Absolution Creek

by Nicole Alexander

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ Scrubber gave a toothy grin. ‘But I’ve always been a bit of an aider and abetter.’

  ‘Why are you helping us?’ Matt asked. ‘I mean, really, it’s not your problem.’

  Scrubber walked across the timber floorboards. He could have died in the bush if Matt hadn’t found him. He could have gone through life with a crippled hand if it wasn’t for Squib. Through the door leading out onto the balcony the street was quietening in the midday heat. Abigail Hamilton was in gaol; Squib was living with a stranger; the boy Ben was gone and Matt was out of work, again. ‘I’ve got my reasons,’ he answered. ‘Now we need a plan.’

  ‘Any ideas?’

  Scrubber rubbed his hands together, and felt a rush of adrenalin in his gut. ‘How good are you with a rifle?’

  They packed up their belongings at first light. Scrubber silenced Veronica’s questions with a peck on the cheek and enough coin to keep her fed for two days. If the worst happened, he told her, he wanted her to return to the boarding house. Not one for tears usually, Veronica fell to blubbering like a waif. In hindsight, Scrubber decided, it would have been easier to lie. He held her, patting her head until she told him to leave off – that she ‘weren’t no dog’. He grinned then. Such ministrations usually did the trick.

  He sat her down on their lumpy flock mattress, and decided to fib to her about what he’d left behind at the boarding house. After all, he would have a God’s holy time trying to keep his woman’s grubby paws off it. Instead, he simply said it was their nest egg for when they were past working; a trinket saved for hard times. Having cautioned her good and proper like a husband should, lifting his hand for emphasis, he would have lain her down and lifted her skirts to seal the business between them, if it weren’t for the pressing needs of the day. He left with a sharp slap to her arse instead.

  With the directions to Absolution Creek marked out in Scrubber’s mind like a moveable mud map, courtesy of the publican, Matt and he saddled up at the stables before leading their horses onto the road. The air was already laced with dirt as Matt tightened the girth strap on his tawny Clydesdale. A flock of swallows swooped low across the road from one hotel to the other.

  ‘Bought him for a song.’ Matt brushed the gelding’s whiskered muzzle. ‘He’s a little long in the tooth but I figured he’d get me here and to wherever I’m going next.’

  From the eaves of the hotel a clump of dried mud crumbled to the ground. ‘Blasted swallows,’ Scrubber complained, his hand reaching automatically for his rifle. An amused look crossed Matt’s crinkled face, and Scrubber decided not to follow his natural inclination to blow away a few of their nests. Diagonally across the road another traveller was saddling up a fractious mare. The bay sidestepped the approaching saddle, but the next attempt was successful and the man flew lightly up onto the mare’s back. The horse gave a couple of pigroots, its hind legs kicking up swirls of dust, before the rider quickly took charge of his mount with a single tug on the reins. He was repaid with a rearing horse, hoofs striking the air. Scrubber figured the horse could do with a good flogging. In contrast, a sturdy horse more inclined towards packing goods than being ridden waited patiently nearby.

  ‘Righto.’ Matt swung up onto his horse, leaning forward to drag his leg over the hefty animal’s back. ‘Which way?’

  For a moment Scrubber dawdled. The intersection was quiet. It wasn’t like him to be indecisive, not when Squib was so close, but at the far end of the street a horse-drawn carriage appeared. In the opposite direction two men rode abreast up the centre of the road, one of the riders firmly holding a struggling bundle in front of him on his horse.

  Scrubber knew instinctively something was wrong.

  Chapter 57

  Absolution Creek, 1965

  ‘What will we do now, Mummy?’ Having devoured two Sao biscuits Penny smeared Vegemite fingers on the kitchen table. ‘I’m bored.’ Large drops of rain dripped from the overhead light into a saucepan on the table.

  Jill nodded furiously. ‘I’m bored, I’m bored, I’m bored.’

  ‘So am I.’ Meg gathered empty milk glasses and plates and sat them on the kitchen sink. Through the window the rain moved across the paddock towards them. Appearing as a sheet of whiteness in the far west it gradually crept towards the homestead. The storm arrived in a splatter of egg-sized droplets, which increased in intensity until the only noise within the kitchen was the pounding of rain on the iron roof. It was the third such rainstorm in the last hour. Meg pursed her lips and thought of Cora.

