Absolution Creek (63 page)

Olive’s admission continued to flatten every aspect of Jack’s world. Combined with Thomas’s disloyalty, it was difficult to think clearly. His inability to see their true characters reflected, he believed, on his own limited view of the world, and in that knowledge Jack recognised a degree of selfishness he was previously unaware of. Yet the anger needling his mind was greater than his compassion. This land, which he cared for and was so proud of, even the homestead, meant nothing to Olive. He meant nothing to her. Clearly her arrival at Absolution Creek was borne out of desperation.

At the water’s edge Jack recalled the life he’d sought on leaving Sydney. His dream remained simple: to have a place of his own in the world and to share it with loved ones. Was it so hard to have both? Where once the Bible sat by a horsehair chair in the kitchen of their grocer’s store, it now rested on the warm sand of the creek’s bank, the gold lettering now partially faded, and leather cover worn with use. Would it not have been better, Jack wondered, to have given in to temptation that first night of Olive’s arrival; to have lived the rest of his life blissfully ignorant of his fiancée’s deceit? Such a question could never be answered. It did, however, lend credence to his increasing lack of faith. What was the point of living a life good and true if others did not? Why be burdened with guilt at ignoring his father’s deathbed promise if one’s penance was never enough?

Jack thought of Squib running through the bush, accepting and grateful of any kindness shown her. The girl who’d survived the very worst of obstacles still found pleasure in her life, found pleasure by Jack’s side, and was grateful for what she had. Jack was not immune to her easy smile and interest in all things rural. Out of the mismatch of inhabitants that once resided within Absolution Creek’s homestead, Squib was the only person with whom he could share his aspirations, who was actively interested in what he was trying to achieve. Should the girl have been ignorant of bush life Jack suspected Squib would have done her best to learn. As it was he remembered with more than fondness the nights they’d sat by the camp fire, good-naturedly quarrelling about one of Mr Farley’s animal husbandry books.

The snap of a branch diverted Jack’s thoughts. On the far side of the creek a mob of ewes padded quietly to the water. They jostled for position briefly before lining up like soldiers to drink as one. Their white muzzles dipped into the liquid and then rose to swallow a mouthful before dipping again, their woolly backs pressed close together.

Jack strode up the bank to where his horse waited, intent on repaying the support received from a girl on the edge of womanhood. There were ways of stopping men like Adams and no doubt methods of thwarting well-intentioned governments if the coin was sufficiently thick. What swirled in Jack’s mind was against everything he’d been instructed to believe in, and if his parents were alive they would undoubtedly condemn his actions. Perhaps that was the reason he left his father’s Bible on the sandy creek bank, for as Jack rode away he was only aware of the goodness nestled in the girl named Squib and a burning need to save her.

Squib awoke to a vision of the sapling in the corner of her room. Light was beginning to stream through the window and a cool breeze rustled the leaves of the leopardwood tree. On the floor tiny star flowers stained the timber boards in patches. The unseasonal flowers blew slowly across the boards in miniature circles to melt against her bare feet as Squib splashed water on her face and tidied her hair in a long plait. A single clean blouse lay over a chair with the too-few items that filled her kerosene-box wardrobe, and she dressed swiftly, aware of how quiet the house was. At this hour even Olive should have been up and the homestead scented with the remains of fried eggs. Normally Squib would have already had the men’s breakfast things washed and tidied away and be sitting down to tea and toast by the time her ladyship appeared. The stillness unnerved her.

Having spent nearly one-and-a-half days holed up out on a pine-covered ridge since Adams’s unscheduled arrival, Squib returned footsore and exhausted to her bedroom at midnight. She’d not noticed anything out of sorts then. She’d skirted around the house and entered her room via the veranda to ensure she’d not woken anyone. Now with hunger making her ill, Squib walked hesitantly to the kitchen. Instead of the usual stove-warmed space, the area was pleasantly cool for late summer. Shards of broken plates and cups were scattered across the kitchen floor, along with pages from a newspaper and a couple of scattered envelopes. Windows were open as well as the front door, and blowflies crawled over the kitchen table. Squib shivered; something was terribly wrong.

The rest of the homestead was equally uninhabited. The two living rooms, both only partially furnished, were empty. In Olive’s bedroom, clothes were strewn about, the dresser drawers open and clearly rummaged through. Thomas’s room was equally dishevelled. With growing nervousness Squib opened Jack’s bedroom door. His barely used space was neat, the wardrobe closed, drawers intact. Squib sat on Jack’s bed, trying to decipher what had occurred in the house during her absence. If all Jack’s things were still here – if he hadn’t packed anything while the others had – then that meant that Olive and Thomas had gone. But why would they go? A small gasp escaped her lips as understanding took hold, then an overwhelming feeling of joy settled in her chest. Lifting Jack’s rarely used pillow, Squib buried her face in it. There was the faintest scent of soap and the unmistakable smell of Jack: a mix of leaves and soil. With a squeal Squib hugged the pillow to her chest. Everything pointed to the same conclusion. Olive’s secret was now revealed. Learning that she was with child and in love with another, Jack had thrown both his brother and the woman meant to be his wife out of his home and off Absolution Creek.

