Absolution Creek (34 page)

‘If I go my father won’t find me.’ The tears were running down her cheeks, regardless of inclination.

‘Well, you’ve already been here for a few weeks, Squib. He hasn’t found you yet.’ Slurping his tea, Jack kicked the ends of a log into the crackling flames.

‘And I d-don’t want to l-live with whores.’

‘Well you can’t stay here,’ Jack said softly. ‘And there’s no point getting upset.’

‘Why not? Why can’t I stay?’

‘Because it’s not proper. You should be at school or something.’ Jack scraped his plate and tossed the contents of the pannikin on the fire, the liquid sizzling.

Squib poked at her food. ‘I’ve been schooled. I had my learners. I know how to write and read. Anyway, maybe your wife would want me.’ She began undoing the splints on her leg.

Jack looked up from his book. ‘You don’t want to stay here, Squib. I can’t look after you. Hell, I can barely care for myself. Hey, don’t undo that!’

‘My leg’s itchy. Anyway, if you build a house with a fireplace I can cook on that. I can cook corn meat, mutton, pig and rabbit.’

‘You should be in a town with other kids your own age.’

‘If you got a copper I could do your washing.’

‘Maybe if you were in a town your father would have a better chance of finding you.’

‘Do you believe that, Jack?’ Frowning, Squib untied the last strip of material from her injured leg. It looked paler and smaller compared to her other one, as if shrunk from lack of use.

Jack began stuffing his pipe. ‘Of course.’

She looked at him doubtfully, whipped the pipe from his hands and began packing it as her father had taught her. ‘I was washed down the
crick
. If I was washed down the
crick
then my father will ride along the
crick
until he finds me.’

‘How do you know that?’

Squib fiddled with the hem of her dress. There were two new holes in the skirt and a worn patch in the back of it, which she could see when she dunked it in the wash barrel and held it up to the light. ‘I can cook and clean and look after babies. I looked after Beth when she was just a wee thing.’

‘How’s your leg?’ Jack took his pipe and lit it with a glowing twig from the embers. The tobacco flared nicely.

‘Fine!’ Squib wiggled her toes. Her leg felt stiff. She stood shakily, only using one crutch for support. Gingerly she placed her weight evenly across both her legs. The pain was gone to be replaced with a dull ache.

‘I left a bit of material out with a needle and thread. They’re sitting on the tin trunk. I thought maybe you could patch your dress.’

Squib gritted her teeth and began walking slowly towards the hut to fetch the sewing things. ‘I’ll sleep out here.’

There was no moon – only the whirr of insects and the tang of smoke from the smouldering scrub to keep her company. Cocooned beside the fire, Squib stitched material across the holes in her dress as she imagined playing blind man’s bluff with Ben or skylarking down at the stables. Even his face was fading. It was as if being swept down the creek had gradually washed away all memory of her family. Squib tried not to think of them. She tried not to cry. She knew Jack wouldn’t like her to cry. He’d think she was a baby, and he and Adams already thought she was just a kid. A kid nobody wanted. A kid who was lost. A kid who would never be found by her father. As Squib’s eyes filled with tears the myriad stars blurred together until a sea of whiteness danced before her. She dreamt of running away, but the dream ended in a strange land where her days were spent tearing at green shoots of grass with her teeth, of fighting with the kangaroos for a soft hollow at night, of ending up a pile of sun-shrunk bones.

The next morning Squib washed her face in the water barrel. Her eye was better now but it still didn’t like daylight much, and only stopped weeping when the sun sank to the other side of the world. There was no chopping noise coming from the scrub; no smoky scent winding itself towards her on the wind; no Jack. A pile of horse manure, still warm when Squib held her hand over it, marked the track eastwards and she set off into the path of the rising sun. She could move a lot faster with two crutches, and with her leg freed of the splint she managed a half-hop, half-step which was almost a slow run. Soon she was travelling through a paddock scattered with timber and knee-high grass, the butts of the plants tinged the palest green. Her leg quickly began to ache from the exertion, yet the rush of adrenalin spurred her onwards. Bush quail scampered across her path. Off towards the south-east an ambling horse and rider disappeared into the scrubby horizon. Squib, eager to catch up, placed a little more weight on her injured leg.

