The Bark Cutters (35 page)

Rose sat quietly on a three-legged stool near her bedroom window, her slim fingers working nimbly. Having managed to prick herself three times already she willed herself to stop imaging Abdullah's beautiful face, to stop reliving the moment his moist lips touched her skin. She sucked at the bead of blood welling on her index finger and, carefully wrapping a piece of cloth around the wound, continued in her task. Having unpicked the neckline of her rose pink gown and inserted a length of delicate cream lace, she found the effect perfect. It framed the luminous sheen of the silk perfectly and, Rose thought with a small blush, would compliment her complexion. Her fingers touched the slight indentation on her neck and once again she imagined Abdullah's lips on her skin. Deftly she turned the dress over and with two neat stitches, bit the cotton with her teeth. The gown now featured a deeper neckline with a new cream lace edge. Rose admired her handiwork one more time before resting the garment over a high-backed chair to air.

Having instructed a rather moody Mrs Cudlow on the household's meal requirements, the day was filled with a series of small duties. Rose checked her wardrobe and continued the sewing of the moss-green silk gown. With barely three hours a day free, the completion of the gown became both crucial and a major task. The skirt, over two and a half yards in diameter, took quite some cutting and sewing, while the tight-waisted bodice, scooped neckline rounding to the shoulders and small cap sleeves, were of a design Rose never previously thought of attempting. Even now she could not help but giggle at the thought of Abdullah flicking through the pages of a two-month-old Sydney department store catalogue. His long, tapering forefinger tracing each page until, abruptly stopping at a particular design, he had cried aloud as if making a miraculous discovery.

‘This is it, Rose. This gown would be markedly fine.'

‘Markedly fine,' Rose repeated, fingering the green silk lying on her bed. His fingers had reached out to touch her hand, moving effortlessly to the soft tender skin of her elbow. The closeness of his body affected her thoughts and she'd found it difficult to concentrate for the rest of the morning. Indeed she found herself hoping for a more intimate embrace. Even now, four days on, she still felt his lips on her. Surely Abdullah knew he was driving her to distraction.

With only an hour before dinner there was no time to spend daydreaming. Pouring water from the porcelain jug into a matching bowl, Rose added a few discreet drops of lavender water and began to undress. Surely it was her good fortune Abdullah's interests lay only in the transportation of Wangallon's wool and not in the growing of it. Wringing the linen washcloth free of excess water she rubbed soap into the soft cloth before wiping her face, neck and underarms. Heaven forbid if he developed a liking for sheep, horses or the interior of their woolshed, she thought, such as his older brother, for then their time together would be limited
indeed. She swirled the cloth through the soapy water, wringing it again before washing her breasts and torso. With a critical eye Rose examined her reflection in the small oval mirror above the mahogany wash stand. If only she had a little of her mother's rouge, she contemplated, turning her face first to the left and then the right. Certainly her face would be agreeable to a little colour, especially when she was wearing the rose silk gown tonight.

‘Oh well.' With a sigh, Rose unpinned her hair. Freshly washed only a few days prior, it fell past her shoulders in a veil of brown. Lifting her silver-backed hair brush she began her customary hundred strokes.

Later that night, over a dinner of kangaroo tail soup, stuffed roast mutton, potatoes and green peas, Hamish and Abdul began a heated debate on the virtues of cattle and sheep. As a transport company, Abdul's livelihood depended on the carrying of wool, yet Hamish cautioned his friend about the growing importance of cattle.

‘Diversification is vital to any landholder, Abdul, and so, by extension, any business.' Hamish sipped his wine appreciatively. ‘To that end, your company would do well to consider investigating other modes of business. Sheep will not always be the mainstay of the country.'

‘I believe, Mr Hamish,' Abdul inclined his head politely, ‘that you indeed understand your business, but as for mine,' he lifted his wine glass to his mouth and sipped, ‘well, there are certain aspects that I believe I am the more experienced in.' Reaching for his napkin he patted his moustache and beard with a birdlike pecking motion.

‘Business is business, Abdul. Take my advice and thoroughly investigate your options.'

Hoping to break their argumentative conversation, Rose broke the short silence. ‘And whose opinion do you share, Abdullah? That of your brother or my husband?'

