Orphans of the Storm (5 page)
Another rush mat lay on the floor and a big brass bedstead stood in the middle of the room. The bedding looked clean and fresh and the one chair, roughly fashioned from planks of wood, held a kerosene lamp and a Bible. ‘Like the ceiling?’ Mrs Delaney asked, rather anxiously. ‘It’s cooler in here, wouldn’t you say?’
Nancy, looking up at the lengths of white calico material nailed to the beams, agreed faintly that it was a great improvement. ‘But I would dearly like a shower,’ she said, and followed Mrs Delaney out of the house and across the yard to a small, corrugated iron shack. Mrs Delaney instructed her in the art of taking a shower in the outback. You removed your clothes and hung them on a hook on the back of the door, stood directly under the large bucket balanced on beams above your head, and then pulled the piece of rope which dangled almost to floor level. Nancy sighed. She might have guessed how it would be, she told herself ruefully; this was the outback, after all, and Andy had told her over and over that life in the bush was hard, not like life in the city. Only, of course, she had not been able to even imagine that conditions would be like this. And next time I take a shower, I shall wrap myself in a big towel and come across the yard like that, she told herself, removing her clothing as she had been bidden. Presently, she pulled the rope just sufficiently to get thoroughly wet, then used the rough bar of soap, pulled the rope again to rinse herself off, and rubbed herself dry on the coarse towel hanging beside her clothing on the back of the door.
She emerged from the shower feeling a good deal cooler and followed Mrs Delaney back across the yard, observing as she did so that she did not remember seeing a door leading to the kitchen. Mrs Delaney shot her a surprised glance. ‘Kitchen’s separate,’ she said briefly. ‘It gets real hot in there; you wouldn’t want the kitchen in the house, missus. Remember, you’ll be cooking for fifty or sixty people, not just for the bosses.’ She led the way across to another corrugated iron building which contained wooden work benches round three sides and an enormous cooking range in the centre. It was even hotter in the kitchen than it had been in the house and when Mrs Delaney explained that, except in the wet, the family would eat on the veranda which ran along the whole length of the house front, Nancy was not surprised, though considerably relieved. ‘And I dare say it’ll be Violet who does most of the cooking,’ she added, as they turned from the kitchen. ‘My husband introduced her as the cook.’
Once more, Mrs Delaney looked doubtful. ‘She’ll mebbe help but I don’t know as she’s ever done anything but camp-fire cooking,’ she said. ‘However, I’ve no doubt you’ll learn to manage. What’s your bread like?’
It was Nancy’s turn to look doubtful. ‘Bread? I don’t quite . . . oh, if you mean can I cook bread, no I can’t, but surely Violet . . .’
‘Violet’s never handled yeast in her life,’ Mrs Delaney said positively. She turned to stare at her companion, her eyes going slowly from the crown of Nancy’s head to her toes, in their smart black boots. ‘But you’ll soon find your way around, missus. You were nursing in France, the boss told us, and you’ve come all the way from England not knowing what were before you, so you’ve got courage. Oh aye, you’ll pick it all up soon enough.’
They had skirted the house and were heading for a third corrugated iron shed. ‘Storeroom,’ Mrs Delaney said briefly. ‘We orders up six months at a time, which is why . . .’ She produced a large key from somewhere and unlocked the door, opening it just enough for Nancy to get a glimpse of the interior, which looked more like the stockroom of a shop than anything else. Sacks, bottles, jars and boxes filled every shelf. Drums of kerosene and cooking oil stood on the ground, and Nancy saw that all the windows were bolted on the inside. ‘Have to keep it locked or the boys would help themselves. And of course, it’s the first place the wild blacks make for if they’re on a raid,’ the older woman said. ‘Now next, there’s the meat house . . .’
Nancy dutifully inspected the meat house, which had large windows covered in gauze, and was also locked though Mrs Delaney said that no one was likely to try to steal meat when it was on the hoof all around them. Then, upon Nancy’s delicately requesting to be shown the . . . er . . . facilities, Mrs Delaney led her a hundred yards away from the house to where yet another corrugated iron shack, surrounded by hatefully buzzing flies, was perched over a deep and noisome ditch. ‘This here’s what you might call a moveable feast,’ Mrs Delaney said bluntly. ‘Every now and again, the boss gets the boys to fill in this trench and move the shack mebbe twenty yards further off. Now, is there anything else I can show you?’
