“Should probably get back.” She sighed. “Alex comes back soon.” She rolled her eyes. “He’ll call a search party out for me.”
“Too bad.” James forced a half smile. “Come on; I’ll walk you home.”
“It’s all right. I can manage.”
“Wasn’t a question.” He went to take her elbow, then stopped. “Almost forgot. Hold on; I have something for you.” James turned, took the three steps in one long jump. He returned a moment later holding a jelly jar filled with white flowers. “They’re oleanders,” he said. “The back paddock’s filled with them.”
Leonora took the flowers and smelled the blooms, a mix of apricot and lilac. Her throat tightened with the simple, sweet gesture. “They’re beautiful.” She and James walked toward the big house, quiet. She was aware of the flow and movement of his body with each step.
“How long will Alex be home?” James asked, his jaw stiff.
“Hard to tell. Changes day to day.” They grew silent again and did not speak until the bottom of the steps. “Thanks for the flowers,” she said, sheepish.
He nodded and began to walk backwards. “Have a good night.” And then remembering, “Thanks for the pie, Leo.”
Leo. Everything warmed. “Do you know you’re the only one who ever called me that?”
He gave her an indulgent wink. “Good.”
Alex returned unpleasantly from the start, slamming the door, the house filling with his edge. “Fire in the pit!” he spit. He hung up his coat, his face unshaven and gray, his collar soiled. “Backed us up a full day.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
“Two or three. I don’t know.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Need to go back in a day or two.” He plopped down in the wide chair and ran his fingers through his hair, leaving it stuck up at the front. “Just need one night of rest. One night of peace.”
She went to the bar and poured him a drink, handed it to him.
He took a long sip, looked up at her briefly. “Have you been running? You’re all red.”
Leonora touched her face. “Sunburn.”
“Didn’t you wear a hat, for God’s sake?”
“I was gardening and it must have slipped off.” She laughed. “I didn’t even realize it until it was too late. Hurts, too.” She touched her cheek again.
He stared at her, his expression blank. “Gardening?”
She nodded proudly. “Do you want to see it? It’s out back behind the house.”
He rose from the chair. “You dug in the dirt?” His voice rumbled deep and low and slapped the smile from her lips. “You stood out there in plain sight, digging in the ground, in the full sun like a common field hand?”
She was stunned with the tone, felt a slight chill as he set his eyes upon her.
“Let me see your hands.”
“W-w-why?” she stammered. “I—”
He shouted through clenched teeth, “Let me see your hands!”
She held out her hands, visibly shaking. He turned them. “Look at your hands. Look at them! They’re hard and red like a man’s, the nails broken and dirty!”
She shrank, thought about running for the door, calling for Meredith or Clare.
“This is how you greet me?” Alex screamed. “Dirty hands and sunburned skin?”
“I’m sorry. I . . . I just wanted . . .”
“You just wanted to what? Just wanted to embarrass me in front of the whole station? Imagine what the managers must think! Seeing my wife knuckle deep in dirt, planting vegetables as if I can’t provide enough food to feed her!”
“No one saw me, Alex!” she lied. “It’s hidden.”
He ripped his tie loose from his neck and threw it on the floor. “I was planning to take you to the races this weekend, to meet some of the other wives. You can forget about that now.”
“Why?”
“Look at you!” He pushed her to the mirror.
Anger was working its way through the fear. “You’re away more days than I can count, Alex. What do you expect me to do all day, twiddle my fingers and wait for you? You’ve hired a cook and a maid. There’s nothing for me to do. How do you suggest I fill up my day?”
“Why don’t you do what other women do.” He smacked the empty tumbler on the table. “And think about ways to be a better wife.”
The blare of the Ford’s engine disturbed the horses. Tom pulled them still and continued brushing, irritated by the noise.
“Sure you’re up for the work, Tom?” James asked.
“If I stay in bed another day, I’m gonna shoot myself.”
James searched the stalls. “Where’s Russell?”
“Don’t know.” Tom winced as he bent down and checked the horse’s hoof. “Saw him headed out with a hoe and wheelbarrow. Said he had to tear up some garden in the back.”
“What?” James set down the pitchfork. Tom shrugged his shoulders.
