The Last Mile Home (5 page)

‘I can look after myself, Dad. I did think he'd been spying on me one day when I went swimming, but I was mistaken. He seems all right. Anyway, let's face it, he's not going to ask someone like me out.'

‘Well, not in public,' said her father bluntly. ‘Just keep your distance.'

‘Oh I am, don't worry.'

Bob McBride patted her knee. ‘You'll find a nice young fella soon enough. When you get your pay from this job, why don't you and your mum go into town and you treat yourself to a new frock? Something pretty you can wear to a dance. There'll be plenty of dances coming up. And once the boys catch sight of you, you'll have more beaus than you'll know how to handle.'

Abby laughed and lifted her chin in mock arrogance. ‘I can handle 'em, Dad; just let me at them!'

They laughed and Bob broke into song as the old truck bounced along the rutted road —
‘I'm
looking over a four-leafed clover that I overlooked before . . .'

But Abby was silent as her father sang, thinking over what he'd said. She knew he was right, yet it had never occurred to her that someone like Barney Holten would be interested in her. She'd heard stories before of rich boys who fooled around with the girls in town or girls who worked on their properties fruit picking, girls her mother described as common. These were not the girls they married — they married from their own class — and while they might have a few laughs and a bit of a fling, everyone knew the unwritten rules. Abby, however, was not going to be one of the goodtime girls the ladies loved to gossip about at tea parties.

Once or twice when they'd been living close to a town, her mother had gone to teas and once to a card party. She'd come home after one occasion, pulled out her hatpin, held her hat up as a shield and pretended to fence with the long pearl-handled pin, jabbing and lunging at imaginary opponents in the kitchen.

‘And then she said, that Mabel Clarkson is being such a snob.' Jab, jab. ‘And did you hear Tom Ogilvy had a drinking problem they say?' Dart, lunge. ‘Of course those clothes of Betty Smith's all come from the Red Cross.' Joust, score, point!

The children, seated around the table, had laughed and clapped as she fell into a chair fanning herself with her hat. ‘That's it, I'm not going to another one of those dreadful hens' parties.'

Talk was big time in a small town where the trivial assumed unnatural proportions, and Abby had observed and learned that what caused most gossip was the overstepping of one's ‘place'. There were status levels that, while never called class, existed in rigid and long-established rules. Income, job, family background, all dictated one's level in the hierarchy and the barriers were strictly observed, each sticking to ‘their own'. So there was no way Abby was going to take any notice of Barney Holten other than observing the social niceties. He was out of her class — her father was working for him after all.

When the shearing was over, Barney went in search of his mother. He found her in the cool dimness of the sitting-room, the lightweight curtain linings drawn against the sunlight. Diet and
Tucker were curled around her footstool and she was absorbed in her crewel work, using the light from the fringe-shaded standard lamp behind the settee.

‘Mother . . .?'

‘Yes, dear?' She didn't look up and frowned slightly at an unaligned pink stitch in the rose petal she was working on.

‘We'll be finished shearing tomorrow.'

‘That's nice, dear.'

‘I was thinking it might be nice to have cut-out drinks and a bit of a barbecue for everybody before they leave.'

Enid looked up in surprise. ‘You mean, like a
party
? For the
workers
? Whatever for, dear. They're being paid, aren't they?'

Barney was defensive. ‘Nothing fancy. They've got through quicker than we thought.'

‘Dear me, ask your father. I wouldn't have to go to it, would I? I mean, the shearer's cook is still on the payroll, isn't he?' Enid looked distressed.

‘Don't worry about it, Mum. I'll handle it. I just thought . . . Oh, never mind.' Barney headed for the kitchen where Mrs Anderson was pulling bread from the oven. Jim Anderson was sitting at the small table, his hat resting beside his mug of tea.

‘G'day, Barney. Join us for smoko?' He rose to his feet, reaching for an extra mug that hung on hooks along the mantelpiece above the stove.

‘Don't mind if I do. Any cake, Mrs Anderson?'

‘Under the flymesh cloth on the table there. Only a pound cake,' she answered as she banged the loaf pans onto the side of the fuel stove.

