The children were at the convent because no–one else wanted them. They were mostly orphans, or had been abandoned as babies. When they were of an age they were hired out to graziers or city folk who needed servants, and Maggie had begun to look forward to her fourteenth birthday. For it would mean escape.
Her father’s letters were irregular. But as the months wore on in that hateful place the letters became fewer, and then they stopped. She’d discovered years later that work had dried up during those terrible years of the Depression, and Harold had taken to the road.
Waltzing the Matilda, the swagman with a bluey on his back and all hope eclipsed by poverty and the endless miles he had to tramp to get his dole ticket, he became like thousands of other drifters. Eventually he was nameless and faceless, merely a bundle of rags sleeping beside the track, a filthy, impoverished man with no hope and no–one to turn to.
She had no idea where he was, or even if he was still alive. The idea of him dying, alone and impoverished still brought a lump to her throat as she remembered the kind, gentle man who had been her father. Yet as the years had passed she couldn’t fail to recognise the similarity in their lives, for she too had become rootless and drifting after her time at the convent. For there was somewhere far more unpleasant waiting for her outside those austere walls.
*
She was just fourteen when the nuns found her a place working as a kitchen help on a big station out near Wirra Wirra. Benny Granger was the youngest of five sons and not the brightest of boys at the best of times. He was fifteen when Maggie arrived at Granger Hill Station.
Maggie realised she was expected to work from sun–up to sun–down. The kitchen was a furnace in the merciless heat of that summer of 1929 and Mrs Granger was a stickler for things being done properly. Tall, fat and unpleasant, she seemed determined to make the servants’ lives a misery, and the only redemption came in the tenuous friendship Maggie struck up with Mia Mia, an Aboriginal girl who worked alongside her and shared the mean accommodation.
Maggie’s job was to prepare the vegetables, do the laundry and ironing and help Mia Mia clean the homestead. When the shearers came they would clear out the bunkhouse and help the cook prepare the gargantuan meals needed three times a day to feed the hungry men. There was no time to play. No time to sit and think, and the two young girls would collapse into their narrow beds each night and fall into a dead sleep.
The days turned into weeks and Maggie fretted that her father wouldn’t know how to find her. The nuns had said they would inform him next time he wrote, but she didn’t believe them. She was more use to them working here than going off with Dad, for they took half her wages. Yet she had some faith in Sister Claire, who had proved to be friendly and kind and just as frightened of Reverend Mother as the children.
Maggie had been on Granger Hill Station for eight months and was busy in the wash–house. She was alone, for Mia had gone walkabout a couple of weeks before and no–one knew when she’d be back.
The copper boiler was bubbling, filling the tiny wooden shack with clouds of steam as the fire roared beneath it. The wooden tongs were awkward and the heavy sheet kept slipping and splashing back into the water. Maggie’s arms were scalded, but she knew better than to complain, for Mrs Granger believed firmly in ignoring injuries and letting them heal on their own. Doctors cost money.
The sweat was pouring down her face and making her simple cotton dress stick to her. She wrestled with the sheet and finally managed to guide it through the mangle. Turning the wooden handle she puffed and strained as the sodden sheet slowly came out the other side dry enough to hang on the line.
‘Reckon you’ll be right, there, Benny. Fair target, mate.’
Maggie whirled around, red–faced and furious. The boys had been plaguing her from the day she’d arrived. They seemed harmless enough at first, but the older ones had begun to take liberties, like surreptitiously running their hands over her bottom when she served at table, or sneaking up to her window to try and catch her undressing at night. ‘Clear off,’ she shouted with more bravado than she felt.
The four older youths smirked and nudged one another. ‘Fiery, ain’t she? Needs to be taught a lesson, Benny. Go on, mate. Get in there.’
Maggie was almost knocked off her feet as the youngest boy was shoved inside the shack and the door slammed behind him to a chorus of encouragement and laughter. She found she was in a tight embrace as they teetered and staggered in the restricted space, trying to avoid the fire and the copper boiler.
