Salt Creek (36 page)

‘Sometimes it feels as if nothing happens here,' I said. ‘But things do all the time. I wouldn't know how to tell you everything.'

‘I'd like to hear.'

‘One day. There's a war in America, did you know?'

‘I had heard.'

‘Think how many people you would need to have a war.'

‘More than there are here.'

‘Fred should have come home,' I said. ‘This weather.'

‘Too late for that.' He poked a potato and set his fork down and rocked his glass on its base. The water lolled. He looked up from it. ‘I don't know what to say to you. I don't know what's right, what will make you understand.'

‘It's the same for me.'

‘Nothing dishonourable. If you have no feelings for me … That is, I wish to … to know your feelings for me.' The words rushed at the end; he could not hold his gaze steady.

‘I like you. I told you.'

‘Not what I mean.'

‘They don't matter.'

‘I cannot help mine.'

‘Nor I,' I said. ‘But that is not all there is in life. I don't want them. I wish I felt otherwise. Indifferent. With all my heart I wish that. I cannot prevent what I feel, but I need not give way to it. I know what happens then. Mama was contented in England, but left it for Papa. It might have been the same for your mother; I don't know. And then we came here, all through Papa's choices, his risks, because of him. One day I will leave here, and it will not be with another man or because of a man. Men make so free with the lives of others, and judge themselves so little when things go awry. I wonder at the presumption of it. Where does it come from? How could I respect such a person?'

Charles reached across the table and grasped my hands. ‘I am not all men, only myself. I presume nothing with you, Hett. It would take a brave man to do that.'

‘Charles.' I pulled free. ‘Find someone else. A woman who wishes to please.' I put my hands to my mouth – a sob came out – and shoved the chair back and fled the table. He caught me at the door. A sliver of cool air came in. He pushed it shut. I buried my face against the coats. Charles's arms were on either side and he was against my back and there was a touch at my neck, very light and delicate – him smoothing my hair aside – and his warm breath on my neck and his soft mouth, soft, and I could not think.

‘I don't wish to be pleased. You think I am free. I am not. How can I be when I know you?' He pulled me against him and turned me around. ‘Hettie, I want you so. You.'

I kissed him on his mouth, hard, and wrenched away. ‘Let me out now, let me go. You know what I feel.'

He lifted himself away and I flung the door wide and was through. The first drops of rain were falling – heavy, sparse. I sat on the settee. A gust of wind hurtled in and the rain began. After a while the air stilled and the rain settled and made a dripping veil of the veranda. I was cold but not wet up against the house.

A shadow fell across me. Charles slid the window up. ‘Are you coming in?'

‘No.'

The shadow moved. He came outside with two cups of tea and we sat apart.

After a long time he said, ‘Would you … would you think of marrying me?'

‘For what purpose?'

‘To be with you. For us to be with each other.'

‘No. We couldn't do it.' I would not look at him. ‘You'll find someone,' I said after a while. I began to shiver, not only with cold.

‘I could take you from here.'

‘I will find a way myself. I will not be beholden.'

‘Come inside, Hettie.'

‘I can't.'

He went in and came back a few minutes later with a pile of quilts. ‘Lean forward,' he said. He wrapped a quilt about my shoulders and flung one about his own, and it might have been sumptuous possum fur. I was warmer then, but still shaking, my arms wrapped tight about me as if my own will and strength would stop me flying apart. The tears welled and fell. There was no end to them and no reason that I could tell.

‘What can I do?' he said. ‘Tell me.'

I shook my head.

He moved along the settee.

‘Don't.'

‘I can't make it any worse.' He pulled me onto his lap and turned me into him and wrapped his quilt about us both. ‘I won't do anything.' He pressed his face to my hair and breathed it in. He was my favourite smell and my favourite feeling. His heart pounded next to me; he was a living thing and warm and himself. Night turned. I slept a little I think; between closing and opening my eyes the clouds had broken and stars webbed the black between. Charles's shirt was loose at the throat. I touched the backs of my fingers and then my mouth to his skin, against his pulse. I was thinking only of this moment. I kissed him so lightly, hardly moving; that was all. I would allow myself that and he would never know.

