“I’ll think on it, Miss Molly.” With a slow nod he directed his words to his sister, but his eyes sought out Finella. “You can be sure of that.”
Finella loosened her grip on the table and pressed a hand to her belly. From the way her pulse pounded in her ears, one would think he’d already given her a thorough spinning.
13
For the next three weeks, heavy rain pounded the island. The swollen Saltwater Creek lapped at the bridge and surrounding tracks, and tucked the isolated household in their tiny world.
All three farm occupants ducked the weather and busied themselves with indoor work. Finella produced damper after damper, and a secret bubble of satisfaction kept her smiling, but Molly would not join in any of the cooking. The young girl’s disinterest bothered Finella almost as much as Shadrach’s promise of revenge, which failed to materialize.
Needles and threads proved equally troublesome. Finella kept at their mending lessons, but only dish washing drew Molly from her bed. At this rate, the sleepy girl would never move on from expert washerwoman.
“Do you hear that?” Finella looked up. The roof song they’d become accustomed to had softened. “I think it’s stopped raining. Shall we walk?”
With warm wraps secure, Finella and Molly picked their way down the slim track, past the drenched chicory and mustard fields and into the tea tree scrub. They traipsed through wet sea grass and by the time they reached the open sand, their hems dragged against their heels.
Eager to keep away from the water’s edge, Finella managed to convince Molly they might find wildflowers among the spinnifex at the edge of the sand hills.
The wind pushed them from behind but a wisp of yellow caught Finella’s eye.
“Over here.” She held her hand out for Molly who already carried a fistful of shells. Glad to have spied something for her Everlasting, Finella knelt beside a tuft of dense green leaves and daisy shaped petals.
“Do you know what these are called, Molly?”
The young girl shook her head.
“Me neither. Maybe it’s a buttercup?” She picked a bud and examined the stem. “If we collect enough we could make a daisy chain for our hair”
Molly wriggled into the sand beside Finella. “What’s a daisy chain?”
“You’ve never made a daisy chain?”
Molly shook her head.
“Well, we shall remedy that, right now.” Finella showed her where to pick, at the base of the short stems.
Molly soon set aside her shells to gather more flowers. Finella wondered about the girl’s early years, afraid if she asked, she might hear a story she didn’t want to know. Instead, she asked about Molly’s new life on the island.
“Why doesn’t Shadrach have any dogs? Most farms I know have at least one?” Finella held out her apron and Molly tossed another handful of flowers her way.
“He had a dog. Before I came. But he was old and died. He’s afraid to get another one.”
“Afraid of dogs?” Finella couldn’t believe that.
“No. Afraid the dog will run away and take me along.”
Finella smiled at the upside down way Molly understood her brother.
“Have you ever run away?”
Molly shook her head, stopped and gave in to a slow nod.
“I wanted to see the water,” she pointed with her elbow but kept her head down to reach for another flower. “Shad wouldn’t take me.”
“Do you remember what happened?”
“I got wet. All over. And Shad got so mad he…” Molly stopped.
“What did he do?” Finella crouched beside her.
“He…” Molly scooped a handful of sand. It trickled through her fingers and returned to their feet by the wind. “He yelled. A lot, and cried. And said if Mum knew she would be cross.”
Finella couldn’t imagine Shadrach crying. Perhaps Molly embellished her story.
“When Mum was happy she called me her Sunny Sunshine. But she never got cross. She said I was the only sunshine our house ever needed.”
Finella helped her stand, burdened by loss, not knowing how to fill it. They continued walking, their aprons round with flowers. “My mother died, too. You must miss yours. I know I did. I still do.”
Molly nodded. “Are you the only girl, too?”
“Well, not exactly. Aunt Sarah lived with us after Mother died. She’s my father’s sister. But now,” she shrugged, “I guess since she’s living in London, and I’m here, I am the only girl left, too.”
A wind tore across the shore and whipped at their skirts, snatching Molly’s ribbon from the end of her plait.
