A Far Country

by John Fletcher

  ‘By then I’ll be happy to die,’ she told herself.

  Tomorrow was the day that Jason had said he would be at the grotto but she had already decided she would not go. Alison knew that even if Blake had allowed it, a platonic friendship between her and Jason would be impossible because in their hearts neither of them wanted it. But the real reason she would not go was her fear of what Blake would do if he found out.

  For the time being I must go on as I am, she thought, living from day to day, hoping for better things. God knows there is plenty of room for them.

  That afternoon the weather changed. Clouds swept in threatening battalions across the peninsula and hung low over Bungaree’s paddocks. Out at sea lightning slashed spasmodically at the dark horizon, thunder muttered and gusts of cold wind brought freezing rain to drench the land.

  Riding home from his encounter with Asta, Blake’s mood matched the weather.

  He had done more than anyone to set up the two runs. He had been the best woodsman, had understood better than anyone else the needs of the land and the animals, yet it made no difference. The bitch had been dead set against him from the first. Now, to protect her damned pet Jason, she was threatening to turn him off the run altogether. He wouldn’t let her get away with it, by God. This was his place. No-one was going to take it from him.

  He reached the cluster of buildings and turned into the yard.

  My run.

  Blake took his horse into the stable and unsaddled him. He rubbed the animal down, fed and watered him. The storm slammed about the building, its commotion adding fuel to his mounting fury. When he was finished he extinguished the lantern and headed for the house through rain that had now become continuous.

  My house.

  Inside the house, his wife.

  The bitch would steal her, too, if she could, just as she wanted to steal the land. And why? Because she had never thought he was good enough, that was why. Did she really think he didn’t know what she was up to with her invitations?

  He opened the door. The wind tore it from his grasp and sent it crashing against the wooden wall. Alison, bent over the fire, had not heard him in the din of the storm and straightened with a startled cry.

  My wife.

  For what she’s worth.

  She came towards him, carrying a towel that had been warming in front of the fire. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘dry yourself with this.’

  He wiped his face. He knew she was watching him, assessing his mood, and it exasperated him. ‘I saw that bitch mate of yours today.’ He threw the towel down and warmed his hands at the fire. ‘You know what she said? Threatened to chuck us off Bungaree, that’s what.’

  ‘Can she do that?’

  The question angered him. ‘How do I know what she can do? Said something about getting a piece of paper from a lawyer. It ain’t right,’ he burst out. ‘Here’s me putting everything I got into the place and she talks of throwing me off.’

  On the fire a pot began to bubble, the lid flapping in the steam. Alison took the lid off, stirred the contents.

  ‘I doubt she meant it. You probably annoyed her about something.’

  Her calmness bruised him. He wanted her to rant and rage, to share his own sense of outrage, but she didn’t seem to care. For the hundredth time he thought how little his wife understood him. Always she was out of his reach. It aggravated him. He needed to feel in control of everything that happened in his life but Asta’s threat and Alison’s reaction to it made him realise how far he was from achieving that.

  He went to the cupboard and yanked out a fresh bottle; he had finished the other one when he had got drunk a week ago. He pulled the cork, threw his head back and took a good swallow. He walked to the door and stared moodily out into the darkness, the bottle hanging from his fist.

  ‘Bloody bitch …’

  He felt sorry for himself, angry at the whole world. Worse, he felt frightened. From time to time he swallowed a mouthful of whisky and the liquor did not improve his mood. It was Alison’s fault, he thought. Her and Jason. If it hadn’t been for them, none of this would have happened.

  Jason Hallam, her one-time lover. He drank again, whisky spilling down his shirt. There was an image branded deep and forever in his brain. The night they had the black boy penned in the shed, Blake on guard to make sure he didn’t escape. Sounds from the hay shed behind the stable. Whispers. A muffled cry, dying to a moan.

  Did they really think he hadn’t heard?

  Perhaps they hadn’t cared, didn’t think his feelings mattered.

  Jason Hallam and the woman who became Blake’s wife. Jason, a nothing from nowhere who had never had one tenth of his ability to work the run, who did not even care for it as he did.

  Alison, whom he had thought to capture by marriage, always managing to evade him. As now it seemed the land itself might evade him.

  Never, by God.

  When the meal was ready he came to the table and ate without pleasure. Alison said nothing.

  Blake scraped his plate. ‘Cat got your tongue?’

  ‘I don’t have anything to say.’

  ‘You never do.’ His eyes were hot. ‘Not to me, anyway. Dunno why I married you.’

  Not for conversation, she thought, but dared not say so. Instead she concentrated on her food, chewing each mouthful as small as she could and saying nothing.

  ‘At least you could tell me what you think o’ this business,’ Blake said.

  ‘I told you, I doubt Asta meant it.’

  She wondered what had happened between them for Asta to say such a thing but did not ask. Blake would not like it if she did. When he was ready he would probably tell her, anyway.

  ‘She meant it, right enough.’ Anger spurted in a sudden rush of words. ‘Spend all your life workin’ a place, puttin’ everything you got into it, and some cow thinks she can chuck you off at a moment’s notice.’ He bruised the table with his clenched fist, glaring at her. ‘I ain’t goin’ to put up with it!’