He woke. I knew the moment – his arms tightened and stilled again – but he pretended he had not and I pretended the same and in this way I could go on kissing him softly: across his cheeks, around his mouth. It was very hot. With utmost care I undid three shirt buttons and put my hand on his chest and eased the cloth aside and touched my mouth there and kissed my way up his throat – he lifted his chin a little – towards his mouth. He was quivering by then. It was a game almost to make him admit he was awake even though part of me didn't want him to, and when I reached his mouth I kissed him and didn't stop and he couldn't pretend any more and kissed me back. It was the best feeling of my life up to then. He held me very tight and laughed and groaned, fumbling at my dress and kissing what skin was bare.

‘Once,' I said.

‘How do I get you out of this?'

We went into his room. It didn't seem so wicked or terrible to help each other undress – all those buttons and our hands trembling – or for his hands and body to touch and move against me and for me to know at last what he felt like. It was everything, not only pleasure, and shocking.

We woke late and did not get up until hunger drove us. Fred came home early in the afternoon when Charles and I were finishing lunch. He said little and did not bring out his work to show Charles. He had in mind dry clothes and going out again.

‘I'll be gone for two more nights,' he said.

Charles gave me a questioning glance.

‘He misses Tull,' I said after he had gone.

Once
, I had said. There could be no harm in that, no risk, or not much. I could live with the odds whatever they were, but surely they weren't so bad. I had no conception of what might come after. The things you feel and experience are not shut away so easy. They will have their way with you and live with you. Two more days and two nights – that was all.

Later, I told myself that I was tired, I was upset, I was not in control. It was not true. I was never more aware. It was a recalibration rather of my mind and body and the ways they worked together. In those moments my rational mind cared more for touch, for the exact now, than for any future.

CHAPTER 19

The Coorong, April 1862

THERE ARE YEARS THAT PASS IN WHICH
nothing at all seems to happen but the change in seasons, and even those can't be called events considering the way in which they dissolve into each other. And there are days in which entire lives turn on their axes, grinding against each other like mechanisms, crushing the things that fall between. Afterwards there are only pieces remaining and people must make of them what they will and what they can.

Dusky afternoon was draining away when I went to shut the chickens in and feed the horses. Around all things – trees and house and fences and cows – darkness gathered and began to spread, and out of the obscurity of trees a shape moved soft and sure towards me.

‘Skipper, Sal,' I called and they bounded from their explorations at the other end of the yard. Before they reached me Skipper's name sounded again and for an instant I thought it the faint echo of my own voice, as sometimes happened when a sea mist came up the lagoon or rolled across the hills of sand from the open water, muffling vision while it amplified sound. But it was clear that evening.

Skipper and Sal began to bark and at a low whistle leapt towards the shape, which now resolved into a person, and wriggled with delight when they reached it.

‘Skip, down,' a familiar voice hissed. ‘And you,' speaking to Sal.

‘Tull.' For it was he, looming clearer, desperate and stricken.

‘You shouldn't be here. What is it? Is something wrong?'

‘Addie.'

‘What? What of her? You know where she is?'

He gave me one of his old patient, pitying looks. ‘I've been there all this time.'

‘Of course you have,' I said. ‘What is it then?'

‘Mr Martin, at the inn. He means ill by her, I am sure of it. Mrs Martin has gone to see family in Goolwa – left last week. I'm afraid of what happened to the other maid. She's missing. She went before Addie went there. A letter arrived from her family asking about her. Addie took it and opened it. Mr Martin didn't see.'

‘Jane? What's happened?'

‘Mr Martin told Addie she went back home, that she did not like a place so wild and desolate, but the stable hand never heard her say such a thing. He said she was glad of the work. She needed the money to send to her family.'

‘Could she be working elsewhere?'

‘No.' Tull shook his head. ‘Her family are looking. There's been no news from her since December. I've seen him like this.'

‘Like what?' I grasped his arm.

‘Angry.'

‘That's all?' I let go of him. ‘We are all angry sometimes, I think.'

‘The temper he has. I believe he has killed before.'

‘Killed? No one knows who killed Mr Robinson. There was no proof of anything.'

‘Proof is only part of the truth. You heard of the black who drowned?'

‘A story. The police said so. No one found him. I do not believe he existed.'

‘No white man found him. He was killed and he was found, sunk in a waterhole – the big one behind the Travellers Rest – by the blackfellas down that way.'

