Absolution Creek (20 page)

Olive changed into a pink silk dress and grey overcoat with matching silk lining. It was a little overdone for travelling, but she was determined to return to Rose Bay with her head high. Adjusting her grey clouche hat so that it sat low over her forehead, she assessed herself in the mirror. She dusted powder across her nose and applied a coral pink lipstick. When the knock came on the bedroom door she was quite ready to leave.

‘The weather’s turned,’ Mrs Bennet warned, letting Olive struggle with the two suitcases down the stairs. ‘I’ve no spare umbrella for you. It’ll take some twenty minutes to get to the station.’ Mrs Bennet’s sturdy lace-ups echoed down the stairs and along the hallway. ‘I’d be suggesting you wait till morning.’ The hall table bulged with picture frames and knick-knacks, all highlighted by a weak light emanating from the tasselled lampshade.

Olive lifted her chin a touch higher and walked down the gravel path to where a dray waited. She looked left and right, expecting an automobile, but instead Mrs Bennet’s gardener, a rough-looking individual with old man eyes approached her. He took hold of her suitcases and threw them into the back of the dray.

‘Visiting, was you?’ He manhandled her aboard. She sat squeezed tightly against him on the wooden seat.

‘Are you going home now, lass?’

Olive detected a slight Irish accent in the guttural voice. ‘Yes.’ A sprinkle of rain moistened her palm. ‘For Christmas.’ Olive lifted a perfumed handkerchief to her nose, the reek of onion and sweat unavoidably strong as the horse trotted off down the road. Above her, the sky was thickening with heavy cloud. They turned from Mrs Bennet’s street and the dray rolled past a number of timber houses.

‘Christmas, eh?’

‘Yes, it’s only three weeks away.’

‘To be sure it is. Live on the city side, eh? I used to live there too, till the bridge, of course.’

Olive nodded, loath to move her handkerchief from her nose and mouth. ‘The bridge development has changed many people’s lives.’

‘Not yours, eh?’ His eyes strayed to Olive’s pearl bracelet.

She tucked it under her coat sleeve. ‘Is it far to the station?’

The gardener pulled his cap down, flicked the reins and turned to the right. They were on a rutted track with fewer houses and many more trees.

‘Used to be a lot of orchards around here, and Chinese. Modernisation, eh?’ He spat over his shoulder.

Olive opened her mouth to check directions, a fierce thunder clap drowning her out. The gardener flicked the reins and drove some way in the streaming rain before seeking cover beneath a large tree.

‘Nice watch.’ He thumbed at her wrist.

The canopy above provided only the minimum of cover and Olive huddled into her coat, feeling the water seep through the fine cloth until the back, shoulders and skirt of her dress were soaked through.

‘Nice ear bobs. Pearls, is they?’

Eventually the rain began to lessen.

‘I’ll be having that fancy bracelet of yours, lass.’

Olive started at the gardener’s voice. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Give it here.’ He reached for her arm.

Olive struck out with both hands, slapping at the man wildly. She twisted in the wooden seat and aimed at him with her feet.

‘You’re a bloody holy terror.’ He slapped her once across the face and succeeded in wrenching the pearl bracelet free. Dazed, Olive drew back and fell from the dray onto the muddy ground. She landed heavily.

‘All I wanted was the bracelet.’ The gardener sounded quite annoyed. He propped her against a tree, taking a step back to look at her closely. ‘Watch and ear bobs.’

Olive threw the jewellery on the muddy ground and, with shaking hands, tugged at her dress, which had ridden up to reveal the tops of her stockings. The man was searching her handbag, whistling when he found her clutch of pound notes.

‘How we gonna get you to the station now, eh lass? You look a right fright to me. Pretty silly just for the sake of a bracelet.’ He tilted her chin.

