“That Fox’s camp. There’s desperados there, they say!”
“No, no, the Arrow’s just a mite rough,” said Nessa, a stern look to Philip to watch what he said. He caught it, and quickly turned his story into a rollicking yarn that left the children in shrieks of laughter. Their mother hurried them off to their beds shortly after, shutting the door firmly on them. It was only after the stifled giggles could no longer be heard and all the adults were properly provided for—tea for the ladies and a dram of something to wet your whistle for the men—that Ada turned to Nessa.
“Now, the truth of your wandering, and none of those nonsense tales you told the children. You two have seen long and hard days since last we met, I’m guessing.”
Nessa let Philip do the talking. He was young enough that his words carried the excitement and the hope of their adventures. Even the worst times came out sounding funny in hindsight; but Nessa did not let herself believe they had fooled Ada. She caught the older woman glancing at her too often.
“And how has it been here?” Nessa finally could no longer refrain from asking.
“Much as ever,” said Ada. “’Tis a busy time of year for our Bob here.”
Her husband nodded, his usual taciturn self. Nessa had quickly realised that his wife spoke for them both, and that it suited Bob very nicely.
“Winter’s coming,” went on Ada.
“But the days are so hot still,” protested Philip.
“Maybe, but the cold’s on its way, and that can be a right nasty time in these parts.”
Her brother looked sceptical, but Ada’s advice had stood Nessa in good stead in her time here. “This Campbell’s field we are heading to—how is that in the cold?”
“Och, you want to be out of those south-facing gullies long before the snow comes in … and that could be any time. You never know what’s coming hereabouts at this time of year.”
“That’s where t’boss be now,” added Bob Cooper, to the shock of everyone at the table, including his wife. Nessa waited breathlessly for more. There was dead silence, but Bob must have judged his contribution sufficient for the evening. Nessa was rescued by Ada.
“Bringing in the stock from up the tops he be,” she explained. “There’s good summer grazing up on the Old Man Range but, come autumn, we bring them down to safer country. Stock caught on the tops in a snow storm, well, they won’t be alive the next day, and that’s a fact. Up on those hills is no place for a body to be come winter—man or beast. You mind that, now, young fella. That Campbell’s is as miserable a spot as you could think of when the bad weather hits.”
“And when is that?” said Nessa politely, ignoring Philip’s glare.
Again, Bob stunned them. “Could be a couple of months. Could be tomorrow,” he said prosaically.
Then Ada switched her attention to Nessa. “And what do you plan to be doing, young Nessa, while your brother is stuck up there?”
“What I always do—go with Philip and keep house for him.”
“Not on that field you shouldn’t. B’aint no women up there, not as I’ve heard tell.”
Nessa was not surprised, but she had heard this too many times to be dismayed. “I’ll manage,” was all she said in protest.
“Don’t worry. I can keep my sister safe,” said Philip, having learnt to deal with this question often as well.
Ada harrumphed her disapproval but seemed to realise the uselessness of arguing further. After one or two more cursory protests, she changed the subject and plunged back into her local gossip.
Nessa and Philip heard at length of the doings of each and every Cooper child, pet and household stray not yet mentioned already. Since the fire was warm, the food and company good and the chairs comfortable, they felt no need to protest. For Nessa the evening was sprinkled with small, treasured nuggets. His name came up, his doings and his news. Too few for her desires, the briefest of sketches only, as if Ada begrudged letting his name loose, but still there. She hugged them to herself, as rare and secret treasures.
Chapter 11
“Don’t be a stranger, now you’re close by.” Ada hugged Nessa tightly to her, then as abruptly released her. “If you ever need help, there’s a place here for you.”
Nessa couldn’t answer. Her throat was tight and her chest full. All she could manage was a quick, hard squeeze and a croaky, “Thank you”.
Philip said all that was polite for them both.
