by Darry Fraser
It seemed to be a very hard life for the women here. The few who had prepared tea and then a light meal had not remained in the company of the men. They’d asked Maggie to join them on a tour by lantern light of their small town. It looked almost makeshift to her. Some dwellings were small stone buildings but mostly they were huts, each with a crudely thatched roof, or a canvas tent with a roof over it, all sat in the dirt as if an afterthought for the dwellers. There were sturdy shops, though—a butcher, a baker and a general store.
She found she’d had to impart all sorts of news about Renmark, about any up-to-date fashions that might have arrived there, or more work, or … Maggie had tried to extricate herself from any conversation that might implicate her if the police widened their search for Robert Boyd’s killer. That thought made her feel sick.
The women had sat at a small cooking fire, and damper and jam had been offered. Maggie had a tin cup with black tea from the billy, too hot for her to hold in her hands, so it balanced on her knees. She’d lowered her head to blow into it to help cool it down.
The damper was fresh, and the dark jam lacked the sugar of her Ma’s recipe that she was used to, but it was flavoursome, and seemed to have a spice in it. Maggie tested another bite to try and discern what fruit it might have been.
Leaning towards her, a woman said, ‘It’s muntry jam, Miss Lorkin. Bush fruit.’
She’d been introduced as Mrs Wilson. She had bony fingers, stained the colour of Maggie’s tea, and her wiry dark hair, streaked with grey, fell around her face. Her eyes were sunken, and deep wrinkles creased as she smiled. She appeared happy enough.
‘The land holds plenty, you just have to know how to grab its secrets,’ she almost whispered. ‘We have to grow our own vegetables on our allotments. Good thing, I suppose. I can’t afford to buy out of Renmark.’ She sighed. ‘It’s the old problem. Markets are so good for the produce out of the communal garden that there’s none left for us—is why I forage in the bush. We grow apricots and peaches. Lemons too, and of course there are the vines.’
Maggie nodded, then took up her cup to sip. A good garden here, Mrs Wilson had said. If I were staying, I might have explored it. Nara and Wadgie had often shown her edible berries and tubers when they’d ventured near the boundary of Olivewood.
‘Is there talk in Renmark, Miss Lorkin, about us women getting the vote?’
Startled out of her thoughts, Maggie looked up, at a loss for a moment. She met the eyes of the woman, stocky, white-haired, but perhaps only as old as Maggie’s own mother would be. Her heart skipped as that thought crept in.
‘Yes, plenty of talk for and against,’ Maggie said. ‘The election is scheduled for the colony within a year or so.’
Another woman laughed aloud, her thin frame shaking, her brittle voice derisive. ‘Bah. Vera, why would we bother to vote? I do what I like anyhow.’
‘We know you do, Mrs Graham, but I’m speaking of a much wider franchise.’
‘Well, I’m only talkin’ of our own village, here. I don’t care one way or t’other about a vote for me. What changes would it make? I’d still have straw on me roof, and fleas in me bed.’
‘I’m sure the men are intent on getting you your roof. You and your husband are not far down on the list.’
‘It don’t do anybody any good. Best to give up on all this communalistic notion rubbish,’ Mrs Graham went on. ‘Share and share alike, it’s supposed to be. Half the men don’t work a good day, anyhow, and still get paid the same coupons as the men who put in three times as much work.’ Her voice got louder. ‘Why, my Stanley works that steam engine at the sawmill, day in, day out, keeping it going, where others sit around watchin’ him.’
‘Yes, we know all about it, Mrs Graham. You take great pains to let us know,’ Vera said. Other ladies cleared their throats and shuffled themselves on their cut timber seats. ‘But back to our discussion about—’
‘And besides,’ Mrs Graham cut in, ‘the men don’t want us to vote. So, it won’t happen,’ she’d finished.
Glancing at Vera, Maggie deduced that the conversation was not a new one.
Vera—earlier introduced as Mrs Olson—inclined her head. ‘There is to be a polling booth here for the big election, you know, and for that we are very grateful.’
Maggie brightened. ‘Here, at Lyrup?’ How wonderful. A polling booth here in this little, out-of-the-way place.
