Siddon Rock (5 page)

As he struggled in the grip of the pond, a rope dropped in front of him. George grasped it eagerly and wrapped it around his wrist. The stranger at the other end of the rope helped George to firm ground, where the ghost gum stood sedately upright with his horse tied to it.

George was in two minds about being rescued. The sensibilities brought from England by his father had not been established in George, who had grown up in the roughness of settlement. The rude culture had denied him the spiritual enquiry and good manners that had infused the renaissance soul of Henry in the library at Greater Wickton, so when a stranger pulled him from a shallow pond he was
less than gracious, managing a muttered,
Thanks, I was quite all right.

Yeah, I could see that
, the stranger said, and set about lighting a fire. While George's clothes dried, he talked with the man, as passing strangers do. On hearing of his needs, George's rescuer said that he knew someone who knew where there was an abandoned house that might be for sale.
Go back due north about three miles
, he said.
Turn left at the bloodwood tree with the eagle's nest and you should find him after about ten minutes' ride – a trot, not a gallop. If you don't, whistle like thi
s … he held his cupped hands to his mouth and produced two notes, like the shrilling of a ship's bosun's whistle. Then he scooped salty water to douse the fire and rode off.

Ten minutes after he had turned left at the bloodwood George could see no house, nor any sign that there was anything around him except reddish earth and mallee scrub. He put his hands to his mouth and then pulled them away.
What a fool!
he said aloud, and his words drifted off. He held his cupped hands to his mouth again and, feeling very glad there was no-one to see him, blew as he had been shown.

The sound that emerged seemed louder and shriller than that of the man who had pulled him from the salt lake. It blasted the stillness of the bush with a force that shivered the thin trunks of the mallee and died quickly as it faded into the trees.
What a fool!
he said again, but as he turned
his horse to resume his ride home to Siddon Rock, walking through the scrub was a man who waved at him to stop and then stood silently waiting.

George cleared his throat.
I need a house
, he said, and the words stumbled over each other in their haste to tell the story.
I want to marry Eliza May Winton she won't marry me until I have a house for her a man back there at the salt pond said you'd know where there's one. I'm George Aberline.

The man nodded.
Yup
. He stuck out his hand and George leaned down from his horse to shake it.
You can know me as Beatty. Lazarus Beatty
, and he started off, with a jerk of his head for George to follow. Not fifty yards from the faint track they stopped, and Lazarus Beatty moved cautiously forward to where the land dropped away in an unexpected precipice.
A bloke could fall over this cliff and do himself some damage
, he said. George dismounted and looked down into a deep gully, to what appeared to be a village of small cottages built with no plan as to streets or placement.
Well
, he said.
Well now, you'd never know anyone lived way out here.

Lazarus Beatty gave a sharp crack of laughter.
Hah. They don't. These are all from the goldfields.
He lowered himself to the ground and sat back on one heel.
I moved some. Thought I could sell them somewhere. Other people left the gold towns and thought they'd take their house with them – you know how hard it is to get building materials out here – and then got sick of lugging it along.
As he spoke he rolled shaggy tobacco into a small piece of paper.

George waited, thinking there was more to tell. After a minute or two he cleared his throat and asked diffidently,
So why are they here? There's nothing for miles around.

The man shrugged and lit the ragged cigarette.
Why not here? It's as good a place as any. D' ya want one of 'em or not?

Oh yes
, George said,
most definitely.

Slipping and sliding on loose dirt and small rocks that rolled down into the gully, Lazarus Beatty led George down the steep slope to the houses. At first he walked with George through the buildings, but as the inspection lengthened into hours he sat on the verandah of a well-built bungalow, propping himself against the wall.

George found himself full of doubt and indecision. How could he select just one house for Eliza May? They all seemed eminently suitable. All had bedrooms and kitchens, and what more could one wish for. He was drawn at first to one, then another. This one had a large verandah; that one, more rooms. This one had strong timber floors that were fast and solid even after the journey from the goldfields; that one was laid with carpet.

George envisioned the firm little face of Eliza May framed by those honey-coloured curls, and understood that a decision must be made, and that it must be the right decision for it would determine the course of his life. He wondered if he could take a selection of the houses for Eliza May to choose the one she liked best. But what to do then with those left over?

As he contemplated the sorry-looking houses scattered through the bush, their walls and roofs sagging with the abandonment of the unloved, George was in despair.
It's no use
, he thought,
I don't know what to do.
He turned to walk away from it all, but the thought of a life without Eliza May made him turn back.

