Absolution Creek

by Nicole Alexander

  She wondered how much she should tell this stranger. ‘Squib.’ She gulped as the liquid dribbled down her chin.

  ‘Squib? What sort of name is that?’ A fly buzzed through the open door.

  ‘Where’s my father?’

  The man closed the book he’d been writing in. ‘I’m Jack, Jack Manning. I left a branch there for you to lean on if you want to get up.’

  Squib glanced from the solid piece of timber back to the man who’d saved her. He was thickset across the chest and tall, with brown-blond hair, smooth skin and a smile that made Squib want to smile back. She figured him to be a bit younger than Scrubber. Taking her plate he went outside to the open fire where he dished up food from a black pot. Squib watched him through the slats of the timber walls. A horse was hobbled beyond in the clearing. Grass fanned outwards in a soft pale wave to end in a tangle of man-high trees. He returned to sit at the rickety table and started shovelling food into his mouth. Squib stood carefully, her head woozy. Balancing on the makeshift crutch she limped across the dirt floor to stand a few feet from Jack, who barely looked up.

  ‘Reckon you had a good fall, kid.’ He picked at his teeth, examined a morsel of food retrieved from a rear molar, and popped it back in his mouth. ‘You’ve been asleep for a bit.’

  Tinned foodstuffs and bags of flour, sugar and tea lined the far wall along with a handful of books. Squib made out the name Ivanhoe and Sir Walter Scott on one red cloth volume; it was one of her father’s favourites. In another corner were two tin chests. There was no window, just the bed and rough blankets, the table and chair and a rifle and saddle near the door. A candle crate held a quart pot and potatoes. A writhing Jesus was nailed to the split timber walls. Squib turned her nose up at this show of religion, wondering if the same bathing rules applied here. The dirt floor was patterned with boot marks, and there wasn’t a single sheepskin rug to make the place a bit homey; not even a length of material to mark the space between the bed and the table. A dark leatherbound book sat squarely on the edge of the table. Squib read the gold lettering on the spine and immediately thought of her stepmother, Abigail. Holy Bible.

  ‘Where’s my father?’ Squib pulled at her dress. The material felt stiff. ‘Where’s Jane and Beth and Ben and Abigail?’

  Jack creased his forehead. ‘I don’t know. I found you by the creek when I went down to check my traps; figured you’d been washed up by the flood.’ He looked at her carefully. ‘There was no one else.’ He fell to eating the remains of the food, keeping his head low to the plate until the tin was clean. He licked the spoon a couple of times and then took up a wooden pipe.

  A flicker of pictures ran through her head. ‘I fell off the dray. We were leaving the Purcells on account of –’ Squib stopped, wary of sharing the truth.

  Jack halted in the stuffing of the wooden pipe. ‘On account of what?’

  ‘Nothing. You know the Purcells?’ she asked hopefully.

  Jack shook his head. ‘They’re not from around here, that I know of. Which town are they close to?’

  Squib shrugged. In all her time at Waverly Station she’d never been to town. The match flared against the tobacco as Jack drew on the wooden end. There was a billow of smoke and the pipe went out.

  ‘Where were you heading with your family?’ Jack lit another match and gave a series of puffs, which set him to coughing and spluttering. The tiny flecks of embers died again.

  ‘You don’t smoke much, do you?’

  Jack concentrated on the pipe and gave a scowl Squib figured was just for show. The man’s eyes were soft and pale in wrinkle-free skin, although his face was very brown.

  ‘Anyway, Father said we had to cross the crick before the rains came.’

  Jack re-lit his pipe and gave three strong puffs, his satisfaction at the glowing tobacco evident. ‘I reckon he missed his opportunity.’ He looked her up and down. ‘If you want to wash up there’s a barrel of water outside. Reckon you’ll have to stay with me for a while, though, until your leg mends a bit and Adams comes. He can take you back to Stringybark Point after he finishes up his mail run.’

  ‘Can we find my father?’

  Jack looked out the door. ‘Best thing to do is get you back to town with Adams.’

  ‘Will he find my father?’

  ‘In town they can telegraph the right people about you being . . . lost.’ He pointed to a tin on the table. ‘You might want to put some salve on those grazes once you’ve had a wash.’ He glanced around the hut as if seeing their surrounds for the first time. ‘You be right here.’