She turned as she spoke and began to walk briskly towards the house. Nancy clutched her arm, drawing her to a halt. ‘No, there’s nothing else,’ she said rather breathlessly. ‘Except . . . could you possibly stay for a little longer, say a week? Or even a couple of days? I fear I simply don’t have the knowledge . . . cooking for fifty or sixty people . . . Mr Sullivan seemed to think Violet . . .’
‘Can’t be done,’ Mrs Delaney said briefly. ‘Not for a week, that is, but I can manage a couple of days . . . I might manage three, if that would be any help.’
Nancy could have kissed her, but instead she said humbly: ‘Thank you, Mrs Delaney, that would be wonderful. I am sure you can teach me an awful lot in three days and perhaps Violet might learn something too.’
That night, after thoroughly enjoying the supper Mrs Delaney had cooked, Andy and Nancy retired to the big brass bedstead and Andy asked her, with just a shade of anxiety, how she thought she would settle into her new life.
‘I guess I’ll get along just fine, though I hadn’t bargained on having to cook for such a large number of people,’ Nancy said, with a confidence she was actually far from feeling. ‘But Mrs Delaney is going to stay over to teach me and I mean to see that Violet learns as well so she can be a real help to me. But Andy, I asked Mrs Delaney where our fresh fruit and vegetables came from and she stared at me for a moment without saying a word, and then she said: “From tins, of course,” which set me back on my heels, rather.’
Andy laughed and reached out a long arm, drawing her close. ‘You can have fresh fruit and vegetables, only you have to grow ’em,’ he said comfortingly. ‘Pretty soon now the rains will start, and soon after that the river will flood. Then, after Easter, the floods will recede and the ground near the river will be that rich that anything you plant will thrive. Of course, it’s also when we muster the cattle for sale, because they’re in good shape. Vegetables aren’t the only things that thrive at that time of year; the grass fairly shoots up.’ He stroked her cheek gently, running his fingers down her neck to cup her shoulder. ‘The fellers, and myself and Clive of course, will be gone for weeks, but you’ll have the gins to help you, and old Tom too. And now we’d best get some sleep, because tomorrow you’ll be baking your first batch of bread.’ He chuckled deep in his throat. ‘I always swore I’d never marry a woman who couldn’t bake a good loaf. What’s the use of a pretty face? That won’t fill a man’s belly, I used to say. And here I am, married to a girl fair as a lily, who’s never cooked so much as a pancake in her whole life.’
Nancy dug him in the ribs with a clenched fist. ‘How do you think we lived in the nurses’ home?’ she asked indignantly. ‘Why, I’m a dab hand with boiled eggs and bread and butter soldiers; it’s just the thought of cooking for fifty which daunts me a bit.’
‘Bread and butter soldiers?’ Andy said dreamily. ‘Is that what you called us? If so, young lady . . .’ He made a mock growling noise and grabbed her, nuzzling her neck.
But Nancy pulled away, very conscious of Mrs Delaney, sleeping in the tiny bedroom only separated from their own by a thickness of corrugated iron. ‘Haven’t you heard of boiled eggs and a round of bread and butter cut into fingers to dip into the yolk?’
‘All the eggs I eat are hard all through, like bullets,’ Andy said, his voice already slurring with sleep. ‘And you won’t get no eggs here. The boys ate all the chickens while I was out of the way.’
‘We’ll buy some more,’ Nancy said sleepily. ‘Day-old chicks, little round balls of yellow fluff. My mother kept chickens in our orchard. I know about chickens.’
Against her neck, she felt him smile. ‘You’ll have to watch the crocs,’ he said indistinctly. ‘They come pretty well up to the house in the wet and they’ll eat anything smaller than themselves. Still, you could mebbe fence off a bit of the veranda.’ His voice died away and, presently, he slept.