It was a beautiful morning. A slight breeze sent a shimmer through the tussocks on the hills. In the distance, a touch of snow on the tops echoed Bob and Ada’s words of last night, but the bright sky and the blazing sun denied the threat, making her glad of the broad brim of her bonnet. She set her swag, feeling the familiar weight settle into the groove of her shoulder. One foot in front of the other, a final turn and wave, and they were off on their travels again. A new place waited, new people, but still a goldfield like the others. She hoped there would be women there, though from Ada’s words it seemed unlikely. Which meant that once more she and Philip would have to demonstrate their ability with guns, that they could and would defend themselves. Philip was becoming very convincing. From somewhere, he had acquired a natural authority. Maybe it was the ease of his hand on the gun that kept the crowd from seeing the lack of years on his face. Or maybe she was just being a big sister. Even she had come to believe that Philip could and would shoot if need be. She chuckled to herself, feeling a lot better all of a sudden.
It was not far to Chamonix. For the first time in weeks, she found herself looking at their surroundings as she walked. Soon her fingers itched for the paper and brushes she had sold after Queenstown. There had seemed no point in keeping them. She was Philip’s housekeeper, her days filled with cooking and washing in the primitive canvas townships.
Today, she saw anew each blade of the long grass beside the track, watched a clump wave in the breeze, wondered again at the translucent green of the tussocks nearby and how they metamorphosed into a tawny carpet on the hills. Raggedly torn edges told of the chewing of sheep and beneath her feet was the feel of sliding shale and warm dust.
The first part of their journey took them up the valley from the homestead. The tussocks stirred, a dog barked, and here and there patches of the newly sown English grasses showed green against their native cousins. The path rose up, wound to the crest of the ridge, then over.
The landscape on the other side was so starkly different that it seemed as if they had been thrust suddenly into a fantastical land—one littered with the residue of some Teutonic, ground-thrusting game of the gods. Jagged edges of rock lunged up from the barren earth to the sky. In every hollow granting shelter from the scouring wind, the dark thorns of the matagouri laid claim, leaving the exposed dry slopes to the tussocks. The track wound round an out-thrust of eroded rock then down again to a deep gorge. At the base, a small stream hustled and tumbled over a narrow bed. Gorge Creek the locals called it, Ada had told her. The name made her smile as they waded through it. A creek that ran into a small gorge before falling into the Molyneux. What should they call it but Gorge Creek—so pragmatic, so like the sturdy folk of these lands. The track turned aside here, reaching up the steep hillside to a motley collection of canvas and wooden huts.
The path to them was steep and uneven, forcing Nessa to watch her feet, but still the noise intruded—a regular cacophony of mismatched calls, human and animal. They came to the edge of the huts and now came the special smell she would ever after know meant Chamonix; a mixture of warming dust, horse hide, drying dung and sweaty men. They stopped to catch their breath in the middle of the only street.
Nessa was by this time used to the bustle of a goldfields town, but this was of another kind entirely. There was a heady sense of purpose here, of men with business to attend to and things to finish. They called hello, talked and shouted, but always they were moving. And the businesses lining the street were different: a blacksmith, a store, a collection of boarding houses, stables, grain merchants an
d boarding shacks. Missing were the assay office, the bank, the sellers of pans and cradles, shovels and hoes, these were missing.
This was a packers’ town.
They had bypassed this place on their way inland, eager to get to the fields, but now Nessa wanted to stop. Packers. The word had come to mean safety to her. A constant support, and a reminder of a special interlude. For the first time in many long weeks, she almost dared to hope.
Philip was looking at the shops. “Looks like a busy place.”
“Yes, but not the way the Dunstan is,” said Nessa as she detoured around a fresh pile of horse dung.
“You like it?”
“I don’t know it yet.”
This time, Philip caught her arm and helped her sidestep another pile then held onto her as she stumbled on the steadily sloping track.
“Why build a town on a steep hillside like this?” The disgust was clear in his tone, obviously not as taken with the small huddle of canvas buildings as she.
