The Noon Lady of Towitta (14 page)

The event of a week ago was like an awful nightmare that hadn't ended when I woke at the Lambert's house, but had continued when the barn was converted to a courtroom. Now I had been committed to trial for the murder of Bertha I realised there had been no nightmare at all. But it made no sense to me. Someone took hold of my arm and I came back to my senses. The voices became louder once more and someone was calling my name but I couldn't respond, like I was half asleep.

As the statement was read, Father pressed forward nervously. Immediately the warrant was read and signed I was told to sit down. The inquest was over. The noise in the courtroom had reached fever pitch, but no one left except the journalists. The air was hot, sticky and pungent from the many people packed into a small space for hours in the Australian summer heat. Mr Mulligan hushed the crowd and told everyone, ‘Sisters and brothers, the inquest is over. There is nothing else for anyone to see so you'd better all go home.'

After a few minutes, the crowds began leaving. As they filed past me, I sensed for the first time a new and knowing look, a look both unsettling and hostile. Some people, whom I had known for years, hissed like snakes as they passed me. One whispered so only I could hear, ‘Murderer, whore.' Someone spat at me. I was no longer left alone. After all, I was under arrest for murder and maybe they believed I was at risk of acting that way again if I wasn't watched. They must believe I was now more dangerous than ten minutes before. I might bolt or suddenly produce a knife and kill them all. I was now closely guarded when walking from the barn to the farmhouse, past a crowd that had formed to watch me pass. As I walked across the yard Willy and August stood aside to let us pass and I saw them staring hard at me in utter disbelief with tears streaming down their faces. I also saw their fear.

18

Wilhelm and August Schippan

11 January 1902

As Mary passed, Willy grabbed August's arm and sobbed, ‘Why did she do it, August?'

August couldn't answer him and he was uncertain about what was going to happen to her now – or them for that matter. Before that fateful night they had endured a scorching and miserable Christmas with their mother and father before their parents left for a few days without them. They all wanted to cry from disappointment, the children rarely had an opportunity to leave the farm. Bertha had made their lives a trial. She hounded Mary about not being able to go to the New Year's Eve dance at Sedan which was seven miles away. Their father did not approve of dances, and it would have meant travelling along the roads on their own without an adult to chaperone. The only person who could have accompanied them was Mary's sweetheart Gustave, but he had gone to Adelaide the day before. There was no point to Bertha carrying on, Father's word was law and that was that. Mary would be thrashed if they disobeyed her.

It wasn't worth the risk of a hiding. They were already covered in bruises and lash marks that they'd received through the weeks leading up to Christmas. They could see that their parents had little spare money to spend on Christmas and their mother told them they had to make sacrifices this year. She tried to cheer them by saying she would make amends when their circumstances had improved with a middle-ofthe-year Christmas dinner, a goose perhaps.

Christmas Day for them was little different to any other day for they had the same baked mutton and spuds. A steamed pudding of sorts was the only treat. There were no special German cakes and puddings that they had so looked forward to. It didn't help that the heat was at its worst and the nights were stifling. When August and Willy finished the usual chores they walked to the shade of Cowlands Creek to get away from their father. The heat was so intense they simply lay down on the banks of the creek with their guns and catapults, too overcome to move or even to speak. Earlier they had spoken of running away to join their older brothers as soon as they could pluck up the courage. August had promised to send a note to see whether their brothers would come and collect them.

Over the Christmas period Mary's sweetheart Gustave hung about until the afternoon he headed off to Adelaide with his team of horses and wagon. August and Willy didn't mind him visiting because he reminded them of their older brothers who showed them how to do handy jobs. He never ceased to impress them with his skill at managing six powerful horses. Sometimes when he left the farm they would travel some miles with him just so they could have the chance of driving the horses themselves. He trusted them too. He would give one of them the reins of the wonderful creatures and head for the back of the cart where he lay down on some sacking and whistled or sang with his hat covering his face. And the horses did what they told them when Gustave showed them how.

