Absolution Creek (38 page)

‘I’m not surprised.’ Sam took a long drag, blowing the smoke into the expanse of the kitchen. ‘A lone female running a property with all-male staff isn’t exactly the norm. I reckon you’re here to help repair her reputation.’

Meg stirred the gravy on the stove top. ‘Somehow I don’t think my aunt’s worried about that.’ She rested the steel egg flip on the sink.

‘You heard from your mother?’

‘No. I wrote a letter letting her know we’d arrived safely and I’ve heard nothing.’

‘Well, you might want to try again.’ Sam belched. ‘We’ll want to go back eventually. What about Cora? Do you know what happened between them?’

‘No.’

‘Have you asked?’

‘No.’

Sam dropped his half-finished cigarette into the remnants of Penny’s milk glass. ‘Aren’t you interested?’

Retrieving the glass, Meg rinsed it out. ‘Yes . . . no . . . maybe. I’m not sure if I want to know. I don’t want to end up in the middle of –’

‘A family argument?’ Sam finished. ‘I think it’s a bit late for that.’ He heaved himself out of the chair. ‘I’ll go have a shower and have an early dinner. I don’t think I could do the whole dining-room thing tonight. I’ll tuck the girls in.’

Meg looked out into the wintry void above the sink. Beyond was a low hedge hemmed by three willowy gum trees, a square of grass, scraggly geraniums and ghost bush. A faded yellow blind cut a third of the view, however having spent the better part of her days at the sink Meg knew the landscape intimately.

‘Do you want to know?’

Cora’s voice jolted Meg from a daydream of Primrose Park and the harbour. Her aunt was slouching against the pale timber of the door, a pair of reading glasses dangling from her fingers.

‘I didn’t know you were listening.’ Meg turned her attention once again to the gravy. Privacy was a hard-won commodity under this roof.

‘Tell me about your father,’ Cora said.

‘I never met him. He died during the war,’ Meg replied sharply.

‘Do you know that for sure?’

‘I know what Mum told me.’

Cora grimaced. ‘No need to be defensive.’

‘Fine. They met in Sydney, fell in love and then he was shipped off to the war. He died in Tobruk.’

‘Well, that’s pretty true. It’s the order of things that have been rearranged. Your father left your mother when you were two years of age. She never saw him again. He probably did die in Tobruk. At least he was listed as missing in action, presumed dead.’

The clang of the metal egg flip hitting the floor startled Meg into action. She swiped at the greasy splats of gravy with a dishcloth. ‘How do you know that?’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t believe in perpetuating lies. I’ve had experience with them.’ Cora sat the book and reading glasses on the kitchen table. ‘Actually, I rather thought you knew.’

‘But how? Why would Mum lie?’

Cora tucked the book under her arm. ‘Your mother never suffered from a shortage of self-preservation, Meg.’ She gave a brittle laugh. ‘Anyway, I might dislike your mother but that sentiment doesn’t extend to you. Ask her next time you speak to her. Write her a letter.’

Meg rinsed the dish cloth. ‘She hasn’t answered my first one.’

Cora looked as if she were about to say something, but instead she opened a cupboard and retrieved a rum bottle secreted inside an empty flour canister. She poured herself a drink. Ice and rum filled a glass. ‘It was your birth notice in the
Sydney Morning Herald
that piqued my curiosity. I came across it by chance. I actually thought there may be a chance for, if not quite a reconciliation, at least a confession of mistakes made in the past.’

‘That’s very cryptic.’

‘Anyway, I wrote to your mother, congratulated her on your arrival. Two years later she wrote back – a little belatedly, don’t you think? – to tell me that Geoffrey had left her. She blamed me for his leaving.’

‘Was it your fault?’

Cora wagged her finger. ‘Oh no, my dear. No apportioning blame on me, thank you very much. I never met your father and so, in truth, I don’t think it was my fault. I blame love.’

‘Love?’

‘Your grandfather’s love for his first wife. You see, your mother and I are stepsisters.’

Meg removed the bubbling gravy from the stove top. ‘I don’t understand. Stepsisters?

Cora skulled her drink, the ice clattering. ‘No, I don’t expect you do.’

‘Mum never said anything about you being stepsisters.’

‘Actually, I doubt she said much about me at all. Yes, well I can see by your expression that I’m right on that account.’

‘I need to know, Cora. I’ve never had any grandparents, or any aunts and uncles, until now.’

‘Believe me, Meg Hamilton Bell, I know how that feels.’

‘Mum never talks about you or Granny. It’s like she never had a mother.’

‘I expect she feels let down by her. Why my father ever got caught up with the likes of that woman, Abigail . . . Well, let’s just say she was an embarrassment to the family. I blame her for some of what happened. For the rest of it I blame your mother.’

‘And what happened?’ Meg asked desperately. ‘Tell me.’

Cora sat tiredly at the kitchen table. At last here was her opportunity to reveal the truth.

Chapter 29

S
quib lit the slush lamp on the table. Jack’s diary was in its usual spot, his cramped handwriting noting weather conditions and stock work. Not once was her name mentioned – not even when they’d worked together in the sheep yards. Well, he could do it by himself and see how he managed, Squib thought angrily, noticing the name Olive scrawled in a corner margin. ‘Olive.’ Squib’s lips pinched. Olive was the reason Jack didn’t want her to stay.

