Salt Creek (42 page)

‘Ah yes. I suppose so.' He wrapped two books – Darwin – and put them into the bag. ‘I thought of Tull, seeing if he might like to come with me, if things are quite done with his mother.'

‘You know where he is?'

‘I can find him.'

I folded a shirt and handed it to him. ‘You can ask at any rate.'

‘Where will you go?'

‘Grandmama and Grandpapa first. And then, do you know what Darwin says? I have held it in mind for so many years: “Nothing can be more improving to a young naturalist than a journey in distant countries”. I am ready to discover whether he is right.'

‘You're leaving Australia.'

‘You know I always planned to.'

And now I was the one crying. ‘When will I see you again? Nine children. What has become of us, Fred?'

He put his arms around me. ‘Life,' he said.

I could not think of what else to say. Nothing could make any difference to Fred's circumstances or feelings. He had been pulling away from us since Tull went. This was merely the end of it. I left him to his task and drifted through the house.

Papa was on the veranda putting his boots on. There might have been no difference between this and any other day.

‘Papa,' I said. ‘Look.' Coming down the path were the two troopers, Sergeant Wells and Trooper O'Grady, also a shabby native in a rough old policeman's jacket, its frayed collar forming a tawdry sort of lace, and a fourth person slumped in his saddle at the rear. His hands were tied behind his back and his hat was drawn low, but I could not mistake that moustache. It was Mr Martin.

‘Well, well,' Papa said, and went to meet them. I followed.

Sergeant Wells removed his hat. ‘We thought you would wish to know, Mr Finch, that the maid, Jane Macmanamin, has been found in a wombat hole by Mickey here. He saw crows in a tree above. Most ingenious. It is quite certain that it is she. And we have arrested Mr Martin here' – he nodded in Mr Martin's direction – ‘on a charge of murder.'

Mr Martin scowled at that and catching my eye, said ‘Miss Finch.' Although he was reduced by his situation, something in him – unseen but felt – could not be contained. It seethed against rules, and feeling those things myself often enough, even though he revolted me I could not help feeling for him a little, which I judged in myself. He was a murderer.

‘Mr Martin,' I said. He smirked in a familiar manner, as if he knew quite well how discomfited I was feeling.

Sergeant Wells looked surprised at that. ‘Your other daughter, Mr Finch. Is she about? Would she be willing to make a written statement?'

‘That she saw nothing? I would suppose so. She is lately married to Mr Stubbs of Lake Albert,' Papa said, drawing himself up.

‘I see. We best see her again then. Make a note, O'Grady.'

Trooper O'Grady pulled a shabby notebook from his pocket and licked his thumb and flipped it over to a new page and licked the end of his pencil and slowly wrote, breathing loudly through his nose.

When he had finished, Sergeant Wells said, ‘We'll be on our way. Quite a ride before the day is done.'

Mr Martin spat in the dirt. They reined their horses around and Mr Martin's horse had to follow. It was too late to make a difference to Addie and Tull.

CHAPTER 21

Chichester, October 1874

TWO LETTERS CAME ON THE DAY BEFORE
the trunk: one from Addie, one from Hugh. Addie's scrawl said that Mr Stubbs had died in a horseback riding accident – an event that did not seem to trouble her more than was proper. There was news also of her several children. Her herds and enterprises were prospering and I believe her to be a businesswoman of note. She asked at the end, almost in passing, whether Fred or I had ever heard word from Tull. She would be glad to hear from him, she said, and that was all. So she had not forgotten him. I had never heard from him, and if Fred had, he had not mentioned it to me.

There was no mistaking Hugh's flourishing lettering. He ever held himself in high regard: strange how such a thing can be evident in a person's hand. His news reached out and twisted my heart in a curious combination of anger and grief.

Melbourne

The 5
th
of May, 1874

Dear Hester,

I write with the news that our father died this April, after a gradual weakening and decline. I last saw him in January, when the heat, indeed everything, was troubling him.

