The Dark Mountain

by Catherine Jinks

  ‘I’ll take the rum in hot water.’

  He requested no food, and I gave him none. It did not suit my purpose. With a generous hand I poured him his drink, and he threw it down like a dose of medicine.

  ‘A drop more of that would ease the pain,’ he said.

  I took the cup and kept it filled, though he was not slow to drain it. All the while, I kept him talking. This was easily accomplished, since the spirits had loosened his tongue. He was disposed to talk, in any case. He was curious about my family.

  ‘They told me in Sutton Forest that yer sister had died—the middle one. What was her name?’

  ‘Emily.’

  ‘Emily. That’s it. I allus thought the other would go first. The sickly one.’

  ‘Louisa is safe with my mother.’

  ‘So I heard. Up in the Mountains, is it?’

  ‘I’ll not tell you where they are. You’ll not be bothering them.’ ‘What—you mean you wouldn’t care to see ’em wriggle?’ He looked around my dingy kitchen. ‘Seems as if they’ve thrown you off same as me, my girl. There’s yer brother, now, living in that great house, with staff a-plenty, and yer sister with leisure enough to be writing for the papers—aye, they all know it, down at Sutton Forest—and here’s you, living like this.’

  ‘Better than you are living, old man.’

  ‘True. Very true.’

  ‘At least I have a clear conscience!’

  ‘Is that what you call it?’ He gave a spluttering laugh. ‘Tried to kill me once, I seem to recall.’

  ‘That does not trouble me, I assure you!’

  ‘No. I daresay. But you were allus a wild one.’ His eyes glinted up at me from beneath wiry grey brows. Though rheumy and bloodshot, they were still the eyes of George Barton. ‘Just like yer Ma. As wild as they come. You were bound to make trouble—yer Ma had a taste for felons, too.’

  I glared at him. ‘My husband was not a convict,’ I hissed.

  ‘Is that what he told you? It’s not what I heard.’

  I ‘If you continue in this vein, I’ll not answer for what he might do.’

  ‘Rough’un, is he? I thought as much. Yer Ma allus liked a bit o’ the rough and tumble. And gave as good as she got—I’ve the bite-marks to prove it.’ Barton was slurring his words by now, though he was still clear-headed enough to stay upright. The liquor had acted quickly, thanks to his empty stomach and frail constitution. ‘She got a real taste for heavy handling at Belanglo. Remember? They flogged me bloody, but never touched a hair on her head. And there’s a reason for that.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it.’

  ‘She made the offer herself, you know. Practically begged ’em. Took ’em both on, one after the other, to save her own skin. Enjoyed it, too.’

  ‘Shut your filthy mouth.’

  ‘After that, she couldn’t stay away from the assigned men. Barnett had her. Rogers. Stanley—’

  ‘Shut your filthy mouth!’ I picked up my big pot. ‘You know I’ll do it! Give me a cause, and I’ll do it!’

  ‘No need for violence.’ (The gall of the man!) ‘A pound or two will shut my mouth. And I’ll not come back, neither—not to you.’ Clumsily, he tapped his nose with one finger. ‘I know lean pickings when I see ’em. Give me something to be going on with, and no one will ever find out what a whore yer Ma was.’

  ‘My mother was not a whore!'

  ‘Thass not what the folk around here think. They saw her ride out time and again. With every horny-handed rascal in her employ.’ He gave a braying laugh, and the force of it nearly unseated him. ‘She married me, didn’t she? They think her a whore for that, if nothing else.’

  ‘I have no money. Don’t you understand? There is no money here.’

  ‘There must be something . . . treasure you c’n dig up.’ This time, when he flashed me a look, he seemed to have some difficulty focusing his eyes. ‘Trinkets. A watch, mebbe . . .’

  ‘Damn you.’ My hand was clenched around the pot-handle. ‘What did you do with my brother’s watch?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he mumbled. ‘I never took no watch.’

  ‘Liar. Thief.’

  ‘You want me to tell yer children about yer Ma and what she did? Make me stay, and I will . . .’

  I went to the bedroom and fetched my silver pencil-case—the one that Fanny had given me so many years before. It took several minutes to find the thing. By the time I returned, Barton had emptied the rest of the rum down his gullet.

