Absolution Creek

by Nicole Alexander

  The thought of a shady tree appealed to Jack while he sorted out his feelings. He knew what he wanted, but could he break another promise?

  ‘Jack?’ Thomas pointed to the mail. ‘Are you going to hoard it all day?’

  ‘Ah, right you are, Thomas.’ Jack sifted through the envelopes, opening them one at a time. One letter advised that a writing desk he’d ordered was due to arrive at Stringybark Point in a week; another, from May, was filled with Sydney gossip. A third envelope, with familiar writing, had been posted in Sydney. ‘This is from you, Olive,’ Jack said with surprise, waving the creamy envelope in the air. ‘It’s certainly got held up in the post. Well, look, you addressed it Absolution instead of Absolution Creek.’

  Olive blinked. ‘From me? But I didn’t write any . . .’ She watched as Jack opened it, her mind travelling back to Mrs Bennett’s boarding house and the morning of her attack. A letter, a letter? Olive felt faint; the room spun. The letter. She had written a letter to Jack. A letter saying she would not be following him to Absolution Creek; a letter saying she would not give up her life for his. How on earth could she have forgotten it? She clutched at the collar of her dress. Not only had Mills McCoy ruined her, he’d stolen part of her memory as well. Bile rose in her throat. Her hand grasped the edge of the table for support.

  Jack read the few scant lines, disbelief mingling with anger. ‘You weren’t going to come?’ he asked, stunned. ‘You weren’t coming?’

  Olive opened her mouth, turned to Thomas.

  ‘Let me see.’ Thomas read the few brief lines and noted the date, written in Olive’s hand. ‘This was the day of . . .’

  ‘The day of what, Thomas?’ Jack snatched the letter back.

  ‘Nothing,’ Olive replied quickly.

  ‘Nothing?’ Jack yelled. ‘Nothing! What’s going on? You haven’t been yourself ever since you arrived and –’

  ‘Leave her alone, Jack.’ Thomas placed a hand on Olive’s arm.

  ‘Leave her alone?’ Jack swiped the mail off the table, knocking the bread knife onto the floor. He read aloud from the letter:

  Sadly, I have come to realise such a place is not for me . . . Both our worlds have changed . . . Forgive me . . . I lack the courage to venture into the unknown, to live an isolated existence far away from family and friends.

  ‘That’s nothing, is it, Thomas?’ Jack’s jaw tightened. ‘What on earth’s going on? Why are you here if you didn’t want to come in the first place?’

  ‘Leave her alone, Jack.’

  ‘No, I won’t. I deserve an answer.’

  ‘Obviously she changed her mind,’ Thomas replied.

  ‘Is that what happened?’ Jack thought of Olive’s complaints over the preceding months. ‘Did you get cold feet?’

  Her eyes brimmed with tears.

  ‘Please let her be, Jack.’ Thomas took the letter from his brother’s hands; replaced it in the envelope.

  ‘I have a right to know, Olive.’ He squeezed her fingers.

  ‘I’m with child,’ she answered simply. ‘If you’d bothered to come near me over the last weeks, to hold me more than once or twice, to sit down and be interested in my day, in what I was doing . . .’

  Jack’s body went limp. It was as if the world had stilled.

  ‘Mother Mary.’ Thomas paled. ‘You never said . . .’

  Olive ignored Thomas and looked at Jack. ‘You’ve shown me nothing except the affection of friendship. If you’d given me the briefest of touches, been interested in more than what lies beyond these walls I would have shared my pain with you, but no. Jack Manning finally falls on his feet and he’s too obsessed with his precious new life to spare a moment, however brief, for the woman he supposedly loves; the woman who gave up everything to follow him to this godforsaken world.’ Olive burst into tears.

  ‘But how?’ Jack looked at Olive. ‘Who?’ he asked Thomas. ‘Why? I thought you loved me.’

  ‘It’s no one’s fault.’ Olive gave a wan smile. ‘I never did realise that you were quite so God-fearing. I thought a man’s wanting would come before marriage, especially out here.’

  ‘Who’s the man?’ Jack’s throat tore. ‘The father? Did you expect me to raise a . . . a bastard?’