The past preyed upon him. He wrote to me of mistakes he had made. It was not of his financial misjudgements that he spoke, though I think we are agreed that he was in error in the risks that he took, with so little prospect of success. Of recent years he was often in need of funds. I gave what I could, despite my family and the position I must maintain. Adelaide has never forgiven him for the events of '62, though he saved her from ruin and arranged a most advantageous marriage. I have not seen her since '64, I suppose. I had thought becoming a mother might have softened her. Her son Harry was a fine little fellow, but it was a girl she found at the Point McLeay mission who she doted on. She and Mr Stubbs took her into their home as an act of charity, and she quite stole their hearts. Such familiarity never ends well, as she should know, and so I reminded her (Stubbs must have been quite nutty on her to have permitted it). At that point she requested my immediate departure, and I had no choice but to comply.

But to matters at hand: It is my hope that you will see fit to make a contribution towards moneys I have outlaid on the family's behalf since our father's death. There are obligations to consider, regarding which I have provided a separate balance sheet. Stanton, I am afraid to say, has Papa's head for business. Adelaide and Frederick have neither spoken nor written to him since leaving Salt Creek. I have not heard from Albert for many years. Perhaps, if you know his location, you could forward it to me.

You will, I am sure, be surprised, in view of your scant communication with Papa, that he left the bulk of his estate to you. The portion of the will that pertains to you is as follows, which you may make of what you will:

To my daughter, Hester, I bequeath my land, house, and all its effects to use as she deems fit. I make one stipulation only: that Flora and Bobby, natives, and any other natives who are currently dwelling at Salt Creek are permitted continuing use of the land, and may move across it without restriction for their own purposes.

You should see from this that in fact he has left you nothing. There is not a person who will wish to purchase an estate so encumbered. But no matter: the land is worth nothing, and likewise the house. I would not call it a bequest – rather, a millstone, and do not envy you the duty of discharging the terms of the will. The good furniture was long since sold to cover some portion at least of the debts. The pianoforte is all that remains. Papa would not sell it when he might have, and now it is all but ruined by salt and damp. I cannot imagine that you have any need of it. If, however, you do wish for it, send me word to that effect in addition to funds to cover the costs of shipping. I am sending also a trunk containing miscellany, as Papa requested me to in January. This does not appear in the will, but as in all else I try to do my duty.

There was a little more about Flora and Bobby and how they had been living in the house with Papa, ‘quite as if they owned it' – but no other information about when they had returned to live there – and how Papa sat each day on the veranda.

That, I could imagine: him in his driftwood chair staring the length of the lagoon as if he were the captain of a sinking ship unable to abandon the hope of rescue, and from pride would watch the disappearing view to the end. I had repaid the mortgage and paid the lease on Salt Creek each year and sent him money besides, and Hugh never knew. How like Papa. There were only five more years to run on the lease and the land would be owned outright. He concluded with remarks about his many fine children, his excellent wife and good address and his future political hopes. He remained my affectionate brother, etc.

Then the trunk arrived. It being a school day, I was before a classroom of girls and could only watch as it was carried up the stairs. I hurried to the drawing room at luncheon and at the sight of it square on the rug could not help trembling. It was at once familiar and strange. Ruby hovered as I lifted the lid.

One of Mama's thick blanket quilts was folded at the top. I picked it up – it was heavier than I remembered; I must have been stronger then – and was overcome with a strange sensation, as if the world itself had listed. For a moment I was at Salt Creek, running from house to dairy shed with this quilt bundled in my arms, to warm Rimmilli, to save her. There was the smell and crunch of eucalyptus leaves too beneath my boots, and Addie and Tull. I held the quilt close and breathed it in. I am sure Ruby thought me quite deranged. I put it aside, and looked in the trunk again. There was Tull's old bark shield, its muted red and white, nested against another quilt. It was bowed, but had travelled safe, and was marked and chipped in places – doubtless from where Stanton had landed his blunt spear. With it was a short note in Papa's hand: ‘To do with as you think best.'