  I was astonished to see him standing.

  ‘Aye, that’ll do,’ he said, with a hiccough. He took the pencil-case, turning it in front of his slightly crossed eyes. ‘Solid silver? Good girl. Don’t reckernise it . . . where’d it come from?’

  ‘None of your business!’

  ‘Favours in exchange, eh?’ he leered.

  ‘Get out. You have what you came for. Now get out!’

  ‘I’ll take the brandy bottle,’ he said, swaying perilously. ‘Whassat? Silk slops?’

  ‘Silk? Is it likely?’

  ‘I’ll take the brass, too . . . might be a shilling in it . . .’ He grabbed a candlestick on his way to the door, stuffing it into his pack. When he swung this bundle over his shoulder, the weight of it nearly toppled him.

  He had to steady himself against the door-jamb.

  ‘Compliments to the lad who took you on,’ he muttered thickly. ‘Brave man . . . brave man . . .’

  ‘Where are you going? Berrima?’

  ‘Uh . . . aye.’ He made an obvious effort to gather his thoughts as the cold air hit him. ‘Aye, Berrima. Aye.’

  ‘It’s that way. Head straight for that hill. And don’t come back.’

  ‘Wouldn’t want to. Not worth the trouble. Mingy bitch.’

  I pointed. Whereupon he set off, weaving slightly, the brandy bottle clutched to his chest, his unbuttoned coat flapping in the arctic wind. He had forgotten his boots, and was too drunk to notice. Later, I threw them into the fire.

  I had no fear that he would encounter my family. You see, my husband was working down near Cutaway Creek, which lay to the east, between our house and the road to Berrima.

  George Barton was heading west, into the wilderness. As I closed the door, I took note that the light was fading, and that the brooding grey clouds held a promise of snow.

  I never saw the man again. I cannot be sure exactly what befell him.

  Your guess would be as good as mine.

  Thirty-two

  1846

  We returned to Oldbury in the winter of 1846.

  It was a miserable homecoming, dictated by necessity. My mother’s income was by this time a mere two hundred pounds per year. She had decided that we could no longer afford a town house, nor the expense of buying most of our food. Circumstances decreed that we pursue a cheaper mode of existence, in accommodation for which no rent would be charged. Oldbury was therefore the only option left to us.

  We had no illusions as to what we would find upon our return. The house had stood empty for three years. The insolvency of our former tenant, Thomas Humphery, meant that no repairs had been undertaken since at least 1841. Our pastures and fences were in a slightly better condition, thanks to Mr Alfred Welby; he was a respectable farmer from Sutton Forest, and in 1843 had been entrusted with the task of administering my brother’s inheritance. By letting land and collecting rents, he had ensured that at least a portion of the estate was still productive.

  But make no mistake, Oldbury’s days of glory were long past. It stood ‘defaced by time, and tottering in decay’. If you have read Cowanda, you will have some inkling of the pitiful sight that greeted us when we renewed our acquaintance with the old homestead, which, though it belonged to James, was being managed by my father’s executors. Louisa drew from her own experience in describing the typical estate belonging to a youth still in his minority, who is unable to take proper care of his inheritance; like her fictional Aloe Hill, Oldbury was all cracked walls and broken glass, mouldy rooms and unte
nded gardens.

  Mr Welby had tried to prepare us. In his letters he had made mention of collapsed huts, stained plaster and unpruned vines. He had urged the need for a species of advance guard to clear and clean, and had supervised the employment of these servants on my mother’s behalf at least three weeks before our arrival. There were other matters to arrange as well: the purchase of feed and livestock; the replacement of items filched by my stepfather; the transportation of furniture, plate and linen. The outlay was enormous, or so it seemed to me. I asked my mother how she could possibly justify such an expense.

  ‘We will spend far more in removing from Sydney than we would if we stayed,’ I said, pouting. ‘I have never seen such a fine example of false economy in my life. Why, the horses alone will cost as much as our rent! We had much better stay.’

