The Good Woman of Renmark

by Darry Fraser

  For days after the confrontation, the brothers had kept their distance from each other, and their tempers. More and more, Angus was convinced that his brother had committed a heinous crime. He had seen Robert’s vile tendencies for himself.

  Angus would find Adeline, or her body, and he would send his brother to hell for it.

  Six

  The men Maggie had seen lugging sacks of flour and sugar off the boat earlier had cleared the small cabin. There were no more ‘boxes and beasties’ that Mr Finn had mentioned, and it had taken hardly any time at all.

  She eyed the bunk and its striped mattress but couldn’t see anything crawling on it. Nevertheless, she would drag it off the timber frame and shake it out. She’d asked for a brush and pan, a broom, a pail of hot water and some rags. Once they’d been delivered to the cabin, she removed her pinafore from under her dress, retied it where it was meant to be and had set about cleaning while she waited for Mr Finn to locate some linens.

  The boat rocked gently as other craft steamed up and down river, whistles blasting in the still air as they chugged by.

  After pulling the mattress, a light and lumpy thing, off the bunk, Maggie ventured a look outside. She saw that the huge paddle-steamer, Gem, had rested her bulk not much farther along, pointing upriver, and was tied to the dock by long thick ropes. There was a rowboat being guided to it, a man on either side, wading deeper into the river as they got close. Amid much yelling and hand-waving, a prone man was carried on board from the smaller craft.

  Hissing in a breath and ducking back out of sight, she wondered if it was the body of Robert Boyd. Yells reached her ears as crew directed one another, but it was the silence immediately after that set her on edge. It felt as if all had fallen quiet to make way for the announcement that a policeman was about to board the Lady Goodnight. Nothing happened. Then there was another yell, this time from the bank—a harried male voice calling for Mr Finn.

  Stepping outside again, Maggie willed her breathing to calm so she could hear what was being shouted to the captain. In a mad moment, she glared into the water lapping at the boat, wondering if she should just jump in and swim to the other side. How stupid. If she did, with boats gliding along this way and that, she’d be seen, or mowed under, or—or worse, have her dress catch a sunken log and be drowned before she got ten feet across. Ridiculous idea.

  ‘Cap’n Finn,’ the voice shouted again. ‘It’s Priddo. He’s been snake-bit. He won’t make it back on board your boat for downriver.’

  Maggie could hear the voice more loudly. Clearly the man was approaching, charging down the bank to where the Goodnight was docked.

  ‘We were only waiting for him. Where is he?’ Mr Finn bellowed.

  The voice from the man on the bank dropped from a shout to a worried out-of-breath level. ‘Miz Carter brung ’im in. We laid ’im out flat in a rowboat and her boys got him on the Gem, and they’ll take ’im to Mildura. Quickest way for help. They just let the ropes go and she’s underway.’

  In the silence, Maggie imagined Mr Finn was weighing up options. Finally, she heard the captain’s voice, subdued and resigned. ‘Right y’are, lad. Tell Mrs Carter I’ll square up with her on my way back. I know she’ll have looked after him.’

  ‘Proper, Mr Finn. I’ll tell ’er.’

  More silence on deck was a worry, and then she heard the sombre tones of the conversation between Captain Finn and his crewman.

  ‘… Snake-bit. He’s not comin’ back from Mildura …’

  ‘… Mrs Carter would’ve done her best …’

  ‘… All we got is prayers.’

  Then, a moment after their voices fell silent, Maggie heard the low, rumbling hum and hiss of the Gem’s steam engine as she picked up pace, reversing away from the wharf.

  Footfalls thudded to the back of the Goodnight, and one of the men yelled, ‘Look after our lad, Mr King.’

  Any answer from the Gem was lost in the piercing steam whistle and the slap and whoosh of the massive side wheels on the water as the passenger boat headed upriver.

  Maggie pressed back into the cabin and grabbed up the mattress. As she was trying to flap it in the doorway, footsteps clomped on the deck and the crewman took it out of her hands. ‘I’m Bentley, miss,’ he said. He gave it a good shake for a minute or so, then excused himself as he took it back into her cabin and tossed it on the bunk.

