Crimson Dawn

by Fleur McDonald

  She felt Howie’s fingers tighten around hers. He was trying to say something. Father and daughter leaned towards him in an attempt to hear the few whispered words. Laura looked at Sean, hoping he’d caught what Howie had said, but Sean shook his head. Now they both leaned closer.

  ‘My brother. Thomas.’ Howie’s voice was stronger this time, his need for them to understand visible on his face. ‘Thomas. Ran away. If he comes, if his family come, you must help them. Look after them.’

  He looked intently at Laura with weepy eyes and tried to tighten his hold on her hand. ‘He never forgave Dad. Or me. It’s gotta be you, Laurs.’ He leaned back then. ‘There mightn’t be any of them left. But there might. Promise me.’

  Laura kept her eyes on Howie’s face as she nodded. ‘I promise, Papa. I promise.’

  Did Howie know what he was asking? Still, it didn’t matter. She would have agreed to do whatever he asked of her at that moment. If her word meant he went into eternity content, then she would do it.

  Howie was clearly exhausted by the effort it had taken to talk, and he slumped back on the pillows. His eyes closed and never reopened. It wasn’t long before he drew his final breath.

  Laura and her father sat still, shell-shocked for a moment. Then Sean reached over and placed his fingers under Howie’s nose. There was no breath.

  Laura felt a searing grief mixed with fear. ‘No, Papa, you can’t go! You can’t leave me. I need you!’ she wanted to scream.

  But she didn’t. And neither did Sean. They reached across the bed for each other’s hand, their fingers colliding in a clumsy grip.

  They stayed that way for many minutes, Howie’s last words hanging in the air.

  Shakily clutching a sheet of paper, Laura was unsteady in her high heels as she made her way towards the pulpit. To get there, she had to pass Howie’s coffin and she paused for a moment to touch it. Then, straightening her shoulders, she ploughed forward, desperate for her part in the service to be over. Her throat was constricted and she wondered whether she’d be able to make her voice work. She’d have to, she told herself as stepped up onto the platform.

  She looked out into the church. Seated in the front row was her family. Georgie was dabbing at her eyes, while Sean sat ram-rod straight. Laura could see his tightened jaw working overtime as he tried to stop himself from breaking down. Nicki and Poppy sat next to each other, holding hands, both pale faced, eyes large and red. It was the first death they’d really experienced.

  Everyone in the church was silent, watching her. The only sound was a shuffling of the order of service.

  A movement caught her eye. Catherine. A tiny signal. Two thumbs up. A wink. It was like she was trying to channel strength to Laura.

  The minister stepped forward, ready to take the eulogy and read it, if needed. But Laura opened her mouth and, as she did, she knew she could do it. ‘Howie Murphy was an extraordinary man,’ she began.

  From that point the words flowed freely. Her voice was strong and clear, and as she spoke she hoped that, with every word, Howie would be proud and that somehow she would keep his memory alive.

  Laura was nearing the end when she faltered. ‘As you would all know, Papa helped raise me. And the way he brought me up was to always believe I could do anything I put my mind to. And so when I told him a couple of years ago that I wanted to set up a farming school, he didn’t laugh. He encouraged it. He always encouraged everything I did and I couldn’t have asked for a more accepting and supportive person to be in my life. I’m just grateful that Howie saw the idea off the ground. And while he never lived to meet the students, they’ll know about him when they do come. Hopefully, I’ll be able to pass on the same kind of encouragement Howie always showed me.’

  Laura’s voice cracked and once again the minister stepped forward, but she shook him off and turned to the coffin. ‘Papa, thank you. Thank you for everything, but thank you most of all for always being there. I’ll miss you more than you could possibly imagine.’

  She stumbled from the pulpit and sat next to her father, who patted her knee and gave a wobbly smile. Georgie reached out her arm and slipped it around her shoulders.

  After the burial, the family went into the hall. The church ladies were serving cups of tea and coffee with homemade sandwiches, sponge cake and scones.

  This was the part Laura hadn’t been looking forward to. Having to smile and pretend she wasn’t broken-hearted.

  Catherine reached her before anyone else could and dragged her into a corner. ‘I’m so proud of you,’ she said softly, giving Laura a hug. ‘You did really well. Shit of a job.’

