Somewhere around the Corner (7 page)

On Wednesdays, the single men came down the valley to get their dole rations. On Thursdays, the family men came; by themselves if they had to come a long way or with their wives and children, the kids with bare feet and the women with tired eyes. It was a long walk from Poverty Gully down to the main arm of the valley where Sergeant Ryan presided at the police station, handing out the tickets that allowed you to get your dole rations at Nicholson’s store—so much tea, flour and sugar, golden syrup, soap and matches and a bit of cheese.

It was usually the same faces, week after week. The farms were too small to lure others to the valley with dreams of a bit of work. No-one thought there was still gold in the creek either, except Gully Jack, thought Dulcie. She sighed a little, thinking of Gully Jack.

Thursday mornings began early at Dulcie’s. The kindling had to be brought in to light the fire so the bread could be cooked for breakfast, the cows had to be milked at first light, half-asleep bodies warm and furry where you leant your head against them, flicking manure-sodden tails at you so you had to wash as soon as you came in, the smell of them lingering in your hair all day. The pigs would run squealing through the mud to feed on the small potatoes Dulcie had cooked in milk. The cream had to be left to rise in the stone dairy where the floor was wet with cold and moss grew in the corners when she didn’t have the time to scrub it out.

Sometimes Dulcie thought her whole life had been cows. The low moan of cows waiting for milking was behind her every memory—every time she thought of her mother she heard the song of the cows, or smelt their warm teats and warmer milk on her fingers.

All her childhood had been cows, except for the years when she boarded during the week up in town to ‘get her learning’. Cows to milk on hot summer afternoons, while the flies bumped at the bucket and tried to sip the cream. Cows to milk on frosty mornings when the white grass bit your toes and the only relief from chilblains was to find a fresh hot cow pat, still steaming on the grass, and warm your toes in it.

It had been easier when her father was alive, thought Dulcie, and not just because the butter prices were better then. Four hands to do the work, not just hers, getting harder and redder around the knuckles and more cracked each year. But Johnny Bill was working for his board and keep now there was no money to pay him—not with butter prices the way they were, not with floods and drought and cows that kept on getting sick so you never knew what lay around the next corner. If her brothers had come back from the war it might have been different, but they hadn’t, and there it was; what couldn’t be cured must be endured. At times she thought her bones would break, they ached so much. But you had to keep on going. There was so much to do, so many people who needed so much.

After the milking there was breakfast to be eaten on the hop, a slice of bread with a soft-boiled egg spread on it, eaten from one hand as she picked vegies, still sweet from the dew, out of the garden, and then the bacon to be chopped and thrown in the copper to make soup for the susso families later in the day. Potatoes from last autumn, soft and just on sprouting in the big sacks in the pantry, carrots, turnips, parsnips, cabbage, tomatoes in the summer, or peas in winter, and onions that made her cry.
Johnny Bill would light the fire underneath the copper to cook the soup, the same as he lit it on Mondays so she could do the washing.

Soup didn’t cost you anything if you grew it all yourself; the vegies fed with cow manure, the bacon from the pigs that Johnny Bill slaughtered for her every autumn which they smoked over the meat-house fire, half for her and half for Johnny Bill as payment for the extra work.

You could feed an army with soup, the copper keeping it hot and bubbling, like the creek below the falls, and by lunch it was ready to hand over the gate to anyone who passed. For kids there was the buttermilk, left over after the milk had been churned to butter, as much as they could drink, kept in big iron buckets, while the women rested on the verandah.

It was a good life, thought Dulcie, if only she weren’t so tired; if only her hands didn’t ache with cold sometimes; if only the kitchen wasn’t so empty-feeling at night, so that you were glad you were so tired, and didn’t have the energy to think about how lonely you felt. You didn’t even have the energy to dream at night of what things
might
be like.

Dulcie glanced at the sketch that hung on the wall, roughly framed with sanded wood. Johnny Bill had
done the framing. But who had drawn the sketch she couldn’t say. It was a drawing of her house, but as it might be, with a new solid verandah; with a garden at the front and tidy fruit trees growing in nice neat lines. There was a child’s swing hanging from one tree and you could almost hear the laughter of other kids, somewhere around the corner.

