Daughter of Australia (14 page)

O
n this day, Leonora's eleventh birthday, the rain of Pittsburgh did not end in rainbows. It blackened with night, stained the bark of the great oaks, dried in gray streaks down the slate roofs like sooty tears and pivoted from steady pours to ashen sniffles.

Leonora pulled the covers up to her neck, watched the bloated splatter against her bedroom window, dancing finger taps upon slick glass. Eleven—a number, an age—a birthday to celebrate—a fake date—another stomachache. The guests had departed, the chatter and footsteps silent.

A light rap knocked against the door, but she didn't answer. “Are you awake?” her uncle asked through an open crack.

“Yes.”

“Good.” He closed the door behind him and lingered at the knob. “I didn't want to leave without saying good-bye.”

Owen Fairfield's figure moved through the room. He sat at the foot of the bed. He reached for the lamp and turned the brass key, lighting a square above the covers. His white beard was short and clean and perfectly lined at the jawbone and mouth. He looked quickly at the gold pocket watch in the vest of his gray twill suit, his traveling attire. White suits never lasted more than a few hours in the coal-laden air without him having to change.

He tried to lighten the mood, tried to get her to look at his face. “You had such a busy day, I thought you'd be asleep.”

She smiled weakly. He smelled of pipe tobacco, slightly sweet.

“Eleven!” Owen Fairfield shook his head. “Eleven years old, I can hardly believe it. Seems like just yesterday you were a little girl and now you're halfway grown.” He pointed a finger at her, his eyes crinkling with affection. “You're making an old man out of me, darling.”

Her uncle peered around the room, looked up at the coffered ceiling. “You didn't open any of your presents.”

The shame of what she had done brightened her cheeks and she turned away.

“It wasn't your fault, Leonora.” He pinched her chin. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about.” He looked down at his hands then, twisted his wedding band around his finger. “She's too hard on you. Always has been.”

He stayed quiet for a moment before pulling out the watch again, then snapped it shut and tucked it back. “Car's waiting for me,” he said without rising. “I'll be gone six months at least. China and Japan.” He frowned. “Traveling's not what it used to be; things are tightening. Hard to explain. Like the whole world's being pulled in different directions like elastic. Used to be a lot simpler, friendlier. World's changing, darling, and I'm not sure it's for the better.” Worry lines changed to smiles as the weight of the words struck him. “And here you are, eleven! Changing right in front of my eyes.” He pointed another finger at her. “No more growing while I'm gone, you hear me?”

She nodded.

“I'll bring you back a silk kimono, one that picks up the gold in your hair and eyes.” He winked. “Maybe a jade tree. You and I got a thing for the rocks, don't we?”

Her uncle leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, looked like he wanted to say more but then left the room—an incomplete sentence. A few minutes later, the beams of the Rolls-Royce splashed against the window before turning down the pine-lined drive.

Leonora wrapped her arms around her belly. The room widened in emptiness, the canopy bed loomed and the gaping mouth of the marble fireplace wheezed a cold draft. The house was icier without him, like a scarf removed from an already-chilled neck. Not that he was attentive or playful, but instead a distraction between her and Eleanor. With Owen gone, her aunt's anxiety and missing of her husband always turned to hard focus, singular and defined, to Leonora. Nothing she could do was right and so she spent her days hoping to evaporate with the morning dew.

In the darkness of the large room, Leonora's mind was too busy, the day too full with unpleasant moments that kept replaying, drawing in scenes from the past like moths to a flame. So, with bare feet, she climbed out of bed and went out to the hall, felt the way down the thick walnut banister.

The fireboxes were out and the wood floors chilled as Leonora tiptoed past the closed doors of the kitchen and shrank into a corner, tucking her nightgown around her ankles. The room was cold, but the noise behind the walls was a heat that warmed from the inside out. She opened her ears to the lone area of activity in the house. The sounds of clean dishes clinking mixed with laughing voices over scrubbing pots and the pounding of rolling pins.

The kitchen nourished with more than food. Words stirred within the walls; emotions flowed freely. Real words. Real feelings. Not the contrived small talk and lies that filled her day or the relentless tutoring of facts, history and numbers drummed into the creases of her brain. So many words spoken in a day—words that must be remembered; words that had to be recited, but never words that meant anything.

A door slammed on the servant side and a woman moaned. “You're still here?” Bertha's voice bellowed. “Thought you turned in for the night.”

“Huh! To be so lucky.” Leonora recognized the voice of Mindy, the table maid. “Had to polish the silver twice!” the woman grunted. “Once before the party and again after. Even the pieces nobody used!”

