The Great Plains (36 page)

August, 1935 – The Plains, Southern Queensland

Opening the oven door, Flossy placed Marcus's food inside to warm. She'd sat the meal on the table three times to keep it from spoiling and there was still no sign of him. The wind blew against the house. A draught spiralled in from under the door to whistle through the ill-fitting window at the end of the room. Shoving another length of wood in the fuel stove, she opened the flue until the flames could be heard crackling from the box within. There was a boned leg of salted mutton lying on the sink and a string of intestines ready to be filled with finely chopped meat. The rabbit sausages were long gone, as was Will. Her son had not returned since leaving to work as a stockman and they'd had no word from him. Marcus told her not to worry, that in a few weeks he'd return for a visit. A month had come and gone. Flossy put a hand to her belly.

Maybe this was how things were supposed to be. Maybe the child within her would stay now that she was almost always alone. Maybe it felt sorry for her. Flossy dug into the bowl of salted meat, fat and breadcrumbs and carefully pushed the mixture down into the soft, flimsy tube of intestine. She squeezed the meat carefully, packing it within so that the mixture filled the casing and there were no air pockets, then she twisted the end and began on the next one. The baby sickness was gone at least, quelled by the brandy that Marcus made her take a tablespoon of every morning. She didn't need to be reminded anymore. Flossy ate her cooked breakfast of mutton washed down with a half-tumbler of brandy and a cup of tea. The grog had given her an appetite, which was just as well for it seemed that there would be a baby to feed and all of a sudden there was a lot of fresh meat that needed to be consumed. She didn't ask where it came from, or why every fortnight there was another half-sheep ready to be salted, or what happened to the rest of the carcass. Flossy wasn't going to complain, not when there was brandy and tinned condensed milk and treacle filling up the space on the pantry shelves that had never been filled before.

As she stuffed another length of intestine, Flossy began to wonder how much money Will would bring home. If there would be enough for curtains or even plaster for the walls. Something new for the baby would be good as well, although as there was a small suitcase in the wardrobe containing Will's baby clothes, Flossy knew such a purchase would be totally indulgent. There were other more important things to consider. She guessed she would have to go to church again, renew her friendships with the few women in the district and see if the Hewitt woman was still in the midwifery business. There was also the christening to consider.

The filled intestine was long and pudgy, the meat turned the skin a reddish colour and made the surface knobbly with small uneven lumps. Flossy prodded at it with a fingernail. It was a long time since the church had welcomed her. Almost ten years. She couldn't keep returning, not with the women around her birthing babies like rabbits, while she lost one after another. There was pity in the church, but no God, at least not for Flossy.

She didn't mention any of this to Marcus. He was a man and men were mostly inconsiderate of women's needs. Anyway, mornings were the best time to speak to her husband and by the time her breakfast was over, Marcus was in from milking the cows and he needed to be fed before he left again for the rest of the day. There was no time for ‘idle chit-chat' – Marcus's words, not hers.

Their lives were changing, where her two menfolk would have returned at midday to eat, now she rarely saw Marcus. Her husband worked from dawn into darkness, his days top-and-tailed with milking the herd with only Perch for company. The rest of the time he was out in the paddock, mending fences, delivering milk or goods to the store or checking the small amount of wheat that carpeted one of their paddocks, and chasing kangaroos and other rodents from the tasty plants. When he wasn't working, Marcus still wasn't here with her. Not really. He ate quickly and silently, drank his tea and smoked and stared into space then literally fell into bed, exhausted.

Flossy stuffed the remaining intestine and twisted the end. There was a string of sausages coiled on the sink worthy of a butcher. If her boy were here, he would have congratulated her. Told his mother what a fine job she'd done. But there wasn't anyone to talk to, not anymore. She'd taken their family dinners for granted. So used was Flossy to having her two boys with her, sharing their news and their days outdoors, that it wasn't until they were gone that she gave thought to the way she spent her own life. It had revolved around them.