  But my mother ignored me. I was not surprised, having grown accustomed to such treatment. Since the end of my engagement we had found ourselves perpetually quarrelling, and were sometimes unable to sit together in the same room. I do not know why we tried each other’s tempers so horribly. Perhaps we were too much alike. Mama complained of my strident manner, but her own was not very different. She expressed her opinions just as forcefully as I did, and spoke no more softly when roused. Our arguments were loud and vicious affairs that must have poisoned the lives of those around us. As the old proverb says, ‘It is better to dwell in the wilderness than with a contentious and an angry woman’. Possibly my mother had this in mind when she decreed that we should return to the wild country where I was born. She may have hoped that, free of the city’s constraints, I would wear out my restlessness in long walks, hard rides, and the demanding daily round of a working farm.

  She was wrong, however.

  It would be impossible to exaggerate the extent of my aversion to Oldbury. My blackest memories were associated with that place; I had no wish to revisit its dark-panelled vestibule, its haunted cellar, or its scarred landings. I shrank from the brooding prospect of Gingenbullen, which had inhabited my dreams for so long that it seemed invested with an almost spectral menace. In the six years that had elapsed since my last glimpse of Oldbury, I had refashioned it into a dark and sinister repository of all that was bad, bloody and Godforsaken.

  Besides which, I was eighteen years old. I had no desire to bury myself in the remote ‘back runs’, away from all possibility of civilised amusement. I wanted to dance. I wanted to hear good music, and watch colourful crowds. Even in Sydney the variety of our social intercourse was restricted, but at least there was always hope of a chance meeting, or an unlooked-for introduction. You never knew who might accost you in a milliner’s shop. I was desperate for company, and not only because I was bored. At eighteen, I was beginning to panic. I was beginning to wonder if I would die an old maid.

  No doubt you think me foolish. Eighteen is not such a great age, after all. Yet it seems incredibly advanced when one has been forced to endure the unspeakable shame of being thrown over. I assure you, I hardly set foot outside the house for months after William Cummings rejected me. My life seemed utterly blighted. As for my friends, they offered me no comfort. How could they? Though Fanny Rickards declared herself ‘disgusted’ with Mr Cummings, he nevertheless remained her brother’s confidant. And when Fanny became engaged to Lieutenant Wren, my pride could not endure the contrast between her happy prospects and my own. I felt utterly demoralised, and could see only one remedy: namely, another betrothal. Without an eager swain by my side, I was unable to hold up my head, for it seemed as if I was branded by my own failure. I was sure that people gossiped about me whenever I left the room.

  In the circumstances, you might wonder at my reluctance to quit Sydney altogether. It might seem to you that a girl in my position would have been better off abandoning the feverish atmosphere of Sydney’s drawing rooms in favour of more tranquil domestic occupations among the fields and flowers. Why remain, when it meant facing so much whispered speculation and false sympathy?

  The answer is simple. Even flawed social intercourse was better than none. Though Sydney offered me little, Oldbury would offer less. I would lose all hope of varied acquaintance if I returned to Oldbury. For the few families worth knowing in its immediate neighbourhood had exhibited no particular interest in knowing us. And the Sunday service at Sutton Forest was not fertile ground for striking up friendships with young men.

  It surely cannot surprise you that I dreaded the thought of a rustic existence? That I refused to submit quietly, and was most unhelpful during the tedious process of packing, sorting and cleaning? Fanny promised to write, but I knew that she would not. Miss Rennie raised the possibility of a future visit, but in the vaguest possible way. I was in a state of black despair even before arriving at Oldbury—where a heavy mist, a chilling drizzle and an assortment of unpacked crates occupying the clammy, unaired rooms cast me into such a fit of despondency that my mother ordered me from the house.

  ‘Out,’ she said, with grim resolution. ‘Get out. I can’t stand your moping any longer.’

  ‘But it’s raining!’ I said.

  ‘Precisely. It will suit your mood. If you cannot cheer up and make yourself useful, I want you out there where you belong.’

  ‘The servants should have done all this!’ I protested. ‘At least they should have seen that the chimneys were cleaned! We’ll all suffocate from breathing this smoke!’

  ‘Then go and take a turn in the fresh air. Now. Go and don’t come back until you are fit for company.’