Everyone, it seems, wanted Gustave's attention when he was about, so good-natured was he. Bertha would draw him out on things she wanted to know about Adelaide or about his job. And even exhausted Mary would perk up a little when Gustave was about. They soon noticed that he always wanted to put his arms about her when he thought no one was watching. She thought they never saw her and Gustave together, but they spied on them often. Willy kept asking August if Mary would have a baby. They knew they behaved like married people did, although Mother and Father had long since ceased any shows of affection. They were keen to see where this hugging and cuddling would lead and what their father would do if he ever found out what was going on in the barn at the weekends or in their home over Christmas. Then Gustave drove off to Adelaide.

On the first day of the year Mary told Bertha to go and play with Violet and Ella at the Henkes' place, and stop hanging around like a hungry blowfly. Willy and August took off in the morning for the day, heading to one of the creeks with their guns and enough food tied up in one of their father's old sacks. They intended shooting a few parrots and galahs for a stew and finding some wood for whittling with their sharpest knives. They liked carving such creatures as dwarfs or animals from mallee roots.

They were so carried away with their day out that it was evening when they arrived home. Mary gave them warm tea and cake, because they were so worn out from their activities and the heat of the day, then gave them the only lamp which they took to their beds in the shed. It didn't take them long to fall asleep.

It seemed they'd hardly fallen asleep when Mary burst into the barn later that night screaming. They couldn't see her until August lit the lamp. Her wild eyes and her unkempt hair made her look as though their worst nightmares had come true, that a wicked witch had come to kidnap them. It took some time for her to convince them that she was indeed their sister Mary, so awful did she look in the lamplight. By this time Willy was hysterical and didn't know what to believe when Mary told them that an intruder was in the house with Bertha. Mary sent August to seek help from Ferdy Henke, and she stayed hidden with Willy in the barn.

August worried when Willy told him afterwards about their time in the barn. He was scared out of his wits by what Mary said. She told Willy that if he didn't do as he was told and be quiet, the intruder would find them both and slit their throats too. Long after the murder August wondered why Mary continued to frighten Willy. She repeated to him that the man was still out there somewhere and could come and find them anytime he chose.

August had never been sure about Mary. They were both a little afraid of her, perhaps because she was so often cold and distant. Many a time he had seen her slaughter a sheep or a pig and wring a fowl's neck with no effort, but he simply didn't believe she was strong enough to murder Bertha. Bertha was as big as them and much stronger than Mary. However, August had seen Mary find a super strength when it suited her.

On the day after the murder, in their continuing search to understand death, August and Willy sneaked into the house while the police were eating dinner and closely studied Bertha. Her eyes were open. They prodded her and whispered to her but she didn't respond. August had to calm Willy when he failed to waken her. He told him to be brave and keep quiet until they could get away to somewhere more private.

19

Mary

When Sister Kathleen dropped by after she had finished her rounds one morning, she brought me half a fruit cake, baked by her mother.

‘Come, Mary, let's sit under the trees for a chat and eat the cake there.'

‘How was your holiday? You went home didn't you?'

‘It was a pleasant rest from this mad house, I can tell you. But my father was hobbling about in pain more than usual. His leg never really recovered from the accident he had when I was a little girl.'

‘What happened?' It was my chance to hear a story.

‘When Father was publican in Angaston, his leg was almost smashed to pieces in a freak accident. It happened during the weekly beer delivery from the brewery. Father was in the cellar when several kegs accidently fell through the cellar opening. One of the brewery horses shied for some reason. We all thought Father had been killed. Fred, ‘the boots', as publicans call their odd-job men, saved his life by dragging him from beneath the kegs and up the steps to the trap. He rushed him off to the German hospital where Mother's brother-in-law worked as a limb-maker. Mother had to take over the pub but next morning, being Saturday and no school, she drove my brother and me to see him. I'll never forget it for I expected to find my father dying. Instead he was sitting up in bed laughing and carrying on with three young wounded soldiers from the Boer War and a nurse, all in white. Well, I'd never seen anyone like her before. She looked like an angel in her white starched uniform. She was taking their temperatures and telling these four grown men how to behave. And guess what, Mary?'

