Skylarking (13 page)

TWENTY-SEVEN

A
ND THEN
H
ARRIET WAS BACK
. W
E WERE ALL WAVING
from the jetty as the boat arrived, and she was standing at the prow, with a new hairstyle, taller and more curved, or so it seemed. It was all I could do to hold myself back so that her mother could embrace her first. Then we were upon each other, hugging and kissing and crying with delight.

‘How I've missed you!' I said, and could not fathom the relief and the fizzle inside me that bubbled up and over to be held by Harriet again.

The last of the heat seemed to vanish after Harriet returned, and autumn was upon us. We were to have a bonfire, burning an old fence that had just been knocked down and was riddled with ants. The grey planks were thrown together, along with armfuls of dead underbrush that had been cleared to form a new track. By the time the pile towered over us, we were jumpy with excitement.

Father was especially jovial at dinner and wanted to get the fire going before he had to go up and light the lamp. He hurried Mother along, and she scolded him as he playfully tugged her apron. She did not really mind at all. Their happiness infused the kitchen, and I felt a warm glow deep inside because life seemed good again – the relaxed joy of my parents, the anticipation of the fire, Harriet's return. I should have known it could not last.

The bonfire was set down from the cottages in the outer paddock where we usually kept the goats. Mother and Mrs Walker had ushered them into the house paddock so that they wouldn't be frightened by the fire. We made our way past them, our arms filled with blankets, and also with bags of potatoes to throw onto the coals.

As I laid out the blankets, back a way from the great pile, I noticed Albert, helping his father to add yet more sticks, odds and ends, and refuse from the cottages to the pyre. We had hardly spoken since that day coming home from the beach, weeks before. He had avoided me, and I him.

I had not uttered a word of what occurred between Albert and me to Harriet, and I would never reveal what I had done when I went to McPhail's hut. So much had happened in her absence and yet she knew nothing of it. She was back, and I was content to bask in the stories of her time in the city.

I ignored Albert now and hoped desperately that McPhail would not take up Mother's invitation to the bonfire.

I spotted Harriet coming down the slope from her cottage and called out to Father that it was surely time that Harriet and I lit the bonfire, for it was getting late.

‘And why should you and Harriet be the ones to light the fire?' my father said, his eyes sparkling with good humour.

‘To celebrate Harriet's homecoming,' I called back, made bold by my father's mood.

Jackson raised his glass, which appeared to be empty already. ‘Seems only fair that the girls get their own little party.'

Harriet and I clasped hands and ran to where the men stood. I saw Albert glance over at us, a strange expression crossing his face, as though he had stubbed his toe and was trying to hold in the pain of it for fear of the mocking he might receive.

Father handed Harriet the matches and me a small tin of kerosene.

‘Careful now, Kate,' he said. ‘Away from your skirts, right into the centre of the thing, to set her off.'

Mother had moved closer and looked concerned as she watched me with the tin. I saw that, behind her, McPhail had indeed arrived. Harriet had not noticed yet, concentrating as she was on the matchbox in her hand. Mother passed McPhail a bottle of ale, and he took a long draught of it before he looked our way. I lowered my eyes quickly.

‘C'mon then, Kate, throw it in!' Jackson spoke more boisterously than usual, and I marvelled at the strange effect ale could have on a man, and how stupid it could make him appear.

I pitched the small round mouth of the drum away from me and a clear stream of fluid arced up and into the nest of wood.

Harriet was having trouble lighting the match, but finally it sparked and she flung the lit match into the pile.

It was a good throw. For a second it seemed as though it would not catch. There was no sign of flames, and we all leaned forwards, and then smoke appeared through the branches. A popping sound followed. Flames appeared and climbed higher.

We all stepped back as one from the heat. The bonfire glowed, and orange embers danced in the updraught of heat.

Albert was opposite, staring at me, his face gentle and hurt and happy at the same time. The fire was roaring now, and the thrill was extraordinary, and I could not help but smile at him.

Suddenly, he was beside me.

‘Isn't it wonderful?' he said, looking at the flames.

‘It is.' I was aware of Harriet's presence on my other side. A thread of tension vibrated through me.

The fire crackled and hissed, and a long branch lost its place and fell towards where we stood, landing with a flurry of red sparks. Harriet and I drew back instinctively, and Albert stepped forwards, bending low and grabbing the stick where it had not burned and flinging it back into the fire.

‘Are you alright?' he asked, his face showing his concern.

