‘I see.’ May wiped at the kitchen table, scrubbing until her knuckles whitened. ‘Ain’t no room for us, Thomas, as Jack’s taken up with Miss La-De-Da.’
A quiet descended, broken only by the crackle of the combustion stove and Thomas pouring tea into his cup. Jack opened the window and leant against the wooden sill. ‘You might want to air this room out a little more often, May. Put a bit of bacon on for me, will you?’
May dumped her tea cup in the sink.
‘Cook it yourself,’ she answered sharply. ‘If your own family aren’t good enough, then I’d hardly be good enough to cook for you.’
Wasn’t it just like his sister to ruin a moment? Jack turned to his brother. ‘You could try and sell this place or lease it, Thomas.’
Thomas’s cup clattered on its saucer. ‘Me? Sell it?’
‘We should all stay together,’ May argued, stoking the stove with wood. ‘Father would have expected it. Besides, you can’t take a girl like that Olive Peters out to the bush.’
‘Why not?’
May gave a shriek of amusement. ‘Take a good look at her!’
If Jack needed a reason not to take his siblings with him, there it was.
‘If it really is just a trial maybe we should stay, May, until Jack comes home.’
May’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Sure, don’t mind us, Jack. We’ll keep the family business going while you go off sky-larking. But if we do sell the store, don’t expect any share.’ Untying the apron at her waist she threw it on the table and walked out.
‘And you, Thomas, will you manage?’ Jack asked.
Thomas was slow to form a smile. ‘Sure, Jack. If you think you should go. Could I come and visit?’
‘Of course,’ Jack replied quickly, his thoughts already on a dark-haired girl with green-blue eyes. Wait until he shared his news. He, Jack Manning, was to be of the landed-gentry class.
Jack stuck sweaty fingers between his collar and neck and swallowed noisily. At least it was a sunny day. Ripples of white trailed after the craft on the harbour. Although the terminus was busy the majority of the city-bound office workers were already ensconced on the southside. Jack dawdled in the arcade, the glass window of the soda shop reflecting a young man whose spit-and-polished appearance was improved by a barber clean cut and shave. Jack was still beaming from the hot towel and complimentary shoeshine as he jangled shiny coins, contemplating another banana split. He could easily afford one now he was a business man, yet he knew this was no time to be frivolous with money.
At the wharf, construction noise followed his progress. The demolition of the foreshore was ongoing, and a steady pounding of jackhammers, general banging, crashing and despair filled the waking hours. Commuters claimed that mid-harbour you could hear noise from both the foreshores where the bridge approaches were planned. Jack could quite believe it. He thought briefly of Mills McCoy. The man might be a thug but he knew enough to get out of the Rocks.
There were three ferries all loading passengers, a fourth steaming directly across from Circular Quay. Some distance away men were fishing from the end of a jetty while two young children explored close to the blue-green of the water. Hesitating, Jack returned to the entrance of the terminus. The breeze carried the tang of the sea, of batter, fresh bread and the sticky sweetness of fairy floss. The ten-thirty train was already steaming in from Lavender Bay. Olive was late. He rubbed at closely shaven skin. Maybe she wasn’t coming.
‘Jack.’
Olive stood before him in a low-waisted emerald dress and coat, and a white silk clouche hat. Her black hair shone as she gave a brief twirl for his benefit, her grin infectious.
‘Olive.’ He didn’t know if he could sweat more profusely.
‘I’m sorry about your father.’ She took a step towards him as the passengers from the train began to bustle past out of the terminus in their rush to reach the wharf and the next ferry.
Jack quickly removed his cap. ‘Thanks, we miss him.’
‘I heard he saved some other passengers.’
‘Yes, two men.’
‘You must be proud.’
‘I already was, before that . . .’ His words trailed away.
‘Of course you were.’ Olive glanced up the hill to where plumes of dust haloed the surviving buildings. ‘I forgot how noisy it was, how dirty.’
‘Not how you remember it, eh?’
‘I only remember the good things, Jack.’ She touched his coat sleeve. A tram was heading downhill towards them. Arm in arm they walked away from the milling train and ferry passengers, side-stepping piles of horse manure to find an empty bench in the adjoining park. ‘We may not like the way the bridge is changing our lives, Jack, but if it had already been built your father would still be alive.’
