Daughter of Australia (25 page)

J
ames returned to the Shelby homestead, the hour late. A magpie, its caterwaul hauntingly human, cried out from the trees. A lamp took form in the kitchen window. Home.

James put the horse in the barn. A tiny glow bobbed near the verandah. It was Tom stooped on the steps, his shadowed figure smoking. James sat down next to him and stretched his long legs, the vibration of the horse still in his thighs. The smell of tobacco was heavy around his friend. Cigarette butts littered the stairs. He studied Tom for a minute and his brows lowered—Tom didn't smoke.

“Burned it down?” Tom asked quietly. James nodded.

“You orright?”

“Yeah,” said James. “It's done.” He bent his head back and stared at the stars. “Figured you'd be out all night.”

Tom sucked at his cigarette, one eye closing with the pull. He paused for a moment, then exhaled the smoke from his nose in a long stream. “I'm in trouble, mate.”

James waited, watched his friend darken.

“She's pregnant.”

The men grew silent, the weight of the words drowning out the magpies.

“You going to marry her?” James ventured slowly.

“Wish it were that simple.” A low laugh broke from Tom as he reached around his knees and rocked, the cigarette pinched between two fingers. “Already got herself a bloke. Married.”

“Christ.”

“I didn't know,” he blurted. “I swear to God, she never said a word.”

“Who's the bloke?”

“Don't know.” Tom raked his fingers through his red hair. “Crazy son of a bitch, is what I hear. Works the chain gang up in Queensland. A deputy or somepin.”

“Does he know?” James asked.

“Not yet.”

“She planning on telling him?”

Tom picked up a stone and hurled it into the night, hung his head in exhaustion. “I guess that depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether I pay up. She wants money, James.” Tom picked up another rock and threw it past the first one. “Thinks we got money. Us bein' squatters and all. I told her my dad didn't leave us a pot to piss in, but she don't buy it. Says I'm going to pay one way or another.”

“Doesn't make sense. She'd have to admit what she did with you.”

Tom sucked at the last bit of tobacco, his fingers shaking. “Ashley's a fool, but not stupid. Thought of everything.” He laughed coldly, his voice scared. “Says if I don't pay, she's gonna tell him I forced myself on her. Gonna tell him I raped her.”

Tom blinked fiercely, his face sick. “I'd never do that to a woman! You know that. I got five sisters. The very thought of somebody doin' that to a woman makes my insides curl.” He grimaced. “And here she is waving a word like ‘rape' around my face like it's a bloody streamer!”

Tom dropped his head into his hands. The cigarette butt fell to the ground and smoldered. “What am I gonna do?”

James ground out the stub with his heel, stared hard into the dark.

“Got no money,” Tom choked. “Hell, I'd pay in a second just to get her off my back, but I got nothin'.” He shook his head. “Swear I don't care what the bloke does to me. He can string me up from the nearest gum branch an' I'd take it smiling. But I can't have Mum livin' with this shame. Kill her worse than Dad dyin'. Kill her worse than the boys goin' off to war.”

James stood, felt the weight of Tom's eyes as he walked in a clipped circle, hands on hips. “Let's say you pay. She's still pregnant. How's she going to explain that?”

“Says once she gets paid, she's gonna visit her bloke. Make him be with her so he thinks it's his.” He spit at the ground. “She's damn twisted, James. Evil and twisted right outta her gawddamn head.” Tom blew out the side of his mouth. “I think she planned it all along. Picked me out special. Just a dumb squatter.” He sighed. “Not half-wrong.”

James looked at his friend, his brother. His voice steeled. “We'll get the money, Tom.”

The man's lost eyes met his. “We don't have—”

“I'll find the money.” James extended a hand and pulled Tom up. “I'll find it.”

C
HAPTER 39

T
he elegant rooms of the Fairfield manor overflowed with guests. Leonora stayed quiet, smiled faintly at the well-wishers, her insides numb to words and sounds and sentiment. Alex loomed large and confident in his black tux as he made the rounds of greetings. He juggled a full tumbler agilely as he kissed hands, hugged shoulders and kept his fingers glued to his wife's waist.

Waiters herded the lingering crowd to the ballroom to take their seats for dinner. Leonora and Alex sat at a small table draped in gold silk, centered with white roses.

