Absolution Creek (19 page)

Sam was still in the bathroom when Meg finished rummaging through her suitcase. She brushed her hair, dabbed on some lipstick and felt somewhat better once dressed in her best grey sweater, black skirt, stockings and lace-up shoes. She glanced around the white-walled bedroom, which smelt strongly of fresh paint, and decided against waiting for Sam. She walked back to the kitchen. Finding it empty, she investigated the rooms leading from the hallway. The room to her left was like an Aladdin’s cave. Art deco side tables and coloured glass lanterns competed with an eclectic selection of trendy plastic furniture, including large Acapulco chairs with their iconic saucer-shaped backs, and smoky glass-topped coffee tables. Different varieties of lush green ferns trailed down the sides of tall mahogany planters and a myriad tiny dried leaves lay scattered across the black-and-white floor tiles. This, she supposed, was used mainly in the summer, for the room was quite cold.

The dining room opposite was totally different. Here the walls were a pale yellow and the curtains framing the six long casement windows a faded red silk. Meg’s eyes were drawn to the fireplace. Framed by shiny red timber with a single column on either side was a mantelpiece with an oblong bevelled mirror. The interior of the fireplace was decorated with an etched canopy, with a fire grate of quite gothic design. It would have been magazine perfect were it not for the cracks that spread across the plaster walls like varicose veins. Meg was sure light could be seen through the crack in the wall closest to the hallway and there was a definite gap running the length of one wall where the floor had dropped a number of inches. In spite of the evident state of disrepair, strategically placed lamps gave the room a warm glow.

Her aunt was already seated at the dining table. Steaming platefuls of an aromatic stew wafted into the air.

‘Have a seat, Meg.’

Meg did as she was told and they began eating without Sam. She was frightened of dropping food on the polished table and conscious of her manners. Her aunt certainly didn’t stab the air with her knife, like her mother did, or position her knife and fork in the quarter to three position on her plate. Nor, she noticed, was there the obligatory cabbage her own mother so loved. Meg did her best to emulate her aunt, eating slowly and carefully, and straightening her back so that she too sat upright. She crossed her fork over her knife in a delicate V between mouthfuls. She was sure her aunt gave a slight smile.

‘Where have you been?’ Meg said as Sam entered the room.

Sam, who had showered and changed, ignored his wife. He looked around expectantly at the sideboard, but then noticed its empty decanters and the water jug on the table. He frowned before slumping into his chair. ‘Sorry.’ He didn’t sound at all apologetic. ‘I didn’t realise there was a train to catch.’

Cora tapped her nails on the table. ‘You’ll appreciate an early dinner after a few days with Harold.’

‘Sure.’ Sam shovelled stew into his mouth. ‘No need to go to all this trouble for us though, Cora.’ He waved his fork at their surroundings. ‘We’re kitchen people.’ His eyes fell on each painting, each lamp, the height of the pressed metal ceiling. One of the ornate cornices dangled a good foot from where it should have been secured.

‘I always eat dinner in here, Samuel.’ Cora shook a cigarette out of its packet and lit it with a sigh of satisfaction. ‘People dress for dinner in the bush. We always have.’

Sam swallowed noisily. ‘Thought I might go to town tomorrow, pick up some supplies.’ He pushed his chair out and leant back on two legs. ‘Nice table.’

‘Mahogany.’

‘Hmm, matching chairs?’

‘Burr walnut,’ Cora answered.

‘Pricey, eh?’

‘Yes.’

Sam brought the chair back down so that it rested on all four legs.

‘We don’t need anything in town, Sam. Besides, this is a six-day-a-week job.’

‘Well, I’ve a mind to go exploring.’ He pushed his plate away sulkily.

‘Town is a once-a-fortnight event for supplies.’

Sam glared at her. ‘Meg and I didn’t come here to be bossed around, you know. I never actually said I’d be working for you.’

‘And what did you actually think you’d be doing? Living here under my roof gratis?’ Cora exhaled cigarette smoke, which drifted up towards the embossed metal ceiling. ‘If you intend to find work elsewhere – which, I might add, I’d be happy to see you do – I’d charge you board accordingly. That’s fair.’

‘Fair? There’s fair and then there’s downright bossy.’ The crockery rattled as he stood.

‘Is that right? Well, in the meantime have a think about what you’d like to do. Work here or elsewhere, remembering that you’ll be on trial anywhere you go. There are no free rides out here.’

‘Who do you think you are?’

‘The person who owns the fuel bowser. Did you fill up when you came through the village?’

Meg knew Sam was far better off working here and keeping a low profile, at least until his latest fighting debacle was forgotten. Although she doubted the police would chase him this far north, it would be a different matter if the man called Jeffo had ended up with serious injuries or worse.

‘I don’t know where you get off –’

‘I’m the owner, Sam,’ Cora pointed out, ‘and your prospective employer.’ She leant towards him. ‘My offer was for your wife. You’re lucky to be here.’

Meg’s heart felt as if it was slowly detaching itself from the inside of her chest.

Cora took a sip of water. ‘And I’ll remind you both that there’s no corner shop here. It’s a 200-mile return trip to Stringybark Point, so keep a list handy if your memory fails you for when we do go to town for supplies.’

Sam glared at her. ‘Well, ain’t that some sort of welcome. We come here in good faith –’

‘This is my home, Samuel Bell.’ She leant forward in her chair. ‘There’s little point you trying to throw your weight around here. I’ll remind you once only: Meg is family, and while you are both to a certain extent on trial,
you
have to earn the right to be here.’

