A couple in their middle years, a heavyset woman and her sparse-looking husband, sat across from Daniel and Rebecca. A man with a heavy beard and in need of a bath settled himself beside the older pair. He stared at Rebecca until she felt uncomfortable. She was glad when he turned his eyes outside as the coach lurched away from the hotel.
Rebecca was thankful for the movement. At least the hot air could circulate. She rearranged her skirts, wishing she could abandon her undergarments. She noticed that most women wore lightweight cotton dresses here. She’d have to make changes in her wardrobe. Exhausted, she longed to lean against Daniel and doze. Instead, she asked, “How much farther is it?”
“Nearly three hundred kilometers.”
“I mean in miles.”
“Two hundred or so.”
Rebecca couldn’t repress a groan. “How long will it take?”
“We’ll be on the road all of today and two more days. There’ll be places to stop for tea and something to eat and a bit of time for sleep.”
Hot, dusty air suffocated, the springs in the seat pinched, and the coach rocked crazily. How would she tolerate three days of travel in this torture chamber? She closed her eyes, hoping sleep might blot out the discomfort.
“Won’t do ya much good ta sleep,” the man with the beard said. “I swear these contraptions weren’t meant for humans.” He laughed, and Rebecca was reminded of a hen cackling over a freshly laid egg.
“Where ya from?” the man asked, peering at her through small blue eyes.
“Boston.”
“America?”
She nodded.
“I could see that. A Yank.” He laughed again, showing rotted teeth. “Wal, I’m from nowhere. Bushie I am.” He gave his head a solid nod. “And what would a gal from Boston be doin’ out ’ere?”
“My husband lives here.” She glanced at Daniel.
“Wal, good ta meet ya. Name’s Spud.”
“Rebecca Thornton. This is my husband, Daniel.”
Spud’s eyes widened. The older couple leaned forward slightly, seeming interested. “A Thornton, eh?”
“Yes. Daniel Thornton. Good to meet you, Spud.” Daniel offered his hand.
“Wal, I never thought I’d ride in a coach with a Thornton.” Shaking Daniel’s hand, the bushie looked genuinely pleased.
“It’s an honor ta meet ya,” the other man said. “I’m Carl Gray, and this is me missus, Lorraine.”
“Nice to make yer acquaintance,” Lorraine said.
“Yer father’s Bertram Thornton?” Carl asked.
“That he is.”
“Heard he’s a good man.”
“Honorable is what I heard. Ya must be roight proud,” Lorraine said. “He’s a help to the district.”
“I’m proud of him, that’s true.” Daniel glanced down at Rebecca, then turned his eyes outdoors and gazed at the thirsty plain.
Rebecca’s anxiety intensified. Who were the Thorntons that strangers knew about them? I’ll find out soon enough, she thought and leaned her head back, closing her eyes and feigning sleep.
Miles passed. Farms with vegetable patches and dark soil fell away. The land became wild and barren. Rebecca searched the emptiness for life, but there was little more than scrub and an occasional dwarfed gum tree. It wasn’t anything like Brisbane. From time to time there was a windmill or farmhouse and what Daniel explained were shepherd’s huts. These were small huts built of wood.
The grasses in Toowoomba had been brown but tall and thick, and the gum trees green. Here the grasses were short and there were patches of bare earth where dirt swirled up and mingled with the dust raised by the horses and the wagon. Rebecca could taste the dust, and the desire for
water became an affliction.
The coach rocked and bumped, and what little breeze was raised only carried in more dust. Rebecca felt sick. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, and she wondered how long it would be before they stopped for refreshment.
As she gazed at the naked plains, the fear that she’d made a mistake grew until Rebecca knew she shouldn’t have come. She and Daniel shouldn’t have married. She glanced at her husband. He was a good man. Pushing aside her disturbing thoughts, she imagined cool, damp forests like the ones at home and felt slightly better.
“What ya smiling ’bout, missy?” Spud asked.
Rebecca didn’t realize she’d been smiling. “Oh, I was just thinking.” She removed her hat and smoothed her damp hair, then dabbed at her moist face and neck with a handkerchief. “How much longer until we stop?”
“Not far. Mrs. Sullivan will have bread and stew waiting for us, and a bed too.” Daniel rested a hand on Rebecca’s arm. “You all right?”