‘Neither,' Abdullah answered shortly, his face a mask. ‘I do not argue over which commodity may succeed over the next years in Australia, for such a question is unanswerable. Each commodity has its time and place, and one can either follow or lead by seeking new avenues and ensuring continued livelihood.'

‘Here, here!' Hamish slammed his fist on the table, the silver cutlery rattling loudly on their empty dinner plates.

Frowning in irritation, Rose reached to stabilise her own fork, perched as it was on the very edge of her plate.

‘I can only hope the path my brother and Mr Hamish choose is correct, for I do not wish to starve on account of bad management.'

‘Agreed, brother,' Abdul answered good-naturedly. ‘As always he is the diplomat. And our loss at your leaving will surely be the reward of those in Karachi.'

‘You are leaving?' Twisting the napkin between her fingers, Rose waited for confirmation of what in her heart she knew to be true. ‘Leaving New South Wales?' She searched Abdullah's unblinking gaze.

Hamish coughed. ‘Congratulations, Abdullah. Abdul informs me you are to take charge of the business in Karachi. And Rose, my dear, he is to marry. Is that not wonderful news?'

‘Wonderful,' Rose agreed quietly.

Hamish poured himself more wine. Rose felt her chest constrict, her breathing became rapid.

‘Yes, a very welcome addition to our business in Karachi.' Abdul raised his glass. ‘To you, brother.'

‘To Abdullah,' Hamish repeated.

Hamish was nodding in her direction now. His glass held high, his full lips curling into a semblance of a smile. Rose willed her own lips to turn upwards. Did Hamish know of her feelings, she wondered?

‘I shall leave you, gentlemen, to your cigars and port.' Excusing
herself from the table, Rose inclined her head towards her dining companions as she laid her napkin by her place setting. Avoiding Abdullah as he stood at her departure, she walked slowly across the rug in front of the fireplace and out through the sitting room to the verandah, her low heels click-clacking quietly on the wooden boards beneath.

Outside, she rested her hands on the cool timber of the wooden fence. Tears did not come naturally to her; not since Hamish's revelation of the theft of Sir Malcolm's gift had she allowed herself the luxury of regret. Bitterness was her comfort; envy and loss when she thought of her daughter; disgust when she thought of her husband's black lovers. Over the years the small pool of sadness within her, untouched by summer's scant rain, managed to shelter her dead sons and protect the small memories held dear by her. A life like hers was survived in such a way. Why then should she be so surprised that this man from another world would not live his life in New South Wales? What had she expected?

‘Your husband knows, I fear,' Abdullah said softly as he joined her.

Rose turned to him. Her heart ached for what she couldn't have. ‘You should not have kissed me. It has changed everything.'

‘Yes,' he answered. ‘That is why I should like to kiss you now.' He took her hands in his.

Rose looked warily towards the homestead.

‘They are arguing over the future of wool prices.' He turned her face towards him, his fingers strong and sure. ‘Rose, I must kiss you.'

Later, when she thought of this moment, Rose knew she would be unable to tell who moved first. His strong arms encircled her body and she experienced the blissful crush of her breasts against the broadness of his chest. The fragrant scent of unknown herbs wafted from his clothes and the taste of wine mingled with the
sweetness of treacle. His lips pushed down upon hers and as the breath began to leave her body, Rose felt herself go limp. His arms gathered her up, carrying her swiftly away from the verandah and to the seclusion of a clump of trees in the garden. He set her down lightly. Rose clung to him for long minutes, her cheek squeezed close to his chest. She felt his hand stroking her hair, the beat of his heart. Slowly, calmly, he let go of her.

‘I do not wish you to be sad, my Rose.'

Rose allowed her arm to be taken and together they walked the perimeter of the yard in a semblance of normality. In the distance sheep could be heard calling to their young, a horse whinnied from the direction of the blacks' camp and closer to the homestead, small creatures scuttled through the tall grasses beyond.

‘Loneliness makes us sad,' she answered truthfully. The dream of the last two weeks broke irretrievably as they walked arm in arm up the steps to the verandah. Once Abdullah left, life would resume with the regular monotony endured for the years already lived here. She would rise as the sun did, complete her day's journey regardless of inclination and slip into darkness with the last rays.

