Siddon Rock (6 page)

No-one remembered when Granna arrived.

Over time many of the Aberline clan tried to place
her with their forebears. The problem was that it was difficult to say just where she fitted in the family, or if indeed she did. There were old photographs of Aberline gatherings where a likeness could seem to be hers; but when asked where she was among the fading images, Granna's favourite answer was,
Youth is a disguise. You can't expect to recognise me in there
. There were also letters with a vague reference to ‘her' or ‘the woman', but there never was an identifying name or anything specific; say, for instance ‘so-and-so's daughter' or ‘at such-and-such event with her husband, so-and-so'.

Others attempted to prove she was just a ghost, or a figment of the imagination. But there she was, driving into town with Eliza May or, down the generations, with the wife of whichever Aberline was in possession of the Two Mile; and try as they might she would not be reduced to a wraith or a remembrance.

Then there were those who thought that Granna could have been one of Henry Aberline's sightseeing women, one of those who came to talk with him and were captivated by the romantic idea of natural love under his tree on the rock.
If she was a very young woman then
, they said,
and is a very, very old woman now, maybe this could be the case.
But to say at what time Granna had been a young woman – if indeed she had ever been – was impossible, as there was no town memory of this.

The favourite story was that Granna had arrived at the Two Mile in one of the houses that George Aberline brought in for Eliza May. After all, who knew where they had been before George found them. But in that case, where had
Granna been for all those months while the houses were being joined together and renovated? No-one could say.

So nothing could be proved. To those indiscreet enough to enquire her age Granna would reply,
I'm as old as my tongue and a little older than my teeth
, and then flash a big smile that displayed teeth as white and pearly as a child's. If they persisted she said that it was way too long ago and she didn't remember.

But no-one believed that.

The bestowing of a name on the nameless woman – for she never did give a name for herself – was accidental.

When George Aberline drove Eliza May to the house after their wedding on a cold and overcast winter's afternoon, they saw smoke rising from the kitchen chimney. They rushed inside, there to find the nameless woman preparing the evening meal. The fire glowed in the kitchen stove, the smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the house, and a leg of lamb crackled and browned as it roasted in the oven. Eliza May smiled at the woman.
How lovely to walk into the warmth
, she said.

George, however, protested loudly, throwing open the door and demanding that she remove herself immediately from their home. The woman ignored him and addressed herself to Eliza May.
You're going to need all the help you can get
, she said.

As the woman spoke, Eliza May heard, as if in the next room, many children calling out and crying. There were the sounds of arguments and fighting, mixed with the clang of slow-tolling bells. The voice of her new husband
echoed strangely:
I don't have it
, he said.
You'll just have to wait.
A man answered, someone she did not know.
We shook on it, mate. If you can't pay in money, then it will have to be the other way.

What did you shake on?
Eliza May demanded of George.
George, what was it?

George looked confused.
I don't know what you mean, I've been shaking hands all day.
He took her arm solicitously and tried to help her to a chair.
It's been a long day. You must be exhausted with all the excitement.

Eliza May waved him away.
There's nothing wrong with me
, she said.
And the woman stays. Obviously she can cook, and I need someone to help in the house. So she'll always be here.

And so she was.

Eliza May called the woman Nanna, a name containing within it acknowledgement of her assistance in the home and deference to her unknown age. One of the many children born by Eliza May thought Nanna was her grandmother, and started to call her Grandma. When Eliza explained that this was not so, the child became confused and welded the two names together immutably, so that Granna had, in the mind of the Aberline family, and eventually of the town, always been so called.

Granna said that the name was as good as any and served its purpose, which was to make it easy to call her from another room.

Macha Connor's father was Charles Henry George Aberline, great-grandson of Henry Aberline who had inadvertently caused the founding of Siddon Rock and the inheritance of the Aberline sadness, grandson of George Henry who had carted thirty-nine houses to form the township of Siddon Rock, and son of Thomas Henry, farmer and owner of two large properties, one of which was the Two Mile.

Charlie succumbed to the melancholia of the Aberlines particularly early. He walked into the desert two days after his marriage to Brigid Connor – the daughter of the Irish couple who worked on his father's farm – in the Church of the Immaculate Conception.

Some in the town said it was the vying forces within his nature that sent him away. It was to be expected that a man could not live with the profoundly physical expectations imposed by life on the land when such a sadness of spirit was present. Others, of the Protestant persuasion, muttered that it was the shame of being forced by his new bride to make his vows in the Roman church; and yet others whispered that he had a woman who lived on the goldfields.