‘We are in the Albert electorate, a designated station for voting, apparently. To vote from our settlement here is such a grand thing, and more so, to have our collective women’s voices heard in parliament, well,’ Vera said, as if it were her lifeline, ‘it will change our lives.’ She held up her hand to stop Mrs Graham from interrupting and looked across at Maggie. ‘What do you think, Miss Lorkin?’
No point trying to hide from anything now, Maggie-girl. Evasion would only have drawn more attention. ‘I think if we had greater control of our lives financially, and with more education, it would suit us well. We would not be subject to as much poverty and—’ She stopped in surprise. A crack had opened in her belief that she would always have of her own place in the world. Would her vote really ensure she could better herself? Looking at these women, she wondered what, if anything, would change their fortunes.
Mrs Graham snorted. ‘Another high-and-mighty born, are ye? Our lot won’t never be educated.’
‘Precisely why we need a voice in government,’ Vera said quickly.
‘Not high-and-mighty born, at all, Mrs Graham,’ Maggie said, swallowing down a retort. ‘My parents were fruiterers in Bendigo, in competition with the Chinese people there, and things were very hard. Then not long ago, the orchard burned to the ground and they had to find work elsewhere. When I was a child, it was my mother, taught by her mother, who gave me my reading and writing before she made sure I went to school.’
‘Fat lot of good it got ye. And Vera, have ye had a look around? Ye still live in a hovel like me, an’ the rest of us. Bah to this idea of communism.’
‘You know that if we had a vote in the matter, here on the settlement,’ Vera said, raising her voice, ‘we might very well revert to individualism, and have blocks in our own names, not the communal ones. I’ve heard talk it is being proposed to the Lyrup Board.’
‘A vote. It’ll never ’appen. These men can’t make up their mind one way or t’other. Fightin’ among themselves, they are. Some are drunks, some are blow-hards. Can’t even plant trees at the right time of year.’
There was a collective murmur agreeing that some of the decisions made had been folly, and that the consequences were disastrous.
Vera straightened, and Maggie could see her bristle in the low light. ‘We women should be standing up and making noise.’
Mrs Graham kept grumbling.
Vera only smiled benignly. She seemed to be trying to let Mrs Graham’s comments slide by her. ‘And you are going where, Miss Lorkin? Back to family in Bendigo?’
‘They are now in Echuca—’ Maggie caught herself but it was too late, ‘—and I had thought to find work in Murray Bridge, downriver, before heading home.’ In the taut silence, a crack, a fissure that had allowed a glimpse of her future, teased out her plans. ‘I am an accomplished cook and will look for a contract. And perhaps if not successful there, I’ll go on to Melbourne, to … cousins.’
The hush was eerie as the women stared at her. What she’d uttered must have seemed a very foreign concept. Maggie waited for someone to say something. Perhaps she’d somehow spoken another language.
A younger woman sat forwards. ‘Like some men do—ask their own price? Not wages?’ Dusty boots, the toe of one loose from its stitching, showed from under her ragged skirt hem. Her dark blonde hair was scraped back into a bun held by combs, and her grey eyes were intense under dark brown brows. She looked to be about Maggie’s age, in her mid-twenties, perhaps.
The attention she’d hoped to avoid was now fully upon her. Maggie nodded. ‘And to spend and to save as I wish in order
to keep myself.’
‘Oh,’ the young woman said, her eyes wide on Maggie. ‘And you’d ask your own price for cooking and the like?’
‘Yes. A contract price.’
‘If someone were willin’ to pay ye, Jane,’ Mrs Graham started, ‘otherwise yer—’
‘Because we don’t get paid for it, now, do we? We just do it,’ Jane interrupted, still wide-eyed at the notion.
‘Ye used to get yer keep,’ Mrs Graham snapped. ‘That’s ye pay, right there. That’s all ye get. Now ye got nothin’, have ye?’
A couple of other ladies gasped at that, and the young woman frowned. ‘If I got paid for the work, I wouldn’t be this poor, would I?’
Mrs Graham snorted a laugh. ‘And who’d pay ye? Yer husband?’ She stood up, slapped her thighs and marched off, muttering, ‘No idea. No idea.’