I felt Harriet's eyes searching mine, her interest piqued by the warm tone Albert had used.

‘Of course,' I said, and stepped a little closer to Harriet, a little further away from Albert. I was being deliberately unkind now, but it seemed my earlier smile had encouraged him.

‘I wonder if the ships at sea will see the fire, when it gets dark,' he said.

It was the type of question I might have asked, and I considered whether he had conceived it on purpose, in an effort to remind me we were similar.

‘Perhaps,' I replied and put my arm out to touch Harriet's shoulder. ‘Look there,' I said to her, ‘what the children are doing.'

Will and Harry were milling conspiratorially on the opposite side of the fire from us. As we watched, Harry stepped forwards and threw something small straight into the heart of the fire. The flame there flared, and the sound of a crack, like a whip lashing, resounded in the air around us.

Mrs Walker gasped, and the boys erupted into fits of giggles.

Harriet and I laughed, and I noticed that Harriet covered her mouth with her hand as she did so, a gesture I'd never seen her do before. Perhaps ladies in Melbourne were not encouraged to laugh out loud.
How dreadful,
I thought, but I, too, raised my hand to my face in a mirror of Harriet's, just to see what it felt like.

‘Harold!' called Albert, and his face grew stormy as he charged around to the other side of the bonfire and proceeded to give his brother and mine a stern talking to.

The fire had emboldened the boys, and instead of cowering under the spray of words they were receiving from Albert, they laughed openly. Harry, taunting him, threw again. Another whip crack and more gasping, and I saw Albert clench his fists by his sides.

It was not right for the boys to treat him so. I, too, knew the frustrations of trying to get the younger children to take heed of my instructions. The infuriation when my words were ignored, the hot indignation of a younger child talking back as if I knew nothing.

Beside me, Harriet spoke. ‘Emmaline mentioned you and Albert have been friendly these past months while I was away. I'm glad you had someone to talk to when I wasn't here.'

She was looking over at Albert, who had taken Harry roughly by the shoulder and was marching him away from the fire. Her words had the hint of another meaning.

‘No more than usual,' I said. It would have been a great relief to tell Harriet all that had happened, but I sensed that I was at a disadvantage. That Melbourne had taken my Harriet and whirled her around and she had come back to me somehow altered from before. She seemed separate from all of us on the cape now; better, in fact.

‘Have you fought?' Harriet asked. ‘Emmaline said there was some disquiet between you. What did you fight about?'

What did Emmaline know of it? Had she been spying on me? Had Albert divulged details to her? The thought of it! Or maybe I was not as secretive with my feelings as I hoped. I tried to keep my face from giving anything away. She knew me, Harriet. She read me like a fisherman reads the tides. If I wasn't careful she would have the whole story out of me just from my expression, a few evasive words.

‘I don't know what Emmaline thinks she knows – everything is as it has always been.'

Albert continued to hold his brother roughly; they had stopped near the edge of the paddock, and I saw Harry's chin jut up, and the sudden movement of Albert swiping his hand out to cuff Harry on the ear.

Harriet nodded in their direction. ‘Perhaps he is practising for fatherhood and is trying to keep the younger ones in line.'

She smirked, and I blushed, fiercely, the skin prickling along my jaw.

‘The young men I met in Melbourne, they did not act so coarsely. It is a shame, out here, that boys like Albert will not get a chance to better themselves, to move off the cape. As I have done. As you will.'

Was Harriet so far apart from me now? Why was she making the distance so plain? I was hurt by her assessment of Albert who, despite our feud, was my friend and had been for some time. And while he had spoken out of turn and was oftentimes shy and clumsy, he was a fine brother and son, and had recognised my loneliness while Harriet was away and had been kind in his wish to relieve me of it.

I took the opportunity to steer our conversation to this new topic. ‘Do you really think I will?'

‘What?' she asked.

‘Move away from here?'

Harriet laughed, and this time did not hide her mouth. ‘Of course you will, Kate. There is nothing for us here. You will visit Melbourne as I did, and you will be introduced to fine young men as I was, and then there will be a letter and a proposal and you will be whisked off this damned cape and be married and have a grand house and children, and a husband who will not have to tend to a light, but will tend to you.' She gazed into the fire as she spoke.

I had never wanted that. Adventure, yes; travel, too. But I had always imagined myself returning. Following the tides that would lead me back home when it was time. I had not imagined life in another home, one where I would be the mistress.

