Mary Brock Jones (16 page)

Then she saw her brother again. Saw the mixture of adult and child still in his face. Remembered the times the times he had come to her, tired and heart sick after yet another day’s useless toil, needing comfort and his big sister’s care. Her little boy still.

No, her path was set and regret stupid. She pushed it back down to that locked chamber deep in her soul.

There was another door there, set deeper still—a door she refused to open at all these days. Behind it was the face of a man and a name.

John.

The other side of The Old Man Range—that’s where this new field lay. John’s cottage was nestled on the northern slopes.

“Join with me, young Nessie,” called Jimbo.

She came to with a start and forced a smile to her face.

“The Old Identity,” whispered Nell beside her.

“Thank you,” she whispered back, and launched into Charles Thatcher’s ditty, her smooth contralto blending well with Jimbo’s deep voice.

And she found laughter in the mischief of Thatcher’s words. The songwriter had become the irreverent voice of the goldfields. No man in this new place had a right to anything other than what he bought with brain and brawn, uproaringly proclaimed the ditty. And woman, too, she told herself fiercely, setting her voice in counterpoint to Jimbo’s wild fiddling. Others won their reward here. Who was to say she should not?

A week later, they walked down the track, and she saw again John Reid’s house set solidly into the side of its hill. The late afternoon sun sent a long streak of hopeful gold along the path in front of them and left the track just at the point where the side path led off to his front door. A dog barked on a nearby hill and a voice called in the distance—the high, ‘chook chook’ yodel to call the hens into the evening roost. She said nothing. Something inside tugged painfully. It was only her heart, and she could let no trace of that seep into the outer world.

“We’d better call in and say hello to Mr Reid,” said Philip.

“He’ll be busy, settling the stock for the night.”

“Maybe, but we ought to pay our respects. The man was a good friend when we first came here.”

Her feet dragged. She hitched at her swag, tugging her shoulders down.

Philip turned, and frowned when he saw her lagging behind. “I thought you liked John Reid?”

She shrugged. “He’s a very kind gentleman,” she agreed.

Her brother was indeed growing up, and the look he gave her was too acute. “You said there was nothing between you.”

“There’s not,” she muttered.

“So nothing happened I need to know about?”

“No, no.”

The house was so near to the path. A few hundred yards only up the hill. Visitors and friends were a rare and precious occurrence here, and you did not pass by the house of a man you knew without calling in to say hello. Whether you were expected, or even whether or not you might be welcome. She followed Philip with every sign of pleasure and stood by his side as he knocked on the door. When no one answered, she could not have said whether she was relieved or sad.

“He’s probably still out on his land.”

Philip agreed, and they set back on their way to the trail. But they had not gone far before a cheery hail stopped them.

“I thought it was you two. Mr and Miss Ward. Now what do you be doing back here?”

Nessa turned and saw a woman half-running down the road towards her, her bright cheeks blowing red with her endeavour.

“Mrs Cooper! How lovely to see you again.” This time, there was no doubt in Nessa’s mind. Ada Cooper’s advice had helped her survive this country more times than she could count. She could feel the smile growing on her face. “We were just passing through and thought to say hello to Mr Reid, but he is not home it seems.”

“No, up the far hill and won’t be back till tomorrow at the earliest.” Ada leaned over when she reached them, catching her breath. Then stood again, her smile of welcome as warm as ever. “Now, where do you think you are going this late in the day?”

“We’re on our way to the settlement at Chamonix for now, then off to the diggings at Potters,” said Philip.

“Then you’ll stop for a meal. Bob would be pleased to hear your news.”

“Thank you, but we must make Chamonix in time to find a place for the night,” said Nessa.

“You don’t want to go staying there. Not with all those rowdy packers and who knows what passing through. You come home with Ada for the night. You’ll get a proper home-cooked meal and a warm bed, which is more than that Chamonix can offer a decent body.”

Nessa knew Philip wanted to get on, but Ada Cooper had been too good a friend and would be hurt if they refused. And, truth be told, Nessa’s longing for the normality she offered was too big to hide. A few months ago, Philip wouldn’t have noticed, but today he thanked Mrs Cooper as graciously as Nessa could wish, and accepted her kind offer.