Those who knew the family talked about breed-lines, and how the sadness had arrived in Charlie from both parents, being aunt and nephew as they were. Aberline men remembered their ancestors' early departure from this earth and had a brief shiver of doubt about their own seeming immortality, but this was quickly dispersed by the dry air, heat and exertion of working their land.

After Charlie disappeared from the Two Mile, Brigid walked for a full day around the boundary of the farm. By
the time she had returned to the farmhouse she knew that she would never work on someone else's farm again. She would not go back to washing other people's dirty dishes nor help out in other farmers' shearing sheds. She owned this land, and she would hold it against all blandishments by the Aberline clan. And so she did, holding them away with the tough spirit learnt in the battleground of the schoolyard so recently left, and the inheritance of her mother's stories.
Where would I go?
she said.
What would I do? This is mine now, and I'll farm it. You can help or not– it's not important.
But when she found she was pregnant, Brigid went to Charlie's father, Thomas Henry.
I'm carrying your son's son
, she said bluntly.
You can help me, or you can make it hard. Granna is here to help in the house, but I need to hire a farmhand for the heavy things. You have the money. I can't imagine what the town would say if you refused help to your son's pregnant wife.
And so Thomas Aberline paid for Mellor Mackintosh to live in the shearer's quarters at the Two Mile.

With the advent of Mellor, Brigid had time to prepare for her child's birth. Her own mother, even on her long death-bed, had told her stories of her Irish heritage, taking the child Brigid to a time when Ireland grew out of conflict and courage.
Your name means ‘strong'
, she told the child.
And strong you must be.
Now Brigid spent the evenings reading books of Gaelic history and mythology, for she was convinced that her line of Connor was that of Cuchulain the Champion of Ireland, and that she had the blood of kings and warriors to pass on to her son.

When the baby was born Granna wrapped her in cotton blankets and placed her on her side in a wooden slatted cot. Brigid sat watching the baby, stunned that this child was not the solid son she expected, but instead a small, thin girl who had not yet made a vocal welcome to the world.
What am I to call you?
she said. The child's mouth began to work and Brigid went to pick her up, thinking she needed to be fed, but from the cot came a clear bell-like sound of two notes in a minor key.
Maayyy chaaa
rang around the room.

Brigid stopped in wonder.
Holy Mother of God
, she said, making the sign of the cross over the cot.
Holy Mother of God, what do I have here?

Maayyy chaaaa.
The baby sang more strongly, the purity of the notes ringing out across the house-yard. Granna, who was throwing handfuls of wheat for a scratching of scrawny chooks, dropped the bucket and ran to the room. There, Brigid was on her knees, praying loudly with her hands over her ears.
Do get up, Brigid
, she said sharply.
The child is merely telling her name.

Is it Marsha, then?
Brigid was dubious, this not being a name she had any liking for. And for a third time the notes sounded:

Maaaaaaayy chaaaaaaaaaa
, and this time there was a hint of impatience in the space between the two perfect notes.

Maychar, I think.
Granna's ear was more attuned to the unhearable.

Brigid ran to her books of Gaelic mythology, followed by Granna.
There's a warrior woman named Macha.
It means Goddess. Do you think that's it?
They looked dubiously at the skinny baby. Then another two notes rang out.
Laaaaa leeeeeee.

I think
, Granna said,
that her name is Macha Lalie.
And a small smile came to the face of Brigid's child, who was Henry Aberline's great-great-granddaughter, but with the blood of Cuchulain the Champion of Ireland, from her mother.

When Macha Connor was five years old and went to school, in the tradition of name-changing by children, she was immediately called May. But this name was too reminiscent of an English spring, was too sweet and delicate for the strong farm-child, and it was soon abandoned.

 

NOT LONG AFTER MACHA CONNOR CAME HOME FROM WAR
, Young George Aberline – who was still called Young George even at the age of forty-five – had the thought to mine the lake for salt. This was triggered by a discussion with his sister-in-law Brigid Connor, who complained of the encroachment of the salt onto her land, and pointed out that the lake, of late, seemed to have less water in winter and a firmer crust in summer.

He raised the possibility with Brigid first, saying
You're good with figures, Brig, how about making a business with me?

Not interested,
Brigid said.
Enough on my hands, what with the farm and Macha home. But if you ever want a bit of a help … I know you're not so good at the arithmetic side of things.
They both recalled, but didn't say, that Brigid had done all Young George's sums for him when they sat side-by-side at school.

