Absolution Creek

by Nicole Alexander

  ‘Where have you been?’ Jack sat by the camp fire, a notebook in one hand, a stubby pencil poised mid-thought. The fire was a good distance from the homestead. Squib figured he had lit it to ensure a little peace and quiet, for Olive’s complaints began with the rising of the sun and didn’t ease until the fireplace was cleaned and the house swept out.

  ‘Walking. You know I don’t like being cramped up inside. Everything worth seeing or hearing’s out here.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have left her with all that mess, Squib.’

  ‘I helped, Jack. Anyway, I’m not her slave. If she wants to live here then she has to do a bit too.’ She drank thirstily from the waterbag.

  ‘They’re asleep.’ He nodded towards the outline of the old homestead. ‘I was going to wake them up so they could see the moon.’ He glanced heavenward. ‘Sometimes I wonder if the moon we see in the city is the same as this one. It’s so much bigger here, much brighter.’ He looked at her. ‘Don’t you get scared when you go off wandering?’

  ‘What’s there to be scared of?’ Squib sat by his side.

  Jack waved an arm vaguely westward. ‘Sometimes I wonder what else is out there.’

  ‘Silly,’ Squib laughed. ‘What are you writing?’

  ‘Drawing,’ he corrected. ‘A fence. The one on the south-east boundary needs repairing. I’ve been so busy worrying about this house business that I’ve forgotten what I came here to do.’

  ‘Tend sheep.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ He smiled. ‘I like them, you know, Squib. I didn’t know if I would first off. The man who sent me here gave me all these books to read on sheep husbandry, and before I knew it I was buying the ewes at the saleyards and paying men to help walk them here.’ He chewed on the stick. ‘Now I’m worrying about fences. It’s a whole new world to me.’

  ‘Don’t you own this land?’ Squib never guessed that Absolution wasn’t his.

  ‘One day I will.’

  Squib considered his words. ‘Are you like an overseer?’

  ‘I guess. Mr Farley, the owner, has no kin so I figure he’ll probably leave Absolution to me on account I did him a favour once. So then, what do you really know about sheep?’

  ‘My father says that sheep are only as dumb as the people that work them.’ Squib thought about Mr Purcell and Waverly No. 4. ‘You know there’s a ram on the shilling coin.’

  ‘Waverly No. 4? Of course.’ Jack tucked the stubby pencil in his notebook.

  ‘I had that coin once,’ Squib revealed. ‘My father worked for Mr Purcell of Waverly Station and I saw the ram, Jack. I use to walk down to the paddock and talk to him. Once I had a bit of stale apple in my pocket and he nibbled it straight out of the palm of my hand.’

  ‘Go on with you, is that true?’

  ‘True as the day I fell off the dray and lost my family.’ Squib lowered her voice. ‘I haven’t told anyone cause people think the ram is pretty special and they don’t believe me when I say I patted him.’

  ‘I don’t know if I believe you either.’

  Squib elbowed him in the ribs.

  ‘Ouch. I believe you. How else would you know so much about sheep?’

  ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you, especially Adams?’

  In the firelight Squib’s face was soft and golden. She looked both older and younger simultaneously.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You’ll be a good sheep man, Jack.’

  When Squib woke a few hours later a light breeze ruffled her hair. She wiggled on her side hollowing out a hole. Jack’s warm breath was moist against her skin. The moonlight traced the line of his body. Very slowly, Squib rolled onto his outstretched arm.

  Olive lay on the bed, the window and door open to the elements. It was a hot night, and the full moon was unforgivingly bright. Above, a swathe of material covered the bark roof, although it provided little comfort as she knew the things that crawled and crept would hardly be dissuaded by a length of calico. The mosquito netting provided her with far more reassurance. It extended from a rod a couple of feet above the bedhead, its filmy edges tucked securely beneath the flock mattress. She daren’t move lest she disturb the careful barrier, for once disrupted her night would be one of almost obsessive checking for insects and spiders. She wormed a little further down in the bed. Perspiration pooled on her stomach and thighs, yet she kept the neck-to-knee nightgown smoothed low over her legs. Having already forgone the sheet in the need for a modicum of comfort against the heat, her gown was the last vestige of decorum and self-discipline.

