The Good Woman of Renmark

by Darry Fraser

  Nara turned. ‘Come on.’ She indicated she was ready. ‘We have at least two full days of this. You keep up with that paddle.’

  Maggie nodded. She’d keep up.

  Seventeen

  As Nara swivelled in the canoe, checking for her husband’s whereabouts on the bank, Maggie’s hands, shoulders and arms ached for reprieve. This was now the third morning they’d paddled. But Nara was the one with child, and who’d done much of the work all the way, so Maggie couldn’t complain. At least she’d slept well each of the past two nights, exhaustion taking over almost as soon as dusk arrived.

  They spotted Wadgie in the distance by a huge river gum, its roots exposed above the water line. He beckoned and Nara steered the canoe towards him. After picking his way down to the water’s edge, he waded in a few feet, reached over and gripped the nose of the canoe as Nara climbed out. Together, they pulled it to the bank.

  Maggie angled a leg over the edge of the vessel, and Nara grabbed her arm, steadying her in the cool water. The squishy mud under her feet was a welcome relief, and not bothered at all that her skirt was already wet, she leaned back in and picked up her bag and boots. Despite having her hat—it had saved her head and face from the still fierce heat of autumn—a tinge of sunburn stung her neck. Her forearms and her feet had taken on a golden hue and she feared freckles would abound.

  Stretching, and with her feet still in the river, she wondered what a sight she would look to the Lyrup villagers. Oh, who would care, anyway?

  Wadgie said something. Nara nodded. He flicked a hand towards the east and kept talking. Nara nodded again and replied.

  Maggie’s hearing had improved, but they kept their voices low, had explained that sounds carried easily in the silent bush. It was still difficult for her to follow conversations, and she had no hope of understanding any of their hand signals. Succinct and rapid. They’d learned a little from the blacks near the creek at home.

  Maggie sat on a fallen log, dried off her feet with her raggedy hose that she’d tucked deep in her bag, and pulled on her boots. She looked up when Nara approached.

  ‘That way is the village,’ she said, crouching by Maggie and pointing in the same direction Wadgie had. ‘Not a long walk. You go and we’ll follow. No one needs to see us.’

  Maggie stared a moment. This was it. Where to start? ‘Um, Nara, thank you for everything.’ She peered over Nara’s shoulder to the man standing at the canoe. ‘Thank you, Wadgie.’

  ‘All right, miss,’ she thought he said and he lifted a hand in farewell. He turned to face the river, rolling a smoke.

  ‘Nara,’ Maggie started and took her hands.

  Nara squeezed them quickly and let them drop, then standing, pulled Maggie into a fierce hug. She stood back, her hands on Maggie’s shoulders, a deep scowl on her face. ‘Now, you best be off,’ she ordered. ‘No goodbyes, Maggie. Friends don’t do that.’

  ‘No, they don’t.’ Maggie looked towards the slope, and slung her bag over her shoulder, fighting off the lump swelling in her throat. When she looked back, Nara was standing with her husband, pointing her in the direction she needed to go.

  ‘’Til next time,’ was all Maggie said, and set off gamely. Nara, her chin puckering, had nodded.

  Nara was right, Maggie didn’t see them as she trudged along. Perhaps she might have heard a bird-like call once, then a return call, but she couldn’t trust her hearing enough to believe it was them and not wildlife.

  It dawned on her slowly that she was approaching the landing near where the Lyrup village had sprung up. She could see that it was deserted. There were no boats moored, no one nearby. No way out.

  Ma. Pa. For a moment, a memory of sitting at her mother’s prized kitchen table hit her squarely as though she’d had a blow to her chest. Maggie had been watching her stir the apricot jam, and the aroma of bubbling fruit was so strong that her mouth watered. She swallowed it down, wondered if she were finally going mad.

  A sick wave overcame her. Finding a sturdy tree, she leaned against it while she caught her breath. The memory of apricots faded, and the nausea subsided. Adjusting her bag over her shoulder, she walked resolutely from the water’s edge up the slight incline to take the short walk to the village.

  As the timber mill came into view, her ears hummed with the sounds of sawyers hard at their task. The steam engine used to drive the saw bench was idle, so the sibilant, whispering zuzzzuss noise of the manual saws was like a music to her ears. Maggie stopped and listened—she could hear even better today—and heard the shouts of men, and the crashing of planks as they were thrown into the stack. One by one the sounds died. Men stood at their stations and stared at her. A tumble of boys raced in her direction and they too stopped in their tracks, agape.