Saddling up the brown mare, James set off past the house and the stables. The sound of metal pounding against dirt rose from a familiar spot shaded in the distance. Russell came into view under the trees. The fence to the small garden was torn down and piled in a wheelbarrow, the stalks and vegetables twisted and limp and crushed below the wires.
“Russell,” James blasted. “What the hell are you doing?”
The man raised his head dumbly, his lip swollen with tobacco. “Clearin’ out the garden.”
“Why? Who told you to do this?”
“Mr. ’Arrington.” Russell leaned against the hoe, wiped his nose with his thumb. “Says t’make it look like it weren’t ever here.”
James squared his jaw. “Does his wife know?”
“How should I know?” he spit. “Just doin’ whot he told me.”
James surveyed the damage, the neat rows hacked, the plants in the wheelbarrow already wilting from the sun. “Tom needs you in the barn,” he ordered. “This can wait.”
“I ain’t messin’ wiv the boss.” Russell picked the hoe up and smoothed out the lines. “Mr. ’Arrington says finish it, I’m gonna finish it.”
“I’ll finish it.” James grabbed the hoe. “Mr. Harrington can talk to me if he’s got an issue.”
“Orright, if yeh say so.” He shuffled off toward the barn.
James sat on his haunches and put his fingers through the freshly turned ground, let scraps of leaves and flowers run through them. He went to the wheelbarrow and plucked through the leaves, picked what vegetables he could salvage—only a handful of beans and peas, a flaccid carrot. He thought of Leonora’s face, the brightness of it as she worked, the smile that curved his lips to match. James scanned the slaughtered plot, a sad pit filling his stomach as he rose and headed for the big house.
James held his hat in his palm as he stepped up to the verandah and knocked on the door. He waited. Knocked again, but no one answered. He turned to walk away when he heard the door crack. He hardly recognized the woman standing there so pale and sullen. James cleared his throat. “G’day, Leo.” James scratched his temple. “Looks like some rabbits got into your garden, did a number on it.” He held out his hat. “Tried to save what I could.”
She looked at the contents in the hat and her lips curved into a futile smile. James picked up one of the limp beans and smirked. “A royal feast, eh?”
She gave a short, quiet laugh and the smile broke. But the rest of her face hung with such sadness, he had to turn away. “Why’d he do it?”
Leonora wiped the side of her eye. “I guess he doesn’t find freckles enchanting.”
James looked at her now, the perfectly dotted nose, the smooth forehead, the lines of her cheekbones as they pointed to her lips. The features tore him. “Is Alex home?” His chest heated. “I’d like a word with him.”
“He’s not here.” Her eyes flickered. “Just let it go, James. It’s not important. Just a patch of dirt.”
The heat burned now and he looked off into the distance, past the road. “It’s not just that, Leo. He shouldn’t leave you alone like he
does. It’s not right.”
“Men are always leaving women alone in Australia. Drovers, miners—hardly a job around that doesn’t leave a woman.”
“This is different. The mine makes enemies, Leo. There’s not a person in Western Australia that doesn’t know your wealth by now.” James shook his head, the worry tightening his lips. “I know it’s none of my business, but Alex needs to know. It’s not right, not safe, for him to leave you alone.”
“It’s better when he’s gone.” Her hand flew to her head. “I didn’t mean that. It’s just... it’s just he’s got a hard job, a lot of work, and people depending on him. It’s better if he’s away. It’s better that he takes care of his work at the mine.”
Leonora opened the door wider and for a minute he thought she was going to reach for his hand. “I appreciate your concern, James. I do. But it’s best you just let it go.” She worked hard at a smile and a joking tone as she said, “Besides, I have the ladies in the kitchen. I’m quite certain Meredith knows how to wield a frying pan.”
“This isn’t a joke, Leo.”
“I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself, thank you. Besides, I have moves.” She squared her shoulders and her eyes sparkled. The color came back to her cheeks.
He crossed his arms, tried not to laugh, the anger fading. “Really? What kinds of moves?”
“Secret moves.”
“Please, do show me!”
“If I did, they wouldn’t be secret anymore, would they?” she teased.
James exhaled loudly and chuckled, shook his head, worn down. “At least promise me you won’t open the door to any strange men?”
“Does that include you?” she asked.
