Absolution Creek (48 page)

‘Where have you been?’ Jack sat by the camp fire, a notebook in one hand, a stubby pencil poised mid-thought. The fire was a good distance from the homestead. Squib figured he had lit it to ensure a little peace and quiet, for Olive’s complaints began with the rising of the sun and didn’t ease until the fireplace was cleaned and the house swept out.

‘Walking. You know I don’t like being cramped up inside. Everything worth seeing or hearing’s out here.’

‘You shouldn’t have left her with all that mess, Squib.’

‘I helped, Jack. Anyway, I’m not her slave. If she wants to live here then she has to do a bit too.’ She drank thirstily from the waterbag.

‘They’re asleep.’ He nodded towards the outline of the old homestead. ‘I was going to wake them up so they could see the moon.’ He glanced heavenward. ‘Sometimes I wonder if the moon we see in the city is the same as this one. It’s so much bigger here, much brighter.’ He looked at her. ‘Don’t you get scared when you go off wandering?’

‘What’s there to be scared of?’ Squib sat by his side.

Jack waved an arm vaguely westward. ‘Sometimes I wonder what else is out there.’

‘Silly,’ Squib laughed. ‘What are you writing?’

‘
Drawing
,’ he corrected. ‘A fence. The one on the south-east boundary needs repairing. I’ve been so busy worrying about this house business that I’ve forgotten what I came here to do.’

‘Tend sheep.’

‘Yes, yes.’ He smiled. ‘I like them, you know, Squib. I didn’t know if I would first off. The man who sent me here gave me all these books to read on sheep husbandry, and before I knew it I was buying the ewes at the saleyards and paying men to help walk them here.’ He chewed on the stick. ‘Now I’m worrying about fences. It’s a whole new world to me.’

‘Don’t you own this land?’ Squib never guessed that Absolution wasn’t his.

‘One day I will.’

Squib considered his words. ‘Are you like an overseer?’

‘I guess. Mr Farley, the owner, has no kin so I figure he’ll probably leave Absolution to me on account I did him a favour once. So then, what do you really know about sheep?’

‘My father says that sheep are only as dumb as the people that work them.’ Squib thought about Mr Purcell and Waverly No. 4. ‘You know there’s a ram on the shilling coin.’

‘Waverly No. 4? Of course.’ Jack tucked the stubby pencil in his notebook.

‘I had that coin once,’ Squib revealed. ‘My father worked for Mr Purcell of Waverly Station and I saw the ram, Jack. I use to walk down to the paddock and talk to him. Once I had a bit of stale apple in my pocket and he nibbled it straight out of the palm of my hand.’

‘Go on with you, is that true?’

‘True as the day I fell off the dray and lost my family.’ Squib lowered her voice. ‘I haven’t told anyone cause people think the ram is pretty special and they don’t believe me when I say I patted him.’

‘I don’t know if I believe you either.’

Squib elbowed him in the ribs.

‘Ouch. I believe you. How else would you know so much about sheep?’

‘You won’t tell anyone, will you, especially Adams?’

In the firelight Squib’s face was soft and golden. She looked both older and younger simultaneously.

‘Of course not.’

‘You’ll be a good sheep man, Jack.’

When Squib woke a few hours later a light breeze ruffled her hair. She wiggled on her side hollowing out a hole. Jack’s warm breath was moist against her skin. The moonlight traced the line of his body. Very slowly, Squib rolled onto his outstretched arm.

Olive lay on the bed, the window and door open to the elements. It was a hot night, and the full moon was unforgivingly bright. Above, a swathe of material covered the bark roof, although it provided little comfort as she knew the things that crawled and crept would hardly be dissuaded by a length of calico. The mosquito netting provided her with far more reassurance. It extended from a rod a couple of feet above the bedhead, its filmy edges tucked securely beneath the flock mattress. She daren’t move lest she disturb the careful barrier, for once disrupted her night would be one of almost obsessive checking for insects and spiders. She wormed a little further down in the bed. Perspiration pooled on her stomach and thighs, yet she kept the neck-to-knee nightgown smoothed low over her legs. Having already forgone the sheet in the need for a modicum of comfort against the heat, her gown was the last vestige of decorum and self-discipline.

She lay flat, unmoving and uncomfortable, the night gown growing damper by the hour, her skin itchy. Of course Jack and the girl would be sprawled in the dirt outside, lulled by the earth they loved. At the thought of their mutual contentment Olive started grinding her teeth. Had she not done her best to be with Jack? Had she not given up everything to follow him to this place? Olive thought of her family, and of the privileged upbringing she had once taken for granted. Now she dreamt of carpeted floors, groceries delivered daily, and an iceman who ensured that her choice of beverage was never lukewarm. Everything was so primitive in this new life that she’d chosen that at times she could have screamed at her foolishness. Why had she followed Jack? Why had she not given more thought to where she was going? Why had she not appreciated her own family more? The answer haunted her. Her craving for independence and her love for Jack had propelled her into a life of oblivion.

