Wild Lands (27 page)

The girl was right. Her tribe were welcomed here and existed happily under the terms of the agreement that George Southerland had brokered on their behalf with their Elder. Kate wondered if she'd been too quick to keep her distance from Sally and the
other women. Admittedly, it had taken some time to get used to their living in such close proximity to the house grounds, yet this wasn't the Kable farm and there was no reason to suspect that any members of the tribe were disgruntled enough to hurt one of their own through association with the whites.

‘Maybe one day you can show me what you dig?'

‘Maybe,' Sally agreed.

Both of them smiled and as Kate walked away, she couldn't help but think that she'd made a friend. It struck her that she'd never really had one, at least not since before her father had died and she'd played regularly with Henrietta McKemey after lessons. Swinging the basket back and forth, she moved through the trees. Sally's people were healthy and happy. The young men barked trees and occasionally worked as shepherds, helping to bring in mobs of sheep from further afield when required, and in return the tribe stayed on their native lands, hunted and fished as normal and were given rations. Blankets and sugar were particularly well-received.

‘You shouldn't be out here.'

Kate turned on her heel. Betts may have been speaking to her but his attention was drawn to where Sally walked through the trees.

‘They're not like us,' he said slowly. ‘You watch yourself, miss. Thinking you can be friends with them will only bring you trouble.'

Kate hugged the basket to her chest. Sally faded from view. They were quite alone.

‘Heading out again, we are,' Betts stated with reluctance. ‘He's sending us miles south to watch his bloody sheep. Reckon I'm lucky to have survived this long.'

‘Well, don't let me keep you.' A knot of anxiety grew in her chest. There were a number of men, convict and pardoned, working on the property, but most were usually watching over the livestock miles away. When they were back for chores that didn't involve camping out, they left before dawn and returned at dusk, spending
their nights in the men's hut. It was rare for Kate to be alone with one of them. She didn't like it.

Betts barred her path. Yellow teeth contrasted with sun-reddened skin. He was almost beyond bathing such was the dirt ingrained in the large pores on his nose and cheeks. ‘They'll smile at you, tell you to follow them and then –' He made a slicing motion across his throat. ‘I'm just saying, watch yourself, lass. Mr Callahan's right, he is. A musket a-piece is his advice. Putting the word out, he is. Trying to make that toffy-nosed squatter see sense. There's sheep been rushed and a fire was lit yesterday on the western end. I'd bolt I would, but I know they'd get me, probably skewer me good and proper, put me in one of their fire pits, cover me with dirt and cook me with me skin on like they do everything else.'

Kate began to back away. There was a strange look on the convict's face. It was more than fear. ‘I don't want to go out there. Put in a word for me, will you, girl? I've done you no harm. Did me best I have. Nearly served me time and all. It's not right to send a body,' he looked beyond Kate, into the scrub that fringed the creek, ‘out there. By himself.'

‘Betts, what are you bloody well doing?'

The convict shuddered. George Southerland, on horseback with a musket in hand, lifted his weapon and aimed it at Betts. The man dropped to his knees.

‘Leave him alone, Mr Southerland,' Kate cried out. ‘We were only talking.'

‘Talking? He's keen to be our first runaway, that's what he is. Aren't you, Betts?'

The convict remained mute.

‘Look at him,' Kate argued. ‘Can't you tell he doesn't want to go out there? He's afraid.'

Mr Southerland rested the musket across his thighs and walked his horse forward. Kate would have stood her ground had horse and rider not kept coming, but they did, forcing her to move swiftly
out of the way. She tripped and fell heavily on her bottom, losing fruit from the basket that tumbled across the ground.

‘Get moving, Betts.'

The convict remained cowering. Jumping from his horse, the overseer lifted the butt of the rifle, jabbing it viciously into Betts' face. The man fell sideways, howling in pain. ‘Get up and get moving. Now.'

The man rose shakily, holding a hand to his cheek, and began to walk in the direction of the valley, head bowed.