Barney poured milk from the blue-and-white-striped jug into his tea. ‘I thought I'd have a cutout barbecue tomorrow before everyone leaves,' said Barney, and the Andersons looked at him in surprise. ‘Would you make a cake, Mrs A? The cook will do everything else.'

‘Of course I will. I'll do two big fruitcakes.'

‘You're both welcome to come down, of course. Nothing fancy, a few steaks and chops and drinks.'

‘Thanks, that'd be nice.' Jim Anderson drained his tea. ‘Good clip this season?'

‘Yes. The wool classer reckons we'll get a good price for it. Just hope the market stays up. Well, I'll be off, got a few things to see to.' As Barney went out of the screen door, Rene and Jim Anderson exchanged a glance with raised eyebrows.

‘We have never had a cut-out affair before,' said Phillip Holten sternly. ‘It is quite unnecessary. Pay them off and let them cut out and go into the pub in town.'

‘Oh, I'm sure they'll do that too,' said Barney. ‘I just thought as I've been so involved with them
all, I'd like to make the gesture. Just a few beers and a barbecue.'

‘Barnard, just because this is the first time I've allowed you a free hand to manage the shearing doesn't mean you owe these men anything. You did them a favour in hiring them.'

‘They didn't have to work as hard and as fast as they did.' Barney knew dissension among shearers, dissatisfied with conditions, could create havoc in the shed. ‘And it makes it easier to get a good team back next year. They talk amongst themselves, you know.' Barney had heard the talk and knew the men had their own blacklist of properties and owners.

‘Very well then. But it's your show. I might put in an appearance, but that's all. And while I'm still head of Amba I'd appreciate it if you ran your ideas past me first.' He turned and strode towards the library.

Enid heard the exchange between her husband and her son, and she felt her heart constrict with sadness.

She walked onto the verandah, her heart beating erratically, and stood there watching the dogs sniff around on the grass as the dusk crept in. The confrontation between Barney and Phillip troubled her enough to penetrate the veil of vagueness that usually kept her from seeing the
world too clearly. When Barney asserted himself, Phillip regarded it as a challenge to his authority. If Barney flowed along without making waves or taking any initiatives, Phillip criticised him for being weak. She knew, and with a pang realised Barney also knew, that he would never measure up in Phillip's eyes. The bitterness and resentment Phillip felt, quite unreasonably, towards his son had coloured and clouded their relationship. And it was her fault.

Phillip's dissatisfaction with his marriage had been transferred to his son. Images of the past she tried so hard to ignore came flooding back. The pretty young woman she'd once been who'd fallen in love with her schoolfriend's brother. The passionate romance, the First World War, their engagement, his enlistment and departure. Then the news of his death near Damascus with the Light Horse. She shivered, not because of the coolness of dusk, but because the pain returned to rack her thin frame. She struggled for another deep breath, trying to control her irregular heartbeat as another series of flashing pictures reeled through her mind . . . the Sydney Show, the introduction by mutual friends to the handsome and wealthy grazier, Phillip's persistent if somewhat stodgy courtship, and the recognition of a safe escape from grief and insecurity.

It was nearly dark when Enid called the dogs back to her. The strange beating of her heart made her feel a little nauseated. Phillip was right, she told herself, they must not put off too much longer going to Sydney to see a specialist.

She turned and walked indoors, the two white shadows at her heels, their nails clicking on the polished wood floor. As she passed the library, she paused and looked in. Phillip was in his usual leather chair reading his Stanley Gibbons catalogue, spectacles perched on the edge of his nose.

Phillip noticed his wife out of the corner of his eye but did not acknowledge her presence. He listened to her walking down the hall, following the steps into the kitchen. God, she was becoming hard to live with! Ever since her heart murmur had been detected by a very worried local doctor, she had become increasingly vague.

Phillip walked to the sideboard and poured himself a port from the crystal decanter and returned to his chair. He sipped his drink and put his head back, staring into the darkness of the high wood-panelled ceiling. The doctor had said the trouble began with the strain Barney's birth put on her heart. It was an unexpected and difficult pregnancy, and a harrowing birth — a miracle of survival was how the doctor had put it
because it had nearly killed both mother and child.

