The Good Woman of Renmark

by Darry Fraser

  Robert gripped his brother’s straining wrists. ‘Get off me,’ he rasped. ‘I dunno where she is. I told ye, I got no idea. She ran off with that other bloke.’

  Rage drove Angus. He squeezed harder. ‘I’ll kill you here and now, brother.’ He rammed his fists harder on Robert’s neck and saw the moment his brother truly understood that he might be killed. ‘Adeline. Did you ever touch her?’

  Robert’s words forced their way out. ‘No. No. I never did.’ Bug-eyed, fearful, he stopped struggling. ‘She left town,’ he wheezed. ‘Ask Myra.’

  Angus shoved again, his hands still in Robert’s collar. ‘Why are there those bits of jewellery under your bed?’

  Robert blinked, bewildered. ‘What?’ Then his frown cleared. ‘I told ye. Myra must have put them there.’

  About to bang Robert’s head on the floorboards, it struck him. Myra. Angus thrust Robert away and, on his hands and knees, scrambled under the bed, reaching for the hidey-hole.

  He’d take the trinkets, force Myra to tell him where she’d got them, force her to tell him how she’d come to have Adeline’s hatpin. And Robert would be reeled in, threatened with the photographs.

  Adeline. Angus would get to the bottom of it. He twisted awkwardly under the bed and felt the prick of the hatpin against his chest—Myra’s weight on top of the bed left less room to move underneath. He tried to relax, to turn slowly.

  He heard Robert coughing and spitting as he sat up. Felt his hard kick land on his legs. Heard him curse as he got to his feet and stumbled out. Heard his footsteps heavy on the floorboards going through the house and out the back door. Then nothing. He’d gone, God only knows where.

  Fingers picked at the loose board under Myra’s bed. Angus managed to flick it up but found the hole empty. He looked up, saw that the handkerchief was gone from the springs. What could that mean? Had Myra traded the last of the baubles? Had she gone and got more grog with the money and really got herself cockeyed?

  Angus had nothing now but the photographs—no lady’s gewgaws, the pretty bits and pieces to pawn for extra cash.

  Those photographs. He could blackmail the O’Rourke woman. Say they were proof that she had attacked Robert. At least one of them showed her about to belt him on the head.

  He slithered out from underneath and peered over the edge of the bed at Myra. He couldn’t ask her anything now, she was still unconscious. The bleeding above her eye had slowed, though a dribble ran under the bandage and down her cheek. She looked as if she was all right. Sounded all right; a soft snore had started.

  He hauled himself up and looked around once again. Practicalities first. The fire. Fitted his plan perfectly. He checked Myra again. He’d leave now and get back to her—soon as he could—to shake the damn truth out of her.

  Then he’d set up the high-and-mighty Maggie O’Rourke.

  Where was Marcia, that snippety niece of his? No matter. The girl could come home and find her mother ill, and then would have to look after her, would have to learn quickly, like it or not. Youngsters, all for fun and no care. What was the world coming to if they had to rely on this generation of children? Still, they had to learn the harsh realities of life somehow. They would if he had anything to do with it.

  He left the house after skirting the puddles of blood and the drying splotches in the back room. Marcia would have a big job cleaning, too. No clue where her brother Gregory might be, but his guess was they’d be together. Gregory was a bit of a sniveller, and when he wasn’t a bully in the yard, he’d hang on Marcia’s pinafore straps.

  Robert was nowhere to be seen. Angus grabbed his bicycle by the handlebars, adjusted his trouser clip, hopped on and rode into the town. He would go to the store but first things first: he needed to be seen about the town so he headed for the post office to collect his pay.

  Robert slunk down behind the counter of the store. He crawled around to the middle of the floor to hide under a table covered in swags. That crabby old bastard Cutler was banging on the window. What the hell did he want? He’d given the horse back, had taken it back last night when he’d got into town. All right, he hadn’t brushed him down, or fed ’n watered him, but still. The old boy could bugger off.

  He snuck a look. Cutler had his nose pressed against the glass of the door, peering in. Robert knew he hadn’t been seen. Cutler thumped again, waited, growled and left.