Albert had finished with Harry and was hurrying back around the fire to us. I saw Father conferring with the other men and setting off for the lighthouse. McPhail, too, was taking his leave, and I noticed that he hardly looked back at us girls. It was for the best, I thought. I could not possibly hold myself together if he were to approach Harriet and me; I would surely die of mortification.

‘The troublemakers, throwing old shot,' Albert said when he arrived back to stand next to me. ‘I taught them a lesson.'

His self-satisfaction made me wince, for I knew that Harriet, in her high and mighty mood from Melbourne, would not be kind.

‘You did, did you?' she said. She pointed to where the boys had resumed their mischief. ‘They obviously take you very seriously.'

I looked down at my boots. Albert was not used to this meanness from Harriet, and neither was I. It was at once unflattering and exciting.

‘Well, they are boys, I s'pose. What should we expect?' He laughed awkwardly and appealed to me for agreement.

But Harriet had shifted something in me. With Harriet's eyes, I saw Albert again as little more than a child and nothing like a man.

‘You are wrong to hit your brother like that, Albert. He is only young and' – I paused for effect – ‘you are not much older than him yourself.'

Harriet nodded at me in approval.

Albert dug the toe of his boot into the dry soil. ‘I suppose you and Harriet have much to catch up on now that she has returned.' He said it so softly I could barely hear him.

When he looked up at me I detected a trace of scorn in his blue eyes. As though I were not the girl he thought I was and yet was everything he predicted.

I could not ignore the hollowness I felt as he walked away, and Harriet grabbed my arm and pulled me in close and said, ‘Isn't it best when it's just the two of us?'

TWENTY-EIGHT

I'
D CONVINCED
H
ARRIET TO GO DOWN TO
B
LACKMAN
'
S
Bay to collect mussels for the afternoon. It was a sheltered little spot, not far from Bennett's River, and the fishermen often kept their boats there when the wind was blowing rough.

It had been two days and, until now, we'd not had a chance to escape on our own. Mrs Walker's hovering, and then blustery winds and abrupt rain showers, had kept us indoors and apart, but this day had cracked open with brilliant sunshine, the kind that reflected the recent rain in the air and glittered amongst the leaves.

We took the horses, me out in front on Blaze and Harriet behind on Sadie, who ambled slowly and I had to keep pulling on my reins and holding Blaze back so that I could ask Harriet about Melbourne. I batted questions at her, and she responded with vivid descriptions of imposing buildings and parties and shopping in grand stores. Aunt Cecilia had shown Harriet off as something of a rarity, exotic in her remoteness, unspoiled by the dirt and flurry and downtrodden aspects of Melbourne.

She had called a barber and had Harriet's hair styled in the latest fashion. A man with an oiled moustache had lopped at least six inches off the bottom of her curls. Harriet shuddered as she told me he'd singed the cut ends with a match and the room had filled with the acrid tang of her burned hair.

‘It took everything I had not to burst into tears right there in front of him and Aunt Cecilia. To burn my hair! It was criminal. I could smell the awful stink of it for days. I waited till I could shut myself in my room, complaining of a headache, and I had a good cry into my pillow. How I missed you and Mother and all at the cape that day.'

While Harriet spoke, we rounded the last hill, and the bay and the little jetty were laid out below us.

‘Oh, Kate, see – this is what I missed.'

I had to admit it looked particularly lovely that day. It was as if the sun had been spilled onto the surface of the sea and was broken only by small white caps whipped up by the breeze. Even so, I was still caught up in the tale of the barber: imagining my hair being cut off so that I didn't have to bother with it anymore, then stepping out into the Melbourne bustle with a new style, a new me, in a place I could get lost or be found.

‘It's always here, though, isn't it, Harriet? Even after you've been away – it's here, the same.'

‘I suppose. But the world out there is not always as wonderful as I expected it to be.'

‘Well, there were certainly more beaus to turn your head! Tell me again about Patrick.'

‘It was nothing at all, really.'

‘That's not what the contents of your letter suggested.' I laughed. ‘Oh, you should have heard your mother after she got your letter and she came to tell mine all about it. “Harriet's caught the eye of a proper young gentleman!” she said, and Mother put the kettle on and they both sat down and swatted me away as they pored over your letter and I tried to work out if there was anything you had written to your mother that you had failed to tell me. That you had been to a party. That you had worn a green dress. That this young man was the son of a wealthy landowner with a great swathe of sheep. That he had spoken to you and ignored the other young ladies. That he had asked if he might call on you again. That you had taken a turn around the gardens, with your aunt chaperoning, of course. That you appeared spoken for.'