Weaving through a clump of trees she slowed, listening as Jack’s horse whinnied a few hundred yards away. Her leg ached, sweat dripped from her face and her feet were sore. When she looked again in Jack’s direction he was nowhere to be seen. Disconcerted and a little bewildered as to where she actually was, Squib sat heavily on the ground. There was a soft rustle of grass, the squeak of leather. Jack appeared, leading his horse by the reins.

‘I was wondering how far you’d get. Pretty impressive, kid. C’mon. Hop up. Old mate will give you a lift. We’re only about half a mile from the yards.’

Squib flew up onto the saddle, dragging her leg over the horse’s back, and waited for Jack to hand up her dropped crutches. He was still staring when she held out her hands for the reins.

‘I didn’t know you could ride.’ He kept the reins tight in his hand.

‘You never asked. Besides, everyone can ride.’

Jack lifted a bemused eyebrow. ‘I see you didn’t waste any time on repairing your clothes.’

‘Well, I’m handy to have around. This horse is pretty old.’ Squib patted the animal’s neck. ‘You can give me the reins.’ Jack wrapped the leather about his hand more securely.

From a distance the sheep yards appeared small yet well shaded. Two large box trees towered over the largest yards while a pretty pepper tree provided shade for the business end of the drafting race. They were pretty much the worst set of yards Squib had laid eyes on, and she’d seen plenty at the Purcells’.

‘What do you think?’ Jack led her on horseback through a series of yards towards the drafting race. It was a narrow affair with one side collapsing inwards, so that any self-respecting horny ram would baulk immediately and either go backwards or over the railings – any direction except straight ahead. Across the race two yards were full of sheep. The animals stood to attention, heads erect, the leaders stamping their hooves in disapproval. Warning puffs of dirt rose a few inches above the ground with each movement. Squib automatically picked out scrabble holes, where a canny ewe could escape, and broken railings. She noticed many of the gates were affixed with twine. Although Jack was obviously proud, Squib reckoned her father would say the yards weren’t worth a spit.

‘Are those sheep meant to be out there?’ She pointed to where sixty or so stragglers were feeding into the wind.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ Jack muttered, bashing his hat on his leg before sticking it firmly back on his head. ‘I’ve got 2000 of these ewes. I purchased them joined at the saleyard, and do you think I can find them all now? How am I gonna keep a handle on the flies?’

‘You open the gate, Jack, and I’ll ride around the back of them.’

‘They’ll take off.’

‘Not if we’re quick.’ Squib grabbed the reins from Jack and steered the horse around the yards, circumnavigating the escapees just as Jack reached the yard closest to them. He dragged the gate open, ducking around the opposite side of the escaped mob. It took time, but eventually the mob caught sight of their compatriots inside the yards and with a little cajoling they raced towards them, jumping into the air as they passed through the gate.

‘Thanks.’ Jack walked on ahead of her. ‘I thought you didn’t know about sheep.’

Back in the yards, Squib slid from the horse’s back. Jack passed her the crutches. ‘Where’s the shearing shed?’ she asked, ignoring his query.

‘On the other side of the creek.’ He hurdled a timber fence and began carrying fire wood from a pile back to the yard adjoining the race. Squib met him at the fence, shaking her head doubtfully. ‘I reckon we’re going to be busy come shearing time then if it’s just you and me doing the mustering. Is the shed far away? Is it big?’

Jack dumped the wood on the ground. ‘Big enough.’

He wasn’t going to need much of a shed with 2000 head, Squib decided. But then she figured you had to start somewhere. It might take Jack a while but he had land and sheep; one day he’d also have a thirty-stand shed with lanolin-smooth boards, large wool tables and sprawling yards that practically ate sheep up and spat them out naked the other end.

‘I need to make a fire to –’

‘To boil up the bluestone?’ Squib arranged the wood in a pile. ‘You haven’t been here long, have you, Jack?’