Owen, dressed in a pure white tuxedo, stood and tapped his fork against his champagne flute. The room quieted. “It's with great honor that we welcome you to our home on this wonderful day—the wedding of Alexander Harrington and my beautiful niece, Leonora.”

Leonora stared at her pale hands in her lap as if they belonged to someone else.

“But even as we share our congratulations and our love for this happy couple, we must also use this opportunity to say our good-byes.”

Leonora looked up. Owen and Alex exchanged grins. “As many of you know, Alex has become like a son to me. His business acumen, as well as his devotion to my niece, has been a great source of pride for my wife and I. And with that pride comes a deep trust. Alex has graciously agreed to step into the family business and will fill my shoes overseas.”

A live wire pulsed, itched her palms. Air came quick and short to her lungs.

“Please join me as we wish Alex and Leonora health and happiness in their new home.” Owen Fairfield raised his glass, met Leonora's eyes deeply and tilted the glass solely to her.

Her breathing stopped.

“Australia!”

G
han picked his way along the road furrows, the hour early as a sparrow fart. Frost crunched under his steps as he hunched his body against the cold, his hands taking turns holding the bag strap and warming in the front pockets. Only the nights and mornings brought the piercing chill. By noon, he'd be sweating through his shirt.

Ghan stopped, pulled off his boot and clawed his swollen, blistered toes.
Damn chilblains.
The more he scratched, the more they burned and swelled. Every season brought its own itch—fleas in the summer, lice in the spring, foot rot in the wet, chilblains in the winter—least he only had one foot to scratch. Ghan shoved his boot back on without relief. No time to dawdle. He had work today.

The sun peeped above the plain. Toes would be warming soon. Work came. Work went. He had a good run with the sandalwood that lasted a few years. Just tie the trunks to a few wily goats, pry at the roots and pluck the trees out straight. He could have done that work forever, but the forest cleared fast. After a few years, nothing was left but some lonely craters. Leaves a man hollow when he sees acres and acres of land barren and holed. No birds; no wallabies. Nothing. But somewhere a rich lady got a nice-smelling sandalwood box sitting atop her bureau.

Grounding wheels perked his ears and he turned. A small dray pulled up, the driver bulky and red, his worn coat buttoned to his chin. “Where yeh headin'?”

“Southern Cross.”

“Hop up.”

“Here's the map.” Mr. Fletcher, the co-op owner, handed him the scrawled piece of paper. “Yeh can read, can't yeh?”

“Course I can!” Ghan spit. Course he couldn't read a lick, but a map's a map and he could read one as good as any fancy sook could read a poem.

“Team's ready,” said Fletcher. “Need 'em back in two days, yeh hear? No slackin'.”

“No worries.”

“Good people, the Monahans. Steady customers. Lost a boy in the war. Don't put 'em out, yeh hear? Need this team back in two days, yeh hear me?”

Say it again an' yer gonna hear my fist in yer jaw.
“Yes, sir. Two days.” Ghan was getting too soft—but a man's got to eat. He crumpled the map into his pocket and pulled himself up to the seat behind the two yoked bullocks.

“Put the animals in the barn t'night, yeh hear?” Mr. Fletcher hollered out. “Yeh hear me?”

Yeh, I hear yeh, yeh naggy son of a bitch. Bullocks be sleepin' cozy in the barn while I'm freezin' my arse in the paddock.
“Yes, sir!” Ghan hollered back with a polite tip of his hat.

The roads from the Southern Cross branched out in fingers, and once he passed the outskirts of town he unwrinkled the map, caught his bearings and headed through the thumb.

Ghan passed a small cemetery on his right, no different from the others that dotted the inner land: a bent iron fence, humble white stones marking forgotten names, forgotten lives. A few hours later, he passed the remnants of a dead farm and a burned-down squatter shack. A few charred beams stuck from the soot-stamped ground. A wheelbarrow lay on its side, half-brown with rust, half-black with burn. The old water tank stood untainted. With the sound of the bullocks, a feral cat slinked with bowed back out of the empty chook house and sprinted into the rows of old wheat stalks.
Shame,
Ghan thought to himself,
good land sitting empty.

By dinner, the Monahan station came into view. One by one the children poured from the house, yelling in shrieks that the supplies had come. They swarmed the wagon before he could pull to a full stop.