Dulcie forced herself to look away. The drawing had been propped on her front doormat last birthday. No-one remembered when her birthday was nowadays. Perhaps Gully Jack remembered, but he hadn’t put a pencil in his hand since he left school. Who except Gully Jack could dream like that, could see new life in her old house, could see the children that came when she was dreaming…Dulcie gave herself a shake. Dreaming got you nowhere fast. It was time to get on with the soup.

Dulcie had been serving soup on Thursdays for two years now, since the first susso families moved down to the gully, hoping for gold and disappointed. They stayed, lulled by the peace of the valley, or just because there was nowhere left to go. They were grateful, mostly, though a few took it for granted and complained about the carrots or the lack of dumplings, but those were the bad sorts, grumblers and no-hopers, who Sergeant Ryan quietly suggested
should move on. Some of them were embarrassed, generally the men, at having to eat charity. They sat sipping quietly without meeting your eyes, and left as quietly. Others, like Dad O’Reilly, tried to do what they could in return, by chopping wood or mending fences. Her fences hadn’t been as taut since her dad was alive.

There was one man, it was more than a year ago now. There was something wrong with his leg, because he walked with a crutch. When he took his soup she saw that there were only two fingers on one hand. He was one of those who drank without looking at you, his mouth twisted with more than bitterness, so she wondered if his leg or his hand still hurt. But when he’d finished he hadn’t slipped away. He unrolled his swag; first the bit of sacking, then the blanket, then an old jacket worn at the seams. They’d been protecting a banjo. He cradled it above his lap and played it, in spite of his lost fingers; songs and reels that jiggled across the verandah until you thought the magpies would be dancing, and she knew he was paying her for the soup. If he couldn’t chop wood he would play.

He played until the soup was finished, until the shadows were thickening and she’d gone inside, to wash up, and only the last of the men were leaning
against the verandah posts as the dew began to wet the grass. His voice changed then. It grew harsher, lower, as though it was a song he didn’t want her to hear.

I went off to fight for my country,

I went off far over the sea,

I went off to fight for my country,

And this is what it gave to me.

Soup, soup,

They gave me a big bowl of

loop the loop,

Soup, soup,

They gave me a big bowl of soup…

The voices of the other ragged, grim-faced susso men joined in, and she wondered how many of them had fought in the war, how many had been wounded or shell-shocked, how many had come home to a life of poverty, or susso camps, or desperation.

The song died away. She took her hands out of the bowl of greasy water and stepped out onto the verandah, but the singers had gone. There was no sign of the man with the banjo.

He didn’t come the next week, or the next. She asked Sergeant Ryan, but he hadn’t seen him. He
must have moved on, like most of the single men, humping their swag to a new place every week to look for work and collect their dole. But who would hire him, lame in hand and leg? It hurt to think of the miles he must have come, and the miles he still had to go.

He might have been her brothers, or any of the blokes she’d gone to school with, the brave bright blokes who’d ridden off so happily to their graves in France or Turkey. Sometimes it seemed to her the war was simply resting, jealously guarding the men it had taken, waiting until it could feed again.

She’d done her best to make a difference, not just with soup. It was habit in the valley now for anyone with anything to spare to leave it at Dulcie’s—baby clothes or blankets or tin that could be hammered for shanty roofs, hessian sacks or battered saucepans. She’d badgered nearly everyone in the valley to give what they could. But it was a long way to bring even a blanket, back up the valley to the gully, when you had a week’s dole rations on your back as well.

Dulcie cajoled Sergeant Ryan into ferrying things up in the police car, dole rations too, for those who found the walk too hard. It was against regulations, Sergeant Ryan complained, but Dulcie told him, nonsense, it was his duty to keep law and order
wasn’t it, and to check that all parts of the district remained peaceful? That’s all he was doing on his trips up to the gully, keeping the place peaceful, and if it just so happened there were a few bundles in the back, or a dance on up at the hall…

He’d help her cart whatever was needed. He’d call by for a cup of tea and a chat about who needed what, and where, and he’d sit with her in church. Sometimes she dreamed he might ask her to a dance, the one down in the gully, or one in town. But he never had.

