Heart of the Country (31 page)

A shadow moved across the creek.

She looked around for something to throw. The native girl was back. Harriet had seen her several times in the last month. At first only from the corner of her eye, a movement in the shadows but enough to be able to make out her black skin against the pale bark of a tree. Then gradually, the girl had become more brazen, until last week, when Harriet had taken her wash in the creek and felt someone watching her. The girl had come right out of the trees, totally naked, and had stared at Harriet as she scrambled to cover herself.

Another wave of pain swept across her back and around her stomach. She gasped at the strength of it and clasped her rounded form with both hands.

“Don't come yet, son,” she moaned. “Not yet. Wait for –”

She gasped again. The pain was so strong a wave of nausea engulfed her. She tried to spit into the dirt but her mouth was too dry. She rolled to one side and then the other, trying to find some release. The pain wouldn't let her go.

Just when she thought she would be ripped apart by it, strong hands took her arms, dragging her to her feet. She opened her eyes to see a black woman either side of her. One was the young girl who'd been watching her and the other an old woman with leathery skin. Harriet closed her eyes on the nightmare. Still the pain wracked her body. Hands pulled at her clothes. She heard soothing voices and short giggles and when finally she was stripped naked, the women pushed her down.

“No,” she yelled with the last bit of breath she could muster.

A hand took her chin and shook it. She opened her eyes and watched as the girl acted out squatting, gesturing and speaking words Harriet didn't understand. A wave of pain took the strength from her knees. She sagged to a squat, supported by the older woman, while the younger one nodded her head in excitement. Heat coursed through her body. They wanted her to squat in the dirt. This wasn't how her son should be born. She threw back her head. She cried and wailed at the pain and the ignominy of it all. Finally, after uncountable, unfathomable pains, her baby slid from between her legs into the hands of the girl.

The baby gave a lusty squawk as they sat her back on the bundle they'd made of her clothes. Harriet looked from one native to the other then down at her son. She lowered her head over him and her tears dropped onto his skin. “A boy,” she murmured. “I knew you were a boy.”

The women moved quietly around her, severing the cord, probing and fussing. The sun was low in the sky now and she shivered with cold. Somehow they got her back to the hut. She crawled into bed with her baby safely tucked up in the crook of her arm. He suckled from her breast, making little snuffling sounds. She felt a surge of love for the tiny being and her pain was forgotten. She lay a long time gazing at her son before sleep finally claimed her.

Light flooded through the little bedroom window. Harriet blinked heavy eyes while her brain tried to remember something important. The baby! She sat up. The room moved and she put a hand on the bed to steady herself. On her other side was the baby. She pulled the blanket back. Her son brought up one little arm and stretched. His tiny mouth formed an O. The wrinkles of skin across his forehead gave him the look of a wizened old man. Tears brimmed in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. He was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen – her very own son.

She turned at a small bump from the other room. The firearm Septimus had taught her to use hung beside the door in there: no use to her from here. Something scraped across the wooden floor. Perhaps he'd returned.

“Septimus?” she called, then screamed as a black face peered around the door.

The face registered surprise then smiled. It was the girl who had helped her give birth. She came into the room with a cup of water, a piece of the bread Harriet had made two days before and some small orange berries in another cup. Harriet gulped the water greedily then laid back. She let the girl feed her the berries. They had a sharp tangy taste. She left the dry bread untouched.

The baby stirred and began to cry. The girl came around the bed and lifted the squirming baby to Harriet's breast. She gasped at the strength of his suck. The girl smiled and tucked the blanket around mother and baby. Harriet nestled into the pillow. She'd never had anyone look after her before. Not since she was a child.

By the next day she'd had enough of the bed. The room was stuffy and she could smell her sour body. She rose, stripped the grimy sheets, bundled them under her arm then paused over the box where her son slept. He was a strong feeder and slumbered soundly as soon as his little belly was full. She bent over him, trailing a finger across his forehead and down his soft cheek to his chin. His lips made small puckering movements then relaxed. She smiled and kissed his milky cheek.

