Not the Same Sky (20 page)

‘Where will you live?’

‘I’m going to try Dream Street.’

Oh, she was funny. They shifted about. ‘As good a place as any,’ one of them said.

But they were Samuel’s friends, not hers. She had met girls here from Belfast, a lot of them seemed to be sent here, bolder, badder, more spirited, you could say. But they weren’t Julia’s friends either. Now she wondered if she had ever had friends. But she shook off the self-pity, it would not do to become crippled by moroseness. No, that would not do at all.

‘Good luck,’ they said.

And so she set off on an eternity of a journey, riding in coaches, working a day here and there. She was afforded safety because of the peculiarity of a woman travelling like this. Sometimes the road was interminable and she heard herself saying, soon, soon, soon. A small girl on the ship on a mattress near Julia had sometimes whispered that to herself, usually during a storm. Julia would lie there, raiding her head for nice thoughts and rocking with her mantra. What was her name? Where was she now? Stuck in some kitchen probably, not like Julia out on the road going somewhere. Julia’s life was making a thread, not defined yet, but she could almost feel it going through her hands sometimes, as her body rattled with the coach along another dirt road.

When her bones got sore with the road, she stopped and found some work on a sheep farm for a time. The men left her alone, so struck were they by the nerve of her.

On her first day on her first farm she looked out.

‘Is that grass?’ she asked.

And they laughed at her. And she laughed at them.

‘You call that grass!’ she exclaimed.

The sheep blended into it, she had to blink to be sure she had seen them. She slept in a house with a tin roof. The weather was warm at night, so the accommodation suited her fine. The cracks in the door let in sufficient air. Julia was used to heat now, so used to it indeed that the occasional cold night came as a surprise to her. There were a few mangy trees near the back door, they sighed when even the slightest breeze blew up, wishing maybe they were better and more fulsome. Julia didn’t know exactly where she was, or exactly what month it was, but she did know the days of the week, counting them from each Sunday. Time didn’t matter much anyway. She woke with the sun and went to bed early, the belief being that lights in shacks might attract bushrangers, though in truth they were all tired as soon as the sun went down. Julia was cleaning outside the house when she saw an approaching figure in the distance. On and on he came, changing from a mere dot to something now resembling a man. And still he came, walking through the sun, on and on until he arrived. He had a fiddle with him, a thoroughly welcome calling card. The master and mistress were informed. And word of the dance began to filter through. It would be a crossing the line dance.

‘A what?’

‘So everyone can come. There’s only one musician so the owners and us will all be at the one dance.’

The woolshed was cleaned but the floor was not scrubbed. The oil from the wool would make for a fine slippery dance surface. Then a chalk line was drawn down the middle, with one side for the owner, his wife, his family and their guests—of whom there would be many. The important word could be got far and farther. A dance should not be missed, it gave them the strength to continue. Ribbons and family lace were made ready. On the other side of the line was the floor space for the servants, the stockmen, the shearers and the roustabouts. There was to be no crossing of the line. Several lights were made for the shed, to be placed carefully away from harm’s way. The tins were half filled with clay, topped with dripping and a long homemade wick was then inserted. The smell evaporated into the others.

Soon it was ready. The woolshed was a dance house, and they straightened their backs before they went to wash as best they could. Julia still had a good dress. It had stayed good, despite the road.

In the distance lights on carriages could be seen wobbling towards the shed, coming and going in the dark, twinkling like stars. There was much noise as the carriages arrived and men and women alighted. And so the dance began. The musician warmed up slowly to make the dancers put their feet through the roof, not stick them to the floor. Julia intended, and hoped, to enjoy herself, but would never have thought the occasion would point her straight ahead for her next few years.

It was while they were arranging a bush version of a quadrille that Julia made an unexpected dainty movement. The dancing that she had done on the ship came back to her feet but with an added lift. She must have learned something from those others. Oh, she said, and tried it again. And again. Oh, they said.

And to think that she could do that despite the road and the roughness of the last year.

‘Where did you say you were going?’

‘To Ballarat.’

‘And what will you do there?’

‘Be a dancer.’

‘Well, I can see that. Good luck.’

More luck was thrown after her as she left.

The journey proceeded as she had expected. She had a lift on a comfortable coach. They had provisions for the first two days, as the driver knew there was a scarcity of inns on this stretch. While they were cooking these on the first evening, diligently following the safety rules, the smells of fire and food running into each other, Julia allowed herself a certain amount of satisfaction. She had had a rocky start, had endured some hardship, had lowered herself to do what was necessary, had found ways out and up from that, had kept her own secrets, had loved even, and was now on her way to dance for gold. She was capable of managing the dangers. She slept deeply, being now used to the noises outside.

But in the morning Julia and the others were woken by an unfamiliar sound, a distant crackling, as if a giant was stepping on dry twigs. Julia crawled out from under the makeshift tent to see the faraway bushfire shooting balls of smoke into the horizon, as if the giant was blowing from a pipe. They were camped in a valley beside a river, surrounded by hills, and would have to climb out when the time was right. For a few hours they watched the progress of the fire as it leapt from patch to patch. The men debated its speed and direction. Julia stayed quiet while the voices of the men got louder as concern began to show itself. It was best not to interrupt the worry of men. Finally, in the afternoon, it was decided—by whom it was hard to tell—that it was time to move that way, not that way, and now, definitely now. The fires had begun to join up. They would have to move fast. They might have to discard belongings if the weight was delaying them. This was of little consequence to Julia, her belongings having dwindled almost to what would do a swagman. She had left her trunk behind in Brisbane in the shed by the river, perhaps someone would find it useful in some way. You never could tell. The fire continued to meet other fires—it looked as if the entire thing might gracefully become a complete circle and trap them in the valley. Julia looked at the river and wondered if they could hide there, but they were leaving it behind now. She wondered if she should voice this thought but decided against it. It had seemed too dangerous to light their own fire this morning so they were without tea, she would have liked tea.

