A Woman of Courage (11 page)

But others weren't so sure. ‘Better'n starving to death,' said Cyril Dabbs, who was little and cocky and liked to make out he was tough.

‘More likely they'd eat you,' said Bert Friend, who had no time for Cyril. ‘Course, they might be too fussy to do that.'

Which led to words and then a free-for-all and after that, inevitably, to a leathering for the pair of them from Captain Barnstable.

It was all beside the point anyway because the only time they got to themselves was Sunday afternoons and there was no time to get to Bacchus Marsh and back, even if they'd wanted.

Some of the kids were taken there on a Sunday morning to go to church although mostly they had to go to a sort of chapel that had been rigged up in one of the cottages. The ones who'd seen Bacchus Marsh said there was nothing there worth seeing. Even the famous lock-up didn't look like much but Hilary wanted to go anyway.

‘We're not supposed to,' Agnes said.

‘That's why I want to do it,' Hilary said.

Mrs Wilmot liked to crack knuckles with a sharp-edged ruler. She had Hilary down as a bit of a rebel and was right.

Girls weren't supposed to go out unsupervised but one Sunday afternoon Hilary slipped away and nobody noticed. There were lots of trees with hills blue in the distance. No houses or proper roads or anything like that.

At the end of a forested track she came to a deep gorge with a river, green and shining, at the bottom. She'd never seen anything like it. She stood and marvelled at this scented wonderland of colour: the deep gorge, the grey stone cliffs flecked with orange and brown lichen, with trees growing and the water shining far down; the combined scents of freshness and water and vegetation made her head spin. Not only her head was affected; she felt something close to pain deep inside her, as though a hard and protective layer was being peeled away from her heart. She had big-city memories, of London and Birmingham. Her rare trips to the country had been to a neat and tidy English world. She had never known anywhere like this existed and stared now as though her eyes might fall out. She couldn't hang about too long or she'd be in trouble, yet knew that the images of tumbled rocks and water would stay with her forever. A sense of wonder and excitement had entered her life.

After that she went there when she could. To stand there, the only sound the wind and the calling of birds, was to enter into a special place. It reminded her of Miss Anderson and the funny-shaped words on the old map.
Here be dragons.

‘Maybe they got real dragons down there,' she told the trees that surrounded her, but if the trees knew they weren't saying. It was exciting, though, to think of all the might-bes there were outside the confines of the farm.

‘One day I'll get away from that place,' she told the trees. ‘Then I'll show them.'

All the same, it wasn't always easy to believe in a future. They'd been told that when they were fifteen they'd be sent away, the boys to do farm work, the girls to be domestics.

‘We got any choice?'

Quick as quick, the ruler cracked her knuckles; Mrs Wilmot thought she was cheeky to ask such a thing. ‘Choices are not part of your future, Brand. You'll go where you're sent and be thankful for everything Northcote Farm has done for you.'

Hilary thought differently. Like all the children, there were days when she felt abandoned, like she was being punished for something she hadn't done. Yet something in her knew that she was different from the others. She didn't know why, only that she had a force in her the other kids didn't have. She was determined to prove to the world and herself that she was a survivor.

Over the years her awareness of her strength became a forged weapon. She would survive – yes, but much more than that. She would triumph. Somehow; anyhow. People who looked down on her now would learn their mistake.

She discovered a battered board game. Snakes and ladders. She traced the patterns, barely decipherable, on the board: the ladders leading her up and up, the snakes that did all they could to bring her crashing down again. She ground her thumb into the heads of the snakes.

‘I'll show them!' she said. ‘I'll smash them to pieces. You'll see.'

7

Hilary would not have known when her birthday was had Miss Anderson, back in England, not told her. Not that it made any difference: her fourteenth birthday on the thirtieth of December 1954, like all the earlier ones, passed unacknowledged by anyone.

But at least I know, she thought. At least I know I'm real. In a dump like this, with no feeling of belonging to anyone or anything, that was important.