Rebecca nodded. Then, taking in a tight breath, she said, “Just tired and thirsty.”
“Ya’ll get used ta it,” Spud said. “Anyway, ya better or ya’ll be takin’ the next ship home.”
Fighting gloom, Rebecca asked Daniel, “At the station is it like this?”
“Yes, but there are trees, and Mum keeps a garden.” He gently tucked back a damp tendril of hair from Rebecca’s forehead.
The gesture took her by surprise.
“It seems worse in this coach. It’ll be better once we’re home.”
Rebecca nodded and hoped it was true.
“We have a good mob of horses. You can pick one out right away. We’ll ride, often.”
“I’d like that,” Rebecca said, but she couldn’t help thinking of all she’d left—the greenery, a cool sea breeze, Aunt Mildred. Had she made a terrible mistake?
“No worries, dear,” Lorraine said. “It’s always hard when ya first come over, but ya’ll adjust. I came from Melbourne twenty years ago. It’s much greener and cooler down there.”
“And I suppose ya’ll be gettin’ off in Thornton Creek?” Carl asked.
The name Thornton Creek startled Rebecca. The town was named after her husband’s family? Why hadn’t Daniel told her? “Thornton Creek?”
“It’s nothin’. My grandfather settled ’ere first, and they needed a name—they used his.”
His nonchalant manner didn’t reassure Rebecca. Something wasn’t right. Daniel had been vague about his family, he hadn’t told her about the town, and he’d hardly been honest about the beauty of Douloo. What else had he failed to mention?
She stared at the dismal scenery passing by her window. It makes no difference. He’s my husband, and I’ve vowed to be a wife to him . . . even if it means living in this place. We’ll face the joys and hardships of life together.
But the barren plains would not go away, and her troubled thoughts made her tremble.
7
The coach bucked as it moved through Thornton Creek, then lurched to a stop in front of the Thornton Creek Hotel. Daniel should have been pleased to be so close to home; instead, he could feel his anxiety intensify. He glanced at Rebecca. Her eyes were heavy with sleep. What would she think of Douloo? More importantly, what would his father think of her?
She sat up and smoothed her dress.
“We’re just in time for midmorning tea,” he said, forcing a smile.
“Thank goodness.” Rebecca repositioned her hat and replaced a decorative pin. “I could do with something to drink.”
His apprehension climbing, Daniel stepped out of the coach and offered Rebecca his hand.
She remained seated and looked at her traveling companions and then at Daniel.
“Don’t ya worry none,” Lorraine said. “All will be well.”
“It was a pleasure to meet you,” Rebecca said.
Lorraine offered a reassuring nod. “The same to ya. We may meet up again. Ya never know. And if we don’t, well, then ya’ll make new friends.”
“I hope we do meet again.”
Lorraine’s husband said, “Take care of yerself.” He looked at Daniel. “And you too, Mr. Thornton.”
“We will,” Daniel said.
Spud lifted his dusty cap. “Glad ta make yer acquaintance. Roight good ta see a Yank makin’ a go of it. Good luck ta ya.”
Rebecca settled a hand in Daniel’s and stepped off the stage. The driver closed the door and climbed back onto his wooden seat. The driver hollered and flicked the reins, the horses set off, and the coach moved away in a swirl of dust.
Rebecca and Daniel watched until it disappeared. Daniel helped Rebecca up the steps in front of a two-story clapboard building. “Oh dear, my body feels stiff.” She stopped and studied the hotel, which was in need of paint. Its windows were spotless.
Daniel settled an arm about her shoulders. “Perhaps a cup of tea and a biscuit will revive you, eh?” He tried to sound cheerful, but he couldn’t release his apprehension. Since arriving in Brisbane, he’d been practicing what he would say when he faced his father, but even now the words didn’t come easily. Nothing concerning his father was easy.
A stout black man approached. He had a wide, friendly face and was mature in years. “Daniel, good ta ’ave ya home.” He smiled.
“Woodman. Good to see you.”
The two men clasped hands while patting each other on the back.
“How you faring?” Daniel asked.
“Roight good, lad. How ’bout yerself?”
“I’m fine. It’s grand to be back.”
