Daughter of Australia (30 page)

James nodded and she knew he understood, probably couldn't explain it any better. The quiet crowded again, self-conscious with a familiarity that had too much time to fade and widen.

James shoved one hand in his pocket and pointed to the house with his chin. “Looks like life has treated you well.”

“So it appears.” Her agreement came too heavy and his face softened, the lines above his forehead gone. “And you?” she asked. “Has life treated you well?”

The lines came back and the brows dropped. “Well enough.” And the space between them grew wider and the rags of conversation tattered.

Leonora squeezed the glass, pulled the tray to her chest, held it like an armored breastplate. “I need to ask you a favor.” The words twisted in apology. “I need to ask that you don't mention our past . . . my past. Alex doesn't know.” Her voice faltered. “It could make my life very complicated.”

James looked at his boots. “Of course.”

“He wouldn't understand,” she tried to explain. “It'll be better for everyone.”

He nodded and crouched down to his heels, picked up his tools, began rewiring the broken coils. She had hurt him again. It didn't matter the slap was delivered gently. The mark still showed.

 

The men rode from Wanjarri Downs in the pearly dawn. Fourteen horses, tied with packs and saddles, left in pyramid formation: James and Tom in the front, their coats buttoned high against the morning chill, the Aborigine stockmen behind them. The bodies, of man and beast, synchronized as one form, glided over the land like pulled silk.

Leonora watched them through the closed window of her bedroom, the glass muting the sound of hooves, so the horses and men moved as silent phantoms until they disappeared into the fog. They would be gone for months. Leonora touched the cool glass with her fingertips. Alex's snoring hummed from the bed. A deep emptiness filtered over the land, breathed into the house and filled the corners. And the shadows thickened and stayed. And she missed him.

G
han passed the dirty tents until he reached the last in the row, the canvas brown and sagging and crusted with spiderwebs. He set down his pack.
Home.

“By Gawd!” a voice shouted. “It can't be!”

Ghan stared at a mug nearly as old and ugly as his own. “Whistler, is that you?”

The man slapped his knee and cackled. “Yeh filthy son of a bitch!” He wobbled on bowed legs, white chest hair frothing from his undershirt. “Whot the 'ell yeh doin' 'ere, Ghan?”

“Workin'. Looks like we're gonna be neighbors.”

Whistler's whole face smiled, all the wrinkles shaping like curved lips. “Can't believe yer still livin', yeh ugly fart!”

“Can't kill blokes like us,” said Ghan. “Get right back up by our knuckles.”

“Ain't that the truth!” The man laughed. His pants slipped down from his waist and he pulled them up without a second thought.

“Yeh don't whistle no more,” Ghan observed, remembering that back in the day the man had a rotten front tooth with a perfect gray hole in the middle. Every time he laughed, a high-pitched, long whistle would blow from his mouth.

“Got no teeth no more!” Whistler opened his mouth wide. “Hey, yeh hungry?”

“Always.”

“Come on; I'll fix yeh up somepin. Leave the pack here. Nobody'll touch it. Good blokes overall.” He stuck a finger in his ear and grimaced. “ 'Cept fer those damn motorbikes. Them E-talians race 'em mornin' till night, I tell yeh. But good blokes. Yeh'll see.”

Whistler held the canvas flap open to this tent so Ghan could enter. A tiny stove made out of a kerosene can sat next to the middle pole. Whistler snapped a few twigs and lit the fire. He set the can of water to boil, dropped in the tea and set out two tin cans for mugs. Then he pulled out a frying pan still white with lard and started mixing the standard for damper: flour, water and sodium bicarbonate. Tea and damper—the feast of the bushman.

“Ain't got no jam,” Whistler apologized. “But got some golden syrup. Quarter the price.”

“So hungry, I'd eat the lard straight.”

Whistler stirred the tea, bubbling and nearly black. He poured it into the cans. “Been outta work awhile then?”

“Yeah. Vets comin' back from the war. Cripples wiv medals. Can't compete.”

The old man handed the scalding cup to Ghan, who held it unflinchingly with callused fingers. “They took the leg off?”

“Yeah.”

“It hurt?”

“Like the devil.”

Whistler shuddered. “Have t'kill me first. Don't have the guts fer the knife. Feel all sick inside jist thinkin' 'bout it.” Then he laughed so hard drool dripped down his chin. “See whot happens when yeh got a fam'ly full of girls! Makes a man soft as butter!”

“How the girls?” Ghan remembered the five children, all a year apart, blond and sweet. Whistler would watch them with tears, the love just pouring out of his eyes.