‘I'll not tolerate meddling in the running of this property.' Mr Southerland remounted his horse as Kate gathered the spilt fruit.

‘But he's scared of the land, of being out there alone, of the natives,' Kate replied. She couldn't blame him. The idea of being left alone to watch sheep in the middle of the bush would scare anyone.

The former expedition leader holstered the musket and pushed his wide-brimmed hat back on his head. ‘He should be and so should you. Look, there ain't nobody without problems here, Kate,' he said a little less roughly. ‘There's some blacks that aren't taking kindly to their land being overrun in these parts and some hot-headed young bloods and assigned men that are hell-bent on teaching them a lesson. But the mob on this land are glad to be here. And I'm pleased to have 'em. Most of them are good people.' He tugged on the horse's reins. ‘Most.'

‘Where are you going?' Kate was suddenly afraid to be left alone.

‘I've got Hardy fighting with one of his neighbours over a boundary, I don't have time for whining labour, man or woman,' he said pointedly as horse and rider began to walk away. ‘We're riding out now to sort the southern border once and for all,' he called over his shoulder. ‘We can't have Stewart's sheep eating the grasses we're leasing. So stay close to the huts with the other women.'

‘But why are you leaving if there's trouble?' Kate had begun to run after him.

‘Does a man no good to sit around and wait for it.' He spurred the mare and rode away.

At the kitchen hut, Kate upended the fruit on the table. Breathless and unnerved by the altercation with Betts and what she'd learnt from Mr Southerland, she approached the cook, hoping for a friendly ear,
needing
a friendly ear. ‘Mrs Horton, I just saw –'

‘What's the matter with you then and where have you been? Lift your chin, girl. I don't have time for your worries. I've plenty of me own.' The cook was quick to complain about the length of time Kate had been away, about the Missus needing water for a bath and the fact that there was barely enough fruit to fill the corner of her eye. ‘Where's the rest of the fruit? Eat it, did you? Haven't I told you to eat a morsel before sun-up? Always you're shaking your head when I pass you a bit of bread. Saying the heat's too much. That you can only eat in the cool of a night. Then you go gobbling up the Missus's jam. You'll get in plenty trouble for that. Stealing, it is. Taking what isn't yours.'

‘Maybe the blacks ate the fruit. I got what I could,' Kate replied stiffly. She couldn't deal with the cook's niggling. Not this morning.

‘Maybe they did. Wouldn't be the first time. What are you looking so wan about, eh, Jelly-belly? It's not as if you've been in here, a-stoking the fire.' Roughly chopping two irregularly shaped onions, the cook dropped them in the iron pot over the cut rabbit pieces and added some dried herbs. ‘Well, don't mind me. Get that fruit in a pot, add a handful of mixed peel from the herb shelf along with two cups of water. Put it on to simmer. Don't add the sugar yet, girl. I'll do that. It's the Missus's birthday today so I don't want any tongue-wagging from you. And don't forget to fetch the
glass covers for the candles from the Missus's rooms. Them smelly tallow candles smoke more than a chimney, they do, and filth, well, I wash more cleaning rags here than me own clothes. Come on, hurry up. Sometimes I don't know why the Kables haven't sent you to the Female Factory, I really don't. You're more curse than blessing, more hindrance than help, more –'

‘Stop it! Just stop it, Mrs Horton.' Kate's voice trembled. She closed her eyes tightly.