James stepped right in front of her, his face only inches away. “Especially me.” He winked. He wanted to kiss her then. The impulse flashed so quickly it startled him and he stepped back unnerved. He dumped the vegetables into a basket on the verandah, put his hat on quickly. He needed space, needed to pull himself straight. “Just be careful,” he said without looking back, and stepped quickly from the porch.
“James . . .”
He turned around.
A wave of gratitude choked her for a moment. “Thank you.”
CHAPTER 50
The rain hit without warning and lasted for two days and nights, drowned a Slav and an Italian in the pit and shut the work down for the first time since the fire.
The miners huddled under tents. Rain-soaked canvas drooped above their heads and spit out the fires as quickly as they were lit. It was a cold, damp rain, dull and quiet without the fury of lightning. The ground ran brown and muddy between the rows of tents and boots sank. Bedding, packs, matches and food were piled in the corners on warped pieces of metal to keep dry. Men and women stunk of damp clothes that had been dried, then wet, then dried and wet again. The open sewer pipe near the hills overflowed and the fetid sludge slid toward the camp. Old clothes and hemp sacks filled with sand lined the outskirts to keep the muck from entering, but the sludge found every crack and veined intently.
Ghan sat in Whistler’s tent on a soaked piece of a flattened cardboard box. They ate quietly, each with a tin of meat and a fork. His was lamb; Whistler ate sardines. Tin dog, they called it. The bread, soaked as a sponge, rotted in the corner.
The rain weakened the spirit. No work yesterday, none today, unlikely any tomorrow. Three days without wages hung on the camp. Even Whistler didn’t smile, his face gray and drawn as the clouds. The din of Whistler’s fork prongs hit against the bottom of the can as he dug for a final bite. “There’s talkin’,” he said to his can.
Ghan munched the warm lamb, so tender and overcooked that the texture felt previously chewed. “Whot kind of talkin’?”
“Angry talkin’. Comin’ from every side now,” Whistler said. “Rain makin’ it worse. Nothin’ t’do but talk.” The old man poked at his food. “Some talkin’ strike, some talkin’ riot, but everybody talkin’ mad. Foreigners hot as piss ’bout those drowned miners. Got a right t’be, too. Managers kept those boys down there too long. Saw the water risin’ an’ didn’t bring ’em up. Can’t even bury the bloated bodies ’cause the mud keeps fillin’ in the graves.”
Ghan cleaned his tin and set it on the ground next to his feet. He looked at Whistler. “Managers want me to spy,” he said. “Tell ’em if there’s rumblings. Why I got the job. Only reason I got this job.” Ghan waited for a reaction.
Whistler finished his last bite, scraped the plate clean and licked both sides of his fork, then grinned widely. “Yeh ain’t a rat, Ghan.”
Ghan grinned back. “Not a day in m’life.”
“Whot yeh gonna do when they start askin’? Even the bosses can feel the water boilin’.”
Ghan shrugged. “Stall ’em, I guess. Tell ’em there’s complainin’, but nothing’ organized. Just the normal rantin’.”
“Yer in a tough spot, mate. Won’t be long ’fore the anger spills over. Somepin’s gonna happen that’ll knock the pot over. Sure as ’ell it’s comin’. Men on every side just waitin’ fer somebody t’sneeze an’ the pot gonna knock clean over an’ burn the ’ell outta people.” Whistler stopped, sucked his gums for fish. “The big guys’ll blame yeh fer not givin’ ’em warnin’. Be happy to take it out on somebody.”
The cardboard under Ghan’s bottom sank into the mud, but he didn’t care. He shrugged again. “I ain’t gonna think ’bout it. Take one day at a time. Save my money case I gotta get out. If they catch me, not too much they can do t’me that hasn’t been done already.”
“Break yer bones,” Whistler lamented.
“Like I say, ain’t nothin’ new. When it’s done, go on livin’ or go on dyin’.”
“Yer fergettin’ ’bout the sufferin’ in between.”
“Didn’t ferget.” Ghan looked at his big, rough hands. “But I ain’t a rat.”
Whistler rose stiffly, his joints cracking and sore with rheumatism, all the more rigid with the rain. He dug through a pile and brought out a rusted can, pulled off the top and took out an old sock with a ball at the end. He swung it in the air like a pendulum. “I’ve been puttin’ money away. Little here an’ there when I can. Ain’t much.” Whistler threw the sock at Ghan, who caught it quick. “First sign of trouble, come in here an’ take it. Get the ’ell out ’fore they come fer yeh.”