Then she tripped sideways as a man led a horse by. She reached out automatically and clutched at the horse’s flank.
“Here, watch it. Old Betsy don’t like folks bothering her.”
Old Betsy agreed with him, reaching round with a tooth-filled mouth and nipping sharply at Nessa’s hip, at the same time pirouetting on her hind feet and rearing up just enough to lift her front hooves up. Then came down with a twisting crunch right on Nessa’s foot. Pain shot through her, and she would swear the spiteful beast twisted its hoof hard down on her instep before lifting it off again. It gave a couple of disgruntled harrumphs, then subsided again to stand meekly beside its owner.
“Ness, are you all right? Lord, you’re as white as a sheet.”
“Don’t worry Phili—” Nothing else came out. Everything was a blur and Philip’s voice sounded far away.
“Nessa. Ness!”
“Here, lad. Bring her to Jacques’s store.”
“Old Betsy don’t like strangers. No need for the lass to take on so.”
“She’s hurt, you old fool.”
The voices seemed to string together. She recognised the feel of Philip holding her. He’s so much bigger than me now, she thought in surprise. Other voices were new. Her foot felt enormous. If she breathed slowly, the pain might go. It was all she had strength for.
“’Ere, on my counter.” A new voice. French, a country man by the rough tones, and older. “Stretch ‘er out now. Pass the knife ’ere, M’sieur Robert.”
She began to struggle at that.
“Hold still, Nessa. They’re trying to help.” Philip again, his voice sounding very young. “They have to cut your boot off.” She slipped back into the blurred world. When she came round again, the Frenchman was talking and her foot felt a bit easier. The mangle of pain had receded enough to let her open her eyes.
“Ah, mam’selle, you return to us.”
She struggled, trying to sit up.
“No, no, lie still for now. Your foot, it is not so pretty at the moment. Let Robert do his work and then you can rise.”
She turned her head to where she thought Philip stood.
“Nessa. You gave me such a fright.” His face was as pale as she guessed her own must be.
“I’m sorry Philip. Ah … do you mind if we stop here a few hours to let it recover? My foot…” Why did her voice sound so small, so far away?
“Shssh, Sis. Of course we’re stopping here.” Philip’s eyes never left her face, watching each movement nervously.
“And how far is it you were planning to walk, young feller?” Another voice this, younger than the Frenchman, but older than Nessa. She was too tired, too weak to turn and look.
“Over the hill to Campbell’s,” Philip said, “once we’d bought our supplies.”
“Not today, m’sieur. I am sorry to tell you, mam’selle, it will be some days before you will be fit for that.”
“What’s she done to her foot?” demanded Philip. “Is it broken?”
Nessa waited anxiously for the answer. The Frenchman seemed to know these things.
He shook his head. “Probably not. No. It is very badly bruised. By tomorrow, it will be twice as big and all colours of ze rainbow.”
“No.” Philip’s cry echoed her own. “What do we do now?” Then she saw him draw back his shoulders and knew such pride in him. “We’ll manage somehow, Ness. Don’t you worry.”
It made her want to cry. “Get Ada,” she whispered. “Ada will help.” But it was not the name she really longed for. Her head fell back weakly, and she let her eyes close over again. It was the only way she knew to hold in the tears.
To one side she could hear whispering. She was a nuisance to them all, that was plain. Soon, she would worry about it. When she could. When her foot stopped hurting quite so much. She let the grey world take her under again.
“You leave my Betsy, young feller,” suddenly intruded loudly. Then Philip’s voice, quiet so she could not hear the words, only the tone. Urgent, demanding. No Philip, we need their help. If only she had the energy to take charge.
Then the Frenchman’s calm voice. Good, someone else had taken over. The whispering stopped, retreated and a door opened and shut. More footsteps coming and a familiar scent. Her brother. She gathered her wits as best she could.
“Nessa, you awake?”
She opened her eyes and tried to smile. From the concern suddenly on his face, it must have ended up more a grimace.
