East of Outback (5 page)

No longer having anything to do, Hannah stood outside the door to listen, just in case the bishop’s name came up.

Papa’s voice dropped from lilting to sober. “Your eldest son made the paper. National news.”

Hannah heard the newspaper rattle, being opened and folded.
Colin?
Was
Colin in the newspaper?

She heard Mum gasp and could not resist peeking. Mum stood by the stove, reading where Papa indicated, her hand pressed to her mouth. “Cole! By all rights he could be at the bottom of the sea now, and we’d never know where—or how—” She shuddered.

Curiosity got the best of Hannah. She arranged her face and came bouncing into the kitchen. “I called them.” She stopped. “What’s wrong?” She hurried over to Mum. “May I see? Please?”

“Go sit down. Grace, you may serve now.” Mum handed the paper back to Papa and left the room.

Papa tossed the paper carelessly onto the kitchen table. Hannah followed him out to the dining room and took her place. Edan flopped into his seat and Mary Aileen perched in hers. When Mum entered the room her eyes were a bit wet. Papa held her chair for her.

Grace came in carrying the leg of lamb, surrounded by red-skinned potatoes cooked to tasty perfection. Grace made breakfast and lunch and cleaned up in the kitchen, but Papa liked Mum to cook dinner. “Her cooking is what I hired her for,” he would tease, “and why I married her.”

Hannah looked at her hands. “I’m sorry. I forgot to wash up. ‘Scuse me, please.” She hopped up and hurried out to the kitchen. She grabbed the newspaper and read quickly where Mum had been looking. Cyclone . . . shipwreck . . . a pearl worth thousands . . . and they even spelled his name correctly. She ran back to the dining room and took her seat, “drying” her hands on her skirts.

How absolutely dreadful! How wonderfully romantic! How exotic! Exciting!
She thought about Colin’s amazing adventure, and then she thought about Miss Broaditch’s pre-Renaissance sewing class. The brilliance of his life made her bleak existence look all the bleaker. Her plate was set before her—the lamb, the sliced potatoes, and a mass of dark green chard all prettily arranged. Bleak, yes, but there were a few bright spots. Like dinner. Minuscule bright spots in a sea of humdrum. Sea. Shipwreck. Her heart fluttered with horror and elation.

“Someone pulled a bonzer prank on the bishop today,” announced Papa out of the clear blue; Edan choked, spraying partly-chewed potato all over his plate. The boof-head would spoil it yet.

“You mean that sheep skeleton?” Hannah asked.

Papa stared at her. “What do you know about a sheep skeleton?”

“We were on the corner when he drove by, and that thing rattling along behind. Papa, it was
so
comical. You ought to have seen it.”

“Skeleton?” Mum’s fork paused halfway to her mouth.

Papa smiled. “Tied to the back of the bishop’s new car as he drove all over Sydney. Remember how he got on so in the pulpit about the evil of autos? There’s a certain delicious poetry there. An irony.”

Mum looked at Hannah, at Edan, then Hannah again. “If it was so comical, I’m surprised neither of you mentioned it before now.”

Edan’s eyes and nose were running. He coughed mightily and croaked, “’Scuse, please.” He left, and just as well; he was no good at keeping secrets, at maintaining an aura of innocence.

Hannah shrugged. “It was disrespectful, was it not? I mean, the bishop being the goat; you know? And you tell us, ‘Be respectful.’ I didn’t know whether it ought to be mentioned atall.”

Papa nodded. “Told you she’s growing up fine, Sam.”

Mum glared at Hannah. There was no such thing as pulling a fast one on Mum.

Hannah finished her dinner in silence, excused herself and pretended to study. But her mind wasn’t on the conjugation of French verbs. It dwelt instead upon her brother so far away, and upon his marvelous exploits.

Papa settled himself into his chair with the newspaper, a book and the wireless. Mary Aileen went up to their bedroom where the light was better, for her eyes were none too good and she was working on her needlepoint. Mum read. Edan wandered off, perhaps to bed, perhaps to the back shed where he was building, in his own words, a magnificent scooter with roller skate trucks as wheels. Smoke, the tortoise-shell cat, bounded about the room awhile in a fit of the evening crazies, then curled up to sleep on the horsehair loveseat.

Hannah went upstairs, slipped into her nightie and waited.

Eventually she heard footfalls coming up the stairs, gentle ones. They passed her bedroom door. Quietly Hannah stepped out into the hall and followed Mum to the master bedroom. Moments after Mum closed the door, Hannah knocked at it.

