Sarah Thornhill (17 page)

It was something they'd done before, Phillip and the girl. You could see that. She sat on the bank, knees up to her chin, back against a tree, watching the man and the horse as if they were putting on a show for her.

He clicked his tongue at Belle and she walked forward. Hooves stepping high, you could see the power in her, and the pleasure she was taking. The water got deeper, Phillip running and splashing with the rope loose in his hand.

He turned to the girl and smiled. Not the flashing smile he put on to charm, but a quieter, privater sort of thing. From where I was hidden I could see the girl's face go soft. Almost a smile. It was the first time I'd glimpsed the person behind the sad mask.

Thank God, I thought, she's found some comfort.

Those endless silent days. The cliffs across the river rearing over us, making everything else small. The long afternoons of sun lit them up, yellow, then brassy, then gold. The light shifting, hour after hour. Nothing in the world would ever happen again except the light changing on the stone.

PART THREE

A
SECRET
part of me must of been keeping count, because eleven months and eleven days after Jack left, I woke up different. Lay listening to the rustle of wind in the trees and felt something stir in me too.

I was going to get away.

News had come, Mary was expecting. That gave me reason for a visit, and I was going on eighteen, old enough to be out in the world now. When I put it to Ma and Pa I saw a little look go between them. See, Dolly's taking an interest again. Didn't we know it would all come right?

It was nearly enough to make me change my mind.

The morning I left, I went to find the girl. She was in her usual place, the parlour window where she could see down the river. I had Jack's stone in my hand, ready to give it to her. So silky against my skin, I had second thoughts. She'd never know. Never miss what she'd never had.

But I could ride away. Had a horse, and a sister I could visit. She had nothing, only now and then watching Phillip with the horses, and even that she'd lose if Ma ever caught her at it.

When I went to take her hand, she tried to pull away but I got the stone into her palm. She looked at it for a long time. When she closed her hand round it I saw the sinew tight in her thin wrist and a shine on her cheek.

Wanted to touch her, but she'd never wanted my touch. Wanted to say something, but words were no good to either of us. All I could do was lean in behind her, watching the same patch of bright water.

It was good to be on Queenie, out the gates and away. The speckled dog raced along with us down the track to the punt, grinning up at me.

Save your legs, I could of told him.

It was me and Pa and Jemmy Katter, they'd go with me to Garlogie, stay a few days then come back.

Oh, to be away from everyone, in a new place! Queenie caught how impatient I was, trotted smartly onto the punt, tossing her head and mouthing at her bit. The dog had to be stopped from running on after us and when the punt started it stood up to its chest in the water, I couldn't bear to see the longing on its face.

Over the punt we turned the horses up the road that climbed beside the cliffs. At the top we got down to give the horses a spell.

There below us was the river, a band of green water curving round the point. There was the jetty and the fleck of grey that was the dog. The house behind the wall, Ma at the rose garden, beside her a sketchy shape that must be the girl. She'd of been ten or eleven now, but this far away you could near see through her.

Behind the house the line of the road up the other side of the valley was like a mirror to the one we were on. I could see the bend where I'd watched Jack walk away. More than a year, but it didn't seem that long. If I could of walked on air I could of gone straight across to that stretch of dust and pebbles. The strands of hair I'd pulled out must still be there, blowing about among the bushes.

We trundled along the dry miles over the top of the range, the road a pair of ruts twisting through the bush. This was what Pa watched through the glass, the country on top of the cliffs where you saw no sign of anything human. It was a long day's ride, but late in the afternoon the road tilted down and as it was coming on dark we got to Garlogie, a green place in a broad kind-faced valley.

Mary and Archibald lived in a big way. A fine stone house with a circular drive at the front, every bedroom with a fireplace and a Turkey rug and a marble washstand, plenty of maids to bring the hot water. The silver on the mahogany table was Campbell's from home, heavy in your hand, the chasing soft with wear. Would of been handed down from Campbell to Campbell, not bought last year at Abercrombie's in George Street like the Thornhills' silver.

The way Archibald Campbell said his words was still a problem for me. He'd say something down the table and I'd try the sounds over to myself, making out I was having trouble with a bit of gristle. Archibald always the gentleman, his tidy beard with not a hair out of place and his cheeks rosy as a child's, waiting for his silly sister-in-law to work out what he'd said.

Mary was used to it. She'd see me in difficulties, make a remark that would give me an idea what he'd said.

Pa was ill at ease at Garlogie. Archibald Campbell never anything but courteous, and poor old Pa doing his best, trying to remember the manners he ought to have. Away from Ma he was a different man. Less sure of himself. It made me see how much of Pa was the wife he'd chosen and the fine land and grand house he'd put round himself. Take all that away and you could see what he'd been before. So poor, a knife with a broken tip was the best he could buy. Wearing the broad arrow, doing another man's bidding, marked with the shame of it.