“Roight fine ta see ya. Mrs. Thornton’s been waitin’ on ya, and yer father too.”
Rebecca was taken aback at the warm greeting between the two men, especially after learning of her husband’s intolerance toward blacks.
“I’ve got someone I want you to meet,” Daniel said, stepping closer to Rebecca and circling an arm about her waist. “This is my wife, Rebecca. Rebecca, this is Woodman. Remember, I told you about him.”
“I’m pleased to meet you.”
Woodman smiled. His teeth looked white against dark brown skin. He lifted a shabby brown hat. “Nice ta meet ya, mum.” He winked at Daniel. “She’s a beaut, lad.” Grabbing one of the trunks, he said, “We better get movin’. Yer mother’s ’bout fit ta be tied, with the waitin’.”
The men loaded the luggage, and Rebecca mourned the loss of a tea break. However, the thought of reaching their final destination was so enticing, she said nothing about it.
With the luggage loaded onto the back of a covered surrey, Daniel handed up Rebecca, then climbed in front with Woodman. “You don’t mind if I drive, eh? I’ve been cooped up in the city a bit too long.”
“Take the reins, then. Yer good with the horses.”
They moved through the languid town of Thornton Creek, and Rebecca fought tears. She’d hoped for the bustle of people and the appeal of interesting shops. It was nothing like she’d expected. There was only a handful of establishments, and each looked similar to the hotel—clean and tidy but in need of paint for weatherworn siding. Most businesses had been named after the Thorntons—there was Thornton Creek Bank, Thornton Creek Livery, Thornton Creek Mercantile, and the Thornton Creek Pub. A seamstress shop seemed to be the only dissenter—the sign read, “Elle’s,” and below the name it said, “Fine Needlework and Mending.” Rebecca didn’t quite understand why, but she liked Elle, whoever she was.
Unable to keep her hands still in her lap, she gripped the armrest with one hand while fighting to keep her hair in place with the other.
Daniel glanced at her. “You all right? You look a bit pale.”
“I’m just tired . . . and a little confused. Why are so many of the businesses named after your family?”
Woodman chuckled, then glancing back at Rebecca, said, “It doesn’t mean so much ’round ’ere. Thorntons been ’ere from the first is all.”
“Right,” Daniel added. “Like I told you, my grandfather was the first to settle ’e
re, so it was natural to name the town after him.”
“That makes sense,” Rebecca said, but she still felt uneasy, and she thought Daniel seemed edgy. Seeing her new last name plastered about felt peculiar.
A church stood at the edge of town. Although it was simple, a tall steeple with a bell made it a bit more striking than the other buildings in Thornton Creek. But like the rest of the town, it was in need of paint. Chipping paint and graying wood made the church look stark and inhospitable. Heaviness of heart settled over Rebecca.
“That’s the family church,” Daniel said. “We come every Sunday. It’s not much to look at, but it will do. And the ladies will see that you’re welcomed.”
They moved past, and wishing it looked more like her church in Boston, Rebecca was glad to leave the building behind. She’d have felt better if it, or anything in this town, looked like home. A gloomy disposition won’t help, she told herself. “We haven’t far to go, then?” she asked.
“No. About an hour.”
“You travel into town every Sunday for services?”
“Yes. My father wouldn’t stand for anything less, except of course in the case of flood or fire.”
Wouldn’t stand for? A knot tightened in Rebecca’s stomach. Was her new father-in-law as insensitive and rigid as he sounded?
The surrey moved along a dusty road leading into an empty, golden land. Except for an occasional grove of gum trees, there was nothing but blowing dust and dry grasses submitting to the wind. Rebecca had expected a creek; after all this was Thornton Creek. Finally she asked, “Daniel, why is the town named Thornton Creek? I haven’t seen water of any kind.”
“We’ve got a creek, all right. But this time of year it’s dry. When the rains come it fills up. And sometimes it flows after a summer storm. ’Round these parts there’s either too much moisture or not enough. Course, the real tough times are during a drought—everything dries up.”
“Are you having a drought now?” Rebecca asked, thinking that would explain the aridness and the heat.
“Nah. It’s dry all right, but this is no drought. Course, there will be. There always is . . . eventually.”