“Well, sit for a spell and have some tea before you go!” ordered Bertha. A stool screeched across the floor. “Mrs. Fairfield asleep?”

“Far as I know. Course she'll be up for her midnight feeding soon, sucking the blood out of kittens and babies.” The cooks laughed. “Cake looked out of this world, Bertha. Spice cake?”

“Carrot. There's a whole one left. Take a piece.”

“You heard what happened?” Mindy snickered.

“Everyone heard what happened. Was it so bad?”

“Worse. The girl threw up all over herself just as she was blowing out the candles! Should have seen Mrs. Fairfield's face—her eyes bulging and her face red as a tomato!” The woman snorted. “Leonora be lucky if she lives to see twelve.”

Heat grew sharp to Leonora's cheeks, burned her ears. She felt sick just thinking about it.

“Poor girl,” Bertha tsked. “Got a room full of people she don't even know telling her how pretty she is, asking her questions. More grown-ups than children. See all those presents with the blue wrapping paper? Crystal and silver! What's a child going to do with that stuff?”

“Not for her at all, you know that,” answered another voice. “Kissing asses. Every guest had lips puckered for a taste of the sweet Fairfield behind—tasted better on their lips than your carrot cake, Bertha.” There were throaty chuckles before she continued, “Can't blame the girl for barfing. Can't be easy knowing you ain't got no friends.”

“You'll hear no pity from me!” Mindy snapped. “Mark my words, Mrs. Fairfield will have one of us fired over this. I'm telling you, that girl is like a curse. Her maids and tutors don't last more than a year. Soon as she warms up to them, they're gone. Get too close to that one and you get burned.”

“Poor thing's just lonely. Child wouldn't hurt a flea,” said Bertha, her voice mellowing like her arms were crossed against her stomach. “I pity her. They got her scheduled with lessons from morning to night. She's not allowed to have any friends or playmates. And look who she's got to live with? An uncle who drops a present at her feet and taps her on the head as he leaves and an aunt who'd freeze the devil's tail with a look.”

“So terrible is it?” Mindy scoffed. “Imagine never picking up a dirty dish or having to cook a piece of toast.”

“No shame in hard work and you know it. Would you want her life?” The maid fell silent.

“Of course not.” Bertha's tone deepened. “It's no life for a child. I wouldn't wish her life on a dog.”

The teacup moved to the counter and Mindy's feet tapped against the tile as she got off the stool. “Well, the girl might seem sweet and innocent now, but Leonora'll grow up mean as Mrs. Fairfield. You'll see.”

Leonora cowered into the wall, replayed the words over and over, half-conscious of the waning sounds of the kitchen. The lights switched off, snapped away the beam of white near her feet. The servant door closed and the key rattled as it locked. It would be the last time she would hear the voice of Bertha, the cook who would sneak her extra desserts and squeeze her with fat, warm arms, the last time she would hear this kind woman defending her. For her aunt had already decided to fire Bertha, blaming Leonora's sickness on the cake, too rich for a child's stomach. Leonora remembered the maid's prediction:
Get too close to that one and you get burned.
The guilt and shame rose swift and hot.

What little warmth left and the cold from the empty kitchen seeped into her bones, shaking her limbs. She rose unsteadily and inched blindly back through the hall and up the staircase. As she passed her aunt's room, she slowed her pace and held her breath, the familiar fear rising. But another sound crept upon her and she stopped, listened. Hiccups of sobbing, low and prolonged, seeped from behind the closed door.

Leonora could not move, the feeling akin to seeing a rose blooming in the dead of winter, the oddity of it stunning and strange—the reality of a fleeting moment of grace and truth even stranger. Without thinking, Leonora touched her fingertips to the door, and it swung inward. Eleanor sat hunched before the fireplace, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking. The moment was so soft, the woman's pain so real, that Leonora's eyes welled, her heart breaking at another's suffering.

Leonora inched silently to her side, leaned in and wrapped her arms gently around her aunt's bent neck. In Leonora's arms, in a moment of warmth and emotion, the neck fell limp upon her shoulder and a weak cry left the woman's throat. Leonora had never touched Eleanor, never felt an embrace or a kiss from the woman, and she melted into the cold skin, lost herself in a single moment of closeness that her whole soul craved. But it was only a moment. One moment to be forever lost, for suddenly the woman's neck and head jerked up as if awakened by a thunderclap. The eyes glowed black, rimmed red with tears. “How dare you come in here.” Eleanor's voice cracked and her chin shivered. Leonora stepped back.

