Wild Lands (23 page)

‘Of course, Mrs Lycett.' The girl waited for Winston.

‘I do miss him, Mother, and I'm sorry.'

A single tear was the only response Winston received as his mother turned away.

‘You will return Tuesday week, Winston. By that time I will have had the necessary papers drawn up for you to peruse. I already have an interested party.'

‘But, Mother, what do you expect me to do? I will have to work. I will have no income. I intended to pursue my studies,
to purchase a residence in town and find a suitable wife. Please, you must forgive me. I too suffer. I wake up in a cold sweat at night thinking on what I've done. I have cried for my father, until I can cry no more.'

His mother returned to the seat by the window. ‘You are lucky. I am yet to reach that point. If I ever will.'

Winston shooed the maid from the room and took a step forwards. ‘As for Adam, please don't think I don't regret what I have done. I was just so angry. It was because of him that the blacks attacked.'

His mother spun in her seat to face him. ‘How is that possible?'

Winston was lost for words. How could he admit his fraternisation with Merindah? ‘I will spare you the details, Mother, but believe me when I say that it was Adam's fault. I am only sorry that in my anger I accused him of Father's death. It was a most terrible thing to do and I regret it.' His hands dropped to his sides. The wickedness of what he'd done would stay with Winston forever.

‘We will say no more about this matter.' Georgina Lycett turned back towards the window and the harbour beyond. ‘You are my son and I love you, but I don't like you. Not after everything you have done. As for your future, you will have funds enough to afford decent lodging and you are a learned man, Winston. It is time to put your mental faculties to use, perhaps as a clerk, or a bookkeeper or a journalist – it seems you have a penchant for stories.'

‘Yes, Mother.' Winston could think of no retaliatory argument that would restore her favour. Georgina Lycett was a grieving widow intent on ensuring her future comfort and meting out punishment along the way. ‘Goodbye, Mother.'

She didn't respond as he left the room.

Outside, Winston blinked at the glare and, head down, began to walk. The street was busy with people, horses and drays and he found himself yearning for the quiet of the bush as he aimlessly turned down one street and then another. When he finally
stopped to check his bearings Winston realised he had no idea where he was. The sun was at its highest point and he was hot and thirsty. The street housed a number of taverns and was close to the harbour, and unlike the area where his mother currently lived, it was certainly not a place for the upper classes.

Inside one of the taverns, Winston ordered a rum and sat at a corner table. The room held an assortment of men, rough sailor types from whaling ships and other undesirables. In hindsight it was not the best of hostelries to stop in for he was immediately the subject of unwanted stares, although the innkeeper was happy to keep his glass full, and by his fourth rum Winston was feeling a little better.

‘You want some company then?' The girl was young and full-breasted, a feature enhanced by the unlaced bodice which gave a tantalising glimpse of pale skin. She straddled a chair, hiking the skirt up to her thighs. There were pox marks on her face, but not enough to mar the thought of bedding her and it only took a nod and she was leading Winston up narrow stairs, to the approving nod of the innkeeper.

In a tiny room with a crumpled cot and a washstand, Winston sat on the bed and told the girl to undress. She obliged, defrocking in an instant to stand naked before him as he quickly removed his jacket and shoes.

‘How do you like it then?' she asked, giving him a coy smile.

‘Without any talk.' He hated these women with their knowing smiles. ‘Turn around.' Winston examined her body for any lesions. ‘Clean yourself.'

The girl gave a scowl. She couldn't have been more than fourteen, although her breasts compensated for the slimness of her body. ‘I usually do it after.'

‘That's no good to me. I don't know where you've been.'

Obediently she began to wash, wringing a cloth in the bowl and wiping at herself disinterestedly. When she was finished, Winston
pointed to the bed. He was loath to lie on the filthy cover, but his need outweighed the grimy environs and he pushed her face down.

The sting to the middle of his back a moment later bit deep and he fell sideways as the girl squirrelled out from under him.

‘Be quick about it.' The man's voice was gruff. Winston opened his eyes. The girl was riffling through his clothes. Coins clattered as the man counted notes and then he was coming at Winston again, punching him hard in the nose.

‘You said no more murder,' the girl complained in a high-pitched tone.

‘He'll live.' The man gave a chuckle. ‘I think.'

‘What about my share? Give me my share!'

