The Good Woman of Renmark

by Darry Fraser

  Sam snorted. ‘Be the other way ’round.’

  ‘I know that, too. And no singing when you get drunk. You’re still terrible.’

  ‘Reckon those days are long gone.’ Sam held out his hand.

  Ard gripped it hard. ‘Never say never, boyo.’

  ‘Might be a while between drinks, then,’ Sam said catching the blue flash of Ard’s bleak stare, the flash that mirrored Maggie’s. ‘I’ll do my damnedest to find her, mate. I hope your pa gets back on his feet real soon so he’s good when I bring her back.’ He nodded at Ard. ‘And I hope to Christ your new little ’un looks more like your missus and not you,’ he said, and Pie answered the nudge to leave the stables. ‘I’ll see you.’

  Out of the yards, Sam turned the horse’s head and set off for the landing at the river a quarter mile away. His chest was heavy with the weight of leaving, and on his task for the days ahead.

  The Lady Mitchell, once a fine passenger boat now converted to carrying mainly freight, glided away from the O’Rourke’s landing. Still regal, she was headed downriver, first to Swan Hill to upload more freight then on to Mildura, Wentworth and Renmark.

  Pie had wandered onto the boat, stepping daintily on the gangway as he’d done many times before. Not a lot bothered this sturdy horse of his. Sam tied the reins to a post at the stern of the boat and patted Pie’s sleek neck. ‘I’ll be back directly, old fella. Got to go talk to the cap’n.’

  In the wheelhouse, the captain, Ned Strike—a short, weather-beaten wiry man with what looked like a permanent squint in his left eye—cast Sam a glance. An unlit pipe wobbled between thin lips as he spoke. ‘Horse tied up good?’

  Sam nudged his hat back a little farther and rolled his shoulders as he stopped beside the wheel. ‘He is. You know he won’t make havoc.’ He eyed the panel forward of the wheel where navigation instruments sat in their housings, some with needles that wavered or ticked. He looked over the spread of charts on a fixed lectern attached to the wall of the wheelhouse, one of which showed a tight curling channel. It didn’t look anything like here that he could tell, but if this boat was going to get him to Renmark, that was all he needed to know.

  The pipe wobbled again as the captain spoke. ‘Good. Carried all manner of things in me time and a problem horse was one of the worst. Now,’ the squint blinked open once or twice, ‘just so ye know, I don’t sail the river after dark. Agin regulations, but some do it. I don’t.’

  ‘Right.’ Sam had only travelled between Echuca and O’Rourke’s Run with Captain Strike, no further until now.

  The story was that Ned Strike had lost good mates when the River’s Best sank years ago, snagged at night by a huge gum that had recently fallen into the water. He was a highly skilled captain but refused to navigate the river once the sun had gone down.

  ‘No matter to me,’ Sam said. ‘Paddle-steamer by day is still the quickest way for me to get to Renmark without killing my horse.’

  ‘Watched him wander on board these last few times. Fine lookin’ animal.’

  ‘Maybe breed off him later. He’s got a calm temperament, got some brains in his head.’

  Captain Strike switched the pipe to the other side of his mouth where it bobbed to get settled between his nut-brown lips. ‘Heard nothing much fazes them Waler horses. Looks like he’d outlast all of us on a long trek. They say they can go for days without too much to eat or drink. Can carry a load, too.’

  ‘True, but I want him well rested. We’ll be on a long trek leaving Renmark, I reckon.’

  ‘Yeah, heard you was going off somewhere downriver. Good thing you didn’t start out last week.’ He sucked in a breath around the pipe, winced a little as if something had hurt him. He shook his head a little sadly. He said, ‘There was a big fire down way past Renmark. Meant boats clogged the river there. Just gettin’ all the back traffic through now. Yer might not have got much further south on horseback either.’

  Sam didn’t comment. Jesus, a fire. His job might have now become a whole lot harder.

  The easy chug of the steam engine and the soft paddle of the side wheels filled the silence. Sam couldn’t detect a breeze on the banks. The scrub on either side was still; nothing moved at ground level or at the tops of the gum trees. Their mighty stunted branches were thick with faded green leaves, some dead waiting to drop when the life was finally seared out of them by an unrelenting sun. Lining the river, outreaching tree roots hung over the grey sandy banks as if trying to coax the water to a higher level. Fallen boughs, rotting and crumbling, lay like sentinels, waiting for the river to rise. Drought was gliding in again—if it had ever left. Those trees would be reaching for water a while yet.