Jane watched her go. ‘Don’t mind her, Miss Lorkin. She’s a very hard person. Has chided me for my weakness. She’d tried to warn me, and of course I didn’t take her advice. Told me I should pay more mind to … Well, my husband has left, you see. Teddy Thompson. Gone downriver, but hopefully he’ll send me something for my living until—’
‘No need to burden Miss Lorkin with all that, Jane.’ Vera smiled again.
Jane seemed to warm to her subject. ‘But in the meantime, I’m looking for ways to keep myself. I might yet have to leave the village and I’m very interested in what you have to say.’
Maggie had not wanted any attention. She sighed inwardly.
‘In your plan, who’d keep you when you get old, when you can’t work? Would you marry and have children, so they would keep you when you got old?’
If Maggie did indeed live to an old age, how would she keep herself unless she had married and had a stipend from her husband’s estate? But then marriage would inevitably bring children … Her plan seemed not so tight now. How did a woman survive if she was too old or infirm to work? Oh dear.
Mr Finn found her and tipped his hat. He held a lantern, and his pipe was clamped firmly between weathered lips.
‘Excuse me, good ladies.’ He nodded at Maggie. ‘Miss, it’s time for us to be leaving.’
Once on board the paddle-steamer, her crowded thoughts vied for attention. There was still much to achieve, but was her plan to achieve it on her own a good one? Too many thoughts, too many thoughts. Her mind was intent on keeping her awake, and she’d tossed on her bunk. Finally, a little sleep had taken her.
They were underway early the next morning, just as the yellow tinge of dawn crept through the treetops. Maggie took a glimpse back as they sailed away and was surprised to see how much she’d missed the evening before. Sunlight revealed a hive of industry on the riverbank. There seemed to be some sort of timber mill, alive with men stacking hewn logs and planks, and those operating the saws. All at barely past five in the morning. Though she hadn’t seen it, she remembered reading newspaper reports of a busy brick-making industry too.
The rhythmic whoosh of the paddlewheels was comforting, but the night had been unsettled and too warm for sleep. Her thoughts had raced.
Now, with the morning light stronger by the minute, she grabbed her bag, and felt the crinkle of the letter inside it. Her heart gave a thump. Life with Sam. Should she think that over again? No, no, not to save her from being lonely and destitute, but to be his companion in life? But how could she have a man in her life and not give him the thing he most wanted? Perhaps there were ways a woman would not get with child.
Where had that thought come from? She sank back on her bunk. Would Sam even want her after all this time? She hadn’t seen any letters from him for many months, perhaps almost a year. Oh, she’d sent back his first two, still so angry with his thick-headed expectations. After that, there’d been no more anyway, according to Mr Boyd. He’d told her so without looking at her—he’d probably been embarrassed for her. Well, how dare he?
At first, Maggie had been glad there’d been no more letters. At the time, she’d felt more than a little justified—and only a little miffed—that Sam had seemed to give up too easily. Then she’d chided herself well and truly. She had told him to grow up and work out what he wanted. Perhaps that’s exactly what he’d done, and it had meant life without her.
But she’d sent him a few more letters over the next months, sort of hoping to coax a response—just general newsy type letters about what she was doing and how happy she was. He’d never answered.
Served herself right. All of this with Sam was her own fault. Now she tapped a foot in frustration. The niggle of doubt about her feelings, her fears, gnawed at her.
Thoughts of Sam often found their way in. That boyish smile, the soft tunes sung in his glorious tenor voice—when he wasn’t roused up on rum with her brother and making a terrible ruction. His kind eyes. Sam had kind eyes that crinkled when he looked at her. And he’d made her laugh. He loved his family, his horse. He loved her brother as mates do.
Sam had wanted to marry her. There’d have been no other life than the drudgery of a housewife, and never following her own dream. But drudgery wasn’t the only reason she’d made sure he hadn’t followed her to Renmark. She was afraid of becoming a mother, and bearing child after child. If she was near Sam, she knew she wouldn’t resist taking for herself what felt so good—fearing a conception didn’t stop her wanting Sam in that way, and afterwards she was so exasperated with herself. They’d been lucky—only lucky, she was sure—that she hadn’t become with child. But if they married, she just knew it would happen time and again. She was scared. Wasn’t ready.