Ghan threw the sock back. “Ain’t takin’ yer money, Whistler.”
“Damn right yeh is!” Whistler shot back. “I got family. Got my shitload of girls t’care fer me. Whot yeh got?” He rubbed his stubble. “Look, I ain’t long fer this world. My bones so tight feel like they’re gonna split in two. Hurts so damn bad to walk an’ move my fingers, I come close t’eatin’ rat poison just t’make it stop. Only reason I’m still here is my girls. Crush their gawd-ferin’ hearts if I killed m’self. Think I’d be burnin’ in ’ell, they would.”
Whistler squeezed his lips bitterly. “I don’t need the money, Ghan. If those sons of bitches hurt yeh, it’s gonna hurt me. Hurt me somepin awful inside. Yeh know how those damn girls made me soft like butter! Got enough pain wivout yers.”
Whistler stuffed the sock into the can and put the top back on, then buried it in the pile. “If yeh don’t need the money, it stays here. But if yer in trouble, gawd damn it, take it!” Whistler shoved a pile of old clothes on top. “Now come on. Let’s get outta here an’ see if anybody’s got a game on.”
The old men hunched out of the tent, pulled up their shirt collars over their necks and pulled down their hats against the pelting rain. Cigarette smoke drifted and extinguished from a large tent on the Aussie side. A low hum of voices came from the opening and then a high shout and then the low hum again. Whistler pulled back the flap. The ceiling was high, so they stretched out their backs and dripped. “Boys gotta game on?” Whistler asked.
“Depends,” a burly, sunburned man answered. “Got money?”
Whistler jingled the coins in his pocket.
“Orright.” The man nodded. �
�Join in.” He scooted his wooden crate over. “Make room for the old-timers!” he ordered. Each rump slid over a spot.
“Whot yeh playin’?” Ghan asked.
“Fly loo.” In the middle of the men lay a slab of wood and on top sat six small pyramids of sugar. The men vigorously waved at the flies in the air. “Place yer bets!” the man hollered.
Ghan placed his coin in front of the fourth cone of sugar. The other men followed, each picking a pile, some doubling up. “Bets placed!” the man shouted. “Three, two, one, down!”
The flapping of hands stopped and stilled, every eye watching the buzzing blowflies. A hairy, ugly fly swooped down, circled the sugar while the men held their breath. Then another fly drifted down and without stopping to consider landed on the second mound of sugar and started licking at the granules. Three of the men cheered and clapped while the others grunted. The winners held out hands for the payout. “Flies comin’ in like black clouds from the sewage,” another man explained. “Don’t know whot flies like more, shit or sugar.” The men laughed.
“Whistler an’ Ghan, right?” the headman asked pleasantly while he divvied up the winnings. They nodded. “Winston. Good t’ave yeh. Yer new, ain’t yeh?” he asked Ghan.
“Don’t feel like it,” Ghan answered while he dug for another coin. “Been workin’ the mines most of m’life. One don’t seem different from the next.”
“Fair dinkum.” Winston nodded. “Why yeh boys livin’ down wiv ’em stinkin’ E-talians? Should be over on our end.”
Whistler shot Ghan an I told yeh so glance and answered, “Lady down that way feeds us. Damn good cook, too. Only reason. Old farts like us need t’take a hot meal when we can.”
Winston frowned with understanding. “Just watch yerself. ’Em people don’t wash their hands. Eat same place they shit.” Snorts and growls rumbled around the table amid the flapping hands. “Last game! Place bets!”
CHAPTER 51
A steady stream of travelers to the homestead was to be expected: swaggies with the whole of their belongings wrapped in a bag tied to the end of a stick; the prospectors with cut, hard hands and empty pockets; the out-of-work stockmen who hid humiliation under gruff words. Veterans, newly sentimental and crippled, their eyes still distant and shocked with the horror of war, stopped by to track down lost mates. Whoever came, no matter their source, always asked for “a bit of tucker” to fill their thin bodies, most returning on their footsore journey soon after, some taking a quick nap under the coolibah tree.
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