The Horse Who Bit a Bushranger

by Jackie French

  She took the flowers, and smiled. ‘Roses. My favourite. Just like the ones growing in the Harrises’ garden.’

  He blushed.

  She laughed. ‘Where else would you get flowers? And the Harrises have enough to spare. Sit down then, Mr…?’

  ‘Bil—’ He stopped. ‘William,’ he said instead. ‘Mr William Marks, of Deep Gully.’

  ‘And what did you want to say to me?’

  ‘I wondered if you would care to ride out this afternoon?’

  ‘Where to?’

  He hadn’t thought of that. He cast around for the only interesting thing in town. ‘There’s the cattle sale.’

  She laughed. Her teeth were good. Her eyes were laughing too. Black eyes, with dark lashes. ‘There’s an offer no girl could resist.’

  ‘I’m sorry. We could go somewhere else.’

  ‘Here is good enough. I’ve got the jam to see to. I can’t go off and leave the place, not with the master and mistress away. The plums will go off if I don’t get them done soon, and then where would we be, with no jam for the winter?’

  She turned to stir the pot with a wooden spoon—he could hear the jam glopping inside—then reached over to one of the meat safes hanging by the window, and pulled out an apple pie. One slice had already been cut. She cut another, and put it in front of him, then poured him a cup of tea from the big pot stewing on the side of the stove. She added sugar without asking him, then placed it in front of him. ‘So tell me about yourself, Mr Marks. You’re interested in cattle?’

  ‘No,’ he said honestly. ‘Nor sheep either. I’d like to breed horses, but there’s no money in that now.’

  ‘And Deep Gully is your farm? How big is it?’

  ‘Twenty-five acres. Leased,’ he told her honestly.

  ‘Is there a house on it?’

  He shook his head. He hadn’t even bothered with a hut, not till he had land he owned. A tent was good enough for him, with Mrs John to cook for them both when they were boiling down.

  ‘So,’ she said slowly. ‘No land of your own. No house.’ She looked him up and down, assessing his clothes. ‘You’re not a convict, Mr Marks?’

  ‘I was. Now I’m a farmer. One day I will have land. I’ll breed the best horses in the colony.’

  ‘Of course you will,’ she said gently.

  She doesn’t believe me, thought Billy. Why should she? Any man can say that one day he’ll have a farm.

  ‘I’m sorry, miss. I don’t even know your name.’

  She dimpled. ‘I’m Annie Lamb. From Sussex. Farming country, Mr Marks, though I was a cook, not a dairymaid. I like farms better than towns, I think. But a farm needs to have a house on it—a good one, with a dairy, storerooms and all.’ She shook her head. ‘You hear terrible sad stories of women on the backblocks, Mr Marks. Dirt floors and snakes under the bed, straining the water through your stockings to try to clean it for your children. I didn’t come to the colony for that.’

  He hesitated. Had she been a convict too? It was bad manners to ask too many questions about how anyone arrived in New South Wales.

  ‘They paid me nine pounds to come and settle here, Mr Marks,’ she said, answering the question he hadn’t asked.

  To marry, he thought. Charities in England paid single women to travel to Australia, to marry, to breed sturdy children and make the land respectable. She was a free settler, not even an ex-convict like him. A girl like this could marry anyone. How many women in the colony could make a pie like the one he’d just tasted?

  And not one, he thought, as beautiful as her.

  She stood up. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Marks. If I let the jam boil any longer it’ll be toffee. I’d better get it into the jars.’

  ‘Can I help you?’

  She smiled again. ‘Have you ever made jam, Mr Marks?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Then better not. Jam can bite you when you’re not looking. It’s hot,’ she added, when she saw he didn’t understand. ‘And it stays hot if it splashes on your skin. It was good to meet you, Mr Marks.’

  She’s dismissed me, he thought. In a year’s time…two years maybe…I might have had a chance.

  He stood up too. ‘May I call again?’ he asked, almost desperately. ‘My partner and I are heading back tomorrow—’

  ‘You want to leave your cattle in the road while you stop for a cup of tea? Or maybe they can trample round the garden?’