“Oh no! It’s gone.” Molly tried to follow the ribbon caught in the clutches of the wind but her hair wrapped around her eyes and mouth.
Carried on a gust, the frayed scrap flew beyond their reach. It settled on the water of the Saltwater Creek, where it met the beach from its long neck in the bush. A wave of sea foam rushed in and collected it together with a twisted mess of seaweed.
Molly frowned and stepped back. “We don’t go there. That’s the snakey creek.”
Finella looked to where she pointed. The swollen creek twisted its head into the bushland, as if it were a wide silver serpent.
“Don’t fret now.” With one free hand, Finella gathered Molly’s hair from her face and held it at her nape. “I have some ribbons in my sewing box. You may choose a new one from there if you like.”
“I can?”
“You can. I promise. And in return, you must make me a promise.”
“To obey you?”
“You’ve made that promise already. To your brother. You can promise me something now.”
Finella threaded her arm through Molly’s and they turned back to face the wind head on. “You can promise to help me cook.”
Molly pouted. “I don’t like to cook. It’s too hot.”
“Too hot?”
“I like to wash.”
Finella already knew the girl liked to play in the tubs but even dish water started out hot. “Do you think you could peel some potatoes? You’ll need to do that with a basin of cold water.”
Molly poked the tip of her tongue out the side of her mouth. The wind made her blink and for a moment she looked like she contemplated the world’s most difficult question.
“Peel potatoes? With water?”
Finella nodded.
“And I can have a ribbon?”
“You may choose the fanciest one.”
Aunt Sarah always said it was easier to catch a fly with honey and although she had not deliberately set a trap, Finella could see how persuasion and sweet incentive were good friends.
Molly smiled. “I’ll peel.”
*
Shadrach’s shells sat in his field like a human sized honeycomb. Layers of wood, oyster shells and cockles rose from the ground ready for burning, but this dome-shaped pyre would see no flame today. Or tomorrow. As much as Shadrach welcomed the watering of his crops, he lamented the downpour on this stack.
“What’s a man to do?” He spoke into the wind. “I keep busy, work until I collapse each night and God toys with me. I’ve other plans for you Shad. No shell burning this week. Again.”
He kicked the base.
“Why would I not be able to light it today, Lord? Do you really care if a lowly farmer gets to burn a pile of shells or are you needing it for something else?”
One fat raindrop fell onto his forehead, followed by a second on his cheek. Shadrach shook his head. Who was he to question God? Had God ever failed him? He hung his head and made for the house when low grey clouds opened their arms and showered his fields again.
Sloshing through the yard he contemplated his course. He could retreat to the barn. A leak from the roof needed attention before it became a problem. Or he could slip inside and find a chair beside the fire. But with Molly and Finella already bumping around the small house, he needed a better reason to be there. If only he had something to take inside. Something he needed to bri
ng in from the rain. Other than his own drenched self, nothing came to mind.
No, if the Lord did not want him burning today, there must be a reason. Perhaps it was to spend time with Finella. Show her…. Shadrach ran his fingers through his wet hair. Show her what? He had nothing. She’d seen it all. She knew his fortune lay wrapped in a small farm years from its true potential. She knew his sister needed more than he could give of himself. How much more was left over for a woman like Finella?
A woman like Finella. He walked through his fields with the words ringing in his ears. How could he reach a woman like Finella Mayfield? George had managed it from across an ocean with a courtship that grew over years. And with the persuasion of her father.
Shadrach stopped at the skillion door. What help did he have?
*
After examining every length of trim in Finella’s sewing basket, Molly chose a thin length of red velvet. Nothing caught her eye like the vermillion remnant braid. Even the yellow daisies, one tucked behind Finella’s ear, the remainder left outside in a basket by the door, lost their shine in the presence of Finella’s fancies.
Molly’s blue eyes shone. “So pretty.” She ran her fingers through the ribbon like a much sought after sea treasure.