  ‘Mummy?’ Penny called above the din. ‘Mummy?’

  ‘Go and check the house for me, will you?’ It was the fourth time this morning Penny and Jill had been sent to check the rainsodden rooms. Meg was beyond it. The old house was a disaster zone; every room weeped water. In the dining room it ran down the walls, slowly turning the floor dark with moisture. If it kept on raining the house would soon become uninhabitable. A portion of Cora’s bedroom ceiling had already fallen in, and pieces of ancient bark, which looked like part of an earlier roof, lay strewn on the floor.

  The slamming of the back door and the slosh of water on the porch announced Sam’s return. He stomped down the hallway. ‘I can’t do anything about the power. This whole place could go up if I get that old generator going.’ He indicated the overhead light and the steady drip. ‘But Curly’s back, covered in mud and exhausted. I fed him and left him in the laundry. It’s dry enough in there.’

  ‘That’s not a good sign.’

  ‘She must have fallen from her horse,’ Sam decided. ‘It was a pretty cold night last night, so let’s hope she’s hunkered down somewhere.’

  ‘Cora’s bedroom ceiling is beginning to fall in.’ Meg filled the kettle and sat it on the Aga. She had to keep busy, otherwise her thoughts kept returning to Cora’s lifeless body lying somewhere out in the drenched paddocks.

  ‘Well, it was bound to happen,’ Sam replied with more than a trace of annoyance. ‘Damn ridiculous living like that, a great tree sticking out of the roof. You can imagine how much water has leaked into the house over the years.’

  ‘Sam, this house is going to be unliveable if it keeps raining. I don’t want to desert Cora but I have to consider the girls and Kendal. We need to get out of here.’

  Sam ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Well, we can’t do much at the moment. The only thing we can do is to wait until we hear from James. At least he knows we’re stuck here so that’s something.’

  ‘I guess.’ Meg sounded unconvinced.

  ‘What will you do? Go back to Sydney?’ Sam gave Meg a questioning look as he leant against the sink.

  A month ago Meg would have waited for Sam to make the decision. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought you liked it here?’

  ‘I thought you did,’ Meg countered, not that it mattered any more. Managing to stay with someone out of need and for the sake of children was one thing, but once disappointment mingled with a lack of respect . . . ‘I would have stayed if I thought it might make a difference.’

  ‘To us?’ Sam confirmed. ‘Well, before all this happened things might well have worked out for us, Meg.’

  ‘But not now,’ Meg agreed.

  ‘We stayed together because we once needed each other, not because we wanted each other. There’s a pretty big difference.’

  ‘What you’re saying, Sam, is that now is as good a time as any to jump ship.’ Meg wanted to come right out and say it – accuse him of being a bigot. The whole thing was laughable. It wasn’t as if Sam Bell had the right to be bigoted about anyone. He hunched his shoulders and yawned. ‘That’s how I feel too, Sam,’ she retaliated. ‘Disinterested.’ Having fought and complained for the duration of over five years of marriage, Meg was at the point where she couldn’t endure it any more. She didn’t love Sam and probably never had. Maybe he was right. Maybe she did marry him to both spite and escape from her mother, for there had been a time when all she wanted to do was crawl out from under her shadow. ‘An
d my having an Indigenous-blooded aunt doesn’t help.’ There, she’d said it.

  ‘No,’ Sam admitted, ‘it doesn’t. I don’t want my children growing up in her home, Meg. They might be slighted and taunted because of their association with Cora.’

  Meg threw a handful of tea leaves into a pot and added the boiling water. ‘That wouldn’t happen.’

  ‘Really? You were the one who told me Cora was treated differently in Stringybark Point. Anyway, I’m not surprised. For years this country’s lived under the mantle of a White Australia Policy.’

  ‘Hey, that was for immigrants; to ensure our culture was protected during the early years of development.’

  ‘And you don’t think that attitude extended to Aboriginals? There were acts passed, you know. Aboriginal children were taken from their homes. Cripes, there’s still those cordoned-off areas at the flicks and the separate drinking bit at the Stringybark Point pub for Cora’s kind.’

  Meg tasted bile in her mouth.