  He tipped his hat. As he ducked out the doorway, Mr Finn filled it. ‘We’ll be on our way, Miss Lorkin. Unfortunately, one of our number needs medical help and has gone back to Mildura. That means we’re short-handed with only two of us, and because the boss won’t have any rabble working on his boats, we’ll get underway sooner than later. I don’t have time to find another decent fellow.’

  ‘I did hear someone had been bitten by a snake.’

  Mr Finn nodded, his face sombre. ‘Never good, lass.’

  ‘I’m sorry for it.’

  He sniffed and wiped a hand over his mouth. ‘So, we might take longer than normal to get where we’re going. Loading and unloading with a man down will take a while wherever we stop. Will that be an inconvenience for you, miss?’

  ‘No, Mr Finn.’ Just let’s hurry up and get going. That inner voice sounded a trifle ungracious considering the circumstances, but she felt in need of a hurry-up.

  ‘Right. Well, we have tea available most of the time in the galley, but as for meals now that our man has taken a snakebite—’ He stopped. ‘If you’ve a mind to, Miss Lorkin, perhaps we can counter your fare to Murray Bridge if you would cook for us on the way there?’

  Maggie felt the boat chug underfoot and heard the Goodnight’s engine power up. Another chug and she knew they were leaving the wharf. For the first time since her run from Olivewood, she felt a glimmer of hope and a tingle of relief. ‘Of course, Mr Finn. I would be very happy to do that.’

  ‘Thank you. If one of us doesn’t have to cook as well, we might save some time. When you’re ready, I’ll show you what we have. And the linens for your bed will be brought directly.’

  A moment after he left, Maggie stepped outside and looked upriver, watching the lumbering grace of the Gem as it glided away on the clear water. She wondered again if she was going in the right direction. Shrugging a little at that, she thought any direction right now was better than staying where she was.

  She would have to talk again to Mr Finn about her fare, and the counter payment of wages for cooking. She would much prefer to pay him and take a receipt for the fare of one pound and six shillings, and then issue him a bill for her services, in the name of Ellie Lorkin.

  It would fit her plan—the plan she’d had before the altercation with Robert Boyd. Once she’d left the Chaffey’s employ, she was to have found herself decent lodgings where she chose to live, and find work on a contract, like the shearers did. Some women had scoffed at her idea: They’ll never allow you to do it. Others had looked a little wistful, but each still longed for a man to make her his wife—where she would work for free. Aghast at that thought, though it was the norm, Maggie wondered if perhaps that was the price a woman paid to be safe and looked after. Her own mother certainly did her fair share of work, had toiled alongside her husband, and then cooked and cleaned and laundered as well. Eleanor hadn’t scoffed at Maggie’s view, but she did ponder aloud her daughter’s decision to remain a single woman. ‘No one enjoys being a spinster, and a woman’s role is to bring children into the world.’

  Maggie hadn’t broached the subject again. How could she possibly say to her mother—or any woman—that she was terrified of having children? They die. They can die before they’re born. Their mothers die. Oh, too awful. She knew so many. Maggie shied away from those thoughts and back to safer ground.

  Only a couple of women in Renmark had applauded her entrepreneurial notion but no one had a clue how she would survive. ‘Will people want to employ a woman who demands payment under contract?’ they’d asked.

  Now she had nothing to lose by trying to put her
plan into place. Maggie O’Rourke might have just clobbered a man to his death—she shuddered and felt sick—but Ellie Lorkin was about to launch a career as an enterprising businesswoman.

  Just how she would do it after she left this boat, she had no idea.

  Seven

  The piercing whistle jolted her out of a daze. Maggie had taken the offer of a chair for her cabin, and she’d put it in the shaded doorway where she could sit with fresh air on her face. At the calming rate of six miles per hour, with the opposite bank seeming to glide by as if it were moving and not her, she’d drifted, exhausted.

  Late afternoon sun approached dusk, and the boat’s speed began to drop away. She sat forwards, bracing an arm on the doorjamb. Perhaps another boat was about to pass them—there had been a whistle, maybe a river signal, and they’d slowed down. Peering towards the front of the boat, Maggie saw nothing but the expanse of river, barely a ripple on it except for the draw of the Goodnight as she glided along.