Outside, an unknown night bird gave a lone cry. The sound pierced the tight constriction of her chest. Transported to the outskirts of Chatswood, Olive recalled the glistening leaves of the tree above, the close sentinel of woody plants that shielded her attacker and allowed his pleasuring. How beauty and horror could come together so easily astounded her. It was this single element that haunted her, yet also allowed her to focus beyond the brutal acts of her assailant.

There were methods of coping, withdrawal and anger being the uncontrollable emotions that struck her daily. Olive was taunted by the simple fact that if she had not followed Jack then she never would have been at Mrs Bennet’s boarding house, and she never would have been attacked. If only she could talk to Jack, if only she could explain what happened. Yet how could she when Jack remained indifferent towards her? The man she had decided to spend the rest of her life with had changed almost overnight. He was perpetually busy and always distracted. Now when he looked at her there was impatience where there was once love. She was not suited to Jack’s new life. They both knew it.

It had taken some weeks for Olive to comprehend this. And when she did, she saw it with terrible clarity. Jack was in some ways already married to the land he managed, and the girl was an extension of his love. A common bond held them fast, and though he would be loath to admit it, Jack saw in the fledgling woman the companion his new life required. Her mother would call them a pigeon pair. Had the thought not riled Olive she too would have addressed them as such, thereby relegating her own position in the household to little more than decoration. Decoration – what a ludicrous term. Her skin was lacklustre, her eyes dull, and her hair . . . Well, she doubted if it would ever be truly clean again.

Olive concentrated on her breathing. The fluttering of her chest steadily increased. When the attacks first began some weeks after her assault Olive believed her heart was failing, that she was dying. Yet the attacks kept coming, day and night, irregular in appearance yet constant in the frightening sensation of a racing heart and shortness of breath. Olive focused on the surface of the toilet table. She counted the objects upon it: her silver-backed hairbrush and comb, a stoppered glass bottle of Atkinson’s Red Rose perfume. With difficulty she tugged at the mosquito netting, her hand reaching for the bottle of Lavender Salts on the bedside table. Distraction often assisted in calming such attacks, and she sniffed at the invigorating salts, falling heavily against the pillows. Above, the stretch of calico displayed unknown shadows. The rippling shapes reminded Olive of Sydney Harbour, and she imagined the water glittering across Rose Bay towards her home. The life she loved was gone, was sliding away on an outgoing tide. It was as if some mythical creature had sucked the essence out of her, leaving Olive only a meagre shell to inhabit, and a horribly altered world from which there was no escape. She didn’t know if she could bear another day. Something had to change. Sadly, she acknowledged it was she who would have to adjust, for to exist in this land there was simply nothing else to be done.

If it were not for the child growing within her, Olive would have run. She would have returned to Sydney and accepted the punishment meted out by her parents. She imagined their joy on her return and then their anger and disappointment as her story unfolded. To have run away to the outer limits of society with a man unworthy of the Peters name would stun them into silence. Yet her family, although controlling and snobbish, knew their place in society, knew their path in life. And they were a loving family. They would eventually forgive her and life would go on.

Olive turned on her side. The bed creaked. She wasn’t going anywhere. She could hardly return to Sydney society carrying a criminal’s child; nor could she lie and tell her family that the baby was Jack’s. They were not married after all. Either way, she would be a terrible disgrace. The embarrassment that such a situation would cause her family was untenable and Olive could not bear to cause them any more pain. The shame coursing through her would never abate. She would carry it for the rest of her life.

Chapter 36

A
fter two nights resting at the Stringybark Point Hotel, Scrubber began to feel better. The publican’s wife was a right little boiler when it came to whipping up a feed of bacon and eggs for breakfast, and Scrubber quickly sported a pot belly. He was gobbling down four meals a day and a couple of fortifying beverages at night. His decision to relax for a bit came after the barmaid plonked the article about Cora on the bar. He would have recognised the girl anywhere. She still had that shoulder-length hair and smooth skin.

It was only later while lying on his sagging mattress, Dog hiccupping beside him, that Scrubber gave thought to the picture. Cora’s youthful appearance he put down to the newspaper print. Even he would look partially human in black and white. No, it was the eyes that confused him – like they belonged to a stranger. And that girl hadn’t ever been unfamiliar to him. He’d carried Cora around like a showy fob watch, like that ram on the shilling coin.

‘Well, Dog, Cora Hamilton bought herself a fancy ram.’ He gave a chuckle and tweaked Dog’s nose. ‘What do you think about that?’ If the Purcells were alive they’d be livid. The stockman’s daughter, the wildcat, having the audacity to purchase some of Waverly No. 4’s blood. Scrubber was so chuffed about the way Cora’s life was going that he decided another night wouldn’t do him any harm.

So here he was sitting on the balcony in a cane-bottom chair, his yellowing toenails airing on the wooden railings. The boozy inhabitants below were long in bed, apart from a single station wagon with feet sticking out its rear window, and a reprobate passed out in the middle of the road. Scrubber, having already chucked an empty rum bottle at the prone figure, couldn’t be sure if the person concerned was dead or not; either way there were good odds he’d be road kill by morning.