  ‘You know, you’ve got to wonder how this Jack Manning managed to leave Absolution Creek to Cora and how a part-Aboriginal woman managed to hold onto it.’ Sam sat down. ‘I give Cora credit for what she’s done. But I think you should prepare yourself for the fact that you probably won’t be inheriting Absolution Creek, Meg. How could you? If Cora’s holding onto it illegally, then she certainly can’t pass it on to anyone.’

  Meg poured tea for them both, her hands shaking. Beyond the kitchen the twins were racing up and down the covered walkway, their feet splashing against the sodden boards. So there it was, Meg thought miserably, the real reason Sam was leaving. They weren’t even arguing. After all the years she and Sam had been together they were past even that. ‘What will you do?’

  Sam cradled the cup between his hands and blew at the steam. ‘Head north. I might find work on another property. I figure Kendal could be a problem if I hang around and he decides to point the bone at me.’

  ‘In some ways this move was good for you, Sam.’ Meg didn’t mean to sound condescending.

  ‘I still care, you know,’ Sam admitted, ‘just not enough. I’ll send money for the kids.’

  Meg sipped her tea. She wouldn’t count on that.

  ‘Anyway, I suppose you better try calling Campbell again. Check and see what’s happening with the search for Cora. Maybe another chopper can get us all out of here. Combine Kendal’s injury with the twins and I’d imagine the authorities would consider us to be a bit more of a priority for an air lift; especially with this old house starting to disintegrate around us. And you should probably tell Campbell to get a message to your mother. She should know what’s happened to her stepsister.’

  In the corner of the kitchen Tripod gave a noisy yawn and managed to stand.

  ‘You better add two dogs to the passenger list,’ Sam suggested. ‘I don’t want to end up getting speared over a three-legged mutt.’

  Meg ignored the racist reference. ‘You think Cora’s still alive?’

  Sam gave a look that verged on disappointment. ‘I reckon it would take a whole lot more than a bit of water to wipe Cora Hamilton off the map.’

  Chapter 58

  Absolution Creek, 1965

  Scrubber tugged on the reins. ‘Blasted horse, it’s not like we’ve been travelling for days.’ Ankle-deep in mud, Veronica gave a whinny but refused to move. Scrubber slid his hand up tight to the bit and gave the bridle a jerk. Ahead was a substantial tree that forked in the middle, splitting the trunk into two solid limbs. Behind them lay a mile of hard going. Scrubber knew when a battle was done.

  ‘This is it.’ He sounded almost jovial. Swallowing the pain eating at his guts he unlaced the rope and helped Squib, now grown up and all five foot six of surly womanhood, to slide down from the saddle. For someone near drowned she was surprisingly alert and full of unanswerable questions. What are you doing here? Where did you come from? Where have you been all these years?

  ‘Have you caught your breath yet?’ she asked, as they reached the tree and leant against it for support.

  Scrubber knew the days of catching his breath were about as improbable as ever eating a cooked meal again. He tossed Cora his swag, water lapping at their feet. ‘There’s a dry shirt in there, Squib. Put it on before you turn into a stalagmite, and take the blanket with you when you get yourself up that tree.’ He figured the girl’s leg was near buggered. Nonetheless, true to the lass he remembered, she didn’t speak of it.

  ‘My name’s Cora, Scrubber. Squib doesn’t exist any more.’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  Cora looked from the old man opposite up into the wavering branches. ‘I don’t think I can make it.’

  ‘I’m figuring that would be right.’ Scrubber pulled at the itchy scarf about his neck. ‘A man travels for months, and right at the end when he’s close to the finishing of something long in the making, the very person involved bales up.’ Dog, soggy-haired from their trudging, gave a bark in agreement.

  ‘What’s that meant to mean?’

  Scrubber spat a wad of bile into the soggy grass, and turned his back as Cora changed her clothes. ‘Are you going to get up the damn tree or not?’

  Cora tucked the shirt into her wet moleskins, discarding her soaked jumper. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Not up there. I’m staying right here with my horse and my dog. Ain’t that right, Dog?’

  ‘Dog,’ Cora repeated. ‘You called him Dog?’

  Scrubber looked at the mangy animal’s hind leg kicking out in a cycling scratch, and remembered another animal long ago who didn’t have it so lucky. ‘Yeah, after that mangy yellow dog of yours at Waverly Station.’

  ‘Oh, Scrubber.’

