Authors: Anna Jacobs
Freedom's Land (30 page)
When Freddie didn’t come home by dusk, Irene was really worried. Where could he be? He hadn’t made any close friends here, was rather scornful about most of the other groupies, and there simply wasn’t anywhere to go. Besides it had rained several times today and Freddie didn’t like getting wet.
She pulled the stew off the heat and left it to one side of the fire to keep warm. She wasn’t hungry, so paced to and fro, looking at the clock from time to time, always surprised at how few minutes had passed since she last looked.
But eventually, the slow hands crawled round to nine o’clock and she couldn’t bear it any longer. She lit the lantern, put on her warm coat and tied a shawl round her head as well, treading carefully through the darkness, trying to avoid the puddles and mud, stopping every few minutes to listen and call his name.
When she got to the next house and banged on the door, she heard Andrew exclaim in surprise and the door opened.
‘Irene! Is something wrong?’
‘Yes. It’s Freddie. He’s been out all day and hasn’t come home. I can’t think where he can be.’
He drew her inside and Norah insisted she sit down and wrap a blanket round herself. ‘I’d better go and tell Gil. We might have to get a search party together. If you stray off the track, it’s easy to get lost after dark.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ she said at once.
‘I’ll go faster on my own and anyway, you don’t want to risk falling, not in your condition.’
So she stayed with Norah. From the other side of the humpy, the children called out, asking what was wrong and were told to get back to sleep.
It was over an hour before Irene heard voices. Norah had dozed off but woke up when the door opened and Andrew came in, accompanied by Gil and Pete.
‘No sign of him?’ Irene asked.
Andrew shook his head. ‘None, I’m afraid.’
‘I saw him earlier today walking towards Northcliffe,’ Gil said.
Irene frowned. ‘I don’t know why he’d go there.’
Pete cleared his throat. ‘He – er, might have been going to buy some grog.’
She saw Gil look at him sharply, but Pete was avoiding the foreman’s eyes.
‘Where would he get booze from?’ Gil asked.
‘There’s a fellow with a still just outside town. Makes a brew every now and then. Good stuff it is, too.’
‘You should have told me about it.’
Pete shuffled his feet. ‘Aw, it’s only a drink or two. The bloke can’t make more than a dozen bottles at a time.’
Rain suddenly began to patter on the metal roof of the humpy. Gil sighed. ‘We called out all the way here and there was no answer. We can’t do anything till morning. Perhaps they’ve had a booze-up somewhere and are sleeping it off.’
‘Freddie wouldn’t have joined in that sort of thing,’ Irene said. ‘He mostly drinks on his own. In England he didn’t drink in the pub but bought jugs of beer and brought them home.’ She looked at Gil. ‘Can’t you search for him tonight?’ Even as she spoke, thunder rumbled in the distance and the rain began pounding down so hard on the metal roof they had to raise their voices to be heard.
‘We’d get nowhere in weather like this,’ he said gently. ‘We’ll go at first light, I promise you. Can we stay here, Norah?’
‘Yes, of course. We’ll make up a bed on the floor for you men. Irene can have Andrew’s bed.’
As the sky began to turn from black to grey, Gil woke abruptly. It was still raining outside, but at least they’d be able to see where they were going. Norah got up and he heard her in the lean-to, getting the fire burning, coaxing it into a blaze.
Irene jumped suddenly out of bed and ran to the door. He heard her being sick outside, poor thing, and remembered that Mabel had been sick in the mornings, too. Afterwards Irene went into the lean-to and he heard the women’s voices, low and companionable.
As he got up and roused the others, the women came into the humpy with some bread and jam, and a pot of tea. The men ate quickly, drank the warm liquid down to the last dregs, then set off with sacks round their shoulders to protect them from the rain.
When they were out of Irene’s hearing, Andrew said abruptly, ‘I hope he found shelter somewhere. He had a really bad cold on Saturday.’
‘There’s a providence that usually looks after drunken fools.’
There was no sign of him on the way to the camp ground, so Gil harnessed his horse and set off in the cart with Andrew, leaving Pete to direct the teams about where to work today.
