Daughter of Australia (39 page)

James put his mouth upon her parted lips. “I can't lose you, Leo,” he pleaded between exhales. “I can't lose you again.”

Leonora's neck craned and her eyes popped open. She choked, her body spasmed with hacking. James grabbed her head against his body and held her shoulders as she coughed and struggled violently for air. When he heard her inhale, he squeezed his cheek into her hair, kissed her head with quivering lips.

Shouts came from the street, woke him from heart-ripping relief. James didn't waste another moment and scooped her up, ran for the tracks.

“James!” Tom rushed from the other end, his face bleeding above the eye. “Aw, Gawd, is she orright?”

“She will be. What happened to you?”

Tom touched his head, looked with amazement at the blood on his fingers. “Guess a piece of glass got me.” He wiped his sleeve against the wound carelessly. “I found Alex.”

“Me too.”

“He told me to grab his car. We'll be right behind you. Just get her out of here.”

James lowered Leonora to the backseat, tried to get her to drink water, but she shook her head, unable to speak between hacking. But she was awake, she was breathing, she was alive. He got into the driver's seat and drove over the tracks, his eyes on the mirror—on her.

Hours later, when the night sky was quiet and the stars offered the only light, James pulled the car to the front gate of Wanjarri Downs, got out and opened it, sat back into the seat and drove through. He did not stop to close the gate. They hadn't spoken throughout the journey, only her intermittent and painful dry coughing cut the silence. Now he heard her grab the water, heard her drink it with slow gulps. He pulled over and turned his body, the engine vibrating under the car up through his legs. Leonora's weak eyes met his. They were tired and bloodshot. Her face and dress smudged in soot.

Relief still gripped his throat. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “Are you?” Her voice was raspy, strained.

“I am now.” He took his first full breath. “I'll get you to the house, then grab the doctor.”

“No.” She clutched the seat. “I don't need a doctor. Really.” She stifled a cough and lowered her eyes. “Is Alex all right?”

A pit filled his gut. “Yeah.” James turned around, pushed on the gas, stared stonily ahead. “Tom's bringing him back.”

As James pulled into the drive, he pounded on the horn. After a minute or two, Meredith came fumbling down from the shearing shed fixing her hair and adjusting her blouse. James opened the back door of the car and slid his arm around Leonora's waist. “I can manage,” she said. James ignored her and scooped her body up easily into his arms, met Meredith at the steps wringing her hands.

“Fer Christ sake!” Meredith quivered. “Whot's happened?”

“There was rioting in Coolgardie. They burned the hotel.”

“Gawd, no!”

James walked past her. “Make her a cup of hot tea, then run her a bath!” he ordered.

“Right away.”

James carried her agilely up the steps. “I can walk, you know,” she ventured.

“I know.” His jaw was tight, an intensity drawing down the lines of his face.

With his foot James nudged open the bedroom door, and laid her on top of the quilt. He cringed at the space where Alex had slept, where he would sleep. Leonora didn't miss the look. “He's not here, James.” He nodded and sat down at the edge of the bed next to her hip.

Meredith clambered up the steps and handed James the tea. “I'll get that bath ready,” she said, and hurried back down, stern with purpose.

Leonora sipped the hot tea. Each gulp inflamed, then soothed her throat, the lining still raw from coughing. James watched her face as she stared into the tea, watched the tiny movements of her fingers around the mug. His brows pulled in and his whole face frowned. “Sure you don't need a doctor?” he asked quietly.

“I'm sure.” She placed the mug on the nightstand, the ceramic covered in black smudges.

James stared at the door, his gaze reaching far beyond the room. And his silence rattled her, made her pulse speed. She looked down at her filthy dress, the bottom hem ripped and snagged. Then she turned her palms in her lap, the fingernails black with soot and cracked. “I must be a sight,” she said softly, retreating into the pillows.

He turned to her. “Is this the life you want, Leo?” James asked, his eyes unwavering, the question gruff and urgent.

Her eyes stung, the smoke long gone. “It doesn't matter what I want,” she whispered.

“How can you say that?” His face twisted. “Damn it, Leo, you matter. You matter to me.” He straightened his spine like he was going to storm out but then turned, took her chin in his hand and kissed her, hard and firm, kissed her like a dying wish. His lips softened and he drew back slightly. “I thought I was going to lose you.”

She grabbed his shirt and pulled him to her mouth. His hand reached into her hair and cradled her scalp as he kissed her and leaned her head farther onto the pillow. She slid her arms around his neck and held him tight against her, let the heat from his body burn through her blood and singe her nerves.