‘It was true?'

‘He sold fish to Mr Martin. Like … others. Mr Martin owed him money but would not pay. No proof that it was Mr Martin, true enough. But everyone knows. Three months Addie is owed now. It's her money and she will not leave. He did not pay Jane either and now she is gone. No one to watch for her. I didn't like to leave her there on her own, Mrs Martin being away. Mr Martin says later, next week, but never this week. I cannot make Addie leave. She doesn't believe me. She won't listen.'

‘She has always been stubborn.'

‘Would Mr Finch fetch her?'

‘He's not here. You must make her come, Tull, on your own. She'll listen to you. I know she will.'

Tull said, ‘I tried, I tell you.'

‘He wouldn't hurt Addie, surely.'

‘Because she is white? That makes her safe?' He regarded me in silence for a few seconds, as if he saw something in me that filled him with melancholy. ‘You don't think you are better than black people. You
know
it, don't you? It is inside you, this belief, like your heart.' He thumped his chest. ‘Birds don't think: I will fly. They
are
flight. It is what they do and what they are. In what you do, what you are, you know that you are better, but not to me, not to blacks, to yourselves only. You have forgotten that Jane is white. It did not protect her.'

I could hardly take in his meaning – and whether my recollection is correct I don't know. ‘What I think doesn't matter. And what is right doesn't matter. The only thing now is keeping Addie safe. Hasn't she been ruined enough? You would not ruin her further.'

Tull shuddered and collected himself. ‘I want her safe and you think I'm the one she must be saved from. You don't know Mr Martin. In a rage he does anything. Mrs Martin—' He broke off and looked at me. ‘Well. When his temper is up it's better to be quiet. Addie should not be around him. I told him Mr Finch would know of it, that I would make sure he knew. He said he would make sure Mr Finch learned that I had seen Addie. It would be strange if I did not when I have known her so long and wish her safe.'

‘But seeing Addie? Oh, Tull. You cannot. Papa will— I don't know what he might do. He is determined. He will never allow you and Addie to be together.'

‘Where is he?'

‘At Tinlinyara.'

‘Mr Martin showed me his musket.'

‘Did he threaten you?'

‘No. He shot a magpie from a tree. It fell at our feet, its wing broken, and he put his boot-foot on it and pressed it down slow. The bird looked at me. No need for him to say anything.' His gaze was unwavering.

‘It's too late to go now. The horses will go lame. You can leave in the morning with Fred. The two of you can make her come.'

He spoke louder then, very desperate. ‘You should come too. You must. She will listen to you.'

He was right. Of course he was. Three of us might persuade her. It was only that I felt rather ill. It was a month since Charles left, and even though I believed I had done right in remaining at Salt Creek, I had been listless since and could take no pleasure or interest in anything. Charles was constantly in my mind. By the end of his stay at Salt Creek, but for Addie and Fred, who I would not leave to manage Papa on their own, I would have gone with him, I think. ‘Yes,' I said. ‘I will. Of course I will. Come in now. Use your room.'

‘The baby, Grace? Can I see her? Addie will want to know.'

‘Oh, Tull, she's gone. I'm sorry for it. Papa took her and Flora and Bobby back to the mission. He said there was no reason for them to remain here. It would only make things more difficult.'

‘Ah,' he said on a breath, as if he'd been struck. ‘How will I tell her? How can we be together again? What can I do?'

‘Addie. First we must get her.'

‘Yes,' he said. But his face was despairing.

We rode off a little after daybreak, the dogs loping along behind and disappearing into the bush and reappearing further on. There was no ease between Fred and Tull. Fred's face, which had lit up at first sight of him, by some deliberate means dulled again and he didn't meet Tull's gaze. I hadn't known he had taken Addie's plight to heart so, or that he felt so bitterly towards Tull.

It was before the worst of the autumn rain started. When I travel the Coorong in my mind, as I do often, it is like that day at the turning to cooler weather, almost the last day I ever spent there with Tull and Fred together and the last that I travelled in that direction. The sky and the lagoon were sapphire, and the peninsula was that strip of white and green, and the sucks were pink rimmed and the last birds that left for winter were wheeling the sky and dipping to earth and sea to gather up more of their number before rising again, higher – clouds of them separating and cohering like shoals of fish. The noise of it. I wish I could remember it exactly; I dream it sometimes. It was never more beautiful and now I wonder if some part of me knew that it was close to the end of everything.

