The Good Woman of Renmark

by Darry Fraser

  He took a swig or two to wash it down. Christ, awful bloody stuff. His eyes watered. His throat burned. His gut warmed. A man would be singing well off-key if he swallowed any more of this, which was exactly what he did. He slumped back to the ground, bottle in hand. It might be better next go at it so he swigged, and nearly spat. It wasn’t.

  The songs didn’t come. What point in singing if he couldn’t find the girl he was looking for? Where to start looking? No one had sighted her. Which way would she have gone? He was sure she hadn’t gone upriver into Victoria, and back to Echuca. Someone on the way would have reported seeing her—he’d asked many river people.

  What point in singing if the girl he was looking for was never going to be found, was never coming back? He swigged some more, then pulled a face. Lord above, the stuff didn’t get any better. But his gut had stopped growling and a soothing warmth crept through him.

  Jesus, Maggie.

  He stared up at the sky. It covered a big space and he was not even a dot on the landscape beneath it. How to find the one person he searched for, longed for in this vast country when any which way he turned could be the wrong way?

  Find her and let her go—remember that, Sam Taylor. He swigged some more, but that was it. Christ, laddie, pour the bloody stuff out. He let the bottle rest in the dirt close by.

  Bucky crept alongside him, and snuffled under his hand, crawled over to put his dusty woolly head in Sam’s lap. His paws and belly were wet; seemed he’d been to the river for a drink. ‘Good boy.’ Sam absently patted the dog’s head.

  He’d search for Maggie, all right—he’d promised himself: till his dying day, and right to the ends of the earth. Or whichever came first. But yeah, he would let her go.

  He lifted the bottle and peered at it in the low light of the moon. Real rotgut, worst I’ve ever had. Hope my teeth don’t fall out. My pa’s rum is a top drop compared to this.

  ‘We got things to do, Bucky,’ he said. The dog moved his head and settled again. ‘We can’t sit around all maudlin and cryin’ in our rum. First, we need sleep, we got to be up at first light, got to get going to Lyrup and put that sad place behind us.’ He stared at the sky. ‘Then God only knows where to after that.’

  One last swig before he tipped the remaining contents onto the dirt. The stuff would burn a hole clear through to China. He tossed the bottle and leaned back on the log. The dog shuffled and nudged for more pats. ‘We’ll find her, won’t we, boy?’ Bucky nodded on Sam’s lap. ‘Right answer, dog,’ he said, and sat for a moment, letting his thoughts drift. Closing his eyes, he shuffled into a comfortable position. Bucky stayed with him, his wet paws across Sam’s thighs.

  Just don’t think. Morning would come soon enough, and he had to be ready, even though his heart felt like a boulder that he’d have to lug with him for the rest of his life.

  Maggie, Maggie.

  Sleep, when it arrived, had come by stealth.

  Twenty-four

  Eleanor squeezed Lorcan’s hand. He was restless again, and the frown on his face had deepened. Perhaps his pain had worsened after the laudanum had worn off. She thought he might have woken because of it but he hadn’t yet, hadn’t given any indication that he even knew she was there. Touching her fingertips to his forehead and his cheek for the hundredth time, she found no cause for alarm; no fever raged in him that she could tell.

  Two weeks now. She couldn’t make sense of this. If it wasn’t a coma, what was it?

  Sighing, she wiped her face and smoothed a flyaway tendril of hair back into the pins that held her bun. She reached across and took a sip of tea from the cup she’d brought with her earlier. Tea seemed to settle her, so much so that her reminiscences to Lorc were smooth-voiced and not troubled by the shakes with worry for Maggie.

  No letter or telegram from Sam didn’t mean anything. Eleanor just had to trust that he would find her, and that he’d bring her home. She suspected that he might have his hands full when he did. He’d looked so saddened to learn that she had disappeared. Clearly, as Eleanor had long suspected, Sam still carried a torch for their Maggie.

  Scooting her chair a little closer and settling by the bed, she lifted the covers to check that the splint on his leg was secure. Nothing looked out of place, no swelling or discolouration in his ankle or his foot. Satisfied, she leaned in further.