  She was laughing at him. She slipped her hands into thick mittens and lifted the pot off the stove onto a rag on the wooden table. The jam still bubbled, thick and dark, like the tar pot during shearing. It smelt better than the tar though, better than anything he had ever eaten, except maybe her apple pie.

  ‘We didn’t buy cattle at the sale. Just sold our tallow, bought some stores. Miss Lamb, one day I will have a farm, I promise you.’

  ‘I don’t doubt you, Mr Marks.’ Again she said it kindly, but Billy could tell she was just saying it so that he’d go, so she could get the jam into the jars. ‘Of course you can call tomorrow, on your way back home.’

  He shaved again next morning too. I need to buy a razor of my own, he thought. He didn’t bring flowers this time—she’d worked out where he’d got them. He’d asked Roman John if he should buy her some ribbons, maybe.

  Roman John shook his head. ‘You don’t buy a girl presents till you have a right to. After you’ve walked out together maybe, not when you’ve only had a cup of tea.’

  It was strange to be sitting in the kitchen again, this time with Roman John. Annie gave them each a cup of tea. It was plum pie today—she must have made it fresh, for the pastry was still warm. He tried to take heart at that, that she’d cooked a fresh pie for him. She gave him a jar of jam too.

  But deep down he knew she was being kind to a man who had been polite to her.

  She came out to the gate to say goodbye. Making sure we leave, thought Billy, so she can get on with her cooking. Roman John climbed into the cart, with the casket of sugar, the bolt of cloth, the barrels of salt they were taking back. Billy hoisted himself up on Conservative. The big horse stamped a little, then to his surprise leant down and butted at Annie’s apron.

  ‘What?’ He pulled back on the reins. ‘I’m sorry, miss.’

  She laughed. ‘No need. How did you know I had this, hey?’ She spoke to the horse. She pulled an apple out of the pocket of her apron, and held it out to him.

  She knows how to offer an apple to a horse, thought Billy. Conservative bent down and took it neatly, as though he was watching his manners too, then spoilt it all by crunching it so hard his dribble fell onto the grass.

  She patted the horse’s neck. ‘He’s a grand one.’

  ‘He is—’ began Billy, but Roman John got in first.

  ‘Most savage horse in the colony,’ he said.

  ‘Savage? This big darling? He’s a sweetkins, that’s what he is.’

  ‘No,’ said Roman John. ‘Look at his scars. Many men tried to break this one. But only Billy here succeeded. Spent two days just teaching him to trust a man enough to let him lead him. Spent another three months letting him see that a man could be his friend. I don’t know any other man who could have done it, Miss Lamb. Nor any that would have bothered.’

  ‘Not even for a horse like this?’

  ‘Even so.’

  She looked at Billy then. For the first time he had a feeling she was really seeing him. Was she just admiring his horsemanship? Or was it something else?

  He wanted desperately for it to be more.

  ‘Horses know a good man,’ she said slowly. ‘And a bad one.’

  ‘They do,’ said Roman John.

  ‘I hope you’ll call in again, Mr Marks,’ she said suddenly, then blinked, as though she had surprised herself with the words. ‘Just for a cup of tea,’ she added hurriedly. ‘Nothing more.’

  ‘Of course.’ He lifted his hat to her. It was a good hat, bought new the day before, especially to visit her. He’d always wear a proper hat now, he t
hought. No more stringy-bark sunshades for him.

  He urged Conservative forward. The big horse stepped smartly, as though he knew he was on show. Billy looked back when they were halfway down the road, but Annie Lamb had gone.

  They rode down the street, then onto the road that led out of town, Billy on the big horse, Roman John in the cart. Neither said anything till the houses were well past.

  ‘Well,’ said Billy at last. ‘What did you think of her?’

  ‘She’s a squaw,’ said Roman John.

  Billy stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She’s an Indian. From America. Years ago…I never told you I was a sailor once, did I? Just that one trip to America and back. I saw Indians then. Men with feathers on their heads. Redskins—that’s what they called them. I thought them more brown than red. Women with hair and eyes like hers, her colour skin.’

  ‘But she’s from England!’

  ‘That what she told you? Might even be true. But if she did, she came from America first. She’s a squaw.’