Squib went back to the kitchen and with renewed energy tidied the broken plates, threw away the mouldy bread and stoked up the stove with wood. Once the kettle was warming she picked up the mail and stacked it neatly to one side. The newspaper she folded carefully. Jack always read it at least four times and once he was finished with it Squib usually spent an evening cutting it up into neat squares to hang on the rusty nail in the dunny. The letter was sitting beneath the bread knife.

Squib re-read the letter. ‘Jack’s ward,’ she mouthed softly. She didn’t want to be Jack’s ward. She screwed the letter up tightly in her fist. Clearly Jack didn’t understand that she cared for him. That out of everybody she had ever known in the world he was the one that she
now
loved the best. There was no one else. Her father had abandoned her.

Squib knew they were meant to be together on Absolution Creek. She’d dreamt about their lives together, had seen their future. Even with Olive’s presence, Squib understood she would always be by Jack’s side. Not perhaps as a woman hoped to be with a man, however she would settle for second best if the choice was that or nothing, for Squib couldn’t live without Jack Manning in her world.

Now, though, Olive was out of the picture. There was no barrier to her happiness. Squib knew she would have to saddle up and ride after Jack. She would have to find him and remind him that, with Olive and Thomas gone, only a handful of years lay between them and that she was prepared to wait. She would wait forever if she knew one day he’d be by her side.

Squib shut the flue on the stove, closed the window and with a handful of currants and a water bag for provisions ran outside. She would ride all day and night to find Jack. She had to. Squib didn’t want to be Jack Manning’s ward. One day she hoped to be his wife.

Chapter 53

S
crubber awoke on the ground, rain filling the whorls of his ear, mud masking his cheek. He righted himself against the wet earth and fumbled for the pouch. Unlacing the leather, he dropped it down his shirtfront, patting it securely. The pain hit again, stabbing him between breaths.

Surely that wasn’t his boy over there, was it? Crouching in the grass? How long was it since Brendan had been home for a visit? Ten, twenty years? He must call Veronica, tell the old girl their boy was home.

When he opened his eyes Dog was standing opposite. He looked like an oversized water rat, and had Scrubber’s hat gripped between his teeth. ‘I’ll be right, mate.’ Scrubber claimed his hat as Dog snuck under his arm. ‘Don’t worry, I ain’t leaving you or the girls out here alone in this weather.’ He knew he needed to get some perspective on the situation, to talk his way out of the pain. A man could be in worse predicaments, after all. And no matter what lay ahead of him it would never be as bad as what his boy Brendan went through during the war: living like rats in that bloody desert, with scant supplies and fouled water. All to stop some bloody General by the name of Rommel stampeding over the rest of the world. Well, they could have it. Brendan was dead of disease by 1943, buried in someone else’s crappy country. That’s what buggered Veronica. That’s when she started to eat and couldn’t stop.

A few feet away a couple of kangaroos bounded to a stop under a tree. Dog gave a low growl. ‘Plenty of room for everybody,’ Scrubber pacified. The rain was coming thick and fast. Through the scattered trees a flash of lightning highlighted a ridge of storms in the west. Dog howled. Scrubber patted him to quietness. ‘Yeah, it don’t look real good and it’s not very far away.’ He’d never seen two storms converging from opposite directions. He thought back to the publican’s suggested route. They were travelling in a direct line to the west, which meant the creek that eventually wound through Absolution should be somewhere on his right, perhaps only half a mile or so away. After he reached the creek he’d continue to head south, cutting through a few neighbours’ paddocks until he reached a mounded crossing. That was the way towards Absolution homestead. The problem was he was reckoning on things getting pretty damp. A ripple of lightning flashed overhead, revealing the trees Scrubber sought refuge under.

‘Belah.’ He clucked his tongue. ‘Should have known it.’ Another flash of light silhouetted a myriad of belah saplings. The trees were a prime indication of heavily flooded country. ‘I think we’ll pack up camp and move on, Dog. Ain’t got much choice. I know my limitations. A couple of nights holed up out here and I’ll be buggered.’ He whistled to his girls and began collecting his gear. ‘Come on, Samsara, your turn.’ The easterly storm consumed his thoughts, reminding him of the day they’d left the granite country. That sneaky thing out there lay only days behind. Time had nearly caught up with him.