  She lay flat, unmoving and uncomfortable, the night gown growing damper by the hour, her skin itchy. Of course Jack and the girl would be sprawled in the dirt outside, lulled by the earth they loved. At the thought of their mutual contentment Olive started grinding her teeth. Had she not done her best to be with Jack? Had she not given up everything to follow him to this place? Olive thought of her family, and of the privileged upbringing she had once taken for granted. Now she dreamt of carpeted floors, groceries delivered daily, and an iceman who ensured that her choice of beverage was never lukewarm. Everything was so primitive in this new life that she’d chosen that at times she could have screamed at her foolishness. Why had she followed Jack? Why had she not given more thought to where she was going? Why had she not appreciated her own family more? The answer haunted her. Her craving for independence and her love for Jack had propelled her into a life of oblivion.

  Outside, an unknown night bird gave a lone cry. The sound pierced the tight constriction of her chest. Transported to the outskirts of Chatswood, Olive recalled the glistening leaves of the tree above, the close sentinel of woody plants that shielded her attacker and allowed his pleasuring. How beauty and horror could come together so easily astounded her. It was this single element that haunted her, yet also allowed her to focus beyond the brutal acts of her assailant.

  There were methods of coping, withdrawal and anger being the uncontrollable emotions that struck her daily. Olive was taunted by the simple fact that if she had not followed Jack then she never would have been at Mrs Bennet’s boarding house, and she never would have been attacked. If only she could talk to Jack, if only she could explain what happened. Yet how could she when Jack remained indifferent towards her? The man she had decided to spend the rest of her life with had changed almost overnight. He was perpetually busy and always distracted. Now when he looked at her there was impatience where there was once love. She was not suited to Jack’s new life. They both knew it.

  It had taken some weeks for Olive to comprehend this. And when she did, she saw it with terrible clarity. Jack was in some ways already married to the land he managed, and the girl was an extension of his love. A common bond held them fast, and though he would be loath to admit it, Jack saw in the fledgling woman the companion his new life required. Her mother would call them a pigeon pair. Had the thought not riled Olive she too would have addressed them as such, thereby relegating her own position in the household to little more than decoration. Decoration – what a ludicrous term. Her skin was lacklustre, her eyes dull, and her hair . . . Well, she doubted if it would ever be truly clean again.

  Olive concentrated on her breathing. The fluttering of her chest steadily increased. When the attacks first began some weeks after her assault Olive believed her heart was failing, that she was dying. Yet the attacks kept coming, day and night, irregular in appearance yet constant in the frightening sensation of a racing heart and shortness of breath. Olive focused on the surface of the toilet table. She counted the objects upon it: her silver-backed hairbrush and comb, a stoppered glass bottle of Atkinson’s Red Rose perfume. With difficulty she tugged at the mosquito netting, her hand reaching for the bottle of Lavender Salts on the bedside table. Distraction often assisted in calming such attacks, and she sniffed at the invigorating salts, falling heavily against the pillows. Above, the stretch of calico displayed unknown shadows. The rippling shapes reminded Olive of Sydney Harbour, and she imagined the water glittering acro
ss Rose Bay towards her home. The life she loved was gone, was sliding away on an outgoing tide. It was as if some mythical creature had sucked the essence out of her, leaving Olive only a meagre shell to inhabit, and a horribly altered world from which there was no escape. She didn’t know if she could bear another day. Something had to change. Sadly, she acknowledged it was she who would have to adjust, for to exist in this land there was simply nothing else to be done.

  If it were not for the child growing within her, Olive would have run. She would have returned to Sydney and accepted the punishment meted out by her parents. She imagined their joy on her return and then their anger and disappointment as her story unfolded. To have run away to the outer limits of society with a man unworthy of the Peters name would stun them into silence. Yet her family, although controlling and snobbish, knew their place in society, knew their path in life. And they were a loving family. They would eventually forgive her and life would go on.