She studied her reflection in a mirror in what Captain Barnstable called the ablutions block. Her face looked much as it always had; if there were changes she couldn't see them, but in the last year her body had certainly changed.

She shared her secret with her reflection, leaning close so that her breath bloomed on the glass. ‘I am a woman,' she said.

Or getting there. She knew it and the boys did too. They weren't allowed to mix with the boys at the farm – Captain Barnstable was hot on that – but at the state school down the road they could. Hilary had found she was good at sport and at the annual school sports meeting she had won the long jump and the hundred yard dash, the only Northcote pupil to win anything, and she had seen some of the older boys watching her. Not because she could run faster than the others, either.

She wasn't sure how she felt about that but supposed she would get used to it in time.

The day after her birthday, the last day of 1954, thirteen-year-old Agnes came to her in tears and said she was dying.

‘What?'

Babbling about blood.

‘Oh that… Maybe you'd better speak to Mrs Wilmot.'

‘I did.'

‘What did she say?'

‘Told me to sort myself out.'

Bloody cow, Hilary thought. I guess I'm gunna have to explain it to her myself. Somebody better do it.

And did. She'd been lucky, having an older girl tell her about it a year ago. Now she passed the kindness on.

Another year and I'm out of here. Can't come soon enough for me. She remembered the snakes and ladders board and how she'd thought about the world back then.
I'll show them! I'll smash them to pieces. You'll see.

8

Five days after her fifteenth birthday, Captain Barnstable summoned Hilary to what he called his sanctum.

In the years since Hilary's arrival at the farm the captain's nose had darkened from rose to purple and his hair was grey now instead of brown but his parade ground bark was as formidable as ever.

‘I am pleased to tell you, Brand, that we have found a fine situation for you.'

‘Thank you, sir.'

Yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir.
If she'd learnt anything at Northcote it was how to keep her thoughts hidden from the world. It was a handy skill to have.

‘A farm at Koornalla. I know the owners personally. Fine people. Very fine people.'

‘Where is Koo – whatever you said the name was, sir?'

The captain practised his best scowl, in case this girl was taking the mickey, a phrase he remembered from his army days. But no, it seemed she really wanted to know.

‘It is near Traralgon.'

Hilary was no wiser but thought it might be best to ask no more. I'll find out soon enough, she thought.

‘They'll be picking you up at twelve hundred hours. Be sure you're ready.'

Twelve hundred hours… His time in the army had been the high point of the captain's life and he made sure you never forgot it but now she was leaving Hilary found it no longer irritated her like it had. If he wanted to live the rest of his life in combat boots let him get on with it. Saying tooraloo to Agnes was harder but she knew you had to move on. Life wouldn't wait if you wasted time looking over your shoulder.

It was quarter after twelve when a Land Rover arrived to pick her up. The bloke at the wheel said his name was Sid Brackett.

‘Is that everything you got?' Looking at the carrier bag that held all her worldly possessions. ‘You believe in travelling light.'

‘Only because I'm broke.'

‘Aren't we all?'

‘Except I aim to change it.'

‘Not at Pattinsons' you won't.'

‘Where?'

‘Where you're going.'

Story of my life, Hilary thought. Always heading off somewhere and not knowing where. Something else I'll have to change.

2004

CHANGE OF COURSE

1

On the morning after her dinner with her daughters at the Seven Stars Hilary woke at five. It must have been almost midnight by the time she turned out the light but she'd always managed with less sleep than most and her body and mind were well rested, both of them urging her to get moving.

For a moment she ignored them, lying on her back with eyes turned to the open window of her bedroom. It was still dark and she could just make out the fading stars but knew that over the Heads the eastern sky would be showing the first hint of dawn. Always she liked to do this, preparing herself for whatever challenges the day might bring; this was the time when thought came most readily.