Might as well make something from the friggin' stuff
, Young George said to Sinclair Johnson, who was writing
an article about the possible venture for the local paper.
Ain't no use to God or man, otherwise.
And from then on salt became the passion and obsession of Young George Aberline.

No good will come of such a hare-brained scheme
, the town said.
Once an Aberline steps a foot off the farm into business, there's trouble for sure.
Granna, when she read of Young George's venture in the
District Examiner & Journal
, remembered the visitor to Young George's grandfather, George Henry Aberline, on the day before he walked into the salt lake. Although at the time there had been the usual speculation about the visitor and his role in George Henry's death, if any, Granna was the only one who knew that Lazarus Beatty had come for the repayment of a loan made on a handshake, and that George Henry had had trouble recalling this. She burnt the
Examiner
and held her tongue.

Young George, nothing if not thorough in his research, sailed to England on the
Orion
with his son David. They made their way to the Midlands where George had written ahead for an appointment with the manager of the Thompson Salt Works at Northwich, not far from Greater Wickton.

When they registered at the hotel, the clerk looked at their signed names.
Aberline
, he said.
There's a lot of them around here. An old family, it is. You're here to look up relations, then?

Young George shrugged it away.
Business
, he said curtly.
We're here on business.

Not really interested in all that
, David said.
Leave it to the women.

David and Young George walked around the town while they waited for the meeting at Thompson's. David ran his hand along the rough stone walls of a row of terraced houses.
Just think of what's holding these places up. Just think of all that dust that's been hanging around for centuries– all those old people and trees turned into dust and stuck in the walls. Maybe there's even some old dinosaur dust stuck in there. No wonder the Poms are a pale-looking lot, breathing all that old stuff all the time.

Dust is just dust
, Young George said; he wasn't sure about young David at times. He thought too much about things that didn't matter.
And there's enough effin' dust at home to last a lifetime for the world. So why don't you stop thinking about dust and start thinking about salt. That's what's going to make us – salt – not bloody dust. Salt's important. It's been used for centuries.
George had indeed been doing his reading.
And it's needed to cure fish, to make things like Roquefort cheese, and corned beef is called corned because of the small bits of salt, or corns, that are used to cure it.
Young George was in full flight.
And flamingos are pink because their diet is shrimps and worms from salt ponds. And … and there's a salt mine in Poland that's also a church.

Well
, said David,
you don't have to make a blasted speech about it. Get off your high horse.
He started to walk off, but turned back to Young George.
But I wouldn't mind seeing that. The church. But all that other stuff, we don't do
that in Siddon Rock … except the corned beef. Sybil Barber does a great corned beef.

We've gotta get it out of Siddon Rock.
Young George was getting testy.

David wondered if the weeks on a ship bouncing about on water had shaken up his father more than he realised.
I suppose we could go to the port and see the fisheries about using Siddon Rock salt for salting fish, then. There's three ports, surely some of the fishing people would be interested. We could teach them how to salt fish, if we had to.

Now you're thinking
, Young George said.
That's the spirit!

At the Thompson Salt Works, Young George and David were impressed with the generosity of the manager, who spent two days taking them with him on his normal rounds. They walked the salt-beds, asking questions and writing the answers in notebooks. They discussed the wherefores and hows of extraction with the foremen and even went so far as to talk to the men as they worked the routine of salt-making. But the Aberlines quickly realised that this method was not for them, as a large supply of firewood or coke was needed to heat the brine. The Siddon Rock district being what it was, with low scrubby bush and no tall timber, this was impossible.

The manager suggested that they visit the coast of Brittany in France where, he assured them, salt was harvested by the natural method of letting water into ponds, which were then dried and scraped. This, he thought, would probably suit their needs better.

With a letter of introduction from the manager of Thompson's, Young George and David took passage to France on a turbulent day when the waters of the English Channel heaved and rocked under the ferry. Young George stayed below in the lounge with the other passengers, and David was the only person on the open deck, exhilarating in the wildness.
What a place
, he thought as the wind and rain whipped at him,
what a bloody magnificent place.
At that moment David Aberline thought that maybe Siddon Rock, the farm, and the dead water of the salt lake were not for him.

In France, Young George and David made their way to Brittany and the saltworks outside the ancient town of Guérande. They were amazed at the drained swamps that were divided into channels leading to concentration ponds, where the sun evaporated the water from its salt.
If it wasn't for the sea there
, David said,
and if you squint a bit, we could be in Siddon Rock. And look out there. That could be the silo.

