Daughter of Australia

by Harmony Verna

  Leonora climbed into her bed and hid under the covers. In the darkness, she pulled out a tiny, egg-shaped stone from her pocket, curled it into her palm, ached for the friend who had given it to her, ached for a place to belong, ached for a home that didn’t exist. And this night, like so many others, she held on to a memory that neared a dream, shivered in the silent darkness and fell asleep in a nightgown wet with tears.

  CHAPTER 29

  “Ye look right handsome, James.” Tess winked as she buttoned his worn suit jacket, a Shamus hand-me-down. The lining was gone and the elbows were worn bare. New stitches stood out bright black against the rest of the faded threads. Tess wrinkled her forehead as she pulled at the sleeves and inspected it from a distance. “A little crooked.” She laughed. “Mendin’s never been m’strongest skill.”

  Shamus grunted from the bedroom, came out fumbling with a collar. “Tess, do I have to wear this bloody thing? Ye know it chokes the breath out o’ me.”

  “Course ye do! It’s a funeral, Shamus. Have ye lost all respect?”

  He grumbled, “Hard to respect a man that set us on a bum piece o’ land.”

  “Shame on ye!” The woman’s voice rose with sudden vehemence. “The Shelbys ’ave been nothin’ but angels to us from day one! Set us up with credit ’fore they even knew who we was. Then, Mr. Shelby come over his self an’ lend ye those tools, bringin’ all that food from his wife.” She put her hands on her hips and wagged a finger in his face. “He told ye ’bout this land. I stood right here while he told us ’bout the dry dirt an’ ye remember what ye said? ‘Never a land an O’Reilly can’t tame.’

  “Shameful!” Tess grabbed his collar, tugged it closed, his neck reddening with the pinch. “Complainin’ ’bout wearin’ a collar to a man’s funeral. A man who done nothin’ but help us.”

  “I’m sorry, Tess.” Shamus withered. “Yeer right. Forgive me?”

  She tried to hold to the anger but softened and pressed his suit lapels. “Course I do.”

  Tess’s face sagged then and the smile left her eyes. “Temper’s a bit short. Couldn’t sleep thinkin’ ’bout that poor Mrs. Shelby an’ those children of hers, all on their own now. Six children an’ two more on the way! Shamus, can ye imagine? An’ now their father gone.”

  “She’ll live fine off the renters.”

  “I don’t know.” She scanned the kitchen, picked up the covered stew. “Tween the gold diggings and the drought, men leaving farms left an’ right. Heard the Holloways picked up an’ left without a word. Didn’t even clean the dishes off the table!”

  Tess put her bonnet on, her skin stark white against the black. She stopped then and looked at James, looked at her husband. Tears welled in her eyes and Shamus took her hands. “What is it, Tess?”

  “Look at ye two. So handsome. So strong. Mrs. Shelby lost her husband an’ here I am with ye both.” Her lips quivered. “God has truly shone on me.”

  For all Shamus’s talk of renters and money, the funeral numbered under twenty and those represented were as threadbare as the O’Reillys. The preacher solemnly greeted the mourners but left an instant impression of oddity. Thick glasses magnified his eyes, his head appearing top-heavy and bobbly over his skeletal figure. He seemed a step away from reading his own rites.

  Mrs. Shelby stood in front of the parson, black lace draped over her large body, her thick red hair visible under the veil. An army of children hung around her skirt folds, fidgeting feet and squirming under sun and boredom.

  A boy in his teens just like James glanced at him before looking down at his feet. He moved from one foot to the other, and everything was crooked—hat, waistband, tie. The cuffs of his pants did not fall evenly, though they looked new and unmended. He peeked at James again and smirked, plucked awkwardly at his suspenders, then kicked dirt at his brother’s shoes. The older boy shoved him in the chest before Mrs. Shelby shot a warning look that could freeze water.

  James did not listen to the words of the preacher; no one seemed to except for Mrs. Shelby, who kept her head pointed straight, still with attention. Instead, James watched the faces of the other farmers, watched their impatient expressions, watched them flex their biceps. They all wanted to get back to the fields.