Today Sara was coming to breakfast. The weather was set to be fine and warm so last night Hilary had left a note for Mrs Walsh to lay the table on the terrace. It was a suitable setting for a discussion that one way or another would affect the family, the company's shareholders and its thousands of employees scattered around the globe.

She would have liked to include Jennifer in the conversation but Jennifer had never had any interest in the business. Hilary had already decided to keep her out of the loop for the time being; what she was planning to discuss with her over lunch would give her plenty to think about without that.

She thought about how she should bring up the subject with Sara. Sara was not touchy; like everyone on earth she needed to be handled but handling people was a trick Hilary had learnt when she was a rookie selling real estate forty years back and it had stood her in good stead ever since.

She got out of bed, put on a swimsuit and wrap, grabbed a towel and went out into the morning. The house with all its treasures – among them a Chagall original, a Brancusi statue, an ivory study of the sage Zhang Guo Lao presented to her five years earlier by the Chinese minister of culture – stood silently about her. Barefoot, she crossed the lawn and walked to the end of the jetty, its dew-wet planks cool beneath her feet. The outline of the Heads was dark against the advancing dawn with bright Venus hanging like a jewel in the eastern sky. She dropped her wrap, stretched her arms above her head and dived into the cool dark water.

In the summer it was a pleasure, in the winter something of an ordeal, but whenever she was home Hilary made a point of having an early-morning swim. There was something exhilarating and fulfilling about swimming at night in Sydney Harbour with the city's lights reflecting on the broken surface of the water in coins of gold, silver and red. There was a mooring buoy a hundred metres offshore; she had swum out to it so often that she did not need to work out its direction but swam deliberately, not trying to beat the clock but exulting in the pull of her strong arms, the water parting obediently before her. She touched the buoy, a metal bell with a flashing light on top, and trod water for a moment to test her strength – fine – her heart – at peace – and her breathing – calm and controlled – before heading back to the shore.

I shall miss this, she thought. But the future would be an affirmation of what she wanted most in life and, as with everything, there was a price to pay. No matter, she thought. I shall carry this memory in my heart, together with all the other memories making up the tapestry that has been my life.

She ran lightly up the steps to the jetty, rubbed her head and body with her towel and headed indoors.

An hour later, tarted up – as she told herself – like a ten grand show pony, she sat on the terrace, drinking strong coffee and looking at the view. It was a million-dollar view with the sun now well clear of the horizon and ploughing the sparkling waters of the harbour in furrows of golden light.

She drank more coffee and thought again how she would approach the subject. Ultimately it was a selling job. So what was new? Everything had always been a selling job: selling land, selling herself. Always the huckster. She looked at her watch. Seven-twenty. She and Sara would talk seriously, two women who were colleagues and who happened to be related by blood. That was how Hilary intended to handle things. They would talk and they would see.

2

They had finished breakfast. It hadn't taken long; neither of them was a big eater. Boiled eggs, whole wheat bread, freshly squeezed orange juice, a bowl of fruit, fresh coffee.

Sara pushed back her chair and looked at her mother through the dark glasses that guarded her eyes from the sun. And from anyone trying to read her thoughts, Hilary thought.

‘What's all this about, Mother?'

Hilary recognised Sara's interviewing technique. Come in boots and all; put the other person on the defensive. But Hilary was not trapped so easily; she had often found that the oblique approach paid off best. ‘I like to sit here at this time of day. Looking at the view and thinking things through. Cool and calm deliberation… You know what I mean?'

‘You didn't ask me here to talk about Gilbert and Sullivan,' Sara said.

Hilary smiled and launched a counter-attack of her own. ‘How are you hitting it off with Millie Dawlish?'

‘OK. I suppose. Why?'

I suppose.
Hilary loved that, Sara honest enough to admit doubt.

‘Not much calm deliberation with that one,' she said.

‘You could say that.'

‘Good at her job, though.'

No answer.

‘You agree?' Hilary said.