Daughter of Australia (33 page)

“I ain't messin' wiv the boss.” Russell picked the hoe up and smoothed out the lines. “Mr. 'Arrington says finish it, I'm gonna finish it.”

“I'll finish it.” James grabbed the hoe. “Mr. Harrington can talk to me if he's got an issue.”

“Orright, if yeh say so.” He shuffled off toward the barn.

James sat on his haunches and put his fingers through the freshly turned ground, let scraps of leaves and flowers run through them. He went to the wheelbarrow and plucked through the leaves, picked what vegetables he could salvage—only a handful of beans and peas, a flaccid carrot. He thought of Leonora's face, the brightness of it as she worked, the smile that curved his lips to match. James scanned the slaughtered plot, a sad pit filling his stomach as he rose and headed for the big house.

James held his hat in his palm as he stepped up to the verandah and knocked on the door. He waited. Knocked again, but no one answered. He turned to walk away when he heard the door crack. He hardly recognized the woman standing there so pale and sullen. James cleared his throat. “G'day, Leo.” James scratched his temple. “Looks like some rabbits got into your garden, did a number on it.” He held out his hat. “Tried to save what I could.”

She looked at the contents in the hat and her lips curved into a futile smile. James picked up one of the limp beans and smirked. “A royal feast, eh?”

She gave a short, quiet laugh and the smile broke. But the rest of her face hung with such sadness, he had to turn away. “Why'd he do it?”

Leonora wiped the side of her eye. “I guess he doesn't find freckles enchanting.”

James looked at her now, the perfectly dotted nose, the smooth forehead, the lines of her cheekbones as they pointed to her lips. The features tore him. “Is Alex home?” His chest heated. “I'd like a word with him.”

“He's not here.” Her eyes flickered. “Just let it go, James. It's not important. Just a patch of dirt.”

The heat burned now and he looked off into the distance, past the road. “It's not just that, Leo. He shouldn't leave you alone like he does. It's not right.”

“Men are always leaving women alone in Australia. Drovers, miners—hardly a job around that doesn't leave a woman.”

“This is different. The mine makes enemies, Leo. There's not a person in Western Australia that doesn't know your wealth by now.” James shook his head, the worry tightening his lips. “I know it's none of my business, but Alex needs to know. It's not right, not safe, for him to leave you alone.”

“It's better when he's gone.” Her hand flew to her head. “I didn't mean that. It's just... it's just he's got a hard job, a lot of work, and people depending on him. It's better if he's away. It's better that he takes care of his work at the mine.”

Leonora opened the door wider and for a minute he thought she was going to reach for his hand. “I appreciate your concern, James. I do. But it's best you just let it go.” She worked hard at a smile and a joking tone as she said, “Besides, I have the ladies in the kitchen. I'm quite certain Meredith knows how to wield a frying pan.”

“This isn't a joke, Leo.”

“I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself, thank you. Besides, I have moves.” She squared her shoulders and her eyes sparkled. The color came back to her cheeks.

He crossed his arms, tried not to laugh, the anger fading. “Really? What kinds of moves?”

“Secret moves.”

“Please, do show me!”

“If I did, they wouldn't be secret anymore, would they?” she teased.

James exhaled loudly and chuckled, shook his head, worn down. “At least promise me you won't open the door to any strange men?”

“Does that include you?” she asked.

James stepped right in front of her, his face only inches away. “Especially me.” He winked. He wanted to kiss her then. The impulse flashed so quickly it startled him and he stepped back unnerved. He dumped the vegetables into a basket on the verandah, put his hat on quickly. He needed space, needed to pull himself straight. “Just be careful,” he said without looking back, and stepped quickly from the porch.

“James . . .”

He turned around.

A wave of gratitude choked her for a moment. “Thank you.”

T
he rain hit without warning and lasted for two days and nights, drowned a Slav and an Italian in the pit and shut the work down for the first time since the fire.

The miners huddled under tents. Rain-soaked canvas drooped above their heads and spit out the fires as quickly as they were lit. It was a cold, damp rain, dull and quiet without the fury of lightning. The ground ran brown and muddy between the rows of tents and boots sank. Bedding, packs, matches and food were piled in the corners on warped pieces of metal to keep dry. Men and women stunk of damp clothes that had been dried, then wet, then dried and wet again. The open sewer pipe near the hills overflowed and the fetid sludge slid toward the camp. Old clothes and hemp sacks filled with sand lined the outskirts to keep the muck from entering, but the sludge found every crack and veined intently.