  Ned Strike coaxed the wheel a quarter turn and the steamer obeyed, taking a long gentle bend in the river. ‘Whole place was opened up all along that way, to help folk who was doing it hard, but now the rail’s gone through here and there, river trade is down. It don’t look so good for the little settlements now.’

  Interested, Sam folded his arms and stood alongside. ‘Many settlements?’

  ‘There’s a few of ’em. They call ’em villages. Folk share what they grow, what they find, what they have. Dunno how it works, all that sharin’. Communism, communal, communist or some such thing they call it. Don’t ken to a man not owning his own holdin’, if he can afford it. All that sharin’ business, I dunno.’ Captain Strike shrugged. ‘But it means you’ll have plenty of places to kip if you had a mind to. Could pick up a bit of work in exchange for vittles and whatnot.’

  Plenty of places to search too, that meant. Sam’s gut warmed suddenly, and a dribble of sweat trickled down his back. He hoped he could find Maggie. The sheer size of the country … a man could travel for weeks and not even be out of that South Australian colony. But it had a sparse population, so maybe with luck …

  If she was alive.

  He’d been shoving that thought aside since Ard had told him Maggie was missing. Now, on the river, with Pie packed to the hilt with swag, saddlebags, and his rifle, leaving one colony for another, the reality of his task was taking hold.

  He shoved the thought away again. Removing his hat, he rubbed the side of his head hard, digging into his scalp and creating more knots in his already matted thatch. He jammed his hat back on. Knowing Maggie as he did, having a haircut might be a wise move. Not that it mattered to him, a haircut, but he could do with more wise moves. He hadn’t had many to date.

  Before he’d left Echuca, the family had wondered if Maggie would try at first to go to Dane MacHenry in Swan Hill. Along the way it was clear to Sam that no one had sighted a young woman named Maggie O’Rourke. At Swan Hill, Ned Strike said they weren’t scheduled to stop at the boss’s place, so Sam would have to make his visit a quick one. He leapt off the Lady Mitchell at the MacHenry’s Jacaranda landing and ran to the house.

  ‘Nah, mate,’ said a workman, a smoke dangling on his bottom lip. ‘No one home. There’s been bad trouble with one o’ their boats downriver, and the boss has gone there. The missus has taken the kids with her up to Swan Hill. I ain’t seen no one back yet and had no visitors.’ He tipped his hat back, and a line of grime separated his tanned forehead from the pale skin at his hairline. ‘See if you can catch the boss down a-ways. Might have word of your friend.’

  Sam thanked him, and bolted back to the steamer. ‘Dane’s not there. They’ve gone on to sort trouble with a boat downriver, the bloke said.’

  Ned grunted. ‘I heard. Good mate o’ mine gone, Ranald Finn, and one of his men, Johnny Bentley.’ His face closed under a deep frown. ‘Blowed an engine, they reckon, on the Lady Goodnight. Bad business.’

  Sam snatched off his hat. ‘Sorry to hear that, Mr Strike. I knew Mr Finn.’

  There was a terse nod. ‘Bad business,’ the captain muttered again and turned away. They got underway; the stop had barely slowed them up.

  Thirteen

  Three days later, just after dawn, the Lady Mitchell pulled into Renmark after mooring for the night not far up
river.

  Ned Strike wasn’t about to dally here; his crew would take a hasty bite, perhaps find a billy tea brew with workers on the wharf before heading downriver. He didn’t want the men to head off in search of a drink. There’d be no grog or drunks on a boat under Cap’n Strike’s command.

  Pie didn’t need to be coaxed off the boat. He led Sam as he headed for the dusty incline to the top of the bank. Sam tied him away from the carts and the haulage equipment and returned to the Lady M to help unload the freight, putting his back into it alongside others.

  They’d carried wool bales destined downriver for rail transport from Morgan to Adelaide. He’d do his bit before leaving them, then find this Olivewood farm and visit the lady of the house there. Mrs O’Rourke had given him a letter to deliver to Mrs Chaffey. It was the quickest way to get it to her.

  The size and scope of operations on the river had amazed Sam. Here at Renmark, things looked the same as they did at Echuca, where the wharf was always busy. It still bustled with traffic up- and downriver, despite everyone saying trade was slowing. Freight was varied, from wool and grain in bales on barges, to stock, and people and their belongings being transported to resettle in newly opened areas of the country. Hard to believe it was slowing down.