  Squib wasn’t sure if it was a question or a matter of fact, so she gave a brief nod.

  ‘I’ll be out all day.’ He waved his arm vaguely. ‘You might keep the fire going if you’ve a mind.’

  After Jack left, Squib limped outside with the tin. Her injured eye still wouldn’t open fully, but she could make out that miles of flat country peppered with trees surrounded the hut. She drank thirstily from a barrel and then, filling a cast-iron bucket with the red-tinged water, stripped off to wash both her clothes and herself. Once clean she quickly re-dressed and applied the sticky salve from the tin to her grazed legs and arms. There wasn’t much to see at Jack’s hut. It sat within a ring of tall trees and scrub, as if a giant had dropped it into the clearing. The roof was bark with saplings rested crossways to hold it down, tied on with woven grass and twine. On the coolest side of the hut was a meat safe, empty. Three distinct tracks led out from the rough building. Squib limped about very slowly. The first track only went a short distance and finished at the base of a tall tree. There were piles of mounded dirt as if someone had been digging at its base and a bit of prodding with a stick soon led Squib to discover that this was where Jack did his morning business. The second track, the one Jack took that very morning, meandered across the grassy paddock forever, so she turned homeward. The third track wove eastwards through wavering grasses, eventually narrowing until it reached the creek.

  Squib came to an abrupt halt at the sight of the swiftly flowing current. On the opposite side three kangaroos were nibbling grass. Disturbed, they raised their heads, pricking their ears at her intrusion. Sunlight streamed down through the gum and box trees framing the waterway as the kangaroos hopped to a grassy hollow. Squib glanced again at the hated water, wondering how many days her father was from finding her. It didn’t matter, Squib decided, she simply had to wait.

  A partially skinned rabbit lay in the dirt. In the late afternoon light the carcass looked a blue-grey colour. It still had its head on and its eyes were glazed. Jack washed himself in the bucket, before wringing his shirt out and hanging it from a hook near the hut’s door. He returned to squat by the fire, building it up with branches before decapitating the rabbit and roughly cutting it up. He threw it in the pot on the fire.

  Squib couldn’t help but stare at Jack’s bare body. Muscle rippled across his stomach as he moved and a thin line of hair disappeared into the top of his trousers. Reluctantly Squib drew her gaze back to the fire. ‘Where’s your family?’ she asked quietly. She’d slept the afternoon away, her injured leg spread out in the dirt like a wounded animal. ‘Are you lost too?’ She didn’t like that word. It reminded her of the yellow dog, of her own misadventure.

  Jack looked at the contents of the pot and frowned. ‘What happened to the rest of it?’

  ‘I ate it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I was hungry.’ She was still hungry.

  ‘What are you wanting a meal in the middle of the day for? And what am I supposed to use for beginnings for the stew?’

  ‘Everyone eats three times a day,’ Squib answered. ‘Anyway, all we need is dripping and flour.’

  ‘Well, there’s no dripping. So we’ll have to make do with a bit of water and salt.’

  ‘Cabbage?’

  ‘No. Does it look like I have a vegetable garden?’

  ‘Well, you’ve got flour so we can make damper. And I saw potatoes.’

 
Jack glared at her. ‘True enough. Guess I’ll go get some then.’ He walked to the hut, returning with the potatoes.

  They sat in silence until the smell of cooking rabbit and dough filled the dry air. Jack dished up a plateful for each of them. The rabbit wasn’t so good this time. When they’d finished, he pulled a night log across the fire, sat the pot to one side and walked wordlessly to the hut. Squib limped slowly after him to sit on the narrow camp bed, watching as he lit the slush lamp and began reading a letter. Within seconds the hut was invaded by whirring insects. They came through the open door and the ill-fitting slats, biting and buzzing until Jack appeared to sit within a blur of cream-coloured wings. With a sigh he carefully folded the letter and placed it securely inside the book.

  ‘Is that from your family?’

  ‘They’ve been delayed.’ His voice was low. ‘Shouldn’t you go to bed?’

  ‘When does Adam come?’