“How dare you sneak up on me!” Eleanor screamed. Leonora retreated two steps more, but Eleanor grabbed her wrist and pulled her close. “If you ever tell anyone about this,” Eleanor hissed, “I'll leave you out in the dust! Do you understand me?”

Leonora tried to pull back, began to cry, her voice closed with the habitual panic.

“Do you understand?” Eleanor screamed. “
I will leave you!
”

Leonora's mind went blank and she nodded furiously, kept nodding furiously even as she fled the room and ran through the hall.

These were the threats, Eleanor's promises, the lullaby that sang in Leonora's ears since the Fairfields adopted her in case she dared slip about her past, made any mistake. And no one ever defended or protected her from the promise, not even her uncle. Owen upon hearing the woman's threats would always draw inward, his face sallow and gray as if the words were spoken to him. And he would leave, never defend, never say all would be all right, and for this the pain was worse. So Leonora never misspoke, stayed silent and shared her secrets only with the birds and trees and barn cats and hunting dogs who would lick away her frowns.

Leonora climbed into her bed and hid under the covers. In the darkness, she pulled out a tiny, egg-shaped stone from her pocket, curled it into her palm, ached for the friend who had given it to her, ached for a place to belong, ached for a home that didn't exist. And this night, like so many others, she held on to a memory that neared a dream, shivered in the silent darkness and fell asleep in a nightgown wet with tears.

“Y
e look right handsome, James.” Tess winked as she buttoned his worn suit jacket, a Shamus hand-me-down. The lining was gone and the elbows were worn bare. New stitches stood out bright black against the rest of the faded threads. Tess wrinkled her forehead as she pulled at the sleeves and inspected it from a distance. “A little crooked.” She laughed. “Mendin's never been m'strongest skill.”

Shamus grunted from the bedroom, came out fumbling with a collar. “Tess, do I have to wear this bloody thing? Ye know it chokes the breath out o' me.”

“Course ye do! It's a funeral, Shamus. Have ye lost all respect?”

He grumbled, “Hard to respect a man that set us on a bum piece o' land.”

“Shame on ye!” The woman's voice rose with sudden vehemence. “The Shelbys 'ave been nothin' but angels to us from day one! Set us up with credit 'fore they even knew who we was. Then, Mr. Shelby come over his self an' lend ye those tools, bringin' all that food from his wife.” She put her hands on her hips and wagged a finger in his face. “He told ye 'bout this land. I stood right here while he told us 'bout the dry dirt an' ye remember what ye said? ‘Never a land an O'Reilly can't tame.'

“Shameful!” Tess grabbed his collar, tugged it closed, his neck reddening with the pinch. “Complainin' 'bout wearin' a collar to a man's funeral. A man who done nothin' but help us.”

“I'm sorry, Tess.” Shamus withered. “Yeer right. Forgive me?”

She tried to hold to the anger but softened and pressed his suit lapels. “Course I do.”

Tess's face sagged then and the smile left her eyes. “Temper's a bit short. Couldn't sleep thinkin' 'bout that poor Mrs. Shelby an' those children of hers, all on their own now. Six children an' two more on the way! Shamus, can ye imagine? An' now their father gone.”

“She'll live fine off the renters.”

“I don't know.” She scanned the kitchen, picked up the covered stew. “Tween the gold diggings and the drought, men leaving farms left an' right. Heard the Holloways picked up an' left without a word. Didn't even clean the dishes off the table!”

Tess put her bonnet on, her skin stark white against the black. She stopped then and looked at James, looked at her husband. Tears welled in her eyes and Shamus took her hands. “What is it, Tess?”

“Look at ye two. So handsome. So strong. Mrs. Shelby lost her husband an' here I am with ye both.” Her lips quivered. “God has truly shone on me.”

For all Shamus's talk of renters and money, the funeral numbered under twenty and those represented were as threadbare as the O'Reillys. The preacher solemnly greeted the mourners but left an instant impression of oddity. Thick glasses magnified his eyes, his head appearing top-heavy and bobbly over his skeletal figure. He seemed a step away from reading his own rites.

Mrs. Shelby stood in front of the parson, black lace draped over her large body, her thick red hair visible under the veil. An army of children hung around her skirt folds, fidgeting feet and squirming under sun and boredom.

A boy in his teens just like James glanced at him before looking down at his feet. He moved from one foot to the other, and everything was crooked—hat, waistband, tie. The cuffs of his pants did not fall evenly, though they looked new and unmended. He peeked at James again and smirked, plucked awkwardly at his suspenders, then kicked dirt at his brother's shoes. The older boy shoved him in the chest before Mrs. Shelby shot a warning look that could freeze water.

