The Last Mile Home (14 page)

She patted her womb and whispered to the child within, ‘We're going to be all right. I know it.'

A
BBY STEPPED FROM THE SCHOOL BUS, GAVE THE
driver a wave and slowly followed the skipping, singing threesome ahead of her. Kevin and the twins were delighted it was Friday and a weekend awaited them. But for Abby a longer break stretched ahead. This had been her last day working for Doctor Malone. While she still had several months to go before the baby arrived, the strain of sidelong glances, sudden silences when she went into a shop or tea room, the gossip she knew was being whispered behind her back, had proved too much.

When they reached the homestead gate, Shirley
climbed over — they all did, rather than drag it open — and called over her shoulder, ‘ We gotta visitor.'

Kevin peered at the small black Austin. ‘That's Father O'Leary. Wonder what he wants.'

‘Collecting money and stuff for the poor,' suggested Colleen. Abby's heart sank. She didn't fancy facing the priest but knew there was no escape. She had been expecting him for a while.

Gwen had served Father O'Leary tea and biscuits in the lounge room and the children dutifully filed in to greet him. He asked each in turn for their news, how they were doing at school, and said he looked forward to seeing them at mass on Sunday. The children nodded and, at a word from Gwen, made their escape to wash hands, do chores and start homework. Father O'Leary turned his attention to Abby.

‘Now, Abigail, I've missed you in church these many weeks.' ‘Yes, Father,' she said meekly, offering no reason for her absence.

The priest put his cup back in its saucer. ‘I am aware of the situation you find yourself in, my dear. Very unfortunate. Very sad indeed.'

‘I don't consider my situation sad, Father. Some may consider it unfortunate, but a child is a gift.'

‘Ah yes, my dear. But a child is a gift when
sanctioned by the state of holy matrimony. Surely in this case it is more of a burden. However, I am prepared to offer a helping hand. There are so many good families who have not been so blessed, who would dearly love to give your child a good and decent Christian home.'

‘My child has one. Right here,' said Abby curtly. She sat and listened with a stubborn expression as the good-hearted man tried his best to find a better path for this member of his flock who'd strayed. He urged her to put the baby up for adoption, to think of the strain it was putting on her family, the handicap to her own life.

‘Father, you always preach the virtues of family life. This is my family, they accept me, they are sticking by me and my child. I think they are truly Christian and there is really no more to be said.'

The priest was not about to give i n . ‘ What about the father? Is he sticking by you? Is it fair that this child begin life with the stigma of illegitimacy?'

‘I don't see that it has anything to do with the father as I am bringing up the child myself.'

‘Surely, my dear, if he isn't willing to face his obligations it is another reason for considering placing the child in a secure and stable home.'

Abby rose to her feet. ‘Mum, I think I'd better
go check on Brian out there. Nice to see you again, Father.' Abby shook the surprised priest's hand and hurriedly left the room.

‘She's a very determined young woman,' said Gwen, privately cheering her daughter's stand. ‘This child is going to be brought up in a secure, stable and loving home. I appreciate you coming, Father, but nothing will change her mind.'

Mr Richards, driving back to Anglesea from Amba, passed the priest on the road. When he reached the gate, he spotted Abby trudging along the track. She hurried to the gate and swung it open for him. He drove through, got out and leaned against the fence, gazing around at the bush tinged with the last of the day's sunlight.

‘Nice time of day this … How's your day been? Not too good by the look on your face,' he smiled.

‘It shows, does it? This was my last day at work.'

‘Ah. You're moving on. Moving forward though, I hope.'

‘Well, definitely in a new direction. I'm going to be a mother,' said Abby somewhat ruefully.

‘Ah, I see.' Mr Richards didn't show any surprise. ‘You chose to leave your job before you really needed to, I take it.'

‘Yes. It's been difficult. Maybe I'm a coward
but I couldn't take the whispers and looks I got everywhere I went. I think I'm regarded as the town's scarlet woman.'

Mr Richards laughed. ‘ Do you feel like a wicked woman?'

Abby shook her head. ‘I can't say I do. I don't feel I've done anything wrong, but people, they make me feel grubby and that I should be ashamed, when I feel lucky. So very lucky.'

‘And does the father feel lucky too?'

‘I believe so. He wants to marry me but I've said no.'

‘He loves you and you love him?'

‘Yes.'

‘Is he asking you to marry him because of the child?'

Abby was swift to answer. ‘There are other reasons. He is prepared to give up everything — his family, his inheritance, his future — and I can't agree to that.'

‘Then he loves you indeed. As you obviously do him. And where there is love there is pain. So you believe like the knights of old that one's love has to be tested? And whether he or you fail or succeed in proving your love to the other, you are going to keep your baby, bring it up alone, and exclude the father from what he wants most?'

Abby looked distressed. ‘I think that is the best
thing to do. Though the more I think about it all, the more confused I become.'

Mr Richards gazed into the distance. ‘The other night when we were having a yarn I told you maybe you should follow your heart and not your head. There are times when one should listen to the other, but in matters of love, the heart rules. You see your love as being in conflict with your life and your beliefs, when you should see it as a spiritual flowering that heightens the joy of your life.'

‘How I feel doesn't matter when almost everyone else sees it differently and behaves accordingly.'

‘Of course it matters how you feel.'

Abby expected him to go on, but found instead that he was concentrating on the ritual of lighting his pipe. She said nothing but contemplated what he had just said: ‘a spiritual flowering that heightens the joy of your life.' She looked at him again as he struck a match and worked the pipe. They were beautiful words. You're a strange man, Mr Richards, she thought, but said nothing.

