Absolution Creek (40 page)

‘With luck you’ll have a decent roof over your head by winter, Miss Olive,’ Adams said, revealing a bottle of rum. ‘He could have rebuilt the Mankells’ place, but he said he wanted something new for you.’ Adams took a swig of rum, the liquid patterning his beard in the firelight.

‘Is there a house already here?’ Thomas held out a grease-rimmed pannikin for a splash of the rum.

‘Go easy on that,’ Jack cautioned with a frown.

Thomas gave a mock salute. His elder brother had changed in the few short months since he left Sydney. The easy banter that once flowed between them had been replaced by an almost aloof attitude. He seemed older, more serious. Was this what independence did? Or had Jack merely absorbed the strange loneliness of his new home.

‘On the western side of the river there’s a homestead. Needs a lot of work though,’ Jack revealed. ‘Besides, I want Olive and me to have something special.’

Squib pressed her lips tightly together and threw a scatter of bones into the darkness. She retreated to just outside the rim of the campfire.

Jack stuffed a wooden pipe with tobacco and he and Adams puffed away, their conversation interrupted by the ongoing relighting of the tangy tobacco and the slurping of rum.

‘I can’t take the girl with me, Jack. At least not this trip. Reckon you’ll have to tie her up to keep her out of mischief.’

There was a scrabbling of leaves as Squib moved further away from the fire. She’d sooner shoot the man than have him touch her again.

Jack took a swig of rum, and wiped his mouth with his hand.

‘My suggestion,’ Adams continued, ‘is to make use of the girl while you’ve got her. Let her pay for her keep.’

‘I’ve been thinking. Perhaps the best thing to do is to put a notice in the Stringybark Point paper when you eventually get back to town. Let people know she’s here.’ A spray of embers rose into the air. Jack pushed a skinny log into the fire. ‘I’m sure she’s lonely for her kin. She doesn’t sleep at night. Wanders around like a night owl or lies awake.’

‘Not natural,’ Adams replied. ‘Not natural, are you, girl?’ He scanned the blackness. ‘Anyway, have a think about that notice. You might appreciate a bit of help.’

‘Maybe if people treated me nicer rather than spending their time trying to be rid of me things would be better,’ Squib replied. She hoped Jack felt bad.

‘You go to sleep and wake up to see your house burnt and think how people should treat you,’ Adams argued. ‘I’d be tying her up of a night. That’ll stop her shenanigans.’

Thomas finished his rum. Here he was sitting around a camp fire as Adams talked about tying up a girl to keep her out of trouble, and the expression hadn’t altered on his brother’s face. He wiped sweat from his brow.

‘You better get cracking on the house, Jack. We don’t want your lady here burning up for lack of shelter.’ Adams took another swig of rum and winked at Olive. ‘Reckon we better send word for a priest.’

Squib gathered saliva in her mouth and spat loudly in the grass.

It was meant to be a celebratory dinner, however rabbit stew and dirt-smeared damper wasn’t exactly what Olive expected. She didn’t know what she had expected on arriving in this deserted place but it had been more than this. For the hundredth time that evening she gathered her skirt tight against her legs and clamped her body rigid. She was sitting on a log in the middle of a paddock where any number of creepy-crawlies could accost her, and no one seemed to care. Picking as daintily as she could at the gristle between her teeth she accepted the swig of rum Adams poured into a pannikin. The liquid was firey hot.

‘Steady old girl,’ Thomas cautioned.

‘Liquor isn’t just for the satisfaction of menfolk,’ Olive retorted. She needed the hot reassurance of the drink.

‘Last time I was in Sydney women didn’t smoke or drink in public.’ Jack tapped out his pipe.

‘And you didn’t smoke a pipe, Jack,’ Thomas replied.

‘Everyone smokes a pipe out here, lad,’ Adams answered. ‘Your brother here only sees me once a month. There’s no regular store for papers and such like.’ Adams corked the bottle. ‘Shut-eye time.’

When they eventually retired for the night, Olive stripped down to her underwear, slipping between the scratchy blankets in the lean-to. There were jersey silk pyjamas and cakes of Pears soap stacked under a tree with the rest of the too-few luxuries she’d carried from Sydney, however she was beyond exhaustion. Besides, what did it matter any more? Especially in these conditions. She placed the slush lamp, with Jack’s dreadfully smelly concoction of rendered animal fat, carefully outside so that a soft light illuminated the small space. Then she waited. Outside, Adams and Thomas settled by the camp fire, the silences in their conversation increasing. Above her the bark roof hung stiflingly low. Having promised not to think of her old life, Olive pictured her snug bedroom with its calming yellow walls and comforting scents of hearth and home. She wondered what her family were doing. What were they thinking? After her lie regarding visiting the Gees was discovered, Olive felt sure that Henrietta would press elopement as the reason for Olive’s disappearance. If that was the case, her family would try to avoid the slightest whiff of scandal, until her disappearance lengthened and they received no word from her. Eventually they would believe that the worst had occurred. Olive knew the time had come to write to them. At the very least she could allay their worst fears even if she chose not to reveal the details of her new home.