‘I guess.’ A flock of seagulls circled overhead, then fluttered to the ground at their feet. ‘Olive?’ He took a deep breath. ‘I wanted to tell you that I’m not a grocer’s son any more. Well, I am, but I’m not a grocer. I’ve got land, north-west of here. I’ve got a living.’
Her slender hands reached for his. ‘Jack, that’s wonderful. Where? Parramatta? Hornsby?’
‘Not quite.’
Olive slid closer along the bench. ‘Where?’
‘Just let me explain. The thing is –’
‘Near the water?’
‘Well, no.’
He cleared his throat, lifted his chin. ‘The thing is, I know we’re different – that our families and such are different – but things have changed for me. I’ve got prospects. Mr Farley’s offered me the chance to manage some land for him. Eight thousand acres and –’
‘Is that a lot?’
‘Botheration, you have to let me have my say, woman!’ Jack knew he wanted Olive by his side, and although May and Thomas’s doubts niggled there was little choice if he and Olive were to be together. Besides, he was the eldest. Jack figured he knew what was best for both of them. And hadn’t his own mother always deferred to their father? It was best to get the asking over with and then tell Olive where they were going.
‘Will you marry me, Olive? It’ll be remote and hard at first, but. . .’ Seagulls fluttered noisily at their feet. ‘Olive?’
The girl looked dazed.
‘Marry?’
‘It’s a distance – eight hundred mile,’ Jack rushed on. ‘I’ll have to go ahead and make a place for us. Thomas has agreed to accompany you when the time comes.’ It had not taken much persuading to get his brother’s agreement.
‘Eight hundred mile,’ Olive repeated.
‘It’s a great opportunity.’ Jack hugged her slight body. ‘This land of Mr Farley’s was resumed from one of the big pastoral holdings. This is our chance, Olive. This is my chance to become part of the landed gentry. Look.’ Fishing in his pocket for a shilling coin he showed her the famous Waverly No. 4. ‘Sheep and land, that’s where the money is.’ He dismissed the city with a wave of his hand. ‘The days of aspiring to be a toffy-nosed office worker are over. Men want to make their name, make a fortune, and sheep will do it.’
Olive plucked at the smooth line of her dress and stared out at the sun-streaked harbour. ‘Why not stay here?’
‘Because there’s nothing here for me.’ Jack followed her gaze to the trees frilling the distant foreshore; a small boat was battling the wake of a ferry.
‘So you’d go anyway, without me?’
‘Olive, I’m doing this for us. If we’re to be together it’s the only way.’ Jack’s fingers tightened about her slim wrist. ‘Anyway, you can’t possibly want to remain in the city, not with the chance we’ve been offered . . . I’ll write regularly. It’ll be a couple of months, I expect, before I send for you.’
Olive gave a wan smile. ‘I was looking forward to us spending some time together. I thought we could visit each other. You know, take ferry trips, eat ice cream. I never expected all this. It’s so sudden.’
‘And if I’d had the chance I would have courted you properly. Even if this opportunit
y had not have presented itself I would have eventually found a way for us to be together.’ Jack wrapped his arm about her shoulder. ‘This is our adventure, Olive. Our opportunity and our secret. Once you join me we’ll marry and then we can tell your family. There’ll be little complaint from them when they know I have means.’ He gave her a squeeze. ‘I know you want to live your life without your parents continually telling you what to do.’ Jack spread his arms wide. ‘Here’s our chance.’
Olive gave a stoic smile. In his rush of words Jack hadn’t actually given her the opportunity to say yes or no to his proposal of marriage. ‘I, I better go. Mother will be wondering where I am.’
‘Already?’ Jack queried. ‘I thought you had the day free?’ With reluctance he escorted her towards the wharf.