The door slammed from downstairs. “Where is she?” came Alex's desperate voice.

Leonora pulled away from the kiss, the voice icing her skin.

“Upstairs, sir,” Meredith answered quickly.

Leonora's eyes leaped to the door. James stared at her lips, lips that weren't his to kiss, and his face was deep with pain. “I can't do this anymore, Leo.”

Alex's footsteps rushed on the floorboards downstairs.

She fumbled for his hand. “Do what?”

“This. See you with him.” He pushed her hand away. “I can't do it.”

Alex plowed through the door. “Thank God you're all right!” He grabbed Leonora and hugged her to his chest. She turned her face away from him with a grimace and searched for James. But he was already gone.

T
he newly shorn sheep pranced upon the dry land, faster and lighter and scrawnier without the heavy fleece. Their pink skin showed under the fuzz of wool left, the ripples of the shears still patterned in stripes across their sides. The last of the wool left in the morning. The shearers had broken their record for speed, finishing twenty thousand sheep in three weeks. The bales had been solid and heavy, the numbers exceeded. Alex kept good on his promise of bonuses and the men were robust with money, sore muscles, pride and whiskey. They surrounded the pit of fire, ate off of tin plates weighted with steak and mutton. Gravy dripped and spotted the dirt. They passed around the dark liquor until the bottles were clear and empty.

James and Tom sat along their outer ring. Tom yacked it up with the men; James lay on his back, his head resting on clasped hands, and stared at the sky. He couldn't look at Alex. The man curled his stomach.

Since the riots, Alex had stayed home. His lackeys, the managers, came and stayed at the big house, their faces sly with thinking, plotting reprisals and ways to get the workers back on track. The news spread across the Outback as fast as the fire had licked the timber of the old Coolgardie buildings. Two Italians had died in the fighting, one Australian. An Italian boardinghouse, two pubs and countless homes were burned completely to the ground. The Imperial Hotel lost its top tiers, but the main floor still stood in a good, be it hatless, structure. The mine and its buildings weren't touched.

James had not seen Leonora since the fire and he did not look for her. He kept his eyes away from the big house, kept his mind and body strangled with work. But she was in his dreams with soft, waiting lips and skin that slid under his fingertips. And he would wake from the dream and stretch in his bed, flop his arm over his forehead and push the images away. Then he would work—work away the sinking longing.

Alex rose from the ring of men, swaying from side to side. “A toast! To the best bloody shearers in Australia!” Alex raised his bottle into the air, slurring like an arrogant clown. The drunk men cheered and raised their drinks.

“Wait . . . Wait . . . Not yet!” Alex stopped them in mid-sip. “I've thanked them personally but want to do it publicly. James and Tom.” He found them with bobbing eyes over the crowd and raised his bottle. “You saved my wife, men.” His voice turned somber and firm. “And for that, I will be forever grateful. Cheers!” He thrust the bottle forward and brought it back to his lips. The men drank and hollered and had the sparkle of life in their eyes.

“Well, gentlemen, speaking of my wife”—Alex grinned and winked at the men—“it's time I retire to the bedroom and give her a proper celebration!” He reached for a new bottle and swaggered.

The men broke out in loud hoots and applause. James bolted upright, his mind blank. “Don't you lay a hand on—”

In an instant, Tom had him by the arm, his grip tight against his wrist. The men grew quiet. The flames crackled over dry sticks. Alex turned slowly and put his hand to his ear. “What's that?”

Tom put a gruff arm around James's neck in restraint and shouted out playfully, “You heard him, Alex! Don't lay a hand on that drink or your wife be tryin' to please a limp willy!”

With that, the men hooted even louder. Alex glared at James for an instant, then tilted his head and chuckled. “Duly noted!” Alex dropped the bottle to the ground and held up his empty hands. “Duly noted!” He laughed and swayed toward the house.

James wrenched his body from Tom, thought he might lay a fist into his jaw. But Tom was fierce and grabbed him by the arm again. “She ain't your wife,” he whispered hotly. Then Tom released the limb and repeated, “She ain't your wife, mate.”

Leonora lay in the darkness of the bedroom listening to the ebb and flow of laughter drifting in from the field. The men's comradery made the loneliness of the house that much stronger. She tried to pick out the differentiating voices, but they all blended into one crude baritone. She listened for James's voice, tuned her ears to his easy, soft speech, but could hear nothing among the hoots and hollers of drunk men. Her insides shrank and weakened from missing him.