When they neared the Cooper’s home, the warm smells were so tempting that she saw Philip relax, forgetting his urge to get on. As for Nessa’s main worry, John Reid was away and they would be long gone before he returned.

It was a merry evening with the Cooper family. Ada switched between pumping them for news of their travels and exclaiming over all the small and funny tidings of the Cooper offspring, often both at the same time. It was a wonder Nessa and Philip got a word in. But the young Coopers were eager for blood-curdling tales of the fields.

“That Fox’s camp. There’s desperados there, they say!”

“No, no, the Arrow’s just a mite rough,” said Nessa, a stern look to Philip to watch what he said. He caught it, and quickly turned his story into a rollicking yarn that left the children in shrieks of laughter. Their mother hurried them off to their beds shortly after, shutting the door firmly on them. It was only after the stifled giggles could no longer be heard and all the adults were properly provided for—tea for the ladies and a dram of something to wet your whistle for the men—that Ada turned to Nessa.

“Now, the truth of your wandering, and none of those nonsense tales you told the children. You two have seen long and hard days since last we met, I’m guessing.”

Nessa let Philip do the talking. He was young enough that his words carried the excitement and the hope of their adventures. Even the worst times came out sounding funny in hindsight; but Nessa did not let herself believe they had fooled Ada. She caught the older woman glancing at her too often.

“And how has it been here?” Nessa finally could no longer refrain from asking.

“Much as ever,” said Ada. “’Tis a busy time of year for our Bob here.”

Her husband nodded, his usual taciturn self. Nessa had quickly realised that his wife spoke for them both, and that it suited Bob very nicely.

“Winter’s coming,” went on Ada.

“But the days are so hot still,” protested Philip.

“Maybe, but the cold’s on its way, and that can be a right nasty time in these parts.”

Her brother looked sceptical, but Ada’s advice had stood Nessa in good stead in her time here. “This Campbell’s field we are heading to—how is that in the cold?”

“Och, you want to be out of those south-facing gullies long before the snow comes in … and that could be any time. You never know what’s coming hereabouts at this time of year.”

“That’s where t’boss be now,” added Bob Cooper, to the shock of everyone at the table, including his wife. Nessa waited breathlessly for more. There was dead silence, but Bob must have judged his contribution sufficient for the evening. Nessa was rescued by Ada.

“Bringing in the stock from up the tops he be,” she explained. “There’s good summer grazing up on the Old Man Range but, come autumn, we bring them down to safer country. Stock caught on the tops in a snow storm, well, they won’t be alive the next day, and that’s a fact. Up on those hills is no place for a body to be come winter—man or beast. You mind that, now, young fella. That Campbell’s is as miserable a spot as you could think of when the bad weather hits.”

“And when is that?” said Nessa politely, ignoring Philip’s glare.

Again, Bob stunned them. “Could be a couple of months. Could be tomorrow,” he said prosaically.

Then Ada switched her attention to Nessa. “And what do you plan to be doing, young Nessa, while your brother is stuck up there?”

“What I always do—go with Philip and keep house for him.”

“Not on that field you shouldn’t. B’aint no women up there, not as I’ve heard tell.”

Nessa was not surprised, but she had heard this too many times to be dismayed. “I’ll manage,” was all she said in protest.

“Don’t worry. I can keep my sister safe,” said Philip, having learnt to deal with this question often as well.

Ada harrumphed her disapproval but seemed to realise the uselessness of arguing further. After one or two more cursory protests, she changed the subject and plunged back into her local gossip.

Nessa and Philip heard at length of the doings of each and every Cooper child, pet and household stray not yet mentioned already. Since the fire was warm, the food and company good and the chairs comfortable, they felt no need to protest. For Nessa the evening was sprinkled with small, treasured nuggets. His name came up, his doings and his news. Too few for her desires, the briefest of sketches only, as if Ada begrudged letting his name loose, but still there. She hugged them to herself, as rare and secret treasures.