Flossy fussed with the sausages. She could cook them now, that would fill in some of the evening or she could carry them outside to the meat-safe on the eastern side of the house. The safe was filled with salted cuts of mutton, butter and dripping. She worried the meat would ruin. Not from the weather but from sitting too long untouched. There was only so much a person could devour.

‘What do you think, little one?' She cradled the bulge of her stomach. ‘Are you tired? I'm tired.' Occasionally a feeling of nervousness overcame her. Not badly, but it was enough to set Flossy on edge. It was with her tonight as if some unknown thing had followed her inside from the woodpile. She'd looked over her shoulder, heard rustling in the trees and walked quickly back to the house and slammed the door, jamming a chair under the worn brass knob. Of course it could have been the tramp returning hopeful of more bread and milk, but her kindliness to strangers didn't extend past dark. Flossy wiped her hands on a towel and, leaning forward, rubbed at the fogging glass of the window above the sink. The night was cold. She imagined the little house floating in a giant sea, a torrent of water spilling through cracks and crevices. She couldn't imagine what Marcus was doing. It was terribly dark outside.

In the drawer under the sink lay the Luger pistol. The steel was cold and hard. She guessed a dead German had carried it into battle until a brave man had killed him and then lost the gun to Marcus in a card game. Well, it was hers now. ‘Look, little one.' She held out the pistol for inspection and then rested the gun on the table. The same drawer held the brandy bottle. Flossy tipped a measure of the golden liquid into a glass, looked at it and added a little more. Placing the fresh sausages in a skillet to cook slowly, she sat by the fuel stove and sipped the brandy. Her parents never allowed grog in the house. Her father called it demon-drink. Now she knew why. It warmed a person from the toes up. Flossy licked her lips and poured more brandy. The baby was asleep, curled like a peanut in the bosom of her soul. There was a lullaby her mother sang to her as a child, and she hummed it now, reaching for the Bible with work-chaffed hands. There were butterflies in her stomach. If her mother were still alive, Flossy knew she'd be calling her a nervous Nellie. Gradually the brandy calmed her nerves, her eyelids drooped …

A knock sounded on the door. Flossy lifted her head from the table. There was a smell of burnt sausages and her neck was stiff from the way she'd been lying. The doorknob rattled.

‘Sorry, Marcus, I'll be there in a tick, love.' Moving the skillet of over-cooked sausages to one side, she tidied her hair on the way to the door. ‘I fell asleep and jammed the door because –'

The doorknob was being twisted violently. The chair shuddered and creaked with each loud whacking sound that vibrated the door. Someone was trying to get in. Flossy backed away and, taking the pistol from the table, slid a bullet into the empty chamber. Her brain ached from the brandy but she levelled the pistol at the door just as the noise ceased.

‘Don't worry, little peanut,' Flossy whispered, ‘don't worry.'

There were footsteps outside. Flossy ran to the kerosene lamp and turned it off. They could see her, the hair rose on the nape of her neck, when she'd been looking outside, someone had been looking in. Her heart was beating quickly, perspiration gathered at the waistband of her dress. Flossy crawled as quickly as she could into the bedroom, closed the door quietly and slid under the bed, aiming the pistol at the door. The front door gave way. There was a sickening thud and the splintering of wood and then heavy footsteps. A freezing draft of air blew under the bedroom door.

In the next room crockery was being smashed, cupboards opened and closed. Flossy lay on her side, her knees drawn up, the cold of the hard floor pressing into the length of her. They'd heard reports of thieves in the area during the height of the depression. When the culprits were eventually caught, it was two starving boys. Footsteps passed the bedroom door, a man muttered something undecipherable. Flossy tightened her grip on the Luger, a taut forefinger on the trigger, and held her breath.

Moments later the footsteps left the house. From outside came the familiar whine of the meat-safe door being opened, followed by the crunch of gravel. Flossy clutched the pistol, listening as spirals of air spun up from the gappy floorboards. She wiped at her runny nose. It was some time before she felt brave enough to crawl out from under the bed. By then her body was numb, her knuckles white. The mattress squeaked under her slight weight as she sat on the end of the bed and began to sob.