“All married. Got good blokes, too. Thank Gawd! No drunks, no hitters.” The man smiled with pride. “Guess how many grandkids I got?”

“How many?”

“Twelve. Wanna know how many are girls? Eleven! Gawd damn it!” Whistler sparkled even as he complained. “Eleven gawd damn girls! Like I got sweet nectar in my blood instead of steel. How a tough-arse devil like me get all 'em girls?”

Ghan chuckled and sipped his tea while Whistler heated the frying pan. Fat melted and bubbled around the blobs of dough, the smell bringing gurgles and grunts from his empty belly.

“My wife . . . yeh 'member Pippa, don't yeh?” he asked.

“Course. Pretty as yer girls.”

Whistler's eyes glistened with the compliment. “Died awhile back. Long time now.” He poked at the browning dough with a fork and flipped the damper over, splashing angry grease over the side. “Miss her somepin awful. Doesn't matter how long she's been gone, still hurts.” He pounded his chest. “Right in here. Somepin missin'. Gawd, I miss her.”

Ghan stared into the dark steaming tea, his reflection wavy and distorted. He lifted it to his lips and drank the drawn look away.

Whistler set a tin plate and shoveled the dough, the damper's bloated sides slicked with oil for only a second before drying. He drizzled the golden syrup on and the flies followed. The men ate with food in one hand while swatting flies with the other.

“Whot job they give yeh?” Whistler asked.

“Diggin'.”

The man stopped chewing, the squished dough visible between his lips. “Underground?”

“Yeah.”

“How long it been since yeh dug?”

“Don't quite know.” Ghan squinted at the smoke leaving the hole in the top of the tent. “Fifteen . . . twenty years maybe.”

The wrinkles fell in the old man's face. “Why the hell yeh goin' back under?”

“Told yeh. Need work.”

“No. No. No-oo-oo!” His lips twisted defiantly. “Too long, mate. Once yeh been aboveground that long, it'll kill yeh t'go back under. Don't do it.”

“Gotta.”

“Naw.” Whistler swallowed the rest of the dough without gumming it. “Listen t'me, Ghan. Get outta the diggin' fer that long an' it's too hard gettin' back in. The sun changes a man; the air gets in his lungs again an' he likes it. Goin' underground feel like somebody holdin' yer head underwater.”

Ghan chewed on the dough, couldn't taste it now. “Ain't got no choice.”

The man combed his wiry chest hairs with broken nails. “Damn, wish I could get yeh on pickin' duty wiv me. Doin' it so long, the managers don't see me no different than a machine. Got a line a mile long waitin' fer me to die so somebody can move into my spot.” His face sagged. “Damn, wish I could get yeh a place there wiv me.”

The last of the damper disappeared, leaving round, wet stains on the plate. The flies went to work cleaning, the worry of a swat now gone. “Come on.” Whistler stood and moved out of the tent. “I'll show yeh the neighborhood.”

The men swerved lazily between the tents, some all canvas, some reinforced with hessian and metal drums, some large enough to fit full families, some nearly too small for a grown man. “G'day, Mrs. Riccioli,” greeted Whistler with a short bow.

A fine-looking woman with black hair pulled tight around her face stopped her sweeping. “Morning.” She smiled. “You awanna eat somepin? You alookin' too skinny, Whistler!”

He stuck out his stomach. “Got t'keep m'figure fer the ladies, yeh know!” Whistler leaned to Ghan's ear and whispered, “Those E-talians always tryin' to feed yeh, specially the women. Good people. 'Cept fer those blasted motorbikes.”

Whistler gave a quick wave to the woman and led Ghan up the line. “Got most of the tents divided like a map. Got the E-talians over here, farthest away. Got the Aussies clustered closer to town. Then yeh got a mix of Slavs an' Poles an' couple other blokes scattered round. All work fine together in the pit, but aboveground, they can't see past their own flags. Used to be a bunch of Germans, but they got run out wiv the war. Shame, too. They were good blokes, strong an' funny. Gave up a fight leavin'. Poor blokes got their pants licked. Wonder where a German suppose to go when everyone hates 'im. Where yeh think they go, Ghan?”

“Back t'Germany.”

“Naw. Those blokes hated that Kaiser more than anybody. Must be hard bein' a man wivout a land. Must be hard.” He laughed merrily then. “Gawd damn it! See whot I'm sayin' 'bout havin' all those girls? Soft as butter, I am. Melt in yer gawddamn mouth!”