Young George shaded his eyes against the glare from the salt pans and peered out to sea. In the far distance was a tall, round, stone building that looked as if it was rising from the surface of a mirage. He was uneasy, unable to reconcile these things that he felt were out of their place, which he knew was Siddon Rock. Young George turned away and concentrated on the mechanics of the crystallising pans, watching how the salt was raked into rows to drain.
We can do this
, he thought.
The salt lake is perfect for this.

As for David Aberline, his new understanding of the vastness of the world was crystallised on the Brittany coast,
and he knew that the call of the world outside Siddon Rock would eventually become too strong to resist.

The first thing Young George did when he got home was go to the State and Farmers' Bank, to arrange a loan for the new business of Geo. Aberline & Son Minerals. When the manager began to explain the terms and conditions, Young George impatiently took the pen from his hand and signed the papers.
It's done
, he said.
Now we go to work.

You do realise that the farm is mortgaged to the business
, the manager said.
Yeah, of course
, Young George called back through the closing door,
there won't be a problem.

Every evening at exactly six-thirty, Alistair Meakins double-checked the locks on the doors and windows of Meakins' Haberdashery and Ladies & Men's Apparel. He placed his hat on his head and the day's takings in a small cloth bag which he tied to his braces, buttoning his coat over it. Then he walked down the back lane to his home.

On Saturday night Alistair would celebrate the end of the working week, and go to the hotel for two whisky and sodas and a chat with Marge Redall. He liked the cloud of tiny shapes that surrounded Marge like blue haze, and found her loudness and warmth a tonic.

Every other night Alistair turned on the wireless as he made his meal, listening to the seven o'clock news
broadcast, and then settling for an hour or two of reading. He was particularly fond of stories of European and Asian cultures, and of histories of fashion and trade, and would pore over a large world atlas for hours, imagining what it would be like to live in the various countries. In winter he sat in his lounge-room close to a fire of mallee roots, for inland winter nights have a chill that can bite to the bone. In summer the back verandah was his favourite place, being deep, and greenly secluded from neighbours by a thick grapevine on a latticed trellis. Wire screens protected against mosquitoes and flies, and there was a standing lamp beside Alistair's chair for reading in the cool of the night.

This night, though, the night Macha Connor came home from war, Alistair deviated from his well-established pattern and placed himself in a story that he thought was all his own.

After he washed the dishes and put them away, Alistair pulled the window blinds to below the edge of the sill and turned off all the lights in the house, except that in the bathroom. There, he covered the window with black material, tacking it in place with drawing-pins so that no light would be seen from the outside.
They did this in London during the blitz
, he thought,
so no light would give them away
. When he was certain that his concealment was complete, he went into his bedroom where he lit three candles, opened a large trunk at the foot of the bed, and laid out the contents.

Alistair took off his coat and slipped the braces from his shoulders. His shirt, socks and underwear went into the
dirty-clothes basket, and the trousers clipped into a wooden trouser holder so that the crease-line fell into place. He took a smallish wooden box from the trunk and carried this and a candle to the bathroom, where he lit the woodchip heater next to the bath, feeding the flames with pieces of paper and twigs. When the water in the heater started to steam Alistair caught some in a basin, then mixed a thick lather in his shaving mug and lavished this on his face and chest. He stropped the cut-throat razor against a leather strap hanging behind the door, and when it was shining-sharp drew it carefully over his cheeks, chin and chest until there was no sign of a dark shadow.

Alistair washed the razor in the basin then stropped it again before heating it in the gush of boiling water pouring into the bath. He smoothed a fresh lather onto his stomach and around his scrotum until the pubic hair was well covered, then held his penis gingerly between thumb and finger while carefully manipulating the razor until his genitals lay against a barren landscape. The light hair on his legs disappeared with a few swift strokes. He hesitated about trying to remove the small vee of hair growing at the base of his spine, eventually deciding against it with the thought of trying to explain to Doctor Allen how he had got a razor cut to a buttock.

When he was smooth-skinned, apart from the spinal vee, Alistair shook lavender bath crystals into the tub and turned off the overhead light. By the glow of the single candle he lowered himself into the fragrant, steaming water. There he lay blissfully, with pale legs and rounded belly
floating above the lavender bubbles until it cooled to tepid, when he stepped out and wrapped a towel around himself.