I’ve my own family coming.

Squib knew that if she were sent to an orphanage, her father would never find her. It was better to leave Jack before he sent her away, and walk upstream from the direction she’d come. With a sob she flung the waterbag over her shoulder, inadvertently knocking the lamp. The flickering flames spread swiftly over the diary, letters and books. Squib gave a gasp, her first instinct to smother the fire with the scratchy blanket from the bed. As she watched the flames, however, a feeling of righteousness spread through her body. Gathering her crutches, she walked out the door.

At the creek she turned right, following the curve of the waterway to limp over fallen logs, the sand cool beneath her feet. She hated the creek. It had taken her away from her father. She only bore being so close to it in the hopes it would lead her back to him.

She kept moving until the sun rose and birdsong drifted down from the trees. Once daylight arrived she rested her injured leg every hour.

At noon she slurped water from the canvas bag at the base of a gum tree as a flock of ibis took flight. At least it was cool near the creek. There was a slight breeze and the closely packed branches overhead shaded her from the sun.

By mid-afternoon Squib could barely walk. Her feet complained and her hands hurt from the makeshift crutches. She knew eventually she would find someone, although an image of Jack riding up, his hat pushed low on his head, a tuft of grass between his lips, haunted each step.

By late afternoon her legs could carry her no further. Turning a bend in the creek, she scattered a mob of sheep at the water’s edge. Skirting their soft piles of droppings she ran up the slight bank. Ahead lay an expanse of grassland broken up by patches of trees. Exhausted Squib lay down in the long grass and slept.

Squib awoke to a low-hanging moon. The wind rustled the grass, blowing the tips of it so that it appeared like a grassy sea in the moonlight. Her nostrils twitched as the wind briefly changed direction. The scent of roasting meat floated on the breeze. She was not alone. She could see hobbled horses feeding into the northerly wind. There was the creak of leather, unmistakable in the clear night air, and the low murmur of voices interspersed with the occasional laugh. Squib peered across the grass to where a group huddled around a campfire. She knew too well the sound of marrow being sucked from a bone and the fatty juices that smeared your chin. Soon theft would be added to her list of sins.

When the moon passed its midpoint in the sky, Squib walked stealthily towards the glowing embers. The smell suggested a morsel of their meal remained somewhere among the snoring bodies. She circled the camp carefully, picking her way around a freshly killed sheep that had been left lying in the grass. Congealed blood oozed from its slashed neck, and the partially skinned animal’s flesh glowed white under the moon’s gaze. One of its legs had been hacked off, and the rest of it – meat that would have fed a family for days – left to rot.

The three travellers were nestled around the dying fire, snoring intermittently. Squib took a single, silent step towards the stacked dirty plates and reached across for the lump of meat.

‘What ’ave we got here?’

A strong arm grabbed her ankle. Squib squealed as her makeshift crutches fell and she landed heavily on the ground.

‘I’m reckoning this would be the kid I was telling you about – the one staying with Jack. What you doing out here then?’

Squib struggled against the thick arm, tilting her head away from the stench of sweat and mutton fat. It was Adams. ‘And I’m reckoning you’d be the lot that killed that sheep,’ Squib retaliated, finding herself subject to the scrutiny of a young man and woman. ‘Sheep stealing’s a crime.’

‘Is your leg hurt?’ the younger man asked.

Squib gave a brief nod.

‘Sheep stealing. That’s rich coming from a runaway,’ Adams replied.

‘She’s a bit old to be a runaway.’ The woman turned to the young man at her side. ‘She’s not exactly a child. And you say she was with Jack, Mr Adams?’

Squib stared at the woman opposite her. There were hollows beneath her eyes and her pale skin was emphasised by flecks of red in her short dark hair. How on earth would this woman know Jack? Squib sucked in her cheeks and let out a long breath. She spoke very distinctly and politely and she appeared to be younger in age than her stepmother, Abigail. Was this woman Jack’s Olive?

Adams nodded. ‘You’re never too old to be a runaway, ma’am. And yes, this is the girl. I told Jack she’d be best sent to an orphanage.’

‘I’m not going to any orphanage,’ Squib said defiantly as Adams tied a rope about her waist, holding the end firmly. Her fingers picked uselessly at the knot.

‘We’ll see about that, girly.’ Adams tightened the rope.

‘Must you do that, Mr Adams?’ The woman’s smooth forehead had the slightest indentation of a frown.

‘Ma’am, she’ll wander off into the night and end up being taken in by the blacks if we don’t keep an eye on her.’ He looked at Squib. ‘It’s to Jack’s tomorrow.’

The woman passed Squib a plate with a bit of damper and meat, and peered at her over the camp fire. ‘Are you a runaway?’

‘No. Jack found me when I got lost. I fell off a wagon and got washed down the
crick
.’

‘Likely story.’ Adams huffed.

‘It’s true.’ Squib took a mouthful and chewed quickly. ‘My father’s looking for me.’ She tugged on the thick length of rope. Only animals were tied up.

‘How do you know?’ the woman asked, leaning forward.