“Don’t be a stranger, now you’re close by.” Ada hugged Nessa tightly to her, then as abruptly released her. “If you ever need help, there’s a place here for you.”

Nessa couldn’t answer. Her throat was tight and her chest full. All she could manage was a quick, hard squeeze and a croaky, “Thank you”.

Philip said all that was polite for them both.

It was a beautiful morning. A slight breeze sent a shimmer through the tussocks on the hills. In the distance, a touch of snow on the tops echoed Bob and Ada’s words of last night, but the bright sky and the blazing sun denied the threat, making her glad of the broad brim of her bonnet. She set her swag, feeling the familiar weight settle into the groove of her shoulder. One foot in front of the other, a final turn and wave, and they were off on their travels again. A new place waited, new people, but still a goldfield like the others. She hoped there would be women there, though from Ada’s words it seemed unlikely. Which meant that once more she and Philip would have to demonstrate their ability with guns, that they could and would defend themselves. Philip was becoming very convincing. From somewhere, he had acquired a natural authority. Maybe it was the ease of his hand on the gun that kept the crowd from seeing the lack of years on his face. Or maybe she was just being a big sister. Even she had come to believe that Philip could and would shoot if need be. She chuckled to herself, feeling a lot better all of a sudden.

It was not far to Chamonix. For the first time in weeks, she found herself looking at their surroundings as she walked. Soon her fingers itched for the paper and brushes she had sold after Queenstown. There had seemed no point in keeping them. She was Philip’s housekeeper, her days filled with cooking and washing in the primitive canvas townships.

Today, she saw anew each blade of the long grass beside the track, watched a clump wave in the breeze, wondered again at the translucent green of the tussocks nearby and how they metamorphosed into a tawny carpet on the hills. Raggedly torn edges told of the chewing of sheep and beneath her feet was the feel of sliding shale and warm dust.

The first part of their journey took them up the valley from the homestead. The tussocks stirred, a dog barked, and here and there patches of the newly sown English grasses showed green against their native cousins. The path rose up, wound to the crest of the ridge, then over.

The landscape on the other side was so starkly different that it seemed as if they had been thrust suddenly into a fantastical land—one littered with the residue of some Teutonic, ground-thrusting game of the gods. Jagged edges of rock lunged up from the barren earth to the sky. In every hollow granting shelter from the scouring wind, the dark thorns of the matagouri laid claim, leaving the exposed dry slopes to the tussocks. The track wound round an out-thrust of eroded rock then down again to a deep gorge. At the base, a small stream hustled and tumbled over a narrow bed. Gorge Creek the locals called it, Ada had told her. The name made her smile as they waded through it. A creek that ran into a small gorge before falling into the Molyneux. What should they call it but Gorge Creek—so pragmatic, so like the sturdy folk of these lands. The track turned aside here, reaching up the steep hillside to a motley collection of canvas and wooden huts.

The path to them was steep and uneven, forcing Nessa to watch her feet, but still the noise intruded—a regular cacophony of mismatched calls, human and animal. They came to the edge of the huts and now came the special smell she would ever after know meant Chamonix; a mixture of warming dust, horse hide, drying dung and sweaty men. They stopped to catch their breath in the middle of the only street.

Nessa was by this time used to the bustle of a goldfields town, but this was of another kind entirely. There was a heady sense of purpose here, of men with business to attend to and things to finish. They called hello, talked and shouted, but always they were moving. And the businesses lining the street were different: a blacksmith, a store, a collection of boarding houses, stables, grain merchants and boarding shacks. Missing were the assay office, the bank, the sellers of pans and cradles, shovels and hoes, these were missing.

This was a packers’ town.

They had bypassed this place on their way inland, eager to get to the fields, but now Nessa wanted to stop. Packers. The word had come to mean safety to her. A constant support, and a reminder of a special interlude. For the first time in many long weeks, she almost dared to hope.

Philip was looking at the shops. “Looks like a busy place.”

“Yes, but not the way the Dunstan is,” said Nessa as she detoured around a fresh pile of horse dung.

“You like it?”

“I don’t know it yet.”