  She knew it would have been the best part of six or seven hours since leaving Renmark. Rested, though not calm, she didn’t feel inclined to head for the wheelhouse to enquire where they might be. She would stay put and as she sat, her pulse pounded again. Seemed her heart remembered what had happened earlier today even if she’d tried to forget.

  Her hollow stomach gurgled but the thought of food did not appeal. Still, she should head for the galley to check if she was expected to cook this evening, or at least prepare something. It was, after all, the start of her new life.

  Sam. Would she ever be able to face him now? She’d managed to swallow her pride and write the letter she still had in her bag. But now, any fleeting, tiny hope she’d had of seeing him again was dashed. Would her world be so contracted that her only refuge was a cabin on a freight boat?

  Wringing her hands, Maggie decided that would not be so, that she needed to appear as any normal person—interested, engaged and social. Sam, and his place in her life, would have to remain where it had been these last couple of years—in the past. So be it.

  Drawing in a ragged breath, she straightened and stepped onto the deck outside her cabin. As she stood there, Mr Bentley appeared with a large drawstring bag in his sinewy arms.

  ‘Came by earlier, miss, but you were snoozin’. Didn’t want to wake ye. This is for your bunk,’ he said, and slung the bag past her into the cabin. ‘Cap’n says they might need a good airin’ out, but that you’d know what to do.’ He tipped his cap and gave a nod. ‘If you need anythin’, let me know.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Bentley.’ He nodded again, a gummy smile revealing only a few teeth. As he turned to go, she said, ‘I’m to cook, I believe. Would you let Mr Finn know I’m going to the galley?’

  ‘Aye, I will do, miss. I’ll tell ’im directly but we might not need dinner on the boat tonight. He’ll be goin’ up to the settlement once we’re tied up at the landin’.’

  On cue, the engine cut, and the boat’s now silent glide drifted to a halt. Maggie heard voices calling about throwing ropes and tying up, and Mr Bentley began to head in that direction.

  ‘Which settlement is this?’ she asked.

  ‘Lyrup’s Hut, miss. Or it’s just called Lyrup, now.’ Mr Bentley disappeared into the open deck area in front of the wheelhouse.

  Maggie knew of Lyrup. It was one of several settlements, villages they were called, set up along the river by the South Australian government. The idea was to create a communal land system to combat unemployment after the banking crash of 1893, and to give families a chance on the land. However, it was well known they were not without discord.

  Lyrup was too close to Renmark, she thought, and the settlers here numbered less than four hundred. Not enough people to get lost in—even if she could find work. In Renmark she’d heard that the people who resided in the settlements downriver were barely eking out a living.

  Nervous now that the boat had stopped, she edged after Mr Bentley, sliding along the walls of the cabins. Just before the wheelhouse a door was open, revealing the galley. At a glance, it was neat and tidy. A low lamp glowed on a bench. Pannikins were on a narrow shelf, tins labelled tea and sugar were behind the flue of the small cooker, the heat of which curled around her. A few dinner plates were stacked on a bench beneath and cutlery rested on the plates.

  Through a door jammed open on the other side of the galley, Maggie had a good view of the timber landing to which Mr Bentley was tying the vessel. Crossing the room to peer outside, she saw a number of folk greeted the captain. Lanterns lined where they stood. Further along the dirt bank, a group of children gathered to stare at the boat. A couple of young girls carried toddlers, and three young barefoot boys wore ragged short pants and oversized shirts.

  Four men padded over the landing onto the boat. Amid the greetings, back slaps and handshakes, boxes of dried fruit and some sacks of flour and sugar were unloaded as well as a small bag of mail. Two women appeared and gathered most of the children out of the way, but failed to secure the attention of the young boys, who raced onto the landing. They dodged the workmen shouldering the freight and scurried aboard the boat, shouting war cries as they sped around.

  Maggie darted out of sight, wincing as the wild yells and wilder boys charged past her, the noise bouncing in the confined space. Gangly arms waved about ears too big for their heads, and dirty feet thudded over the floor. In an instant, they were gone, heading towards the back of the boat.