‘I suppose you think it's strange to hear words like that from an old codger like me?'

Abby was too stunned to say anything. It was if he had read her mind. She merely let a half-smile speak for itself.

‘Yes, well, it's not every day that a bloke gets a chance to sound off on things he's thought about over a thousand campfires. Now, the way I see it goes something like this. Our mob is made up of individuals and each must follow his or her own path, always listening to the heart and being guided by the head.' He puffed on his pipe. ‘It's the head that puts on the hobbles of restraint and judgement as each of us goes through life. Then comes the time, if you are lucky, when you meet your other half … your partner. Each fulfils the other, and together you make a new whole and life has a new meaning. Now, how's that for a sunset sermon?'

They both laughed and for a moment leaned on the fence together, taking in the artwork in the western sky. Eventually Mr Richards broke the silence. ‘Sometimes things work themselves out in an unexpected way. If you let the reins go the horse will find its own way home. Right?'

As they drove up the track, Mr Richards told Abby that he planned to move on. The announcement was a surprise and a disappointment and it showed in Abby's face. She really valued the talks she had with him and appreciated the extra warmth he brought to family evenings.

‘I'll miss you, Mr Richards. We all will.'

‘Well, you never know when I'll turn up again. Thanks, Abby.'

That night Gwen turned on a special roast dinner and the children were allowed to stay up late to join the sing-song and charades with Mr Richards. The evening wound up with Gwen, Bob and Mr Richards having a beer on the dark verandah, taking in the symphony of night noises and looking at the stars.

‘I'll be off before sun-up,' said Mr Richards. ‘Thanks for the helping hand and hospitality. Nice to be one of the family for a while. I'll repay you one day.'

‘No need for that. We've really enjoyed having you,' said Gwen gently.

‘Been good having a mate around the place,' said Bob.

True to his word, Mr Richards was gone when Bob got up at sunrise. Odd chap, thought Bob as he stirred the ashes and put some kindling on the fire. We accepted him as if we had known him all our lives, yet we know practically nothing about him. He opened the back door and saw a small box on the back step. He put it on the kitchen table and found inside a beautifully made wooden train. Scrawled on the flap of the carton Mr Richards had written,
For Abby's baby.

Mr Richards didn't go far. He drove to Amba and waited in the bush, reading and having a pipe or
two until the sun was high enough for breakfast to be over at the homestead.

Phillip was surprised to find him standing on the back steps when he wandered out with his coffee, listening to a record on the radiogram.

‘Elgar.
Enigma variations,'
  observed Mr Richards. ‘Good morning.'

‘Yes, it is. You know your music then?' said Phillip.

‘I've been to a concert or two.'

‘Join me for a coffee,' said Phillip, conscious of bush etiquette.

In the library Mr Richards picked up the book lying on the chair and flicked through its pages while Phillip poured the coffee. ‘Proust.
Remembrance of Things Past.
A hefty read, Mr Holten.'

‘Indeed.'

‘Interesting how the past influences the present. Thanks,' said Mr Richards, accepting the cup. ‘In youth we want to change the world. With age comes nostalgia. And then some of us want to cling to the past, especially if the present isn't to our liking. We forget that life isn't a straightforward track. We get pushed and shoved around, sometimes get lost, wandering all over the place. But we can also take control and change things, change the way our life is going. Trouble is, we sometimes forget we can do that.'

Phillip was perplexed and covered his discomfort by sipping his coffee. His guest continued, intent on his own train of thought.

‘Can't keep living in the past. Blinkers are only good for the carthorse … but then as a man of the land, Mr Holten, that's hardly news to you.'

Phillip half smiled. ‘Rather heavy talk for breakfast, but I take your point.'

‘What would you like to change about your life, Mr Holten?'

The question came as a shock to Phillip and the cup rattled on the saucer as he put it down. He wanted to say he did not consider it appropriate to continue the conversation and to dismiss his visitor, but something he couldn't immediately understand forced him to take up the question. ‘Well, I'm afraid that in my case the matter really isn't quite that simple.'

Phillip paused, but the other man simply raised his cup again, looking over the rim with expectation.

‘Well, I live with a wife who spends more time in the past than in the present. It is hard to look forward when someone beside you keeps looking back. Of course, she has a heart condition which puts a cloud over her future. It all makes life very difficult. There must have been a crossroads somewhere, and I think I missed the signpost.
Now I feel like I am in limbo. I'm estranged from my son and neither of us has much to look forward to …' Phillip was astonished at his confession but felt a huge relief at having unburdened himself by saying it out loud.

‘You make it sound like a paddock that's been through a five-year drought,' said Mr Richards, pulling his pipe out of his waistcoat pocket. ‘ Do you mind?'

‘Not at all,' replied Phillip calmly. He studied the suntanned leathery face of the man opposite; his impressive white beard slightly nicotine stained, his high broad forehead and warm friendly eyes. It suddenly occurred to Phillip that the visitor was totally at home in his own living room, as if he belonged there.

Mr Richards's pipe was alight and he picked up where he left off . ‘Now, the thing about a paddock that's been in drought is that it doesn't die, it's more like asleep. Bounces right back the moment it rains. People can be like that. They reckon the drought in their lives is never going to break, but it always does. People don't necessarily have to sit around and wait for rain. Sometimes they can make it happen. I was yarning to someone only the other day on similar lines, about the head and heart.'

‘The head and the heart?' repeated Phillip.

‘Yes, about when to listen to the head and when to listen to the heart.' He paused, then reached decisively for his hat . ‘Well, we're not going to make a quid sitting round philosophising all day,' he said with a chuckle . ‘ Must be on my way. Thanks for the coffee and the yarn.'