“You need a name,” she murmured. “A fine name.” She thought longingly of her father. “Henry James is strong, and goes well with Wiltshire.” At least Septimus had agreed to be married when the travelling priest had passed through some months earlier. Their son would not be a bastard.

“No,” she said, “you will be strong and handsome and make your way proudly in this world.”

Harriet stood back. She had been of little use to Septimus while she'd been confined, but it was time to take up her duties again both as a wife to him and as a support to their business. Their son would not have to sleep by the side of the road and barter for food as they had. She gazed once more at her baby.

“I will make sure of that,” she said.

The girl looked up in surprise when Harriet entered the kitchen. She had obviously been preparing something for Harriet to eat as she had done the day before.

“I am going to wash in the creek.” Harriet pointed out the window and made rubbing movements across her arms and body. “You make tea.”

The fire had gone cold but the bucket of water Harriet had filled was sitting beside it. She transferred some water to the kettle then showed the girl how to stack the fire and light it. “I will have a nice cup of tea when I get back,” she said. “And we will make some bread.”

The girl smiled. Her big brown eyes were wide, and held no sign of understanding.

Harriet sighed. “You stay here.”

She lowered the girl to a chair, careful to barely touch the naked black shoulders.

“I am going to wash.”

Harriet took her clean clothes and her precious soap and let herself out into the fresh morning.

When she returned the kettle was boiling over the fire and the girl was nursing the baby. He sucked contently on the black finger in his mouth.

Harriet dropped her things and snatched her son. “No,” she said sternly.

The girl looked at her, wide eyed again, but this time with sadness. She lowered her gaze.

“I will look after the baby,” Harriet said. “You can help me in the house.” Henry began to wail loudly. She put him to her breast again. With all this feeding she wouldn't be able to do as much as she had been. Septimus liked a tidy house and she was supposed to keep an eye on their few sheep, something she hadn't done for more than a week.

Harriet studied the girl, who was now watching her feed. She looked strong and appeared keen to help. Perhaps Harriet had been a little harsh. Other women had servants and nannies. If this girl would wear a dress and learn some jobs she might prove very useful. Septimus was certainly not here to help.

Harriet eased Henry from her breast and lifted him to her shoulder. His little belly rumbled and he let out a belch worthy of someone much older. All the while the girl watched him closely, with longing in her eyes.

Harriet rose to her feet. She still had the dress she'd patched and worn in her early days with Septimus. It would be about the right size. She clutched Henry to her and rummaged in the trunk. Once she had found it, she took it and jiggled it in front of the girl. “Put this on.”

The girl looked from the dress to Harriet but didn't move.

“You must wear clothes.”

Still the girl didn't move. Her eyes were firmly fixed on the baby in the crook of Harriet's arm.

Harriet offered her son. The girl reached eager arms forward. Harriet quickly shoved the dress between them. “If you want to hold the baby you must wear this,” she said firmly.

The girl looked from Harriet to the baby and then at the dress.

Harriet shook the dress at her again. “You must wear a dress.”

Slowly the girl reached out and took hold of the fabric.

Harriet smiled. “I'll help you put it on,” she said. “Then we must think of a name for you. What about Dulcie? That's a pretty name.”

Septimus left his wagon secured in the bush and rode his horse the last few miles towards George Smith's hut. He hadn't been this way since he'd found out Thomas Baker occupied the neighbouring property – there were plenty of other farms and settlers for him to call on. Now, however, he had a reason to return.

He'd been held up in Adelaide waiting for a new shipment of clothing and tools, as late September storms had delayed the ship he'd been expecting with his goods. This had worked, in the end, in his favour. While he was there, the
Government Gazette
published Governor Young's Order in Council finally authorising the granting of the much discussed fourteen-year pastoral leases. So, instead of making his way towards home with his wagon, he travelled to the district he'd been avoiding for more than a year. He wanted to renew his acquaintance with George Smith. The man had four sons and a need to expand. George had the labour and Septimus had the money. It should work out beneficially for both of them to begin with. Septimus was already forming a plan to wrestle the property from George, but one step at a time.