  He shoved his chair back, picked up the bottle and walked out through the doorway. The rain had stopped and Alison, watching, saw him cross slowly to the shearing shed and go inside.

  She was glad to see him go. Blake in this mood might erupt at any time. She’d be lucky to get through the rest of the evening without trouble but, in any case, even a few minutes’ respite was welcome.

  He didn’t come back until late. He was drunk. He stumbled over the doorstep, holding out the almost-empty bottle to her. ‘’Ave a drink.’

  ‘I don’t want one,’ she said.

  ‘Sometimes I wonder whether I can give you anythin’ you do want,’ he said. ‘Maybe only Jason can do that.’ His expression changed. Before she knew it tears were running down his face. ‘My wife. My run. People trying to take ’em both away from me.’ Anger shone through the tears. ‘I ain’t goin’ to put up with it, you hear me?’

  She did not speak. Saying anything would probably only make things worse. She had never seen Blake cry before—had never thought he could cry—and his tears alarmed her far more than anger would have done. She was afraid that his rage, when it came, would be worse than anything she had experienced before and the idea terrified her.

  ‘I know I don’ always treat you right.’ Tears again, maudlin. He swayed, eyes trying to focus on her. ‘But you won’ ever leave me, will you?’

  ‘You know I won’t.’ Thinking, if only I could.

  He led her to the bed. Stinking breath, hot eyes; her skin cringed but she knew better than to argue or resist. He pushed her down and sprawled on top of her. They were both fully clothed; she lay there doing nothing either to help or hinder him, letting him do whatever he wanted. Somehow he wrestled her drawers off and crushed himself up against her but the drink had taken its toll and he could manage nothing.

  The last thing she wanted was to have sex with him; even so, her heart sank. Another humiliation piled on top of everything else might be enough to tip him into violence. She lay still, eyes staring at
the ceiling, waiting in dread for whatever might happen next.

  His head rested against her breast. ‘I’m goin’ to make ’em pay,’ he mumbled.

  His weight settled more heavily on her. Presently he began to snore. For the first time she allowed herself to hope that, just this once, she had got away with it. She waited another ten minutes, just to make sure, then wriggled out from under him and went to the door. She was relieved but still frightened and desperately unhappy. Softly she opened the door and walked out into the darkness. After the frowsty room the night air was wonderfully fresh. The clouds had gone. Overhead the stars blazed in splendour.

  She thought of what she had left behind her in the house, of what her life had become since she had married Blake.

  ‘I have to do something,’ she informed the night. ‘This is becoming impossible.’

  As soon as it was light Blake set out for the northwestern border of the run to check on the flocks there. Cato Brown was looking after them and Cato knew what he was doing but Blake, like Ian before him, always liked to keep an eye on things for himself.

  ‘I’ll be back before dark,’ he told Alison. His eyes were red; otherwise the previous night might never have been.

  Alison watched him go then went back into the house. She dressed carefully in her best clothes, went out to the paddock and saddled her mare Star.

  ‘You are going for a good run today,’ she told her.

  Again and again she had told herself she would not go to meet Jason but last night had changed her mind. It was conversation and friendship she wanted, nothing more, but what had happened had made her realise how short of both these things she was.

  She rode north along the coast. She did not hurry but her heart was beating fast. When she reached the head of the track there was no sign of Jason. Perhaps he was not coming, after all. She tethered Star in a cluster of gum trees a hundred yards from the cliff and walked down the track to the grotto. No-one was there.

  She sat on a boulder and waited, gloved hands tap-tapping against each other.

  I told him he’d be wasting his time, she thought. He will not come. But waited, nonetheless.

  ‘He could have been delayed,’ she told the rocks about her, taking courage from the sound of her own voice. On a sheep run unexpected things were always cropping up. She would give him an hour.

  As the minutes passed she began to wish she had not come at all, not because she didn’t want to see Jason but because she did. If he did not arrive she knew she would never have the courage to try again. In which case she would be more alone than ever.

  The sound of sliding stones came from the path above her head and an instant later Jason appeared. He had been hurrying and was out of breath.

  ‘Thank God you’re here,’ he said. ‘When I didn’t see your horse I thought you must have decided not to come after all.’

  Her heart had leapt at sight of him. Now she did not seem able to stop smiling. Her eyes devoured him, seeing his lips, his eyes, the way his teeth gleamed when he smiled back at her. She remembered how things had been between them the night he went away. So many things had happened since, important things, yet now she felt as though that night—our only night, she thought—had been yesterday. It will not do, she told herself. You are a married woman, she told herself. It is not why you came here, she told herself. Carried on smiling at him, all the same.

  ‘I was held up,’ Jason said. ‘I came as fast as I could.’

  ‘I thought you must have had second thoughts.’

  ‘Never.’

  She did not tell him how she very nearly had not come at all. They were here, together, and that was all that mattered. Yet now they were here they were as formal as strangers.

  ‘Have you been well?’ she asked.