  ‘Adams? A few days, a week, can’t always be sure.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Cause I can’t.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Cause things don’t run like a clock out here, Squib. That can’t be your real name. What’s your surname?’

  Squib lifted her splinted leg onto the bed. She figured she could tell him her name. He had been good to her. ‘Hamilton. Where’s your family?’

  ‘Coming.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘You sure do ask some questions for a kid.’ Jack blew the lamp out and walked to the door of the hut. ‘Time for some shut-eye.’ He closed the rickety door behind him.

  Squib peered through the slats at Jack’s silhouette as he stalked about the campfire in the gathering darkness. She wondered what he thought about, where his family was. He was a big man – bigger than her father – with a kindly face, except that Jack’s nose was a bit crooked and his teeth were slanty at the top, like someone had pushed them all to the left. Squib nosed closer to the timber walls, her face pressed hard against gappy boards. Her breath caught in her throat. The light fell softly to highlight his muscular shoulders and broad back. Jack Manning certainly wasn’t like her father or brother, or Scrubber for that matter.

  At some time during the night Squib awoke with a start. A wind had blown up and it ruffled her hair through the gaps in the hut’s walls. The small space was criss-crossed with light from the moon, and through a gap in the bark roof a sprinkling of stars brightened the dark sky. Night was the time to stay awake, Squib decided, for everything bad that happened in her short life had occurred when darkness covered the earth. Her mother died during the night. They had left Waverly Station during the night. And the water came for her in the night. There was something else that had occurred, something so awful and sad it clutched at her chest like a hand twisting at her heart. And then she remembered. It was Jane. Jane had watched her fall.

  Chapter 24

  Absolution Creek, 1965

  Harold took one glance at Sam’s seat on the dappled mare as he tore past him, and knew he was looking at a rooky. Although in truth his yelps for help were also a bit of a giveaway. Oh, he’d put on a good show, there was no doubt about that. It was so good that Harold didn’t pay much attention to his skill level the first day. Sam had been late and so Harold had saddled the mare for him. He’d talked about a strained shoulder muscle and backache from the previous day’s work in the machinery shed, and sure enough he looked a bit stiff in the saddle. He followed rather than rode abreast and seemed a bit unsure. Preoccupied with scheming to ensure his nephew ended up with a paying job, Harold had ignored him. Who’d watch a learner when you could ride with a natural – and Kendal White was a born horseman. Where he got it from, with city slickers for parents and professionals for siblings, was anyone’s guess. The kid had a good seat, kept his heels in and the reins firm, and rode with the nonchalance of an old hand despite his intermittent stints in the saddle.

  A week ago they’d mustered a 1500-acre paddock, moving a mob of wethers westward into country the boss had been fallowing for six months. With the flighty wethers taking off in every direction Harold hadn’t been able to keep much of an eye on Sam. Meg’s husband drifted in and out of the scrub, gathering a few head as he went and, whether through default or ability, was with them at the end. That was as much as Harold could expect of a city-born recruit in a big paddock. Today, however, they had mustered and yarded the rams in an old set of sheep yards over the creek. The area had been well rung in the early twenties and the lack of timber meant Harold was quick to notice Sam’s reluctance to be up front and centre; most of which stemmed from his inability to control his horse.

  Cora hardly ever used these yards. Today’s exception to the rule came in the form of Montgomery 201, a stud merino sire purchased in 1962 at the Premier Merino Show & Sale down south. Joined to the pick of Absolution’s finest females he’d produced a drop worthy of a major stud, and when he started roaming a year back, preferring the eastern side of the creek, Cora let him be, as long as he did his duties and took care of his harem first. The old patriarch had been running with the flock rams for the last couple of months and Cora rarely brought him to the main yards unless necessary.

  Although smoko was high on Harold’s list of priorities as they headed home, Kendal was on for a gallop. He took off into the bush yelling something about getting ‘the gloss off’ his bay gelding, and soon the three of them were tearing through the scrub chasing a mob of pigs – at least Harold thought there were three of them.

  Harold pulled on the reins and his horse breathed heavily. There was a splash of water and Kendal appeared through the trees to trot his horse alongside his uncle’s, his dog, Bouncer, keeping abreast.