  Maggie glanced beyond the boys towards where the huts would be and took a few more steps. Level with the youngsters, she recognised one. ‘How is your hand, Michael?’

  Struck dumb, he held up his bandaged palm for her to inspect. Then he snatched it back, spun about, and yelled at the top of his lungs, ‘Maaaaa!’ and raced back the way he’d come with the other boys following.

  Maggie took a deep breath. The men still stared. She tried not to brush down her clothes but there seemed not a lot else to do with her hands. She couldn’t hide the large rent in her dress and the missing piece showing her chemise, so she fiddled with the handle of her bag. She walked on, nodding at the men as if she was out for a midmorning stroll.

  Someone shouted, not at her, it seemed, and so she kept going. Another shout, and then someone fell in alongside her. ‘Miss, where have you come from, walkin’ in out of the scrub like that?’

  The man was wiry, dirt-streaked and grimy with sweat. His plain shirt was open over a singlet and patched trousers. He tipped his hat, more so to get a good look at her face than just a polite greeting. ‘Do you need help, miss?’

  Now to have to tell someone, no words came. She kept walking.

  ‘Is there folk out there that need help?’ he insisted and waved a hand towards someone else. Another man joined them.

  Maggie shook her head. ‘Dead.’

  Another wave from the man, and Maggie looked up to see a woman running towards them, the boys flying at her heels. It was Michael’s mother, Betsy, the nervous woman. Jane was running along behind her, skirts high, boots pounding.

  ‘Dead, did you say?’ he asked.

  Maggie stopped. Thought of that burned man who took a deliberate step into the river off the scorched deck. ‘The boat blew up while I was on the bank. The Lady Goodnight,’ she said. ‘They’d told me I should sit on the bank, so I was saved when it exploded.’

  Betsy and Jane pushed their way in around her, and Maggie was herded towards their homes.

  Eighteen

  Robert Boyd slammed a fist onto the counter in the Renmark post office.

  Angus leaned over and hissed at him. ‘This is my place of work. Don’t come in here with your whinges and your bellows about what you can and can’t have.’ He looked over Robert’s shoulder and thankfully saw no customers about to enter. ‘I told you, there’s no money to buy a horse.’

  ‘I know a bloke who’s got this good lookin’ animal. But I’ll need money to go buy him. I know you’ve got—’

  ‘I’ve got what I need to keep me, and you—and your wife and kids—alive if it comes to that,’ Angus said, his voice low and firm. ‘So, no money for no horse.’ He flattened his hands on the countertop. ‘I know you’ve been up and down the wharf carryin’ on about that woman, askin’ everyone where she might be, makin’ a damn fool of yourself.’ He watched as Robert’s face mottled. ‘She’s gone. Took off for God knows where. Leave it be.’

  Robert stabbed a forefinger at the bruising on his face and neck. His blackened eyes had not begun to fade. ‘I still got this, the brand she left me.’

  ‘You never went to the doctor—’

  ‘Someone’s got to pay for this,’ Robert snarled, still shaking a finger at his head.

/>   Angus snatched Robert’s shirt front with both hands, pulling him over the timber counter. ‘You still wanna murder her, Robert?’

  Stunned at his brother’s vehemence, Robert blinked. ‘I don’t murder. I just get mad.’ He shoved off Angus’s hands. ‘I’m still mad.’

  Angus pointed his own finger. ‘You’re lucky no bastard has gone to the troopers about you and your shenanigans. They get a whiff of what you get up to with those poor women—’

  ‘Bah. No one cares, is why.’ Robert adjusted his clothes.

  Angus squinted at him. I care, but I want to get you first before they get you. ‘Get out,’ he said. ‘Go and open the damn store. You reckon you’re such a big man about town—why don’t you show us, then, hey? See if you can trade for at least half a day.’

  Still settling his clothes back into shape, Robert sniffed and wiped his eye. ‘Don’t like folk seein’ me like this. Since I was attacked, my nose leaks, my eyes leak, I got bruises still coming out all over my face and neck. Some said I got my skull cracked. The pain’s nearly gone, but there’s still all this nuisance comin’ out of my head.’

  Angus scoffed at him. ‘Folk don’t care about you ’cept to keep out of your way. Go on, get. I’ve got wages to earn.’ He looked up as the door opened. ‘Morning, Mrs Beaton,’ he said cheerily.