Ghan sat in Whistler's tent on a soaked piece of a flattened cardboard box. They ate quietly, each with a tin of meat and a fork. His was lamb; Whistler ate sardines. Tin dog, they called it. The bread, soaked as a sponge, rotted in the corner.

The rain weakened the spirit. No work yesterday, none today, unlikely any tomorrow. Three days without wages hung on the camp. Even Whistler didn't smile, his face gray and drawn as the clouds. The din of Whistler's fork prongs hit against the bottom of the can as he dug for a final bite. “There's talkin',” he said to his can.

Ghan munched the warm lamb, so tender and overcooked that the texture felt previously chewed. “Whot kind of talkin'?”

“Angry talkin'. Comin' from every side now,” Whistler said. “Rain makin' it worse. Nothin' t'do but talk.” The old man poked at his food. “Some talkin' strike, some talkin' riot, but everybody talkin' mad. Foreigners hot as piss 'bout those drowned miners. Got a right t'be, too. Managers kept those boys down there too long. Saw the water risin' an' didn't bring 'em up. Can't even bury the bloated bodies 'cause the mud keeps fillin' in the graves.”

Ghan cleaned his tin and set it on the ground next to his feet. He looked at Whistler. “Managers want me to spy,” he said. “Tell 'em if there's rumblings. Why I got the job. Only reason I got this job.” Ghan waited for a reaction.

Whistler finished his last bite, scraped the plate clean and licked both sides of his fork, then grinned widely. “Yeh ain't a rat, Ghan.”

Ghan grinned back. “Not a day in m'life.”

“Whot yeh gonna do when they start askin'? Even the bosses can feel the water boilin'.”

Ghan shrugged. “Stall 'em, I guess. Tell 'em there's complainin', but nothing' organized. Just the normal rantin'.”

“Yer in a tough spot, mate. Won't be long 'fore the anger spills over. Somepin's gonna happen that'll knock the pot over. Sure as 'ell it's comin'. Men on every side just waitin' fer somebody t'sneeze an' the pot gonna knock clean over an' burn the 'ell outta people.” Whistler stopped, sucked his gums for fish. “The big guys'll blame yeh fer not givin' 'em warnin'. Be happy to take it out on somebody.”

The cardboard under Ghan's bottom sank into the mud, but he didn't care. He shrugged again. “I ain't gonna think 'bout it. Take one day at a time. Save my money case I gotta get out. If they catch me, not too much they can do t'me that hasn't been done already.”

“Break yer bones,” Whistler lamented.

“Like I say, ain't nothin' new. When it's done, go on livin' or go on dyin'.”

“Yer fergettin' 'bout the sufferin' in between.”

“Didn't ferget.” Ghan looked at his big, rough hands. “But I ain't a rat.”

Whistler rose stiffly, his joints cracking and sore with rheumatism, all the more rigid with the rain. He dug through a pile and brought out a rusted can, pulled off the top and took out an old sock with a ball at the end. He swung it in the air like a pendulum. “I've been puttin' money away. Little here an' there when I can. Ain't much.” Whistler threw the sock at Ghan, who caught it quick. “First sign of trouble, come in here an' take it. Get the 'ell out 'fore they come fer yeh.”

Ghan threw the sock back. “Ain't takin' yer money, Whistler.”

“Damn right yeh is!” Whistler shot back. “I got family. Got my shitload of girls t'care fer me. Whot yeh got?” He rubbed his stubble. “Look, I ain't long fer this world. My bones so tight feel like they're gonna split in two. Hurts so damn bad to walk an' move my fingers, I come close t'eatin' rat poison just t'make it stop. Only reason I'm still here is my girls. Crush their gawd-ferin' hearts if I killed m'self. Think I'd be burnin' in 'ell, they would.”

Whistler squeezed his lips bitterly. “I don't need the money, Ghan. If those sons of bitches hurt yeh, it's gonna hurt me. Hurt me somepin awful inside. Yeh know how those damn girls made me soft like butter! Got enough pain wivout yers.”

Whistler stuffed the sock into the can and put the top back on, then buried it in the pile. “If yeh don't need the money, it stays here. But if yer in trouble, gawd damn it, take it!” Whistler shoved a pile of old clothes on top. “Now come on. Let's get outta here an' see if anybody's got a game on.”

The old men hunched out of the tent, pulled up their shirt collars over their necks and pulled down their hats against the pelting rain. Cigarette smoke drifted and extinguished from a large tent on the Aussie side. A low hum of voices came from the opening and then a high shout and then the low hum again. Whistler pulled back the flap. The ceiling was high, so they stretched out their backs and dripped. “Boys gotta game on?” Whistler asked.

“Depends,” a burly, sunburned man answered. “Got money?”

