The Bark Cutters (30 page)

Abdul Faiz Abishara arrived in a fine carriage accompanied by his younger brother, Abdullah. Their head man, Mahomet, followed in a covered wagon with four armed men on horseback bringing up the rear. Waiting on the homestead verandah Rose experienced a rush of excitement; her stomach tightened as the entourage stopped amidst a creak of wheels and the neighing of horses. Two men descended from the carriage. They were of medium height, attired in dark suits and turbans. Pinching her cheeks to heighten their colour, Rose smiled a number of times in quick succession, as Hamish walked with enthusiasm towards his guests.

‘Heavens above!' Mrs Cudlow exclaimed, wiping her clean hands repeatedly on her stiff apron. ‘They look like savages.'

‘The children, Mrs Cudlow.' Rose refused to allow this morning to be ruined. Even as she voiced her disapproval, Luke was escaping from the confines of the house and rushing past both of them to join his father, Howard and William close
behind. ‘Leave them,' Rose ordered. The last thing she needed was a scene between Mrs Cudlow and her wayward sons. Mrs Cudlow sighed indignantly and, collecting the folds of her skirt in her fleshy hands, disappeared inside the homestead.

The three men shook hands, laughed, and gestured around at the countryside. The visitors bowed formally to Howard, William and Luke. Rose intended on serving a cooling punch before the luncheon hour was upon them. Indeed, she looked forward to fresh conversation and animated dinners. Five minutes passed. Rose dabbed at the perspiration on her brow, lifted her arms slightly to ease the dampness forming in her armpits. The air carried the stench of manure, the acrid smell of wool and urine. If she turned her head to peer past the timber support of the verandah, a halo of light and heat haze would be resting over the woolshed, where shearing was now in its tenth day. A small rivulet of moisture traced her backbone. Her feet began to ache.

Still the men remained where they had alighted from their carriages. Behind them their attendants unpacked a number of trunks, large and small, and three wooden packing cases. The three boys followed each movement like hungry birds watching lizards. The men scrambled atop and inside the carriages. Once an item was on the ground, the boys inspected it, careful to keep clear of the dark, wiry men, but anxious to prise open the heavy, padlocked lids, to see what curious things they had brought. Luke took two paces back, scratching his small chin thoughtfully. The trunks were very large, large enough for an animal, or for the dead Milly.

Rose lifted each foot in turn, tilting her ankles to relieve the blood that seemed to gather whenever she stood for longer than necessary in the heat. Finally the men began to move. She tucked her handkerchief into the sleeve of her blouse and clasped her hands together again. But the small group walked to the nearest carriage and examined the rear wheel, talking all the while. With
a deep sigh, she shifted the weight on her feet, her thighs damp beneath her long skirt.

The merchants appeared well behaved, spoke English, although their words were funny-sounding, and seemed good friends with his father. Luke liked that. ‘A nice carriage, solid and serviceable,' he advised his two older brothers.

Howard agreed. ‘And many men to protect them on their journey.'

The head man, Mahomet, carried a shiny leather briefcase, did not speak unless spoken to and glared ahead at nothing in particular. Luke observed the man's swarthy skin. Obviously it was important to have a black as the head of your staff. Well, they had one too, they had Boxer, but best of all they also had Lee. Luke waited with his hands behind his back, copying Howard and William, who in turn copied their father's stance as the men continued their discussion.

They had travelled from Melbourne, the one with the moustache said in a quiet voice as he smoked a very long, dark cigarette; then to Sydney, where cargo bound for London was checked and arrangements made for Wangallon's wool consignment. Luke sniffed the air. The smoke from the cigarette smelled like crushed flowers.

The younger of the two Afghans passed his father an envelope.

‘I am pleased to be of service in this matter, Mr Hamish.'

Luke noted the slight widening of his father's violet eyes, before the cream paper disappeared into the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket. ‘Thank you.'

The younger man grinned. Luke liked him with the clean-shaven face and paler skin. He would make a point of behaving
properly around him, especially since this visitor seemed to have pleased his father.

Rose noted the exchange of the envelope and muttered angrily to herself. Surely they could discuss their business inside, not out in the sun. Three weeks she expected these visitors to stay, and in three weeks, there was time enough for business. Still the men talked near the carriage. Straightening her shoulders, she walked the length of the verandah slowly, twice, then returned to the doorway of the house. A tall dark man led his men forward towards the verandah, their bodies bowed as they carried trunks and three packing cases. They were a rough-looking team of men, all turbaned, very dark-skinned and dirty to look at. The smell of perspiration and strange scents loitered in the breeze. Taking a step backwards, Rose brought her handkerchief to her nose and mouth as the items were deposited with a heavy thud not five feet from where she stood. Alone on the verandah again, she watched her husband give directions to the head man, after which the Afghan's men left the dirt of the homestead yard and walked out towards some hastily erected humpies. Bored and tired, Rose waited a few more minutes before retiring inside.