  ‘I suppose you don’t care that I could catch my death?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ my mother snapped. ‘At least it will stop you from making everyone’s life miserable.’

  I must acknowledge that I was at a trying age. All girls can be difficult as they approach womanhood. There is something in the blood that starts to affect them when they enter their fifteenth or sixteenth year. Even my Emily Louisa, the most docile child imaginable, was married at sixteen. As for Eva, by the time she had turned eighteen, she was already the mother of an illegitimate child.

  In 1846, I needed a husband. That is the truth of the matter. Somewhere deep inside, I knew that I needed a husband. And I also knew that my chances of finding a suitable one, so deep in the bush, were remote.

  Doubtless that is why I stormed from the house, slamming doors behind me.

  ‘You might as well bury me six feet under, and have done with it!’ I cried.

  Had I been of a more amenable nature, I might have repaired to the kitchen. Here I would have found a dry seat and a warm fire. But being in a contrary mood, I decided that I would catch my death—there being nothing much to live for. My first inclination was to march off into the bush. Then it occurred to me that I would ruin my good kid boots if I went walking on such a dirty, wet day.

  So I turned into the stables.

  Like the house, this building had suffered many sad reverses. Where once it had accommodated all of half a dozen fine horses in style and comfort, it was now a dank and echoing shell, with a leaky roof and many deserted stalls. Nevertheless, it was partially occupied. An estate the size of Oldbury requires at least some horseflesh, no matter how reduced its flocks and herds. My mother had therefore been obliged to purchase a hardy gelding and a rough grey cob, the former as a stockhorse, the latter to pull our gig. The resurrection of the old gig had come as a surprise to me. I had assumed it long gone, with the rest of our more luxurious possessions. Yet Mr Welby had rescued it from some dark, forgotten corner of the barn, and had had its upholstery restored, and its wheels oiled, and its brass polished. With the result that, upon alighting from the mail-coach at Berrima, we had found ourselves confronted by two vehicles: Mr Welby’s gig and our own.

  Our gig had been driven by one of the new servants, Thomas, whom my mother persisted in calling a ‘coachman’. There being nothing in the least coach-like about our gig, I had privately designated him the ostler. Unlike Henry (our former ostler) he was a young man in possession of both eyes
.

  I found him in the stables when I entered them.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, not well pleased. ‘Are you here?’

  ‘Far as I can make out,’ he replied. He appeared to be attending to our cob, which—in my view—had been a very poor bargain. I am firmly of the belief that mares do not make ideal harness horses, and this cob was a mare. It was furthermore the squattest, thickest, roughest little beast you ever saw, lacking any vestige of quality, and a bad colour. Mama had got it cheap, I suppose. She may even have been intending that it should serve a double role, since we had no pony, and it was small enough for Louisa to ride.

  I was determined, however, that I should never be seen on top of such an ugly animal. The stockhorse would do for me.

  ‘I should like to go for a ride,’ I said. ‘You need not trouble yourself, for I can saddle my own mount.’

  In fact, it had been several years since I had saddled my own mount, and even then I had done so only under Henry’s supervision. But I was disinclined to ask favours of an insolent Irishman. I was quite sure that I would manage perfectly well, for all that it was so dark in the stables.

  ‘Ye’ll not be ridin’ in this weather?’ said Thomas.

  ‘Why not? I have never yet dissolved in the rain.’ Imperiously, I gestured at the stockhorse. ‘Is this hack temperamental? I have heard that golden chestnuts can be very skittish.’

  The ostler raised his brows. They were thick and dark, as was his hair. But his eyes were blue.

  ‘Sure, and ye’re not lookin’ to wear them boots, are ye?’ he queried. ‘Yer heels are too high for a slipper stirrup, Miss.’

  ‘Then you can take off the slipper stirrup.’

  ‘Not with them old-fashioned saddles. There’s only the two pommels on ’em. Ye’ll have a sad time of it wit’out some support to yer left foot.’

  He was right, I knew. Yet it irked me to be baulked at every turn.

  ‘Perhaps you’d care to tell me what else I may not do?’ was my waspish retort, whereupon the ostler tapped his chin and cocked his head.

  ‘Pitch an egg at t’Queen?’ he suggested.