Sarah Thornhill (22 page)

All the rest of the afternoon Wednesday worked on the tree. Brought the wood up to the yard in barrowloads, Skipper stacking it when he'd filled the water barrels.

Late in the day I was in the kitchen and there was a noise on the doorframe, Wednesday scratching his fingernails at the wood. When he saw I'd heard he stood back. Waiting with Skipper, heads down, faces in shadow.

Blacks, Mrs Daunt! Maeve said. The blacks!

Spoke something in Irish, a prayer it might of been.

Yes, Maeve, I said, that's all right. Get that loaf, and the forequarter. Bag of taters. The baccy Mr Daunt left for them.

She put the things down on the doorstep. Wouldn't go near the men.

Now Maeve, what's this about, I said. Been listening to nonsense about the blacks, have you.

Maeve could be stupid when she chose. Make out like she'd forgotten her few words of English.

Good lot of wood you done, Wednesday, I said.

He was an ugly feller, nose took up half his face and his eyes buried under his brows. But smiled in among his beard and by heaven you never saw such fine teeth, and his frowning face warmed by that smile.

Yellerjack, missus, he said. Damn good.

Yellerjack, I said. That the name of it?

Split him, wood's yeller as a guinea, he said. Ever see a guinea, Missus?

I have not, I said. Sad to say. You?

He didn't answer, chuckling away inside his beard.

Cheeky ones, Maeve said behind me. Come off, Mrs Daunt!

I never saw any men other than Wednesday and Skipper, but now and then women appeared at the kitchen door. Always two or three together, their bits of clothing the same colour as the dirt, little ones with them naked as Adam, an old woman with bad eyes led along by a girl. Half of them marked with the smallpox, and all of them knobs and bones like the ones at home.

Never looked at me. One of them might hold up a billy and shake it, that was as near as they'd come to asking.

I gave them what I thought was right. Eggs when we had them. Always a piece of meat. Cornmeal. A billy of milk. I'd hear one of them say, Thank you missus, then they'd be gone.

One week it come round to wash day and when I went to get the water the barrel was empty. Hadn't seen Wednesday and Skipper for a time. Went out the front, looked down the hill, sure enough the smoke was gone.

Daunt walked up from the orchard for his midday meal and I was waiting for him at the door.

Where have those damn blacks gone, I said. Leave me in the lurch, all the wash to do and no damn water!

I'd caught him on the hop, he was all over dust and sweat.

Well, he said. That's the thing about the blacks. Grand workers. But not reliable, more's the pity. Come and go as it suits them, not as it might suit us.

Then it'll have to suit you to have nothing clean, I said.

Crankier than was reasonable. Seemed to of made up my mind to have a barney with him.

We'll get you your water, he said. Give us our meal, Paddy and I will get the water up for you.

I went out to the kitchen, set to chopping at the potatoes, hacking the meat, throwing wood in the firebox.

Mrs Daunt, Maeve said.

Pushed the chair at me, took the pan out of my hand, fixed the fire where I'd spoiled it. So gracious about it, and Daunt so uncomplaining, I was ashamed.

I knew why I'd taken such a little thing so hard. I wanted a reason to feel hard done by. I'd promised to forsake all others, and I had, but nothing could stop me wanting.

I dished up, put Daunt's plate in front of him.

No call to get the water today, I said. Out of sorts, that's all. Wash can wait.

Ah, well now, he said, caught on the hop all over again.

Get the water first thing, he said. They'll be back by and by, you know. But no joy asking the whys and wherefores of it.

A week later, the smoke was hanging over the trees again, Wednesday and Skipper walking up to the house like they'd never been gone.

W
E HAD
a couple of neighbours, if you can call a person who lives an hour's ride away a neighbour. On the west we shared a boundary with Beresford. Huge horse of a man, a drinker's nose and no doubt as to his opinions. No wife, just him and his men. He'd ride over to see us now and then, take a glass with Daunt. Something about the way he looked past me made me think he was one of those men had no time for women. Educated, been to a grand school back in England, spoke very nice, but from all accounts lived rough out on his place. Didn't encourage visitors.