  Olive turned on her side. The bed creaked. She wasn’t going anywhere. She could hardly return to Sydney society carrying a criminal’s child; nor could she lie and tell her family that the baby was Jack’s. They were not married after all. Either way, she would be a terrible disgrace. The embarrassment that such a situation would cause her family was untenable and Olive could not bear to cause them any more pain. The shame coursing through her would never abate. She would carry it for the rest of her life.

  Chapter 36

  Stringybark Point Hotel, 1965

  After two nights resting at the Stringybark Point Hotel, Scrubber began to feel better. The publican’s wife was a right little boiler when it came to whipping up a feed of bacon and eggs for breakfast, and Scrubber quickly sported a pot belly. He was gobbling down four meals a day and a couple of fortifying beverages at night. His decision to relax for a bit came after the barmaid plonked the article about Cora on the bar. He would have recognised the girl anywhere. She still had that shoulder-length hair and smooth skin.

  It was only later while lying on his sagging mattress, Dog hiccupping beside him, that Scrubber gave thought to the picture. Cora’s youthful appearance he put down to the newspaper print. Even he would look partially human in black and white. No, it was the eyes that confused him – like they belonged to a stranger. And that girl hadn’t ever been unfamiliar to him. He’d carried Cora around like a showy fob watch, like that ram on the shilling coin.

  ‘Well, Dog, Cora Hamilton bought herself a fancy ram.’ He gave a chuckle and tweaked Dog’s nose. ‘What do you think about that?’ If the Purcells were alive they’d be livid. The stockman’s daughter, the wildcat, having the audacity to purchase some of Waverly No. 4’s blood. Scrubber was so chuffed about the way Cora’s life was going that he decided another night wouldn’t do him any harm.

  So here he was sitting on the balcony in a cane-bottom chair, his yellowing toenails airing on the wooden railings. The boozy inhabitants below were long in bed, apart from a single station wagon with feet sticking out its rear window, and a reprobate passed out in the middle of the road. Scrubber, having already chucked an empty rum bottle at the prone figure, couldn’t be sure if the person concerned was dead or not; either way there were good odds he’d be road kill by morning.

  Dog trotted out onto the veranda, lifted his leg and peed through the railings to the street below.

  ‘Deadly aim, old fella.’ Dog waddled back to sit by his side.

  Down the street lay the old police block vacated by fire in 1924. It had been a busy town back then, with three hotels, two shops, a post office; heck, there was even an undertaker dedicated to the passing citizens of Stringybark, and there were quite a few back then. Scrubber rubbed his bristled cheek, and prodded at a tooth only days away from being ejected from his jaw. It was hard this falling apart. What he wouldn’t give for a few more years, just a few. Veronica once told him he should be lucky to make sixty – that sixty was a fair innings – and that people such as them that slaved for others were buggered by fifty. Well, he was over sixty and it was only a fair innings until you got there. He wanted more. The only blessed consolation was that this journey would end with him parked beneath a silver brigalow. Beautiful shaped trees they were, especially of a morning when the sun hit them just so. Would be nice, Scrubber decided, to be compost for such a thing, to know that in the end he’d contributed to something real pretty.

  Across the road a single box tree swayed in the northerly wind. The tree was the only reminder of the old days. Planted near the hitching rail outside Green’s Hotel and Board at the turn of the century, it had provided shade for the tethered horses of the patrons inside. Untying the pouch at his waist, Scrubber perched the leather bag on the railing.

  ‘Not long to go now, mate. We’ll be on our way tomorrow and then it’s just a couple of days’ travel. I’ll make it too. I had my doubts, but now, well, I think we’ll make it. Take a gander across the street, will you? They never did rebuild Greenie’s place. She was a good little establishment too. Remember old George on the piano and candy-arsed Lorraine? Yeah, she was lickable – real tasty – not that I had a second go, not with canny-eyed Veronica in tow. Pretty sure it was Lickable Lorraine that got me so riled that Veronica ended up with child. Anyways, it’s good to remember, ain’t it? Good to remember the good and the bad . . .’

  Veronica, always a ferreter when it came to gossip, brought news within a fortnight of a runaway child and a fire on a soldier settler’s block. A blacksmith from down south picked up the tale from a grocer, who’d got it from the publican at Green’s Hotel and Board, who’d heard it off a postal and supply rider by the name of Adams.