  When the service ended, men began to fill in the grave, one hard shovelful at a time. The rest of the group separated into clusters. Shamus and Tess joined the renters at Mrs. Shelby’s side, held hands and shared words of consolation; little girls clung to mothers’ skirts and older boys joined and tried to look like men with stern faces and shoulders sloped with heavy burdens.

  The uneven Shelby boy walked over to James, his gait lopsided as he tried to size him up with a tilt of his head. As if satisfied, he stuck out a hand. “I’m Tom.”

  “James.” They shook heartily with limp elbows.

  The men at the graves patted down the mound with the backs of their shovels.

  “Sorry about your dad,” James offered.

  The young man looked down, twisted his mouth. “O’Reilly, right? You don’t talk like your folks.”

  “I was born here.”

  “Oh,” Tom said, fine with the answer. “You go t’school?”

  “No.”

  “Mum says I can stop goin’. Needs me on the farm now.” He stole a look at the grave and shrugged his shoulders. “Hate school anyway. See that preacher? He’s the teacher. One day in class with him an’ you wish he was buryin’ you!”

  James smiled and Tom laughed but caught himself before his mother did, pulled his mouth crookedly to the side. “Haven’t seen you around b’fore.”

  “Been busy in the fields.”

  “Just you an’ your dad?”

  James ignored the reference. “Yeah.”

  “Don’t you have any hired hands?”

  “No.”

  Tom nodded and shrugged again, looked at him cock-eyed. “I could help you sometimes, if Mum lets me. Long as I get my chores done, I bet she’d let me come an’ help you.”

  “Tommie!” Mrs. Shelby called. “Time to get back to the house.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Preacher’s gonna hold mass at our house t’night. You got to see that man eat! Chews his food sideways like a horse an’ talks preacher stuff through his chewin’—sprayin’ food an’ Gawd talk all over the bloody place!” Tom shuddered. “You’re comin’, right?”

  James looked ahead at the procession following Mrs. Shelby, saw Tess and Shamus among them. “Guess so.”

  They walked easily, as if their footsteps had always been together. Tom chatted away affably with no toughness of speech or pretense, just simple good nature.

  “Got any bullocks?” Tom asked.

  “No.”

  “Sheep?”

  James shook his head.

  “What you got then?”

  “Wheat.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Couple pigs and chickens, I guess.”

  “Hell, everyone’s got those,” Tom said without condescension.

  James grew quiet. Tom suddenly perked. “We got fifty heads of cattle! Another hundred in sheep. Mum says we don’t got money for a drover, so she said I can do it.” He stopped with the half-truth and explained, “Well, not really drovin’ but herdin’. You ride?”

  James nodded.

  “Thought so. Maybe you can help me with the drovin’ if I help you with the wheat. We can camp out in the far paddocks, make a fire, dig for grubs an’ eat goannas like the Aborigines!”

  James grimaced and Tom laughed. “Just kiddin’ . . . ’bout eatin’ the goannas, that is. Those Abos eat ’em, though. Maggots, too. Eat ’em like candy.” Tom shuddered.

  A few minutes later, the Shelby homestead rose from a sea of green, an island swimming on barren land. Red roses crept up the pillars anchoring the verandah; lilacs and yellow wattles hedged the base. Behind the flowers, the house paint peeled in curls and a few windows hung with only one shutter, but the wide doors and porch spread open in warm welcome. And with each squar
e foot of the one-story house, the clear poverty of the O’Reillys grew in contrast.

  “How you keep it so green?” James asked.

  “Aqueduct. Pumps in from the artesian well. I’ll take you back one day. Stinks like rotten eggs but keeps Mum’s flowers growin’.” The boys entered the house, now abuzz with chatter that grew loud and constrained between walls.

  “Tommie.” Mrs. Shelby waved. “Show Reverend Jordan to the spare room.”

  Tom winced. “Means he’s stayin’ for a while. Gawd help me!” He made the sign of the cross over his chest. “I’ll be back down quick.”