To our east it was Major and Mrs Coulter. From the same part of Ireland as Daunt, he told me. They'd come out here in the early days with three children and a couple of cousins and a maiden aunt and seven servants. Had an in with the governor, got a big spread. As far as a bit of company went, Coulters sounded like my best bet.

The first time Lucy Coulter came to visit, she was on the loveliest pony, the servant coming along behind on a sad old nag. She jumped down off the pony light and bouncing as you please, just dropped the reins, knew the man would get hold of them.

In that one thing I could see the world she was from.

She knew Daunt, and I suppose thought Mrs John Daunt would be out of the same box. But first up I saw her notice my pinny, patched in the middle and ragged along the hem, and my boots, strong men's boots you could walk anywhere in and not worry about, and my rough hands that told her I did my own washing. In one glance she saw all that and her thought was plain as the nose on your face: poor John Daunt, such a shortage of women in the Colony, he'd had to
marry down
.

Why Mrs Daunt, she said, and took me by surprise, shaking me by the hand the way men did. The hand she was shaking had been in the flour bin not long before. I wanted to pull it back, but she hung on.

I cannot express to you the pleasure of seeing another female of the species! she said.

You could hear the Irish, but refined.

Set to banging the dust off her riding habit, then she saw it was blowing into the house.

Oh I do beg your pardon Mrs Daunt, she said. A thousand apologies!

I was cross about the flour on my hands that had got onto hers. I'd seen her wipe it off as if it was dirty, so I spoke a little sharp.

In a world of dust another pinch won't kill us, I said. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, Mrs Coulter.

She was so startled her smile slipped. I saw her make an adjustment to her idea of me.

Daunt smiling away. Embarrassed, I thought. I didn't care. Those Lady Bountiful ways got my hackles up.

We settled ourselves in the parlour and Maeve brought us tea. Got out the good cups without me thinking to tell her. Had Lucy Coulter's measure, I could see.

And tell me Mrs Daunt, Lucy Coulter said, I wonder were you born out here?

She'd of known I was, of course, by the way I said my words. What she was really wanting to know was, did I have the taint?

Yes, I said. My father William Thornhill. An old colonist, well known on the Hawkesbury.

Ah! she said. Well. And is it a big family, Mrs Daunt?

Middling, I said. The two of us girls, and two brothers.

Had the words ready to say there'd been another brother too, but had a bust-up with my pa and brewed up rotgut now. But had mercy for Daunt.

There was three boys, I said, but my brother Will was drowned at New Zealand.

Lucy Coulter's face squeezed up to show how sorry she was and a pair of lines creased into the skin between her eyebrows, so you could see how she'd look when she was old.

Oh Mrs Daunt, she said, how terribly sad for you all and what a shock for your poor mother.

All hands lost, I said. Only one saved, man by the name of Jack Langland.

Hadn't known how much I wanted to hear that name.

She wrinkled herself up again, made an
oh dear
sort of noise.

I wanted to go on, say
Jack Langland
again, but my throat closed up. Had to find my handkerchief and make out I was coughing.

And Mrs Coulter, how are your dear children getting along? Daunt said. Such a fine flock you have.

You good feller, I thought. Knowing and forgiving in the one moment.

Lucy Coulter was one of those women could tell you all day about her blessed offspring, down to the last mouthful of porridge they had for breakfast. Charles a good head for figures, Charlotte wrote a neat hand, and little Septimus would soon settle to his studies, at his age one didn't expect miracles.

Daunt made out he was agog at it all, and I got myself together, nodded and smiled.

But would there never be an end to it, the hole in my life where Jack should of been?

Lucy Coulter finished at last with her children but had the next thing ready.

Did I tell you, Mr Daunt, she said, and Mrs Daunt you will be interested in this, I am making a study of the natives' tongue. Before they die out. Their ways and their words a curiosity worth preserving.

Spoke some words that she said meant
eel
and
wooden bowl
.

Like children, poor things, she said. Happy to exchange a small vocabulary for a blanket or some tucker.

Put
tucker
in a frame by the way she said it, inviting Daunt to share its quaintness. He didn't smile.