‘Get your hands off me, Benny Granger,’ she hissed. She put her hands against his chest and tried to loosen his grip.
But Benny, like most farm boys, was strong for his age. Squarely built, with large hands and feet, Benny was enjoying the game, and his sloppy smile merely emphasised the half–witted gleam in his eyes. ‘Go on, Maggs,’ he drawled. ‘Give us a kiss. You know you want to.’
Maggie felt the heat of his rough hands around her waist, saw the slack lips and thick tongue and tried not to show her fear or her disgust. She knew he wasn’t quite all there and realised she would have to be careful how she handled this. One wrong move and Benny would think she was happy to play this dangerous game. ‘No,’ she said sternly. ‘I’ll tell your mum. She’ll be very cross if you muck about in here, Benny.’
Benny drew away from her, his large round face the picture of contrition. ‘SSSSorry, Maggs,’ he stuttered. ‘Don’t tell Ma. She’ll fair wallop me.’
Maggie nodded. His fear of his mother had been enough. ‘Go now, Benny,’ she said with great calm despite the trembling in her legs. ‘And then I won’t tell.’
Benny grinned his silly grin and opened the door. His brothers swore at him in disgust and strode away back to the paddocks with Benny loping after them.
Maggie found she was shaking. Benny was easy to handle as long as you remembered he lived in fear of his mother and the big stick she kept in the corner of her parlour. But his older brothers were mean–minded – taking after their father – and she had a nasty feeling this wasn’t the last of it.
The room she shared with Mia Mia was just big enough for two iron bedsteads, a chair and a rickety chest of drawers on which sat a bowl and jug to wash in. The shack stood apart from the rest of the outbuildings, its timber walls and tin roof mouldering from years of neglect and the elements. She had nailed a hessian sack over the single window, and tonight she pushed the back of their only chair tightly under the iron door knob. Mia’s disappearance meant she was alone, and for the first time since she’d arrived she missed the girl’s snoring and the strong smell of the animal fat she rubbed into her skin and hair.
Maggie lay awake, her heart thudding so hard it felt it would come right through her ribs. She watched the light from the moon slowly cross the narrow window and disappear. The darkness filled the room, making her aware of every creak and every rustle.
She slept fitfully, startled awake by the least little noise, and as dawn began to lighten the room, she breathed a sigh of weary relief. They weren’t coming. She was safe.
Climbing out of bed she poured water from the jug into the basin and then stripped off her nightdress. The water was pleasantly cool against her fevered skin and she closed her eyes for a moment to try and prepare herself for another long day.
The door crashed in, sending the chair skidding across the little room.
Maggie was about to scream when she was overwhelmed and thrown on to the bed. The hand over her mouth stifled all sound, the weight of his body meant she was completely helpless. Her eyes widened in fear as she realised all five boys now surrounded her. The door had been slammed shut, the chair replaced. There was evil in their eyes and she was old enough to realise what it was they were after.
‘No,’ she mumbled through the hand. ‘No, please. Don’t.’
‘Shut up,’ hissed the eldest as he pinned her to the bed.
She could feel the roughness of his working clothes as he shifted against her nakedness. Could smell his sweat and the heat of him as he flipped her over on to her stomach and almost smothered her by pressing her face into the lumpy pillow.
He took her roughly, his hands forcing her buttocks apart to ease his entry. He took her as no man should take a woman, and when he was done he climbed from her and his brother took his place.
Maggie was crying silent tears as she tried to move, to call out, to escape the terrible things they were doing to her. The pain was incredible – nothing could compare with it. And yet it went on and on and on.
Benny was the last. Blubbering and incoherent with a mixture of fear and excitement, he was debagged by his brothers and thrust upon her.
Maggie bit the pillow, eyes tightly shut, the scream roaring through her head and filling her throat as she prayed for oblivion.
Then they were gone. The door slammed and she heard them laugh and joke about what they had done. Heard them threaten Benny with a beating if he told anyone. Maggie was to be their entertainment and their secret.