The man lunged. Slamming the girl hard against the wall, he lifted her up by the throat until her feet no longer touched the floor. She fought and kicked for a few moments and then he dropped the lifeless body and left the room.

Winston guessed he'd been knifed in the back. He lay on the bed feeling the wetness of his own blood. He could have staggered downstairs. The rough-looking patrons may well have given assistance. Instead, as his mind began to waft in and out of consciousness, he couldn't help but think how very different their lives may have been if Bidjia had not walked through their farm all those years ago with Adam in tow.

1837 October – beyond the outer limits,
the Hardy farm

The wagons crossed powdery ground, throwing up dust and dirt. A billowing haze hovered above the bullocks as Mr Callahan coerced the animals around a long, curving corner. It was then Kate saw them again. The huts on the hill. They huddled together as if derelict, fringed by a half-circle of bush on the western side and the bleak hill they clung to. There was no neat fence, white-washed walls or dappled orchard. No tapestry of fields with swaying wheat or corn, no mill rising proudly in the distance.

Mr Callahan, at the lead of the team, looked back towards her. Kate stumbled on the rough ground and resumed walking. What had she done in deciding to travel to this place?

A curl of smoke streamed into the air from one of the huts. Empty ground fanned out in a half-mile perimeter, affording a clear view across treeless dirt to the timbered foothill. A creek appeared to weave towards this timber, while in the foreground sheep fed into the westerly wind.

Their arrival was greeted with a single wave. Red-bearded Samuel Hardy, his five-foot-nothing wife Sarah and a young girl stood out the front of the hut as they approached. Mr Southerland was with them, drinking from a pannikin and smoking a pipe, and by the look of satisfaction on his face, pleased to be at journey's end. The Aboriginals kept a good distance from the huts and slowly dispersed to sit in a group to watch proceedings.

‘Go greet them, lass. Go on, don't look so poorly. You didn't come all this way to be a-feared of them.' Mr Callahan gestured towards the waiting group.

With a determination she didn't feel, Kate walked up the incline towards the huts, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She was terribly hot, thirsty and tired. Her dress was dirty and she'd not bathed properly for ages. Her last attempt was three days ago with a cloth and a half-bucket of muddy creek water in the back of the wagon. She was hardly at her presentable best.

The two timber and bark huts, which formed the Hardys' home and the kitchen, were roughly constructed, although the house had the benefit of its eastern wall being partially built into the hill. Its verandah jutted out on spindly legs, the stone and timber fireplace and chimney rising at an angle. At the skew-whiff porch where the assembled group waited, all Kate could think of was what she'd had to contend with to get here.
Here
was the blank space on Major Shaw's map.

Mr Southerland made the introductions. The Hardy family were berry-brown from the sun, however the child's eyes were tinged yellow, while Mrs Hardy's face, partially obscured by a hat, was disfigured by a large boil low on one cheek. All three were hollow-eyed, dull of skin, with the barest of smiles between them, but Mrs Hardy and her daughter Sophie exchanged pleasantries, clearly pleased at the arrival of the wagons. The woman spoke with the clipped pronunciation of the well-educated, as the child bit at
a thick bottom lip, her gaze fixed on the laden wagons. It was not the welcome greeting Kate had expected.

Mr Hardy talked of their scant supplies all the while pushing the brim of his hat back and forth as if he weren't sure if he were coming or going. ‘But you're a welcome sight I tell you, George. Most welcome.' Samuel Hardy was not unlike his cousin in build, although broad-faced and big-boned rather than fat, with orange whiskers and small round eyes, which blinked continuously. ‘'Course I knew you'd make it. If anyone could without hindrance, I knew it would be you, although as I said, you were expected a week ago and we've been waiting.' The man was appreciative, Mr Hardy said as much, but the tone was accusing.

‘Every morning, noon and night for a fortnight and a half, we've been gazing down the valley and across to the hills,' Mrs Hardy agreed. ‘We were beginning to think you weren't coming.'

‘Will there be the food you said, Mama? Will there be fruit for puddings and the makings for jelly and will there be a new book for me?' Sophie's words tumbled into each other.

Mrs Hardy told her daughter to shush and not disturb the adults' talk as her attention drifted to the wagons as well. Did the chickens survive? Were there preserves? Did they remember to pack more reading material? Was everything in quite sound condition? Mr Southerland answered each question slowly and patiently and then, to Kate's astonishment, the expedition leader began remarking on the consistency of her character throughout the journey. His comments were complimentary and he concluded his brief assessment by suggesting that Kate fared better than expected, having shot a native and escaped injury.