And the last she’d seen of him, well, they had got carried away—only for the second time—and had gone way past just a furtive kiss or two behind the haystack where they’d gone to be together. Way past a couple of long needy sighs. She’d clutched his big shoulders, greedy for the hot, hard weight of him. She’d held him tight, hooked her strong legs around his, her skirt rucked high. Captive, and fallen to his knees, he’d laid her on her back and the fresh, clean hay whispered under their clothes. They’d gone past caring for anything but themselves and the burning need for each other; past the deep, warning rumble in the back of his throat when she’d flicked open his flies, reached into his pants and closed her hand around his warm erection.
He’d gone past worrying then. His big hand slipped under her chemise and over her nipples, so taut she’d cried out at the exquisite, breathless sensations that followed. The coarse, scratchy whiskers of his cheeks and chin nestled in the nape of her neck had sent cascading shivers over her, inside and out, and she hadn’t waited for him to take her. She’d taken him. Wanted him, had drawn him inside her, warm and wet, and slippery with need, and he thrusted, eager, straining. Clutching his back, she’d felt his muscles bunch and move under her hands, then urgent tingles rushed to her belly. Her knees gripped, and his hips drove down hard, and then that powerful, wonderful last thrust buried deep inside her.
And when he’d rested, heavy on her and languid, she’d taken his hand and shown him what she needed, and she’d rocked against him, his fingers teasing between her legs until she couldn’t hold on to it any longer. She rushed towards that sweet peak, and waves of intense bliss had rolled through her.
Now, with her arms over her belly, she closed her eyes and had the sudden craving for more. She thought back to how she’d taken more for herself than she’d ever taken before, more than she’d ever thought possible.
Then Sam had to go and spoil it with a proposal of marriage right after.
‘But Sam, I just told you I wasn’t interested in that. Not the drudgery, and the laundry tubs and fifty children.’
He’d seemed a bit sleepy. ‘But we should marry,’ he said, ruffling his scruffy thatch of hair. ‘I should propose.’
‘I don’t want you to feel as if you should propose,’ she stormed. ‘I’ve just said I’m independent.’
He’d looked bewildered but determined. ‘I know I’ve said something wrong, but I don’t know what. You make me
crazy sometimes, Maggie O’Rourke. I want to marry you. And if something does come of this, I will marry you.’ He stood up, pulled on his pants, shrugged into his shirt covering up that smooth hard body she so desperately wanted more of. ‘I’m going to the pub.’
Typical.
In the light of Sam’s love of a drink, his carousing to his horses with Ard—Maggie, he did have a heart-rending voice when he sang for you—his lack of ambition to get ahead and that he’d put his foot down, she’d pushed him away. Snapped at him, ‘Go ahead. Oh, grow up, Sam Taylor. Why would I want to marry you?’ Maggie muttered something more and left him to figure that out for himself. She’d brushed herself down, retied her chemise and taken off in the opposite direction. In her heart she knew she’d been selfish.
So after that, the future of a job in Renmark, with the support of her parents close by—they’d just moved there—made it too easy for her to flee. If she wasn’t near Sam, she wouldn’t get ‘in trouble’, she’d manage to live the life she wanted. But her heart had ached. She knew now that she could’ve done with some growing up, too.
Her pride was strong, but now, right now, even after she’d left Renmark in such a hurry under such awful circumstances, would it be the right thing to ask for his help? What would Sam think of a woman who’d killed? Oh, he would understand her defending another from attack. But what if she was to hang? Would he be better off never knowing that she’d committed such a crime?
Her heart skipped a beat. She had killed someone. All thoughts of making a life with Sam were now stupid. Useless. It could never be so, especially if she was caught. Even if not, her conscience would make her confess to him that she had murdered a man—in defence of another, all right all right, but killed a man just the same—and she knew, she just knew that no good man would ever want her after that.
She was doomed to a life as Ellie Lorkin. How would she ever see her parents and her brother again? That brought a rising gorge from her stomach that twisted her mouth. She took a couple of deep breaths to steady herself.