  ‘Thanks.’ They looked around at the people who had come to Howie’s funeral. ‘He touched so many, Catherine. Look at all these people. They’re here to honour his life and memory.’

  ‘Yeah, but don’t forget they’re here for you and your family too. Look, there’s Tim Burns. I met him at one of the seminars I held a few weeks ago. He’s our age and I’m sure he’s here to show his support for you too, not just Howie.’

  Laura glanced across at Tim, the local vet. She’d never seen him in a suit before.

  Catherine gave her shoulder a nudge. ‘He’s pretty hot in that suit!’ she said, as if she’d read Laura’s mind.

  Laura was saved from answering when Mrs Johnson came up and pulled her into a lavender-smelling hug. ‘My dear girl,’ she said. ‘You must be feeling so lost.’

  Laura tried to smile. She nodded.

  ‘Oh, you’ll be so lonely out in that rambling old homestead all by yourself. You make sure you call me if I can help.’ Mrs Johnson patted Laura’s shoulder then left them alone.

  ‘Honey, I have to run,’ Catherine said. ‘I’ve got to get back to Adelaide so I can catch the plane to Perth. I’ve got three events to run over there. Ring me any time of the day or night.’ Then she smiled. ‘Still, you already know that.’ Catherine gave Laura another hug. ‘I’m so proud of you. Only a few more weeks and your first lot of students will arrive. They’ll be a distraction.’

  Heat pierced Laura’s eyes. Even though she was sure she’d shed all the tears she could she suddenly found more. ‘Wish he could have seen the school’s first day, the first intake arriving, though.’ Her voice caught. ‘I’m going to miss him so much.’

  ‘I know, honey. But you’re strong too. And I believe he’ll be watching down and see the students arrive. You never know, he might even come back to haunt them.’

  Laura gave a watery smile. ‘Oh, hell no! He was always a bit unorthodox in his methods. I can’t teach the students the way he would have done things.’

  Catherine took hold of Laura by the shoulders. ‘You’ll make a great teacher and I’m so pleased you’ve got something to absorb you. You’ve worked too hard to get this off the ground to let it fail now.’ Catherine smiled, gently punched her shoulder then took her leave.

  ‘Laura.’

  She turned at the sound of a soft male voice. It was Tim Burns.

  ‘Hello,’ was all Laura could manage.

  ‘I’m so sorry for your loss. If there’s anything I can do . . .’

  Laura swallowed. ‘Thanks.’

  The vet was one of many who passed on their condolences that afternoon, and Laura found herself being constantly hugged, kissed and wept over. It was exactly the scenario she’d dreaded.

  Finally, the church hall was empty and the family made the drive back to Nambina. But with Howie gone, it was a sad gathering. The house seemed empty, even with all of them there. They kept expecting to see Howie sitting in his chair, or standing by the fire.

  How Laura would keep going without his love and encouragement she had no idea. And when her family left in the morning, she’d be alone, well and truly, for the first time in her life.

  Chapter 10

  1937

  ‘Tar boy!’ Gecko held a ewe between his legs. She twisted and thumped her back legs on the board.

  There was a chorus of ‘Hang on to her!’ and ‘Get a grip!’.
>
  Thomas looked up from branding a bale as a young Aboriginal boy who worked on the station ran over with a small billy and brush to paint on the thick tar.

  Thomas could see that the ewe had been cut on the long blow and the gash went from the top of her shoulder and around her rib cage. Mac wouldn’t like that, he knew. He quickly turned back to his work before anyone could see him watching. Wiping his brow, he used the black ink and stencil to mark the bale number and the type—AAM.

  ‘Thomas!’

  He turned to see Mac hurrying towards him.

  ‘Mr Ford would like to take another load of wool to town. Have you got enough to fill his truck?’

  Thomas quickly ran through the morning’s efforts. He’d pressed fourteen bales this morning and there were another three from yesterday. Ford only needed twelve.

  ‘Yeah. There’s plenty.’

  ‘Good. Help Jacko load it, will you?’ Jacko was the head stockman.

  ‘No worries.’

  Thomas grabbed the wool hook and began manoeuvring the unwieldy packs. He slid open the iron door and was blinded by sunlight.