Now, instead of the array of dishevelled derelicts dropped higgledy-piggledy in the barren gully, he saw a gravelled road flanked on either side by green and shady trees quite unlike those of the surounding bush. Behind the trees the houses formed neat rows, each a good distance from the other and centred on its own piece of land. Every house glowed with pride, cleaned and painted in fresh colours: green trimmed with white, a blue roof shielding sparkling white walls, or a creamy colour with deep red window-frames and eaves. There were hammocks and cane chairs filled with comfortable cushions on wide verandahs, and around each house were gardens overflowing with bright flowers and cool greenery.

George walked along the road, stopping to read the signs that were in front of every house:
For Sale. Contact George H. Aberline, Realtor
, they read, each and every one. The blood of English traders stirred in his veins and sent a passionate surge to his heart.
Do you think we could move all these houses if I took the lot?
he asked Lazarus Beatty.

No worries, mate
, Lazarus Beatty replied,
just leave it to me
.

So the deal was done, and Lazarus Beatty somehow organised thirty-nine bullock teams, with drays and drivers.
Where they had come from in this empty place George had no idea, but there they were, waiting to go.

In payment, Lazarus Beatty agreed to accept a small amount on account from George, with the balance to be paid whenever he asked for it, at any time in the future.

As the teams loaded with the houses waited to move off, Lazarus Beatty picked up his blanket roll and held out his hand to George. They shook hands and George asked,
What happens if I don't have the money when you come for it?
but with absolute confidence that this would not be so.

You'll be right, mate
, Lazarus Beatty said.
Don't worry, you'll be able to pay, one way or another.
He turned towards the inland. After a few steps he called over his shoulder,
After all, there's always your farm, your wife, and your soul.

George laughed, and raised his arm ready to signal the teams to move on.
I'll see you sometime then
, he said, and when he dropped his arm the noise of the bullockies and lumbering drays drowned out any reply Lazarus Beatty may have made.

George navigated from memory and by following the chain of small salt ponds that he had seeded with his bodily fluids at the beginning of his quest. This resulted in a somewhat winding journey, but the houses on the drays pulled by bullocks followed him sedately wherever he led, and gradually he made his way to Siddon Rock and Eliza May Winton.

The long, slow days with the bullocks allowed George time to think, and the thing that filled his mind was the vision in the gully.
Just like my father
, he thought.
Like
the one that sent him here to find the butterfly.
Then he'd laugh, knowing that no such butterfly could ever be found; that it was an illusion, a story. At least his own vision was of some use. He'd not spend his life under a tree on a rock. He, George Aberline, was going to be the most successful businessman the district would ever see, and between the sale of these houses following so placidly behind him, the farm that he would develop, and a business that would hire out bullock teams with drays, he'd be the richest man in town, and well able to start his own dynasty.

With the thirty-nine houses in an orderly line behind him, George rode slowly into Siddon Rock, his calm demeanour showing nothing of the trials of the journey. He parked them on the open ground opposite the pub, then walked confidently to the Winton's cottage where Eliza May waited for him.

The large selection of houses sent Eliza May Winton quite out of character when she had to choose one. Eventually she eliminated all except one with large, high-ceilinged rooms and the one with the verandah where Lazarus Beatty had waited for George.
We'll have both
, George said, and took them to their new farm just two miles out of the town. There, with the help of a round-up of brothers, he joined them together into the large and impressive farmhouse that stands there now.

While George was away, Eliza May had taken up land not far from the small salt lake that was already forming at
George's first stop on the outward journey. When George told her that he intended to open a stock and station agency as well as run the farm, Eliza was delighted that she had chosen land so close to town. Eliza would, of course, oversee the farm operations if necessary while George worked the agency.

Eliza May named the house ‘Aberwin' to signify the joining of the families of Aberline and Winton into one; but to everyone else it was known as the Two Mile, so that gradually even Eliza May referred to it as such, and ‘Aberwin' faded from the town's memory.

As for the other houses, George persuaded the newly formed Siddon Rock Council to let him have land behind the hotel. Thirty-seven houses were set in their own blocks, as he had seen in his vision, although the blast of summer heat and lack of water killed the street trees George planted, and he never did replace them. The sales of the houses, together with the ongoing business of used dray and cart trading and bullock team hire, and the newly established stock and station agency, proved him as a solid businessman of the town.

When the Council asked him if he would like to name the street where his houses were set, George called it Whistler's Way, and just shrugged when asked why such a strange name.