  Good thing he’d got out of sight quick enough when he first snuck into the store, heading for the till. Pretty sure he’d seen that young fella, the one with the good horse, come up from the wharf. What did that mean—anything? Was he looking for me? Had the O’Rourke tart told him everything?

  Shit. Robert’s head had started to hurt again. Not the thumping murderous pain when the blow had been new—he’d strangle that Irisher chit when he got hold of her—but a dull throb that didn’t seem to let up. His nose was dripping again, too. When the hell was he gonna heal? Each time he’d stared into the mirror attempting to shave, his reflection still looked like some God-awful monster back from the dead. These black eyes just seemed to keep getting blacker.

  Hadn’t done him any good earlier trying to talk to Myra after he’d got home. The woman had been as drunk as a lord. And those two kids of his had been scurrying about, nicking he didn’t know what. He’d chased the kids out, sick of their cheek and their laziness. If Myra was still in her cups when he got back, they could both bloody well go without supper. Well, so would he. He couldn’t cook to save himself.

  A wave of fatigue rolled through him. His mind seemed to wobble, and his thoughts weren’t coming at him straight. Confused and tired. Too tired. Sleep. He needed sleep. Holding his head, he curled into a ball under the table.

  Thirty-seven

  Eleanor stared down at the three-day-old serene baby girl sleeping in her arms.

  ‘No wonder you’re taking a minute to have a quiet kip. It was an ordeal for you as well, we know,’ she whispered, and pressed her lips to the little forehead.

  Already the O’Rourke stamp was on her—a mop of black hair. Eleanor turned this way and that as she rocked. The sunshine caught at the right moment and there was perhaps a tinge of russet in the babe’s hair, as if Linley’s auburn colour had crept in. She wondered if this little girl would have freckles like Linley too.

  She smiled as Ard hovered by her chair.

  ‘Ordeal for her father,’ Ard said. He loosened the top button on his shirt and flapped it to cool off.

  Eleanor let Ard take his daughter and stood up. ‘Yes, dear, you did a lot of the hard work,’ she said. She squared her shoulders. ‘Come get me if you need me. I’ll get back to your father and his ordeal.’

  Her son held the baby in one arm, the swaddled bundle tiny against him. There was something about an adult male, brawny, with large hands and gnarled knuckles, holding a bundle as delicate as a newborn, that always seemed to gladden her heart.

  ‘Dr Eakins says Pa looks like he might be coming out of his sleep,’ Ard said.

  ‘The signs are there. His eyes are twitching, sometimes they open and look around. A smile, I think, once or twice. There has been a few mumbled bits and pieces. His good leg is moving. Seems it’s akin to swimming up from the deep. A body has to take it slow.’ She squeezed his fingers. ‘Go look after your family.’

  ‘There was nothing in the post again today,’ he said.

  Eleanor nodded and lifted her shoulders in a shrug. ‘Maybe Sam’s not had time to write.’ Where could her girl be?

  Lorcan might wake soon. What would she tell him? She’d thought about not mentioning anything at all at first, but eventually she’d have to say something. Even if he did recover, he’d be in no state to go off looking for her himself, but she wouldn’t be able to hide her worry from him. He knew her back to front. The leg was still a danger. She had to be sure he wouldn’t be so impulsive to try and go after Maggie himself, but she’d put nothing past her husband.

  Ard bent to his mother’s cheek and kissed it. ‘Sam will find he
r.’

  Eleanor turned bleak eyes to her son. ‘He’s been so good to us. We didn’t mean to do him wrong these last years.’

  ‘You didn’t. This thing was between him and my hard-headed sister, whatever it was. She’s as much to blame as Sam. Not you.’

  ‘I … we took her side.’

  ‘You’re supposed to.’

  Eleanor smiled at him, patted his cheek. Her heart was heavy, but she walked back to her house with her head high. Keeping her chin up, her eyes on the treetops, always helped to bring on a better mood. She’d check under the bandage on Lorc’s leg and refresh the poultice. She hoped to see that the inflammation was reduced around the insect bite.

  She didn’t know what to expect if it wasn’t.

  Thirty-eight

  The Sweet Georgie had glided to her mooring at the Renmark wharf, arriving midafternoon. The moment they’d docked, the three men set to unloading the freight. They made short work of it, before turning to the cargo Barnaby Cutler had earmarked for them to carry to Mildura and onto Swan Hill.