  Ignoring the shouts of the men, they were back for another run through. Maggie kept herself out of their way, pressed against the small bench holding the lamp. Still yelling, the first boy came to a dead stop as he spied Maggie, and the other two following crashed into him, shoving him sideways. He went down on his hands and knees and yelled. The others lumbered over him, tripped and fell. Blood spurted from someone. A howl erupted.

  Oh, dear God.

  The yowling reached a new crescendo as a bloodied hand was raised above the writhing tangle of knobbly limbs. ‘I’m shot, I’m shot, damn you, Ned Kelly,’ the hurt boy raged at one of the boys.

  The motley tangle unwound itself, split apart, and three gangly boys bounced upright.

  ‘You ain’t shot, idiot, and I’m Ned Kelly, not Ronnie,’ one of the boys grated.

  ‘I am Ned Kelly, Michael,’ Ronnie insisted. ‘You just fell over and got a scratch, yer big sook.’

  Michael waved his bleeding hand. He yelled, ‘Someone’s shot me in the hand.’

  In the dim light, it looked to Maggie as if a nail might have pierced the fleshy part of his palm.

  ‘No one were shot in the hand,’ Ronnie yelled back.

  Maggie held up both hands. ‘Boys. Boys!’

  Their yells stopped abruptly, eyes widened and mouths dropped open.

  She beckoned the boy who was bleeding. ‘Michael, I think you fell on a nail.’ She turned to Ronnie. ‘Are you hurt?’

  A quick shake of the head.

  ‘And what’s your name?’ she asked of the third boy.

  ‘John. I’m Ned Kelly.’

  And the argument started again.

  For heaven’s sake, I’m trying to be invisible here and all this noise …

  Michael thrust forwards but clutched his bleeding hand with the other. ‘Hurts.’

  Desperate to keep attention away from her presence in the galley, Maggie beckoned again. She used a rag to lift the kettle from the stove and tested the water’s heat on her hand. Then with a firm grasp, she took Michael’s wrist and poured some over his wound. He cried aloud but let her wrap his hand in the rag. ‘You must go and find your mother and tell her to use carbolic soap on it.’ She leaned over, tightened the rag and tucked an end in. ‘Don’t forget. Carbolic soap. Now, off you go.’ Michael slouched out, head hung.

  ‘He’s one o’ them troopers what got Ned Kelly,’ Ronnie said to her.

  ‘Yes, of course, he is.’ She glanced about, pulling back to the bench as she heard a woman calling the boys’ names. ‘Go on, both of you. I won’t say
a word if you don’t.’

  ‘No, miss. Sorry, miss.’ Then they were gone to the shouts of men roaring at them to get out of the way, and the admonishing, worried female voices.

  For a moment, Maggie waited to see if anyone would poke their head inside. When no one did, she dropped to the floor to feel about for the nail. If she was to work in the galley, she didn’t want it to pierce her foot and risk a horrible illness. She hoped the boy would not develop the tetanus. The nail had worked itself loose. She found a fry pan and with a couple of solid taps, the nail slipped back into its hole.

  Mr Finn was back on board. ‘Miss Lorkin, we’ll take our dinner with Mr Ross and his family. There’s a short walk to the village proper, but would you care to join us? I’m sure the womenfolk of the village would be happy to entertain ye.’

  Maggie couldn’t risk being recognised, but at the same time, refusing to undertake hospitality would arouse suspicion. After a brief internal struggle, good manners prevailed. With a shaky smile, she said, ‘Certainly, Mr Finn. How long will we be there?’

  ‘Perhaps an hour or so, to be neighbourly. Then we’ll overnight here.’

  ‘In that case,’ she said after a moment’s hesitation, undoing the pinafore, ‘I should get my hat.’

  Eight

  Maggie hoped by now that Michael’s mother, Betsy, an anxious sort with dark brows in a constant frown and her hands clasping and unclasping the whole time, wouldn’t remember too much about her visit. Michael had pointed at Maggie and said that she was the one who’d saved his hand after the troopers had shot him. The boy’s mother had been grateful—yes, she had used carbolic soap on his hand—but her wan pallor and her trembly smile seemed to indicate that she’d been likely to burst into tears more than anything else. Surely not just over her boy’s sore hand?