  A bloke was running his hands down Pie’s flank. The horse was throwing his head in the air, his eyes wide. Sam knew Pie wouldn’t do anything stupid, but he was a stallion, and could be as pernickety as the best of them. Shouldering a couple of sacks of flour, Sam headed back up the bank towards an already heavily laden cart.

  He tossed off the sacks, and they thudded onto others in the cart. He dusted himself down and strode for his horse. ‘Help you, mate?’ he asked, taking Pie’s bridle. The horse, shying and stamping his feet, settled a little.

  ‘G’day to you. Was just thinking what a fine beast this is.’ He patted Pie’s rump again with a meaty hand. ‘I was looking to buy a horse, and this one here is just the sort I’m after. What say you—’

  ‘He’s not for sale.’ Sam let the horse throw his head a bit more, then he pressed a soothing hand on Pie’s neck.

  The stranger seemed to consider the flat reply. ‘Pity. Horses are in short supply here. Only so much riding around the countryside a man of my size can do on a bicycle.’ He gave a roll of his eyes, winced, and thumbed over his shoulder to the bicycle that leaned on the spindly trunk of a young eucalypt. He had a deep bruise on his neck that seemed to spread from under his hairline. His eyes were swollen and the skin discoloured, not so much like black eyes, but damaged all the same. The man’s chest was like a barrel, his guts solid, and he had thighs like they were bursting out of his trousers. Squash a man flat if he sat on you.

  Sam glanced at the bicycle contraption where it rested. It sure as hell didn’t look sturdy enough to carry this bloke around. ‘Wouldn’t be ideal,’ Sam agreed. How’d a body expect to get around? Not on that thing, anyhow. He couldn’t begin to think what life would be like without a horse.

  ‘Where’d you get him?’ The big man thrust his hat back, revealing a thick mop of dark hair.

  Sam rubbed Pie’s neck some more. ‘Down Bendigo way.’

  ‘Ah. Over the border. Goldrush country, eh?’

  ‘Used to be,’ Sam said.

  The man inclined his head. ‘True,’ he said. ‘So.’ He nodded at the Lady Mitchell. ‘Just in town for a while? That your freight on board the boat? Looks to me like Mr Strike is still the captain.’

  Sam glanced over his shoulder and saw Ned Strike at the dock. The captain looked up, noticed the man Sam was talking to, and immediately started up the hill.

  ‘Mornin’,’ Captain Strike called, terse again.

  The big man called back as Strike approached. ‘Mr Strike. Good to see the Lady Mitchell still hauling freight and the like. We’re a lucky township to have such fine boats dock here and servicing our community.’

  Ned Strike made it level with Sam and looked at the man. ‘There’s nothin’ on my manifest for you today, sir.’ He didn’t wait for a reply and turned to speak directly to Sam. ‘The house you’re lookin’ for is not a mile that way,’ he said and pointed beyond the buildings on the flat above the riverbank. ‘You can’t miss it. It’s built with logs, has olive trees in front and anyone could direct ye.’ He stared pointedly at Sam. ‘We’ll be heading downriver directly. If you want to come, there’s maybe a couple of hours in it.’ Then he nodded his goodbye, glanced at the other man and headed back down the riverbank.

  The man gave a small grunt. ‘Still got enough of the Scot in him to be nice and gruff.’ He turned to Sam, his booming voice too friendly. ‘Sounds like you’re looking for a place called Olivewood. I can take you if you have a mind to go there.’

  Sam, trusting Mr Strike’s reaction, shook his head. ‘I’ll be right.’

  The man ignored him and reached out again to stroke the horse’s neck. ‘Looks like I don’t have to wait around for any freight to come off the boat. We can go now, if you’re ready.’

  ‘Thanks all the same, I’ll be right,’ Sam repeated, keeping his voice even. His temper didn’t feel even. ‘No need to waste your time.’

  ‘No waste of time. Still, speaking of that, there’s a grog shop not far along. Young fella like you could do with a drink.’

  Sam started to lead Pie away. ‘Thought grog was illegal here.’

  ‘Sure is, for the next little while. The place is trying to get a community hotel up and running,’ the man said jovially. ‘But I can get you into a place or two, on the quiet.’ He had to hurry to keep up with Sam. ‘Know what I mean? I’m well known in town, my name’s—’

  ‘No need for it right now.’ Sam held up a hand. No one liked a drink more’n he did, but always with fun company, and not in some place where the law was gonna come down on top of a man. This fella didn’t seem like fun company. ‘I’ll press on. Good day.’ At the top of the bank, Sam swung into the saddle.