‘I’m sorry, Jack. All this is a bit of a shock. I need some time to absorb everything.’ Olive dabbed at the moisture on her top lip, her thoughts reeling. ‘So, this enterprise of Mr Farley’s is . . . ’
‘Is sound,’ Jack confirmed, avoiding a dray load of timber. ‘I’ve seen the deeds and of course everyone knows the money that can be made in the bush. You only have to mention the names Kidman or Gordon and men sit up and take notice.’ Jack couldn’t recall the atmosphere being so humid at this time of the year. Scrabbling to undo the top button beneath his necktie he took Olive’s arm more firmly. ‘It’ll be our great adventure.’
Olive purchased a ticket at the kiosk and, skirting the crowds, they made their way towards the wharf. ‘I’ve a lot to organise so I may see you only briefly before I leave,’ he admitted. ‘However, once I’m settled Thomas will be in contact. He’ll pass on all the details.’ They waited as passengers disembarked from the Circular Quay ferry, the foamy water churning only feet away from where they stood. When Jack squeezed Olive’s hand the pressure was reciprocated.
‘I feel silly rushing off now. Can I see you tomorrow?’
Jack beamed. ‘Of course. In the years to come, Olive, our offspring will look back and marvel at our courage. Why, in the years to come I may well be in parliament and you a great lady.’
‘Do you think so, Jack?’ Pushed along by embarking passengers Olive lost her grip on Jack’s hand. ‘Do you really think so?’ She ran up the gangway and with a little shoving manoeuvred to the stern of the ferry.
‘Anything’s possible!’ The toes of Jack’s boots jutted over the end of the wharf.
‘Yes, Jack Manning,’ Olive cried out. ‘Yes, I’ll marry you!’
The water lengthened between them as the ferry motored away, a belch of smoke and a churn of grey-speckled foam signalling the beginning of the harbour crossing. Jack watched Olive grow tiny with distance, her hand aloft in an excited wave.
Chapter 4
The Granite Belt, Southern Qld, 1965
Dropping his hand over the side of the bed Scrubber scrabbled on the floor for his dentures. Dog padded across the floorboards, picked the teeth up in his mouth and dropped them in his master’s outstretched hand. It was a hard business this rising, Scrubber thought as he jabbed the unwieldy teeth into place. It took time for his spine to gather the strength needed to participate with the rest of his body.
Once clothed, Scrubber lit the gas stove for the last time, his fingers delving in the mess drawer. He scattered screwdrivers, spanners and redundant salad servers onto the sink. Outside the wind howled mercilessly, rattling broken weatherboard and aged glass.
‘Go your hardest,’ Scrubber mumbled, stabbing a hole in his belt with a metal kitchen skewer and tightening the leather another notch. By the time the kettle boiled and the tea leaves had steeped good and long, his saddle bags were packed. Supplies, camp oven and billy were about the extent of his needs. What the heck: he threw in a change of clothes. On the sink was a length of rubber tubing, the sawn-off ends smoothed by sandpaper. Scrubber swished it under the tap, dried it on the front of his shirt and rotated it into the hole in his neck. Though he doubted at his age the hole would close over, habit and the slightest improvement in his speech ensured the morning ritual continued. Now he was starting to feel a semblance of his old self.
The black tea made Scrubber’s gums ache and his bowels excitable, a familiar bodily state signifying the survival of another night. In celebration of the event he mushed up two slices of toast smeared with a near inch of Vegemite. Dog tilted his head, gobbled up his own share of toast, and washed it down with a bowl of water. If his Veronica were alive, Scrubber knew she’d be telling him to sit down and eat, to steady up a bit. Well, having spent his life either upright or horizontal he wasn’t changing now, not even for the whisper of a long-dead woman who’d argued that being pleasantly plump never killed anyone. It did Veronica. She was plain fat.
Now the leaving day was upon him, Scrubber opened the wardrobe. A mangle of clothes that were too big for him and a couple of Veronica’s floral dresses sat in a heap on the floor. He kicked the long-unused items to one side, pausing to give one of her scarfs a sniff. It was a mottled yellow affair and it still smelt of strawberries. Veronica’s signature scent was, in Scrubber’s mind, lolly water. Made from hard candy, he reckoned. However, he stuffed the scarf in his pocket before hesitating at the tin box, which was now revealed in the bottom of the wardrobe. He eyeballed the box for long minutes, his hands reaching out once, twice, before finally making a lunge for it and sitting the box on the end of his rumpled bed.