Maggie lay on the bed, too exhausted and in too much pain to do anything. Her tears had dried, the sobs were hard nodules in her throat which nothing could shift. The cold realisation that they would come back and repeat the torture made her shiver uncontrollably. She had to escape – and soon.
The sound was soft, coming from the doorway. Maggie whimpered and pulled the rough sheet over her battered nakedness as she drew up her knees to her chest.
‘You alonga me, Maggie,’ whispered Mia Mia as she sat on the bed. ‘Bad men come alonga you again.’ The almost amber eyes were soulful in the black face as she looked down at Maggie. ‘Mia know. They hurt her too.’
Maggie struggled to sit up. She ached everywhere and there was blood on the sheet and smeared on her body. ‘But where can we go?’ she whispered urgently. ‘We’re miles from anywhere and they’ll soon realise we’ve gone and come looking for us.’
Mia began to wash off the blood, her dark hands swift and sure and yet tender. ‘You alonga me. They not find us,’ she replied as she helped Maggie to dress and bundle up her few belongings.
They crept out of the shack and Maggie was stunned to realise how swiftly things had happened. Stunned to realise what had seemed like an eternity could only have lasted minutes. For the sun had barely risen above the horizon.
There was already smoke drifting from the cookhouse chimney, and a few of the men were sauntering out of the bunkhouse for their early morning smoke and cup of tea, but they paid scant attention to the two girls on the far side of the yard. They were merely a part of the scenery and of no interest.
Maggie stumbled, her legs still shaking from the attack, her head thudding with an almost blinding ache.
Mia grabbed her arm. ‘You gotta be quick,’ she hissed as she swiftly glanced over her shoulder towards the homestead. ‘Missus come soon. Hurry, hurry.’
The thought of Mrs Granger wielding that stick sped Maggie on. Soon they were in the paddock where the resting horses had been put to grass. She cowered behind a tree and watched Mia softly whistle to a proud–headed chestnut.
The horse pricked its ears and came trotting over to snuffle at Mia’s open hand. She caught his mane and in one liquid movement was on his back. ‘Come. Quick,’ she hissed as she brought the horse closer to a tree stump and held out her hand.
Maggie limped out of the long grass and stood on the stump. She eased the knotted cloth that held her belongings over her shoulder, took the proffered hand and with an enormous effort of will made it on to the broad back of the chestnut. Clinging tightly to Mia, she closed her eyes and tried to block out the agony that shot through her as the horse took off at a gallop.
The sun rose and the heat hammered on their bare heads. The horse was eased into a canter and then to a walk as they left the homestead far beyond the horizon. Both girls were silent during that long ride, each busy with their own thoughts and fears.
Maggie’s agony continued, both physically and mentally. She realised the Grangers would know she had run away by now, and would come looking for her. She knew that if they were caught they would be beaten. She also knew that Mrs Granger would never believe what her boys had done – for in her eyes, they were perfect.
As noon approached and the heat sweltered and shimmered on the vast plains, Mia brought the horse to a standstill and climbed down. Maggie slid from the horse’s back and bit down on the groan as the agony shot through her and made her head swim. Mia led her to the shade of a Wilga and began to dig at the root of a spiky cactus with a stick until a pool of water emerged. She cupped her hands and drank, indicating that Maggie should do the same.
Maggie drank gratefully, even though the water was cloudy with dirt. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked finally as she stepped back to let the horse drink.
‘Mia go walkabout. Find spirit cave,’ she said as she trawled the horizon for any sign they had been followed. ‘Men come soon. You alonga me. Spirits help us.’
Maggie stared at her. Mia’s skin was so dark she was almost a silhouette against the sun. She guessed they were of a similar age, but Mia was skinny and small–boned, with a halo of red brown hair that stood out in a tangled mass. She wore a cotton dress Mrs Granger had given her five years ago, and it hung loosely around her, tied at the waist with a piece of string. ‘You knew they would do it, didn’t you?’ she whispered. ‘You knew all along.’