We rode three abreast where the track permitted, Tull a step ahead between us, making haste, but we did not speak for a long time. I could not understand it when Fred and Tull had always talked so much.

All the way down that broken road, which was still dusty and soon to turn to mud, the weather biding on the horizon for the moment, at every corner, every outcrop, every island, Tull said a few words, not in English when he always spoke English.

‘What are you saying?' Fred said.

‘Names.'

‘Of what?'

‘This.' He cast his eyes slow, a line floating out and gathering the world within its arc. ‘All of it,' he said.

‘It's lovely,' Fred said.

‘Other places?'

‘Not as beautiful.'

‘Ah.' He clicked his tongue and resumed his low intermittent recitation.

‘What do the names mean?' I said.

And Tull began to say them, first in his own language and then in English: Eel Lagoon, Place to Trap Mullet, Pelican Island and many others which I do not remember, and some that he did not know the words for in English. It seemed as if every part of the lagoon had a name and a story and a meaning. The stories were all around us wherever we went. There was scarcely a place without one and it felt as if we were nothing but one more story inside this world and the stories were without number. No one would have time to write them all down. But that day it was as if he were reciting a litany – as if there were a chance that he might not remember everything that we were passing. I wish that I had paid closer attention.

And then Tull said, as if this were the true direction of his thoughts, ‘I thought she had been married to Mr Martin.'

‘Addie? Why would you think such a thing?' Fred said.

‘Because I watched Mr Finch take her and all her things to live with Mr Martin and his old wife. I thought Addie was his new wife.'

‘To work, that's all. He may only have one wife.'

‘Addie said this too. I didn't know if she spoke the truth or was saying what she wished to be true. So we are not stealing her from him?'

Fred shook his head. ‘No.'

‘If she leaves will Mr Martin follow to get her back?'

‘No.' I did not like to say the next part but I thought he should know that nothing was changed whatever happened this day. ‘Papa will want her to be away from you still. But she's not, is she?'

Tull shook his head. ‘Am I so bad?' he asked.

I hardly knew what to say. There was no badness in him that I had ever seen, but I knew that I had not seen all of him. ‘Bad? Of course not,' I said. ‘You should have stayed away from Addie, though, Tull. You must know that. And she should have stayed away from you.'

‘Hettie's right,' Fred said.

‘Mr Finch said to me, ‘“We are all men, all equal, in the eyes of the Lord”.'

‘You've seen for yourself you can't trust to everything he says,' Fred said.

‘I believed him,' Tull said.

‘He would say that we are not all equal in the eyes of men. It is other people who make things difficult. He loves Addie the best of us,' Fred said.

‘Does he think I do not?' Tull asked. ‘Is it because we have nothing to give for her?'

‘No. Not that,' Fred said. ‘We do not buy and sell our women. They can marry who they please.'

‘But she may not marry me even though she wishes to.'

‘She's only seventeen, too young to decide.'

‘Is seventeen young?'

We rode past a treed headland and for a few minutes the lagoon was hidden from view. ‘You must see, Tull, the way people think, what sort of life she would have with you. And for Papa and his work, for Hester, all of us, what it would mean for that.'

‘We could get a lease and run our own farm,' Tull said. ‘Take Grace back. Or move somewhere.'

Stupidly, I said, ‘Perhaps you could.' But he was not a child who could be told a nightmare was not true and believe it. There would be white people wherever he went. He knew it too.

‘How would I hide who I am?' He slapped his hands to his chest and his arms. ‘I have read in Charles Darwin the things that white men do to people like me. I read all of it, including the parts that you did not read me, Fred. I knew it would be like this, but thought it could be different, that I could make it different because I knew. Knowing is not enough.'

‘No. Believing something is not enough either.' Somehow I had held onto the idea of our family as enlightened. Yet I did not altogether think Papa wrong and I also thought that Tull was a better person than Stanton or Hugh. I could not make the thoughts run clear. ‘He likes you, a great deal. Not for Addie though. The money that Addie is waiting for, is it for a lease?'

He didn't speak.