Well, the child had grown into a stout lad, but his mother had never recovered fully. In a way, neither had Phillip. He never quite got over the resentment of a child whose birth had taken away the wife he loved, leaving a woman obsessed with tending a baby that nearly killed her. He had hoped that things would change when Barney was sent to boarding school, but Enid had retreated further into her own little world.

Phillip wished he could relate better to his son, but somehow his resentment could never allow him to get too close. He felt his son had robbed him of his wife.

Phillip Holten finished off the port and walked out of the French doors of the library onto the verandah. He leaned on the railing and looked up into the sky with its eggshell moon and profusion of stars, searching for the answer to a question he often asked the heavens. ‘How can a family lose itself like this? Is there a way to connect with each other again?' He never heard an answer.

G
WEN PULLED THE STEW OFF THE STOVE AND SET
it to one side. The long kitchen table had been laid by the twins, with everybody's plate in place save for Bob's and Abby's. The tablecloth was blue-and-yellow-check oilcloth, thick and easy to wipe clean. In the middle of the table sat a large bottle of Rosella tomato sauce, a bottle of Holbrooks Worcestershire sauce, pepper and salt shakers that looked like little lighthouses — ‘A Souvenir of the South Coast' — a slab of butter on a plate, a pile of thick slices of milk loaf, and a pot of homemade mulberry jam.

‘Kevin, go and get the twins inside for their
bath while I get Brian out,' sighed Gwen, already missing Abby who normally bathed little Brian and got him ready for bed.

She hurried through the house to the bathroom, hoping Abby was having a good time with her dad at the cut-out barbecue. Maybe there was a nice young shearer there she'd make friends with. Not that she'd wish the life of a shearer's wife on her daughter. At least with Abby in tow, Bob wouldn't be tempted to go into town to the pub with the others. Gwen knew what the men were like once they got a few quid in their kick. Bob had never blown a pay cheque the way some of the men had, but in his younger days he hadn't said no to a drink or two. Gwen knew he'd have a few beers and bring Abby home safely.

It was nice for them to be out together like this, she thought, for soon enough Kevin then Brian would be out with their dad, and hopefully Abby would have a man and a life of her own. Father and daughter would treasure these times.

Once in the bathroom, she picked up the worn enamel saucepan from out of the bath and poured a panful over Brian's soapy head.

‘Okey dokey, out we get.' She lifted him over the edge of the old tin tub onto the floor mat and wrapped him in a towel. She staggered slightly as she lifted the chubby child. ‘My, you are getting a
big boy. Almost too heavy for Mummy to pick up.'

‘Where Abby?'

‘She's at a party, darling. With Daddy. They'll be home soon. But
we
are going to have a party of our own.'

Outside, the twins were nowhere to be seen. Then Kevin heard their muffled squeals coming from the back of the water tank where they'd set up their little garden. There he found Shirley and Colleen running about the edge of their garden bed, flapping their arms and chanting, ‘Shoo, shoo!'

‘Quick, Kev, help us! The chooks got out and they're digging up our plants,' wailed Colleen.

Kevin lunged and clapped his hands at the merrily digging hens and rooster. Tom Turkey flew up to perch on the tank stand and, with a startled screech and whirr of wings, the rest scattered from the garden bed across the straggly grass lawn.

‘Don't frighten them! Now look what you've done!' Shirley began to run after them, sending them in all directions, a rooster crowing in alarm.

‘Come back, stop chasing them, you're frightening them,' called Kevin. ‘They'll come back. Come inside. Mum says to have your bath.'

‘We can't leave them out, it's getting dark.' Colleen looked worried.

‘Leave them alone. Leave the coop door open and they'll find their way back inside.'

‘Do you think so?' asked Shirley.

Kevin looked at his twin sisters, their almost identical blue eyes looking trustingly up at him. He grinned. ‘Yeah. Take my word for it. They'll all be there in the morning.'

Brown-haired Colleen and fair-haired Shirley walked beside their teenage brother, comforted by his know-it-all voice.

‘Why do we have to lock them up at night anyway?'