“Aunt Sarah used a length on one of my skirts last winter. I wore it to church on Christmas Day.”
Molly’s eyes widened even more. “Oh, I know about Christmas. Mum found a card one time and showed me the picture of a pretty table. And happy people eating good food.” She touched her cheek to the soft pile of the ribbon.
An ache settled in Finella’s chest to see a simple remnant stir such longing. Those deep blue eyes on the other hand, larger than two bottomless rock pools, made up for what Molly’s lips kept in. Instead of the comb Shadrach used on the girl, Finella now shared her own silver hairbrush set. Mirror in hand, the young girl watched Finella’s slow gentle brushing.
“We can have a beautiful Christmas, Molly. Would you like that? With our very own decorations.”
Molly turned to face her. “Here, in Brother’s house?”
“Right here, this December. If you can promise to peel potatoes, I can promise you the finest Christmas we can make together.”
Molly turned back and smiled into the mirror. The smile of a girl with something to look forward to. It thrilled Finella just as much to be the one to promise it. And she would do it. With all the fancies she could find.
She worked each knot out of Molly’s hair with an extra measure of kindness, careful not to go near the dimpled scar on the left side of her face.
“I have a box of Christmas things we can explore, one day. Decorations and embroideries, I think there may even be part of a costume in there.” Finella fastened the ribbon into a neat bow. But her busyness with Molly’s hair didn’t keep her heart from remembering Mother’s hand stitched napkins. The ones Aunt Sarah always set in mother’s memory on their Christmas breakfast table. The incomplete set of six, now only five, but still well loved. Like all of mother’s well washed and faded stitch work.
She let the pang of loss float for a moment before sending it back to where she kept it locked. “You’d like to help me set a Christmas table, wouldn’t you?”
Molly nodded, but the hair brushing had caressed her well. Sleepy eyed, she slipped her boots off and got into bed. Finella kissed her cheek. The girl would be no good for a lesson in potato peeling until she’d woken from an afternoon nap.
Finella collected the muddy shoes and stepped outside to tap them together. A stream of sand trickled from each one and pooled at her feet.
From nearby, the low clearing of a throat startled her.
Shadrach leaned against the doorway of his skillion.
Her face flamed to think he’d been watching her, and her heart raced to know he still did.
He tossed a wad of papers onto his pallet and shut the door. “New game?”
Finella tapped Molly’s heels together. “Old shoes.” She tilted them the other way and another sprinkling of sand spotted the damp ground. “Molly will need a new pair soon. I think your sister hasn’t had new clothes or shoes in some time.”
Shadrach came closer. Close enough the heat from his arm touched hers like a warm breath.
“I see you’ve been paid a visit by the blue wren.”
“Blue wren?”
“It’s about now the males start courting the females with fancies they find in the bush. Anything bright, mostly feathers or flowers. Like this.” He stroked the petal behind her ear. “They like to put on a display. Flap their wings around and get a pretty girl’s attention.”
His words squeezed her breath, just beyond her grasp. “Molly and I gathered some flowers, that’s all,” she whispered. Her blush deepened and spread like fast growing ivy. She plucked the flower and threw it with the others.
“Cape Dandelion, if you must know.” He looked away. “Pops up every spring, in time for the blue wrens to impress.”
“Thank you.” Now she knew what to write beside her next Everlasting entry. Cape Dandelions. And Blue Wrens. “And while you’re being helpful, could we talk about Molly’s clothing? What she has is woefully inadequate for a growing girl.”
He scratched his eyebrow. “You’re probably right. Our mother couldn’t afford much. Worked hard just to pay their boarding house fee. Plan was for them to come and live here once I had a larger house built. Here, let me…”
He took the shoes and pulled a small knife from his boot. With one shoe tucked under his arm, he picked at the other with the point of the blade, scrapping off bits of red dirt. When he finished one, he swapped and worked on the second, leaving only a smudge of dirt for Finella to polish off with a damp rag. He handed the shoes back.