  The man looked up, huffing to catch his breath. He patted Pie’s flank and the horse flinched. ‘Well, I’ll come find you again if you’re in the area long, check that you’re ready to let go of your horse. Name your price. I’ll be ready.’

  The idiot couldn’t be much of a horseman the way he kept slapping a stallion from behind. Good thing Pie was not so nervous these days. As a youngster he might’ve stomped the man to the ground, and Sam was still careful about who he let get close. Only Ard had the other free rein, and he was an experienced horseman. Pie liked him. Ard loved Pie. Sam turned Pie’s head and they started in the direction Ned Strike had sent them.

  The man called out. ‘’Course, you’ll be able to find me easy enough. I’m—’

  Sam acknowledged him with a wave over his back. The man said something else, his name maybe, but Sam had already tuned him out. He headed towards Olivewood, the last place anyone had seen Maggie O’Rourke.

  Mrs Chaffey was on the front verandah, reading the letter from Eleanor O’Rourke that Sam had handed to her. Holding Pie’s reins, Sam stood silently with his hat in hand. His heart beat a dull thud, and every so often he glanced about, hoping he’d see Maggie emerge from somewhere and hurtle towards him.

  All he saw and heard were the five children who raced around, excited to see a stranger and no doubt waiting for their lunch and a cup of tea with sugar. The oldest looked to be about nine; George, Mrs Chaffey had called him. He watched as a dark-haired maid hovered, fluttering a hand over the plate of shortbread to shoo flies. She hesitated, nodded briefly at Sam before she turned and walked into the house.

  Mrs Chaffey sighed, looked at him and indicated that he take up a chair alongside hers. ‘I think, Mr Taylor,’ she started, her Canadian accent cultured on a soft voice, ‘that you might have a big job ahead of you. Maggie has been gone a couple of weeks now, along with the other woman, Nara, and her husband, and no sightings of any of them whatsoever.’

  Sam felt his gut squeeze, and his lungs fill. He pulled out a chair on the opposite side of the little ta
ble and sat, dropping his hat under him. ‘Mrs Chaffey, I must start somewhere.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Constable Tate yet? He’s stationed at Overland Corner but should be hereabouts again.’

  Sam shook his head. ‘I wanted to see you first.’

  She sighed. ‘I tried to report a missing person, but because Maggie has taken her bag with her …’

  In that case, Mrs Eleanor could have her home by now.

  ‘… he thought she’d just run off, left of her own accord, and because Mr Boyd has not laid a complaint, you see. But there have been other women gone missing lately, in slightly different circumstances, I admit, though it does make me anxious.’

  Sam’s gut plummeted. ‘Then I would be pleased if you’d tell me everything you know about the day she left.’

  Mrs Chaffey referred to Eleanor’s letter once again, pressing her palm over the paper. ‘Her mother, the poor woman,’ she said almost to herself and poured two cups of tea. She pushed the plate of biscuits towards him. ‘She says in her letter that you are a friend of the family.’

  Sam was happily surprised that Mrs Eleanor had made a fair introduction of him.

  ‘You must feel a great affection for Maggie to have offered your services to come and find her,’ she continued, glancing to check the letter, then fully turning her attention on him.

  Sam tried to concentrate on Mrs Chaffey’s words but by now the lads, Master George and his brother Charles, were having a fine rowdy old time. This is what it would be like with a houseful of kids. They sped around the corner of the house and onto the flat, heading for the olive grove. War cries sallied forth as they wove around the lithe saplings and dodged the older trees. At the end of the verandah, another of the children, Margaret, looked after two stripling younger siblings. Sam couldn’t remember their names.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Chaffey, a great affection for Maggie. Her brother is my mate, and he would have come too if he could have. It is an unhappy time for the family, for all of us. So, if you can help?’ Sam shifted in his seat. He needed to ask her a question. All very well to be here for clues and a starting point. He wasn’t that comfortable with a real lady sitting right beside him, eyeing him off about his feelings for Maggie. He needed to know. He studied his pants for any dirt he could surreptitiously flick off and took a breath. ‘Do you know if she had—did Maggie have a beau?’ There. He’d said it. He still held his breath.