  Once his eyes adjusted, he could see the rusty red flatbed truck reversing towards the shed. Four dogs were running around on the tray, barking loudly, their ears pricked and eyes keen. Thomas grinned at the sight of their obvious love of life then stopped as, in his mind’s eye, his childhood dog, Flea, chased a rabbit. Flea’s expression and how he’d cowered when Ernest’s voice rose had mirrored Thomas’s feelings every time.

  Quickly he grabbed a bale, pulled it onto its side and flipped it over and over, rolling it towards the loading ramp. He wouldn’t let memories get in the way of his new life. He couldn’t understand why they were beginning to plague him now, months after he’d left home. He wished the memories would just go away.

  ‘Here, boy!’ A harsh voice called out. ‘This way.’

  The tone reminded him of his father and at once anger surged inside him. But, as always, he kept his mouth shut and did as he was asked.

  ‘No, no, no! Not like that.’ The head stockman roughly took the bale hook from him and turned the wool on its end, rolling it all the way to the front of the tray. Here, he wiggled it until it was just right and strode back to get the second bale.

  Thomas moved to help him.

  ‘Get out of me way. You’re too slow and don’t know how to stack them well.’

  Thomas found his tongue.

  ‘Show me, then.’

  ‘Haven’t got time. Mr Ford needs to get his daughter on a train back to Adelaide.’

  Mac, hearing the impatient tone above the noise of the shed, came out onto the landing. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Your green presser has no bloody idea how to stack bales. Look at this higgledy-piggledy mess. No point getting him to help me load. Mr Ford’s in a hurry.’

  ‘Do it yourself, then,’ Mac said shortly and nodded for Thomas to go inside.

  Feeling embarrassed and hoping he hadn’t let Mac down, Thomas walked quickly back to the wool bins and grabbed an armful to throw in the press. He would prove to Jacko he could do his job well.

  ‘Pay no mind,’ said Mac, appearing at his shoulder. ‘He’s a grumpy bugger at the best of times.’

  Thomas looked over his shoulder, watching Jacko roll and flip the bales as if they weighed nothing. The man pushed and pulled until they slotted against one another, unable to move. ‘Get away with you!’ he yelled at the dogs, which were happily trotting around his feet.

  ‘Ah, look at that, would you?’ Mac nodded towards the homestead. ‘A vision splendid. Miss Elizabeth Ford. Or Lizzie, as her parents call her.’ He turned back to the rest of the crew. ‘Ducks on the pond, my friends,’ he called. ‘Ducks on the pond.’

  Two figures walked towards them. Thomas knew Mr Ford. He’d seen him out in the yards, looking at the wool on the sheep and drafting the young ewes into lines. He’d heard stories of the daughter who accompanied him often, a girl who knew as much as her father did when it came to breeding sheep and growing wool, but he’d never set eyes on her before.

  She was blonde and slim. As she drew closer, Thomas could see her face was beautiful, her hair tied back in a bun. She wore a long skirt, a tucked-in blouse and low, sensible shoes, but judging by the way she strode confidently through the small scrubby bushes and rocky ground, Thomas knew she wasn’t a fashionable lady. She was a woman who had grown up on the land and understood its moods.

  ‘Ford’s daughter,’ Mac confirmed. ‘Best catch going around here. She’ll be heading back to boarding school. She’s been home helping look after her sister—she’s been ill. Her mother needed the extra help with shearing on. Lizzie really should have been in school.’ He sighed. ‘I tell you, Thomas, she’ll make a man a fine wife in a few years’ time. She’s practical and sensible. Certainly doesn’t suffer fools. Just the sort of lady a man needs . . .’ He broke off. ‘But still, I’m sure there’ll be many suitors when the time comes. She’s about your age.’ He raised his eyebrows at Thomas and nodded.

  Thomas was silent. They both looked a bit longer and then Thomas turned away. No point in longing for something that could never be his. He grabbed another armful of wool and threw it into the press.

  The bale was full so he grabbed a handle either side and started to jack them up and down. He could hear Jacko cursing and the shearers’ call of ‘sheep-o’ or ‘tar boy’, but he concentrated on his work. If Jacko looked in, he would have no cause for complaint.

  The small door at the side slid open and Mr Ford stood, silhouetted in frame. Thomas glanced up then went straight back to his work.