Chapter TwoJess had not replied to either of the letters Nancy had written since her marriage, but when a third letter arrived, after a considerable time lapse in which Nancy said that she had given birth to a boy, and that she and Andy had agreed to call him Peter, Jess decided that it would be downright churlish not to congratulate her old friend. Also, she had news of her own to impart. Mrs Bellamy sometimes went to Southport to visit her son Claud and his wife Veronica, and on these occasions she hired a car from a well-known local firm. She was not fond of her daughter-in-law, an overbearing self-satisfied woman, so she usually only stayed a day or so, and always insisted that Jess should accompany her. ‘My daughter-in-law says that her servants could look after me perfectly well, but I remember when I visited her four years ago and said I needed help with dressing how she grumbled and told poor Claud I was a burden and should be forced to do more for myself.’
Jess always enjoyed their visits to Southport, especially after her employer took to insisting that they should be driven by Mr Ryan, a neat young chauffeur employed by the car-hire firm. Mrs Bellamy hired the car for the length of her stay, so that she might visit Southport and other resorts along the coast, with the result that Jess and Mr Ryan were often in one another’s company. After several such meetings, Mr Ryan asked Jess to go dancing with him and a delightful friendship ensued. Now she and Ken Ryan were engaged to be married, though both knew it would be at least two years before they were in a financial position to tie the knot.
So when the letter arrived with the news of the baby’s birth, Jess decided to write back for the first time, passing on her own exciting news. After all, why not? She still envied Nancy the wonderful home which she believed her friend owned, and the life she led, for in her second letter Nancy had talked of the number of black servants they employed though she had not described the homestead, or its surroundings, in any sort of detail. Naturally, therefore, when Nancy talked of baking bread, making soap, and harvesting the vegetables from her garden, Jess assumed that Nancy merely supervised, whilst her servants did the work.
What was more, in the letter telling Jess of Peter’s birth, Nancy had asked, anxiously, whether Jess was so unhappy that she could not bring herself to reply to her letters and had also suggested that she might reconsider coming to Australia, saying that Clive was a really delightful man, and still not married.
So it was partly to scotch any such hopes and partly to boast of her fiancé that Jess took pen and paper one evening, when her employer was safely tucked up in bed, and began to write to her old friend.
She decided she must first apologise for allowing the rift between them to widen, and once she had done that she found that words came easily.
How delightful that you have a little boy; I wish I could see him. As soon as I got your letter, I began to knit a blue matinée jacket with matching bootees, which I shall despatch as soon as they are complete. I took some advice from Mrs Bellamy and have knitted in cotton instead of wool, since she seems to think that Queensland is pretty hot all the year round. Anyway, I hope you will find them useful.And now for my own news. I am engaged to be married! His name is Ken Ryan and he works as a chauffeur for a car-hire firm. He has dark hair, brown eyes and a nice, square chin, and he looks very dashing in his chauffeur’s uniform, which is a navy suit, pale blue shirt, navy tie with a silver stripe, and a smart peaked cap. We are both saving every penny we can but I think it will be a couple of years before we can afford to actually marry. Oh, Nancy, my dear, I am so happy! I truly never expected to fall in love again but now that I’ve done so, I can understand completely why you went to Australia and why you married your Andy. You sound blissfully happy and I am sure Ken and myself will be blissfully happy too. I’m afraid I’m not a good correspondent – I find writing letters very hard – but I will do my best to keep in touch,Your old friend,JessPS
How awful I am! I completely forgot to tell you that, soon after you left for Australia, I got a job as a private nurse to an elderly lady (Mrs Bellamy). We live at Lancaster Avenue; it’s a lovely house and I couldn’t be happier. She is very good to me, treats me more like a daughter than an employee, so it will be a wrench to leave her when Ken and I marry. The hospital have redirected your letters but that will no longer be necessary since you can write to me here.Much love,J.
*
It was a Sunday afternoon in May when Nancy heard the clatter of approaching packhorses as she was putting the finishing touches to what would presently become their main evening meal. She straightened up, put a hand to the small of her back for a moment, then brushed the sweat off her brow and went into the yard. Jimmy Bullwhip, the mailman, so called because of his boasted ability to take a fly off a packhorse’s ear with his whip without causing the animal to bolt, was handing Andy the Sullivans’ post plus a number of newspapers and a couple of small packages. Both men greeted her cheerfully, Jimmy sniffing appreciatively at the good smell of beef stew which followed Nancy out of the kitchen. He was a tall, rangy man, who wore a thick black beard and side whiskers, though since he never removed his large bush hat, even at mealtimes, Nancy had no idea whether his hair was as black as his beard or whether, in fact, he was as bald as a coot.
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