He was almost shy of his own daughter, now that she was Mrs Archibald Campbell. When Archibald said something one day about a tutor for the child when the time came, Pa went quiet. You can wish for too much, I thought. You can want so much, you lose your own children and grandchildren.

He wandered about, never sure where he should be. Sat with Archibald making himself pleasant, but you could hear in his voice he was ashamed of the blunt words that were all he had. They soon ran out of things to talk about, only so many times you can say what a wonderful season, and how thick the wool. Pa would find his way down to the stables, pass the time with the men there, rough fellers like he was himself. Knew it wasn't what he was supposed to do, Mr Campbell's father-in-law sitting on a bale of straw with the stableman, puffing away on his old white pipe.

Me and Mary was in between. Not rough like Pa, not smooth like Archibald. Both of us protecting Pa from the worst of himself, the way Ma did. If we saw him go to do the wrong thing, one of us would give him a glance and he'd remember.

He stayed a week. When he and Jemmy left, it was a load off for all of us. From the verandah Mary and I watched them canter up the track. That's the finish of it, I thought. The finish of the life I'd had, being a daughter. What was next I didn't know, but it wasn't going to be that house by the river.

Mary wanted the news from home, so I told her about the girl, how sad she still was. Told her about Jack, and Sullivan's, all the rosy future we'd planned. The bust-up with Pa, Jack bundled out of the house. How he was too proud to marry money.

Couldn't bear to tell her the words that still cut me when I remembered them.
Never want to see your face again
. That last terrible look he gave me.

Always knew you two was close, she said. Good feller, Jack, none better. Shame he gone off. But you know, Dolly, might turn out for the best.

I didn't bother to answer. Jack was an ache in my chest. With me when I woke up and with me when I went to bed. There'd never be any
best
in that.

Mary had a sickly time of it that first confinement. Pasty and yellow and not keeping anything down beyond a bit of bread toasted crisp and a cup of black tea. For once Dolly was the one bustling about, getting things ready, the napkins hemmed and the tiny clothes stitched. Even got into the way of knitting. Made five pair of pilchers and five of bootees, ran the ribbons through at the end, thought I was pretty clever.

When the baby started it was a frightening time, I'd had nothing to do with babies. Luckily the cook knew what to do, and a midwife rode over from the Wollombi. I didn't see much, only a glimpse of Mary on the bed with her face screwed up, but at last the midwife come out with the baby, ugly as a prune but everyone smiling as if he looked like an angel, and of course he did once his head went back to its proper shape.

In the afternoons Mary nursed the baby on the sheltered back verandah. Smiling down at him, his hand lying on her breast as if to say thank you, ankles crossed, chubby feet moving round as he sucked.

You know, Dolly, she said one afternoon, I never been better off or more happier than what I am now with Archibald.

Even a sister wouldn't of said Mary was beautiful, but she had a serenity about her now that was a kind of loveliness.

Oh and by the by, Dolly dear, she said, John Daunt might be paying us a visit. Archibald said to me, I'd like to see John Daunt, what say we send word, ask John down to see us? Men, you know, they like a talk together.

Dear Mary, she was like a pane of glass.

I'd wished Daunt dead at one time, but had nothing against him now. Jack would always have my heart, but Jack was gone and life was long. Daunt had seemed a man with not too much starch about him. Hadn't got the vapours to see me wearing my brother's trousers, and had a bit of fun with the What Bird.

Now Mary, I said, no need to tie yourself in knots. Be glad to see John Daunt.

I wasn't sure, she said. What you felt, you know. The business about Jack.

Not a day passes that I don't think about Jack, I said. But he's gone. He's the past.

Well dear, she said, Archibald told me, John Daunt was very struck by your sister Dolly.

That was well and good. But what Archibald didn't know, and Mary didn't know either, was that moment in the hall, that far-off morning at home. If Daunt had seen me, I was pretty sure I'd be out of the running as far as he was concerned.

And if he hadn't, and things went the way those two were hoping, he'd be buying second-hand goods without knowing. He was an honest man. I couldn't be false with him.

Mary had it all mapped out in her mind, she'd probably already decided on the pattern of the china she'd give us. I wasn't so sure. When he came I'd have to feel my way, find how things stood.

John Daunt or some other man. If it wasn't Jack, it didn't make much odds.

I'd forgotten what a big awkward plain man Daunt was. Like a navvy in the shoulders. You'd never pick those shoulders for a gentleman's. He'd lost more hair since I'd seen him but his black eyebrows sprouting thicker than ever. Nothing to make a woman's heart beat fast.