‘Well, you sleep in a house, don't you?' Colleen said to her twin.

‘There could be a fox or a dingo or a cat about that would grab them. Or a big bad wolf!' teased Kevin, pretending to grab them both. Squealing and laughing, the girls took off as he chased them, growling and calling, ‘Who's afraid of the big bad wolf . . .?'

They thundered into the house and the girls fled to the bathroom, slamming the door as Kevin began, ‘I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blowwww your house down . . .'

‘Kevin,
stop that racket and come and help in here please,' Gwen shouted from the kitchen where she was lifting a saucepan of milk, which had boiled over, off the stove. Brian was perched
on a cushion on his chair eating a chunk of bread. ‘Wash your hands, I'm about to dish up.'

‘I can't, the girls are in the bathroom.'

‘Use the laundry; but before you do bring in some more wood, please.'

Eventually, after much toing and froing, they were all seated at the table, Brian and the twins in their pyjamas, all with shiny scrubbed faces.

Gwen brought the big pot of stew to the table and put it down on a bread board; then she clasped her hands and looked around the family. They all recognised Mum's ‘announcement' pose.

‘Dad and Abby are having a party at the shearing shed, so we'll have a party too. I have a little surprise.'

She went to a kitchen cupboard and got out a pile of paper hats shaped like boats, made from coloured pages of the
Women's Mirror.
They were handed around to squeals of delight from the children, though Kevin disguised his feeling of awkwardness as he put his hat on.

‘What's the party in aid of, Mum?' he asked with genuine curiosity.

‘Our good fortune, Kev. Our good fortune.' She smiled and ladled out the meat and vegetable stew thickened with barley.

Brian picked up his spoon and echoed happily, ‘Party!'

They all laughed and Gwen wondered how the
other party was progressing.

The cook was passing around seconds of the steak, chops and sausages. The Andersons had joined the shearing team at the table and were handing round a roasting pan piled with baked pumpkin and potatoes. Barney put another couple of bottles of draught beer on the table and glasses were topped up.

‘How about you, Abby?' asked the shearer beside her. ‘Want a beer instead of that lemonade?'

‘No thanks,' she smiled.

‘Would you like a shandy, luv?' asked her father, who was sitting opposite.

Abby shook her head. ‘I'm supposed to keep a clear head to drive home, remember.'

‘Thanks for helping out,' said Barney, slipping onto the end of the bench next to Abby.

‘I was glad of the work. Now I have to find a proper job.'

Barney nodded and raised his glass. ‘Here's to finding a proper job.'

She acknowledged him with a quick smile and sip of lemonade, stealing a glance at him over the top of her glass.

Barney picked up the conversation across the
table, but he was thinking of the girl beside him. Abby intrigued him and he didn't understand why. They had only talked briefly and while she was certainly attractive, it was a subtle kind of prettiness which crept up on you. He'd found he couldn't help watching her, the way she moved with easy grace. Her voice was soft and musical and it made him want to listen to her tell him all about herself. She was different from other girls he'd known. And it wasn't because of their class. Abby exuded a poise and gentle confidence, despite her more humble background.

He wished he could get to know her better. Obviously she had to help out financially, being the eldest of a big family. It was an imperative that few of his female friends would understand since they came from rural families enjoying boom times; for them, work was an optional way of filling in time until Mr Right turned up. It wasn't considered necessary for girls to have a fancy education. They had to be a good hostess, wife and mother. Still, he had to admit more and more of them were quitting the bush and picking up jobs in the labour-starved cities. Barney turned his attention back to Abby.

‘You thinking of heading off to the big smoke too? Seems to be the thing to do these days.'

‘Oh, I wouldn't like that. I hate cities, what I've
seen of them. I guess I'm a country girl and always will be. Anyway, it would be odd being away from the family.'

‘I prefer the country too. Have you been to the city often?' he asked.

‘I had to go down to Sydney two years ago for an operation on my eye. Nothing serious, but it couldn't be done in the country. We were out near Gilgandra at the time. After I got out of hospital, Mum and I looked around Farmers, Mark Foys and Horderns; didn't buy anything, but it was fun to window-shop.'