‘What ya reckon?’
Dog cocked his head sideways.
‘Hmm, figured as much.’ Scrubber eyed the box off a bit, scratched his stubbly chin; eyed it off some more. It was a business this repaying of an old debt. Dog, two front paws on the sagging bed frame, lowered his whiskered muzzle to the sheets and whined. With a glance heavenwards Scrubber raised the latch, the hinge flicking open easily. He took it as a sign and lifted the yellowing newspaper to reveal a leather draw-string pouch. He always was one for good serviceable items, the kind people didn’t make any more. Delicately he lifted the pouch clear of its nest and weighed the bag in one hand, then the other. The leather cord was intact and appeared strong. He tested the strength of the roughly modified tobacco pouch, ensuring it looped securely through the hand-stitched hide.
His task completed, Scrubber nodded at Dog, who gave himself up to such determined scratching with his hind leg that he fell over backwards, four legs flailing in the air like an upturned tortoise.
‘Dog, this ain’t no time for histrionics.’ Scrubber tied the pouch to his belt, knotting it once, twice. He grappled with a small brown paper parcel in the tin box and shoved it deep in his trousers. Then he picked up his swag and rifle, flicked off the single bare bulb, slammed the front door and wound the brass key in the lock, tossing it into the dark. There was nothing sentimental left in him, not for material things, anyway. Besides, it wasn’t like he could pack it all up in his coffin. Though, come to think of it, he didn’t plan on having one of those.
He stood on the hill, the wind blasting his face as it rolled up from the valley below. The eight hundred acres he still owned was a paltry reminder of what lies at the end of a bottle, although to be fair the drink probably didn’t come first. This was hard country, where granite thwarted livelihoods and winter could kill man and beast alike. The property deserved a last look at least. The best parts might be long gone, but Scrubber liked to think a cannier, younger person would put his toiling to good use. So he envisaged the wind-cropped paddocks, the rangy cattle, and he meandered along the creek with its rush of water and age-smoothed stones, his body never leaving the worn tread of the front door.
‘You ready then?’ Scrubber scraped his boots on the edge of the cement step.
Dog yawned into the misting air. Above, the frill of an eagle hawk’s wings was silhouetted against the sky.
Satisfied by his reflections, Scrubber skirted the fallen-down garage as he clumped to the stables. Three horses waited in anticipation, their nostrils flaring. They were a knowing triumvirate, and Scrubber, pleased to be fulfilling
their fantasies, spoke to them low and gruff, his fingers covering the hole in his neck so the words could escape. He saddled the one he’d named Veronica, loaded Samsara and Petal with his goods, and shut the stable door behind them as he left.
A line of grey cloud hung low on the horizon. Scrubber didn’t go much for creeping dawns. The ones that came fast and shiny in summer appealed the most. Funny how these ones appeared more ominous as the years passed, as if they could catch him unawares. Scrubber waggled a finger at the sky. He had an agenda and his own timeframe. Neither God nor that thing in the east were getting him until it was good and done.
He left his turret of a house on the treeless peak as light fingered its way over the tuft of hills in the east. The horses were frisky for old girls and he steadied them with a tug of the halters and a slap across Veronica’s boney skull. A man had enough to put up with without suffering an extended show of enthusiasm.
Figuring nine miles a day, Scrubber reckoned on reaching his destination a bit past the winter solstice. It was a manageable ride of some 700 miles and, if done with purpose, achievable. The thing he liked the best about the venture, apart from finally honouring the oath, was the thought of looking over his shoulder as he headed west. The further he rode the longer the minutes would stretch. Scrubber could almost taste the extra days of life this undertaking would afford him.
Dog gave an excuse for a bark and settled into the morning, tongue hanging from one side of his mouth, tail swaying happily.
‘Anyone would think this was an adventure,’ Scrubber said as he stretched the cotton scarf protectively across his windpipe, patted the pouch at his waist and thought of the men in years past who’d tried to do their best by the girl Cora. None of them really succeeded. One would lose Cora to save her, another would end up dying for her. And him? Well, he killed for her.
Chapter 5
Absolution Creek Homestead, Northern NSW, 1965
Absolution Creek Page 5