The sound of a horse clip-clopping down the muddy road carried on the slight breeze. A dirty hand quickly silenced her. They remained in that position for some minutes until the splatters of raindrops showered them from above. Olive struggled beneath the man’s weight. His breathing was laboured and the heat of him through the wet material of her dress seemed to scorch her. When she cried out again she was rewarded with a stinging slap. The gardener glanced over his shoulder.

‘The thing is, if you’d given me the bracelet, lovey, you could have been on your way. But looking the way you do now, with your hair all mussed, your clothing muddy and ripped, well, if you do put me in – which you will – the coppers will assume the worst when you’ve only got yourself to blame.’

Olive turned her head from him. ‘Just go, please. Let me be.’

‘So it’s a bit of a wasted exercise, if you know what I mean, leaving you looking like you do, with no violation even been attempted.’ He grinned happily. ‘Besides, toffs like you, well, you’ve had no experience, and me father always said a little training never went astray.’ He put his hand over her mouth and, dragging Olive sideways, fell upon her. ‘If it’s any consolation, you’ll be my first under these circumstances.’

Chapter 15

L
ifting the homemade swag, Scrubber scooped out a shallow hole in the dirt, sat the leather pouch inside and lay on top of it. There were still some hours to endure before sunrise, and if sleep did come to him he figured it was best to be prepared – a failure due to lack of attention couldn’t be risked. He didn’t want anyone to feel tempted. After all, a fella might think anything was in that pouch. Scrubber burrowed his bony spine further into the dirt and said a few words he thought passable prayer-wise.

Through the dark of the bush night Scrubber listened as the horses ambled across fallen leaves. Their hoofs crushed branches, and soft whickering floated through the air. Scrubber turned towards the smoking fire, flinging his arm across Dog. With a full belly and a drowsy mind it was real easy to wallow in memories of times past. And tonight in particular his mind kept meandering, as he recalled the man who once saved him, who in turn couldn’t see that he needed saving from himself . . .

Matt Hamilton was tall and built like a red brick out-house. He had a face women loved and the poorest ability when it came to judging a person’s character. Of course from Scrubber’s viewpoint that was the most positive attribute Matt could have had. If his pa were around he would have told Scrubber that meeting Matt Hamilton that day was akin to finding a four-leaf clover. Unfortunately the reverse couldn’t be said of Matt’s association with Scrubber.

It was late December 1923, and Scrubber just twenty-two years old, when he arrived on the slopes. Worn out and hungry he was about ready to turn himself in. The day before, a group of Aborigines had accosted him on a dirt track. It was some altercation. Having discovered there was nothing worth stealing, they spat on him, following a good rubbing down in the dirt. That was near it for Scrubber. With busted ribs and his water bag stolen, he figured he was done for. Then providence led him to gaze across the paddock to where two men on horseback came into view. They were a good mile away, riding into a dipping sun, and in spite of exhaustion Scrubber slipped through the fence in a bid to follow them. The rocky ground tested his knees and feet. By the time Scrubber reached the camp it was dark, his mind numb with tiredness. He could barely move for the pain of his ribs. Grasping the trunk of a silver-barked tree, he slid to the ground, his calf muscles quivering. Scrubber couldn’t remember his last meal. He peered out from behind the tree.

Only feet away the men talked of women and of kids, and of a man called Purcell, as saddle bags were unpacked and meat began to sizzle. Scrubber’s stomach gurgled and he nearly teared up from the inglorious act of his hiding.

You gonna stay out here all night?’

While the sudden voice was friendly enough, the barrel of a rifle was wedged between Scrubber’s ribs.

I don’t mean no harm,’ Scrubber replied, his strength nearly gone. This was it then – a bullet in the back just as his father foretold.

The barrel poked him.

Geez, mate, you don’t look so good.’

When the rifle’s owner realised he was injured, Scrubber was half-dragged forward to the blazing fire. There was a haunch of sizzling meat on it, and in spite of his wounds Scrubber’s mouth watered.

What happened?’ the two men asked in unison, silently measuring his desperation: a fortnight’s growth on his face, a patchwork of dried blood across torn and filthy clothing.