‘Goodness, Kate, you know everything there is to know of the story already. That's all there was, honestly.'

I couldn't see her face and wondered if she were telling the truth.

‘But you saw him again?'

‘Only once more after that. He insisted he would write, though.'

‘What did he look like? Was he very handsome?'

‘He was.' Harriet paused. ‘It was as if he had stepped out of a painting of the city. I mean, he looked exactly as he should look. He wore a top hat and a fine suit, out of an excellent wool – or so my aunt told me – and he had the blondest hair.'

I had to stop Blaze there, for the track grew too narrow, and we both climbed down, tied the horses up and made our slow way down to the jetty.

The bristled leaves of the saltbush and prickly Moses caught at our skirts, and we were red in the face and breathless by the time we reached the steps hewn straight out of the cliff. They led us down towards the little rocky bay and the greying timber of the jetty, jutting out into the sea.

It was hard to continue our conversation during the descent, our voices snatched away by the wind, but when I turned to Harriet to take her hand and help her down the first steep step, I asked her one last question about her beau.

‘What did you speak of? What did he say to you?'

At this Harriet blushed. She gazed out to sea, and there was a long moment before she replied.

‘I felt I knew nothing. That I had nothing worth speaking of. Melbourne is so full of people and buildings and life, just bursting with it all, Kate, truly, I cannot describe it to you. I felt as though everything I had to say came from this little cape, that I knew nothing of the world. I felt like a child.'

‘You're seventeen now, Harriet. You're hardly a child. And I bet you could have taught Patrick a thing or two about hard work and lighthouses and the tides and the sea.' I was indignant for my friend, for us both. For if she could feel as though her whole life amounted to nothing in the face of the sophistication of the city, how would I feel if I ever had the chance to go?

I jumped down onto the next step and took Harriet's hand again as she followed me.

‘Oh, he was nice about it all. He talked to me about growing up on the land. And I suppose he thought it was rather exciting that I lived in a lighthouse. No one in the city could understand that I didn't live in the actual tower so in the end I stopped trying to explain the cottages and the settlement as people only seemed bored.'

‘See them be bored by this!' I said, and spread my arms out before us.

Harriet looked out and smiled. She stepped down again, reaching for my hand and, as she did, her foot slipped, a loose rock shooting ahead of her and glancing off me as it sailed down the rock steps.

I put my arms out to break Harriet's fall, but she landed heavily, stumbling awkwardly on one leg, a little yelp of pain issuing from her lips.

‘Harriet! Here, sit down, lean on me.' I helped her to sit, and she winced as she stretched out her left leg.

‘I've twisted my ankle.'

‘It'll be alright. Let me take a look.'

Harriet muttered to herself as I loosened the laces on her boot. I could feel the heat through her stockings where the flesh was already swelling.

I turned and looked down at the dozen steps, at most, still to go before the rocky cradle of the beach, and then towards the jetty. I could see, across the bay, a boat making its way back to berth, a figure rowing within.

I swivelled back to Harriet. ‘Let's rest here for a bit. Have some water, and then I'll get you home.'

From the rucksack I pulled a flagon and some rock cakes I'd taken from the biscuit tin. They were a few days old, but heavy and sweet, studded with currants, and Harriet bit down furiously on hers when I handed it to her.

‘Harriet, don't be mad. It wasn't your fault; it was an accident.'

Harriet stared out to sea in glum silence.

‘And don't be mad at me either.' She was wont to blame me when things went wrong on adventures that I had planned. ‘That's not fair.' I didn't have to endure Harriet's silences often, but when I did they were awful. Cold and sullen.

She shifted her foot again, her eyebrows squeezing together. ‘Why don't you go down and find those mussels, Kate. It's what you came for, isn't it? Leave me here. I'm fine. I'll watch you.'

None of this was said with any hint of warmth. Harriet obviously thought a fat ankle far too high a price to pay for fat shellfish.

I turned away from her and towards the sea. The little boat was getting closer to the end of the jetty.

‘Fine,' I said. ‘I'll go down and wait for that boat to come in. See if whoever's on it won't help us home.' I took the rucksack up but left the water beside Harriet. ‘Call if you need me. I won't be long. Don't try to move.'

‘I won't need you,' she said, and took a great bite from her rock cake.