Meg widened her eyes in response to Sam’s furious stare. He’d not once raised his hand at her or the girls, but there was always a first time. ‘Sam.’ She knew how her voice must sound – plaintive, pleading.

Cora took a long, languorous draw on her cigarette and blew the smoke directly at him.

‘Sam, please.’

Sam walked briskly from the dining room. Meg unclenched her fists. There were deep red welts across her palms.

‘He’s a difficult one, isn’t he? No need for explanations. He’ll get used to things,’ she said amiably. ‘It’ll be difficult for him, though. Men hate reporting to women.’

Clearly her aunt’s anger didn’t extend to Meg. ‘Harold obviously doesn’t,’ she said.

‘Oh, I’m sure it irks him some days, but the truth of it is that Harold’s a perfectionist. That’s how he lost his own place in the early fifties. He was so busy trying to make everything perfect that he spent himself out of his only asset, his land. I don’t intend to see that happen here and Harold knows it. If an increase in expenditure doesn’t increase production, and by extension income, we don’t do it.’ Cora finished her cigarette and stubbed it out in a porcelain ashtray. ‘He didn’t want to come here, did he?’

Meg gave a small shrug. At this moment she didn’t want to be here either.

Chapter 14

O
live peered out the top-floor window of the boarding house. She lifted the casement window and a cool billow of wind ruffled her carefully groomed hair. She sported the latest hairstyle, known as a shingle, which finished just above the shoulders. The permanent wave suited her dark hair and she patted a stray lock back into place, noticing the small clouds on the horizon. It would storm later in the day; a Sydneysider knew such things. She craned her neck in the hope of glimpsing the street below, but a patch of lawn and a wooden paling fence were the limits of her view.

Olive flipped the brown curtain and sat on the bed, smoothing her tubular crepe tunic across her knees. Her suitcases were packed and ready. She scanned the room that had been her virtual prison since arrival. The walls were bare and peeling, and despite being early December a chill settled about her. She thought of her buttercup-yellow bedroom with its view over the waters of Rose Bay, and glanced at her sister’s early Christmas gift, which she felt sure was more a token of approval following her revelation at the Queen’s Club. Strands of seed pearls were interspersed with beads of lapis lazuli, the bracelet quite at odds with the room she now inhabited. Her fingers plucked at the worn brown coverlet beneath her. Her fancy wristwatch with its mother-of-pearl face told her only half an hour had passed. Thomas was coming tomorrow.

‘One more day. One more night,’ she repeated softly.

Olive thought of Jack; tried to recall his face. She brushed away gathering tears and recollected the slab hut pictured in a book at the State Library. There had been another image as well: of a woman behind a one-way plough. Of course there were also photographs of picket-fenced dwellings, black-skinned maids and grimacing children, but it was the toiling woman who occupied Olive’s thoughts. It wasn’t her fault. She had no photograph of Jack and, having been apart for months, her resolve was weakening. She believed she loved him, yet a growing awareness of what she was giving up ate at her. Worse, now she was at the final, irreversible stage of Jack’s plan, she was holed up in a boarding house, hiding out like a common criminal from family and friends. What would happen if Jack couldn’t make a go of things? Would they end up paupers – she with her skirts tucked up as she dragged her feet through yards of dirt, and Jack dulled by disappointment? What would
she
do out there? Have babies, Olive supposed. Help Jack, perhaps. Help him do what? She was about to run away to join the man she loved, yet her resolve was failing her and she realised she was giving up far too much to risk it on a dream. Why couldn’t Jack have stayed in Sydney? Why did they have to build the bridge? That great blasted bridge, Olive thought sadly. Despite the massive structure and the eventual uniting of the city, it had created a chasm that she now knew was impossible to breach.

She wrote the letter quickly, using the thin paper supplied on the dresser, only pausing to re-read it when her tears had dried.

Olive hastily folded the letter as Mrs Bennet’s footsteps sounded on the stairwell. The woman jumped visibly when Olive opened the door, her fist mid-air.

‘I was just letting you know that you’re late for breakfast. Again.’

Olive handed the older woman the letter and enough coins for postage. ‘Mrs Bennet, I will be leaving today. Can you arrange transport to the city?’

The widow looked at her suspiciously. ‘Transport to the city? I thought you were . . .’ She paused to examine the letter before slipping it into her apron. ‘Never mind. You’ll be telling me it’s none of my business.’

‘I believe I owe you monies for my stay.’ Olive counted out the coins required. Each movement she made, every thought, seemed to be that of another person. In her mind she was walking towards the Milsons Point terminus, her arm linked through Jack’s. Then they were sitting eating a banana split . . .

Mrs Bennet cleared her throat. ‘My gardener’s off on an errand this afternoon. If you like he could take you to the train station then.’

‘That would be fine. Thank you.’ The train, ferry and cab ride home would give her time to contemplate her arrival at Rose Bay. After two nights’ absence, Olive’s excuse for her disappearance – a pre-Christmas house party with the Gees – would soon be revealed as a sham. Mrs Gee and her mother spoke weekly and Olive knew she must return home and face punishment. Her parents would be horrified by the truth, yet what else could she do? As Olive closed the bedroom door she rallied, straightening her shoulders and firming a smile. What had she been thinking? A woman such as herself, a settler’s wife! Why, she had not the first idea about the country.