  Olive looked him square in the eyes. ‘At first, yes. I didn’t know how to tell you so I expected you to think the child was yours.’ She gave a choked sob. ‘Otherwise, without you, I’d be ruined.’

  Her words fairly winded him. ‘I see.’ Jack thought of that first night in the lean-to. Her wanton behaviour that had seemed so out of character was borne of a desire to cover up her disgrace.

  ‘Then I realised I had to tell you,’ Olive continued, ‘that I had to trust in your love for me.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Olive,’ Thomas said softly.

  Jack almost forgot Thomas was present. He saw it then: his brother’s love for Olive. Squib’s words became clear. Jack visualised Olive and Thomas together on the lonely trip north: the time together in the train carriage, the rough sleep-outs; the months in Sydney after his leaving. Slowly, painfully, Jack began to understand what occurred, what was still occurring between his only brother and the woman meant to be his wife. Like a sleepwalker Jack stared out the casement window. Outside, the wind picked up. It rushed through the twisted trees, sending dirt and leaves in waves across the ground. Squib’s accusation returned to burn an image in his mind.

  ‘I love Olive,’ Thomas revealed. ‘I can’t help it, but that’s the truth of it.’

  Jack turned from the window, a wedge of steel lodged in his gut. Olive’s lips formed a small o.

  Crossing the floor in two strides, Jack punched Thomas in the face. The boy dropped to the ground. ‘You’re no longer welcome in this house.’

  Olive rushed to Thomas’s side. ‘Jack, how can you do that? It’s not his fault.’

  ‘Really. Last I heard it took two.’

  Thomas shook Olive off. ‘You’ve got it all wrong, Jack. Let Olive explain what –’

  ‘At this point in time, Thomas, I wouldn’t care if you told me she’d been accosted in the paddock by a bushranger. The end result is the same. She lied.’

  Olive collapsed against the cupboard. Plates and cups fell, scattering white shards onto the dark soil of the floor.

  ‘And she has kept on lying. I may well have lived my life bringing up another man’s child.’ Jack took a steadying breath, sure his heart would never return to normality. ‘I want both of you out of here by nightfall.’

  ‘Our God – the one we learnt about at Father’s knee – is not a brutal God, Jack.’ Thomas supported Olive about the waist, a final piece of crockery crashing from the top shelf onto the floor.

  ‘Leave.’

  Olive blanched. ‘Where am I to go, Jack?’

  ‘Anywhere, nowhere, back to your beloved Sydney. I don’t really care.’ Jack turned to his brother. ‘Take two horses.’

  ‘Olive can’t ride,’ Thomas pointed out.

  Jack’s words cut the air. ‘That’s not my problem.’ He recalled the girl in the white silk clouche hat and the infectious smile, and felt only pain.

  ‘You once told me, Jack, that God lived here too. Well, quite frankly he doesn’t, he couldn’t. Nothing could live out here, nothing.’ Olive’s words cut the air like a flint match.

  Jack gave her a single withering gaze. ‘Tidy the mess before you leave.’ He pointed to the broken crockery and then walked out into the midday sun.

  ‘You’ve become as mean-spirited as this land you love.’ Olive’s desperate voice carried along the hallway.

  ‘Jack, please listen to Olive’s story. I’m sure that once –’

  ‘What for? You were brought up under the guidance of the church, Thomas. You should have known better.’ Jack strode away from the house. Olive had lain with another – his own brother – and they’d both been prepared to lie about it for the rest of their lives. That was why she wrote the letter, Jack decided. The child was Thomas’s. Olive must have been wit
h child before she left Sydney and decided that his younger brother would not be able to provide for her.

  ‘I do know better, Jack. I know what forgiveness means.’ Thomas was standing on the top step, his fingers entwined with Olive’s as Jack disappeared through the trees. ‘I’m not the father of this child.’ His words went unanswered. He turned to Olive. ‘He didn’t hear me.’

  ‘He’s right, it makes little difference, Thomas. In the beginning I did intend to pass this child off as his and that was wrong. I’m only sorry that you’ve been involved in my undoing.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell him about the attack? Why didn’t you tell me . . .’ His voice trailed off as his eyes travelled to Olive’s abdomen.