  ‘Fine. And you?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘I’m glad you were able to make it,’ Jason managed. ‘It can’t have been easy.’

  If Blake had not chosen today to ride to the far side of the run it would have been impossible but did not say so. She did not want to think of Blake or even mention his name. Instead she continued to smile at Jason, drinking him in, watching the way his throat moved as he spoke, the grain of his skin as the sun caught it.

  ‘Tell me how your week has been,’ Jason said.

  Alison did not answer. There was nothing she could tell him that did not involve Blake and she was sure he wanted to hear about Blake’s doings as little as she wanted to talk about them.

  Instead she looked across the gulf. ‘Asta showed me how you can see Adelaide from here,’ she said. ‘Strange, isn’t it? Like another world. Yet here we are, looking at it.’

  He was wounded that she should want to keep her life secret from him. Why are we here, he wondered, if not to talk?

  He watched where she was looking. You could indeed see the distant huddle of buildings but so far away that only the tops of the tallest ones were visible above the horizon. ‘Can’t see much from here,’ he said.

  ‘But at least what we see shows us it’s still there.’

  It struck Jason as an extraordinary remark. Where else should the city be but where it had always been?

  ‘Do you ever wish you lived in a city?’ Alison asked him.

  He had never thought about it. ‘Don’t know that I would,’ he said. ‘Too many people. I lived in Hobart Town when I was a kid. I hated it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Where I lived was a dreadful, stinking place. I couldn’t wait to get away from it.’

  ‘Then you went to sea and got shipwrecked,’ Alison remembered. She put her hand on his. ‘You’ve had so many adventures.’

  He grinned, resentment ebbing. ‘Could have done without the shipwreck. I nearly drowned.’

  ‘You lived with the natives. Then with us. Then you went to Burra Burra. Now you’re home again.’ She watched him out of the corner of her eye. ‘It makes me wonder where you’ll be off to next.’

  She still had not removed her hand from his; now his fingers curled to enclose it. ‘I’m not planning to go anywhere.’

  She was very conscious of his warm hand holding her own. ‘Truly?’

  For a minute he studied her gravely, then turned and looked out at the sea. He muttered something so softly that she could not hear him.

  ‘What did you say?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘I said everything I want is here.’

  It was wonderful to hear him say it but she did not answer. She could not be sure what he meant. Perhaps he was talking only about the run and Asta Matlock and didn’t mean her at all. She could hardly ask him to explain. She waited for him to continue but he had apparently said all he wanted to say, sitting on the rock beside her with her hand still clasped in his, his eyes contemplating the sea. For a time she was content to sit there as well, but there were too many things she needed to know. Eventually she said, ‘Tell me what you did when you were at Burra Burra.’

  He turned and stared at her. ‘Why do you ask?’

  He sounded angry and suspicious; it startled her. ‘Because I’m interested,’ she said.

  ‘Your husband’s been talking to Asta. He’s been trying to find that out, too.’

  The shock made her blink. Her feelings, until that moment so warm, tightened and grew cold. She withdrew her hand from his. ‘You really think I came here to spy for him?’

  Anguish crossed his face. ‘Of course I don’t! It’s just that I wouldn’t want Blake to hear about it, that’s all.’

  It would take more than that to soothe her feelings. ‘If you think I’m not to be trusted—’

  ‘I broke out of gaol,’ he said. ‘If they find me I suppose they’ll put me back.’

  ‘Gaol?’ She would never have thought of such a thing. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I beat someone up.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Over a woman.’

  ‘I see.’ Coldly.

  ‘No, you don’t see! It happened just after I heard you�
�d got married. For a time I didn’t know what I was doing. Didn’t care, either.’

  His words pierced her. She thought about it for a while. ‘What was her name?’ she asked eventually. It was a peace-offering, whether he recognised it or not.

  ‘What difference does it make what her name was?’

  ‘I need to know,’ she told him. Hearing Jason say her name would tell her if he cared for this woman still. She did not want to believe but had to be sure.

  ‘It matters to me,’ she said. And waited.

  ‘Gwyneth,’ he said sulkily.

  She wanted to question further: what Gwyneth had looked like, what their relationship had been, whether Jason told her he loved her. But did not. Her name was enough.

  ‘Gwyneth,’ she repeated. ‘It is a pretty name.’ Sure now that Jason’s affair with this woman—if that was what it had been—was well over, she smiled, putting her hand on his arm. ‘I was curious, that’s all.’

  ‘Tell me about Blake,’ he asked.

  Blake was the last person she wanted to talk about. She shook her head. ‘Nothing to tell.’

  He stood abruptly, walked to the cliff edge, looked down at the sea tumbling beneath them. When he turned his face was flushed with anger. ‘Don’t mess with me, Alison.’

  She threw open her hands. ‘Blake works the run. He works very hard, very well.’ For some reason it was important to be fair. ‘I look after the house, cook the meals. Just what you’d expect.’

  Telling him everything and nothing.

  Jason watched her steadily. ‘If you won’t even talk to me I don’t know why you came.’

  She remembered how she had told herself she would not do so but knew now it had been inevitable, part of the fate that linked them. ‘To see you,’ she said.