Sometimes it seemed he didn’t have a life except his duty. He was a good man, Sergeant Ryan, thought Dulcie as she sliced the last of the cabbage into the soup. He was kind and he cared, even if he didn’t have dreams like Gully Jack, but then, dreams got in the way of real life at times. You had to pick and choose your dreams.

The first of the sussos were coming down the road.

There were the O’Reilly kids, pulling out grass, lush and green from gutter water, for the cows and poking it through the fence to tempt them.

Stupid cows, thought Dulcie tolerantly, the grass was as sweet in their own paddock, especially down near the creek. But maybe they liked the company. Cows gave more milk if you talked to them, Dulcie
knew that for sure. Maybe they liked the chatter of the kids as well.

There was a new kid with them this morning—a strange-looking kid with shortish hair. Maybe she’d been sick, thought Dulcie. She was thin enough. She needed feeding up, like all the kids she saw.

‘Hoy! You lot! Up here!’ Dulcie yelled through the window.

The kids gave the cows one last scratch behind the horns and tossed the last of the grass over the fence for the cows to nose at, and raced up the path to the verandah, bare feet thudding on the old stone path.

‘Hey, Dulcie, Gully Jack’s nearly finished his new channel, it’s right up near the bend.’

‘Hey, Dulcie, the new Friesian’s got a calf, it’s mostly black. Did you know?’

‘Of course she knows, you dingbat, they’re her cows aren’t they? Hey, Dulcie, did you see—’

‘Dulcie, this is Bubba. Bubba, this is Dulcie. She’s got the best cows in New South Wales. Hey, Dulcie, do you think the new calf—’

Dulcie broke through the chatter and took Barbara’s hand.

‘Pleased to meet you, Bubba.’

‘My name’s Barbara, really.’ The way she spoke was different from the others. Dulcie looked at her curiously.

‘Are you related to the O’Reillys?’ she asked.

The girl shook her head. ‘No—’

‘Yes, you are,’ interrupted Elaine. ‘Ma said you were, so there. You’re one of us now. You’re Bubba O’Reilly.’

Dulcie grinned. Trust Ma O’Reilly to take in a stray. She liked Ma O’Reilly. They were cut from the same cloth. And Dad O’Reilly was a good sort, or he might be if things were different, if he just had something he could hope for.

‘All right then, you’re an O’Reilly now. What were you before, if I may ask?’

‘She won’t tell us!’

‘I have told you.’ The girl’s voice was quiet. Her face had lost the laughter that shone while she’d been feeding the cows.

‘You haven’t told us your last name yet,’ insisted Elaine.

‘You just shut up,’ Young Jim hissed.

‘All you’ve told us is you come from—’

‘Somewhere round the corner,’ chorused Thellie and Joey, as though it was something wonderful.

Dulcie looked at Barbara. She was trying to smile too, but couldn’t. It was as though it was still all too new. Young Jim put his arm around her shoulders and glared at the others. Dulcie clucked her tongue. ‘Well, who’s going to give me a hand this morning?’

‘Me me me!’ the young kids clamoured.

‘Well, you lot, I want you to get the eggs. All of them, mind, no missing the ones in the shed or you won’t be getting any to take home, and the old black chook is laying in the brambles by the creek so don’t miss that nest either. Elaine and Jim, can you go and pick some apples for me from the old tree just across the creek? Grandpa’s seedling with the red and yellow stripes. None of the other trees have ripe fruit yet. You’ll find some boxes in the shed.’ Dulcie paused to find a breath. ‘Bubba, you come and help me get the scones out of the oven, they’ll be burning if I leave them in another minute.’

‘I’m staying with Bubba,’ said Young Jim.

Dulcie glanced at him. His chin was jutting out, just like his Dad’s. Dulcie smothered a grin. He looked like he thought she was going to tie the girl to a kitchen chair and try and beat the information out of her, instead of feeding her scones and asking—just asking—a few questions. After all, it was neighbourly to be curious. How could you help people if you didn’t know all there was to know?

‘Come on then Barbara, and Jim too, if that’s what you want. Those scones’ll be charcoal soon.’

It was hot in the kitchen. The walls had taken the heat from the stove and breathed it back. The flies
dozed at the window, too hot even to buzz as far as the washhouse to smell the soup. Dulcie took the trays of hot scones out of the oven.