They hobbled past Italian flags, flapping pathetically, half-shredded from razored dust. “More E-talians comin' every day,” Whistler warned. “Tippin' the scales. Ain't good. Makin' people mad. Not me, course. I could give a crap. But yeh can feel the grumblin'. Anger startin' to simmer. Managers cuttin' the wages left and right; makin' hours longer. I don't like it.” Whistler slowed his bowed legs. “See the new owner yet: Mr. 'Arrington?”

“Don't think so.”

“Aw, you'd know. Trust me. He's a Yank from heel to collar. Got a new clean suit every day. A real dandy. But got hard eyes, that one. Kind of fella that'll be smilin' while he's hurtin' yeh. Makin' enemies but makin' friends, too. The important ones. Holds parties at the hotel all the time. Got lawyers, doctors, government men linin' up fer drinks an' gamblin'. Even the sheriff. 'Em boys like the ladies, too. Annie's whores used to come t'town every Tuesday. Now they're here three nights a week. Seems everybody wiv a vice is makin' money—the gamers, the whores, the distillers. But us, the good blokes, out here starvin'.” He sidestepped a trail of soapy water running from a tent. “Ground gettin' angry. Bubblin'. Don't like it one bit, I tell yeh.”

“Always been that way.”

“Naw. Not like this. Always been some group or 'nother outta sorts but not like this. Greed is gettin' too big. The big men gettin' bigger; the small men gettin' smaller . . . so small yeh start to not feel like a man anymore—just a big hairless rat crawlin' outta the pit.”

Ghan chuckled. “Old age makin' yeh bitter, mate.”

Whistler didn't laugh. “Ain't bitter, Ghan. Just seen a lot. Got awake. Near dead in years but finally awake an' seein' things how they is.” Whistler's voice turned cold. “This kind of anger, the one that's brewin' from the tents and pits, gives an old man the shivers.”

W
inter weakened, rounded a sharp corner and emerged as spring. The new rains came with fury, pounding the iron roof and lashing the windows, tapping and clawing upon the wind. Lightning streaked freely without a tree or a mountain to block its crooked charges, and with each flash Alex's sleeping face grew crisp in feature, the shadows of raindrops spotting his skin. Leonora pulled the quilt to her chin. Thunder rocked the house, shook the foundation. Between spurts, Alex's gin-soaked snoring labored from the pillow. She thought of James and Tom and the stockmen traveling through the Northern Territory with the bullocks. They would be soaked and cold to the bone.

The morning light pushed the rain to the east, brushed the land in brilliance. The red earth darkened to a fiery rust. Leaves were washed of dust, glittered dark green and slick. The sky expanded with endless blue, deep and thick. Cockatoos clung to the trees like trapped clouds.

In the kitchen, Meredith and Clare, the new cook and housemaid, worked the bread, chatted and snickered until Leonora entered. “G'day, Mrs. 'Arrington,” greeted Meredith, a pale woman with crooked teeth and the hard, strong hands of a dairymaid. “Whot can I get yeh?”

“Just tea, thank you. But I can make it.”

Meredith put her hands to her hips. “Nothin' doin'.” She poured the tea and placed it on the table, then tilted her heavy neck to the door. “Got the first egg since the rain. Chooks got it too good. Couple drops of water an' yeh gotta squeeze the egg outta 'em.” An iron pan screeched atop the stove. “Mr. 'Arrington want his breakfast now?”

“I'll ask him.”

The office door was open. Alex reclined on his chair, his long legs stretched and propped on the desk, crossed at the ankles. He folded his newspaper. “Morning, darling.”

Leonora glanced around the office at the shelves of books, the bar crystal and framed photographs—Alex and her uncle in hunting clothes, sporting guns over their shoulders; Alex with an array of Indian dignitaries; a picture of his old stallion with a wreath of flowers around his neck. Not a picture of Alex's wife anywhere. “The cook wants to know if you want breakfast.”

“In a bit.”

Leonora ran her finger across the desk, etched the lines of the brass desk lamp. “How long until the men return with the cattle?” she ventured.

“About another month.” He dropped the newspaper to the floor, pulled his legs off the desk. “Takes a long time to move all those animals.” Alex leaned back with his fingers interlaced and smiled with pleasure. “Already have a contract lined up for meat in Britain. Anything left we'll sell for a song down at the mine.”

She nodded, moved to the window and spread the curtains. “Looks beautiful out. Do you want to take a walk?”

“Maybe later.” Alex opened a drawer, rifled through files, fanning the corners. “I've got to write the church, wire them money.”

“Since when do you contribute to the church?”

“Since they're doing us a favor.” He dismissed the last comment. “Besides, churches have a lot of pull in these parts. It's good business to keep them happy.” Alex rubbed his jaw, looked at her as if surprised she was still there. “Was there anything else?”