Abdul and his brother charmed their hosts at once. Their English, though peppered with a heavy accent, was perfect, thanks to an English minister, and they dressed and acted like lords. Soon Mrs Cudlow was forced to re-evaluate her initial impressions. Perhaps, she explained to Rose a few days following their arrival, they were not heathens after all. Merely wealthy merchants, Afghans, yes, but not the money-grabbing, inferior, dirty men she'd supposed. Their hands were evidence of this, she concluded: the soft, unmarked hands of men unaccustomed to manual labour. Indeed, she was grateful also for their gifts. The packing cases revealed
small jars of preserved oranges and lemons, carrots and cabbages, dried meats and other exotics, such as dried prunes and figs.

Seated at the oak dining table, with the fire glowing to keep the chill of winter at bay, they were really quite acceptable. Both brothers were attired in fine suits, with starched white shirts beneath fine waistcoats, and double gold watch chains. The head of the company, Abdul, had a bushy moustache, which emphasised the almond of his eyes, low eyebrows and dark face. Abdullah, however, was paler in skin colour, clean shaven, with large bright eyes and generous lips. Rose thought him quite the most exotic thing she'd ever seen. Even his simple turban agreed with him.

‘You see, Mrs Gordon, there are some who would prefer to do business with their own kind. However, as your husband will agree, our carrying company provides the most reliable, efficient and cost-effective service.' Abdul spoke with an easy charm, managed his knife and fork most proficiently, never once touched the food with his hands and appeared highly intelligent.

‘Indeed,' Hamish nodded as he bit into a small damper roll. ‘Cost and service – these are the main considerations for all landowners in these remoter areas. Abdul convinced many at the club during my last visit to Sydney.'

‘And for your introductions,' the younger brother Abdullah replied, bowing his head gravely in Hamish's direction, ‘our company thanks you.'

Rose felt an almost imperceptible undercurrent pass between the three men. Had she not known better she would have been convinced of some secret between the three.

Highly seasoned boiled potatoes, fried fish from the river, baked mutton-and-parrot pie and boiled cabbage were all consumed as if these two men were seated before the greatest feast imaginable. A fluffy cake served with treacle and cream completed the meal. Rose, satisfied at this first of many dinners, wondered at
the kind treatment Hamish afforded them. Their visit, though important considering the size of the coming wool consignment, was suggestive of great expectations on the part of her husband. By all accounts Hamish had introduced the two brothers to the inner circle of squatter aristocracy and he never put himself out for anyone unless he received a favourable return.

Following dinner, when Abdul and Hamish withdrew to talk, Abdullah escorted Rose outside for an evening stroll. It became a nightly occurrence, after which Abdullah would leave her in order to rejoin the men. Abdullah, eight years his brother's junior and born to his father's fourth wife, not his first as Abdul had been, was not interested in business. Thank heavens, Rose thought silently, as they began their evening walk. It was Abdullah's very reticence towards his family's transportation business which rendered their time together possible. Indeed, he held such disdain for the search for clients, for the general travelling involved, that he had informed his mother at age eighteen he would not remain in Australia. Instead, with his early years spent in the company of women – his father's wives and their daughters, his half-sisters – he rather delighted in the presence of women, although never before, he explained to Rose, had he been granted the opportunity to spend so much time with a lady such as herself.

Abdullah's presence was a welcome distraction and Hamish appeared content to let Rose be escorted unchaperoned by him. Rose could only surmise that Abdullah's offer of a nightly stroll freed Hamish from the social convention of retiring to the drawing room after dinner to continue with polite conversation in his wife's company. Instead Abdul and her husband could discuss the issues of the day without female distraction.

It seemed to Rose, as she and Abdullah walked slowly about the yard perimeter, that each evening their walks became a little longer, a little slower, or perhaps it was merely the wishing of it on her part. They talked little, observed the clear night sky, she pointing out the Southern Cross and the brightness of the stars, he listening intently, asking questions about Wangallon, about her life here.

At first the monotony of her existence silenced her, yet by the third evening small incidents seemed worth telling. He laughed at her description of the Chinese hawker, congratulated her eventual selection of the Chinese fan hanging in the dining room. The arguments between Lee and Mrs Cudlow over the running of the kitchen provided a whole evening of conversation, while her account of the murder of the serving girl softened the chip of stone lying deep within Rose's soul. At Abdullah's gentle questioning about her family, she found herself describing her life before marriage. She told him about Sir Malcolm, his beautiful gift, and her life at Ridge Gully.

‘And your mother?'

‘Lorna resides in a large brick residence in Ridge Gully with my only daughter, Elizabeth. She turned nine this year.'

Abdullah lit a long cigarette and rested his back on the timber fence. Over a hundred feet away, the main homestead stood forlornly on a bare patch of dirt. Light glowed through the windows, the silhouette of his brother clear in the sitting room. ‘You visit her regularly?'