The pistol was still in her fingers, the metal shone in the light from a late rising moon. Flossy sniffed quietly, concentrating on the pool of white light that suffused the room in a comforting glow. Releasing her grip on the Luger, she sat it on the bed and began to tidy her hair. She needed to go out into the kitchen to survey the wreckage the intruder had left in his wake, but somehow Flossy couldn't face it. She would wait for Marcus. Wrapping the bedcover around her shoulders, the moon's rays slanted across the timber floor. The light lengthened and widened, tracing a pattern across her lace-up shoes, climbing steadily to the hem of her skirt, before highlighting the material across her thighs.

The pain came quickly. It shot through her stomach and then settled itself as a stinging ache. Flossy huddled over and began to moan.

‘No, no please.' The moonlight reached her stomach. Through a haze of pain, she imagined the moon reaching for the child within, its pale, silvery fingers grasping.

It was over as quickly as all the others. The little one lay curled in her hands, a slip of a thing that really did resemble a peanut. Flossy stared at the little creature pooled in the moonlight, haloed by blood, and slowly began to sing.

August, 1935 – the south-east boundary of Condamine Station,
Southern Queensland

Will trailed the men across the paddock. There was a full moon on the rise. The great orb hugged the horizon for long minutes and then, as if propelled by some other-worldly force, started to climb quickly. There was a thick line of timber to the north and, beyond that, a mountain range he'd never seen. His father said it was many miles away, much further than the two hills that sat on the edge of the grassy plains near their home. Will curled his fingers on the reins. The men ahead cast stretched-out shadows, the horses flicked their tails and nickered. Will tried to draw his body down into the thick coat he wore but it was a cold night and the temperature was getting worse. The Plains seemed a long way from his new life. He missed his parents, Sissy and the other cows, and Perch. If Perch were here he'd be running around in circles, chasing nestling ground birds and barking at the moon.

‘Black frost on the way, I reckon.' Evan was at his side, a smoke hanging from his lips. The old man smelt like rotten potatoes. ‘Jim and you are going to take the mob straight on ahead, one mile. Put 'em through the gate with the piece of tin flapping on it and then stay put. No campfire, nothing.'

‘What's the rush?' Will asked, blowing on his fingertips.

‘Tomorrow's Friday, boy. With a month of work behind them, the men are keen to collect their pay and have a weekend of rest. And I want to be back at Condamine Station come mid-morning.'

They never shifted sheep in the evening, but they'd had a longer break at noon and managed to keep the mob moving since well after the sunset. ‘It's a bit cold, Evan.'

‘And I'm guessing you're hungry for a feed as well, but ain't nothing doing until I get back.' He gave a low whistle. Up ahead one of the horses pulled free of the line. The moonshine hit Jim squarely in the face as he rode towards them. ‘You know the drill, lad?'

Jim pointed west. ‘One mile to the gate and then wait.'

‘Exactly. The kid's with you. Keep the mob together, move them quickly and don't bugger things up.'

Evan rode away and, one by one, Sprout, Bob, Nicholson and Chalk peeled off to follow him to the south.

‘What's happening?' There was a scatter of sheep ahead. Will gathered the reins. They were moving another mob, this lot to the south-west of Condamine Station.

‘There's someone out there. Over in that ridge. Evan and the others will ride around the edge of it and come up behind him,' Jim told him. ‘It could be Kirkland.'

‘The manager? Out here?'

‘He's like that, Kirkland is. He has a tendency to sneak up on a man, check on a person's business. A couple of months ago he trailed us every night for four nights. Evan cottoned on to him though, snuck up on him before piccaninny daylight and caught him out. Bet Kirkland didn't like that.'

Will patted his mount's neck. ‘Why was he following you though? Doesn't he trust us?'

Jim dropped his chin. ‘Imagine that. Come on. If we're quick we should be back at the ridge by the time Evan sneaks up on whoever it is.'