The front door slammed, its loud, swift crack making her body jump in the bed and her heart speed. Alex was back and she knew by the hammering footsteps he was quite drunk. She waited to hear the squeak of his office door and the muffled click of the double mahogany doors. Instead, she heard the dull thudding of his shoes as they walked up the stairs to the bedroom. “Wake up, darling!”

Leonora rolled out of bed and threw herself at the door, locked the bolt tight just as the doorknob rattled. She climbed back into bed and sat with her knees at her chest, scrunched the covers under her chin.

The knob rattled impatiently. “Open the door, Leonora.” Alex's voice was even. She didn't make a sound. The door vibrated with a thrust against the knob. His fist pounded on the door. “Wake up and open this door, goddammit!”

Leonora reached for a long knitting needle and tucked it under the covers. The cool metal slid against her leg as her hands shook.

Alex banged his shoulder into the door.
Thud.
She heard him step back and then ram hard against the door, rattling the frame. “
Fuck!
” he screamed in pain. His back slid down the door amid spluttered curses and then it was quiet. Leonora waited, listened as her heartbeat filled the room. She loosened her grip on the needle and brought it with her as she approached the door. There was a sliding sound and then a dull thud as Alex's head hit the floor. She put her ear against the wood. Alex's drawn snoring began and filled the hall. Leonora pressed her cold forehead to the door and closed her eyes.

D
anny, the postman, handled a fifty-mile mail route. After he traded in his stock horses and wagon for a motorized one, the mail was delivered every week instead of every two or three. Between the normal routes he delivered telegrams. But the gas-filled engine didn't speed the man. Bowlegged as a wishbone and just as stiff, Danny moved unhurried, paid no attention to the impatient nods and quick greetings of his customers desperate for mail and catalogs and news from the outside world. He was a man of few words, but fuller of whistling than a magpie.

Danny tipped his hat to Leonora and whistled through his toothless grin. He rocked sideways on his bowed legs and pulled out an envelope. “Telegram fer Shelby.”

“I think he's out with the horses.” Leonora took the letter. “I'll bring it out to him.”

The November day was intense and pure with dry heat. The temperature reached over one hundred degrees, the hour only half past ten. The dry ground leaped around her steps and dusted the blue dress hem orange. Her heart skipped a beat as James came into view in the riding ring. He was leading the stallion by the bit, calming him with even strokes and pulls of the reins. Tom dismounted from a gray spotted mare and waved. “Hey, Smoky!”

“Hi, Tom.” She laughed. James watched her approach, his forehead smoothing before he lowered his gaze.

“You clean up nice.” Tom winked. He leaned his arms casually over the wooden fence. “Course, you can even make soot look pretty.”

Leonora smiled and handed him the telegram. “This just came for you.”

“Whoa-e-e!” Tom took the letter and looked at the address. “From Mum. Boys must be back!” He tore into the envelope, his pupils dancing over the words. But then the dance stopped. Tom's eyes stilled and his lips parted. The paper remained glued to his fingers while his arms fell limp by his sides. The air shifted and grew with the heat and the silence. Leonora's hand inched to her stomach.

James let go of the horse, neared Tom. “What is it?”

Tom raised his head, looked through him without blinking. He closed his mouth.

“Which one?” James's voice was low and soft with knowing.

“Both.” Tom's eyes blinked quickly now, his face immobile and puzzled. “The Flu.” He shook his head and his upper lip rose in sudden disgust. “They were comin' home.” The puzzlement grew. “The Flu. The gawddamn Spanish Flu?”

Tom dropped the telegram and clutched his scalp with his fingers. “They were comin' home,” he mumbled.

James stepped another foot forward. “Tom . . .”

But Tom stepped backwards, his hands still holding his head. “They were comin' home!” He shook his head with his fists. “I can't talk. I can't . . .” He stumbled away, stumbled past the barn and kicked up dust as his bent figure ran past the big house.

James stooped and picked up the telegram, rubbed off the dirt and read it. His face was ashen, his jaw like stone.

Leonora covered her mouth as hot, blotted tears fell freely from under her eyelids. “I'm so sorry, James,” she whispered. They were his brothers, too.

“We need to go back,” James said slowly as he stared at the telegram. “For the funeral.” James closed his eyes. “Poor Mrs. Shelby,” he hushed.

“I'm coming with you.”

His eyes flashed to her face. “No.”

She touched his arm gently, then pulled it away. “Tom's mother still has five children and a house to care for, James.” Leonora wiped her tears away with her sleeve. “I'll cook and clean, take care of the little ones. Poor woman's deep in grief, James. She'll need the help. Besides that, we can bring the car, leave first thing in the morning.”