  ‘I’ve provided your brother with the excuse he needed.’ She sniffed into a handkerchief. ‘We both know he’s in love with another and it’s a devotion that goes beyond right or wrong.’ Olive tilted her face towards the sun; relief and sadness, freedom and uncertainty surged through her veins. ‘We should pack only what we need and leave immediately.’

  Thomas took her hand. ‘We should wait for him to come back and set things right.’

  ‘No, we should leave,’ Olive said firmly.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes.’ Olive smiled. ‘I am. There’s no place for me here at Absolution Creek.’

  Chapter 49

  Absolution Creek, 1965

  ‘Where have you been?’ Meg emptied a saucepan down the sink and sat it back on the kitchen table. A steady stream of water was dripping from the ceiling in a number of places and it was all she could do to keep up with the rain infiltrating the other rooms in the house. ‘Surely it couldn’t have taken that long to fetch the rams in.’

  Sam looked at her blankly. He was wet and muddy.

  ‘I had to take most of the paintings down in the dining room. One of the walls has rivulets of water pouring along the length of it. I think I’ve used every saucepan, towel and bucket in the house and I can’t stop it.’ She mopped up water on the kitchen table with a towel, squeezing the dirt-flecked moisture into the sink.

  ‘Where’s Cora?’

  ‘Who knows? The sunroom’s flooding from the drain pipe outside. The poddy lambs escaped from the garage after I fed them and the gutters are overflowing and –’

  ‘Forget about the house, Meg,’ Sam said, raising his voice. ‘Where’s Cora?’

  ‘Okay. You don’t have to yell. I haven’t seen her since you all rode out this morning.’ Meg glanced at the kitchen clock. It was now 3 pm. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘You could say that,’ he answered tightly. ‘Damn it all.’ He slumped in the nearest chair and then stood again, fidgeting with his shirt collar, his belt, the high back of the wooden chair.

  ‘The girls are in their room.’ Meg glanced towards the door leading to the walkway. ‘Tell me what’s happened.’

  ‘Kendal’s been injured.’

  Meg’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Injured? How? Is it bad? Where is he?’

  ‘He fell in the shed. I swear it was an accident, Meg. He’s hurt bad, real bad.’

  Meg grappled with the implication of Sam’s words. ‘So where is he?’

  ‘Still out there. I think he’s dead.’

  Meg leant against the sink for support. ‘Oh, Sam.’

  Cora tugged at the brim of her hat. The rain continued to pelt down and she could feel the water beginning to seep through the seams of the oilskin jacket. She’d been walking for hours and was still a good trek away from the main creek crossing. If only she’d left the homestead an hour earlier then maybe she would have found Montgomery before he’d decided to seek refuge under a stand of wilga trees. It took an hour to locate him. He had retreated a couple of miles to the south-east, as far from the creek as possible, and was nowhere near his usual patch of ground. It was a canny move on the ram’s part, but Cora couldn’t risk leaving him there alone with no access for weeks if they did get a good run down the creek. She was surprised Sam didn’t see Montgomery when he rode that way, but what did she expect? All these young blokes were tussock jumpers. They rode from tussock to tussock and saw nothing in between.

  Horse gave a low whicker and nudged her shoulder. Cora knew what he was thinking: it was time to dump the ram and head home; every man for himself. She patted him on the nose and put up with his hair nibbling. Walking was the better option at the moment, for Montgomery and Horse had never been friendly and their meeting under the wilga tree earlier had led to an almost nose-to-nose standoff. Only a brief break in the rain and Cora’s dogged ‘on foot’ persistence managed to get Montgomery moving, and it had been a battle to keep up any pace since. The ram walked ahead slowly, his legs matted with mud, his wool sodden. Every so often he would stop, look over his shoulder at Cora and Horse, and then resume his onward progression. At the rate they were going it would be dark by the time they reached the crossing.

  Cora pushed and ducked under belah branches heavy with rain. When they passed through the clearing where Jack’s original hut once stood – the one she had accidently burnt to the ground – Cora slowed. There had been no substantial flood here since before Jack Manning had walked this very ground. Here he’d cut scrub in a ring around the hut, fished at the creek, read letters from the woman he loved, who in return lied and lost him. They all lost him in the end and Cora still carried the scars.

