The Dark Mountain

by Catherine Jinks

  This possibility never even crossed my mind in 1857, when I first read Louisa’s novel. On the contrary, I was so distressed that I tore into pieces the little booklet containing this festive chapter. Upon seeing the result, Thomas was unimpressed.

  ‘What the hell are ye playin’ at?’ he demanded. ‘That book cost sixpence, and ye ripped it up!’

  ‘It is not a book, it is a brazen insult!’ I cried. ‘I shall never forgive her, never!’

  ‘I told ye to stop buyin’ ’em,’ he said. ‘Mebbe next time ye’ll heed me.’

  ‘She has made a mockery of our wedding!’

  ‘Let her. There’s no one round here will care.’

  ‘I shall write to her. I shall tell her what I think of her betrayal!’

  ‘That ye won’t. Where are they now—up Richmond way? That’s a fair whack in postage. Sure, and I’ll not be spendin’ good money on a family row.’

  As it happened, the letter was never sent. I had barely enough time to read, let alone write. But I could not prevent myself from purchasing the next instalment of Louisa’s sprawling tale, and Thomas soon discovered this. Our residence was not so large that a new publication could remain concealed in it for long.

  ‘I thought ye said ye’d finished wit’ this?’ he demanded.

  ‘I changed my mind,’ was my sullen response.

  ‘Then ye’ll change it back. I can have yer temper for free—I’m not inclined to pay sixpence for it!’

  ‘Why not? We pay far more than sixpence for the rotgut that sours your mood.’

  ‘It’ll end up kindlin’, just like the last,’ he warned.

  ‘No it will not.’

  ‘Lass—it’ll do ye no good. Ye said yerself, ’tis all of ’t lies.’

  ‘I was wrong, then.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Louisa is quite right. Our wedding was a joke.’ Much pent-up bitterness began to flow from me at this point, for I was mortally tired, having only recently recovered from an early miscarriage. ‘I have come to think her very shrewd, as a matter of fact. Why, her portrait of you is a perfect likeness!’

  ‘What d’ye mean?’ Thomas snatched at the booklet that I was holding. ‘She’s not put me in’t?’

  ‘Oh, I think so. I recognise the tin mug. And the blue plates. And the four-legged stool, with one leg too short.’

  ‘But she’s never used me name?’

  ‘She doesn’t need to. It is all there. You are the “distracted lover”. The “disconsolate bridegroom”.’ Seeing him flip helplessly through those yellowish pages, unable to read a word, I was visited by a cruel impulse. ‘Anyone could see through such a thin disguise. Dick McMaster, she calls you, and you’re cast as a sawyer, but the resemblance is clear enough. She has captured exactly your way of putting off demanding tasks. He is such an eager swain, this sawyer, that he will not travel thirty miles to fetch a priest to marry him.’ This was a true account of Louisa’s fictional sawyer, as it happened, but I immediately began to embellish it with lies of my own. ‘And she has included Bennett, who is shown as being far more intelligent than his master. Oh—and let us not forget good old Dick’s pressing inquiries about his bride’s inheritance, or the fawning, obsequious compliments that he is continuously paying to the owner of the estate . . .’

  Thomas, who had slowly been turning red, uttered a gasp of rage. Before I could stop him, he ripped my booklet in two and cast it at the wall.

  ‘That’s a bloody lie!’ he roared, the veins standing out in his forehead.

  ‘Oh! You beast!’ I pounced on the literary remnants. ‘You have ruined it! Just look at what you’ve done!’

  ‘Hands off that!’

  ‘You savage—’

  ‘Give it here!’

  ‘I shall not!’

  ‘Give it here!’ He tried to wrench the torn pages from me. ‘How can ye read such muck, and want t’keep readin’?’

  ‘Let go!’

  ‘What did ye tell ’er? What lies were ye spreadin’?’ He began to peel my fingers away from the cheap binding. ‘That I had a mind for yer money, is that it? When I never once asked, nor cared, God damn it!’