James watched her with heavy, weak eyes. “It's not a good idea, Leo.”

“Why not?”

His gaze flitted to her lips. “You know why.”

“I'll stay out of your way, James. I promise,” she pleaded, thought of Tom's stricken face. “I just . . . I just want to help.”

“Alex will never let you go.”

“He won't have a choice.”

 

“No.” Alex did not look up from his papers strewn across the desk.

“Tom's mother is going to need the help,” Leonora insisted.

“They can bring Meredith or Clare then.”

“Alex.” Leonora leaned over his desk, made him look at her. “They saved my life. Probably saved yours, too. It's the least we can do. Besides, it's only for a few days. Until the funeral is over.”

Alex rifled through his papers, half-listening. “I'm not sending my wife out to the wheat fields like hired help.”

The framed picture of Alex standing with his thoroughbreds leaned importantly on his desk. “Aren't you heading to some horse race today?” she asked shortly.

Alex huffed, “Some horse race, she says!” He put down the papers and raised his brows. “It's only the Melbourne Cup, darling.”

“Well, I'm coming with you.”

He laughed. “Oh no, you're not.”

“Look, Alex. I'm not staying here alone. Especially after what happened in Coolgardie. I'm either going to help Mrs. Shelby or coming with you to the race. It's your choice.”

Alex tapped his fingers on the desk. With each tap, Leonora knew he was thinking of the Melbourne women, of the parties, of the endless betting, of the freedom from his wife. “All right. Do your charity work.”

 

Tom placed half the luggage in the passenger seat of the Model T; the other bag he placed in the trunk with food from the pantry. Tom turned to Leonora and finally broke his silence. “Mind if I drive?” He rubbed his temple sullenly. “Just can't sit an' think,” he explained. “Don't want to think about anything but drivin'.”

Leonora handed him the keys and sat in the backseat. James slid in next to her, his face clean shaven and fresh. The light scent of soap mingled with his skin, filled the air between them and made her light-headed. The seat grew warm with his strong body. She felt him against her flesh, felt him without touching him.

The car left the big house in the dust, left the gates behind—one, two, three, four, five. The road stretched in a line that seemed headed toward infinity. The wind blew against Leonora's hair, blew the tiny wisps around her face like the tickle of fingertips. The engine rumbled but had no effect on the quiet of the interior. Each mind ran its own thought or memory or worry or hope and so the car was full with floating, mute chatter. A cluster of emus watched the car pass, their long necks and scrawny haired heads perplexed at the strange, loud beast.

James's arm stretched languidly across the top of the seat, his hand only inches from her head. When the road hit a rocky patch, her hair grazed his fingers, the mere touch resonating down her arms and the backs of her legs. She thought how easy it would be to rest her head against his shoulder, to feel the ridges of his chest beneath her cheek, hear the soothing sound of his breathing as it rose and fell.

The hours zipped by along the route. The sun pressed against her eyelids until they were more at ease closed than open. Between the hum of the car and the push of the midday heat, her eyes fell sleepy and dreams entered softly through the minutes, dreams with kisses and moving hands and pressing bodies. Leonora's lips parted with a deep sigh, the noise waking herself from a sleep she hadn't even known she had fallen into. She blinked, slightly dazed. James was grinning at her, an odd look on his face. “Must have been a good dream,” he said. “You've been smiling this whole time.”

Leonora blushed to the tips of her ears and turned to the window. The bush scrub thickened, the trees more frequent. Long grass began to spread in golden threads.

“This starts the Wheatbelt.” James pointed. “Next is Southern Cross and then we have another few hours till we're home.” He leaned forward and placed his arms on the seat top in front. “Want me to take over, Tom?”

Tom shook his head, didn't utter a word.

Another few hours on the road and Tom straightened. His hands moved from the sides of the steering wheel to the top. “Almost there,” James told her. “That fence marks Shelby land.”

Butterflies woke in Leonora's stomach and she held her hand against the flutter. Maybe she shouldn't have come. She was entering a sliver of James's past, a world that had not been open to her. Perhaps he wanted it that way.

They turned a curve. Dogs rushed from nowhere, sped with tongues flapping between barks. They barreled at the moving car, turned and chased it, nipping at the wheels. Then the squat house rose into view—simple and homey. Red roses climbed the verandah posts and reached for the edge of the steel roof. Five red heads popped up in the window.