  ‘I’m here again, my beloved,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve no doubt you’ll be sick of me well enough and wake up soon to tell me so.’ Taking one of his hands in both of hers, she realised the thick calluses on his palms were softening. How Lorc would hate that. She traced her fingers over them. She’d never known a day when those hands, roughened and stained with the dirt of the land, hadn’t kept her safe, kept her children safe.

  She looked at his face, and then watched the low rise and fall of his chest. Remembered when he’d first touched her. How the thrill of that moment hadn’t dimmed after all these years. He’d slid a hand down her cheek and rested it on the nape of her neck. It was as if everything he had been offering her was in that touch.

  She lifted his hand to her cheek and held it there, closed her eyes to summon the memories of those early, heady days in Bendigo.

  ‘Do you remember the first dance you took me to?’ she murmured into his hand. ‘Well, you called it a dance, didn’t ye? A mere jig with your brother and his mates and their girls, in the paddock behind old Mr Ah Lim’s cabbages.’ Eleanor smiled and pressed her lips to the warm skin. ‘It was a night of magic for me, Lorcan O’Rourke, watching you step-dance. Watching the proud Irish ye are on show for all the world to see and listenin’ to Billy Byrne piping on his flute.’ She breathed in the scent of his soap, fragranced with citrus and cinnamon, that Maggie had sent from Renmark. She’d used it to bathe him.

  Maggie. She squeezed her eyes closed.

  ‘Well, enough our Ard was born not a year after that night, but you canna forget when our little Mairead popped into our world.’ Eleanor heard her whispered Gaelic pronunciation, Mawraid—tentative, rusty, but alive with the soft burr of the old country. They’d been on the orchard and planting seedlings when Eleanor’s labour had descended. Ard was a toddler of three years, asleep in the cart.

  ‘Lorc, I think there’s enough time to get to the house.’ A contraction had crushed deep inside. Her back was turned to him, her foot already on the step of the cart as she tried to climb up, her dress high. She felt the head crown and she went down to the dirt on her knees. ‘Maybe not. Help get me into the back—’

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ Lorc had shouted from behind her. ‘It’s too late for that, Ellie. This bairn is comin’ out quicker than it got in.’

  Even now, Eleanor laughed at that. Lorc was never quick when there was lovin’ to do. There was nothing fast about that. Never had been, and these days it was still a slow dance to pleasure that ever made her heart sing.

  ‘It’s not funny, Lorcan O’Rourke,’ she’d squeezed out, barely able to breathe. Bearing down with one almighty push, her daughter arrived in a slippery rush, right into Lorc’s big hands.

  ‘Born on the earth, Ellie. Will ye look at this beauty?’ He’d crawled to her with the wet baby in his arms and the tears streaming down his face.

  Now she whispered into his hand. ‘You remember the mop of her black hair, and the squall she let out the moment you caught her? And she’s never been any different, our Maggie, has she? Always loud, always right, always quick and determined. But with a heart as big as this country.’ She swallowed down her fear, which was a great lump in her throat and a mountain in her chest. ‘Always of the land, born in the dirt. So she knows where her home is, that she does.’

  She will come back. Eleanor saw a tear drop on his hand and she smartly wiped it off, angry at herself. Hadn’t realised she was weeping.

  Sniffing quietly, she rubbed his hand between hers. ‘Remember when you first taught her to ride? She took to it better than Ard, and on that old mare we had, old Mossy. And didn’t she look grand, our little b
airn, could barely reach the stirrups but proud as punch, until she realised she couldn’t get down.’ Eleanor smiled. ‘She just sat there and yelled until poor Mossy took her to the rails and our little girl climbed off, all dignified.’

  There were many memories of Maggie. Her heart pounded. I want my daughter back.

  ‘And the time we found her down by the creek, when she was seven, teaching herself to swim. D’you remember that, Lorc? Of course, you do. Terrified both of us. In you waded.’ She gave a laugh. ‘But she yelled and yelled until you taught her how to float, then taught her how to swim.’

  Taking in a deep breath to stem the tears, Eleanor went on. ‘’Course, now she’s up by the Murray, she won’t attempt swimmin’ in that. Fiery and stubborn, she is, but she’s not silly, is she, Lorc, our daughter?’ She stared at his face. He looked calm except for that small frown again.