“I thought maybe we could go to town for the day. Don't you think it would be nice to get out for a while?”

“Yes, but not today.” He pulled out several papers, then swiveled to the typewriter. “Why don't you go exploring? You've hardly been past the house.” Alex inserted a sheet into the roller, cranked it to the ink. “I'll tell you what: After I get things settled, we'll take a trip. I'll introduce you to the other wives, have a picnic or a party or something. How would that be?”

“All right. Or maybe I can stay with you in Coolgardie for a few weeks?”

He turned to her, the look on his face akin to panic. “Not a chance.”

“Why?”

“A mining town is no place for a lady.” He turned back to the typewriter, pressed the round keys—
tap, tap
. “Enjoy your exploration.”
Tap, tap, tap.
“Don't get lost.”
Tap, tap.

 

Leonora crossed the footbridge over the empty stream, now thick as clay from the storm. The station managers' quarters stood not far behind, small and quaint, shaded with a huge blackbutt tree. Sun warmed her face, heated the fabric of her dress. Green parrots squawked and clicked gray, muscled tongues, flapped wings with yellow undersides.

She stepped onto the swept porch, rose to her toes and peeked through the window. A coat hung from a hook on the wall; a slouched hat drooped from a chair back. The room was clean and neat, the dishes stacked on the counter. From her view, she could see part of a bedroom, the bed made with clean linens. It was too private, too intimate, and she hurried back over the bridge.

Leonora continued around the homestead, past the chicken coop filled with brown hens, past the enormous water tower that made her feel cold if she just stepped near it. She walked for miles with the sun and the birds and the sky—felt like her body was still while the world did the moving.

A line of shacks sprung from the cracked earth. The smell of fire, of burnt syrup or molasses, hovered above steel roofs, most of them rusted, some with jagged holes. Leonora approached the first hovel. The door was missing, and in its place a black hole welcomed like a rotten mouth. She stepped closer and peered into the darkness tracing the trodden dirt floor. Two feet with gnarled yellow nails appeared from the recesses and she stumbled back, held her hand against her chest. An old man, white hair stark against his black skin, stood in the opening.

“I'm s-s-sorry,” she stammered. “I didn't know anyone lived here.” The man watched her with old, bloodshot eyes. He was tall and thin as bones, dressed oddly in Western clothes that hung from his limbs. “I'm sorry,” she repeated, sweat clinging to her hairline.

Leonora saw the people now. A minute ago, there was no one. They were shadows in the light, soft and quiet, blending into the curves of doorways and the edges of tilted eaves. Women sat on stoops, nursing babies or peeling yams into the laps of their simple straight dresses. Even the thinnest of them carried a plumpness of face, with a wide nose and thick hair. Some of them followed her with piercing, waiting eyes; others gave her no more attention than the air. One woman, her belly slightly swollen with pregnancy, smiled secretly at her.

Leonora stopped and smiled back. “Good morning.” But the woman continued staring at her, through her as if into a memory, with that strange, secret smile and did not answer back, did not follow her with her eyes as Leonora hurried away from the homes. They didn't want her there. She was nervous, felt ashamed for feeling so.

“G'day,” a little voice came from her feet, and someone pulled at her skirt.

“Well, good morning.” Leonora bent down, caught her breath as she looked at the child. One eye held no pupil, only milky white that bobbed and danced like a reflected cloud. Her face was odd, distorted with the large angles of the mentally retarded. She wore a woman's faded red skirt cinched around her waist; the ripped hem hung by her ankles. She wore no shirt. Even in the child's ragged state, she was magnificently beautiful, with bronze skin and black silken hair highlighted with threads of pure gold. Her good eye sparkled, smiled as if all it saw were angels; the white eye held the world in a steady, pearly pool.

Leonora reached for the tiny fingers and held them gently. “What's your name?”

“Macaria.”

The name, more music than sound, carried on a whisper and tickled her cheek. “Macaria.” Leonora sang the notes again, “Macaria. That's the most beautiful name I've ever heard.” She released the girl's hand. “I'm Leonora.”

“Macaria!” a voice shouted from the shacks. The little girl's face stiffened. She ran off without a second glance.

Leonora squatted in the dirt, ran her finger along the child's footprint. Birds chattered from the trees, cicadas chirped under the sun, but the loneliness of the bush ached. Slowly, she stood, smacked the dust from her skirt.