Mrs Hardy's mouth opened and stayed that way for long seconds.

‘Well, it's just as well you can take care of yourself, miss,' Mr Hardy answered evenly. ‘She has a pistol?'

‘A flintlock,' Mr Southerland advised.

‘Good. Keep it with you at all times. If you can protect yourself, miss, it'll be one less to worry about.'

‘Mama has a pistol under her pillow,' Sophie told Kate, ‘but she's never used it. If the blacks come I'm to crawl under my bed.'

‘And what of the men on the farm? We heard at Maitland that the blacks were not behaving themselves up here.' Mr Southerland said. ‘There are extra muskets, powder and shot, enough for all the labour.'

‘Yes, there have been problems in the north-west, which we'll discuss later, George, but give a weapon to a convict?' Mr Hardy pulled the straw brim forward and gave it a tug. ‘I'll not be trusting my soul and that of my family's to the criminals. Besides, it's against the law.'

‘Many a settler's entrusted their men with the right to be armed, especially in these outer areas,' Mr Southerland said pointedly.

Mr Hardy pushed his hat so far back that it hung on the back of his head like a bird about to slip from its perch. ‘We've enough concern without adding to it.' Turning his attention to Kate, he gave her a fleeting appraisal from head to toe, and asked what skills she brought with her for his cousin had promised her a fine penny and he hoped Jonas had not been turned by a pretty face.

‘Skills, sir?' All she wanted was to sit down, to be offered a cool drink of water.

‘Yes, what can you do? Apart from cooking, cleaning and sewing?'

The convicts were beginning to unload the wagons. A wide-hipped woman, undoubtedly the cook, trundled downhill from the kitchen hut and, taking sight of Mr Callahan, began to tell the Scotsman where the goods were to be deposited.

‘I have been a housekeeper of sorts for the Reverend Horsley, Mr Hardy.' She thought of the expected role on the Hardy farm. ‘A companion and teacher.'

Her new employer withdrew a crumpled letter from his coat pocket and waved it in the air. ‘I have here your letter of introduction from my cousin.'

Kate was not aware one had been written, nor that Mr Southerland had been its keeper. Perspiration soaked her dress, it ran down her thighs to the backs of her knees.

‘For the exorbitant sum mentioned in this letter, I expected a little more.'

‘As did I,' Kate carelessly replied. She couldn't help it. Never in her wildest imaginings had she expected to be delivered to a place like this.

The silence that followed was made more obvious by Mr Callahan, who was currently abusing Betts for his slowness.

George Southerland removed the pipe clenched between his lips and scratched at the mat of beard on his face.

Mr Hardy lifted the letter in the air, crumpling the piece of paper in his fist. A ropey vein beat in his neck. ‘We've been a year in this place, Mr Southerland. There's been scant rain since your leaving.'

Mrs Hardy, freckled and half-hidden beneath the wide-brimmed hat, clasped her hands together somewhat nervously. ‘Progress has been slow.'

‘You've proceeded at a fair pace,' Mr Southerland drawled, tapping out the pipe and sticking it in his shirt pocket. ‘The verandah has come along well.'

The child, barefoot and restless, pushed at a timber board with her toes. It rose an inch at the opposite end.

‘And you've begun construction on a fence, I see,' he persevered.

‘Half of it has been built. This side and at the rear.' Samuel rubbed his furry chin. He was dirty in appearance. When he took his hat off to brush at the grit layering the crown, it was difficult to determine if the line resembling a tidal mark on his forehead was from dirt or the sun. ‘We needed that labour.' Replacing the
hat, his voice steadied. ‘Why the Governor plies that Agricultural Company with men instead of looking after those of us who are opening up these lands is beyond me. But he must look after his kind, I suppose.'

‘With Members of Parliament and eminent men from both the Bank of England and the British East India Company involved, those like us are the last to be considered,' Mrs Hardy stated.

‘They're milking the convicts to make a profit,' Mr Southerland stated.

‘And I'm left with a slip of a girl with a pretty face.' Kate's new employer dropped the crumpled letter on the ground. A light breeze blew the missive downhill. ‘I can't pay what my cousin suggests.'