Tom parked the car and got out. The dogs whimpered and yelped, jumped to lick his face, clawing his shirt in the process. James and Leonora got out next. The dogs sniffed her curiously and then searched on hind legs for her face.

The screen door on the verandah slammed open and a flood of little girls in red pigtails ran and shouted in different volumes, “They're here! They're here!”

The girls flew at them as the dogs had. Tom crouched down with his arms wide and the girls piled upon him, knocking him on his bottom with hugs. Laughing and dusty, the girls abandoned him and flew to James. In a flash, he scooped up two girls at a time, squeezing and twirling them in his arms.

The screen door slammed again, slower this time. A tall woman, majestic in posture and topped with thickly piled hair, stepped to the drive. James set the girls on the ground. The children quieted and turned their gaze to their feet. The woman's face was strong, but the lines of the lips drooped, her body rigid. She nodded formally at the men. “Tom. James.”

Tom rose to his full height and stared at his mother. “Hey, Mum.”

Mrs. Shelby nodded—kept nodding. Her lips twitched. Tom went to her then, wrapped his sunburned arms around her shoulders. And in that moment, the woman's frame crumpled against his and he held her. Their faces were hidden. A silence grew to the children and they did not shuffle their feet; the dogs lowered ears and wound in tails.

Son and mother held each other for less than a minute before Mrs. Shelby pulled away and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Her face composed and a hint of a smile broke from the white lips. “I'm glad you're here, boys.” The woman's gaze turned to Leonora.

“Mum,” Tom began. “This is Mrs. Harrington. Leonora.”

Leonora brought her belly of swarming wings as she approached the woman. She held out her hand. “Mrs. Shelby, I'm so very sorry for your loss.”

The woman did not take the hand and turned away, looked at Tom. “Why's she here?”

Tom cleared his throat. “To help, Mum. Give you a break.”

Mrs. Shelby's eyes sparked. “Since when have I needed help? Does it look like I can't take care of my own family?”

A hurt pause filled the space. “That's enough, Mum,” Tom said firmly. “She's a fine woman. You know we have the funeral in Perth. Someone's got t'stay with the girls.”

Mrs. Shelby dismissed the words, dismissed Leonora with a turn of her back. “Got supper on the stove. You boys probably starvin'.” She turned to the children and shouted as she walked to the house, “Come on, girls; clean up! Get the table set. Boys are hungry.”

Leonora dropped her head. The butterflies in her stomach died, settled heavy as lead. James came up beside her.

“You were right,” she said, nearly mute. “I shouldn't have come.”

He placed a finger under her chin and gently raised her face. “I'm glad you did.”

She turned away, but he held her shoulders softly. “She'll warm up. I promise.” He slid his hands down her arms. “She's sick with grief, Leo.”

“I know.” She swallowed. “I know.”

 

The family sat around the long rectangular table while Mrs. Shelby made the rounds between kitchen and dining room bringing in steaming bread, stew and buttered beans—all offers of help sternly scoffed. Two empty seats leaned against the center leaf—a shrine all eyes tried to avoid.

The children stared with open wonder at the new woman at the table. Gracie sat at the edge of her seat, and when her mother returned to the kitchen for more food the girl snuck around the chairs and squeezed between Leonora and James. She pulled at his sleeve and lowered her voice. “Can I ask her somepin, Jamesie?” The twins were nine now but still coveted their pet name for him.

James nodded at the child with a half smile. “She won't bite,” he promised.

Gracie turned to Leonora with eyes full of secret curiosity. “Are you a princess?” she whispered.

Leonora bent down with eyes equally curious and whispered back, “No. Are you?” The young girl giggled, her eyes bright and pure.

Leonora looked over Gracie's head to James and grinned. “Jamesie?”

He raised one eyebrow. “Watch it, princess.”

Mrs. Shelby came to the table with butter. She looked at James, then at Leonora and then back at James. “Gracie!” Mrs. Shelby scolded. “Get back to your seat!”

A hush fell over the table as forks moved tentatively from plates to mouths. Tom broke the silence, “Gawd, I missed your cookin', Mum!”

“Look half-starved!” she huffed. “Both of you. Aren't they feeding you over there?” Mrs. Shelby cast a hard look at Leonora.

“Just workin' hard, Mum.” Tom tried to soothe. “We're eatin' just fine.” He wiped his mouth with the linen napkin and leaned back rubbing his stomach. He touched the top of one of the empty seats next to him, stared at the wood for a while and then patted it with his hand as if it were a shoulder. “What time we gotta leave tomorrow?” Tom asked quietly.