“Hold up, Sis. Just a bit longer. They’ve sent for help and there’s a boarding house across the street that has a private room. We’re going to carry you there now. Can you manage?”
She nodded her head carefully. She would have to.
Philip held her by one shoulder and the Frenchman by the other.
“Thank you, m’sieur…?”
“Just Jacques, ma petite. But don’t you worry about it now. Only a short trip and you will be more comfortable. Ready?”
Again she nodded and set her teeth as they slowly lifted her up. Someone brought a chair and they put her in that, lifting it to carry her over the rough track that made up the main street of the small township.
The boarding house was no grander than the store from which she had come. Rough timber framing and calico walls, like all the buildings here; but it would keep out the wind and sun, and inside she found it had been partitioned off into a series of rooms little more than cubicles. At the rear, though, was a larger one, with a real door, a proper bed, a table with a wash jug and a coat rack for hanging clothes on. Civilisation.
Her hand reached out to caress the embroidered counterpane laid over the bed. A myriad of tiny daisies and forget-me-nots had been stitched across the soft white of the linen. “How lovely.”
“A present from my sister and Mam. They sent it out when they heard I had bought this place.” Another strange man stood to one side, turning his hat over in his hands. “Happen they thought it a bit grander than I told them. I put it on special for you, Miss.”
“Thank you, sir. It is beautiful.” She carefully lifted the exquisite cover to turn it down and the shy owner moved to the other side of the bed.
“Let me, Miss. Me Mam used to do the same each night on her and Da’s bed.”
She smiled her thanks, and wondered again at the hints of home she so often came across in this crude place. Then the smile slipped as she was lifted onto the bed, and must endure their handling of her foot as a pillow was placed under it and more at her back to make her comfortable.
“My apologies, mam’selle. It was necessary.”
Despite his brusque tone, Nessa smiled her thanks. There was little of the flowery in this Frenchman, but she trusted him. Earthy practicality had been the rule by which she had lived most of her life, and this man would not try to hide from her a reality that what must be faced.
“I cannot thank you enough, m’sieur,” she said when she had recovered enough to speak again. He nodded as if in recognition. Then, gesturing at the others to follow hi
m, he left. Only Philip remained, and she lay back gratefully on the bed.
“The Frenchie said you need to rest a while. He is sending for someone they seem to think will know how to strap that foot and check it properly, but that will be some hours away. Is there anything you need in the meantime?”
“No. Yes, a cup of tea.”
“Right, one coming up,” and her brother leaped up almost in relief at having something to do. In minutes she was truly alone. She shut her eyes and let the pain swallow her again.
Thankfully, it was long before Philip returned with her tea. Someone had managed to find a china cup, and tears stung her eyes at the sight.
“Be sure to thank whoever owns that cup.”
“It’s just a cup.”
She didn’t try to explain, but he did promise to pass on her words. Exactly as she told them, she commanded.
The homely taste did more than all the medicines in the world to restore her. Afterwards, she drifted off. They must have put something in her tea.
She wished they had not. Strange and dark dreams clutched at her. Mama alive, but scolding. She had never done that before. “Don’t you desert my baby, Nessa. Don’t you leave him.”
“He’s grown now, Mama, not a baby. And me? Don’t I deserve something too?”
“Don’t be foolish.” Her father now. “The boy’s got a bright future. You be sure he gets it. A farmer boy is nothing. Don’t you let him get in the way.”
“Not a farm boy, Papa. He’s a special farm man.”
“Forget him. Forget him.” A whole chorus now: Papa and Mama crowding in on her, like multiple reflections in an old mirror—the kind with bevelled edges that showed a hundred or more distorted versions of an image.
“Can’t love him,” she mumbled. “No, no,” louder now, startling herself.
“Shh, shush, lie still, Miss Ward. You’ll hurt yourself. Please, Nessa.”
Mary Brock Jones Page 13