“Come in, Hannah.” How did Mum know?

She was standing at her dressing table brushing that rich auburn hair. She studied Hannah a moment, crossed to the window, and sat down in her big wingback chair.

Hannah perched on Mum’s lap, hesitantly at first. “I’m sorry, Mum. Are you angry with me?”

“Aye. ’Tis nae so much the bishop business I’m angry about as y’r duplicity with y’r Papa. Ye know y’r guilt, and ye led y’r father down the primrose path.” Under normal circumstances Mum carefully suppressed her Irish accent. The Irish were politically unpopular, she said, what with labor unrest and the Irish push for nationalization. Thus her speech usually sounded just like Papa’s and everyone else’s in Sydney.

But when she was weary either of body or of spirit—when she was truly tired—she slipped back into her old Irish accent of yesteryear. She had no reason to be physically weary tonight, so it must be soul-weariness, and Hannah felt she was the cause of it.

Hannah shrugged. “Remember when we were camping, and I, uh, did that? I confessed to Papa, and he thought I was trying to make an excuse for Colin. He was certain Colin had done it and was being devious. He didn’t believe me.”

“That be nae reason to live a lie. Tomorrow after school ye shall make apology to the bishop.”

“Maybe we won’t have any school yet.”

“Ye’ll go to school, young lady, if ye be up to y’r neck in water. And I’m nae so certain I wish to know how the plumbing failure came about.”

“Mum, I’d never do a thing like that.”

“Aye, ye would.”

Hannah giggled suddenly and curled up close in Mum’s lap. A soft, warm arm wrapped around her shoulders. “Perhaps I might, but this time I truly didn’t. Mum? Do you suppose that news account was correct—about the shipwreck and storm and that pearl?”

“So ye read it. We didn’t want ye troubling y’r head with it. Aye, mostly correct, I suppose. Nae such news item gets
all
the facts right.”

Hannah sighed and just lay there a few minutes. “I feel guilty, Mum.”

“As well ye should. The bishop, yet!”

“That’s just it. Here God spared my brother’s life, and then I did that to God’s priest. It, ah—it doesn’t seem right. Not fair.”

“Then ye best apologize to God as well.”

“Tell me something true. Mum. I don’t mean it disrespectful of the church, or God, but are you just saying that because that’s what a Christian ought to say, or do you believe it? I mean, is prayer real? Do you truly think it works?”

Mum sighed heavily and drew her daughter closer. “There was a day in me youth when I thought that when ye prayed ye spoke, at most, to the ceiling. I know now, that ‘tis truly communion with God. Aye, ‘tis real. Tis what’s kept y’r brother alive when we knew naething of his whereabouts or health. I’m convinced of that.”

“But you didn’t know he was in trouble, not until that newspaper item. And you prayed for him anyway?”

“Constantly. And y’r father does as well, make nae mistake. Sure’n he’s wildly angry with Colin—ye know how volatile y’r father can be—but he loves the lad, too. Aye, he prays, just as does meself.”

“Wish I were with Colin.”

Mum stretched around to look at Hannah’s face. “Hannah, Hannah, Hannah. Y’re far too headstrong for y’r own good. Don’t even dream of joining y’r brother. For one thing, since ye read the article, ye know they quoted the captain as saying Colin had left Broome. That leaves the whole continent. He could be anywhere. More important, a sixteen-year-old lad is big enough and man enough to make his way out there. A twelve-year-old girl cannae.”

“I’d almost rather run off than face the bishop tomorrow.”

“Ye had y’r fun. Now ye’ll take the responsibility that goes with it. Next time, think first, aye?”

Hannah curled tighter, savoring the warmth, the closeness, the press of Mum’s arm and the soft rise and fall of her breathing.
Next time, I just won’t let Edan in on it. Then I won’t get caught
.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

L
ILY

Many miles to the west lay the sea and Eighty Mile Beach, that narrow strip of sand drawing the line between land and water. Forever to the east stretched desert nearly as flat as the sea. Behind them, Broome; before them, the dusty track. And thus it had been for three days. Now Colin lay in sweet green grass beneath a quandong tree and listened to the horses munching nearby.

A gunshot echoed off the low hills to the west. The dun raised its head briefly and went back to grazing. Either Dizzy had encountered trouble, or their dinner was in the bag. The notion of trouble seemed too remote to investigate. Colin dozed off again.