  ‘Ouch!’ I kicked him, and hit out with my free hand. But his grip did not loosen. Grimly, he tucked my arm beneath his own and continued to work at releasing my grip, jerking his head free of my fingernails from time to time.

  When at last the tattered booklet was in his possession, he gave me a shove that sent me reeling into the kitchen table.

  ‘No decent wife would have paid sixpence for this,’ he spat, and threw a fistful of crushed paper into the fire.

  I burst into tears, then. I tried to retrieve the offending pamphlet with the tongs, and was prevented, and there was a scuffle. I cannot tell you how many scuffles there were, over the years. Is it any wonder that, after we lost our farm, Thomas eventually became a carrier? I can say with some confidence that I drove him onto the drays. And if I sometimes lamented his long absences, when he was transporting bacon to Sydney or cloth to Goulburn, I knew even then that I had only myself to blame. For though he had a taste for breaking in horses, he came to discover that domestic conflict yielded little in the way of excitement, after a while.

  I suppose that I wore him down. He certainly tried my patience. I thought him overly generous to his mates when his family were wanting. I did not like his spells of drinking, nor his sentimental attachment to a host of unhelpful things: Irish superstitions, grisly Popish martyrdoms, a succession of ill-tempered dogs, his dead mother, the colour green, and Arab horses. (I began to regard the Arab horse as a serious rival for his affection.) He was cagey about his past, too. Though he convinced me that he had indeed come to Australia as a free emigrant, I was not so sure that an innocent desire to make good had actually driven him here. Despite all his denials, I have a suspicion that he left Ireland only a few steps ahead of the Law. For there was a good deal of unrest in his country at the time. And Thomas was just the sort of man who might have become embroiled in some illegal political activity at the behest of a good friend. God knows, he was inclined to overlook the many failings of his fellow draysmen and labourers. ‘Oh, there’s nothin’ wrong wit’ Murtha that a spell o’luck won’t fix,’ he would say. Or ‘just a little drap o’the creature for poor Bob, lass, he’s that old and cold, ’twould be a pity to turn ’im away yet’.

  He was a good man, was Thomas. I cannot deny it. He was naturally generous, and intrinsically honourable. Though he must have regretted our marriage often, he never abandoned me. Sometimes he stayed away for long periods of time, and once I almost despaired, but he always returned. Then, after we moved to Orange, he finally found a vocation that suited him. He was fifty years old by then, and perhaps reluctant to travel; at any rate, he became a dealer. As a dealer he employed his easy nature to our advantage. He could charm the business out of all but the stuffiest men. And though he was not a wild success—being far too open-handed—I was at least able to give up my school, eventually.

  It must be confessed that Edwin is very much his father’s son. Though wiser and more morally upright than Thomas, he has inherited his father’s keen delight in varied company. It is no accident that Edwin became an auctioneer and stock agent. In Edwin’s nature are happily combined my own fierce determination to account for every penny, and my husband’s appreciation of informal social intercourse.

  Thomas was not at his best on more formal occasions, however. His speech at Flora’s wedding was uncharacteristically stiff, as he stood awkwardly in his brand new dress-coat. At funerals he was a broken reed. Though he never went so far as to shed tears freely, he was liable to lose the power of speech, and had to be kept away from strong spirits. It seemed at one point that he might be unable to attend Emily Louisa’s funeral at all—not, at least, in a dignified manner. I had to comb his hair and shave him, for I could not have asked his sons to do it. No son should witness his father in such a state.

  ‘You must not shame us, Thomas McNeilly,’ I told
him. ‘If you cannot hold up your head, then you must stay here.’

  He shot me a frantic look, his eyes glazed and bloodshot.

  ‘To say goodbye . . . to me own little girl . . .’ he mumbled hoarsely.

  ‘Say nothing. Do you hear? Say nothing, for it will only upset you to speak. I shall speak for us both.’

  And I did. And he never once shamed me. But I believe now that the effort of it killed him, for when he returned home he was a different man. Death had marked him out. He recovered neither his spirits nor his health.

  If only I had realised sooner!

  At first, as I have said, he seemed to be grieving. He lost his appetite and became thin. I thought little of it, until Edwin pointed it out to me. He asked if his father was ill.