“G'day,” the station men and family men and women greeted in a round. “Thought O'Shaye deliverin' the load?” they asked while their eyes flitted over the crates.

“Measles.”

“Goin' round. Seems to every few years.”

Quick as bees to syrup, the people swarmed and climbed upon the boxes, the wagon creaking under the weight. Women searched until they found the bolts of gray calico, boxes of needles, threads and buttons. Men began unloading the supplies with grunts and veins popping in their necks. The children sniffed out the tins of barley sugar candy as if they could smell it straight from the packing straw.

A little girl with braids hanging down her ears held up one of the metal candy tins. “Can we, Mum?” she begged.

“Orright,” Mrs. Monahan allowed. “But one apiece. No more.” She rolled her eyes. “Be gone 'fore the week's out.”

The men carried away cases of dried fruit, bags of white sugar and rice, chests of tea imported from China, tons of flour. A strong field man picked up the crate of rock salt and headed for the barn loft. Crockery, men's work clothes, medicine, seeds and spices were unloaded and accounted for.

“Come in and join us for supper,” invited Mr. Monahan as he handed off the last box. “Piece of sugar candy in it for you. If you can pry it out of their sticky hands, that is.”

“Thanks, but got some tucker from town. I'll just set up out here, stay outta yer way.”

“Nonsense. Missus'll take it as a personal affront.” Mr. Monahan turned away. “Don't wait long or food's gonna get cold.”

When a man isn't used to hot, good food he's stubborn to eat it, because once he tastes it he remembers how much he's missed it and how it's going to be a long time before he tastes it again. So Ghan ate, spoke when spoken to and tried not to enjoy the food too much, tried not to close his eyes and cry from the sheer joy of butter and sugar and fresh beef on his tongue.

That night he slept in the barn, up in the loft, shoved between the crates of rock salt and gunnysacks of seed. As far as places to sleep, it wasn't half-bad—not bad at all. By the time the sun squeezed through the termite holes, Ghan was up and on his way back to the co-op.

Mr. Fletcher inspected his pocket watch as the team drove up. He took a look at the animals, nodded with approval. “How'd it go?” he asked.

“Got everythin' they ordered.”

“Course they did.” Mr. Fletcher put his hand on the rump of the bullock and leaned casually, his thin arms oddly long. “Good people, the Monahans.” He turned back to business. “O'Shaye's still sick. Up fer another run?”

“Take as many as yeh got.”

Fletcher poked his tongue against his cheek. “Orright. I'll load her t'day. Come back tomorrow an' we'll send yeh south t'Corrigin.”

With the day now free, Ghan headed down the curve of the railroad. A row of Chinese, only pegs above slaves, droned and slumped over the rails. Ghan found the pub farthest from the center of town. Living off the land like he did, he treated himself to a nip now and then, especially when he finished a job. But only a nip; any more and the old anger shot back, and he was too old and worn to fight.

Ghan entered the pub, his foot sucking on the sticky floor. Barely past noon and men lined each side. A barman, arms folded at his chest, leaned against the cracked mirror that reflected the bottles, tried to fool a man into thinking the bar was well stocked. A mustache drooped from his lip to his jawbone and stretched as he talked.

Ghan pulled out a stool. The young man sitting next to it scooted over so he had room to sit at the counter. The barman raised his chin.

“Schooner,” Ghan ordered.

The man poured a pint of ale and splashed it on the counter but kept his fingers tight around the glass. “Yeh got money t'pay fer this?”

“Didn't come in here beggin', did I?” Ghan snapped.

The barman squinted, reluctantly let go of the glass and turned to the man next to Ghan. “More water?” he asked mockingly. The young man smirked and ignored him. The barman went back to his mirror and his chat.

The ale was piss warm but hoppy, warmed his belly right up through the veins. Ghan sipped it slowly, no rush to go, no place to go until the next morning. Waiting. Waiting for work.

Another young man entered the pub, a redhead faded by the sun. He sat down a seat over, nodded to the man next to him as a mate would. They were shaved and clean, tan from outdoor work but not slovenly like the shearers and roustabouts.

“You talk to her?” the dark-haired one asked.

“Said she'd give me a month before she tells him.” The redhead scratched an ear. “One stinkin' month.”