They had no difficulty finding the man who brewed the booze. At first he tried to pretend they were mistaken, but Gil cut him short. ‘We know you’re selling booze, and we aren’t looking to interfere in that, but we’ve a man missing, so tell us what you know.’ He described Freddie.
‘I sold two bottles to him yesterday morning. He didn’t say much, just paid and walked off with one in each pocket. He kept coughing and sneezing, but he hadn’t even got an overcoat on, the fool. He looked feverish and was very hoarse.’
With a sigh, Gil drove slowly back, stopping to check anything resembling a track. But they found no signs of Freddie and of course the rain had washed out any footprints.
When he got back to the camp ground, he clanged the metal triangle as loudly as he could. He’d arranged with Pete to do this if they needed to make a full search.
The other men came tramping in and listened as he explained about Freddie. Dividing them into pairs, he arranged a careful search of the sides of the track from Northcliffe to their own group’s blocks.
It was a long day, with no signs of Freddie. But just as it was getting dark, Ted stopped. ‘Shh! I think I heard something.’
He and his partner listened intently.
‘Sounds like a wounded animal to me,’ the other man said.
‘Let’s go and find out.’
They found Freddie delirious, calling out then shaking so hard his voice fractured and was lost. They couldn’t rouse him, so carried him back to the track and cooeed to let the others know he was found.
As they stood there, wiping the rain from their faces, they heard the call passed on from one group of searchers to the next. When Gil arrived with the cart, they lifted him on to it, but someone had to sit with him because he kept thrashing around. The other men were cold, but Freddie’s skin was burning with fever.
Irene turned white at the sight of her husband and pressed both hands to her cheeks with a little moan. She had reason to be upset, Gil thought. Freddie was in a bad way. Congestion of the lungs, if he’d ever heard it, the phlegm rattling in the sick man’s chest as he alternately shivered and gasped for breath.
She pulled herself together. ‘Bring him inside.’ She turned back the bedding and they laid him down. He was still thrashing round.
‘I’ll go and fetch the nurse,’ Gil offered.
She looked down at Freddie then at Gil. ‘It won’t do any good. I’ve seen people in this state, been like it myself, too. He’s beyond human help now, isn’t he? Only God will decide if he lives or dies.’
He didn’t try to fool her, admired her courage. ‘Yes. But I’ll still fetch the nurse. We have to try everything.’ So once again he set off into the darkness, encouraging his horse and letting it pick its own way.
Freddie gradually quietened. He opened his eyes and stared round, seemed aware that he was in his own bed and gave a long groaning sigh.
‘Would you like a hot drink?’ Irene asked.
He didn’t seem to understand but she went and brought a cup of tea. With Andrew’s help, they got a few mouthfuls down him. His breath was rattling in his lungs and it seemed painful for him to breathe, so they propped him up. He lay with eyes shut for a while, then looked at her again, really looked at her.
‘Stupid,’ he said quite clearly. ‘Should have stuck to the track.’
‘Well, you’re home again now.’
He fumbled for her hand. ‘Safe with you.’
‘Yes.’
Norah arrived. ‘I’ll stay with you as long as necessary.’
Irene clasped her hand for a minute. ‘Thank you.’
‘Is he making sense or is he delirious?’
‘I think he was making sense a few minutes ago, but now he’s delirious again. He keeps throwing off the covers.’
For a few minutes they fought to keep Freddie covered, but he was too strong for them, so they had to let him kick off the blankets and lie there with the sweat congealing on his skin. Then he started shivering and when they pulled up the covers again he let them.
‘Stupid bitch,’ he said clearly at one stage. ‘Don’t want a child.’
Irene bent her head for a minute or two, fighting against tears. They’d both made the child, not just her.
Time seemed to stand still as the two women tried to care for the sick man. At one stage they had to call Andrew in to hold Freddie down on the narrow stretcher bed. Then a few minutes later he seemed to be sleeping. But not for long.
It was three hours and nearly dawn before Gil returned with the doctor, who’d been attending someone in Northcliffe’s tiny hospital. Andrew was standing outside, drinking a cup of tea and staring out at the block. When they got out of the doctor’s car, he said simply, ‘He’s bad.’
The doctor went inside.
‘I’ll get you a cup of tea,’ Andrew said.