‘You all right, Olive?’ Jack squatted at the entrance to the lean-to. ‘Thomas said this is only your third night sleeping outdoors.’

She sat upright. ‘Are you coming to bed?’ she whispered, patting the blanket with her hand.

‘Umm, well, no. I’ve spoken to Adams about a minister and he says we’d have to travel to town in six weeks or so to be wed.’

‘But are you coming to bed?’ Olive tried to keep any sense of urgency from her voice.

‘Well, no. It’s just not right.’

‘Right for whom?’

Jack cocked his head. ‘We’re not married.’

Olive let the blanket fall from her shoulders. ‘We’ve been apart for months, Jack.’

‘But you’ve not been well, and you still look a bit peaky.’

With shaking fingers Olive slipped the strap of the white silk camisole low over her shoulder. She was sure she heard Jack swallow. ‘Now you want to wait another month?’ She smiled, hoping it appeared more natural than it felt. ‘I’ve been so lonely for you.’

Jack cleared his throat. ‘We should be married, Olive.’

‘What does it matter out here?’ She gave a weak laugh.

‘God lives here too.’

In the yellowing lamplight, Jack’s eyes looked dark as he stared at her. Olive lowered the other camisole strap. If she didn’t sleep with Jack now she was sure her resolve would weaken. ‘I never took you for such a religious man.’ Having visualised their coming together on the long trek north, Olive knew the future lay in her female attributes, though her mind was disgusted at the thought of what lay ahead. Olive was well aware of what a man could do to a woman, and such a relationship – even if love did exist – was no longer palatable.

‘You know I was brought up with the good book.’ Jack’s voice never wavered.

Olive’s fingers plucked at the flimsy material, the strap slipped free and she wriggled a little, baring white skin and petite breasts. Jack’s eyes no longer met hers. They focused on her body, roaming her skin unashamedly, which was rarely exposed to light. In the strained silence Olive sensed him hesitate, and then, abruptly, he was gone. Outside someone belched. Olive buried her face in the coarse blanket and wept.

Chapter 30

M
eg finished sweeping the veranda and gathered the fallen leaves in a dustpan. Willie wagtails and soldier birds hopped across the lawn in search of insects. Meg could hear the twin poddy lambs bleating beyond the garden, their tone suggesting starvation. Harold had arrived with them yesterday. The rest of the ewes weren’t due to lamb for another few weeks, however somehow the mother of these two managed to get herself in trouble and then promptly die. The men were now feeding out corn every second day instead of twice weekly as had been Cora’s stipulation. Sam explained that although the ewes looked as sleek as race horses not all the lambs were likely to survive.
Lambs
. While the twins were beyond excitement at their arrival, Meg mentally added them to her to-do list. Apparently they had to be fed three times a day!

She knocked on her aunt’s bedroom door. Cora had spent a day shuffling about the homestead until her maimed leg forced her to bed. The self-diagnosis was one of arthritis and the pain had kept her normally active aunt bedridden for two days. Meg wasn’t really surprised. A cold front had hung over Absolution Creek for a week and even Sam was complaining of aches in his past fighting injuries. She poked her head in the door. There were two mice running about the floor and a furry, bulbous spider had taken up position on the far wall. Meg looked at the gaping ceiling and the monstrous tree and wondered what other nasties lurked in her aunt’s room.

‘How’s everything this morning?’ Cora asked. ‘It doesn’t feel so cold.’

‘It isn’t. It’s meant to be a few degrees warmer today.’

Cora leant back in the chair at her desk. ‘Thank heavens.’ She rubbed her leg. ‘And the men?’

‘They’re replacing the tin on the woolshed.’ Meg decided against mentioning the proposed work to the hayshed and the changed sheep-feeding routine. According to Sam these were unapproved jobs undertaken at Harold’s instruction. Instead she retrieved a crumpled blouse and brown jumper from the floor. ‘You look better in the face. Not so strained.’ Meg dangled the items, a letter falling from the clothes to the floor.

‘Yes, I am feeling better.’ Cora held out her hand and took the letter quickly.

Meg draped the dirty clothes over her shoulder. Cora wasn’t the type of woman to ever look pale, thanks to her olive skin. In some respects Meg was pleased that her aunt’s leg was the cause of her illness. Initially she worried that she may have been partly responsible for her aunt’s ill-health. Cora was more than obliging in answering Meg’s questions regarding her family, specifically the problem between her aunt and mother and the differing accounts of her father’s passing during the war. However, this led to Cora telling the story of a little girl named Squib. For some inexplicable reason Meg believed the story of this long-lost child had somehow affected her aunt. Quite frankly she’d been remote and melancholy ever since. Just how the girl Squib fitted into Meg’s world bewildered her, however she was prepared to humour Cora in the hope that eventually she would learn something a little more pertinent. ‘Can I get you anything else, Cora?’

‘Yes, spring.’

Meg agreed. The cold ocean winds that swirled up from the bay, were nothing compared to the cold of the bush. Here it worked its way into you, burning your fingers and noses. The men complained of chill blains and Sam’s ears and nose were on their third set of skin.

Dirty clothes in hand, Meg left her aunt staring at a trail of sugar ants on one of the bedroom walls. The letter sat in the middle of her desk.