A Far Country

by John Fletcher

  ‘Mr Benson,’ she said imperiously, ‘remember what I said, please. ‘I think it would be best if you moved on.’

  Benson was beginning to recover from the shock of seeing his colleague trashed. He scowled. ‘We come ’ere legal,’ he said. ‘We won’t be movin’ nowhere until Sergeant Dawkins recovers. If he does. If he don’t I suppose you’ll be hearing from us.’

  Jason stirred in the saddle, not too exhausted to sort out this problem, too, if needs be, but Asta raised her hand to still him. ‘I saw very clearly what happened here,’ she said. ‘I shall inform the authorities accordingly, if I have to. About everything I have seen.’ She looked meaningfully at the sprawling group of natives, some now staring vacantly up at them. ‘I recommend you move on as soon as the sergeant is able to ride.’

  She clicked her tongue at her mount and rode away up the slope, Jason following. As soon as they were clear of the trees she dropped back to ride beside him. ‘I hope you know how lucky you are.’

  ‘Lucky?’ Jason felt anything but lucky. ‘Why?’

  ‘To have me there. If you had been alone they might have killed you.’

  ‘Dawkins did his best. And if it hadn’t been for you I wouldn’t have been there at all.’

  ‘As well for your friend’s sake I was, then.’

  Asta always had to have the last word, he thought, but she was right. If they hadn’t turned up when they did Mura might have died. He still might.

  ‘I hope he doesn’t die on us,’ he said.

  ‘Who? Michael or the sergeant?’

  Jason had not been thinking of Dawkins but realised he had probably meant both. ‘There’ll be trouble if the sergeant dies, that’s for sure.’

  ‘We must just hope Sergeant Dawkins makes a good recovery,’ Asta said.

  They made good time back to Whitby Downs. They eased Mura to the ground and carried him into the house.

  ‘I’ll put him to bed here,’ Asta said, ‘where I can keep an eye on him. I want you to ride to Bungaree.’

  ‘Why?’ Jason was dubious about his reception at Bungaree.

  ‘We must warn them that Benson is selling drink to the natives.’

  ‘Blake won’t care if Benson poisons every black in the colony.’

  ‘Then he should. If the drink drives them mad he is in as much danger as we are.’

  ‘They aren’t in a state to be a danger to anyone.’

  But went anyway. Blake, as he had suspected, surly in his greeting. He stood between Jason and the house and made no attempt to invite him indoors.

  ‘What do you want?’

  Jason explained about the whisky men.

  ‘Damn mongrels stirring up trouble,’ Blake said. He stared angrily at Jason as though blaming him for Benson and his activities. ‘All right, so you’ve told me. I’ll keep an eye out.’

  Jason remounted. ‘Alison well?’

  Blake glared. ‘What’s it got to do with you?’

  ‘Just asking,’ Jason said. ‘No need to get in a state about it.’

  ‘A friend of yours was here,’ Blake said.

  I have no friends, Alison thought. I am alone in this place, with this man. But said nothing, trying to avoid trouble. For two days, since the beating, she had done and said only those things she thought would be acceptable to her husband.

  ‘Who was it?’ Since he obviously wanted her to ask.

  ‘Guess.’

  ‘I suppose it must have been Jason.’

  ‘Why d’you think that?’

  ‘You asked me to guess,’ she said desperately. ‘I guessed. That’s all.’

  ‘Mebbe you wanted it to be Jason?’

  She was close to tears. ‘I didn’t want it to be anyone. I didn’t even know he was here.’

  ‘Don’t you care who it was?’

  ‘No!’

  A dangerous pause.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  Tears pricked like needles at the back of her eyes. ‘I don’t know what you want me to say.’

  ‘I want the truth!’

  Very well, she thought, I will give you the truth. God help us both if you don’t like it. ‘I married you from choice. I haven’t looked at another man since. Not Jason, not anyone. You wrong me with these … suspicions.’

  Blake scowled. ‘What d’you mean, suspicions?’

  ‘Asking questions—’

  ‘I told you a friend had been here. Nothing suspicious in that. Or are you sayin’ Jason isn’t a friend?’