“Want me to do yours now, Dandelion?” Blue eyes teased.
“I can clean my own shoes, thank you.” She pointed to the soggy courtyard. “But, there wouldn’t be a need if you gave thought to…” She stopped and looked at him.
Head down he wiped the knife clean along the sleeve of his shirt. Long red smudges, bloodlike and broad, stained the light blue chambray cloth.
“Gave thought to what?” He tucked the knife back into his boot.
Finella let her hands fall to her side.
How could he not know what she meant? “Your house sits in a bog, Shadrach. Every time we come or go, we stream across puddles and bring half the mud indoors.”
He shrugged. “So? There’s worse things for folks to get upset about.”
Finella squeezed her nails into the leather of Molly’s shoes. “Do you have any idea what a slippery yard can do? How much danger there is when a simple pathway doesn’t exist for safe travel to the…” She pointed in the direction of the outhouse.
A rumble of thunder growled from above. Shadrach leaned over, just enough to make Finella wish she could shove him into a cold puddle.
“There’s nothing wrong with the yard a little summer sun won’t fix. Trust me, by then you’ll be moaning about the dust. Or the flies.”
He pushed off the wall and crossed the yard. Each long stride fell with as much determination into the mud as Finella employed in avoiding it. When he was halfway gone he turned around and walked backwards, arms outstretched to embrace another fresh shower. And he grinned.
He closed his eyes and stuck out his tongue for a mouthful of rain. Finella’s blood simmered as surely as if he’d ordered a torrent to annoy her from the Almighty Himself. With little thought to the undoing of all his good work, she tossed a shoe right at him.
It missed and landed with a plop in a puddle, overshooting her mark.
He opened his eyes, laughed and took another backwards step. Her simmer rolled to boil. With a high pitched grunt she chucked the other shoe with greater force, and with remarkable accuracy hit him in the chest. He caught it and held it there against his shirt before collecting the one at his feet.
“I don’t control the rain, Finella.” He yelled above the raindrops as if he’d rea
d her mind. “That’s God’s business.”
Finella screwed her fists into tighter balls, and thank God she did. For if she’d allowed herself one sinful luxury that day, it would have been to toss every dandelion petal in the basket by her feet, across the mud, and probably the basket itself, directly at his stubborn head.
14
Shadrach tossed the papers aside.
Who cared about the hyacinths her aunt forced to grow on their windowsill in winter?
He stretched his legs along the pallet and lay on his back in the cold skillion.
His feet cleared the end and hit the floor with a thud.
Reading Finella’s letters was like eating an unsalted egg. Wholesome and bland, her correspondence with George held very little tenderness.
Instead, she wrote about her Father, his work in Chingford Green and the parishioners they served together. Most of what she wrote consisted of her duty to her father’s village. Where were Finella’s dreams and desires? He knew what she didn’t like. That she shared freely. He needed to know what she longed for. If he was going to do anything about it.
He smoothed out another paper and followed the flowery copperplate through yet another letter.
Dear Mr. Gleeson,
I enjoyed reading about your early days at Phillip Island. There is much to be gained by sharing oneself with those in need. My Father’s encouragement in this has helped me look beyond my own loss.
Yesterday, I visited the spinster sisters, Miss Matilda and Miss Jemima Grace, the busiest of Father’s elderly parishioners and quite possibly my favorites. For years they’ve cherished three old mulberry trees beside their family home. They’ve tended silk worms and sold their thread to a nearby mill.
Last week a strike of lightning destroyed a tree in a burst of fire. Even worse, the flames spread to their house and only the two dear ladies escaped the catastrophe. Home and possessions all burned to a sorry crisp. Everything. Including the old trees.
They will move on to live with a nephew, also in Chingford Green, but I fear they will never be the same. Decades will pass before a new grove of mulberries flourish. And they will not be there to see that day.
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