The walk back seemed longer. The heat burned now. Her shoes pinched her toes. She found a small cluster of spotted gums, eased under the shaded canopy, the ground cool, still damp. It would be a good place for a garden, she thought. She crumbled the dirt in her fingers and the thought grew. Energy flowed back to her limbs. She grabbed a gnarled stick and walked in a square, cut the stick into the ground to mark the perimeter. She put her hands to her hips and looked at the space, could almost see the shoots of beans and tomatoes and cucumbers poking through the ground. She nodded, smiled. It would be her own patch of growth, her own sliver of land—her own.

 

Two days later, the screaming began.

The screaming filled her dream. First, as a child, standing under a burning tree in the dark, the branches scratching her face, the wind howling in her ear. And then the dream shifted to the orphanage. Flames licked the walls as children tried to escape from the church, the door bolted shut, their cries swirling with the smoke and fire—

Leonora's eyes popped open, her chest heaving, the terror of the dream close to pain. But beyond her thudding heartbeat the air was not silent, and her ears listened, floundered with the muffled sounds. Her breathing stopped and her skin iced. The screaming was still there, unmistakable and horrid. She jolted upright. Alex was not in bed, his boots gone. She grabbed her dress and fumbled with the buttons, clasping them with crooked gaps between. A shriek cut the air. Her throat whimpered as she tried to rush slow fingers.

Leonora bounded down the stairs, tying up her hair as she ran, her feet slipping at the edges, the screaming growing louder as she reached and plowed through the front door. In the blinding sunlight there were police wagons, men and guns. Her head turned, tried to understand the shouting of orders, the pointed and hurried movements, until a pounding—hard and desperate—drew her ears to the barn, dragged her vision. A uniformed man stood before the locked door, a rifle held easily over his folded arm. High-pitched wailing shattered from the cracks of the barn.

Leonora covered her mouth, her mind dizzy. Another man came from the drive dragging a little Aboriginal boy by the arm. The boy screamed at the barn, screamed,
screamed
and fought with the policeman, who gave up on the arm and grabbed him, slung him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. And then the sounds congealed—screams that wrenched the gut and hacked it to pieces—howls of women. The nightmare solidified: The police were taking the children.

Leonora sprinted forward with a tearing heart. A priest heard her steps, pivoted like a twisted black pole and smiled. “Ah, good morning; you must be Mrs. Harrington.”

“What is this?” she gasped, her voice high with horror.

A woman came up beside him. “We haven't met, yet, Mrs. Harrington. I'm Rebecca Malloy, the Deacon's wife.” She stuck out a hand pleasantly. “It's so nice to meet you.”

Did they not hear the screaming? She ignored the hand, ignored the introduction. Her body shook. “What's going on?”

“Forgive me.” The Deacon fumbled with his hat and held it in his hands. “I assumed your husband had told you.”

“Told me what?”

“That we would be coming today to remove the children,” the wife interjected sweetly.

“Removing the children?” Leonora's gaze flitted spastically between their faces. “Why?”

The woman clicked her teeth and didn't seem to hear the question. She peered widely at the homestead. “What a lovely home you have.”

Leonora held her ears. “
What are you doing here?
”

“We're part of the Aboriginal Protection Board,” Mrs. Malloy said, and sighed. Her voice took on the stiffness of authority. “We run the children's mission for this county.”

The policeman was back, a flailing, naked baby clutched in his arms. “Perhaps I should explain,” Mrs. Malloy began. “Being an American, you wouldn't know about these things.” She placed her hand on Leonora's shoulder as if she were a child. “You see, we help the children—the natives and especially the half-breeds—find permanent homes where they can be raised properly, have a chance at a decent upbringing.”

“These children already have homes.”

“In the rudest sense, yes, but most still live as savages. Our mission gives them exposure to structured society, where they are given proper education, food and clothing. Without our programs, these young children haven't a chance. They're quite neglected.”

Leonora stared at them. “They're not neglected! I've seen them myself.”

“Mrs. Harrington, the very fact that they are Aborigines is proof that they are neglected.” Mrs. Malloy veered Leonora to the house. “Come, I'll explain it all over tea. I must see this lovely home of yours.”

Leonora jerked her arm away. “You're not taking these children.”

“We are.” The woman stiffened. “They're wards of the state. It's the law.”

Behind the Malloys, Leonora saw another child plucked into rough arms—Macaria—her angled face frozen in terror, the white eye popping in panic, the view of angels murdered.

“No!” Leonora pushed through the group. “Let her go!” She pried the child from the big hands and hugged her to her breast. Macaria wrapped her legs around her ribs and buried her head under Leonora's hair, shivering uncontrollably.

“Get off my property!” Anger raked and left her blind. Leonora pushed the woman into the chest of the Deacon. “All of you!”