When first I got settled here I went down to the camp, he said. Gave them a few spades, a bag of seeds. Thought they'd be glad of the chance to grow some corn. Couple of axes, make a house better than the kennels they had.

I noticed that in company with Lucy Coulter, his Irish way of talking was stronger.

Thought to make cottiers out of them, he said, and they both laughed, the funniest thing they'd ever heard.

Well, I didn't know what a cottier was. Damned if I was going to smile and make out I did.

Thinking to make farmers of the blacks! Daunt said. Fresh from County Cork I was, green as grass.

I thought, thank you again, John Daunt.

And I wonder was your experiment a success, Mr Daunt, Lucy Coulter said. Or did you find what the Major has, that they are woefully work-shy?

It would depend, Mrs Coulter, on what you might term a success, he said. They took the spades and the seeds and the axes and they thanked me very prettily. Kept the axes but sold the rest at Gammaroy, I heard, for half a rope of tobacco and a few blankets.

Mrs Coulter gave a little gasp but Daunt looked at his hands, the skin cracked round the fingernails and a blister in the curve of his thumb from the woolshears.

I tell you what I think of it, Mrs Coulter, he said. That these are folk too clever to break their backs heaving dirt. I've come round to the view that a man shouldn't be in too much of a hurry to judge them. I'd say no more than this, that their ways are not the same as our ways.

Well, Mr Daunt, Mrs Coulter said. What a very interesting view of the matter. Not a view I think I've heard expressed until today.

Soon after that she gathered her gloves and her smart riding hat. Made her goodbyes graciously, but I had the feeling Mrs Coulter might not be paying too many visits to Mr and Mrs John Daunt.

Daunt and I stood out the front watching the glossy rump of her horse till the dust hid it.

Now I'll tell you, he said. Every time I see Lucy Coulter I think the same thing.

I steeled myself for what was coming. How charming she was. How lively. What a fine mind.

I give thanks to the Good Lord, he said. My mother told me I was within a whisker of being a Septimus myself. Imagine that now, going through life number seven.

When he was amused his big plain face lit up.

I look at Lucy Coulter, he said, and I see a woman that could saddle some innocent babe with being Septimus!

Took my hand in the manner of someone sealing a bargain.

Do I have your word now, Sarah, he said. That no child of ours will be a Septimus?

You do, I said, and had to laugh, he was putting on such a show of being in earnest.

You'd almost of thought he could read my mind. That he saw how Lucy Coulter made me feel. But married and all as we were, half a year now, somehow we'd never yet got the hang of speaking straight with each other.

It told me this, though. Daunt was thinking about children. Going so far even as to think what their names might be. Natural enough, marriage generally brought on children. But it made me know I wasn't ready.

Not that I didn't want little ones. But what kind of mother could I be to Daunt's children, when the need to hear another man's name was a hunger inside me?

O
UT IN
the bush it was the way of things to be hospitable when fellers came through. They'd be driving a mob of sheep north or bringing down a dray full of bales. Give them a hot feed and a shakedown for the night in with Paddy, send them on their way next morning.

Great ones for a yarn, long tales about how they near died from snakes or thirst. One feller showed us his hand, been out in the bush on his own splitting timber, reached in for the wedge, log snapped shut on two of his fingers. Had to chop them off with the axe. Lucky he could get to it, he said. Else he'd be there still, a pile of bones with its hand still in the log.

Plenty of tales about the wild blacks, the trouble they made. Huts set on fire, sheep killed. A shepherd with one old musket, the blacks waiting all day till he fired it, rushing him while he reloaded.

Then there was what the white men did. Nothing said straight out.
Teach them a lesson,
they might say. C
lear them off the
place
. A gesture along with the words, a gun to the shoulder.

It was always about places past Limit of Location. There was no one to say what went on that far out. I'd never seen the bush blacks that was supposed to be doing all these things. Took the tales with a pinch of salt. The odd sheep killed and eaten I could believe. Trouble over women now and then. But shepherds speared to death, I couldn't see it. The blacks I knew, Wednesday and Skipper and the others, would no more of speared a man than fly.