  He might be right, thought Billy silently. The black hair, the skin he’d taken for tanned, thinking her a woman who’d spent time in the sun.

  Billy glanced over at his friend. ‘And I’m an ex-con.’

  Roman John looked at him sharply. ‘In five years’ time no one will remember that. You can move to a new place and pretend you’ve come from anywhere. But that girl’s always going to have dark skin and Indian hair. There’ll never be any way of escaping from that.’

  So that’s why she isn’t already married, thought Billy, despite her beauty and her cooking, despite the smile as lovely as the moon. That was why she was still in a kitchen, not in a drawing room.

  How had a native girl from America ended up here? But he knew one thing. He didn’t care who her people were, or if she’d once worn feathers in her hair. Or maybe he did, because if she was what Roman John thought then perhaps he had a chance.

  Not a big chance. Women with worse pasts than hers had married officers and wealthy landowners. Even a convict girl could marry high.

  But at least now he could dream. He’d need a farm, and a house to offer her. Annie, he thought. My Annie with the long black hair.

  CHAPTER 27

  The Cook Annie, 1841

  Annie listened to the clip clop of the hoofs down the street outside, the rattle of the cart.

  A nice young man, she thought. And a strangely innocent one too, bringing her flowers, asking nothing but to talk to her, to drink his tea. There’d been men after her in plenty since she came to the colony, but she knew that most hadn’t had marriage in mind.

  There’d been only two men who’d offered her a wedding ring. One had been rum-soaked. He’d kicked a dog once when he was drunk. He had a farm—a good one, with a stone house. But a man who would kick a dog would kick a wife.

  The other was a feckless fool, son of a rich merchant, dealing in fleeces and whale oil. Annie hadn’t seen him since the banks went bust. She had a feeling he’d gone bust with them.

  Annie shook her head as she opened the stove door, and poked at the fire with a poker. Old Millie would be here soon, to wash the sheets and towels, and she’d need a hot fire to heat the water. While the stove was hot Annie would make the week’s bread—save heating up the kitchen two days in a row. Put bread into a cold oven and you got a brick, instead of the lightest loaves in the colony.

  She pulled out her basin, scooped flour out of the barrel, and poured in some of the yeast that always stood brewing on the windowsill. After drizzling in some warm water, she began to knead, pushing and pulling at the dough till it lost its powdery look, and went almost transparent if you pulled at the edges.

  Annie’s loaves were always high and light, with black tops like her hair, and soft white insides. Sometimes she wished she had skin the colour of white bread. If she’d had skin like that she wouldn’t be working in Mrs Draper’s kitchen now.

  Annie pushed at the dough with her strong hands, and shut her eyes and remembered.

  Her first memory was a roof. It was held up with a framework of birch boughs, and covered with deer hide. She didn’t know how she knew the skins were deer, but she did, just like she knew they’d been rubbed with fat and deer brain so the rain didn’t come inside.

  There were other memories too. Riding in a pouch on Mother’s back, holding onto her hair, long and dark like hers. Mother was picking berries, her fingers stained blue and red. Some berries went into the birch bark basket and some were passed back to Annie.

  Annie frowned. Her name hadn’t been Annie then, and the woman with long black hair hadn’t been called Mother. Annie had tried and tried, but she could never remember what her name had been then, or what she had called her mother…

  There were other houses by the icy river, long houses, covered with deerskin too. Fish hung to dry in the cold wind, and goose breasts, and strips of deer meat.

  The trouble with the good memories was that the bad ones followed them. Mother coughing, spitting blood. Dead people; house after house of dead people. She called and called, crying for food, but no one came.

  It was as though she was the only one left alive, toddling from house to house, her belly hurting with the hunger, hunger so bad it was more important than the bodies of the people she had loved.

  And then the man in black arrived.

  She never knew his name either; had never felt that she could ask. He’d been a Church of England missionary in the far north of the Americas, where he’d found her—she knew that much. One moment she was trying to swallow dried fish, a hard lump in her throat although she chewed and chewed with baby teeth, and the next the man in black was cradling her in his arms, holding her in front of him on his big horse.