James did not listen to the words of the preacher; no one seemed to except for Mrs. Shelby, who kept her head pointed straight, still with attention. Instead, James watched the faces of the other farmers, watched their impatient expressions, watched them flex their biceps. They all wanted to get back to the fields.

When the service ended, men began to fill in the grave, one hard shovelful at a time. The rest of the group separated into clusters. Shamus and Tess joined the renters at Mrs. Shelby's side, held hands and shared words of consolation; little girls clung to mothers' skirts and older boys joined and tried to look like men with stern faces and shoulders sloped with heavy burdens.

The uneven Shelby boy walked over to James, his gait lopsided as he tried to size him up with a tilt of his head. As if satisfied, he stuck out a hand. “I'm Tom.”

“James.” They shook heartily with limp elbows.

The men at the graves patted down the mound with the backs of their shovels.

“Sorry about your dad,” James offered.

The young man looked down, twisted his mouth. “O'Reilly, right? You don't talk like your folks.”

“I was born here.”

“Oh,” Tom said, fine with the answer. “You go t'school?”

“No.”

“Mum says I can stop goin'. Needs me on the farm now.” He stole a look at the grave and shrugged his shoulders. “Hate school anyway. See that preacher? He's the teacher. One day in class with him an' you wish he was buryin' you!”

James smiled and Tom laughed but caught himself before his mother did, pulled his mouth crookedly to the side. “Haven't seen you around b'fore.”

“Been busy in the fields.”

“Just you an' your dad?”

James ignored the reference. “Yeah.”

“Don't you have any hired hands?”

“No.”

Tom nodded and shrugged again, looked at him cock-eyed. “I could help you sometimes, if Mum lets me. Long as I get my chores done, I bet she'd let me come an' help you.”

“Tommie!” Mrs. Shelby called. “Time to get back to the house.”

He rolled his eyes. “Preacher's gonna hold mass at our house t'night. You got to see that man eat! Chews his food sideways like a horse an' talks preacher stuff through his chewin'—sprayin' food an' Gawd talk all over the bloody place!” Tom shuddered. “You're comin', right?”

James looked ahead at the procession following Mrs. Shelby, saw Tess and Shamus among them. “Guess so.”

They walked easily, as if their footsteps had always been together. Tom chatted away affably with no toughness of speech or pretense, just simple good nature.

“Got any bullocks?” Tom asked.

“No.”

“Sheep?”

James shook his head.

“What you got then?”

“Wheat.”

“That's all?”

“Couple pigs and chickens, I guess.”

“Hell, everyone's got those,” Tom said without condescension.

James grew quiet. Tom suddenly perked. “We got fifty heads of cattle! Another hundred in sheep. Mum says we don't got money for a drover, so she said I can do it.” He stopped with the half-truth and explained, “Well, not really drovin' but herdin'. You ride?”

James nodded.

“Thought so. Maybe you can help me with the drovin' if I help you with the wheat. We can camp out in the far paddocks, make a fire, dig for grubs an' eat goannas like the Aborigines!”

James grimaced and Tom laughed. “Just kiddin' . . . 'bout eatin' the goannas, that is. Those Abos eat 'em, though. Maggots, too. Eat 'em like candy.” Tom shuddered.

A few minutes later, the Shelby homestead rose from a sea of green, an island swimming on barren land. Red roses crept up the pillars anchoring the verandah; lilacs and yellow wattles hedged the base. Behind the flowers, the house paint peeled in curls and a few windows hung with only one shutter, but the wide doors and porch spread open in warm welcome. And with each square foot of the one-story house, the clear poverty of the O'Reillys grew in contrast.

“How you keep it so green?” James asked.

“Aqueduct. Pumps in from the artesian well. I'll take you back one day. Stinks like rotten eggs but keeps Mum's flowers growin'.” The boys entered the house, now abuzz with chatter that grew loud and constrained between walls.

“Tommie.” Mrs. Shelby waved. “Show Reverend Jordan to the spare room.”

Tom winced. “Means he's stayin' for a while. Gawd help me!” He made the sign of the cross over his chest. “I'll be back down quick.”

James squeezed through the packed dining room. The house was worn, cozily scuffed. Faded wallpaper met chipped baseboards. Unraveling carpets settled on worn floors, remnants of many feet, many gatherings. He turned the corner and entered a room with a slight mildew odor and halted. Books lined shelves from floor to ceiling. Old volumes with broken spines and faded covers meshed between new leather ones. James ran his fingers over the books, pulled one out and fanned the pages, dust rising up and tickling his nose.