Kate was stunned. ‘It was not a suggestion, sir.' A bitter taste grew in her mouth. She had not come this far to be so poorly treated. ‘Terms were agreed.'

Sophie began to run up and down the verandah. A yellow dog appeared and chased the girl from the dirt below. Up and down child and dog ran. One laughing, the other barking.

‘Terms? With a woman?' Mr Hardy gave a sour laugh.

‘He said you would be agreeable,' Kate began. ‘He said –'

‘Do you see my cousin standing here afore you, girl? Do you think it is him riding off to watch my sheep and check on my shepherds and hope to God no stock have been run off, the labour been speared, or his family attacked while he's been away?'

Kate's eyes began to water. She wiped angrily at the tears. ‘I would not have come otherwise,' she replied weakly. ‘What other reason would I come out here for, if not for money?'

‘One thousand head of ewes have disappeared off Stewart's run since you left, George. Gone, just like that. Rushed by the blacks, to be sure. It's a dent for him but he's land and stock enough to weather such a loss. But us,' Mr Hardy looked meaningfully at his wife, ‘we'd be ruined. We'd have to walk away.'

‘Mr Hardy, please,' Kate begged.

‘Make the best of things is my advice,' Mr Hardy replied. ‘That's an end to it.' The two men turned their attention to the unloading of the wagons and walked away.

Mrs Hardy suggested that Kate sit and they did so at a rickety table that appeared to have been nailed to the floor. Two large tree trunks served as chairs beneath the extended roof, above which a bush spider had spun a thick web in the bark. Dog and child stopped their playing, the animal sitting in the dirt at the end of the verandah.

‘Does she have my seat now?'

Mrs Hardy told her daughter to shush. ‘This place is not what anyone expected.'

‘I came all this way,' Kate said to the older woman. ‘Mr Kable promised me.'

Mrs Hardy ran her hand across a book that sat on the table. It appeared to be a sketch book of sorts. On closer inspection a title had been written on the front cover,
Native plants existing on the property as collected by Mrs Samuel Hardy.

‘Well, let's put all that behind us, shall we?'

‘But surely if terms were agreed to they should be honoured?' Kate challenged.

‘They were Mr Hardy's cousin's terms,' the woman replied, ‘not my husband's. That's one of the difficulties of living out here, my dear. There is no opportunity of writing a letter in advance when it comes to business.' She gestured at their surrounds. ‘How would we receive it?'

Kate felt what remaining energy was left within her begin to dissipate like a rat departing a sinking ship.

Mrs Hardy's voice was too bright, too eager as she began to ask for news, first of the Kables and their health, then of life in the heart of the colony, followed by any titbit of gossip Kate could possibly think of.

‘Nothing is too small for my ears. Fashion, food, whom the Governor and his lady have been entertaining, what grand parties they've attended.' She clasped her hands together. ‘And what foods did you bring? Sheep meat and bread have been our main fare these many months. The potatoes did not flourish as we'd hoped. As for my Sophie, she is not growing as she should either. Did you bring preserves? For we shall eat them tonight. And the fashions, what of the latest fashions?' She gave Kate's dusty dress a cursory glance. ‘We've always been a good season behind England, however, up here,' Mrs Hardy gave a tight laugh, ‘we are far more than that. And then of course you must regale me with some morsel of scandal –'

As the woman continued Kate tried to listen, tried to calm down, to content herself with the knowledge of what the Kables had achieved and that it stood to reason that the same could be expected of their cousins, eventually. And when it looked like a profit was to be turned, that the farm had gone beyond the measly venture that currently surrounded them, then she'd demand payment. Kate had little choice. The cook strode past carrying the caged chickens and the rooster, who crowed as if he was heading for the slaughterhouse.

‘Might I have a glass of water?'

Mrs Hardy removed her hat, revealing gold hair streaked with grey and a round, bland face that fell to a receding chin. She'd once been pretty, undoubtedly with a peaches-and-cream complexion, but her skin was now dry and red. She'd been ruined by the sun. ‘Of course. I am sorry. Here I am breathless and questioning in anticipation, having had no news for months and you are no doubt exhausted.'

The ill-fitting boards of the verandah groaned as Sophie hovered at her mother's side, jumping from one foot to the next. ‘You're pretty. We didn't think you'd be pretty, did we, Mama?'