‘Not sad for my leaving, I hope, for I would not wish to be responsible for that.'

‘You ask me not to be sad, Abdullah?' She sat heavily on one of the packing-case chairs, gathering her thoughts as she spread the rose silk of her gown smoothly across her knees. ‘I never thought beyond each day we shared. I thought only of the sweetness of each moment together.'

‘The fault is mine.' He spoke softly, each word strewn with longing. ‘I allowed myself to be entranced. Perhaps if we'd not spent so much time together, Rose.'

‘Perhaps.' But she knew better. Passion did not come lightly to her. There was a deep connection between them.

‘I know from how you spoke when I first arrived, how quickly
the words rushed from your mouth, any words; then as the days continued, your gentle speech slowed until we could just sit in silence and yet still talk.'

‘Yes,' Rose agreed. ‘It was good.'

‘Very good.' Abdullah reached over to touch her hand softly. Her look made him feel as if he were a young child again, a child within reach of a precious gift. ‘A present of friendship, for tomorrow I leave.' From within his coat pocket, Abdullah retrieved a gold bangle. He slipped the beaten metal over Rose's wrist and took a number of paces backwards from her.

Rose fingered the bangle gently, her slender forefinger and thumb touching its surface as she pulled it around her wrist. ‘Tomorrow?' She thought foolishly of the moss-green silk dress he would never see her wear. ‘I thought perhaps a few more weeks?' The maids were giggling quietly in the lean-to behind the kitchen, their voices carrying on the wind. In the kitchen, Mrs Cudlow was speaking in angry tones, Lee's agitated voice talking over hers.

‘In four days the camel train arrives, Abdul will depart, and your wool clip, one of the largest in New South Wales, will be en route to Sydney to be shipped to London.'

Rose shook her head as if the action would erase his words. ‘I know all this, Abdullah. I just thought that, well –' She looked into her empty hands.

‘Your husband knows there is something between us. At dinner tonight … his reactions, well, he knows. I do not wish to cause unnecessary trouble.'

Then you should not have kissed me, Rose thought.

‘It is best I leave.'

‘For whom?' She couldn't help but ask the question.

‘I hate Australia, Rose, and the whites that populate this country, claiming it as theirs. They have no more hold over this new land than the Chinese or the Afghans. All searched for a new beginning, a chance for money, so how could the whites
declare themselves sovereign over a land that belonged to all? A convict settlement no less.'

‘I can't answer that.' She wanted to tell him that she didn't care about any of those things.

‘I don't wish you to. Few are like you, Rose, yet if we were in a town or city, Sydney perhaps, would you cross the street so as not to pass me by; me a dirty Afghan?'

‘Abdullah!'

‘Were it not for your feelings of desolation, for the fact your husband has forsaken you …'

‘Abdullah,' she strained to keep her voice low, ‘why are you making excuses for how I feel about you?' Rose felt her heart increase its beat.

‘So you see the real world. There will be many battles in the future, Rose, between whites, blacks, Chinese, Afghans. They go on now but few hear the truth. Already there is resentment towards us. You employ us, the Bourke Carrying Company. Our camels travel for many days without water or a rest day and flourish on saltbush, bluebush, mulga and continual work. Yet your bullock teams complain we steal their business. Men are sent to attack our trains, kill our cameleers and ruin our business. It is not only us that lose in the end, but your people are too ignorant to see that. Then there are those like your husband, important, respected men, who –' Abdullah stopped midsentence to sit in the chair beside her. ‘I apologise. I should not speak such words to you.' It was an unsought attraction and an impossible one. ‘I am not happy in this country.'

‘Have they stolen, cheated or murdered to get to the position they are in today? I think these are the things you are asking me, Abdullah, asking indirectly of my husband. I see your anger. We are, or some of us whites, as you call us, are like that, but then I think all races of the world have such people.' A stray tear stole silently down her cheek. She was both lucky and unlucky to have
met such a man. ‘Do you wish me to agree with you, Abdullah, convict my race for the sins of the few?' Rose could feel the perspiration building at the backs of her knees, between her breasts and on her forehead, even as the air grew colder. ‘Why do we argue,' she whispered, ‘when tomorrow you will be gone?'