  An older woman, a letter in her hand ready for a stamp, shifted her basket to the other arm. ‘Morning, Mr Boyd.’ She hesitated, then nodded at Robert.

  ‘And what bit o’ news do you have for me, today?’ Angus asked, the welcoming smile stuck on his face. The old biddy loved a gossip. Good thing he did too. A man in the post office got to hear all manner of interesting things.

  ‘Well, I don’t like to spread news unduly,’ she said and swished past Robert, her head down to avoid looking at him again as she stepped up to the counter. ‘But it is welcome news in a way, and sad in another.’ She pushed her letter across to him and her free hand swept loose tendrils of greying brown hair back from her face.

  The smile was still plastered on Angus’s face. ‘And what is that?’ He rolled a stamp on his sponge, poked it onto the envelope and hammered it with the postal endorsement. He accepted the penny she slid across the counter. ‘Go on, do tell, Mrs Beaton.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, and checked Robert’s whereabouts before she bristled. ‘A boat blew up, just down from Lyrup, last week.’

  ‘I heard that news only this morning,’ Angus said congenially. ‘Captain Wallace off the Bourke came in and said it mighta got caught in the fire down that way.’

  ‘Yes. And on it was a young woman.’ She leaned further over the counter. ‘Travelling on her own, it seemed,’ she said, and sniffed, imparting such scurrilous news.

  ‘No,’ Angus breathed and looked aghast at her. ‘Captain Wallace never mentioned that. Well, you know some of these modern young women, taking it upon themselves to get around the countryside.’ He glanced at Robert, who’d paused at the door and turned. He looked interested suddenly. Damn.

  ‘Oh, I know. And with the vote coming, they think they can do all manner of things. The boat has sunk and there’s no sign of any of them. All gone.’

  ‘Awful. And how do we know this, Mrs Beaton?’

  ‘Just now, I’ve come from Mrs Jenkins and she said that her husband had found a man wandering on the outskirts of town. Almost starving, he said he was, and that he was the last man to see them all alive. The poor man—though he thinks himself lucky now—was ordered by the captain of the steamer to walk for help.’

  ‘My goodness gracious,’ Angus said. ‘That is some news. Good about the survivor coming out of the bush, not so good for the boat crew and passenger. Paddle-steamers do blow up, we know. Those are the risks, but the loss of lives is terrible.’ He stared pointedly at his brother. ‘Terrible, too, that the young woman has perished as well, isn’t it, Robert?’

  Robert seemed to relax. He rubbed his forehead as if sorting the new information. ‘Terrible.’

  Mrs Beaton cleared her throat a little. ‘Well, terrible, yes, for the crew. But not so for the young woman apparently.’

  ‘What?’ Robert snapped.

  Mrs Beaton kept her gaze steadfastly on Angus. ‘There’s the mystery, Mr Boyd. The man who brought the news has said that she was already on the bank at the time he left. She wasn’t allowed on the boat until they’d fixed it.’ Her eyes lit up. ‘So, where is the poor girl?’

  Nineteen

  Sam took a good look around from the saddle, his hand gripping Pie’s reins. Bucky sat at his feet, surveying. All seemed right.

  The Renmark wharf was humming. More so than when he’d landed hours before. Boats end to end, and a couple of steamers had cruised across to the other bank. Looks like they’d tie up there if they could get a spot. Men yelled, boats and barges bumped, men swore, arms were waved, and hats were jammed on under the glaring sun. He glanced around. Where the hell would Miss Lucy’s Bert be? Could be any number of blokes, by the looks of what was in front of him.

  Damn me, there’s a big bloke right there over by the dray. Red hair. Got his hat off and roughing up his carrot-top.

  He urged Pie along a little, dismounted and tied him to a makeshift rail where other horses had been tethered. Pawing and shying a little, Pie settled in. The dog waited.

  Sam, his eye on the redhead fella, made his way over to where the carts were being loaded. Bucky was at his heels, distracted by the water, but seemed happy enough by Sam’s side.

  Someone shouted, ‘Last of the backed-up freight, lads.’ Halfhearted cheers went up.

  ‘Beg pardon. Are you Bert?’ Sam said as he approached the young redhead, solidly built, with a mass of freckles on his sparsely bearded face. The man nodded, and Sam pulled the paper-wrapped biscuit from his pocket and held it out. ‘From Miss Lucy.’