As they moved up the hill and closer to the flames they stayed silent. The driver kept his eyes on the track. The passengers checked the progress of the fire behind them. They watched for sparks, and hoped that none would catch on to their coverings which they had wet with the last of the water, but which was drying rapidly. The smell of smoke grew even denser, the heat intensified. Animals ran this way and that over the road, searching for safety or maybe their own secret water into which to plunge. Trees spluttered red ash, spitting it out onto other trees and sparking another unlit tree into a burning life of its own. The smell brought fear with it, to the animals as well as to them, and worryingly now to their own horses, which panted and snorted and widened their eyes. But then, the fire suddenly turned, jumped as though in a triumphant display, and rushed off to another hill. They stopped, staring after it, seeing it, now that it was disappearing, for what it was: a beautiful ball of hot red glowing miracle. The passengers and the coach driver broke their silence and babbled uncontrollably. Julia stayed quiet and thought about all the luck that had been freely wished her since she had left Brisbane. The smell of burning followed them, and the next day stripes of rain passed over, dropping soot from the sky.

There were more days of travelling and two coach changes before Julia saw the miles of men heading to what might be wealth. There were plenty of inns now, with food for sale on the road and a rising air of excitement tempered with fearsome anticipation. The one other woman on the last coach worried excessively.

‘There could be pirates,’ she said.

‘Bushrangers. Yes there could I suppose,’ Julia replied.

‘Or bushfires.’

‘Yes,’ Julia agreed.

‘There could be floods.’

‘Listen, if you’re looking for one disaster after another you’re going to the right place.’

What was the point of worrying? Whatever would be thrown at you would be thrown at you. The sun still beat down.

‘We might be passing the place called Desolation Hill.’

‘Well, I’ll let you know if I see it coming up,’ Julia said.

The other woman didn’t smile, ever, not with all that expecting things to get worse.

‘And there’s a place called Poverty Point.’

‘We must go looking for that, for sure,’ Julia said.

‘Any proper rain yet?’ the driver asked.

‘Not for months.’

Well that should settle the question of the floods, for the moment.

‘Lovely evening now,’ the driver added.

‘Yes, it’s cooled down nicely.’

They passed some emus, straining their necks to look disdainfully at them, before thinking better of the waste of time and wandering off into the distance. They passed a bunch of dashing vibrant parrots. ‘You could use those for women’s hats,’ the men laughed.

You could too, thought Julia, always adding to her list of what could be done if the next thing failed. She wondered if anyone else had thought of that.

The following day turned out to be lovely. Grey clouds covered the entire sky, sent as consolation to the walkers. Drops of rain fell on them, one after the other. The walkers hoped the rain would never stop. They trudged right through the day until evening grew. The night sky cleared and filled up—there were never just a few stars in the sky here. They passed a deserted town. Rust is dry here, not wet, Julia thought.

The edge of the town began to fray. She had expected to see more houses up over the hill, but they ran out suddenly. These were huts that might have been houses, but the life was dried out of them now. And suddenly the pretence was over and they headed again into coal darkness.

‘It’s where they came first before they discovered there was better gold further on,’ the driver told them, glancing back.

The lights on the coach shook and shivered and threw eerie shadows, just a little way, into the vast space. And finally they arrived. They would sleep in the coach until dawn. Tomorrow she would settle for however long.

In the morning Julia set about getting a roof for over her head. She was told of one place where a woman had come and wanted another to share. Julia surveyed the quarters—they seemed clean and there was a dark corner to help with the heat. How could she make tea? That’s what mattered most at this moment.

‘There are two husbands next door, friendly enough, but not any bother,’ the woman said.

It seemed they were intent only on finding gold and getting out of here back to their wives as fast as possible. Julia lay down on the bed to stretch the miles out of her body. She woke to the smell of cooking.

‘There’s great noise in the evening, football, the Chinese against the rest. Here, take something to eat.’

Julia sat on a stool at the door to eat. When she was finished, she rubbed her plate with her finger and licked it.

‘You don’t have to do that here, there’s plenty of food,’ one of the husbands said as he passed her on the way into his house.

‘What would you call that? A shack?’ asked Julia, peering after him.

‘Maybe, but it won’t matter much when we hit gold,’ the husband said, not for the first time.

This place looked promising, Julia thought, but she would keep herself to herself until she figured out what she was going to do. She walked out into the heat to survey the expanding street. Some women turned away from her, they were the ones who had come to join their husbands. They stayed well away from those who had not. There was word that Lola Montez was coming to dance. Julia listened to it and then knew her next move. Two days later the poster outside the hotel said that a professional dancer was being hired from Brisbane.

‘You didn’t tell us that’s what you are.’

‘Did I not?’ said Julia. ‘I must have forgotten.’

‘You can dance anywhere,’ the other woman said. ‘They have a floor laid down at Kanangra Walls underneath the overhanging rock.’

‘And where’s that?’ Julia asked, as if she cared.

One of the husbands, a womanly kind of a man, came in, pointed out the window, and asked them, ‘Do you know what the name of that is?’