  He couldn’t recall the last time a woman hugged him, especially one with mud-matted hair and more energy than a frog in a sock. ‘No time for blubbering now. I won’t look too smart if we’re washed away on account of sentiment.’

  ‘You should get up the tree too,’ Cora urged. ‘It’s not fair to expect the animals to stay there with you when they have a chance to get away from the flood water.’

  The girl had a point. ‘Just let me get my affairs in order.’ He patted Dog on the head, wished him well. ‘You’ve been a miserable animal at times, but a man needs a companion and you weren’t bad; no, not too bad at all.’ Removing the bridle from Veronica he sat Dog on the saddle. ‘Now, don’t be giving each other a hard time and no backchat, Veronica. You always were a shocker for that.’ Scrubber took a lingering last look at his mates. Two sets of plaintive eyes stared back. ‘Stay out of trouble.’ Bloody ridiculous, he thought, a man his age tearing up on account of a couple of four-legged creatures. He slapped Veronica hard on the rump. ‘Well, get going.’ They eyeballed him back. ‘Be done with you then.’ Veronica didn’t move. Dog gave a growl.

  Cora was already in the fork of the trunk and angling herself like a koala towards an outer branch. ‘Can’t you get any higher than that?’ Scrubber hollered, his fingers pressed hard on his neck in an attempt to garner a bit of volume. A thick line of ants were fast covering the bark. When Cora didn’t answer he climbed right on up after her, rope over one shoulder, water bag on the other; the tobacco pouch tucked down his shirt. It wasn’t really what Scrubber planned. During the long ride from the hills he’d pictured a hearty welcome and a home-cooked dinner and then the explanation for his visit. After that he’d planned on going out to check on the horses and then he’d just amble away, real silent like, job done. Instead here he was, grunting and huffing and clawing his way up towards Matt’s daughter.

  ‘You made it.’ Cora winced as she tried to keep her balance on the thick-set limb.

  Scrubber gave a grainy cough. ‘Was there a doubt?’ Unravelling the rope he looped it over the branch above them and tied it around Cora’s waist as the rain grew heavier.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I haven’t got a buggered leg. Now shift over.’ Scrubber split the blanket in half, made a neat hole in each piece and offered Co
ra the instant poncho. ‘Over your head with it, girl, and back on with the oilskin jacket.’ Once settled they sat there for some minutes surveying their new aspect: a curtain of rain. The noise came soon after, the sound of the bush moving as the crafty menagerie within it evacuated. ‘You gonna tell me why you were out in this weather?’

  ‘My rams,’ Cora explained. ‘They had to be moved to the other side of the creek for safety.’

  ‘I saw you purchased yourself a tidy-looking individual, Waverly No. 4 blood, eh? Well, that grin tells me everything.’ Scrubber squirmed about on the branch. For a man with no padding this wasn’t the best of seats.

  ‘Who’d have thought, eh, Scrubber?’

  ‘Yeah girl,’ Scrubber agreed, ‘who’d have thought.’

  In a distant tree line a mob of kangaroos bounded away in single file, the grey of their soggy pelts merging in and out of a rain-dulled landscape.

  ‘Well, here we are again,’ Scrubber joked. ‘Just like old times.’ They were six feet up. Safe enough, he calculated, at this distance from the creek. ‘Nothing like a predicament to bring people together.’

  ‘You and I know all about that. I often think about what Veronica said that day, about how she hoped I was worth it.’

  Scrubber patted her sodden thigh. ‘Well, considering the turn out you garnered on the day, I reckon that question was already answered.’

  ‘I haven’t thought about that day for a long time, Scrubber.’

  The girl sounded wistful. They both knew she was lying.

  Chapter 59

  Stringybark Point, 1924

  Jack wasn’t expecting to see anyone at this hour. Tightening the reins to steady the mare he had purchased the night before, he frowned at the men across the road. He’d just as soon eat paper than slip arse-first onto the ground with two wiry bushmen for an audience, so he spoke to his ride low and soft, promising good feed and fresh water in exchange for decorum. One of the men rode a great Clydesdale, the other, perched atop a slight mare, was busy giving directions. Jack reached out for the packhorse’s halter. He’d been a good horse, however Thomas and Olive’s departure came with the loss of two fine animals and at least one needed to be replaced. Although the purchase was not in his budget, Squib’s advice regarding the Tallow and Hide shop offered an eventual means for a bit of coin.