“Hey! I do the shooting, you do the cooking, remember?” Dizzy stood towering above him. Casually he dropped a brown body at Colin’s feet and flopped into the shady grass beside him. He stretched out and dragged his hat forward over his face. “This is the life. Col. Take it easy, live off the land, see the world. Wake me up when dinner’s served, eh?”

“But of course, Senor Romales. And do you wish candlelight, or the soft, twinkling light of a crystal chandelier?”

“Is gonna be moonlight, you don’ get started, eh?”

Good point. Colin lurched to his feet, leaving the sparse shade to the hunter home from the hill. His hip joints argued every time he rose to stand, but at least they didn’t ache like they had. Though he had ridden horses for years, he had gotten away from it during his boating job, and his body told him about it after three days in the saddle.

He dressed out the wallaby, pausing only to examine the curious fingernail-like tip on the creature’s tail. After hanging the carcass to cool, he started a fire.

This was the life, all right. No commitments. No responsibilities. No worries.

Ironically, the storm that littered Eighty Mile Beach with wreckage and left four men dead, including Sake Tamemoto, had dumped so much fresh rain on the interior that the dormant desert was springing to vibrant life. Charming little flowers popped up amid the new grass, and here and there trees and bushes bloomed.

Colin watched his fire leap and dance. When it died down to coals, he would roast their meat. He dug a couple of turnips out of his saddlebag.

The lump in the shade stirred. “Eh, Col. Save the liver ’til morning, eh? Slice or two of fried liver for breakfast would be good.”

“Let me tell you about some stuff called porridge. It’ll revolutionize your life.”

“Naw, tha’s the stuff they use to stick wallpaper. You shouldn’t eat stuff like that, Col.”

“Find any water when you were back there?”

“Lotsa water. A
tinaja
’bout quarter mile off.”

“What’s a tee-nah-hah?”

“Waterhole. Rain water caught in the rocks.”

“Good-oh. Then I can use some of our water here to keep your liver cool.”

Liver! Gag. What would Mum say to liver for breakfast?

Colin thought about Mum’s cooking. Sparkling, bounding little Hannah. Quiet Edan. Sober Mary Aileen. And Papa. Colin could feel his heart tugging at him, drawing him home in a sudden, exquisite pique of homesickness, simultaneously yanking on him to get away.
Don’t let Papa suck you in!
The war in his heart contrasted so vividly with the peace and quiet of this bucolic outback. Why couldn’t life be simple?

He split the carcass and propped it over the coals to cook. Then he nestled the turnips in among the ring of stones to roast slowly. He poured fresh water over a towel, next he would gather the liver and heart into the towel and hang it from a tree in the breeze. If he wet down the towel now and then, Dizzy’s breakfast liver would stay cool and fresh until morning.

“Diz! Where’s the liver?”

“Look inside.”

“I left the entrails right here and they’re gone.”

Dizzy sat up scowling. “Right where?”

Colin pointed to a spot under the tree.

Dizzy hopped to his feet lightning quick and squatted down near the sparse grass where his breakfast had been lying moments ago. He traced in the dirt with his finger. “Dog. A bloody dog rob us! How come you don’ hear it, Col?”

“I was right here. He couldn’t have.”

“Tracks go off that way, see?” Dizzy straightened and pointed.

No, Colin didn’t see. Dizzy could probably track a soaring eagle back to the egg it hatched from. Colin had no such expertise. “I heard dingoes are wily, but this is amazing.”

“Ain’ no dingo. I seen dingo tracks. This is a dog.” Dizzy snapped erect and pulled his long-barreled revolver out from the back of his belt. He moved in closer beside Colin. “’Fore we go chasing, we just look awhile, eh? Which way the wind blowing?”

He picked up a pinch of dust and tossed it in the air. It drifted ever so casually to the northeast as it dissipated. “Good,” Diz grunted. “Best shot if we keep downwind of him.”

“There. Beyond those yellow bushes.” Colin might not be good at tracking, but he was very good at looking.

“Sí!” Dizzy raised his revolver slowly, carefully, aiming with both hands securely grasping the butt of the gun.

Colin got a better, albeit fleeting, look. He yelled and shoved Dizzy’s hands upward; the gun blasted harmlessly in the air. “It’s a person, Diz! I saw a person.”

“
Que?!
” Dizzy broke into a run toward the bushes. Colin swung out wide to come at whoever it was from a different angle.

A dark, blue-gray shadow darted out of the scrub this side of the bushes and raced away, a bloody something in its mouth.