  Dry heat, cloudless, and nary a breeze. Another autumn day on the river, waiting for rain. Sweating, his shirt stuck to his back, Sam snatched off his hat and ruffled his hair. There hadn’t been that much to load up; Dane was only going as far as Swan Hill on this run. Besides, other boats had been ahead of the Sweet Georgie and had won the contracts for freight to go to Echuca. Dane hadn’t minded; horse studs and timbers for building his new yards had been more on his mind.

  Sam dropped his hat back on and checked Pie, who stood patiently tied to a post on the stern deck. He figured it would be quicker if he walked on foot up to the town. Any chance he could take, he’d try to see if he could spot Robert Boyd. There was no trooper about in these parts, Dane had told him. That didn’t matter. He’d take care of Boyd.

  Dane hadn’t been too keen. ‘I’m on a tight schedule, mate. Be back within the hour.’

  ‘I will,’ Sam had said, tying down crates of dried fruit destined for Mildura. He knew that once the freight was loaded they had some time before the logging cart arrived and then they’d take on a supply of wood for the engine. ‘If he’s not come back here to Renmark, I’ll know soon enough.’

  ‘And if he has come back?’

  ‘He’ll wished he hadn’t.’ Sam finished with the crates and straightened up. He eyed the rifle sitting with Pie’s saddle on the deck near the horse’s feet. He wouldn’t need that. He whipped off his hat again, dragged a forearm over his forehead and saw Maggie watching him from the wheelhouse deck.

  He turned away. ‘I’ll be back directly,’ he said to Dane. Bucky stared up at him. ‘Come on.’ The dog leapt off the gangway and galloped up the rise to the top of the bank, turning around to watch Sam coming.

  ‘Go see Barney Cutler first,’ Dane called. ‘He knows everything about everything.’

  Sam well remembered the old boy and headed up to the wharf master’s shack but the place was locked up. Cutler was nowhere to be seen. He stood for a moment, looking around. A big red-haired fella having a quiet smoke with another bloke caught his eye. ‘Bert,’ he called.

  ‘Mr Taylor.’ Bert lumbered over. ‘What news? Did you—’

  ‘I did. And she’s on that boat there, the Sweet Georgie.’ Sam turned and pointed. Maggie was on the lower deck, hands on hips, talking to Dane.

  ‘That is great news.’ Bert lifted his hat high in the air and waved it at her. ‘Ahoy, miss.’

  Sam grabbed Bert’s arm. ‘Don’t let everyone know about her just yet. Boyd found her too, down Lyrup. Got away, and until I know he’s not come back here—’

  ‘He has, Mr Taylor, an’ he looked a right sorry state.’ Bert frowned, thumping his hat back on. ‘He brung Barney’s horse back and dumped it at the shack there. Poor beast looked half-starved, and near drank the water trough dry. When Barney found him, he stormed into town lookin’ for Boyd.’

  ‘Looking for him where?’

  Bert waved an arm towards the township. ‘He’s got a small store in the street, and his brother works at the post office, a stone’s throw away. They won’t be a havin’ a good day if Barney kicks up a ruckus.’

  ‘Right, thanks.’ Sam looked at Bert. ‘Let Miss Lucy know that Maggie’s safe, and that I’ll be takin’ her home to Echuca. Tell Mrs Chaffey for me, too. Maggie will write to her, but for now …’

  ‘I will, Mr Taylor.’

  ‘Name’s Sam.’ They shook hands.

  ‘When you headin’ off?’

  ‘Soon as I’ve had a look around.’ Sam checked for Bucky, saw him sniffing about near a horse and cart.

  Bert shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘Don’t waste much time on Boyd. Town’s done with him. Mr Watson from the farm over yonder from Olivewood has told a few people what he saw that day Miss Maggie run off. I heard the photographer fella was there too, and has a story to tell. If Boyd’s not run out of the place this time, I dunno what.’ Bert gazed down at the Sweet Georgie. ‘You reckon you’ll be back this way?’