  Bucky immediately sat at his feet and looked up.

  The fella’s face split into a gap-toothed grin. Taking the biscuit, he said, ‘Bet it’s one of her jam drops. And that’s Bucky, I reckon.’ He slapped a pat on the dog’s head. ‘How can I help ye?’

  ‘She said you might have information about Miss Maggie O’Rourke.’ At the man’s hesitation, Sam said, ‘I’m Sam Taylor. Her family in Echuca sent me to look for her.’

  The redhead nodded and stuck out his hand. ‘Bert Hicks.’ He looked around. He lifted a hand to catch the eye of another man, who waved him off. ‘Reckon that means I’m done here anyway. We can go sit over yonder.’

  Sam followed and Bucky tagged along. The men sat on a fallen log where others had taken their smoko. Rusty pannikins lay around a small fire still glowing with coals. The dog investigated discarded bully beef tins, and finding nothing, settled close to Sam.

  ‘Some say river trade is slowing down,’ Sam said. ‘If this looks like it’s slowing down, I have to buy myself a boat.’

  Bert grimaced. ‘Nah. It’s slowin’ down all right. We just had lots of boats stuck here waitin’ for the bushfire to burn out. No boats could go downriver for a bit.’ He picked up a stick and poked the coals, glanced at Sam and chewed his lip. ‘Might not have good news for ye.’

  The heat of the day seemed to burn through Sam’s hat. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I seen Miss Maggie talkin’ to a cap’n that day.’ He checked Sam was listening. ‘That day when she was supposed to have clobbered Mr Boyd. She looked rattled, all right. Dodged right past me to get to his boat. I didn’t think nothin’ about it, not right then.’

  ‘She got on his boat?’

  ‘Well, I reckon she mighta. I didn’t see her after that.’

  ‘Anyone else see her?’

  ‘Dunno anyone else woulda took any notice. Folk are moving up and down the river now like freight used to, plenty o’ people about. I noticed ’cause I knew her from Olivewood.’ Bert rubbed his big hands together. ‘But sorry, Mr Taylor, the boat I thought she got on, it were the Lady Goodnight, what blew up down past Lyrup not long back.’

  Sam’s breath sh
ot out of him as Ned Strike’s sombre voice came back to him. Good mate o’ mine gone, Ranald Finn and one of his men, Johnny Bentley. Blowed an engine, they reckon. Bad business.

  He swallowed down the shock. Snatched off his hat and jammed it back on again, his hands shaking. He tried to hold onto the sounds that came up his throat, but the noises grunted out of him. Bucky sidled across and pressed against his leg.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ Bert said again, and sat hunched over his hands.

  His mind reeling, grasping for something to hold on to, Sam said, ‘Are you sure it was the Goodnight she got on?’

  Bert brushed flies away and wiped a hand under his nose. ‘There was a fella, a settler done a runner from Lyrup days before, tried to get to Pyap and beyond but had to turn around. The fire was comin’ up along the river.’ He poked at the coals some more, glancing at Sam. ‘He come back through here nearly a week ago, half dead from living in the scrub. Weren’t darin’ to go to Lyrup, folk said, the silly bugger. Anyhow, when he seen Mr Finn moored—because no boat woulda gone downriver with fire on the banks—he asked him for a lift back here to Renmark. Said that Mr Finn warned him off, sent ’im on his way with a parcel of food that a young miss had packed.’ Bert looked at his hands. ‘And since the Lady Goodnight never got to Pyap, and never come back here, it has to be that one she got on, don’t it?’

  Sam squeezed his eyes shut. Shook his head. Maggie was dead? No—he’d feel it, he’d know she was dead, wouldn’t he? He tried to slow his racing heart. ‘Anyone found?’ Sam knew that some bodies—if they were still intact—might float, but some might be snagged under the surface, never to be found.

  Bert spread his hands. ‘No bodies. There’s a bit o’ boat poking outta the water there, some have said, but nothin’ much else. Owners reckoned there was nothin’ to salvage.’

  Sam’s voice careened around in his head. Not goin’ back to Mrs Eleanor with news like this. Not when I don’t know for sure—and how do I find out? Some place over his heart hurt. Jesus. Maggie. He looked at Bert, but the young fella was staring at the coals. ‘How do I—who do I see to find out for sure?’