‘What?'

‘They all took notice of her. I also saw her dressing the wound of the stump of the leg of one of them. And though I was only a little girl, that's when I decided to become a nurse. This was about the same time my father was told that his younger brother had died of gunshot wounds to his stomach while fighting in South Africa. Father said his brother was always a bit of a larrikin but joined up for adventure. It was so long before he was given medical attention that he died.'

‘How sad.'

‘It was. But like many families there were plenty of animosities within it. You see, Aunty's German family supported the Boers' cause in South Africa. It seems that when my uncle's grandfather first came to South Australia, he felt hard done by when he was not allowed to register as a doctor. But he became one anyway, practising at first in a small way as a homeopathic practitioner. He was also well known for mending bones or replacing missing limbs because that's what he'd done when he was in the Prussian army before he came to South Australia. But he never forgot how he was treated and when the South African war began, he caused a lot of problems by letting it be known whose side he was on. Despite all that, he never turned anyone away from his hospital.'

She looked away as she gathered her breath. ‘So, your turn, tell me what happened after the inquest and how you were treated once you had been accused of being a murderess.'

I'll never forget the fear in August and Willy's eyes when I was led to the farmhouse by two policemen after the inquest. I was told I was going to Adelaide as soon as I had taken some refreshment and packed a bag. It had never occurred to me that this would happen, that I would leave Towitta so suddenly. For so long I had yearned to go, but not like this. Sitting on the scrubbed wooden table in the kitchen was a large pot of tea and a fruit loaf. Mother was laid out with grief on the kitchen sofa and her loud sobs intensified when she saw me in the company of the troopers. She rushed to me and clung, sobbing, ‘But you're my only girl now … and they are taking you from me.'

When I finished eating, I gathered clothes into a bag and kissed my sobbing mother goodbye. She staggered outside after me, Father supporting her. ‘I did not do it, Mother,' I reassured her calmly.

Father watched me closely while she replied, ‘I know you didn't, girl.' And the sobbing began afresh. ‘I have lost two daughters at once. I have lost them all.'

At the sight of my bewildered parents, the hot tears fell. They were the first tears I had shed since Bertha's death. I climbed into one of the police carriages that was to transport me to the Angaston police station with constables Beckmann and Campbell. I cried a good deal of the way to Angaston. The two policemen didn't know how to comfort me. Their attempts were clumsy but well-meaning, ‘Now c'mon, Miss, it's not as bad as all that. You've got nothing to worry about you know … if you didn't do it.'

Of course these reassuring words only made me cry louder. Then through sheer weariness and relief, I fell asleep. Sometime after midnight we arrived in Angaston and I was shaken awake and taken to the cells behind the police station. I was exhausted, my head throbbed and my face was swollen from the crying. After having the charge of murder read out to me again, I was told I'd be taken by horse and carriage to Freeling where we'd catch the steam train to Adelaide. After a few hours sleep on a narrow creaking bed, I was roused before dawn and told to prepare myself for the journey. I put back on my black dress. Because it was so early in the morning and a little chilly, I took my brown cape from my bag and brushed my hair as best as I could without a mirror. When I washed my face in a bowl of cool water I felt better, though my eyes felt puffy and my head still ached.

I climbed into the coach and nearly broke into fresh tears when I found the assistant crown solicitor and the coroner seated inside. A small crowd of people had gathered to see us off. I was happy to hide behind the veil that Mother gave me, from both the crowd outside and the crown solicitor and the coroner within, who glanced my way knowingly. They sat opposite each other and seemed immersed in their discussions, but now and again Dr Ramsay Smith, the coroner, would stare at me but say nothing. When we arrived at Freeling railway station our group sat on the platform, waiting for the morning express train from Kapunda. I sat on a bench under the verandah, the station basking in the early morning sun, not yet burning. Only Constable Beckmann now travelled with me. Dressed in plain clothes, he sat some distance away in order not to attract attention to me.