The older woman was breaking up day-old bread to make crumbs for the rabbit dish. ‘It's the heat in here. Makes a person giddy, it does.' She pointed a grubby finger at Kate's bodice. ‘Cut them bones out of your bodice, lass. There's not much needs holding in and you'll take the air a lot better. Cut me own bones out years ago, I did. What's the point, I thought, killing a great bloody fish to keep a woman's innards tight?' Mrs Horton sprinkled the crumbs over the rabbit and added a cup of water. ‘It's the men what did it. Stop us from running about too much. Keep us meek, pliable. Well, I was onto them. 'Course the swells don't agree. Saw the Missus's catalogue from London what came with you. They got boned stays that you're laced into now. Truss you up like a turkey. The Missus is ordering two, one for her and one for young Sophie. The menfolk will be liking it. Lace 'em tight and keep 'em quiet. That's what they'll be saying.' The cook tucked a thin strand of hair underneath her mob cap and with a large wooden spoon scraped out two servings of rendered sheep fat from a ceramic dish and dolloped the lard onto the rabbit. ‘Well, go on. Mr Callahan fetched a barrel of water from the creek. There's buckets outside. The Missus is waiting.'

With the buckets filled, Kate carried them to the Hardys' house. The door was open.

‘Where have you been, Jelly-belly?' Sophie chastised. ‘Mother's been waiting.'

‘Good morning, Mrs Hardy.'

Kate emptied the water into the hip bath that had been set up in the middle of the room, which served as drawing, breakfast and dining room. The bath was placed on a brightly coloured rug and beside it sat Mrs Hardy, fanning herself with an old newspaper. The older woman didn't speak, electing instead to watch as Kate trundled back and forth across the tamped dirt floor, carting enough water so that she could bathe. By the time Kate had finished and the bath was full there was a trail of mud across the room where she'd slopped the water.

Mrs Hardy nodded to Sophie. The girl dropped two herb sachets in the water.

Kate drew a chair to the open door and sat down to a wintery view of the valley. Her role in these proceedings was to stand guard in case Mrs Hardy's ablutions were unwantedly disturbed, and the quiet allowed Kate the luxury of daydreams. Last night she'd dreamt of Major James Shaw, and his blond-headed presence had been a most welcome distraction. Kate wondered what he was doing and if he ever thought of her. Probably not. It was easy to be friendly towards a currency lass when the likelihood of seeing her again was slight.

‘The water's a dreadful murky colour and it smells. You should have added a little rainwater.'

Kate swivelled in her chair. ‘The creek is low, I think, and our water is down to four barrels, Mrs Hardy. We can't spare it for such –'

‘Indulgences?' The woman finished the sentence and with her daughter's assistance removed her shift and stepped into the hip bath. Sophie began to soap her mother's shoulders, rubbing her neck with a flannel. ‘Sophie, I would like to talk to Kate alone.'

‘But I always –'

‘Go.'

The girl left the hut, each step a stamp on the verandah floorboards that vibrated throughout the dwelling. She poked out her tongue at Kate on the way.

‘If the wind changes it will stay like that,' Kate said softly.

Sophie scowled. ‘You don't know anything, Jelly-belly.'

‘I know you have lessons soon. Best you ready for them.'

‘Bring your chair over here, Kate.'

Kate wondered if the woman expected her to take up where her daughter had left off. If so, she would be disappointed. The last person Kate had washed was her mother's body after she'd died, and Kate wasn't inclined to wash anyone, dead or alive, again.

‘For one so outspoken you are prim,' Mrs Hardy commented as Kate positioned her chair at a slight angle, facing away from the bath and its occupant. The level of the brown water sat at the woman's waist, her knees protruding. A piece of wet muslin was draped across Mrs Hardy's chest for propriety's sake. ‘I wasn't always so useless.' Her breasts wobbled as she searched for the dropped soap.

Kate did her best to keep her eyes averted although she couldn't help but notice that the woman looked ill.

‘When we first arrived I did everything that you do now. It was difficult. Very difficult. It is not what I imagined. To work like a scullery maid. To dig holes into an unyielding ground. I have done my best. But it is too much, I have not the strength. My health is not as it was and so I contain myself to keeping an observant eye on the rabbit hutch, on the health of the vegetables, on my small family.' The woman looked at her nails. ‘I'd thought once of growing vines.' She wiped the flannel across the wedge of homemade soap and delicately rubbed her neck. ‘I find the heat quite suffocating. I'm glad for the winter. A cold bath is far more invigorating.'