They kept tight behind the mob of sheep, pushing them onwards with yells of ‘get a move on', ‘yah buggers' and ‘walk on, walk on'. The moon cast the sheep in a whitish glow and the ewes moved forward steadily. The animals spooked easily and had a tendency to dart this way and that. A leader could take a couple of hundred with her and before you knew it the mob was split.

Jim reined in his horse and the two boys waited patiently as the sheep walked on ahead of their own accord. The ewes were getting tired. Even with the full moon it was easy to mislay the odd straggler in the grass.

‘Give them a minute or so,' Will suggested. ‘Maybe one of the old girls at the front will remember where she's heading and before you know it she will have drawn the rest of them through the gate with her.'

The sheep stalled at the gateway and began to walk away.

‘You reckon?' Jim raised his horse into a trot and drove the ewes towards the gate. They appeared to be heading straight for it but at the last moment they baulked. The mob split to go both left and right.

Will did his best to turn them but no sooner did he try than they speared off in another direction. Jim was yelling abuse and spinning his horse left and right. The colt spun effortlessly as told, trotting in the opposite direction to the mob until finally the sheep were ringing in a tight formation near the gate. The ewes ran on and on in a circle, moving closer to the opening in the fence until finally they began jumping through the gateway.

‘Keep on them,' Jim ordered, ‘keep the pressure on the blighters.'

Will did as he was told. When the last of the mob were back in their paddock, he leant over in the saddle and slipped the chain across the post to shut the gate.

Jim was waiting for him. ‘Well come on. If it ain't Kirkland keeping an eye on us then it'll be a thief for sure.' The youth grinned. ‘Evan will have himself a rabbit shoot.'

They turned their horses and galloped across the plains.

Marcus placed a steadying hand on Margery's nose. The horse shifted its weight, leaf-litter crunched underfoot. Great breaths of steam pooled around the mare's nostrils and melted into the air. ‘Shush.' The mare was flighty. He'd dismounted a half-mile back, hoping to quieten her, but Margery was having nothing of it. Marcus sniffed and wiped his dripping nose on the sleeve of the army issue great coat and continued leading the horse to the line of trees ahead. His own lungs were tight with the cold and it was way past the hour to be moving around in the dark, but he had no choice. The mob of sheep he'd been stealing from down near the river were gone and there'd been no sign of a straggler there this afternoon. With meat due at the general store tomorrow, he'd been forced to hurry the milking and set back out again in search of another mob. There'd been no time to let Flossy know that he would be late, again.

Perch appeared through the timber, tail up, nose down.

‘Found anything, boy?' Marcus gave the dog an absent pat and tied Margery's reins to the branch of a box tree. There was action afoot tonight. He'd heard the yells out across the paddock and seen sheep being walked steadily by the light of the moon. Marcus figured the men to be thieves and while he didn't want to be caught up with the likes of them, he needed a killer. Perch gave a bark and set off after a fox. The animal left a cloying scent behind as he darted back and forth between the trees and fallen timber, a blur of white and rust-coloured hair. ‘Figures,' Marcus muttered, turning his attention back to the open paddock. Grass rustled beneath the moon. The sheep were gone.

When next there was a crunch of twigs and branches, Perch was back herding three shorn sheep straight for him. Marcus gave a delighted smile. ‘Get 'em, Perch.'

The dog sprang into action. Marcus broke into a run. Perch raced towards one of the sheep on the wing and bowled straight into the animal, knocking the ewe over. Marcus was by the dog's side almost immediately, his knee pinning the sheep down while he pulled a knife. The animal let out a number of frightened bleats and then the blade was in its throat, an arc of blood cascading through the air. Marcus winked at his dog. ‘Good job.'

‘What have we got here? Marcus Todd?'

The rifle in Marcus's face was held by Evan Crawley. Behind him, his companion was heavyset with a nose tufted with hair.

Perch growled.

‘Looks like we've got ourselves someone who's trying to fill his tuckerbag.'