‘Thanks.’ Gil waited, because that was all he could do for her. ‘I had to wait for the doctor to see to a bad injury, couldn’t get him here any quicker. We were lucky I didn’t have to go into Pemberton.’ He took a few gulps, sighing with pleasure. ‘Your wife’s a wonderful woman, very capable.’
Andrew smiled. ‘Yes. So I’ve found out. I’m a lucky man.’
The doctor came out with Irene beside him, giving bad news out of hearing of the patient again, Gil guessed.
‘There’s nothing I can do for him, I’m afraid, Mrs Dawson. If you can get liquids into him, that’ll help. But it’s in God’s hands. Pneumonia is – unpredictable.’
She nodded and went inside again.
The doctor looked at Gil. ‘Do you need a ride anywhere?’
‘No. I’ll stay and look after their cows.’
When the doctor’s little car had chugged away he turned to Andrew, ‘You go back and do your milking. I’ll see to things here. They can call out if they need my help with Freddie.’
‘He’s been a lot quieter for the past hour or two.’
As the day passed, Gil did what was necessary for the animals, kept the kitchen fire stoked up, chopped up some firewood for Irene. When darkness fell again, he went inside and insisted the women take turns to eat something.
‘I’m not hungry,’ Irene said, ‘though I’d love a cup of tea.’
‘Pam’s brought some soup across,’ he said.
‘Good.’ Norah looked at her friend. ‘You’ll have a bowl of that, Irene, and no arguing. You have to eat. Stay with her, Gil, and I’ll get some for all of us.’
He nodded and took her place by the bed, watching Irene as often as the sick man. From time to time she looked across at him and gave a faint smile, but for the most part, her attention was on her husband.
The hours passed slowly and it seemed to him that Freddie grew weaker.
Another night fell, a fine one this time, with stars twinkling in the sky. They’d taken it in turns to sleep for an hour or two, but now they were all gathered in the humpy, trying to ease the coughing fits, to persuade him to drink, to keep him covered.
But for all their efforts he was growing weaker.
As dawn was breaking, the sick man opened his eyes, looked at his wife and rasped, ‘You’ll be – better off – without me.’
‘Don’t say that! Try to get better.’
He looked beyond her to where grey light was showing through the gable. ‘Don’t – want to. Had enough.’
Within minutes his breaths stopped.
Gil had just come back in. He hesitated in the doorway, then turned and went to set some water on to boil. The man had just given up. He’d not have done that if he had a wife like Irene, not to mention a child on the way.
Irene was holding Freddie’s hand and had closed her eyes for a few seconds, because they were burning with tiredness and lack of sleep. She didn’t realise he’d stopped breathing till Norah reached out to touch her.
‘He’s gone, love.’
Even before she opened her eyes, she realised how quiet it was without the tortured sound of his breathing. She looked down at her husband’s still face on the pillow and reached out to close his eyes gently. In death he looked like the old Freddie again. No scowl or sulky look, just a peacefully sleeping face. She was glad about that. It was how she wanted to remember him.
‘He was young and healthy.’ She reached out to stroke his cheek. ‘How could he have died so quickly?’
‘They do sometimes with pneumonia, and the strongest seem as vulnerable as the weakest. I’ve seen it before. Shall I lay him out for you, Irene?’
‘We’ll do it together.’
Later that day Gil and Andrew brought round a coffin they’d pieced together hastily from green wood, sawn into rough planks by the men in their group.
Gil watched Irene, but to his relief she was holding up well. Too well? Would she collapse afterwards? Bereaved people sometimes did once they’d buried their dead.
He couldn’t help wondering what she was going to do now. Would she leave Australia and go back to England? How would he bear that?
They took the dead man to Pemberton, because there was still no cemetery in Northcliffe. There they obtained the death certificate, a mere formality given that the doctor had seen Freddie before he died, and made the necessary arrangements.
The following morning, the poor young man was buried, prayed over by a cleric who’d never met him and attended only by his wife, Norah and Gil.
Inevitably it brought back memories of Mabel and comrades who’d been killed during the war. Well, at least Freddie had left the baby as a lasting legacy. Poor Mabel hadn’t even managed that.
When it was over, they waited for Irene to lead the way back to the truck. She stood looking down at the coffin, but neither of them hurried her.
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