  ‘I hardly ever see him—’

  ‘You sayin’ he’s never been a friend?’

  ‘Of course not—’

  ‘What suspicions?’ Shouting.

  ‘You seem to think … The way you spoke …’ Coherence fragmenting before the juggernaut of his anger.

  ‘Maybe I was right to think it,’ he said.

  ‘No!’

  He took her by the hair. Slowly he tightened his grip, lifting her to her toes. Her eyes were squeezed shut. In the blackness she felt despairing tears running down her face.

  He slapped her, not hard, but the fact that he could do it at all was a humiliation beyond blows.

  ‘Don’ tell me what I think,’ he said. He held her, crucified upon her web of hair. He said, ‘Look at me.’

  She whimpered.

  ‘Look at me!’

  She forced her eyes open, willing herself to give him no grounds for punishing her further. Splintered by tears, his face loomed close, jaw outthrust. He tightened his grip on her hair until fire ran through her scalp.

  Please …

  The word screamed in her head but she made no sound. That much of her independence remained, at least.

  ‘I would love you if you let me,’ Blake said.

  The notion of Blake loving anyone … Yet it was her only hope.

  ‘I want you to love me.’ Her lips were stiff. Somehow she managed to utter the words. ‘I want it more than anything.’

  He released her hair. The sudden easing of pain made her cry out. More tears flooded her eyes, riming every image with frost.

  ‘Show me,’ he said.

  For the moment she was at a loss. ‘Show you what?’

  ‘How much you love me.’

  She stared at him. Was that what he wanted? To move, within seconds, from the intimacy of torture to the intimacy of the bed? She could not believe he meant it.

  ‘I am your husband,’ he said.

  She was lost, totally. ‘I can’t …’

  ‘Can’t?’ Teeth bared in the congested face.

  She shook her head, weeping, hand groping imploringly at his shirt front. ‘Please … I can’t …’

  Futilely hoping that by repetition she might somehow appeal to the better nature that it seemed he did not have.

  He backhanded her again, much harder, and threw her backwards across the bed. He followed, hands ripping at her bodice. It tore open. Her breasts lolled. She sensed him delving at his breeches, her mouth opened to scream, he hit her again. She felt him wrench at her garments, open her to him, followed by a ripping agony as he filled her.

  Pain and humiliation overwhelmed her. As he spasmed between her thighs she thought, He thinks I am nothing. Through the pain she felt a different sensation: the steady glow of mounting anger. All her life she had relied upon a man for protection, had believed that was a man’s function, but there was no protection here. Very well, she thought, I will rely on myself, if I can. And felt stronger for the thought.

  Deception was the first rule. Teeth clenched, body sick with pain, she held him close.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Jason told Asta. ‘He didn’t ask me into the house and Alison didn’t come out.’

  It was unheard of for anyone to visit another run and be offered no hospitality. Asta frowned. ‘Did you ask after her?’

  ‘I did. He said she was well but he didn’t like me asking.’

  ‘It means nothing,’ Asta said. ‘He is jealous, that is all.’

  ‘He’d better have don
e nothing to her—’

  She interrupted him at once. ‘I will not allow you to interfere between husband and wife.’ She smiled secretly. ‘Besides, it is not necessary.’

  Jason’s lips tightened. Husband. It was still hard to accept, would always be hard. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A man’s way is to seek confrontation, conflict. A woman learns to think around corners. You must think like a woman.’ She could see he had no idea what she meant. ‘There is no need to create a crisis between Alison and her husband, it already exists. Wait, say nothing, and in time things will resolve themselves.’

  Jason did not believe in letting things resolve themselves. ‘How much time have we got? All we know, he may be beating her to a pulp this minute.’

  ‘I shall ask Mr Laubsch to call on them,’ Asta said. ‘He will tell us if anything is wrong.’

  When Ian Matlock died Laubsch had called on Alison with his commiserations and Blake had sent him away. This time things were different.

  ‘My dear,’ Blake said, ‘we got the missionary come to see us.’

  Perhaps Laubsch had come to spy on them. His eyes warned her: guard your tongue. She needed no telling.