He approached with caution. There was a horse tethered in the yard, smoke drifted from the chimney and from somewhere beyond the house he could hear chickens cackling. He had no way of knowing whether George was at home or indeed if Baker had become a regular visitor.

He slowed his horse. It tossed its head and snorted. The door of the hut opened and George Smith strode to the edge of the verandah. Septimus glanced around. He urged his horse a few steps closer.

“Mr Smith,” he called. “It is I, Septimus Wiltshire.”

“Wiltshire?” George pushed his hat onto his head and stepped out into the sunlight.

“It's some time since my dear wife and I visited you with our wagonload of goods.”

“Wiltshire?” George came closer.

“My wife entertained your wife and daughter at our wagon down by the creek.”

“Oh, yes. I remember,” George said. “That was a while ago. Lizzie has married our neighbour and lives on Penakie now. You'd be better off visiting them if you have things to sell. I am devoid of female company. My wife is with our daughters-in-law visiting the Gibsons.”

“I don't have time to set up shop, as it happens. My own wife will be waiting for me. She is due to have her baby soon.”

“Well, congratulations.” George slapped Septimus on the back as he dismounted. “Our dear Lizzie is expecting a baby in the new year.”

“That's good news.” Septimus smiled at the older man. Good news indeed, he thought. He could conduct his business and with luck be gone before any of George's family returned.

“Come inside,” George urged. “It's quite warm today. Let me offer you a drink.”

“Thank you, George.”

Septimus took the liberty of using the man's first name and placing his hand on his shoulder as they stepped inside. “I have some news I think you will want to hear.”

Septimus turned his wagon off the bullock track and onto the even rougher trail that led to his house. Long shadows enveloped him and the moaning of the wind through the trees brought a gloom to the late afternoon. He whistled softly as his wagon rolled and dipped. He was returning home a tired but happy man. Darkening skies couldn't dampen his mood. Business was certainly good and the deal he'd made with George Smith should bring him great returns.

He'd been gone longer than he'd expected this time but he was glad of it. Harriet had become so swollen with child on his last trip home that he could hardly bear to share her bed, let alone release his sexual needs with her. He hoped she'd given birth by now. He had grown used to having her body whenever he needed it – and he was longing for a comfortable bed too. Since Harriet no longer travelled with him, he'd reverted to the swag when on the road.

A light glowed at the window and smoke drifted from the chimney. At the sound of the wagon the door flew open and there was Harriet, a much thinner Harriet, waving at him from the verandah.

“Welcome home, Septimus,” she called.

He nodded in her direction. “I'll see to the animals then come in,” he said.

It was dark by the time he came inside. He stooped through the door and stopped to look around. The hut was neat as always. Some bush flowers sat on the trunk Harriet used as a cupboard. Fire glowed beneath the oven and the kettle steamed. Harriet hovered by the table. Her hair shone and she once again wore her dress nipped in at the waist. Septimus sat at the table. All was well.

“Time for you to meet your son, Septimus.”

She bent to a box beside the fire he hadn't noticed and lifted a parcel of cloth. She leaned in beside him and slid the bundle into his arms.

Septimus looked down as she gently turned back the cloth. There was a tiny being, dark hair, wrinkled brow, pointy nose and ears – it could have been an elf. He glanced at Harriet, who was watching him expectantly.

“Does it have a name?” he asked.

“Your son was born four weeks ago.”

Septimus frowned. Her tone had an accusing edge.

“I was … Well I was quite alone,” Harriet said, softly this time. “I couldn't keep calling him Baby. I chose Henry James after my father as I didn't know yours, but we could change the second name if you would rather –”