  Where was he? Was he thinking, or dreaming?

  She sat back. She knew he’d wake sometime. And she wanted to be able to tell him that his daughter had come home to them.

  Twenty-five

  Maggie had managed to avoid the stares of most of the ladies, and the pointing fingers of the children. With Jane’s help, they’d let it be known that she was still poorly but that today, she would meet the boat due to sail downriver and buy passage. If she could. She crossed her fingers.

  She thought that her hearing was a little better but wondered if it was just her imagination. When Jane burst back into her hut and crooked her finger, shouting, ‘There’s a boat coming,’ Maggie had not been hard of hearing.

  She clapped her hands together—Jane’s excitement was catching. Then she slipped the handle of her bag over her head and shoulder. ‘I’m as ready as I can be, Jane.’

  Jane went to Maggie and clasped her hands in hers. ‘I will come too. I will pay my passage as far downriver as I can and hope that perhaps we can find work together, so I can earn more money to keep travelling.’ She pulled Maggie to her feet. ‘Come on. Let’s go outside and down to the wharf. We’ll show all these folk that we’re leaving and not staying to entice their poor men with our wiles being single females.’

  Maggie would have found that funny in weeks past.

  Outside, strong daylight watered her eyes. She tugged her bonnet a little lower and followed Jane to the banks of the river. Sure enough, there was a steamer and they went to investigate further.

  ‘It’s the Jolly Miller, and a little beauty,’ Jane said when she came back to Maggie, who was sitting nearby under the shade of a tree. ‘Not sure it looks big enough to take us on any overnight fare; it’s not a passenger boat by the look of it, but I’ll enquire of the captain when they finish unloading. They’re usually accommodating if needs arise. He’s busy now, arguing with a man on board with a horse trying to disembark first.’ Jane turned back to the boat and shaded her eyes as she watched the men unloading. ‘You think the captain would want the horse off first. Oh, I don’t know about these things. In any case, if there’s room for man and horse, there should be room for us, don’t you think? Even if we only get down as far as Pyap.’ She turned to look at Maggie. ‘Ellie, did you hear me?’

  Maggie was on her feet staring in horror at the man on the boat, the one holding the reins of his horse. He stared back.

  Without a sound, and shrinking against the tree, she rounded its trunk, clutching her bag. Two thoughts clanged in her head. The first was that he was alive—alive! How could that be? She’d clobbered him so hard and he’d gone down like a sack of potatoes. Nara had declared him dead. How could it be him? But there he was, the great lumbering toad, complete with blackened eyes—and how could that still be the case after all this time?

  That meant she wasn’t a murderer. Thank God. The second thing was that he’d seen her. Dear God. Maggie, run …

  Alarmed, Jane followed. ‘What is it?’

  Maggie just shook her head, stuck fast.

  ‘You’re worrying me.’ Jane reached out and touched Maggie’s arm.

  ‘I have to run for the privy,’ Maggie said, breathless, as she gathered her skirt with one hand, clutched her bag with the other and took off at full speed up the slight incline towards the houses. She didn’t look back to see if Jane had run after her, and ran straight past the closest privy into the scrub far over beyond the vegetable garden. Dear God, dear God, it was him. It was Boyd. He’s found me.

  Think, girl. Think. Get far away from here. She ran on, crashing through the low scrub. No. Wait, wait. She slowed a moment. Well, don’t stop, stupid girl, keep running just don’t go too far away. Stay close to the water. She veered back towards the river, reckoning she was perhaps a little north of the village.

  Was Nara still close by? No, no, she and Wadgie would have gone home by now, believing her to be safe.

  Maggie didn’t have the strength to keep running this time and felt the sun sap her energy. Oh God—but what had she done by running? Why had she not just quietly led Jane away, kept low and out of sight until he’d gone? That mightn’t have been any good either. He could have found out from anyone that there was a lone female in town, the survivor of the boat blast. It would have been easy to find her.

  Dammit, dammit, dammit. Oh, there was Sam in her head again. Dammit.

  Oh dear—was that Jane behind her, calling? She wasn’t sure, wasn’t sure—her blasted ears still betrayed her.