  ‘Mr Laubsch,’ she smiled at the sombre-coated minister, ‘what a pleasant surprise.’

  Casually Blake walked to her, put his arm around her waist. ‘Maybe we can offer the minister some refreshment?’ he suggested.

  ‘There is no need for that,’ Laubsch protested.

  ‘Not offer you something when you’ve taken the trouble to call on us?’ said Alison. ‘We wouldn’t think of it.’

  She fetched tea; they exchanged small talk while they drank it.

  ‘There are some liquor dealings in the area,’ Laubsch said in his stilted English. ‘They are selling the spirits to the natives.’

  Blake grinned sardonically. ‘Selling the spirits, eh? I thought that was your job.’

  It was difficult to know if Laubsch understood the joke or not. ‘These people cause trouble when they have drink taken,’ he said.

  ‘We can look after ourselves,’ Blake told him. ‘They come here, they’ll find more trouble than they can handle, I promise you that.’

  Laubsch finished his tea. ‘None of us can look after ourselves,’ he said. ‘We are all in need of the loving kindness of God.’

  Blake scowled. ‘Them abos come sniffin’ round here, it’s them that’ll need loving kindness, not us. And not likely to find too much of it, either.’

  Laubsch observed how Alison Gallagher stood close to her husband, never moving out of the shelter of his arm. ‘And you, Mrs Gallagher? What do you think?’

  ‘I agree with my husband,’ Alison said, and smiled. ‘In everything.’

  When Laubsch got back to Whitby Downs he reported that Alison was not only well but seemed very loving to her husband, too.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Jason said.

  ‘I am glad, if it is true,’ Asta said, but was not. Alison was her best hope for keeping Jason at Whitby Downs. If he believed she was happy with Blake he might give up and move away. She would do everything she could to stop that.

  ‘Showing affection in public does not seem in Blake’s line,’ she said thoughtfully.

  ‘An act, that’s what it was,’ Jason said savagely. ‘Laubsch has got it wrong.’

  ‘We shall have to keep our eye on things,’ she told him. ‘If we wait, we shall find out the truth.’

  Two days later Jason was riding through a patch of woodland when he met Blake.

  ‘Had any trouble from them savages?’ Blake asked.

  ‘I reckon it was a false alarm,’ Jason said. ‘Doesn’t do any harm to be prepared, though.’

  ‘Damn right,’ Blake said. ‘I always said we should have got rid of ’em at the beginning.’

  They eyed each other with dislike.

  ‘You did a fair job.’

  ‘Not good enough or we wouldn’t be talkin’ trouble now.’

  ‘You were going to shoot me, too, as I remember.’

  ‘Damn right. Come to think of it, there ain’t nuthin to stop me finishin’ the job now.’

  Jason eyed him, hostility very near the surface. ‘The natives, you mean, or me?’

  ‘Take your pick,’ Blake said.

  ‘Alison well?’ Jason asked.

  Blake’s expression darkened. ‘A word of advice,’ he said. ‘Keep away from her.’

  ‘I’ll not lay a finger on her—’

  ‘Make sure you don’t.’

  Jason ignored the interruption. ‘Just so long as you treat her right.’

  A dangerous pause.

  ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Like I said. Treat her right and you’ll have no trouble from me. Treat her bad, you’ll have more trouble than you can handle.’

  ‘That so?’ Blake urged his horse closer; the two men’s legs pressed against each other. ‘Alison is my wife, mate. What goes on between us ain’t none o’ your business.’

  ‘I ever hear you’ve harmed her I’ll make it my business,’ Jason said, ‘and don’t you forget it.’

  Blake’s teeth shone in his red mouth. ‘The day you do that is the day I kill you.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  As soon as Asta was able to find the time she rode to Bungaree to visit Alison at home.

  ‘We are the only white women for a hundred miles,’ she said, ‘but for all we see of each other we might as well be at opposite ends of the earth.’

  Alison hurried to clear piles of clothes from a rough stool so that Asta could sit down. She smoothed the front of her dress with nervous hands and smiled at her unexpected visitor. ‘I’ll get us something to drink,’ she said.