Jack piled the wood, scrunching bark, twigs and a handful of dry leaves into a protected hollow. His match flared and, with much cupping of hands across the weak flame and puffs of air, gradually a pale yellow flicker snuck across the dry tinder. They watched the growing fire in silence until it was ready for the old copper that lay upturned under the pepper tree. Jack sat it in the fire, adding water to it from a couple of empty ceramic rum flagons he’d filled from the creek over the preceding days.

‘Is your family from the bush, Jack?’

He poked at the fire. ‘Sydney.’

‘Syd-e-ney? Where’s Syd-e-ney?’

‘It’s south of here – a big city with a beautiful harbour that splits it in half. Well, not for long. They’re going to build a bridge that will unite the north side with the south.’ Unwrapping a block of bluestone he dropped it into the simmering water. ‘You know what a harbour is, don’t you?’

‘Of course, silly.’

Jack proceeded to push the sheep through three yards until they reached the area that fed into the drafting race. Clouds of dust billowed up from the trampling hoofs. The dirt stung Squib’s eyes and throat and settled on her sweaty skin. The ewes baulked at the narrower pen, and despite Jack’s best efforts he was soon cursing their stubbornness. Squib left the fire and walked slowly in the opposite direction to the ewes, her movement quickly spurring the sheep forwards. Jack glanced at her but said nothing.

They spent a good part of the day checking the ewes for flystrike. They filled the race and inspected each animal before turning them out the opposite end to escape to the grassy paddock beyond. The slightest discolouration of wool or dampness was double-checked by Jack’s probing fingers and then swabbed with the bluestone. Ten ewes were badly struck across their backs. Flies had already nested in the thick wool staple leaving a nest of maggots to eat away at soft flesh. Jack cut away at the worst areas with a pair of sharp shears, removing the matted wool so that the bluestone could be applied directly to the wound.

‘Shear it all the way back, Jack, until you’ve a ring of clean, dry wool around the wound.’

Jack looked up from the matted stench of maggoty wool. ‘Would you like to do it?’

Squib squashed the wiggling pale maggots with a stick as they fell to the ground. ‘My wrists aren’t strong enough.’

By the time their shadows were long on the ground the job was finished. Jack kicked the copper over, the blue water extinguishing the fire. Squib swallowed great gulps of water from the canvas bag, her hands tinged blue, her hair dark and matted with dust. When Jack mounted up, he pulled her up behind him. Her leg ached with exhaustion, however Squib wasn’t telling Jack.

Close to the hut Jack detoured through the trees. They moved through the lengthening shadows silently, the air growing fresher as the trees grew denser. Eventually they arrived at a small clearing further along the creek. It was here Jack had laid the foundations and framework for his four-roomed home. Two lines in the dirt marked an eventual covered walkway, which he intended to lead to a kitchen. ‘In case of fire,’ he explained as he led Squib around the perimeter of the building. ‘These wooden uprights are four feet in the dirt, packed solid.’ Taking hold of one of the tree trunks he gave it a quick shove. ‘I’ll mix up mud and grass, form them into bricks and make a proper waterproof wall.’

‘With no holes.’

Jack ruffled her hair. ‘No holes.’

Squib was impressed. Mr Purcell’s house was made of mud brick, which meant Jack was secretly rich. ‘It’s called pise.’

‘Well, aren’t you the know-all.’

They rode back to the hut in darkness. Squib figured they were due for a full moon. The stars hung low and bright, and beyond the rim of the camp fire the shadowy scrub was quiet. Jack threw another piece of wood on the fire, the embers fizzing into the air. They chewed on salted mutton, exhausted. Squib knew this was one night when she’d sleep like a baby, at least for a bit of it. And if her father didn’t come for a while longer she reckoned that would be okay too. ‘My real name’s Cora.’ Squib scratched at the dirt by her side. ‘Cora Hamilton. I got called Squib on account of being small for my age and for being . . .’

‘Being what?’

‘Unimportant – at least that’s what Abigail and Jane said.’