The barman walked over. “Whot yeh need, Tom?”

“A job,” he answered bitterly, then shook his head. “Whiskey.”

The man poured a shot. “Thought you made out pretty good last couple seasons.”

Tom sipped his drink, stared into it. “Not good enough.”

The quiet, dark-haired man spoke up, stretched his shoulders back. “Tom's thinking we should head to the diggings.” He smirked then. “Thinks we'll find the great nugget a thousand other men just overlooked.”

Tom rested his elbows on the counter, slouched his weight. “Better than sittin' around watchin' the grass dry up.”

“Listen to James,” ordered the barman. “Diggin's no place for boys like you. Beats the hell outta a man, changes 'im, turns 'im mean an' hard like the rocks he's poundin'.”

Tom laughed. “You're like a bloody poet.”

“Diggin's no joke!” he retorted. “An' no place fer you boys. I knew yer dad well, Tom. Know whot he used to say to any farmer wantin' t'go out there? He'd say, ‘Impossible fer a man who works atop the land t'work under it wivout losin' his mind.' Trust me, stick wiv the land, mate. She'll give yeh trouble, but she won't fuck yeh.”

Two sweaty men came in the front entrance. The barman gave them the silent nod, moved down to meet them.

Ghan listened to the talk. Not eavesdropping, just listening the same way he listened to the glasses clinking on the table and the boots shuffling against each other. The barman was right. The diggings would eat these two clean boys for breakfast and spit them out in chunks.

Ghan glanced sideways, stole a closer look. James, the one with the water, had a steadiness about him, a toughness without the show.
Good-looking kid—even a bloke could see that and not feel like a poof.
Brows were knit, looked like that was his natural expression, the thinking type. The other guy was the typical country kid, loose in posture, sulky but quick-witted.

Ghan finished the last warm gulp. He'd set up camp, have some lunch, turn in early after the sun set. He pushed the glass along the counter and stood. The barman came back, took the glass. “One shilling.”

Ghan reached into his pocket, fished around with his fingers. He took his other hand and dug deep in the other, his fingers twisting around the fabric, a hole widening in the seam.

The barman watched him steadily, licked his top teeth. “Problem?” “Got it here, somewhere.” The pockets were empty, but he kept digging, trying to manifest the coins that were there this morning. “Must 'ave dropped out.”

The man smacked the counter hard with his palm. Chatter halted, all eyes turned. “Knew yer were a bum when yeh walked in! This ain't a fuckin' charity ring! Now yeh pay that shilling or I take that peg off an' beat the money outta yeh!”

“I ain't a bum!” Ghan snapped, but at that moment he was. “Just need to trace m'steps.”

“Yeh'll leave an' stiff me fer the tab, yeh will!”

“Ask Mr. Fletcher! I ain't no bum!” spit Ghan. “He's got me deliverin' for 'im.”

“Told yeh he was a lyin' son of a bitch!” the barman announced to the group. “That's O'Shaye's job. Been doin' it for two years.” He rolled up his sleeves and reached for a long stick across the back counter, pointed it at Ghan's chest. “Listen, cripple—”

The young man next to him pushed the stick away. “Back off!” James threw a few coins onto the counter. “It's covered.”

The barman flitted his eyes back and forth between the two men and tapped the stick on the bar. “Don't go bailin' out these bums, James. They gotta learn.”

“He ain't a bum,” James defended. “Now leave him be.”

Tom rose, paid for his own drink, pushed the money at the stick. “Besides,” he taunted, “should be payin' him for makin' us drink that horse piss. Buy a cooler, yeh cheap bastard.”

Some of the men laughed. The barman lost his anger. “Yeh got some pluck, Tom.” He put the stick back under the mirror. “Just like yer dad.”

Ghan pulled out the lining of his pocket and showed it to James. “Must have dropped out.” He rubbed his scraggly beard, the shame hot in his ears.

James patted him on the shoulder. “No worries.”

Ghan couldn't soothe the burn of the handout, and when the two young men left the pub he followed. “Hold up! Give m'yer post an' I'll get the money back t'yeh. Get paid tomorrow. Can ask Mr. Fletcher at the co-op yerself. I ain't a bum.” The words repeated in his head over and over again.
I ain't a bum. I ain't a bum.