  When he heard voices he looked up again, and stared straight into the vivid blue eyes of Miss Ford.

  He was suddenly aware of his appearance as he’d never been before. Sweating, filthy, and greasy from the wool. His clothes were threadbare and covered in the dirt from the day’s toil. He wished he’d mended the tear in his shirt last night, as he’d planned. He’d ended up playing poker instead.

  Quickly he looked back to his task.

  ‘You’ll see here, Mr Ford,’ Mac was saying. ‘This is the line I’d like you to put up for sale first. It’s consistent in micron and strength. Because of the good season, there’s little vegetable matter, and I believe, of all the wool I’ve seen so far, it should top the first sale you’re able to get it into.’

  From the corner of his eye, Thomas could see that Mac was showing the owner and his daughter the samples he’d kept out from each bale. It was a habit not many classers had, but Mac liked to have a physical piece of fibre to refer to. He would follow every line, from every station he’d been on. When he returned the next year, he’d know what the wool had sold for and what results had been achieved. The owners liked the way he did this, Thomas knew—he’d overheard Mr Hampton at Carpoole Station saying so. It was one of the things that put Mac at the top of his profession.

  Thomas glanced up again and found Miss Ford still staring at him. He bravely held her gaze for a moment, then placed the flaps of the bale over each other and closed it up. The door of the press groaned as it open. Thomas pulled the finished bale out and thump-thudded it over to the wall, where he heaved the nearly 400-pound bale onto its end. He knew the girl was watching and wished she wouldn’t. Why was she?

  ‘Truck’s all loaded, Mr Ford.’ Jacko was now standing at the boss’s side and he touched a finger to his forehead. ‘Miss Ford,’ the stockman acknowledged with a wide smile, all his previous agitation gone.

  ‘Mr Jackson.’ Miss Ford nodded and turned back to the wool her father was holding. ‘Mr McDougall,’ she said. It took a moment for Thomas to realise she was talking to Mac—he’d never heard his full name used before. ‘After helping my father class the ewe hoggets, I believe the purchase of the ram from Boonoke Stud has helped our yield. How many pounds of wool per sheep are we averaging this year?’

  Thomas’s eyes widened at the question. He’d heard she knew her stuff. Elizabeth must know ever
ything there was to know about breeding sheep.

  This could have been him if his father hadn’t been a drunk. If Ernest had bothered to teach instead of hit. They could have taken an interest in wool, increased their mobs. Thomas hadn’t realised how much he loved wool until he’d joined Mac’s team, and he’d been told more than once he had a natural ability to judge it as it came off the sheep’s back. He could still be living on Nambina, would have inherited it one day . . . But there wasn’t any point in thinking about it. He had a new life. New friends. New everything. Still, there were times when he couldn’t help but feel angry. This was one of them. He bit down the fury, which was rising like bile in his throat. Nambina was another world and at least four hundred miles away. He needed to let it go. Breathing deeply, he jabbed the hook deep into the bale, wishing it was his father’s heart.

  ‘Well, Miss Ford, the weights are easily up about half a pound on last year,’ Mac answered.

  Thomas was unfolding a new pack to put in the press as he heard Mr Ford laugh, and he glanced over. Mr Ford was looking proudly at his daughter. ‘Taught her everything she knows, Mac, so I did!’

  ‘Miss Ford, I have to admit, you know your subject well,’ Mac answered. ‘As we discussed last night over dinner.’ He nodded to emphasise his point.

  She graciously inclined her head and glanced towards Thomas again.

  ‘Well, we must be on our way. Elizabeth has a train to catch.’

  ‘Back to the humdrum of boarding school,’ she laughed. ‘I’d much rather be here.’

  ‘I’m sure you would, Miss Ford. But you can’t have much longer to go now before school’s over for good?’

  ‘One more term after this one, Mr McDougall. Truth be told, I can’t wait to finish. I’ve been happier here helping out than I could ever have been in the city. There’s a life to be lived out here.’ She smiled and Thomas felt his heart change rhythm.

  ‘Come now, Lizzie,’ her father said. ‘It can’t be all that bad. You’ll be seeing Mr McDougall and the wool again at the show. You don’t have long to wait.’