  Reputable is what the fella said,’ Veronica intoned as she stuffed their few belongings into saddle bags. Circles of sweat patched her dress at the armholes and waist.

  ‘You sure you want to come, woman?’ Having tried every conceivable angle to dissuade Veronica, Scrubber was considering clocking her one on the back of the head. ‘It’ll be fierce hot.’

  ‘I’ll manage.’ Veronica sniffed, stuffing a dirty hanky between damp breasts. ‘Besides, there’s a child involved.’

  Scrubber saddled the horses, punching his fist into the belly of the old nag he’d brokered for Veronica. The mare was a bugger for holding wind and then letting it out once a man thought the girth strap was good and tight. A fine match he reckoned for his Veronica. ‘Fine. Come then, but I’ll be leaving you in town. It wouldn’t be proper for you to go bush with me and Matt. It’s men’s business. We gotta find the people that took his girl.’

  Veronica carried the three-legged stool outside and used it to mount up. ‘You sure that Matt Hamilton will come?’ she asked sweetly, before giving a moan as she flung her leg over the saddle. The horse gave a half-hearted pig-root. Scrubber smacked the mare lightly on the nose.

  ‘If he’s still out working at Mulligan’s he’ll get my message and he’ll come. We’ll meet at Green’s Hotel and Board, seeing that’s the only place I know of, thanks to you, Veronica.’ Scrubber did one final check of their drafty room and then slashed a hole in the mattress, poking his stash deep inside. There wasn’t much point going looking for trouble.

  ‘Tell me again why we’re doing this, lovey?’ Veronica swayed dangerously in the saddle. ‘Why you’ve become a good Samaritan. Not meaning to be difficult, but it ain’t really your character.’

  Scrubber saddled up. ‘Let’s just say I owe them.’

  They poked the horses out of the grounds of the boarding house. In spite of his complaining, Veronica paid the monies owed on their accommodation, plus enough to hold the hut until their return. Scrubber guessed old V knew what she was doing. Having taken charge of such things since their hooking up, he dared not argue. Besides, it weren’t so bad having someone else worrying about the basics for a while. He guessed that was why his parents married.

  Veronica’s hand stole into a saddle bag where salted mutton waited. ‘I don’t think my arse was meant to be five foot off the ground.’ She stu
ffed the strips of meat into her mouth.

  ‘It won’t be if you keep eating.’ Scrubber pulled on the reins, turned the mare onto the dirt road and jabbed at the horse’s flanks. ‘If you need to chew on something, chew on this.’ He tossed her a wad of tobacco from his pouch and watched with surprise as she caught it. It would be a good week’s ride across to Stringybark Point if Veronica didn’t hold him up. Scrubber hoped Matt would only be a day or so behind them. ‘Come on, Veronica,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘You’re gonna have to keep up. I don’t want to have to leave youse by the side of the road.’

  ‘And who else will wash your filthy smalls and service you regular like, if you get rid of me?’ Veronica hollered.

  While he was loath to admit it the woman had a point. ‘Cook you a tasty feed of chops for tea,’ he promised. ‘Keep your eye out for my favourite feed.’

  ‘A stray sheep on the side of the road?’ Veronica fluttered her eyelids.

  Scrubber nodded. ‘That would be it.’

  Chapter 37

  Absolution Creek, 1924

  Squib tailed the Aboriginal men, slipping between thick stands of belah and spiky dry grass, shadows hovering as the trees grew denser. Having noticed them in the distance while investigating the land around the homestead, she had been intrigued to see Captain Bob. Although previous ramblings had taken her over many parts of Jack’s land, this area was completely foreign. When she heard the sound of trickling water, Squib gathered she’d been drawn in a half-circle back towards the creek.

  Captain Bob squatted alone in a clearing within a clearing. A fire burnt at his feet, a spiral of white smoke heading directly skyward as a cross breeze rustled branches overhead. Squib hung on the edge of the tree-lined circle, her toes cushioned by short springy grass. Fallen timber, unseasonal clumps of wildflowers and grazing wallabies fringed this new world. The trees ringing the clearing were misshapen and odd, as if recovering from old wounds carefully inflicted.