And so began my strange week plunged into the past. I could not look further then, but that evening I found Papa's old leather-bound journal. It was held together with a cord wrapped around and circling a metal disc on its front. When unwound it sprang into stiff curls, like unravelled wool.

On the first page Papa had written:

It is not easy, always, to shoulder the burden of this family's direction. I must pray to our Heavenly Father for guidance and trust that all will become clear.

Truly this is a land of riches, which it is our duty to make use of for the betterment of society and ourselves, and to bring enlightenment to the poor wretches living thereon, who possess so little and want for so much. I do truly believe that all men are created equal in their potential and that if circumstances where deficient are improved then civilization and enlightenment will follow. As surely as I rejoiced in the abolition of slavery do I rejoice in the prospect of fulfilment of this goal.

Papa had used to keep his accounts and records in it, which I read now for the first time, seeing more clearly the ways his various enterprises intersected, the purchase of one thing always relying on the value of another, so that if the new venture failed the former one must be sold. And if it did succeed, he would borrow against it to speculate further, always gambling what he had on the chance of a better future. He had borrowed against the value of town properties to buy the Encounter Bay whaling station; the shipload of sheep that drowned had been purchased against our dairy farm. It seemed that the house in Adelaide had paid for the cattle from the dairy farm and the lease of runs in the Coorong and further inland – two more than I knew of. There was more about stock losses and appointment of native shepherds for Tinlinyara and Salt Creek. He had borrowed against each of the leases, but paid only interest on the loans. When the sheep did poorly, this was what we lived on. A shopping list fell to the floor: tea leaves, mustard seed, raisins, flour, sugar and so on.

Here and there were sparse passages of his thoughts or descriptions of things he had witnessed. There was the time when he and the boys had come across the winter encampment of some natives, and found them suffering from chills and fevers and something he called ‘the French disease', and were in a ‘most miserable condition'.

They are hungry, the stock now being driven from Mt Gambier to Adelaide all through their old winter grounds, scaring away their game and consuming the vegetation. One of them showed us their suck, which is spoiled, and with clean sucks and land become so rare, and prey as they are to illness, their situation is desperate indeed.

I remembered Papa's return from that trip, how he obliged Addie and me to gather some items together to give to the blacks who lived on our land. We took the things down to the shore: flour, dripping, some meat, and a little sugar too. They wanted more, but with sugar so dear, we could not give it. I did not like to disappoint, especially Rimmilli. She took our charity but was not grateful. We used to say that we didn't know how they lived without us and Papa didn't correct us. Our house had been built on their old summer camp Tull told me one day; their good deep suck had been spoiled; our cattle and sheep had trampled their grounds. And Papa's charity, what lay behind it—

There were records of loans from Mr Baker and Mr Stubbs, but nothing from the few months after Mama died. Only this:

This evening Hester asked why we did not return to Adelaide and I did not give her the reply that I should have. I meant only to reassure, and the truth could not do that. The truth is that I cannot live there any longer. All around are men and I see myself in their faces, and in all their failings. I cannot be with them and know myself to be one of them. I thought I could make amends, but in all that I do its opposite comes about. Naught came of it but death upon death. This land is cursed. I fear I am forsaken.

I found his notes to the parliamentary enquiry and further below, hastily written and scored through, but still legible:

I said I took my bible for comfort. It was not true. It was to remind me to be a protector. I find my comfort elsewhere. The fault is not so great, I hope. But I should not. I do not mean harm. It is not my intention, but a curse. I do not believe in curses.

A page on which he had written, ‘Tull sorely missed', as if he had nothing to do with his departure.

There were so many figures in it and many notes, but the meaning drained out of the words. The journal spelled only failure, the gradual drying up of hope, but I had known that. The last thing he wrote was about Addie's marriage. There was nothing about Fred or me leaving. It was as if we had ceased to be.