Mia shrugged. ‘They alonga me many, many time. Mia afraid, so find spirit place.’ She grinned, showing fine teeth. ‘Spirit help to find tribe,’ she said. ‘Mia no go back.’
Maggie watched as the Aboriginal girl gathered leaves and seeds and made a thick pulp which she smeared over the cuts and bruises. She felt little embarrassment as the girl plastered the wounds around her back–side, only the relief this cool green mess brought to her insides.
They wearily climbed back on the horse, Mia’s capable fingers entwined in his mane, her bare feet nudging his sides to get him moving again. Maggie eased the bundle on her shoulder and once more held tightly to the other girl. She was at last beginning to hope they had managed to escape.
The land began to change as they rode east. The grass plains were giving way to thick bush and tangles of great trees and ferns. Out of this green soared hills of rock and jagged pillars that threw long shadows across the earth. Maggie looked at them and shivered. They were dark, ominous and looming, their black facades scarred with a red so dark it resembled dried blood. Yet Mia seemed unafraid and perfectly at ease in these alien surroundings.
As the sun began to sink, Mia slid from the horse. ‘Stay there,’ she ordered as she pulled a long vine from a tree and used it as a make–shift leading rein.
Maggie eased her weight forward and rested her cheek on the horse’s neck as they began to pick their way over the rough scree and tumbled, jumbled boulders. She gripped the mane, her whole body trembling from the effort to stay on board as they followed a meandering path only Mia could see and climbed further and further into the forbidding hill.
The sun was a glowing arc on the horizon, the great, empty sky streaked with orange and purple as they stopped. There was silence on the hillside but for the horse’s laboured breathing and her own heart beat. Maggie sat up and looked out over the land they had crossed. It stretched away into the distance in every direction, the hazy shimmer of the eucalyptus tingeing the gathering darkness with blue.
She turned to look at the hill they had climbed and scanned the jagged outcrops and tumbled falls of rock. ‘I can’t see any cave,’ she said. ‘Are you sure this is the place?’
Mia grinned and clambered up the rockfall. She approached a tangle of scrub and a spiny bush covered in bright yellow flowers and wriggled out of sight.
Maggie slid from the horse and led him up the fallen rocks. She still couldn’t see where Mia had gon
e and started as the Aboriginal girl suddenly appeared from behind the bush.
‘Come,’ she said. ‘This good keeping place.’ She took the vine rein and eased the wary horse through a gap between the bush and the rock wall. His hoofs skidded and he propped and shook his head, but slowly and surely Mia coaxed him through into the narrow tunnel.
Maggie followed, the bundle clutched tightly to her chest. It was pitch black in the tunnel and she reached out and felt the damp walls that seemed to close in on her before Mia’s fingers caught her own and led her with shuffling steps through into the main cavern.
Staring up in wonderment, Maggie realised she could see the purple and red of the sunset high up in the cavern’s roof. It sent a pink glow into the darkness of the cave, touching the rough floor, gleaming on the ancient clay and ochre drawings on the walls. She looked at the stick figures chasing kangaroos with boomerangs, nulla nullas and spears. Admired the tiny white handprints that must have been put there hundreds of years ago, and wondered at the giant painted snake that wound its way along the walls and disappeared into the darkest corners. Yet, despite this rather ferocious serpent, Maggie felt the sense of peace and security that could only come from a sacred place.
Mia was busy collecting dried sticks that must have blown down through the hole in the roof. She had stripped off the cotton dress and was wearing only a dilly bag around her waist and a tiny pubic covering. Her breasts were small, her waist slender beneath the arch of her ribs. Sitting cross–legged by the pile, she swivelled a thin stick between her palms until a blue tendril of smoke wreathed its way through the kindling and was swiftly followed by a spark and then a flame.
Maggie watched her and realised this was a scene she would have witnessed hundreds if not thousands of years before. Mia was a part of this cave, a part of its history and myth. She edged closer to the fire, for it was chilly now the sun had gone and the circle of sky above them was darkening. ‘How did you find this place?’ she asked.
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