  Sam took another look down the hill at Maggie. Anywhere but near her. She was still in animated conversation with her cousin. ‘Yeah, mate, reckon I might be. I could end up anywhere.’

  ‘Dane, I can get to Olivewood on my own.’ Maggie was trying her best to get him to agree to letting her off the boat. ‘It’s not like I don’t know my way around.’

  Dane shook his head. He’d wound a spare rope into a coil and dropped it onto the deck. ‘You won’t be able to get back in time.’

  She frowned. ‘You let Sam go.’

  ‘Sam’s not going to Olivewood,’ Dane said mildly.

  ‘You could wait for me. I wouldn’t be long past—’

  ‘Tight schedule.’ He turned away, picked up another rope and began to run the length of it through his hands.

  ‘But Sam—’

  ‘Sam has got my time limit. And I know he’ll be back by it.’

  Oh, now she knew what was going on. She glared. ‘He’s said that I’m not to get off the boat, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Maggie tried again. ‘I’ll run as fast as I can to Olivewood.’

  Dane turned back to her. ‘You’ve got good sense, Maggie. And deciding to run to Olivewood now, when we don’t know where Boyd is, is not good sense.’ He dropped his chin. ‘Sam has come a long way to find you. He shouldn’t have to go look for you again.’

  Sputtering, Maggie said, ‘He wouldn’t have to come look for me.’

  ‘He would. You know it.’

  Ready to defend herself, she stared at her cousin. ‘I am grateful for—’

  ‘Then you’ll make the right decision and not leave the boat.’ He threw the rope on top of the other, perhaps a little harder than before, and folded his arms. ‘Especially now because I’m going to the post office to send a telegram to your parents, advising that we have you. Don’t make me gallop over the countryside after you, making me out to be a liar.’

  This was like arguing with Ard, who was just as stubborn. Maggie sighed heavily. Dane was right. It was more than a mile’s walk to Olivewood. She’d have no real time to speak with Mrs Chaffey—if she was even there—before having to turn around and come straight back.

  But just a chance to wave at Nara would have been good. If she was even there.

  Maggie watched as Dane strode over the gangway onto the landing on his way to the township. She looked past him a little way, saw that Bucky was well ahead, exploring at a run. At the same time, she saw Bert Hicks standing with Sam give her a wave.

  Sam had better not be over his time limit.

  Thirty-nine

  Angus let himself into the post office through the back door. ‘Just collecting my pay,’ he called over to Mr McKenzie who was on shift by himself today.

  Mr McKenzie waved and returned to serving his customer, a dark-haired man who wanted a telegram sent. Angus thought he recognised him, maybe a riverboat man. Not important. He headed for his pigeonhole and grabbed his pay envelope.
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  The dark-haired man was stating the delivery address for Mr MacKenzie. ‘O’Rourke’s Run, Echuca.’ That caught Angus’s attention. He well knew it was the O’Rourke girl’s family home. He listened for the content of the telegram. The man paid and left.

  Mr McKenzie, smoothing his moustache for the next customer, put the telegram into a tray on the bench behind him, so it could be logged and sent in due course.

  Catching Angus’s eye, Mr MacKenzie held out his hand. ‘Cash that for you, Mr Boyd?’

  Angus handed over the cheque, took the cash, thanked the boss. He nodded a greeting at the new customer and when they were both occupied, he swiped the handwritten page of the telegram and read, Taylor successful. Maggie safe. Echuca in five days. MacHenry.

  Heading out the back door, he tore the paper to shreds and let them blow in the breeze. You might be safe, Maggie O’Rourke but no good news will get to your family. I’m a vindictive little bastard with a long memory.

  He was calm as he rode for the store as planned. Robert, where the hell would he be now? Probably got himself up at Rowley’s grog tent. Robert couldn’t be trusted to do much anyway, the great daft bugger.

  As he pedalled, Angus wondered why he had little feeling, if any, for what he was about to do. The place wouldn’t be much loss. In fact, things might start to look up if they didn’t have it around their necks. It’d force Robert to find a job, which of course, he couldn’t. No one would employ him even if there was work. It seemed that Robert was the only one who didn’t know it. Better yet, maybe his brother and the family would leave town. Much better idea. That way, Angus’d be in the best financial position he’d ever been.