Marcus stood slowly, his bloodied hands raised. At his feet, the sheep kicked its last. ‘I didn't mean no harm, I've got a family to feed and –'

‘Dad.'

‘Will?'

Will reined his horse in, Jim at his side. ‘What the heck are you doing here?' Perch rushed to him, jumping up to rest his front paws on his leg. ‘Sit down, boy.' The dog whined but did as he was told.

Evan laughed. ‘Well, ain't this something, a family reunion. I would never have thought you'd be one for stealing.' He nodded to the tufted-nosed man. ‘Get that rifle of his, Sprout, just in case. We don't want anyone getting excited.'

Marcus dropped the knife on the ground as Sprout retrieved the rifle from the holster on Margery's saddle.

Marcus couldn't believe that he'd travelled onto the property where his son was working. ‘I got lost,' he said by way of explanation. A snap of twigs announced another two riders. Evan addressed them as Bob and Nicholson, and preceded to explain the scenario as if Marcus were entertainment at a sideshow.

‘You must be ten mile from home, Dad.' Will still hadn't dismounted. There was an edge to his voice, his face was pinched.

‘I didn't mean to be here.' He considered his options. He'd met Crawley on a couple of occasions, which would mean nothing to the head stockman of Condamine Station. Five men was too much, he could fight but not against those odds, besides these were the people his boy worked with and Will was with them.

The older man cradled the rifle. ‘And where did you mean to be, mate, out yonder stealing off some other poor blighter?'

Marcus wiped his hands on his trousers. ‘If it's all the same to you, I'll just go. I don't want to cause any problems for my boy.'

Evan gave a cackle that barely resembled a laugh. ‘It's a bit late for that now, mate.'

‘He didn't mean nothing by it, Mr Crawley. My dad's a good man, we've just been doing it tough.'

Evan took a cigarette from behind an ear and lit it. ‘Sure, and that makes it all right.'

The other men were growing restless. Sprout made a show of playing with the length of rope coiled on his saddle.

‘Please,' Will begged.

‘Take the sheep then, for your boy's sake, mister.' Evan exhaled smoke. ‘But if I see you on these lands again I'll shoot you myself. I don't have the time nor the inclination to bring in the law. I'm responsible for all the sheep on this here station and I'll not have you or anyone else thieving on this land. Do you understand me?'

‘Yes, yes, sir.'

‘I'll be taking that access through your land when I feel like it.'

‘Of course,' Marcus agreed, ‘I told Mr Kirkland the very same thing.'

‘Did you now? Well that's real interesting to know. Real interesting. Get on with you then.' Evan mounted his horse.

Sprout held out the confiscated rifle and threw it to Marcus before spitting in the dirt and swinging up into the saddle of the gelding he rode.

Joining the other men, Will looked over his shoulder as a low whistle sounded. Perch left his side immediately and trotted back to Marcus. His father was struggling to lift the slayed sheep onto Margery's back.

‘Well,' Evan rode close to Will, his leg touching his, ‘it seems like all that talk about not doing anything illegal was a load of crock.'

‘Pot calling the kettle black,' Nicholson said priggishly.

Sprout flanked Will on the opposite side. ‘I bet you the kid's a Bible reader, Evan. It's always the do-gooders that end up being the liars and the cheats. Most likely he got that inclination from his pa.'

‘My father doesn't go to church. He doesn't really believe in that stuff.'

‘Well then,' Evan flicked the reins, ‘looks like we've got ourselves a heathen.' He rode on ahead. ‘Me, well, I've always been partial to heathens.'

One by one the men trotted past Will. Chalk and Jim were the last to overtake him.

‘That's bad business,' Jim whispered to him on passing. ‘Evan's got you now.'

‘What do you mean “got me”?'

‘If you do anything wrong he'll tell on your father and Mr Kirkland ain't known for his kind heart.'

Will tried to laugh away the boy's comment. ‘It's not like it's a hanging offence.'

The black man's silence unnerved him.