  Montgomery gave a series of grunts and trotted ahead, disappearing into a thick stand of trees. Cora resettled herself on Horse’s back, and followed the ram between the woody plants. The dense overhead canopy sheltered them a little from the rain, and it was here that Montgomery dug in his heels and stopped. Horse waited patiently as Montgomery considered both directions, his stately head turning first left then right.

  ‘We don’t really have time for a debate on this, Montgomery,’ Cora scolded. Horse whinnied in agreement.

  The rain continued to fall steadily and with nothing to eat since the single piece of toast at James’s place at daylight, Cora knew she would have to draw on her resolve to get Montgomery to safety. ‘Don’t think about James,’ she chastised, ‘or Jack for that matter. Think about getting home.’

  Finally Montgomery trundled onwards. Horse followed suit and they left the tree-arched pathway for open grassland and pouring rain.

  Chapter 50

  En Route to Absolution Creek, 1965

  Scrubber never had seen such a dirty storm. It hounded him from the east, like a money-lender ferreting away, until by the time sunlight streamed into his eyes the angry squall was almost upon him. The rain had started real soft, similar to a woman pawing at his skin offering plenty, lulling a man into a false sense of security. Then the swirling breeze arrived, teasing, playful, raising dried leaves in swirling ribbons of brown, before shape-shifting into a fierce wind that lifted anything not tied down. Rubbing grit from his eyes, Scrubber elected to keep plodding onwards. The girls were pleased to be on their way again and Dog was back sitting astride Samsara, all little Lord Fauntleroy, nose in the air.

  ‘Well, mate –’ Scrubber patted the pouch at his waist ‘– how are you travelling?’

  Hindsight wasn’t something Scrubber ever had time for, nevertheless, with the wind howling and the wet stuff from above increasing in intensity, he knew he should have fetched some timber and sourced a dry camp before the storm hit and darkness spread across the plains.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking. At my age a man should be prepared.’

  The trouble was he never was one for minding a bit of wetness: that tangy splat of rain on a man’s face; the smell of dry dirt turning damp, branches heavy with moisture. Being cooped up in a hotel room only made Scrubber’s desire to keep moving greater. Once out in space and air he wanted to suck it all in. Hadn’t he been riding for the last three months trying to keep the east at his back, attempting to stall the inevitable while fulfilling the one thing that had been eating into him all these years? Course he had an excuse. Two actually. Veronica and then hi
s own sickness.

  ‘Bugger.’ The rain lashed his face as Scrubber trotted his entourage towards the outline of some trees. The trunks were thick enough and close enough to provide a smattering of cover, and it was here Scrubber dismounted. ‘Get off, Dog.’ The mangy animal snarled, eyes glowing in the dark. Scrubber grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and threw him off, and then set about unsaddling the horses and his gear. He piled everything up in the direction of the incoming rain at the base of the thickest tree. Spiky leaves brushed his skin. He let the horses find their own cover and layered the ground with a couple of saddle blankets. Throwing the swag about his shoulders, he huddled close to the timber. Dog nosed his way into Scrubber’s cocoon, positioning himself under his bent knees.

  It wasn’t too bad, Scrubber mused, opting for a positive slant as he peered out at the driving rain. He bit his lip as a sliver of pain ran through his belly, a razor slicing him raw. ‘Not now,’ he groaned. Hadn’t he been holed up in a hotel for two days without even the hint of an ache? The surge rippled and dissipated then bit again, fiercer, stronger. Scrubber concentrated on a blade of grass, watching the rain belting it back and forth. His vision blurred and refocused until an image of Squib wavered before him. Then the world went dark.

  Chapter 51

  Absolution Creek, 1965

  A trail of mud signalled their progress as Meg and Sam dragged Kendal through the homestead. Behind them the twins watched as Meg flipped back the bedcovers. Kendal flopped lifelessly onto the sheet. Meg grasped her side, pinching at a painful stitch.

  ‘Is Kendal hurt, Mummy?’ Penny had two fingers shoved in her mouth and Jill peeped over her sister’s shoulder.

  Kendal was still alive, his breathing shallow. Sam pulled the boy’s muddy boots off. ‘Now what?’

  Meg’s breath started to return to normal. ‘Turn him on his side.’ She grappled for nail scissors on the bedside table and began snipping at Kendal’s clothing.