Whistler jingled the coins in his pocket.

“Orright.” The man nodded. “Join in.” He scooted his wooden crate over. “Make room for the old-timers!” he ordered. Each rump slid over a spot.

“Whot yeh playin'?” Ghan asked.

“Fly loo.” In the middle of the men lay a slab of wood and on top sat six small pyramids of sugar. The men vigorously waved at the flies in the air. “Place yer bets!” the man hollered.

Ghan placed his coin in front of the fourth cone of sugar. The other men followed, each picking a pile, some doubling up. “Bets placed!” the man shouted. “Three, two, one, down!”

The flapping of hands stopped and stilled, every eye watching the buzzing blowflies. A hairy, ugly fly swooped down, circled the sugar while the men held their breath. Then another fly drifted down and without stopping to consider landed on the second mound of sugar and started licking at the granules. Three of the men cheered and clapped while the others grunted. The winners held out hands for the payout. “Flies comin' in like black clouds from the sewage,” another man explained. “Don't know whot flies like more, shit or sugar.” The men laughed.

“Whistler an' Ghan, right?” the headman asked pleasantly while he divvied up the winnings. They nodded. “Winston. Good t'ave yeh. Yer new, ain't yeh?” he asked Ghan.

“Don't feel like it,” Ghan answered while he dug for another coin. “Been workin' the mines most of m'life. One don't seem different from the next.”

“Fair dinkum.” Winston nodded. “Why yeh boys livin' down wiv 'em stinkin' E-talians? Should be over on our end.”

Whistler shot Ghan an
I told yeh so
glance and answered, “Lady down that way feeds us. Damn good cook, too. Only reason. Old farts like us need t'take a hot meal when we can.”

Winston frowned with understanding. “Just watch yerself. 'Em people don't wash their hands. Eat same place they shit.” Snorts and growls rumbled around the table amid the flapping hands. “Last game! Place bets!”

A
steady stream of travelers to the homestead was to be expected: swaggies with the whole of their belongings wrapped in a bag tied to the end of a stick; the prospectors with cut, hard hands and empty pockets; the out-of-work stockmen who hid humiliation under gruff words. Veterans, newly sentimental and crippled, their eyes still distant and shocked with the horror of war, stopped by to track down lost mates. Whoever came, no matter their source, always asked for “a bit of tucker” to fill their thin bodies, most returning on their footsore journey soon after, some taking a quick nap under the coolibah tree.

Food and water were always given—the first law of the bush. And for the most part, the men were honest, polite, hardworking blokes come upon by hard times. Most of the stragglers came from the west and north, heading down to the mines and fields beyond them. Criminals were rare in the Outback, preferring the anonymity and dark streets of the city slums.

Only when the storm ripped inland and flooded the streams and streets to creeks did the travelers pause. For that week and the ones that followed, life outside Wanjarri Downs seemed deserted. But as the water receded and dried and left scars and ruts in its place the travelers picked up again like termites on rotted wood.

But there was a shift. Leonora noticed more and more of the men came from the south now, their faces sallow, eyes more vacant than before the rains. As she loaded them up with lamb pies and peaches and refilled their billies with freshwater she always wanted to ask them where they came from or where they were going, but she never did. Something in their faces did not look interested in conversation, didn't look much interested in anything anymore.

And in all the time she had been at the station, a female traveler never once stopped at the door. A few times, she would see a woman huddled in the back of a wagon or tending to a crying baby, but the woman always stayed to the background, never glancing up at the house or joining her husband on the verandah. So it was with great surprise when, in the highest of the day's heat, Leonora opened the door to a woman holding the hands of two small, scraggly boys.

The woman did not meet her eyes. “Sorry t'bother yeh, miss.” Her voice was filled with shame. “Was wonderin' if yeh could spare a bite fer m'boys.”

Leonora did not want to prolong the woman's agony and answered a bit too fast, “Of course. Please come in out of the sun.”

The boys started forward, but the woman pulled them back. “Won't be a bother. If it's all the same, we'll just take it t'go.” The poor boys looked at their feet, their shoes worn to the soles, dirty toes peeking out from the holes.

“Please,” Leonora urged. “It's no bother. I'd rather enjoy the company. Besides, we have a fresh stew cooking and it's not quite ready.”

The boys looked at their mother hopefully, the hunger clear on their faces. She sighed and gave in. “Just for a bit an' then we'll be on our way. Don't mean to be a bother, miss.”

Once inside, the boys stared with open mouths at the space of the room, the high ceilings and the rich furnishings. Their mother cleared her throat to get their attention and gave them a silent order with a nod of her head. The boys quickly took off their hats, sending dead flies and red dust all over the floor. “For crikey's sake, boys!” the mother hissed.