  James squeezed through the packed dining room. The house was worn, cozily scuffed. Faded wallpaper met chipped baseboards. Unraveling carpets settled on worn floors, remnants of many feet, many gatherings. He turned the corner and entered a room with a slight mildew odor and halted. Books lined shelves from floor to ceiling. Old volumes with broken spines and faded covers meshed between new leather ones. James ran his fingers over the books, pulled one out and fanned the pages, dust rising up and tickling his nose.

  “What are you doin’ in here?”

  James spun around, closed the book with a clap.

  Mrs. Shelby leaned against the door frame, her red hair afire above her black dress.

  “I’m sorry; I was . . .” he sputtered.

  Mrs. Shelby came toward him, watched him carefully from downcast eyes. She pulled the book from his hands, leafed through the pages and placed it back on the shelf.

  “I didn’t mean to . . .”

  “Shush.” She held up a finger for quiet and scanned the bookshelf, reached up on her toes, pulled out a thick green volume. “Here.” She handed him the book. “You’ll like this one better.”

  James rubbed the cover. Robert Louis Stevenson.

  “Like to read, do you?” she asked, inspecting him again.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “My boys have no use for it.” She shook her head. “Enough children t’fill a schoolhouse an’ not one of ’em wants to read a word. Only way I can get ’em close to these books is by whacking one over their thick skull,” she said, and snorted, her pregnant belly rising with the chuckle. “Guess they take after their father. Tommie especially.” Mrs. Shelby’s face grew gray. “He wasn’t a learned man but smart as a whip. A good man,” she said, voice fading.

  She pointed to the bookshelf, her tone strong and firm again. “These books belong to the church. They were savin’ for a school library but needed the space for the preacher’s quarters. I took ’em gladly. Haven’t had a chance to read in years. Shame, isn’t it?”

  She put her hand on his head, her palm warm. “These books are just as much yours as mine. Come over an’ take as many as you want. Hear me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Her eyes scanned his suit. “How your folks doin’?”

  “Fine.”

  “I mean with the land. It’s not easy tillin’.”

  “We got the wheat in this week. Crows been picking at it, though.”

  “Need a dog. A good barker scare ’em faster than a shotgun.” She nodded, frowned. “Course, if we don’t get some rain for it to root, the whole crop gonna be picked, dogs or not.”

  A young man peeked into the room. “Mum, preacher wants to start mass.”

  “Orright. Be right in.”

  She leaned down to James. “Wants to cut into that ham is what he wants!” She snorted again. “Preacher eats like a horse. Be droolin’ all through the mass, starin’ at it. You watch!

  “You’re a good kid.” Mrs. Shelby winked. “Talk proper. Be good for Tommie to have a friend like you.” She took him by the shoulder and squeezed, the arm as strong as a man’s, as comforting as a mother’s. “Know you’re as welcome here as in your own home.”

  Two tables lined the walls of the dining room, spread with boiled ham, turkey, loaves of bread, crocks of butter, bowls of gravy, and dried fruit. Tom handed a plate to James and poked him with his elbow. “Let’s eat outside.” They took their pile of food out to the verandah, swung their legs over the side. Two young men joined them on the porch. They were a few years apart in age but had hair and faces similar enough to be twins.

  “Who’s your girlfriend?” one asked, smirking.

  “Shut up.” Tom threw an apricot at him. “This is James. O’Reilly’s boy.” Tom rolled his eyes. “Will an’ John. My older brothers.”

  “Irish, huh?”

  James put his fork down and met Will’s eyes square.

  “Whoa!” Will’s hands went up in defense. “Wasn’t an insult. Just heard your folks talkin’, is all.” He shoveled a hunk of ham in his mouth. “Our dad was a Scot. Couple of drinks in him an’ his accent come out so hard, you could barely understand a bloody word!”

  The three boys smiled into their food, their eyes missing him. “Dad would have liked having all these people here,” said John.

  Will laughed. “He’d corner ’em with his yarns till they beat the door to get out!”

  James listened to the banter of the boys, the communion of brothers, warm and easy.

  Clink. Tom dropped his fork to his plate. All eyes turned to him. He wiped his hand across his cheek and looked at his finger in disbelief.

  “You cryin’?” accused Will with horror.

  Tom leaned his head back and looked at the sky, blinking. “It’s raining,” he breathed.