  He took her to a woman in a strange house, bigger than any she’d known. The woman washed her, and dressed her in clean clothes—strange cloth, harsher than deer skin. They gave her bread and milk and a hard cold bowl, and a spoon to eat with.

  She didn’t know how to use a spoon. She took the bowl outside and lifted it like a cup instead.

  They taught her new words. That’s how she understood the man in black when she stood under the drawing-room window. Later she knew he had been talking to the Lambs.

  ‘She was the only one alive in the whole village,’ said the man in black. ‘I can’t tell you what it was like, walking among the dead. The fever must have come quickly, to kill them all like that. Maybe some of her people left as soon as it appeared. But she survived—this tiny child, sitting by the icy river in her deerskins, trying to chew dried fish.’

  ‘Poor little thing,’ said Mrs Lamb.

  ‘What if she’s diseased too?’ asked Mr Lamb.

  ‘I’m sure she’s not,’ said the man in black. ‘She’s a good child. Obedient. Didn’t even cry when I brought her here. She’s picking up English quickly too. They do at that age.’

  ‘Sir, I’ll speak frankly,’ said Mr Lamb. ‘What do you expect us to do with her? It will be years before she’s of any use as a servant. Why should we saddle ourselves with a native child?’

  ‘Because she is alone,’ said the man in black softly. ‘The only one to survive of all her family. Because she is a child and deserves another chance.’

  ‘Then we will take her.’ Annie heard Mrs Lamb’s skirts swish as she stood up. ‘Cook can look after her. We will take her back with us to England.’

  It’s funny, thought Annie, as she pushed the bread, that I can remember the words even though I didn’t know what they meant then. Or maybe she had just made up the scene, years later, to explain what she’d worked out must have happened.

  A second chance. Yes, the Lambs had given her that. By the time she was eighteen she was cook herself, in charge of the Lambs’ kitchen, with kitchenmaids to peel the potatoes and beat the egg whites. The Lambs had given her their name. Mrs Lamb had even taught her how to read. She had white aprons and black dresses for every day, and a grey silk dress for church on Sundays, and
a warm room of her own in the attics, with a carpet, just a little bit worn at the edges, no longer good enough for the drawing room downstairs.

  She had everything she could want, said Mrs Lamb, tears in her eyes, when Annie told her she was leaving.

  ‘How can you leave us?’ cried Mrs Lamb. ‘After all we’ve done for you, Annie. We’ve treated you like a daughter all these years.’

  If I was really your daughter I wouldn’t be making tea cakes in the kitchen, thought Annie. I wouldn’t live in the attics. But she didn’t say so. It was true; the Lambs had given her a lot. She needed a reference from them too, so others would employ her when she got to the new colony.

  ‘New South Wales.’ Mrs Lamb shook her head in wonder. ‘It’s half a world away, Annie! We’ll never see you again!’ There was real regret in her voice. But then, thought Annie, it was hard to find a servant you could trust, especially one who owed you her life and would look after you in your old age. A servant like that might be even more valuable than a daughter.

  ‘And full of thieves and cutthroats,’ wailed Mrs Lamb. ‘Only convicts go to New South Wales, Annie. How can you want to go to a horrid place like that?’

  Annie pulled the piece of newspaper from the pocket of her apron. ‘No, madam. Not just convicts. See? They’ll give nine pounds to any woman—any respectable woman—to come out there, and pay her fare there too.’ She met Mrs Lamb’s eyes. She owed the old lady this much truth. ‘They want wives out there, madam. There’s rich men in the colony—convicts once maybe, but now they have land and money. I want to be a wife, Mrs Lamb. I want a kitchen of my own, not someone else’s. And I’ll never be a wife if I stay here.’

  She wanted children too. Wanted them with a desperation that ate at her heart. She’d had no people for so long. This was a chance to really belong again. Her only chance.

  Mrs Lamb’s eyes filled with tears.

  She knows it’s true, thought Annie, as the older woman bent to hug her. Annie could make the best plum pudding in the county. She was beautiful too, tall and straight from the good feeding in the Lambs’ warm kitchen, her hair so thick and long she could sit on it when she unplaited it to wash it Sunday afternoons.