Leonora laughed. “It's all right. My husband leaves a trail of dust around the whole house.” She walked to the kitchen doors and called out, “Meredith, how close is the stew?”

“Ready now if yeh like.”

“Yes. I'm having guests for lunch.” She smiled at the boys, who beamed with their new titles. “I'll need three more bowls and lots of bread and butter.”

The four of them sat down at the fresh-linened table, the boys' heads barely above the edge. Their mother looked so uncomfortable that Leonora wondered if it was cruel bringing them in. She knew how Australians felt about handouts, especially the women.

Meredith brought out the dishes of stew, glanced oddly at the faces. The boys tore into the rolls and scooped up the stew before it had a chance to cool. The woman looked at her now, the lines of her face deepened with dust. She could have been anywhere from twenty to fifty years old. “Yer goin' to too much trouble.”

“My husband's gone often.” Leonora lowered her eyes, spoke honestly. “We don't get many women out here. It can get lonely.” The woman's shoulders relaxed, and in less than an instant they shared a common truth that went beyond class or accent.

“Where are you traveling from?” Leonora asked.

“Coolgardie.”

“From the mine?”

“Yeah.”

“There's been a lot of men coming through here from that direction. Is there another mine hiring up north?”

The woman cocked her head, incredulous. “They're all runnin' from the fever.”

Leonora didn't understand. “Fever?”

“Typhoid. All through the camp.”

The boys stopped gorging for a moment, their eyes clinging to their mother's face as it hollowed.

“My husband died of it a few days back,” she said, her voice curt, numb with anger. “My baby before that.” Her knuckles turned white as she gripped her spoon. “Takin' the boys west to Daggar Hills. Husband's family has a small farm.”

“That's a long way.” Leonora put her napkin to her lips. “How will you get there?”

“Walk.”

One of the boys looked down at his shoes and his face fell.

“You'll at least stay the night?” Leonora asked.

“No.” The woman looked like she might stand to leave at the mere mention. “We'll be on our way. We've stayed long enough.”

“Please, stay. Let the children rest. We have the room. You can leave first thing before the heat.” She smiled weakly. “Besides, I sleep better when there's someone else in the house.”

As the woman thought about it, she seemed to let her body give in to fatigue. She looked at her tired boys and her eyes softened. “Orright, we'll leave first thing.”

After supper, Leonora ran a deep bath for the boys, the rain tower brimming with water from the storm. It gave her a selfish happiness to care for the family, even for just a short time, made her remember the days at the hospital.

The mother tucked the scrubbed boys into the warm covers, smiled for the first time. “They're good lads,” she said. “Had it rough. Too rough for their age.” The voice rose. “Why I left. Couldn't lose 'em t'the fever.” Her eyes moistened. “Just couldn't lose 'em, too.”

“What about the doctor at the mine?” Leonora asked. “Wasn't he able to help?”

“Never saw a doctor. We called fer him, as did everyone else, but he was only concerned wiv the top of the gang. My husband was just a digger. Managers only care 'bout whot comes out of the walls, not the hands workin' 'em.”

Leonora realized the woman had no idea she and Alex owned the mine; she prayed it stayed that way. “Bath should still be warm,” Leonora offered. “Might as well use it before it's drained.”

The weariness seemed to overtake the woman. “That would be nice.” She gave Leonora a long look. “Yeh've been kind. Too kind. After my wash, I'll just curl up wiv the boys. Won't bother yeh no more.”

Guilt waffled over her skin. She had done nothing for this woman. On the contrary, Alex may have made her a widow.

 

The next morning, the three guests were up early as they had promised, their bellies filled with eggs, bread and bacon. The boys had a new sparkle to them thanks to the rest and food. Leonora wondered sadly how long it would last.

The dray was waiting outside. She had asked James to stock it with feed for the horse and some blankets and canisters of water. Leonora raided the pantry and put in as much food as would keep. In the bottom of a basket she put a few bills, tucked the money far enough down so the woman wouldn't find it until she was too far away to return it.

The woman was mute when she saw the dray and horse waiting, could not have been more stunned if it had been a carriage of gold. She tried to refuse, silently shaking her head, but Leonora stopped her. “The dray hasn't been used in years. The men were going to break it up into firewood. And the horse doesn't have much life left in her, I'm afraid,” she lied. “Might not even make it all the way to Daggar Hills. You'd be doing us a favor by taking her.”

The woman did not say another word, but her eyes were deep with gratitude as she watched her boys climb onto the blankets under the flatbed's canopy. They left without further words, not even an exchange of names.