  Left alone, Asta looked about her. The sun’s rays, slanting through the open doorway, varnished the earth floor with golden light; unlike herself, Blake had done nothing to replace the slab-walled house that Ian had built when he first took up his run.

  A pigsty, Asta thought. How does Alison bear it? She should make Blake do something about it. But knew there was small chance of that.

  Alison returned carrying a bottle of cordial and two glasses.

  At least she has glasses, Asta thought.

  Asta was wearing her usual breeches and shirt; Alison’s skirt, stained and dusty, with a tear in the hem, trailed along the ground.

  ‘I’m a mess,’ she said apologetically, ‘but I’ve been out dealing with the lambs and I haven’t had a chance to tidy up.’

  ‘A skirt is not the easiest of clothes for that sort of work,’ Asta agreed.

  ‘Blake prefers it,’ Alison said.

  He would. ‘It is you I have come to see,’ Asta said. ‘Not your clothes.’

  Alison sat on the other stool and poured cordial for them both; her hand shook and the glasses chimed uneasily. ‘It is good to see you,’ she said but seemed unsure of it.

  Asia’s eyes stripped her bare. ‘Is anything the matter?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Are you happy?’

  An uneasy smile. ‘Why shouldn’t I be happy?’

  Which was an answer, of sorts.

  ‘I have come to ask you to visit me more often,’ Asta said.

  ‘That would be nice,’ Alison said formally.

  Asta saw that she had no intention of accepting the invitation. ‘I mean it. We have always been such good friends. I want us to go on seeing each other whenever we can.’

  Again the formal smile, promising nothing.

  ‘If you don’t come I shall send Jason to fetch you.’

  Alison’s hands flew like wings to her mouth. ‘You mustn’t—’

  Asta would never have done such a thing but Alison’s reaction told her what she wanted to know. ‘Promise me you will come, then.’

  Still Alison tried to evade commitment. ‘When I can.’

  ‘That is not good enough.’ Asta laughed, making a game of something that was not a game at all. ‘We must set a date and a time.’


  ‘It is very difficult,’ Alison protested. ‘There is a lot of work here.’

  ‘Work?’ Asta laughed again. ‘I have been wedded to a sheep run for enough years to know about work. That is why we must have a break from time to time.’ Sharp as knives, her eyes studied Alison’s face. ‘Unless you think that Blake will not allow it.’

  Alison would admit nothing, even managed a light laugh. ‘Why shouldn’t he allow it?’

  ‘Some husbands do not like their wives going out of the house.’

  ‘Blake is not one of them.’

  ‘Then you have no excuse.’ Asta had set her teeth into the argument and would not let go. At last, reluctantly, Alison agreed a date when she would visit Whitby Downs.

  ‘A week today. I shall ride to meet you,’ Asta told her gaily. ‘It will be like old times.’

  Asta was sure that Alison would think of an excuse not to come but by the time she rode out to meet her she had heard nothing. Deliberately she was early and had almost reached Bungaree when she met Alison riding towards her.

  ‘You see?’ she greeted her. ‘It is a lovely day, just for us.’

  For the time of year it certainly was: cool but cloudless, with no wind. They rode along the edge of the cliffs. The sea creamed peacefully against the rocks beneath them and overhead the blue sky arched to meet the darker blue of the sea on the far side of the gulf.

  ‘We shall go to the grotto,’ Asta said.

  They followed the path down the cliff face until they came to the level stretch of turf, the vertical cliff on one side, the drop plunging to the waves on the other. The spring seeped audibly, the rock wall cast a shadow over the altar stone. The ferns still grew in the crevice in the rocks. Asta cut fronds and laid them on the altar.

  ‘Father Odin, god of battles,’ she said, ‘Loki, god of fire, take care of us all.’

  It was a game yet not a game.

  Alison watched. ‘Do you believe?’

  Asta did not know what she believed. ‘This place reminds me of my childhood. The cliffs are different, the sea is blue instead of grey, but something here calls to me out of the past.’

  ‘And Odin? And the other one?’