  ‘Ill?’ I repeated.

  ‘He is so thin.’

  ‘We are all thin, Edwin.’

  ‘But I think that his stomach may be affected. I heard him bringing up his breakfast.’

  ‘Nervous symptoms,’ I declared. For Thomas had always been cursed with a tendency to vomit when under emotional strain. He had done so on the morning of his wedding day, and the birth of his children had affected him in a similar fashion. Sometimes our more punishing fights had been cut short by his need for a basin or bucket.

  Still, I thought it only decent to make inquiries.

  ‘Is your gut troubling you?’ I asked him that evening, as we prepared for bed.

  ‘A little,’ he admitted.

  ‘Edwin heard you bringing up your breakfast.’

  ‘I cannot seem t’keep things down,’ he complained.

  ‘You couldn’t when Charles died.’

  ‘Aye, that’s true.’

  ‘Are you costive?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘I’ll get you a dose.’

  But the dose had almost no effect. By the middle of June it had become apparent to me that something was genuinely wrong. For while Thomas remained haggard around the face, his belly began to bloat. This puzzled me a great deal. Though I had been bombarding him with constipation cures of every description, I could see little improvement. On the contrary, he was not himself. He seemed constantly tired. He ceased to visit his local public bar of a Friday evening. He had trouble keeping things down, and developed a pain in his abdomen. When he started to vomit blood, I insisted that he visit a doctor.

  ‘It might be Typhoid fever,’ I fretted.

  ‘If it was the Typhoid fever, I’d be dead by now,’ he rejoined weakly.

  ‘Not at all. My father died of Typhoid fever, or so they say. He lingered for weeks.’

  ‘How could it be Typhoid fever? I’ve had no fever,’ Thomas insisted. And despite my pleas, he would not allow me to summon medical help for the longest time. I believe that he was afraid to hear the truth. He must have had some inkling, you see, and preferred to shield us from the worst of it—at least until the last possible moment.

  Finally, on the second of July, I took matters into my own hands. I called in Doctor Hemmerman, who had the gravest news to impart. Thomas, he said, was very ill indeed. And all the symptoms indicated that he was suffering from cancer of the stomach.

  ‘You are a strong and capable woman, Mrs McNeilly,’ he continued. ‘I know of your recent loss and you have my sympathy, but I don’t believe that platitudes will satisfy someone of your character. There can be no hope for a victim of this disease. It is already well advanced, and will act swiftly. I would be amazed if Mr McNeilly survived the month.’ Though he paused for a moment, I made no comment. I simply sat there, straight-backed, like a marble statue. So he went on. ‘The pain can be treated. We have powerful drugs that will ease his passing. The underlying condition, however, cannot be cured. I am really very sorry.’

  Some memories are unbelievably excruciating. I hate to think of that day, and of what came after. Four weeks it took, and every hour was torture to me. You children cannot understand, perhaps—not fully—that I had to be strong for all of us. I know how much you loved your father. He was a loveable man. He made you laugh, and bought you silly trinkets, and sang all those pretty Irish songs that I could never master, though I tried at first. The fact that he was away so much made you love him all the more, I know. And the pity of it is that you hardly ever saw him on a horse. You would have loved him even better, if you had. He knew just how to handle a horse, and was blessed with a natural seat. When you see someone doing what he was born to do—what God intended him to do—there is nothing more worthy of admiration. Yet your father gave up his birthright. He gave it up for me. You cannot support a family on an ostler’s wage, not if your wife is bred to higher things.

  I used to sit beside him all night towards the end. Poor Edwin—you could not bear to look at him. But I used to look at him for hours and hours. I could hardly believe that he was the same man. He was so frail and wasted, as if that luxuriant hair of his (grey, though still thick) was draining the strength from his body. And his teeth were still so good! Yet all the rest was yellow and shrivelled, and his big, broad hands were like claws, and his eyes were sunk back in his skull as if their light had already been extinguished.