  She slowed her run and tried to breathe deeply as best she could. One hand clutched her bag. As she ran, her bonnet slipped from her head, luckily still tied under her chin. In the distance, she caught a fleeting glimpse of a man on a horse, and thought she heard more noises, short and sharp …

  Oh no, no. Maybe Boyd had followed her from the wharf after all, was on her heels and bellowing at her. She bent low and scampered to a line of straggly bushes, ducking and weaving her way around them, and headed for a stand of gums that likely would be at the water’s edge.

  That’s odd, she thought. It struck her that this rider was coming from the other way. Had Boyd cut in front of her somehow? That other noise she’d heard—could that have been a dog barking? Dear Lord. She couldn’t trust her ears. It could have been anything.

  Perhaps there was another track he’d taken if someone from the village had seen her running and pointed her out to him. She should look for that track when the danger passed. Maybe it would lead her away from here as well, and to safety elsewhere.

  Poor dear Jane. Whatever would she think?

  Maggie O’Rourke, get to the river. And for God’s sake, stay low, and keep your eyes peeled—your ears are still next to useless. Then think about your next move.

  Twenty-six

  Well, well, well. Robert Boyd hefted himself into the saddle once he and the horse were on dry land. He’d seen her, all right. He’d know her anywhere. There she was, running up the hill and into the town. Another woman had followed.

  The O’Rourke woman had seen him and recognised him, that’s for sure. Fancy that. A man comes looking for a decent horse to go hunting and finds the chit who’s assaulted him right here. No need to go hunting much further now.

  He kicked the horse into a gallop, ignoring the curses and the yells aimed at him to ‘slow up’ as he charged up past great stacks of hewn timber. Kids—brats—leapt out of his way and women waved their fists at him. No matter to him; he’d even had to shout at the boat captain to hurry up and let him off. He’d waste no time on pleasantries now that he’d seen her scurrying up the riverbank.

  ‘Don’t think ye’ll be gettin’ back on board, mate,’ the captain had yelled after him as Robert had finally coaxed his spooked horse off the gangway. ‘Don’t want the likes o’ you, ye rude bastard.’

  No matter to that, either. After he’d done what he’d set out to do, Robert would just amble on home to Renmark, feeling pretty good with himself.

  Despite his impatient yells at the captain at the Lyrup landing, by the time he’d been able to get off the boat, the O’Rourke tart had disappeared. He he
aded into the village as fast as the sorry horse could take him, only to be slowed up by another group of brats who were running zig-zag across his path.

  Boyd slewed to a halt. ‘Boy,’ he barked at one of the them. ‘Did you see a woman running this way?’ He wheeled the horse about as the boys stopped.

  Five faces stared up at him. A kid with his hand bandaged brandished a stick. ‘Kelly gang don’t dob on no one,’ he shouted fiercely.

  ‘I’ll give you bloody Kelly gang, you mongrel kid.’ Boyd reached down and whacked the stick out of the boy’s hand. All at once, three of them squawked and pointed in separate directions. The other two boys pointed back to the boat. Growling, Boyd swiped at thin air as the boys split up and darted off full pelt, each going their own way, and yelling like there was no tomorrow.

  Bloody kids. He sat up straight and looked ahead. Looked around. There was no sign of her. He kicked the horse and belted into the open paddock. After galloping past the few timber houses and a few tents on its boundaries, he spotted a track leading off and hurtled onto it and into the scrub beyond.

  Twenty-seven

  On Barney Cutler’s advice to flag a steamer, Sam had picked his way down to the river’s edge before first light, figuring he wasn’t far from where he needed to be, and waited. Just after dawn, he heard the low chug of a steamer coming downriver. He waved, and Bucky barked for attention. Sam saw a crewman wave back and the boat edged over. After a small exchange, Sam led Pie on board, and the dog followed. The captain said they’d pre-arranged to take cut timber on board a little further down on the other side just shy of Lyrup, and that’s where Sam decided he’d disembark. He’d wanted time to plan what he was going to do, and landing directly at the village wharf did not sit well on him. His sense of foreboding had surprised him and he didn’t like it. He’d tried to shrug it off, wondered why he couldn’t.