Blacks,’ Scrubber answered coughing up blood.

The one called Matt Hamilton was open-eyed, with an easy smile and skin tanned a wrinkled brown. He handed Scrubber a water bag, helped him drink and then wiped his face clean with a damp rag.

He’s just a kid,’ Matt advised.

With shaking hands Scrubber gulped the cool liquid and ate bits of warm salted meat that were offered to him. ‘It’s me ribs. They laid into me, them blacks did.’

Matt shook his head. ‘Well, mate, lucky we found you. It’s ten mile to the nearest water. You’d never have made it in your condition.’

The men were off a big sheep run owned by a squatter named Purcell, Matt explained, and were a week into searching for a wing of seventy ewes missing from the count. The one called Evans reckoned the sheep were over the border by now. Scrubber didn’t go much on Evans. The man glared at him across the camp fire as if he’d attacked his kin.

You’re not exactly the type of straggler we expected.’ Evans plugged a wooden pipe with tobacco. ‘How’d you get lost?’

How’d the sheep get lost?’ Scrubber replied as Matt poked at his ribs and then wrapped strips of torn shirt around his torso. His skin was speckled blue-black from bruising.

Walked away from their mob,’ Matt informed him, surveying his handiwork.

Well –’ Scrubber took a slurp of water ‘– so did I.’

When Matt laughed, Scrubber knew he’d be all right. This was the bush after all. No one knew him or of him, he was safe. ‘I could do with a job,’ he wheezed.

A job?’ Evans laughed.

Aye.’

You can’t even walk, mate, and we can’t sit around waiting for you to come good.’

Sure we can,’ Matt disagreed. ‘You can’t leave him here.’

Evans spat into the dirt. ‘You always were a do-gooder, Hamilton. Leave him with a waterbag and a bit of meat and in a week’s time he can walk on. He ain’t our problem.’

In those boots?’ Matt commented, pointing at Scrubber’s shoes, which were part leather and part twine. ‘A day’s rest and he’ll be up to riding.’ Matt turned to Scrubber. ‘It’ll be painful with those ribs of yours and all that bruising.’

Scrubber gave a grateful nod.

Can you ride? Shoot?’ asked Evans. ‘Know much about sheep?’ Food bulged in his cheek.

Scrubber studied his filthy hands. There wasn’t much he could do at all at the moment.

Leave him alone, Evans. The lad can barely stand.’ Matt gave a nod and offered him a pannikin of sugary tea. ‘Bet you can fight.’

Aye.’ Scrubber gulped at the scalding black tea, savouring the taste of it. ‘That I can do.’

You’re Irish then?’ Matt asked.

He kept the pannikin close to his lips. ‘We all gotta come from somewhere.’

Evans puffed out a string of smoke. ‘Where do you come from then?’

Not here.’ Scrubber took a careful breath. His ribs hurt something fierce. ‘South,’ he decided to reveal. A man couldn’t appear too cagey.

Matt gave him a friendly smile. ‘Reckon Purcell would take you on if you’re willing to work. What’s your name?’

Scrubber.’

Evans took a puff of his pipe. ‘How’d you get that?’

A fella called me Scrubber when I appeared out of the bush one day at his homestead and asked for directions.’

Scrubber it is. You want to smear a bit of mutton grease on those feet of yours,’ Matt suggested. ‘Here.’ He tossed him a saddle blanket. ‘A wash and a shave will set you right.’

Evans grunted. ‘This one’s on you, Hamilton. I wouldn’t go near the likes of him. I reckon he’ll be trouble.’

Scrubber settled down in the dirt, his body paining something fierce, and looked through the ring of trees to the sky above. His belly groaned and he imagined the meat swirling in his starving guts as his body tried to suck the food into itself. Although he’d been on the road for more days than he cared to remember, this was the first night he’d actually looked carefully at the stars, really seen them. Scrubber, eh? A new name for a new life.