  He was often restless at night, when the effect of the morphine began to wear off. Sometimes there were good spells, when he would drink a little broth, and ask about his children (you meant the world to him), and have me read from the newspapers. As time went on, however, there were no good spells. When he was not sunk in a deathly sleep, he was in agonising and unremitting pain. You must remember what it was like—that dreadful noise, which he tried to stifle when he was conscious of his situation at all. And I could do nothing, absolutely nothing, except to remain at his side. No doubt you assume that I felt less, because I was so stoic. But that was not the case. I owed him at least my tendance, and was determined not to falter in my duty. What good would it have done him, had I shrunk from his torment and covered my ears when he cried out? It seemed to me that, deficient as I had been as a wife, I would at least not fail him in his final hours. Certainly not through a morbid excess of sentiment.

  This was my most earnest prayer. However, there was one moment, on the second-last day, when my heart nearly failed me. I was sitting at his bedside, holding his hand. My eyes were so dry that they felt as if they had been sandpapered. My limbs were as stiff as broom-handles, and I seemed to myself all wrung out, like a parched and twisted old rag. Even when he began to moan and twitch, I sat there regarding him with all the sympathy that you would expect from a chair or a table. I felt that perhaps I had reached my end—that I had no more to give.

  Then he came to himself for a moment. ‘Charlotte?’ he croaked, clinging to my hand with all his little strength. I looked down and met his gaze. There were tears in his eyes, which were fixed on me in the most helpless and pitiful entreaty. His lip trembled. He whimpered like a child. Suddenly, beneath the strong bones of his face and the virile stubble on his chin, I saw a tender soul in desperate need—of my care, and my aid, and whatever poor solace I could offer. And the carapace around my heart dissolved, and I was all at once moved practically beyond the limits of human endurance. To see this sturdy man, so reduced and broken—I can hardly convey the pathos of it—the unbearable poignancy. And I loved him to my very depths: for the first time, perhaps, I loved him as I ought to have loved him, all those many years. I said to him: ‘Have no fear, my darling, for I shall never leave you.’

  He appeared to derive some comfort from my words, and soon fell asleep again. Afterwards, as the room slowly darkened, I listened to his breathing and thought about my mother. I thought of how she had been forced to watch as George Barton was flogged until his back was a bloody pulp. I thought of how she had begged that he not be flogged a second time—my mother, who did not beg for anything. Though I have never, thankfully, witnessed a flogging, I have once or twice seen the dreadful damage that a scourge can inflict if applied without a qualm. I have read accounts of fleshy fragments scattered across the raw earth, and dogs licking
at pools of blood. I have heard my mother describe the sufferings of certain convicts on board the Cumberland, when she was travelling to New South Wales. ‘It is weak, I know,’ she once said, ‘but had I stayed on deck during the entire proceedings, I would have been forced to run to their aid. No one with a spark of human feeling could have felt anything except the most profound and visceral sympathy. When the pain is that extreme, one would do anything to relieve it. One almost enters into their torment—it is quite unavoidable, though undesirable. I suppose,’ she added, ‘on some basic level, distress of that kind makes us all kin.’

  ‘Whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth me.’ If God is love, then to receive Him is to receive the love that removes all doubt. When I looked at Thomas McNeilly on his deathbed, I saw him in his very essence, and his essence was that of a child. And I could do nothing else but open my heart, for God worked upon it, and tore open all the locks. Only suffering can arouse such love, which is the love of Christ in his agony.

  I wonder, now, if my mother felt such love for George Barton when she witnessed his suffering. Can it be that, in my own life’s twilight, I have stumbled on the truth? Can it be that her marriage was founded on a pity so tremendous, so stainless and irreproachable, that I have done her a terrible wrong? Or was it their shared suffering that forged the bond between them? For it is common knowledge that when a band of soldiers face death together, they will always be brothers of the heart henceforth. My mother faced death in the company of George Barton. She could not have been sure that they would survive—not when that pistol was placed against her head. Can it be possible that this common experience, so profound and heart-wrenching, made them in some way strangers to everyone except each other? That a kind of dark sympathy held them in its thrall?