Leonora left for the mine soon after the dray pulled out of sight. She knew Alex would be furious, but her fury was greater, a trail of white light speeding over gunpowder, pulsing at the end of each nerve. “Let him be angry!” she hissed under her breath. How dare he let workers,
his
workers, suffer and die, leave children orphaned. How dare he not bring every doctor in Western Australia to help these people. “Let him be angry,” she dared. “Just let him try.”

In the trunk of the Ford she had as many canisters of freshwater as could fit, a basket of clean rags, several bowls of lemons and oranges and a few vials of opiates. In the passenger seat she packed several canteens of water for herself and some fruit and sandwiches along with a few changes of clothes, not knowing how long she intended to stay. She left Clare a list of house instructions, only mentioning she was going to visit Alex for a few days.

The route needed no map; there was only one road. Every hour or so, a ragged hand-painted sign would point to an offshoot listing the towns east or west. The black car blazed with trapped heat and the following sun. Leonora cracked the window halfway—an even battle between the scourge of dust and stale heat.

Along the way, the smell of soot and fire tinted the air. Rows of scarred and hacked forest dotted the land on either side. Thousands of low-cut stumps spread as far as the eye could bear them—ugly pustules that oozed with hard, weepy sap. And here the maimed land was laid to waste. The birds had gone, the shade nonexistent along the blistered ground. There was a deep grief to this land, almost human in its intensity.

Leonora's hands darkened the steering wheel's brown leather to black with wet palms. She took turns removing one stiff hand at a time from the wheel and stretched out her fingers in an attempt to return circulation to the joints. Blue smoke twirled upward into sight. A sharp acridity hardened the air. She peeked at the hood of the car to make sure the engine wasn't on fire. Then wafts of sewage, subtle at first, grew and swelled like rotten eggs and masked the burning iron. She tucked her nose in her shoulder and coughed into her sleeve. In the radius of the stench the camp came into view: rows of scraggly tents; shacks of canvas and hessian, metal scrap heaps tied into form with green hide and stringy bark.

Leonora slowed the car, stared at the camp through the side window. The lines were quiet. No one seemed sick. Litter was at a minimum. Leonora had pictured the camp akin to a battlefield, strewn with dead bodies and the cries of the sick. But for the smell, the camp was clean, orderly, peaceful. The men were most likely at work, the children in school. Perhaps she had judged too quickly; perhaps a doctor had been sent after all.

Leonora pulled off the road and set the brake, the engine rattling over the silence. She leaned back in her seat, stretched out her numb legs. Smoke wafted from some of the stovepipes jutting from the tent roofs. Occasionally, a person was visible through a window or open door. A thin dog barked from a tied stake. A sudden blockage of wind prickled Leonora's neck. A shadow slid cold across the inside of the car. A man stared at her through the glass, tapped upon the window with a knuckle as if she were asleep. “You lost?” The man sounded Eastern European, but he spoke clearly. He was stocky and small but had full, honest eyes.

Leonora opened the door and stepped out. “I'm looking for the head office,” she ventured, not sure what the building was called. “For the mine management.”

The man pointed to an empty spot in the distance. “Past the camp. You'll see building on left.” He started to shake his head, looked like he wanted to say words that his mouth wouldn't allow. “You go. Not good here. Typhoid.” The man said the word almost as a test, not sure if she knew the disease was in the camp.

“I know.”

“You nurse?”

“No.”

The man looked disappointed. He took off his hat and twisted it in his strong hands. “My baby ill. Don't know if it's the typhoid. My middle one, too.” Heavy, unbridled tears wet his cheeks.

Tears in a woman were hard to witness, but to see a man weep so openly cracked into Leonora's heart. “Where do you live?”

He couldn't speak, just breathed hard through his nose as he showed her a building that was half tent and half iron, supported haphazardly with chicken wire.

The man entered the iron part of the structure and Leonora followed. A baby, red and naked, cried from a small wooden bed. A young boy of maybe eight rocked the baby listlessly with his foot. A woman sat on the floor next to him cradling a thin, frail girl in her arms. They all looked at the stranger without interest, stared right through her.

Leonora stooped and picked up the baby in her arms, so light he might have been hollow. His skin burned against her hands. “Please get the water from my trunk and fill up a basin with it,” she ordered, fighting hard to steady her voice. As she looked at the baby's bloated belly, she saw the small, flat red rash of typhoid, as unmistakable as the blackness of gangrene. Leonora held the baby against her chest, rocked him softly, looked at the mother who stared at the corner, perhaps looking to a future that held no hope or a past that had once relished it.