“What are you doin' in here?”

James spun around, closed the book with a clap.

Mrs. Shelby leaned against the door frame, her red hair afire above her black dress.

“I'm sorry; I was . . .” he sputtered.

Mrs. Shelby came toward him, watched him carefully from downcast eyes. She pulled the book from his hands, leafed through the pages and placed it back on the shelf.

“I didn't mean to . . .”

“Shush.” She held up a finger for quiet and scanned the bookshelf, reached up on her toes, pulled out a thick green volume. “Here.” She handed him the book. “You'll like this one better.”

James rubbed the cover. Robert Louis Stevenson.

“Like to read, do you?” she asked, inspecting him again.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“My boys have no use for it.” She shook her head. “Enough children t'fill a schoolhouse an' not one of 'em wants to read a word. Only way I can get 'em close to these books is by whacking one over their thick skull,” she said, and snorted, her pregnant belly rising with the chuckle. “Guess they take after their father. Tommie especially.” Mrs. Shelby's face grew gray. “He wasn't a learned man but smart as a whip. A good man,” she said, voice fading.

She pointed to the bookshelf, her tone strong and firm again. “These books belong to the church. They were savin' for a school library but needed the space for the preacher's quarters. I took 'em gladly. Haven't had a chance to read in years. Shame, isn't it?”

She put her hand on his head, her palm warm. “These books are just as much yours as mine. Come over an' take as many as you want. Hear me?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Her eyes scanned his suit. “How your folks doin'?”

“Fine.”

“I mean with the land. It's not easy tillin'.”

“We got the wheat in this week. Crows been picking at it, though.”

“Need a dog. A good barker scare 'em faster than a shotgun.” She nodded, frowned. “Course, if we don't get some rain for it to root, the whole crop gonna be picked, dogs or not.”

A young man peeked into the room. “Mum, preacher wants to start mass.”

“Orright. Be right in.”

She leaned down to James. “Wants to cut into that ham is what he wants!” She snorted again. “Preacher eats like a horse. Be droolin' all through the mass, starin' at it. You watch!

“You're a good kid.” Mrs. Shelby winked. “Talk proper. Be good for Tommie to have a friend like you.” She took him by the shoulder and squeezed, the arm as strong as a man's, as comforting as a mother's. “Know you're as welcome here as in your own home.”

Two tables lined the walls of the dining room, spread with boiled ham, turkey, loaves of bread, crocks of butter, bowls of gravy, and dried fruit. Tom handed a plate to James and poked him with his elbow. “Let's eat outside.” They took their pile of food out to the verandah, swung their legs over the side. Two young men joined them on the porch. They were a few years apart in age but had hair and faces similar enough to be twins.

“Who's your girlfriend?” one asked, smirking.

“Shut up.” Tom threw an apricot at him. “This is James. O'Reilly's boy.” Tom rolled his eyes. “Will an' John. My older brothers.”

“Irish, huh?”

James put his fork down and met Will's eyes square.

“Whoa!” Will's hands went up in defense. “Wasn't an insult. Just heard your folks talkin', is all.” He shoveled a hunk of ham in his mouth. “Our dad was a Scot. Couple of drinks in him an' his accent come out so hard, you could barely understand a bloody word!”

The three boys smiled into their food, their eyes missing him. “Dad would have liked having all these people here,” said John.

Will laughed. “He'd corner 'em with his yarns till they beat the door to get out!”

James listened to the banter of the boys, the communion of brothers, warm and easy.

Clink.
Tom dropped his fork to his plate. All eyes turned to him. He wiped his hand across his cheek and looked at his finger in disbelief.

“You cryin'?” accused Will with horror.

Tom leaned his head back and looked at the sky, blinking. “It's raining,” he breathed.

They all craned necks. Gray clouds pulled toward the homestead, pillowing and thickening with momentum. A few light drops landed on their eyelashes.

“It's raining,” Will repeated. “
It's raining!
”

Full plates clattered to the ground as they rushed into the house, the chatter of the guests silenced by the charging boys.

“It's raining!”

Every mouth hushed. Chins lifted slowly, eyes turned up toward the ceiling, ears stiffened with focus, alert as roos.

And then it came.

Slap. Slap. Slap
. Raindrops hit the corrugated roof. But the people did not rejoice. They stayed rigid and waited for the tease, waited for the drops to disappear and the sun to cut bright through the window again. Men gripped the edge of the table, while the women held hand to chest lest a breath send the rain away. They waited for a sign, a wind shift that would either leave the cloud in place or carry its gift away.