  They all craned necks. Gray clouds pulled toward the homestead, pillowing and thickening with momentum. A few light drops landed on their eyelashes.

  “It’s raining,” Will repeated. “It’s raining!”

  Full plates clattered to the ground as they rushed into the house, the chatter of the guests silenced by the charging boys.

  “It’s raining!”

  Every mouth hushed. Chins lifted slowly, eyes turned up toward the ceiling, ears stiffened with focus, alert as roos.

  And then it came.

  Slap. Slap. Slap. Raindrops hit the corrugated roof. But the people did not rejoice. They stayed rigid and waited for the tease, waited for the drops to disappear and the sun to cut bright through the window again. Men gripped the edge of the table, while the women held hand to chest lest a breath send the rain away. They waited for a sign, a wind shift that would either leave the cloud in place or carry its gift away.

  Then such a sound! The Heavens released and erupted atop the house. Slap, slap, slap—thick coins dropping into an iron can—slap, slap, slap—till they blended together in one glorious note. And now chests sent out held air, and eyes closed in prayer and faces thawed into smiles disguised as frowns in heavy thankfulness.

  A streak of lightning cracked out the window, the clap of thunder riding its heel. Cheers and tears released unabashed. They were no longer squatters or colonials, farmers or renters, Irish or English or German, preachers or drinkers, but people of the land. And the crowd hugged Mrs. Shelby for they all knew the significance and the clear face of the miracle—Mr. Shelby had no sooner entered the gates of Heaven than he broke open the clouds and sent rain to his land.

  So began the freedom and joy of the green years—the sigh of the county—the slaps on the backs between neighbors and pulling up of waistbands that said, We made it. It’s gonna be orright. So began wheat that grew green and pumped with veins no different from blood. And the wheat matured, browned and grew gold, blew in the breeze and rippled soft as calf fur.

  James found freedom in the green years. He grew to love the wheat, the white and yellow everlasting blossoms, the delicate spider orchids, the cool riverbeds that gushed from hibernation, the pink galahs that sang from the trees—grew to love them as much as the sea.

  Shamus hired an Aborigine to help in the fields, and while the work still consumed each day, there was time for freedom at the Shelby library, for campouts in the bush with the boys, horse races across the paddocks, swims in the deep creek beds. There was freedom for limbs to grow and muscles to thicken as boys grew into men.

  In t
he green years, it was easy to overlook that which was not fresh and bright and blooming. It was easy to look past Tess’s pallor and the dark circles that grew purple under her eyes and the smile that faced you and then winced as it turned from view. She made it easy to believe that the lines of pain stretching down her cheeks were only furrows of reflection. If one asked after her health or stared too long in examination, she would pull a sparkle to her eyes and tsk at such silliness. And a man becomes easily appeased, for he does not want to see the thorns hidden within his Eden. No worries when the ground is lush and the rain is full!

  These were the green years when the ground cracked open and sprouted from every pore, a world teeming with life—even as Tess’s started to slip away.

  CHAPTER 30

  The clouds left Pittsburgh. The last drops of rain on Leonora’s bedroom window evaporated with the emerging sun. The day would be dry of storms, but would remain damp.

  Leonora sighed, turned her head on the pillow and faced the door, long auburn hair spilling around her shoulders. The adornments of the bedroom were the same as the day she filled her role as a Fairfield. Pink-blossomed wallpaper and chestnut bureaus had witnessed her growth from child to adult and yet she felt little changed beyond form. Her body had lengthened and slimmed; hips and breasts drew curves against her silhouette. By all accounts, she was a woman now. But her angled yet soft face implied a confidence and sophistication she did not feel.

  Far away in the distance, an ambulance wailed. Her heart thumped. No one else in the house would hear the siren, a remote hum from the valley, but it caught her ear as a silent whistle would a dog’s. The Fairfields were donating a wing to the hospital and she was to attend the dedication ceremony—a moment of freedom, a moment of release from the house she was nearly forbidden to leave. Her ears followed the waning trail of the siren until it whimpered and disappeared in the valley’s muzzle. Her heart thumped again. If she was going to bring up her desire to attend nursing school, today would need to be the day.