  ‘Did you see Sam?’

  Kendal laughed. ‘Sure did. He went this way and I went that way.’ He twisted his hands in opposite directions. ‘I said to Knuckle here –’ he patted the gelding’s neck ‘– “Where’d he go?” Then I heard a scream.’

  Harold’s impatience rose. ‘Kendal, where is he?’

  ‘Beats me, Uncle Harold. He took off like a kid on red cordial. Suppose you’re going to tell me it’s work time.’ He turned the collar up on his coat to ward off the cold southerly.

  ‘As long as the boy comes back in one piece.’

  Kendal stretched his fingers where they clenched the reins. ‘He was hanging on for dear life when I saw him. Anyway, his horse will bring him home.’

  ‘I guess.’ Harold gestured over his shoulder. ‘He won’t last, you know. He’s a green hide through and through. Heard tell up at the pub that he’s a mechanic by trade. Reckon Miss Hamilton will palm him in a month or so. You gotta give it to him, though. Said he could ride a bit – a bit being the operative word. I didn’t realise until today that he was so ordinary in the saddle.’

  Kendal snorted back mucus and spat in the dirt. ‘We’d be better off with a broom and a bucket for all the use he’ll be.’

  ‘Well, if he didn’t have a liking for the bottle he might have a chance,’ Harold said thoughtfully. ‘At that age – well, it’s a waste of a life. It’s pathetic really.’

  Kendal was goggle-eyed. ‘You’re telling me he’s a drinker as well? Oh, this is too good.’

  Harold laid a steadying hand on his nephew’s shoulder. ‘Don’t count your chickens yet. There’s plenty an alcoholic who can manage a job. In the meantime we’ll have to give him the benefit of the doubt.’

  ‘I give him nothing. He took my job.’

  ‘He doesn’t know that,’ Harold warned.

  They walked their horses towards the hayshed, bush quails rising into the air as their horses disturbed the tufted grass. Sue and Bouncer rushed after the low-flying birds, ducking and weaving with little success.

  ‘We’ll have some smoko first then we’ll let the boss know we’re right to go through the rams. The next job after that is to drive out to the dam in the ridge block. There’s an old fence we’ve got to pull down; she wants the dam delved.’

  ‘What’s
the point of that?’ Kendal asked. ‘There’s a bore drain running through that corner. It should just be re-fenced.’

  ‘You’re right but we aren’t giving the orders.’

  ‘More’s the pity.’ Kendal grinned. ‘So what about the jackeroo?’ Behind them the bush was quiet. ‘Why’d she do it?’

  ‘Age, I guess.’ Harold could only surmise that loneliness finally got the better of the stout-hearted spinster. He only knew of one ‘serious’ relationship in Cora’s life since his arrival in 1952 and that was James Campbell, one-time local vet and owner of Campbell Station. It seemed to Harold that their relationship existed solely on Absolution Creek, for they ventured out as a couple only a handful of times in the four years they were together. Then just recently the relationship ended. Of course, such a liaison could never have worked, at least not while the vet’s indomitable mother was alive. Eloise Campbell was not a woman who bore such dalliances. One’s position in society was everything. So it was surprising that now the Campbell matriarch was gone, Cora and James couldn’t get it together. Not that Harold was complaining. It was one less hurdle to jump. That was, until Meg and her brood turned up.

  ‘When I think of the work I’ve done here over the years – yes Miss Hamilton, no Miss Hamilton, three bags full Miss Hamilton. Well, geez, she’s just ungrateful,’ Kendal said.

  Harold repositioned his bum in the saddle and gave his customary click of the tongue. ‘Steady on a bit, Kendal. You can lead a horse to water . . .’

  ‘Yeah, I know, I know. I just thought this jackeroo job was a sure thing, and it’s not like I can’t do the work.’

  ‘It’s the money.’

  Kendal took a swig from his canvas water bottle, wiping his chin clean. ‘See, that’s what I don’t get. You told me she made a pretty good sum during the wool boom, that the place still does. So what happens to it?’

  ‘Who knows? But she certainly doesn’t spend it on the house or flash trips to Sydney. There’s no David Jones department store paddock here that funds a high life. She doesn’t have one.’