Barney looked at her sparkling eyes and wondered what had been wrong. She certainly had stunning eyes. He realised that there wouldn't have been much spare money for a shopping spree in Sydney, unlike some of the girls he'd met who were always going on about ‘the latest' from Sydney.

‘There's certainly a lot more to look at in the shops now compared to when I lived in Sydney. Took a while to get over the war but the country is on a roll now, that's for sure. So tell me where else you've lived. You've probably seen more of the country than I have.'

They chatted comfortably and Abby relaxed, feeling safe in the large group and realising he probably preferred to talk to someone closer to
his own age. She'd noticed there was restraint when the men spoke to Barney compared to when they talked amongst themselves. Unlike the others, she didn't regard him as a ‘boss' as this job had been a one-off for her and probably for her father too.

Barney finally glanced at his watch. ‘Struth, I'd better hand out the money or I'11 have a riot on my hands.'

‘I doubt it. Everyone seems to be having a good time,' said Abby as Mrs Anderson came over.

‘I'm going to bring the cakes and a sweet down now, okay, Barney?'

He nodded and swung his leg over the bench and stood. ‘Righto.'

‘Do you want a hand, Mrs Anderson?'

‘Yes, Abby, that would be nice. Come on.'

As they headed back to the homestead, Barney picked up his jacket and took out envelopes marked with each man's name and began handing them round.

It was only a minute's drive to the house and as the high roof and tall chimneys came into view behind the beautifully landscaped gardens, Abby gulped. ‘Oh my, how lovely.'

Mrs Anderson glanced at her, then back to the imposing facade. ‘Yes, it is, isn't it? When you live in a place you sort of stop seeing it. Come on round the back, we'll go past her rose garden.'

Inside the kitchen, Abby looked around at the large work area, the benches, the extra table, the high cupboards and the pantry that was as big as a small room. ‘My mum would love a kitchen like this. She likes to cook and never has enough room.'

‘Is she a good cook?'

‘We think so. She likes baking and making jams and pickles. She wins prizes for her cakes.'

‘And do you cook?'

‘Yes, but I'm not a baker, I'm afraid. Mum says I'm too heavy-handed. Though I always get the job of beating the eggs,' said Abby.

‘Well, I'm a pretty average cake maker. But the men always like my fruitcakes. Wait a sec while I go get the cream from the other refrigerator.'

‘I'm sure your cakes are delicious,' called Abby, wondering at a kitchen that had two fridges. At their house there wasn't even an ice chest. As she stood gazing at the array of pots and pans, there was a flash of white at her feet, followed quickly by another. She squealed and jumped, then gazed at the small creatures in astonishment. They, in turn, began a frenzied yapping, dancing about on their short legs and pointy feet.

Abby burst out laughing. ‘Golly, what sort of mug dogs are you? Who squashed your face?'

She bent down and peered at their pug noses and black raisin eyes. Giggling, she held out a hand and Tucker boldly inched forward in case this was an offer of food. Abby grabbed him and scooped him up before he had a chance to run away. She stood up and held the surprised dog up to her face so they could eyeball each other. Diet continued to yelp around her ankles.

‘What do you think you are you doing?'

Abby spun around in shock at the icy voice. Enid Holten stood at the door, a look of horror on her face.

‘Who are you? Give me my dog at once.' She advanced on the stunned Abby, who meekly handed over Tucker. Enid bent down and scooped up Diet and swiftly inspected them, then glared at Abby. ‘No one touches my dogs. They don't go to strangers,' she said accusingly.

For a minute Abby thought this woman must have thought she was going to throw the two mutts into the cooking pot. ‘I'm sorry, they just came in. I've never seen dogs like these before.'

‘These are pedigree dogs. They are sensitive and special creatures who are easily upset.'

Abby glanced down at the dogs under each arm, glaring back at her with a similar expression to that of their mistress. Abby had the feeling the two of them were about to poke their tongues out at her.

Thankfully Mrs Anderson came hurrying in with a bowl of whipped cream. ‘Oh, Mrs Holten. This is Abigail McBride. She's been working at the shed.'

‘Then what is she doing here?'